Ashfield_TheReignFails

THE REIGN FAILS

Ethiopia 1973, the mystical mountain kingdom.

No rain for over twelve months, drought and starving peasant farmers. An Emperor surrounded by a sycophantic government afraid to tell him the truth. Interfering foreigners who blow the whistle.

A story of the politics of aid, its consequences for a nation, and the seeds of revolution.

The Reign Fails A novel by

Keith Ashfield

Keith Ashfield

The Reign Fails A novel by

Keith Ashfield

This presentation edition printed in a run of 100 numbered copies.

This copy is number

The Reign Fails A novel by

Keith Ashfield

Author’s numbered edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright ©2024 by Keith Ashfield All rights reserved

Cover and text designed by Bruce Hanson, EGADS Printed 2024 by the author Presentation edition for private circulation only.

For Bendy

CONTENTS Overture

Camp in Weldiya,Wollo Province, Ethiopian Highlands, 8,000 ft Altitude, August 1973

1

Chapter 1

Addis Ababa, September 1973

13

Chapter 2

British Embassy, Addis Ababa, September 1973

35

Chapter 3

Buna Beit, Addis Ababa

60

Chapter 4

Imperial Palace, Addis Ababa

84

Chapter 5

British Embassy, Addis Ababa

88

Chapter 6

British Embassy, Addis Ababa, October 26, 1973

101

Chapter 7

Buna Beit, Addis Ababa, October 27, 1973

112

Chapter 8

Bole Airport, Addis Ababa, October 29, 1973

119

Chapter 9

Armenian General Store, Addis Ababa

125

Intermezzo

Camp in Weldiya,Wollo Province, Ethiopian Highlands, last week of October, 1973

132

Chapter 10

Beirut, November 1, 1973

135

Chapter 11

Embassy of the USSR, Addis Ababa, November 12, 1973

146

Imperial Palace, Addis Ababa, November 12, 1973

154

Armenian General Store, Addis Ababa, November 15, 1973

167

Chapter 14

Bole Airport, November 20, 1973

180

Chapter 15

Addis Ababa and Wollo Province December 18, 1973

188

Weldiya,Wollo Province, Ethiopian Highlands

193

Chapter 12 Chapter 13

Finale

Coda

196

Author’s note

202

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WO R L D L O C AT I O N M A P 1 9 7 3

London

Moscow

U S S R

Bern

N O RT H AT L A N T I C OCEAN

Sicily

MEDITERRANEAN SEA

Beirut

Suez Canal EGYPT

Sahara

Deser t

SAUDI ARABIA RED SEA

SUDAN Addis Ababa

SOMALIA

NIGERIA K E N YA

ETHIOPIA

SOUTH AT L A N T I C OCEAN INDIAN OCEAN

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Overture E T H I O P I A N H I G H L A N D S , C A M P W E S T O F W E L DYA W O L L O P R O V I N C E , 8 , 0 0 0 F T A LT I T U D E AUGUST 1973

DAWN AND A ZEPHYR of air sighed over the black earth.

He turned onto his back slowly so that the warm air trapped between him and his gabi would not escape. It never worked. Cold mountain air surged round his body. His sleep broken he slowly unfolded from his foetal position, stood up and stretched his cramped limbs. He shook the gabi and wrapping it around his shoulders shuffled toward his sleeping wife.

The sun easing over the ridge of the horizon sent dawn light slanting across the plain at Felaka’s back. It added to the chill rather than bring warmth. When it climbed higher in the sky it would give a hard, violet heat, not the soft moist warmth that it gave to the lowlands. He was aware of it rising but didn’t turn to greet it. He bent over his wife.

He looked at her creased face in the early blue light and thoughts drifted through his mind like shadows that left no mark on his proud features. The harshness of the world in

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which he lived had turned his face into a wrinkled mask. Like leather. His body had known exhaustion and his mind had known grief and the mask was too old and too set to crack now. Except once. A week ago when he had wept at the death of his second son. He had loved him as a first son after the first, Gerima, had left the land to go to school in Addis Ababa. That was thirty years ago and they had no news of him for the last twenty. And now this best loved second son had died and the old man had cried. But never before. At the deaths of three others of his grown children, and seventeen of his children’s children the mask had remained set – grave, dignified. Felaka gently placed his hand on the shoulder of his wife, Almaz. “Thirty years,” he thought, “and for fourteen of those God cherished us. We had rains twice a year – not too much and not too little. With hard work and a good family to help, a man could get two crops of t’eff harvested a year. That was enough to pay the landlord and to feed the family. But that hard work needed a full belly, and a full belly is only got with hard work. Perhaps there is no road back to the old ways now. We have not had two good rains for six years. Perhaps God has forgotten us.”

Felaka and his family had only eaten one meal a day for the last year, and that meal had become smaller and smaller as they had tried to stretch the dwindling supply of grain further and further. One day more, one day more. It had finally run out a week ago and now they lived on what they could beg from their new neighbours. His skin hung in grey folds under his arms and buttocks like drapes of cloth belonging to some ghastly garment. Almaz stirred and Felaka squeezed her shoulder.

“Yes, when there were rains,” his mind wandered on, “yes, when there were rains. Then the land on the slope was

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covered in stiff grass and we had cattle and people thought us rich. We always had children to look after them too.” But not now. The last of the cattle had died months ago. And now his great grandchildren were dying one by one. Almaz stirred again, then started out of her sleep. She lay still and looked up at Felaka, unseeing against the sky as he looked down at her.

