Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers (134 page)

“Beautiful!” he murmured. “The most beautiful of all nature’s creations, more beautiful than pearls or the feathers of the brightest tropical birds.” He broke off abruptly as his fingers detected the rough patch on the tusk. He leaned closer and peered at it and exclaimed again. “But this tusk bears a government stamp. ‘ZW’. That is a Zimbabwe government number. This is legal ivory, Cheng.” He clapped his hands again. Legal ivory, my son, many more times more valuable for those numbers. How did you do it? How many more tusks are there?”

His father’s unrestrained pleasure was giving Cheng huge face.

He must be careful to remain humble and dutiful. “Every one of those cases is filled with ivory, honoured Father. Every tusk is stamped.”

“Where did you get them?” Heng insisted, and then raised his hand to prevent Cheng replying. “Wait! he ordered. Wait. Do not tell me!” He was silent, staring at his son for a while, and then he said, “Yes. That is it. I know where this ivory comes from.”

With a wave of his hand he sent the black-clad workmen out of earshot and leaned closer to Cheng, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I read some time ago that there was a raid by a gang of poachers on a government ivory store in Zimbabwe. A place called Chiwewe? The gangsters were wiped out, but the ivory was not recovered, is that not so, my son?”

“I read the same newspaper article, honoured Father.” Cheng dropped his eyes and waited while the silence drew out.

Then Heng spoke again. “The man who planned that raid was clever and bold. He was not afraid to kill for what he wanted,” he whispered. “The kind of man that I admire. The kind of man that I was once, when I was young.”

“The kind of man that you still are, Father,” Cheng said, but Heng shook his head.

“The kind of man that I would be proud to have as my son,” Heng went on. “You may present the rest of your gift to me now.”

Now Cheng’s standing, in his father’s eyes, was so enormous that he wriggled in his seat with pleasure and shouted for the workmen to open the other cases.

For the next two hours Heng examined the shipment of tusks. He gloated over every single piece, picking out a dozen or so of the loveliest or most unusual for his special collection.

He was particularly interested in deformed ivory. The nerve of one of the tusks had been damaged, while it was still immature, by a hand-hammered lead ball from a native poacher’s musket. The result was that the tusk had split into four separate shafts and these had twisted around each other in the same way as the strands of a hemp rope. The original lead musket-bullet, heavily corroded, was still embedded in the root of the tusk, and the entwined spirals of ivory resembled the horns of the legendary unicorn. Heng was delighted with it.

Cheng had seldom seen him so animated and voluble, but at the end of the two hours he was obviously fatigued, and Cheng helped him back into the Rolls and ordered the chauffeur to return to the estate.

Heng laid his head back on the soft Connally leather and closed his eyes.

When Cheng was sure the old man was asleep, he gently adjusted the cashmere rug over him. One of Heng’s hands had dropped on to the seat beside him. Cheng lifted it into his lap and before he covered it with the cashmere he caressed it so gently as not to wake his father. The hand was thin and bony and the skin was cool as that of a corpse.

Suddenly the long thin fingers tightened on Cheng’s wrist and the old man spoke without opening his eyes. “I am not afraid of death, my son,” he whispered. “But I am terrified that all that I have achieved will be destroyed by careless hands. Your brother Wu is strong and clever, but he does not have my spirit. He does not care for fine and beautiful things. He does not love poetry or painting or ivory.” Heng opened his eyes and turned his head to stare at his son with those bright implacable lizard’s eyes. “I knew that you had inherited my spirit, Cheng, but until today I doubted that you had the warrior’s steel. That is the reason why I hesitated to choose between you and Wu.

“However, this gift that you have given to me today has changed that thinking. I know how you obtained that ivory. I know that it was necessary to squeeze the juice from the ripe cherry.” This was Heng’s euphemism for drawing blood. “And I know that you did not shrink from it. I know also that you succeeded in a difficult enterprise, whether by luck or cunning I do not really care. I prize both luck and cunning equally.” He tightened his grip until it was painful but Cheng did not wince or pull away. “I am sending you to Ubomo, my son, as the representative of the Lucky Dragon.”

