Kipling Bangura was not a happy man. Indeed, he had not been a happy man for many months. Business was bad. The country was so hard up it could not afford to import much fuel, even for the airport, and he certainly wasn’t able to afford to buy any for his pump. Not that his customers could afford to buy any either, if he had any. There was still a little in his tank, but he hadn’t sold so much as a gallon for - well, he couldn’t remember how long ago it was.
He had, though, used his welding torch a bit recently, although not to mend things like he used. The fact was, there was nothing much to mend any more. There were all sorts of vehicles, - cars, vans and lorries, even busses, abandoned at the side of the road, wherever you went. Left where they had stopped, mostly because they had run out of petrol, but some because they had broken down and the owner had no money for repairs.
So Kipling Bangura had been given some of these old wrecks, and had used them for spares. He even had a spare engine for his treasured van, in the garden at the back, as well as all sorts of other very useful things. His spare parts were now almost his only source of income. Whereas in the good old days, he had frequently travelled across the border into Botswana to buy spare parts for his friends and neighbours and their cars and farm machines, he now took spare parts across the border to sell them. It just about earned him enough money to buy simple food to keep himself alive, and of course his friends at the border post, on both sides, knew him well enough after all this time to share a pot of green tea with him every now and then. And if he was really lucky, and he was coming home later than usual, they would even give him a plate of something from their supper pot on the stove, while they sat and chatted.
Sometimes, he would try to repay them by taking them a packet of tobacco from the store in Plumtree, but it wasn’t often that he could afford that. He was sure they understood. They certainly all knew how he had needed to change his way of life, and that he now exported spares to scratch together something of a living. He never had an export licence for them, or even really knew whether one was necessary, and they never looked into his van to see what he had this time. He just told them, and that was good enough.
At first, he couldn’t believe it when young master Will Bartlett turned up at his garage one day.
“I’ve brought you a few things, Mr. Bangura,” said Will. “I thought they might be a bit of a treat for you.”
He opened the plastic bag, and both men peered inside.
“Here’s a nice fat little chicken for your pot,” said Will proudly, “and some fresh mangoes because I remember you were always fond of those, and they are so expensive these days.”
It was like Christmas for Kipling Bangura. These were rare luxuries, indeed.
After a time, Mr. Bangura said, “I suppose you’ve come for the old Volvo.”
“I shall be needing it, actually, if it still goes,” said Will Bartlett, “but I also have business to talk to you about.”
“The Volvo still goes,” said Kipling proudly. “I promised your father that I would keep it in good order, so it still has petrol in the tank and from time to time I charge up the battery and start the engine just to make sure.”
“That’s very good of you,” said Will.
“Of course,” said Bangura sadly, “it doesn’t look as smart as it once did. I have to keep it in the garden behind the workshop, and the weather has not been kind to the paintwork, I’m afraid, in spite of the tarpaulin.”
“Never mind what it looks like,” said Will. “So long as it still goes. Do you think it would make the journey into South Africa?”
“I think it would, yes,” replied Mr. Bangura. “But you must drive it carefully, and not try to go too fast, especially over some of the bad roads. It is an old car, after all, and all old things need to be treated with care and attention.”
“I shall take care of it,” promised Will Bartlett. “And what about your van? How does that go these days?”
“It works well, still,” said Bangura proudly. “I take care of it, and now even have a spare engine for it, which is in the garden behind the garage. Let me show you.”
They went behind the old building, with its sign on two pieces of wood.
“I see Mr. Chanama has not done a new sign for you,” noticed Will.
“My friend Patrick Chanama has still not found a new piece of wood long enough,” replied Kipling Bangura. “And if he had,” he sighed, “I should not have been able to pay him for a new sign, much as he needs the money that it would bring him. We are all poor these days.”
What should have been a garden at the back of Mr. Bangura’s combined home and garage and workshop, was littered with spare parts of engines and old chassis, with rusty oil drums almost hidden in the bush which had overgrown most of the land. There was some evidence that Bangura had tried to carve out a small plot to grow himself some food, but there was no evidence of any great success. Will hoped there were no snakes in the long grass and scrub - he didn’t like snakes. There were often short, brown ones about, and he remembered throwing stones at them when he was a boy, but you could also come across black mambas here and there, and they were poisonous.
