Four Kings: Windsor Conspiracy

By Mike Ponder

From the author of The Windsor Conspiracy comes a tale of deceit, corruption and greed, deepening the mystery behind Royal involvement in world affairs.

Fans of the Windsor Conspiracy will welcome back familiar characters while for new readers this stand-alone story will take them from Zimbabwe to Niger Delta, the slums of Harare and in the Australian outback to undercover shocking secrets.

 

Zimbabwean Gus McKenzie's land, Four Kings - won in a card game by his grandfather - is ravaged by looters and murderers after Mugabe decrees all white-owned farms will be resettled. Gus, left with nothing, vows to destroy those responsible for ruining his life.

But who was responsible?

 

Was it Mugabe, or was he a mere pawn in an international plot? Was the land taken for resettlement, or was there a more sinister reason? And why did the British not intervene?

 

In Four Kings the reader is treated to suspense piled on suspense from this masterful story teller, who adds another twist with every page. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Ponder
• Release date: Nov 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201446277

Book preview

PROLOGUE

London 1965

Are you positive he can’t see us?

Absolutely. It’s a two way mirror we installed this morning, exactly as you asked. Your anonymity is assured, Ma’am.

The immaculately dressed woman stepped closer to the glass until the brim of her hat almost touched it, her breath leaving a fine mist on the polished surface. The object of her attention, the young man in the adjoining room, was standing only feet away, his eyes nervously examining the disused office’s austere furnishings covered in a thick layer of dust.

You may well be amused by his name. It’s Leonard Winston Royale. His height, age and weight are almost identical, as are his eye and hair colouring. We have been searching for months. I don’t believe it would be humanly possible to find anyone better suited.

Tell me again about his family.

The only other occupant of the room reached inside his pinstriped suit and removed a note book. The lad’s father died of a heart attack in 1958, he stated in a mono-tone. His mother lives in Glebe Place, off Kings Road. She has one other child, a daughter, Hannah, aged twelve. There are no other living relatives that we know of.

The faintest hint of a smile spread across the woman’s face. She cocked her head slightly to one side as she concentrated on the young man. He’ll need plastic surgery on his eyes and ears...

There is a surgeon you can have complete faith in, Ma’am.

Turning, the woman strode swiftly towards the door. Bring Mr. Royale to me tomorrow at four, and I don’t need to remind you of the dire consequences if you are not discrete.

*

The visitor was ushered into the lavishly furnished room by the man in the pinstriped suit as a towering grandfather clock struck four.

Leonard Royale, Ma’am.

Punctuality is a quality that is all too often ignored. She smiled at the young man now hovering above her five-foot-two frame. Thank you for agreeing to visit me today. She indicated that he should sit. I understand you are at Oxford? the woman asked pleasantly after they were seated.

I’m still getting to grips with it. This is my first year. he replied nervously.

You must be wondering why you are here?

Yes, Ma’am.

There is so much that you need to know, so many questions I have to ask. The woman sighed as she shrugged her shoulders. The difficulty is knowing where to start.

The Official Secrets Act, the man who had brought Leonard Royale to her suggested in a forthright manner thrusting a manila folder into the young man’s hands. You are studying law. I don’t need to warn you of the consequences if you sign this document and then disclose anything relating to this family, or the discussions we are about to enter into. If they are successful, any duties you perform or future role you may become involved in is strictly confidential. Do I make myself clear?

The young man caught the woman’s eye; she smiled kindly and surreptitiously nodded her head. Leaning forward he picked up the folder, removed the pages and read. Five minutes later he signed his name with a flourish. You have my word.

Please don’t throw away your Oxford education, Leonard’s mother pleaded. It was the following day and they were at her home in Glebe Place facing each other across the breakfast table in the tiny kitchen.

Mum, a man will be arriving soon. He will have papers that you must sign. It is the Official Secrets Act, but until you have signed it, my hands are tied, I am unable to explain anything further.

What have you got yourself involved in? his mother asked in hushed tones, unable to hide the desperation in her voice.

I have been offered a new beginning, a life and privileges most ordinary people could only dream about. I have the opportunity to live amongst the very elite of our society in a role that could even change the course of history. My new life, my future depends on your agreement, her son continued unfazed. Mum, not only must you sign the Official Secrets Act, but you must agree in writing to immediately leave England and never return. Ignoring the gasp her soldiered on. It’s a fantastic opportunity to break free from the life you are forced to live here. Agree to these terms and a substantial payment, and I mean enough money to set you and Hannah up for the rest of your lives, will be deposited in your bank account in the country you choose to emigrate to. Canada or Australia has been suggested.

Emigrate, but how will I ever see you?

Leonard took his mother’s hand in his, gently squeezing it. You don’t understand. After you leave England you will never see me again. We will say our goodbyes today. It will be as if I never existed.

