Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers

by Wilbur Smith

  “Yes, I met Omeru. I liked him. What happened to him?”

  “I heard that it was a heart attack?” Kelly shrugged noncommittally, then changed the subject as the head-waiter came to take their orders.

  “May I really order a steak, or were you just being cruel?”

  “Have the porterhouse,” Daniel invited magnanimously.

  When the food was in front of them Daniel returned to the subject. “I heard that you and Omeru got on particularly well together.”

  “Who told you that?” Kelly looked up sharply, and Daniel caught himself just in time. Tug Harrison was not a name to bandy about in front of this lady.

  “I think I read it in an article somewhere,” he hedged. “It was some time ago.”

  “Oh yes.” Kelly gave him release. “Probably the Sunday Telegraph. They did, a profile on Victor, on President Omeru and they gave me an honourable mention.”

  “That was it. What is happening in Ubomo? You promised to brief me. You said it was a microcosm of emerging Africa. Explain that.”

  “Ubomo has got all the major problems common to every other African state: tribalism, population explosion, poverty, illiteracy. And now that President Omeru has gone and that swine Taffari has taken over, it’s got itself another set of problems, such as one-party tyranny, a president for life, foreign exploitation and corruption and incipient civil war.”

  “Sounds like the perfect society. Let’s start with tribalism in Ubomo. Tell me about it.”

  “Tribalism, the single greatest curse of Africa!” Kelly took a bite of underdone porterhouse and for a moment closed her eyes in ecstasy. “Heaven,” she whispered. “Bliss!

  “All right, tribalism in Ubomo. There are six tribes but only two really count for anything. The Uhali are the most numerous, almost three out of four million. Traditionally they are an agrarian and lakeside people, tillers of the soil and fishermen. They are gentle, industrious people. Yet for centuries they have been enslaved and in the thrall of the much smaller tribe, the Hita.

  “The Hita are fierce, aristocratic people closely related to the Masai and Samburu of Kenya and Tanzania. They are pastoralists and warriors. They live with and for their cattle, and despise the rest of humanity, including us Europeans, I may add, as inferior animals. They are beautiful people, tall and willowy. Any Hita woman under six foot three is considered a midget. Their women are magnificent with regal Nilotic faces; they would grace the catwalk at any Paris fashion show. Yet they are a cruel, arrogant and brutal people.”

  “You are taking sides. You are as much a tribalist as any of them, Kelly,” Daniel accused.

  “Live long enough in Africa, as you know, Danny, and you come to be like them, a tribalist.” Kelly shook her head ruefully. “But in this case, it’s justified. Before the British pulled out of Ubomo back in 1969, they held a Westminster-style election and, of course, the Uhali by weight of numbers, took power and Victor Omeru became president.

  “He was a good president. I’m not suggesting he was a saint, but he was as good as any other ruler in Africa, and a damned sight better than most. He tried to accommodate all his people, all the tribes, but the Hita were too proud and bloody-minded. As natural warriors and killers they gradually took over the army and, of course, the outcome was inevitable. Ephrem Taffari is now despot, tyrant and president for life. A million Hita totally dominate a majority of three million other tribes including the Uhali and my beloved little Bambuti.”

  “Tell me about your Bambuti, the ‘people of the tall trees’”, Daniel invited, and she smiled with pleasure.

  “Oh, Danny, you know the title of my book!”

  “Not only do I know it, but I’ve actually read it. More than once. Three times in fact, the last time a week ago.” He grinned at her. “At the risk of sounding jejune,” he teased her with her own phrase, “I’m a fan.”

  “Yech!” Bonny spoke for the first time in fifteen minutes. “Excuse me while I throw up.”

  Daniel had almost forgotten her existence, and now he reached out to take her freckled hand that lay on the table cloth beside him. Bonny pulled it away before he could touch it and placed it in her lap. “I’d like some more wine, if anybody is interested,” she pouted.

  Daniel dutifully refilled her glass while Kelly concentrated tactfully on the last morsels of her steak.

  At last Daniel broke the awkward silence. “We were talking about the Bambuti. Tell me about them.”

