The Leopard Hunts in Darkness (44 page)

So the pair, the greybeard with failing eyesight and the stripling, travelled together for five leisurely companionship-filled days, until at the old man’s request, the rackety, dusty old
bus set them down on a rutted dirt track in the forest.

‘Mark this spot well, Vundla,’ Gideon instructed. ‘Here, the water-course with the fall of rock, and the kopje over there shaped like a sleeping lion – this is the
starting point.’

They set off northwards through the forest, following a succession of landmarks that the old man made him recite in the form of a rhyming poem. Tungata found he could still recite it without
hesitation:

It was another three days’ travel at Gideon’s reduced pace before he toiled up the steep hillside with Tungata handing him over the worst places, and they stood before the tomb of
Lobengula at last.

Tungata remembered kneeling before the tomb, sucking blood from the self-inflicted cut on his wrist and spitting the blood on the rocks that blocked the entrance and repeating after his
grandfather the terrible oath of secrecy and guardianship. Of course neither the old man nor the oath had mentioned diamonds or treasure. Tungata had merely sworn to guard the secret of the tomb,
passing it to his chosen son, until the day when ‘The children of Mashobane cry out for succour, and the stones are burst open to free the spirit of Lobengula, and it shall come forth like
fire – Lobengula’s fire!’

After the ceremony the old man had lain down in the shade of the
ficus
tree that grew beside the entrance, and, exhausted by the long journey, had slept until nightfall. Tungata had
remained awake, examining the tomb and the area around it. He had found certain signs that had led him to a conclusion that he did not confide to his grandfather, not then nor during the journey
homewards. He had not wanted to alarm and disturb Gideon, his love for him was too great and protective.

Peter Fungabera’s voice intruded on his reverie, jerking him back to the present.

‘In fact, we are privileged to have with us at this very moment an illustrious member of the Kumalo clan, and the present guardian of the old robber’s tomb, the honourable Comrade
Minister Tungata Zebiwe.’

The white man’s pale, cruel eyes riveted him, and Tungata stiffened on the hard wooden bench. Tungata tried his voice, and found that even the small quantity of water that he had taken had
eased his throat. His voice was deep and measured, only slightly ragged at the edges.

‘You delude yourself, Fungabera.’ He made the name into an insult, but Peter’s smile never slipped. ‘I know nothing of this nonsense that you have dreamed up, and even if
I did—’ Tungata did not have to finish the sentence.

‘You will find my patience inexhaustible,’ Peter promised him. ‘The diamonds have lain there ninety years. A few more weeks will not spoil them. I have brought with me a doctor
to supervise your treatment. We will find just how much you can bear before your Matabele courage fails you. On the other hand, you have the option at any time to make an end to this
unpleasantness. You can elect to take us to Lobengula’s burial site, and immediately after you have done so, I will arrange to have you flown out of the country to any destination of your
choice—’ Peter paused before adding the final sweetener to his proposition ‘ – and with you will go the young woman who so gallantly defended you in the courtroom, Sarah
Nyoni.’

This time there was a flash of emotion behind the contemptuous mask of Tungata’s features.

‘Oh yes,’ Peter nodded. ‘We have her safely taken care of.’

‘Your lies need no denial. If you had her, you would have used her already.’ Tungata forced himself to believe that Sarah would have obeyed him. She had read and understood the
hand-sign that he had flashed to her across the courtroom as he was being led away. ‘Take cover! Hide yourself. You are in danger!’ he had ordered her and she had acknowledged and
agreed. She was safe, he had to believe that, it was all he had to believe in.

‘We shall see,’ Peter Fungabera promised.

‘Not that it matters.’ Tungata had to try and protect her, now that it was clear that the Shona were hunting for Sarah. ‘She is a mere woman – do what you will to her. It
will mean little to me.’

Fungabera raised his voice. ‘Captain!’ The guard commander came immediately. ‘Take the prisoner back to his quarters. His treatment will be ordered and supervised by the
doctor. Do you understand?’

When they were alone, Colonel Bukharin said quietly, ‘He will not be easy. He has physical strength and something else beyond that. Some men simply will not bend, even under the most
extreme coercion.’

‘It may take a little time, but in the end—’

‘I am not so certain,’ Bukharin sighed morosely. ‘Do you indeed have the woman you spoke of, this Sarah Nyoni?’

