THE
BIG GAME
DUNCAN DRYE
This book is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed
in it are the work of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Copyright Duncan Drye 2006
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved.
No part of this ebook may be reproduced
or resold in any form or by any means,
without prior permission of the Author
Cover Design & Artwork
Gerhard Geldenhuys
***
At his best, man is the noblest of all animals;
separated from law and justice he is the worst.
Aristotle.
***
Prologue
It felt as if the hair on the back of his head were glued to the floor, then he realised it was. David Churu fought his way to consciousness. One by one his senses kicked in; each was a shock. He could not move his head one millimetre; he began an inventory.
He was naked and spread-eagled on smooth concrete. Restraints pinned his wrists and ankles. Hard pegs were forced into his ears. The end of a scaffold board blocked his view of the ceiling. The only smell was disinfectant. The only sound was a terrified pig, whenever the light dimmed, the pig squealed.
Then through the fog he realised three things.
Two long nails faced him in the scaffold board.
They weren’t pegs in his ears, as he still could hear.
It was not a pig, the sound was slightly deeper, it was human.
He snapped back into consciousness. The pig-human squeals had stopped. There was the sound of footsteps approaching. Nothing else had changed.
The footsteps stopped, out of his range of vision, “Good morning Colonel Churu,” a deep, cultured voice, in heavily accented English, “how are you today?” David tried to speak, but just produced a dry cough which sent pain coursing through his scalp and ear canals.
“Well that’s enough small talk. It’s my job to find out who’s involved in your revolution. That can either take a long time or short time, it’s your decision, but the result is always the same.”
“There is … no … revolution,” David croaked.
“Then the answer is the longer time.”
From close behind his head came the sound of a plastic chair being dragged, then accepting the weight of the sitter. The leather sole of an expensive shoe entered his field of vision.
A sigh, then again the accented English. “I thought it would be nice to put you and your wife in adjoining rooms. I had a chat with her earlier and … eventually … she was very helpful.”
David was swept with a cold nausea, despite the distortion, he recognised Sita’s screams. He began to shout…
“Be calm Colonel, I believe she knows very little, for the moment she is sleeping peacefully. So it’s you who must provide me with the details. But first let me explain your situation. We call the contraption above you, the seesaw. I designed it myself and whilst not fast, it always gives our … interviewees plenty of time to consider their options. As we’re rarely in a hurry,” he searched for an elusive word, “clearness … no clarity … this instrument has the great advantage over cruder methods, in that your answers have clarity, at least in the early stage they will not be blurred by pain.”
With obvious pride he continued, “You can’t see this, but on the top of the board above you is fixed a bowl and above that a water pipe. On the other end of my seesaw is a weight. I turn the tap and depending how fast it drips … you will hear it through those pipes screwed into your ears … these two nails,” a long manicured index finger pointed to each bright nail in turn, “will descend. Now the subtle part,” his voice became slightly animated, “the success of my job is greatly affected by leaving people hope. When I leave this room, you’ll have to decide if your feelings … or love … for your co-conspirators outweighs … you see here the parallel with weight? outweighs your fear of blindness.
Now I have added another … aspect … by the simple act of making these nails,” again the pointing finger, “by making these nails of different lengths.” He paused giving David time to consider the significance, “even when the first nail has pierced you, like the man with only one kidney, you can still function normally; you will then have some time, whilst the increasing weight of water drives on the first nail … to think … and to consider your options. Now before I leave, do you wish to talk about your friends?”
David’s voice had dried, his tongue swollen, he made a rasping sound. The hand re-appeared now holding a plastic bottle, a drinking tube was placed gently between his lips, and then timed to David’s swallows, the bottle was squeezed.
“That’s better, try again.”
“There is no revolution.”
The plastic chair creaked as he arose, “Not what your lovely wife told me Colonel. Now this is very important, tied around your finger is a string, when you’re ready to talk, just give it a pull and day or night someone will appear.”
The footsteps receded, at the end of a corridor a door slammed.
David lay and listened to the total silence. Suddenly it was broken by the sound of a single drip hitting the bottom of the metal bowl.
***
1
GHANA - WEST AFRICA
Despite air conditioning in the arrivals lounge of Kotoka International Airport, the air was hot and sticky. It was the second Wednesday of the month, so as usual Tom McRae was standing watching the first trolley pushers arrive from London Heathrow. His scarred and shaven head and bulky torso incongruous in the freshly pressed white shirt, blue blazer and grey trousers, he looked as comfortable as a farm labourer in a wedding suit. In one stubby fist he held the board displaying: XTREME TOURS and in the other a clip board.
He always felt the stirrings of fear when he scanned the faces. It had not happened in over thirty Wednesdays, but one day he would experience the jolt of recognition when his eyes met an old colleague, and ex Sergeant Thomas Wellington McRae of the Second Battalion Parachute Regiment would be exposed as a holiday rep.
Prominent among the throng of returning Ghanaians were two European men, one very tall with close cropped grey hair, the other younger and dark. Their eyes locked on his board.
“Herr Schmidt and Koeffe?” offered the older man. McRae directed them to the minibus.
Next was a tall good looking couple in their 30’s, hands together on the handle as they pushed their cart. In Tom’s opinion the man’s hair was too long, but the woman was a beauty: long brown hair and despite her safari shirt and trousers, he could see she had a stunning figure. That could be trouble, he thought to himself as he checked off Mr M. Bray and partner.
Behind them was a short, plump, worried looking man in mid 20’s, he shuffled past McRae fiddling one handed with his P.D.A. the other hand fighting to control the baggage cart. At the end of the concourse he stared around in confusion, eventually his eyes settled on the Xtreme sign; he waved and dropped his machine. Tom sighed in resignation; it was going to be a tough two weeks.
Approaching and skirting techno man as he scrabbled for his battery on the floor, was a powerful man in his early 50’s. Holding his arm was a girl less than half his age dressed in short skirt and high heels, more suitable for a Paris nightclub than an adventure holiday. As Tom ticked off Mr. Serovec and partner, he thought it should have said not wife in brackets.
