He smiled, amused. ‘Most people don’t. Lilongwe is a model city. There are very few like it throughout this continent. Our previous government was determined to make Lilongwe different, a showpiece for post colonial Africa.’
‘Dr Banda you mean?’
‘It was his dream,’ Karl Henning told her, ‘to build a symbol of independence.’ He smiled. ‘It may surprise you that much of the initial architectural work and funding for our new capital actually came from South Africa.’
‘When?’ She was fascinated. For a good thirty years, under that country’s white regime, South Africa had been the big bad wolf of Africa. Generosity towards northern neighbours was seldom reported, giving rise to international belief that it never happened. Lana knew this to be untrue. A magazine she remembered seeing in her father’s study told how South Africa flew petrol to Malawi during a critical shortage in 1980 – eleven plane loads a day for two weeks – until the rail line connecting Malawi to the Mozambique port of Beira could be considered safe from RENAMO terrorists who consistently blew it up to prevent FRELIMO troops from using it. The cost? Regular wholesale prices for the fuel, nothing for the cartage. She mentioned it to Karl, concluding, ‘Malawi and South Africa seem to enjoy closer than usual relations.’
Karl nodded. ‘When Banda came to power he took pains to stress that his struggle to free this country from colonial rule had nothing to do with racism. He created a bridge between South Africa and her black neighbours, giving them all a common meeting ground. He received a great deal of international flak but stuck to his guns. He always claimed that quiet and reasoned consultation was better than confrontation.’ Karl smiled. ‘Pretoria loved him.’
‘So they helped him?’ Lana found she was enjoying listening to Karl Henning. He spoke in a measured way, giving no indication how he felt personally, imparting information in such a way that she could make up her own mind.
‘Lilongwe was a way of developing the north of Malawi. South Africa saw the sense of that. Banda always said Malawi wasn’t poor, just the victim of neglect. Having a brand new capital city, encouraging foreign investment, bringing in expatriates, it was all part of a larger picture to kick-start the economy. Lilongwe was on the drawing-board right from the start.’
‘1964?’ Lana shook her head. ‘As far back as that? He must have been quite a president.’
Karl looked serious. ‘He was in the beginning.’ He shrugged. ‘Things change, people change.’ He had a strangely sad look on his face. ‘I don’t know how or why it happens, it just does. One moment you’re young and full of ideals, the next . . .’ He stopped abruptly, as if he’d said too much. ‘The money for Lilongwe was given in 1965.’ He changed the subject smoothly. ‘ The master plan was designed by a Johannesburg consultancy. South Africa came up with nine million Kwacha.’
Lana wondered what it was he’d been about to say but she let it go. ‘That’s not really much is it? Even in 1965, nine million wasn’t that much.’
‘It was enough. Think big and solve pragmatically was the phrase.’ He leaned forward and looked at the land beneath them. In the distance they could see the airport’s control tower. ‘It’s worked too. We’re all very proud of Lilongwe.’ He leaned back again. ‘Are you staying here?’
‘In Lilongwe? Not tonight. I’m catching a connection to Blantyre.’
He appeared to think. ‘I’m having a luncheon on Saturday at the farm. Would you like to come as my guest? It will give you a chance to meet people who have lived here all their lives.’
She considered it. ‘I’m not certain of my movements.’ She patted her shirt pocket. ‘I’ve got your card, I’ll call you.’ She was hedging. She did not want to waste her precious fourteen days on socialising. She would go to Blantyre and see where that led.
They said goodbye inside the terminal building.
As he strode away, Lana frowned thoughtfully after him. There was something about him – she couldn’t put her finger on it – something that made her wary. Once or twice she had seen something in his eyes, hardness or cunning, she wasn’t sure which. The fact that he’d met her father was exciting. She had wanted to ask him more about it. What had stopped her? Lana always trusted her gut feel for people but this time her guts were in two minds.
Should she accept his invitation to lunch? Or the one to go sailing? It would give her a chance to ask about her father. Something had held her back. Had she dreamed of finding the truth about her father for so long now that, when the opportunity to do so presented itself, she withdrew from it in the fear that the truth might be too hard to take? As soon as she had that thought, Lana discarded it. She had never run from the truth. ‘So what am I scared of?’ The answer evaded her but she had the uncomfortable feeling that, whatever it was, Karl Henning made her uneasy and it just might have something to do with him.
