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Part 1: An unlikely mission
“I have received this private communiqué,” said Waverly, handing the file to his senior agents. “It comes from an old friend of mine, who is now the President of a newly independent African state.”
The file suggested financial corruption at a significant level of government and not only that but the possible involvement of Thrush. He waited until they had read the first page – Kuryakin was already on a third page – and said, “As you see, he believes that the problem is centred on a mine in a remote part of the country.”
“Does he want action or just proof?” asked Solo.
“It depends what you find is going on. The President is an honourable man, who wishes our support to be fairly unobtrusive, but he will deal with anything you discover. Independent African countries have sensitivities that should be respected. I’m sure you understand.”
He looked up – a sign of dismissal, so they rose. “You should try to make contact with the mission station in the valley near the mine but take tents and camping gear in case of need.” Observing a glum expression pass over Solo’s face, he said, “See what you can do, gentlemen. I’ll see you back here as soon as possible.”
o0o
The African guide that should have been there to join them had been taken ill and there was no-one else available. Accustomed to managing for themselves, the two agents shrugged – until they saw what was available to take them to their destination.
Examining it, the only thought the two men had to console themselves with was that, with no roads to speak of in the wilds of Africa and no direction signs; with streams and rivers to cross without bridges; with always a nagging fear of breakdown miles from anywhere, it’s a given – as it is at sea – that people finding anyone in that situation will always stop to help.
The elderly vehicle was cranky, and its gears tended to jam. Napoleon immediately handed over the driving to Illya, a kindred spirit and master of the double-declutch. He alone would be likely to coax it out of its stubborn resistance. They set off jerkily with a backfire from the exhaust.
Napoleon in his role of map reader found that, even with the map open on his lap, notes in one hand and a compass in the other, it was nearly impossible to interpret the directions to the mission station. The signposting was negligible.
“Have we passed a yellow fever tree yet?” He wasn’t sure whether he would recognise a yellow fever tree – umbrella trees, no problem, but other varieties of acacia, no.
“Several,” said Illya.
“Ah. That’s good. Now we look for a boulder.”
Illya flashed a potent glance at him but acknowledged that spotting the one significant boulder in this flat grassland, might be possible.
The light was blinding, the dust asphyxiating, the heat nearly intolerable, and then the engine started to smoke. Illya pulled up quickly and got out. He bent over the engine, waving the smoke away, then looked underneath, his language raising the outside temperature considerably.
“What’s wrong?”
“Radiator is leaking, engine has overheated,” he said, abandoning the required definite article of his adopted language. “We haven’t passed water lately, have we?”
“I don’t know whether you have, my friend, but I certainly haven’t,” Napoleon replied, looking at the map for clues. Illya groaned, as much at the pun as the fact.
Nearby trees (tamarinds, according to Illya) promised a cooler position in which to sit and think. They could get no signal for their communicators, nor at the moment for the radio. If they’d been near the diamond mines, they’d have been picked up all too quickly by Thrush, so they were slightly happier to wait. But it seemed unlikely that any other vehicle would pass – there were no recent tyre tracks.
oo000oo
They had been there about an hour and Illya was still trying to get a radio signal when they heard the rattle of a vehicle in the distance. It was moving faster than seemed sensible so they stepped forward to attract the driver’s attention and a cloud of dust came to a halt and billowed around them. There were two men in the vehicle, both Europeans. “Where were you heading?” the driver asked in strongly-accented English.
Coughing, they told him they were looking for a mission station. The two men beamed and jumped out crying, “But ours is the only one here, it must be ours. God has been kind to you!” It seemed they were the Italian missionaries they were looking for, who shook hands enthusiastically, introducing themselves as Fra Bartolommeo, originally from Rome, who was the driver of a vehicle almost as antique as their own, and Fra Bonaventura from the cooler north of Italy.
The shipwrecked castaways collected their gear and climbed in beside their undoubtedly heaven-sent rescuers. Bartolommeo now started up again and double de-clutched, making the engine roar to get into gear, and set off at a bone-shaking Roman pace. Illya nodded approvingly; Napoleon sighed and thought mournfully of the automatic shift in his own vehicle and of driving fast on nice smooth roads.
