She wore her hair in an iron-grey plait and though her said was more subdued in colour, it was edged with gold thread and the diamonds on her fingers ranged from the size of peas to sparrows eggs. Mama Singh, Daniel decided. When it came to handling the cash, Asian businessmen liked to keep it close to home, which was probably one of the reasons for their universal success. He took his time selecting groceries, hoping for a glimpse of his quarry, but there was no sign of the turbaned Sikh.
At last Mama Singh left her seat on the dais and made an elephantine but dignified progress down the length of the store, until, with her long silken said sweeping the treads, she mounted a flight of stairs set so discreetly in a corner of the food hall that Daniel had not noticed them before.
She entered a door at a higher level and now Daniel noticed a mirrored window in the wall beside the elevated door. It was obviously a one-way glass. An observer in the room beyond the door would have a clear view over the supermarket floor and Daniel had no doubt that it was Chetti Singh's office.
He turned away from that inscrutable square of glass, aware that he might have been under observation for the past half hour, and that the precaution was probably too late. He made his way to one of the girls at the cash registers and while she totted up his purchases he kept his face averted from the window in the rear wall.
Chetti Singh stood at the observation window as his wife came into the office. She saw instantly that he was disturbed. He was plucking thoughtfully at his beard and his eyes were slitted. That white man.
He nodded towards the store floor below the window. Did you notice him?
Yes. She came to his side. I noticed him as he came in. I thought he might be a soldier or a policeman. What made you think that?
Chetti Singh demanded.
She made an eloquent gesture with those lovely hands that were so incongruous on a female of her bulk. They were the hands- of the young girl he had married almost thirty years ago, and the pale palms were dyed with henna. He stands tall, and walks with pride, she explained.
Like a soldier. I think I know him, Chetti Singh said. I saw him very recently, but it was at night and I cannot be absolutely certain. He picked up the telephone from his desk and dialed two digits.
Standing at the window, he watched his second daughter pick up the telephone from beside her cash register. Treasure, he spoke in Hindi.
The man at your till. Is he paying with a credit card? Yes, father.
She was the brightest of all his children, as much value to him as a second son, almost. Get his name and ask him where he is staying in town.
Chetti Singh hung up and watched the white man pay for his purchases and leave the store heavily laden. As soon as he had gone, Chetti Singh dialled again.
His name is Armstrong, his daughter told him. D. A.
Armstrong. He says that he is staying at the Capital Hotel. Good.
Let me speak to Chavve quickly. Below him his daughter swivelled her seat and called one of the uniformed security guards from the main doors.
She held out the telephone receiver to him and as he placed it to his ear Chetti Singh asked, Chawe, did you recognize the malungu who has just left? The tall one with thick curly hair. Chetti bad switched to Angoni. I saw him, the guard replied in the same language.
But I did not recognize him. Four nights ago, Chetti Singh prompted him.
On the road near Chirundu just after we had loaded the truck. The one who stopped and spoke to us. There was silence as Chawe considered the question. Chetti Singh saw him begin to pick at a nostril with his forefinger, a sign of uncertainty and embarrassment. Perhaps, Chavve said at last.
I am not sure. He removed the thick forefinger from his nose and inspected it minutely. He was a man of the Angoni, a distant relative of the royal line of Zulu. His tribe had migrated this far north two hundred years before the time of King Chaka. He was a warrior, not a man given to deep thought.
Follow him, Chetti Singh ordered. Do not let him see you.
Do you understand? I understand, Nkosi. Chawe looked relieved to be ordered into action and he left through the main doors with a spring in his step.
He returned half an hour later, hangdog and. crestfallen. As soon as he came in through the main doors Chetti Singh telephoned his daughter again. Send Chawe up to my office right away!
Chawe stood in the doorway at the head of the stairs, as big as a gorilla, and Chetti Singh demanded, Well, did you follow him as I ordered? Nkosi, it is the same man. Chawe shuffled his feet.
Despite his size and strength, he was terrified of Chetti Singh. He had seen what happened to those who displeased the master. In fact, it was Chawe himself who was usually responsible for enforcing his master's discipline. He did not look directly into his eyes as he went on. It is the man who spoke to us on the night, he said, and Chetti Singh frowned quickly. Why are you sure now, when you were uncertain before?
Chetti Singh demanded. The truck, Chawe explained. He went to his truck and put the goods he had bought from us into it. It is the same truck, with a man's arm painted on the side, Mambo. Good. Chetti Singh nodded approval. You did well. Where is the man now? He drove away in the truck. Chawe looked apologetic.
I could not follow him. I am sorry, Nkosi Kakulu. Never mind. You did well, Chetti Singh repeated. Who is on duty at the warehouse tonight? 1
am, Mambo . . . Chawe grinned suddenly, his teeth were large and even and very white, and, of course, Nandi. Yes, of course.
Chetti Singh stood up. I will come down to the warehouse this evening after business is closed. I want to make sure that Nandi is ready to do her job. I think we may have trouble tonight. I want everything prepared. Have Nandi in the small cage. I don't want any mistakes. Do you understand, Chawe? I understand, Mambo. At six o'clock, at the warehouse.
Sometimes it was as well to repeat instructions to Chawe. Nkosi.
Chawe sidled from the room, still not looking directly at his master.
After he had gone, Chetti Singh sat staring at the closed door for many minutes before he picked up the telephone again. Direct-dialling to an international exchange was always a lottery in Africa. Zimbabwe was almost
