TEN
Zoo
Minister for the Outer Delta Bala Ngama was clearly not a happy man. Richard hated to imagine the conversation between the minister and his defeated corvette captain while the guests were being taken home in one helicopter after another. But, politician to his fingertips, he was equally clearly striving not to display the fact now, the better part of six hours later. Especially before guests from whom he was hoping to charm a considerable fortune. And with whom he was planning to complete a series of extremely lucrative deals.
‘Captain Mariner.’ Minister Ngama’s broad hand carefully encompassed both Richard and Robin, courteously but casually, because they happened to be at the front of the crowd of dignitaries. ‘Madame and Monsieur Lagrande, Mr Asov, Ma’m’selle Lavrov, Dr Holliday. Everybody… Welcome to the Zoo!’ He hesitated, beaming around their expectant faces, with a smile that reached from ear to ear but somehow didn’t quite climb to his eyes. Then he continued as he had begun, in English, ‘Except, of course, it is not a zoo in the old-fashioned sense of the word. Let us rather call it a game park-in-waiting. A nascent Masai Mara. Not even Zimbabwe’s Lower Zambezi or Uganda’s Impenetrable Forest game reserves and world heritage sites will rival the Benin la Bas Lower Delta wildlife sanctuary. It is — and will be — like much that you have seen on your visit so far, symbolic of my country and its vision for the future. What you will observe as we proceed is a collection culled regardless of expense from institutions all around the world, of animals, birds, insects, reptiles, amphibians and fishes that were once indigenous to the delta. Or the beginnings of an exhaustive collection at any rate: our pockets are not infinitely deep!’
Ngama turned, leading the group out of the considerable waiting area behind the big gates which said — in spite of his assurances — ‘ZOO’. ‘Here we have gathered together specimens of creatures which were driven to extinction in the hungry decades of the seventies, eighties and nineties but which we plan to reintroduce — in a controlled environment at first, but then more generally.’ He continued, striding purposefully forward between the first few cages. ‘And in the meantime, of course, the sanctuary will form the centrepiece of one of the most important industries of the early twenty-first century. One in which Benin la Bas will become a world-leader, like Florida, like Indonesia, like Egypt and the Sinai. Tourism. Eco-friendly tourism.’
Typically of life in a hot tropical climate, Richard, Robin and the rest had taken something of a siesta after their return from the disastrous war-game. The ebullient Max had choppered them to the hotel’s helipad, leaving the disgruntled, deflated — defeated — Captain Caleb Maina to oversee the towage of his crippled command to the naval dock for repairs, after a debriefing with the minister. Typically of his boundless energy, however, Richard had used the quiet lunchtime for a lengthy meeting with his team rather than for a rest, but that had been in the air-conditioned comfort of the Nelson Mandela Suite with a light buffet supplied by room service. Now, in the cool of the evening, more general business was resumed.
The visit to the zoo was unscheduled and unexpected. Richard soon worked out that it was simply a delaying tactic by which the minister — with the connivance of President Chaka no doubt — was hoping to buy time. And he needed a bit of time, unless he was happy to give in to Max’s almost overpowering demand that the Benin la Bas navy should purchase his Zubr — and several more like it — to replace the corvettes they currently relied upon. ‘But this is still part of what we were discussing at lunch,’ said Robin under her breath, as she and Richard followed Minister Ngama into the massive compound mazed with cages in a bewildering range of shapes and sizes. ‘If we want to keep the business, then we have to grease the wheels. But this time it’s not the president or his family we have to sweeten. It’s the whole country’s future. Is that going to be so bad?’
‘You mean is there much of a difference between being asked to help support a wildlife park that might one day become a massive tourist attraction and being asked to buy the president’s son a Rolls Royce or a private jet?’ asked Richard thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess it all depends on where the profits from the wildlife park are going to go in the end.’
‘You mean, if the president still creams off the proceeds from the tourist industry we help to set up as the price of carrying on with the contracts to ship his oil, then it doesn’t make much difference?’ probed Robin thoughtfully.
‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Richard. ‘I still remember a story told by a friend who had dealt with the previous administration here. Hoping to finalize a contract after months of head-to-head negotiations with a Russian rival, he sent the minister in question a case of ruinously expensive vintage champagne. Only to receive an email saying, “Thank you for the case of champagne. It fits neatly into the back of the American limousine your competitors have just given me.” This kind of game’s not just illegal under UK law, it could be expensively stupid in all sorts of ways.’ As if to echo his thoughts, a big cat of some kind started roaring in one of the cages, setting off a wild cacophony of hooting, screeching, howling and flapping. The stench of the place suddenly overwhelmed him, recalling at once visits to zoos and circuses in the days of his childhood, when the inherent cruelty of such institutions had been unknown to him, or to his parents. The feral stench of the jungle might indeed be symbolic of Benin la Bas and its future — in ways the minister had not yet considered. He looked into the first cage and was met by the burning golden gaze of a black panther that really and truly for a heart-stopping moment seemed to be eyeing him up for supper. Bonnie Holliday suddenly inserted her slim form between him and Robin, also unsettled, perhaps, by the sheer naked threat of the atmosphere.
‘This is good sport, eh?’ demanded Max, throwing his arm round Robin’s shoulder at that moment and letting his fingers drift apparently accidentally across the cinnamon flesh of Bonnie’s bare upper arm, while Irina Lavrov fell in beside the all too susceptible minister. ‘It is like shopping in Chechnya, eh? All that bargaining! All those mind games! I love it!’
‘I’m not so sure, Max,’ said Richard simply, as the panther was replaced by a pair of equally lean and hungry-looking leopards. ‘Heritage Mariner’s relationship with this place is quite complicated enough already. And do we really need to get involved in all this internal horse-trading and double-dealing just to get President Chaka’s OK over the fact that I want to move your oil from your wells — which just happen to be off his coastline — to our refineries in Europe.’
‘It’s not such a big deal for you, I know,’ Max allowed cheerfully. ‘Or not directly. But don’t forget, for us at Bashnev-Sevmash it’s the difference between keeping our full concession out there on the continental shelf and maybe having to share it with some nationalizing consortium set up by the minister for the outer delta — or pulling up sticks and walking away altogether. Then that would affect Heritage Mariner, would it not? At the very least you’d have to come back here hat in hand, trying to renegotiate your rates.’
The four of them followed the minister and his oh-so-charming companion past a cage full of mandrills, the cheeks of whose backsides were almost as colourful as those of their faces. ‘And anyway, as you know, we also want to make a sale with the Zubrs,’ Max continued. ‘Not to mention the fact that we want back into the gold business in the delta. You remember we were getting such good returns from our placer system there before the president’s people closed us down. He may be more amenable now — especially with the price of gold up at nearly two thousand US dollars an ounce.’