NINE
The connecting flight to Blantyre was scheduled to leave a mere forty-five minutes after her arrival in Lilongwe. Lana barely had time to complete immigration, customs and security formalities before checking in at domestic departures and an announcement called passengers to board the aircraft. She hefted her shoulder bag and joined yet another queue. ‘I hope it’s a white pilot,’ a woman said loudly to her husband, seemingly oblivious of uniformed airline staff at the gate who were black and well within earshot.
‘How rude,’ Lana thought. The ground crew acted as though they hadn’t heard and were equally polite to the woman as to everyone else. ‘How do they do that?’ she wondered. She had seen it on visits to South Africa, bland politeness in the face of cruel or thoughtless remarks. Years ago, Lana had decided that the jibes went in and stayed in, one day to emerge in a rage too intense to control. She had always, even as a young child, experienced deep anger at thoughtless racism, not so much for the hurt it caused at the time but for the cancer it fed, a cancer of hatred which would ultimately extract vengeance on the innocent as well as the guilty. She was grimly amused to see that the pilot was black, as was his first officer, and that the woman, silenced by some furtive words delivered in an undertone by her husband, stayed on board.
The flight to Blantyre took an hour. Lana watched the passing scenery below, impressed – as her father had been on the ground fifteen years ago – by the ever changing land. ‘Did Dad fly to Blantyre?’ she wondered. PAGET had received very little information as to his activities once he arrived in Malawi. He had landed in Lilongwe but there was no evidence that he had then flown on to Blantyre. They only knew he had checked into the Mount Soche hotel and registered with the British High Commission office there. In that his assistant’s body had been washed ashore in Tanzania, that Robin Cunningham and his assistant were known to have been working right up at the far north end of Lake Malawi, it was assumed that John Devereaux had based himself somewhere near Karonga and it was from there that he had disappeared. It was all they had.
Lana intended to follow in his footsteps as best she could. The British High Commission no longer had an office in Blantyre but she could at least spend a night in the same hotel as her father and then she intended to drive back to Lilongwe. There, she would make contact with Tim Gilbey, though she didn’t expect he could help her, before heading north to Karonga. Her plans were vague and she was beginning to think that her mother had been right when she’d said, ‘You’ll gain nothing from this trip but heartache, darling. Why put yourself through all that?’
‘Why indeed?’ Lana asked herself. For the past fifteen years her determination to do it had made sense. Now she was here what did she hope to achieve? Sitting next to Karl Henning on the flight from South Africa had been a stroke of luck. Maybe she should accept his invitation, at least to lunch. What harm could that do?
Lana reached into her bag and brought out a map of Malawi. Spreading it open she retrieved Karl’s card from her pocket. He said he farmed about a hundred kilometres north of Lilongwe. His card gave his address as Kasungu. She located it on the map. It was on the way to Karonga, she had to pa
ss right through. ‘That settles it,’ she thought. ‘I’ll give him a call from Blantyre.’
The woman who had not wanted to fly with a black pilot was complaining loudly to one of the cabin crew that they were too low over the hills surrounding Blantyre. ‘It’s dangerous,’ she whined. ‘And the turbulence is making me ill.’
Lana marvelled at the Malawian stewardess’s ability to remain polite, although the look on the young woman’s face, as she turned away from the troublesome passenger, gave Lana the impression that if the woman were to be sick, the stewardess would happily rub her face in it.
Chileka Airport, some twenty kilometres north of Blantyre, had obviously been downgraded in terms of financial priority to make way for the new international terminal in Lilongwe. The two structures were like chalk and cheese. Chileka had the look of an ageing beauty queen, fading and cracked, a sad relic of former glory. A paint job inside did little to hide the indifference it had suffered in favour of its glamorous sister to the north. Lana went to the Avis counter and, after some discussion as to the validity of her International Driver’s Licence, was handed the keys to a pre-booked hire car. As she walked out to the car park, smilingly refusing insistent young boys’ offers to carry her suitcase, she wondered why most so-called Third World countries were bound up in such a stifling degree of red tape. It was the same all over the world. ‘We’re to blame,’ her father had once said, having told her about some difficulties he’d encountered in Nigeria. ‘The colonial powers introduced red tape and enforced it rigidly. All today’s lot are doing is carrying on with it.’ He had grinned at her in that way she loved so much, just before he said something contentious, scandalous or even a little bit naughty. ‘I don’t know who I’d like to kick up the bum most, the colonials or their bloody successors.’
