Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers

by Wilbur Smith

  “You are being a racist,” Daniel chided him gently. “The old colonial system preserved the wild game.”

  “So how did it survive for a million years before the white man arrived in Africa? No, the colonial system of game management was protectionist, not conservationist.”

  “Aren’t they the same thing, protection and conservation?”

  “They are diametrically opposed. The protectionist denies man’s right to exploit and harvest nature’s bounty. He would deny that man has a right to kill a living animal, even if that threatens the survival of the species as a whole. If he were here today, the protectionist would prohibit us from this cull, and he would not want to look to the final consequence of that prohibition which, as we have seen, would be the eventual extinction of the entire elephant population and the destruction of this forest. However, the most damaging mistake that the old colonial protectionists made was to alienate the black tribesman from the benefits of controlled conservation. They denied him his share of the spoils, and built up in him a resentment towards the wild game. They broke down his natural instinct for management of his resources. They took away his control of nature and placed him in competition with the animals. The end result is that the average black peasant is hostile towards the game.

  “The elephants raid his gardens and destroy the trees he uses for firewood. The buffalo and antelope eat the grass on which he feeds his cattle. The crocodile ate his grandmother, and the lion killed his father… Of course, he has come to resent the game herds.”

  “The solution, Warden? Is there one?”

  “Since independence from the colonial system we have been trying to change the attitude of our people,” Johnny told him. “At first they demanded that they be allowed to enter the National Parks that the white man had proclaimed. They wanted to be allowed to go in and cut the trees and feed their cattle and build their villages. However, we have had a great deal of success in educating them to the value of tourism, safari-hunting and controlled culling. For the first time they they are allowed to participate in the profits, and there is a new understanding of conservation and sensible exploitation, especially amongst the younger generation.

  “However, if the protectionist do-gooders of Europe and America were to force a ban on safari-hunting or the sale of ivory, it would set back all our efforts. It would probably be the death knell of the African elephant and eventually the end of all the game.”

  “So in the end it is all a matter of economics?” Daniel asked.

  “Like everything else in this world, it is a matter of money,” Johnny agreed. “If you give us enough money we will stop the poachers. If you make it worth their while, we will keep the peasants and their goats out of the Parks. However, the money must come from somewhere. The newly independent states of Africa with their exploding human populations cannot afford the First World luxury of locking away their natural assets. They must exploit them and conserve them. If you prevent us doing that, then you will be guilty of contributing to the extinction of African wildlife.” Johnny nodded grimly. “Yes, it’s a matter of economics. If the game can pay, then the game can stay.”

  It was perfect, Daniel signalled Jock to stop filming and clasped Johnny’s shoulder. “I could make a star out of you. You’re a natural.” He was only half joking. “How about it, Johnny? You could do a hell of a lot more for Africa on the screen than you can here.”

  “You want me to live in hotels and jet aircraft instead of sleeping under the stars?” Johnny feigned indignation. “You want me to build up a nice little roll around my belly.” He prodded Daniel’s midriff. “And puff and pant when I run a hundred yards? No thank you, Danny. I’ll stay here where I can drink Zambezi water, not Coca-Cola, and eat buffalo steaks, not Big Macs.”

  They loaded the last rolls of salted elephant-hide and immature calf tusks by the glare of truck headlights, and climbed back up the rough winding road to the rim of the escarpment and the headquarters of the Park at Chiwewe in the dark.

  Johnny drove the green Landrover at the head of the slow convoy of refrigerator trucks and Daniel sat beside him on the front seat. They talked in the soft desultory manner of old friends in perfect accord.

  “Suicide weather,” Daniel wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his bush shirt. Even though it was almost midnight, the heat and the humidity were enervating.

  “Rains will break soon. Good thing you’re getting out of the valley,” Johnny grunted. “That road turns into a swamp in the rain and most of the rivers are impassable.”

  The tourist camp at Chiwewe had been closed a week previously in anticipation of the onslaught of the rainy season.

