Wings of the Morning Read online

  Tepee climbed up out of the sofa to join her, and the two girls went downstairs together. Izzy was helping Ruth to conjure coffee for everyone from the percolator and David was circulating with a small choice of liqueurs. Sol had temporarily subsided and seemed to be taking a snooze in the corner.

  The party mood was changing gear. David wanted to propose a loyal toast which seemed appropriate and was warmly supported.

  ‘If there’s one thing certain in this changing world,’ he announced to the gathering at large, ‘it’s that she’ll still be going strong for her Golden Jubilee.’

  Martin chimed in, ‘that’ll mean a celebration in the next century. It’ll be 2002 by then.’

  It was an obvious cue for general conversation, although Sol continued in a noisy slumber. The remaining men drew their various seats closer together as David moved amongst them, topping up their glasses. Conrad commented that he was more interested in the next two or three years than the new century, and Pente came in to agree.

  ‘We live in such turbulent times,’ he said heavily, ‘it makes me really fearful for humanity.’

  ‘We’ve surely seen a lot worse,’ said Martin with unspoken reference to his father’s lifetime experiences, but Pente anticipated him.

  ‘That’s what troubles me most, Martin. The War is not so long behind us, just an eyeblink in history, and you’d think that lessons had been learnt. But since then we’ve had cold wars and standoffs. We’ve had assassinations and blackmails, we’ve got repressive regimes all over the shop and there’s now more starvation in the Third World than ever recorded. That’s to say nothing of urban terrorism. I wonder if the West Germans will ever be able to keep those Baader-Meinhoff people behind bars now they’ve caught and convicted them. I’m sure it’s all enough to make the Almighty tear his beard out.’

  King intervened. ‘I’m pretty damn sure He’ll be pleased by some developments, Pente. Just taking civil rights in the US as an example, we’ve made a helluva lot of progress there and I should know. I’m one of the beneficiaries.’

  Pente waved his cigar in acknowledgement and it was Sebastien who spoke next, but tentatively, not on account of language as his English was excellent, but rather to recognise that he was the newcomer amongst a long established group.

  ‘I think that you are both right,’ he said tactfully, ‘but it is a favourite maxim of my father that we should all try to look at things through the eye of history, and to imagine what might have been the views of those who have gone before us on the challenges we face today.’

  David was intrigued by this and asked, ‘what do you mean precisely, Seb?’

  ‘Oh I can tell you that,’ put in Connie, ‘I’ve often listened to the Colonel’s musings. He was shattered by the French defeat in Indo China by the Vietminh: it turned his universe upside down and blew apart all his life assumptions. In a form of therapy he invented for himself, he found it helped to look at things through a reverse telescope. So, in this example, would Alexander the Great have ever got himself into Dien Bien Phu, and if not, why not?’

  Seb took it up again, ‘or the Berlin Wall for instance and the division of a country. How much sense does that make and how much misery has it caused? So how would Metternich have handled it? Or our very own Napoleon Bonaparte? Of course, we can only speculate my friends, but the mental exercise gives a new perspective on whatever crisis is tormenting you. It’s something like an out of body experience.’

  David liked the theory, but suspected that he was himself too obsessed with practicalities to embrace it. For now, he was keen to move the conversation.

  ‘Seb, we have our expression here about an ill wind. I imagine that international jitters of any sort may be, in their own way, welcome to Bastion?’

  ‘Ah, that’s better,’ said the big Frenchman with a grin spreading over his face, ‘I like to hear the thoughts of a good English cynic. But David, I know you speak from experience of the places that you visit and here in London. But you’re right of course. Sometimes I think that the world has as much conflict as ever, but just now we are in a period which is more subtle and selective in its enmities. Whatever, we are busier than we’ve ever been, and that goes also for Conrad’s operation here. Connie has done marvels in the last two years but it’s just the tip of an iceberg of opportunity.’

