Wings of the Morning (35 page)

HUGH DUNDAS —1990

It was late in January when Hugh met David Heaven for the first time. David had been travelling in Asia for two weeks and he called into Hong Kong on his way home to London.
They found an instant empathy and acknowledged Alexa as the catalyst. At dinner on their first evening together, she chided David for not bringing Aischa with him and pointed out that the two
couples had much in common: both so much together and yet still apart. This candour made for some intimate conversation and set the style for a business discussion in Hugh’s office the
following day.

David was already well briefed on the size and scope of Head Investments. He had some idea of the wealth of Hugh Dundas and he could certainly appreciate his influence. The man was now regarded
as another Warren Buffett and his global activities formed a staple diet for leading financial commentators. But no amount of research could have prepared David to meet the Hugh who had been
memorably described to Alexa by Tina Fullerton as an ‘absolute fuckin’ brainbox, yet the bastard’s just a nice guy’.

As they sat talking that morning, David was alarmed to find himself struggling to keep up. It was one thing to have the background, the reputation, the knowledge and the prescience, but Hugh was
further blessed with the calm confidence which rounded his ability. He’d had his setbacks and disappointments of course, and he told David about some of them, but in such a way as to
illustrate how they had all become experiences which had brought ultimate benefit. There was more to Hugh than all of that: much more. As time passed, David was stimulated by the growing conviction
that he was talking to a fellow traveller, a man with a lifetime mission on which he was not yet properly embarked. There was one big difference between them. David knew exactly what he wanted,
whereas Hugh Dundas had yet to identify his lifetime goal.

This became clear to David while Hugh was talking about his work for charity. In behind it all, David felt he could see some more payback for Janey and he knew about the background from Alexa,
plus there was more of course. Hugh was vastly rich and successful. His genuine desire was to contribute, to make a difference and there were examples which he admired like the Gates Foundation,
but it was obvious to David that here was a subject of rare indecision for Hugh: he was not yet convinced of the area in which to make his commitment.

Lunchtime interrupted them before David could enquire more as they were going out to join Alexa. The three of them reminisced over a light snack, during which David was amused to find that
Hugh’s outstanding double first had been won at Cambridge, but there were still places, people and experiences which they could share: they were of much the same age. David could see clearly
that Alexa and Hugh had an incomplete, but very fulfilling relationship. They really were a matched and balanced couple from whom the happiness simply radiated. He had understood this before, but
it made a difference to witness it for himself. He admired how Alexa had reconciled herself to the circumstances — to make the most of her time with Hugh and not to suffer from what was
lacking. She had told him privately that she had been much influenced by advice from Tepee who had said ‘in my experience, if what you’ve got is good, hang on even if it’s not
enough.’ She might, thought David to himself, be speaking for Aischa as well.

That afternoon, Alexa left them and the men returned to Hugh’s office which was understated in its comfort, the only ostentation being in the awesome view over the harbour. The relaxed
ambience spoke volumes to David: despite the pressures of success, Hugh’s priority was to organise his life — not the other way around. Then came a further revelation. At Hugh’s
request, David put some flesh on the bones of The Mansion House, of which his host already had a comprehensive understanding. David told him about early days, of dodgy deals and difficult people,
tortured communications and testing travel. Hugh was fascinated and pressed him for more stories of journeys in Africa, reminding David of Ruth Kirchoff and how she would drag from him over those
homely suppers in Highgate the details of faraway places. David spoke about their current position, why he and Martin were determined to stay with the formula which worked for them and in areas
where they had proven expertise. Africa was their ballpark and in specific business groups. Mining, transport — but by land only: they didn’t venture into shipping and stayed away from
airlines and cargo. Building, not houses or office blocks, but civil engineering, especially dams and bridges. Food production, but not agriculture, and finally, finance. This last and transport
were their links to the past.

He finished by saying, ‘but the world moves on, doesn’t it Hugh. The Mansion House used to be all about trade from Europe into Africa with a bit of supply from the States, but
nowadays our supply sources are increasingly from Asia and that’s why I’ve been spending time in this region. We need the knowledge and the contacts.’

‘Oh I do agree with you. I’m sure you’re right about your own business, David, and after all, the results speak for themselves. As to the principle, the same applies to us
here. I’m myself preoccupied with how things will change when the Colony reverts to China, and that’s not far in the future. Actually, I’m using it as an opportunity to think
things through to a completely different level and for exactly the reason you have expressed. The world will change, like it or not, and for me, the thrill of that lies in the challenge of what we
can make of it. I confess to being a bit fixated by this part of the globe, but this is where I have most knowledge, and I do have a grand plan.’

‘Is it something you can speak about?’

Hugh removed his large spectacles and rubbed the sides of his nose.

‘Actually, yes, I think I can. After all,’ he smiled his lopsided grin, ‘you’re sort of family! More than that, I have a good instinct for whom I can trust and anyway,
this is just stargazing for now. But I have started work on the project. You see, David, I think that there’s room for another sort of Singapore, especially if we assume that Hong Kong as we
have known it will disappear under direct rule from China. So I have been wondering if I could talk the Australians into selling a chunk of the Northern Territory, not a huge acreage in view of how
much they have there, but enough land and coastline in which to establish a brand new sovereign state. It would be principally a financial centre of course, but with a population drawn from around
the globe and nurtured by a constitution which would give humanity a bit of a fresh start. As you say, we all need to move up a gear from time to time. But it’s grandiose notion, arrogant
even, and I expect you to say it sounds barmy to you.’