Techno man had retrieved all his errant parts and approached McRae. “I should be on that,” he pointed at the clipboard with his clutch of plastic.
“Name?” growled McRae.
“Henning,” he replied in a West coast American accent, “Paul Henning junior.”
“Gotcha, join the group outside at the bus, only two more to find.”
The flood of arrivals had reduced to a trickle, but approaching was a young, stick thin couple dressed in matching browns and green. He glanced at the remaining names and read Mr and Mrs Goff. “Oh no, it’s got to be a fucking Rupert,” he mumbled.
“Hey there,” the man waved as if swatting a fly and hailed him at full volume, “are you for the Goffs?”
McRae grinned to himself; sounds like a medical problem, which I guess they will be; a pain in the arse. He nodded and directed them to the bus.
The woman’s voice was identical to her husband’s, even in volume, “have you got our guns?”
“All organised,” McRae called over his shoulder, striding ahead leaving them to pursue with their recalcitrant baggage cart. Let the fuckers know who’s boss right from the start, he thought.
He herded his nine passengers and their luggage aboard the tatty Mercedes minibus. The wide-open windows blasting them with 40deg heat and 80% humidity as they honked their way through the chaos of baggage and taxis. It was a short ride to the other side of the airport where a Gulfstream 2 executive jet awaited them. High on its tail was the war shield emblem of the President of the Democratic Republic of Gamasi .
McRae stood in the shade of a wing and checked the trio of local baggage handlers as they professionally abused the nineteen items of expensive luggage into the aircraft’s hold. Slipping a five-dollar note to each, he watched as they piled back into their buggy and roared off. He stood in the pool of shade staring at the distant terminal complex; timing a rivulet of sweat as it made its way slowly down his back, finally to be absorbed in his waistband. McRae was an expert at waiting. The ability to wait was one of the most important attributes of a good soldier and Tom had been a good soldier, one of the best until an anti personnel mine robbed him of his left leg just below the knee.
“Eat and sleep whenever you can and learn how to wait,” he always told the rookies, “that’s what makes a good soldier.”
The male Goff emerged from the aircraft and stood at the head of the passenger stairs. “Hi!” he called down to the back of the man waiting below in the shade. McRae counted, at seven the call was repeated.
“Hi there,” a pause whilst he thought vainly for a title, “hey, you sure our guns have been loaded?”
McRae paused just enough to unsettle, then half turned, “No.”
Goff frowned, “No what? Do you mean they’re missing?”
McRae paused again: never answer quickly was the very best way to destabilise a fucking Rupert, “No.”
Mrs Goff appeared next to her husband, “Trouble Robert?”
“Not sure, communication probs.”
Accustomed to disciplining Labradors and horses from the time she could walk, Fiona Goff could take a monosyllabic Scotsman in her stride. “Are our gun cases aboard, or not?” she bellowed.
McRae studied the distant terminal as he considered her question. “Not,” a pause, “but as I told you just now in Arrivals: it’s organised.” As he spoke, distorted by the heat haze, a small convoy of vehicles appeared from behind the terminal buildings: a small Honda van sandwiched between two Police 4x4’s, both with lights flashing.
The older German appeared behind the Goff couple, his English perfect despite his irritation, “Are we going to be long, it’s hot as hell in here.”
McRae glanced up at the speaker, “Better get used to it, it’ll soon be worse.” He stepped out of the shade to meet the leading police car.
With her free hand Lorna lifted the weight of hair off her sweating neck and peered through the round window next to her. It must be that English couple shouting about guns to the holiday rep. Can’t see him, but I guess he’s standing down there under the wing. Wonder if the woman is going to be shooting, it’s usually a guy-thing and the part of them I find hard to take, this obsession with guns.
She glanced at the man holding her right hand. Mike has it as well and I don’t even know if its his only obsession! I must be mad! I’ve only known him for three weeks and here I am, thousands of miles from home, on a fourteen day holiday with him. To make it even more mad, it’s a hunting holiday. She flapped her hair with her free hand to cool her neck. I guess it’s not strictly three weeks, I smiled at him loads of times over the years, whenever we passed in the building. Once we even shared an elevator, pity about the other five people in there as well. But that was when Stephen and I were together, I’d never do more than look. Her thoughts drifted back to that time, dwelling on how things had changed since the Stephen time.
Six great years and sharing the apartment for nearly five. Sure we worked too hard, didn’t make enough time for each other, but we both knew where we were going. We knew, or thought we knew, it would all end in a bunch of kids and a home away from the madness of New York. But September eleventh 2001 changed all that. If I’m honest, I guess I knew the second I heard news of the impacts, even as I kept hitting my speed dial for his mobile. Throughout the blurred hours of maybes: maybe his battery’s flat? maybe he left his phone on his desk? maybe it was hanging in his coat when he stepped out? Then gradually the cold acceptance that he’ll never call, ever again. That morning was the last time I would ever see him, speak to him, share a joke, hold him. She felt the cold lump of Stephen’s absence.
It’s the toughest thing I’ve ever done, getting back into life again. Up to three weeks ago, all the dates were crap, none worked, not always their fault, guess I just wasn’t ready. Girlfriends began to despair of me. Then three weeks ago as Kathy and I sat in the bar around the corner, just as I was being counselled again about getting back in the saddle, Mike walked in. Smiles followed, an offer of a drink, Kathy suddenly discovered a prior engagement, the palpable chemistry, the meal, the first kiss, the invitation back to his for a nightcap, the frantic mind blowing sex only five hours after we exchanged our first words. She smiled to herself. You tart Lorna, and now you’ve been in the saddle every night since, plus the odd lunchtime and early evening as well.
Airway bills in one hand, McRae checked off the weapons and ammunition, while the police lounged and chatted by their vehicles. One by one he carefully slid the selection of expensive stainless steel, polished wood or leather-bound gun cases out of the van, checked their labels and contents before passing them to the co-pilot standing at the hatch for stowing.
Again in his mind he questioned the documents. Nine guests, but only seven of them shooters after you deducted the Russian tart and American Beauty, yet nine rifles detailed.
