Ivory Nation Andy Maslen (best short novels of all time TXT) 📖

you now. If you would like to make your way to the vestry, the vendors are ready for you.’

The buyers not already standing got to their feet and everyone headed for a narrow doorway in the gloom at the far end of the church. Gabriel and Eli hung back, then followed the last of the main crowd.

Once inside the vestry, Eli gasped.

The room, forty feet by sixty, was racked out to beyond head-height with industrial steel shelving. Every ten feet or so, the shelving broke with a gap. In the centre of each section stood a man armed with a clipboard, pen, and walkie-talkie.

But it was the objects piled, stacked and layered on the shelves that had drawn the air from Eli’s lungs.

Gabriel tried to take it all in in a sweeping glance, without looking surprised. Five-foot tusks carved to represent a procession of animals entering Noah’s Ark. Buddhist temples of such intricate tracery it was impossible to imagine the filigree had been achieved by human hand. Intricate geometric ornaments on which octagons tessellated with squares, hexagons interlocked and double helixes like DNA strands curled around each other in a seemingly endless spiral.

Buyers and sellers were clearly used to the process and the noise level rose as orders were placed, pages on clipboards were flipped over, commands were issued into walkie-talkies and haggling broke out.

‘I’m going to have a look around,’ Eli said.

The owner of the Belfast accent spoke from close beside Gabriel’s left side.

‘First time, eh?’

Gabriel turned to see a man a few inches shorter than himself looking up at him. Sandy hair cut short and parted on the right, pale-blue eyes, a couple of days’ beard growth tinting his red cheeks grey.

‘Yeah. Not yours, then?’

‘Me? No, pal. Been coming here for a few years. Best source of untraceable cash on the planet just now. Take a shitload of this gear and, two months later, you can turn it into Semtex, AKs, whatever you might need for your own personal struggle, know what I mean? So, what’s yours?’

Belfast winked. Gabriel favoured him with a grim smile in return.

‘What’s my what?’

‘Struggle.’

‘No struggle. I’m buying for clients.’

‘Clients, eh? Chinese?’

‘Russians.’

‘Plenty of money, those oligarchs.’

‘Enough to keep me in business. Listen, my name’s—’

‘Let me stop you right there,’ Belfast said, holding up a hand. ‘No names, no pack drill, know what I’m saying?’

Gabriel shrugged.

‘Fair enough. I have another line of business. Can we talk somewhere a little quieter?’

Belfast’s pale eyes flicked left and right, then settled back on Gabriel.

‘How about where we came in? Place is quiet now.’

Gabriel followed him back into the main part of the church, not before catching Eli’s eye and signalling for her to follow them.

Belfast wandered all the way out of the church into the car park.

‘What is it you wanted to talk about?’

‘I heard there’s a certain South African political outfit involved upstream in the trade,’ he began. ‘I have some very powerful contacts who want to meet their leader.’

‘Sorry, mate, no idea what you’re talking about. Cigarette?’ he said, holding out a pack of Marlboro.

Gabriel shook his head.

‘They’ll kill you.’

Belfast laughed, a high-pitched chuckle.

‘Aye, well something sure as hell will.’

He lit up, inhaled deeply, then blew it out skywards with a satisfied sigh.

Gabriel had done this dance before. He knew the steps.

‘These contacts of mine are wealthy as well. They would be prepared to compensate anyone who could help with an introduction. But,’ he hesitated, ‘if you’re not the right person, forgive me. I’ll go and talk to one of the others back there.’

‘You think I can be bought, is that it?’

‘I didn’t say that. I can see you’re engaged in a political project of your own. One involving,’ he paused briefly, as if searching for a delicate way of phrasing it, ‘non-conventional means of reaching your goals. Well, so are my contacts. They believe they could learn from the South Africans.’

He watched Belfast running the mental numbers. Calculating odds. Assessing risk and reward. Gabriel was pretty sure he knew which way the dice would land. They were miles from anywhere in a backwoods deconsecrated Catholic church on the Thai-Laotian border. He looked across the water. Anyone without the right password would end up floating downstream with a couple of ounces of lead in their body. Which meant Gabriel was clean. It was a no-brainer.

‘And when you say “a certain South African political outfit”…’ Belfast said.

‘BVR. That’s the—’

‘Boerevryheid an Regte. Yes, I know. In my line of work, it pays to know who else is engaged in a struggle, even if they are a bunch of racists.’

‘You don’t approve, then?’ Gabriel asked, marvelling that Belfast could afford scruples, given his ‘line of work’.

‘We are fighting to right a historic wrong imposed on Ireland by Oliver-fucking-Cromwell and enforced by the British Crown ever since. They are—’

‘Fighting for a homeland where they can live according to their customs without interference by an over-mighty, corrupt majority-governed state they don’t recognise.’

Anger flashed across Belfast’s face, then it was gone. Gabriel felt sick to his stomach. Why was he having to stand here discussing politics with someone he was sure would think nothing of shooting dead his former comrades-in-arms? Not to mention blowing up women and children with car bombs, nail bombs or whatever else he could fashion from his ivory-into-Semtex supply chain.

Belfast took another deep drag on his cigarette.

‘Aye, well, maybe we should leave politics to the politicians, eh? I’m just a lowly foot soldier. Suppose I could point you at the right person. What sort of compensation are we talking about?’

There it was again. The little green light of greed winking at Gabriel, this time from the depths of Belfast’s eyes.

‘I am authorised to offer ten thousand dollars.’ Gabriel patted the inside pocket of his suit jacket. ‘Cash. Here and now. If,’ he paused, ‘the information is solid. Anything less than diamond-hard would lead to some very,’ another pause, ‘unfortunate consequences.’

Belfast glared at him. His colour disappeared, leaving his cheeks pale behind the stubble.

‘Are you threatening me?’ he said