Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers

by Wilbur Smith

  “You were not supposed to go near the scene of the killing. That was foolish, never mind.”

  “I had to make sure the job was done, and it was just as well I did. The warden was still alive.”

  “You will have to burn that clothing.”

  It was unlikely that there would be other traffic this late at night but they took no chances. They reversed the trucks well off the highway and transferred the ivory from the Parks trucks to Chetti Singh’s pantechnicon behind a screen of trees. Even with Chetti Singh’s gang of men to assist the two drivers, the removal took almost two hours. It was a huge quantity of ivory to move.

  In the meantime Chetti Singh watched Cheng build a small fire. When it was burning hotly the ambassador stripped to his underwear. As he dressed again in fresh clothing from his luggage, Chetti Singh squatted beside the fire and burned all the soiled items. The rubber soles of the training shoes flared up fiercely when they caught. He used a stick to poke the charred scraps into the centre of the flames and make certain that they were reduced to fine ash.

  “There will still be abundant traces of blood in the Mercedes,” Chetti pointed out as he stood up from it. “On the accelerator and brake pedals.” He removed the floor mat and the rubber covers from the control pedals and burned these as well. The stink of the black smoke made his eyes run, but still he was not satisfied. “We will have to get rid of that car.” He told Cheng what to do. “I will arrange the rest of it.”

  Cheng was the first to leave the rendezvous. Even before the transfer of the ivory to the Sikh’s truck was complete he was on his way back to Harare. He drove fast, as though trying to escape from his involvement with the raid. The reaction was setting in now. It was the same after one of his sexual pantomimes in the Myrtle Blossom Lady’s house in Taipei. Afterwards he felt shaky and nauseated. He always promised himself it would never happen again.

  The ambassador’s residence was one of many large sprawling; colonial buildings in the avenues near the golf club. He reached it well after midnight. He went directly to his own bedroom suite. He had arranged for his wife and the children to fly back to Taiwan the previous week to stay with her family. He was alone in the residence.

  He stripped once again and, even though he had not worn it at the scene, placed all his clothing in a plastic bag. He was concerned that the faintest trace of blood might linger upon it. Then he showered. He stood under the steaming spray for almost half an hour, shampooing his hair twice and scrubbing his hands and fingernails with a stiff brush.

  When he felt that he had washed away every last trace of blood or gunpowder, he dressed in fresh clothing from his dressing-room and carried the plastic bag containing his clothing; back to the Mercedes parked in the residence garage. He placed the plastic bag in the boot beside his canvas grip. He was anxious to get rid of every single item that he had taken to Chiwewe, even his binoculars and his bird-book.

  He reversed the Mercedes out of the garage and parked it in the front driveway of the residence. The gates were open and he left the key in the ignition.

  Although it was by now after two in the morning and it had been a day and night filled with activity and intense nervous strain Cheng could not sleep. In a brocaded silk robe he paced his bedroom restlessly, until he heard the starter of the Mercedes whirl. He switched off the bedside lamp and darted to the window overlooking the front driveway.

  He was just in time to see his car, with darkened headlights, pull out of the driveway and turn into the deserted street. He sighed with relief and at last went to bed.

  As he composed himself to sleep he thought how swiftly Chetti Singh had arranged it. Chetti Singh’s son managed the, Harare branch of the family interests. He was almost as astute and reliable as his father.

  In the morning, after breakfast, Cheng telephoned the police and reported the theft of the Mercedes. They found it twenty-four hours later, out near Hatfield on the way to the airport. It had been stripped of tires. and engine and set on fire. The fuel tank had exploded and nothing was left of the vehicle but the soot-blackened carapace. He knew that the insurance company would pay out in full, without too much delay or protest.

  The following morning an anonymous caller on Cheng’s unlisted line spoke without introduction or explanation. “Look at page five of today’s Herald,” he said, then broke the connection, but the accent had been Asian, very similar to Chetti Singh’s manner of speech.