The first was housed in battered mahogany and labelled Michael Bray. He snapped open the catches and checked the Swedish PSG-90 lying snugly in its foam bed. A reliable gun and this one had seen a lot of use.
The Goffs had matching dark brown leather cases. Embossed in gold on each was a small stag at bay. Not a new brace of Parker Hales, but very well maintained.
Suddenly the numbers made sense. Four guns were listed as owned by the older guy, Herr W. Schmidt. Four much travelled stainless steel cases containing a Swiss Sig Sauer, two German Unique Alpines and a Walther WA2000.
A brand new, hand built Patriot Genesis with its protective wrapping untouched was listed to the plump young American, care of a Los Angeles address.
In stark contrast was the rifle listed to Serovec, the burly Russian. Housed in a battered military case, it was a WW2 classic, a Mosin Nagent. Although in pristine condition the wear marks of a thousand hours service were written clearly on every surface. McRae stared at the most coveted sniper rifle of the twentieth century. Responsible for more US deaths in Vietnam than any other weapon, it was still the first choice of the old school assassin.
Lorna glanced away from the window, as Schmidt snorted and sprung from his seat to join the English couple at the door. The German, or maybe he’s Scandinavian, is pissed with waiting. She had noticed him on the bus, the way he carried an air of frustration, like a coiled spring. This vacation won’t help him she thought.
She smiled at Mike and squeezed his hand, he glanced up from his novel. “Good?” she asked.
“Great” he smiled back.
Oh I could eat him, she thought with a slight shiver. In fact I think that’s exactly what I’ll do the moment we check into our hotel! She returned to her window and watched McRae. He was inspecting a variety of long thin cases, and then checking them against a sheaf of papers. Guess they must be the guns, she pondered, as the Scotsman carefully passed the cases to someone below her.
It’s the actual killing I can’t take. Ever since Dad taught me to shoot I couldn’t kill anything. I get 100% at clay pigeons no problem, and I enjoyed the .22 target shooting – targets no problem, blood, fur and feathers are. But Dad loves it and calls me a hypocrite, which I guess is sorta true. “If you can’t kill ‘em, don’t eat ‘em”; is his favourite defence. To which I always respond; “ you didn’t build your car, but you drive it”. At least once a year he takes off with little brother to a remote corner of the world, to kill some furry life form. Once he invited Stephen, but there was no way he’d go, not even to bond with future pa-in-law. I guess my biggest row with Dad since he left Mom, was about his trip to Australia to shoot wild horses. Now it seems Mike’s the same.
She thought about Mike’s first mention of this vacation, just a few days after meeting him. That night over dinner when he had broken the news with studied indifference; “Did I mention I’m off on vacation to Africa soon”
It had been a shock and a disappointment and she half waited for an invitation to join him. After days of gentle hints had elicited no response, she asked Kathy what she thought, at their next after work affair-debrief session.
“Be direct, tell him you’ve time owing and you could come.”
“I’m scared he’s already arranged to go with an old flame.”
“All the more reason to ask then,” Kathy retorted.
The next Saturday morning as they lay entwined in bed, she plucked up courage. “I’ve got loads of vacation owing, and I haven’t been fussed with holidays for so long,” she paused, but he did not fill the gap, “I could always come to Africa … if you want me to that is.”
He hesitated those few seconds too long before replying, “that’d be really fantastic, but it’s kind of a guy thing.”
She had tried to smile despite the chill in her stomach. He had begun to stroke the long scar that was hidden under his hairline, a habit she had noticed whenever he was stressed.
“That’s ok, are all your buddies going?”
Again the pause, “no….I don’t know any of the party … it’s a sort of … package tour.”
She had felt herself regressing to teenager, hating herself, she had become brisk and businesslike. “Well I’ll do breakfast then,” she firmly extricated herself from his arms and throwing on a robe flounced into the kitchen and banged around the bar. Why are you doing this you stupid possessive cow, she had berated herself, whilst beginning to panic as the minutes stretched. Just get back in there and tell him to go and do his hunter-gatherer stuff and you’ll be waiting when he returns. She heard the toilet flush and the sound of bare feet approaching. “Coffee?” she called, a de-fusing offer … no answer.
He padded silently up behind her, grasped and twisted her sheen of hair, lifted it … time stood still. She recalled the first hint of breath on the back of her neck, then the abrasion of stubble moving around to the side of her neck, her ears. She gasped for breath, her nipples hardened, he placed his other hand on her waist. Unbidden, a little sigh as he teased her ear. “Will you come to Africa?” he whispered.
She had cleared her throat, “I’ll think about it.” He pressed her urgently against the bar and she had reached around behind her and smiled, “Ok if I fix coffee later?”
Mike realised that he had been staring at the same page for ten minutes. Despite this being one of the best books he had ever read, he could not concentrate. When could he tell her the truth about this holiday, when would be the best time? You and your gonads Bray, he chided himself, when’re you going to learn? He thought back to that Saturday morning in his apartment. There was no way he was going to risk their relationship by bringing her to Gamasi: so why was she sitting next to him, holding his hand on the shuttle aircraft, less than two hours from their hotel? He must tell her as soon as they arrived and if she went ballistic he would just turn it into a romantic holiday – the most expensive holiday in history!
Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck. That fateful morning in his bathroom he had worked out what he was going to say to defuse the situation; he still knew as he walked into the kitchen; he sorta knew as he spotted the delicious outline of her ass through the white silk robe, it was getting a bit blurred as he reached forward for a peace offering nuzzle … then the old one eyed trouser snake had taken control of his mouth. "Will you come to Africa?” the snake whispered and here we are! fuck, shitting, fuck! … but it all comes down to the fact that there are some things in life you want to do, but this vacation is something I’ve gotta do!
McRae handed the signed documents to the senior policeman, who flicked through them to ensure the one hundred dollar bill had been included. Good old US dollars, the Scotsman thought as he climbed aboard the aircraft, certainly make the world go round.
He completed a final head count of his seated guests.
Bray and Karrol were in the centre seats, the American’s hair masking his face as he read a paperback, whilst she stared out of the window.
