Nairobi Bloodstar

By Carole Hall

THERE ARE RUBIES FOR THE TAKING AS THE BRITISH EMPIRE CRUMBLES.

Given a one way ticket to Kenya by his father and the admonition, “Make something of yourself,” Charles begins work at his father’s friends ruby mine. And secretly plans to steal the jewels of Mother Earth. So does an expatriate Rhodesian Zulu, carried as an infant on his grandfathers back into exile.

Amidst the chaos of the implosion of the British Empire in Africa, the two men meet and begin to plan. Separately. Two sons, one the mine owner, the other a fighter in the six day war to preserve the new state of Israel, both men having fled Nazi Germany just before their parents are executed by the Gestapo for spying. Who will steal the famed Nairobi Bloodstar ruby as it is discovered? The handsome Englishman so he can return home in triumph or the proud Zulu fighting for the newly named country Zimbabwe? And then Charles meets his match, falling in love with the beautiful, intelligent Dutch South African, Erica, fighting her own country’s Apartheid hypocrisy.

So begins a journey of intrigue fraught with unseen twin tragedies, the spiritual revelation of one other and as to where the precious ruby finally finds a home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Apr 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781680460742

Carole Hall

Carole Hall is a native of the UK but now an American citizen living in Northern California. After 17 years working in the hotel industry in Los Angeles she opted out of the steel and concrete for softer climes. She has 63 short stories published, and a novel, Killing At The White Swan Inn currently on Amazon e-book. She lives and works with her best friend, a massage therapist, in a solar heated home with two Siamese cats and a garden full of old roses. She began reading at five years of age when her mother refused to read the end of fairy tales, telling her, "You have to find out for yourself," So she did.

Book preview

NAIROBI BLOODSTAR

by Carole Hall

THERE ARE RUBIES FOR THE TAKING AS THE BRITISH EMPIRE CRUMBLES.

Given a one way ticket to Kenya by his father and the admonition, Make something of yourself, Charles begins work at his father’s friends ruby mine. And secretly plans to steal the jewels of Mother Earth. So does an expatriate Rhodesian Zulu, carried as an infant on his grandfathers back into exile.

Amidst the chaos of the implosion of the British Empire in Africa, the two men meet and begin to plan. Separately. Two sons, one the mine owner, the other a fighter in the six day war to preserve the new state of Israel, both men having fled Nazi Germany just before their parents are executed by the Gestapo for spying. Who will steal the famed Nairobi Bloodstar ruby as it is discovered? The handsome Englishman so he can return home in triumph or the proud Zulu fighting for the newly named country Zimbabwe? And then Charles meets his match, falling in love with the beautiful, intelligent Dutch South African, Erica, fighting her own country’s Apartheid hypocrisy.

So begins a journey of intrigue fraught with unseen twin tragedies, the spiritual revelation of one other and as to where the precious ruby finally finds a home.

Cristel, this is for you, my friend.

Special thanks to Debbie Lamb for her superior help

and computer knowledge.

Chapter One

Charles Edward Bannister was an unabashed rake in an age of high society dissolute ne’er-do-wells. Tall, blonde and singularly handsome he became a cropper when he most irreverently married a chorus girl following a night of boozy debauchery thereby besmirching the family name. His furious father, Neville, forthwith packed him off on the first ship to Kenya with a stipend of one hundred pounds sterling and the admonition: Make something of yourself, or don’t bother to show your face in this house again!

The chorus girl, adequately compensated, marriage annulled and hastily dispensed to a province of her choosing—Spain—was promptly forgotten. Twenty-five year old Charles didn’t mind at all leaving the old sod. The continent of Africa—more specifically Kenya, still a British protectorate, although a State of Emergency had been declared—offered adventure as he searched for fortune—and was home to a legion of rogues, villains and scoundrels. So there was a sense of kinship and camaraderie as to what awaited him when he stepped from the train onto the wooden platform at Nairobi central station and into the equatorial heat of that April afternoon.

Get out of my way! The shouted command shattered his drowsy inattention of things around him and turning faced a man some thirty-five years or so and of decided impatience sitting upright in an idling black automobile.

Sir? Charles inquired, squaring his shoulders.

You’re blocking the street, you imbecile! Definitely a German-accented command.

Damned Kraut, he thought, standing his ground. Sorted this lot out during the last war. We can do it again,

I suggest you temper your manners and behave like a gentleman, sir! I am not averse to punching you soundly in the nose. I’m hot, tired and not at all amenable to your damnable discourtesy. I’m walking across this street legally. Drive around me, why don’t you? I’m assuming your skill is commensurate with that maneuver. If not, you’ve no business being behind the wheel!