Struggling with two heavy bags, Leonard looked back over his shoulder and caught sight of his mother’s tear-stained face at the window as he negotiated the narrow path towards the waiting taxi. Hannah was also there, partially obscured by the curtain. She blew him a kiss and then frantically waved. Her brother turned away and hurried down the path.

Where to, Guv?

Choked with emotion, Leonard Royale collapsed into the back seat of the taxi. Clarence House, he barely whispered as he stifled a sob. Please take me to Clarence House.

PART ONE 1988

Chapter One

Zimbabwe

Slumping into his chair, Rewai warily removed a handful of the ground-up rock from the sack and examined it briefly before placing it into a well-worn stainless steel sieve. Holding the sieve over a bucket, he scooped up water to wash the sample, a ritual he had preformed a thousand times, before emptying the sieve onto a once white cloth that covered one end of the table. With the aid of tweezers and a powerful magnifying glass Rewai began methodically inspecting the pieces of rock. His habitual optimism faded with every passing minute. Shaking his head with disappointment, he emptied the second washed sample from the sieve onto the cloth and repeated the painstaking procedure. The pangs of doubt had built over the past couple of weeks and now surged through his body, blurring his vision and causing his hands to shake. The supreme confidence driving him to work his body and mind far beyond its normal capabilities had all but evaporated. He had failed. His theory had been flawed and he was now out of time. The university steadfastly refused to hear his pleas to drill a further two holes. He refilled the sieve, washed the sample, and repeated the inspection process. Nothing, still nothing.

Through the opening in the tent, the sound of rustling leaves and branches signalled the arrival of the wind which had been promised all day. Tossing the battered sieve to one side, Rewai pulled himself from the chair and with two quick strides left behind the oppressive heat of his temporary home for the promise of the much cooler air outside. Beyond the shade of the giant Masasa tree where he had pitched his tent, it was only a short walk across sun-baked earth to the belching stinking wonder that his professional future depended on. It was a gift to the University of Zimbabwe by the Chinese Government. The flaking paint and growing patches of corrosive rust bore testimony to its history of overwork and lack of maintenance. Its 450 horsepower Caterpillar engine rarely stopped working to satisfy Mugabe’s obsession with discovering new mineral deposits. It was an American-made Schramm drilling rig. They called it ‘Betsy’.

Rewai checked his watch as he wearily climbed to the battered control cab at the rear of the truck.

We’re almost out of time! he yelled above the din to the operator inside. Give it everything you’ve got, and then some. Just six more metres, another six bloody samples before dark, he pleaded.

He made his habitual half-hearted attempt to shield his red eyes from the shimmering heat to briefly study the throbbing heart of the rig, the hissing compressor generating the vital 900 PSI of compressed air needed to drive the fist-sized drill bit.

Remember, only six more metres. I know you can do it. Rewai, resigned to defeat, looked to the heavens then attempted a smile at the half-naked and sweat-drenched operator. Shoulders slumped, he edged out of the cab, using a sleeve to wipe the dust and grease from his face. Climbing back to the ground Rewai paused for his customary check of the swaying tower high above him.

"Yes Baas, the black operator shouted after the retreating figure. Ol Betsy she has passed through two hundred and fifty metres, but she has hit hard rock. Really hard rock. Yes Sir, she’s a-trying, she’s a-going just as fast as she can, but all she wants to do is just lie down and die."

Rewai had gained a Masters Degree with Honours in geology, and now had his eyes firmly fixed on a Doctorate. A little more than a year ago while studying for his Masters, he’d had the opportunity to examine material taken by an American ground-imaging satellite. The structure of a deep valley in the ‘Makonde’ district west of Harare caught his attention. For the following weeks his mind was totally absorbed by the possibilities. He drove to the valley and spent days photographing, and collecting samples. As the weeks rolled into months any niggling doubts in his mind had all but disappeared, but to prove that the impossible was possible, he needed tangible evidence, proof, and he could only obtain that by drilling.

It took two months to convince the University to consent to his plan. Another two months before Betsy became available. But now his allotted time was up and they were demanding Betsy’s return immediately. He had lost count of the number of holes they had drilled, the thousands of samples he had collected, as they had crisscrossed the valley floor. All to no avail, he had failed to find the proof he so desperately sought.

Rewai walked towards the Cyclone mounted on a trailer immediately behind the drilling rig. It was a bulky structure, its conical shape designed to catch the ground-up rock and dirt returned under pressure to the surface via a smaller pipe inside the well casing, before depositing it into a numbered jute sack at its base. This was called ‘the sample’. One sample for every meter drilled. He removed the bulging sack, replacing it with a fresh one, before shuffling the short distance back to the tent. Precarious piles of jute bags, all labelled and numbered, covered the floor leaving scarcely enough room for the rough-sawn table, canvas chair and camp stretcher.

