Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers (114 page)

Then he parked the Landcruiser in the spare garage, and put the battery on charge, ready for his next expedition, whenever that might be.

When Michael came home for lunch from the High Commission, he and Daniel spent an hour sequestered in his study. After that the three of them split a bottle of wine, sitting under the marula trees beside the swimming-pool.

“I passed on your message to Lcmdon,” Michael told him. “Apparently Omeru is in London at the moment. The Foreign Office had an urgent word with him, but it didn’t do much good, by all accounts. Without chapter and verse, and your intelligence was rather vague, the old boy pooh-poohed the idea of a coup.”

“My people love me,” he said, or words to that effect. “I am their father. ” Turned down the PM’s offer of support.

“Nevertheless Omeru is cutting short his visit, and going back to Ubomo, so we might have done some good.”

“Probably sent him straight into the jaws of the lion,” Daniel said morosely, and watched Wendy heaping his plate with fresh salad grown in her own vegetable garden.

“Probably,” Michael agreed cheerfully. “Poor old brighter. Speaking of lion’s jaws, and that sort of thing, I have more news for you. I buzzed our man in Lilongwe. Your friend Chetti Singh is off the danger list. Hospital describes his condition as ‘serious but stable,’ although they did have to amputate one arm. Seems as though the leopard chewed it up rather thoroughly.”

“Wish it had been his head.”

“Can’t have everything, can we? Must be thankful for small mercies. Anyway, I’ll keep you posted while you are in London.”

“Have you still got that flat in Chelsea, near Sloane Square?”

“It’s not a flat, said Wendy. Bachelor house of ill-repute, more like it.”

“Nonsense, old girl,” Michael twitted her. “Danny is a monk; never touches the stuff, do you?”

“Is the telephone number the same, 730-something? I’ve got it written down somewhere.”

“Yes, same address. Same number. I’ll ring you if anything comes up.”

“What can I bring you from London when I come back, Wendy?”

“You can bring me the entire stock of Fortnum’s,” she sighed. “No, I’m joking. just some of those special biscuits in the yellow tin; I hallucinate about them. And some Floris soap, and perfume, Fracas. Oh! And undies from Janet Reger the same as you brought last time, and while you’re about it, some real English tea, Earl Grey.”

“Easy, old girl,” Michael chided her. “Lad’s not a camel, you know. Keep it down to a ton.”

Later that afternoon, they drove Daniel out to the airport and put him on the British Airways flight. It landed at Heathrow at seven the next morning.

Chapter 15

That same evening the telephone in Daniel’s Chelsea flat rang. Nobody knew he was back in town. He debated with himself whether to make the effort to answer it, and gave in after the tenth peal. He couldn’t ignore such persistence.

“Danny, is it really you, or that cursed answering machine? I refuse to talk to a robot, matter of principle.”

He recognized Michael Hargreave’s voice immediately. “What is it, Mike? Is Wendy okay? Where are you?”

“Still in Lusaka. Both of us fine, old boy. More than I can say for your pal, Omeru. You were right, Danny. News has just broken. He’s got the axe. Military coup. We’ve just had a signal from our office in Kahah.”

“What’s happened to Omeru? Who’s the new man in power?”

“Don’t know to both questions. Sorry, Danny. It’s all a bit confused still. Should be on the BBC news your end, but I’ll ring again tomorrow as soon as I have any more details.”

That evening it was tucked in at the end of the news on BBC 1 over a file photograph of President Victor Omeru. just a bare statement of the coup d’tat in Ubomo, and the takeover by a military junta. On the Tv screen Omeru was a craggily handsome man in his late sixties. His hair was a silver fleece and he was light-skinned, the colour of old amber. His gaze from the television screen was calm and direct. Then the weather forecast came on and Daniel was left with a sense of melancholy.

He had met Victor Omeru only once, five years ago, when the President had granted him an interview covering the dispute with Zaire and Uganda over the fishing rights in Lake Albert. They had spent only an hour together, but Daniel had been impressed by the old man’s eloquence and presence, and even more so by his obvious commitment to his people, to all the various tribal groupings that made up his little state, and to the preservation of the forest, savannah and lakes that were their national heritage.

