“Vich is nossing,” Grossbarger said, patting his fur lap rug in evident satisfaction. “Vat can your Coffee Board do ven legitimate roasters collude in ziss smuggling?”
Roasters was the coffee industry term for the companies that bought the coffee from the growers, prepared it, and packaged it for retail sale. “We know the problem,” Sir Denis said, “but a roaster has no obligation—moral or legal—to question the bona fides of every shipment of coffee he buys.”
“Of course not! And in any event, legitimate growers also collude, helping to bring smuggled coffee back into legitimate channels. Even governments, my friend, have been known to turn a blind eye and a ready palm ven ziss smuggling goes on.”
“Are you suggesting the coffee Uganda is selling the Brazilians is smuggled from somewhere else?”
“Oh, no, no!” Grossbarger’s mobile mouth expressed eleven kinds of amusement. “Uganda does not smuggle coffee in. Uganda smuggles coffee out. Particularly very recently as ze social structure zere breaks down. Do you know ze nation called Malavi?”
“Malawi? Yes, of course, in Africa.”
“East of Zambia, souse of Tanganyika.”
“Tanzania,” Sir Denis corrected.
Smiling slyly, Grossbarger said, “Nostalgia. In any event, Malavi is really outside ze African coffee-growing belt, alzough it has in recent years exported some small amount. But zis year! My friend, zis year Malavi is a major coffee producer!”
In principle, Sir Denis disapproved of such occurrences in the world of coffee, no matter how common they were or how they were winked at by all concerned. But Grossbarger’s delight was so infectious that he couldn’t keep from returning the smile, saying, “How fortunate for Malawi’s growers.”
“Growers zey are, perhaps. Harvesters zey are, certainly. You know, my friend, ve Sviss”—that said without the faintest hint of irony or discomfort—“have known for centuries ze value of having a lake as a border viss anozzer country. So hard to patrol a lake, you know. And it iss almost as zough ze colonial powers vere consciously turning ze continent of Africa into a gigantic board game called ‘Smuggling’ ven zey laid out ze national boundaries. Lake Victoria borders sree nations, Lake Nyasa sree, Lake Tanganyika—Is ze lake still called Tanganyika?”
Acknowledging the teasing with a head bob and a grin, Sir Denis said, “Yes, it is. Your former German colony is still referred to in the name of the lake.”
“Good. Lake Tanganyika borders four countries! How can zere be legitimate business at all?”
“I sometimes wonder,” Sir Denis said. “But I don’t understand the connection with, um—”
“Viss my kindness toward you?” Looking pleased with himself, ruffing up the fur throw, he said, “Oh, yes, kindness, I am not being ironic. You see, my friend, I vas given information zat somesing vould happen to zat coffee shipment.”
“You mean theft?”
“Eggzactly. Seft und smuggling go togezzer. Just ze ozzer day I vas reading in ze paper, a truckload of coffee vas hijacked in Nairobi by two men viss guns. Eighty-five sousand English pounds’ vorth of coffee in vun truck. Vell vorth ze attention of any gunman.”
“What is supposed to happen to the Ugandan shipment?”
“I don’t know.” Grossbarger shrugged, looking away now at tiny patches of farmland, neatly planted, small and artificial-seeming against the backdrop of the mountains. The airport wasn’t far. “Perhaps nossing,” Grossbarger said. “But to be honest, Denis, if somesing does happen, I vished you not to be harmed.”
“Harmed?”
“Oh, yes, I am serious. Zese people, you know, zey are not chentlemen like you and me. Und in ziss case, zeir opponent, ziss Idi Amin, he is also not a chentleman. I felt zere vas danger to anyone involved.”
“Emil,” Sir Denis said, earnestly and awkwardly, “I am touched, and I thank you. But I could wish you’d spoken to me directly, to learn if I wanted such protection.”
“You vould say no! In your position, I vould say no! So I tried surreptitiously to have you removed from ze scene of danger, und I failed. Und so now I tell you ze truth, so you may defend yourself. Somesing may happen to zat shipment. Keep out of ze vay, if it does.”
Smiling, Sir Denis said, “I don’t fancy arguing with gunmen.”
“Good. Anozzer sing. Ze vorst sing you could do vould be speak to ze Ugandan officials. Ve have no proof; ve have no facts; ve have no suspects. But if somesing does happen, und you have varned zem in zis vague vay, zey will detain you for questioning for ze rest of your life.”
“Yes, I see that.” Sir Denis rubbed a hand over his face. “And I thought my only problem was exhaustion.”
The Daimler was turning in at the airport entrance. “Keep vell, my friend,” Grossbarger said.
The stewardess woke him in Rome, where he must change planes.
The stewardess woke him in Tripoli, where he must change planes.
The pilot woke him at Entebbe. “We’re here, sir.”
Here? Sir Denis opened stinging eyes and looked at morning, somewhere on the planet. “Wum—” his mouth tasted terrible, full of woolly caterpillars. “Where?” he asked.
The pilot, a young Libyan Muslim, easygoing and self-confident with his modern skills, had seen these overly tired businessmen before, pushing themselves till they dropped. “Entebbe, sir,” he said. “Wednesday morning, May twenty-fifth, nineteen seventy-seven. End of the line.”
“End of the line,” Sir Denis said, moving his stiff, cramped body. I am sixty-one years of age. “Yes, thank you.”
33
Lew stared at her. “You’re doing what?”
“I’m leaving,” Ellen said. “I’ve got a job.”
“A job?” They were seated at right angles at the kitchen table, in front of breakfasts of coffee, melon slices, and thick pieces of toast. Warm sunlight angled in through the open windows, gleaming on the surfaces they had together cleaned and polished, shimmering on the curtains Ellen had hung, highlighting the white-painted shelves Lew had put up. He frowned down at the food on his plate. “You’ve got a job. Balim,” he said as though accusing her of disloyalty to the firm.
“He knows about it.” She seemed awfully goddam calm, but on the other hand, this wasn’t a surprise to her. “He’s getting a new pilot.”
“A new—” There were so many spiky points on this ball she’d thrown him that he didn’t know which one to grab for first. “What kind of job? Where are you going?”
“Back to the States.”
The States. Was there a glimmer of understandable sense in that? Almost hopefully, because then at least he’d have some idea what was going on, he said, “Are you homesick? Is that it?”
But she laughed, as though relieved at the opportunity to break the tension—break her tension, not his—and said, “No, Lew, I’ve never been homesick in my life. I’m an Army brat, remember? I wouldn’t know where home is.”
“Then—Then, what?” The name Amarda trembled on his tongue, but it was just possible that Amarda was not the problem, and it would be stupid to open up that subject if he didn’t have to. “Ellen, what is it?”
“You and me,” she said. “Lew, do you remember who you were before you knew me?”
“Who I was? What do you mean?”
“You got along in life. You had friends, you had lovers, different people important to you at different times.”