‘No! Look at Moffat. He’s a man who wanted answers. Now he’s got them. He’ll go home to his wife and children, go back to his job, go back to his decency. He will not be touched by evil, except maybe to be thankful that he has a small corner of this earth where it has no place. And what about me?’ She shook herself mentally, not up to soul-searching. The only thing she knew for certain was that she was glad to be alive.
Tim? Was he a part of it, this terrible hole mankind was digging for itself? Was he motivated by a sense of misguided loyalty? Was it misguided? ‘Hell!’ she thought. ‘What brought this on?’ She glanced at Tim and found him watching her. His deep blue eyes were unreadable. Dark hair fell over his forehead. Bare chest and arms, strong, capable, secure. Flat stomach, abdominal hair. With a start, Lana realised she was becoming aroused.
Tim wondered what she was thinking. Fatigue caused faint blue smudges under her eyes. She had a streak of dirt across one cheek. Grit clung to her hair and clothes. She was, he decided, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. ‘And now for my next trick. How much more can she take?’ She had to hear about her father and she had to hear it from him. But before she did, Tim had to know about Karl Henning. ‘Let’s go.’
On the way to the tented camp they told him everything. Tim listened in silence.
‘I suppose you’re going to say I told you so,’ Lana challenged him.
‘No.’ Tim smiled at her. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’
‘Karl mentioned Tony Davenport. It was obviously Karl who told Davenport to frighten me off.’
So Tim told her about his conversation with Davenport. ‘You can report him if you like. He’ll do time for trying to run you off the road.’
Lana shook her head. ‘He’s weak. The man who must do time is Karl Henning. He’s evil. All the time he was telling us about our fathers it was as if he was expecting us to congratulate him. I don’t believe he has a conscience at all.’
Far out on the lake, they saw Henning’s yacht heading north. ‘He’s in for a shock,’ Moffat commented. ‘He thinks he’s got away with it.’
‘He’s not the only one in for a shock,’ Tim thought unhappily.
By the time they reached Camp Likoma, the local people were up and about, well into a new day. Wireless looked quite overcome when they arrived as well he might; Tim, shirtless, with a bloodied bandage around one arm in the company of two dishevelled strangers. All three were filthy.
‘Two extra for breakfast,’ Tim announced, ignoring the manager’s open-mouthed surprise.
Wireless gathered his wits. ‘A message for you, sir. It came last night. The doctor will arrive at ten o’clock this morning.’
‘Telephone working today?’ Tim asked Wireless.
‘Open at half-past seven.’
‘Thank you.’ He led Lana and Moffat to the empty dining room. ‘Pick a table, any table. I’ve got a bottle of scotch.’
‘For breakfast?’ Moffat said faintly.
‘For breakfast,’ Lana said firmly.
Wearing a clean shirt, Tim came back with a half bottle of whisky. He removed the cap from the bottle, crushed it and handed the twisted red metal to Wireless. ‘Three glasses, please, and a jug of ice if you have any.’
Wireless, with an expression of total disapproval, brought glasses and ice. Tim poured three healthy slugs.
Lana let out a satisfied ‘Aahhhh,’ as the golden liquid set fire to her throat and killed the butterflies still dancing in her stomach.
Tim’s dark eyes watched her. He hated what he had to do next.
‘I have some news for you,’ he began quietly. ‘It concerns both of you but mainly Lana.’
Lana looked at him, enquiry in her eyes.
There was no easy way to tell her, no way around it. ‘Your father is not dead.’
The shock was total. Her face drained of colour. ‘What did you say?’ she whispered.
Moffat placed his glass gently on the table. ‘Would you rather I left you two alone?’
She barely registered his words, simply shook her head.
Wordlessly, Lana stared at Tim as Moffat asked, ‘Are you sure of this?’
Tim nodded. ‘He’s here, on Likoma.’ As she went to rise he added quickly, ‘No, no, sit down. There are some things you must know first.’
‘What? Where is he? Can’t we go to him?’
So Tim told her everything. And as he did, he almost believed he could hear her heart break. She heard him out in silence, her face growing paler, lips trembling, eyes never leaving his. Her hands clasped so tight around the whisky glass it was a miracle it didn’t break.