Mr. Bangura pointed. “There is your old Volvo. It will start, and you can drive it out quite easily onto the road from there. And here,” he pointed to a different spot, “is the spare engine for my van. I am sure that it, too, will work if ever I need to fit it.”
They went back into the house, and into the one room that was capable of being called a living room.
“How is your father?” enquired Bangura.
“He is well, thank you Mr. Bangura,” replied Will. “He particularly wanted me to call on you, to discuss the business which I mentioned earlier. My father has recently been able to buy a new farm, growing grapes for a large winery owned by a friend of his,” explained Will Bartlett.
“It was always a pleasure to do business with your father,” said Mr. Bangura. “But I have heard that your old farm has recently been burnt down.”
“I have heard that, too,” replied Will. “It is all very sad, especially for old Mr. Bartlett, whose family owned and ran the farm for so many years.”
“The whole country is in a sad way now,” said Bangura. “Many of us are finding it hard still to live here, and yet we have no money to leave.”
“That is what I wanted to talk to you about, as a matter of fact,” said Will. “My father has a business proposition to put to you, and has asked me to discus it with you. Since he has his own farm now in a really wonderful part of South Africa, he has needed to buy all his own farm machinery again. Much of it is second hand, although in good condition, but he needs someone who is a good engineer, like you, to look after it for him. He wants me to ask you if you would possibly consider coming to the new farm to work for him, and probably for many other farmers as well, as the nearest workshop is many miles away. He can offer you good accommodation with a workshop attached, and a regular wage if you were to join us there. I said ‘us’, as I shall be helping him to run the farm, and young Bwonqa Mbele will eventually become farm manager, as his father was at the old farm”
Kipling Bangura could hardly believe his ears.
“Please tell me all that again,” he asked. “To make sure I really understand what it is you are asking me to do.”
Will went over the offer again, and showed Mr. Bangura some photographs of the farm, and the outbuilding which would be converted into his combined home and workshop. Mr. Bangura took the photos, and peered at them through misty eyes.
“And that would be mine?” he asked, pointing at the outbuilding.
Will nodded. “If you should think of accepting, it would be nice if you could bring your van, and the spare engine for it, and any other things you wanted,” said Will. “My father says that if, after you have seen the place you eventually decided that you wanted to come back here after all, he would not mind, although of course he hopes you would want to stay.”
Bangura looked again at the photos.
“I would have my own workshop?” he asked.
Will nodded.
“I shall bring my welding torch,” he said, almost to himself. “And the spare engine for my van.”
“And my own house? Part of the workshop, here?” he pointed.
“Yes,” said Will.
“And I will be paid?” he asked. “Regular money for food?”
“Of course,” replied Will.
“Will there be enough work for me, do you think?”
“Plenty,” Will reassured him. “Other farmers nearby will be pleased to use your workshop and your skills, and to pay you for the work you do. There is no other workshop for many miles.”
“But how would I get there?” he pleaded. “I have no money for petrol, or money for food on the journey. It will take me some days in my van, driving carefully.”
“I will pay you for all that,” Will assured him. “I have the money now, if you agree.”
“I could give this place to my nephew, Kboi. He has looked after it for me sometimes when I have been away, and he has no work at the moment. He can have this.” Kipling Bangura looked about him sadly.
“Let me make some tea,” he offered Will. “Then you can tell me when I should leave.”
“You mean you really would like to come south to work for my father?” asked Will.
“Of course.” Bangura looked about him again. “There is nothing here. No work, no money, little food, and probably no future. They tell me that people are holding demonstrations and having marches. That means trouble.”
Kipling Bangura absent-mindedly put a lighted match to the small stove he had turned on moments earlier to make the tea. There was a small explosion as the gas ignited, but nothing was damaged. The two men laughed.
