Echo of an Angry God

by Beverley Harper

  Lord Rawson coughed suddenly and broke wind loudly. He did not apologise.

  ‘At first . . .’ Martin went on as if Lord Rawson had not farted, ‘. . . I was inclined to think he was making it up. His motives for contacting us were less than honourable. Not to put too fine a point on it, gentlemen, Mr Hamilton is after money in return for his silence.’

  Godfrey Winterbottom humphed. ‘Been tried, been tried, dear boy. Happens every year or so. Some damned bucko thinks he can –’

  ‘Do shut-up, Godfrey. Let the boy speak.’ Lord Rawson nodded to Martin. ‘Carry on.’

  Martin might have grinned if the issue had not been so serious. ‘The first thing I did was run a check on Hamilton. I came up with surprisingly little. He is British, grew up in Tonwell and was educated at Haleybury College near Hertford. Obtained a driving licence in 1968 and hasn’t picked up so much as a parking ticket since. First applied for a passport in ’75, one extension and then had it reissued in 1990. He’s clear with Tax Department, saw a dentist regularly and rarely went to the doctor. His appendix burst in ’72. That’s it. No library fines, no convictions, no marriages, no mortgage, no credit cards.’

  ‘What a boring little man,’ Lord Rawson said in total disapproval. ‘But what does he do?’

  ‘Everything he told us about himself tallied,’ Martin went on. ‘In 1978 he joined the Universities Mission to Central Africa and was sent to Malawi.’

  ‘Serves him right,’ David Chisholm muttered.

  Martin did grin this time. Chisholm was a well-known atheist. ‘Last month he was fired,’ he told the listening men.

  ‘Are we still sending missionaries out to convert the heathens?’ Admiral Stanley said to nobody in particular.

  ‘They concentrate on more practical matters these days,’ Chisholm responded drily. ‘Leper colonies, hospitals, schools and the odd church service. After all, dear boy, they’re a business just like anything else.’

  Godfrey humphed again but otherwise kept silent.

  ‘Why was he fired?’ Parker-Brown asked.

  ‘Apparently he was posted to Likoma Island,’ Martin told the men. ‘In its day, it was a thriving missionary station but there’s not much left of it now, a sodding great cathedral that’s seen better days and a small fishing community. It would appear that our friend, Hamilton, discovered a sealed crypt of some kind under the cathedral. That’s why the man was fired. He opened the crypt.’

  ‘Perfectly natural thing for a chap to do,’ Chisholm observed. ‘Why fire him for that?’

  ‘Someone gave him express instructions not to,’ Martin said. ‘I’m still trying to get to the bottom of that one. All I’ve discovered so far is that the crypt is older than the cathedral by several hundred years. It was never used and they sealed it in 1939. The Bishop who ordered it sealed died two years later, vegetation grew back as the building deteriorated and, over the years, the crypt was forgotten. Just who ordered Hamilton to leave it alone is unclear. He was apparently doing some gardening, found the crypt and was still contemplating whether to open it or not when he received an anonymous letter, postmarked London, saying that under no circumstances was the crypt to be disturbed. Hasn’t a clue how whoever sent the letter even found out about his discovery.’

  ‘Bit rum,’ Winterbottom grumbled. ‘Bit high-handed too if you ask me.’

  ‘Hamilton thought so too. He went ahead and opened the crypt.’

  ‘And got fired,’ Parker-Brown said. ‘By whom?’

  ‘By the Mission’s head office here in London.’

  Parker-Brown opened his mouth.

  ‘I know, I know, Terence,’ Martin said quickly. ‘The assumption could be made. I asked them straight if the order not to disturb the crypt had come from them. They denied it. All they’re saying is that Hamilton should have known better. A sealed crypt is not for the rank and file to open.’

  ‘I assume that he found something inside the crypt which caused you to ask us here?’ Chisholm’s sarcasm was barely hidden. He was getting impatient.

  ‘Yes,’ Martin said soberly. ‘If he’s telling the truth and goes public it will not only cost us the next election, gentlemen, it could be the end of the Conservative Party.’

  David Chisholm laughed. ‘That old chestnut,’ he scoffed. ‘Come on, Martin, you know better than that.’

  ‘Shut-up, Chisholm,’ Parker-Brown snapped irritably. He looked at Martin. ‘Still can’t see how we come into this. What do you expect from us?’

