by Wilbur Smith
The eldest brother, Fang, was tough and ruthless, but lacking in guile and cunning, a good hatchet man but not a leader. The third son, Ling, possessed an unreliable temperament. He was clever, as clever as either Wu or Cheng, but he was easily panicked and inclined to fly into a rage when things went against him. Ling would never head Lucky Dragon. He might become Number Two perhaps, but never Number One. No, Cheng reasoned, the choice must be between himself and Wu.
As a child he had recognized Wu as his main rival and in consequence he hated him with a single-minded malevolence.
While she had been alive, Cheng’s English mother had protected him from his half-brothers. But after she died he had been at their mercy. It had taken all these years to learn to hold his own and insinuate himself ever deeper into his father’s favour.
Cheng recognized that this would be his chance, his only chance for supremacy. His father was old, more than old, he was ancient. Despite his seemingly boundless strength and energy, Cheng sensed that his father was near death. It might come at any moment of any day, and he went cold at the thought.
He knew that unless he consolidated his accession while his father still lived, Wu would wrest it from him with the help of his two full brothers, the moment his father died. He sensed also that his father was on the point of deciding on the Ubomo project. He knew that this was his moment. This was the slack water of the tide of his fortunes, and now they must turn and begin to flood, or he would be for ever stranded on the mudbanks.
“Honourable Father, I have something for you. A small and humble token of the respect and gratitude I feel for you. May I present it?”
Fortune seemed to conspire with Cheng to provide an appropriate opportunity. The old man was spry today, his mind quick and his waning bodily strength in some measure restored. He had eaten a ripe fig and an apple for breakfast, and had composed a classical stanza while Cheng walked him down to the shrine. It was an ode to the mountain peak that stood above the estate. The poem began: Beloved of clouds who caress her face …
It was good, although not as good as his father’s paintings and ivory carvings, Cheng thought. However, when the old man recited it, Cheng clasped his hands. “I am awed that so much genius resides in one person. I wish only that I had inherited a few grains of it for myself.”
He thought he might have overdone it a little, but the old man accepted the praise and for a moment tightened his grip on Cheng’s arm. “You are a good son,” he said. And your mother…” his voice trailed off mournfully, “your mother was a woman.” He shook his head and Cheng thought incredulously that the old man’s eyes had moistened. It must have been his imagination. His father was not prey to weakness and sentimentality.
When he looked again his father’s eyes were clear and bright, and the old man was smiling.
That morning Heng stayed on at the shrine much longer than he usually did. He wanted to inspect the work on his own tomb. One of the most famous geomancers on the island had come to position the tomb precisely and to orientate it so that it stood neither on an earth dragon’s head nor on his tail. That would have disturbed the old man’s death sleep.
The georriancer had worked with a compass and a magic bag for almost an hour, directing the efforts of the priests and the servants to get the marble sarcophagus laid properly.
All this preparation for his own funeral put Heng into a pleasant relaxed mood, and when they were finished Cheng seized the moment and asked to be allowed to present his gift. Heng smiled and nodded. “You may bring it to me, my son.”
“Alas, father, the nature of the gift makes that impossible. I must take you to it.”
Heng’s expression changed. These days he seldom left the estate. He seemed about to refuse. However, Cheng had anticipated his reaction. All he needed to do was lift one hand and the Rolls that was parked behind the clipped privet hedger, beyond the lotus pools slid silently forward. Before the old man could protest, Cheng had helped him into the back seat and settled him comfortably with a cashmere rug over his knees. The chauffeur knew where to take them.
As the Rolls came down the mountain road on to the littoral plain, Heng and Cheng were isolated and protected from the heat and humidity, and from the teeming humanity that clogged the road with Vespa motorcycles and buses, wild chicken taxis and heavily laden trucks.
When they entered Chung Ching South Road in the Hsimending area of the city the chauffeur slowed and turned in through the gates of the Lucky Dragon company’s main city warehouse.
The guards jumped to attention as they recognized the couple in the back seat.
One of the warehouse doors stood open and after the car drove through, the steel shutter doors rolled closed behind it.
The Rolls parked on one of the loading ramps and Cheng helped his father out of the back door and took his elbow to lead him to a carved teak chair that stood like a throne, covered with embroidered silk cushions, overlooking the floor below the ramp.
As soon as his father was comfortable, Cheng signaled one of the servants to bring freshly made tea. He sat on one of the cushions lower than Heng and they drank tea and talked quietly of unrelated subjects.
Cheng was drawing out the moment, trying to spice his father’s anticipation. If he succeeded, the old man did not show it. He barely glanced towards the floor below.
Ten brawny workmen knelt in a row facing the throne. Cheng had dressed them in black tunics, with red headbands, and the emblem of the Lucky Dragon embroidered on their backs also in red. He had rehearsed them carefully and they were motionless, heads bowed respectfully.
Finally, after ten minutes of talk and tea, Cheng told his father, “This is the present I have brought you from Africa.” He indicated the rows of chests, arranged behind, the workmen. “It is such a poor little present that now I am ashamed to offer it to you.”
“Tea?” Heng smiled. “Cases of tea? Enough tea to last me the rest of my lifetime. it is a fine gift, my son.”
