Golden Fox

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘Promise me, Ramón, swear it to me – that we will be married as soon as you are free.’

  ‘I swear it to you.’

  She settled down beside him, cradling her head on his good shoulder, hiding her face so that he could not guess how disappointed she truly was.

  ‘I hate her, but I love you,’ she said, and Ramón gave a grim little smile of satisfaction that she could not see.

  He was confined to the flat by his wound for another week, and there was time to talk. She told Ramón about Michael, and was flattered by the interest he showed in her brother.

  She expanded on Michael’s virtues, and on their special relationship. Ramón listened and drew her out gently. He was so easy to talk to. She looked upon him as an extension of herself. She found herself going on to tell him about the rest of her family, about what lay behind the public mask that they as a group presented to the world; about their secrets and their weaknesses and their scandals, about Shasa and Tara’s divorce. She even told him about the dark suspicion that Nana had once given birth to a bastard son in the wild southern deserts of Africa.

  ‘Of course, nobody has ever proved it. I don’t think anybody would dare. Nana is a formidable force.’ She laughed. ‘And that is understating the fact. However, there was definitely some very fishy business back there in the nineteen twenties.’

  In the end, Ramón brought the conversation back to Michael. ‘If he’s here in London, why haven’t you introduced us? Are you ashamed of me?’

  ‘Oh, may I? May I bring him round here, Ramón? I’ve told him a little about you, about us. I know he’d love to meet you, and I’m sure you will like him. He’s the only truly sweet and good Courtney. The rest of us . . . !’ She rolled her eyes comically.

  Michael arrived with a bottle of his father’s burgundy under his arm. ‘I thought of bringing flowers,’ he explained, ‘but then I decided to get something useful instead.’

  He and Ramón scrutinized each other carefully as they shook hands. Isabella watched them anxiously, willing them to like each other.

  ‘How are your ribs?’ Michael asked. Isabella had told him that Ramón had taken a toss from his horse and broken three ribs.

  ‘Your sister is holding me prisoner. There is nothing wrong with me – nothing that a glass of that excellent burgundy won’t cure.’ Ramón displayed that rare warmth and special charm of his which were irresistible. Isabella felt quite giddy with relief. Her two most favourite and important people were going to like each other.

  She took the burgundy through to the kitchen to find a corkscrew. When she returned with the open bottle and two glasses, Michael was settled in the chair beside the bed and they were already engrossed in conversation. ‘We get the airmail edition of your paper, the Golden City Mail, at the bank,’ Ramón was telling him. ‘I particularly like your financial and economic coverage.’

  ‘Ah, you are in banking,’ Michael nodded. ‘Bella didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘Merchant banking. We specialize in sub-Saharan Africa.’ And they were away at a conversational gallop. Bella kicked off her flat shoes, rolled up the bottoms of her blue jeans and perched up on the bed beside Ramón. Although she took no part in the conversation, she listened avidly.

  She had no idea that Ramón had such a grasp of African facts and realities, such a deep knowledge of the personalities and places and events which made up the rich and fascinating mosaic of her native land. Compared to this discussion, all her previous conversations with him had been shallow and trivial. Listening to the two of them, she learnt new facts and heard ideas expressed that were totally fresh to her.

  Michael was obviously as impressed as she was. His pleasure at finding a challenging and stimulating intellect on which to try out his own interpretations and beliefs was evident.

  It was after midnight; the original bottle of wine and another that Isabella had dug out of her tiny stock in the kitchen were empty. The bedroom was thick with the smoke of Michael’s Camels before she looked at her watch and exclaimed: ‘You were invited for one drink, Mickey, and Ramón is an invalid. Away with you, now.’ She went to fetch his overcoat.

  While she helped him into it, Ramón said softly from the bed: ‘If you are doing a series on the political exiles, it wouldn’t be complete without one on Raleigh Tabaka.’

  Mickey laughed ruefully. ‘I’d give my chance of salvation for a crack at Tabaka, the mystery man. It just ain’t possible, as old Rudyard put it, “if you know the track of the morning mist, then you know where his pickets are”.’

