Red Gold

By Mark Reed

Published by CUSTOM BOOK PUBLICATIONS
Classic imprint

RED GOLD

Guy Lucan is assigned to investigate rail freight business on the original Cecil Rhodes ‘Cape to Cairo’ railway. Copper is the bedrock of the cargo running over the three thousand kilometre corridor to Indian Ocean ports for export.
Smuggling the Red Gold out of the interior and evading government taxes has been a petty criminal activity for years but when an organised Chinese crime syndicate systematically moves tonnes illegally, murder and kidnap is added to their crimes.
Beguiling twin sisters divert Guy Lucan’s attention and he becomes the target of the Hong Kong triad who plan his execution. He only escapes from the ‘Heart of Darkness’ by an unlikely combination of chance circumstances.

Guy Lucan’s role as railway investigator again becomes a mix of Sherlock Holmes and James Bond as he follows the Red Gold trail!

OTHER NOVELS IN THE ‘GUY LUCAN’ SERIES

BLOOD WOOD (Central Madagascar)
PROTEA PLACE (The Karoo, South Africa)

• Language: English
• Publisher: CUSTOM BOOK PUBLICATIONS
• Release date: Jul 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370952113

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

Victoria Falls

As Guy Lucan stood on the stone flagged platform of Victoria Falls railway station his mind was filled with images of past colonial African history. He imagined that the parched teak sleepers beneath him had been hewn from the nearby Mulobezi forests and laid on the direct instructions of Cecil John Rhodes himself. Over one hundred years later, these graceful pieces of timber continued to play their part as individual links in the railway chain linking the Cape to the interior of Central Africa.

The silence of this Zimbabwean morning was broken by the constant roar of the falls in the distance, and the heat of the early morning sun on Guy’s forehead was extinguished by the watery mist which swept through the station from the direction of Victoria Falls. It was a pleasant feeling, warm and yet cool but with a refreshing intake of atomised watery air through his nostrils as he thought about Rhodes and his epic railway building achievements.

Godfrey, the station master, approached Guy and called out his name. ‘Are you ready, Mr. Guy?’ he said with a slow Matabele accent which he had perfected over his forty years of service with National Railways of Zimbabwe. ‘We need to leave now if we are to cross the bridge before the ten o’clock down train arrives from Livingstone.’

Guy returned from his thoughts about Cecil and the former Rhodesia and turned to greet Godfrey dressed in his braided uniform and peaked cap. ‘Yes, I’m ready. Let’s cross now before the sun gets too high.’ Placing one hand on the white washed edge of the platform, Guy crouched and jumped down onto the track with one smooth movement. Godfrey followed him, and together they struck out walking two sleepers at a time along the railway in the direction of Zambia and the majestic Victoria Falls Bridge.

Within twenty minutes the pair had covered over eight hundred yards of track and arrived at the Southern mouth of the bridge. As Guy approached the gangway of the bridge he could feel the breeze flowing down the gorge and hear the echo of the waterfall filling the chasm below him. Though the air became more silent the more he walked onto the bridge, the echo of the tumbling water was amplified in the space underneath the walkway, and became deafening as the two men proceeded across the steel grilled footpath alongside the track perway.

Guy knew his railway history well, and the words of Cecil Rhodes rang through his head as he quickened his pace and started out across the huge steel structure – ‘Build a bridge… where the trains as they pass will catch the spray from the falling Zambezi.’ And the engineers had followed his instructions to the letter. As Guy strode out stride by stride across the five-hundred foot parabolic arch of the bridge, his face was wetted by the spray from the falls, and his lungs filled with the clear river air which cascaded down the gorge from Zambia. As he screwed up his eyes and stared ahead, it seemed as though he was walking on air across the great Zambezi gorge, like a circus tightrope artist. Again, his mind was filled with the history of this place, and the awesome courage and audacity of Rhodes and his engineers to have dreamed of taming such a wild piece of country with an iron sculpture as beautiful as this.

Guy was midway across the Victoria Falls bridge, over 400 feet above the river crashing through the channel below when he paused from his historical daydreaming and thought he heard shouting. ‘Mr. Guy! Mr. Guy! The train is coming …’ shouted Godfrey running to catch up with his visitor and wondering whether to startle him would be good or bad – if he turned towards Godfrey then his back would be towards the oncoming train, which would put him in even more chance of danger.

