Wilbur Smith's Smashing Thrillers (89 page)

In all, it amounted to almost a million dollars. Cheng, on his father’s behalf, was able by astute bargaining to reduce this initial fee by fifty percent.

Only once he was a full partner could Cheng appreciate the extent and range of the operation. In each of the countries which still harboured elephant herds, Chetti Singh had been able to put in place clandestine circles of accomplices in government. Many of his contacts went as high as ministerial level.

Within most of the major National Parks he had informers and officials on his payroll. Some were merely game scouts or rangers, but others were the actual chief wardens in charge of the Parks, those appointed as guardians and protectors of the herds.

The partnership was so lucrative that when Cheng’s original term of appointment as ambassador expired, his father arranged through friends high in the Taiwanese government for it to be extended for a further three-year term.

By this time Cheng’s father and brothers had become fully aware of the investment opportunities that Africa offered. Beginning with the small but profitable fishing venture and then the ivory partnership, the family had been attracted more and more to the dark continent.

Neither Cheng nor his father had any scruples about apartheid and began investing heavily in South Africa. They were well aware that world condemnation and the policy of economic sanctions had depressed the prices of land and other valuable assets in that country to a point where sensible businessman could not resist them.

“Honoured parent,” Cheng had told his father on one of his frequent returns to Taipei, “within ten years apartheid and white minority rule will have passed from the face of the land. Once that happens, prices in South Africa will rise to find their true levels.”

They purchased great ranches of tens of thousands of acres for the same price as a three-room flat in Taipei. They purchased factories and office blocks and shopping centres from American companies forced by their government to disinvest from South Africa. They paid five and ten cents for a dollar’s worth of value.

However, Cheng’s father, who had been among other things a steward of the Hong Kong race club, was too astute a gambler to place all his bets on a single horse. They invested in other African countries. An agreement had just been negotiated between South Africa and Cuba and Angola and America for the independence of Namibia. The family invested in property in Windhoek and fishing licences and mineral rights in that country. Through Chetti Singh, Cheng was introduced to ministers of government in Zambia and Zaire and Kenya and Tanzania who for financial considerations were inclined to look favourably on Taiwanese investment in their countries, at prices which Cheng’s father found acceptable.

Nevertheless, despite all these other major investments, Cheng’s father, for sentimental reasons, was still drawn to the original ivory venture which had first provoked his interest in the dark continent.

At their last meeting he had remarked to Cheng, as his son knelt in front of him to ask his blessing, “My son, it would please me greatly if, once you return to Africa, you were able to find a large quantity of registered and stamped ivory.”

“Illustrious father, the only sources of legal ivory are the government auction–” Cheng broke off as he saw his father’s expression of scorn.

“Ivory purchased at government auctions leaves very little margin of profit,” the old man hissed. “I had expected you to show better sense than that, my son.”

His father’s censure rankled deeply, and Cheng spoke to Chetti Singh at the very next opportunity. Chetti Singh stroked his rolled beard thoughtfully. He was a handsome man and the immaculate white turban added to his stature. “I am now thinking of but one single solitary source of registered ivory,” he said. “And that is being the government warehouse.”

“You are suggesting that the ivory might be taken from the warehouse before the auction?”

“Perhaps…” Chetti Singh shrugged, “but it would be calling for great and meticulous laying of plans. Let me run my mind over and around this vexing problem.”

Three weeks later they met again at Chetti Singh’s office in Lilongwe. “I have occupied my mind greatly, and a solution has occurred to me,” the Sikh told him.

“How much will it cost?” Cheng’s first question was instinctive.

“Kilo for kilo, no more than the acquisition of unregistered ivory, but as there will be only opportunity to procure a single and solitary shipment we will be wise to be making it as large as possible. The contents of an entire warehouse, never mind! How would your father be struck by that?”

Cheng knew his father would be delighted. Registered ivory had three or four times the value of illicit ivory in the international marketplace.

“Let us consider which country will provide us with this merchandise,” Chetti Singh suggested, but it was obvious that he had already decided.