Cheng bowed his head over his father’s hand and kissed it. “I will not fail you,” he promised, and a single tear of joy and of pride fell from the corner of his eye and sparkled like a jewel on the pale dry skin of his father’s hand.

Ning Heng H’Sui made the formal announcement of his selection the following morning. He made it while seated at the head of the lacquer table overlooking the garden.

Cheng; watched the faces of his brothers while the old man spoke. Wu remained as impassive as the ivory carving his father had made of him years ago. His face was bland, smooth and creamy yellow, but his eyes were terrible as he returned Cheng’s stare across the table. When the old man finished speaking there was a moment’s silence which seemed to last an eternity as the three elder brothers contemplated the world that had changed for them.

Then Wu spoke. “Honourable Father, you are wise in all things. We, your sons, bow to your will as the rice stalks bow to the north wind.”

All four of them bowed so low that their foreheads almost touched the table-top, but when they straightened the other three were looking at Cheng. Cheng realised at that moment that it might be possible to attain too much face. His face was greater than that of all his half-brothers combined and he felt an icicle of fear slide down his spine, for his brothers were watching him with the eyes of crocodiles.

He knew that he dare not fail in Ubomo. They would be waiting to rend him if he did.

Once Cheng was back in his own apartment, the fear fell away to be replaced by the clarion of success. There was so much work to do before he returned to Africa, but for the moment he could not concentrate his mind upon it. Tomorrow certainly, but not now. He was too charged with excitement, his mind restless and unfocused. He needed to steady’himself, to burn off the excess energy that made him both physically and mentally overwrought.

He knew exactly how to achieve this. He had his own special ritual for purging his soul. Of course, it was dangerous, terribly dangerous.

On more than one occasion before it had brought him to the very brink of disaster. However, the danger was part of the efficacy of the ritual. He knew that if anything went wrong he would have lost all.

The monumental successes of these last few days, his father’s selection and the ascendancy over his brothers would all be wiped away.

The risk was enormous, completely out of proportion to the fleeting gratification that he would achieve. Perhaps it was the gambler’s urge to flirt with self-destruction. After each episode he always promised himself that he would never indulge in the madness again, but always the temptation proved too strong, particularly at a time such as this.

As soon as he entered his apartment his wife made tea for him, and then called the children to pay him their respects. He spoke to them for a few minutes and took his infant son on his lap, but he was distracted and soon dismissed them. They left with obvious relief. These formal interviews were a strain for all of them. He was not good with children, even his own.

“My father has chosen me to go to Ubomo,” he told his wife.

“It is a great honour,” she said. “I offer you my felicitations. When will we leave?”

“I shall go alone,” he told her, and saw the relief in her eyes. It annoyed him that she made it so obvious. “Of course, I will send for you as soon as I have made the arrangements.”

She dropped her eyes. “I will await your summons.” But he could not concentrate on her. The excitement was fizzing in his head. “I will rest for an hour. See that I am not disturbed. Then I have to go down to the city. There is much work to do before I leave. I will not return tonight, and I shall probably stay at the apartment in Tunhua Road. I shall send you a message before I return.”

Alone in his own room he teased himself with the telephone. He placed the cordless instrument on the table and stared at it, rehearsing every word he would say and his breathing was short and quick as though he had run up a flight of stairs. His fingers trembled slightly when at last he reached out for it. The telephone was fitted with a special coding scrambler. It could not be tapped and it was impossible for any other person, Civil or military or police, to trace the special number that he punched into the key panel.

Very few people had this number. She had told him once that she had given it to only six of her most valued clients. She answered it on the second ring and she recognized his voice instantly. She greeted him with the special code name she had assigned him. “You have not been to see me for almost two years, Green Mountain Man.”

“I have been away.”

“Yes, I know, but still I missed you.”

“I want to come tonight.”

“Will you want the special thing?”

“Yes.” Cheng felt his stomach clench at the thought of it. He thought he might be sick with fear and loathing and excitement.

