Wings of the Morning (30 page)

Andrade flashed a quizzical expression but King refused to comment, knowing how much the Major was relishing the effects on him of this little peep show. They withdrew to return to the office
and King noticed that one of the guards followed them. He glanced at his watch. The hour had almost passed.

Andrade turned to say, ‘make yourself comfortable, Mr Offenbach and I will go to supervise the arrival of the prisoners. They were foolish to come and will be fortunate to leave, but they
did not have suffer our waiting room for too long — no more than twenty-four hours as I remember and there were some fringe benefits.’

King forced a neutral expression onto his face, refusing to ask the questions and knowing that Andrade could not resist continuing. What an opportunity to taunt the CIA and the whole American
ideal. The Major spoke again.

‘Poor Mr Wallinger is elderly and became distressed quite quickly. He tried to run for the door, but was of course prevented by my guards. They’re big fellows as you see,’ he
waved a hand at the uniform which had followed them in, ‘and perhaps he quite enjoyed a little of their black muscle. Your retired Colonel Macrum also became agitated because he can neither
sit nor stand for long. His language was offensive and he must have been quite a fighter in his glory days although he was no match for my people when they had to subdue him. I expect the new pains
of a broken head and a few smashed teeth took his mind of that bad leg of his.

But it was Ms Stockton who surprised me most. A most attractive and spirited lady so I had her removed to my office here where I could entertain her properly.’

Andrade was smirking as he finished and King had to hold onto his fury as the nausea rose in his throat. He forced himself to speak calmly.

‘Just get on with it, Major, and I’ll be waiting.’

‘So you will, and my man there will be waiting with you, just to make sure you have all you require.’

Andrade made a soft, unhurried exit, carrying an aura of superiority with the promise of the best prize yet to be enjoyed. King sat down at the table and turned his attaché case around to
face him, the retaining chain hanging down almost to the floor. He pretended to fiddle with the locks: he knew what would happen next and it duly did. King sensed the big guard move across the room
behind him, could hear the heavy footfall as he came close, smelt the bad breath, felt the massive arms clamp down around his chest. He knew what this was about. Andrade was titillated by violence.
He’d had his fun with the other three, more amusing than the pain he wreaked on his regular ‘visitors’ and why not finish up with a number on this gangling black Yankee who had
the answers and talked pretty but looked like a puff of wind would blow him over. There was no risk to the deal after all: none of them would be leaving without that money order which he had
already inspected being safely in his pocket and ready for Doe when he woke up from his latest excess. The Major was already looking forward to the bonus of seeing a bowed and broken Offenbach as
he strode out to collect the prisoners off their transport bus.

Back in the office, things were not going to his plan. King waited for the big guy to tighten his grip before he stood abruptly, kicking back his chair and grunting with the effort of picking up
eighteen stone of flab and muscle. Without an instant’s pause, he bent forward and tipped the guard clean over his head to land on his back across Andrade’s polished desk which,
satisfyingly, lurched on broken legs under the impact. King was on the big man in a flash, beating the stolid black face with a flurry of blows and finishing with a crashing blow to his forehead
from the heavy glass ashtray which had been sitting on the table. The guard lay senseless on the Major’s smashed desk and King calmly went to work.

He opened his case, withdrew the money order and one sheet of notepaper signed by Ronald Reagan. Above the signature, he wrote a polite message to Samuel Doe, placed it with the order in an
envelope which he closed with the Seal of the President of the United States of America, using equipment carried for the purpose in his case. This he locked again, adjusted the chain around his
wrist and sat back to wait.

Fifteen minutes later, he heard Andrade enter the room. King spoke without turning round.

‘Here’s what due to Mr Doe’, he said. ‘with a copy for you as I promised. One thing, though Major, you need more than one of these goons to damage me. And now, I hope my
people are here as we have a plane to catch’.

The four of them were back in Abidjan that evening, three abused and shocked citizens of the USA who would never again visit Africa. King Offenbach was relieved, but he allowed himself more
satisfaction some weeks later when Ambassador William Lacy Swing was on leave in Europe and they met at the American Embassy in London.

‘A week after you left,’ he reported, ‘we had a public execution in town. The President himself used the sword to take off old Andrade’s head, and he had to have a few
swings at it. It may be scuttlebutt, but the word is that he got only half the payment and that he was upset by a personal letter from the big Cowboy, explaining that he’d given the other
half to the Major. Now, how can all that have happened?

DAVID HEAVEN & MARTIN KIRCHOFF — 1985

One Monday morning in June, Martin failed to arrive at the office after the weekend and David was becoming worried by late afternoon when Ruth finally rang with the news which
he had guessed would be the explanation. Sol had been rushed into hospital on Sunday evening and they thought they would lose him during the night. It was not a new problem. Sol habitually caught
chills which went to his chest and knocked him out for a couple of days, but this one was much more serious and had quickly developed into a life threatening pneumonia.

Sol was, however, never a quitter and by the end of the week, Martin was back to report that his old Dad looked to have turned the corner. David was delighted and relieved, but he also saw an
opportunity.

‘As soon as he has enough strength, Martin, we must tackle him about the rent question.’ Martin knew he was right.

Kirchoff and Son occupied 100 Piccadilly under a smoke and mirrors sublet contract of a type beloved by old Sol, but Martin fretted constantly about the arrangement. Their landlord was a shadowy
individual with a vaguely described business which took up most of the building. As Martin and David agreed in the pub one evening, the two of them had no idea what sort of deal Sol had struck.
They knew they were paying much less than prevailing market rates, but they didn’t know why and Sol had remained determined not to discuss the matter.

