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The Sunbird

Born In Zambia and educated at Michaelhouse and Rhodes University, Wilbur Smith has lived all his life in Africa and his commitment to that continent is deep.

A full-time writer since 1964, he also finds time to travel out of Africa and enjoy his other interests - such as numismatics, wildlife photography and big game fishing. He and his wife make an annual safari into the dwindling wildernesses of Central Africa, and at other seasons he fishes by boat in the Indian Ocean for tuna and other game fish.

Wilbur Smith lives with his wife in Cape Town on the slopes of Table Mountain.

Also by

Wilbur Smith in Pan Books

When the Lion Feeds

The Dark of the Sun (The Mercenaries)

The Sound of Thunder

Shout at the Devil

Gold Mine (Gold)

The Diamond Hunters

Eagle in the Sky

Cry Wolf

A Sparrow Falls

Hungry as the Sea

First published 1972 by William Heinemann Ltd

This edition published 1974 by Pan Books Ltd,

Cavaye Place, London SW10 9PG, in association with

William Heinemann Ltd

13th printing

© Wilbur A. Smith

Printed in Great Britain by

Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Wilbur Smith

The Sunbird

Pan Books in association with William Heinemann

For my wife, Danielle

Part I

It cut across the darkened projection room and exploded silently against the screen - and I did not recognize it. I had waited fifteen years for it, and when it came I did not recognize it. The image was swirled and vague, and it made no sense to me for I had expected a photograph of some small object; a skull perhaps, or pottery, or an artefact, a piece of gold work, beads - certainly not this surrealistic pattern of grey and white and black.

Louren’s voice, tight with excitement, gave me the clue I needed. ‘Taken at thirty-six thou at six forty-seven on the fourth of Sept,’ that was eight days ago, ‘exposed in a 35 mm Leica.’

An aerial photograph then. My eyes and brain adjusted, and almost instantly I felt the first tickle of my own excitement begin as Louren went on in the same crisp tone.

‘I’ve got a charter company running an aerial survey over all my concession areas. The idea is to pick the strike and run of geographical formations. This photograph is only one of a couple of hundred thousand of the area - the navigator did not even know what he was photographing. However, the people in analysis spotted it, and passed it on to me.’

His face turned towards me, pale and solemn in the glare of the projector.

‘You can see it, can’t you, Ben? Just off centre. Top right quarter.’

I opened my mouth to reply, but my voice caught in my throat and I had to turn the sound I made into a cough. With surprise I found I was trembling, and my guts seethed with an amalgam of hope and dread.

‘It’s classic! Acropolis, double enclosure and the “phallic towers”.’ He was exaggerating, they were faint outlines, indistinct and in places disappearing, but the general shape and configuration was right.

‘North, I blurted. ’Where is north?‘

‘Top of picture - she’s right. Ben. Facing north. Could the towers be sun-orientated?’

I did not speak again. The reaction was coming swiftly now. Nothing in my life had been this easy, therefore this was suspect and I searched for the flaws.

‘Stratification,’ I said. ‘Probably limestone in contact with the country granite. Throwing surface patterns.’

‘Oh bull!’ Louren cut in, the excitement still bubbling in his voice. He jumped up and strode to the screen, picked up an ebony pointer from the lectern and used it to spot the cell-like stippling around the outline of what he was pleased to presume was the main enclosure. ‘You tell me where you’ve ever seen geological patterns like that.’

I didn’t want to accept it. I didn’t want to make myself vulnerable again with hope.

‘Perhaps,’ I said.

‘Damn you.’ He laughed now, and the sound was good for he did not often laugh these days. ‘I should have known you’d fight it. You are without doubt the most miserable bloody pessimist in Africa.’

‘It could be anything, Lo,’ I protested. ‘A trick of light, of shape and shade. Even conceding that it is man-made - it could be recent gardens or agriculture—’

‘A hundred miles from the nearest surface water? Forget it, Ben! You know as well as I do that this is the—’

‘Don’t say it,’ I almost shouted, and was out of the padded leather chair, across the projection room and had hold of his arm before I realized I had moved.

‘Don’t say it,’ I repeated. ‘It’s - it’s bad luck.’ I always stutter when I am excited, but it is the least of my physical disabilities and I have long ago ceased worrying about it.

Louren laughed again, but with the trace of uneasiness he shows whenever I move quickly or unleash the strength of my arms. He stooped over me now, and eased my fingers that were sunk into the flesh of his forearm.

‘Sorry - did I hurt you?’ I released the grip.

‘No. But he massaged his arm as he moved to the control panel and doused the projector, then turned the wall switch and we stood blinking at each other in the light.

‘My little Yiddish leprechaun,’ he smiled. ‘You cannot fool me. You are wetting yourself.’

I looked up at him, ashamed of my outburst now, but still excited.

‘Where is it, Lo? Where did you find it?’

‘I want you to admit it first. I want you to go out on a limb for once in your life. I want you to say it - before I’ll tell you another thing,’ he teased.

‘All right.’ I looked away and picked my words. ‘It looks, at first glance, quite interesting.’

And he threw back that great golden head and bellowed with bull laughter.

‘You’re going to have to do a lot better than that. Let’s try again.’

His laughter I cannot resist, and my own followed immediately. I was aware of its birdlike quality against his.

‘It looks to me,’ I wheezed, ‘as though you may have found it.’

‘You beauty!’ he shouted. ‘You little beauty.’

It was years since I had seen him like this. The solemn banker’s mask stripped away, the cares of the Sturvesant financial empire forgotten in this moment of promise and achievement.

‘Now tell me,’ I pleaded. ‘Where did you find it?’

‘Come,’ he said, serious again, and we went to the long table against the wall. There was a chart spread and pinned on the green baize. It was a high table, and I scrambled quickly on to a chair and leaned across it. Now I was almost on equal terms with Louren who stood beside me. We pored over the chart.

‘Aeronautical Series A. Southern Africa. Chart 5. Botswana and Western Rhodesia.’

I searched it quickly, looking for some indication - a cross, or pencil mark perhaps.

‘Where?’ I said. ‘Where?’

‘You know that I’ve got twenty-five thousand square miles of mineral concession down here south of Maun—’

‘Come on, Lo. Don’t try and sell me shares in Sturvesant Minerals. Where the hell is it?’

‘We’ve put a landing-strip in here that will take the Lear jet. Just finished