woman. Let us hope she’ll soon be burning in hell, hey?’
‘She doesn’t believe she will,’ said Zalika. ‘She’s Faith by name and faith by nature: a devout Christian, just like Henderson. They spend six days a week doing nothing but evil, then they say their prayers on Sunday, take communion and think that everything’s forgiven. They make their bodyguards do it, too. The whole household comes to a standstill. It’s so hypocritical it makes me sick. This is a woman who’s ordered the construction of a new presidential palace, which will cost at least twenty million dollars. She goes on shopping trips to London, Paris and Milan, blowing hundreds of thousands more at a time when the country is desperately short of foreign currency to buy food or oil for its people. And she’s got the nerve to claim that she’s religious.’
‘So Mrs Gushungo’s Africa’s answer to Imelda Marcos,’ said Carver. ‘It isn’t pretty, but it’s hardly a capital offence.’
‘Imelda Marcos… and Lady Macbeth,’ Zalika countered.
‘Perhaps I can explain,’ said Patrick Tshonga. ‘You understand, Mr Carver, that Henderson Gushungo is a very elderly man. His ability to retain command of the country is remarkable, but still he is mortal and his faculties are diminished. Faith, however, is still a young woman, in the prime of life. She is filled with energy. She is also filled with hatred, spite and malice. These days, when the veterans seize property or attack people who are deemed to be opponents of the government, as like as not they are doing it on Mrs Gushungo’s orders, not the President’s. She has built vast estates from all the farms she has appropriated. And in every case, it is not just the white owners who have been forced to flee. All the people who worked for them are evicted also, their possessions are seized and their homes are given to Mrs Gushungo’s supporters. And you will note that I say “Mrs Gushungo’s supporters”. These people owe their loyalty to her, not her husband. She has built up an entire power-base of her own. She knows that her man will soon be gone, either because he dies or is finally removed from office. And when that day comes, she does not intend to go with him. No, Faith Gushungo will stay and fight for power for herself.’
‘So where do Hong Kong and the diamonds fit into all this?’ asked Carver.
‘Simple,’ said Zalika. ‘They’re Faith’s Plan B. If it all goes wrong and she gets kicked out along with her husband, then she’s got somewhere to go and a very large amount of money, she hopes, to keep her in comfort and idleness when she gets there.’
‘And what does it all have to do with us?’
Zalika smiled. ‘Well, the Gushungos have a hard time getting any bank to take their business. So when they’re in Hong Kong they keep their diamonds at home. Now, what if someone tried to steal those diamonds?’
‘The robbery might go wrong, people might get hurt and no one would suspect a political motive,’ said Carver. ‘It’s an excellent idea…’
‘Thank you,’ said Zalika, giving an ironic little bow.
‘… but I might have one that’s even better.’
‘Really? What might that be?’
She looked him straight in the eye, challenging him.
‘I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you when I get it.’
‘So, Sam,’ said Klerk, cutting through the growing tension, ‘you will accept my offer?’
‘I don’t know that, either,’ said Carver. ‘I’ll give you my answer tomorrow afternoon, right here, seventeen hundred hours. You happy with that?’
‘It sounds like I don’t have a choice. Ja, I can live with tomorrow afternoon. Before the meeting we will go shooting. Then we will talk. Meanwhile, let’s eat.’ He glared at Carver and Zalika. ‘You two can sort out your differences over Jean-Pierre’s damned truffle souffles.’
30
There was a time when Severn Road might easily have been a desirable neighbourhood in the stockbroker belt of Surrey. The substantial houses, set amid croquet lawns, tennis courts and shrubberies, had all been built in the 1930s. They had steeply gabled roofs, half-timbered mock Tudor facades and verandas on which privileged ladies, burdened neither by jobs nor household chores, could comfortably take their tea. The men who owned them had all been educated at the same small group of private boarding schools and shared identical, unquestioned assumptions about their innate superiority, the lesser status of anyone unfortunate enough to be black, brown, yellow or French, and the utter deviousness of Jews.
Yet Severn Road lay not in southern England but southern Africa, in what had once been a suburb of Fort Shrewsbury, capital of British Mashonaland. Its houses were built for the families of the colonial administrators, army officers and businessmen who ran this particular outpost of Empire, as well as the native servants who tended to their needs. For half a century, nothing changed. Then a civil war was fought and lost and British Mashonaland became the independent state of Malemba. Fort Shrewsbury changed its name to Sindele and the white inhabitants of Severn Road made way for a new governing class of African bureaucrats, lawyers and entrepreneurs. By and large, they kept on the servants who had once waited upon their country’s white masters. They even retained some of the old furniture, left behind as the whites fled for the old country. The new bosses were, in some respects, just the same as the old ones.
So another twenty years went by, and Severn Road remained as exclusive and comfortable as it had always been. Then Henderson Gushungo made his fateful decision to cleanse his nation of the white farmers and entrepreneurs he hated with such a burning passion. The economy promptly collapsed, the notionally democratic government became a tyrannical dictatorship, and Severn Road was changed beyond all recognition. The houses were stripped of their contents as the people who lived in them sold everything they could, simply to make a few instantly worthless Malemban dollars. Then they were subdivided as rooms were rented out. Families half-a-dozen strong were crammed into bedrooms intended for a single pampered child; grand living rooms became makeshift dormitories; floorboards were lifted for firewood; crude sheets of plastic were nailed over holes in roofs whose tiles had not so long before been kept in immaculate repair.
Mary Utseya and her baby son Peter had been sharing part of the old dining room at No. 15 Severn Road with three other women and their children for the past four months, ever since Mary’s husband Henry, a soldier in the Malemban army, was killed in action in the Congo. She had been forced to leave the married quarters where she and Henry lived. With the government in no shape to pay her a widow’s pension, Mary had no way of renting a place of her own and had counted herself fortunate that a friend had offered her a few square feet on the dining- room floor.
Within a week or two of Mary’s arrival at Severn Road there had been a presidential election. Loudspeaker vans filled with armed men had driven down the street warning the inhabitants of the terrible consequences of voting for the treacherous Popular Freedom Movement and its lying, unprincipled leader Patrick Tshonga (who was, they added, a notorious homosexual and soon to die from AIDS). Mary was not registered to vote at the nearby polling station and had no means of getting back to her old neighbourhood, so she did not vote. Had she done so, however, she would certainly have sided with the rest of Severn Road’s people, who overwhelmingly ignored the threats of Gushungo’s thugs and voted for Tshonga. They knew that they were wasting their time, since Gushungo would never accept the result. But they voted anyway.
Now, on a Friday night in May, with the ground still damp from an afternoon downpour, they were going to pay for their impudence.
The operation was carried out with a brutal ruthlessness honed by constant repetition: many, many people had already suffered the fate that awaited the people of Severn Road. The two ends of the road were blocked. Patrols were posted in neighbouring streets to catch anyone who tried to escape over back walls and garden fences. Then the military trucks arrived, one for every house. The trucks were organized in groups of four, three soldiers to a truck, each group under the command of a sergeant.
They did not bother to knock. Front doors were kicked or if necessary blown open. Warning shots were fired into the ceiling to cower the inhabitants, the muzzle flashes blazing in the gloomy interiors, where the only light came from the occasional gas or meths-fuelled lantern. Soldiers went in shouting at the tops of their voices and swinging their gun-butts with indiscriminate abandon. If they were lucky, the people crammed into the houses had
