High by Andrew Osmond
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Leyton Drisdale listened attentively to the instructions issuing from the tannoy system, and obediently fastened his seat belt upon their completion. He pushed a button on the end of his armrest to bring his seat back to an upright position and automatically checked the fastenings on the table in front of him even though it had been neatly stowed away ever since he had finished his meal of salmon en croute, followed by a wild berry parfait, and washed down by a glass of passable champagne. It had been quite a long time since he had last flown. All in all, it had not been an unpleasant experience. First Class helped, of course. Drisdale glanced at his watch, making the mental calculation to readjust for the time difference. He smiled: right on time. There was a scheduled one hour touchdown at Entebbe and then next stop Goma, just a short hop away. He would be in his hotel before sunset at this rate, and be able to have a shower and a change of clothes. He had wondered if the ‘Hollywood Star’ would be sharing the same flight as him - there were few flights each week between the States and the DRC and, with the day of inauguration of the Tower of Black Power being the following day, there seemed no more convenient service he could have taken - but Drisdale had not noticed him amongst the few other First Class passengers, and he could not imagine him travelling with the cramped masses towards the rear of the aircraft. No matter, his men on the ground had reassured him that everything was to plan; he had no reason to doubt their competence. Sit back and relax and enjoy the isolation. For Drisdale, the flight had proved to be a brief period of escapism from a life which had become increasingly hectic, particularly ever since Garnet Wendelson’s death: the plane represented a little, sealed barometric bubble, into which the outside world could make only the most minimal intervention and, conversely, from which Drisdale could little effect events beyond its alloy frame. It was a surprisingly restful experience. Drisdale made a mental note to himself to check out the flotation tanks at his New York gym when he returned, and which he had always previously dismissed as being New Age and faddish: he had been working far too hard lately, it was time that he took a break and learned to take it easy, after all, what was this all about if not ultimately to make life more comfortable for himself. Still, time for all that later: if all went well over the next couple of days, he would be able to retire for good.
Leyton Drisdale was conscious that the pilot’s voice had been sounding over the cabin intercom system again, but by the time he had stopped daydreaming he had missed the greater part of the captain’s message. Across the aisle, he noticed the sudden look of annoyance on the face of his neighbouring passenger and heard that man tut loudly, apparently as a reaction to the words he had heard.
“What’s that?” asked Drisdale. “I didn’t catch what they said.”
The man looked at him startled, surprised that the etiquette of silent immobility, which had largely been maintained throughout the duration of the flight, had been broken so confrontationally. “What?”
“The tannoy. What did they just announce?”
“Oh. Some problem at Goma. It’s okay for Kampala passengers, we’re touching down at Entebbe as scheduled, but it is not clear yet if the plane can then continue from there. Bloody typical, isn’t it?”
“What sort of problem?”
“They didn’t say. Just said that all flights were being diverted to neighbouring airports and they would provide more information as soon as possible.”
“Shit.” Drisdale sunk back into his chair. So near, and yet so far. Still, positive thinking, the delay might not be long, no need to panic just yet.
Drisdale’s neighbour, his initial surprise now vanished and, believing that in Drisdale he had discovered a fellow victim of the airline’s incompetence, suddenly became quite loquacious; eleven hours worth of pent-up words spilling out, “So you’re going to Goma too, are you? Business, is it? Can’t imagine it is pleasure, eh. Precious little pleasure to be had there. Eh. What line of business are you in?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
It was not the answer that his fellow passenger was expecting. “Oh. I thought that you were going to be an engineer. You know, something to do with the building or the mines. That’s what... well, I should have guessed. Your suit. You wear it far more easily than any of my colleagues. I suppose there are jobs for all professions out there, right?”
“That’s right,” agreed Drisdale, secretly amused, wondering if he was responsible for paying this man’s wages; at the same time, making a mental note to check that if he was, how come this guy was able to fly First Class.
The engineer was extending his hand, “Robert Cleeves. Like King Henry’s wife, right? You know, Anne. Everyone calls me Bob.”
Drisdale stretched across his armrest to shake hands, “Pleased to meet you, Bob.”
“Looks like we are going to be companions for a little longer.”
Drisdale did not feel any great enthusiasm for this situation, but was realistic enough to realise the truth of the words spoken and decided that although polite conversation was not as preferable as stony silence, since it had been him that had broken the ice he had little alternative other than to engage with his companion. “So which direction do you go, Bob?” Anticipating the look of bewilderment on Bob’s face, Drisdale clarified, “Are you a construction engineer or a miner? Are you building up, or digging down?”
