Zebiwe.'
'Ha! Yes! Tungata Zebiwe. The Matabele leader. You had him put away. I presumed that by now he had been liquidated.'
'I am holding him in great secrecy and safety at one of my rehabilitation centres near here.'
'Explain.'
'Firstly, the money.'
'From what we know, Tungata Zebiwe is not a rich man,' the Russian demurred.
'He has the key to a fortune which might easily exceed two hundred million US dollars.' The Russian raised a silver eyebrow in the gesture of disbelief that Peter was coming to know well, and which was beginning to irritate him.
'Diamonds,' he said.
'The mother country is one of the world's largest Producers. 'The Russian spread his hands disparagingly.
'Not industrial rubbish, not black boart, but gem stones of the first water, large stones, huge stones, some of the finest ever mined anywhere.' The Russian looked thoughtful. 'if it is true-'
'It is true! But I will not explain further. Not yet.'
'Very well. At least I can hold out some sort of promise to the money-sucking leeches in our treasury department?
And the second question. The Matabele? You cannot plan to 0 blite rate them, man, woman and child?' Peter Fungabera shook his head regretfully. 'No. Though it would be the better way, America and Britain would not allow it. No, my answer is Tungata Zebiwe again. When I take over the country, he will reappear it will be almost miraculous. He will come back from the dead. The Mota
,
bele tribe will go wild with joy and relief They will follow him, they will dote upon him, and I will make him my vice-president.'
'He hates you. You destroyed him. If you ever free him, he will seek to revenge that.'
'No,' Peter shook his head. 'I will send him to you. You have special clinics for difficult cases, do you not? Institutes where a mentally sick man can be treated with drugs and other techniques to make him rational and reasonable once more?' This time the Russian actually began to chortle, and he poured himself another vodka, shaking with silent laughter. When he looked up at Peter, there was respect in those pale eyes for the first time.
'I drink to you, Monomatapa of Zimbabwe, may you reign a thousand years!' He set down his glass and turned to stare down the long open vlei to the distant waterhole. A herd of zebra had down to drink. They were nervous and skitti come st, for the lions lie in ambush at the water. At last they waded in, knee, deep and in a single rank, dipped their lips to touch the surface in unison. They formed an overlapping frieze of identical heads like an infinity of mirror images until the old stallion sentinel snorted in nervous alarm and the pattern exploded in foaming water and wildly galloping forms.
'The treatment of which you speak is drastic.' Colonel Bukharin watched the zebra herd tear away into the forest.
'Some patients do not survive it. Those that do are-' he searched for the word' altered.'
'Their minds are destroyed.' Peter said it for him.
'In plain terms yes,' the colonel nodded.
'I need his body, not his brain. I need a puppet, not a human being.'
'We can arrange that. When will you send him to us?' The diamonds first,' Prter rep lied.
'Of course, the diamd Ids first. How long will that take?' Peter shrugged-_'.1,&t long.'
'When you are ready I will send a doctor to you, with the appropriate medications. We can bring this Tungata Zebiwe out on the same route as the ivory: Air Zimbabwe to Danes-Salaam and one of our freighters from there to Odessa.' 'Agreed.'
'You say that he is being held near here? I would like to see him.'
ri
'Is it wise?'
'Indulge me, pleaseP From Colonel Bukharin it was an order rather than a request.
ungata Zebiwe stood in the flat white glare of the noonday sun. He stood facing a whitewashed wall that caught the sun's rays and flung them back likea huge mirror. He had stood there since before the rise of the sun, when the frost had crusted the sparse brown grass at the edge of the parade ground.
Tungata was stark naked, as were the two men that flanked him. All three of them were so thin that every rib showed clearly, and the crests of their spines stood out like the beads of a rosary down the centre of their backs.
Tungata had his eyes closed to slits to keep out the glare of sunlight off the wall, but he concentrated on a mark in the plaster to counter the effects of giddy vertigo which had already toppled the men on each side of him more than once. Only heavy lashing by the guards had forced them to their feet again. They were still swaying and reeling as they stood.