The Upper Class Twats were at the rear of the cabin, in animated conversation with the taller German. Whilst Koeffe, the shorter one, was reading his holiday details.
Both Russians were silent and engrossed in their own thoughts. There was only one empty seat left, next to the door. This involved him sitting next to the fat, sweaty Californian. As the co-pilot sealed the door McRae announced in the closest he ever came to levity, “Next stop, Kamba International shit hole.”
Paul Henning shifted damply in his seat as the Xtreme tours man sat down next to him. He hated people touching him. He pressed as far away as possible from the Rep., tucked his elbow in and fiddled with his PDA.
Johan Koeffe turned over another page and came to the Xtreme Tours holiday itinerary.
Wednesday
17.30hrs local time.
Forty-minute flight from Accra to Kamba, capital city of the Republic of Gamasi.
Limousine transfer to the internationally renowned Hotel Ambassador on Amutu Avenue.
Dinner from 19.30hrs in the hotel’s internationally famous five star gourmet restaurant.”
Thursday
Breakfast from 07.30hrs including a choice of American, English, Continental or African.
Johan was unsure what constituted an African breakfast.
10.00hrs A lecture by General Gboja on how the people of Gamasi had shrugged off the legacies of imperialism due to the inspiration and the guidance of their beloved father, President Amutu.
Johan noted that the shrugging did not extend to breakfasts.
12.30hrs Lunch
14.30hrs Meet in the hotel foyer for a conducted tour of the sights of Kamba, including a visit to the world renowned Amutu Free Hospital.
As only two hours had been allotted to the tour, Johan assumed the sights were very limited.
19.30hrs Dinner in the hotel. Followed by a display by the National Heritage Dancers, illustrating in dance the ethnic diversity of Gamasi.
Friday
Following breakfast an ideological discussion entitled “The enemy at our door.”
Conducted by the poetically named Mr Milton Keats.
12.30hrs Lunch
14.30hrs Aggression assessment by General Gboja and assistants, in the Gaiety Ballroom.
19.00hrs A reception and dinner at the Presidential Palace by kind invitation of President Amutu. Meet in hotel foyer at 18.30hrs.
Saturday
Collection from hotel foyer at 10.00hrs for transport to the shooting ranges at the Amutu Military Academy.
13.00hrs Lunch at the Academy Officers Club.
14.30hrs A tour of the “sites of insurgence.”
19.30hrs Dinner at the hotel and afterwards the opportunity to sample the world class facilities offered by the Republic of Gamasi’s premier hotel.
The itinerary for Sunday and the following nine days simply said:
All active participants will be collected from the hotel foyer at 10.00hrs and returned at around 18.00hrs after a full day in the service of the Peoples of Gamasi.
A packed lunch will be supplied, plus cold non-alcoholic drinks – vegetarian by prior arrangement.
The last item, 20.00hrs on the final evening was:
Farewell Gala Dinner.
Wednesday 09.00hrs meet in hotel foyer for transfer by limousine to Kamba International Airport.
10.00hrs 40 minute return flight to Accra.
Realising that his mind had drifted off half way through, Johan started reading from the beginning again.
In the front seat Paul Henning pondered for the hundredth time why he was on this vacation; he was not a vacation person. He recalled the day he had chanced upon the Xtreme Tours’ website and his curiosity had been aroused. The only holiday company he had ever heard of that would not accept booking without “acceptable personal references.” But why had he followed the maze that resulted in him sitting in this plane today? I guess it’s just the hacker in me, the more they played hard to get, the more I wanted to book a vacation.
He thought back to when he was a kid. Three times a year, Mom and Dad would prise him out of his bedroom. He would stay in the car, or the hotel room all the time and play with his Sega, as soon as the car pulled up at home again he would return to the dark electronic world that was his bedroom.
He recalled with horror, when he was fourteen they had dispatched him to Summer Camp. After a few days of ritual bullying the other kids had ignored him, after feigning a leg injury, so had the staff. Ten days left to endure with only his Sega to keep him company.
Now aged twenty-four, he was a multi-millionaire game designer, generally acknowledged as one of the best in the world. All those years alone, hunched over a keyboard had paid off big time. He had no interests apart from work. No interest in clothes, sex, cars, or property. He still lived with Mom. Dad had left at some point, but it had hardly entered his consciousness.
He had outgrown his bedroom and now worked in the dining room with the drapes closed. But why was he here now, on another continent, in the heat, with a load of strangers. He guessed there were two reasons, one real and one spurious. The real one was his desire to build his ultimate game “Sniper.” The other was his New Year’s resolution to get out more!
As the executive jet arrowed into the sky, Johan Koeffe was still staring blindly at the holiday itinerary and also wondering why he was aboard. For him it was simple - the need to keep his job. He glanced at the hawk-like profile of his boss nodding in agreement with the young English couple. He had “switched off” their conversation, bored and slightly repulsed by their stories of killing herds of assorted animals. Despite his fluency in the English language, he found their accents difficult to understand.
He thought about his boss. How slowly his respect for this man was becoming tinged with distaste, a distaste that he must hide for the sake of Krista, their sons and his huge bank loan. Many years ago, he had worked under Schmidt at the world’s biggest manufacturer and installer of moving stairs and walkways. Then Schmidt had gone on his own and within ten years, built his company into a serious rival. Two years ago the call had come, Johan had accepted the offer that he could not afford to refuse.
But power had changed his ex boss; always a tough and diligent manager, he had become a ruthless and egocentric owner. They no longer had reasoned discussion, now there was only Schmidt’s way. Johan had lost count of the times Krista had pleaded with him not to quit and he knew he couldn’t. Somehow every month, they always managed to spend his very generous salary package.
Then a few months ago the invitation for an all expenses paid vacation. An opportunity to bond outside the workplace, it will do us both good, was how Schmidt had put it. Refusal had not been an option, just maybe the tyrant wanted to change? Whatever the reason Johan was not happy. He was good with a gun and excelled at clay pigeon shooting. Sometimes with top clients, he would go game shooting, as long as he didn’t have to handle the dead birds. But this was different, so different in fact that he had problems believing the outline Schmidt had given him.
