Black Horn (12 page)

Like
all the others, they drank the beer straight from the bottle. There was a giant
of a man behind the bar with a permanent wide smile and sweat pouring down his
face. Shavi introduced him as the bar-owner. He looked Michael up and down and
then asked her something in Shona.

She shook
her head and answered, "No, Maltese."

The
black face looked puzzled and she spoke to him again in Shona, obviously
telling him of the place she herself had only learned about a few hours
earlier. He nodded and held out a huge hand to give Michael a surprisingly
light handshake in the African manner.

He said
in English, "By your looks, I thought you might be Greek. And I hate those
bastards. They'd steal your wallet as fast as your woman. I never had a
Maltese in here before. You're welcome. Especially when you come with the
beautiful Shavi. She decorates my place."

With
his left hand he pulled out two bottles of Lion beer from the cooler, grabbed
one of the many openers on the bar and flipped off the tops. He banged the
bottles down in front of them and said, "On me", and then moved down
the long bar to serve other customers.

Michael
turned to look at Shavi. Even at the bar, her body still moved slightly to the
music, and he felt himself doing the same. Back at the Sheraton she had asked
him what he was doing in the country. He had told her that he was taking six
months off before going to university in America and that he had decided to
have a look around Africa and see the sights. She had looked a bit thoughtful
at that, but said nothing.

Now she
swayed closer to him, looked up and asked, "Why did you lie to me?"

"Huh?"

She
looked around. "Do you see anybody else I'm talking to?"

"Why
should I lie to you, and what would be the lie?"

Her
mouth was still smiling but her eyes held a challenge in them.

"This
is a big country," she said. "But in a way, Harare is like one large
village. We all know what's happening here. Your name is not John Grech. It's
Michael Creasy. You are staying in a suite at Meikles Hotel and you are a mercenary."

He kept
a poker face and remained silent. There was no more challenge in her eyes, just
humour.

"Back
at that disco," she said, "I was with a group of friends when you
asked me to dance. One of them is a ground hostess at the airport and saw you
get off a fancy private jet with two other men, and a woman in a
wheelchair."

"And
you know who they were?"

"Oh,
yes. All of Harare knows that she is the mother of the American woman who was
murdered a few weeks ago. The man with the scars and the grey hair is your
father. Apparently, he is a famous mercenary. The other man is well-known in
this country. He was a Rhodesian and a Selous Scout. In fact, his father used
to buy his clothes from my father's shop. You are here to find the murderers. So
I'm a little surprised that you are in this club, dancing with an Indian
girl."

He took
a swig from the bottle, looked down into her dark eyes and asked, "OK.
Your friend at the airport, I understand. But how do you know about my father
and why we are here?"

"I
told you, this city is a village. Maybe you noticed the very well-dressed young
African who was in my group at the disco. He works for the CIO -- the Central
Intelligence Office. They keep tabs on every foreigner entering the country. He
told me that the crippled woman is richer than God, and that she hired the best
mercenaries in the world to hunt down her daughter's killer."

Michael
said, "Well, if your well-dressed African friend is some kind of
intelligence agent, he shouldn't be shooting off his mouth in some disco to
young women. Especially since the government here is giving us full
cooperation."

"That's
true. But then, you see, he was trying to impress me."

"Why?"

"Because
he's in love with me."

Michael
laughed. "Is everyone in this village in love with you?"

Solemnly,
she answered, "Of course. Don't you think I'm beautiful and
charming?"

"Oh,
yes. And also inquisitive. Are you an informer for the CIO?"

"No,
but you can be sure there are several here and the CIO will know your movements
all the time you are in Harare. We are not a police state, but most young
countries and their politicians are paranoid about security."

"I
guess you're right," he said. "But there's nothing sinister about
what we're doing. The police have tried hard on this case but haven't come up
with any answers. It's natural that a very rich woman would spend some of her
fortune to try and find out who killed her only daughter."

