Ramón Alzaga appeared at Lana’s side at regular intervals. She found his flamboyant displays of attentiveness both false and annoying. It may have been the Latin way, but his constant touching her bordered on mauling and his body language sent a clear message that she was his for the taking – if he could be bothered. His conversation was full of innuendo and his eyes full of contrived smouldering passion.
Lana, who had always detested public displays of passion which she firmly believed belonged behind the closed door of the bedroom, did not take long to register the fact with him that his attentions were unwelcome. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Alzaga, I’d appreciate it if you would keep your hands to yourself.’
He reacted predictably. Throwing both hands up, he said loudly enough for those close to them to hear, ‘You are a beautiful woman. Have pity on a man who cannot help himself.’
Lana smiled at him sweetly and said, just as loudly, ‘You have been helping yourself, Mr Alzaga. I don’t like it.’
His eyes still smouldered, but not with admiration or desire. ‘You English,’ he hissed at her. ‘You have no emotion, no hot blood.’
Lana stepped closer and put her face a few centimetres from his. ‘We were hot-blooded enough for you in the Falklands, Mr Alzaga,’ she said softly. ‘That should have taught you something.’ She stepped back and her tone returned to normal. ‘Now keep your bloody hands to yourself.’
She turned and left him standing there, fury and embarrassment clear on his face. Several people who had been close enough to hear the encounter glanced at her with approval but Lana was troubled. She had made him her enemy which was stupid of her. She couldn’t care less about his feelings – he’d got what he’d asked for – but, if she joined Karl and Ramón on the yacht, it could be awkward. Ramón was a further complication in a situation which was already complicated.
At three, Lana said goodbye to Karl. A strangely subdued Stella, who had disappeared for about an hour, presumably to sleep off the gin, was with him, her hand possessively on his arm. She accompanied Karl and Lana to where Moffat waited in the car. The expression on Stella’s face told Lana that the woman regarded her as a threat to whatever relationship she had with Karl. It went hard with dislike when Karl restated his invitation for Lana to join him on the yacht.
‘I’ll get there if I can,’ Lana promised.
Just after they pulled away, Lana leaned forward and asked, ‘Did you learn anything?’
Moffat glanced into the rear-vision mirror. ‘He’s away a lot. When he’s here he’s a tough man to work for. He’s having an affair with that woman, Stella. Broke up her marriage apparently. And he keeps a loaded pistol in a drawer beside his bed. That’s it. How about you?’
‘One of his guests, a Ramón Alzaga, is also going sailing with Karl. He’s a right royal pain in the arse. He and Karl call each other friend but there’s no love between them. And Stella doesn’t like me.’
Moffat laughed.
‘Pull up. I want to sit in the front.’
The car swerved to the side of the road. ‘Damn!’ Moffat said. ‘Just when I was getting used to a bloody white madam.’
As the Subaru drove off Stella murmured to Karl,
‘Another conquest, darling.’
‘Have another drink, Stel.’
‘Naughty boy. Just when I had something to tell you.’
Karl looked at her with barely concealed impatience. ‘Don’t start your games, Stel. I’m not in the mood.’
‘Turned you down flat did she? Poor old you.’
‘Give it a rest, Stella. You know why I want to keep an eye on her.’
‘I know why you say you want to.’
Karl looked exasperated. ‘She’s after information about her father. She might stir up trouble.’
‘Why? It’s nothing to do with you. It’s not your fault those men died. I don’t understand why you’re so worried.’
Karl patted her arm absently. ‘It looks bad, that’s all.’
Stella’s eyes gleamed with malice. ‘Poor darling Karl. Don’t worry, I’ll cover for you as usual.’ She turned into him expecting a kiss. When he didn’t oblige, she pouted. ‘I don’t think you deserve it but I’ll tell you anyway. When I was in the bathroom I overheard her driver talking to the servants. He seemed to be very interested in you.’
‘Servants always gossip.’
‘Mmmm! But this one has an unusual name. Lana Devereaux’s driver is called Moffat Kadamanja.’
Karl’s eyes went like granite as he stared after the departing car.
FOURTEEN
Tim Gilbey slammed down the telephone, irritated. ‘Where is the bloody woman?’ He glanced at his watch. Two-fifteen. He had no choice, he had to leave now in order to reach Monkey Bay in time for his lift to Likoma Island.