With a jolt Guy’s thoughts returned from the eighteenth century to the present day, and he swung around on his heels to see Godfrey running towards him and gesticulating into the distance behind him. At this point he did not need to turn around as his legs had already begun to feel the trembling and vibration of the steel girders beneath him – which could only mean one thing. They were no longer alone on the graceful bridge, but had been joined by a rightful traverser – a Down train from Livingstone.

At that moment Guy’s left-hand boot slipped from its grip on the iron rail and fell through the open gap between the cross beams of the bridge’s deck. In an instance Guy’s height was reduced by half as his leg plunged through the gap and his groin hit the ground and his right leg crumpled under the weight of his body.

Partly from shock, and partly from the sudden pain of his unexpected fall, Guy felt paralysed and unable to move as he stared down the track at waist level into the path of the oncoming RRL-30 diesel electric locomotive. From this low vantage point Guy could not see the second slave locomotive hitched immediately behind the first, nor the thirty-eight flatbed wagons and caboose. In total over three thousand tonnes of train and cargo was ploughing towards him at over 15 miles per hour. Within seconds he would be pulped on the deck of the bridge, though his left leg might remain intact after being severed and dropped into the Zambezi below.

The claxon of the train sounded furiously several times above the roar of the waterfall. Guy was now only too aware of the danger he was in, and felt annoyed at the driver for alarming the world to his plight when no one nearby could possibly assist him. He pushed down hard on the palms of both hands as he tried in vain to raise his body and free his leg from the hole. The hot steel of the bridge cross beams burned into his hands as he pressed hard against them. The ancient round headed rivets would leave bruised impressions on his skin.

The train was now slowing as the driver applied the full power of its air brakes, but with the mass and momentum behind it, the train would take more than half a mile to stop at this speed. Way beyond Guy’s position on the bridge.

The sound and smell of the watery mist and spray on Guy’s face was now replaced by the scent of diesel, burning metal and a rush of warmer air from the diesel engines. The front bogey wheels of the loco were now only twenty feet in front of him. Close enough for Guy to see the dozens of wheels following behind – all of which would soon pass right over the spot where he was trapped.

Inside the engine cab, the train driver lost sight of the legless man standing in the middle of the track on one of the world’s highest railway bridges. The locomotive was now so close that his line of sight looked above and beyond the man. He pushed again hard on the air brake lever and pulled on the klaxon horn yet again for good measure. Why on earth was the man on the bridge at that time? And why was he standing so low and apparently unable to move? He felt all his muscles tense as the cab moved closer and crossed the place where the engine’s prey was sitting.

With one last super human heave, Godfrey had been able to pull Guy up and way to the right. His left boot had caught in the gap in the track bed, but such was the force of Godfrey’s lift that Guy’s foot unshipped the shoe and his whole body rolled and crashed against the side railing of the narrow bridge walk. Seconds later the front wheels of the locomotive thundered past on the track where Guy had been imprisoned moments earlier, and the whole bridge structure shuddered and swayed in the mist as one hundred and sixty axles rolled by in quick succession.

Far below the bridge, Guy’s left boot hit the surface of the raging river with an inaudible splash. Godfrey’s arms were still clasped tightly around Guy’s waist as they both lay prone on the metal decking of the bridge’s sidewalk. It seemed to take ages for the train to pass and Guy’s head was pushed face down onto the steel mesh so that all he could do was to stare down into the abyss below. As the last wheel of the train’s caboose passed by the two men, Guy lifted his head slowly from its prone position. The metal had left impressions against the skin on his face where it had been in contact with the decking – like a barbecued steak with seared grill marks across the face of the meat.

‘That was close, Mr. Guy,’ spluttered Godfrey under his breath and privately promised himself that he would never ever again escort a guest across the bridge.

‘Yes,’ agreed Guy. ‘And thank you, my man!’ he added without much sincerity. ‘And tell me, what was the freight in that container train?’ he added nonchalantly. ‘That was the ten o’clock block freight train from Ndola, Mr. Guy. Full of Red Gold destined for Durban.’

Guy performed the mathematical calculation in his head quickly. Thirty-eight wagons carrying over fifty tonnes each – totalled around fifteen million dollars’ worth of pure refined copper.

Below on the Zambezi River, Guy’s left Timberland boot filled with water and sank gently beneath the waves.

*****

Chapter 2

The Vice President

Godfrey was still angry with himself as he swung the steering wheel of the old Hilux pickup truck into the gateway of the Victoria Falls Hotel. In fourteen years at the railway station, he had never experienced an incident like this morning, and he never wanted to again. Even walking out onto the bridge to complete his daily inspections would now never be the same again for Godfrey. He imagined that he would always be looking over his shoulder for the next train, or even worse a casual unsuspecting pedestrian on the track. And the idiot had not even thanked him! From now on he would not accept instructions for visitors from Bulawayo without querying them.

