Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers

by Wilbur Smith

  “Doesn’t sound as though you need me, then.”

  “I wish it were as easy as that.” Harrison shook his head. “We are being overtaken by the wave of hysteria that is sweeping the world. It is a psychological law that every mass popular movement is hi-jacked by fanatics and pushed beyond the dictates of reason and common sense. The pendulum of public feeling always swings too far in each direction.”

  “You are running into opposition to your plans to develop the natural resources of Ubomo. Is that what you are trying to tell me, Tug?”

  Harrison cocked his head on one side. He looked like an eagle when he did that, a great bald-headed bird of prey. “You are direct, young man, but I should have expected that.” He sat down behind his desk and picked up an ivory-handled duelling pistol which he used as a paper weight. He spun it on his forefinger and the gold inlay on the barrel sparkled like a Catherine-wheel. “There was a female scientist working in Ubomo during Omeru’s presidency,” he went on at last. “She and the old man had a close relationship and he gave her all sorts of special privileges that he denied other journalists and researchers. She published a book on the forest-dwellers of Ubomo. You and I would call them pygmies, although that term is unfashionable in today’s climate. The title was…” Harrison paused to think, and Daniel intervened.

  “The title was The People of the Tall Trees. Yes, I have read the book.”

  “The author’s name is Kelly Kinnear. Have you met her?” Harrison demanded.

  “No.” Daniel shook his head. “But I would like to. She writes well. Her style reminds me of Rachel Carson. She is a–”

  “She is a trouble-maker,” Harrison cut in bluntly. “She is a shit-stirrer.” The coarse term seemed uncharacteristic of him.

  “You’ll have to explain that to me.” Daniel kept his voice even and his expression neutral. He didn’t want to declare his sentiments until he had heard Harrison out.

  “When he came to power, President Taffari sent for this woman. She was working in the forest at the time. He explained to her his plans for the advancement and development of the country, and asked for her support and her assistance. The meeting was not a success. Kelly Kinnear had some misguided sense of loyalty to old President Omeru and she resisted President Taffari’s overtures of friendship. She is entitled to her views, of course, but then she began a campaign of agitation within Ubomo’s borders. She accused Taffari of violations of human rights. She also accused him of planning to rape the country’s natural resources by uncontrolled exploitation.”

  Harrison threw up those powerful scarred hands. “In fact she went into female hysterics and attacked the new government in every way she was able. There was no logic nor reason nor even factual basis for these attacks. Taffari had no alternative but to send her packing. He chucked her out of Ubomo. She is, as you probably know, a British subject, and she ended up back here in the UK. However, she had not learned her lesson and she continues her campaign against the government of Ubomo.”

  “BOSS has nothing to fear from someone like that, surely?” Daniel probed gently, and Harrison looked across at him sharply, searching for traces of irony in the question.

  Then he transferred his attention back to the duelling pistol in his right hand. “Unfortunately, the woman has built up a foundation of influence on the strength of her writings. She is articulate and–” he hesitated, “and personable. She manages to hide her fanaticism under a cloak of reasoned logic which is, needless to say, based on false assumptions and distorted facts. She has managed to recruit the support of the Green Party in this country and on the Continent. You are right, BOSS has nothing to fear from such an obvious charlatan, but she is a nuisance. She looks good on television. Now she has come to know of our interest in Ubomo and the plans that our consortium has to develop the area. She and her supporters are making a great deal of noise. You might have seen that piece in the Guardian recently?”

  “No.” Daniel shook his head. “I don’t read the Guardian, and I’ve been pretty busy recently. I’m a little out of touch.”

  “Well, take my word for it then, it is making life just a trifle uncomfortable for me. I have shareholders to answer to and an annual general meeting coming up. Now, I’ve just learned that this woman has acquired a small block of shares in BOSS, which gives her the right to attend the AGM and to speak. You can be certain she will have the radical press and a bunch of those lunatics from ‘Friends of the Earth’ there with her. She will make a circus of the occasion.”