‘The doctor is arriving this morning,’ Tim concluded. ‘Then we’ll know more.’
‘All these years,’ Lana whispered to herself. ‘All these years,’ she repeated. ‘We never knew. He was here all the time and we never knew.’ She was trying to take it in but her brain refused to function rationally. So many people would have to be told. Her mother. Bernard. ‘My God! Mummy! She married Dad’s best friend.’
Inwardly, Tim groaned. Could things get any worse for this girl?
Moffat’s face reflected the shock and sympathy he felt for Lana. ‘Don’t worry about that now. He’s alive. It’s a miracle, Lana, a bloody miracle.’ He was trying desperately to cushion the mental blows he knew she was taking. ‘Your father remembers nothing. Everything can be worked out later.’
‘He must remember,’ Lana said fiercely. ‘We were too close. There must be something there.’ She was becoming angry.
‘Good,’ Tim thought. ‘Anger is better than depression.’
Lana snatched up her whisky. Her hand shook but she managed to drain the glass. ‘More.’ She banged it down onto the table jumping up and turning to the window, looking out, seeing nothing. ‘Why did no-one tell us?’ She swung to face Tim. ‘Who the hell has been playing God?’ She leaned on the table, knuckles white. ‘Someone will answer for this.’
Tim rose and put an arm around her. ‘I’ll take you to the village. You can speak with the Chief. It was his decision not to report your father’s presence. For months, they expected him to die. When he didn’t, they became frightened that they would be punished for not reporting his arrival and condition. Right or wrong, I think you should hear his version of what happened.’
She could only shake her head in despair.
Wireless appeared, proudly bringing breakfast to their table. But when he saw them, two men staring in silence and the woman with tears pouring unchecked down her cheeks, he backed out of the room and softly closed the door. Last night’s chicken had been chopped, sauteed gently with mushrooms and onion and then used to fill three huge omelettes. Wireless believed that this was one chicken destined not to be eaten.
They used the lodge facilities to clean up. Moffat borrowed some clothes from Tim. Tim examined his arm. It probably should have been stitched but at least the wound was clean. It would leave an interesting scar. Lana had one small problem. All her clothes were still up at Karonga. Wireless came to her rescue, running to the cathedral and returning with a priest’s white surplice. ‘I will wash your clothes and have this back on the line before they miss it.’ Lana wondered if she was guilty of sacrilege or some other religious misdemeanour, but, she reasoned, God would understand. Tim thought she looked rather fetching, the silky material clinging to her slim body.
Tim had realised that there was no choice but to confide, at least to some extent, in the Bishop of Likoma. It would not be easy but he had to be told about the deaths in the cave and the treasures it contained. Leaving Lana and Moffat at the camp, Tim walked to the cathedral. The Bishop, although a man of God, surprised Tim with his understanding of a world far removed from his own. He passed no judgment, asking questions which were both relevant and probing and Tim answered honestly, without embellishment.
Both men knew there was no choice but to inform the authorities. At a little after 7.30a.m., it was the Bishop who rang the local exchange and asked for the British Hig
h Commissioner in Lilongwe. He passed the receiver to Tim and sat back, fingertips pressed together, his mind absorbed in unspoken thoughts.
The High Commissioner liked to be at his desk early. By the time Tim had rung off, the man rather wished he’d slept in. He stared down at the pad and mulled over Tim’s requests with growing anger.
1. Charter plane
‘Gilbey wants a four-seater on Likoma tomorrow morning – three passengers, including Gilbey, coming to Lilongwe. Good! I’ve got some things to say to that young man.’
2. Martin Flower – FCO
‘What the hell does he mean by “Likoma unresolved but situation contained”?’
3. Karl Henning/Silver Bird II/police/apprehend
‘I can’t mobilise the whole bloody police force.’ The High Commissioner stared at the name Henning. ‘Murder, attempted murder, accessory to murder, kidnapping, theft – Gilbey’s off his trolley.’
4. Argentine Embassy/body bag??
‘The Argentinean Ambassador will love this. A dead SIDE agent in a cave on Likoma where a crocodile – a crocodile for God’s sake – is likely to eat him.’