“Oh, I see what you mean. Mining consultant.”
Consultant. Drisdale mentally shuddered at the word. At least the first class expense account was explained, if not, in his opinion, justified.
Bob was continuing to speak, “Not much digging down involved, though in actual fact. Not in this instance. It’s more just a question of scraping below the surface. Do you know anything much about coltan mining? Not that you should in your line of business. You do work for Mancala, I presume? No other reason to travel to Goma, is there?”
Work for Mancala? Now there was a question. Drisdale answered, truthfully, “Well, strictly speaking, no I don’t.”
“What, freelance, like me, are you?”
Drisdale smiled to himself. It was sorely tempting to tell this man the truth; to explain to him how the whole idea behind Mancala had originated some time between Garnet Wendelson making his will on a fishing boat in Florida, and his ultimate death fall from the top of the tallest building in the world in Pyongyang. Although, of course, in many ways, the germs of an idea for the organisation had begun far earlier than even that - to a young Drisdale in the infant playground and the first juvenile name calling; to his high school and the first appearance of institutional racism; and in all walks of life, ever after, where he had always had to prove himself above and beyond the capabilities of his white peers, just in order to keep apace. Drisdale’s subsequent success in his chosen legal career was as much a proof of the virtue of determination and hard work as it was to his natural - and largely dismissed - intelligence and aptitude for the profession. But it had never been enough. The thing that had always been missing - strangely the same entity that Garnet Wendelson always felt that he had lacked in his life - was respect. His dealings with Mr. Wendelson over the years of their professional acquaintanceship had only served to reinforce Drisdale’s sense of social inferiority: on the one hand, he had never been wealthier or in better standing with his contemporaries, on the other hand, by glimpsing the world of privilege that was available to the disabled tycoon, he saw how far he still had to go truly to be able to rub shoulders with the country’s elite on equal terms. Wendelson himself had always treated him like nothing better than the most junior errand boy, someone who would immediately jump to it upon his master’s summons and, beholden to the older man for both his livelihood and increasingly his reputation, Drisdale had been forced to accept his subservient role. Those were the days when the idea of Mancala really took shape. Drisdale had witnessed Garnet Wendelson managing to run a successful and highly profitable company without ever deigni
“What’s the joke, bud?”
Lost in his reverie Leyton Drisdale had almost forgotten his surroundings and his neighbour. Bud! Momentarily, he felt a frown disrupt his facial features as an instinctive reaction to the word: it was exactly the kind of disrespect that he had struggled for so long to rise above. He recovered himself swiftly, replying, “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking of the last time I was here.”
“Must have been a good memory?”
Helicopter arrival, the sun just dipping beneath the horizon, the last light of day reflecting off the fast-moving blades of the ‘copter; the lake and the mountains, the waters like a dark mirror in the half-light, the lush vegetation on the surrounding volcanoes’ flanks appearing impenetrably black; a crowd of over five hundred thousand expectant, upraised faces, all awaiting his appearance: yes, it was a pretty good memory. Of course, he had not revealed himself so publicly to his disciples, that New Year’s Eve back in 2010; he had just been another one of the anonymous dignitaries to step from the sleek Sikorsky and take his place in the grandstand, but that was the way he liked to keep it. Ghiliba would always be the public face of Mancala, but it was Drisdale who paid his wages.
The thought of wages reminded Leyton Drisdale of the potential inconvenience that could be caused to him by the aeroplane’s detour and the divergence from his schedule: as well as wishing to be on hand for the unveiling of Mancala’s greatest visible achievement - and the object of pilgrimage for so many - the newly constructed Tower of Black Power, he was also involved on a vital logistical mission for the company. Although the thousands of pilgrims had provided a free labour force both for working the coltan mines and for aiding construction of the towering new edifice, there were, nevertheless, plenty of professional engineers employed on site and whom Drisdale had had to offer generous contracts in order to secure their services for working in such a remote corner of Africa. These men now needed paying and, unwilling to risk depositing large sums of money in any of the volatile local banks, Drisdale had made it his task to bring over the hard currency personally, currently sealed away in a series of small, secure, steel boxes in the aircraft’s hold, arrangements having been pre-organised such that the consignment would be met by staff at Goma Airport and immediately cleared through customs. Depending on the duration of the aircraft’s current delay it could throw out the smooth running of this plan. He needed to find out just exactly what was the problem in Goma.