  ‘Your memories,’ Martin said seriously.

  ‘Why?’ Godfrey Winterbottom asked.

  ‘Because I need to know if Hamilton is telling the truth. Because I have top priority clearance yet can find no documented evidence of his claims, just a few annoying coincidences that might, or might not, mean he’s telling the truth. Because if what Hamilton is saying is true I have to get somebody into Malawi as a matter of urgency. Because there are supposedly three documents on Likoma Island, the contents of which will not only bring an end to the Tories, they will have devastating international ramifications for Britain too.’

  Lord Rawson looked down his profoundly aristocratic nose. ‘What’s this damned Hamilton fellow saying?’

  ‘Mind if I top up my glass?’ David Chisholm rose and looked around. ‘Anyone else?’

  Martin waited until the decanter had done the rounds and Chisholm was back in his seat. ‘In the spring of 1939, intelligence confirmed that Germany intended to invade France. We expected Italy to join in and it appeared likely that Japan would favour Germany. We, for our part, could rely on France. If Hitler invaded Russia we could also count on them as allies. As regards any commitment of armed forces, America simply didn’t want to know.’

  Heads were nodding, several of them impatiently. They hadn’t come here for a history lesson. ‘Hell,’ Martin thought, ‘these men wrote the book.’

  ‘There were several countries we were certain wouldn’t join us,’ he went on. ‘What Britain had to do was make sure they didn’t join Hitler.’

  Fairy Stanley nodded. ‘There was a bit of pushing and shoving in India as I recall.’

  Martin nodded back.

  ‘We were worried about Spain,’ Godfrey Winterbottom said. ‘Civil War just ended and Franco a military man. If he’d taken a side it wouldn’t be ours.’

  ‘Are you saying we made deals?’ Lord Rawson spluttered. ‘I say, Martin, do watch what you’re saying.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ Chisholm commented.

  Rawson favoured him with a filthy look. ‘What could Britain offer Spain to encourage her neutrality?’ he asked. Then he stared at Martin. ‘Good grief, surely not.’

  Martin nodded again. ‘Gibraltar,’ he said softly.

  ‘Speak up,’ Sir Thomas bellowed.

  ‘He said Gibraltar,’ Chisholm told him, exasperated.

  ‘You can’t possibly mean . . .’ Godfrey Winterbottom rubbed at his failing eyes as if by seeing better he could take in what Martin was saying.

  David Chisholm laughed cynically. ‘I don’t know why you’re so surprised. Spain and Britain have been using that rock as leverage since the Treaty of Utrecht. It’s been offered in exchange for territory or favours more times than I’ve had baked dinners.’

  Terence Parker-Brown was staring at Martin. ‘There’s more isn’t there?’ he said, his voice a thin rasp.

  Martin nodded. ‘Portugal was to get Likoma Island.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ Parker-Brown said. ‘Portuguese East-Africa demanded a portion of the lake when Britain and Germany were drawing lines on Africa’s map. Likoma is smack in the middle of, what is now, Mozambique water. The only reason Likoma remained as part of Nyasaland was because the missionaries raised hell at the time.’

  ‘Correct,’ Winterbottom agreed. ‘Mind you, it was a bit more than just drawing lines, dear boy,’ he reprimanded gently. ‘There were strategic considerations.’

  ‘Don’t get me started, Godfrey. You know how I feel about t
hat. Lines were drawn through villages, for God’s sake.’ He turned to Martin. ‘Let’s have it. We’re not here over Gibraltar and Likoma.’

  Martin delivered the punchline. ‘Argentina got the Falklands.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ David Chisholm rose and headed back to the bar. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he said again, turning to face the room. ‘We lost 250 people down there.’

  Lord Rawson’s usually reddish face had drained of colour. ‘We wouldn’t...’ he whispered.

  ‘Speak up,’ Sir Thomas shouted in frustration.

  ‘I’d have known of it,’ Godfrey boomed, staring at Sir Thomas. ‘It would have gone over my desk.’

  ‘They all stayed neutral,’ Parker-Brown said slowly. ‘So if it’s true . . .’

  ‘We’ve reneged before,’ Chisholm cut in. ‘The British people won’t give a shit that we’ve done it again. Gibraltar and Likoma don’t count. It’s the Falklands that matter.’

  ‘Where’s the proof?’ demanded Winterbottom.

