Chaga

she insisted. Gaby argued that press coverage of the Chaga focused world attention on the wider issues of Africa. ‘HIV 4 is not a wider issue of Africa. It is a central issue of Africa. Twelve million cases in East Africa: twelve million deaths. Two complete holocausts in a single generation. There are villages up north around Mount Elgon and over into Karamoja in Uganda where there is no one alive over the age of twelve. Entire villages of orphans.’ She would laugh then. She laughed like a Frenchwoman, knowingly and bitterly. ‘It is an African problem in that the West does not want to get involved because it sees Slim as a Malthusian check on African population growth. We exceed the carrying capacity of the land, so the angel of death must pass over us and divide the taken from those who are cursed to stay. It is an African problem in that it is African scientists trying to save African people from an African pandemic. It is not a gay plague here, Gaby. It is an everyone plague.’

When she spoke thus, in her beautiful, deep whisper of a voice, no one could argue with her. It would be like trying to argue with a Madonna in an icon. When she was beautiful and righteous and untouchable like this, Gaby McAslan would tell herself that all Miriam Sondhai needed was a good hard cock up her. It was because of the frictions, rather than despite them, that the two women became friends. So when the van delivered the dress, Gaby asked Miriam to help her try it on, knowing she would think it decadent.

The dress arrived in a cardboard case with rope handles and folded in yards of tissue paper. Gaby held the sensuous green silk up against her and Miriam Sondhai softened in admiration. It had come complete with shoes, underwear, hosiery and a clutch bag: Kenya’s watekni fashion-pirates prided themselves that not only were their products faster and cheaper than originals from the Chanel programs they stole, they came with the full range of accessories. The US Ambassador’s Independence Day Hootenanny demanded nothing less than a dress that would turn every head that looked Gaby McAslan’s way. If it did not make people ask, who is that red-haired woman in that dark green dress? it would be a waste of nearly a month’s salary. Given that she was not on the guest list. Given that a junior On-liner had no right to expect to be on the guest list.

Fuck protocol. Networking mattered. Haran would get her there, by the rocket’s red glare. He had promised when she asked him, her first returnable favour. What she would say to T.P. Costello, that was something he could not help her with.

Miriam helped her up with the zip and adjusted the waist so that the claw-hammer skirt swung back and the short front-piece fell between her thighs to emphasize the long lean lines of her legs. Longness and leanness was what heredity had dealt the McAslan females. They made the most of it. She caught her hair in a bow and flicked it over her left shoulder.

‘You look wonderful, for a m’zungu,’ Miriam said. ‘I hope you do not come off those heels.’

A car hooted in the drive. Gaby frowned at her reflection in the mirror, grabbed her clutch bag and dashed for the taxi. All the way to the ambassador’s residence she kept asking herself, what if, what if, what if they do not let you in? Then you get back into this taxi and go to the Elephant Bar and get drunk with Oksana. It will not be the end of the world. Oh no it bloody won’t. So why are you doing it? It will earn you nothing but a world of trouble. Because there are people there it might be good to be remembered by some day. Because where there are people like that, and free alcohol, there are stories and where there are stories there is news and where there is news there is Gaby McAslan zooming in on Extreme Close-up. Networking. You probably won’t even have time for a drink, let alone talking to Dr Shepard from Tsavo West with the Paul Newman blue eyes.

Self-unknowing, Gaby McAslan.

The cars were lined for a quarter of a mile down the road. Monkey jackets from corporate hospitality had the door-open meet’n’greet to perfection. Gorgeous frocks and rented tuxes went up the stairs to the double doors.

Do not even think of the theme from Gone With the Wind, Gaby McAslan ordered herself. Fiddle-dee-dee to that. The earth is even red, like the strong red earth of Tara.

The meeter’n’greeter slipped her a thick, gilt-edged invitation card.

‘From Haran,’ he said. Gaby passed him a discreet hundred. He touched gloved forefinger to brow. At the door a frock-coated security person scanned the bar-code on the card and checked the on-screen guest list.

‘Gabriel Ruth Langdon McAslan,’ he read. Haran had even got the hated family name right.

‘Gaby,’ she corrected and swept in. She passed through the cool, spacious residence with its slow-turning ceiling paddles and went through the French windows on to the patio. Fairy-lights and stars-and-stripes bunting were strung between the trees. Garden candles taller than Gaby had been spiked into the grass and attracted knots of people. The first of the evening’s bands were opening their set on the staging in front of the shrub azaleas, a handy trio of electric guitar, accordion and sax. Gaby felt sorry for them. It was too early, the guests too sober for their brand of vivacious shamba-dance. By tradition, the beer was kept in tin baths of ice; All-American, diplomatic-bagged in from Milwaukee. Gaby lifted a bottle. A waiter appeared and uncapped it with an opener.

‘Ms McAslan!’

‘Dr Dan!’

He shook her hand enthusiastically. Somewhere he had found a tall mint julep.

‘How good it is to see you, Ms McAslan. You have been much in my thoughts since our interesting night together.’

‘And how was the wedding?’

‘Alas, my forebodings were proved right. He was a worthless man. He abandoned my daughter after six nights for a woman wrestler. A Kikuyu woman wrestler, indeed. I fear my chances of getting my cattle back are remote; the rude boy. He has undoubtedly sold them. My daughter is pretending to be distraught but I think she is secretly relieved. She is one who likes the idea of marriage more than the state of being married. Now she has the chance to do it all again.

‘But you, my friend. You have been making a name for yourself. I very much enjoyed the “And Finally ...” stories. I could tell you one myself that I have from the very best authority, about a magical condom tattoo that protects the recipient from all known sexually transmitted diseases.’

‘I’ve moved away from my source, Dr Dan, and I’m working on more mainstream, investigative material now.’

‘Ah yes. The Werther interview. Most illuminating. It is a pity that his disappearance was not considered as newsworthy as his appearance.’

‘What do you mean? I know he’s hiding from the media.’

‘Is that what they have told you? Peter Werther did not disappear. He was disappeared.’

Guests pushed past to the bar, inspired by Dr Dan’s mint julep. Gaby recognised Der Spiegel’s On-line editor. She nodded curtly to him.

‘Disappeared by whom?’

Dr Dan smiled, shrugged.

‘UNECTA?’

‘Remember where you are, Ms McAslan.’

‘The Americans? The Ambassador knows about this?’ The Ambassador was talking by the balustrade with an animated staffer from the French embassy. Mr Ambassador was a small, impeccably dressed black man; from Georgia, Gaby recalled, which incongruously reinforced the Gone With the Wind imagery. His children were running around in their best clothes looking for excuses to set the fireworks off early. His wife stood some paces from him with an expression of diplomatic boredom. She was dressed African-style and tended more to the Maya Angelou than the Diana Ross.

‘UNECTA, Americans, what’s the difference?’ Dr Dan asked.

‘What happened?’ Gaby wished there had been room in her ludicrous little clutch bag for a PDU, or even an old-fashioned dictation machine.

‘They came at night. Helicopters, with night-imaging cameras. They were following in military spy-satellite thermal photographs. Your video footage helped them as well, but you must not blame yourself, please. It is not your fault, you did not finger him – I believe that is the expression? He made himself a target by coming out of the Chaga, for anything that comes out of the Chaga is theirs.’

‘UN troops?’

‘A joint US-Canadian force.’

‘Jesus. And Peter?’