  “I don’t look forward to leaving,” Daniel admitted. “It’s been like old times again.”

  “Old times,” Johnny nodded. “We had some fun. When are you coming back to Chiwewe?”

  “I don’t know, Johnny, but my offer is genuine. Come with me. We made a good team once; we would be good again. I know it.”

  “Thanks, Danny.” Johnny shook his head. “But I’ve got work to do here.”

  “I won’t give up,” Daniel warned him, and Johnny grinned.

  “I know. You never do.”

  Chapter 3

  In the morning, when Daniel climbed the small kopje behind the headquarters camp to watch the sunrise, the sky was filled with dark and mountainous cloud and the heat was still oppressive.

  Daniel’s mood matched that sombre dawn, for although he had captured some wonderful material during his stay, he had also rediscovered his friendship and affection for Johnny Nzou. The knowledge that it might be many years before they met again saddened him.

  Johnny had invited him to breakfast on this, his last day. He was waiting for Daniel on the wide mosquito-screened verandah of the thatched bungalow that had once been Daniel’s own home.

  Daniel paused below the verandah and glanced around the garden. It was still the way that Vicky had planned it and originally laid it out.

  Vicky had been the twenty-year-old bride that Daniel had brought to Chiwewe all those years ago a slim cheerful lass with long blonde hair and smiling green eyes, only a few years younger than Daniel at the time. She had died in the front bedroom overlooking the garden that she had cherished. An ordinary bout of malaria had turned without warning to the pernicious cerebral strain. It had been all over very swiftly, even before the flying doctor could reach the Park.

  The eerie sequel to her death was that the elephants, who had never entered the fenced garden before, despite its laden citrus trees and rich vegetable plot, came that very night. They came at the exact hour of Vicky’s death and completely laid waste the garden. They even ripped out the ornamental shrubs and rose bushes. Elephant seem to have a psychic sensitivity to death. It was almost as if they had sensed her passing, and Daniel’s grief.

  Daniel had never married again and had left Chiwewe not long after.

  The memories of Vicky were too painful to allow him to remain. Now Johnny Nzou lived in the bungalow and his pretty Matabele wife Mavis tended Vicky’s garden. If Daniel had been able to choose, he would have had it no other way.

  This morning Mavis had prepared a traditional Matabele breakfast of maize porridge and sour milk, thickened in a calabash gourd, the beloved amasi of the Nguni pastoral tribes.

  Afterwards, Johnny and Daniel walked down towards the ivory godown together. Halfway down the hill Daniel checked and shaded his eyes as he stared towards the visitors’ camp. This was the game-fenced area on the river bank where the thatched cottages with circular walls stood under the wild fig trees. These structures, peculiar to southern Africa, were known as rondavels.

  “I thought you told me that the Park was closed to visitors,” Daniel said. “One of the rondavels is still occupied, and there’s a car parked outside it.”

  “That’s a special guest, a diplomat, the Ambassador of the Taiwanese Republic of China to Harare,” Johnny explained. “He is extremely interested in wildlife, particularly elephan
ts, and has contributed a great deal to conservation in this country. We allow him special privileges. He wanted to be here without other tourists, so I kept the camp open for him–” Johnny broke off, then exclaimed, “There he is now!”

  Three men stood in a group at the foot of the hill. It was still too far to make out their features. As they started towards them, Daniel asked, “What happened to the two white rangers who helped with the cull yesterday?”

  “They were on loan from Wankie National Park. They left to go home early this morning.”

  Closer to the group of three men Daniel made out the Taiwanese ambassador. He was younger than he would have expected a man of such rank to be. Although it was often difficult for a Westerner to judge the age of an oriental, Daniel put him at a little over forty. He was tall and lean with straight black hair that was oiled and combed back from a high intelligent forehead. He was good-looking with a clear, almost waxen, complexion.

  There was something about his, features that suggested that his ancestry was not pure Chinese, but mixed with European blood. Though his eyes were liquid jet-black in colour, their shape was rounded and his upper eyelids lacked the characteristic fold of skin at the inner corner.