“We see the riches of our lakes and forests as an asset that must be managed for posterity, not something that is to be devoured at a single sitting. We look upon nature’s bounty as a renewable resource which all the people of Ubomo have the right to share, even those generations as yet unborn. That is why we resist the plunder of the lakes by our neighbours,” Victor Omeru had told him, and it was wisdom of a kind that Daniel had seldom heard from any other statesman. His heart had gone out to someone who shared his own love and concern for the land that had given them birth. Now Victor Omeru was gone and Africa would be a poorer, sadder place for his passing.

Daniel spent the whole of Monday in the City talking to his bank-manager and his agent. It went well and Daniel was in a far better mood when he returned to the flat at nine-thirty that evening.

There was another message from Michael on the answering machine. “God, I hate this contraption. Call me when you come in, Danny.”

It would be two hours later in Lusaka, but he took Michael at his word. “Did I get you out of bed, Mike?”

“No matter, Danny. Hadn’t turned the light off yet. Just one bit of news for you. The new man in Ubomo is Colonel Ephrem Taffari. Forty-two years old. Apparently educated at London School of Economics and University of Budapest. Other than that, nobody knows much about him except that he has already changed the country’s name to the People’s Democratic Republic of Ubomo. In African Socialist-speak ‘democratic’ means ‘tyrannical’. There have been reports of executions of members of the former government, but one expects that.”

“What about Omeru?” Daniel demanded. it was strange how strongly his sympathies inclined towards someone he had known for such a short time so long ago.

“Not specifically mentioned on the butcher’s bill, but presumed to be amongst those put to the wall.”

“Let me know if you pick up anything about my friends Chetti Singh or Ning Cheng Gong.”

“Will do, Danny.”

Now Daniel put the events in Ubomo out of his mind and his world shrank down to the space enclosed by the four walls of the cutting-room at the studio in Shepherd’s Bush. Day after day, he sat in the semi-darkness, concentrating his entire being on the small glowing screen of the editing console.

In the evenings, dizzy with mental exhaustion and red-eyed with strain, he staggered out into the street and caught a taxi back to the flat, stopping only at Partridge’s in Sloane Street to pick up the makings of a sandwich supper. Each morning he awoke in darkness before dawn and was back at the studio long before the daily commuter invasion of the city was under way.

He was caught up in an ecstasy of creative endeavour. It heightened his emotional awareness to the point where all of his existence was in those lambent images that flashed before his eyes. The words to describe them bloomed in his mind so that he spoke into the microphone of the recorder with only occasional references to his notes.

He relived every moment of the scenes that unfolded before him to the point where he could smell the hot dusty musky perfume of Africa and hear the voices of her people and the cries of her animals ringing in his ears as he worked.

So great was Daniel’s absorption in the creative process of dubbing and fine cutting his series that over the weeks that followed the recent events in Africa retreated into the mists of distance. It was only when, with a shock that started his adrenalin flowing, he saw Johnny Nzou’s face looking at him out of the small screen and heard his voice speak from beyond the grave, that it all rushed back upon him and he felt his determination grow stronger.

Alone in the darkened cutting-room he replied to Johnny’s image, “I’m coming back. I haven’t forgotten you. They haven’t got away with what they did to you. I promise you that, old friend.”

By the end of February, three months after he had started the editing, he had a rough cut of the first four episodes of the series ready to show his agent.

Eina Markham had sold his very first production and they had been together ever since. He trusted her judgement, and stood in awe of her business acumen. She had an uncanny ability to judge to within a dollar just how much the trade would bear, and then to squeeze that very last dollar out of the deal. She wrote a formidable contract which covered every conceivable contingency, and several that fell outside that definition.

She had once written a spin-off clause into one of his contracts. He had smiled at it when he read it, but two years later it had yielded a wholly unexpected royalty of fifty thousand dollars from Japan, a country that hadn’t even entered into Daniel’s original calculations.

At forty years of age, Eina was tall and willowy with dark Jewish eyes and a figure like a Vogue model. Once or twice over the years, they had almost become lovers. The closest they had come to it was three years previously, when they had shared a bottle of Dam Perignon in his flat to celebrate a particularly lucrative sale of subsidiary rights.

