Protea Place

By Mark Reed

PROTEA PLACE
...entangled and enthralling!

Guy Lucan is working on a dull and uninspiring rail consultancy project based in the Great Karoo desert of South Africa when circumstances change radically, and he becomes embroiled in a complex financial plot to short the share price of a respected listed logistics company.
Guy befriends a dazzling investment banker in Sandton who introduces him to her homeland of Swaziland, and her royal African heritage. Lucan’s work puts both himself and Princess Thandi in personal danger from a syndicate of avaricious financiers and hardened mercenaries.

Guy Lucan’s work in post Apartheid South Africa leads him to uncover one of the world’s most ambitious railway crimes amongst romance and danger....

• Language: English
• Publisher: CUSTOM BOOK PUBLICATIONS
• Release date: Oct 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370492619

Mark Reed

Mark Reed is an award-winning visual artist in the category of figure drawing and design. Experienced in both traditional and digital media, he has produced numerous works of art that have sold to collectors in the United States, Europe, and Australia. His literary work wonderfully brings to life many of the characters and exciting places seen throughout his artwork.

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Peacocks and Penny Stocks

Sandton is described as ‘the richest square mile in Africa’. Don Barrow was fortunate that his parents had owned a farm which had become a large part of the downtown Sandton business district forty years later, and as a result he was rich – exceedingly rich. But like many plutocrats, Don Barrow had grown increasingly introvert and eccentric as his wealth had increased over the years.

Don was awoken in the master bedroom of his mock Palladian villa by the usual screech of one of his prized peacocks perched on the bed head. He rolled over and stretched out his arm over the creased linen pillowcases as the strong sun of a February morning in Johannesburg flooded into the room through the half open heavily swag tailed curtains. The peacock crowed again with its trademark high pitched calling. Don’s enthusiasm as an ornithologist and his love of birds enabled him to put up with the mess caused by his pride of eighteen peacocks and peahens which roamed freely inside his house, but their early morning mating calls tested his patience to the limit.

He sat up straight on the edge of the bed’s mattress, naked. He donned a loose linen bath gown, monogrammed cotton terry slippers and rose to leave the bedroom. This was his customary daily routine when he was at home in Johannesburg – in fact truth be told, he rose in exactly the same manner when he was in his personal suite at The Berkeley in London, except without the peafowl.

Mr. Barrow descended the grand marble staircase of his villa with one hand firmly on the polished wooden handrail. He chose his footsteps carefully in order to avoid stepping in the droppings which his flock had left during the previous night. On the second last stair, Herman, his personal butler of over ten years standing, held out a tray with coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice and folded copies of the day’s Business Times and Financial Times. A fluffy bath sheet towel was draped over his left forearm which Don gathered before continuing on his journey through to the patio.

Outside in the warm sunshine he shed his gown and slippers and stepped down into the ornate mosaic patterned swimming pool for his habitual morning skinny dip. The years had not been kind to Don Barrow’s body, but this daily sight was only seen by Herman and his employer was unaware of the ungainly spectacle which his nakedness caused.

As the wealthy man swam backstroke lengths up and down the pool his eyes gazed upwards at the glass city skyscrapers which surrounded the oasis of his villa. None of this development around his garden had existed when he was a boy, but now after several decades of economic boom in Southern Africa, Sandton had become the congested and built up Central Business District of Gauteng as business had migrated from the crime ridden streets of the old mining city of Johannesburg.

After ten fluid lengths of the pool he walked up the pool steps, towelled his head briefly, re-donned the lined robe and sat at an ornate cast iron table on the patio. In front of him Herman had arranged the juice, coffee pot and most importantly the financial newspapers which were both carefully opened and folded at the listing pages for the Johannesburg and London Stock Exchanges. Don raised the cut glass tumbler of orange juice to his lips as his eyes scanned down the industrial sectors of the closing share prices. With his free hand he pointed his index finger at the ‘Transport’ sector sub listing and ran his eyes down the list of companies.

Barrow’s income and wealth was based on the vast portfolio of commercial property which his family’s original modest farm holding in Sandton had now become. Behind a complex structure of ghost holding companies and cross shareholdings in Swiss and Seychelles domiciled companies, funds flowed back to Don Barrow on a regular tidal basis.

However, Barrow was bored with the business of property and development. He was constantly deluged with construction proposals and projects from ambitious fledgling would-be tycoons who courted him for the few plots of vacant land which still remained from the farm. As the frenzy of Sandton had grown and exploded over the last ten years, so had the price and value of these small pieces of earth. It amused Barrow to receive and watch these suitors who vied for ownership of a coveted long lease over these plots. In many cases they were young executives who had sunk all their savings and borrowed heavily to fund grand design schemes which had started with medium sized storied office blocks but which now proposed multi floored skyscrapers clad in reflective glass and stainless steel. Barrow entertained them and signed non-disclosure agreements to view their designs, but inside he had no intention of selling nor leasing any more of his Sandton real estate. He was rich enough, and besides he now had other schemes to make money. Schemes which he would enjoy planning, controlling and ultimately profiting from.

