Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers

by Wilbur Smith

  He screwed up his nerve to leave the haven of the fork-lift. The machine covering his back was a solid comfort, while in the open he was vulnerable and puny against the speed and strength of the leopard.

  The moment he left the shelter of the fork-lift, the leopard sawed again, its savage cry more vicious and eager. “Get out of it,” Daniel yelled at it, hoping to disconcert it with the sound of a human voice.

  The cat ducked sideways and disappeared behind a pile of packing cases, and Daniel made his mistake. It was a stupid, unforgivable mistake. He, of all people, knew that you must never run from a wild beast. In particular you must never turn your back on one of the cats. Their instinct is to pursue. If you run, they must charge, just as a domestic cat cannot resist the flight of the mouse.

  Daniel thought that he might just be able to reach the pyramid of fish sacks. He turned and ran, and the leopard exploded in a silent rush out of the darkness behind him. He never even heard it come. It landed with all its weight and the full momentum of its charge in the middle of his back, between his shoulder-blades. Daniel was hurled forward. He felt its claws bite in and hold, and for a moment he thought they were hooked into his own flesh.

  Instead of bearing him down to the concrete floor the leopard slammed him into the pile of sacks. They cushioned the impact, but still it drove half the air from Daniel’s lungs and he felt as though his ribs had collapsed. The leopard was still mounted high on his shoulders, but as Daniel staggered under its weight he realized that its claws were hooked into the leather of his jacket and the thick woollen sweater beneath it.

  Somehow Daniel managed to keep on his feet, supporting himself against the sloping wall of sacks. He could feel the cat on his back gather itself, bringing up its back legs, coiling its body like a spring, ready to lash downwards across his buttocks and the back of his thighs. It would open his flesh to the bone, slicing through blood vessels and arteries, a crippling injury from which he would probably bleed to death within minutes.

  Daniel pushed off from the sacks with both arms, flipping backwards, rolling his body into a ball with his knees up under his chin. The leopard’s claws tugged at the nylon belt of the bag and then kicked on downwards, but Daniel had drawn his legs up and clear. The cat’s back paws with the curved claws outspread, struck at air, missing his flesh.

  Now man and beast with their combined weight crashed to the concrete floor. Daniel was a big man and the leopard was underneath him. A single hissing snarl was forced from its lungs by the impact and Daniel felt its claws release their hold in the leather of his jacket. He twisted violently and reached over his shoulder with one hand, the screwdriver still clutched in the other. As he came to his knees, he seized a thick fold of skin at the scruff of the leopard’s neck and, with the strength of his terror, tore the creature from his back and hurled it against the pile of packing-cases.

  It rebounded at him like a rubber ball.

  The torch had been knocked from his grip by the leopard’s first charge. It rolled across the concrete floor until it came up against one of the packing-cases. Its beam was angled upwards now and reflected from the pale plywood case. The reflection gave Daniel just enough light to anticipate the leopard’s charge.

  Its jaws were open to their full gape, and its extended front paws reached for his shoulders. As it smashed into him, chest cocked up, its back legs in the instinctive disembowelling movement, its head shot forward to sink its fangs into his face and throat. This was the classic leopard attack and Daniel countered with the screwdriver held sideways between both his hands, thrusting it like a curb bit into the leopard’s open mouth.

  One of the beast’s front fangs broke off cleanly at the gum as it struck steel, and then Daniel was on his back holding the leopard off his face with the screwdriver. It snarled again and a hot mist of spittle blew into his face, the stink of carrion and death filled his nostrils.

  He felt one forepaw stretch out over his shoulder, reaching out to the back of his scalp to rip it off his skull. At the same time the back legs jack-knifed up, claws fully extended to tear out the front of his belly. However, the back of Daniel’s head was pressed up hard against one of the fish sacks and the leopard hooked its claws, not into the thin flesh of his scalp, but into the coarse jute of the sack only an inch from his ear. Then the cat slashed down with both back legs together, but instead of unzipping his belly, the claws bit into the tough nylon belt of the bag at his stomach.

  For a moment the animal’s attack was stalled. It ripped at the jute sack, seeming not to realize its error, and the back legs kicked downward spasmodically, tearing the nylon with a sharp rending sound.