The two men stared at each other a long blistering minute, dust swirling up from the street, noises raucous and seemingly amplified by the heat. Natives stopped, turning to stare at the two white men. With an oath, the driver swung the car perilously close to the Englishman, then sped away leaving him alone in the street, wondering how he managed to find so many troublesome occurrences.

Pompous ass! he muttered, still angry at his intemperate welcome to Nairobi. From his waistcoat pocket, he pulled a white business card.

Wilhelm Mendelssohn

39 Victoria Court

Nairobi, Kenya. Import-Export

With this card, Charles became assured of a position, a lowly one to be sure, upon presentation of his personage at said offices. The sun beat upon his English brow as he found the address and pushed open the door. He climbed fourteen steps to a dark office smelling of old must and cigar smoke. Weeks of ocean voyage—there was not enough money for a plane fare—had cleared his head of such mundane odors, but here they assailed his nose again.

May I be of service? A small balding clerk, besmudged spectacles perched atop a sweaty nose, trousers shining from years of constant wear, stood before him.

I have an appointment with Mr. Mendelssohn, I believe. The name’s Bannister, Charles Bannister.

Sir, Mr. Mendelssohn has yet to arrive back from luncheon. Would you care to wait? That was the last thing he wanted. Tired, hot, hungry and needing a change of linens he demurred, Perhaps I’ll return later this afternoon. I’ve just arrived, you see.

The clerk pondered this. As you wish. Would you care to leave your card?

It was an awkward moment. His accelerated departure had precluded the packing of such elementary foibles as business cards. He realized he would need to find a printer at the first opportunity.

As luck would have it, he smiled charmingly, I am temporarily depleted. Quickly he turned, secured a sheet of paper from a desk and wrote his name in a fine penmanship he was inordinately proud of. Even his father couldn’t write such classic copperplate, he thought with satisfaction. Here, will this suffice?

The clerk stared momentarily then smiled. Why, of course. I should say this is more than adequate, Mr. Bannister. May I take the opportunity to welcome you to Nairobi, sir?

Before he could answer the outer door swung wide on its hinges and, filling the doorframe, the driver of the black car appeared like a specter.

Good afternoon, Mr. Mendelssohn. This gentleman just arrived for his appointment with you, sir. The clerk held out the sheet of paper and hurriedly left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Not a particularly auspicious beginning, thought Charles, but not given to harboring a grudge promptly extended his hand in greeting.

I am honored to make your acquaintance, sir. For a long moment Mendelssohn surveyed the Englishman, taking in the cut of his gib, the tolerance of eye contact and the immediate offering of his hand. In a moment of masculine acceptance when words are superfluous and instinct everything, each regarded and acknowledged the other as an equal, albeit miles apart in temperament. At last, Mendelssohn clasped the younger man’s hand.

I understand your father wishes you to remain in my employ for a period of twelve months, he said, striding into the room.

Yes, sir, I believe that’s the prerequisite I’ve agreed to.

Good, said Mendelssohn. What do you know about rubies?

I say, they look absolutely stunning on the ladies. Charles smiled, his handsome face dimpling, a gesture deliberately intended to disarm the other man’s stricture.

Mendelssohn’s eyes flashed in anger. I expect a straight answer from you, Bannister. Buffoonery can best be indulged among your erstwhile comrades in the saloons.

Charles flinched at the rebuke, resolving not to underestimate his intemperate employer again. It’s only for a year, he reminded himself. The contract with his father must be honored to absolve past transgressions. One year learning the Import-Export business or whatever else in the manner Mendelssohn deemed appropriate, then freedom.

I also have a ruby mine near Kibwezi gifted to me from my grandfather when I was twenty-six. Mendelssohn went on, Monday next you and I shall travel there so I may inspect my holdings again as I do every month. My foreman will take you in hand, and you, Mr. Bannister, shall join the Emmanuel Mine as a gem miner and learn about rubies. Mendelssohn paused, Is that in keeping with your ambitions?

So, I’m to be a lackey, Charles thought resignedly. Well, opportunities abound in Kenya, so my good father tells me.

Yes, of course. However, I have yet to find lodgings, Mr. Mendelssohn. Perhaps you might offer a recommendation? he inquired civilly.

* * * *

During the following days, he settled in at Mrs. Owens’ Boarding House for Gentlemen. An ample-figured lady of Welsh descent, widowed in Kenya by an inopportune water buffalo, Mrs. Owens fussed and pampered her boarders.

You’ll find plenty of clean linens, and, Mr. Bannister, rent must be paid on Saturday at 10:00 a.m. sharp. Sharp, mind you.

In the evenings, Charles listened to the sounds of Africa from the wide veranda or walked dusty streets in search of a gentleman’s bar and feminine company, being careful to bid the ladies farewell at a temperate hour. The center of Nairobi exhibited British influence at every turn. The resplendent police force of Kenyan nationals under English officers, émigré white farmers from Cornwall and the dales of Yorkshire, gentlemen clubs and thriving businesses; the place bustled with activity. Charles found himself unexpectedly pleased with it.

