The Clouds Beneath the Sun (48 page)

A long silence followed before Russell said, “I can’t deny it would give me some satisfaction to see the Deacons humbled. There would be a measure of justice in it, yes.”

Another long silence.

“Are you staying until the trial?”

“It was a condition of Richard Sutton Senior paying for me to come. He will be here himself, of course, nearer the time.”

“How are you going to fill in your hours? There’s more than a month to go.”

“You’d be surprised. For one thing, I’d like to talk to Marongo.”

“What? He’s as likely to kill you as talk to you.”

Russell took some ice from his glass and cracked it between his teeth. “You accuse me of being a fossil, of not appreciating how the world has changed, of being marooned in Hollywood. Don’t underestimate me.” He pointed.

She followed with her eyes. Two large black men stood just outside the entrance to the bar.

“Bodyguards?”

He nodded.

“Have I seen them before?”

He nodded.

“In Lamu? Paid for by Richard Sutton Senior?”

He nodded again. “So I know about you and Jack Deacon.”

“There’s not a lot to know.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I don’t really care. What I care about is us.”

She ignored that. “Why would you want to see Marongo?”

He smiled. “Say Ndekei is convicted, say he’s hanged. Marongo has political ambitions, as perhaps you know, and will make political capital whichever way the verdict goes. But I haven’t been a complete fossil, Natalie. There
is
an alternative to destroying the gorge … let a new team take over. Run by me. I’ve been offered a full professorship at Yale. I’ll be an even bigger fish next year.”

She stared at him. “But how on earth could that work? You’re the one … you and Richard were the ones who set this whole thing in motion.”

He cracked more ice with his teeth. “You’d be surprised how money talks, money and imagination. Sutton and I have been conferring. Maybe our interests coincide. If Ndekei is convicted and sentenced to hang, there will almost certainly be trouble, political violence, on a small scale maybe but newsworthy. And there’ll be an appeal. That will provide a focus for further trouble. Richard Sutton Senior will then intervene and say that, justice having been done with a guilty verdict, he will campaign for the commutation of the death sentence and that, as a mark of respect for his son, who committed a blunder—but no more—he wants to help the tribe. He will donate several millions to whatever causes the Maasai hold dear but only so long as they spare the gorge, which from now on will be excavated by Americans chosen by Richard Sutton Senior.”

“You’d do all that? Will it work?”

“I don’t know. What I do know is that Marongo is a political animal and that Richard Sutton Senior has funded politicians and political campaigns in the past, in New York City and in Washington. He is not, shall we say, without experience, hardly wet behind the ears. I remember saying in one of my letters—one of my letters that you didn’t reply to, by the way—that Sutton was a man who makes things happen, and to beware. I was right and you were warned.”

Across the bar some of the British journalists were gathering, men who had been at the press conference. One or two looked in Natalie’s direction but she did her best to ignore them.

“Russell, when Richard Sutton Senior came to the camp, with his wife, he said some very unpleasant things—”

“Yes, he’s not the choirmaster type, is he?”

“That’s unfair and unkind and it’s not what I meant. He threatened me, he threatened me, he actually
boasted
about some of the … unorthodox things he has done in the past, corners he has cut, toes he has trodden on, and he guaranteed to make my life a misery if I didn’t give evidence. He had me followed to Lamu, as you well know, because, presumably, he thought I might abscond, something that never crossed my mind.” She paused. “Are you sure … are you certain you want to be mixed up with that sort of person, that sort of … roughneck?”

“Hmm,” growled Russell dismissively. “All he wants from you is that you testify. Since you are going to do that there’s no problem—”

“No
problem?
You’ve seen the lengths he’ll go to, to ensure I
do
testify. This is a man … a man who isn’t shy of taking the law into his own hands.”

“Which, as I seem to recall, is exactly what Ndekei did.” He snorted again. “So we are all square there. But—” he went on as she tried to protest, “I agree that Sutton Senior is the type who knows how to—well, cut corners, shall we say, when it’s needed. But where his son is concerned there’s a difference. If he can’t have his son alive, then he wants his memory up there in lights—respectable, academic, professional lights, and my plan has tickled his imagination and sense of power. He doesn’t like Eleanor Deacon any more than I do, or her view that the gorge is more important than his son.” Russell wiped his lips with a paper napkin. “So get used to the idea that, over the next few weeks, this whole can of worms is going to slither and slide and writhe out of control, with one of only two possible results, assuming you give evidence. One, the Maasai will destroy and reoccupy the gorge; or … two, I will take over and you lot will be out in the cold—on your way, dare I say it, to becoming fossils.”