“It is good to sleep, one forgets the hunger,’ he said.

“Ayah, but it soon comes back with greater pain.” She murmured.

Slowly she raised herself up to a sitting position, drew her knees up to her chin and clasped her arms around them.

She shivered and reached behind her back with one hand.

She grasped the edge of her gabi and with three twists of her wrist, swirled it about herself. She rocked back and forth on her heels. Somehow it seemed to ease the pain in her stomach and to squeeze a little numbness from her cold legs and arms.

“How is your strength now?” he asked. Yesterday he had wondered if Almaz would be able to make the walk to get here. She had stumbled on after noon neither seeing nor hearing, blindly following the slow moving file of people.

“I am cold and the hunger pain is bad. Can you find some food from our neighbours?”

“I will try, but there are so many other hungry people here. They would not have come if they had food. If there was grain here it is likely gone now, they have been here a while. What may have been a little grain for a few people will be almost nothing among so many.”

Almaz still rocked slowly to and fro. “If I do not eat today

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I will not live another night. I am weak and frozen. I am worn out with sadness.”

“I will see what I can find.” He turned toward the sun with despair.

For the first time he could see just how many other people had come to this place. More people than he had ever seen. They spread in front of him, between him and the orange disc of sun. They were beginning to wake, each making the same movements. Slowly unfolding to stand, stretching their backs, then shaking their gabis and with a twist send them snaking around their shoulders – with a final shake to adjust the folds to their bodies. As he gazed at them silhouetted against the sun, they looked like a flock of huge birds settling their wings after landing.

He slipped back into his thoughts. There must be more than six hundred here already. For there to be so many some must have travelled great journeys, and there will be more yet. They have all come for the same reason as us. That is bad, it means there is no food between their villages and here. He felt his burden as head of the family dragging down on his bony shoulders, as though his threadbare gabi, woven

by Almaz years ago, had his entire family strung around the hem. His despair deepened.

“They have all left their land, their homes, their possessions because they have heard that there is food here.Yet there cannot be much. How foolish that what must have been little enough for the fifty or so people of this village should attract so many already.”

He thought of the few sacks of grain that they had somehow spun out for the last year.

“This village of fifty may have held out for a while lon-

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ger by itself, but with the hundreds here they are sure to starve quickly – together.” He flinched. “And yet we have come here, just as the others, to add to the distress of these villagers.”

He thought of Almaz and how weak she was, he guessed that there must be many others in her condition and he wondered how many of them would die during the cold nights, before the diseases and illnesses of starvation killed them.

The night cold would not be so bad if they could sleep inside.

But how could they? In normal times the tukuls in this village would be packed tightly with people so that their shared body warmth would keep them from the cold nights. But there would be no room to shelter this huge army of refugees.

No, they would have to sleep in the open. They would have to forget their fear of the marauding hyenas who had been driven to desperate hunting and killing by their own empty bellies. Their food supply had become scarce as the smaller animals died out at the beginning of the famine.

And then Felaka remembered the fever; he had often heard that it came at times like this, with famine and drought.

Not that he had ever seen it. Very few people were alive who had. What Felaka did not know was that their very crowding together, with some people already suffering enteric illness and with no sanitation or water, was already breeding deadly germs. But he had heard of the agony of the stomach cramps, of the desperate weakness caused by the diarrhoea and vomiting and he had heard of the way that people died within six hours of becoming sick. He thought of those things now, and he remembered Almaz’s pains. Pray God she had not got the fever. But no, she had been complaining of the pains for four days now, and hadn’t he had the same pains himself? They would be dead by now if it was the fever. It must just be hunger.

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Felaka and Almaz had lain down the previous night at the edge of the gathered refugees, between them and a low ridge of earth that ran from north to south. Felaka climbed onto the ridge now and looked out over the starving people.

The sun had turned from orange to yellow and was climbing higher. He felt its heat begin to prick his face. He fell into thought again and remembered the times when he had been filled with joy by that same touch from the sun, but that was always after good rain when they were in the field tending the young growth, or later when they were harvesting. He wondered how many years that same cycle of sow, tend, reap had gone on without a break. Certainly for his lifetime, until a year ago, if one discounted the years when the second rains had failed. That sometimes happened. It was the will of God. Things were difficult then, but with economy and prudence they could survive, and the big rains would always follow and the second, small rains, would return the next year. Until six years ago. Since then there had been no small rains and less and less of the big rains in each following year. For a whole year now there had been no rain at all.

His forefathers had farmed the same small piece of land for as long as his history remembered. In all the stories and songs that he knew it was always one of his father’s fathers who were named as the tenants. The land had been good to them. It had provided food for each generation of strong children in return for the hard work and care with which they tended it so that they, in turn, might raise the next generation of caretakers. The land had watched over the family for a hundred years, maybe more, giving life to generation after generation of the same family. But perhaps that long train was being broken. Perhaps there would now be a whole generation missing. There surely would be unless a miracle occurred. Without food they were all certain to die, and

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there was no food. Perhaps the family would never recover.