  “That’s awkward, Tug.” Daniel nodded, stifling his smile. “How can I help you?”

  “Your influence in public and scientific circles is far greater than Kelly Kinnear’s. I have spoken to many people in various disciplines and diverse walks of life about you. You are well respected your views on Africa are taken seriously. What I propose is that you go to Ubomo and make a documentary that sets out the true facts and examines the issues that this Kinnear woman has raised. It would blow her away like a puff of smoke. Television is a much more powerful medium than the printed word, and I could guarantee you maximum exposure. BOSS owns extensive media interests.”

  Daniel listened to him with rising incredulity. It was like listening to a client propositioning a prostitute for the performance of a particularly lurid perversion. He felt the urge to laugh with outrage, to reject violently this insult to his integrity. This man truly believed that he was for sale. it took an effort for him to sit still and listen expressionlessly.

  “Of course, I could also guarantee that you would receive the whole-hearted cooperation of President Taffari and his government. They would provide everything that you require. You need only ask and there would be military transport, helicopters, lake patrol boats, at your disposal. You could go anywhere, even into the closed area of the forest reservations. You could speak to anybody…”

  “To political prisoners?” Daniel could not help himself. It slipped out.

  “Political prisoners?” Harrison repeated. “What the Hell would you want to speak to politicals for? This will be a documentary on the environment and the development of a backward society.”

  “Just suppose I did want to talk to political detainees,” Daniel insisted.

  “Look here, young man. Taffari is a progressive leader, one of the few honest and committed leaders on the continent. I don’t think he is holding any political prisoners. It isn’t his style.”

  “What happened to Omeru?” Daniel asked, leaning forward intently, and Harrison laid the duelling pistol on the blotter in front of him. Its barrels were pointing at Daniel’s chest.

  “Do I detect hostility towards the Ubomo government?” He asked softly. “Towards my proposition?”

  “No,” Daniel denied it. “I just have to know what I’m getting myself into. I’m a businessman, like you, Tug. I want the hard facts, not the hard sell. You understand that. I’m sure you’d want the same, if you were in my position. If I’m going to put my name to something, I must know what it is.”

  “All right.” Harrison relaxed. He understood that explanation. “Omeru was an obstinate old man. Taffari had no option but to hold him incommunicado during the transition period. He was under house-arrest, being treated well. He had access to his lawyers and his doctor when he died of a heart attack. Taffari has not announced his death yet.”

  “It would seem to point in undesirable directions. Like summary execution without trial,” Daniel suggested. He felt a pang of mourning for the old president.

  “It might look like that, Harrison agreed, although I am assured by Taffari, and I have every reason to believe him that it was not the case.”

  “All right, I accept your assurance on that point,” Daniel said.

  “Now what about the costs of this production? it wouldn’t be cheap. Off the top of my head, I would estimate. the cost at a couple of million. I take it that you would want a first-rate job. Who pays for that? BOSS?”

  “That would be a little obvious,” Harrison demurred
. “It would reduce the stature of your production to a simple piece of company propaganda. No, I would arrange outside finance. The money would come through a far eastern company. Although it is a member of the consortium, it is not openly associated with BOSS at this stage. They own a film company in Hong Kong which we would use as a front.”

  “What is the name of the parent company? And where is it based?” Daniel asked. He felt the first tiny premonition, that sense of predestination that had disturbed him before.

  “The parent company is Taiwanese, not well known but very rich, very powerful. First-class people to deal with, I assure you, but of course. “I’d personally underwrite any contract that you have with them.”

  “What is the company’s name?”

  “It’s a rather flamboyant name, but typically Chinese. The Lucky Dragon Company.” Daniel stared at him, unable to speak for a moment. In some strange fashion Ning Cheng Gong’s destiny had been linked with his by the murder of Johnny Nzou. He knew that it had to be played out to the very end.

  “Is something worrying you, Danny?” Harrison looked concerned and Daniel realised that he had allowed his agitation to show.