Lana smiled at the memory. She felt very close to her father in this strange land. Had he walked where she walked now? Had he sat in the airport at Lilongwe as she had? Could her room at the Mount Soche be his room? And what about Karl Henning? He had met her father. It was a link, an exciting and totally unexpected link, and she wondered, as she occasionally did, if John Devereaux was watching over her now.
She got the hang of the car pretty quickly – a Subaru four-wheel drive sedan – and found her way into Blantyre with ease. The Mount Soche was at the end of the main street. Lana booked in, changed a traveller’s cheque into local Kwacha and went straight up to her room on the third floor. Tired, she intended to shower, change, have a quick meal and then treat herself to the luxury of being able to stretch out in the queen-sized bed. It was four in the afternoon, local time, only two hours behind London, but her body said it had been awake too long. She had just opened her suitcase when the telephone rang.
‘Hello.’
‘Miss Devereaux?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah, thank you. This is the reception desk. A Mr Gilbey is here to see you.’
Lana was surprised. Tim Gilbey was supposed to be in Lilongwe. ‘Ask him to come up please.’ She hung up amused. Bernard had obviously contacted the man and requested that he look out for her, bless him. She quickly splashed water over her face and hands and ran a comb through her hair. At the discreet knock on the door she went to open it. ‘Mr Gilbey, this is most unexpected, please come in.’
He made no comment. Pale blue eyes regarded her carefully, the interest in them purely professional. Otherwise, his long face was expressionless. He appeared to be summing her up.
Lana stepped back and indicated he should come in. After a moment’s hesitation, he moved past her, giving a brief nod. She realised he had made no attempt to introduce himself. He went to the window and peered out through the curtains. ‘Long way down,’ he said lazily. Then he turned to face her. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked bluntly.
Lana had been watching him with increasing wariness. He was tall and elegantly slim. Greying hair combed back and impeccably cut. His light brown suit fitted perfectly. Face lightly tanned, a long nose adding character over thinnish lips. He had a mole on the right corner of his mouth. Good-looking, about forty, and, she decided, for some reason best known to himself he didn’t like her one little bit. ‘Didn’t Bernard tell you?’
‘Bernard?’ He was off balance and it showed.
‘Bernard Pickstone. Didn’t he explain?’
His face cleared. ‘Ah yes, Bernard.’ Hands in the pockets of his jacket he rocked back on his heels. He appeared to be waiting for her to say more.
Lana didn’t oblige. She folded her arms and observed him impassively. He had never heard of Bernard, of that she was certain. Silence stretched between them.
It was Gilbey who broke the silence. ‘Just refresh my memory,’ he said.
Lana was in two minds. On one hand, he was with the British High Commission and, whether he liked her or not, he was here, presumably prepared to help and, as such, had to be considered an ally. But instinct warned her against him. What was he doing here if not at Bernard’s request? Fatigue made her blunt. ‘Mr Gilbey,’ she said crisply, ‘if you have anything to say I would appreciate it if you would do just that and leave. I’ve had a long flight and I’m tired.’
Anger flitted over his face. He was being dismissed and didn’t like it. ‘You’re here to find out what happened to your father.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Lana inclined her head. ‘If I can.’
‘Why?’
Annoyance surfaced from within her. ‘Why do you think? He disappeared without a trace. We were not given a satisfactory explanation. I want some answers.’
He took three steps towards her, measured steps, his eyes on hers. Lana felt he was trying to intimidate her. She held his gaze, her face expressionless. He stopped just in front of her. ‘I’d hate to see such a pretty girl get hurt.’
A prickle of fear ran through her. Then reason prevailed. ‘He’s a diplomat, for God’s sake!’ she thought. His manner angered her.