  As it struggled, the leopard pulled back its head, trying to avoid the steel shaft that Daniel was still forcing deeply between its open jaws.

  Instantly Daniel whipped the screwdriver back, releasing his grip on the sharpened end and then drove it forward again, aiming the point at one of the leopard’s eyes.

  His aim was wild, the point of the screwdriver shot into the cat’s flaring nostril, but instead of finding the nasal channel into the brain, it deflected slightly, penetrated the gristle of the nose, and ran along the outside of the cheekbone below the dappled skin. The point emerged from beneath the leopard’s ear, and the cat screamed with the shock and agony. For a moment it relaxed its attack. Daniel rolled over, and threw the leopard off him.

  It seemed a miracle that up to now the leopard had not drawn blood, but as Daniel threw it backwards, the cat held on instinctively with one paw.

  The claws raked down Daniel’s arm, slicing through the leather and wool and reaching the muscle of his forearm. It felt like a sword cut, and the pain goaded Daniel to throw in his last desperate reserve of strength. He kicked out with both feet together, and his heels crashed into the feline body just as it gathered itself for the next charge. The kick drove it backwards in a snarling, snapping ball of dark fur that gleaned and rippled in the torchlight.

  There was a space between the fish sacks at Daniel’s back, it was just wide enough to admit his body. He flung himself backwards into the narrow cave. Now his back and flanks were protected, and the leopard could only attack from directly in front.

  It thrust its head, growling and gaping into the narrow space, trying to reach him. Daniel stabbed for its eyes with the screwdriver. Again he missed, but the steel point lacerated the leopard’s curling pink tongue, and it leaped backwards, hissing and spitting with pain. “Go on! Get out of it,” he howled, more to bolster his own courage than with any hope of driving off the infuriated beast.

  He drew his legs up under him and worked his way as far as he could into the narrow gap between the fish sacks.

  The leopard paced back and forth across the entrance, blotting out the feeble torchlight with each pass. Once it stopped and sat on its haunches, wiping its wounded nose with one paw, like a domestic cat, and then licking its own blood from the fur. Then it bounded forward, blocking the entrance to the narrow cave, and stretched in one forepaw to try and reach Daniel again.

  He stabbed at the groping limb and felt it hit and penetrate. The leopard spat explosively and pulled back. It began to patrol the entrance to his cave, pausing every few minutes to lower its head and let out one of those terrible sawing roars.

  Daniel felt the blood sliming down his forearm under the sleeve and dripping from his fingers. He held the screwdriver between his knees, ready to fend off the next attack, and then, one-handed, bound his handkerchief around the torn arm to stem the bleeding. He pulled the knot tight with his teeth. The wound seemed superficial. The leather sleeve had saved him from serious injury, but the arm was already beginning to throb. Daniel knew how truly dangerous even the lightest scratch from a carnivore’s teeth or claws could be, if untreated.

  That was only one of his worries. The leopard had him trapped and soon it would be morning. It was a wonder that the roars of the animal had not yet attracted attention. He could expect a guard to arrive at any moment.

 
As he thought it, the warehouse was suddenly flooded with light. It was so brilliant that the leopard recoiled on to its haunches and blinked in confusion. Daniel heard the faint rumble as the main doors rolled open, driven by their electric motor. It was followed immediately by the sound of a motor car coming in through the opening.

  The leopard snarled and slunk back towards the rear of the warehouse, carrying its head low and looking back over its shoulder.

  Then, somebody shouted, “Hey, Nandi! Back to your cage! Back! Back!” Daniel recognised Chetti Singh’s voice.

  The leopard broke into a crouching run, and disappeared from Daniel’s sight.

  Chetti Singh spoke again. “Lock the leopard in the cage quickly!” and there was the metallic clang of a cage door being slammed. “Can you see the white man? Be careful, he may still be alive.”

  Daniel shrank back as far as he could into the narrow opening between the sacks. He had no real hope of avoiding detection, and the screwdriver was not much of a weapon. “There is a torch lying over there, still burning. And over there, by the fish sacks. That looks like blood.”

  Cautious footsteps approached. “Nandi has done her work.” Give me the torch. The voices were closer.