***
2
As each drip hit the surface of the water above him, David Churu considered the implications of his impending blindness. He would never see Sita or his children again.
Never seeing his sons as teenagers or adults would be the worst, but there were a thousand other things he would miss. What am I thinking? From the moment I entered this prison, I knew I would never see them again! Political prisoners always disappear. They drive the bodies out of town and throw them into the river.
David recalled the old Gamasi joke. “What’s Amutu’s opposition called?” The answer, “Crocodile shit”, seemed even less funny than usual.
He had kept the number of his conspirators to a minimum, but as the time got closer he had to speak to the people of power within the country. He had been very careful, but it would appear not careful enough; one of them must have spoken to Amutu’s secret police.
He stared upwards and was sure the scaffold board had moved. He closed one eye and sighted on a mark on the ceiling, but it had been his imagination; it was still in the same position.
What will I do when it descends? Is there any point in closing my eyelids? It’ll only gain minutes, maybe only seconds, before the nail pierced the tender skin and enters my eye.
He hated himself for the moments when he had considered revealing his co-conspirators. He knew that it would make no difference to the result, whatever he told the man in the expensive shoes, Colonel David Archibald Churu would very soon be crocodile shit.
He thought about his trusted friends within army and civilian life who believed that Amutu and his bunch of criminals should be removed as soon as possible. Part of him, brought up on English schoolboy stories, where right always overcomes evil, believed they could not fail. I still believe it, but I guess I’ll not be around to witness it.
***
3
LONDON
The Foreign Secretary stared at the traffic silently inching along the rain-slicked street beneath his window. “So what’s so important about tantalite ore?” he asked the civil servant behind him.
“It’s an essential element used in the production of mobile phones, computers, jet engines and much, much more.”
“I see. And presumably it’s rare?”
With studied care the man leafed through his folder until finding the correct page. “Very limited supplies world-wide. Some in Brazil, Canada and Australia. A little in Nigeria, but the vast majority to date is in the Congo which our Chinese, German and American friends have already tied up.”
The Minister turned from the window and studied the world map on the wall by his desk. He traced a small crescent shape with one soft white finger, “Please remind me about Gamasi, Gerald.”
The civil servant focussed on the ceiling high above him, “Used to be one of ours when it was the Reunion Coast. Granted independence in ‘58, still a member of the Commonwealth, but only just. Population around five million. Totalitarian state run by a President …” He studied the ornate cornice for inspiration.
“Gerald, I don’t expect you to know all this by heart,” he flashed his electoral smile, (just to keep in practice.) “Feel free to refer to your file.”
The civil servant turned to the front page and read silently for a few moments, “Ah yes … President Charles Amutu studied law here, at the University of Essex. Came to power via an army-supported coup in 1987, Christian and from the majority tribal group, as are most of the army. Flirted a bit with the Chinese, but still an Anglophile … values tea with Her Majesty. Exports mostly cassava and timber.”
The politician sank into his chair and waved a languid invitation to sit, “And is he secure … as head of state I mean?”
“At this moment - he runs an extremely tight ship. But this discovery would put him under severe pressure; this is bigger than finding oil.”
The Minister considered. “Does anyone else know about these reserves?” he nodded at the folder, “apart from our chaps.”
“No one. Obviously we can delay completion of this mineral report but…” he tailed off.
Two plump hands flicked in acknowledgement, “yes, yes, understood, no one can keep the lid on this sort of stuff for long, but some … manoeuvre time is always good in these circumstances. We need to talk to our people in…?” he raised his eyebrows.
Again the quick scan of the first page, “Kamba Sir, in our time it was Elton, but they re-named it recently, it means horn, as in bull and relates to the shape of the country.”
The Foreign Secretary rolled the capital’s name around in his fleshy mouth a few time like fine claret, “Kamba, Kamba. Please have words with our man in Kamba as soon as and then we’ll have another chat.”
The civil servant sensing his dismissal rose and headed for the door. With his hand on the worn, ancient brass handle, he was stopped.
“Gerald, does that report go into facts and figures?”
“Yes Sir, in great depth … all projected of course.”
“No problem, pop it on the side table, I’ll have a look later.”
After lunch the Minister settled behind his desk and began to leaf through the folder. He studied a page of figures, made a few calculations on the reverse side and whistled softly. Eyes still fixed on his bottom line of figures; he groped for his phone.
It was answered on the third ring. “Ah Graham, do you think the P.M. could spare me a few minutes this afternoon? Oh, and perhaps you could arrange someone from Trade and Industry as well … yes, yes actually it is pretty urgent.”
***
4
REPUBLIC OF GAMASI
They felt like visiting royalty when they stepped off the plane. No passport control, or customs. Three black Mercedes with darkened windows were parked near the base of the stairs. The fourth vehicle was a van to bring their luggage straight to their hotel.
“I could get to like this!” Mike whispered as their white shirted chauffeur held open the door of the first car for them. They sat in air-conditioned silence as the rest of the party were ushered to their cars.
The Goffs seemed to be having a dispute with McRae.
Lorna stared at the corrugated iron hanger and sheds, all in varying degrees of disrepair. The hanger doors were open each end, inside she could see the profiles of three helicopters. In a patch of shade just outside the nearest door, five men in unbuttoned coveralls lounged in plastic chairs; slowly they passed around a very long cigarette.
Mike followed her gaze, “Chinese choppers.”
Lorna gave him a quizzical glance, “The cigarettes?”
“No, the helicopters. Chinese made, relatively cheap but good, though if I was a pilot I wouldn’t want those guys servicing them.”
McRae climbed in next to their driver on the other side of the thick glass partition and the cavalcade surged forward. As they paused at the airfield gates, both sentries saluted and stood to attention.
Lorna noticed that one wore scuffed army boots and the other new white trainers with no laces. The gate sign on one side announced, Amutu International Airport, whilst the other displayed, Gamasi Air Force Base.