He upended the opened sack, mechanically and poured the remaining contents into the sieve, filling it to overflowing. Again he carefully washed the small chunks of rock and gravel before tipping them out onto the now soaking wet cloth. One piece of rock immediately caught his eye. His heart racing, he used tweezers to pick it up and shift it to the clean edge of the cloth, where he rolled it slowly over and over.

He didn’t need the magnifying glass to confirm his find. He was momentarily spellbound. In his hand he held the miracle he had been searching for, the proof that his hypothesis was correct. This was his vindication, the answer to all his prayers. His doctorate and future were assured. He could now think of finally settling down, having a family, and in time, maybe owning a house in the country surrounded by shade trees, and equipped with his very own research lab.

Then he remembered the card. The card he had been given the day before they commenced drilling, by a man he had never seen before. A European, who wore smart clothes and drove a late model sports car. He suggested that Rewai should contact him if he made an interesting discovery, one that could be commercially viable.

We’ll pay you cash, lots of cash, for that kind of information, the man had said with a smile. "The right discovery could make you wealthier than your wildest dreams. On the other hand, should you choose only to inform the University, you can bet your last dollar that someone there will leak the information of your find. You must be aware of the corruption that exists. They will become rich. You will have nothing.

Taking a deep breath, Rewai again rolled the chunk of crushed rock across the cloth with trembling fingers, his mind in turmoil. He would never forget the unspeakable horror of poverty, but he could only dream of what it would be like to be rich.

He remembered the sadness, the feeling of hopelessness, and betrayal, when his mother died. He was only eight. With no father and no relatives who were able to take him in, he was placed in an orphanage. After a year of deprivation, starvation and beatings, Rewai had climbed from a second floor window and escaped into the night. For three years he’d lived off the garbage heaps on the outskirts of Harare where he’d mastered the art of survival. He learnt how to fight for leftover food thrown from the rear door of a restaurant or hotel, and how to steal anything that could be eaten or sold for cash. Tears welled in Rewai’s eyes when he recalled the day of his arrest. How he was caught red-handed stealing a box of apples from a market stall. Remembering how the cops laughed as they punched and kicked him until he passed into unconsciousness.

He lost count of the days he was left alone in a cell that measured only three metres long and one and a half metres wide; barely wide enough for the rough wooden bed that had neither blanket nor mattress. Meals were limited to two bowls of thin soup a day. If he needed to relieve himself there was a bucket in the corner with a broken lid that did little to contain the growing stench inside. As he grew weaker and thinner with each passing day, the realization grew that like many of the other prisoners he would eventually succumb to some disgusting disease, and finally find relief in death.

He was asleep when the door to his cell crashed open. Simuka imbwa! yelled the intruder as he kicked him off the bed. Cowering against the end wall Rewai removed his shirt and pants, and then choked, wide-eyed with horror as a fire hose appeared in the hands of the guard. The blast of cold water knocked him from his feet. He tried to shield his face, but nothing could stop the agonizing pain and humiliation.

That should do it, a voice said as the jet of water slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether. A frayed green towel was tossed at his feet. Step outside imbwa, and dry yourself.

I’m not a dog, Rewai muttered under his breath as he reached for the towel.

Dressed in newly acquired faded denims and a floral shirt several sizes too big, the prisoner stumbled up the stairs after the guard, using his hands to cover his eyes from the glare of natural light.

You have a visitor, was the only explanation he was given as he was pushed through a doorway into a small but clean room. A middle-aged white man dressed in a red floral shirt and with beads of perspiration trickling down his face, sat facing him. He motioned for Rewai to sit in the remaining chair. The guard showing no intention of leaving, leant back against the wall and slowly folded his arms.

Are you Rewai Stapleton? the man asked in a strong American accent.

Unable to bring himself to speak, Rewai simply nodded.

What was your mother’s name?

Libby, Rewai finally stammered. Libby Stapleton.

Did you ever know your father?

Rewai vigorously shook his head.

Were you ever known by another name? the man asked as he mopped his bald head with a large handkerchief. Think boy! he exploded. For Christ’s sake – think!

I do remember when I was very young – before Mum got sick, Rewai mumbled, his eyes firmly fixed on the floor. She sometimes called me Larry. She said it was also my father’s name, but she preferred my African name, Rewai. She said my father would never come back, and wanted nothing to remind her of him.

This may come as a surprise, but I happen to be your uncle. The man said in a softer, more pleasant voice. I am also the executor of your father’s estate. What you don’t know is that there were plans for you and your mother to immigrate to America. Your mother even arranged passports for you both. But what your mother was never aware of, was at that same time thousands of miles away in America; your father was involved in an accident. He was hospitalized in a coma from which he never woke. Machines kept him alive for almost ten years. The man paused for breath, his eyes slowly scanning the walls and the ceiling before coming to rest on the boy opposite. It was only after his merciful death, he continued, that a Will was produced, and for the first time, we, his family, learnt of your existence. We had almost given up all hope of ever finding you when news came through that the finger prints of a young lad who had been arrested, were a perfect match from those taken many years ago, as the law required, when your mother applied for your passport. There is no doubt that you are Larry’s son.