'Courage, my brothers,' Tungata whispered in Sinde, bele. 'Do not let the Shana dogs see you beaten.' He was determined not to collapse, and he stared at the dimple in the wall. It was the mark of a bullet strike, painted over with lime wash They lime washed the wall after every execution they were meticulous about it.
'Anwnzi,' husked the man on his right, 'water! 'Do not think of it,' Tungata. ordered him. 'Do not speak of it, or it will drive you mad.' The heat came off the wall in waves that struck with physical weight.
'I am blind,' whispered the second man. 'I cannot see.'
The white glare had seared his eyeballs like snow blindness.
'There is nothing to see but the hideous faces of Shana Tungata told him. 'Be thankful for your blindness, apes, friend.' Suddenly from behind them brusque orders were shouted in Shana and then came the tramp of feet from across the parade ground.
'They are coming,' whispered the blinded Matabele, and Tungata. Zebiwe felt a vast regret arising within him.
Yes, they were coming at last. This time for him.
During every day of the long weeks of his imprisonment, he had heard the tramp of the firing-squad crossing the parade ground at noon.
This time it was for him. He did not fear death, but he was saddened by it. He was sad that he had not been able to help his people in their terrible distress, he was saddened that he would never see again his woman, and that she would never bear him the son for whom he longed. He was sad that his life which had promised so much would end before it had delivered up its fruits, and he thought suddenly of a day long ago when he had stood at his grandfather's side and looked out over the maize fields that had been scythed by a brief and furious hail-storm.
'All that work for nothing, what a waste!' his grandfather had murmured, id Tungata repeated his words softly to himself as ru* hands turned him and hustled him to the wooden stake-'set in the ground before the wall.
They tied his wrists to the stake and he opened his eyes fully. His relief ftorn the glare of the wall was soured by the sight of the rank of armed men who faced him.
They brought the two other naked Matabele from the wall. The blind one fell to his knees, weak with exposure and terror, and his bowels voided involuntarily. The guards laughed and exclaimed with disgust.
'Stand up!' Tungata ordered him harshly. 'Die on your feet likea true son of Mashobane! The man struggled back to his feet.
'Walk to the stake,' Tungata ordered. 'It is a little to your left.' The man went, groping blindly, and found the stake.
They bound him to it.
There were eight men in the firing-squad and the commander was a captain in the Third Brigade. He went slowly down the rank of executioners, taking each rifle and checking the load. He made little jokes in Shana that Tungata could not follow, and his men laughed. Their laughter had an unrestrained quality, like men who had taken alcohol or drugs. They had done this work before, and enjoyed it. Tungata had known many men like them during the war; violence and blood had become their addictions.
The captain came back to the head of the rank, and from his breast-pocket took a sheet of typescript which was grubby and dog-eared from much handling. He read from it, stumbling over the words and mispronouncing them likea schoolboy, his English only barely intelligible.
'You have been condemned as enemies of the state and the people,' he read. 'You have been declared incorrigible.
Your death warrant has been approved by the vice president of the Republic of Zimbabwe-' Tungata Zebiwe lifted his chin and began to sing. His voice soared, deep and beautiful, drowning out the thin tones of the Shana captain: 'The Moles are beneath the earth, 'Are they dead?' asked the daughters of Mashobane.' He sang the ancient fighting song of the Matabele, and at the end Of the first verse he snarled at the two condemned men who flanked him.
sing! Let the Shana jackals hear the Matabele lion grow And they sang with him: 'Like the black mamba from under a stone We milked death with a fang of silver steel-' Facing them, the captain gave an order, and as one man the squad advanced a right foot and lifted their rifles.
Tungata sang on, staring into their eyes, defying them, and the men beside him fed on his courage and their voices firmed. A second order and the rifles were levelled. The eyes of the executioners peered over the sights, and the three naked Matabele sang on in the sunlight.