"Yes.
But you didn't answer my question. If she's paying you what must be a lot of
money, what are you doing chasing innocent Indian girls in discos and
nightclubs?"

Michael
spoke in a bantering tone but his mind was ice-cold. "Can't you
guess?"

"Oh,
yes. But I'll only tell you when I have a fresh cold beer in my hand."

It was
hot in the club and Michael was still sweating, but the girl's face and dark
olive body were completely dry. She wore a white cotton and chiffon blouse with
no bra, and emerald silk trousers flowed around her legs. She had straight
jet-black hair which reached down to her small rounded bottom. She tilted her
head back and drained half the bottle of beer and then put her head to one side
as she looked up at him.

"Your
father knows Africa. He brought the Selous Scout MacDonald with him because
he's the best. Because he's reputed to be the best. You are young, but you have
never been to Africa before ... so I guess your father told you to stay in
Harare and find out about the local gossip and, if necessary, seduce innocent
young girls to do so."

Michael
said, "Well, the only information I've learned so far is that so-called
innocent young girls know exactly what I'm doing here."

She
laughed. But then her face went serious and she leaned closer. "You must
be careful. Maybe that American woman and the man with her were killed for some
political or financial reason. Having you and your father and the Scout
MacDonald sniffing around could make them nervous and that could be dangerous.
Life is not valued here as much as where you come from. You could be struck by
lightning."

"Lightning!"

"Yes.
Didn't you know?"

"Know
what?"

"It's
in The Guinness Book of Records -- more people are killed by lightning, per
capita, in Zimbabwe than in any other country in the world. I think it was more
than five hundred last year."

"Are
you serious?"

"Of
course, it's mostly in the tribal lands where they live in mud and wood huts
and don't know about lightning conductors."

He
smiled but her face remained serious.

"I
like you," she said. "You're handsome and intelligent and you dance
well. I don't want to see you struck by lightning."

"Shavi,
you can be sure that I know all about lightning conductors. Now, come on,
introduce me to some of your African friends."

She
turned and looked down the bar and suddenly he heard her curse, even above the
music. She was looking at a group of three men about twenty metres away. They
were in their late twenties and dressed in green suede jackets and white
open-necked shirts and smart jeans. They all wore polished brown shoes. Her
gaze moved to the dance-floor and she spotted someone else and cursed again.
She turned back to the bar.

"What
is it?" Michael asked.

She
sighed. "It's a friend of mine. He's being stupid." She gestured at
the dance-floor. "He's out there dancing with a girl, the beautiful one in
the long white dress. He should never have brought her here... but as well as
being stupid, he's arrogant. He brought her to the wrong territory."

"Why?"

With
her chin, she pointed at the group of three men. "One of those used to be
her boyfriend. He's obsessed with her. About two weeks ago, my friend out there
took her away from him. She's beautiful but she's a bitch. She must have
persuaded my friend to bring her to this club, knowing that it would enrage the
other guy. This is his territory. He deals on the black market with his friends
and sometimes in drugs. The clothes they wear are a sort of trademark. They are
more or less a gang and very tough."

Michael
studied the three men and then looked across the dance floor. The girl in the
long white dress was indeed beautiful, almost as tall as himself, with a neck
like a gazelle. Her tight hair was threaded with tiny multi-coloured beads that
glistened in the light. She danced like a dream. Her face and arms were the
colour of ebony. Every once in a while, she threw a slanted glance at the group
of three men at the bar. Her partner was also tall and very slim and dressed in
a ruffled white shirt, open almost to the waist, dark blue trousers and white
leather shoes. He was also black but paler than her. He had a gold chain around
his neck and a gold wristwatch.

Michael
turned back to Shavi and asked, "Is your friend also in the black
market?"

"No,
my friend is at college. He has a rich father... but his father can't help him
tonight."

Michael
glanced around the huge barn-like room with its raised stage at the far end.
There were at least four hundred people dancing or drinking or rapping in the
corners. He asked, "Your friend has no support here at all?"

