The Twain Maxim (15 page)

He sat on the veranda with his notebook. He was wearing linen combat pants, a linen shirt and a light combat jacket. All the pockets made sense now. He stuffed them with things he might need from the rucksack, like maps, a pocket knife, his GPS, an old-fashioned compass, painkillers, the
fire-lighting
kit, his phone and some money. He put a sweatband on his left wrist, where his Rolex Cosmonaut had been, for when the sweat on his forehead was running into his eyes.

He plugged the sat phone into his USB port. Windows 7 picked it up and opened a network connection. Jim’s email would take fourteen hours to download at the speed his phone could talk to the Internet so he went into it via a web interface. His old bank had insisted on sending him huge document files filled with market news and analysis, which were furring up his email. He ignored it and went to Stafford’s message.

The plane would land at nine a.m. and the lawyer, Mr Benoît Mbangu, would arrive beforehand to resolve any issues that arose. He replied to Stafford:

He added the lawyer’s details.

There was an email from St George: Jim was the beneficial owner of 28.9 per cent of Barron. St George noted that if he bought any more he would have to mount a full bid for the company. Jim also noted that shortly after he had left London the company’s price had shot up dramatically on the back of news that he had such a big holding. The markets loved rumours and his apparently wild buying spree had set off a blizzard of them.

Jim wrote back to St George: “No takeover, thanks.”

He replied to an email from Tulip. He told her how nice it was in Congo and not to worry. Sitting outside in the heat was a nuisance but the phone wouldn’t connect for the data in the bungalow.

Jim couldn’t possibly log off without checking the markets so he logged on to his ed websites to find out what was going on. The pages loaded at a snail’s pace, if not slower – it took a minute just to get a new screen up. Time was flying past so he logged off and closed down his notebook. The phone’s batteries were more than half gone so he went inside to put it on charge.

Hélène had tidied the bedroom and was sitting in the chair. She watched him inscrutably as he got his cables out of his flight bag. There seemed to be just one socket by the bedside table. He bent down to inspect it. “Bugger.” It was a strange semi-oval-shaped thing with three round holes. His adaptor wouldn’t fit. Maybe Mycock had one. If not whatever charge was left in his phone would have to do. He put his computer
away and stuck the phone into his pocket. It was seven thirty.

Jim walked to Mycock and Higgins’s bungalow, and found them inside having breakfast. “Morning,
bwana
,” said Mycock. He seemed disappointed to see Jim so early.

Higgins nodded.

“Thanks for the girl,” said Jim.

“Liked that, did you?” said Baz.

Higgins looked at his boss – a flat expression Jim might have taken for contempt.

“Yeah,” said Jim, “a lot. I want to fly her to the airport at Goma after breakfast. I’m going to add her to my collection.”

“Collection?” asked Baz.

“Of little helpers,” said Jim.

Higgins looked at his plate and seemed to be taking a long, deep breath.

“And you want us to fly her to the airport for you?” asked Baz

“Yes,” said Jim, “after you’ve finished breakfast, of course. I own a third of the helicopter so I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

“All right, I’ll get on to it,” said Higgins.

“As soon as you get back you can drop me and Man Bites Dog off at the kimberlite.”

“OK,” said Baz, a smirk on his face. “How big is your collection of little helpers?”

“Very,” said Jim.

“Nice,” said Baz.

“If it flies, floats or fucks,” said Jim, “make sure you own it.”

Man Bites Dog had appeared in the rear doorway. “As soon as Mr Higgins has finished his breakfast,” Jim said to
him, “bring Hélène to the helicopter pad.”

“Yes,” said Man Bites Dog.

Jim took out of a pocket the piece of paper with the lawyer’s details written on it. He turned to Higgins. “My plane should be waiting but if it isn’t this man, Benoît Mbangu, will be there to take care of Hélène. Here’s my phone number if you need to call me.”

“How do you know Mbangu?” said Higgins, his brow furrowed.