Bartolommeo had evidently no hesitation about the route. At some possibly divine, certainly invisible, sign – and not a boulder in sight – they turned off the track and for a while followed another exiguous track until they came to a ravine. Bartolommeo kept going and was clearly going to take them over the edge, though he did slow down a little. It seemed this was the only way, but the turn that would take them over it and down a narrow track looked lethal. Illya looking at the sheer drop said, “Are you sure we have to go this way?”
“Si, certo.”
As they plunged over the side of the ravine, Napoleon said all the prayers he had learned in childhood, shut his eyes tight and watched his life flash before them... When he opened one eye cautiously, the vehicle seemed to be still upright, still moving – not quite as fast as before, thankfully – and still on the track. He glanced at his normally stoical partner. Even a brief sojourn under African skies had bleached his hair to white gold and burned his skin brown, but under it he was pale, which was no reassurance to Napoleon at all.
It seemed a long way down but, at the bottom, the valley opened out and there was a better track running alongside a wide watercourse that at the moment had only a trickle of water in it. It seemed greener down here and there were more trees. After a mile or two, with the daylight fading, the truck pulled up in the mission compound and they staggered out into the gathering gloom to stretch and straighten their stiffened and very dusty limbs.
“Come,” said Bonaventura and led them into the cool of the mission. Inside and out, it was white-painted and very clean. They were shown to a spartan cell into which, no other rooms being free, was forced a very narrow, second bed, a canvas one. As a result, there was very little room to move – but it was comfortable enough and with washing facilities nearby, who was complaining?
The brother who showed them to the room said that chapel would be in less than an hour, and after it, dinner. “I bet it’ll be boiled beans,” said Illya gloomily when he’d gone.
Napoleon looked his partner up and down. Not only dusty, Illya was also oily from rooting about in the engine. “You can take first turn in the washroom,” he said. “You’re even dirtier than I am.”
Illya stripped to his underwear and made for the washroom. When he returned, clean and even shaved, he lay down and said, “Wake me in time for chapel.” He had taken the canvas bed without needing to ask whether Napoleon preferred the more solid one.
Napoleon smiled therefore and offered solace: “You don’t have to come.”
“No, but I will,” he said and closed his eyes. Napoleon’s smile widened to a grin and he went to wash. When he came back, Illya was well asleep so he changed and took both his and Illya’s trousers and boots outside to brush off the effects of the journey.
The chapel bell rang as he returned but Illya had to be woken. Grumbling a little, he dug out a clean shirt and accompanied Napoleon to the little chapel. The service was quite soothing after the trials of the drive so Illya was well-behaved, though his stomach was making its feelings known by now. Fortunately for all concerned, the service was fairly short and the two guests were conducted to the dining room where, to their amused astonishment, dinner was a totally Italian revelation: pasta with tomato sauce, followed by chicken and vegetables roasted in olive oil and ending with fruit and cheese. And not only was there red wine but there was also coffee.
“Where does all this come from?” said Illya, conversing in Italian.
“We grow everything ourselves.”
“Everything? And make all this yourselves, too?”
“Everything. We farm a large area, we have a good water source – at least it was – and the climate is perfect for our requirements. You will see it tomorrow – it’s dark now and, of course, after dinner we retire for the night.”
oo000oo
Napoleon and Illya looked out at the garden, clearly visible under the bright expanse of stars above them. The immensity of the universe and the brilliance of starlight is never experienced by city-dwellers and, as always, it took their breath away. The noises of an African night, on the other hand, matched those of a noisy city and failed to keep them awake.
A cockerel, however, is a different matter, and there were several here.
Woken in the cool of dawn, they got up and wandered out to explore. They gazed around in surprise. Everything was under cultivation. A kitchen garden contained rows of vegetables and tomato plants, even a herb garden. In the distance, were vines, olives, wheat fields, and fruit trees. “It’s a Garden of Eden,” said Napoleon, “Look, you can even have a fig leaf to cover your shame.”