‘Say what you’ve come to say and get the hell out of my room,’ she snapped. ‘If you’re not prepared to help, why on earth did you bother to come up here?’
He smirked, his gaze hard. ‘Enquiries about your father will only lead to trouble. No-one wants to know what happened to him and no-one cares. Have a nice holiday and go home, there’s a good girl. You’d do well to take my advice.’
Lana felt he was deliberately trying to provoke her. But why? ‘What is the High Commission trying to hide, Mr Gilbey? Some kind of bureaucratic bungle perhaps? I must say, your attitude surprises me. You can’t stop me asking about my father – how dare you even try.’ She glared at him. ‘I don’t like your advice. I’ve a good mind to report this conversation when I get back to London.’
He shrugged elaborately. ‘Go ahead, it won’t get you anywhere. All I’m trying to do is warn you –’
‘Warn me, Mr Gilbey?’ Lana smiled grimly. ‘You did say warn me didn’t you, Mr Gilbey?’ When he made no response she went on. ‘British diplomats don’t warn people, Mr Gilbey, they advise them. What section are you in anyway?’
He was losing his temper, she could see a flush spreading from his neck to his face. ‘Warn, advise, what’s the damned difference? Okay, I’m advising you, does that make it more palatable?’
Lana took a deep breath. ‘You can shove your advice, Mr Gilbey, preferably somewhere the sun don’t shine,’ she said in a hard voice. ‘Now, if you’ve finished . . .’ She walked to the door and opened it.
He followed and slammed it shut, leaning towards her, his breath smelling of strong peppermints. ‘I came here today to give you some friendly advice.’ He was struggling to control his temper and failing. ‘Fine. You don’t want my advice so I’ll tell you straight. Keep your nose out of the past. I’m warning you, don’t stir up trouble or you’ll be the only one in it.’
‘Are you actually threatening me, Mr Gilbey?’
Lana asked coldly. Without thinking about it, she was flexed and ready to take him if he came closer. She might be out o
f practice but she knew she could have him flat on the floor in a fraction of a second. The consequences of decking a diplomat could be dealt with later. Lana was on automatic pilot, her instincts telling her that Tim Gilbey was not above physical methods of persuasion when he was angry. His height gave him an advantage but she had already worked out where to grab him, which way to lean to get him off balance and where to throw him.
Something must have warned him. He stepped back out of her space. ‘I’m telling you.’ He tried to smile but his face wasn’t in the mood. ‘For your own good, go home where you belong and forget it. You’d do well to listen to me before it’s too late.’
Lana had had enough. ‘You’d do well to get your arse out of my room. I don’t like being threatened, Gilbey, and I don’t like being patronised either. Either give me your reasons or take a hike – your choice.’
He was watching her uncertainly. Lana realised he had more to say but wasn’t about to give him an opener. He reached into his pocket, producing a packet of cigarettes and lighter. ‘Don’t even think of it,’ she said tersely. ‘I detest cigarette smoke.’ She had given him ammunition to use against her.
He put a cigarette to his lips and lit it lazily. ‘Hard luck,’ he said around the cigarette, blowing smoke towards her. ‘There are no rules as yet to say that I may not smoke in this room.’
Lana willed herself not to step back from the smoke. She stared at him, saying nothing. She knew the effect her angry eyes had, when they went from deep friendly blue to the colour of oxide on polished steel, hard and every bit as cold.
‘Miss Devereaux,’ he said finally, heavily sarcastic and unmoved by her stare. ‘I could have you deported if I choose. One word in the right ear and you’d be on the next flight out.’ He drew on his cigarette, inhaled, and blew smoke towards her again, his earlier loss of temper back under control. ‘So listen carefully, Miss Devereaux. Your father disappeared during turbulent times in Malawi. Neither the Malawi Government nor the British wish to stir up old memories, do you understand what I’m saying?’ He opened the door. ‘You may not like my advice but I’m officially warning you off. I’ll be observing you closely, Miss Devereaux.’ He watched to see the effect of his words. When she still made no comment he shrugged. ‘Don’t say you weren’t warned. If you end up in trouble, don’t come crying to me.’ Then he was gone.
Echo of an Angry God Page 15