She had drawn back from the very brink. “You are one of the most attractive men I have ever met, Danny, and I’m sure we’d make tremendous music together, but still you’re more valuable to me as a client than as just another good romp.” She had buttoned up her blouse and left him to the agonies of sexual frustration.

Now they spent the morning in the preview theatre at the studios watching the first four episodes straight through, back to back. Eina made no comment until the last tape was played out, then she stood up. “I’ll take you to lunch,” she said.

In the taxi she talked of everything but the production. She took him to Mosimann’s in West Halkin Street. The club that Anton Mosimann had fashioned out of an old church was now a high cathedral of gastronomy. Anton himself, resplendent in his whites and his tall chef’s hat, rosy-complexioned as a cherub, came out of his kitchens to chat to them at their table, an honour afforded only to his more favoured members.

Daniel was in a fever of anxiety to learn Eina’s opinion of his work, but this was an old trick of hers to build up tension and expectation. He played along with her, discussing the menu and chatting unconcernedly about irrelevancies. Only when she ordered a bottle of Carton-Charlemagne did he know for certain that she liked it.

Then she flashed dark Jewish eyes at him over the rim of the glass and said in that husky sexy voice, “Marvellous, Armstrong, bloody marvelous. Your best yet, I kid you not. I want four copies immediately.”

He laughed with relief. “You can’t sell it yet, it’s not finished.”

“Can’t I? You just watch my dust.”

She showed it to the Italians first. They always favoured his work. The Italians had an historical and emotional interest in Africa, and over the years Italy had proved to be one of Daniel’s best markets. He loved the Italians and they loved him. A week later Eina brought the draft Italian contract around to his flat.

Daniel contributed a plateful of smoked salmon sandwiches and a bottle to the proceedings and they sat on the floor, put Beethoven on the CD player and ate the sandwiches while Eina went over the contract with him. “They liked it as much as I did, she told him. I’ve jacked them up twenty-five percent on the last advance they gave us.”

“You’re a witch,” Daniel told her.

“It’s black magic.”

The Italian advance almost covered the entire cost of production of the series. The rest of it would all be profit. The big gamble had paid off handsomely, and he had no backers to share it with. After Eina had taken her commission, it was all his.

He tried to estimate what his ultimate pay-off would be. Half a million certainly; probably a lot more, depending on the Americans. When all the world rights had been sold, it might be as much as three million dollars. He had impressed even himself.

After ten years of hard work, he had broken clear. No more overdrafts; no more taking his begging bowl from one arrogant sponsor to another. From now on he had charge of his own destiny; he had creative and artistic control over his work, and the rights to the final cut. In future it would be the way he wanted it, not the view imposed upon him by his backers. It was a good feeling, a bloody wonderful feeling.

“What have you got lined up for the future?” Eina asked as she helped herself to the last of the smoked salmon.

“I haven’t thought about it yet,” he lied. He always had two or three projects in the warming oven of his mind. “I still have to finish the last two episodes.”

“I’ve had a few approaches from interested parties with money to invest. One of the big oil companies wants you to do a series on the South African apartheid society and the effect of sanctions on–”
“Hell, no!” It was marvelous to be able to turn down an offer of work in such a peremptory fashion. “That’s all cold porridge and last night’s leftovers. The world is changing. Just look at Eastern Europe. Apartheid and sanctions are yesterday’s news. They won’t even exist by this time next year. I want something fresh and exciting. I’ve been thinking about the rain forests not the Brazilian forests, that’s been done and overdone, but the African I equatorial region. It’s one of the very few unknown parts left on this planet, yet ecologically it’s of vast importance.”

“Sounds good. When will you start?”

“My God, you are a hard taskmistress. I haven’t even finished the last one and you’re on to me about the next.”

“Since Aaron divorced me, somebody has to keep me in the style to which I’ve grown accustomed.”

“All the duties of matrimony with none of the privileges and pleasures.” He sighed dramatically.

“You still on about that, silly boy. You could talk me into it yet, and you might not like it. Aaron didn’t.”