Juggernaut. Desmond Bagley
I said expansively. ‘Like to have a look at it sometime. Right now I have a lot else to do. I brought someone out with me that I’d like you to meet. Geoff Wingstead, the owner of Wyvern Haulage. Can you join us for dinner?’
‘You should have told me. He’ll need accommodation.’
‘It’s fixed, John. He’s at the hotel.’ I gently let him know that he wasn’t the only one who could pull strings. ‘He’s going to go up and join the rig in a day or so, but I’ll be around town for a bit longer before I pay them a visit. I’d like a full briefing from you. I’m willing to bet you’ve got a whole lot to tell me.’
‘Yes, I have. Some of it is quite hot stuff, Neil.’
Sutherland was all buddies again, and bursting to tell me what I already knew, which is just what I’d been hoping for. I didn’t think I’d told him too many lies. The truth is only one way of looking at a situation; there are many others.
For the next few days I nursed Sutherland along. His contingency plan was good, if lacking in imagination, but it improved as we went along. That was his main trouble, a lack of imagination, the inability to ask, ‘What if …?’ I am not knocking him particularly; he was good at his job but incapable of expanding the job around him, and without that knack he wasn’t going to go much further. I have a theory about men like Sutherland: they’re like silly putty. If you take silly putty and hit it with a hammer it will shatter, but handle it gently and it can be moulded into any shape. The trouble is that if you then leave it it will slump and flow back into its original shape. That’s why the manipulators, like me, get three times Sutherland’s pay.
Not that I regarded myself as the Great Svengali, because I’ve been manipulated myself in my time by men like Geddes, the arch manipulator, so God knows what he’s worth before taxes.
Anyway I gentled Sutherland along. I took him to the Luard Club (he had never thought about joining) and let him loose among the old sweaty types who were primed to drop him nuggets of information. Sure enough, he’d come back and tell me something else that I already knew. ‘Gee, is that so?’ I’d say. ‘That could put a crimp in your contingency plans, couldn’t it?’
He would smile confidently. ‘It’s nothing I can’t fix,’ he would say, and he’d be right. He wasn’t a bad fixer. At the end of ten days he was all squared away, convinced that it was all his own idea, and much clearer in his head about the politics around him. He also had another conviction – that this chap Mannix wasn’t so bad, after all, for an American that is. I didn’t disillusion him.
What slightly disconcerted me was Geoff Wingstead. He stayed in Port Luard for a few days, doing his own homework before flying up to join the rig, and in that short time he also put two and two together, on his own, and remarkably accurately. What’s more, I swear that he saw clear through my little ploy with Sutherland and to my chagrin I got the impression that he approved. I didn’t like people to be that bright. He impressed me more all the time and I found that he got the same sense of enjoyment out of the business that I did, and that’s a rare and precious trait. He was young, smart and energetic, and I wasn’t sorry that he was in another company to my own: he’d make damned tough opposition. And I liked him too much for rivalry.
Getting news back from the rig was difficult. Local telephone lines were often out of action and our own cab radios had a limited range. One morning, though, John Sutherland had managed a long call and had news for me as soon as I came into the office.
‘They’re on schedule. I’ve put it on the map. Look here. They’re halfway in time but less than halfway in distance. And they’ll slow up more now because they have to climb to the plateau. Oh, and Geoff Wingstead is flying back here today. He has to arrange to send a water bowser up there. Seems the local water is often too contaminated to use for drinking.’
I could have told Geoff that before he started and was a little surprised that he had only just found out. I decided that I wanted to go and see the rig for myself, in case there was any other little detail he didn’t know about. I was about due to go back to London soon, and rather wanted one more fling upcountry before doing so.
I studied the map. ‘This town – Kodowa – just ahead of them. It’s got an airstrip. Any chance of renting a car there?’
He grimaced. ‘I shouldn’t think so. It’s only a small place, about five thousand population. And if you could get a car there it would be pretty well clapped out. The airstrip is privately owned; it belongs to a planters’ cooperative.’
I measured distances. ‘Maybe we should have a company car stationed there, and arrange for use of the airstrip. It would help if anyone has to get up there in a hurry. See to it, would you, John? As it is I’ll have to fly to Lasulu and then drive nearly three hundred miles. I’ll arrange to take one of Wyvern’s spare chaps up with me to spell me driving.’ I knew better than to set out on my own in that bleak territory.
I saw Wingstead on his return and we had a long talk. He was reasonably happy about his company’s progress and the logistics seemed to be working out well, but he was as wary as a cat about the whole political situation. As I said, he was remarkably acute in his judgements. I asked if he was going back to England.
‘Not yet, at any rate,’ he told me. ‘I have some work to do here, then I’ll rejoin the rig for a bit. I like to keep a finger on the pulse. Listen, Neil …’
‘You want something?’ I prompted.
‘I want you to put Basil Kemp completely in the picture. He doesn’t know the score and he may not take it from me. Why should he? We’re both new to Africa, new to this country, and he’ll brush off my fears, but he’ll accept your opinion. He needs to know more about the political situation.’
‘I wouldn’t call Kemp exactly complacent myself,’ I said.
‘That’s the trouble. He’s got so many worries of his own that he hasn’t room for mine – unless he can be convinced they’re real. You’re going up there, I’m told. Lay it on the line for him, please.’
I agreed, not without a sense of relief. It was high time that Kemp knew the wider issues involved, and nothing I had heard lately had made me any less uneasy about the possible future of Nyala. The next morning I picked up Ritchie Thorpe, one of the spare Wyvern men, and Max Otterman flew us up to Lasulu. From there we drove inland along that fantastic road that thrust into the heart of the country. After Ofanwe had it built it had been underused and neglected. The thick rain forest had encroached and the huge trees had thrust their roots under it to burst the concrete. Then came the oil strike and now it was undergoing a fair amount of punishment, eroding from above to meet the erosion from below. Not that the traffic was heavy in the sense of being dense, but some damn big loads were being taken north. Our transformer was merely the biggest so far.
The traffic varied from bullock carts with nerve-wracking squeaking wheels plodding stolidly along at two miles an hour to sixty-tonners and even larger vehicles. Once we came across a real giant parked by the roadside while the crew ate a meal. It carried an oil drilling tower lying on its side, whole and entire, and must have weighed upwards of a hundred tons.
I pulled in and had a chat with the head driver. He was a Russian and very proud of his rig. We talked in a mixture of bad English and worse French, and he demonstrated what it would do, a function new to me but not to Ritchie. Apparently it was designed to move in soft sand and he could inflate and deflate all the tyres by pushing buttons while in the cab. When travelling over soft sand the tyres would be deflated to spread the load. He told me that in these conditions the fully loaded rig would put less pressure on the ground per square inch than the foot of a camel. I was properly appreciative and we parted amicably.
It was a long drive and we were both tired and dusty when we finally came across Wyvern Transport. By now we had passed through the rainforest belt and were entering scrubland, the trees giving way to harsh thorny bush and the ground strewn with withering gourd-carrying vines. Dust was everywhere, and the road edges were almost totally rotted away; we slalomed endlessly to avoid the potholes. We found the rig parked