  Kelly looked up at him again, but did not answer immediately. She seemed to be struggling with a difficult decision.

  Daniel waited. “Look here,” Kelly said at last. “You want to know about the Bambuti. All right, what would you say if instead of talking about them I actually took you into the forest and showed you? How would you like to film them in their natural surroundings? I could show you things that nobody else has ever filmed, sights that very few Westerners have ever seen.”

  “I’d jump at the chance, Kelly. Hell, I can’t think of anything I’d like more, but isn’t there just one little problem? President Taffari hates your guts and will hang you from the highest tree the moment you put one foot across the border.”

  Kelly laughed. He was beginning really to enjoy the sound of her laughter. It had a delicious purring quality that made him feel good and want to laugh in sympathy. “He’s not much into hanging, is our boy Ephrem. He has other little tricks he prefers.”

  “So, how would you manage the guided tour of Ubomo without Taffari’s blessing?”

  She was still smiling. “I’ve lived in the forest for almost five years. Taffari’s authority ends where the tall trees begin. I have many friends. Taffari has many enemies.”

  “How will I contact you?” Daniel insisted.

  “You won’t have to. I’ll contact you.”

  “Tell me, Kelly, why are you risking your life to be back? What work is so important that you must do it without a field grant, without any kind of support, and under the threat of arrest, and possible death?”

  She stared at him. “That’s an amazingly stupid question. There is enough work in the forests to keep me going for a lifetime. Amongst other things, I’m doing work on the physiology of the Bambuti. I have been studying the dwarfism of the pygmies, attempting to determine the cause of their stunted growth. Of course, I’m not the first to do this type of research, but I think I’ve come up with a new angle. Up until now everybody has concentrated on the growth hormone…” She broke off and smiled. “I won’t bore you with the details, but I believe it’s the hormone receptors that are lacking.”

  “Oh, we aren’t bored.” Bonny made no effort to veil her sarcasm. “We’re fascinated. Do you plan to give the pygmies an injection and turn them all into giants like the Hita?”

  Kelly refused to be annoyed. “The small stature of the Bambuti is a benevolent mutation. It makes them ideally suited for life in the rain forests.”

  “I don’t understand,” Daniel encouraged her. “Explain how being small is a benefit.”

  “Okay, you asked for it. Firstly, there is heat dissipation. Being so tiny they can shed the heat that builds up in the humid windless atmosphere beneath the forest canopy. Then again, their size makes them agile and nimble in the dense tropical growth. You will be astonished to see how the Bambuti move through the forest. The Egyptians and the early explorers truly believed that they had the power of invisibility. They can simply vanish before your eyes.” Her own lovely eyes shone with enthusiasm and affection as she talked about these people whom she had made her own.

  Daniel ordered dessert and coffee, and Kelly had still not exhausted the subject. “The other area of my research is even more important than growth hormones and receptors. The Bambuti have a marvelous knowledge of plants and their properties, particularly medicinal properties. I estimate that there are well over half a million different species of plants growing in the rain forests, hundreds of them with already proven properties beneficial to man. I believe that the cure for most of our il
ls and diseases might be locked up in those plants, a cure for cancer, and for AIDS. I’ve had promising indications in all those directions.”

  “Science fiction,” Bonny scoffed, and filled her mouth with chocolate ice cream.

  “Do shut up, Bonny,” Daniel snapped at her. “This is fascinating. How advanced is your research? “

  Kelly pulled a face. “Not as far as I’d like. I have the old women of the Barnbuti helping me gather the leaves and barks and roots. They describe their properties and I try to catalogue and test them and isolate the active ingredient, but my laboratory is a thatched hut, and I am fresh out of money and friends…”

  “Still I’d like to see it.”

  “You will,” she promised, and she was so carried away by Daniel’s interest in her work that she laid her hand on his arm. “You’ll come to Gondola where I live?”

  Bonny was watching the other girl’s hand on Daniel’s tanned and muscular forearm. It was a small hand, like the rest of her body, neat and graceful. “Sir Peter would be interested in the formula for curing AIDS,” Bonny said, still staring at the hand. “BOSS could market it through their pharmaceutical company. It would be worth a billion–”

  “BOSS? Sir Peter?” Kelly jerked her hand off Daniel’s arm and stared at Bonny. “Sir Peter who? Which Sir Peter?”