“It is a poor gift, but may I open the cases for you?” Cheng asked, and the old man nodded his permission.
Cheng clapped his hands and the ten workmen sprang to their feet and ran to seize one of the tea-chests and bring it forward. They worked swiftly, efficiently. With half a dozen blows of a slap-hammer and a twist of a jernmy bar, they lifted the lid off the first case.
Heng showed the first sign of animation and leaned forward in the high chair. Two of the workmen lifted out the first tusk from its bed of caked black tea.
Cheng had long ago arranged that it should be one of the largest and most finely shaped tusks in the entire shipment of stolen ivory. He had asked Chetti Singh to mark the case that contained it before the shipment left the Indian’s warehouse in Malawi.
The tusk was long, over seven feet long, but not as thick and blunt as one of the typical massively heavy tusks from further north than Zimbabwe. Yet from an entirely aesthetic point of view this one was more pleasing, its girth more in proportion to its length and the curve and taper were elegant. It was neither cracked nor damaged and the patina above the lip was creamy yellow.
Involuntarily Heng clapped his hands with pleasure and exclaimed aloud. “Bring it to me!”
Two of the workmen, struggling under the burden, climbed the concrete steps and knelt before him offering the lovely tusk. Heng stroked the ivory and his eyes sparkled in the cobweb of wrinkles that surrounded them.
“Beautiful!” he murmured. “The most beautiful of all nature’s creations, more beautiful than pearls or the feathers of the brightest tropical birds.” He broke off abruptly as his fingers detected the rough patch on the tusk. He leaned closer and peered at it and exclaimed again. “But this tusk bears a government stamp. ‘ZW’. That is a Zimbabwe government number. This is legal ivory, Cheng.” He clapped his hands again. Legal ivory, my son, many more times more valuable for those numbers. How did you do it? How many more tusks are there?”
His father’s unrestrained pleasure was giving Cheng huge face.
“Where did you get them?” Heng insisted, and then raised his hand to prevent Cheng replying. “Wait! he ordered. Wait. Do not tell me!” He was silent, staring at his son for a while, and then he said, “Yes. That is it. I know where this ivory comes from.”
With a wave of his hand he sent the black-clad workmen out of earshot and leaned closer to Cheng, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I read some time ago that there was a raid by a gang of poachers on a government ivory store in Zimbabwe. A place called Chiwewe? The gangsters were wiped out, but the ivory was not recovered, is that not so, my son?”
“I read the same newspaper article, honoured Father.” Cheng dropped his eyes and waited while the silence drew out.
Then Heng spoke again. “The man who planned that raid was clever and bold. He was not afraid to kill for what he wanted,” he whispered. “The kind of man that I admire. The kind of man that I was once, when I was young.”
“The kind of man that you still are, Father,” Cheng said, but Heng shook his head.
“The kind of man that I would be proud to have as my son,” Heng went on. “You may present the rest of your gift to me now.”
Now Cheng’s standing, in his father’s eyes, was so enormous that he wriggled in his seat with pleasure and shouted for the workmen to open the other cases.
For the next two hours Heng examined the shipment of tusks. He gloated over every single piece, picking out a dozen or so of the loveliest or most unusual for his special collection.
He was particularly interested in deformed ivory. The nerve of one of the tusks had been damaged, while it was still immature, by a hand-hammered lead ball from a native poacher’s musket. The result was that the tusk had split into four separate shafts and these had twisted around each other in the same way as the strands of a hemp rope. The original lead musket-bullet, heavily corroded, was still embedded in the root of the tusk, and the entwined spirals of ivory resembled the horns of the legendary unicorn. Heng was delighted with it.
Cheng had seldom seen him so animated and voluble, but at the end of the two hours he was obviously fatigued, and Cheng helped him back into the Rolls and ordered the chauffeur to return to the estate.
Heng laid his head back on the soft Connally leather and closed his eyes.
When Cheng was sure the old man was asleep, he gently adjusted the cashmere rug over him. One of Heng’s hands had dropped on to the seat beside him. Cheng lifted it into his lap and before he covered it with the cashmere he caressed it so gently as not to wake his father. The hand was thin and bony and the skin was cool as that of a corpse.
Suddenly the long thin fingers tightened on Cheng’s wrist and the old man spoke without opening his eyes. “I am not afraid of death, my son,” he whispered. “But I am terrified that all that I have achieved will be destroyed by careless hands. Your brother Wu is strong and clever, but he does not have my spirit. He does not care for fine and beautiful things. He does not love poetry or painting or ivory.” Heng opened his eyes and turned his head to stare at his son with those bright implacable lizard’s eyes. “I knew that you had inherited my spirit, Cheng, but until today I doubted that you had the warrior’s steel. That is the reason why I hesitated to choose between you and Wu.
“However, this gift that you have given to me today has changed that thinking. I know how you obtained that ivory. I know that it was necessary to squeeze the juice from the ripe cherry.” This was Heng’s euphemism for drawing blood. “And I know that you did not shrink from it. I know also that you succeeded in a difficult enterprise, whether by luck or cunning I do not really care. I prize both luck and cunning equally.” He tightened his grip until it was painful but Cheng did not wince or pull away. “I am sending you to Ubomo, my son, as the representative of the Lucky Dragon.”