5. Frederick Hamilton/British/body bag!!
‘He’d have to be British wouldn’t he? “Should be there but may have gone if the bloody crocodile was feeling peckish.” Anyone for tiffin?’ The High Commissioner was feeling hysterical.
6. Ologists! ‘No way! The lost treasure of Greater Zimbabwe. No way! Nothing to do with us anyway. Where am I going to find archaeologists, paleontologists, anthropologists (and any other ologist that springs to mind)? The boy is barking mad.’
7. Game Department/ivory
‘Hundreds of tusks, old, probably poached. The bloody man doesn’t know there’s a ban on trade in ivory. Bugger him.’
8. Hire car/Karonga/Lana Devereaux
The High Commissioner stared at his cryptic note for a moment before remembering what it meant. Karl Henning, who appeared to be wanted for so many crimes that it was a pity the crocodile hadn’t been more selective, had abducted two people in Karonga and, as a result, a hire car had been abandoned there. The car, a Subaru, rented from Avis in the name of Lana Devereaux, a visitor to Malawi, was damaged. “Could I arrange to pick up the car?” Who does he think I am?’
9. Monkey Bay naval base/car
‘What is it with Gilbey and cars? No doubt this is all on my budget. If he left his car there he can pick it up himself.’
Reflecting that MI6 might do better to concentrate on things other than some totally insignificant, extremely unstrategic and, more than likely, considerably boring little island of no importance whatsoever, the awesomely irritated High Commissioner sighed and reached for the phone. ‘Get me Martin Flower at the FCO in London,’ he snarled at the receptionist with uncharacteristic ire, forgetting the time in London would be six in the morning. ‘Before you put him through, tell him to brace himself.’
When she quietly informed him it would be too early, the High Commissioner, who was normally very composed, honestly felt that the two hour time difference was there specifically to frustrate him.
The Bishop had listened to Tim speaking to the High Commissioner in silence. When Tim came off the phone, all the Bishop said was, ‘I will do what is necessary. Go with God young man.’
Tim had returned to camp. Now, as he stood with Lana and Moffat watching the aeroplane circling, preparing to land, he hoped that this doctor could throw a little hope her way. The chances of it happening were very slim indeed.
The Cessna 162 landed expertly and taxied to the large tree where they waited. The doctor, a young man in his thirties, alighted, then turned back to remove a heavy mobile X-ray unit which took up most of the fuselage locker. Tim went to help.
‘You Tim Gilbey?’ His accent held the lilt of his Swedish first language. ‘Lassa Dalberg. We’ve met before haven’t we?’
They shook hands. ‘Thanks for coming.’
The doctor stared Tim down. ‘I didn’t have much choice.’
‘Sorry.’ Tim grinned ruefully at the doctor’s flat honesty. He quickly explained about John Devereaux. ‘So you see, I thought it best if he were examined on Likoma. Apparently he becomes confused and disturbed if he gets out of routine.’
The doctor eyed Tim with some exasperation. ‘There’s such a thing as sedatives.’
Tim lost patience. ‘The man’s been through hell.’
Dr Dalberg sighed. ‘Haven’t you heard? House calls went out with the ark.’ He went silent, thinking. ‘How long ago did you say?’
‘Fifteen years.’
‘Wish I’d known this sooner,’ Dr Dalberg grimaced at the mobile unit. ‘I’d have left this beast at home.’
Lana had approached the men and heard the doctor’s remark. ‘But won’t an X-ray–’ she began.
He interrupted impatiently. ‘No. A CAT scan will. Not an X-ray, especially a wound that’s fifteen years old.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s the patient?’
‘It’s a fair walk from here.’ Tim shrugged apologetically. ‘I thought it best to examine him at home. Under the circumstances . . .’
‘Yes, yes, he gets disturbed.’ He looked at Lana. ‘This man I come to see is your father?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does he recognise you?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him yet.’
Dr Dalberg looked surprised.
‘It’s a long story,’ Tim said. ‘I’ll tell you on the way.’
‘Anywhere I can put this?’ The doctor nudged the X-ray unit with his foot.
‘Leave it in the plane,’ the pilot offered. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
As they walked, Lana listened to Tim and the doctor discussing her father. The more she heard, the more hopeless she felt. Judging by Dr Dalberg’s responses, if her father had any chance at all of recovering his memory, he’d be showing signs of it way before now.
