Daniel let it hang there, and Stoffel rounded on the police constable.
Hey, Juno, this man is my friend. You treat him good, you hear me?
The constable laughed agreement. It always amazed Daniel to watch how well Afrikaners and blacks got along on a personal level once politics were left out of it; perhaps it was because they were all of them Africans and understood each other. They had been living together for almost three hundred years, Daniel smiled to himself; by this time they damned well should. You want your meat, don't you? Stoffel went on to tease the constable. You give Doctor Armstrong here a hard time and no meat for you. The hunters had their regular routes to and from the hunting concessions in the remote bush, and they knew the guards manning the road-blocks by name. Between them they had set up a regular tariff of bonsela. Hey! Stoffel turned to shout at his trackers on top of the truck. Give Juno here a leg of fat buffalo.
Look how skinny He's getting. We have to feed him up a bit. From under the tarpaulin cover they dragged out a haunch of buffalo, still in its thick black skin, dusty and buzzing with bluebottle flies. The hunters had access to unlimited supplies of game meat, legally hunted and shot by their clients. . These poor bastards are starved for protein, Stoffel explained to his client as the American sportsman came to join them. For a leg of buffalo he would sell you his wife; for two he would sell you his soul; for three he would probably sell you the whole bloody country.
And any one of those. would be a bad bargain! He roared with laughter and introduced his client to Daniel. This is Steve Conrack from California. I know you, of course, the American interjected.
Great honour to meet you, Doctor Armstrong. I always watch your stuff on TV.
just by chance I've got a copy of your book with me. I'd love an autograph for my kids back home. They're great fans of yours.
Inwardly Daniel winced at the price of fame but when the client returned from the truck with a copy of one of his earlier books, he signed the fly-leaf.
Where are you headed? Stoffel asked.
Lusaka? Let me go ahead and run interference for you, otherwise anything could happen. It could take you a week or all eternity to get there. The police guard, still grinning, lifted the barrier and saluted them as they drove through. From there onwards their progress was a royal procession, with lumps of raw meat appearing regularly from under the tarpaulin. Roses, roses all the way, and buffalo steaks strewn in our path like mad. Daniel grinned to himself and put his foot down to keep up with the safari truck. They were driving through the fertile plains that were irrigated from the Kafue River. This was an area of sugar and maize and tobacco production and the farms were owned almost entirely by white Zambians. Prior to independence, the farmers had vied with each other to beautify their properties.
From the main road the white-painted homesteads had glistened, set like pearls in the green and lovingly tended home paddocks. The fences had been meticulously maintained and sleek cattle had grazed within view of the road.
These days the dilapidated appearance of the properties was a deliberate attempt by the owners to divert envious and acquisitive eyes. If you look too good, one of them had explained to Daniel, they're going to take it away from you. He didn't have to explain who they were. The golden rule in this country is: if you've got it, for God's sake don't flaunt it. The white farmers lived as a tiny separate tribe in their own little enclave. Rather like their pioneering ancestors, they made their own soap and other commodities which were simply unobtainable from the bare shelves of the local trading stores.
They lived mostly on the products of their own lands, yet they enjoyed a reasonably good life with their golf clubs and polo clubs and theatrical societies.
They sent their children to school and university in South Africa with the small amounts of fiercely rationed foreign exchange they were granted; they kept their heads down below the parapet and took care not to draw attention to themselves.
Even the powers that presided in the government halls in Lusaka realised that without them the precarious economy would collapse completely. The maize and sugar they produced kept the rest of the population from true starvation and their tobacco crops eked out the tiny dribble of foreign exchange brought in by the ruined copper mines.
Where could we go?
Daniel's informant put the rhetorical question. If we leave here, we go in our underclothes. They won't let us take a penny or a stick with us.
We've just got to make the best of it. As the two-vehicle convoy approached the capital town of Lusaka, Daniel was given a demonstration of one of the many distressing phenomena of the new Africa, the mass movement of rural populations to the urban centres.
Daniel smelt the slum odour as they passed the outskirts of the town.
It was a miasma of smoke from the cooking-fires, the stench of pit latrines and festering garbage heaps, of sour illicit beer brewing in open drums, and human bodies without running water or rivers in which to bathe. It was the smell of disease and starvation and poverty and ignorance, the ripe new smell of Africa.
Daniel stood Stoffel and his client a drink in the bar of the Ridgeway Hotel, then excused himself and went to the reception desk to check in.
He was given a room overlooking the swimming-pool, and went to shower away the grime and exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours. Then he reached for the telephone, and called the British High Commission. He caught the telephonist there before the close of the day's business.
May I speak to Mr. Michael Hargreave, please? He held his breath.
Mike Hargreave had still been in Lusaka two years previously, but he could have been transferred anywhere in the world by now. I'm putting you through to Mr. Hargreave, the girl replied after a few moments, and Daniel let his breath out. Michael Hargreave speaking. Mike, it's Danny Armstrong. Good Lord, Danny, where are you? Here in Lusaka.
Welcome back to fairyland. How are you? Mike, can I see you? I need another favour. Why don't you come to dinner tonight? Wendy will be charmed.
Michael had one of the diplomatic residences on Nabs Hill, within walking distance of Government House. As with every other house in the street it was fortified like the Maze Prison.
The ten-foot perimeter walls were topped with rolled barbed wire and two malondo, night watchmen, guarded the gate.
Michael Hargreave quieted his pair of Rortweiler guard dogs, and greeted Daniel enthusiastically. You aren't taking chances, Mike.
Daniel gestured towards the security precautions and Michael grimaced.
On this street alone we average one break-in a night, despite the wire and dogs.
He led Daniel into the house and Wendy came to kiss him.
Wendy was a rosebud, with soft blonde hair and one of those incredible English complexions. I had forgotten that you are even more handsome in the flesh than on television. She smiled at him.
Michael Hargreave resembled an Oxford don more than a spook, but he was indeed an MI6 man. He and Daniel had first met in Rhodesia towards the end of the war. At the time Daniel had been sick and dispirited with what he had come to realize was not only a lost cause, but an unjust one.
The breaking point had come when Daniel led a column of the Selous Scouts into the neighbouring state of Mozambique. The target was a guerrilla camp. Rhodesian intelligence had told them it was a training camp for ZANLA recruits, but when they hit the cluster of huts they found mostly old men and women and children. There had been almost five hundred of these unfortunate people. They had left none of them alive.
On the return match Daniel had found himself weeping uncontrollably as he staggered along in the darkness. Years of ever-present danger and endless call-up for active service had worn his nerves thin and brittle.