“I have no shame as you well know. Nor have I met or been tempted by a serpent so far,” said Illya.
“And there’s no Eve to tempt anyone,” said Napoleon.
“Well, thank God for that, at least,” said Illya, looking round as a bell rang.
“Time for chapel.”
“Again?”
“Several times a day. Don’t you feel the need to give thanks?”
“Maybe after breakfast,” said the atheist, but he went along anyway.
oo000oo
At breakfast, they learned that the local mine owners had been prospecting in the area. This was diamond territory. In the past, diamonds had been found in the gravel of the river and the discovery had led to an influx of diamond hunters who had panned the river so that diamonds were now rarely found in it. The mining company, working a lucrative diamond pipe a few miles away, now wanted to take a new look at where the original finds had been made. The threat therefore was serious.
The mission brothers were also worried and distressed that, despite their spiritual and educational work in the village nearby, its people had succumbed to some kind of magic and under its influence a poor disabled boy, feared to be a demon, had been beaten to death. After that, the spirit was said to have promised them safety if the entire population moved away.
Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances. “And the village is where the mine owners want to dig,” said Napoleon.
“Exactly.”
“How did the magic manifest itself in the village?” asked Illya.
“It came by night and visited people in their dreams. It could have been the power of suggestion, but we believe someone was also using some kind of hallucinogenic compound, or gas. Signori, they need your help – we need your help, it may be our turn next.”
“What makes you think so?”
“The villagers have been warned against us. And the river is drying up. We are all being forced out.”
After the meal, most of the brothers went off to work and, back in their room, they agreed a plan: Illya would if possible retrieve their vehicle; Napoleon would go to the village and gather information.
ooo0000ooo
Part 2 : A rare stone
Bartolommeo watched as Illya bent over the engine of his vehicle and chatted amiably in his own tongue, unperturbed by Illya’s laconic responses.
“No good. I’ll have to get underneath,” said Illya and lying on his back he squirmed and slid himself into the gap under the front of the vehicle. “Ah, it’s just a small hole. Looks like damage from a stone, not rust.” He reached up with a rag to clean the area and sealed a temporary plug into it. He refilled the radiator and watched for drips. “OK. That should hold till we get back,” he said.
“You’re a good mechanic,” Bartolommeo commented, helping him to brush off the dust.
“Wait till we get back before you say that,” said Illya. “Just don’t go too fast.”
Bartolommeo’s pace, even though fairly restrained by Roman standards, nevertheless produced enough dust to be followed at a slower speed. Illya took the plunge over the ravine with great care, sweating freely. The plug in the radiator held and he arrived safely at the mission where he set about putting a more permanent seal on it, watched and commented on by the incorrigible Bartolommeo.
oo000oo
Napoleon had gone with Bonaventura to the village. As they approached, boys came out and threw stones. Others came out and shouted, then gathered sullenly when they stopped at the headman’s hut. Mwamba emerged holding himself stiffly. When they asked to speak with him he was silent, then unbent slightly and indicated for them to sit down with him in public discussion.
He was impatient with their anxiety for the safety of the village and rejected their fear that the villagers were being deceived. “The Spirit has given us a vision of a new village, with water and electricity. It will be built for us.”
“But where, and who by?” said Bonaventura.
“The Spirit knows,” said Mwamba with dignity. “It warns us to move because we cannot now get water to irrigate the fields. The land here has been good, but something has happened to the river. We have a well that the missionaries built,” here he nodded formally to Bonaventura, “but it’s not enough.”
“It’s possible the river may have been diverted by people who want to force you off the land they want to mine,” said Napoleon. “It’s also possible they are poisoning your minds.”
Mwamba’s expression darkened, but before he could speak, Bonaventura said gently, “No insult is intended but we are anxious about the river, ourselves. Maybe we should go upstream and see. Will you come with us, Mwamba?”
The headman turned to his companions and spoke in his own language. The men alternately looked at him and at the two Europeans and talked and argued together for some time. At length, agreement of some sort was reached and Mwamba turned to Bonaventura and said, “We will go with you and see. Some of my men will go, too.”