Herman stepped up to the table and refilled his master’s coffee cup with freshly brewed espresso. He removed the empty glass tumbler and put down a china saucer carrying a moist croissant.

A smile formed around Don Barrow’s thin mouth. His index finger rested on the newsprint under the words ‘Greenwood’ half way down the Transport & Shipping sub listing of quoted companies on the Johannesburg Stock Exchange. Their share price had hit an all-time high the previous day.

He called Herman who brought out a cordless telephone handset to the table, and proceeded to put an international call through to London. ‘Big Five Securities, City Office. Good morning! How may I direct your call?’ answered the cheery receptionist with a Sloane Ranger accent.

‘Yes, thank you. I need to speak with Edgar Zulu, please. Urgently! It’s Barrow here from Joburg,’ replied Don Barrow. ‘Certainly Sir, one moment.’

Don’s plan was now underway.

*****

Chapter 2 – The longest train in the world

Guy Lucan stood on the railway bridge outside Saldanha Bay town in the late evening sunshine. Beneath him he had been watching for nearly an hour as a six hundred and sixty hopper train passed slowly under his feet with calculated precision. Each rail wagon was filled to the brim with a symmetrically heaped payload of iron ore which shone and glistened with a metallic red colour in the fading light.

The air was tainted with a thin cloud of red dust which filled one’s nostrils and became ingrained into the pores of one’s cheeks and palms by the end of each day. Here on the Western Cape seaboard the wind blew daily and with a constancy which the locals came to expect and live with – ‘don’t fight the wind, but rather embrace it, and learn to live with it …’ is how they explained the hot rush of air to visitors.

In the distance Guy could hear the sea crashing against the point rocks beneath the lighthouse. Beyond lay the cold waters of the Atlantic Ocean as they raced southwards towards the Antarctic. Between the railway bridge and the beach was the ageing iron ore discharge terminal with its rusting wagon tippler towers which seemed to be supported by inclined covered beltways which fed them with water and power like the veins of a giant. The corrugated iron cladding of the plant had long since corroded in the salty sea climate, and every square inch of the plant was coated with the red grime of iron. As Guy took in the scene, it reminded him of the classical picture of Danté’s Inferno – how Hell on earth might have appeared to people living the sixteenth century.

Guy was finishing his two week stay in the Western Cape. In the morning he was due to fly back to Johannesburg and present his report on the operation of the Iron Ore Line to his client, Greenwood Logistics. His contract in South Africa had been a short one by recent standards. He had arrived in the country just over a month ago. After a few days briefing at the client’s Head Office in Sandton, he had visited the huge iron ore mine at Sishen and then traversed the 861 kilometre railway back and forth to the coast several times in order to understand how the train schedules worked in detail.

Whilst the trains and their rakes were impressive and amongst the longest commercial trains in the world, the flat and arid scenery along the railway had disappointed. In fact, Guy had rarely ever experienced such a boring and tedious view from the footplate as the train drivers on the Orex line were exposed to on a daily basis. Maintaining concentration throughout the eight hour journey was a major challenge, and driver error through fatigue and boredom was a common cause of the accidents and derailments which occurred.

For Guy this had been one of the dullest railway consultancy assignments which he had completed. The train operations were repetitive, the cargo was dirty and uninteresting, and the scenery was dull. In fourteen days he had met many of the Cape coloured drivers and footmen who operated the line, but none had engaged his attention and imagination with potential. That is, all except for Leon, the manager of the Saldanha Terminus and port discharge facility. He was not local to the area, and was ambitious and clearly could take on more responsibility within the company. Guy’s notes had observed that he was ‘suitable for promotion, and capable of handling other operational sites along the line’. He had been glad to meet Leon and to exchange and challenge his views on the operations of the organisation and to interact with another equal intellect.

Leon had invited Guy over to his Greek style home in the nearby fishing port of Paternoster at the weekend. They had ridden horses through the surf on the long flat beach and feasted on fresh barbecued crayfish under the stars, washed down with locally made Chardonnay from the Groote Post winery a few miles away.

A blast of diesel fumes from an approaching Class 43 diesel electric locomotive broke Guy’s train of thought. He leaned over the bridge and saw the grinning face of the loco driver peering out of his cab side window and waving at him.

‘Hello Boss!’ shouted the driver enthusiastically. ‘My name is Lucky! You spent a morning here in may cab driving with me last week, Man!’ he explained, clearly seeing that Guy did not recognise him.

Lucan recovered his composure and ran through the mental filodex of hundreds of train drivers whom he had worked with over the years. He soon remembered Lucky from the previous Tuesday when he had ridden in a loco with him from Sishen.

‘Yes, yes, I remember. How are you? How was the long straight run from Sishen this afternoon?’ Guy replied, trying to be sociable as he realised that Lucky had probably had no good conversation for the past eight hours other than with his over familiar footman.

‘On time today, no delays Boss! Straight and boring as usual, not like the old Olifant’s River bridge days …’ he shouted back just as the heaving and throbbing engine passed under the bridge where Guy stood. He walked across the road to the southern parapet of the bridge expecting to continue the conversation with Lucky. But as the locomotive emerged from the other side he could see that the driver was looking forward away from him and already manoeuvring the controls on his dashboard to ready the train for arrival at Saldanha.