  “Tug Harrison, ducky,” Bonny told her with relish. “Tug is bank-rolling the production that Daniel is going to shoot in Ubomo. The idea is that Danny and I are going to show the world what a hell of a job BOSS are doing. They are going to call it ‘Ubomo, High Road to the African Future’. Isn’t that a cute title? It’s going to be Danny’s masterpiece–”

  Kelly didn’t wait for her to finish. She leapt to her feet and knocked over her cup. Spilled coffee spread across the tablecloth and cascaded into Daniel’s lap. “You!” Kelly stared down at him. “You and that monster Harrison! How could you?” She whirled and ran from the restaurant, shoving her way through a pack of American tourists who were blocking the aisle.

  Daniel was on his feet mopping the coffee that had soaked his trousers.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” he snarled at Bonny.

  “You and the tree doctor were getting just a mite too chummy for my taste.”

  “Damn you,” Daniel flared. “You’ve screwed up a chance to film something unique. I’ll talk to you later.”

  He strode angrily after Kelly Kinnear. She was not in the hotel lobby. Daniel headed for the front entrance and called the doorman. “Did you see a woman–” He broke off as he spotted Kelly on the far side of the road. She was astride a dusty 50cc Honda motor cycle, and at that moment she jumped on the kick-starter and the engine shrilled to life. She swung the handlebars hard over, banking the cycle into a tight turn, the engine whining and popping jets of oily blue exhaust smoke.

  “Kelly!” Daniel shouted. “Wait! Give me a chance. I can explain.”

  She wrenched the throttle grip fully open and the cycle reared up on its back wheel as it accelerated. She turned her face to him as she flew past where he stood. Her expression was at once angry and stricken and he could have sworn that there were tears on her cheeks. “Hired gun!” she cried at him. “Judas!” And then the motor cycle howled away. She banked it sharply, the steel foot-rest raised a shower of sparks as it grazed the tarmac, and she weaved into the traffic in Kimathi Avenue.

  Daniel ran down to the corner. He caught one more glimpse of her two hundred yards down the avenue, leaning over the handlebars like a jockey, her braid standing out stiffly from the back of her head in the wind. He looked around for a taxi to follow her, and then realised the futility of even trying. With the lead she had, and the Honda’s manoeuvrability no car could hope to catch her.

  He turned on his heel and marched back towards the hotel, intent on finding Bonny Mahon. Before he reached the entrance he realised the danger of confronting here in his present mood. It could only lead to bloody battle, and probably the break-up of their relationship. That did not worry him too much, but what restrained him was the danger of losing a cameraman. It might take weeks to find a replacement, and that could lead to a cancellation of his contract with BOSS, the end of his quest to follow the Lucky Dragon, and Ning Cheng Gong, into Ubomo.

  He checked his stride and thought about it. It wasn’t worth the pleasure of pinning back Bonny Mahon’s ears. “I’d better go and cool off somewhere.” He chose the Jambo, Bar, one of the notorious bars down near the station.

  It was full of black soldiers in camouflage, and male tourists and bar girls. Some of the girls were spectacular, Samburu and Kikuyu and Masai, in tight shiny skirts with beads and bright ribbons braided into their hair.

  Daniel found a bar stool in the corner, and the antics of the middle-aged European tourists on the dance floor helped to alleviate his foul mood. A recent survey of the Nairobi bar girls had determined that ninety-eight percent of them were HIV positive. You had to have a death wish to enjoy fully all that these ladies had to offer.

  An hour and two double whiskies later, Daniel’s anger Had cooled sufficiently, and he headed back to the Norfolk Hotel. He let himself into the cottage suite and saw Bonny’s khaki slacks and panties in the centre of the sitting-room floor where she had dropped them. This evening her untidiness irritated him even more than usual.

  The bedroom was in darkness, but the lights in the courtyard shone through the curtains sufficiently for him to make out Bonny’s form under the sheet on her side of the bed. He knew, she was feigning sleep. He undressed in the darkness, slipped naked into his side of the bed, and lay still.

