Wings of the Morning (41 page)

Rory Trollope, blood zinging and impelled by fury, had his way clear and he took it. He feinted in one direction, turning his back on the other assailant in deliberate invitation but then he
kept swinging in a vicious 180 degree arc with his weapon extended, held in both hands and in perfect timing to meet the neck of the guy moving in behind him. The kick to his arms felt as if he had
taken the head off but he didn’t wait to verify. With two large strides and a jump, he was off the stage and running for the door. Ten against one remained poor odds and he could hear the
frenzied pursuit: more telling, he could smell it. The divided glass door remained ajar as Desmond had left it. Rory deliberately chose the closed half and simply ran through it, bursting the frame
and scattering shards of broken glass as he did similar damage with the panga to the other half. Broken glass would not delay these guys for long, not with their feet rock hard from walking, but a
very little was enough, just enough to let him reach his car.

The Land Rover was never locked and he could feel the keys in one pocket of his shorts. Only time for one shot at this. He forced himself to stay focussed as he flung open the door and fed the
key into ignition. Engine fired, door slammed shut and the mob was on him, grabbing for the door handles, slashing at the windscreen. But they were unprepared and disorganised. Once on the move, he
was unstoppable. He picked up two of them on the bonnet and one was still there as he ran him into an upright of the Club House building. He found reverse gear and felt himself crunch over at least
one more. Then he was away and accelerating with a man still hanging onto the driver’s door handle until Rory wiped him off on the gatepost. He still had the panga on the seat beside him. He
was doing sixty and hitting fifth gear when he joined the highway for town.

By Rory’s watch, it was a little after 12.30 am by the time he made it back to the house which he shared with the Belgian communications man. He wondered if Alfred had been among the
casualties of his escape. He hoped not: he had other plans for Alfred. Rory reckoned the African would walk back to the house of his employers whom he had just murdered savagely. Alfred would have
hardly seen him in the chaos at the Club, but this vehicle, that was something different. He would have seen that clear enough and might recognise it again. Rory would not risk that. He had a score
to settle. So he manoeuvred the Land Rover as far into the car port as it would go and chucked an old tarpaulin over the back of it. Then he went into the house and changed into a pair of drill
trousers. He put on a clean shirt and a light sweater before returning to the shady recess of the deep veranda, settling in an easy chair with a very long, strong whisky and a packet of smokes.
Rory didn’t doze. He stayed silent but alert, stoked up by fury and regret. His vigilance was rewarded at 3 am when he saw the squat figure of Alfred trudge past in the still of the warm
night. Rory closed his eyes and gave himself a couple of hours sleep in his arm chair.

He awoke before 6 am and made himself a cup of coffee. The Belgian slept on. The house was silent. He walked into the living room and took a reel of fishing line from the drawer of the dresser.
In the kitchen, he found a pair of pliers and one of the heavy plastic straps which their gardener used to secure the jacaranda trees. He walked out to the Land Rover and removed the tarp from its
rear before climbing in and backing out onto the road. He moved slowly and without much noise. In less than five minutes, he was outside what had been the Arkwright dwelling which was a mirror
image of his own.

He reversed the Land Rover into the yard, stopping level with the veranda, climbed out and went to knock loudly at the front door: surprise, surprise, no reply. Rory pulled open the fly screen
and turned the handle of the main door. As he expected, it opened to his touch. If ever they had locked up, it would not have occurred to Desmond to do so before leaving in search of Dolly. Rory
continued his charade, walking into the living room and calling their names. The answering silence mocked him. Finally, he heard a soft shuffling coming up the path from the garden and the familiar
figure of Alfred came into view, his shirt and shorts rumpled as if from sleeping in them. He could hold his nerve, this one. He walked into the kitchen and stood respectfully in front of Rory.

‘Mornin’ Sah. No one done up yet Sah. Can I get you coffee please?’

Rory gave him the wide open smile that had so attracted Dolly before making his sudden move. He reached down from his greater height, interlocked his fingers and used both hands to grab the
bullet head and pull it sharply down onto his right knee, duly poised to meet it. Alfred grunted with the pain of an instantly broken nose. He was groggy, caught off guard: he had no time to react.
Rory seized him by the shoulders, whirled him around and ran him into the outside wall of the kitchen.

‘No coffee, but the day of reckoning for you, you evil bugger.’

He said this quite softly but with infinite menace and as Alfred groaned with the pain of a nose twice afflicted which made him battle for breath, Rory whipped his arms behind his back and used
the tree strap to bind them together with a force which had Alfred whistling through his teeth. Alfred might have been short in stature, but he was heavy in bulk. He could have been a modest sack
of flour, however, as Rory caught him up over his shoulder and walked out to his vehicle. He steadied the struggling burden over his shoulder with one hand as he used the other to open the rear
door of his Land Rover. He threw Alfred onto the floor inside and slammed the door. He walked around and climbed behind the wheel.

Rory drove out of town to a road which had been carved out for the disposal of mine tailings. It was little used these days, but Rory had located it for an earlier amorous adventure. It was
steep and rough and lonely. Two miles up it, he stopped and went around to the back of the Land Rover. He reached in, pulled out his captive and dumped him in the dirt and the dust. He left him
lying there while he rummaged for a long length of tow rope. He looped the rope around Alfred’s feet and tied the two ends, one to each of the brackets which protruded from the rear wings of
his vehicle. Spread eagled with arms still secured behind his back, Alfred could only glare balefully while Rory made the remainder of his preparations. First, he fetched a Stanley knife from the
parcel shelf and used it to cut off all of the black man’s clothes. Then he used the pliers to cut a length of the gut shorter than the towrope. He fashioned a loop in the centre of this and
bending down, he passed it around Alfred’s genitals and pulled it up tight. He fed both ends around the tow ball of the Land Rover, using the pliers to whip these into a firm knot. He went
back to Alfred, pulled him upright by main strength, and undid the gardening strap which pinioned his arms together.