Ignoring Bob Cleeves, Leyton Drisdale unfastened his seat belt and made to stand up. “Where is someone to ask whenever you want someone?” he muttered to himself.
“Could always try using the Net,” Bob suggested, helpfully, indicating the small computer screen which was located in the top of the armrest of each seat. “I’ll hook into the CNN travel info. site and see if they have any news on the situation on the ground.”
The plane was making a sharp banking manoeuvre, one wing tilting skywards, the other pointing towards the green of the land below, and Drisdale was forced to cling to the back of the seat in front of him in order to keep his balance. He bent low in order to look out of the window opposite. It was clear that the aircraft would soon be coming in to land, Drisdale was just able to see the grey grid of a major city, still some distance below him, before it was replaced by a view of water and then, as the plane righted itself again, of sky and clouds. Kampala and Lake Victoria. Drisdale recognised the approach to Entebbe Airport.
“Please, sir. Would you mind taking your seat. The seat belt sign is still on.”
Leyton Drisdale turned towards the young male steward who had gently taken hold of his arm at the elbow and was attempting to guide him back towards his seat. “First, tell me what is the reason for the delay. It is imperative that I arrive in Goma before nightfall. Do you understand me?”
Drisdale’s voice had been authoritative, but the steward knew that he had right on his side - not to mention a 24 watt Taser electronic stun gun hanging back in the galley-area, recently introduced by the airline to quell the growing problem of drunken and air-rage inflicted passengers - and answered in kind. “I must insist that you sit down, sir. We are starting our descent. Your questions will all be answered at the airport terminus.”
“The terminus!” Drisdale exploded. “We are not even meant to be getting off the plane here. I demand to see the captain.”
The steward eyed the figure of the tall lawyer, appraisingly. He had been dying to use the Taser device ever since it had been introduced as standard issue, and had been secretly disappointed that, so far, on all of his flights there had been no instances that had required its implementation, no fights, no uncivil conduct, barely even an argument or a raised voice. His colleague Kevin had used it three times now, but with his schedule, flying the ‘booze run’ between the East Coast to the Caribbean, there was always going to be more opportunity for a spot of action. Kevin said that it was great fun - ‘nailed one fat sucker good and proper; stopped him dead in his tracks, you know, went all stiff and jerky; should have seen the look of surprise on his face; pissed his pants right there in the middle of the aisle; you gotta try it, man’. Now, if this big, black fellow wanted to make any more of this, he might just be able to line up his first, legitimate ‘hit’. Come on, make my day. Rules are rules, though. Regulations state that he must give him once last chance. “The captain is preparing for landing now, sir, and cannot leave the cabin. Will you please sit down.”
Realising the futility of continued argument, Drisdale returned to his place next to Bob Cleeves, and rebuckled his belt, without further comment. He had not achieved so much without the humility to realise that there are certain situations which will always remain outside of your sphere of control, and this was such a circumstance. There was nothing to do but to sit back and await events.
The airline steward returned to the galley, disappointed. He fastened his own seat belt, ready for touchdown, at the same time removing the Taser gun from its makeshift holster beside him, and lovingly running his fingers along the length of the slender device. Unseen by any passengers, he aim
••••••••••
In his recently acquired Upper West Side apartment, advertised - surprisingly accurately given the notorious speciousness of realty-speak - with ‘a view over Strawberry Fields’, Jake Carver was watching the television. Alone. He had expected to tune in to watch something which would effectively amount to the passing of a death sentence upon him, and he sat in his chair directly in front of the instrument through which he would hear his fate, in a similar manner and in a similar state of mind to how a convicted killer must feel in court when he is about to hear the decision of the judge. In contrast to the initial stages of its construction, which had taken place in almost total secrecy, the laying of the final bricks to complete the Tower of Black Power had been witnessed by a global media scrum: everyone likes a winner, and when it appeared that the new tower was destined to grab the accolade of world’s tallest building, no one wanted to miss out on being present at a moment in history. The complete inauguration ceremony was being broadcast live on Channel 62 and Carver, having a greater vested interest in the proceedings than the majority of his fellow viewers, had settled himself down to watch every minute of it.
How long afterwards, he wondered, would it be before Medea struck, for he was in no doubt, given her impeccable track record, that she would not renege on her contract? Would he know anything about it? Would it hurt? It was not a pleasant topic for speculation.
Carver had turned down the volume on the television to a barely audible level: the commentary that had accompanied the images of the glistening, new black monolith, had been getting on his nerves; an excited loquaciousness of superlatives, the two presenters each attempting to outdo the other in their choice of adjectives and the level of their enthusiasm. The whole tone seemed inappropriate to the condemned man.