  ‘I’ve met him in the line of duty at the bank. We keep tabs on all the players. I might be able to arrange for you to meet him,’ Ramón told him, and Michael froze and stared at him with one arm in the sleeve of his coat.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of him for five years,’ he said. ‘If you could . . .’

  ‘Call me tomorrow, around lunchtime,’ Ramón told him. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  At the door Michael kissed Isabella. ‘I take it that you are not coming home tonight?’

  ‘This is home.’ She hugged him. ‘My temporary residence at Cadogan Square was just to impress you, but I don’t have to do that any longer.’

  ‘He’s a knockout, your Ramón,’ Michael said, and she felt a sudden shocking stab of jealousy, as though another woman had challenged her for Ramón’s affection. She tried to suppress it. It was the only ugly feeling she had ever harboured towards Mickey, but the pain persisted as she went back to the bedroom and deepened again as Ramón said: ‘I like him. Your brother is one of the superior beings – they are rare enough.’

  She felt ashamed of her unkind feelings towards Mickey. How could she harbour the slightest doubt that Ramón was a man, a natural man. She knew that he liked Michael only for his charm and fine intellect, and because he was her brother – and yet, and yet that dirty sneaking feeling persisted.

  She stooped over the bed and kissed Ramón with a passion that surprised even her. After the first moment of shock, his mouth opened and their tongues slithered and rolled around each other, slippery as mating eels.

  She broke away at last and looked up at him. ‘You swan around Europe for weeks on end, leaving me pining, and when you do come home you lie around in bed, hogging food and sleeping,’ she accused him in a husky voice, tight with her need of him. ‘And never a thought for the maid or the nurse. Well, Master Ramón, I’m here to tell you it’s payday, and I’ve come to collect.’

  ‘I’ll need some help,’ he warned her.

  ‘You just lie still. Don’t do a thing. Nurse’s orders. We’ll take care of the details.’

  She drew back the bed-sheets and reached down under them, and her voice was a languorous coo. ‘We’ll take care of things, he and I. You keep out of it.’

  She straddled him gently, taking care not to touch his bandaged chest. As she sank down on top of him, she saw her own deep need reflected in the green mirror of his eyes, and felt all her doubts evaporate. He belonged to her and to her alone.

  Afterwards she lay at his good side, close and secure and happy, and they talked drowsily, hovering on the edge of sleep in the darkness. When he mentioned Michael again, she felt a twinge of remorse at her earlier doubts. She was so relaxed, so much off-guard, and she trusted Ramón as she did herself. She wanted to explain and share it with him.

  ‘Poor Mickey, I never suspected the agony he has had to endure all these years. I am closer to him than any person in the world, and yet even I did not know about it. A few days ago, I found out, quite by accident, that he is a practising homosexual . . .’

  The words were out before she could stop them, and suddenly she was appalled by what she had done. Mickey had trusted her, and she shivered, waiting for some reaction from Ramón. However, it was not what she had expected.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed calmly. ‘I knew that. There are some indications which are unmistakable. I knew it within the first half-hour.’

  She felt a rush of relief. Ram�
�n had known, so there was no betrayal on her part.

  ‘You are not repelled by it?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ Ramón answered. ‘Many of them are creative and intelligent and productive people.’

  ‘Yes, Mickey is like that,’ she agreed eagerly. ‘I was shocked at first, but now it means little to me. He is still my darling brother. However, I do worry about him being caught up in a criminal prosecution.’

  ‘I don’t think there is much chance of that. Society has accepted—’

  ‘You don’t understand, Ramón. Michael likes black boys and he lives in South Africa.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ramón agreed thoughtfully. ‘That could present some problems.’

  Michael phoned the flat from a pay-booth in Fleet Street a little before noon, and Ramón answered on the second ring.

  ‘The news is good,’ Ramón assured him. ‘Raleigh Tabaka is in London and he knows of you. Did you write a series of newspaper articles back in nineteen sixty under the title “Rage”?’

  ‘Yes, a series of six for the Mail; it got the paper banned by the security police.’

  ‘Tabaka read them and liked them. He has agreed to meet you.’