  Suddenly a pair of legs came into Daniel’s view and then the man stooped and flashed the torch into the dark crack where Daniel squatted. “My goodness!” the same voice said in English. “Here the fellow is, and he is still in excellent fettle. How do you do, Doctor Armstrong? I am delighted to make your formal acquaintance at last.”

  Daniel glared silently into the dazzling torch-beam and Chetti Singh went on in a jocular tone. “You won’t be needing that weapon, never mind. Please be good enough to hand it over.”

  Daniel made no move to obey and Chetti Singh chuckled. “This is a shotgun of fine English construction, dear sir, made by Mr. Purdey, no less. It is loaded with bullshot cartridges. The Malawi police are very understanding on the little matter of defending self. I beg you most humbly to entertain my request for cooperation.”

  With resignation Daniel tossed the screwdriver at his feet, and Chetti Singh kicked it away. “You may now emerge from your kennel, Doctor.”

  Daniel crawled out, and holding his injured arm to his chest, rose to his feet.

  Chetti Singh pointed the shotgun at his belly and spoke to the uniformed guard in Angoni. “Chawe, check the cases. See if the malungu has opened any of them.”

  Daniel recognised the black guard from the supermarket. He was a big dangerous-looking brute. “I prefer the leopard for a sparring partner,” Daniel thought wryly as he watched the Angoni stride away down the ramp towards the fork-lift.

  Before he reached the machine Chawe exclaimed and went down on one knee to scoop up a handful of spilled tea that Daniel had overlooked. Quickly he followed the trail of tea to the broached case on the fork-lift.

  “Lift the case, Chawe!” Chetti Singh ordered and Chawe climbed behind the controls of the fork-lift and raised the case high.

  A trickle of black tea leaves dribbled from under it. Chawc jumped down and thrust his arm into the hole that Daniel had gouged out of the plywood. “You are a jolly clever fellow.” Chetti Singh shook his head at Daniel in mock admiration. “Just like Sherlock Holmes, no less. But sometimes it is not wise to be too clever, my dear sir.”

  Looking into the Sikh’s eyes, Daniel discounted the man’s stilted clownish speech. Those eyes were deadly. This was no clown.

  “Chawe, where did the white man leave his truck?” he asked without moving the aim of the shotgun from the pit of Daniel’s belly.

  “He came without lights, but I heard the truck on the south side. I think he parked in the open land there.” They were speaking in Angoni believing that Daniel could not understand it, but his knowledge of Zulu and Ndebele allowed him to make sense of it.

  “Go! Fetch the truck,” Chetti Singh ordered.

  After Chawe had gone, Daniel and Chetti Singh confronted each other in silence. Daniel was looking for some sign of weakness or indecision. The Sikh was calm and contained, the shotgun steady in his hands.

  “My arm is badly hurt,” Daniel said at last.

  “My sincere commiseration, my dear Doctor.”

  “There is danger of infection.”

  “No.” Chetti Singh smiled. “You will be dead before infection can manifest itself.”

  “You intend killing me?”

  “That is an amazingly facetious question, Doctor. What alternative do I have? You have been clever enough to discover my little secret. As I have often concluded, too much knowledge is a terminal disease.”

  “Ha, ha! If I’m going to die, why don’t you satisfy my curiosity and tell me about Chiwewe? Who proposed the raid, you or Ning Cheng Gong?”

  “Alas, dear sir. I know nothing of Chiwewe or this other fellow. Besides I do not feel in a talkative frame of mind.”

  “You have nothing to lose by telling me. Who owns the Lucky Dragon Investment Company?”

  “I am afraid, Doctor, that you will have to take your curiosity to the grave with you.”

  They heard the Landcruiser coming and Chetti Singh stirred. “That did not take Chawe long. You could not have been at many pains to conceal your vehicle. Let us go to the main door to greet him. Will you lead the way, please, Doctor, and bear in mind that Mr. Purdey’s excellent firearm is only a foot from your spinal column.”

  Still nursing his injured arm Daniel set off towards the warehouse doors. As they emerged from the aisle between the rows of packing-cases he saw a green Cadillac parked beside the empty railway truck. Probably Chetti Singh had remained safely in the Cadillac until the leopard had returned to its cage. Daniel remembered the shed at the back of the building, and the foul animal smell that he-had noticed earlier.