Baz threw him a questioning look.

Jim yawned. “Do I look like a muppet?” he said.

Higgins didn’t reply.

“Well, that’s settled, then,” said Baz. “Coffee, Jim?”

“Sure,” said Jim, sitting down. “Black, no sugar. I hope it’s strong.”

“Oh, it’s strong, all right – it’ll put hairs on your tongue.”

Jim’s eyes flicked to Man Bites Dog, who was waiting to be called. He couldn’t start to imagine the life the boy had led. His youthful voice repeated in Jim’s head: “Show weakness here and you will die.” The ferocious coffee hit his stomach and suddenly his insides were turning over. He finished it with a poker face, then stood up. “See you guys later.” He sauntered out of the room. If the bottom wasn’t going to fall out of his world, the world was certainly about to fall out of his bottom.

He walked casually, if somewhat stiffly, to his bungalow and as soon as he was through the door he sprinted for the bathroom where the porcupine wreaked its revenge.

By the time he emerged, the helicopter was taking off. He watched it appear above the rooftops and arc away. He had
taken some Imodium from the medical kit and felt just about all right. There had been fifteen minutes of discomfort but the purge, he hoped, had done the trick Nature intended. Perhaps that would be the last of it. Having the trots in the jungle would be no fun at all.

In about an hour the helicopter would be back and he would be on his way into the hinterland. Man Bites Dog was standing by Baz’s bungalow, a sack on one shoulder and a Kalashnikov on the other, slung low, ready to be brought to bear. He had a machete on his hip and an ammo belt strung across his chest. He looked perfectly comfortable, as if this was his natural dress.

He looked terrifying.

Jim went across to him. “Hi.”

“Hello,” said Man Bites Dog.

“So, we’re off in a bit.”

“Yes,” said Man Bites Dog.

“I’ve got to see a man about a plug,” said Jim.

“No, mate,” said Baz, “there’s not one spare in the whole fucking place.”

“Shit,” said Jim. “I’m down to, like, a third of my power on my phone.”

“Too bad,” said Baz. “You can use mine when you get back if you need it.”

“Not much use while I’m in the bush,” said Jim.

“It’s a tough break,” said Baz. “You should just keep it off until you need it.”

“Sharp thinking,” said Jim, in a bid to fit into his new tough-guy persona.

“We’ll just jump on and get over to the Kimberlite. The
sooner you’re in, the sooner you’ll be coming back.” Baz grinned.

“Agreed,” said Jim. “Would you mind if I mount a takeover bid?”

Baz shrugged. “Yeah – at this stage anyway. When we’ve proved the diamonds are there you can go ahead, but we’re way too cheap right now.”

Jim nodded. “That was my thinking.”

“But we’re a public company so you’re free to do what you like.” Baz, of course, controlled Barron through a network of front companies, but he’d happily sell out to Jim for a big hike in the price: the young man was clearly loaded and full of shit, so why not take advantage of that?

“I wouldn’t like to go against the founder,” said Jim. “You know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah,” said Baz, “but you’re a clever fellow.”

“I’ll need the grid references of where Terence fell.”

“Sure,” said Baz. “I’ll get ’em for you.”

“See you later,” said Jim.

“Jim,” called Baz. “Something’s been eating me since breakfast.”

“What?” said Jim.

“How come you’re hooked up with a Directorate guy like Mbangu?”

Jim had no idea what Baz was talking about. He put on his best teenage sneer. “You do think I’m a muppet, don’t you?” “No,” said Baz, “just wondering how a guy like you happens to have connections with the French secret service.”

Jim was flabbergasted, but he didn’t show it. He’d have to ask Stafford…

He went back to his bungalow, switched on the GPS and
walked out into the rising heat. He waited for the yellow Garmin handset to synchronise with the navigational satellites above, then set the camp as a way point.