“You must do better than that on my father’s farm,” joked Will, and they settled down to discuss the details.
“I could leave tomorrow, if you like,” said Bangura, almost eager now to be on his way.
“A few days, perhaps. I will let you know, but be ready soon,” Will said. “There is something I shall want you to take with you, if you would, but first I will help you put your spare engine into the back of your van.”
When Will Bartlett had gone, Kipling Bangura sat for a bit longer in his living room, looking time and again at the photographs that Will had left him. A new house, a new workshop, and new life in a new country. He wondered whether he really should, at his age as well. But there was nothing here for him any more. He had read that several million people had already left the country to try their luck somewhere else. And if that good man Mr. James Bartlett and his kind and thoughtful lady Missy Beatrice could do it, then so could he. And he would be working for them, at their new farm. Really, what could be better? He would go - and the sooner he went, the less time he would have to change his mind. No point in hanging about any longer in case something turned up, because nothing ever had. And Master Will had said that if he didn’t like it, he could always come back. He looked for the umpteenth time at the pictures. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine that he would ever come back, once he left.
He was almost ready to go already. He had nothing to pack, worth talking about. He would throw a few of his best and most useful tools into the back of the van, with his welding torch and as many spares as he could cram in. You never knew when spares would come in useful. And he had money for the trip, too, which Master Will had given him. He had said they would travel together, in convoy. That would be good, and was sensible. If anything should go wrong with the old Volvo during the trip, he, Kipling Bangura, would be there to apply his engineering skills and welding torch to fix the problem. Very sensible.
He counted the money he had been given. He was sure he would never need all that, just for petrol and a bed every night and a bit of food now and then. The thought of food made him feel hungry, as he often did these days, to be honest. He suddenly realized that, for once, he could actually afford a good meal. He decided to splash out a few dollars - why not? Since he would probably not be around for much longer, he could pay one last, farewell visit, to Madam Posseh’s place. It was always very good, and not expensive, although it was a year or so since he had been. He would go in the van, and if she was still there, he would eat there.
It was not far from his workshop, but the road started to get steeper and rougher as he drove on, passed several abandoned vehicles left at the roadside. Eventually, at the next bend, the sign for Madame Posseh’s greeted him, pointing up a dirt track. He had passed it many times before he had eventually ventured down the track for the first time all those years ago, wondering exactly what type of establishment it was. But even in those days, Madame Posseh’s turned out to be something of a wonderful oasis on the outskirts of Chasimu.
After passing a dump for completely destroyed cars, which Kipling had raided many times for valuable spare parts, and on passed various small shacks selling everything from bread to hurricane lamps, the signs took him further through the suburb of rambling buildings, where he had to take care to avoid chickens and children and scabby dogs. Eventually he reached a large wrought iron gate, which he had once mended with his welding torch, and behind the gate was Madame Posseh, waiting to greet all her customers with an enormous smile, and discuss with them the best offers on the menu. Kipling parked his van and walked over to Madame Posseh, who soon recognised him, although she thought he had lost a lot of weight.
She ushered him into the small restaurant, with its clean table linen. He remembered that the interior walls were covered with framed family photographs from the past century. She fussed around Mr. Bangura like an old hen, attention he was quite unused to, especially from a lady, and he explained that he was shortly to go south, probably for a long time, and that he thought he would treat himself to a good meal before he left. She promised him that he would leave with a full belly, having dined on the best food in town, as she called the village, and he recalled the last meal he had eaten there, all that time ago.
“I can prepare the same for you again, if that is what you would like,” she declared.
For old time’s sake, he decided that was what he would like, although quite where she got the prawns from in these hard times, he could not imagine. But both the prawns and the steak were excellent, and Madame Posseh insisted that he should have a sweet ‘on the house’, at no cost at all. Kipling Bangura chose his favourite, mango, and a pot of green tea to wash it down. Altogether, a very decent meal, and certainly the best he had eaten for months and months. Madame Posseh hoped he had enjoyed his meal, gave him a receipt - which of course he needed! - wished him a good journey and kissed him gently on his right cheek. Nobody had done that for a long time, either.
