It was an uncut stone, Tungata realized, but the crystal had formed in such symmetry and each plane was so perfect as to catch and reflect even the meagre beam of the torch.
‘How beautiful!’ Peter murmured, bringing it closer still to his face.
This diamond was a perfect natural octahedron and its colour, even in artificial light, was clear as snowmelt in a mountain stream.
‘Beautiful,’ Peter Fungabera repeated, and then gradually his face lost its dreamy, gloating expression.
‘Only one!’ he whispered. ‘A single stone dropped in haste, when there should have been five beer-pots brimming with diamonds.’
His eyes swivelled from the diamond to Tungata. The torch was held low, and it cast weird shadows across his face, giving him a demoniacal look.
‘You knew,’ he accused. ‘I sensed all along you were holding something back. You knew the diamonds had been taken, and you knew where.’
Tungata shook his head in denial, but Peter Fungabera was working himself into a fury. His features contorted, his mouth worked soundlessly and a thin white froth coated his lips.
‘You knew!’
He launched himself from the ledge with all the fury of a wounded leopard.
‘You’ll tell me!’ he shrieked. ‘In the end you’ll tell me.’
He hit Tungata in the face with the barrel of the Tokarev.
‘Tell me!’ he screamed. ‘Tell me where they are!’ And the steel thudded into Tungata’s face as he struck again and again.
‘Tell me where the diamonds are!’
The barrel crunched against Tungata’s cheekbone, splitting the flesh, and he fell to his knees. Peter Fungabera pulled himself away, and braced himself against the rock ledge to contain his own fury.
‘No,’ he told himself. ‘That is too easy. He’s going to suffer—’
He folded his own arms tightly across his chest to restrain himself from attacking Tungata again.
‘In the end you will tell me – you will plead with me to allow you to take me to the diamonds. You’ll plead with me to kill you—’
‘Babes in the fornicating woods,’ said Morgan Oxford. ‘That’s what you two are! By God, you have dropped us in this cesspool as well, right up to the eyebrows.’
Morgan Oxford had flown down from Harare as soon as he had heard that a Botswana border patrol had brought Craig and Sally-Anne in from the desert.
‘Both the American ambassador and the Brits have had notes from Mugabe. The Brits are hopping up and down and frothing at the mouth also. They know nothing about you, Craig, and you are a British subject. I gather that they’d like to lock you up in the tower and chop your head off.’
Morgan stood at the foot of Sally-Anne’s hospital bed. He had declined the chair that Craig offered him.
‘As for you, missy, the ambassador has asked me to inform you that he would like to see you on the next plane back to the States.’
‘He can’t order me to do that.’ Sally-Anne stopped his flow of bitter recriminations. ‘This isn’t Soviet Russia, and I’m a free citizen.’
‘You won’t be for long. No, by God, not if Mugabe gets his hands on you! Murder, armed insurrection and a few other charges—’
‘Those are all a frame-up!’
‘You and your boyfriend here left a pile of warm bodies behind you like empty beer cans at a labour-day picnic. Mugabe has started extradition proceedings with the Botswana government—’
‘We are political refugees,’ Sally-Anne flared.
‘Bonny and Clyde, sweetheart, that’s the way the Zimbabweans are telling it.’
‘Sally-Anne!’ Craig intervened mildly. ‘You are not supposed to get yourself excited—’
‘Excited!’ cried Sally-Anne. ‘We’ve been robbed and beaten, threatened with rape and a firing squad – and now the official representative of the United States of America, the country of which I happen to be a citizen, barges in here and calls us criminals.’
‘I’m not calling you anything,’ Morgan denied flatly. ‘I’m just warning you to get your cute little ass out of Africa and all the way home to mommy.’
‘He calls us criminals, and then patronizes me with his male chauvinistic—’
‘Throttle back, Sally-Anne.’ Morgan Oxford held up one hand wearily. ‘Let’s start again. You are in big trouble – we are in big trouble. We’ve got to work something out.’
‘Now will you sit down?’ Craig pushed the empty chair towards him and Morgan slumped into it and lit a Chesterfield.
‘How are you, anyway?’ he asked.
