An area of about ten acres had been cleared and levelled. It was
surrounded by a barbed-wire security fence, with a single closed gate.
Three of the massive diesel trucks in their green and red livery were
parked in a rank inside the fence. There were also several smaller
vehicles and a tall mobile drilling rig in the line. The rest of the
yard was filled with prospecting equipment and stores. There were stacks
of drilling rods and steel core boxes, wooden crates of spares, and
several hundred forty-four-gallon drums of diesel and oil and drilling
mud. The drums and the stores were stacked with a neatness and sense of
good order that was startling in this wild and rocky landscape. just
inside the gate stood a small village of a dozen buildings made of
corrugated sheet sections, of the Quonset type. They too were set out in
a street of military precision.
'A big, well-organized outfit,' Nicholas commented.
'Let's go down and see who is in charge.'
There were two armed guards on the gate, dressed in the camouflage
uniform of the Ethiopian army. They were clearly surprised by the
arrival at the gate of the strange Land Cruiser, and when Nicholas
sounded his horn one of them came forward suspiciously with his AK,47
rifle at the ready.
'I want to speak to the manager here,' Nicholas told him in Arabic, with
enough haughty authority to make the entry uncertain and uneasy.
The soldier grunted, went back and consulted his colleague, then lifted
the handset of the two-way radio and spoke earnestly into the
mouthpiece. There was a five minute delay after he finished speaking,
and then the door of the nearest Quonset building opened and a white man
came out.
He was dressed in khaki coveralls and a soft bush cap.
His eyes, covered by mirrored sunglasses, were set in a deeply tanned,
leathery face. His physique was short and chunky, and his sleeves were
rolled up over hairy, work thickened arms. After speaking a few words to
the guards at the gate he came out to the Toyota
'Yeah? What's going down here?' he demanded in Texan drawl, speaking
around the stub of an unlit cigar.
'The name is Quenton-Harper.' Nicholas dismounted from the truck to
greet him, and held out his hand.
'Nicholas Quenton-Harper. How do you do?'
The American hesitated, and then took the hand as though he had been
offered an electric eel to squeeze.
'Helm,' he said. 'Jake Helm, from Abilene, Texas. I am the foreman
here.' His hand was that of an artisan, with calloused palms and lumpy
scar tissue over the knuckles, and half moons of black grease under the
fingernails.
'Terribly sorry to worry you. I am having some trouble with my truck. I
wondered if you had a mechanic who could have a look at it for
me.'Nicholas smiled winningly, but received no encouragement from the
man.
'Not company policy.' He shook his head.
'I am prepared to pay for any-'