***
Tiger rang Will the next afternoon.
“I’m about ready to go when you say the word,” he announced.
“How can you possibly be?” demanded Will. “You know nothing about what’s needed.”
“I know how to get into Charles Prince airport, I know they will be using a Cessna 172 because it’s already been chartered and fuelled up ready to go, I know how to take it over, I know where to land it near the border where you must meet us, and I know what you have to do to help before we get there,” responded Tiger. “All I don’t know is when, and what the package will look like. I must rely on you to tell me that.”
“Hell, you have been busy!” responded Will disbelievingly.
“It’s my trade,” replied Tiger. “There will be three of us, by the way.”
“You and who else?” asked Will.
“Spider, who can climb anything and who will get us over the security fences and so on at the airport, and White-knuckles, who can fly anything with wings on,” replied Tiger. “Ex-RAF, he is, and quite handy with cars, too, especially fast ones.”
“So what’s the plan?” asked Will.
“Secret,” replied Tiger, “even to you. When you tell me the goods are moving, I’ll tell you where to be and what to do. Our getaway vehicle is already in position. You’ll be on your own.”
“What if I don’t get much notice that the diamonds are being shifted?”
“A couple of days would be nice,” replied Tiger, “but three hours would just about be enough. Less than that and you’ve had it. There’s no ‘Plan B’.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” promised Will, but he was talking to himself.
Tiger had already hung up.
***
Will eventually managed to get hold of his contact, who was very agitated.
“Things are not going well in the country,” he said. “People in the government are getting very nervous, and anything could happen. The demonstrations are getting bigger and noisier and are now all over, even in rural areas. I am afraid for my own safety. If I get caught, I’m a goner, but if I survive and there is a new government I shall be all right. I need to survive. It’s best if you don’t ring me again.”
“But I need to know about the diamonds,” pleaded Will.
“It’s more than I dare,” replied his contact.
“Nobody will ever suspect you of being involved, I promise,” said Will desperately. “They will think it’s the President stealing them all for himself. Come to think of it, I will make sure that’s what they believe. I shall tell them. But everything is in place, except that I don’t know when to start things going.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“I can’t talk now,” said his contact after what seemed an eternity. “I’ll ring you later if I can, when I get home.”
With that, he ended the call.
Will was exasperated. He told Bonkers what had happened, and he, too, was at his wits end to know what to do for the best.
“There is no-one else who can help,” said Will. “The President is organising the collection of the diamonds and their move to South Africa, so none of my other contacts will know what he plans or when he plans that they should be moved. Only my man in his outer office.”
“I can understand him being nervous,” said Bonkers. “If it was me, you could go to hell, and I’d look after my own safety.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Will. “But there is nobody else.”
“What about the police?” asked Bonkers. “There’s bound to be a police escort, surely, so Captain Conteh should know what’s going on.”
“They’re not being involved, apparently,” said Will. “I could certainly trust him, and he’s very much with us, but it’s all being done with the minimum of fuss, unless there’s been a change of plan, so he won’t know anything about it. I gather that diamonds are easy to move about, in spite of their value, because they are so small.”
“What about the British - your friend at the embassy, perhaps?”
“Definitely not,” said Will firmly. “They will be very keen to know what happens, but equally keen not to get involved. Bowman has made that plain enough.”
“So there’s nothing we can do but sit and wait, and hope your man does us one last favour.”
“He’ll be doing himself a favour, too, if only he realises it.”
“Let’s go and have a beer,” said Bonkers. “And you can tell me how you got on with Kipling Bangura.”
When Will’s phone rang, it quite made him jump. He wasn’t expecting anyone to ring - not yet, anyway. He put down his beer.
“Hello?”
“I’ve slipped out of the office,” said his contact. “They’re in small leather sealed pouches in an ordinary black briefcase, under some files and papers. No Government crest or anything. They leave here tomorrow, late afternoon. Just the courier, from here. No escorts or anything. By road to Charles Prince airfield, then a small charter aircraft to the strip at Plumtree, and by road from there on, across the Botswana border at Vakaranga.”
