Mark smiled in agreement. The Highlander marksman had matched him shot for shot. Each of them signalled as a bulls-eye by the flags of the markers.
‘They both shot possibles at two hundred yards, and then again at five hundred yards, it was only at the thousand-yard targets that young Mark’s uncanny ability to judge the crosswind—’ By this time, Sean’s audience was cow-eyed with boredom, and there were still ten rounds of deliberate and another ten of rapid fire to hear about. Mark sensed panic signals across the ballroom and he looked up.
Ruth Courtney was beside the main doors of the ballroom and with her was the Zulu butler. A man with warrior blood in his veins and the usual bearing of a chief, now he was grey with some emotion close to fear and his expression was pitiable as he spoke rapidly to his mistress.
Ruth touched his arm in a gesture of comfort and dismissal, and then turned to wait for Mark.
As he hurried to her across the empty dance floor he could not help but notice again how much mother resembled daughter. Ruth Courtney still had the figure of an athletic young woman, kept slim and firm and graceful by hard riding and long walking, and only when he was close to her were the small lines and tiny blemishes in her smooth ivory skin apparent. Her hair was dressed high on her head, scorning the fashionable shorter cut, and her gown had a simple elegance that showed off the lines of her body and the small shapely breasts. One of her guests reached her before Mark did, and she was relaxed and smiling while Mark hovered close at hand until she excused herself and Mark hurried to her.
‘Mark.’ Her worry showed only in her eyes as she looked up at him towering above her, but her smile was light and steady. ‘There is going to be trouble. We have an unwelcome visitor.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘He is in the entrance hall now. Please, take him through to the General’s study, and stay with him until I can warn my husband and send him to you. Will you do that?’
‘Of course.’
She smiled her thanks, and then as Mark turned away she stopped him with a touch.
‘Mark, try to stay with them. I don’t want them to be alone together. I’m not sure what might happen.’ Then her reserve cracked. ‘In God’s name why did he have to come here – and tonight when—’ She stopped herself then, and the smile firmed on her lips, steady and composed, but they both knew that she had been going to say, ‘Tonight when Sean has been drinking.’
Mark now knew the General well enough to share her concern. When Sean Courtney was drinking, he was capable of anything – from genial and expansive bonhomie to dark, violent and undirected rage.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ he agreed, and then, ‘Tell me, who is it?’
Ruth bit her lower lip, the strain and worry clear on her face for a moment before she checked herself, and her expression was neutral when she replied.
‘It’s his son – Dirk – Dirk Courtney.’
Mark’s own shock showed so clearly that she frowned at him.
‘What’s wrong, Mark? Do you know him?’
Mark recovered quickly. ‘No. I have heard of him, but I don’t know him.’
‘There is bad blood, Mark. Very bad. Be careful.’ She left him and drifted quietly away across the floor, nodding to a dowager, stopping to exchange a word and a smile, and then drifting on to where Sean Courtney still held court in the buffet room.
Mark paused in the long gallery, and looked at himself in one of the tall gilt-framed mirrors. His face looked pale and strained, and when he smoothed his hair, his fingers were trembling slightly.
Suddenly he realized that he was afraid; dread was like a heavy weight in his bowels, and his breathing was cramped and painful.
He was afraid of the man he was going to meet. The man that he had stalked so long and painstakingly, and who he had come to know so well in his imagination.
In his mind he had built up an awesome figure, a diabolic figure wielding great and malignant power, and now he was consumed by dread at the prospect of meeting him face to face.
He went on down the gallery, his footsteps deadened by the thick pile of the carpet, his eyes not seeing the art treasures that adorned the panelled walls, for a sense of imminent danger blinded him to all else.
At the head of the marble staircase, he paused and leaned out with one hand on the balustrade to look down into the entrance hall.
A man stood alone in the centre of the black and white checkered marble floor. He wore a black overcoat, with a short cape hanging from the shoulders, a garment which enhanced his size.
