The Constant Gardener

"Of course," he said. "Old Bernard Pellegrin tipped you the wink. Brave of him. And timely. I just hope I'd have done the same. I've always had a soft spot for Bernard."

His smiling eyes fixed on Curtiss's flushed features, Donohue watched as they first hesitated, then formed themselves into an expression of contempt.

"That limp-wristed faggot? I wouldn't trust him to pee his poodle in the park. I've been keeping a top job warm for his retirement, and the bugger hasn't lifted a finger to protect me. Want some?" Curtiss demanded, shoving a brandy decanter at him.

"Can't, old boy. Leech's orders."

"I told you. Go to my doctor. Doug gave you his address. He's only down in Cape Town. We'll fly you there. Take the Gulfstream."

"Bit late to change horses, thanks, Kenny."

"It never is," Curtiss retorted.

So it's Pellegrin, thought Donohue, confirming an old suspicion as he watched Curtiss pour himself another lethal dose from the decanter. Some things about you are predictable after all, and one of them is, you never learned to lie.

* * *

Five years ago, impelled by a desire to do something useful, the childless Donohues had driven up-country to stay with a poor African farmer who in his spare time was setting up a network of kids' football teams. The problem was money: money for a truck to drive the kids to matches, money for team uniforms and other precious symbols of dignity. Maud had recently come into a small inheritance, Donohue a life policy. By the time they returned to Nairobi they had pledged the whole lot in installments over the next five years and Donohue had never been so happy. His only regret, looking back, was that he had spent so little of his life on kids' football, and so much of it on spies. The same thought for some reason flitted through his head as he watched Curtiss lower his vast bulk into a teak armchair, nodding and winking like a kind granddad. Here comes the fabled charm that leaves me cold, Donohue told himself.

"I popped down to Harare a couple of days ago," Curtiss confided artfully, clapping his hands on his knees and leaning forward for greater confidence. "That stupid peacock Mugabe's appointed himself a new Minister of National Projects. Quite a promising lad, I must say. Did you read about him at all, Tim?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Young bloke. You'd like him. He's helping us with a little scheme we've got going up there. Very fond of a nice backhander, he is. Mustard, in fact. I thought you might value that piece of information. It's worked for us in the past all right, hasn't it? A bloke who'll take a backhander from Kenny K is not averse to taking one from Her Maj. Right?"

"Right. Thanks. Good idea. I'll pass it up the line."

More nods and winks accompanied by a grateful pull of cognac. "Know that new skyscraper I built off the Uhuru Highway?"

"And very fine it is, Kenny."

"I sold it to a Russian last week. A mafia boss he is, Doug tells me. A big one, too, apparently, not a tiddler like some of the fellows we've got here. Word is, he's cutting himself a very big drug deal with the Koreans." He sat back and surveyed Donohue with the deep concern of a close friend. "Here. Tim. What's the matter with you? You look faint."

"I'm fine. It's the way I go sometimes."

"It's the chemotherapy, that is. I told you to go to my doctor and you wouldn't. How's Maud?"

"Maud's fine, thanks."

"Take the yacht. Give yourselves a break, just the two of you. Talk to Doug."

"Thanks again, Kenny, but it might be stretching cover a bit, mightn't it?"

Another mood swing threatened them as Kenny breathed a long sigh and let his great arms flop to his sides. No man could take it harder that his generosity had been rejected. "You're not joining the hands-off-Kenny brigade, are you, Tim? You're not cold-shouldering me like those banking boys?"

"Of course not."

"Well, don't. You'll only get hurt. This Russian I was telling you about. Listen. Know what he's got tucked away for a rainy day? Which he showed Doug?"

"I'm all ears, Kenny."

"I built a basement for that skyscraper. Not a lot do that here, but I decided I'd give it a basement for a car park. Cost me an arm and a leg, but that's how I am. Four hundred spaces for two hundred apartments. And this Russian, whose name I'm going to give you, he's got a big white lorry in every fucking car space, with U.N. painted on the lid. Never been driven, he tells Doug. Fell off a freighter on their way to Somalia. Wants to flog them." He flung up his arms, amazed by his own anecdote. "What the fuck's that about then? The Russian mafia flogging U.N. lorries! To me. Know what he wanted Doug to do?"

"Tell me."