Paul Henning sat and stared forward at the blur of half completed, breezeblock houses glimpsed on either side of the car. Their drivers switched on sirens and sped down the centre of the road, leaving the traffic stationary on either side. They flashed past a mix of overloaded trucks, battered cars and small motorbikes, but the vast majority were home made carts drawn by skeletal donkeys and mules, all dwarfed by their towering loads.
The road from the airport into Kamba skirted the coast and in the distance he could see a vast building project where the Atlantic ocean joined an estuary. Enormous yellow earthmovers graded the soil. Dump trucks the size of houses; each carried one massive rock which they tipped in front of excavators, which in turn placed them precisely in the sea defences. They passed a hoarding that proclaimed the project to be The Creation of a Deep Water Harbour: a gift from the Government of Japan to the Republic of Gamasi: Paul considered this to be an extremely generous gift.
As they entered the outskirts of the city, the volume of traffic forced the cars to slow. Pressing in on either side of the road were stalls and open fronted shops with dusty goods piled outside. He glimpsed narrow side alleys of tin roofed shacks. Close packed humanity: near naked big-eyed children, wizened old people, crippled beggars, street vendors and porters pushing overloaded bicycles. Weaving amongst them were the dogs, slack nipples or testicles swinging under sharp ribbed bodies.
Paul had witnessed poverty before through the back windows of a car. Over ten years ago when Mom and Dad had decided to drive to Florida rather than fly. The journey took them through Mississippi and Alabama. But it had been a quaint tumble-down-shack, All-American sort of poverty, somehow easier to accept. You felt that the grizzled black men sitting under their porches were all working on soul numbers for their next album.
Their Mercedes stopped with a lurch that propelled him towards the Russian couple on the opposite seat. He saved himself by grabbing the man’s knees. Blushing, he mumbled an apology, and then busied himself craning for a view as to why they had halted. The Russian grunted acknowledgement then resumed his high volume, guttural conversation with the girl. They both scared Paul; the man was menacing and the girl oozed sexuality. There appeared to have been a minor accident involving the first car. Bundles of reeds were spread across the road. Suddenly an old white Land Rover slid to a halt next to their cavalcade and six uniformed men sprang out and began to strike anyone within reach of their long black batons. Paul could not tell whether they were police or army, but under their assault the bystanders hurriedly cleared the road and they moved forward again. He glimpsed a collapsed cart, the side of the mule impaled on a shattered wooden shaft, it stood patiently as its blood drained onto the road. Paul, whose whole life was ritualised electronic violence, shuddered.
Johan Koeffe sat in the third car and watched as the police struck out randomly at the people in the street. His first time in a third world country and he was horrified. He had travelled and worked all over Europe, but this was so different. The dirt, the poverty, the casual violence and the people’s acceptance of all three.
He thought back to his home village near Düsseldorf, everything so clean and organised. As the road blockage was being cleared, he stared at two small boys sitting on a low wall; about the same age as his sons, maybe ten or eleven it was difficult to tell. Barefoot, matchstick legs in threadbare shorts, arms draped over each other’s bare shoulders, they returned his stare, faces emotionless. Johan in air-conditioned comfort, only feet away, felt as if he was on a different planet.
The cars surged forward and the boys disappeared from view and his life. He shook his head, but they were imprinted on his retina, like a flashbulb in the dark. To clear their image he focussed on his fellow passengers. His boss sat next to him listening to the Goffs’ advice on how to obtain an Elephant shooting permit in Zimbabwe.
The road was widening, the surface smoother and then a surreal sight. In the centre of Kamba, surrounded by green lawns and high iron railings, sat a medieval castle. Open mouthed he nudged Wolfgang Schmidt.
The Goffs followed their gaze. “Bloody hell, it’s Balmoral,” brayed Fiona.
They pressed against the windows as the replica of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth’s Scottish home passed by, to be replaced by other grand properties half hidden behind massive gates and high, wire topped walls.
Then the faded colonial splendour of the Hotel Ambassador. The cars swept through the open gates and pulled up in the shade of its arched portico. Uniformed porters sprang forward to open the doors. The manager emerged, a towering figure in full tribal costume, his richly embroidered robe trailing the ground. Sweeping off his fur trimmed pillbox hat, he greeted each guest in turn, then ushered the party into the vast edifice of dark hardwood and tropical plants that was the main foyer. They passed through a phalanx of minions in white shirts and black trousers, who dispensed cold drinks and keys from silver trays. The manager stood rocklike in the centre and directed the flow using a staggering range of languages. Changing effortlessly from German to English, to Russian and back again.
Michael Bray and Lorna Karrol followed the liveried porter as he crossed the cavernous hall and entered their suite. Mike was steeling himself for his big revelation. The minute this guy leaves I’ll tell her, he promised himself. He waited and without realising his hand went under his hair to stroke the scar.
The rooms were models of Victorian excess. Their heavy drapes would not have been out of place in a theatre and the bed could have accommodated a harem. The porter busied himself adjusting the air conditioning whilst Mike fumbled for a small denomination note. As soon as the door closed Mike turned to see Lorna standing on the far side of the bed, holding his gaze, she shrugged off her safari shirt.
He swallowed, his eyes drawn to the thrust of her breasts, “Lorna there’s something we need to talk about.”
Lorna pouted as she unclasped her waistband and with a wriggle of her hips, trousers slipped to the floor. Naked she knelt on the bed, “Can it wait?”
Mike looked down on the curve of her back and the lift of her buttocks. Lorna slowly moved to his side of the bed, he stared mesmerised by the swing of her breasts as she shifted balance onto one hand and began to unbutton his fly.
He cleared his throat, “Well it is rather …” She took his tip gently between her teeth, his voice broke, “… but yeh, I guess it can wait.”
Wolfgang Schmidt carefully removed all his clothes, laid a large white bath towel on the floor and begun his 100 sit-ups.