  Cheng found the article at the foot of the page. It was six lines under an insignificant heading,

  Stabbed in Drunken Brawl. Gomo Chisonda, a ranger employed by the National Parks Service, had been stabbed to death by an unknown assailant during an argument in a township beerhall.

  The next day the same anonymous caller told Cheng, “Page seven.” This time Cheng was certain that he recognised the voice of Chetti Singh’s son.

  The heading of the newspaper article was Railway Accident, squib read,

  The body of David Shiri, an off-duty and the ranger in the National Parks Service, was found on the railway line near Hartley.

  The dead man had a high blood alcohol level. A spokesman for Zimbabwe Railways warned the public of the danger of using unguarded crossings.

  This is the fourth accident of the same kind on the Hartley line since the beginning of the year. As Chetti Singh had promised, there were no longer any surviving witnesses or accomplices.

  Three days later, Cheng received a telephone call from the commissioner of police in person. “I am very sorry indeed to disturb you, Your Excellency. I presume you have read about the murderous attack on Chiwewe Camp. I believe that you may be able to assist our enquiries into this most unfortunate incident. I understand that you were a visitor at the camp on that day, and that you left only hours before the attack.”

  “That is correct, Commissioner.”

  “Would you have any objection to making a statement to assist us? You know that there is no obligation for you to do so. You are fully protected by diplomatic privilege.”

  “I will cooperate in any way possible. I particularly admired and liked the warden who was murdered. I will do all I can to help you apprehend the perpetrators of this foul crime.”

  “I am most grateful to you, Your Excellency. May I send one of my senior inspectors to call upon you?”

  The inspector was a burly Shana in plain clothes. He was accompanied by a sergeant in the smart uniform of the Zimbabwean police, and both of them were elaborately obsequious.

  With profuse apologies the inspector took Cheng through a recital of his visit to Chiwewe, including his departure with the convoy of refrigerator trucks. Cheng had rehearsed all this and he went through it faultlessly. He was careful to mention his meeting with Daniel Armstrong.

  When he had finished, the inspector fidgeted uncomfortably before asking, “Doctor Armstrong has also made a statement, Your Excellency. His account confirms everything you have told me, except that he mentioned that he noticed there were bloodstains on your clothing.

  “When was that?” Cheng looked puzzled.

  “When he encountered you and the Parks trucks, as he was returning to Chiwewe, after having seen the tracks of the raiders on the road.”

  Cheng’s expression cleared. Ah yes. I had been an interested spectator of the Parks elephant culling. As you can imagine, there was much blood about during the operation, I could easily have stepped in a puddle.”

  The inspector was sweating with embarrassment at this stage. “Do you remember what you were wearing that evening, Your Excellency?”

  Cheng frowned as he tried to remember. “I was wearing an open-neck shirt, blue cotton slacks, and probably a pair of comfortable running shoes. That is my usual casual attire.”

  “Do you still have those items?”

  “Yes, of course. The shirt and slacks will have been laundered by now, and the shoes will have been cleaned. My valet is very efficient…” He broke off and smiled as though a thought had only just occurred to him. “Inspector,
do you want to see these items? You might even wish to take them away for examination.”

  Now the police inspector’s embarrassment was painful. He squirmed in his chair. “We have no right to ask for that kind of cooperation, Your Excellency. However, in view of the statement made by Doctor Armstrong. If you had no objection.”

  “Of course not.” Cheng smiled reassuringly. “As I told the commissioner of police, I want to cooperate in every possible way.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “However, I am due at lunch with the president at State House in an hour. Do you mind if I send the clothing down to your headquarters with a member of my staff?”

  Both police officers sprang to their feet. “I am very sorry to have inconvenienced you, Your Excellency. We appreciate your help. I am sure the commissioner of police will be writing to you to tell you that himself.”

  Without rising from his desk, Cheng stopped the inspector at the door. “There was a report in the Herald that the raiders had been apprehended,” he asked. “Is that correct? Were you able to recover the stolen ivory?”

  “The bandits were intercepted at the Zambezi as they tried to cross back into Zambia. Unfortunately all of them were either killed or escaped, and the ivory was destroyed by fire or lost in the river.”