Peter hesitated. ‘Not yet. She has disappeared, but again, it’s only a matter of time. She cannot hide for ever.’

‘Time,’ Colonel Bukharin repeated. ‘Yes, there is a time for everything, but your time is passing. This thing must be done soon, or not at all.’

‘Days only, not weeks,’ Peter promised, but his voice had become thin and Colonel Bukharin, the consummate hunter of men, sensed his advantage.

‘This Zebiwe is a hard man, I am not sure he will respond to the treatment at our clinic. I do not like this business of a diamond treasure. It smacks too much of a story for young boys.
And I do not like the fact that you have let this Matabele woman elude you. This whole business begins to depress me.’

‘You are unduly pessimistic – everything is going well. I need just a little time to prove it to you.’

‘You already know that I cannot remain here much longer, I must return to Moscow. And what must I tell them there – that you are digging for treasure?’ Bukharin threw up both
hands. ‘They will believe that I am turning senile.’

‘A month,’ Peter Fungabera said. ‘I need another month.’

‘Today is the tenth. You have until the last day of the month to deliver both money and the man to us.’

‘That is cutting it too fine,’ Peter protested.

‘On the first of next month, I will return. If on that date you cannot deliver, I will recommend to my superiors that this entire project be aborted.’

T
he adder was almost six feet long and seemed as gross as a pregnant sow. It was coiled upon itself in a corner of the mesh cage, and the
patterning of its scales was in soft purples and golds, in russet and madder, all the colours of autumn enclosed in perfect diamonds each of which was outlined in the black of mourning.

However, the colours and patterns were not sufficiently spectacular to divert attention from the creature’s hideous head. It was the size of a poisonous gourd, but shaped like the ace of
spades, flattening and tapering to the snout with its nostril slits. The adder’s eyes were bright as beads of polished jet and its tongue was bifurcated and feathery light as it slipped in
and out between the grinning lips.

‘I can claim no credit for this,’ said Peter Fungabera. ‘The good doctor is responsible for this little entertainment.’ He smiled at Tungata. ‘It is many days since
last we spoke, and frankly, your time is up. So is mine. I must have your agreement today or else it does not matter. After today you are expendable, Comrade Zebiwe.’

Tungata was strapped to a sturdy chair of red Rhodesian teak. The mesh cage stood on the table before him.

‘You were once in the Game Department,’ Peter Fungabera went on. ‘So you will recognize this reptile as
bitis gabonica
, the Gaboon adder. It is one of the most venomous
of African snakes, its toxicity exceeded only by the mamba. However, its sting is more agonizing than either mamba or cobra. It is said that the pain drives men mad before they die.’

He touched the cage with the tip of his swagger-stick, and the adder struck at him. The coils propelled the monstrous head across the cage in a liquid blur of movement, half its gross body
aerialized by the power of the strike; the jaws gaped to expose the butter-yellow lining of the throat, and the long recurved fangs were gleaming white as polished porcelain, as it crashed into the
wire mesh with a force that shook the table. Even Peter Fungabera jumped back involuntarily, and then chuckled apologetically.

‘I cannot stand snakes,’ he explained. ‘They make my flesh crawl. What about you, Comrade Minister?’

‘Whatever you are planning, it is a bluff,’ Tungata answered. His voice was weaker now. Since their last meeting, he had spent many days at the wall in the sun. His body seemed to
have shrunk until it was too small for his head. His skin had a grey tone, and looked dusty and dry. ‘You cannot afford to let that thing sting me. I expect you have removed the poison
sacs.’

‘Doctor.’ Peter Fungabera turned to the regimental doctor who sat at the far end of the table. He rose immediately and left the room.

‘We were quite fortunate to find a specimen of the Gaboon,’ Peter Fungabera went on conversationally. ‘They are really rather rare, as you know.’

The doctor returned. He now wore thick gloves that reached to his elbows, and carried a large striped bushrat the size of a kitten. The rat squealed piercingly and struggled in his gloved hands.
Gingerly the doctor opened the door in the top of the mesh cage, dropped the rat through it and immediately snapped the sprung door closed. The furry little animal scampered around the cage,
testing the mesh walls with its nose and whiskers until suddenly it saw the adder in the corner. It leaped high and landed on stiff legs and then retreated into the opposite corner and crouched
there, staring across the cage.