The receptionist looked up startled as he rushed past her. ‘I’m off,’ he said, not bothering to stop. ‘If Lana Devereaux returns my call tell her . . . tell her I’ll be back Monday week.’ He wanted to say more but knew he couldn’t. He also had no idea when he’d be back but that was the least of Tim’s worries.
‘Have a nice tour,’ the girl called after him, wondering why he was in such a hurry. After all, Malawi wasn’t going anywhere. He was only doing what they all did – a familiarisation tour of the main centres. His secretary had offered to set up meetings with major businesses but he had declined, saying he’d rather play it by ear. The receptionist thought that was strange. Most of them wouldn’t dream of fronting up unexpected.
Tim reached his car, unlocked it, threw his briefcase into the back seat, pulled off his jacket and tie which he flung on top of the briefcase and climbed in. He felt frustrated that he’d been unable to reach Lana, anxious he’d miss the trawler which left the wharf at Monkey Bay at four-thirty promptly, pissed off with that idiot Hamilton who was clearly returning to Likoma to retrieve the documents and convinced now more than ever that Karl Henning was a clever and very dangerous man indeed.
Once out of the city limits he drove at a furious pace. If he missed the fishing boat he’d not get another chance to reach Likoma for several days. Flying there was an option but he wanted to avoid his visit becoming known at the High Commission. There was no way he could justify it without raising suspicions. Not that it mattered, he supposed. It was just that the bloody FCO were so paranoid about secrecy they didn’t even trust their own High Commission staff.
Lana Devereaux was in more danger than she knew. Tim had just spent two hours grilling Tony Davenport – the outcome of which convinced Tim that Karl Henning was not above getting rid of Lana if he believed her to be a threat. Davenport had tried bluster at first but finally admitted that he had gone to the hotel posing as Tim Gilbey on the instructions of Henning.
Tim had asked him why.
Davenport told him – reluctantly at first but with increasing enthusiasm as he went on, almost as though it was a relief to be finally getting some things off his chest. ‘He’s a friend of mine.’
‘Not good enough.’
Tony Davenport shifted uncomfortably under Tim’s unblinking stare. ‘I owed him a favour.’
‘What kind of favour?’
Davenport would not meet Tim’s eyes. ‘He helped me once.’
‘He’s blackmailing you.’ It was not a question. Tim’s voice was hard.
The statement seemed to startle Davenport. ‘No, nothing like that.’
‘What then?’
‘Look, if you don’t mind, it’s a private matter between Karl and me.’
‘I do mind. We’ll sit here all day if necessary. I’m warning you, Davenport, you may have been born in Malawi but you’re still a British subject. Life could be made very difficult if your work permit is not renewed.’
The threat worked. Davenport seemed to reach a decision and leaned towards Tim. ‘Just between you and me then.’
Tim threw his pen down and folded his arms. He had him. ‘I am not a policeman, Davenport. Lana Devereaux was attacked in the stree
t and threatened by you at the hotel. She has declined my suggestion that she go to the police but she has made an official complaint. It’s my job to find out what you’re up to. I would anyway. As well as being British, Miss Devereaux is a friend of mine.’
‘It won’t go any further?’ Davenport asked, reassured.
‘No.’
‘It’s nothing much. I got into financial trouble a few years ago. Couldn’t go to the family, they’d bailed me out before. Karl helped me.’
‘How much?’
‘Do you mind, old man? That’s my business.’
Tim let that go.
‘He’s been very understanding. Never asks when I’ll pay the loan back. Something always seems to come up. I’ve paid back a bit, but . . .’
‘Okay, so you owe Henning a favour. Threatening and frightening Lana Devereaux seems a little over the top.’
Davenport looked uncomfortable. ‘It’s the first time he’s asked me to do anything like that.’
‘You’ve helped him before?’
‘Little things. Like . . . well . . . when tobacco goes out of the country, sometimes Karl asks me to find a little space in the middle of the load.’
‘What for?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You help him to smuggle and you don’t know!’
‘Yes,’ Davenport admitted reluctantly.
‘So, he’s got you by the short hairs. I suppose he’s threatened to report you.’