Man Bites Dog had come up behind him and was looking over his shoulder. “I can find you back,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Jim, “I’m sure you can, but we can’t be too careful. We’ll take this as back-up.” He pulled out the sat phone and called Stafford. The phone was answered immediately. “She’s on her way. Can’t talk.” The French secret service thing would have to wait. “Battery’s low.”

“Very well.”

Jim hung up. He looked at the two battery bars. He really hated his mobile running down, even if he was only going for a short walk in London. Now he was about to go hoofing it in a jungle full of wild animals and angry pygmies, with the world’s most dangerous volcano over his head, a belly full of dodgy monkey stew, three septic ulcers on his torso, and a boy with an assault rifle. “I must be fucking mad,” he muttered.

Man Bites Dog let out a peal of laughter and clapped. “Yes, you are! Oh, yes, you are.” 

Baz sat in the front seat of the Huey, Jim and Man Bites Dog in the back. The boy was as excited as Jim was apprehensive. The visibility from the back was much less than it was from the cockpit and Jim could see why Kitson had perhaps been pressing himself against the door. Man Bites Dog was humming to himself quietly, jiggling his legs.

“You’ve been in this helicopter before?” asked Jim.

“Yes, no, maybe,” said Man Bites Dog.

“Won’t take long,” shouted Baz. “Five minutes in this is a day on foot, or maybe more, depending.”

The helicopter heaved up into the air amid a cloud of dust.

“Yes, yes, yes!” said Man Bites Dog.

Jim gazed out of the window as the chopper rose above the dust-cloud. He had seen Vesuvius but that was just a puppy compared to Nyiragongo and Nyamuragira. At four thousand feet it was barely a third of their height. Aeons ago the Nubian and Somalian tectonic plates had clashed here to form the Rift Valley to the east and giant volcanic mountain ranges to the west, separating the wet Congo basin from the dry plains of the East African savannah. The great collision had created the cradle of humanity itself, where perhaps as few as a hundred struggling apes had survived to become the forefathers of
Homo sapiens
.

Jim looked at the approaching Nyamuragira: a green nuke just resting between detonations.

Man Bites Dog was looking out of the other window as he bounced his Kalashnikov on his lap. His excitement was almost infectious. Jim went back to watching the jungle, which was probably unchanged since his great-granddad fifteen thousand generations back had swung out of a tree and decided to take his chances in the long grass. If human generations were scaled down from twenty-five years to one in a minute, then humanity had about ten days’ worth of ancestors. That was the kind of thing Jim thought about when he was trapped in an uncomfortable situation, and he was no lover of helicopters.

The chopper was dropping down now, heading for somewhere in the jungle ahead.

Baz was holding up a thumb. A five-minute ride, Jim decided, was definitely better than a day’s walk in the sweltering heat.

Man Bites Dog seemed oblivious to Jim’s discomfort: he was a picture of happiness.

Then they were below the tree-line and they landed with a bump. Now Jim was smiling too.

He waited for Higgins to make his move, then opened the door and climbed out. He grabbed his rucksack and swung it to the ground. The rotor blades were still sweeping menacingly above his head. Crouching, he moved away from the helicopter, blown by the wind and the dust. Man Bites Dog jumped out behind him and ran past. The blades were slowing, the wind was dying and the dust settling.

When he was at a comfortable distance from the Huey he retrieved his GPS and fixed the kimberlite’s grid reference.
Baz was fumbling in his bush jacket as he approached. He pulled out a scrap of paper. “These are those co-ordinates,” he said.

“Read them out, will you?” Jim asked, and as Baz did so, he entered them into the Garmin. The point was west, about two miles. “So this is our kimberlite?” he said, when he’d finished.

“Yeah,” said Baz. “One of three beauties.”

Jim walked to the rim of the kimberlite and looked down into the valley. He could make out the camp on a plateau in the foothills, and beyond that the jungle rolled onwards. It was an amazing vista across an endless land, which seemed barely touched by man. There were roads and villages in there somewhere, farms, hamlets and people, but from the kimberlite, there was nothing but never-ending forest, stretching to the distant horizon.