‘I thought you’d never ask, sweetheart,’ Sally-Anne snapped tersely.
‘She was badly desiccated. They suspected renal failure, but they’ve had her on a drip and liquids for three days. She is okay that end. They were also worried about the crack on her head but the X-rays are negative, thank God. It was only a mild concussion. They have promised to discharge her tomorrow morning.’
‘So she’s fit to travel?’
‘I thought your concern was too touching—’
‘Look, Sally-Anne, this is Africa. If the Zimbabweans get hold of you, there will be nothing we can do to help. It’s for your own good. You’ve got to get out. The ambassador—’
‘Screw the ambassador,’ said Sally-Anne with relish, ‘and screw you, Morgan Oxford.’
‘I can’t speak for His Excellency,’ Morgan grinned for the first time, ‘but for myself, when can we begin?’ And even Sally-Anne laughed.
Craig took advantage of the softening of attitudes.
‘Morgan, you can rely on me to see she does the right thing—’
Immediately Sally-Anne puffed up in the high bed, preparatory to fending off another chauvinistic onslaught, but Craig gave her a tiny frown and shake of the head and she subsided reluctantly. Morgan turned on Craig instead.
‘As for you, Craig. How the hell did they find out you were working for the agency?’ Morgan demanded.
‘Was I?’ Craig looked stunned. ‘If I was, nobody told me.’
‘Who the hell do you think Henry Pickering is anyway – Santa Claus?’
‘Henry, he is a vice-president of the World Bank!’
‘Babes,’ moaned Morgan, ‘babes in the tupping woods.’ He braced up. ‘Well, anyway, that is over. Your contract is terminated. If there was anything sooner than immediately, that would be the date of termination.’
‘I sent Henry a full report three days ago—’
‘Yeah!’ Morgan nodded resignedly. ‘About Peter Fungabera being the Moscow candidate. Peter is a Shona, the Ruskies would never touch him. Just so you put it out of your head, General Fungabera is a Russian-hater from way back and we have a very good relationship with Peter Fungabera – very good indeed. Enough said.’
‘For God’s sake, Morgan. Then he is playing a double game. I had it from his own aide. Captain Timon Nbebi!’
‘Who is now conveniently dead,’ Morgan reminded him. ‘If it makes you feel better, we’ve put your report into the computer – with a D-minus credibility rating. Henry Pickering sends you his sincere thanks.’
Sally-Anne cut in, ‘Morgan, you have seen my photographs of the burned villages, the dead children, the devastation caused by the Third Brigade—’
‘Like the man said, eggs to make omelettes,’ Morgan interrupted. ‘Naturally we don’t like the violence, but Fungabera is anti-Russian. The Matabele are pro-Russian. We have to support the anti-communist regimes, even if we don’t like some of their methods – there are women and kids taking a beating in El Salvador. So does that mean that we must stop aid to that country? Must we back out of any situation where our people aren’t sticking precisely to the rules of the Geneva Convention? Grow up, Sally-Anne, this is the real world.’
There was silence in the tiny ward, except for the pinking of the galvanized iron roof as it expanded in the noon heat. On the parched brown lawn beyond the window, the walking patients were dressed in a uniform of pink bathrobes stamped across the ba
ck with the initials of the Botswana Health Department.
‘That’s all you came to tell us?’ Sally-Anne asked at last.
‘Isn’t it enough?’ Morgan stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. ‘There is one other thing, Craig. Henry Pickering asked me to tell you that the Land Bank of Zimbabwe has repudiated its suretyship for your loan. Their grounds are that you have been officially declared an enemy of the people. Henry Pickering asked me to tell you they will be looking to you for repayment of capital and interest. Does this make sense to you?’
‘Unfortunately,’ Craig nodded glumly.
‘He said he would try to work something out with you when you reach New York, but in the meantime they have been forced to freeze all your bank accounts and serve your publishers with a restraining order to withhold all future royalty payments.’
‘That figures.’
‘Sorry, Craig. It sounds real tough.’ Morgan held out his hand. ‘I liked your book, I really did, and I liked you. I’m just sorry it all had to end this way.’