It would have to rely for survival on those of its children who had married into other families, but there was little hope of their being in any better situation than those he brooded over from the ridge. There was Gerima in Addis Ababa, if he was still there, and if he wasn’t dead, but who was there to tell him of their situation, and what, in any case, would he care who had run away from his responsibilities all those years ago?

They had left their land five days ago and arrived here last night. The journey was not a great distance, but it had been very hard for them, weakened by hunger. They had crossed two ridges and two deep gorges and their path had never been level. All the time they had been either dragging themselves up or desperately digging their heels into the loose rock to prevent themselves from plunging down. They knew the journey would be hard from the few times they had journeyed that way to get to the big road, and because they remembered the track and felt their own weakness they had set out empty handed. They took nothing except the now tattered clothes that they wore. Clothes that had once been kept for wearing at festivals. Their few other possessions were locked in wooden crates in the huts on their land. There was no risk in that because there was no-one left to steal anything and, besides, they had all felt, when they left, that to be forced away from that small piece of land was a final act, that they would never see it again. It seemed right to abandon all of their small wealth in that one place.

For the seven days before they finally abandoned the land they had eaten almost nothing. They had been eking out the last baking of grey injera made from the crumbs and husks left in the bottom of the t’eff sack. Every day they had taken smaller pieces each until, for the final three days, the tiny

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squares had been bone hard and they had kept them in their mouths and sucked at them for as long as they could before the bread finally softened and dissolved and they had to swallow. Some of the young parents had eaten nothing, saving their tiny ration to feed their children when everything was gone. And then the husband of one of Felaka’s granddaughters had heard that there was some grain here, in the east, on the path that ran eventually to Weldiya. He had heard the news from a family travelling through Felaka’s land who were on the way here for that reason. Felaka and the village had clutched at the report. It seemed their only hope of avoiding death.

There had been a family council to discuss leaving their land. Even in the presence of hunger and death the ancient customs were to be followed. The talk had flowed to and fro, rolling in waves across the patch of ground that was to them courthouse, council chamber and village hall. An outsider, an observer, could not have believed that this family were debating their own chances of living or dying – not in five, ten, twenty years’ time, but next week – or the week after. They were completely impassive.

Some had argued that the rains might still come and, if they did, and none of them were there, another sowing season would be lost. But others pointed out the truth; that they had no grain for sowing, they had eaten the grain put aside for seed. So rain or not, it wouldn’t help them now. A few of the younger men had argued that if they left the land untended, some of the landless people who roamed the mountains might settle on the land and take it for their own. Others asked how that could be when the travellers they had spoken with said that everyone was leaving because there was no food and they themselves could grow no more on their own land. “If we who know the land cannot grow anything

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here, how can any outsiders?” The other fact, which was in all their minds but which no one openly voiced, was that none of them could stay on the land to wait for rain, or to guard against squatters, without food. And they had no food. And then someone asked what if the word of grain on the patch of land to the east was not true? What then? There was no answer. They had to believe, it was the only hope they had.

The debate had meandered on and Felaka had looked around his land from where he squatted and made his decision on how to vote. The soil on the land was baked and cracked and broken down to a fine black powder that the wind blew away in drifts to build up elsewhere as ridges.

There was nothing left alive either in it, or on it. The corner that was the seed store in Felaka’s hut was swept clean, there was not one grain of t’eff left anywhere. The store had been getting smaller for the last six years. There hadn’t been enough grain left from each successive harvest to replace what they had been forced to take from the seed store as food to supplement a poor crop from the previous harvest. They had gone on saying that surely this harvest must be the last bad one, but the one the following year had been just as bad.

Until this year. There had been no harvest. Field and store were empty. Everything was black, barren, bare. The council voted and decided that they must leave – immediately.

That was at sunset six days ago. The following morning they had left at first light, travelling in single file because of the narrowness of the track they had to follow. Everyone who was able had to walk, even the small children and those most feeble with hunger. The surviving babies were nestled on their mother’s backs, bound on by strips of cloth. They had to stop often and progress was painfully slow. And got slower as the days went by without food and those who started the journey weakest floated into the twilight of exhaustion. But

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they had kept going on until they had arrived here last night, the feeblest ones shuffling forward with glazed unseeing eyes and a measured mechanical movement of body and legs that took no account of the irregularities of the path. Three of them had collapsed at the edge of the refugee encampment and were still lying there under their gabis.

Felaka stood on the ridge looking over the starving heads and wondered how long they could live. He thought of the families who farmed the surrounding land and whose village this was. They certainly wouldn’t have wanted to share any food they had. After all, their store of food would disappear within the hour if it was distributed among so many. They, who had some supplies, would be reduced to the same state as the refugees and could expect to die with them – soon.

Felaka wondered if the farmers of the village had tried to hide some grain to keep it back for their own families, but he decided that the refugees would have expected that and would be keeping a careful watch on the tenant families of the village. They would know that they were being watched with suspicion and they would be frightened by this mass of condemned people. No, they would be forced to share their grain.

Felaka’s fear deepened. His mind made jumpy from hunger and exhaustion. He fought to control a train of thought.

What could he do to help his own people, those who relied on his judgement and leadership? For whatever they said, or proposed in council, they would ultimately turn to him in their distress. He was alone, and there was no-one he could turn to, no-one he knew who could exercise any influence on this situation, no-one who could stop death. The only authority he knew that was greater than his own belonged to the landlord’s agent who came twice a year to collect the landlord’s tithe. Felaka had no idea how to find him, he just arrived twice a year with his servant and baggage, stayed for

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one night and went on his way. Felaka wrestled with the idea of trying to find him, but he remembered the last time they had met and knew that the agent would not help. He had gone away in a rage without even resting for a night as was his usual custom.