The adder began to uncoil, its scales glowing with an unearthly loveliness as it slid silently over the sanded floor towards the cornered rat. An unnatural stillness overcame the small animal.
Its nose no longer twitched and wriggled. It sank down on its belly, fluffed out its fur and watched with mesmeric fascination as repulsive death slid inexorably towards it.

Two feet from the rat the adder stopped, its neck arched into a taut ‘S’ and then, so swiftly that the eye could not record it, it struck.

The rat was hurled back against the mesh, and immediately the adder withdrew, its coils flowing back upon itself. Now there were tiny droplets of blood on the rat’s russet fur, and its
body began to pulsate rapidly. The limbs twitched and jumped without coordination and then, abruptly, it squealed, a shrill cry of unbearable agony, and rolled over on its back in the final
convulsion of death.

The doctor lifted the carcass out of the cage with a pair of wooden tongs and carried it from the room.

‘Of course,’ said Peter Fungabera. ‘You have many times the body mass of that rodent. With you it would take much longer.’

The doctor had returned and with him were the guard captain and two troopers.

‘As I said, the doctor has designed the apparatus. I think he has done excellent work, given the limited materials and shortage of time.’

They lifted Tungata’s chair and placed him closer to the cage. One of the troopers carried another smaller mesh cage. It was shaped like an oversized fencing helmet, and it fitted over
Tungata’s head, closing snugly around his throat. From the front of the encompassing helmet protruded a mesh tube that resembled the thickened and shortened trunk of a deformed elephant.

The two troopers stood behind Tungata’s chair and forced him forward until the open tube of mesh aligned with the door of the adder’s cage. Dexterously the Shona doctor clipped the
tube of Tungata’s helmet and the cage together.

‘When the door of the cage is raised, you and the Gaboon will be sharing the same living space.’ Tungata stared down the mesh tube to the door at its extremity. ‘But we can
stop this at any time you say the word.’

‘Your father was a dung-eating Shona hyena,’ said Tungata softly.

‘We will induce the adder to leave its cage and join you in yours by applying heat to the far wall. I do advise you to be sensible, Comrade. Take us to old Lobengula’s
tomb.’

‘The king’s tomb is sacred—’ Tungata broke off. He was weaker than he had realized. It had slipped out. Up to now he had stubbornly denied the existence of the tomb.

‘Good,’ said Peter happily. ‘At least we have now agreed that there is a tomb. Now agree to take us there, and this will all end. A safe flight to another land, for you and the
woman—’

‘I spit on you, Fungabera, and I spit on the diseased whore that was your mother.’

‘Open the cage,’ ordered Fungabera.

It rattled up in its runners – and Tungata stared down the tube as though down the barrel of a rifle. The adder was coiled on the far side of the cage, staring back at him with those
bright black eyes.

‘There is still time, Comrade.’

Tungata did not trust his voice to speak again. He steeled himself, and stared into the adder’s eyes, trying to dominate it.

‘Proceed,’ said Peter, and one of the troopers placed a small charcoal brazier on the table. Tungata could feel the heat from it even where he sat. Slowly the soldier pushed the
glowing stove closer to the far mesh of the cage, and the adder hissed explosively and uncoiled its body. To escape the heat, it began to slither towards the opening of the mesh tube.

‘Quickly, Comrade,’ Peter urged him. ‘Say you will do it. There are only seconds left. I can still close the door.’

Tungata felt the sweat prickle as it burst out on his forehead and slid down his naked back. He wanted to shout a curse at Peter Fungabera, to consign him to a fate as horrid as this, but his
pulse was pounding in his own ears, deafening him.

The adder hesitated at the mouth of the tube, reluctant to enter.

‘There is still time,’ Peter whispered. ‘You do not deserve such a loathsome death – say it? Say you will do it!’

Tungata had not realized how huge the adder was. Its eyes were only eighteen inches from his, and it hissed again as loudly as a punctured truck tyre, a vast exhalation of air that dinned in his
eardrums. The trooper pushed the glowing charcoal brazier hard up against the mesh, and the adder thrust its head into the opening of the tube and its belly scales made a dry rasping sound against
the wire.