  “No. I was just considering your proposal. On principle I accept the assignment.” He took a grip on himself. “Subject to contract, of course. There would be many items to negotiate. I would want a percentage of the total gross, an agreed advertising budget, choice of my own crew, especially the cameraman, and I’d want final cut. I am sure we’ll be able to come together on the details.”

  Harrison smiled, and with one finger rotated the duelling pistol until the barrels were no longer pointed at Daniel’s chest. “Ask your agent to call me as soon as she can. And now I think the sun is definitely over the yard-arm. We can drink to our arrangement in something a little more substantial than Darjeeling.”

  Chapter 17

  “Look here, Bonny, it would be much easier if you had an agent,” Daniel told her seriously. “I don’t enjoy haggling with you. I believe an artist’s job is to be creative, not to waste talent examining the fine print in a contract. You’ve been honest with me.”

  “I’ll be frank with you, Danny. I don’t like shelling out twenty percent of my hard-corned gelt to a middleman. Besides which, I don’t agree with you. Writing a contract of employment can be as creatively satisfying as painting a picture or setting up a camera angle.” She kicked off her shoes. Her bare feet were strong and shapely as her hands. She twisted her long denim-clad legs under her and settled back on his buttoned leather sofa. “Let’s talk business.”

  “Okay, let’s do it,” he capitulated. “On principle I won’t pay a crew by the hour, and I don’t recognize overtime. We work whenever there is work to do, and for as long as it takes. We go wherever I say, and we live off the land. No five-star accommodation.”

  “That sounds to me like two thousand a week,” she said sweetly.

  “Dollars?”

  “This isn’t New York, brother Dan. It’s London. Pounds.”

  “That’s stiff. I don’t get anywhere near that myself,” he protested.

  “No, but you probably get twenty percent of the gross, whereas I will have to be content with a lousy five percent.”

  “Five percent of the gross on top of two thousand a week.” Daniel looked horrified. “You have to be joking.”

  “If I were joking, I’d be smiling.”

  “I have never given a cut to a cameraman, forgive me, a camera person before.”

  “Once you get used to the idea, you won’t find it unbearably painful.”

  “I tell you what, let’s call it twelve hundred a week, and forget about any percentage.”

  “The acoustics are terrible in here. I can’t believe what I thought I just heard. I mean, you wouldn’t want to insult me, would you, Danny boy?”

  “Would you do me a favour, Miss Mahon? Would you do up the top button of your shirt while we talk?” The upper part of her chest was freckled like her face. It showed in the deep cleft of her open neck, but below a clear line where the sun had not stained it, her skin was as white as buttermilk. Under the thin cotton shirt her breasts, unfettered by any brassiere, were tight and firm.

  She glanced down into her deep cleavage. “Is there something wrong with them?” She grinned slyly.

  “No. Nothing at all. That’s what I’m complaining about.”

  “She closed the button.”

  “Did I hear you say seventeen-fifty and four percent?” she asked.

  “You are right. There is something wrong with the acoustics,” he agreed. “I said fifteen hundred and one and a half percent.”

  “Two percent,” she wheedled him, and when he sighed and agreed, she added craftily, “and a hundred a day location allowance.”

  It took them almost three hours to hammer out the terms of her employment and at the end he found his liking for her tempered by respect. She was a hard lassie.

  “Do we need a letter of intent?” he asked. “Or will a handshake do?”

  “A handshake will do fine,” she answered. “As long as I have a letter of intent to back it up.”

  He went through to his office and tapped out a draft of their agreement on his word-processor, and called her through to check the text on the screen. She stood behind him and leaned over his shoulder to read it. One of her breasts pressed taut and weightily on his shoulder. It was warm as a tsama melon that had lain in the desert under the Kalahari sun.

  “You didn’t put in the bit about first-class air tickets,” she pointed out. “And the salary to commence from date of signature.” The smell of her skin that he had noticed on their first meeting was more pronounced. He inhaled it with pleasure. It reminded him forcefully that he had been celibate for almost a year. “Good boy,” she complimented him as he made the alterations she requested. “That will do very nicely indeed.