He had called to collect the tithe that was due on last year’s harvest. Because there had been no crop, there was nothing on which the agent could claim his seventy percent.

He had got into a frenzy, stamping his feet and shouting at the men. He raged that they were useless farmers not to have managed to grow something and that if his master, the landlord, had taken his advice in the past, they would have been turned off the land years ago. In any case, he had raged, this was the last straw and they could expect to be driven off the land just as soon as his master learned of their incompetence.

There were many people, he said, who would be able to get a crop from such good land with or without rain. Felaka and his sons had said nothing, politeness and custom forbade them to argue or contradict someone as important as the agent. But they did nothing either. They knew the agent was wrong and that without water no-one could farm the land.

They thought the agent a fool. “No” thought Felaka, “even if we knew where he was, we couldn’t ask him for help.”

Felaka’s stomach gnawed at him and he remembered Almaz. He realised that despite their journey, life would not be improved here, except that perhaps he could beg something to eat from any family fortunate enough to have anything left, anything at all. His spirit recoiled at the thought. Felaka the farmer, the head of a large family, he who had always provided, now had to go begging. But his stomach provided the stronger argument, it reminded him that Almaz also had the pains. He drew his skinny body upright and walked down the slope of the ridge and into the mass of people. As he picked

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his way he saw that the people who were standing were all searching with their eyes as he was, scanning. Suddenly, several voices shrieked among a knot of people fifty feet in front of him and he was fleetingly aware of others rushing towards the spot. Without knowing what he was doing, he was scrambling with them. There was already a writhing pile of bodies on the ground and he was flung into the scrabble. He caught whirling glimpses of people tearing and clawing for something in the turmoil. A woman was flung past him with blood gushing from one eye. As she hit the earth and staggered for balance she clutched at the bloody mass above her cheek and something dropped from her hand. From where he crouched beneath her Felaka saw it fall and caught it before it hit the ground. He quickly pulled his hand under his gabi and crawled away to lie still.

Within another five minutes it was quiet except for the woman who sat gasping and sobbing, with her hands covering her face as blood trickled down her forearm. Felaka got up and walked slowly back to Almaz. He sat down beside her and as he pretended to rearrange his gabi he whispered, “I have a piece of bread.”

Felaka and Almaz had crawled over the ridge separately and now sat chewing and sucking at the bread they had divided between them. They each had a piece about three inches square.

In the thin morning air the sun climbed steadily up the bleached sky and looked down pitilessly on those it was destroying. There was no hope.

Chapter 1 ADDIS ABABA, ETHIOPIA SEPTEMBER, 1973

HIS EXCELLENCY SEIFU ASRAT, the Imperial Ethiopian Government’s Minister of Agriculture, snuggled into the upturned collar of his topcoat and pulled his scarf high around the back of his head. The night air struck chill against his glowing cheeks and it heightened his feeling of warm wellbeing wrapped inside his exquisitely cut vicuna and Italian wool. He glanced at the tall figure by his side as they moved out from the doorway, the tall figure with the long easy stride against his stiff gait with a jerk in the step. As soon as they stepped out the cloaked gatekeeper fell in behind them and the clamouring, child beggars fell silent and crouched mutely at the edge of the path with the upturned palms of their hands outstretched.

The pair swiftly crossed the forty yards to the dark silhouette of a Mercedes limousine without looking to either left or right and as the tall figure unlocked the driver side door the Minister walked around to the passenger side. The engine purred to life seconds later. The driver side window rolled down and the waiting gateman bowed low over his cupped 13

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hands as fifty cents dropped into them. “Good night Excellency, good night balabar,” as he spoke the limousine moved forward and the window slid up, tight into its frame. Seifu sank deep into the seat and let the heated humming luxury swirl about him.

His brother-in-law drove with one hand resting lightly on the steering wheel as he lit a cigarette from the dashboard lighter. He exhaled and blew the smoke in a thin precise stream at the speedometer. “I wonder if we should try the sauna baths for a change one day? These hot springs are, well, rather old fashioned aren’t they?”

The Minister pushed the scarf back from his head and stretched his neck out of his coat collar like a turtle testing the temperature. He wriggled more upright in his seat. “I wouldn’t worry too much. They say the Emperor himself goes there sometimes. While the Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah deigns to wash off his fleas in those waters, no doubt the rest of Ethiopia will consider them a very proper thing.”

“I didn’t mean that. It’s just that the place is so old. All those green tiles and dampness.You never really feel dry until you get into the car. The sauna is new and properly laid out.

Not damp everywhere. It has got air conditioning and when you finish with the hot room and the massage, there are cooler rooms to wind down in until you feel like changing. The whole thing is more civilized, more European.”

“That’s what you really mean – European.You would like all Ethiopia, or all of your bit of it, to be like Europe. You make a big mistake. You’ve been to school in Europe, you’ve been to university in Europe, and now you spend a great part of your time in Europe. But you forget. You forget where the money to pay for it all comes from. It comes from Ethiopia,

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from the land of Ethiopia. I wouldn’t push too hard for European ways to be taken up if I were you. It might just get out of hand. If everyone starts pressing for more European ways, you might find they start agitating for land reform, for socialism. And then what? Then your land gets taken by a government and given to the peasants who farm it. Then all you will be able to do is think about Europe, because you won’t even be able to afford a ticket to get there, let alone live there.”