  ‘My God, Ramón. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. This is the most marvellous break—’

  Ramón cut short his thanks. ‘He’ll meet you this evening, but he has laid down some conditions.’

  ‘Anything,’ Michael agreed quickly.

  ‘You are to come to the meeting alone. No weapons, of course, and no tape-recorder or camera. He does not want his voice or appearance on record. There is a pub in Shepherd’s Bush.’ He gave Michael the address. ‘Be there at seven this evening. Carry a bunch of flowers – carnations. Someone will meet and take you to the rendezvous.’

  ‘Right, I’ve got that.’

  ‘One other condition. Tabaka wants to read all your copy on the interview before you print it’

  Michael was silent for a slow count of five. The request contravened all his journalistic principles. It amounted to a form of censorship and cast a slur on his professional ethics. However, the price was an interview with one of the most wanted men in Africa.

  ‘All right,’ he agreed heavily. ‘I’ll give him first read.’ And then his tone brightened. ‘I owe you a favour, Ramón. I’ll come around and tell you all about it tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Don’t forget the bottle of wine.’

  Michael rushed back to Cadogan Square. As soon as he reached the telephone he cancelled all the rest of the day’s appointments, and then settled down to plan his strategy for the interview. His questions had to be searching, but not so barbed as to cool Tabaka’s co-operative mood. He had to be sincere and sympathetic, and yet at the same time, severe, for he was dealing with a man who had deliberately chosen the path of violence and bloodshed. To achieve credibility his questions must be balanced and neutral, and at the same time designed to draw the man out. In particular he did not want a mere recital of all the radical slogans and revolutionary jargon.

  ‘The term “terrorist” is generally applied to a person who for reason of political coercion commits an act of violence on a target of a non-military nature during which there is a high probability of injury or death being inflicted on innocent bystanders. Do you accept that definition and, if so, does the label “terrorist” apply to Umkhonto we Sizwe?’

  He worked that out as his first question, and lit another Camel as he studied it.

  ‘Good.’ That was what you called jumping straight in with both feet, but perhaps it needed a little honing and polishing. He worked on steadily, and by five-thirty he had prepared twenty questions that satisfied him. He made himself a smoked-salmon sandwich and drank a bottle of Guinness while he reviewed and rehearsed his script.

  Then he shrugged on his overcoat, armed himself with the bunch of carnations which he had bought at the corner stall. It was drizzling rain. He flagged down a taxi in Sloane Street.

  The pub was steamy with body heat. The condensation ran down the stained-glass windows in rainbow rivulets. Michael displayed the carnations ostentatiously and peered through the soft blue mist of tobacco smoke. Almost immediately a neatly dressed Indian in a three-piece blue wool suit left the bar-counter and made his way down the crowded room.

  ‘Mr Courtney, my name is Govan.’

  ‘From Natal.’ Michael recognized the accent.

  ‘From Stanger.’ The man smiled. ‘But that was six years ago.’ He glanced at the shoulder of Michael’s coat. ‘Has it stopped raining? Good, we can walk. It’s not far.’

  His guide struck out down the main thoroughfare. Within a hundred yards he turned abruptly into a narrow alleyway and increased his pace. Michael had to trot to match him. He was wheezing when they reached the exit to the alley.

  ‘Damned fags – I must cut down.’

  Govan turned out of the alley, and stopped abruptly round the corner. Michael was about to speak, but Govan gripped his arm to silence him. They waited for five minutes. Only when it was certain that they were not being following did he relax his grip.

  ‘You don’t trust me,’ Michael smiled, and dumped the carnations in the rubbish bin that bore a warning of the penalties for littering.

  ‘We do not trust anybody.’ Govan led him away. ‘Especially not the Boers. They are learning new kinds of nastiness each day.’

  Ten minutes later they stopped again outside a modern block of flats, in a broad well-lit street. There was a rank of Mercedes and Jaguars parked at the kerb. The lawn and small garden in front of the apartment-block was carefully groomed. It was clearly an expensive residential enclave. ‘I will leave you here,’ said Govan. ‘Go in. There is a porter in the lobby. Tell him that you are a guest of Mr Kendrick, Flat 505.’

