Elephant Song - Smith Wilbur (читать книги онлайн бесплатно полностью без .TXT) 📗
Three men were working around the trailer, adjusting the ropes that held the tarpaulin in place. The beam of the spotlight froze them, and they stared back at the approaching Landcruiser.
Two of the men were black Africans dressed in faded overalls.
The third was a dignified figure in a khaki safari suit. He was also dark-complexioned but bearded and wearing some sort of white headgear.
it was only when Daniel got closer that he realised that it was a neatly bound white turban and that the man was a Sikh. His beard was carefully curled and rolled up into the folds of the turban.
As Daniel slowed the Landcruiser and pulled in in front of the parked truck, the Sikh spoke sharply to the two Africans.
All three of them turned and hurried back to the front of the truck and climbed aboard. Hold it a second! Daniel shouted, and jumped out of the Landcruiser. I want to talk to you. The Sikh was already seated behind the wheel. Hold on! Daniel called urgently, and came level with the cab.
The Sikh was five feet above the level of his head and he leaned out of the window and peered down at Daniel. Yes, what is it?
Sorry to trouble you, Daniel told him. Have you passed two large white trucks on the road? The Sikh stared down at him without answering and Daniel added, Very big trucks, you couldn't miss them.
Travelling together in convoy. There might have been a blue Mercedes saloon with them. The Sikh pulled his head in and spoke to the two Africans in a dialect that Daniel could not understand. While he waited impatiently for a reply, Daniel noticed a company logo painted on the front door-panel of the truck.
CHETTI SINGH LIMITED IMPORT AND EXPORT P. O. BOX 52 LILONGWE MALAWI Malawi was the small sovereign state that nestled between the three much larger territories of Zambia, Tanzania and Mozambique. it was a country of mountains and rivers and takes, whose population was as prosperous and happy under its octogenarian dictator Hastings Banda as any state on the poverty- and tyranny-ridden continent of Africa. Mr.
Singh, I'm in a desperate hurry, Daniel called. Please tell me if you've seen those trucks.
The Sikh popped his head back out the window in alarm. How do you know my name? he demanded, and Daniel pointed at the logo on the door.
Ha!
You are one very observant and erudite fellow, never mind. The Sikh looked relieved. Yes, my men reminded me that two trucks passed us one hour ago. They were heading south. We did not see a Mercedes with them.
I am totally certain of that salient fact. No Mercedes.
Absolutely. He started the engine of the MAC truck. I am happy to have served you. I am also in desperate haste. I must return home to Lilongwe. Farewell, my friend, safe journey and happy landings. He waved cheerily and let the huge truck roll forward.
Something about his airy manner struck a false note in Daniel's mind.
As the heavily loaded trailer rumbled past him, Daniel caught hold of one of the steel slats and swung himself up on to the footplate below the trailer's tailgate. The headlights of the parked Landcruiser gave him enough light to peer between the steel slats of the bodywork and the edge of the tarpaulin cover.
The trailer seemed to be packed with a full load of gunny sacks.
Stencilled on one of the sacks that he could see was the legend Dried Fish. Product of. . . The country of origin was obscured. Daniel's nose confirmed the contents of the sacks.
The smell of half-rotten fish was powerful and unmistakable.
The truck was gathering speed swiftly and Daniel dropped off and let his own momentum carry him forward as he hit the ground. He ran with it for a dozen paces and then pulled up and stared after the dwindling tail-lights.
His instinct warned him that something was as fishy as the stink from under the tarpaulin of the departing trailer, but what could he do about it? He tried to think. His main concerns were still the convoy of refrigerator trucks and Ning in his Mercedes which were heading southwards, while the Sikh in his MAC truck was rumbling away in the opposite direction.
He couldn't follow both of them even if he could Prove a connection between them, which he could not. Chetti Singh, he repeated the name and the box number to fix it firmly in his mind. Then ran back to where Jock waited in the Landcruiser.
Who was that? What did he say? Jock wanted to know. He saw the refrigerator trucks heading south about an hour ago. We're going after them. He pulled out of the lay-by and they raced on southwards at their top speed.
The road began to climb the hills that led up on to the high central plateau, and the Landcruiser's speed bled off slowly, but still they were doing around 70 miles an hour.
Jock had not spoken again since they had met Chetti Singh, but his features were drawn and nervous in the light reflected from the instrument panel. He kept glancing sideways at Daniel as if he were about to protest, but then thought better of it.
The road went into a series of gentle curves as it followed the gradient of the hills. They came through the next curve and without warning one of the white refrigerator trucks blocked the road ahead of them. It was travelling at half the speed of the Landcruiser and diesel smoke belched out of its exhausts as it laboured upwards in low gear. The driver was holding the middle line of the highway, not leaving sufficient space for Daniel to pass him.
Daniel sounded his horn and flicked his spotlights on and off to induce the truck to move over, but it never wavered. Move over, you murdering bastard, Daniel snarled, and hit the horn button with another prolonged blast. Take it easy, Daniel, Jock pleaded. You're going over the top.
Cool it, man. Daniel swung the Landcruiser out on to the far verge of the road, into an overtaking position, and he sounded the horn again. Now he could see the wing mirror on the cab of the truck and reflected in it the face of the driver.
The driver was Gomo. He was watching Daniel in the mirror but making no effort to give way and let him pass. His expression was a mixture of fear and ferocity, of guilt and bitter resentment. He was deliberately blocking the road, swinging wide on the corners and weaving the truck back and across when Daniel tried to pass him on the wrong side. He knows it's us, Daniel told Jock angrily. He knows we've been back to Chiwewe and seen the bloody business there. He knows we suspect him, and he's trying to hold us off Come on, Danny.
That's all in your head, man.
There could be a dozen explanations for why he's behaving like this.
I don't want any part of this crazy business. Too late, my friend, Daniel told him. Like it or not, you're part of it now. Daniel pulled the Landcruiser sharply back in the opposite direction. For once Gomo was slow to react and get across the road to block him. Daniel dropped a gear and thrust the accelerator flat. The Landcruiser jumped forward and got round the truck's tall tail-end. Still holding the accelerator flat to the floorboards, Daniel drew level with the cab, squeezing through the gap between the steel side of the hull and the edge of the road.
Only the nearside wheels of the Landcruiser had purchase on the tarmac surface, the off-side wheels were on the verge of the highway, throwing up a spray of loose gravel, dangerously close to the edge that fell away steeply into the Zambezi valley below them. Danny, you mad bastard, Jock yelled angrily. You'll get us both killed. I've had enough of this bullshit, man. The Landcruiser hit one of the concrete road-markers with its reflective cat's-eye that warned of the dangerous drop. With a crash they snapped off the road sign, and swayed dangerously, but Daniel held grimly to the outside berth and inched up alongside the cab of the lumbering truck.