Craig walked with him as far as the green Ford with diplomatic registration plates that Morgan Oxford was driving.
‘Will you do me one last favour?’
‘If I can.’ Morgan looked suspicious.
‘Can you see that a package is delivered to my publisher in New York?’ And when Morgan’s suspicions were unabated, ‘It’s only the final pages of my new manuscript, I give you my word.’
‘Okay, then,’ said Morgan Oxford dubiously. ‘I’ll see he gets it.’
Craig fetched the British Airways bag from the hired Land-Rover at the far end of the car park. ‘Look after it,’ he pleaded. ‘It’s my heart’s blood and my hope of salvation.’
He watched the green Ford drive away and went back into the hospital building.
‘What was all that about the banks and loans?’ Sally-Anne asked as he entered her ward.
‘It means that when I asked you to marry me I was a millionaire.’ Craig came back to sit on the edge of her bed. ‘Now I’m just about as broke as anybody who has no assets and owes a couple of million bucks can be.’
‘You’ve got the new book. Ashe Levy says it’s a winner.’
‘Darling, if I wrote a bestseller every year for the rest of my life, I would just about keep level with the interest payments on what I owe to Henry Pickering and his banks.’
She stared at him.
‘So what I am trying to say is this – my original offer is up for review, you’ve got a chance to change your mind. You don’t have to marry me.’
‘Craig,’ she said. ‘Lock the door and pull the shutters.’
‘You’ve got to be joking – not here, not now! It’s probably a serious offence in this country, illicit cohabitation or something.’
‘Listen, mister, when you are wanted for murder and armed insurrection, a little bit of illicit nip and tuck with your future husband, even if he is a pauper, sits lightly on the conscience.’
Craig picked Sally-Anne up from the hospital the following morning. She wore the same jeans, shirt and trainers as she had when she was admitted.
‘Sister had them washed and mended—’ she stopped as she saw the Land-Rover. ‘What’s this? I thought we were broke.’
‘The computer hasn’t had the happy news yet, they are still honouring my American Express card.’
‘Is that kosher?’
‘When you owe five big Ms, lady, another couple of hundred bucks sits pretty lightly on the conscience.’ He grinned at her as he turned the ignition key and when the engine fired, said cheerfully, ‘Eat your heart out, Mr Hertz.’
‘You’re taking it very well, Craig.’ She slid across the seat closer to him.
‘We are both alive – that is cause for fireworks and general rejoicing. As for the money – well, I don’t think I was truly cut out to be a millionaire. When I’ve got money I spend all my time worrying about losing it. It saps my energy. Now that I’ve lost it, I feel free again in a funny sort of way.’
‘You’re happy to have lost everything you ever owned?’ She turned sideways in the seat to look at him. ‘Even for you, that’s cuckoo!’
‘I’m not happy, no,’ he denied the charge. ‘What I truly regret is losing King’s Lynn and Zambezi Waters. We could have made something wonderful out of them, you and I. I regret that very much – and I regret Tungata Zebiwe.’
‘Yes. We destroyed him.’ Both of them were sobered and saddened. ‘If there was only something we could do for him.’
‘Not a damned thing.’ Craig shook his head. ‘Despite Timon’s assurances, we don’t know that he is still alive, and even if he is, we don’t have the faintest idea where he is, or how to find him.’
They rattled across the railway lines and into the main street of Francistown.
‘“Jewel of the north”,’ said Craig. ‘Population two thousand, main industry consumption of alcoholic beverage, reason for existing uncertain.’
He parked outside the single hotel. ‘As you can see, total population now in permanent residence in the public bar.’
However, the young Botswana receptionist was pretty and efficient.
‘Mr Mellow, there is a lady waiting to see you,’ she called, as Craig entered the lobby. Craig did not recognize his visitor, not until Sally-Anne ran forward to embrace her.
‘Sarah!’ she cried. ‘How did you get here? How did you find us?’
Craig’s room had two single beds with a dressing-table between them, a threadbare imitation Persian rug on the shiny red-painted cement floor and a single wooden chair. The two girls sat on one bed, with their legs curled up under them in that double-jointed feminine attitude.
