Digging Deeper: An Adventure Novel (Sam Harris Series Book 1) (3 page)

‘Sam, do you want to borrow a car and driver for a trip down to see the bay of Mondongo and the beaches?’ asked Bill Collier.  ‘You won’t be leaving for a few hours yet.’

‘Yes, please,’

‘The driver is South African, so he speaks English.’

‘Can I come, too?’ asked Dirk

‘Sure.  Jorge, do you want to come with us?’

‘No, thank you, I have to do some paperwork in the office.’

‘Okay, let’s go then.’

The streets were lined with decrepit old colonial houses in faded pastel colours like ghosts of their former selves.   These rows were broken by breeze-block houses with zinc roofs.  There were also some battered Art Deco buildings with intricate ironwork on their balconies.  Gaps between the houses were filled with makeshift accommodation such as shipping containers.  Pools of green sewage festered in the spaces where paving stones were missing.  The sea-front buildings were neglected too.  The only exception to this was the Central Bank of Tamazia, which was huge and magnificent with a large palatial entrance and cupola.  It was newly painted in pink and white, and was a striking contrast to the decrepitude around it.  All of the legally mined diamonds in Tamazia passed through the doors of this bank, which   profited from its association with them.

The car swept along the promenade in black, pink and white brick that lined the edge of the bay of Mondongo, crossing a bridge to a long thin strip of land running parallel to the shore creating a lagoon between itself and the town.  There were two oil rigs in this lagoon which spoiled the vista.  The white beaches running on both sides of the thin sliver of land were full of people.

‘This part of town is known as the Island,’ said the driver. ‘It is joined to the mainland by the bridge we just crossed.  The huge oil rigs in the middle of the lagoon might impede the view but they provide millions of dollars of revenue for the government.’

  At the far end of the Island, there were a couple of decent looking cafés and beach bars.  Some people had set up little stalls to sell cold drinks to the beach goers.  They consisted of an umbrella shading a cooler box with a few cans perched on top.  Small, bossy boys directed the parking and fought over the tips.  Rich Tamazians of all races slumped in deckchairs, sporting huge gold chains and very small bikinis.

‘The town of Mondongo was originally built for a population of half a million inhabitants.  Before independence in 1958 and the subsequent abandonment of the country by ninety per cent of its skilled white workforce, Mondongo was known as the Paris of Africa.  Now, four million inhabitants, mostly refugees from the fighting in the countryside, have stretched the infrastructure past breaking point, and huge slums sprawl out in all directions from the central part of the city,’ said the driver.

  Yet, the old heart of the town still retained a genteel air and a Mediterranean feel, and Sam felt relaxed and calm driving around in the dry heat with the windows down.  On the way back to the compound they passed through an area up on a hill where a massive renovation program was creating a stunning pink mini-city of large colonial buildings that served as the parliament and the president’s house. 

‘Jose dos Manos, the president of Tamazia, is one of the richest men in the world.’

‘I heard that the International Finance Corporation claimed to have proof that he and his cabinet skimmed one billion dollars a year from the petrol receipts.  From what I see, he can’t be spending any of it improving the conditions of the population.  How can he sleep at night knowing that children are dying every day from lack of basic amenities while he salts away more money than he could ever spend?’ asked Dirk.

‘I don’t know.  His nickname is Tres Manos, or three hands because he has one right hand, one left hand and one in the till.’

Far away in the docks, Sam could see an extraordinary tall, odd structure pointing up into the sky, towering over the city like something out of Star Wars.  ‘What’s that?’

‘That, my lady, will be the mausoleum of Tamazia’s first president, Pedro Fernandez.  It is known as Pedro’s Rocket.  It will contain the embalmed remains of the poet and writer who became independent Tamazia’s first head of state.  He died in Moscow, and his body was left in a morgue until it was discovered twelve years later in a drawer.  It has since been repatriated but has rotted so badly that it will be buried rather than put on show like Lenin, as had been the original intention.’