Lindy moaned in mock passion as Vladimir Serovec pummelled her finely toned buttocks into the bed cover. She stared over his broad hairy shoulder at the ornate cornice, her vision blurred by the energy of his thrusting. Such had been his urgency that he had not bothered to undress her, the moment they were in their room he had drawn her to him. He had lifted the hem of her skirt around her waist with one hand, pulled aside the front of her thong with the other and entered her. For once the moaning was easy as she was in pain. The front of the thin material was trapped between them, cutting into her clitoris, but Lindy did not complain.
Paul Henning tugged on the braided cord and drew the heavy drapes. Surfing the TV channels, he glimpsed the distinctive profile of Burt Reynolds., The Gumball Rally he sighed and slumped into an easy chair.
Johan Koeffe sat on the edge of the bed and listened to his home telephone ringing distantly through the background of line interference. At last it was picked up, “Hi son, are you missing your dad?”
Robert Goff lovingly stroked the smooth contours of his Parker Hale. He stood legs braced in front of the tall window. Slowly he lowered the barrel until it rested against one of the stained timber mullions. He squinted through the telescopic sights at a taxi driver dozing outside the hotel gates. With minor movements he brought the cross hairs onto the man’s ear. He steadied his breathing, gently caressed the trigger. With a sharp explosion of air from his pursed lips, he mimicked a shot.
Fiona looked up from her armchair on the far side of the room and raised an amused eyebrow. “Get ‘im Rob?”
He turned and smiled boyishly, “’Course I did Fee.”
In a nearby house McRae lay naked on top of his damp bed, his stump throbbing. The rent was very cheap, but he wished he had paid the extra for air conditioning. His thoughts drifted to his latest group. Usual fucking nightmare mix of madmen and sad bastards. The Germans are usually ok, disciplined nation. Especially the older guy, born 50 years too late that one, can picture him strutting around in his SS gear all peaked cap and jodhpurs. Not so sure about the younger one, but once he gets the taste for it, he’ll be fine.
I could really do without those upper class twats. People like Mr and Mrs Fucking-Goff buggered the army for me; you’ve only to look at ‘em to hate ‘em. He elevated his damaged leg and inspected the inflamed, scarred flesh. But I guess they’ll be no trouble once I’ve got ‘em trained. They’re tough though, nothing can test a human like the British public school system; army basic training’s a piece of piss compared with what the upper classes expect from their little kids. And the killing will come as second nature to ‘em; that lot’ve been killing pheasants and peasants for a thousand years.
That Russian, there’s something … fire in his eyes. A hard bastard. I’ve seen his type before – though not too often, thank Christ. His lassie knows her job, even if it is spent on her back.
Then there’s fat boy. Could do with a couple of years in the marines. Then McRae shook his head. No wouldn’t make any difference; that guy’s flawed, you can see it a mile off. If I’m lucky he’ll piss off home in a couple of days.
No worries about the other Yank though, that guy could make it anywhere, a winner, a survivor, dump that bugger in the Ritz or prison, he’ll sort it. Sorted himself a top shag as well. That’s one tasty bit of beaver he’s got. McRae fondled his sweaty genitals. Saved you until last Miss Lorna Karrol. He smiled, I think ten minutes of you and me all alone, is just what the doctor ordered!
***
5
Cedric Farringdon, Her Majesty’s Consul to the Republic of Gamasi read the secure communication slip just placed upon his desk. He pressed his intercom, “Ah Joyce, see if you can round up Jonathon please.”
Jonathon Forbes, Trade Attaché arrived five minutes later as his boss was re-reading the communiqué from London. The Consul peered over his half moon glasses at the young man, “Ever heard of tantalum?”
The attaché frowned in concentration and took a guess, “Southern Goa Sir?”
“No it’s stuff, not a place. Very valuable stuff it appears.” He waved the slip of paper, “Soon be on par with gold at the present rate. When refined from tantalite ore, it’s used in the manufacture of mobile phones, computers…” He referred again to a document, “pagers, surgical equipment, aircraft engines, loads of things that require good heat and electric conductibility, combined with resistance to corrosion and a high melting point.”
“Fascinating, Sir.”
“Don’t be facetious Jonathon. Majority of the stuff is mined around this part of the world, but in areas belonging to our more … unstable … neighbours.”
“Think I see where we’re going. Does London want us to check if there’s any in Gamasi?”
“Appears they’ve already done it; do you remember about six months ago that team doing the mineral survey?”
Jonathon Forbes frowned again, “The Australians?”
His boss shook his head, “Seems not, actually they were our chaps.”
“Bloody good actors then.”
“Bloody good surveyors too. They found loads of the stuff, tantalite, deep in the forest north of here.”
Forbes pondered, “going to change things a bit, once news gets out. Maybe President Amutu will be able to live in the style to which he would like to be accustomed.”
“Yes that’s our problem, mustn’t get out … not until we’re ready that is. First thing in the morning I want you to have a meet with whoever is Amutu’s Minister for Trade this week and get a mineral trade agreement signed and sealed.”
“One problem immediately comes to mind Sir. When Amutu realises how big this is he’ll blow us out and go to the highest bidder - probably some of our far eastern friends.”
“True Jonathon, but one can only do ones best in these situations. Can’t send in the gun ships any more.”
Forbes turned to go, leaving the Consul to his thoughts of simpler times.
“Ah Jonathon, one more thing. London has already dispatched a field officer, and I quote, just in case the situation warrants it. So we have a spook in Gamasi, for our very own personal use.”
“That’s nice Sir. And how do we contact our James Bond?”
Cedric Farringdon replaced his reading glasses. “Staying at the Ambassador, arriving this afternoon, name of…” he focussed on his paper, “Goff.”
***
6
It was mid morning of the first day of their holiday and Lorna was wondering why the group, minus the Russian girl, was sitting in the lounge listening to one of the strangest welcome meetings ever devised by a holiday company. Not only was the content more akin to indoctrination, but the holiday rep. was resplendent in full dress military uniform, complete with a chest full of medals. Even without his uniform, General Gboja would be a striking figure. Immensely tall and powerful, only protruding teeth and ancient acne scars marred his dramatic appearance.