Seifu settled back into the leather seat of the Mercedes.

Seifu’s brother-in-law, Taye was a mulatto, a half caste – there really was no polite word to describe the children of the Italians left behind in 1939 who had married Ethiopian women and integrated into Addis society – married to Seifu’s sister.

Seifu often envied his wife’s and brother-in-law’s close and easy relationship with their family in Sicily.They all four visited Sicily often, it was almost a second home to them.

Taye guided the car along the dark streets unmoved, smoking as precisely as he drove. “Perhaps things are already moving towards that end.”

“No. It’s only a theory.” Seifu swept his hand through the air to dismiss the notion.

“Maybe, but the news from the country isn’t good. I was going to ask you about it, anyway. I thought you might have heard something.”

“No, nothing. What’s happened?” Seifu asked the question out of politeness, not interest. Anything which was likely to affect him would turn up in his office – he was Minister of Agriculture after all. His information network was good; he didn’t need to go looking for problems – they came to him.

“My agent got back today from a tour of my land in the north and he says there is a famine. He says that the story

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is that the small rains failed completely and there has been no second crop. That following the paltry big rains last year.

Well, no rains really. He hasn’t collected one single grain in rent.”

“That may be his story, but the truth is more likely that he’s been getting into debt and had to pay your rent for his freedom.” Seifu was looking out of the window into the darkness as he spoke.

“He’s not stupid. If he was stealing he’d have at least something for me, he wouldn’t take it all. You expect them to steal a bit, but I’ve never heard of an agent brazen enough to do that. No, I believe him. He’s been with the family for years and he’s never let us down. He has certainly been told that there was no crop, and his own eyes would tell him if there had been rain or not.” Taye turned the Mercedes into the wide boulevard that passed the Imperial Palace. And Seifu suddenly realized where they were. “Are we going to the Hilton?” he asked.

“We always do.”

“If you want to continue this conversation, I suggest we drive out to the airport and back. I shouldn’t care for anyone to overhear this kind of talk.”

Taye let the Mercedes roll down the hill past the entrance to the Hilton and swung around the circle onto the airport road. The Minister sank down into the seat again and stared at the roof lining. A display of disinterest. “I say the agent has stolen your rent. His past record suggests it. We’ve heard that the small rains have failed for the last five or six years, but he’s always collected the rents, hasn’t he? In fact, you’ve always said that he is very efficient. It is remarkable that he suddenly can’t get people to pay up.”

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“I said that to him. He says that they have been paying the tithes with the seed grain, or pooling resources with neighbours. But every time there has been a harvest after the big rains they have had to repay both neighbours and their seed store. That made a shortage in the new harvest so they’ve had to borrow again to make payment when the small rains failed. And so on for the last years. The effect has built up, accumulated, as the seed stores have dwindled. Until this year when there are no stores to raid for payment. None of them have any grain left.”

Minister Seifu closed his eyes and spoke sneeringly from the darkness. “Well, I hope you have told my sister this news.

She will be most surprised to learn that land gifted by the Emperor can fail to produce a crop. I’m sure she thinks he really is God. You could suggest that she starts thinking of a few economies.” Seifu was beginning to enjoy himself. “It would stop her pitying me for a while. She might even start wondering whether or not it’s such a bad thing for me to have to work to live. To earn an income. At least it doesn’t depend on the weather – it depends on the humour of the little man, but I know the game and I can make some of the moves myself.” Referring to the Emperor as the “little man” would be enough to see Seifu jailed or worse. But no one except Taye was there to hear. He fell silent. His face had hardened, become sharper as he spoke of his sister and now his compressed lips turned slightly upward at the corners, almost smiled. His eyes remained tightly closed.

Taye remained silent. He felt there was more to come from Seifu. He wondered how to get Seifu back to his, Taye’s, own problem. But now that Seifu had worked his sister into the conversation he would adopt his most childish, scornful, manner. It was often the same. Almost unconsciously he twisted the conversation just to weave her into it and then

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became absurd as he honed his envy against the thought of her. Taye inwardly writhed with impatience as Seifu went on in a fast taut voice. “A little financial setback really won’t do her any harm. She can try to remember what life was like without money. She had plenty of practice living on next to nothing before she married you. If her memory is good enough, she could be invaluable to you now.” Seifu snorted, “It might even make her a better person, you never know.”

Taye ignored the insult to his wife. He looked across at Seifu whose eyes were still closed. He tried again. “I really do think there’s a famine and I think it’s a bad one. The agent would have nothing to gain by lying about it – he thinks it is the beginning of a great famine. Perhaps greater than any that can be remembered.” Taye glanced at Seifu again. He hadn’t moved. He went on quickly, before Seifu could interrupt. “If it is a big one it could affect us all, not just the land owners and the farmers. And what about the farmers?

No one here in Addis ever thinks of them. None of us. You accuse me of forgetting where my good fortune comes from because I’m often away, but people here in Addis, people who never leave Ethiopia, forget the peasants in the country just as easily as me.”