  There was a moment’s pause. Alexa and Tepee remained standing by the door as they chatted, but Ruth went to join Martin and Izzy stood behind Seb’s chair, ruffling his hair playfully.

  ‘This sounds like serious talk,’ she said lightly.

  ‘Serious reflection, more like, Izzy,’ drawled King as he smiled at her, ‘and like most heavy lunch time sessions, we’ll struggle to draw much conclusion from it all. But just to put in my bit,’ he went on addressing himself to the group as a whole, ‘I’ve been bashing around black Africa for most of ten years now, so a fair part of the “winds of change” era, and I’ll say that what gets most to me is that almost everywhere is going downhill. It’s great to be post-colonial, but how much has that improved the lives of Mr and Mrs Average? Where’s the democracy for them, and where’s the future for all their kids?’

  ‘Oh come on now, King,’ Izzy shot back at him, ‘the poor buggers running these places have been left with nothing and no place to go. Look what the Portuguese did: they simply abandoned both Angola and Mozambique, and that was only a few years ago.’

  David was impressed by this firebrand girl, but he didn’t want his party to descend into impassioned argument, so he spoke mildly.

  ‘You’re right there, Izzy, but the people in both places are battling on, and of course the crisis came from rebellion within Portugal. Even so, Lisbon was guilty of having no colonial policy rather than the wrong one ... or that’s the way it seems to me.’

  Before Izzy could respond, David could see her husband putting a ham hand of gentle restraint around her waist, and perhaps Pente, always alive to the sensitivities of a gathering, noticed the same as he chipped in quickly.

  ‘I only know about the East Coast, but I do worry about the conditions of life where I’m living now. Tanzania’s got a brave new political scene under Nyerere, but one heavy cost is in agriculture. Tanzania used to be a bread basket, but as things are now, she can no longer feed her own people.’

  ‘But that’s all part of development, isn’t it’, said Conrad, ‘fledgling countries must be allowed, encouraged even, to go their own way, and we should stop foisting our standards and ideas on them. At the very least we should stop the exploitation by our First World corporations. I must say that I never had much time for Ted Heath, but I did admire him for bawling out Lonrho as the unacceptable face of capitalism.’

  Martin surprised them all with his comment.

  ‘Of course, I mostly keep the books back here and it’s David who travels to all these places, but from what I see, you’ve got to wonder about many of them. Are the new rulers starting new countries, or are they more in the business of robbing the old? And that begs the question, does a dictator have the right to dispossess his people of their previous lifestyle? Can circumstances ever justify that?’

  They had not noticed Sol waking from his siesta, but as he rose from his chair in the corner, it was obvious that he had been listening to the recent exchanges and David was fearful that the congregation might be in for a bit of a sermon, so he prepared himself to step in. But Sol spoke mildly.

  ‘You know, Martin, many would argue that we did precisely that with the help of the British in order to create our own home. That’s how Israel came into existence.’

  A sudden light came on in David’s head, sparked by this conversation amongst his greatest friends. By any measure, Black Africa is going backwards, but maybe there is a way to revive even a slice of this magic continent. It would take brains and balls and money — lots of it. It was a thought to conjure with and he savoured the fire of interest running through him.

  But now it was approaching 6.30 pm in the summer evening an
d there was the beginning of a natural move amongst the party to call it a day. The Kirchoffs went first, Ruth telling David she had made arrangements for a big clear up the following morning so he could abandon ship when he was ready. They were followed by the Avelings who left with Seb and Izzy. Pente and King departed together. With each contented farewell, there was the spontaneous commitment that this reunion must not be the last. The Oxford Five, together with honoured extras, must assemble again, and perhaps next time it could be in Singapore, Seb had invited with a booming laugh as his mighty feet clumped down the stairs.

  Alexa and David were left alone to settle down amidst the wreckage and enjoy a post mortem conversation over a final Armagnac and a cigarette. They completed some jokey reminiscences of the day, who had said what to whom, and they flirted with when and where they might next be all together.