As the battered vehicle drew to a halt on the gravel at the foot of the stone steps leading up to the hotel’s graceful entrance, Godfrey turned to Guy Lucan. ‘Thank you, sir. It’s has been good to help you with your visit to Vic Falls station,’ he said without any conviction. ‘Thank you, too,’ replied Guy. ‘I shall note you in my report and look forward to seeing you on my next visit.’ Godfrey secretly promised himself that he would make sure that he was unavailable if ever Mr. Lucan came again. And with that thought he leaned over, closed the passenger door and put his foot on the throttle so that he could return to the sanctuary of his office as quickly as possible.

Guy Lucan did not notice Godfrey’s frustration. He started up the steps of the hotel towards the foyer. His motion was a ‘dot and carry one’ type as he walked with only one boot, and the sock on his other foot was torn and soaked with a little blood from where the bridge walkway had dug into his ankle flesh.

As Guy reached the top of the staircase he crossed the Axminster carpet towards the reception desk where a suited concierge looked up from his paperwork and smiled. ‘Has sir had an enjoyable morning,’ he enquired with a genuine interest.

Guy deflected the question with another. ‘Is the bar open? I need a drink. Badly,’ he retorted.

‘Yes, of course Sir. They will serve you on the Stanley Terrace,’ and waved his hand towards a hallway which lead into the heart of the hotel. Guy altered his course, and walked onwards towards the promised refreshment.

The corridor was hung with dozens of pictures of Cecil Rhodes and the building of the Victoria Falls railway bridge. Guy did not even slow to glance at them; he knew his railway history, and every detail of the project from both an engineering and historical viewpoint. Strange though, he mused, that no one had ever thought to warn him about the deck of the bridge? He strode on towards the terrace, driven by his need for a quenching drink.

As he emerged onto the verandah terrace, the same wet breeze greeted his face and he could feel its calming effect as the invisible droplets of Zambezi river water chilled his cheeks. In the distance, his eyes focused on the postcard view of the bridge as it sat motionless straddled across the gorge and two sovereign African countries.

Along the breadth of the terrace were dozens of low rattan chairs arranged in huddles around small tables. They were filled with cotton Chintz covered cushions which had seen a lot of use. Around the terrace to Guy’s right was the start of the bar – a huge mahogany counter which stretched half the length of the wrap around verandah. Guy turned and walked with a slight limp due to his lack of footwear until he was mid-way along the bar counter. ‘Can I have a large Tio Pepe with three medium lumps of ice, please? In a tall glass, not a schooner, and make sure that you put the ice in first,’ he said to the bartender without even a ‘Good afternoon’ or ‘Sawabona’.

The bartender nodded. ‘Certainly, Sir,’ and went off in search of the dry sherry on his side of the counter.

Guy steadied himself on the edge of the bar, and raised his shoeless foot onto the brass rest which ran along the bottom of the ornate counter. He was oblivious to what he looked like – walking into this formal public area with only one boot. Many of the guests had noticed him, and were quizzically trying to guess and understand what had happened to him – but most were still discussing the repeated claxon noise which they had heard from the morning train as they watched it cross the Falls Bridge earlier that morning. The consensus view was that the train driver must have been celebrating some personal event, as the train had not slowed, nor was anyone aware of any national or local holiday nor anniversary which would cause him to announce his arrival into Zimbabwe with such ceremony.

As Guy scanned the terrace looking at his fellow guests, he was unaware of their thoughts and did not catch them gazing at his feet. To his right at the far end of the bar sat a large imposing man. He was perched comfortably on one of the elegant old bar stools, and was intently reading a newspaper which was spread out in front of him. Beside him was a fluted beer glass which Guy could see had been very recently poured as it had been pre-iced, and the gentleman’s finger marks still showed on the body of the glass after he had taken his first sip. The beer looked tempting, and Guy wondered whether he should have asked for a beer rather than his aperitif as this would surely have been poured and delivered more quickly? But he decided that his nerves needed quenching before his thirst, and a manzanilla would relax him perfectly.

‘Good day. Have you had a good morning?’ enquired the seated man in a booming but yet softly spoken voice. ‘Did you hear all that commotion on the bridge earlier? Sounded as though the train driver was trying to warn us all about something,’ he said and from the way he posed the question, Guy felt that he expected an answer.