Seifu was sitting up now, his face and his voice relaxed, the crisis of his bitterness passed. “Bah. Nonsense. Why should anyone worry too much about them? They have their lives, and they live them out. Even if there is a famine there is nothing we can do, and if we all start worrying on their behalf, we’ll just add to the casualty list. The big rains can’t fail completely. They must be here in a couple of months or so and that will be the end of your famine. There have been grain shortages before, and no doubt there will be again, but the farmers carry on.

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The dim night lights of the Bole airport buildings flickered into view as the Mercedes swung around the curve that took the road past a low spur of land and into the huge bowl where the airport stood. Taye let the car slow to roll round the roundabout at the airport intersection and then gently accelerated along the city-bound carriageway of the road they had just travelled.

Taye was thoughtful as he abstractedly lit another cigarette. He shifted in his seat and flexed his arms against the steering wheel. He realized that the minister was finished with the conversation and decided to close it down. He spoke calmly. “Well, I dare say you’re right. The agent frightened me a bit. I don’t know why I got so worked up about it, after all, the rents from these farmers will hardly make any difference to me if I never collect them again. It must have been the agent’s imagination that got hold of me. He was talking about famine leading to trouble for the government, peasants gathering and rising together and god knows what. Silly really.”

Seifu shot a glance at his brother-in-law, and his brow furrowed for a second before he controlled it. In the same relaxed, thoughtful tone he asked, “where did he get those ideas from?”

“From the peasants he saw travelling, I suppose.”

Seifu, now interested and alert, kept it out of his voice.

“Farmers on the move? Where were they going? Maybe to beg some food from their neighbours I suppose, if some of them are really short.”

Taye wasn’t deceived, and wondered at Seifu’s sudden interest. What an extraordinary man he was. You never knew what turn his mind would take next. Taye had thought they

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were done with the subject and now Seifu was beginning to pose questions as though he had just lighted on a new interesting topic. He sighed. Talking with Seifu was like this. Even when Taye started a conversation, Seifu would get hold of it and turn it into his own. It was frustrating.

“No,” Taye said heavily, “they were travelling. That’s what impressed the agent so much. They had packed up their farms, abandoned their possessions, and were making for an area just to the west of Weldiya. Apparently these people really had run out of food and they had heard that the farmers in this one small area still had some grain in store. He saw three families struggling towards the same place and he says that they looked as though they hadn’t eaten much for a while. Horribly thin, almost skeletal.”

Seifu was thoughtful, but spoke without betraying the interest that he felt. “I wonder how many will go there? I wonder if there are other gathering places as well?”

“The agent thinks there might be four of five places where there is still grain, so I suppose they will all attract people.

Some had travelled six days to get to the place near Weldiya.

That means the catchment area is big. There could be a thousand people, I guess. It could be less. The agent said that he’s certain that on one of my lands several of the elders and some babies have recently died. He said he was sure that the number of deaths had accelerated since his last visit. More than usual. More than he would have expected. He can’t prove it, of course, but I’ve no doubt he’s right. He’d be bound to notice.

There’s no way of knowing how bad it is, but if some are dying on the farms, many more could die by travelling.”

Seifu was silent as he juggled his thoughts. There could be something in what Taye was saying. It wouldn’t be all that surprising if he hadn’t heard about it. The farms in the north

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were isolated and the only news that came out arrived in Addis with the merchants and land agents like Taye’s who travelled the district collecting rents. In fact, it was recognized inside the government, but never spoken of, that the farmers’ very isolation could at times be useful. It was only when people were gathered together that unrest and discontent began to kindle. One of the reasons that the feudal landlord tenant system had survived so long was that farmers never had a real opportunity for discussion. They only met on holy days or, very occasionally, if they travelled to a market day. And then they would have too much business to attend to; they had no time for leisurely conversation. Of course there had been food shortages before and they had passed off without troubling the government for the same reason. People had died, but they had died on the family land and their loss had been quickly absorbed by people who always lived so close to death. It was an event kept within the family, even an extended one, living together and working side by side for their common survival. But now here was something unusual, something that could develop dangerously for the government and the established order, whole families travelling to the same place not for a market or church festival, but to live together, presumably until the rains arrived. That could be two or three months yet.

It could be a problem. The feudal system was entrenched and because of that, and the land’s isolation, there was no tradition of leaders rising up to lead the people. And he couldn’t remember them ever gathering together in the numbers Taye suggested, even for religious festivals. Distress and congregation. It was unlikely to lead to trouble, but one never knew. It made Seifu a little apprehensive. If any students from Addis had been on teaching assignment in the area when the grain shortage became apparent, there could be a problem. But

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that was a long chance. Very unlikely. This new generation of students was full of ideas about the power of the people and the need for different government. But he thought, in the end, they were probably no different to their predecessors and would have got out quickly if they had encountered problems getting fed.

The thoughts had flashed through Seifu’s mind in microseconds. Now he frowned and looked away from Taye, out of the passenger side window as he spoke, “If the agent is straight, you’re right. It could just be serious.”

They drove on in silence, each lost in his own web of thought.

Two and a half hours later Seifu was home in his villa, sitting at the desk in his study with only the desk lamp for illumination. He pulled the telephone across the desk, lifted the receiver, and stopped. He tapped the receiver three times against his cheek and went to replace it. He stopped again with it poised just above the instrument, then let it drop into its cradle. He sat still for a minute, then decided. He lifted the receiver and dialled.

