The Leopard Hunts in Darkness (70 page)

‘At the bottom of nearly every bully and tyrant lurks a coward,’ Tungata said in that deep rumbling voice. ‘You did right when you stopped me killing him, Pupho, a clean drop
from the sky is too good for the likes of him. He goes now to a juster fate. Take him out of my sight, for he sickens me to the gut.’

Peter Fungabera and the Russian were led into the interior of the Lockheed, and Craig and his party settled down to wait. It was a long wait. They sat in the shade thrown by the Land-Rover and
chatted in a desultory distracted fashion, breaking off every now and then as the squawk and warble from the radio in the Lockheed carried to where they sat.

‘They’re talking to Washington,’ Craig guessed, ‘via satellite.’

It was after ten o’clock before Morgan came down the ramp again, accompanied by one of his colleagues.

‘This is Colonel Smith,’ he told them and the way he said it, he didn’t mean to be taken literally. ‘We have appraised the items you have delivered to us, and we
conclude, at this stage, anyway, that they are genuine.’

‘That’s very generous of you,’ Craig dead-panned.

‘Minister Tungata Zebiwe, we would be very grateful if you could spare us a deal of your valuable time. There are persons in Washington very anxious to talk to you. It will be to our
mutual benefit, I assure you.’

‘I would like this young lady to accompany me.’ Tungata indicated Sarah.

‘Yes, of course.’ Morgan turned to Craig and Sally-Anne. ‘In your case it’s not an invitation, it’s an order – you’re coming with us.’

‘What about the helicopter, and the Land-Rover?’ Craig asked.

‘Don’t worry about them. Arrangements will be made to have them returned to their rightful owners.’

T
hree weeks later, at the United Nations building, a file was handed to the head of the Zimbabwe delegation. It contained excerpts from the three
green files, and transcripts of the debriefing of General Peter Fungabera by persons unnamed. The file was rushed to Harare, and as a direct result an urgent request was made by the Zimbabwe
government for the repatriation of General Fungabera. Two senior inspectors of the Zimbabwe police Special Branch flew to New York to escort the general home.

When the Pan Am flight landed at Harare, General Fungabera descended the boarding staircase from the first-class section of the Boeing handcuffed to one of the police inspectors. There was a
closed van waiting on the tarmac.

There was no media coverage of his return.

He was driven directly to Harare central prison, where sixteen days later he died in one of the interrogation cells. His face, when his corpse was spirited out of the rear entrance to the main
prison block, was so altered as to be unrecognizable.

A little after midnight that same night, a ministerial black Mercedes went off the road at speed on a lonely stretch of country road outside the city and burst into flames. There was one
occupant. By his dental bridgework, the charred body was identified as that of General Peter Fungabera, and five days later he was buried with full military honours in ‘Heroes’
Acre’, the cemetery for the patriots of the
Chimurenga
on the hills overlooking Harare.

O
n Christmas Day at ten o’clock in the morning, Colonel Bukharin left his escort of American military police at the allied guardhouse at
Checkpoint Charlie and set out across the few hundred yards to the East Berlin side of the frontier.

Bukharin wore an American military-issue greatcoat over his safari clothes, and a knitted fisherman’s cap on his bald head.

Halfway across, he passed a middle-aged man in a cheap suit coming in the opposite direction. The man might once have been plump, for his skin seemed too large for his skull and it had the grey,
lifeless tone of long captivity.

They glanced at each other incuriously as they passed.

‘A life for a life,’ thought Bukharin, and suddenly he felt very tired. He walked at last with an old man’s short hobbled gait over the icy tarmac.

There was a black sedan waiting for him beyond the frontier buildings. There were two men in the back seat and one of them climbed out as Bukharin approached. He wore a long civilian raincoat
and a wide-brimmed hat in the style much favoured by the KGB.

‘Bukharin?’ he asked. His tone was neutral but his eyes were cold and relentless.

