Vicious Circle

by Wilbur Smith

  On the sandbank that curved around the far edge of the green pool the two crocodiles were sunning themselves. Hannibal’s huge jaws were opened to their full gape to allow a small white egret to perch on his lower lip and peck greedily at the shiny black leeches that had fastened themselves to his gums. Aline lay close beside him, as motionless as though she were carved from stone. Her eyes were bright and as implacable as polished onyx behind their transparent nictitating eyelids.

  ‘Have you ever wondered what your sister experienced as she was being eaten alive by animals, Carl?’ Hector asked quietly. Carl made a choking sound. ‘Well, you are about to find out, aren’t you?’ Hector went on. ‘Do you know what it feels like to lose somebody you love, Carl?’ Then he answered his own question. ‘No, of course you don’t. You have never loved anybody but yourself.

  ‘I know what it feels like. I lost my wife. You knew my wife, didn’t you, Carl? Yes, of course you did. I want you to tell me my wife’s name.’ Carl was silent and Hector glanced back at Paddy.

  ‘We have to jog his memory, Paddy. Give his leg a twist, please.’ Paddy twisted hard and Carl screamed.

  ‘Let’s start again, Carl,’ Hector said. ‘What was my wife’s name?’

  ‘Hazel. Her name was Hazel.’

  ‘Thank you, Carl. Now please don’t say anything more. I want that name to be the last word you ever utter.’ Hector nodded at Paddy and he seized Carl’s ankles and lifted them high, tipping him head-first over the edge of the wall. Carl hit the water and went under. He came up again spluttering and choking.

  On the sandbank Hannibal snapped his jaws closed and the egret rose shrieking into the air and flapped away across the tops of the strelitzias. Hannibal hoisted his vast bulk up onto his stubby legs and waddled to the edge of the pool. He launched himself into the turbid water. Aline followed him closely.

  ‘Does this make you feel better, Hector?’ Nastiya asked as they watched the carnage from above.

  ‘No, Nazzy. Nothing will ever make me feel better. Nothing will ever still the ache deep down inside of me.’ He stepped back from the wall and turned away. The other two fell in on either side of him, and all three of them broke into a run and went down the hill to where the Condor stood at the head of the runway, ready for take-off.

  Bernie and Nella saw them coming and started the engines of the Condor. Then they taxied the huge machine up the ramp of the protective laager and stopped at the head of the runway.

  *

  As soon as the trio mounted the loading ramp and were safely in the cargo hold of the Condor, Bernie raised the ramp and Nella called over the PA system, ‘Welcome back on board, Hector. Please find the nearest seat and get yourself strapped in. We are going for an immediate take-off.’

  Hector led the way forward and as he entered the pressurized passage compartment he saw that it was crowded. There were three body bags containing the corpses of the men they had lost laid out on the deck. Beside them were the casevac stretchers with the wounded strapped into them. The mountainous bulk of Johnny Congo was still strapped into the teak chair with his head lolling on his chest. Paul Stowe had taken the precaution of covering him with a nylon cargo net.

  ‘I didn’t want to take a chance, sir. I didn’t want him to wake up and wreck the plane and all of us in it. But even a bull elephant wouldn’t be able to break out of that net.’

  ‘Good man!’ Hector voiced his approval.

  ‘I kept those seats for you at the front of the cabin.’ He pointed forward.

  ‘Where is Jo Stanley?’ Hector asked him.

  ‘I think she is in the galley, in the jump seat behind the toilet.’

  The Condor took off and turned onto a northerly heading. They climbed up through the cloud cover to cruise altitude, and Bernie switched off the seat-belt sign. As soon as this happened Hector stood up and went through the curtains into the galley. Jo was sitting alone in the jump seat beside the window. She looked wan and melancholy. She looked up at him and he smiled at her. She turned her head away to stare out of the window. He pulled down the jump seat beside her and sat down.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Don’t you feel like talking?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ she answered, still without looking at him.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he said and folded his arms. They sat for a while, and it was Jo who broke the silence.