  ‘Could well be Hong Kong,’ David remarked, ‘and what a great move in every way, Alexa. By God we’re all proud of you! Especially that Connie, I might add. I saw him casting sheep’s eyes at you.’

  ‘That’s absolute rubbish, David, and well you know it! These days, he looks only at Tepee, and he’s right. What a fabulous girl, and how right they are for each other. It’s a well deserved triumph for her after all she went through.’

  ‘You’re dead right. She’s so good for him too — just about manages to lift him out of his bit of pomposity which I guess may get stronger as he gets older.’

  ‘Yup. Well, we’re all doing that. Although today, I’ve felt myself getting younger again. It’s been a brilliant day, David, and now I’m the last to say a big thank you. I’ve had such fun.’

  David demurred with a spread of his hands, and made to say something but Alexa cut him off to speak herself.

  ‘Now, Mr Dark Horse, tell me a bit about what’s been going on in your life. And I don’t mean the blessed business. I can see all around me that Kirchoff’s is fairly steaming ahead. But what about the rest and just try for once to avoid holding things back. Tell me about the Heavenly love life.’

  She winked at him, kicked off her shoes and settled on one of the sofas as David lounged back in his chair and gazed upwards for a moment. Then he sat up straight and looked her in the eye. He told her everything.

  Alexa listened open mouthed as David talked about his love affair with Aischa, daughter of Jonas Savimbi, a liaison which had been making its uncertain way over the last seven years. He told her about his trip into southern Angola, his days spent with Savimbi, his evening in Mocamedes with Rafa and Benoit, with all their friends and of course with Aischa and Ouye. He told her about the night too and all the excitements, surprising himself by indulging in carefully phrased detail. Alexa’s eyes widened considerably as she helped herself to more Armagnac and a cigarette stolen from his case.

  Then he recounted how he and Aischa had met again in Lisbon, her marriage arrangement, her child whom David had yet to meet. He told her of Aischa’s determination to remain with Alves Gomes as the best way of supporting her child and her warring father, now much more high profile internationally. Savimbi had a real chance to take power and Aischa would do all she could to help him. So it was that the lovers had to be content to meet as, where and when their strange circumstances would permit.

  There was a logic in this which escaped Alexa and she deftly turned her doubt into a question.

  ‘It sounds to me that you’re not unhappy with this status?’

  He looked at her sharply.

  ‘By God, Alexa, you’re as sharp as ever! The truth is I’m still terrified of emotional commitment. I love that girl, no question, but I hold back from trying to get her permanently by my side. There’s her daughter, of course, there’s this business which is a passion to me and then I’ve got my own grand plans. I know I’m bloody selfish but also, I think I’m kidding myself. The real problem lies in my weird childhood, all those memories which build a castle and keep around my independence. What is it they say? “give me the boy till he’s eight and I will give you the man”.’

  ‘Pretty apt for you, I’d say and I should know. I watched you growing your emotions from scratch and you certainly had to start later than most of us.’

  ‘Too right,’ he smiled, relaxed with the confessions off his chest, ‘but what about you now? What do you think the future holds for you, and what do you want to find?’

  ‘Do you mean now, or in the long term?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Well,’ replied Alexa leaning forward to stub out her cigarette, ‘I’m going to make a new life for myself. I have to get established in a new job and a new place. Those are big challenges, and as I push forward with them, I’m sure I’ll meet someone along the way, perhaps more than one. I feel revitalised now, eternally grateful to both the brothers Bushell for all they’ve done for me. It’s my fault, not theirs, that I have wasted time these years past but I’m determined to make up for that now.’

  Alexa broke off and David was about to speak, but she cut him off.

  ‘But as for now, David, I’m going to shock you. I am finishing a fantastic day with an attractive man who’s an important part of my past but who’s never been in quite the right place at the right time. Until now. So, I’m going to proposition him and by the sound of his true love, I think she’ll forgive me for borrowing him — just for tonight.’