Alfred’s stood there naked, pawing at the fishing line which encircled his manhood. Rory climbed back into the driver’s seat. He moved the transmission into low range, selected third
gear and moved off at a sure but gentle pace. Alfred lost his footing immediately, flopped on his back and was pulled by the fishing line and his balls in screaming agony until they gave up the
struggle and were wrenched from his scrotum. Thereafter, he bawled some more as the towrope took over and bounced his head over the rocky ground until it split and his life left him in a bloody,
messy pool. Rory didn’t stop for half a mile. Then he paused for long enough to cut loose the cadaver and kick it over the bank of the track and into a shallow ravine. He turned the Land
Rover and drove back down the track. It was eight o’clock before he was able to negotiate the peak traffic in town and to get to the airport to meet his boss.

Conrad listened to the full story with mounting nausea. God knows, he was no stranger to violence and was familiar with the horrors of Africa. But this account of attack and revenge truly
horrified him. This sort of action was worse than some of the tales bandied about of the earliest exploring and colonial days, worse even than the treatment meted out by slavers of days long gone.
This was wild frontier behaviour perpetrated by a young man of the vintage of his own sons who had themselves come into the world as result of cruel and humiliating use of woman by man. By Jesus
Christ, would we never learn?

Conrad was still reliving that dreadful day as his train arrived in Basingstoke. He collected his car and drove home to Tepee. She had been helped by that bit of warning
through Alexa’s quick phone call, so she was ready for him. Connie had opened up immediately which was unusual for him. More extraordinary, he had cancelled appointments and stayed away from
Bastion for two whole days whilst he went on a repetitive rant which meant that Tepee had to juggle her own schedule around so she could settle back and listen. After that, she got tough and drove
him out of the house, saying that he was overreacting and that they had to get their own life back. Connie took this calmly enough, but he became withdrawn and moody. It was obvious to her that was
shocked to the core by David’s intention, but there was more to his condition. Conrad was a tired man. He had built a great business at Bastion, but he carried too much of it by himself and
he couldn’t stop yet. Worse, Tepee noted, was the jealousy. Connie would never articulate it, but it was clear to her that part of him resented how close she had become to Alexa down the
years and this had become emphasised by Hugh’s arrival on the scene. Connie, by his own admission was a plodder. He achieved much, but by laborious effort while Hugh was forever soaring. It
bugged him that the girl he had saved in Bahrain was now enraptured by this financial wizard and a soul mate to his own wife, for God’s sake. All this was absurd, of course, and it was
nonsense. But she knew that he was plagued by such thoughts: he was becoming morose and withdrawn and she worried. But her own love for Connie remained undimmed and she was sure and determined that
she would pull him through it eventually. It would just take time. It would have helped her to help him if he had told her about Rory Trollope in Ndola, but he never did so.

DAVID HEAVEN — 1997

A great emotional burden fell on Alexa and Tepee. They were such close friends and their relationship was inevitably touched by the schism between Conrad and David. Tepee had
to admit that it was more of Connie’s making. Meanwhile, there were tough times for Alexa also. She had grown accustomed to frequent contact with Tepee, meeting as often as they could. Alexa
was all too aware of the problems Tepee was having and was upset that the best help she could provide was to keep her distance. That was the last thing the two girls wanted, but it was how matters
developed during the remainder of 1996 and into the following year.

At the beginning of March, Alexa and Tepee managed to scheme a get together to include their men plus David and Aischa. The six of them met for a long lunch in Knightsbridge and it was a good
party, distinguished by Aischa and Connie chatting about their shared grandchildren, the family of Oscar and Anna which now included Olty, Edward and Christina, with probably more to come, as they
agreed. Then David spoilt the mood. Flushed with fine claret and bonhomie, he tried to draw his old friend into providing some military advice for his mission. Connie froze and there was almost a
repeat of that wretched stand-off at The Mansion House. Aischa was furious with David, but too late. Old wounds had reopened.

By this time David was fully engaged in his Project Zero. He started with Martin. Their priority was quietly to extricate David from ongoing Mansion House business. There were some promising
younger people who could now move up and they reasoned that since David was nearly fifty-four, it would indicate good governance to observers that he was preparing his retirement. They started with
two key appointments.

Felix Maas was already established as a key new member of the team, who was now to work full time with David. That meant that Felix needed to know everything but David saw no risk in this. Felix
was a friend and a long time colleague, but he was also a vital asset. They couldn’t manage this without him and Felix was fascinated by the planning exercise of a lifetime. But he would have
to replace himself in the role of moving The Mansion House communications from catch up to new frontiers. He might just be able to keep a watchful eye on it, but he would need someone to run it for
him and he knew just the man.

Robert ‘Ginger’ McCabe was a flamboyant character with flame coloured hair and a wardrobe of brightly patterned waistcoats which he wore with jeans. He was football mad and a
passionate supporter of Everton. He was rampantly homosexual and moved like a hummingbird from one brief liaison to the next. What mattered to Felix was Ginger’s brilliance with computer
technology.

‘Better than me, I have to say,’ he told David, ‘and perfect for The Mansion House right now. He won’t stay long, but he’ll deliver for us.’

‘What about his discretion?’

‘Absolutely nil,’ replied Felix, ‘that’s not a problem on The Mansion House technical stuff but we’ll need to keep him well away from Zero.’