  ‘I never want to hear what you did to him.’

  ‘Who are we discussing? Is it the man who murdered Hazel, and who plotted the murder of Catherine Cayla?’

  She did not reply, but continued staring out the window. Then he realized she was weeping. He touched her shoulder gently, but she pulled away from his hand.

  ‘Please go away and leave me alone,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Do you mean go away, as in go away for ever?’

  ‘Yes!’ she said and he stood up and started back towards the passenger cabin.

  ‘No!’ She stopped him. ‘Don’t go.’

  He stopped and turned back to face her. ‘Yes or no? What is it to be, Jo?’

  ‘You murdered him.’

  ‘Murdered or executed? Our world often hangs on the precise meaning of a single word, Jo.’

  ‘You did not have the right, Hector! You went far beyond law and decency.’

  ‘What law are we discussing, Jo? Is it the law of Al-Qisas, the law of retaliation laid down in the Torah in Exodus and endorsed by the Prophet Muhammad in the Koran?’

  ‘I am talking about the law of America, the law which I practise and hold dear.’ She was still weeping, and he had to steel himself to oppose her.

  ‘Yet you call me a murderer. You have judged me already, but the law of America which you practise says that I am innocent until you prove me guilty.’

  ‘Yes, there is doubt. But you are going to kill Johnny Congo next. I overheard you boasting about it on the radio. If you do that, Hector, I will never be able to bring myself to forgive you. I will never be able to stay with you.’

  ‘You want me to turn Congo loose? Is that what you are asking me to do?’

  ‘I did not say that.’ She denied it vehemently. ‘I want you to surrender him to the law. Hand him over to the American justice system, which has already proven him guilty and passed sentence upon him.’

  She jumped to her feet and seized both his hands. ‘Please, Hector! Please, my darling, for my sake. No, do this for both our sakes. Then we can go on together.’

  He stared into her eyes for a long time, before he nodded stiffly. ‘Very well, then.’ But his lips were tight, and his voice was tortured with the effort it cost him to say it. ‘I give Johnny Congo to you as the proof of my love. Do with him as you will.’

  *

  The US Justice Department sent a Grumman business jet from Washington DC to Abu Zara international airport. There were four US Marshals on board with a warrant for the arrest and detention of John Congo.

  By royal dispensation, the handover took place in the hangar in which the Emir of Abu Zara kept his fleet of private aircraft.

  The American Marshals were all big athletic-looking men with cropped hairstyles. They were lined up before the open fuselage door of the Grumman. They wore dark civilian suits, but Hector’s practised eye noticed the bulges in their left armpits made by the holstered sidearms they carried. He saw the distinctive shape of the steel toe-caps in their polished black shoes.

  These are a bunch of tough cookies, Hector decided as with Paddy and eight of the Cross Bow operatives they marched Johnny into the hangar. Johnny shuffled along in leg irons and his arms were secured behind his back with steel handcuffs. The handover was quick and unceremonious. The head Marshal handed Hector an official US Government receipt, then shook his hand and murmured a few words of thanks. He nodded at his colleagues and two of them stepped forward and seized Johnny’s elbows. They dragged him towards the open door of the jet.

  Suddenly Johnny turned and started back to confront Hector. Despite the handcuffs and the leg irons, the two burl
y Marshals were unable to restrain him. Johnny dragged them along with him. He was bellowing a stream of such filthy language as impressed even Hector and his hard-boiled Cross Bow operatives.

  He came straight at Hector. His nose was still swollen and distorted from the punch that Hector had given him.

  ‘It was me gave the order to kill your fucking whore wife…’ he shouted, and he was close enough for Hector to feel his spittle on his cheek. He dropped his head to smash it into Hector’s face. Hector was anticipating just this. He was balanced on his toes; it was the perfect set-up. He put all his weight behind the blow. He knew before he even made contact that it was the best punch he had ever thrown. It landed on the precise point of Johnny’s jaw.