Cheng bowed his head over his father’s hand and kissed it. “I will not fail you,” he promised, and a single tear of joy and of pride fell from the corner of his eye and sparkled like a jewel on the pale dry skin of his father’s hand.
Ning Heng H’Sui made the formal announcement of his selection the following morning. He made it while seated at the head of the lacquer table overlooking the garden.
Cheng; watched the faces of his brothers while the old man spoke. Wu remained as impassive as the ivory carving his father had made of him years ago. His face was bland, smooth and creamy yellow, but his eyes were terrible as he returned Cheng’s stare across the table. When the old man finished speaking there was a moment’s silence which seemed to last an eternity as the three elder brothers contemplated the world that had changed for them.
Then Wu spoke. “Honourable Father, you are wise in all things. We, your sons, bow to your will as the rice stalks bow to the north wind.”
All four of them bowed so low that their foreheads almost touched the table-top, but when they straightened the other three were looking at Cheng. Cheng realised at that moment that it might be possible to attain too much face. His face was greater than that of all his half-brothers combined and he felt an icicle of fear slide down his spine, for his brothers were watching him with the eyes of crocodiles.
He knew that he dare not fail in Ubomo. They would be waiting to rend him if he did.
Once Cheng was back in his own apartment, the fear fell away to be replaced by the clarion of success. There was so much work to do before he returned to Africa, but for the moment he could not concentrate his mind upon it. Tomorrow certainly, but not now. He was too charged with excitement, his mind restless and unfocused. He needed to steady’himself, to burn off the excess energy that made him both physically and mentally overwrought.
He knew exactly how to achieve this. He had his own special ritual for purging his soul. Of course, it was dangerous, terribly dangerous.
On more than one occasion before it had brought him to the very brink of disaster. However, the danger was part of the efficacy of the ritual. He knew that if anything went wrong he would have lost all.
The monumental successes of these last few days, his father’s selection and the ascendancy over his brothers would all be wiped away.
The risk was enormous, completely out of proportion to the fleeting gratification that he would achieve. Perhaps it was the gambler’s urge to flirt with self-destruction. After each episode he always promised himself that he would never indulge in the madness again, but always the temptation proved too strong, particularly at a time such as this.
As soon as he entered his apartment his wife made tea for him, and then called the children to pay him their respects. He spoke to them for a few minutes and took his infant son on his lap, but he was distracted and soon dismissed them. They left with obvious relief. These formal interviews were a strain for all of them. He was not good with children, even his own.
“My father has chosen me to go to Ubomo,” he told his wife.
“It is a great honour,” she said. “I offer you my felicitations. When will we leave?”
“I shall go alone,” he told her, and saw the relief in her eyes. It annoyed him that she made it so obvious. “Of course, I will send for you as soon as I have made the arrangements.”
She dropped her eyes. “I will await your summons.” But he could not concentrate on her. The excitement was fizzing in his head. “I will rest for an hour. See that I am not disturbed. Then I have to go down to the city. There is much work to do before I leave. I will not return tonight, and I shall probably stay at the apartment in Tunhua Road. I shall send you a message before I return.”
Alone in his own room he teased himself with the telephone. He placed the cordless instrument on the table and stared at it, rehearsing every word he would say and his breathing was short and quick as though he had run up a flight of stairs. His fingers trembled slightly when at last he reached out for it. The telephone was fitted with a special coding scrambler. It could n
ot be tapped and it was impossible for any other person, Civil or military or police, to trace the special number that he punched into the key panel.
Very few people had this number. She had told him once that she had given it to only six of her most valued clients. She answered it on the second ring and she recognized his voice instantly. She greeted him with the special code name she had assigned him. “You have not been to see me for almost two years, Green Mountain Man.”
“I have been away.”
“Yes, I know, but still I missed you.”
“I want to come tonight.”
“Will you want the special thing?”
“Yes.” Cheng felt his stomach clench at the thought of it. He thought he might be sick with fear and loathing and excitement.
“It is very short notice,” she said. “And the price has risen since your last visit.”
“The price does not matter. Can you do it?” He heard the high strained tones of his own voice.
She was silent, and he knew she was baiting him. He wanted to scream at her and then she said, “You are fortunate.” Her voice changed. It became obscenely soft and slimy. “I have received new merchandise; I can offer you a choice of two.”
Cheng gulped and cleared his throat of a plug of phlegm before he could ask. “Young?”
“Very young. Very tender. Untouched.”
“When will you be ready?”
“Ten o’clock tonight, she said. “Not before.”
“At the sea pavilion?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “They will expect you at the gate. Ten o clock,” she repeated. “Not earlier, not later.”
Cheng drove to the apartment building in Tunbua Road. It was in the most prestigious part of the city and the accommodation was expensive, but it was paid for by Lucky Dragon.
He left his Porsche in the underground garage and rode up to the top floor apartment in the elevator. By the time he had showered and changed it was still only six o’clock and he had plenty of time in which to prepare himself.