She gave a weary smile. ‘Thank you, Donald.’
‘But the winner,’ he continued, ‘is Mr Carver by one.’
‘What?’ Now Zalika’s eyes blazed with furious energy. ‘That’s not possible! It was a tie!’
‘I’m afraid not, Miss. You lost two shots in the final five pairs.’
‘I know, but one of them was in the pair that I had to reshoot. It didn’t count. You said so yourself: the score from the first bird is counted. I killed the first bird.’
‘Aye, so you did. And the score is counted… when you are shooting on report. But these pairs were simultaneous. And I’m afraid the rules are very clear, Miss. If a “no bird” is called in a simultaneous pair, the score for the other bird does not count. You start from scratch when the pair is released again. And you lost the first bird of that pair, as well as the very last bird of all. When Mr Carver killed all ten, he overtook you.’
Zalika sighed. ‘I see.’ She switched her attention back to Carver. ‘So you win, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘But only on a technicality.’
‘A win is a win. That’s how it works.’
She narrowed her eyes and stared at him. ‘You knew that rule all along, didn’t you? When I said you couldn’t win, you knew.’
‘Yeah, I knew I had the beating of you. But I still had to get all ten.’
The look in Zalika’s eye was as cold as bare steel on a frosty morning. But as she turned and walked away from him, Carver swore he could see the beginnings of a smile spreading across her face, almost as though she, not he, were the real winner.
39
Justus Iluko had spent the day at a UN World Food Programme supply centre, trying to persuade officials there to double the size of their deliveries of maize to the refugee camp that had sprung up on his farm. ‘You bring enough food for ten thousand people, but there are many times that number now. You must send more,’ he begged.
The official’s name was Hester Thompson. She could not remember the last time she had stepped into a hot bath, or grabbed more than four hours’ sleep. Her greasy, unwashed hair was pulled back into a bedraggled ponytail, held in place by a rubber band.
She looked at Justus through eyes made red by fatigue and dust. ‘We don’t have more food,’ she said. ‘The UN has cut its food aid budget. We’re giving you all we’ve got.’
‘But people are dying of starvation. There is no fresh water, no sanitation. Yesterday we had twenty new cases of cholera, but we have no doctors, no medicine to treat them.’
‘I understand, and I sympathize, really I do. But even if I had all the money in the world to spend on food it wouldn’t make any difference because your government-’
‘They are not my government,’ Iluko snapped. ‘They are hyenas, feeding on my country’s corpse.’
Thompson sighed wearily. ‘Whatever, the Gushungo regime refuses to import more than a hundred thousand tons of maize into Malemba. The President says he does not need any more than that. In fact the minimum amount required to keep this country alive is close to six hundred thousand tons. Last week we cut our basic maize allowance to five kilos per person, per week. That works out at six hundred calories a day. And yeah, I know, that’s a starvation ration.’
‘So you will not help…’
‘Not unless I suddenly develop superpowers, no.’
Justus drove home empty-handed. He tried to call his family from the Toyota Land Cruiser he had bought, second-hand, with half the money Samuel Carver had sent him a decade earlier. There was no reply.
When Justus finally returned home he discovered the reason for their silence. Overwhelmed by grief and rage, he screamed out curses against Henderson Gushungo, and cried out to God for vengeance. As the sun set behind the western hills, he began digging Nyasha’s grave, completing the task by the light of a torch. She was buried wrapped in a blanket, and as a handful of refugees gathered round him, Justus said a few prayers to speed his wife’s soul on its way. When he asked the people what had happened to his children, no one knew. They had been taken away, two more recruits to the ranks of the disappeared. What difference did it make where they had disappeared to?
Late that night, in a brief moment of calm before the tears and fury consumed him again, he thought of the one man on earth who might be able to help him. He had always kept in touch with Carver, marking every Christmas with a long letter detailing his children’s progress as they made their way up the school ladder. Less regularly, Carver had replied, but the Englishman had always shown him friendship and respect. Justus could not afford to make an international mobile phone call, but what did that matter now?
He had a number for Carver. So he dialled it and hoped for the best.
40
Twenty-four hours after Carver’s arrival, he was back in Klerk’s drawing room, standing in front of the elephant painting. But this time he had his back to the charging tusker. His attention was focused on Wendell Klerk, Patrick Tshonga and Zalika Stratten. Carver wasn’t normally given to public speaking. But he had to admit he was getting a buzz out of feeling the anticipation in the air. He knew the answer they all wanted from him. But he was going to make them wait till he was good and ready to give it to them.
Terence had provided drinks, as always. Carver swilled his whisky in the glass, putting his thoughts in order as he watched the motion of the golden liquid. Then he said, ‘A long time ago, a couple of years before I went into Mozambique to get Zalika, I spent some time in a clinic near Geneva. I’d done a job that started going wrong right from the start, and only ended up worse. I imagine you knew about that, Mr Klerk.’
He nodded. ‘I was aware you’d been in a bad way, ja.’
‘Well, then, I’m sure you also knew that my case was handled by a psychiatrist called Geisel, Dr Karlheinz Geisel. Once I started functioning a little better – stopped being a vegetable, basically – we used to have therapy sessions. He said he had a problem with making me better. He was worried that once I was well, I’d just go back to doing things that he thought were morally inexcusable. So it troubled his conscience, feeling like he was my enabler.’
‘And your point is?’
‘I’ve spent the weekend listening to you three going on about your precious land of Malemba. Now you’re going to listen to me.
‘Geisel and I got into the whole question of killing. How did it feel? Could you ever justify it? I came up with an imaginary situation for him. Suppose you’re put in a time machine and taken back to Germany, 1936. You’re at the airport in Berlin. Adolf Hitler is getting on a plane. Someone sticks a detonator in your hand and tells you that there’s a bomb on the plane. All you have to do is push the switch, the bomb goes off and Hitler dies. No World War Two. No Holocaust. Trouble is, there are other people on the plane. Nice, clean-living folk: the crew, a couple of pretty stewardesses, maybe some cute, smiley little blond kids from the Hitler Youth. So if Adolf dies, they die too. Question: do you push the button?’
‘Of course!’ snapped Klerk. ‘A few lives against tens of millions. What’s the problem?’
‘Geisel had a problem,’ said Carver. ‘He wasn’t the one who was going to kill all those millions. But he was going to kill all the people on the plane. Their deaths would be down to him. So he wanted time to think about it. I said, “You don’t have time. You’ve got to do it now or never.” Then I gave him all this macho crap about how he’d screwed up the job. It was too late, the plane just took off, and now Hitler’s alive and seventy million people are going to die. I remember I told him, “That’s why I don’t waste too much time worrying about the things you like to worry about. In my line of business, there isn’t time.” ’
‘That’s the right attitude,’ said Klerk, approvingly.
‘No it isn’t. That’s the attitude that ends up with people in black uniforms with silver skulls on their caps and SS badges on their shoulders, shoving Jews into cattle trucks: “Don’t worry. Don’t think about morality. Just obey your orders and do the job.” See, it took me a while to grasp that Geisel was right. None of us ever knows what the consequences of our actions will be down the line. All we can look at is what’s in front of us, and ask ourselves, “Is this the right thing to do, right here, right now? Can I justify it to myself?” Maybe I’m going soft in my old age, but as much of a mad, genocidal, fascist bastard as Gushungo is, I can’t justify killing him in cold blood. So my answer is that I’m not going to take your job, Mr Klerk… Mr Tshonga… Zalika. You want the old bugger dead so much, you go and kill him. See how that works for you.’