“Good evening Excellency . . . .yes, Seifu. I am sorry to trouble you in the evening but I have some business that I’d like to discuss fairly soon . . . .Quite, I could have phoned your secretary to do that . . . I’m not sure, but I do think we should discuss it . . . yes, that would be good . . . Same place? . . . at one? Good. Good night Excellency.”

Seifu took a Cuban cigar from the silver box on his desk, pierced it, then stared thoughtfully at it. He lit it with care and pushed his chair back from the desk. He sat in the dim light occasionally drawing on the cigar, mulling on his good fortune and the life he had constructed. He revolved Taye’s

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words in his mind. Could this be a problem, a threat to that?

At twelve forty-five the next day Seifu was driving himself at a leisurely pace along the road out of Addis leading to the south-west. The sun beat down on the car and a haze shimmered on the tarmac road as it wound through the parched, yellow country. A fiery stream of air swirled in through the open window. It made no difference to the temperature, but it was easier to breathe the stifling air when it was moving.

His thoughts were going over the same ground as they had last night, and the frustrating irony of his situation tugged at him. It wasn’t unusual. He was going once again to do his duty as a minister and to protect the system from a threat. Of course, there probably wasn’t anything in the agent’s story at all but, all the same, if he did nothing, the possibility remained that something might just happen. In a way he would love it to. He loathed the Emperor and often, in his idle thoughts, plotted his downfall. He loathed him not for what he was, but because of his patronage and the dependence on his bounty that Seifu and his peers suffered to maintain their own way of life. The Emperor had made them what they were, and without him, or at his whim, they could equally well be unmade and thrown into poverty. Any rising of the people would certainly see that they were. Seifu knew that he and his government colleagues were the visible instruments of oppression and that the people resented his position as much as he resented the Emperor’s. So here he was on his way to report a danger that probably didn’t exist, but which a very few powerful people should be made aware of in case anything should develop. Haile Selassie had survived for almost half a century because of people like Seifu acting in exactly the same way. To protect themselves they had to protect the system – and the Emperor was the most important part of it.

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Seifu came to a eucalyptus plantation that ran back from both sides of the road. The air in the shade of the trees was resin scented and cool and Seifu gulped it eagerly. He slowed toward the end of the stand of trees and immediately past them turned right, off the road and bumped over a wooden bridge across a drainage ditch into a rough field. He turned in an arc to park facing the ditch and road. He looked round and noted with satisfaction that there were only three other cars there and one of them was the improbably red Mercedes that he had hoped to see. Seifu got out and eased his trousers from the back of his thighs and adjusted his jacket with a shrug. He gave the carpark guard a short jerk of his head as he walked, dragging his left foot slightly, to the bridge. He stopped on the bridge and looked back at his white Peugeot 504. The sight of it usually filled him with pleasure, but now he ground his teeth. That, he thought, was part of the reason he was here, protecting the system.

He limped across the road and through the ramshackle double gates set in a corrugated iron fence painted green many years ago. He stepped into the courtyard of an Italian colonial home. A verandah ran around the three sides of the courtyard on which stood tables with white cloth tablecloths set for lunch. In the centre of the courtyard a single olive tree grew from a hole in the stone paving and in its shade a single dining table was laid. At it sat a large shambling figure, facing the gateway and drumming long bony fingers on the table.

Seifu limped toward the table as smoothly as he could, conscious of his disability under the gaze of the occupant.

His Excellency Aklilu Habte Wolde, minister in charge of the Emperor’s personal cabinet office, the most powerful appointed official in Ethiopia, looked unblinking at Seifu.

“Good afternoon.”

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“Good afternoon Excellency.”

Aklilu waved at the vacant chair. “Sit down. What will you have to drink?”

“A beer, I think.”

Aklilu raised his hand without looking round and a waiter scurried to the table from his station at the verandah steps.

“A beer and a bottle of Ambo.” Aklilu never touched alcohol.

The waiter ran back up the steps. “Shall we order straight away? Then we can dispense with the waiter.” The waiter reappeared with the drinks and they ordered. Then sat in silence – neither of them had anything to say to the other.

After a few minutes the waiter returned with thin chicken soup and lasagne. Aklilu took a noisy slurp at his soup, then looked up, “I assume it’s something important?”

Seifu hesitated. “Well, it could be. It could be nothing.”

He shrugged. “But then it might.”

“Another plot against His Majesty?” Aklilu looked irritated. “You’ve already had one of those this year and I’ve heard of two more in the last month.

“No, it’s not.” Seifu was hurt. Now he’d make Aklilu ask.

Silence.

After a while Aklilu spoke, “My apologies. What is it?”

Seifu relented. “I’ve had a report of famine starting up in the north. Apparently there is evidence that it is serious.

People are already dying.”

Aklilu nodded over his soup, “Yes, I’ve heard rumours myself. A couple of people with land up there say they’ve had trouble collecting rent. They’re upset but we need to keep things in perspective. You and I both know that there have been some grain shortages for the past few years and

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the small rains failed again up there, I am told. So it’s not unreasonable to expect the same thing as in the past. There’s little we can do, but we’ve kept the extent of the problem pretty much under control.”

“If you mean we’ve prevented news of the shortages becoming generally known, then you are right.” Seifu replied.

