Wings of the Morning (28 page)

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 door, 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.

He yawned as he drank down the last of his wine and stretched out in his wicker chair for a nap in the hot sunshine. He felt utterly secure here. He had owned this two-bedroomed cottage for over
ten years and came to it only rarely. It was not far from the village in the valley, less than a kilometre, and approached by a narrow road which wound its way up the hill so that Cestac enjoyed a
fine view over the surrounding country and had clear vision of any car or person making their way towards him. Behind his dwelling, the road petered out into a bridleway, seldom used. He never
entertained a visitor here, he had no phone line. His small hire car stood in the yard, ready to take him shopping or to one of the local restaurants. He did not encourage conversation with the
simple people of the community. He valued his loneliness. It was here in the Dordogne summer that he could pull up his drawbridge and truly relax. He closed his eyes and nodded off.

Cestac had no idea how long he slept, nor what disturbed him. He woke with the thought that the rustle had something to do with the half wild cat which earned her right to stay by keeping down
the vermin in the little outhouse. He had arrived this year to find her with a litter of mangy looking kittens and maybe their antics had woken him. But he kept motionless with his eyes closed
while his brain worked to identify the noise which he decided had been more of a slither than a rustle. Then he heard a human voice and could not prevent himself from sitting bolt upright as his
eyes widened.

‘Good afternoon, M’sieu,’ the voice repeated and then, ‘I apologise for interrupting your siesta.’

A short man of slender build stood before him in the dust of the yard beyond the small terrace. He appeared to have a drawn face and a sallow complexion, but it was hard to be sure as he was
wearing both a wide brimmed hat and sunglasses. Tucked into his black jeans was a simple, dark blue shirt with long sleeves buttoned down to encase his arms. On his right wrist was a large watch
with a larger strap, and against this he was stropping a knife held in his left hand. It was a constant, restless movement which produced that rustling, slithering noise.

Cestac felt threatened and his sanctuary violated, but he kept his voice steady as he replied.

‘What do you want and how did you get here? Are you lost?’

‘Not lost, M. Cestac, no. I came on my motorcycle, but the long way round and I left it way back up the track behind you. I don’t do noise.’

‘And what do you do?’

‘I provide protection. I’m very good, very discreet. I attack also and I have been hired to assassinate you M. Cestac. But you are an interesting man. It seems that you are alone by
choice. You have no friends and no colleagues. Nobody likes you, but all respect you. You move in the shadows and you are hard to find. All of that interests me. I could kill you now and collect on
the contract I have agreed. But I believe it would be better for us to work together. I want a permanent position and a challenge for my skills. You are a wealthy and a powerful man but your only
security is to hide yourself. That gives you no guarantee. I can. So now you have a choice. Die in pain, or hire me.’

Thierry Cestac was an evil man without standards or scruples. But he was a realist and he did not lack courage. He considered these alternatives and found them a fair statement of fact. But he
did have a riposte.

‘You are making assumptions. How do I know you’re good enough for either?’

A thin smile appeared briefly on the gaunt face and the eyes behind the dark glasses must have flicked to the left to take in the writhing bundle of kittens playing together in the sunshine. He
spoke as his left hand dropped down by his side and sunshine flashed on the bright blade of his knife as it flexed in his fingers.