As Guy reflected on the bridge in the gloaming of a fading Western Cape day, he realised that without Leon’s company his assignment on the Orex line would have been a daunting and lonely fortnight. But he had made a friend, and a friendship which might last. Besides, Leon held a place of honour in the Guiness Book of Records for organising the ‘World’s longest ever train’ – that alone was reason enough for Guy to be friends with him.

*****

Chapter 3 – A chukka in Hillcrest

Wally Greenwood had played polo since as early as he could remember. He had grown up on a Natal sugar plantation and horses were as much a part of the scenery as the ubiquitous cane which covered the roaming hillsides around the Greenwood’s colonial farm house. Wally was put on horseback before he could walk, and had never ceased learning the subtle skills of horsemanship. Now aged in his late forties, he had risen to captain of the South African polo team, and was revered and renowned throughout the province of Natal for his equestrian talent and his keen and natural feel for tactics in the combative game of polo.

The lush green field of Shongweni polo club shone like a polished emerald in the warm morning sunshine of the autumn morning. Neat white wash painted marker lines delineated the playing areas, and a regular straw coloured picket fence separated the chukka from the hospitality zone which was crowded with sun umbrellas and cushioned wicker chairs set around tables.

As Wally Greenwood tightened the girth strap on one of his favoured polo ponies, the background air was filled with the noise of crystal glasses clinking, polite Natal conversation, and the occasional mooted roar as a cork popped from a local fortified wine. He stood tall in his white cropped breeches, shining knee length leather riding boots and a towelling short sleeve green T-shirt emblazoned with the gold insignia of the national polo team. His hair was mid length, fair and tousled from the recent perspiration caused by wearing his pith style riding helmet. His complexion was ruddy from years of exposure to the African sun, and his face was filled with freckles and sun spots which his doctor had warned him were early signs of melanoma.

‘That was a great chukka, Orville!’ he shouted from behind the hocks of his pony. His team mate standing close by responded without hesitation, ‘Sure. A good last goal to seal our victory – if we can keep on playing like this, then we may go far in Argentina.’

‘The horses are booked to fly on the twentieth of April. Some of us should follow soon after – to be on hand during their quarantine. Do you fancy a few weeks in B A before the tournament starts? You can brush up on your Spanish and learn to dance the Tango properly – which is always useful to impress the señoritas both there, and here’ replied Orville.

‘We have a Shareholders’ Meeting around that time, in Sandton, if I recall?’ said Wally as he paused from buckling his saddle and looked over the back of his stocky pony in the direction of his friend. ‘You should know that,’ he added. ‘As our principal JSE broker and advisor? And this winter we have that strategy to push the stock price with iron ore tonnages …’ replied Wally in a normal volume of speech.

‘Steady, steady, man!’ replied Orville, as though he was remonstrating one of his ponies. ‘We don’t want idle talk to give that game away. Let’s keep that chat for the Boardroom, okay?’

Any listed company director other than Wally would have felt chided and even embarrassed by his colleague’s ticking off. But Wally had inherited both his shares and his position at Greenwood Logistics, and he sometimes acted as if it were his divine right to sit on the Board, and that anything he said was impervious to other people’s actions.

Orville Rupert left his chastisement at that. He was used to dealing with Wally, and with Wally’s other family shareholders. That was what the firm and the family trust paid his fees for – to look out for and protect their interests in the market and at the Johannesburg Stock Exchange. He had to add value, and if one of the ways in which he could do so was by keeping confidential company strategy information inside the family, then he was happy to do just that.

After checking around himself to see whether anyone had been close enough in earshot to hear Wally’s indiscretion, Orville continued to answer his friend’s earlier question.

‘Yes. We have a Greenwood Board set for end April – at the Kruger Park lodge. In fact, I was going to ask you if I can hitch a ride with you in your Cessna to get up to Skukuza for the meeting?’ he asked with genuine sincerity. Even though Orville had advised the family for years, and was a regular dinner guest and passenger on their small planes, he took nothing for granted and always remembered his place when dealing with his wealthy clients at the bank.

As Wally had done many times before, he offered Orville transport without a second’s thought saying, ‘Absolutely. No worries, Orville. Just check with Rebecca at my office. She knows all the plane times and will liaise with the pilot regarding your luggage and hangar access at OR Thambo.’

With that agreed, both men saddled their mounts, donned their pith helmets and raised their long polo sticks upwards and held them vertical leaning against their right shoulders.

With their free left hands they tugged the reins, squeezed their thighs and turned the ponies out of the paddock in the direction of the next chukka.

As Wally and Orville strode out past the spectator’s enclosure in the bright morning sunshine, they looked like demi gods resplendent in their green and gold team shirts. More than one pair of female eyes followed their oiled movements as man and horse fused together and struck up a canter into the centre of the playing field.

The South African A-Team, captained by Wally Greenwood, won the chukka by three points.

*****

Chapter 4 – Roast beef and Swiss Francs

Edgar Zulu liked his roast beef served rare. ‘Blue