His hands were clasped behind his back, and he balanced on the balls of his feet with head and jaw thrust forward aggressively, an attitude so like that of his father that Mark blinked in disbelief. His bare head was a magnificent profusion of dark curls which were shot by the overhead candelabra with sparkling chestnut highlights.
Mark started down the wide staircase and the man lifted his head and looked at him.
Mark was struck instantly by the man’s fine looks, and then immediately afterwards by his resemblance to the General. He had the same powerful jaw, and the shape of his head, the set of his eyes and the lines of his mouth were identical, yet the son was infinitely more handsome than the father.
It was the noble head of a Michelangelo statue, the beauty of his David and the magnificent strength of his Moses, yet for all his beauty he was human, not the implacable monster of Mark’s imagining, and the unreasonable fear released its grip on Mark’s chest, and he could smile a small welcoming smile as he came down the steps.
Dirk watched him without blinking or moving, and it was only when Mark reached the checkered marble floor that he realized how tall the man was. He towered three inches over Mark, and yet his body was so well proportioned that its height did not seem excessive.
‘Mr Courtney?’ Mark asked, and the man inclined his head slightly without bothering to reply. The diamond that clasped the white silk cravat at his throat flashed sullenly.
‘Who are you, boy?’ Dirk Courtney asked, and his voice had the depth and timbre to match his frame.
‘I am the General’s personal assistant.’ Mark did not let the disparaging form of address ruffle his polite smile, though he knew that Dirk Courtney was his senior by less than ten years. Dirk Courtney ran an unhurried glance from his head to his shoes, taking in the cut of Mark’s evening dress and every other detail in one casual sweep before dismissing him as unimportant.
‘Where is my father?’ He turned to adjust his cravat in the nearest mirror. ‘Does he know I’ve been waiting here for almost twenty minutes?’
‘The General is entertaining, but he will see you presently. In the meantime, will you care to wait in the General’s study? If you will follow me.’
Dirk Courtney stood in the middle of the study floor and looked about him. ‘The old boy is keeping grand style these days.’ He smiled with a flash of startlingly white teeth and then crossed to one of the studded leather armchairs by the stone fireplace. ‘Get me a brandy and soda, boy.’
Mark swung open the dummy-fronted bookcase, selected a Courvoisier Cognac from the orderly ranks of bottles, poured some into a goblet, squirting soda on top of it, and carried it to Dirk Courtney.
He sipped the drink and nodded, sprawling in the big leather chair with the insolent grace of a resting leopard, and then once again he surveyed the room. His gaze, checking at each of the paintings, at each of the items of value which decorated the room, was calculating and thoughtful, and he asked his next question carelessly, not really interested in the answer.
‘What did you say your name was?’
Mark stepped sideways, so that his view of the man’s face was uninterrupted, and he watched carefully as he replied.
‘My name is Anders – Mark Anders.’
For a second the name had no effect, then it struck Dirk and a remarkable transformation passed over his features. Watching it happen, Mark’s fear was regenerated in full strength.
When he had b
een a lad, the old man had snared a marauding leopard in a heavy steel spring-tooth trap, and when they had walked up to the site the following morning, the leopard had charged them, coming up short against the heavy retaining chain within three feet of Mark and with its eyes almost on a level with his own. He had never forgotten the terrible blazing malevolence in those eyes.
Now he was seeing the same expression, an emotion so murderous and unspeakably evil that he drew back involuntarily.
It lasted only an instant, but it seemed that the entire face changed, from extravagant beauty to grotesque ugliness and back to beauty in the time it takes to draw breath. Dirk’s voice, when he spoke, was measured and controlled, the eyes veiled and the expression of polite indifference.
‘Anders? I’ve heard the name before—’ He thought for a moment, as though trying to place it, and then dismissed it as unimportant, his attention returning to the Thomas Baines painting above the fireplace — but in that instant Mark had learned with complete certainty that the vague, unformed suspicions he had harboured so long were based on hard cold fact. He knew now beyond any doubt that something evil had happened, that the sale of Andersland and the old man’s death and burial in an unmarked grave were the result of deliberate planning, and that the men who had hunted him on the Ladyburg escarpment and again in the wilderness beyond Chaka’s Gate were all part of a design engineered by this man.