‘Yes, I have, thank you. And actually, I was down at the railway station this morning,’ responded Guy. As he said the words, he realised that he was inadvertently making a trap for himself whereby his fellow drinker could easily ask him what he had been doing at the station and whether he had seen anything on the bridge – and Guy then decided that he did not want to tell anyone about his near fatal accident as they would surely think him irresponsible, selfish and even a liability.

The barman arrived with Guy’s drink before he had time to respond to the large man. Guy grasped it in his right hand and with a ‘Cheers’ towards his new acquaintance; he raised it to his lips and quenched his nerves.

As the bitter taste of the Spanish wood soaked sherry filled the back of his throat, Guy continued to hold his gaze in the direction of his questioner and used the moment to think more carefully about how to answer him without being drawn into more details. However, as he lowered his glass and was about to speak, he noticed that the man was no longer looking at him, but rather past him and over his left shoulder. The man was also starting to ease himself off his barstool and clasped the edge of the bar as he steadied himself onto his feet. Guy was now able to see how large and imposing the man was as he stood a full six feet three inches with a wide girth and a broad neck and shoulders. He guessed that he was from further north; Congo or Central Africa maybe judging from the darkness of his skin – but his voice had sounded like chocolate, and was a pure English accent without any trace of French.

Guy was puzzled by the man’s gaze, and as his glass lowered he turned his head in the direction of his attention and swallowed the contents of his mouth. Guy could see immediately why the man’s interest in conversation with him had been overtaken. A tall, elegant and well-dressed girl was walking along the terrace from the direction of the picture hallway. Her slim body moved in a catwalk motion towards them, and her natural height was accentuated by high heeled pink patent shoes which were covered with leopard spots. Her face broke into a warm smile as she drew nearer, and her chalk white teeth complimented the whites of her eyes. Guy felt a tingle run down his neck as she passed him and continued towards his companion three metres away from him along the bar.

She now stood in front of the man and they embraced involuntarily. ‘How are you, my dear? How was the flight, and our business in Joburg?’ he said as their cheeks pressed together in a way which only lovers and not fathers and daughters do. ‘Fine, honey and I’ve bought lots of surprises for you. They’re all in my luggage upstairs,’ she replied in a soft Queen’s accent English. More chocolate, thought Guy.

The man slid his right hand around her thin waist and they held onto each other as they started to walk away from the bar. She was a good two inches taller than him in her heels, and her hair was swept back and knotted close to her scalp in fine rows which swirled from her forehead over to the base of her neck. Her fine bone structure and high royal cheek bones reminded Guy of the Mountain Kingdom princesses which Ryder Haggard described in ‘King Solomon’s Mines’; but in place of the jewelled robes and ornate spears, this modern-day priestess wore a striking Chanel tweed trouser suit and carried a tan-coloured Hermes Kelly bag. A colourful silk neck scarf and rich tortoise shell sunglasses completed her outfit as she hung onto the arm of her companion and whispered lovers’ secrets into his ear.

The couple paused as they passed Guy on their way off the terrace and upstairs to their suite. ‘It was good to meet you, Mr. Lucan. And you must be more careful if you meet any more of my trains – especially on the bridge,’ said the gentlemen as he eyed Guy’s bloodstained sock. ‘You can never be too careful.’ And with that remark the coupled turned and headed off for their afternoon reunion.

Guy was shocked. How had he known his name, and about the incident on the bridge? Only Godfrey had witnessed the mornings near accident – but he hadn’t had the time to tell anyone yet. And what did he mean by ‘his train’?

Guy motioned for the barman to come over to him. ‘Do you know who that man was, barman?’ he asked but not expecting a positive answer.

‘Oh yes, Sir. Everyone knows him in these parts. That was the Right Honourable Mr. Edwin, the former Vice President of Zambia.’

*****

Chapter 3

King Copper

Colonel Colquhoun had unusually accepted a consultancy contract from a client who was not a railway. It was a first for their business, and a transaction which made him uncomfortable at the outset. However, when the London Metal Exchange had offered to pay three months fees in advance, he had listened and taken their proposal more seriously.

The enquiry came through an old Guards colleague of his, a retired major who was now head of security at the Metal Exchange in Finsbury Square, London. Over a noisy lunch at the Oyster Bar in the Plaza Hotel, the colonel had been given a detailed lecture about the intimate workings of the African copper market.

‘From small fry in the 1960’s, African production of copper metal now accounts for close on two million tonnes of world capacity, or about 10%. And it’s continuing to grow,