  ‘He’s not telling. It’s my guess they’re still on Likoma. Maybe even in the crypt.’

  ‘How the hell did they get there in the first place?’ Parker-Brown wanted to know. ‘And why did the idiotic man leave them there?’

  ‘He’s probably hidden them.’ Martin looked around the room. ‘What would you do?’ he asked. ‘Hamilton plans to hold the British Government to ransom, he’s hardly likely to leave his proof lying around. The documents could be anywhere but he’d want to be able to get his hands on them if needed. I don’t think he’d travel with them. Too risky. They’re not in his flat in London – we’ve checked.’

  The room fell silent. Each man was busy with his memories. Martin waited tensely. These six men were the only ones left in Britain who might, just might, be able to confirm or disprove Hamilton’s extraordinary claim. If they could remember it.

  ‘Anyone here remember Burleigh Marks?’ Admiral Stanley asked suddenly.

  ‘Marks,’ Winterbottom mused. ‘Wasn’t he that chappie who went missing somewhere in Africa? On some kind of mission. Let me think.’

  ‘By Jove, I remember him,’ Lord Rawson said loudly. ‘Damned scoundrel. Got that serving girl up the duff and –’

  ‘That was his brother, you old fool,’ Sir Thomas said.

  Lord Rawson took no offence.

  David Chisholm drained his glass and stood.

  ‘Haven’t you had enough of that stuff?’ Parker-Brown snapped.

  ‘My dear boy, you can never get enough of this stuff,’ Chisholm said languidly, moving to the bar. He spoke with his back to the group. ‘I did try to get up a story. Something about secret meetings. We were all very suspicious. Burleigh Marks, if I recall, was a name that kept popping up. Never met him personally. The War Office had him under wraps.’ He turned suddenly. ‘Good God, I do remember something.’

  ‘What?’ Sir Thomas asked, his jowls shaking.

  ‘They sent me into Russia to cover . . .’ he looked crafty. ‘Well, never mind what I covered. The point is, I was away for six weeks. When I got back the War Office, Foreign Affairs, the whole damned lot of them were acting normal. Well . . .’ he laughed cynically, ‘. . . as normal as a bunch of cut-throat, conniving –’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Parker-Brown cut in. ‘Get on with it, man.’

  ‘It rather looks now as though I was sent to Russia to get me out of the way,’ Chisholm said, aggrieved. ‘It looks as though I got too close to the truth.’

  Parker-Brown glanced at Martin. ‘Why hasn’t anyone staked their claim?’

  ‘There would have been a mere handful of people involved in negotiations on that level,’ Martin said.

  Parker-Brown nodded agreement.

  ‘I’ve checked though, Terence. There appears to have been a plague of unexplained deaths. They all took place within six weeks of Germany surrendering.’

  ‘Circumstances?’ Parker-Brown asked.

  ‘Extreme prejudice,’ Martin told him.

  ‘Charming!’ Chisholm muttered.

  ‘Burleigh Marks,’ Admiral Stanley said stonily, upset by the interruptions, ‘went to Spain, Portugal and Argentina in the spring of ’39. I know he did. Never returned.’

  ‘How can you be so emphatic?’ Lord Rawson asked.

  ‘He owed me money.’

  ‘What? What did he say?’ Sir Thomas cupped his ear.

  ‘He said he owed him money,’ Chisholm yelled at him.

  ‘Oh.’ Sir Thomas subsided into his chair, crossed his hands over his formidable stomach and dropped his chin to his chest. He appeared deep in thought.

  Godfrey Winterbottom yawned. Chisholm went back to the bar. Parker-Brown’s disapproving gaze followed him.

  ‘Marks was a bit of a lad,’ Admiral Stanley continued. ‘Never said what he was up to but couldn’t help bragging a little. Something about a mission which would change the world map. You know how he was. I didn’t take too much notice at the time. It’s possible though, isn’t it?’

  Martin nodded. ‘Entirely possible, sir. We have to assume that a meeting of some kind took place between Portugal, Spain, Argentina and Britain, and, if we assume that, we might take it a step further and presume that the meeting took place on Likoma Island. It makes sense. Likoma was one of the carrots we held out; the Germans were watching our every move; we would have needed to find somewhere remote that was still on British soil to hold such a meeting and Africa back then was such an intricate mishmash of colonies that it would have been easy to reach Likoma without raising too many suspicions. The island was perfect. And what better place to hide documents of that nature? An ancient crypt on some practically unknown island in the middle of a forgotten lake. Far safer than have Marks bring them back to London. Quite fortuitous as it happens, especially if, as you say, Burleigh Marks went missing shortly after that in Africa.’