He paused, to let this sink in.

“Of course, all this doesn’t necessarily apply to you. Through it all, Natalie, you say you have never wavered, about your testimony, and I have never wavered in my feelings about you. That must mean something—and one of the things it means is that there’s still time for you to change sides.” He leaned forward and touched her knee. “I know you went to Lamu with Jack Deacon and you know I know. Did anything happen?”

“It’s none of your business, Russell.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, that you spent the night with him. Lucky him. If I hadn’t been kicked out of Kihara, before he came on the scene, maybe I—”

“Russell!”

Some of the journalists looked over as she raised her voice.

“The Deacons look after each other, don’t they? And now you’ve joined them, jumped into bed with them, metaphorically and physically—”

She slapped his face.

Now all the journalists were looking.

There was an imprint of her hand on his cheek, where she had hit him. That part of his face was redder than ever. “Oh Russell, stop feeling so sorry for yourself! You’re behaving like a fossil all over again, stuck in one level. The world doesn’t stand still—”

“It’s only been a few weeks!”

“What
has only been a few weeks?”

“Us. Our whiskey sessions, listening to the baboons.”

She gasped. “There never
was
an ‘us’! I told you that before you left. Yes, there were a few evenings of illicit whiskey drinking, a few—a very few—episodes of physical contact, and maybe—what?—one kiss, or was it two? All of it cut short by a piece of monumental stupidity, which was
your
fault. That’s not enough for an ‘us’ to be created. So you’re mad to expect me to leap over to your side just because you ask. I told you all those weeks ago, during one of our fabled whiskey sessions, that this season’s digging would be remembered for all the wrong reasons—and then along came the discoveries, the jaw, the skull, the vertebrae, Kees’s hand axes, and I forgot my own warning.”

She swept her fingers through her hair. She noticed some of the journalists still looking in her direction. She ignored them.

“Then you come back again and raise all the old problems, all out of spite, envy, and resentment. All caused by Richard’s and your gross stupidity. And then you have the gall to invite me over to your side!”

She took a deep breath.

“Russell, what I do with Jack Deacon, or Christopher Deacon, or Eleanor Deacon, should I choose to, is none of your business. You do your worst. Get into bed with that
crook
, Richard Sutton Senior, and fight the Deacons. I can’t stop you. But if you do, you do it on your own, without me.”

She stood up, looking down at him.

“There was never an ‘us.’” She touched his cheek where she had slapped him, and softened her tone. “And there could never have been.”

She turned, pushed through the scrum of journalists, and left the bar.

•   •   •

“You know Marongo better than anyone, Jack, better than any other white person anyway. Will Russell’s plan work?”

Natalie was in Jack’s room at the hotel. After she had stormed out of the bar, leaving Russell with his slapped face, she had joined Eleanor, Jack, Christopher, and the others where she knew they were having dinner, in the hotel coffee shop, and had relayed what had occurred.

Everyone had been surprised, upset, and bewildered, but because they were all in a kind of limbo, waiting for the press reaction to the conference, and Russell’s intervention in it, no one seemed too prepared to get to grips with the threat he appeared to pose.

“Let’s clear our fences one at a time,” said Eleanor. “I’m tired, I need to sleep.”

“He had you followed to Lamu?” said Christopher. “That’s expensive and shows … it shows a very determined adversary. Were you frightened?”

Natalie nodded. “I was concerned. I wasn’t certain I—we—were being followed. It seemed a bit far-fetched. But Russell confirmed it. You’re right, Sutton Senior is very determined indeed.”

“A good job Jack was with you.”

She ignored that. “What provokes me the most is: how did they
know
Jack and I were in Lamu? His contact at the American embassy couldn’t have known that.”