  “What a pity…” Cheng sighed. “They should have been made to answer for these brutal killings. However, it has simplified your work, has it not?”

  “We are closing the file,” the inspector agreed. “Now that you have helped us tidy up the loose ends, the commissioner will write to convey his appreciation and that will be the end of the matter.”

  The packet of clothing that Cheng selected from his wardrobe and sent to police headquarters, although agreeing with the description he had given the inspector, had never been worn anywhere near Chiwewe or the Zambezi valley.

  Cheng sighed now as he thought about it. He replaced the ivory netsuke on his desk and stared at it morosely. But it was not the end of the matter, not now that Doctor Daniel Armstrong was nosing around, making trouble.

  Could he rely on Chetti Singh once again, he wondered. It was one thing to get rid of two lowly Parks rangers, but Armstrong was game of a larger kind. He had international reputation and fame, there would be questions if he disappeared.

  He touched the intercom button and spoke into the microphone on his desk in Cantonese. “Lee, come in here please.” He could have asked his question without ordering his secretary through, but he liked to look at her. Although she was of peasant stock from the hills, she was bright and nubile. She had done well at Taiwan University, but Cheng had not chosen her for her academic achievements.

  She stood to the side of his desk, close enough for him to touch if he had wished to, in an attitude of servility and submission. Despite her modern accomplishments, she was a traditionally raised girl with the correct attitude to men, and in particular to her master. “Have you confirmed the reservations with Qantas Airlines?” he asked. With Armstrong sniffing around in Lilongwe, it was as well that the return to Taipei was imminent. He would never have taken the risk of the Chiwewe adventure if he had planned to stay on at the embassy. Already his wife and family had left. He would follow at the end of the month, only eight days from now.

  “Yes, the reservations have been confirmed, Your Excellency,” Lee whispered respectfully. To him her voice was as sweet as that of the nightingale in his father’s lotus garden in the mountains. It stirred him. “When are the packers coming in?” he asked, and touched her. She trembled slightly under his hand and that stirred him further. “They will come in first thing on Monday, my lord.” She used the traditional title of respect.

  Her straight black hair hung to her shoulders and shimmered with light. Cheng ran his fingers lightly up the thigh slit of her cheongsam; her skin was as smooth as the ivory netsuke. “You have warned them of the value and fragility of my art collection?” he asked, and pinched her beneath the skirt. He took a nip of that ivory skin between the nails of his thumb and second finger and she winced and bit her lower lip.

  “Yes, my lord,” she whispered, with a catch of pain in her voice. He pinched a little harder. It would leave a tiny purple star on the flawless swell of her small firm buttock, a mark that would still be there when she came to him tonight.

  The power of pain made him feel elated. He forgot about Doctor Daniel Armstrong and any trouble he might be brewing. For now, the police were off the track, and Lee Wang was lovely and compliant. He had eight days while he was separated from his wife in which to enjoy her to the full. Then he would return home, to his father’s approbation.

  Chapter 11

  Dan unlocked the rear door of the Landcruiser and packed the groceries and supplies that he had purchased from Chetti Singh’s supermarket into his depleted tucker box. Then he went round to the cab and sat at the wheel. While he let the engine warm, he checked his notebook for the list of the Sikh’s other business premises.

  With help from a few obliging pedestrians he found his way into the light industrial area of the town, down near the railway line and the station.

  Here it seemed that Chetti Singh owned four or five acres of industrial sites. Some of these were undeveloped and overgrown with rank bush and weed. On one of the vacant lots a large signboard declared:

  ANOTHER CHETTI SINGH PROJECT SITE OF PROPOSED COTTON CARDING FACTORY

  Development! Employment! Prosperity! Upliftment for MALAWI!

  On one side of the open plot, behind a barbed-wire security fence, stood the workshops of Chetti Singh’s Toyota agency.At least a hundred new Toyota vehicles were parked in the front lot. They were still coated with the filth of the long rail journey up from the coast on open goods trucks. Clearly they were awaiting delivery service in the main workshop building.