‘No, no,’ Davenport said hastily. ‘He just kind of mentions the loan . . . you know,’ he added lamely.
‘So, Henning just kind of mentioned the loan and then told you to impersonate me and frighten Lana Devereaux out of Malawi.’
‘No. He left the arrangements to me. He just told me to frighten her off. I used your name because I’d seen a bit about you in the paper. I figured since you’d only just arrived not many people would know you.’ Davenport took a deep breath. ‘Karl said he’d met this girl on the plane who could end up in trouble because she was trying to dig up something to do with the disappearance of her father in Malawi fifteen years ago. He said it would be best for her if she was scared off. He didn’t actually say so but he implied that whoever was responsible was still around and if they got to hear of her asking questions she might well disappear herself. You’re new here, Gilbey. You don’t know how it was back then. If Karl is worried for Lana Devereaux’s safety then he has good reason. He’s a pretty influential man – knows just about everyone. He said she wasn’t to be harmed but I had to lay it on thick enough to get rid of her.’
‘It didn’t occur to you I suppose to question his motives?’
‘Good God, no! Why would I? I’ve known Karl Henning nearly all my life. He’s as straight as a die. To be perfectly honest, I rather got the impression he had taken quite a fancy to Miss Devereaux. She’s exactly the kind of woman he needs, I realised that the moment I met her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Strong-willed. I didn’t get to first base trying to frighten her.’
‘So you had her attacked in the street?’
‘I’d set it up before going to the hotel. Just in case. They wouldn’t have harmed her, just roughed her up a little. Their instructions were to let her know that she wasn’t wanted in Malawi.’
‘Did Henning know your plan?’
‘I didn’t tell him. I don’t think he would have allowed it.’
Tim rather thought he would but said nothing.
‘The attack might have worked but you happened along.’ Davenport gave a small grin of admiration. ‘Mind you, she put up a good fight on her own. Both men got more than they bargained for. They refused to have any more to do with her and I had to find others to watch Miss Devereaux in Lilongwe.’
‘You’re having her tailed? In God’s name, why?’
‘I called Karl and said the scare tactics didn’t seem to be working. He asked me to keep tabs on her movements. I think he wants to protect her.’
Tim was suddenly worried. ‘So she’s been tailed all over Lilongwe?’
Davenport looked miserable. ‘No. My men developed car trouble. They lost her twice.’
Tim hid a grin. Lana Devereaux seemed to lead a charmed life. ‘Okay, now we’re going to talk about the Midima Road.’
Tony Davenport had the good grace to look shamed. ‘That was stupid, I admit. I saw her at the Mulanje Club and panicked. She went over to the men I played golf with and spoke to them. I didn’t know what to do. I realised that Lana Devereaux must have discovered who I really was. I had this idea of running her off the road and then threatening her.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It backfired. The bloody woman ran me off the road. My car’s a wreck.’
Tim was hard pressed not to laugh out loud.
‘I know it was a dumb move. If Karl found out he’d tear a strip off me.’ Davenport shook his head and added plaintively, ‘She’s not like ordinary women. Lana Devereaux’s got balls. Anyone else would have run away by now.’
Tim looked across his desk at Tony Davenport. The man was weak, not terribly intelligent and putty in the hands of Karl Henning. Tim was not convinced that Henning’s motives were as pure as Davenport believed them to be. Lana Devereaux was, in Tim’s opinion, still very much at risk.
As soon as Davenport left his office, Tim put in a call to Lana in Lilongwe. He intended to warn her. But she was out so all he could do was leave a message for her to call him back. Tim delayed his departure for Monkey Bay for as long as possible but, after trying to reach Lana one last time, could put it off no longer. As he drove he wondered if her luck would hold. Or would she find, like her father fifteen years before, that luck was a fickle friend.
Monkey Bay boasted a naval base, a number of fisheries projects and a small scatter of assorted buildings and dwellings in a kind of lazy and disorderly sprawl. A great deal of the harbour was off-limits to tourists in an attempt to preserve whatever secrets the Malawi Navy had to hide. Tim rather suspected that the navy’s past was more glorious than its present or future. He knew that a British gunboat HMS Gwendolen, commonly referred to as Gwen, had not only fired the first naval shots of the First World War, but had also won the first naval engagement. The fact that Germany’s one and only gunboat on the lake, the Hermann von Wissmann, had been high and dry on a beach undergoing some repairs when the Gwen opened fire by no means diminished the victory. Nyasaland had won its place in the history books.