When Bukharin nodded, he jerked his head curtly. Bukharin slid into the rear seat and the man followed him in and slammed the door. The interior was overheated and smelled of garlic, last
night’s vodka, and unwashed socks.

The sedan pulled away and Bukharin lay back and closed his eyes. It was going to be bad, he thought, it might even be worse than he had anticipated.

H
enry Pickering hosted the luncheon in the private dining suite of the World Bank overlooking Central Park.

Sarah and Sally-Anne had not seen each other for almost five months, and they embraced like sisters and then went into a huddle in a corner of the private lounge, trying to catch up with each
other’s news in the first thirty seconds, ignoring everybody else.

Tungata and Craig were more restrained.

‘I feel so guilty, Pupho – five months. It was too long.’

‘I know how they have kept you busy,’ Craig forgave him. ‘And I have been jumping about myself. Last time I saw you was in Washington—’

‘Nearly a month of talks with the American State Department,’ Tungata nodded, ‘and then here in New York with the Zimbabwe ambassador and the World Bank. There is so much to
tell, that I don’t know where to begin.’

‘All right, as a start,’ Henry Pickering suggested, ‘tell him about the dispensation that you prised out of the Zimbabwe government.’

‘That’s a good start,’ Tungata agreed. ‘First of all, my conviction and sentence under the poaching charge have been set aside—’

‘Sam, that’s the very least they could do—’

‘That’s for starters,’ Tungata smiled and clasped his arm. ‘That confession that you signed for Fungabera has been declared void, as it was obtained under duress. The
order declaring you an enemy of the state and people has been rescinded, the sale of Rholands’ shares to Peter Fungabera has been declared null and void. King’s Lynn and Zambezi Waters
revert to you.’

Craig stared at him wordlessly as he went on, ‘The prime minister has accepted that all the acts of violence committed by either of us were acts of self-defence, everything from your
killing of the Third Brigade troopers who were pursuing you on the Botswana border to the theft of the Super Frelon helicopter, and he has issued a full pardon—’

Craig merely shook his head.

‘Then the Third Brigade has been withdrawn from Matabeleland. It has been disbanded and integrated into the regular army, the pogrom against my people has been called off, and independent
observers have been allowed into the Matabele tribal areas to “monitor the peace”.’

‘That’s the best news yet, Sam.’

‘Still more – still more,’ Tungata assured him. ‘My Zimbabwe citizenship and passport have been returned to me. I am allowed to return home, with the assurance that there
will be no check placed on my political activities. The government is to consider a referendum on instituting a form of federal autonomy for the Matabele people, and, in return, I am to use all my
influence to convince the armed dissidents to come in from the bush and surrender their weapons under general amnesty.’

‘It’s all that you have been working towards – congratulations, Sam, I really mean that.’

‘Only with your help.’ Tungata turned to Henry Pickering. ‘Can I tell him about Lobengula’s Fire!’

‘Wait!’ Henry Pickering took both their arms and turned them towards the dining-room. ‘Let’s start lunch first.’

The dining-room was panelled in light oak, a perfect frame for the set of five Remington paintings of the old west that decorated three walls. The fourth wall was an enormous picture window that
looked out across the city and Central Park. The curtains were open.

From the head of the table Henry smiled down at Craig. ‘I thought we had better pull out all the stops,’ and he showed Craig the wine label.

‘Wow! The ’61.’

‘Well, it’s not every day that I entertain the current number one best-selling author—’

‘Yes, isn’t it wonderful!’ Sally-Anne cut in. ‘Craig was number one in the
New York Times
the very first week of publication!’

‘What about the TV deal?’ Tungata asked.

‘It’s not signed yet,’ Craig demurred.

‘But my information is that it soon will be,’ said Henry, as he filled the wine-glasses. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the toast: Craig Mellow’s latest opus, and its
long ride at the top.’

They drank, laughing and festive, and Craig protested with his glass untouched. ‘Come on! Give me a toast that I can drink as well.’