‘I think it’s remarkable, Hugh, extraordinary.’

‘Polite words for mad is what you mean.’

‘I don’t. I meant exactly what I said. I’ve got my own wild vision, you see, and I’ve been thinking about it over the last twenty years. I want to take over a country in
Africa. I want to win power, and then start doing things differently. I guess that makes us both mad megalomaniacs.’

Hugh sat up straight and gazed at him.

‘Really. Please go on.’

‘I’ll explain, but in essence I believe I’ve got the what and the why and the where. I don’t yet have the answer to how, and in particular, I don’t have the
finance.’

‘Ah well,’ Hugh replied, ‘that is of course my strong suit. Would you like to tell me more?’

David delayed his departure from Hong Kong by twenty-four hours and Hugh cleared his diary. They passed another day and a good deal of the night in lively conversation which included Alexa for
much of the time. He was surprised to sleep well on his flight, but his mind was buzzing again as his car bore him from Heathrow into Piccadilly. He entered The Mansion House and took the lift to
his private staircase and on up the short flight to his apartment.

He had returned here so often from his forays overseas that he had fallen into a routine which had become a ritual. He dropped his elephant skin luggage in the small hallway and went into the
sitting room which seemed to smile at him in welcome. He breathed in its pleasing features: the generous, rectangular shape of the room: the masculine, rather clubby furniture whose effect was
redeemed by the greens and pale yellows of the decoration. He scented the fresh flowers in their squat, wide mouthed vase placed on the refectory table which he passed to take in the lofty view of
Green Park from the two windows. He grunted in appreciation and turned to retrace his steps, this time ignoring the lift and walking down the broad staircase.

David passed the next level of the building which was home to finance, marketing and personnel. He descended to the first floor and entered the Communications room. It looked more like a news
base in a national paper, a large area with desks and work stations organised like the spokes of a wheel. Each spoke was dedicated to servicing a number of countries on the continent of Africa,
allocated according to a mix of country size, location and language. Information from and to each destination was controlled at the spoke and fed on from there towards the hub, the central control
point which was the domain of the Belgian born Felix Maas, the most completely competent man whom David had ever encountered. Felix was multi lingual, multi tasking, multi capable and all in a calm
and measured personality with an abundance of good humour. Under his control, they were ever evolving, always seeking the latest technology which could give them the edge in guiding their
decisions, investments and means of influence clear across the continent. But to use information, you must first acquire it. In addition to published detail, informed comment and arbitrary gossip,
there needed to be a permanent drip feed from reliable, well placed sources in each country of interest, and for The Mansion House, that meant any sovereign state between the Mediterranean and the
Cape of Good Hope. David had collected his contacts over many years of crisscrossing the continent. They were people of both genders, varied age, any colour, creed, nationality or provenance. Over
time, he had slimmed this Babel house of communication, choosing just a few correspondents in each destination. People came and went but it was often just word of mouth which found a replacement.
In the early days at Westbourne Grove, communicating was such a challenge with dodgy telephone links and the marathon process of the telex message. Then it seemed that technology would make his
people network redundant but nothing replaces local knowledge and gems of information still flowed from these sources on the ground. They called them the ‘Scribes’.

David didn’t dawdle. He turned on his heel and went back to the staircase, trotting down the final flight to the ground floor. He crossed the reception area and walked down the corridor to
his office in the corner of the building. This personal sanctum was simply decorated to provide a restful environment. It was never locked, and David would nip down here from his apartment at odd
times of night or early morning. The building as a whole never slept. Only on Christmas Day and New Year was there no one at work, and even then there was at least one of the security staff on
silent patrol. Otherwise, there were people here day and night engaged in their myriad computer operations, the vital organs of the constant communications ability upon which so much of their
business depended. Sharing the ground floor with him with a similar office next door was Martin Kirchoff and across the corridor lay two reception rooms in which visitors to The Mansion House could
be comfortably accommodated. There was also a dining room which could seat twelve at a pinch and was serviced via a lift system from the kitchen in the basement.

He checked his desk briefly, then turned again. He had done his rounds now. It was still early and he would go back up to his apartment to shower and change, then to tackle a pivotal
conversation with Martin. As he returned to reception, David hovered as his eye fell fondly on the copper, head and shoulders bust which stood on a side table in silent welcome to all who entered
The Mansion House. It carried the simple inscription which read ‘Solomon Kirchoff’.

Dear Sol had died in 1987, almost exactly two years after they had taken over the whole building. He was seventy-five years old: not a great age, but quite an achievement given the circumstances
of his war years. The end had come through another of his chest infections. It had been quite swift in the final stages, with little drama and no pain. David had dropped in to see him the evening
before he died and they both knew that the purpose of his visit was to say goodbye. Sol had been determined to stay at home with Naomi content to be beside him. He and David had a few words
together and a bit of a chuckle, two old fashioned men of different generations but similar disposition. They both recognised that the time had come and their farewells were muted, a warm grasp of
hands and a parting look of appreciation. David didn’t go to the funeral and his reason was clear to Martin. Both remembered Sol’s instruction from years before: ‘don’t come
up our way, Davy. We love you, but you’re not a Jewish boy and you wouldn’t fit in.’