‘It’s my little gift to the business,’ he would say to deflect them, ‘just enjoy the benefits and stop fussing about it.’

But now they had to fuss. They went to see him at home shortly after his release from hospital and sat down to talk under the eagle eye of Naomi who warned them not to tax him for too long.
Knowing him as they did, they were not surprised when he forestalled their questions.

‘Yes, yes, boys. I know you’re both right. We can’t risk me pegging out without you knowing how to keep the roof over our heads,’ and he continued, looking frail but
still as smug as only Sol knew how, ‘but I’m still not going to tell you the deal I had these years past because you don’t need to know now.’

‘Please don’t string us along any more Dad,’ put in Martin and his father turned on him with a flash of the old spirit in his eye.

‘Just listen to me, Martin. Our landlord in Piccadilly is that old rogue Gluchamheig.’

He ignored their astonished faces as he continued, ‘I won’t have to tell you how I got such preferential rates for us. He owed me big time for sending you, David, off on that wild
goose chase to Windhoek and beyond — promising us diamonds when he meant arms, and knowing full well that I would never deal in weapons. You boys know where I met Gluchy and I always thought
there was honour amongst us victims of that era, but apparently he thought differently. Well at least he’s paid for it now — paid by giving us a smart address over the past twelve years
for a fraction of its value.’

Sol stopped to recover his asthmatic breath and give himself a sip of water. When he went on, it was in a calmer, quieter voice.

‘Well anyway, what’s past is gone, but there is very recent news. Old Gluchy is even older than me and his business has been going bad on him: his health also. What a pair we
are!’ he said as he shook his shaggy head mournfully.

‘Now he wants out — to give up as soon as he can. He’s been on the lower two floors, the good ones, for years now and I suspect he hasn’t looked after them any too well.
He’s paid up until the end of next quarter, so he’ll be gone by autumn. What you two must do now is to get your backsides into a meeting with the very smart gentleman who owns the
freehold. My advice is to put our cards on the table. We’ve never been part of Gluchy’s outfit so probably we should never have been there, but we’ve paid our way and never been
any trouble. You two weren’t responsible for the arrangement and you can truthfully say that you knew nothing about it. It was all down to your doddering old dad who is fast losing his brains
and perhaps his breath before much longer. But as for the future, well how different could it be? Here are a couple of bright sparks, already established in the building and with a great business
which wants for nothing except a bit more space. You should propose to take on the whole place when Gluchamheig moves out. You offer full market price on a repairing lease, plus we’ll fund a
renovation to owner’s approval of those two lower floors. I’m pretty sure he’ll go for that!’

Sol sat back looking pleased with himself. The reactions from Martin and David were predictable. Martin gibbered with doubts and concerns, David was gung ho but they were together in doubting
that the owner would be interested in the proposition. In that, they were both happy to be proved wrong.

There was little to be done before the end of September because the reclusive Gluchamheig remained in silent situ behind closed doors, but they were able to calculate the financial impact for
this new responsibility. The figures turned out to be less demanding than expected, partly because they would be saving on the two overflow offices which they could now close, but also thanks to
Martin’s cautious foresight. It transpired he had worried about his father’s handshake deal and had been siphoning off profits into a ‘rainy day’ account which could now
help with the costs of refurbishment and a larger rent. It became Martin’s turn to look smug, and both Sol and David assured him that he deserved to.

Sol had another surprise for them. Three weeks later, he took them to lunch in a favoured restaurant in Shepherd Market and there explained his proposal.

‘Boys, we all know that I’m supercargo in the business these days, and there’s no regret or shame in that for me. It’s made me one happy old Jew to see how you work so
well together and what you’ve done with Kirchoff and Son. And that’s my point. The business has changed and moved on a long way — so far indeed that it now has the wrong name.
Kirchoff must go out with me. It’s high time for a new brand. Isn’t that what you smart crowd talk of these days David? That’s what we need now, a new house with a new name on the
door. You must choose one that the business can grow into.’

Martin and David looked at each other and knew immediately that they agreed with him. Kirchoff and Son had never been technically correct, although practically no one alive would know that. With
Sol’s almost complete retirement, it now sounded wrong and Martin was even more anxious than David that their title should be international rather than overtly Jewish. Sol was right. They
should find a name which offered room for growth.

The problem, of course, was what? The three of them went for days scribbling lists of possibilities and they were still undecided come October when they had the keys of the entire building and
were swarming with builders and decorators. At the first opportunity, Ruth came in to take a look around. She was startled by the size of the place. It somehow seemed to be coming together as more
than two extra floors, plus of course the basement which had been quite overlooked in the past. And there was more. Restoring it into one was putting the very soul back into this splendid building
with so much history trailing in its wake.

As she finished her wandering, Ruth happened to find Martin and David on the ground floor in the entrance hall, comparing notes and costings. Ruth was a very literary lady and despite her
upbringing and her faith, she liked to quote the Bible, ‘for the love of its language’ as she used to say. And now she approached her husband with a typically discreet nod of approval,
further emphasised by the sparkle in her eye.

She teased him. ‘St John. Chapter 14. Verse 2.’

Martin raised his eyes to heaven and smiled lovingly as he spoke.

‘Go on then, Ruthie. You know I won’t get the quotation. Just tell us.’

‘In my Father’s house are many mansions.’

That was the new name for their business. The Mansion House.