“It is very short notice,” she said. “And the price has risen since your last visit.”

“The price does not matter. Can you do it?” He heard the high strained tones of his own voice.

She was silent, and he knew she was baiting him. He wanted to scream at her and then she said, “You are fortunate.” Her voice changed. It became obscenely soft and slimy. “I have received new merchandise; I can offer you a choice of two.”

Cheng gulped and cleared his throat of a plug of phlegm before he could ask. “Young?”

“Very young. Very tender. Untouched.”

“When will you be ready?”

“Ten o’clock tonight, she said. “Not before.”

“At the sea pavilion?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “They will expect you at the gate. Ten o clock,” she repeated. “Not earlier, not later.”

Cheng drove to the apartment building in Tunbua Road. It was in the most prestigious part of the city and the accommodation was expensive, but it was paid for by Lucky Dragon.

He left his Porsche in the underground garage and rode up to the top floor apartment in the elevator. By the time he had showered and changed it was still only six o’clock and he had plenty of time in which to prepare himself.

He left the apartment building on foot and set off down Tunhua Road. He loved the Renao of Taipei. It was one of the things that he missed most while he was away. Renao was a concept that was almost impossible to translate from the Chinese to any other language. It meant festive, lively, joyous and noisy all at the same time.

It was now the ghost month, the seventh lunar month when the ghosts return from hell to haunt the earth and have to be placated with gifts of ghost money and food. It was also necessary to keep them at a distance with fireworks and dragon processions.

Cheng paused to laugh and applaud one of the processions led by a monstrous dragon with a huge papier-michi head and fifty pairs of human legs beneath its serpentine body. The jumping-jack fireworks popped with spurts of blue smoke about the ankles of the spectators and the band beat drums and gongs and the children shrieked. It was good renao and it heightened Cheng’s excitement.

He threaded his way through the crowds and the bustle until he reached the East Garden area of the city and left the main thoroughfare to enter a back, alley.

The fortune-teller was one Cheng, had used for ten years. He was an old man with thin wispy grey hair and a facial mole like Cheng’s father had. He wore traditional robes and a mandarin cap and sat cross-legged in his curtained cubicle with his paraphernalia around him.

Cheng greeted him respectfully and at his invitation squatted facing him.

“I have not seen you for a long time,” the old man accused him, and Cheng apologised. “I have been away from Taiwan.”

They discussed the fee and the divination that Cheng required. “I am about to undertake a task,” Cheng explained. “I wish to have spirit guidance.” The old man nodded and consulted his almanacs and star guides, nodding and mumbling to himself. Finally he handed Cheng a ceramic cup filled with bamboo rods.

Cheng shook this vigorously and then spilled the rods on to the mat between them. Each rod was painted with characters and emblems and the old man studied the pattern in which they had fallen. “This task will not be undertaken here in Taiwan, but in a land across the ocean,” he said, and Cheng relaxed a little. The old man had not lost his touch.

He nodded encouragement.

“It is a task of great complexity and there are many people involved. Foreigners, foreign devils.”

Again Cheng nodded.

“I see powerful allies, but also powerful enemies who will oppose you.”

“I know my allies, but I do not know who will be my enemies,” Cheng interjected.

“You already know your enemy. He has opposed you before. On that occasion you overcame him.”

“Can you describe him?”

The fortune-teller shook his head. “You will know him when you see him again.”

“When will that be?”

“You should not travel during the ghost month. You must prepare yourself here in Taiwan. Leave only on the first day of the eighth lunar month.

“Very well.” That suited Cheng’s plans. “Will I overcome this enemy once again?”

To answer that question it will be necessary to make a further divination, the old man whispered, and Cheng grimaced at this device for doubling the fee.

“Very well” he agreed, and the fortune-teller replaced the bamboo sticks in the bowl and Cheng shook them out on to the mat.

“There are two enemies now.” The fortune-teller picked two rods out of the pile. “One is the man that you know, the other is a woman whom you have not yet met. Together they will oppose your endeavours.”