  Even Johnny’s massive neck muscles could not prevent his head being snapped around to the full extent of its rotation. He went down like a black avalanche and lay motionless on the hangar floor. There was a sudden and complete silence. It was broken by the senior US Marshal.

  ‘Holy cow, mister. You’re good! That was one of the best shots I’ve ever seen,’ he said and came to shake Hector’s hand again, but this time with feeling.

  ‘Take him away, and give him the hot needle,’ Hector told him.

  ‘That is the plan, sir,’ the Marshal agreed.

  Five days later Hector received a phone call from Ronnie Bunter to let him know that the new date that had been set by the high court for Johnny Congo’s execution was 15 October, three weeks ahead.

  *

  The threat to Catherine Cayla’s life had been completely removed at last. They could return to normal life. Hector and Jo took Catherine and her nurses with them when they left Abu Zara and flew back to London.

  The mews house was perfect and London was even better. There were restaurants and clubs that Jo had only read about, so she had to be educated. She had very few clothes with her, so they did not need an excuse to go shopping for her in Bond Street and Sloane Street. Jo had never even held a fly rod in her hand before. She had heard about Atlantic salmon, but as a Texan she had never seen one.

  Hector drove Jo and Catherine Cayla north to Scotland, where they spent three days as the guests of a noble duke at his castle on the Tay river.

  Jo and Catherine watched from the bank as Hector waded out waist deep into the river, and Spey cast with a fifteen-foot rod.

  That evening, while they were changing into black tie and dinner dress, Jo gave her opinion of his day’s performance. ‘It’s very beautiful to watch. It’s like a ballet, so graceful and skilled.’

  ‘So tomorrow I will teach you to Spey cast,’ he offered.

  ‘No thank you,’ she declined. ‘It’s pretty but it does seem rather a plentiful waste of time.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ he demanded.

  ‘Well, you didn’t catch any fish, did you?’

  ‘It’s not the catching that’s important, it is the fishing in itself.’

  ‘It all sounds a bit daft to me,’ she said. It was heresy, but Hector let it pass. The rift between Jo and himself was now healed and forgotten, and he was happy. He did not want to open it again.

  By the third day the two girls had lost interest in the proceedings. Jo had her book and Catherine had her dolls. When those palled they went for short walks, holding hands and telling each other wonderful stories that neither of them understood. When Catherine tired, Jo carried her on her hip, and Catherine tried to make Jo share her dummy with her.

  They returned from one of these walks to find Hector still in the middle of the river, but now he was no longer casting and his rod was bent almost double. He was uttering strange cries that really caught their attention. They stood hand in hand and watched with curiosity. Then the salmon jumped. It erupted out of the water, bright silver in the sunlight, and fell back with a mighty splash. The two girls shrieked with sudden excitement.

  Fifteen minutes later Hector waded ashore carrying a gorgeous twenty-pound salmon in the landing net. He laid it on the grassy verge, and removed the hook from its lip. Then he lifted it out of the net and, holding it gently in two hands, offered it to Catherine to touch. She hurriedly removed her thumb from her mouth and pressed her face into Jo’s bosom.

  Hector looked at Jo. ‘What about you? Would you like to touch a real live Scottish salmon?’

  Jo thought about the offer for less than a second and then she shook her head. ‘Perhaps next time,’ she said.

  Still carrying the fish, Hector went back into the river. He held the fish up and kissed its wet cold nose, and then he lowered it into the water and held its head facing into the current. It lay quiescent in his hands for a while, pumping its gills, recovering its balance and its will to live. Then it shot away into the tea-coloured waters.

  That night after they had made love and were settling down to sleep in each other’s arms, she whispered drowsily, ‘You are a strange man, Hector Cross. You kill men without the least compunction. On the other hand you go to infinite pain and expense to haul a fish out of the water, and then you let it go again.’

  ‘I only kill those who deserve to die,’ he replied. ‘That fish had twenty thousand eggs in her belly. She didn’t deserve to die. She and her babies deserved to live.’