“Not Zaire or South Africa. Those are two countries where I do not have an effective Organization. Zambia and Tanzania and Kenya have very little ivory remaining. We are left with Botswana, where there is no large-scale culling, or finally Zimbabwe.”

“Good,” Cheng nodded with satisfaction.

“The ivory is accumulated in the game department ware houses at Wankie and Harare and Chiwewe until is being undertaken the bi-annual auction. We would acquire the merchandise from one of those centres.”

“Which one?”

“The warehouse in Harare is too well guarded.” Chetti Singh held up three fingers of his one hand and, having discarded Harare, he folded one down, leaving two fingers raised. “Wankie is the largest National Park. However, it is far from the Zambian border.” He folded down another finger. “Which leaves Chiwewe. I have trustworthy agents on the Park’s staff there. They tell me that the warehouse is almost full of registered ivory at the present time, and the Park headquarters are less than thirty miles from the Zambezi River and the Zambian border. One of my teams could cross the river and be there in a day’s march, never mind!”

“You intend to rob the warehouse?” Cheng leaned forward over his desk.

“Without the shade or fraction of a doubt.” Chetti Singh lowered his raised finger and looked surprised. “Was that not also your intention all along?”

“Perhaps,” Cheng replied carefully. “But is it feasible?”

“Chiwewe is in a remote and isolated area of the country, but it lies on the river, which is an international boundary. I would send in a raiding party of twenty men armed absolutely with automatic weapons and led by one of my best and most reliable hunters. In darkness they cross the river from Zambia in canoes and in a day’s hard marching they reach the Park’s headquarters and fall upon it. They dispose of all witnesses…” Cheng coughed nervously and Chetti Singh paused and looked at him questioningly. “These would not amount to more than four or five persons. The permanent rangers are in my pay. The visitors’ camp will be closed against the rainy season and the bulk of the staff will have returned to their villages on leave. The only remaining personnel will be the Park warden and two or three other skeleton staff.”

“Still, is there no way that we can avoid disposing of them?” It was not a matter of scruples that made Cheng hesitate. It was prudent not to take unnecessary risks, if they could be avoided.

“If you can be suggesting alternatives, I would be pleased to cast my mind over them,” Chetti Singh told him, and after a moment’s thought Cheng shook his head.

“No, not at the moment, but please go on. Let me hear the rest of your plan.”

“Very well. My men dispose of all witnesses and burn down the ivory warehouse and then immediately retreat across the river.” The Sikh stopped speaking, but he watched Cheng s face with ill-concealed glee, anticipating his next question.

It annoyed Cheng that he must ask it, for it sounded naive even to his own ears. “But what about the ivory?”

Chetti Singh smirked mysteriously, forcing him to ask again. “Will your poachers take the ivory? You say they will be a small party. Surely they will not be able to carry that much, will they?”

“That is the absolute beauty of my plan. The raid is a dead herring for the Zimbabwe police.” And this time Cheng smiled at the solecism. “We want them to believe that the poachers have taken the ivory. Then they will not think to look for it inside their own country, will they?”

Now, as he sat on his verandah in the midday heat, Cheng nodded grudgingly. Chetti Singh’s plan was ingenious, except, of course, that it did not take into account the presence of Armstrong and his television crew. In fairness, however, none of them could have foreseen that.

Once again he considered delaying or cancelling the operation entirely, but almost immediately rejected the idea. By this time, Chetti Singh’s men would be across the river and marching on the camp. There was no way he could reach them, and warn them to turn back. They were far past the point of no return. If Armstrong and his camera man were still here when Chetti Singh’s men arrived, then they would have to be disposed of along with the warden and his family and staff.

Cheng’s train of thought was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone at the far end of the verandah. The VIP cottage was the only one in the visitors camp equipped with a telephone. He jumped up and went to it quickly. He had been expecting the call. It had been prearranged and was part of Chetti Singh’s plan.

“Ambassador Ning,” he said, and Johnny Nzou answered.

“Sorry to trouble you, Your Excellency, but there is a call from your embassy in Harare. A gentleman calling himself Mr. Huang. He says he is your charge. Will you take the call?”

