Wings of the Morning (31 page)

THIERRY CESTAC — 1986

Cestac heard the news on the radio late in the evening as he was sitting over a cognac at his house in the Latin Quarter. It was as he expected, but he was nonetheless pleased
to receive confirmation from the BBC World Service.

Earlier that day, a Soviet owned and operated Tupolev airliner had crashed in the Lebombo Mountains of South Africa whilst on a flight from Lusaka to Maputo. The aircraft was carrying a
delegation of the government of Mozambique, coming home from an international conference which had been hosted in Zambia. It was reported that there was a handful of survivors, but over thirty
passengers and crew had died and these included the pilots and the most significant traveller, the First President of Mozambique Samora Machel.

Cestac would have been yet more gratified if he could then have known the extent and longevity of investigation which this event was to set in motion. To confuse had been his role and motivation
from the first. Machel had been a determined and ruthless leader who fought his way with gun and word to assume control of a fledgling nation which had finally battled itself clear of Portuguese
colonialism and internal strife. Over years past, he had been forced to accept material help where he could find it. His sources had included the Soviet Union, still smitten by its vision of
neo-colonialist grandeur throughout Africa, and the extreme right wing politics of apartheid South Africa, anxious to keep its resource-rich neighbour quiescent and available for exploitation.

The shadowy figure who approached Cestac in 1985 worked for the USSR. He was a diplomat attached to the Soviet Embassy in Paris and had plenty of opportunity to move cautiously in developing his
relationship with Cestac. Over time, his confidence in the discretion of the Frenchman increased to the point when he was prepared to start talking about specific objectives. Cestac kept his views
to himself, but he found this Russian to be a self-important prick, forever rolling his eyes and speaking darkly of State secrets which he could not impart while the whole damn strategy would have
been obvious to many a lesser brain. Cestac hung on, feigning admiration for his contact’s intelligence assessments and expressing support for the Soviet Pan African cause. Money was no
longer a subject of interest to him. It kept rolling in but it was important to his reputation that he continued to charge ever more eye watering fees for his services. In addition, he would still
provide satisfaction for some aberrant taste, particularly if in doing so he could position himself to acquire influence over those with whom he was working.

Satisfyingly, that had been exactly the situation with this Russian, a jumped up toad for all that he was a full Colonel in the KGB. The man was heterosexual, but unwisely let slip to Cestac one
day that he enjoyed the attentions of an energetic dominatrix. It had taken Cestac one phone call to bring Madame Louche into the picture and she made an excellent film record of the attentions
which she wreaked on the Russian’s miserable body in the secure cellar beneath her luxurious apartment, within screaming distance of the Avenue de l’Opera. When Cestac had started to
play the video to his guest two nights later, he had been careful to be accompanied by Toussaint who sat silent, stropping his wicked knife on his right wrist and gazing malevolently at the Russian
who expostulated with rage and panic. Toussaint did not need to be told that this was all about Cestac’s ceaseless play for power. The KGB officer was well and truly caught between two
extremes, each as uncomfortable as the other. If he stormed out to reveal to his masters that he had fallen rash victim to a scam, he would be disgraced, demoted, likely eliminated. If he tried to
dispose of Cestac himself, he would have to face Toussaint first and one look told him that would be infinitely more painful than his session with la Louche.

So he took the third course as proposed by Cestac in reasonable terms. He capitulated to the request and introduced Cestac as the prime expert who must speak directly to his seniors running this
operation. The Russian’s escape seemed to be as simple as that. A week later, Cestac was introduced into a council of extremely senior people at the Soviet Embassy and quickly won respect for
his intimate knowledge of the shadows of Africa. It was what Cestac craved: the audience which made him a kingmaker. And he was good. He had the history, knew the people, understood the aims and
ambitions. In this case, the big picture was not hard to grasp. The Soviets had not lost their appetite for Africa, but they had experienced their frustrations — on the West Coast, in Angola
and Zaire. In the East, they were active in the Horn of Africa, but their star asset lay in Mozambique where they had fermented revolution and cultivated relationships over many years. They
believed they had Samora Machel in their pocket and that they could control a puppet regime right by the back yard of Western civilization as represented by South Africa. But now there was trouble
to confront. The recently established President Machel was starting to demonstrate his own agenda. At best, this was going to see him riding two horses and permitting some slippage towards the
West. At worst, he might move to abandon completely the Soviet hand which had been feeding him.

Moscow could not allow this to happen. So the conversation in Paris had turned towards the means of engineering a replacement for this popular President. How? After two fruitless discussions at
the Embassy which struck Cestac as being flabby in content and ill directed in tactics, it was he himself who tabled a suggestion on the third occasion. He identified the opportunity, set the date
and proposed the means.

‘A staged air accident,’ mused the Chairman. ‘Neat. But how do you guarantee the right people die? And what about our aircraft and crew?’

Cestac was ready for that.

‘Monsieur,’ he replied, ‘You will have a team on the ground to move in if the wrong people survive. As for the rest, the USSR can surely lose one plane from such a mighty
national fleet and there must be many more pilots available.’