  The next day they drove back to London. It was a long road and they arrived back at The Cross Roads and watched Catherine Cayla devour most of her dinner of minced chicken and squash. What she didn’t swallow dribbled off her chin onto her bib.

  Afterwards they were invited by Bonnie to attend the complicated ritual of putting Catherine to bed in the nursery with all her bunnies and teddies arranged around her cot in their correct order.

  ‘But, how do you know the correct order?’ Hector asked.

  ‘She lets us know,’ Bonnie explained. ‘I know you think we are just making noises, but it’s a secret language. You will only learn it if you spend more time with us.’ It was a rebuke, and he knew he deserved it.

  Later that evening, when Jo had finished her pre-bedtime routine and emerged from her bathroom glowing with unguents and redolent and lovely as a spring garden, Hector lifted the covers on her side of the bed to make room for her. She snuggled down in the circle of his arms making soft comfort sounds, not unlike those emitted by Catherine Cayla settling down for sleep.

  ‘May I consult you on a client–attorney basis before we move on to more important matters?’ Hector asked her.

  ‘You pick the damnedest times, don’t you?’ she murmured. ‘But ask away if you must.’

  ‘If Carl Bannock were dead, then what would happen to the assets of the Trust?’ She went silent for a while, and when at last she spoke her tone was distant.

  ‘I have no reason to believe that Carl Bannock is not in blooming health.’ She looked him unashamedly in the eye as she made this hypocritical denial, then she went on. ‘However, if one were to assert the contrary then the law of the State of Texas is quite clear.’ She sat up and hugged her knees, considering for a moment before she continued.

  ‘Any person claiming that Carl was dead must be able to lay before the court irrefutable evidence of his death, such as a death certificate issued by a medical practitioner or a sworn statement by a credible eye witness of the death. Hector, are you able to think of anyone who would be prepared to stand up in court and swear under oath that they witnessed the death of Carl Bannock?’

  ‘Not off hand,’ Hector admitted.

  ‘Well then, failing irrefutable evidence of death, the law states that a period of seven years must elapse before interested parties may petition the Texas High Court for a Presumption of Death Ruling. Evidence presented to the court must show that there has not been any reason to believe the subject is still alive, such as a reliable sighting of the subject or any contact with him by persons who might reasonably expect such contact. In our case the trustees can reasonably expect Carl to contact them to demand the benefits owing to him by the Trust, such as quadrupling any funds that he earns on his own behalf. If Carl does not do so, it wo
uld be strong evidence that he is dead. Are there any more questions? Or can we get on with the main business for which we are gathered here tonight?’

  ‘I have no more questions, but I do have just one comment: it’s a bitter hard world if my poor helpless little waif has to wait until she is almost eight years of age before she can afford to buy her first Ferrari.’

  ‘Oh! You!’ she exclaimed. She picked up a pillow and hit him with it.

  *

  Their lovemaking that night was especially intense and satisfying to both Jo and Hector. Afterwards he fell into such a deep and dreamless sleep that he did not hear Jo leave the bed.

  When he woke again he heard her in her bathroom. He checked the bedside clock and found it was not yet five a.m. He roused himself and went for a short walk to his own bathroom. On his way back to the bed he paused at her door and heard her speaking on the phone. She was probably calling her mother in Abilene. Sometimes he wondered what they still had to talk about after all these years of phoning each other almost every night. He returned to the bed and drifted off into sleep once more.

  When he woke again it was seven o’clock. Jo was still sequestered in her dressing room behind the closed door. Hector put on his dressing gown and went to the nursery. He came back to bed with Catherine in his arms, clutching her morning bottle. He propped himself up on the pillows, and held her in his lap. While she sucked away at the teat of the bottle he became enthralled by her face. It seemed that she grew more beautiful, and more like Hazel with every passing day.

  At last he heard the door to Jo’s dressing room open. When he looked up smiling, she was standing in the doorway. The smile slowly faded from his face. Jo was fully dressed and she had her small travelling valise in her hand. Her expression was sombre.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, but she ignored the question.