“We’re coming to it,” the captain said unhappily. “Sooner or later we shall have another Great Massacre like the one back in 2000. Then many more, both White and Black, will be killed, and again nothing will be solved.”
“What can do,” Liese asked from across the table, to stop it? Lessing was getting used to her disjointed way of speaking.
The captain rubbed at his wispy moustache. “Like last time: military force. Socially, we’ve gone as far as we can: education, health care, jobs, housing. The… pardon my language… bloody lot The Blacks want to do to us what they did to Rhodesia… Zimbabwe. First independence, then a ‘veddy propah British’ Black government, then a ‘president’ who’s little more than a dictator, then army rule, then tribalism, then persecution of the White minority, and finally expulsion of whatever Whites are left. Then a shambles, like Zimbabwe today.” Spots of color appeared in his cheeks. “Damn it, I’m as African as these people… ancestors here since the 1600s and all that. I won’t give up my home any more than an English-American who is politely asked to leave by the Red Indians! Same case; different ratio of natives to Whites, that’s all.”
Lessing had heard the arguments before. By his own lights, the captain was only describing the situation realistically. Philosophically — morally, ethically, in the best of all possible worlds — perhaps there ought not to be racial conflict. Yet the human animal, Black or White, was aggressive and acquisitive, and whichever side was on top would almost certainly abuse its position. History proved it, and there were no signs of humanity undergoing a change of heart. Like the old saw said: “They ain’t no justice.” Where did one man’s “legitimate political aspirations” become another man’s “oppression and tyranny?” One had only to look to the Jews in Palestine, the British in Ireland, or any of a dozen other instances. He was glad when the captain let the subject drop.
As he watched Liese and the others he felt an emotion to which he could put no name: a vague disquiet, a doomed fatedness, like a man from the future seated at the last dinner on the Titanic. The bright, brittle conversation passed over and around him and echoed off into nothingness, the words no more than shards of glass, clashing and ringing and tinkling like the wind-chimes on his parents’ porch back in Iowa. In this company he was as far out of his element as the broiled lobster Liese was daintily devouring. These elegant, overly mannered people were a soap opera on the holo-video; whatever they said and did had no relevance to the real world
Covert observation of the old duffer on his right showed him proper knife and fork for the roast beef and the correct wine to go with it. He made no unpardonable gaffes; at least no one leaped up to denounce him as an untutored, low-class slob. Actually, it was funny. He had little affinity for these people, but as the meal drew to a close he realized that he could cope if he really wanted to do so. Etiquette and chit-chat were like camouflage paint: you put it on when you went out on patrol. It wasn’t part of you, and you knew how silly you looked with your face all daubed green and yellow and black, but you wore it because it meant survival. It was the same here.
Dessert came and went, then coffee. They got up. The ritual now required after-dinner drinks and conversation.
“My name’s Hoeykens, Peter Hoeykens.” The police captain put out a bronzed hand for Lessing to shake. “Didn’t catch yours.”
“Alan Lessing.”
The man blinked, and the muscles in his jaw tensed. “Lessing, eh? Oh… oh. I say.”
“Something wrong?” He sensed Mrs. Delacroix ‘s gaze upon him from the far end of the table.
“Ah… ah, no. Not really “
“What’s the problem?” Lessing asked.
“Could we speak privately?” The man signalled urgently to Mrs. Delacroix.
The sitting room to which the old woman took them was rarely used, an oasis of dark, leather furniture, tribal shields and spears, subdued lighting from massive, bronze lamps as big as barrels, animal skins: African kitsch, Lessing thought.
Mrs. Delacroix turned upon Hoeykens and raised an imperious eyebrow. “What is it, Peter?”
The captain sighed. ‘Two things… three, really. First, you are that Alan Lessing who works for Indoco? In India, I think?”
“Yes. So?”
“Been a come-uppance at your plant there. Accident. Burned down part of it.”
“My God! How? Who… what…? Anybody hurt?” He thought of Jameela.
“Don’t think so, but can’t say. Came in over the telecom link earlier as I was leaving for this bash.”
“The other two things,” Mrs. Delacroix urged.
“Both the same… different sources. Three days ago Europol put out an A.D. order… that’s ‘apprehend and detain’… for one Alan Lessing. The Americans want him on suspicion of murder, theft, and… for God’s sake… treason. What the devil did you do, man?”
“The third thing?” He kept his voice calm. He saw no reason to enlighten Hoeykens.
“The Israelis came through with the same demand a day after Europol got on the line. Catch this Lessing and hold him for an interrogation team from Jerusalem.”
“You would do that for them? The Zionists?” snapped Mrs. Delacroix.
“Have to,” Hoeykens fiddled apologetically with his cuff links. “We supply Israel with arms and aid… and they us, you know. They swat flies in the north of Africa, and we swat flies down south. Not that we love the Izzies, but… well, one hand washes the other and that sort of thing.”
The old woman put her hands on her hips and glared up into Hoeykens’ reddening face. “This Alan Lessing, he is Herman Mulder’s… how do you say?… protege. He is one of us. You know.”
“Damn it, madame, nothing personal “
“Fine. Listen to me. You came tonight, you met Alan, but you never heard his name. He goes by my private jet to… to somewhere. At once.”
“Back to India,” Lessing put in firmly. “India.”
“They… the Americans, at least… have extradition treaties with India! You will be arrested.”
“I have to chance it. I have reasons—”
Hoeykens interrupted him. “The Americans… State Department, CIA, I don’t know which… knew you were here, how you got here. Not why. The Israelis just seemed to be pushing all the likely buttons. The two of ’em haven’t got together yet.”
“You were sent here specifically to find Mr. Lessing?” Mrs. Delacroix fixed the officer with a needle-sharp eye. “A spy?”
“My heavens, madame…! Of course, not! My superiors know you and I are friends but not that Mr. Lessing would be here tonight. Anyhow, we have powerful support up top, and neither the Americans nor the Zionists are exactly welcome, what with their views of our internal policies and all. No, this was just coincidence.”
Lessing had heard enough. “Anything else? Otherwise I’ll take that offer of a plane for India. Neither the United States nor Israel is popular there. It’ll be months before an extradition order gets through Delhi’s red tape.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Delacroix said. “And by then your Mr. Mulder will have thought of something.”
“I have just one small traveling case. I’ll get it and be ready in ten minutes. Now I’d like to say good-bye to Liese, please.”
“Oh… oh!” the captain flung after him as he turned to go. “I say, Mr. Lessing! One more bit of information! Seems both the Americans and the Zionists are hunting not only for you but for an accomplice of yours as well! Best tell him to go to ground, too!”
“Who?” Lessing thought of Bauer, then of Hollister, and lastly of Rose Thurley.