  ‘It should have gone across my desk,’ Winterbottom said peevishly.

  Chisholm didn’t bother to move away from the bar this time. He leaned on it and said, ‘Actually, 255 British subjects died during the Falklands War. If what this man Hamilton says is true, how the hell do we explain that to the British people. The Tories will have lawsuits coming out of the woodwork. If I were you, Martin, I’d get a man into Malawi pretty damned fast.’

  Martin looked at Admiral Stanley. ‘Burleigh Marks could have negotiated it,’ the Admiral said crossly. He hated to be interrupted. ‘It was right up his street. He was certainly in Spain, Portugal and Argentina that spring. Don’t know about Africa though. It’s your responsibility, Martin, but I think David’s right.’

  ‘Godfrey?’ Martin asked.

  Godfrey Winterbottom was also peeved. ‘Pig in a poke,’ he said huffily. ‘My guess is you’d be wasting your time. Everything went across my desk.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ Parker-Brown said. ‘They were trying times. In your place, Martin, I’d want to make certain.’

  Martin looked over to Lord Rawson who shrugged. ‘Never heard a whisper of it. Knew all the chaps. Someone would have said something surely. I’d boot this Hamilton out, damned man is just a scoundrel.’ He coughed and broke wind. ‘Mind you, if it were true . . .’

  ‘Sir Thomas?’ Martin said loudly.

  But Sir Thomas Tomlinson had fallen asleep.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Parker-Brown.

  Martin sighed. ‘Do I have a choice? There’s too much at stake. All hell will break loose if Hamilton goes public.’

  ‘He could meet with a tragic accident,’ Chisholm suggested with a degree of sarcasm. ‘After all, you chaps do that sort of thing rather well.’

  Martin looked uncomfortable. ‘Who warned him against opening the crypt? How much does that person know? Who else knows? No, gentlemen, our only safe option is to locate and destroy the documents – if they exist!’

  ‘Doesn’t sound to me as if Hamilton has the kind of imagination to make it up,’ Chisholm observed.

  There was general agreement to Chisholm’s comment.

 
; ‘Then, my boy . . .’ Chisholm said, reaching for the decanter yet again, ‘. . . You can take it from me. The documents exist.’

  EIGHT

  Lana Devereaux stared through the window of the South African Airways 737 Stretch Boeing, impatient for the aeroplane to take off. The passengers had been on board for almost a quarter of an hour but the stewardess was still waiting by the open door, glancing at her watch every few minutes. A couple of ground crew were standing aimlessly on the tarmac, bored. One of them was studiously picking his nose. In the distance, across the aprons and runways, a row of sheds glinted in midmorning sunlight, a low line of buildings huddled together as if for protection in an otherwise flat landscape.

  No stranger to this city – Lana had visited South Africa nearly every year with her parents, and then, after her father’s disappearance, with her mother – she nonetheless wondered again what on earth it was that attracted South Africans to live in such a sprawling, unattractive concrete jungle. Surrounded by ugly, barren mine dumps, their dull yellow nudity a testament to man’s indifference in his quest for the gold hidden under the ground, the dumps distributed fine yellow dust when the wind blew, thick yellow mud when the rain fell and were the closest thing to a mountain Johannesburg could muster. The only redeeming feature of Johannesburg, as far as she could see, was the highveld crystal clarity weather. Cape Town, far to the south, was cosmopolitan, quaint and beautiful with its mountains and seas. Durban, on the east coast, hot, tropical and flavoured by its large Indian population. Johannesburg, despite the opulence of its buildings and lushness of gardens, irrespective of being the commercial capital of South Africa, appeared to lack a heartbeat, a rhythm, any form of personality.

  She shifted in her seat, trying to relieve the best efforts of her right leg which seemed hell-bent on cramping. Twelve hours in the air from Heathrow, three hours on the ground waiting for a connecting flight and now this. ‘If you’ve got time to spare, fly there.’ The expression was certainly true more often than not. Lana had lost count of the delays she’d experienced around the world, cooling her heels in various airports, while the mechanics or paperwork of flying took their time.