  Neither of them moved or spoke for fully five minutes and then Bonny whispered, “Is Daddy cross with his little girl?” She used her simpering childish voice. “His little girl was very naughty…” She touched him. Her fingers were warm and silky down his flank. “She wants to show him how sorry she is.”

  He caught her wrist, but it was too late. She was cunning and quick and soon he didn’t want her to stop. “Damn it, Bonny,” he protested. “You screwed up a chance…”

  “Shh! Don’t talk,” Bonny whispered. “Little girl will make it better for Daddy.”

  “Bonny…” His voice trailed away, and he released her wrist.

  Chapter 22

  In the morning when Daniel checked the hotel bill before paying it, he noticed an item for 120 Kenya shillings. International telephone calls. He taxed Bonny with it. Did you make an overseas call last night? “I called my old mum to let her know I’m all right. I know how stingy you are, but you don’t grudge me that, do you?”

  Something in her defiant manner troubled him. When she went ahead to see her video equipment safely packed into the taxi, Daniel lingered in the suite. As soon as she was gone he called the telephone exchange and asked the operator for the overseas number that was on his bill. “London 727 6464, sir.”

  “Please get it for me again now.”

  “It’s ringing, sir.”

  A voice answered on the third ring. “Good morning, may I help you?”

  “What number is that?” Daniel asked, but the speaker was guarded.

  “Who did you want, please?” Daniel thought he recognized the voice, the strong African accent. He took a chance.

  “Is that you, Selibi?” he asked in Swahili. “Yes, this is Selibi. Do you want to speak to the Bwana Mkubwa? Who shall I say is calling?”

  Daniel hung up the receiver and stared at it. Selibi was Tug Harrison’s manservant. So Bonny had telephoned Tug’s flat the previous evening while he had been at the Jambo Bar. “Curiouser and curiouser,” Daniel muttered. “Miss Bonny isn’t all she pretends to be, unless her old mum lives in Holland Park.”

  Every seat on the Air Ubomo flight to Kabali was taken. Most of the other passengers seemed to be businessmen or minor civil servants or politicians. There were half a dozen black Soldiers in camouflage and decoration ribbons, berets and dark glasses. There were, however, no tourists, not yet, not before BOSS opened the new casin
o on the lakeshore.

  The hostess was a tall Hita girl in flamboyant national dress. She handed out packets of sweet biscuits and plastic mugs of luke-warm tea with the haughty air of a queen distributing alms to her poor subjects. Halfway through the four-hour flight she disappeared into the toilet with one of the soldiers and all cabin service came to a halt.

  They hit heavy clear-air turbulence over the eastern rim of the Great Rift Valley and a corpulent black businessman in one of the front seats entertained them all with a noisy regurgitation of his breakfast. The air hostess remained ensconced in the rear toilet.

  At last they were over the lake. Although like most names with colonial overtones, its name had been changed, Daniel still preferred Lake Albert to Lake Mobutu. The waters were pure azure, flecked with white horses and the sails of fishing dhows, and so wide that for a while there was no shore in sight. Then slowly the western shoreline emerged from the haze.

  “Ubomo,” Daniel whispered, more to himself than to Bonny. The name had a romance and mystery that made the skin on his forearms tingle. He would be following in the footsteps of the great African explorers. Speke had passed this way, and Stanley and ten thousand other hunters and slavers, soldiers and adventurers. He must try to instil some of that feeling of romance and history into his production. Across these waters had plied the ancient Arab dhows laden with ivory and slaves, the black and white gold that had once been the continent’s major exports.

  Some estimates were that five million souls had been captured like animals in the interior and herded down to the coast. To cross this lake they had been packed like sardines into the dhows, the first layer forced to lie on the bilge deck curled against each other, belly to back, like spoons. Then the removable deck planks were laid over them giving them eighteen inches of space, and another layer of human beings and another deck, until four decks were in place, crammed with howling, whining slaves. With fair winds the crossing took two days and three nights. The Arab slave-masters were satisfied with a fifty percent survival rate. It was a process of natural selection. Only the strong came through.