Master of the Game by Sidney Sheldon

 

 

Jamie was in Cape Town on a three-day business trip. As he came out of the Royal Hotel, a liveried black driver said, “Carriage, sir?”

“No,” Jamie said. “I’ll walk.”

“Banda thought you might like to ride.”

Jamie stopped and looked sharply at the man. “Banda?”

“Yes, Mr. McGregor.”

Jamie got into the carriage. The driver flicked his whip and they started off. Jamie sat back in his seat, thinking of Banda, his courage, his friendship. He had tried many times to find him in the last two years, with no success. Now he was on his way to meet his friend.

The driver turned the carriage toward the waterfront, and Jamie knew instantly where they were going. Fifteen minutes later the carriage stopped in front of the deserted warehouse where Jamie and Banda had once planned their adventure into the Namib. What reckless young fools we were, Jamie thought. He stepped out of the carriage and approached the warehouse. Banda was waiting for him. He looked exactly the same, except that now he was neatly dressed in a suit and shirt and tie.

They stood there, silently grinning at each other, then they embraced.

“You look prosperous,” Jamie smiled.

Banda nodded. “I’ve not done badly. I bought that farm we talked about. I have a wife and two sons, and I raise wheat and ostriches.”

“Ostriches?”

“Their feathers bring in lots of money.”

“Ah. I want to meet your family, Banda.”

Jamie thought of his own family in Scotland, and of how much he missed them. He had been away from home for four years.

“I’ve been trying to find you.”

“I’ve been busy, Jamie.” Banda moved closer. “I had to see you to give you a warning. There’s going to be trouble for you.”

Jamie studied him. “What kind of trouble?”

“The man in charge of the Namib field—Hans Zimmerman—he’s bad. The workers hate him. They’re talking about walking out. If they do, your guards will try to stop them and there will be a riot.”

Jamie never took his eyes from Banda’s face.

“Do you remember I once mentioned a man to you—John Tengo Javabu?”

“Yes. He’s a political leader. I’ve been reading about him. He’s been stirring up a donderstorm.”

“I’m one of his followers.”

Jamie nodded. “I see. I’ll do what has to be done,” Jamie promised.

“Good. You’ve become a powerful man, Jamie. I’m glad.”

“Thank you, Banda.”

“And you have a fine-looking son.”

Jamie could not conceal his surprise. “How do you know that?”

“I like to keep track of my friends.” Banda rose to his feet. “I have a meeting to go to, Jamie. I’ll tell them things will be straightened out at the Namib.”

“Yes. I’ll attend to it.” He followed the large black man to the door. “When will I see you again?”

Banda smiled. “I’ll be around. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

And Banda was gone.

 

 

When Jamie returned to Klipdrift, he sent for young David Blackwell. “Has there been any trouble at the Namib field, David?”

“No, Mr. McGregor.” He hesitated. “But I have heard rumors that there might be.”

“The supervisor there is Hans Zimmerman. Find out if he’s mistreating the workers. If he is, put a stop to it. I want you to go up there yourself.”

“I’ll leave in the morning.”

 

 

When David arrived at the diamond field at the Namib, he spent two hours quietly talking to the guards and the workers. What he heard filled him with a cold fury. When he had learned what he wanted to know, he went to see Hans Zimmerman.

Hans Zimmerman was a goliath of a man. He weighed three hundred pounds and was six feet, six inches tall. He had a sweaty, porcine face and red-veined eyes, and was one of the most unattractive men David Blackwell had ever seen. He was also one of the most efficient supervisors employed by Kruger-Brent, Ltd. He was seated at a desk in his small office, dwarfing the room, when David walked in.

Zimmerman rose and shook David’s hand. “Pleasure to see you, Mr. Blackwell. You should have told me you was comin’.”