Rewai tried to speak, but words failed him again.

Money has been left in trust for you, but it can only be used for your education, and basic living expenses. Son, I guess you have a decision to make. Do you want to be educated, to grow up as a respectable person, or do you want to continue to rot in this filthy jail?

Now, as he looked at the treasure before him, tears formed in Rewai’s eyes. They always did when he thought of his mother, his nightmare years in abject poverty, and the generosity of a man he had never met. Desperately he wanted to live the dream of wealth and success; he owed it to them and himself. But first he must find the card, and arrange to meet the man with the flash sports car. The tears gave way to a smile as his mind suddenly raced with the possibilities of the discovery, its value beyond comprehension. He broadened his smile and he decided to start packing.

Pass the butter dear, Angus McKenzie grunted from behind the newspaper, grappling with the editorial’s petty politics. Sarah gently pushed the white porcelain dish containing six small identical rolls of butter across the table, then returned her attention to the pages discarded by her husband. As always at this time of year, it was a daily ritual to take breakfast on the veranda of their sprawling home. The veranda had been designed with this in mind, and was built at a suitable width to ensure the table would always remain in the shade but be open to the gentle breeze maintaining the temperature at a comfortable level. The veranda also offered a commanding view across low rolling hills and valleys that stretched forever towards the horizon, before finally being lost to sight in the perpetual misty haze.

Almost everything they could see belonged to them. Angus’s grandfather, Robert McKenzie, had won title to the land in a poker game and promptly called the property Four Kings. He introduced cattle to the virgin land, and over the next three decades tirelessly built the herd into one of Rhodesia’s largest. Stuart, Angus’s late father, in turn had also left his mark, by having the foresight to introduce tobacco to supplement the beef, soya beans, and grain crops. Angus, an only child, was determined to follow the family tradition and contribute to the ongoing improvement of the sprawling estate. His passion was to construct a dam, large enough to store ample water to irrigate thousands of acres on his and neighbouring properties, even in the driest years.

A black servant dressed in a blue cotton dress and an oversized white apron appeared, holding a plate which she placed in front of Angus. He gave the poached eggs a once-over and nodded at the girl, who disappeared as silently as she had materialized.

No sign of rain yet, he said absently to his wife, folding the remains of the paper and placing it neatly to one side of the table.

Sarah nodded in reply, her concentration directed elsewhere. Do you remember that nice man from the university? she said seriously. The geologist in charge of the drilling rig working at the bottom of our valley?

If you mean that coloured man on the wild goose chase, he scoffed, yes, of course I do. Dad spent a fortune checking this place out. If there were any minerals on Four Kings, he would’ve found them. Gus added with a chuckle, swallowing a mouthful of egg.

Well, he’s dead, she replied, shocked. According to the paper his car burst into flames after crashing into a tree on the outskirts of Harare.

That’s terrible. How did it happen?

It doesn’t say. Apparently there were no witnesses.

PART TWO 1999

Chapter Two

Zimbabwe

The horse knew the way; it had followed this route from the homestead many times. The well- worn track ran through gullies overrun with acacia-thorn towering three metres high, under groves of muhatcha trees, and across open pastures covered in native grasses and dotted with ant hills. Occasionally the rider passed small herds of cattle which stood transfixed, their eyes following her every move until, by some secret command, they turned as one and bolted into the scrub. Eventually the track reached the base of the hill and wove its way between thorn bushes, and outcrops of rock as it climbed steeply towards the top. When they finally reached the summit known as Eagles Nest, Sarah dismounted and led the horse towards a clearing containing five graves surrounded by a white picket fence. The lettering on the first gravestone had been almost worn away by time and the elements, but she knew it read, Enid Joy McKenzie, died in child birth 1926. Enid’s husband, Angus’s grandfather, Robert Bruce McKenzie, 1886-1947, was buried alongside. Each letter of his name had been painstakingly chiselled into a giant slab of granite, which according to rumour, had taken six men and a horse to drag into place. The third grave was only half the size of the others and marked with a simple cross. Mary Rose McKenzie, died of a snake bite, 1960, aged three. The last two and the most recent graves were Angus’s parents, Stuart and Irene McKenzie.

After tethering Poppy to a Mutohwe tree Sarah checked each grave, removing weeds and dead leaves, before wandering over to a flat lichen- covered rock perched above the cliff face at the very edge of the clearing. This was her favourite place on Four Kings. This was where she came in those rare moments when she needed to be alone, or wanted time and space to think. As always she inhaled deeply, taking in the fragrance of Africa, concentrating on