‘Are they building a monument for Tres Manos yet?  I hear he’s not a young man,’ said Sam.

‘Seeing as the original president’s mausoleum is still in construction, I think the chances of the present incumbent being buried in a finished monument before the next century are not very good.’

Sam and Dirk arrived back to a mediocre lunch with a choice of nondescript-looking curries.  She went to her trailer to read, but Pedro, who she had met at the airport the night before, turned up in his car and leant out of the window.

‘Hi, you are, Sam?  Do you want to come to the beach and have coffee with me?’

‘Maybe, but who are you?’

She knew exactly who he was and had already noticed him in the gloom of the airport, especially his deep rumbling voice.  Pedro looked like Mr Big from Sex in the City.  He was very tall and dark and had a naughty twinkle in his eye that she pretended not to see.  He was well aware of his effect on women.

‘I am Pedro, the head of logistics at Gemsite.  I won’t bite, I promise.’   

They drove back out to the beach.  Sam did not bother telling Pedro that she had just been there.  They sat at a cafe drinking strong Portuguese coffee.  He was relaxed and charming, and offered the possibility of fun times when she got back from her training period at the Kardo Mine.

‘I have worked with the company for five years, but I don’t know how much longer I will be here,’ he said.

‘Why is that?  Have you got another job?’ asked Sam.

’Well, I punched someone in the accountant’s office and I am on my last warning.  I might be more careful though if you are going to be around for a while.’

Sam blushed.  She wanted to know why he had punched the accountant but she did not want to break the mood.  It had been a while since she had had a handsome man all to herself.  Boyfriends and long rotations away from home didn’t mix.

She changed the subject.  ‘Is the food in the canteen always that revolting?’

‘I don’t think it’s revolting.’

‘I mean is the food always curried.  I hate curry.’

‘Yes, it is.  The chef at the Mondongo canteen is Pakistani, so two or three of the four choices in the canteen at mealtimes are always curries.  However, it’s not because he doesn’t know how to cook anything else.  He’s an expert at using the strong flavours of the spices to cover up the rotten taste of the meat.’

‘Why is the meat rotten?  Don’t they have fridges?’

‘The meat is rotten because all the food for Gemsite is imported from South Africa in containers that sit in the port for days waiting to clear customs.  Mondongo is very hot.  The average temperature is about forty degrees.   The combination of the two factors mean that most meat is eaten rotten.’

‘Why doesn’t Bill Collier buy meat in Mondongo instead?’

‘The civil war in Tamazia has obliterated the agricultural and food industries. The presence of so many landmines has put a stop to any farming activity, and the lack of working infrastructure prevents produce from reaching the capital.  He simply isn’t able to buy enough produce to feed the mines and Black won’t let us pay bribes to get the food out of customs.’

‘Isn’t that your job?’ asked Sam. ‘To rescue the food from customs?’

Pedro stiffened.

‘You have no idea how difficult it is to get anything out of customs.  Besides, the officials do it on purpose.  They hate Gemsite because we won’t pay them bribes.  They do everything they can to delay the food until we get desperate and have to negotiate.   Once I get it released, any food that escapes the clutches of customs sits in freezers prone to power cuts.   That’s why you have to eat curry every day.’

‘I was kidding,’ said Sam. ‘I've lived in many places where the customs are a nightmare.  Blackmail is their favourite sport.’

Pedro relaxed but Sam made a note to be wary of him.  He hadn’t liked the dig about customs and had been unable to take it as a joke.  He was not as easy-going as he pretended to be.

‘I heard you had coffee with Pedro,’ said Jim, when she went back to the office.  ‘He is the official office Lothario and goes out every night dancing and drinking and womanising.  You need to watch yourself where he is concerned.  He punched one of the accountants the other day.’

‘Why did he do that?’

‘I think the guy insulted his macho pride in some way.  These Portuguese guys are very sensitive to any perceived slights, you know.’