The first part of his talk was unscripted and interesting. With broad, square hands the General pointed to enlarged photos on the pin boards arranged behind him. He described, in Lorna’s opinion rather excessive detail, Gamasi’s flora and fauna. The common theme was that most species were designed to kill or disable human beings. Lorna thought that considering what humans had done to Africa’s flora and fauna this seemed eminently fair. Strangely General Gboja was under the impression that she intended to spend her holiday crawling around in the forest, instead of reading by the pool and cavorting in bed with Mike, as planned.
After coffee and a very good selection of biscuits, the General launched into The History of Gamasi. This started pleasantly enough with a view of the idyllic tribal lifestyle of the central African hunter-gatherer. Gboja had a talent for oratory.
Suddenly Lorna was snatched away from her minute inspection of a damaged finger nail by his thundering, and no doubt justified, tirade against the slave trade. Amidst much scowling and arm waving, he described in vivid and nauseating detail the conditions of capture and shipment of his ancestors. No smallest detail of human waste or disease was omitted. She noticed the German pair, cowering in the front seats being sprayed liberally with spittle. Lorna felt that Thomas Cook was probably not a retirement career option for the General.
The next subject for his invective was the British Colonial period. It appeared the noble people of Gamasi had been crushed under the imperialist tennis shoe for over 100 years. These foreign parasites had bled them of their natural resources and apart from the roads, railways, airport, sewers, fresh water, electric, hospitals, schools, administrative and legal systems, had given nothing in return.
Amidst a fine spray of saliva the tempo built to encompass, The ceaseless efforts of his country’s heroic armed forces to combat the enemy within: that terrorist rabble of the insurrectionist minority groups. It appeared that all Stalinist excesses were as nothing compared to this enemy: murder, robbery, rapine and arson were their daily fare.
Lorna watched two thin gardeners in brown coveralls making desultory stabs at the weeds in the jungle garden outside the lounge window. Then something in the talk caught her attention: she wasn’t sure, but thought the General had just thanked Xtreme Tours and their guests, for their invaluable assistance in combating our terrorist threat, what did he mean?
The meeting was coming to a close without a question and answer session. McRae dragged himself out of his chair in the far corner, well out of spittle range. He thanked the General, who nodded in acknowledgement whilst wiping his chin with a large white handkerchief. As the guests arose and stretched, McRae announced the Sights of Kamba Tour after lunch. The group filed off towards the restaurant.
Lorna took Mike’s hand, “What did he mean at the end about our help with their terrorist problem?”
Mike hesitated, “I guess our tourist dollars must help, but it’s more than that…”
Robert Goff grasped Mike’s elbow as he stroked his hidden scar. “Bloody hell, makes you ashamed to be British doesn’t it,” he guffawed.
Mike turned from Lorna, “I’m not.”
Unabashed, Robert shrugged, “Yah, but you’re one of us really, sort of cousins.” He leaned forward and flashed his boyish grin at Lorna, “you know, different branches of the same family.”
“That’s jolly nice,” responded Lorna.
As they ate their chicken and rice Lorna returned to the subject, “What did he mean in the lecture about assisting with their terrorist threat?”
Mike nodded his thanks to the waiter as he topped up their beers, “Well we’re supposed to help them put down the threat. Weren’t you listening to the General?”
Lorna’s loaded fork paused halfway between her mouth and plate, “Sort of, but I still don’t get it.”
He fiddled with his glass, “We help put down the terrorists … you know...”
Lorna shook her head, “No Mike I don’t know. Back home we reluctantly put down our old family dog, but never a terrorist. Please explain.”
“Well, we go out on patrol and … assist the local troops … they’ve got a big problem, you heard what the General just said.”
“They’re not the only ones! What sort of assist … carrying stuff?”
Mike made a face, “no, more than that, we’re here to fight terrorism.”
Lorna stared at her plate and silently shifted rice for a minute; Mike fidgeted. She looked up, “Right, so this disparate bunch of weirdoes are all here to fight terrorism?”
“Yes … well not only for that, it is a very beautiful country...”
“Oh I see. So as a break from sightseeing, they shoot a few locals?”
“No, not really … well obviously some are local, but the local guys are all mixed up with foreign backed troops.”
Lorna opened her eyes in mock alarm, “No surely not! Wouldn’t it be unethical to bring in foreign assistance?”
“Ok you can mock, but this is something that has to be done. You just heard what the General said.”
Lorna’s eyes were hard and she hissed, “Mike please stop quoting that idiot in the Gilbert and Sullivan uniform. Do you honestly trust and believe that guy?”
“He’s their top anti-terrorist co-ordinator; it says so in the holiday...”
“Mike that guy is a nightclub bouncer … alright so tell me where he won those medals? I must have missed all the international conflicts that Gamasi has been involved in!” Bray just returned her stare in silence. “Ok, I’ll tell you where I think he got that chest full of medals … off the fucking internet.” Lorna’s voice was becoming strident and people at the neighbouring tables stopped eating and looked their way.
The headwaiter appeared, “Everything ok, Sir? Madam?
Mike flashed him a smile, “Yes thanks.” He stared pleadingly at Lorna and spread his hands in supplication, “Look let’s go outside and talk this through.”
As they walked in the garden Mike tried to take Lorna’s hand. She snatched it away and folded her arms, “Now I see what all the guns were about. I assumed they were for culling game.”
Mike had gathered his thoughts and stroked under his hair, “Lorna, I believe this is one of the most important things we can do. Terrorism threatens us all, it’s too easy just to stand by and let those bastards…”
“Mike don’t you DARE lecture ME on terrorism,” she took some deep breaths and then continued quietly, “Now please tell me exactly what this…OUR holiday is all about?”
“I’ve just said; we are attached to patrols and assist in actions against known terrorist groups, as required.”
“What’s this WE, you’re not assuming I’m going...”
“No, no, just the shooters in the group.”
“Oh I see, just the shooters, how nice. Mike they’re a bunch of fucking loonies, ok rich loonies, but loonies none the less.”
Bray nodded, “well I guess it would attract the more oddball...”
Lorna viscously plucked a large leaf as she walked and dismembered it, “and this country’s armed forces really need this bunch of … of … oddballs?”
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