* * * *

The designated Monday arrived. Promptly at six a.m. he arrived at Victoria Court to find Mendelssohn impatiently pacing outside.

Good morning, sir! Pleasant day for a long drive, he greeted his employer cordially.

Not if you stand here all day talking!

The same black car sat idling, an impressive Masai tribesman now behind the wheel. Charles climbed aboard, and they set off, dust swirling, striking south. Both men sat in silence as Nairobi vanished to be replaced by miles of sparse bush and heat. Charles witnessed herds of wildebeest roaming the great expanse of veldt, an occasional giraffe feeding from tall branches. Above it all, the African sky, a pure unending blue, dominated by a fierce sun.

Amazing, he whispered as hot breezes blew against his cheek. He wore a soft white cotton shirt and light twill trousers, which reminded him of halcyon summers in England. Mendelssohn, garbed in a three piece worsted suit, and a pith helmet incongruously adorning his bullet shaped skull produced a pipe and between puffs announced, We are close to the Tanganyika border. This whole area is known as Penny Lane, he pointed to his left. Over there is the John Saul Mine, one of the best producers of rubies.

The landscape, once lush and green, now presented a featureless beige moonscape of rocks and sand. Droplets of sweat ran down the small of his back as Charles observed natives scurrying about the mouth of the mine pushing carts of gravel.

Those men work digging a square set hole vertically to a gravel layer to extract the crystalline corundum—rubies—from gravel. Mendelssohn pointed with the pipe stem.

Of course the best ruby tract is in Burma, the Mogok Stone Tract, as it’s called. The dull thump of an explosion reached their ears, and Charles flinched. That’s circular dynamite used to blast rock, Mendelssohn explained without further elucidation.

On they rode, passing a sign proclaiming EMMANUEL MINE and another NO TRESPASSING. Tall fence wire stretched far into the distance with armed guards patrolling the perimeter. A veritable fortified camp, Charles thought.

Ruby smuggling is endemic so our gem workers are stripped-searched at shift’s end. Anyone concealing or carrying is dismissed on the spot, Mendelssohn informed him. That’s why most miners live in huts around the mine. Wives and children, too. Cuts down on theft. Charles stared at the gray huts dotting the area. Everyone lives here? he repeated but received no answer.

You’ll bunk with Nils. He’s the foreman, Mendelssohn concluded.

A large two-story white house with small garden and verandah stood apart from a smaller house and a cluster of huts.

That’s the main house. You’ll meet my wife. The car approached the long driveway’s end. Rubies are less valuable than diamonds but still beautiful. Mendelssohn was saying as the car came to a halt, and the proud Masai opened the door to allow the passengers to alight into the strong sunlight.

I’d no idea Kenya produced rubies, Charles said, mopping his brow with his last white handkerchief. So the best gems really come from Burma. He stamped life back into his stiff legs.

Yes, and now you do know a little, Mendelssohn remarked. Actually southern Kenya has fine quality crystalline corundum and some sapphires, though not in the same areas. Ah, there’s Mrs. Mendelssohn.

Charles looked up to see a tall blonde woman descending the wooden steps. Hair upswept, bright curls blowing free, a sweet smile curved the corners of her mouth, she stood waiting.

Why, she’s a real beauty! he thought in surprise.

This is my wife, Annalisa. Nils is her half-brother. Mendelssohn introduced her with pride.

Charles Bannister, ma’am, at your service. He gently kissed her extended hand. She is as lovely as a summer peach and just as unexpected, he thought, staring into blue eyes.

Do come inside, Mrs. Mendelssohn gracefully indicated. There was a delicate edge to her accented English—Dutch, perhaps. Following but not taking his eyes from her exquisitely shaped back he told himself sharply: Steady, Bannister. The coolness of the room surprised him. Ceiling fans whirred. You have air conditioning? he asked.

Yes, of course, Mendelssohn replied, and our own generator. Emmanuel is a working mine, not the Middle Ages. We have to heat corundum to fourteen hundred degrees Celsius to extract the ruby, but enough for now, Bannister. Tomorrow report to Nil’s’ house over there. He indicated the small frame house through the window.

Yes, sir, Charles replied and spoke no more as the food arrived.

Annalisa sat opposite, her eyes never meeting his. She is quite lovely, Charles thought, and younger by a dozen years or more than her

Be still, you are an interloper here, old son.

Deep night slipped like a curtain over the house. He lay on the guest room bed, head resting on folded arms. The events of the day kaleidoscoped through his mind. Finally, he slept, dreaming of blood red rubies pouring like a river down a mountainside.