He rang off.
Bonkers looked inquisitive.
“That’s all we need to know,” Will told him. “God bless the man.”
Will rang Tiger.
“I’ve got the details we want,” he announced.
“Nothing over the phone - I’ll meet you. Where are you?”
Will told him.
“Large beer, please,” said Tiger. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He was there in eight.
Will introduced Bonkers, and passed on the details he had just received.
Tiger thought for a moment.
“Right,” he said. “Listen carefully. Just outside Plumtree, there’s a dirt track on the left. Not the road to Embakwe, but the next one. The track that leads to Madabe. About ten miles down, after you’ve crossed the Umpakwe River, there’s an old disused gold mine. Closed in about 1968, because it wasn’t producing, but they had cut a rough landing strip out of the bush, just off the road. We can still use it. Be there. Park at the south end of the strip, and if it’s dark when we get there, use your headlights so that we can see the strip. Otherwise, keep out of sight and out of the way, but when you hear us in the circuit, make sure there are no stray animals in our way before we land. We’ll probably do a low pass first - White-knuckles enjoys low flying. Any question?”
“Er, no,” said Will. “Just make sure they think it’s the President behind this.”
“Sure - that’s neat. See you tomorrow evening then,” said Tiger, who burped and left them.
Afterwards, they agreed that neither of them had ever seen a litre of lager downed quite that fast.
***
Joshua Chombo climbed into the Cessna’s cockpit. He was wearing a smart short-sleeved white shirt, with his metal wings pinned over his left breast. He was very proud of the four-ringed epaulets he wore on the shoulders. A captain’s rank. He didn’t get much work these days. The Mashonaland Flying Club had virtually ceased to exist, although there were still a few aircraft in their tumble-down hanger, and most of the small companies that used to fly from there went bust long ago. His passenger, with the briefcase, decided to sit in the right hand seat, where he could enjoy the view out of the front. Chombo had filed his flight plan, such as it was, and checked the weather with the Met. Office at Harare International, before having a quick look round the outside of the aircraft. The airfield was supposed to shut at four, but a couple of people had stayed on late, as this was a special charter.
He was just about to call the control tower for clearance to start up, when several things happened all at once.
A voice said, “‘evening, Sambo,” and what could only have the muzzle of a pistol was jammed into his ribs, quite taking his breath away. Before he had time to say anything, or even think of anything to say, a strip of gaffer tape was slapped over his mouth, and he was yanked backwards from his seat in a vice like grip, bundled into the rear on the floor and securely bound. Much the same was happening to his passenger, he noticed.
“I’ll drive this, old boy,” said White-knuckles. “You just relax and enjoy the ride.”
He slid into the left-hand seat, and pulled an old, rather greasy, RAF peaked cap from the pocket of his combat fatigues. He planted it on his head at a rakish angle, adjusted the scarf that was half-covering his face, and turned on the ignition before doing a quick check of the instruments.
He hadn’t flown one of these things before, but was sure he would soon get the hang of it. If Sambo with the tin wings on his shirt could fly it, then he, White-knuckles, certainly could. He noticed that one or two things were either missing or broken, but thought he could probably manage without them. He decided he wouldn’t tell Tiger - he would only worry.
Tiger slipped in to the right-hand seat. He had seen White-knuckles thump the instrument panel with his fist a couple of times, but decided not to ask - what he didn’t know, he couldn’t worry about.
“Do you have to wear that filthy old hat?” he asked.
“Every time, my dear fellow,” replied White-knuckles. “Part of the uniform, y’know.”
Anyone watching from the tower would probably not have noticed anything, it all happened so quickly. And if they had, they might well have chosen to do nothing about it. They had Spider for company.
White-knuckles had the engine running, selected a little-used radio frequency, and called the control tower to request clearance to start up, taxi and take-off, all at once, and could he please have the local barometric pressure.
Spider grabbed the microphone and said, “Sod off,” before returning to his task of tying up the three people in the tower.