  “Good morning, Your Excellency,” Johnny greeted him with obvious respect. “Warm enough for you?”

  “Good morning, Warden.” The ambassador left the two black rangers and came to meet them. “I prefer it to the cold.” He was wearing an open-necked short-sleeved blue shirt and slacks, and indeed looked cool and elegant.

  “May I present Doctor Daniel Armstrong?” Johnny asked. “Daniel, His Excellency the Ambassador of Taiwan, Ning Cheng Gong.”

  “No introduction is necessary, Doctor Armstrong is a famous man.” Cheng smiled charmingly as he took Daniel’s hand. “I have read your books and watched your television programmes with the greatest of interest and pleasure.” His English was excellent, as though he were born to the language, and Daniel warmed to him.

  “Johnny tells me that you are very concerned about the African ecology, and that you have made a great contribution to conservation in this country.”

  Cheng made a deprecatory gesture. “I only wish I could do more.” But he was staring at Daniel thoughtfully.

  “Forgive me, Doctor Armstrong, but I did not expect to find other visitors at Chiwewe at this time of year.” I was assured that the Park was closed.

  Although his tone was friendly, Daniel sensed that the question was not an idle one. “Don’t worry, Your Excellency. My camera man and I are leaving this afternoon. You will soon have the whole of Chiwewe to yourself,” Daniel assured him.

  “Oh, please don’t misunderstand me. I am not so selfish as to wish you gone. In fact, I am sorry to hear you are leaving so soon. I am sure we would have had a great deal to discuss.”

  Despite the denial, Daniel sensed that Cheng was relieved that he was leaving. His expression was still warm and his manner friendly, but Daniel was becoming aware of depths and layers below the urbane exterior.

  The ambassador fell in between them, as they walked down to the ivory warehouse, and chatted in a relaxed manner, and then stood aside to watch as the rangers and a team of porters began to unload the newly culled ivory from the truck parked at the door to the warehouse. By this time Jock was there with his Sony camera filming the work from every angle.

  As each tusk was brought out, still crusted with freshly congealed blood, it was weighed on the old-fashioned platform scale that stood at the entrance to the warehouse. Johnny Nzou sat at a rickety deal table and recorded the weight of each tusk in a thick leather-bound ledger. He then allocated a registration number to it and one of his rangers stamped that number into the ivory with a set of steel dies.

  Registered and stamped, the tusk was now legal ivory and could be auctioned and exported from the country.

  Cheng watched the procedure with a lively interest. One pair of tusks, although not heavy or massive, was of particular beauty. They were delicately proportioned shafts with fine grain and elegant curves, an identical and perfectly matched pair.

  Cheng stepped forward and squatted beside them as they lay on the scale.

  He stroked them with a lover’s sensual touch. “Perfect,” he purred. “A natural work of art.” He broke off as he noticed Daniel watching him.

  Daniel had been vaguely repelled by this display of cupidity, and it showed on his face.

  Cheng stood up and explained smoothly. “I have always been fascinated by ivory. As you probably know, we Chinese consider it to be a highly propitious substance. Few Chinese households are without any ivory carving; it brings good luck to its owner.

  “However, my family interest goes even deeper than common superstition. My father began his working life as an ivorycarver, and so great was his skill that by the time I was born he owned shops in Taipei and Bangkok, Tokyo and Hong Kong, all of them specialising in ivory artefacts. Some of my earliest memories are of the look and feel of ivory. As a boy, I worked as an apprentice ivory-carver in the store in Taipei, and I came to love and understand ivory as my father does. He has one of the most extensive and valuable collections–” he stopped himself. “Forgive me, please. I sometimes get carried away by my passion, but that is a particularly beautiful set of tusks. It is very rare to find a pair so perfectly matched. My father would be ecstatic over them.”

  He watched longingly as the tusks were carried away and packed with the hundreds of others in the warehouse.