Christopher nodded, finishing the water he was drinking. “Sounds like he has a spy in our camp. That makes the blood go cold, right? You never thought of
not
giving evidence, did you? Never mentioned leaving the country?”

“No, of course not. You know that. You
all
know that.”

“What did you make of Lamu?” Christopher asked. “I haven’t had a chance to ask you.”

“I loved it, except for the sea urchins. A swim in the sea was a real break, a real luxury.”

“Where did you stay?”

“The Cotton House,” said Jack.

“In the rooms with the balcony?”

Natalie nodded. “How about you? How was the Christmas Eve party at the Karibu Club?”

“Yes, how was it?” added Jack. “Pick up any gossip?”

Christopher shook his head. “It was all very tame. The only thing worth remarking on, the only surprise really, was that minister from Britain, you know, the one who came here—”

“Jeavons, you mean, the minister of science?”

“That’s the one. Well, he was here again and deep in conversation with John Tudor.”

Jack frowned. “They can’t have had much in common, one a scientist, the other a judge.”

“Wrong,” breathed Eleanor. “Jeavons is a
minister
of science, but by training a lawyer.”

“Even so, what would they have to talk about?”

“It was Christmas Eve, for pity’s sake,” said Christopher. “All I know is that they went at it for ages.”

Natalie decided to change the subject. “How are the flying lessons going?”

“Well enough,” Christopher said. “I’ve had no more panic attacks, if that’s what you mean—”

“I didn’t mean—”

He stood up. “I’m tired too. See you tomorrow.”

“Don’t say you’re tired, Jack,” she said, after the rest of them had dispersed. “Someone needs to think this through.”

He nodded. “Let’s go to my room.” He smiled and added, “You’ll be quite safe and We’ll have more privacy.”

He was seated now, in the chair by the chest of drawers, as Natalie lounged on the bed.

“I
did
know Marongo very well,” Jack said. “But we haven’t really been close for two or three years now. Since he’s been chief, he’s had to keep his distance. Yes, I’m an honorary Maasai but I’m also white—you can’t hide that fact. The closer independence gets, the more political Marongo becomes.”

They had brought their whiskies with them and he swallowed some of his.

“Independence means various things and one of the things it means is change, including political change. And I can see that we may have played into Marongo’s hands with this very press conference, and in a way that plays to Russell’s strengths as well.”

“What? How do you mean?”

“It’s my fault, really, with this whole idea of a presentation. We’ll soon see what the press makes of today’s events and either way we have achieved our purpose—we’ve made the gorge important. It will be very difficult for Marongo to destroy Kihara as it is now. That would make him and his Maasai savages. At the same time, a change of personnel could be very useful—I’m not saying it will happen, just that I can see how it would suit Marongo.”

He added more water to what was left of his whiskey.

“As it stands now, the gorge is indelibly linked to the Deacons. My parents put it on the map, scientifically speaking, there has been a trail of scientists, journalists, and politicians through here, and of course they are mainly white and they mainly came to see my father, then my mother—and, if things continue, it will be Christopher, Beth, and me. A change now, at independence, to a different team that is
not
the Deacons, but one selected—at least tacitly—by the Maasai, would associate them with whatever is discovered in the future. They would be reclaiming the gorge, but not destroying it.”

“But Russell! Of all people!” As she said this, the thought also occurred to her that Marongo knew about Ndekei and Richard. Was homosexuality a sin among the Maasai and if so did Marongo now have a personal grievance against anyone connected to Richard? Did that explain what was happening?

Jack lifted his glass to his forehead, to cool it. “Russell, or at least Richard Sutton Senior, is promising a lot of money, and politics—Marongo’s main interest now—is expensive. What’s more, Marongo is a pragmatist. Richard Junior has already been killed. The Maasai have, in theory at least, been converted to Christianity. You and I know that conversion is paper thin—they still worship their traditional gods, live in the old ways. But Marongo is the chief, his people will obey him, and he knows how to wheel out Christianity when it suits him, and it might suit him now, to make the most of the Christian idea of forgiveness and redemption. Think how that will play in the Western—the white—press. He, Marongo, forgives Russell, and Russell and Richard Sutton Senior redeem themselves by paying a forfeit and working in the gorge under Maasai direction.” He sighed. “It could work.”