Bonaventura’s restriction on numbers notwithstanding, it was a rather crowded truck that set off.
oo000oo
Illya wanted to take a look at the diamond mine and borrowed Bartolommeo’s vehicle rather than use his own – the improved repair to the radiator needed to set – but left his loquacious friend behind. As he left the green, cultivated mission land and approached the area of the mine, the dust of rural Africa marked his progress and was noticed.
Arriving at the vast site, which was surrounded by a high chain-link fence, he pulled up and got out. Below him was a deep, terraced hole in the earth – an excavation of the subterranean remains of an ancient volcano – where small figures and vehicles were moving about. Across the other side, he watched as puffs of dust shot into the air, followed a second or two later by the dull sound of explosions as a new working area was blasted out.
The helicopter that had observed his approach now made its presence felt by hovering menacingly. He ignored it, and it came down to land, creating a whirling fury of dust. There was a familiar angry bird painted on its side. Illya moved back from the fence and put his hands up, affecting alarm as they came up to him waving weapons.
Demanding his business and not waiting for an answer, they ordered him to leave.
“Surely, I can look,” said Illya, “I’ve never seen a diamond mine before.”
“You’ve seen it, so go! Now!”
In a hat and wearing sunglasses, he remained unrecognised even though he was fairly sure his image was imprinted on Thrush minds everywhere. This was fortunate as he was outnumbered and out-weaponed and had little choice but to leave. A rifle butt in the back confirmed it when he walked away from the fence too slowly for them. Protesting ineffectually, in his character of innocent tourist, he climbed painfully into the mission vehicle to drive away. The helicopter followed his dust until he had driven some distance then sheared away and left him.
Everyone was working in the fields so the mission station was almost deserted when Illya arrived back. He was finding it painful to breathe so, not yet sure whether any of his ribs were cracked, he went to their cell to look for bandages just in case and carefully lay down to wait for Napoleon’s return.
oo000oo
When they arrived at where the local water course diverged from a larger river, Napoleon and his companions found a scene of devastation. Huge amounts of earth had been moved in order to dam their branch of the river to a trickle. Mwamba and the men of the village stared in horror. Napoleon and Bonaventura were equally shocked but less surprised.
“How did this happen?” said Mwamba.
“It’s been done using earth-moving equipment – probably by the people at the mine,” said Napoleon trying his communicator again and finding it working at last. He smiled at Mwamba reassuringly and, now talking to Mr Waverly, explained the situation. Waverly said he would seek government intervention and promised to have something arranged within twenty-four hours. Napoleon signed off and was about to tell Mwamba who he had spoken to when a new problem arrived.
An expensive vehicle pulled up and a big man in a silk suit, with attendant armed bodyguard and other henchmen, got out and approached them.
“This is private land, please leave,” was the moderately polite request.
Mwamba protested – this wasn’t private land and never had been.
“Well, it is now.”
Napoleon asked for their names, credentials and proof of ownership, or they would not move. He showed his own ID, which was ignored.
“You don’t ask a government minister for credentials,” the man snapped.
“I do when I see a whole village under threat,” said Napoleon.
“They have been offered alternative land.”
“What is your name and who are you?” Napoleon repeated, “and why have haven’t you informed the people downstream of this criminal action?”
The question was dismissed with contempt. “This is more important than a few villagers and missionaries.”
“More important? What is more important than the livelihoods of the people?” In his anger, Napoleon was now on dangerous ground challenging a possibly corrupt government official. “We all know what it means. The mineral wealth under the village and the mission will go not to the people who own this land, but to corrupt officials and mine-owners!” He heard Mwamba’s dismayed hiss and Bonaventura’s faint remonstration but held his nerve. The man gestured to his henchmen who surrounded Napoleon and manhandled him protesting into the vehicle. Weapons were pointed at his frightened companions. “You others, leave… Now!”