It was a moment of glory for Cestac, exactly the drug of adulation which was the imperative for his existence. He basked in the ensuing praise and admiration, whilst remaining privately
sceptical as to how well the plan would work out at any level. Not that it mattered. The poor boy from Pau was becoming known in the world.

Typically, Cestac did not allow himself to overlook the important details of clearing up. A month later, the decomposing remains of his first contact, the much junior Colonel with unusual
preferences, were discovered seeping from a large bin liner by urchins playing on a rubbish tip south of the city. It would have been better if the body had rotted in peace, but it really
didn’t matter much. There was no ID on the corpse, but it bore the hallmarks of gangland. The marks of a heavy whip to the torso, and the entry point of a slim knife behind the right ear.

ALEXA BUSHELL — 1987

It was early evening on Friday 4th September, the start of another weekend and it was ten years to the day since she had arrived in Hong Kong to start a new phase in her life.
A long time, but looking back over all that had happened, it seemed longer. The first job had been OK. Alexa knew from day one that it was not going to be her heart’s desire, but it was an
entree. It kept her fed and clothed and housed in pretty considerable comfort, and since it was with Barings Bank, it gave her some social introductions.

After nine months of this existence, she took ten days holiday and flew back down to Sydney. She saw her friends, spent much time with Mark and inspected developments at the Clinic. The Peter
Bushell Foundation was up and running, and there was a blue plaque on the door to say so. Alexa fulfilled her promise and made a speech at a ceremony. She stood outside the apartment block in
Double Bay and thought of him. She returned to Hong Kong, conscious that she had turned a corner and should now be accelerating her progress. She started the search for a new job and a more
satisfying apartment which she could make into a home.

Alexa had met a few people despite leading a pretty quiet life. There were some girl friends from work and other contacts. She played regular tennis, went out for early evening suppers, did some
sailing and picnicking. She became close to an American girl, Tina Fullerton, married to a British husband Bill, who was a currency trader. Tina was gregarious and well connected. She moved quickly
to introduce Alexa to a head hunter who was recruiting for some corporate lawyers from London. They were getting established in Asia and they hired her at once.

Alexa relished her new job with Ince and Co. They were nice people with no doubt brilliant legal brains, but not always great at organising themselves. As the company expanded, the Partners came
to value Alexa’s ability to administer things with grace and style. In the same timescale, she established herself in a far bigger and better apartment, widened her circle of friends, did a
lot of partying. She rediscovered her joie de vivre and enjoyed a brief affair with a wild but entertaining Irishman.

Alexa was composed and happy with her life when she met Hugh Dundas for the first time in May 1981. Hugh was buying a small shipping company owned by a client of Ince and Co and Alexa had been
present at a meeting of all parties involved. She was there to ensure that people and arrangements were in the right place at the right time. Hugh Dundas took notice of her, more in fact than she
noticed him. She knew his name, of course. There were few in the Colony who did not. He had, it was said, a computer brain linked to a Midas touch. What he did not have, as Alexa observed when they
were introduced, was much in the way of style.

Dundas was a gaunt, thin streak of a man. He was then forty years old, stood almost six foot six, but was prematurely stooped with iron grey hair cut too short. He wore heavy, granny spectacles
and dressed in clothes which would have better suited his grandfather. The wags claimed that he wore black brogues on his huge feet even with shorts. But he disarmed with charm and his sombre face
could light up with a mischievous grin which gave the lie to those jealous souls who sought to dub him as a brilliant, geeky bore.

The shipping company was no big deal for Hugh Dundas. It was neither large, nor especially expensive. Alexa had no idea of its purpose within his grand design but she did take note of the
exemplary manner in which he handled the final arrangements. He seemed always to have time. Hugh was never in a rush, always moving calmly on those great feet, always ready with a gracious comment
to those around him. But in a way, it was not quite fair. He could better afford the time for polite asides than most of us because he needed less for the essentials. His memory was prodigious, his
grasp of detail fearsome, his choice of word and expression unfailingly well-judged and his vision for the total big picture apparently crystal clear with a decision, once taken, never being
revised. In an age before the concept of multi tasking, Hugh Dundas was already a master of the craft.

It happened that Hugh was back in the Ince office only a week later, to have lunch with Roland Carpenter, one of the founding partners who was a friend from schooldays. He was sitting in their
comfortable visitors’ area waiting for Roland when Alexa was passing through. She thought he should be better received, but he was entirely relaxed and happy to chat to her for a few minutes.
She was impressed that he remembered her name and role in the organisation.

‘It’s good to find a bit of organising flair here,’ he confided with an attractive, lopsided grin, ‘Lawyers are all very necessary in life, but they’re not so good
at taking decisions.’

Alexa was all too conscious that she was simpering like at a schoolgirl at his compliment. Rather more alarming, she felt a surge of energy pass between them. Dangerous ground, she thought and
felt both relief and frustration when Roland appeared in a rush to claim his guest. There was no further contact between them for a couple of months, but then Alexa was helping Roland with an art
exhibition in which the company had a legal interest and Hugh slipped in on the final evening. He advanced towards her desk and she rose to greet him.