Mondongo was one of the most expensive cities in the world as a result of having to import even the most basic of commodities.  Sam could not imagine how Pedro went out every night when he did not have access to money.  But she held her tongue.

In the late afternoon, the driver turned up to collect the Kardo passengers and loaded everyone into the minivan to take them back to the airport.  When they got there, the cargo company, TransTamazia, told them that the flight had been delayed by a fuel shortage until later that night, so they went back to the trailers again.

There was a lot of swearing. Nerves were frayed, even amongst the returning staff who were used to these aborted flights.  Sam felt sick from the amount of adrenaline surging around her system. 

Finally, the fuel was obtained from somewhere and the flight was ready for take-off, so they took yet another trip out to the airport.   A plane sat on the tarmac in the gloom of the humid night, waiting to leave for Kardo.  It was a cargo flight carrying diesel fuel in two large tanks in an ancient Boeing belonging to TransTamazia.

They entered the plane up a ramp through the rear door and stowed their bags behind the fuel tanks.  Then they had to leave the aircraft again and sit in the van beside the TransTamazia offices for half an hour while the final permits were dealt with.

‘Why do we need permits to travel internally?’ Sam asked the driver.

‘Anyone travelling in Tamazia, especially expatriates, has to have all sorts of papers and permits for each journey.’

‘But why?’

‘They don’t need a reason.  It’s their country.’

‘How long do the permits last?’

‘I’m afraid they have to be renewed each time you want to travel.  Bureaucracy makes officials feel important.’

Since the passengers were using the cargo section of the airport, there was no departure hall.  They sat in the car on the tarmac beside the plane and waited.  It was very dark.  Various officious types in uniform rushed around with a gun in one hand and a clipboard in the other.  Sam was glad that their driver was dealing with all the paperwork. She did not fancy her chances of getting through the red tape without help.

Finally, the passengers climbed up the ramp at the back of the aircraft and into the gloomy, oily cargo bay.   They filed down the fuselage on a narrow walkway between two large fuel tanks full of diesel for the mines in Tunde Norte Province.  The floors of the vessel were slick with diesel.  The lighting was dim and flickered. There were six filthy, ancient seats in a row at the front of the cargo bay.  Sam and her colleagues strapped themselves in with oily seatbelts.  So much for the dry Martinis.

Sitting in front of the huge diesel tanks, Sam felt as if she were attached to a liquid bomb.  The plane took off into a pitch black night.  The noise in the aircraft was at an eardrum-splitting level.  Some dim lights came on in the cargo bay after the plane levelled out, but no one spoke.  It would have been pointless, as it was impossible to hear anything above the din.  It got very cold after a while, and Sam shivered in her cotton shirt.  She wrapped her arms around her body trying to conserve heat.  It had never occurred to her that she might be cold in Tamazia, with its ambient temperature of forty degrees centigrade.

They flew in silence for an hour and a half, alone with their thoughts. Suddenly, the plane dropped down towards the dark earth.  The cabin lights went out again.  The passengers were in inky darkness.  There were some tiny, filthy windows in the fuselage, but nothing was visible through them.  Sam could not see a runway, and the plane landing lights had not been switched on.  They sat in the blackness, falling through the air in their flammable torpedo.

There was something bizarre about the way they just sat there and no one said anything.  She had seen many movies in which the women started screaming and the men leapt out of their seats in the same situation.  She had not realised that in most cases passengers sit there in grim silence and hope it’s not the last thing they do.

Just before plane met the ground, the engines throttled down and the pilot turned on the outside lights.  Simultaneously, the runway lit up only tens of feet below the plane.  They landed in the same instant with a kidney crushing bounce.  She was glad that she had good sphincter control.

The plane skidded down the runway swaying from side to side and eventually came to a full stop, grinding to a halt on the gritty red runway. 

Sam turned to Jorge who was calmly undoing his belt.  ‘Why did the pilots land like that?  Was there a problem?’