Bonaventura held Mwamba back when he attempted to argue. “Don’t try to fight or they’ll take you too,” he muttered and, as the vehicle sped away, said, “Mr Solo managed to request aid, so help is on its way, but we must get back and tell his friend.”
oo000oo
Bonaventura left Mwamba and his men at the village, promised to let them know what was happening, and drove back to the mission. Illya, who was asleep, groaned when awakened and tried to sit up. They noticed blood on his shirt and one of the brothers went to get compresses and soothing herbs for the broken skin and bruising. The doctor on the station was up country, so no medical help was available, but Illya had already decided that his ribs were more-or-less intact and reluctantly accepted assistance from Bonaventura and his colleague with the compresses and bandages. They made no comment when they saw his other scars, so, not seeing their exchange of grave looks, Illya was only aware of the gentleness of their touch.
His fiddling with the radio seemed to have paid off. It now seemed to be working and he was able to contact New York and ask them to find out where Napoleon might have been taken. Mr Waverly told him of Napoleon’s report and said he would now talk to the country’s President about starting an immediate inquiry into corruption at the mine and the involvement of Thrush. He would also see that Napoleon was released though, as ever, this seemed to be a secondary consideration.
There was no more Illya could do except attend chapel, have dinner and go to bed.
oo000oo
After an anxious night and a long morning without hearing anything, news came when a vehicle pulled up outside. Waverly’s promise had been realised and to Illya’s relief Napoleon, looking a little more ruffled than usual but otherwise unharmed, entered with his police escort. Welcomed with open arms, they all accepted coffee and Napoleon told his story.
He’d been taken to a villa in the hills, evidently owned by the mine. He had been threatened and pushed around but not badly hurt; he was also told he would be locked up for insulting an official. He had then been given food and locked in a room where he spent the night. Things could have been a lot worse – it seemed it hadn’t occurred to them to tell Thrush, possibly because they didn’t recognise his ID. In the morning, a senior police officer had arrived with a large body of men to take over the villa. They had then taken him to talk to other officials who told him that Thrush and the corruption at the mine were being dealt with at an even higher level.
But of even more importance to his audience, he said, “They’ve already got the mining company clearing the river.”
When police left, the mission staff started preparing for lunch so, before chapel, Napoleon and Illya went out to look at the river and found it already flowing less sluggishly. Napoleon noticed his friend’s stiffness as they walked.
“You look like you have a story to tell, too,” he said. “Broken ribs? Who did you annoy, the cook?”
“Just Thrush – up at the mine – and they’re not broken, it’s just bruising. Luckily, they didn’t recognise me, so I survived the encounter.”
“Can’t leave you alone for a minute.”
“Pot and kettle, Napoleon.”
Their banter was desultory, just a reassuring habit. They sat down by the water which was running very muddy. At its edge, sunlight caught a stone which gleamed suddenly. On impulse and despite his ribs, Illya reached down to pluck it out of the mud. Turning it in his hand, he took a sudden breath, “Napoleon, look!”
o0o
The chapel bell sounded so they had to run. The service was joyful in thanks for the outcome of their guests’ endeavours. The two agents sat quietly, embarrassed to be offered blessings for having done almost nothing. Illya gazed around studying the brothers’ faces and pondering the work that did so much good and gave them such satisfaction. After the service, he followed Napoleon into the mission and took the stone from his pocket.
The missionary brothers stared at it glowing pink on the mission table. “A pink diamond. A big one; worth a lot of money,” said Bonaventura at last. “There were rumours about pink diamonds being found in the river in the past, but in all my time we have never found even a white one. If we did, it would pay for a lot of good things for the village.”
Illya exchanged a glance with Napoleon and turned to them. “I shall be arranging for its sale,” he said. “The money will be sent to you.”
Bonaventura clasped anguished hands together. “But it is yours, you found it.”
“No, never mine. I only found something that belongs here. And here is where it will do most good.”
Bonaventura looked at him. “You have been sent by God, my son.”
Illya, communist and atheist, was about to speak but caught Napoleon’s warning look in time and merely bowed. But as he reluctantly accepted the enthusiastic hugs and kisses of the Italian missionaries, the blue flame in his eyes promised incendiary retribution for Napoleon’s ill-concealed mirth.
ooo0000ooo