"None.
He's not even a Shona... He's a Manica from Mutare down at the Mozambique
border. No one here will interfere. They sure won't help a stranger against
their own."

Michael
gestured at the huge man behind the bar. "What about him?"

She
shook her head again. "He won't have any trouble in here -- but it's when
my friend leaves the place. They'll follow him out."

"What
will they do?"

She
looked down grimly at the bar and said, "They won't kill him, but they'll
come close. In such matters, where a woman is concerned, they'll cut his face
and kick his balls in."

"Will
they be armed?"

"No.
Not even with knives. They'll take bottles out and smash them in the car-park
and use them on him. What happens outside is no one's business in here."

Michael
looked at her and saw the concern and even fear in her eyes. He had attempted
to use her and, in a way, he had succeeded. He had learned through her that
anyone of importance or interest that he talked to would know what he was
doing. He also knew that this girl had a magic about her which could probably
unlock doors and men's voices. He asked her, "Is this friend important to
you?"

"Yes.
It's a long story, but he once helped me when I was very young, and in helping
me caused himself such trouble. He was never my lover and never will be, but
he's a good friend. I want to leave now and get to a phone and try to get some
help for him."

"Is
that easy?"

"No.
His friends will not want to come to this territory... But I have to try."

Michael
took his decision. He asked, "Do you want me to help your friend?"
She looked at him without comprehension. He repeated the question. "Do you
want me to help your friend?"

"But
how? And why?"

He was
looking at the three men in their suede jackets. His gaze then swept around the
room at all the other black faces. He asked, "I'm a white man. If I get
involved against those three, are the rest of this lot going to lynch me?"

She
shook her head.

"No.
Even though it's their territory, that gang is not popular. The others will not
be offended if a stranger went against them. Even a white one."

Michael
turned again to look at the dance-floor. Shavi was standing close to him. He
could feel the warmth of her arm against his. He asked, "If you go on to
that dance-floor and talk to your friend, will he do what you tell him?"

She was
looking at her friend and the girl in the white dress who was swinging her
tightly-clad bottom in the direction of her ex-boyfriend, and obviously revelling
in the situation.

"He
will do exactly what I tell him," Shavi answered. "I can see even
from here that he's frightened and wishing to God that he never let her bring
him here."

Michael
glanced at the three men again. "I told that taxi driver to wait for us at
the corner. Do you think he's still there?"

"Definitely.
You gave him ten dollars -- he would wait there for a week. But what can you
do? You may be tough, but so are they, and I think that my friend is not tough.
He would not be much help."

She saw
Michael smile slightly.

He
said, "The last thing I want is his help. You will make him understand
that."

"Are
you armed?"

He
could feel the shape of the Colt 1911 pistol nestling in its chamois
shoulder-holster under his armpit. He said, "No, I'm not armed." He
leaned closer to her ear and gave her his instructions. When he had finished
she looked up at him.

"I
should be terrified for you, but for a reason I cannot understand, I'm not... I
feel a little frightened of you."

"Go
and do it," Michael said.

As
Shavi moved from his side, he turned back to the bar and beckoned to the owner.
The huge man moved forward and took Michael's outstretched hand. Michael said,
"I've enjoyed your club and the music and the good cold beer. If you ever
come to my island, you ask for me and I'll be your host."

The
man's face split into a huge grin. He said, "I'll do that. But don't
expect me next week."

Michael
released the hand and turned back to look at the three men. They were watching the
dance-floor. They all held dark-brown bottles of beer. Michael noted that two
of them held the bottles in their right hands, while the other one, the girl's
ex-boyfriend, used his left hand. He turned his head to look at the
dance-floor. Shavi was gripping her friend by the shoulders and talking
urgently into his ear. He was nodding and looking frightened. He glanced at
Michael and then at the ex-boyfriend. The ebony girl in the white dress was
standing with her arms crossed, looking very irritated.