  He was piecing it all together, working out where the leopard was kept and how it was controlled. Even so, it was clear that neither Chetti Singh nor his henchman trusted the animal. On the contrary they had been extremely nervous when the leopard was loose.

  When they reached the main doors, Chetti Singh motioned Daniel to a standstill. Then abruptly the heavy door began to roll aside, revealing Daniel’s Toyota parked facing the entrance with its headlights burning.

  Chawe was standing at the external control box of the electrically operated door. When the door was- fully opened, he withdrew his key-card from the lock of the control box. It was on a short key-chain and he dropped it into his hip pocket.

  “Everything is ready,” he told Chetti Singh.

  “You know what to do,” Chetti Singh replied. “I don’t want any birds to fly back to settle on my roof. Make sure you leave no sign. It must be an accident, a nice simple accident on the mountain road. You understand that?” They were speaking Angoni again, secure in the belief that Daniel could not understand.

  “There will be an accident,” Chawe agreed. “And perhaps a little fire.”

  Chetti Singh turned his attention back to Daniel. “Now, dear sir. Kindly mount to the controls of your automobile. Chawe will tell you where to go. Please obey him most faithfully. He shoots very well with the shotgun.”

  Obediently Daniel climbed up into the cab of the Landcruiser and, at a word from Chetti Singh, Chawe took the seat directly behind him. Once they were settled, Chetti Singh passed the shotgun to the big Angoni. It was done as quickly and as neatly as an expert loader serving his gun in a Scottish grouse butt.

  Before Daniel could take any advantage, the double barrel was pressed firmly into the back of his neck, held there by Chawe.

  Chetti Singh stepped back to the open window beside Daniel. Chawe’s English is absolutely atrocious, never mind, he said jovially, and then switched to the lingua franca of Africa. “Wena kuluma Fanikalo, you speak like this?”

  “Yes,” Daniel agreed in the same language.

  “Good, then you and Chawe will have no difficulty understanding each other. Just do as he orders, Doctor. At that range the shotgun will make a most unsightly mess o
f your coiffure, no doubt.” Chetti Singh stepped back, and at Chawe’s command Daniel reversed the Landcruiser, swung it in a U-turn and drove out through the main gates into the public road.

  In the rear-view mirror he saw Chetti Singh walk back to the green Cadillac and open the driver’s door. Then the angle changed and Daniel could no longer see into the warehouse.

  From the back seat Chawe gave curt directions, emphasising each with a jab of the shotgun muzzle into the back of Daniel’s neck. They drove through the silent and deserted streets of the sleeping town, heading east towards the lake and the mountains.

  Once they were out into the country Chawe urged him to increase speed. The road was good, and the Landcruiser buzzed along merrily. By now Daniel’s wounded arm was stiff and painful. He nursed it on his lap, driving with one hand trying to ignore the pain.

  Within an hour the gradient changed and the road began a series of hairpins as it climbed the first slopes of the mountain. On each side the forest was denser and darker, pressing in upon the highway and the Landcruiser’s speed bled off as she climbed.

  The dawn came on stealthily, and beyond the shafts of the headlights Daniel saw the shapes of the forest trees emerging from the gloom. Soon he could see their high tops defined against the dawn sky. He turned his wrist and glanced at his watch. His sleeve was stiff with dried blood, but it was light enough now to read the dial clearly. Seven minutes past six.

  He had had plenty of time to consider his predicament and to assess the man who held the gun to his head. He judged him to be a tough opponent. There was not the least doubt that he would kill without hesitation or compunction, and he handled the shotgun with a disheartening competence. On the other hand it was an awkward weapon to use in the confines of the Landcruiser’s cab.

  Daniel considered his alternatives. He quickly discarded the idea of attacking Chawe in the truck. He would have his head blown off before he could turn to face him.

  He might kick open the side door and throw himself out of the cab, but that meant that he would have to reduce the Landcruiser’s speed below fifty to avoid serious injury when he hit the ground. Gradually he lifted his-foot from the accelerator.