‘Here it is!’ Henry Pickering held up his glass again. ‘Lobengula’s Fire! Now you can tell him.’

‘If those two women will stop chattering for ten seconds—’

‘Not fair!’ Sally-Anne protested. ‘We never chatter, we seriously debate.’

Tungata smiled at her as he went on, ‘As you know, Henry arranged for Lobengula’s diamonds to be placed in safe-keeping and for them to be appraised. Harry Winston’s top men
have vetted them and come up with an estimate—’

‘Tell us!’ Sally-Anne called. ‘How much?’

‘As you know the diamond market is in a very serious depression at the moment – stones selling for seventy thousand dollars two years ago are fetching only twenty
thousand—’

‘Come on, Sam, don’t tease us!’

‘All right, Winston’s have valued the collection at six hundred million dollars—’

Everybody spoke at once and it took a while for Tungata to regain the floor.

‘As we all agreed from the beginning, the diamonds are to be placed in a trust fund, and I am going to ask Craig to be one of the trustees.’

‘I accept.’

‘However, fourteen of the stones have already been sold. I authorized the deal and the proceeds from it were five million dollars. The entire amount has been handed over to the World Bank
in complete discharge of capital and interest on the loan made to Craig.’ Tungata drew an envelope from his inside pocket. ‘Here is the receipt, Pupho, your share of Lobengula’s
Fire. You are free and clear of all debt now. King’s Lynn and Zambezi Waters are yours.’

Craig turned the envelope between his fingers, staring at Tungata, struck dumb, and Tungata’s smile faded as he leaned towards him and spoke seriously. ‘In return, there is one thing
I would ask from you, Pupho.’

‘Ask it,’ said Craig. ‘Anything.’

‘Your promise that you will return to Africa. We need men like you to help stave off these new dark ages that threaten to overwhelm the land we both love.’

Craig reached across the table and took Sally-Anne’s hand.

‘You tell him,’ he said.

‘Yes, Sam, we are coming home with you,’ she said softly. ‘That’s a promise.’

S
ally-Anne and Craig drove up the hills of King’s Lynn in the old Land-Rover. The late afternoon had turned the grasslands to cloth-of-gold,
and the trees on the crest of the hills wove delicate lacework against the high serene blue of the African summer sky.

They were waiting for them on the lawns under the jacaranda trees – all the house servants and herders from King’s Lynn. When Craig embraced Shadrach, the old man’s empty
sleeve flapped against his skinny chest.

‘Do not worry, Nkosi, I can work better with one arm than any of these puppies can with two.’

‘I will make you a bargain,’ Craig suggested, so that all could hear. ‘I will lend you an arm, if you will lend me a leg.’ And Shadrach laughed until the tears dripped
onto his shirt and his newest and youngest wife had to lead him away.

Joseph waited on the wide veranda, aloof from the common throng, resplendent in snowy white
kanza
and with the tall chef’s cap on his head.

‘I see you, Nkosikazi,’ he greeted Sally-Anne gravely, as she reached the top of the stairs, but he could not disguise the sparkle of pleasure in his eyes.

‘I see you also, Joseph. And I have decided we will have two hundred guests at the wedding,’ she answered him in fluent Sindebele, and Joseph covered his mouth with both hands in
astonishment, the first time she had ever seen him off balance.

‘Hau!’ he said, and then turned to his underlings.

‘Now we have a truly great lady at Kingi Lingi who understands all your monkey chatter,’ he told them sternly. ‘So woe unto any of you who lie or cheat or steal!’

Craig and Sally-Anne stood at the top of the stairs, holding hands while the people of King’s Lynn sang the song that welcomes the traveller home after a long and dangerous journey, and
when it was ended, Craig looked down at her.

‘Welcome home, my darling,’ he said.

And while the women ululated and danced so that the heads of the infants strapped to their backs jerked like little black puppets and the men roared approval, Craig kissed her on the mouth.