"You said I had trily to give you the name and you would smash him," Sally-Anne reminded him, and Peter nodded.
"Give it to me," he ordered, but Sally-Anne related her sources and her deductions, just as she had to Craig. Peter Fungabera heard her out in silence, frowning or nodding thoughtfully as he followed her reasoning. Then she gave her conclusion, the last name left on her list.
"Comrade Minister Tungata Zebiwe," Peter Fungabera repeated softly after her, and at last he sank back onto his own chair and picked up his leather, covered swa-wer-stick from the desk. He stared over Sally-Anne's head at the map-covered wall, slapping the baton into the rosy pink palm of his left hand.
The silence drew out until Sally-Anne had to ask, "Well?" Peter Fungabera dropped his gaze to her face again.
"You have chosen the hottest coal in the fire for me to pick up in my bare hands," he said. "Are you sure that you have not been influenced by Comrade Zebiwe's treatment of Mr. Craig Mellow?"
"That is unworthy," Sally-Anne told him softly.
"Yes, I suppose it is." Peter Fungabera looked at Craig.
"What do you think?"
"He was my friend, and he has done me great kindness."
"That was once upon a time," Peter pointed out. "Now he has declared himself your enemy."
"Still I like and admire him."
"And yet-?" Peter prodded gently.
"And yet, I believe Sally-Anne may be on the right spoor' Craig conceded unhappily.
Peter Fungabera stood up and crossed the floor silently to stand before the vast wall-map.
"Me whole country is a under-box," he said, staring at the coloured flags. "The Matabele are on the point of a rebellion. Here! Here! Here! Their guerrillas are gathering in the bush." He tapped the map. "We have been forced to nip the plotting of their more irresponsible leaders who were moving towards armed revolt. Nkomo is in forced retirement, two of the Matabele Cabinet members have been arrested and charged with high treason. Tungata Zebiwe is the only Matabele still in the Cabinet. He commands enormous respect, even outside his own tribe, while the Matabele look upon him as their only remaining leader. If we were to touch him-2
"You are going to let him go!" Sally-Anne said hopelessly. "He will get away with it. So much for your socialist paradise. One law for the people, another for the-"
"Be silent, woman," Peter Fungabera ordered, and she obeyed.
He returned to his desk. "I was explaining to you the consequences of hasty action. Arresting Tungata Zebiwe could plunge the entire country into bloody civil war. I didn't say that I would not take action, but I certainly would do nothing without proof positive, and the testimony of independent witnesses of impeccable impartiality to support my actions." He was still staring at the map across the room. "Already the world accuses us of planning tribal genocide against the Matabele, while all we are doing is maintaining the rule of law, and searching for a formula of accommodation with that warlike, intractable tribe. At the moment Tungata Zebiwe is our only reasonable and conciliatory contact with the Matabele, we cannot afford to destroy him lightly." He paused, and Sally Anne broke her silence.
"One thing I have not mentioned, but which Craig and I have discussed. If Tungata Zebiwe is the poacher, then he is using the profits to some special end. He gives no visible evidence of extravagance, but we know there is a connection between him and dissidents." Peter Fungabera's expression had set hard, and his eyes were terrible. "If it's ZeNwel I'll have him he promised himself more than h&. "But when I do, I'll have proof for the world to see and he will not escape me."
"Then you had best move pretty damned quickly," Sally Anne advised him tartly.
t23 r ell, you've picked a good time to sell." The Tyacht,broker stood in Bawu's cockpit and ! looked nautical in his double-breasted blazer and marine cap with golden anchor device seven hundred dollars from Bergdorf Goodman. His tan was even and perfect sunlamp at the N.Y. Athletic Club. There was a fine web of wrinkles around his piercing blue eyes not from squinting through a sextant nor from tropical suns on far oceans and coral beaches, Craig was certain, but from perusing price-tags and cheque figures.
"Interest rates right down people are buying yachts again.
It was like discussing the terms of a divorce with a lawyer, or the arrangements with a funeral director. Bawu had been part of his life for too long.
"She is in good nick, all tight and shipshape, and your price is sensible. I'll bring some people to see her tomorrow "Just make sure I'm not here, "Craig warned him.
J understand, Mr. Mellow." The man could even sound like an undertaker.
she Levy also sounded like an undertaker when Craig telephoned. However, he sent an office messenger down to the marina to collect the first three chapters Craig had completed in Africa. Then Craig went to lunch with Henry Pickering.
"It really is good to see you." Craig had forgotten how much he had grown to like this man in just two short meetings.
"Let's order first," Henry suggested, and decided on a bottle of the Grands Ech6zeaux.
"Courageous fellow," Craig smiled. "I am always too afraid to pronounce it in case they think I am having a sneezing fit."
"Most people have the same reluctance. Must be why it is the least known of the world's truly great wines keeps the price down, thank God." Appreciatively they nosed the wine and gave it the attention it deserved. Then Henry set his glass down.
"Now tell me what you think of General Peter Fungo, hera," he invited.