‘What does he look like?’ she wondered. Fifteen years is a long time to hold the memory of a dearly loved face. She accepted that he would have aged. She felt keyed up, nervous and yet, strangely reluctant as well. He must remember something.
The beauty of Likoma went unseen as she walked along, her mind busy with a confusing array of thoughts.
‘Holding up?’ Moffat asked.
‘Just.’ She did not look at him. ‘It’s too weird to talk about.’
He patted her arm. ‘I’ve been trying to put myself in your place.’ He hesitated. ‘I think,’ he said finally, ‘that I’m the lucky one.’
She did look at him then. ‘I’ve been having similar thoughts,’ she admitted. ‘And I’ve been hating myself for them.’
They had dropped a little behind the other two. ‘Moffat,’ she said sadly. ‘If Dad remembers nothing, if he’s just a shell, then perhaps it would have been better if he’d died.’ Unshed tears sparkled in her eyes. ‘That’s what makes this so hard.’
He had no words of comfort but did the next best thing. He gave her a hug.
‘Thanks.’ Lana sniffed, brushed at her eyes impatiently and gave him a weak smile. ‘I needed that.’
Chief Mbeya, in the mysterious way of Africa, had anticipated their arrival and met them outside the village. ‘Mpasa’s daughter.’ It was more a statement than a question.
Tim nodded.
The Chief took him to one side. ‘She knows he will not recognise her?’
‘She knows.’
Chief Mbeya shook his head. ‘Then, Timgilbey, she has the heart of a lioness.’
‘She has made a great journey,’ Tim replied. ‘It is too late to turn back now.’
‘Then wait here,’ the old man ordered. ‘I will take this woman to meet Mpasa.’
As he led her forward, Lana wished she were anywhere but where she was. This scene, played out in her mind so many times over the years, should have a happy ending. She knew now that it would not. In her own straight-for-the-jugular way, Lana knew that this would be a scene best not played at all.
‘Mpasa’s seed is strong in your face,’ Chief Mbeya said. ‘Your father lives for as long as you do.’
Lana nodded dumbly.
‘I have seen the talking pictures when they bring them to the island,’ the Chief went on. ‘I have seen “Gone With The Wind”. That man, Clark Gable, he is dead now but he lives in the pictures.’
‘What the hell is he talking about?’ Lana thought.
‘Your father is like Clark Gable. Reach through your sorrow. Not many see their loved ones after they have gone.’
She stopped in her tracks.
The Chief apologised. ‘Forgive me. By trying to help you I am perhaps making it worse.’
‘No!’ Lana said slowly. ‘Your words make sense. I just don’t know if I can do it.’
Chief Mbeya’s wise eyes scanned her face. ‘Only a fool believes he cannot fail,’ he said quietly. ‘You are not a fool. Your doubt is your strength. Come. Mpasa lives this way.’
Lana’s heart was thudding wildly. What was the Chief trying to say? That her father was like an old movie – walking, talking but unreachable? Dear God! What am I doing here?
It was a rambling, but tidy village. Voices called loudly in conversation. In one of those random flashbacks that occur when the mind is busy elsewhere, Lana recalled her mother telling her that Africans speak loudly so that others will know that nothing bad is being said against them.
The smell of wood smoke was strong in the air. Chickens scratched busily and several domestic pigs rummaged energetically under some bushes.
Children were laughing somewhere. The lake glittered in the sunshine. Several women were washing clothes at the water’s edge. Lana knew suddenly that her father could not have found a more idyllic refuge. ‘Perhaps it’s not that he can’t remember,’ she thought. ‘Perhaps he doesn’t want to remember.’
They were approaching a hut. A woman sat on a stool at the doorway watching them. A man, with his back to Lana, sat on the ground carving what appeared to be a piece of ivory. Around him a display of his wares. Some of them were very good. Lana’s heart was in her mouth. Tim had said her father carved things. Her eyes bored into the strong brown back. She found it impossible to equate this half-naked man sitting in the dirt to the elegance which had been her father. The woman rose as they approached. ‘Mpasa’s daughter,’ the Chief told her in English.
Echo of an Angry God Page 37