Three quarters of a million square kilometres of mangrove and marsh — more than twice the area of Belgium — veined with a maze of rivulets, the wetland scrub lifting to secondary forest, where the earth rose into hills and ruined villages told of failed farming communities, and into timeless rainforest away back along the tap-root of the main stream, the River Gir. A wasteland that had once been home to millions, now deserted and destroyed — a mess of polluted swamps and abandoned towns. Ruined enterprises and broken dreams.
Full, still, of untold potential and fabulous fortunes for those with the confidence, the assurance, the simple blind courage, to go eastwards up the rivers and into the dark heart of the place, Richard admitted ruefully to himself. That was why, in the final analysis, the only living people you were likely to find in the delta were the marauding armies that had been chased out of Somalia, Uganda, Rwanda, Sierra Leone and the Congo. For there was much for them to try and get control of — if they could come up with the equipment and expertise to extract it in any meaningful quantities. And, of course, it wasn’t only the Rwanda’s genocidal Interahamwe or Uganda’s Lord’s Resistance Army, or Moses Nlong’s newcomers the Army of Christ the Infant who were greedy for the potential riches. There were companies, corporations, national and international financial organizations and NGOs from Bretton Woods to Beijing who were drooling for a piece of the action too. That, after all, was why he was here himself.
There was oil along the coast and in the delta itself. Oil in such abundance it came flooding out of the ground, so that the disgruntled locals in their vast shanty towns at the southern edge of the capital city of Granville Harbour hardly needed to bother tapping the pipes for illegal fuel — or to ignite explosive protests. There were diamonds in the south, there was gold in the rivers; tin, coal and copper in the mines. And the new precious metals too — plutonium, uranium and, of course, tantalum in the most sought-after form of alclass="underline" the incredibly precious, ruthlessly harvested conflict mineral — jet-black coltan.
As Richard’s narrow gaze swept over the matted wilderness, all dead darkness except for a momentary flash of gold where the setting sun caught the broader flow of a major artery, Richard’s perspective was changed, and he found himself looking along the coast to the south. Down to where the delta’s outer edges were fringed with an unsettling intensity of flames as the hundreds of oil wells there continued to flare off millions of cubic kilometres of gas, in spite of international attempts to stop the dangerous, environmentally damaging practice.
But it was more than the sight of the oil-dark, deadly jungle framed with the unsettlingly vivid fires that had his breath coming short and his belly feeling tense. More than his memories of the danger that he, his wife Robin and two young women in the hands of ruthless kidnappers had faced there on his last visit. More than the fact that Robin was there again already, waiting for him alone in their suite at the Granville Royal Lodge Hotel. More than the fact that the two young women they had risked so much to rescue — Celine Chaka, the president’s estranged daughter, and Anastasia Asov, disowned and disinherited daughter of his Russian business associate Max Asov — were somewhere upriver running a rescue station and mission school for orphans in the heart of the delta itself. More than the patently dangerous wall of thunderheads massing in black battlements out over the Atlantic, racing eastwards in over the airport as they were racing west to slip beneath them — turbulence or no.
It was not what lay below him or behind. It was what lay ahead.
When General Dr Julius Chaka, President of Benin la Bas, had asked Richard and Robin as representatives of Heritage Mariner to attend the conference with their Africa financial team, Richard’s first instinct had been to go to Jim Bourne, head of the massive shipping company’s intelligence section, London Centre. It was the better part of four years since Julius Chaka had assumed control of the country — with the Mariners’ almost accidental connivance. Richard tried to remain distanced from the country and his company’s involvement in transporting the oil from its wells to the refineries in Europe, but like someone worrying a loose tooth or rubbing an old wound, he found himself incapable of leaving it utterly alone. He ordered London Centre to keep an eye on developments in Benin la Bas; had found his own attention drawn to news reports, political discussions and financial commentaries about the place.
Robin shared neither his unease nor his distaste — and she felt a positive friendship for Celine and Anastasia — which was only strengthened, of course, by their disinheritance. Her only hesitation about accepting Julius Chaka’s invitation was that, as a friend and champion of the daughters, she might find it hard to take the required positive attitude to the fathers — even though they represented so much political and financial power. ‘Max Asov will be there?’ she asked in confirmation, looking down at the old-fashioned, gold-embossed invitation on the morning it first arrived at Heritage Mariner.
‘Max, several other big Russian players, all the usual international teams…’ he answered.
Robin interrupted with a cynical laugh. ‘Chaka’s after money. This is a loan and investment hunt.’
‘Looks like it,’ he admitted. ‘But in the right hands it could be a sweet deal.’
‘Are we interested?’ she asked quizzically.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered slowly. ‘But I know who I can ask.’
‘Jim,’ she had said at once. ‘Jim Bourne at London Centre.’
‘Under the late President Liye Banda, the place was a kleptocracy,’ Richard said to Jim Bourne in the main office at London Centre later that same day. ‘Like the Congo under Mobutu in the nineties. Like Zimbabwe under Mugabe. The country was going down the drain in every way and nothing got done except by bribery and corruption. Everyone skimmed their cut off every deal from the president on down. It was the only way to survive for most of the country, and anyone who didn’t have a position of power just went to the wall. Or rather, to the shanties and the slums where they simply starved to death.
‘President Chaka’s had four years since Banda died and he assumed power, and now he’s after international funding — from Heritage Mariner amongst other possible sources. From every possible source, as far as I can see, in fact. But has he managed to pull things round? Has all the graft and corruption stopped? Is Benin la Bas a good risk nowadays?’
Jim Bourne looked at Richard with a lopsided grin, pulling his pencil-thin Rhett Butler moustache awry. ‘Best way to find that out, Boss, is to take a look-see for yourself. Let Robin take the company jet and go in first class like they expect. Let her follow the red carpet route with all the other big wheels. Keep her feet clean and her eyes blinkered by the wonderful welcome…’
‘While I go in like a tourist. Commercial flight. Keeping out of first or business class. No fuss or fanfare. See how far I get down and dirty on the ground. Find out how much it really costs to get anywhere in Benin la Bas nowadays.’
‘It’ll set you back about five hundred dollars one-way for the airfare,’ said Jim wryly. ‘Rumour has it that’s about the amount it used to take to get you safely through the airport immediately after you landed…’
‘Do tell. I wonder if it still does? Perhaps I had better take a close look for myself. If I can convince Robin to go in with the team and leave me to my own devices…’