Now, though, something appeared to be different. The camera still lingered, longingly, upon the massive steel and concrete erection, suggestively roaming up and down its length from the bole to the black tip, but the expressions on the faces of the two anchor people in front of the huge building had altered: where once there had been false glee, now there appeared to be genuine anxiety. The cameraman, slower than his colleagues to realise that a bigger news story was beginning to unfold behind them, finally turned his apparatus away from the manmade structure and instead focused in on the natural wonders surrounding him. The peaks of several large volcanoes were just visible through the vistas of streets and buildings, providing a magnificent backdrop to the town centre, and it was towards one of these green mounts that the camera’s lens was now inextricably drawn. At first it appeared to be just a small puff of white smoke, inoffensive in itself, rising above the crater like a long breath released on a cold morning: no obvious reason for concern there. It was only when Jake Carver reinstated the sound to the pictures by means of his remote-control, that he heard the deafening roar that had all but drowned out the reporters’ attempts at a continued, professional broadcast. There was the sound of people screaming and shouting, too, and a scene of chaotic activity, as the crowd which had assembled to witness the inauguration ceremony started to disperse in all directions, running erratically and purposelessly as if unsure of the direction of attack of an invisible adversary. The cameraman was apparently having difficulty maintaining the balance of his equipment; the picture on the television screen shook first up and down and then from left to right, as though the hold controls had broken inside the set, and it was only when the image panned out on screen, revealing the sight of a deep fissure where previously there had been a new road, that Carver realised that it was not just the cameraman but the whole ground surrounding him that was actually moving and contorting. Overhead the sky had suddenly gone very dark and, as the camera switched back to the distant volcano, the reason for the sudden blackout became apparent. The delicate plume of white vapour which had heralded the current eruption had rapidly transformed into a great, billowing cloud of dense, black smoke, which both spiralled up into the air above the volcanic peak and also streamed down the sides of the mountain, engulfing the trees and vegetation in a thick blanket of choking dust and ash. Carver was surprised not to see bright flames shooting out from the summit of the dark crater: he had always imagined a volcanic eruption to be a colourful event; rivers of orange, molten lava and the sky alive with fire and light. The actuality was more akin to a solar eclipse; it appeared as if an early nightfall had occurred in central Africa as, first the sun, and then the clouds and sky, were blotted out by the burgeoning body of smoke. The cameraman was forced to wipe his lens continually as the glass became covered by a fine patina of black soot and which, hot and sticky, he only succeeded in smearing across the surface of the lens, further obscuring the details of the scene beyond. The need for personal safety had finally superseded professional integrity on the part of the two journalists, neither of whom continued to appear within camera-shot, and it was clear, through the continued jerky nature of the images being broadcast, that the cameraman himself was torn between running for his life or winning a Pulitzer Prize. Ambition apparently won through because he manfully stood his ground in the face of explosive Nature, a feat as idiotically suicidal as it was undoubtedly brave.
The pyroclastic flow of molten debris was advancing at a rate terrifying even to the TV observer, increasingly filling the screen as it swept ever closer, advancing so purposefully along the line of the long vista between the Tower of Black Power and a neighbouring building that it felt as though the tumbling cloud would spew directly out of the television screen. More and larger pieces of debris were falling out of the sky now, some flung out of the crater’s depths as the volcano dug deeper to belch out the increasingly graphic contents of its raging, subterranean stomach, like a chronic indigestion sufferer struggling to control a churning gut; other items were showering down from the Tower of Black Power itself, as the series of small earthquakes which had accompanied the eruption had evidently resulted in sufficient structural damage to cause the new tower to tremble. It looked almost as though Nature had taken one look at the massed crowds that had assembled to witness the inauguration of the new building and had decided to demonstrate that all humble Man may build, she has the power to tear asunder. Or perhaps it was not just Carver who could be accused of suffering from penis envy: Nature is not a mistress it is wise to make jealous.
The building, though, stood firm. Carver watched, with bated breath, anxious to see if the whole massive edifice would come tumbling down; his attention more focussed on the vulnerability of bricks and mortar than the susceptibility of flesh and bones in the face of the onrushing torrent. In the distance the volcano bellowed fresh annoyance. Like Godzilla confronting King Kong in a Japanese manga film, the two colossuses squared up to one another, the battle lines now fairly drawn: the battle for dominance was not yet over.