Tim, through a network set up by preceding operatives, had made contact with a Captain Manuel Santos and been told, ‘You come 4.15 Friday afternoon. You not here, I go.’ It was closer to 4.30p. m. by the time he arrived. Much to Tim’s relief, the fishing trawler Katembe was still tied up at the wharf. He hurried down the sloping ramp and up the gangplank onto the trawler. Despite an urgent need of a coat of paint, the decks were neat and scrubbed down.
‘You Gilbey?’ a guttural voice asked.
Tim turned around. ‘Yes.’ He put out his hand. ‘Sorry to keep you.’
The man ignored Tim’s outstretched hand. ‘You did not keep me,’ he growled. ‘Santos wait for no-one.’
He was a short, stubby man. Grizzled grey hair escaped from under a woollen cap. He had not shaved for at least three days. Bushy grey eyebrows sprouted above dark, unreadable eyes. He had a fleshy nose, thick lips and his swarthy skin was pitted with old acne scars. He wore faded blue overalls and the toe of one old boot gaped open. Portuguese-African ancestry was evident and pleasantries appeared beyond him. ‘You pay, we go.’
Tim followed him into the cramped wheelhouse. Stained enamel coffee mugs and empty bottles of rum cluttered every surface. Behind a brass compass binnacle and spoked teak steering wheel – which, had the man but known, would have fetched several thousand pounds at Sotheby’s – a statue of the Virgin Mary and a yellow oilskin jacket competed for space on the chart table. An unmade bed along the back wall and several dirty plates on the floor indicated that Captain Santos slept, ate, drank and worked
from the wheelhouse. ‘Three thousand Kwacha,’ he said, his hand out.
‘I was told half that,’ Tim protested.
Santos shrugged. ‘Take or leave. No matter.’
Cursing the man, Tim paid him.
Without bothering to count it, Santos put the money under his mattress. ‘Follow me.’ He took Tim to a forward cabin. It was small but, after the mess the captain appeared to thrive in, surprisingly neat and clean. ‘We go soon. Wait for someone else.’
‘Who?’ Tim was alarmed. Who else would be wanting to go to Likoma? Not Hamilton, he hoped.
The captain leered and made an obscene gesture, cupping both hands over his genitals. ‘Fuka fuka,’ he said, giving a grin of sorts. His two front teeth were gold. ‘She come soon.’
‘God!’ Tim thought, after the man had gone. ‘Who the hell would want to go with him?’ He found out soon enough. A young African girl was ushered up the gangplank by a much older man. Captain Santos counted out some money and paid the man who left without a backward glance at the dejected and frightened girl.
Tim was disgusted but not unduly surprised. Daughters were not highly regarded by many fathers. This one had obviously been sold to the obnoxious Santos. By the look of her swollen belly, Santos wouldn’t be the first to take her. As sorry as he felt for the girl there was not much Tim could do to help her.
The trawler got under way almost immediately. Tim left his cabin and went on deck, watching the sheltered harbour of Monkey Bay grow smaller as the Katembe gathered speed and cut across the mirror surface of the lake, skirting Cape Maclear and heading north towards deeper Mozambique waters and the tiny island of Likoma. The trip, he had learned, would take approximately sixteen hours – give or take weather conditions which Tim had been told should remain calm – and, sorry as he was that most of it would be during the night, at least it relieved him from trying to make conversation with the captain.
There were only the three of them on board – Captain Santos, the girl and Tim. Santos crewed his trawler with fishermen from Likoma, picking them up on his way north and dropping them off once his hold was full before heading south to Monkey Bay. That way he saved a good four days’ wages and had the added advantage of the occasional passenger who wished to travel to or from Likoma. These he fleeced unmercifully, knowing that his price was still far less than by air charter, or the commercial cruise ship, the MV Ilala which claimed to circumnavigate the lake on a regular basis but which, in point of fact, spent most days at anchor or in dock while engineers tried to coax life back into her ageing engines.
Echo of an Angry God Page 26