He knew that at last he had identified his adversary, yet to hunt him down and bring him to retribution was to be a task that might be beyond his capability, for the adversary seemed invincible in his strength and power.
He turned away to tidy the pile of documents on the General’s desk, not trusting himself to look again at his enemy, lest he betray himself completely.
Already he had exposed himself dangerously, but it had been necessary, an opportunity too heaven-sent to allow to pass. In exchange for exposing himself he had forced his enemy to do the same, he had forced him into the open, and he counted himself the winner in the exchange.
There was another factor now that had made his exposure less than suicidal. Whereas before he had been friendless and alone, now he was protected by his mere association with Sean Courtney.
If they had succeeded that night on the Ladyburg escarpment or again at Chaka’s Gate, it would be the unimportant passing of a rootless vagrant; now his death or disappearance would rouse the immediate attention of General Courtney, and he doubted if even Dirk Courtney could afford that risk.
Mark looked up quickly from the papers, and Dirk Courtney was watching him again, but now his expression was neutral and his eyes were hooded and guarded. He began to speak, but checked himself as they heard the heavy dragging tread in the passage and they both turned expectantly to the door as it was flung open.
Sean Courtney seemed to fill the entire doorway, the top of the great shaggy head almost touching the lintel and the shoulders wide as the cross-trees of a gallows as he leaned both hands on the head of his cane and glared into the room.
His eyes went immediately to the tall elegant figure that rose from the leather armchair, the craggy sun-browned features darkening with blood as he recognized him.
The two men confronted each other silently, and Mark found himself a fascinated spectator, as he followed intuitively the play of emotions, the reawakening of the memory of ancient wrongs — and of the elemental love and affection of son for father and father for son that had long ago been strangled and buried, but were now exhumed like some loathsome rotting corpse, more horrible for once having lived and been strong.
‘Hello, Father,’ Dirk Courtney spoke first, and at the sound of his voice, the rigidity went out of Sean’s shoulders, and the anger out of his eyes to be replaced by a sense of sadness, of regret for something that once had value but was lost beyond hope, so his question sounded like a sigh.
‘Why do you come here?’
‘Can we speak alone — without strangers?’ Mark left the desk and crossed to the door, but Sean stopped him with a hand on the shoulder.
‘There are no strangers here. Stay, Mark.’ It was the kindest thing that anybody had ever said to Mark Anders, and the strength of the affection he felt for Sean Courtney at that moment was greater than he had ever felt for another human being.
Dirk Courtney shrugged, and smiled for the first time, a light faintly mocking smile.
‘You were always too trusting, Father.’ Sean nodded as he crossed heavily to the chair behind his desk.
‘Yes, and who should remember that better than you.’ Dirk’s smile faded. ‘I came here hoping that we might forget, that we might look for forgiveness from each other.’
‘Forgiveness?’ Sean asked, looking up quickly. ‘You will grant me forgiveness – for what?’
‘You bred me, Father. I am what you made me—’
Sean shook his head, denying it, and would have spoken, but Dirk stopped him.
‘You believe I have wronged you – but I know that you have wronged me.’
Sean scowled. ‘You talk in circles. Come to the point. What do you want that brings you uninvited to this house?’
‘I am your son. It is unnatural that we should be parted.’ Dirk was eloquent and convincing, holding out his hands in a gesture of supplication, moving closer to the massive figure at the desk. ‘I believe I have the right to your consideration—’ he broke off and glanced at Mark. ‘God damn it, can’t I speak to you without this gawking audience?’
Sean hesitated a moment, was on the point of asking Mark to leave, and then remembered the promise he had made to Ruth only minutes before. ‘Don’t let him be alone with you for a moment, Sean. Promise me you will keep Mark with you. I don’t trust him, not at all. He is evil, Sean, and he brings trouble and unhappiness—I can smell it on him. Don’t be alone with him.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘If you have something to say, get it over with. If not, go, and leave us in peace here.’