  The lobby was in keeping with the façade of the building, Italian marble floor, wood-panelled walls and gilded doors to the lift. The uniformed porter saluted him. ‘Yes, Mr Courtney, Mr Kendrick is expecting you. Please go up to the fifth floor.’

  When the lift doors opened, there were two unsmiling young coloured men waiting for him.

  ‘Come this way, Mr Courtney.’

  They led him down the carpeted passage to number 505 and let him into the flat.

  As the door closed, they stepped in on each side of him and swiftly but thoroughly patted him down. Michael lifted his arms and spread his legs co-operatively. As they searched him, he looked around him with the journalist’s eye. The flat had been decorated with flair and taste, and money.

  His escorts stepped back satisfied, and one of them opened the double doors ahead of him.

  ‘Please,’ he said, and Michael went through into a spacious and beautifully decorated room. The sofas and easy chairs were covered with cream-coloured Connolly leather. The thick pile of the wall-to-wall carpet was a soft cocoa. The tables and the cocktail-bar were in crystal and chrome. On the walls hung four large Hockney paintings, from his swimming pool series.

  Fifty thousand quid each, Michael estimated, and then his eyes flicked to the figure who stood in the centre of the room.

  There had been no recent photograph of this man, but Michael recognized him instantly from a blurred press picture in the Mail’s archives which dated back years to the Sharpeville era and the subsequent enquiries.

  ‘Mr Tabaka,’ he said. He was as tall as Michael, probably six foot one, but broader in the shoulder and narrower in the waist.

  ‘Mr Courtney.’ Raleigh Tabaka came forward to offer his hand. He moved like a boxer, fluidly in balance, poised and aggressive.

  ‘You live in style?’ Michael put a question in his voice, and Raleigh Tabaka frowned slightly.

  ‘This is the apartment of a sympathizer. I have no call for such frippery.’ His voice was firm and deep, melodious with the unmistakable echoes of Africa. Despite the denial, his suit was of pure new wool and draped elegantly over his warrior’s frame. There were the tiny stirrups of the Gucci motif on his silk tie. He was an impressive man.

  ‘I
am grateful for this opportunity to meet you,’ Michael said.

  ‘I read your “Rage” series,’ Raleigh told him, studying Michael with those black onyx eyes. ‘You understand my people. You examined their aspirations with a fair and impartial eye.’

  ‘Not everybody would agree with you – especially those in authority in South Africa.’

  Raleigh smiled. His teeth were even and white. ‘I have very little to tell you that will comfort them now. But first may I offer you a drink?’

  ‘A gin and tonic’

  ‘Ah, yes, the fuel on which the journalistic mind functions.’ Raleigh’s tone was scornful. He went to the bar and poured the clear liquid from a crystal decanter, and squirted the tonic from a hand-held nozzle connected to the bar by a chrome-sheathed hose.

  ‘You don’t drink?’ Michael asked, and Raleigh frowned again.

  ‘With so much work to be done, why should I cloud my mind?’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘We have only an hour, then I must go.’

  ‘I mustn’t waste a minute of it,’ Michael agreed. As they settled facing each other in the cream Connolly-leather chairs, he said: ‘I have all the background I need: your place and date of birth, your education at Waterford School in Swaziland, your relationship to Moses Gama, your present position in the ANC. May I go on from there?’ And Raleigh inclined his head in assent.

  ‘The term “terrorist” is generally applied to . . .’ Michael repeated his definition, and Raleigh’s features tightened with anger as he listened.

  ‘There are no innocent bystanders in South Africa,’ he cut in brusquely. ‘it is a war. Nobody can claim to be a neutral. We are all combatants.’

  ‘No matter how young, how old? No matter how sympathetic to your people’s aspirations?’

  ‘There are no bystanders,’ Raleigh repeated. ‘From the cradle to the grave, we are all in the battlefield. We all fall into one of two camps, either the oppressed or the oppressors.’

  ‘No man or woman or child has a choice?’ Michael asked.