  The timbre of her voice had altered, it was softer and more resonant. There was also a subtle change in the odour of her body as well. He recognised the heady musk of female arousal; she was pumping the air full of pheromones which put his own hormones on red alert.

  He was having difficulty concentrating as he ran off four copies of the agreement, one for each of them and another each for Eina and BOSS’s legal department.

  Bonny reached over him to sign all four copies, and now she pressed herself against his back and her breath was hot on his cheek. She handed the pen to him and he signed below her.

  “Handshake?” hee asked, and offered his open right hand. She ignored it, and instead reached over his shoulder and unbuttoned his shirt. She ran her hand down inside it.

  “I can-think of something more binding than a plain little old handshake,” she whispered, and pinched his nipple between her fingernails. He gasped; it was more pleasure than pain. “Danny boy, you and I are going to be alone in the jungle for six months or so. I’m a girl of healthy appetites. It’s going to happen sooner or later. It might as well be sooner. It would be hell if we waited until we got out there and then found that we didn’t like it. Don’t you agree?”

  “Your logic is irrefutable,” he laughed, but it was shaky and rough. She took a pinch of his chest curls and used it as a goad to force him to his feet.

  “Where’s the bedroom? We might as well be comfortable.”

  “Follow me.” He took her by the hand and led her to the door.

  Standing in the centre of the bedroom floor she stepped back when he tried to embrace her. “No, she said. Don’t touch me. Not yet. I want to draw it out until it’s unbearable.” She stood facing him, an arm’s length between them. “Do what I do, she ordered,” and began to unbutton her shirt. Her nipples were tiny, like miniature rosebuds, carved from pale pink coral. “You’re as hairy and muscular as a grizzly bear. It gives me goose bumps,” she said, and he saw her nipples rise into rosy points.

  The colour darkened and the skin surrounding them puckered. His own flesh responded even more dramatically, and she stared at him shamelessly
and chuckled as she unbuckled her own belt. Her jeans were tight and she wriggled and squirmed to get them down.

  “Exodus,” he said, “chapter three.”

  “That’s not original.” She glanced down at herself complacently. “I’ve had the quotation applied to myself before — the burning bush.” She combed her fingernails lingeringly through the thick mop of flaming curls at the base of her flat white belly. It was so crisp and dense that it rustled. It was one of the most excruciatingly erotic gestures he had ever watched. “Come on,” she encouraged him. “You’re falling behind.”

  “He dropped his own trousers around his ankles.”

  “Who have we here?” She studied him frankly. “Standing to attention and positively aching to sacrifice himself in the burning bush?” And she reached out to capture him expertly. “Come along, my little mannikin,” she murmured throatily, grinning that sly tomboy grin and led him to bed.

  Chapter 18

  BOSS’s head office was at Blackfriars in the City, just opposite the pub that stood on the site of the old monastery that gave the area its name. Daniel and Bonny came out of the entrance of the tube station and paused to stare at the building.

  “Shit!” said Bonny sweetly. “It’s imperial Roman rococo, with just a touch of Barnum and Bailey.”

  BOSS House made the Unilever building down the street look insubstantial. For each of Unilever’s Greek columns it had four, for each of Unilever’s statues of the Olympian gods, it had a dozen. Where Unilever had used granite, BOSS had built in marble.

  “If I’d seen this first I’d have held out for five thousand a week.” Bonny squeezed his arm. “I think I’ve been done in more ways than one.”

  They climbed the steps to the main entrance, while the statues of the gods frowned down at them from the pediment, and went in through the revolving glass doors. The floor of the entrance lobby was in a chessboard pattern of black and white marble. The roof was vaulted and gilded, with panels in the rococo style depicting either the Last judgement or the Ten Commandments. It wasn’t easy to tell which, but there was a great deal of action in progress between the nymphs and cherubs and seraphim.