‘They told me at the Red Cross that you had been found in the desert and brought in by the police, Miss Jay.’
‘My name is Sally-Anne, Sarah.’
Sarah smiled softly in acknowledgement. ‘I wasn’t sure if you would want to see me again, not after the trial. But then my friends here told me how you had been ill-treated by Fungabera’s soldiers. I thought you might have realized that I was right all along, that Tungata. Zebiwe was not a criminal, and that he needs friends now.’
She turned towards Craig. ‘He was your friend, Mr Mellow. He told me about you. He spoke of you with respect and great feeling. He was afraid for you, when he heard that you had returned to Zimbabwe. He realized that you wanted to take up your family land in Matabeleland, and he knew there were going to be terrible troubles and that you would be caught up in them. He said that you were too gentle for the hard times that were coming. He called you “Pupho”, the dreamer, the gentle dreamer, but he said that you were also stubborn and obstinate. He wanted to save you from being hurt again. He said, “Last time he lost his leg – this time he could lose his life. To be his friend, I must make myself his enemy. I must drive him out of Zimbabwe.”’
Craig sat in the straight-backed wooden chair and remembered his stormy meeting with Tungata when he had come to him for assistance in acquiring King’s Lynn. Had it been an act, then? Even now he found that hard to believe. Tungata’s passion had been so real, his fury so convincing.
‘I am sorry, Mr Mellow. These are very rude things that I am saying about you. I am telling you only what Tungata said. He was your friend. He still is your friend.’
‘It doesn’t really matter any more, what he thought of me,’ Craig murmured. ‘Sam is probably dead by now.’
‘No!’ For the first time Sarah raised her voice, her tone vehement, almost angry. ‘No, do not say that, never say that! He is alive. I have seen and spoken to him. They can never kill a man like that!’
The chair creaked under Craig as he leaned forward eagerly. ‘You have seen him? When?’
‘Two weeks ago.’
‘Where? Where was he?’
‘Tuti – at the camp.’
‘Sam alive!’ Craig changed as he said it. The despondent slump of his shoulders squared out, he held his head at a more alert angle and his eyes were brighter,
more eager. He wasn’t really looking at Sarah. He was looking at the wall above her head, trying to marshal the torrent of emotions and ideas that came at him, so he did not see that Sarah was weeping.
It was Sally-Anne who put a protective and comforting arm about her, and Sarah sobbed. ‘Oh, my lord Tungata. The things they have done to him. They have starved and beaten him. He is like a village cur, all bones and scars. He walks like a very old man, only his eyes are still proud.’
Sally-Anne hugged her wordlessly. Craig jumped up from the chair and began to pace. The room was so small, he crossed it in four strides, turned and came back. Sally-Anne dug in her pocket and found a crumpled tissue for Sarah.
‘When will the Cessna be ready?’ Craig asked, without pausing in his stride. His artificial leg made a tiny click each time he swung it forward.
‘It’s been ready since last week. I told you, didn’t I?’ Sally-Anne replied distractedly, fussing over Sarah.
‘What is her all-up capacity?’
‘The Cessna? I’ve had six adults in her, but that was a squeeze. She’s licensed for—’ Sally-Anne stopped. Slowly her head turned from Sarah towards him and she stared at him in total disbelief.
‘In the love of all that’s holy, Craig, are you out of your mind?’
‘Range fully loaded?’ Craig ignored the question.
‘Twelve hundred nautical miles, throttle setting for maximum endurance – but you can’t be serious.’
‘Okay.’ Craig was thinking aloud. ‘I can get a couple of drums in the Land-Rover. You can land and refuel on a pan right on the border – Iknow a spot near Panda Matenga, five hundred kilometres north of here. That is the closest point of entry—’
‘Craig, do you know what they’d do if they caught us?’ Sally-Anne’s voice was husky with shock.
Sarah had the tissue over her nose, but her eyes swivelled between the two of them as they spoke.
‘Weapons,’ Craig muttered. ‘We’d need arms. Morgan Oxford? No, damn it, he’s written us off.’
‘Guns?’ Sarah’s voice was muffled by tears and tissue.