William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

Morgan hadn’t the faintest. He went ‘ah’ and ‘mmm’ a few times and scratched his head, eventually admitting that Fanshawe had got him there.

‘Well,’ Fanshawe said triumphantly. ‘Wait for it…Sam Adekunle,’ he announced. ‘Our very own Sam Adekunle, Professor of Economics and Business Management at the University of Nkongsamba.’ Morgan wondered why this was so significant, but he felt sure that Fanshawe would eventually get round to enlightening him. ‘Marvellous stroke of luck,’ Fanshawe insisted. ‘Here we are stuck miles up country, a quiet little backwater and it turns out we’ve got this political bigwig on our doorstep.’

‘Yes,’ Morgan said slowly, ‘Extraordinary luck.’ He shifted in his seat, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, nodded a few times and repeated the word extraordinary.

‘You see what this means,’ Fanshawe pressed on, leaving his desk and going to stand by the window. He clasped his hands behind his back and raised himself up and down on tiptoe. ‘Our analysis and evaluation is going to be of key importance.’ He whirled round suddenly to face Morgan, who gave a little jump of alarm at the unexpected movement. ‘We’re in the best position to find out what makes the KNP tick, what it thinks, what its ambitions are. What we tell the FO is going to carry a lot of weight. A lot of weight,’ he repeated. ‘Adekunle’s position in the party makes him, from the UK’s point of view, the most interesting man in the KNP. And,’ the glee in his voice was unmistakeable, ‘the man’s right bang on our doorstep!’

Morgan’s brain was sluggish that morning, he just couldn’t concentrate. ‘That’s marvellous news for you, Arthur,’ he said distractedly. ‘What do you propose to do exactly?’

‘Oh no,’ Fanshawe said. ‘Not me.’

Morgan smiled. ‘Sorry?’ he said pleasantly.

‘Not me,’ Fanshawe said. ‘You.’

‘Me?’ Morgan suddenly woke up.

‘Of course. I can’t possibly start investigating or encouraging Kinjanjan political parties, can I?’

Morgan wondered what he meant by encouraging. ‘I suppose not,’ he said, his voice heavy with trepidation. ‘But I don’t exactly see what I can do…I mean, I’ve got a hell of a lot on already and…’

‘Why do you think we’re getting a new member of staff?’ Fanshawe interrupted. ‘To relieve you of the daily routine, give you a free hand, let you really get to work.’ He gazed at Morgan as if entranced. ‘This is what it’s all about, Morgan, real work. Real diplomacy. Not this endless socializing, mindless official business. No, you can really do something positive here, something creative. For your country.’

Morgan had bowed his head from acute painful embarrassment as this tirade had progressed and was screwing the knuckles of each forefinger into his temples. What in hell’s name, he asked himself, was the old goat bleating on about? ‘For your country’, something creative for his country; give him a cocktail party any day. ‘Excuse me, Arthur,’ he said. ‘But what did you mean just then by ‘encouraging’?’

‘Coming to that,’ Fanshawe said. ‘The way I see it, your mission’—there was a tremor in his voice as he said this word—‘is to try to get to know Adekunle personally if possible. Mix with him socially. Try to find out everything you can. Not the usual guff they fill their manifestos with but the — what do they call it? — ‘realpolitik’. You know,’ he seemed to be growing frustrated at Morgan’s lack of enthusiasm, ‘realities, hard facts that we can pass on. I want you to write everything up in a report, anything you can get on Adekunle and the KNP. I’ll take it from there, liaise with the Commissioner in the capital, get the gist back to Whitehall.’

Oh yes? thought Morgan, I don’t like the sound of that. Fanshawe seemed to sense this and hastily countered. ‘Of course, I can tell you confidentially, Morgan, that a really top class piece of work here could, well, do us — our, ah, careers — no harm. Let’s face it, I think we both agree Nkongsamba’s not a major posting, not exactly the summit of our ambitions…I think I’m not going too far to say that both of us wouldn’t object to moving on somewhere a little more exalted. When there’s Washington, Paris, Tokyo, Caracas out there, Nkong-samba doesn’t…well, you know what I mean.’ He fiddled with the knot of his tie, touched the neat bristles of his moustache and frowned. Morgan was perplexed: he had never heard Fanshawe speak so openly and intimately before. ‘We’ve known each other for a good while now,’ he continued, ‘and I don’t think I’d be giving any family secrets away if I told you that Chloe and I had always hoped that the final years of my diplomatic service would end, well, somewhere…not Nkongsamba. The same goes for you I’m sure. You’re a young man with…with ability — you have to be looking ahead.’

The subdued flattery fell soothingly on Morgan’s ears, and for an instant he felt sorry for Fanshawe, an ageing failure with his dreams unfulfilled, but he still realized he’d be doing most of the work.

‘What exactly do you want me to do?’ he asked hesitantly, keen to move the subject away from these awkward and uncomfortable personal revelations.

‘Try to meet Adekunle for a start. He’s an urbane sort of chap, modern tastes, English wife, children at prep school in the UK, that sort of thing. Shouldn’t be a great effort for you to get into his particular social circle in the university. You know a few people there, don’t you? Shouldn’t be impossible. Then gently let him know that we’re on his side.’

‘I’m not sure,’ Morgan said. ‘I do know who Adekunle is but I don’t see him around much socially at all. Seems to keep to his own kind as it were.’ To his surprise he found his interest quickening as he considered the possibilities. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, enthusiasm creeping into his voice. ‘The next big jamboree we have here, let’s invite all the local political people. That way I might gain some sort of entree.’

‘First class idea,’ Fanshawe congratulated, obviously thrilled. ‘We’ll think up some excuse for a do. Duke of York’s birthday or something.’ He chuckled at his own waggishness. ‘Yes. You’ll keep me in touch? Every move?’

‘Naturally,’ Morgan said.

‘Good,’, Fanshawe said. ‘Excellent. We can work this one out together, Morgan. Soon have something solid to show them.’

Morgan suddenly had an idea. ‘What’s this Royal visit you mentioned? Is it coming up soon? We could use that as an excuse.’

‘No,’ Fanshawe looked crestfallen. ‘She’s coming out at Xmas. Not really a Royal either: someone called the Duchess of Ripon, third cousin twice removed to the Queen or something equally distant. She’s representing Her Majesty at the Independence celebrations. Tenth anniversary on New Year’s Eve you know. She’s doing a whistle-stop tour of the country — should be with us for a couple of days — finishing up in the capital for the big celebrations.’

‘And the elections,’ Morgan added.

‘Yes,’ Fanshawe mused. Tell you what, I’ll get Chloe to organize some party or other. She enjoys these functions. Priscilla can give her a hand.’ Fanshawe stroked his little moustache thoughtfully. ‘Speaking of which,’ he said, ‘I wonder if I could ask a little favour of you.’

Tire away,’ Morgan, said amicably; he wasn’t averse to doing any favours connected however remotely to Priscilla Fanshawe.

‘Chloe would murder me if she knew I was telling you this,’ he said sadly. ‘But it’s better if you’re fully in the picture.’ He paused. ‘Priscilla’s had a bit of a sticky time lately, you see.

She was engaged to a young chap in the Army — Marines — known him for ages, met him while we were in KL. Well, this summer he suddenly ups and offs back to Malaya, calls off the engagement, resigns his commission and marries a Chinese girl. Living out there now, working for her father.’ Fanshawe’s features registered tragic disbelief. ‘Can’t understand it. Such an appalling waste. Well brought-up young chap too, good family and all that. Quite inexplicable.’