  David could hardly believe his ears and thought he must be misunderstanding her.

  Alexa laughed quietly at his confusion. Then she leant forward and kissed him full but gently on the lips.

  ‘Darling David. What I’m feeling now at the end of this perfect day is happy, horny and available. I’m hoping you’re going to do something about all that!’

  ‘Wow,’ was all David could manage right then, but a confident spring was back in his stride as they walked together into the Dorchester, and it was as well that a different Head Porter was on duty.

  THIERRY CESTAC — 1980

  Another August and Cestac had retreated to his bolthole in the Dordogne. Paris was dead and he wanted a period of peace and relaxation. He also wanted some time to gloat and there could be no better spot than this. The past few years had been particularly satisfying for Cestac. It was not a question of money. He had never been short of funds since the old roué who had befriended him expired under his exertions. Cestac enjoyed his luxuries, but he was never flamboyant so his outgoings could not keep pace with the inflow of assets and his portfolio kept rising. On the other hand, his thirst for power and influence was insatiable and his ambitions grew to exceed his success. He had found his true metier amongst the independent regimes emerging in French Africa from their former colonial status.

  For nearly five years, Cestac had been devoting much of his energy to matters concerning the Republic of Chad, the huge but largely barren State which sprawls southward from Libya and is landlocked by its harsh terrain neighbours of Niger and the Sudan. In 1975, Chad’s founding President Tombalbaye was assassinated by his own army in rebellion against his autocratic rule. This coup had failed to produce a new leader but had resulted in on-going insurgency, encouraging the existing fault line which divided North against South. Rival outlaw bands became entrenched in strife against each other and in 1979, an unholy alliance between two of them had succeeded in taking control of the capital, N’Djamena, disintegrating what little remained of any central authority and collapsing the influence of France as the former colonial power. A year or so later and little had changed. Sporadic heavy fighting continued against a background of permanent insecurity, aggressive theft and vigilante justice. No single group could muster sufficient firepower to take national control, and the varied interests continued a bloody struggle against each other.

  Cestac was one of those who contrived to ensure that the stalemate continued. He had never visited Chad himself and had no intention of doing so: too dangerous and too uncomfortable. Anyway, he was better placed to influence events from Paris, where a number of the protagonists found their way to his d
oor, each a supplicant for Cestac’s ability to source weapons, mercenaries and equipment. On every deal, he extracted a huge commission payable in a mix of cash and kind in the form of a commitment to future power should the customer of the day rise to take undisputed control of the country. Behind his closed door, Cestac was simultaneously doing all he could to ensure that no one would emerge the winner. It suited him for bloody strife to continue rampant against the background of general anarchy and it helped that cause that he was not the only kingmaker. There were others at work, a Belgian of particular note, and then there was the government of France itself, humiliated at being kicked out of its former colony and determined on making its own brand of mischief. All in all, there was a fine old melting pot bubbling away to the benefit of Cestac’s coffers and to satisfy his craving for personal power.

  That day at his cottage, Cestac made himself a simple lunch of bread and paté and was washing it down with some palatable vin de compagne as he sat on the terrace and considered his next moves. Two matters were on his mind. First, it was amazing that the chaos in Chad had already endured for so long and Cestac’s canny instincts told him that it could not continue for much longer. They must already be into some form of endgame, he told himself: he could feel it in his bones. And secondly, he felt physically vulnerable. There had been some wild men come calling over the years and the survivors amongst them were becoming increasingly desperate. It could be only a matter of time before one or another decided to take him out if only from jealousy and frustration. Their action would certainly be protracted, bloody and painful. Cestac knew he was defenceless against such an assault. He was supremely cunning and completely ruthless but his strength and his weapons lay in his brain and his psyche. He had no martial arts, did not know one end of a gun from the other and could wield a knife only to cut his paté.