  “Interesting character,” Daniel remarked, after the last tusk had been registered and locked away, and he and Johnny were making their way up the hill to the bungalow for lunch. “But how does the son of an ivory-carver get to be an ambassador?”

  Johnny chuckled. “Wing Cheng Gong’s father may have come from a humble background, but he didn’t remain there. I understand he still has his ivory shops and his collection, but those are merely his hobbies now. He is reputed to be one of the richest men, if not the richest man. in Taiwan, and that, as you can imagine, is very rich indeed. From what I hear he has his fingers in all the juiciest pies around the Pacific rim as well as some in Africa. He has a large family of sons and Cheng is the youngest and, they say, the brightest. I like him, don’t you?”

  “Yes, he seems pleasant enough, but there is just something a little odd. Did you notice his face as he fondled that tusk? It was–” Daniel searched for the word, “unnatural?”

  “You writers!” Johnny shook his head ruefully. “If you can’t find something sensational, you make it up.” And they both laughed.

  Chapter 4

  Ning Cheng Gong stood with one of the black rangers at the foot of the hill and watched Daniel and Johnny disappear amongst the msasa trees. “I do not like the white man being here,” said Gomo. Under Johnny Nzou, he was Chiwewe’s senior ranger. “Perhaps we should wait until another time.”

  “The white man leaves this afternoon,” Cheng told him coldly. “Besides which you have been well paid. Plans have been made that cannot be altered now. The others are already on their way and cannot be sent back.”

  “You have only paid us half of what we agreed,” Gomo protested.

  “The other half when your work is done, not before,” Cheng said softly, and Gomo’s eyes were like the eyes of a snake. “You know what you have to do,” Cheng went on.

  Gama was silent for a moment. The foreigner had indeed paid him a thousand US dollars, the equivalent of six months’ salary, with the promise of another year’s salary to follow after the job was done.

  “You will do it?” Cheng insisted.

  “Yes,” Gomo agreed. “I will do it.”

  Cheng nodded. “It will be tonight or tomorrow night, not later. Be ready, both of you.”

  “We will be ready,” Gomo promised, and climbed into his Landrover, where the second black ranger waited, and they drove away.

  Cheng walked back to his rondavel in the deserted visitors’ camp.

  The cottage was identical to the oth
er thirty which during the dry cool season usually housed a full complement of tourists. He fetched a cool drink from the refrigerator and sat on the screen porch to wait out the hottest hours of the noonday. He felt nervous and restless. Deep down he shared Gomo’s misgivings about the project. Although they had considered every possible eventuality and planned for each of them, there was always the unforeseeable, the unpredictable, such as the presence of Armstrong.

  It was the first time he had attempted a coup of this magnitude. It was his own initiative. Of course, his father knew about and thoroughly approved of the other lesser shipments, but the risk was far greater this time, in proportion to the rewards. If he succeeded he would earn his father’s respect, and that was more important to him even than the material profits. He was the youngest son, and he had to strive that much harder to win his place in his father’s affections. For that reason alone he must not fail.

  In the years that he had been at the embassy in Harare, he had consolidated his place in the illicit ivory and rhino-horn trade. It had begun with a deceptively casual remark at a dinner-party by a middle-ranking government official about the convenience of diplomatic privilege and access to the diplomatic courier service. With the business training that his father had given him, Cheng recognised the approach immediately for what it was, and made a non-committal but encouraging response.

  A week of delicate negotiations followed and then Cheng was invited to play golf with another higher official. His driver parked the ambassadorial Mercedes in the car park at the rear of the Harare golf club and as instructed left it unattended while Cheng was out on the course. Cheng was officially a ten handicap golfer but could play well below that when he chose.

  On this occasion he allowed his opponent to win three thousand US dollars and paid him in cash in front of witnesses in the club house.

  When he returned to his official residence he ordered the driver to park the Mercedes in the garage and then dismissed him. In the boot he found six large rhino horns packed in layers of hessian cloth.