  Through the open front doors Daniel could see a team of mechanics at work. Though the foremen appeared all to be Asians, some in Sikh turbans, most of the overalled mechanics were black. The enterprise appeared prosperous and well managed.

  Daniel drove into the forecourt and left the Landcruiser parked at the reception bay. He spoke to one of the foremen in a blue dust-coat. Under the pretext of arranging a service for the Landcruiser he managed to get a good look around the workshop and administration building. There was no obvious place where a shipment of stolen ivory could be hidden.

  While he made a booking to bring the Landcruiser in the following morning at eight o’clock, he chatted casually to the workshop foreman and learned that the sawmill and the Chetti Singh Trading Company warehouse were in the next street, backing on to the vehicle workshop.

  He drove away and circled the block. It was easy to pick out the sawmill, even from the far end of the street. A dozen railway trucks stood at the private railway siding, every one of them piled high with heavy logs of indigenous timber cut in the heavily forested mountains.

  The shrieks of the circular saws carried clearly up the street.

  As he drove past the gates he looked into the open sheds where the saws were housed. The spinning discs shone like quicksilver, and spurts of yellow sawdust flew from the rough logs as the blades bit into them. The resinous smell of freshly cut timber was pungent in the hot sunlight and mountains of raw planks were piled in the extensive yards, ready to be loaded on to the waiting railway trucks.

  Daniel drove past slowly. Diagonally opposite the sawmill closed by stood the warehouse complex. It, was a high diamond-mesh fence, green plastic-coated wire on sturdy concrete poles with offset tops angled out towards the street and festooned with barbed wire.

  The warehouse was in five semi-detached units; the valleys and peaks of the common roof formed a saw-tooth pattern of unpainted corrugated asbestos sheeting. The walls were also of the same corrugated asbestos.

  Each of the five units had separate doors of the roller type usually seen on aircraft hangars.

  This time the signboard at the gates read

  CHETTI SINGH TRADING COMPANY CENTRAL DEPOT AND WAREHOUSE

 
; He was certainly not shy about advertising his name, Daniel thought wryly. There was a swinging boom and a brick-built gatehouse at the entrance and Daniel noticed at least one uniformed guard at the gate. As he drew level with the last building, he saw that the tall asbestos doors had been rolled open and he was able to look down the length of the cavernous warehouse.

  Suddenly he leaned forward and his pulse accelerated as he recognised the huge pantechnicon parked in the centre of the warehouse. It was the vehicle that he had last seen on the Chirundu road four nights previously. The ten-wheel trailer with the green tarpaulin cover was still hitched behind it and the red dust that coated it matched that on his own Landcruiser.

  The rear doors of the trailer were open and a team of a dozen or so black labourers assisted by a forklift truck were loading a cargo of brown sacks that could have contained maize, sugar or rice. He could not see any of the distinctive dried fish bags that had been the cargo which he had seen in the Zambezi valley.

  He lowered the side window, hoping for a whiff of fish, but he smelled only dust and diesel fumes. Then he was past. He thought about making a U-turn and another passing inspection.

  “Hell, I’ve drawn enough attention already,” he told himself. “Like the circus coming to town.” He drove back to the Capital Hotel the way he had come left the truck in the guests car park and went up to his room.

  He ran a bath, as deep and hot as he could stand it, and soaked the dust and grime of the African roads out of his pores, while his skin turned a rich puce. As the water cooled he twiddled the tap with his toe, adding fresh steaming gouts. At last he stood to lather his nether regions and regarded himself seriously in the dewy mirror over the washbasin.

  “Look here, Armstrong. The sensible thing to do is go to the police with our suspicions. It’s their job, let them get on with it.”

  “Since when,” Armstrong, he replied, “did we ever do the sensible thing? Besides, this is Africa. It will take the police three or four days to stir their butts, and Mr. Singh has had quite enough time already to get rid of any ivory he may just have lying around. By tomorrow it will probably be too late to catch him at it.”