His eyes caught something flashing in the ground about twenty feet away. He walked over to it, took his penknife out of his trouser pocket and opened the blade. He picked up what looked like a piece of smashed windscreen as big as his thumbnail, a transparent rhomboid. Jim stuck the blade into the crumbly cindery ground and prised it out. “Is this what we’re looking for?” he said, holding it up. It looked like two glass pyramids stuck together.

“What you got?” said Baz, crunching over to him.

Jim passed him the stone.

Baz closed one eye. “Fuck me.” He rolled it between his thumb and index finger.

“Baz?” said Higgins. “What is it?”

“A fifteen-,” he shook his head, “twenty-, maybe even twenty-five carat diamond.”

Jim spotted another flat surface glinting translucently in the sun. He knelt down and popped it out of the ground. It was smaller than the first but still much bigger than the cut stones he’d seen in engagement rings at jewellers’. As he stood up the whole oval surface of the kimberlite flashed and sparkled in the mid-morning sun. He took the first diamond back and handed the second to Baz, who examined the facets.

As he studied the stone, Jim got out his phone and dialled St George. “Bid for the company,” said Jim. “Can’t talk – low on batteries.”

Baz was clearly horror-stricken. “You can’t do that,” he said. “That’s insider trading.”

“Don’t think so,” said Jim. “Kimberlites and diamonds at Barron is all over the Internet chat rooms. The bulletin boards have been singing the story for weeks.”

Baz squeezed the diamond. “Oh, why not?” he said. “We’ll announce as soon as we get back that we’ve got rocks.”

Jim’s phone rang. It was St George. “I really need a price, old chap.”

“Two pounds fifty a share. Got to go.” Jim hung up. He still had two bars of power. He switched off the phone.

Higgins had taken the stone from Baz. “Nice quality,” he mused, “somewhere between white and blue.”

“Now all you’ve got to do is find Terence alive and you’re done,” said Baz, with a grudging smile. “You’re going to make a packet.”

“Yes and yes.” Jim strode back to his rucksack and stuck the GPS in his trouser pocket. He hauled the rucksack on carefully.

“Good luck,” said Higgins, patting his shoulder lightly.

“Yeah, good luck,” said Baz, punching the rucksack.

“Thanks,” said Jim, tottering.

“This way,” said Man Bites Dog.

Jim followed the boy to the lip of the kimberlite. He turned to see Baz and Higgins watching them go, almost as if they might wave.

Man Bites Dog stepped down from the kimberlite into the jungle and Jim followed.

“Fuck me!” exclaimed Baz, as they disappeared. “We’ve actually got a mine.”

“That’s funny.”

“Funny?” said Baz. “It’s not funny, it’s bleedin’ orgasmic. I can make an empty hole worth a hundred million dollars. Guess what I can do with a real diamond mine.” He plucked the stone from Higgins’s fingers.

Higgins was scanning the eroded surface of the kimberlite, his head down. “Here’s one,” he said.

“I’ll go and get some tools,” said Baz, and made for the chopper.

“And another,” said Higgins, as Baz sprinted off, “and two more. That’s a whopper.”

Baz returned with a giant screwdriver. He whistled when he saw the large diamond Higgins was indicating, lying practically loose in the crumbly rock. “I’ve never had to dig the hole before,” he said, sweat pouring down his face. “What a doozy,” he marvelled, when he had it in his palm.

“Tell you what,” said Higgins, “why don’t I spend a few days here, bag up the top stuff? I’ll split it with you.”

“Sure,” said Baz. “This goes down thousands of feet so I don’t see why we shouldn’t help ourselves to a bit on the top.”

“Fifty-fifty,” said Higgins.

“Mate, mate,” said Baz, “that’s robbery.”

“Well, yeah, it is.”

Baz stared at him. “OK, then, you. As it’s robbery we’ll go fifty – fifty.”