“According to the book,” Spider told them, “this dump opens at five tomorrow morning, ‘though God knows why. So you’ll only have about twelve hours to wait. There’s a bottle of water each for you here, in case you break loose before then. I don’t usually treat opposing forces like that,” he said, running his thumb along the edge of his knife. The three men cringed. “I must be getting soft in my old age, but that’s what the President wants, so à” He shrugged.
He paused only long enough to rip the cables from the back of the controller’s desk and pull out the phones, before going out on to the balcony, swinging his legs over the rail, and abseiling to the ground. Quicker than the stairs.
White-knuckles saw him go, and grinned as he eased the aircraft off the runway. When they were airborne and on the correct heading, he called up local control at Harare International to confirm his route and ETA at Plumtree, in accordance with the flight plan. Harare, in reply, gave him the current wind speed and direction, and the barometric pressure so that he could adjust his altimeter, and told him to contact Bulawayo Local.
“Roger that,” replied White-knuckles.
Bulawayo told him their wind speed and the pressure in milibars, although he didn’t really need to know about the wind, or anything else. He planned soon to drop below radar level and fly off-route to his landing strip at the old mine, at low level. Bulawayo control would probably not even notice that they had lost radar contact with him. That often happened these days, what with power failures, aging equipment and so on, and nobody much seemed to bother.
The control tower instructed him to change radio frequency yet again, and hoped he had a nice day.
I’m already having a better day than you are, chummy, he thought.
Tiger slipped into the back of the aircraft to address Chombo and his passenger.
“Now you listen to me carefully,” he said. “Neither of you have anything at all to worry about, I can assure you, and if you do as you are told, absolutely no harm will come to you. Not from us, anyway,” Tiger thought he should add, in fairness. “It’s just that the President has decided that he wants the contents of this briefcase all to himself, so that’s why we’re taking it from you. Do you understand?”
The two men nodded enthusiastically.
“Good,” said Tiger. “Now listen carefully again. We shall be landing near Plumtree, and you will be set free, providing you don’t cause any trouble.” Tiger waved his pistol in emphasis. “You’ll have to walk home from there, I’m afraid, but it’s not far to the main road.”
They nodded again.
“We’re nearly there, boss,” yelled White-knuckles, over the noise of the engine.
Tiger returned to his seat.
“I think I’ll do a quick low pass before we make our landing run,” announced the pilot. “Just to get the hang of the place, and make sure there are no stray elephants in the middle of the strip, or smoke from bush fires obscuring the view - that sort of thing.” White-knuckles grinned at Tiger, who would have taken money that this would happen. He put on his seat belt, and pulled it extra-tight.
***
Will and Bonkers got there just after four. When the dust had settled, and they had made sure there was nobody else about, they got out of the Volvo to stretch their legs. There wasn’t a sound, apart from the usual noises of the birds and insects you find in the bush.
“Look out for snakes,” Will warned Bonkers. “I don’t like snakes.”
“They don’t like you, either,” replied Bonkers. “You’re bigger than they are.”
They strolled up the old landing strip.
“Someone’s in for a bumpy landing on this stuff,” commented Bonkers, kicking stones as he went.
He stooped to pick up one of them. He looked at it closely, rubbing it with his thumb. He spat on it, rubbed it again, and buffed it on the seat of his jeans.
“Here! Just look at this, Will,” said Bonkers.
The two squinted at it.
“Bloody hell,” said Will. “That just could be a gold nugget, you know!”
“Just what I was thinking,” said Bonkers. “Let’s look for some more like this.”
“Let’s not,” said Will, as they both heard the sound of an approaching plane.
Bonkers stuffed the stone into the pocket of his jeans, and the two ran back to the car. No need for headlights; it wouldn’t be dark for nearly an hour yet. They watched the small aircraft getting larger and larger as it approached. It was heading straight for them and zoomed past very low indeed, dipping one wing in salute. They ducked involuntarily, as it banked sharply into a left hand turn, the wing tip almost brushing through the tops of the thorn trees. It lined up again on the rough airstrip, marked out with