“Thank you, Warden. I will speak to Mr. Huang.” He knew that it was a party line that crossed a hundred and fifty miles of wild bush from the district telephone exchange at the little village of Karoi, and the voice of his charge relayed from Harare was a whisper that seemed to come from some far corner of the galaxy. The message was the one he had expected, and afterwards Cheng cranked the handle of the antiquated telephone and Johnny Nzou came on the line again. “Warden, my presence is required in Harare urgently. It is most unfortunate; I was looking forward to a few more days of relaxation.”

“I also regret that you are forced to leave. My wife and I would have liked you to have dinner with us.”

“Perhaps some other time.”

“The refrigerator trucks are taking the elephant meat up to Karoi this evening. It might be best if you travelled in convoy with them. Your Mercedes does not have four-wheel drive, and it looks as though it might rain at any time.”

That also was part of Chetti Singh’s plan. The raid had been timed to coincide with the elephant cull and the departure of the refrigerator trucks. However, Cheng hesitated deliberately before he asked, “When are the trucks leaving?”

“One of them has engine trouble.” Gomo the ranger had sabotaged the alternator. The object was to delay the departure of the convoy until the arrival of the raiding party. “However, the driver tells me that they should be ready to leave around six o’clock this evening.” Johnny Nzou’s voice changed as a thought struck him. “Of course, Doctor Armstrong is leaving almost immediately, you could drive in convoy with him.”

“No. No!” Cheng cut in quickly. “I cannot leave that soon. I will wait for the trucks.”

“As you wish.” Johnny sounded puzzled. “However, I cannot guarantee when the convoy will be ready to leave and I am sure Doctor Armstrong would agree to delay an hour or so.”

“No,” Cheng told him firmly. “I will not inconvenience or delay Doctor Armstrong. I will travel with your convoy Thank you, Warden.” To end the conversation and forestall any further discussion, he hung up the receiver. He frowned. Armstrong’s presence was becoming increasingly troublesome. The sooner he disappeared the happier Cheng would be.

However, it was another twenty minutes before he heard the sound of a diesel engine coming from the direction of the warden’s bungalow. He stood up and went to the screen door of the verandah and watched the Toyota Landcruiser coming down the hill. On the door of the truck was painted the logo of Armstrong Productions, a disembodied -arm with the wrist encircled by a spiked bracelet, and the elbow bent and tensed in a body-builder’s stylised pose to raise a heroic bulge of biceps.

Doctor Armstrong was at the driver’s wheel and his camera man was in the front seat beside him. They were leaving at last. Cheng nodded with satisfaction and glanced at his wristwatch. It was a few minutes after one o’clock. They would have at least four hours to get well clear before the attack on the headquarters was launched.

Daniel Armstrong saw him and braked the truck. He rolled down the side window and smiled across at Cheng. “Johnny tells me you are also leaving today, Your Excellency,” he called. “Are you sure that we can’t be of assistance?”

“Not at all, Doctor.” Cheng smiled politely. “It is all arranged. Please do not worry about me.” Armstrong made him feel uneasy. He was a big man with thick curly hair that gave him a tousled outdoors appearance. His gaze was direct and his smile was lazy. Cheng thought that to the eyes of a Westerner he might appear extremely attractive, especially if the Westerner were female, but to Cheng’s Chinese eye, his nose was grotesquely large and his wide mouth had a mobile childlike expression. He might have dismissed him as offering no serious threat, except for the eyes. Those eyes made Cheng uneasy. They were alert and penetrating.

Armstrong stared at him for a full five seconds before be smiled again and thrust his hand out of the Toyota’s rolled down window. “Well then, I’ll say cheerio, Your Excellency. Let’s hope we get an opportunity for that chat one day soon.” He engaged the gearshift, raised his right hand in salutation and drove down towards the main gates of the camp.

Cheng watched the truck out of sight and then turned and stared down along the crests of the hills. They were jagged and uneven as a crocodile’s teeth. Twenty miles or so to the west, one of the dark Cumulus thunder-heads was abruptly shot through by vivid lightning. Even as he watched, rain began to fall from the drooping belly of the cloud mass, first in pale blue streamers and then in a sullen deluge, as impenetrable as a sheet of lead, that obscured the far hills.