Charles saw Nils the following morning standing on the wooden steps. Dressed in khaki shirt, pants and hat that had been left by his door when he awakened, each regarded the other with straightforward curiosity. Two white men in a dark country. Nils, legs akimbo, body strongly muscled, blond hair, deeply tanned face, handed Charles a pick and a shovel from a pile leaning against the house.

Wear a hat in the sun, or your English brains will broil, he said in a deep accented voice. Come on, follow me.

The mine was coldly dark, a few flickering lights alleviated total black. They walked through a narrow tunnel, gravel crunching under foot. An interconnection opened, displaying six tunnels veering off. Men shoveled earth into carts. Other men pushed them along rails to the mine head.

Start here. Do what these men do. He watched Charles begin to shovel before turning on his heel and leaving him to the task.

Four days later Charles spoke aloud in the cloying darkness. Heaven help me if this is the measure of my capabilities. He was bone tired, his hands blistered, his brain numb, and his back muscles on fire with unaccustomed work.

Heaven did not place you here, young man. Do not petition the deities for what you accomplished on your own. A smile appeared on the face of a tall, strongly built black man beside him. His sweating flesh shone like ebony.

M’tebe N’Kumo, the low resonant voice went on, his proffered hand rough with imbedded gravel. Why are you here groveling like a mole?

Penance, Charles replied, leaning on his pick, his back and arms reduced to pillars of fiery pain, sweat stinging his eyes. He felt a cloth band being tied around his forehead. Thanks, he said, wholly grateful. I’m Charles Bannister.

Yes, we are aware of you. Tell me, Mr. Bannister, are you a spy?

Total surprise radiated through Charles. What? he said, his mind trying to come to terms with the insinuation? Why would I be a spy?

You must admit it’s unconscionable to see a white man in this black hole. Either you’re a spy or a thief.

I assure you, sir, I am neither, Charles retorted angrily.

After a moment, N’Kumo murmured softly, Yes, I surmise you think you’re innocent of that indictment. Your English pride at such a charge is evident on your face, he continued with grudging hesitation though the effort was obvious. Then you must be a plain fool, and oh, I am so weary of white fools in Kenya. We are inundated and smothered by your onerous driftwood.

Determined not to take offense, Charles found his interest growing as he regarded the other man. You use your education like a spear. I suspect you think most grandly of yourself to the detriment of others. How righteous you are, Mr. N’Kumo, he added thoughtfully, and unique.

The spark was struck. Two men of different continents touched minds, and a friendship blossomed in the heat and dirt of the Emmanuel ruby mine. By the strong light of day, Charles noted his ebony handsomeness. The Rhodesian stood tall and powerful and graceful as a prince.

Where were you educated, N’Kumo? he asked over a noonday meal of corn and dark bread. Water in tin cups slaked their dry throats. You reason like a European and speak the King’s English with flare.

The English language is not your sole property. In fact, I speak French and German as well. I learned at my grandfather’s knee. He was a man of great accomplishments before Rhodes drove him out of his own land.

Do you mean Cecil Rhodes? Charles asked, finishing the last crumbs of food before staring at his companion. A slow nod.

Then you’re a Zulu?

I am. The pride was a blossoming thing, flooding the blood.

A Zulu in Kenya? Charles repeated, incredulous.

By misfortune, not choice. There was a great battle the British called Roark’s Drift. All the males in my family fell except my grandfather. The British officers received the Victoria Cross from a white Queen for the slaughter of thousands of Zulu warriors.

Yes, yes, I know about that, Charles replied impatiently. British schoolboys can quote chapter and verse on the Zulu wars ages ago.

Another misnomer, argued N’Kumo. Cecil Rhodes brought his own war to our land and proceeded to steal everything, including the land itself. My grandfather fled, a hunted man with me tied in a blanket on his back. Rhodesia?" he spat the name with derision.

Charles had a sudden crystallizing thought. Why are you really here then, working in the Emmanuel mine? You hide your intellect under a pose or stay silent around others, yet you speak lucidly with me. Why the charade?

M’Tebe N’Kumo began to laugh. A rich, robust sound until those around eating their meal turned to stare. A foreman furrowed his brow, stood, preparing to investigate. At that moment a whistle shrieked, and the miners returned to work, marching stoically back into the gloom. Side by side, Charles and N’Kumo moved forward until Charles caught his arm. You’re here to steal rubies, aren’t you? he whispered fiercely. How do you know I won’t expose you? A frank challenge now.

Because we are both here for the same purpose, Englishman, though you deny it now. You and I together—it will need the two of us at least—must find a way to take back the jewels of Africa. And if you betray me I will quietly and quickly kill you.

Charles swallowed. Fear snaked along the nape of his neck. He had briefly thought it might be feasible to steal some of the rubies; security was not omnipresent. Anyway, he’d only indulged himself in thoughts of stealing when he was angry