‘All right, no more sentiment,’ Dirk nodded, and the role of the supplicant dropped from him. He turned and began to stride up and down the study floor, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat. ‘I’ll talk business, and get it over with. You hate me now, but when we have worked together – when I have shared with you the boldest and most imaginative venture this land has ever known – then we will talk again of sentiment.’
Sean was silent.
‘As a business man now and as a son later. Do you agree?’
‘I hear you,’ said Sean, and Dirk began to talk.
Even Mark could not but stand in admiration of Dirk Courtney’s eloquence, and the winning and persuasive manner in which he used his fine deep voice and his magnificent good looks; but these were theatrical tricks, well rehearsed and stagey.
What was spontaneous was the burning, almost fanatical glow of commitment to his own ideas which radiated from him as he talked and gestured. It was easy to believe him, for he so clearly believed himself.
Using his hands and his voice, he conjured up before his father a vast empire, endless expanses of rich land, thousands upon thousands of square miles, a treasure the like of which few men had ever conceived, planted to cotton and sugar and maize, watered by a gigantic dam that would hold back an inland sea of sweet, fresh water – it was a dream quite breathtaking in its scope and sweep.
‘I have half of the land already,’ Dirk paused and cupped his hands with fingers stiff and grasping as the talons of an eagle, ‘here in my hands. It’s mine. No longer a dream.’
‘And the rest of it?’ Sean asked reluctantly, swept along on the torrent against his will.
‘It’s there – untouched, ripe, ready.’ Dirk paused dramatically. ‘It is as though nature had designed it all for just this purpose. The foundations of the dam are there, built by God as though as a blessing.’
‘So?’ Sean grunted sceptically. ‘Now you are an instrument of God’s will, are you? And where is this empire he has promised you?’
‘I own all the l
and south of the Umkomo River, that is the half I have already.’ He stopped in front of the mahogany desk and leaned forward with his hands on the polished wood, thrusting a face that glowed with the aura of a religious fanatic towards Sean Courtney.
‘We will build a dam between the cliffs of Chaka’s Gate and dam the whole of the Bubezi Valley, a lake one hundred and sixty miles long and a hundred wide – and we’ll open the land between there and the Umkomo River and add it to the land I already own in the south. Two million acres of arable and irrigated land! Think of that!’
Mark stared at Dirk Courtney, utterly appalled by what he had just heard, and then his gaze switched to Sean Courtney, appealingly, wanting to hear him reject the whole monstrous idea.
‘That’s tsetse belt,’ said Sean Courtney at last.
‘Father, in Germany three men, Dressel, Kothe and Rochl, have just perfected and tested a drug called Germanin. It’s a complete cure for tsetse-borne sleeping-sickness. It’s so secret still that only a handful of men know about it,’ Dirk told him eagerly, and then went on, ‘Then we will wipe out the tsetse fly in the whole valley.’
‘How?’ Sean asked, and his genuine interest was evident.
‘From the air. Flying machines spraying pythagra extract, or other insect-killers.’
It was a staggering concept, and Sean was silent a moment before he asked reluctantly, ‘Has it been done before?’
‘No,’ Dirk smiled at him. ‘But we will do it.’
‘You’ve thought it out,’ Sean lay back in his chair and groped absently in the humidor for a cigar, ‘except for one little detail. The Bubezi Valley is a proclaimed area – has been since the time of Chaka, and most of the other ground between the Bubezi and Nkomo Rivers is either tribal trust land, Crown land or forestry reserve.’
Dirk Courtney lifted a finger at Mark. ‘Get me another brandy, boy.’ Mark glanced at the General. Sean nodded slightly, and there was silence again while Mark poured the brandy and brought the glass to Dirk.
‘You trust him?’ Dirk asked his father again, indicating Mark with his head as he accepted the glass.