“Exactly so. After all, it has been very localized and there is nothing we can do except stop alarm spreading. Turning a relatively tiny problem into panic. We don’t want the whole province panicking over something controllable within a small area. One of our prime objectives is surely to preserve stability. Without that, nothing can be done.”

Seifu nodded. “That’s true. And we have been successful.

Very few people learn of these little problems. If they had got widely known, I’m sure there are elements in the population that would use them to stir up trouble.” Seifu rehearsed the government patter that he had heard before, almost parroting Aklilu; “and then it is impossible to give a complete picture of government strategy to the people. These small events could derail the government’s overall objectives if they get overblown. We can only ever give so much information and news of food shortages would create pressure of a size out of all proportion to the problem. It would put the government in a difficult position.” Seifu heard himself with distaste. “Has His Majesty mentioned it?”

Aklilu looked up from his empty bowl and pushed it away. “He doesn’t know. In some ways he is like his subjects; inclined to ignore problems of governance to pursue some unimportant, trivial matter. When it’s looked at in its proper place, this is a small local problem. And so His Majesty has not been told of it.”

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There was silence until Seifu finished his lasagne and Aklilu signalled the waiter to bring the second course. Aklilu now prodded at half of a spit roasted chicken and Seifu delicately examined an escalope, lifting the edges and peering under it, as though he expected to see something. Eventually he cut a small piece and slowly chewed. After a while he spoke again, being careful in his choice of words: “All of that is true and has been up until now, but the most recent news could, I think, be more far reaching.”

Aklilu looked up, “How’s that?”

Seifu rested his knife and fork on his plate and leant forward, elbows resting on the table. He appeared thoughtful.

“Well, it goes back over the last five years of bad rains. Apparently one of the reasons that these people have survived is that each year they have been eating some of the next year’s seed grain.”

“Makes sense,” Aklilu shrugged as he hacked at the chicken.

“Yes, but each year they have had to take a bit more from the already diminished supply. They have never repaid the previous year’s borrowing. Their stock of seed grain has got smaller and smaller from year to year until this year when, apparently, a good number of them have no store at all.”

Seifu watched alarmed as Aklilu crammed a large forkful of chicken into his mouth and a glob of sauce ran down his jacket lapel. Aklilu didn’t notice and spoke through a halfchewed mouthful. “That’s bad. Difficult for those who have run out. Big rains can’t be far off though. They’ll be able to borrow, barter from neighbours, I’m sure.”

Seifu became a little excited. The older man didn’t seem to grasp that he wouldn’t be here speaking unless there was

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something out of the ordinary in the situation. He picked up his knife and fork and collected himself.

“It’s serious. A great number,” he stressed the words, “A great number of them don’t have any grain. In fact I’ve heard there have already been deaths.”

“How many.”

“I don’t know. Some of the weaker people, old people, babies I am told.”

Aklilu, unperturbed, continued to chop at the chicken carcass, “but you can’t say it’s serious if you haven’t any figures, and how do you know that deaths are from starvation?

They could be from smallpox, cholera, typhus, anything.”

“You are right, of course, but there is something else that makes it look more serious. It’s why I thought you should know about it.” Seifu bent over his plate and looked at Aklilu from under his eyebrows. Aklilu was now wrestling with the chicken’s bones. “What is it?” he grunted.

“I’ve heard that people are leaving their land and gathering together.”

Aklilu looked up from his private field of destruction and peered at Seifu as though he had seen him for the first time.

As though a mist had cleared.

“They’re doing what?” he asked, amazed.

“Gathering in crowds. That’s why I thought it might be worse than usual.”

Aklilu wrinkled his nose and fixed his eyes on Seifu, “I don’t understand. Why are they doing that?”

Seifu spent a long time chewing. He was pleased with the response he had drawn. Now the old man was interested, he

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thought. Finally he swallowed and spoke slowly. “If it’s true, then they are obviously out of grain.What I heard is that there is still some grain from the land around one of the lower lying villages, a village west of Weldiya. The news got around and people are travelling there. Apparently from quite a way off.

So a sort of encampment is forming.”

Aklilu still peered at Seifu, almost in disbelief. “This is remarkable. I can’t remember it ever happening before.”

“Neither can I,” Seifu shook his head.

“How many of them are there?”

“I don’t know. There may eventually be hundreds, maybe a thousand. Who knows? If it’s bad enough to have started a migration, then I’m sure more will follow.”

Aklilu returned to forking over the carcass left on his plate, but in a slower, more thoughtful manner. “Do you think they’ll be gathering elsewhere?”

Seifu had a sensation of deja vu about this conversation, but fought it off.

He thought to himself that everyone who served in this administration thought in the same way. It was their common instinct for survival.

“Well, I’ve been told that there could be a few other places with some grain in the province. Maybe three or four. But that’s a guess. I’ve no idea and no other information about people moving. The point, the worrying thing, is that for tenants to leave their land their need must be desperate. They lose their home and livelihood when they leave. Land the family has lived on and farmed for generations.”

Aklilu pulled at his chin. “Yes, but what might happen if people gather? Without work, without food. They could

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become dangerous. Mobs. That would be a worry.”

“That’s what I wondered,” replied Seifu. “That’s why I thought I should speak to you.”

“I’m grateful that you have. I’m not sure what we can do, but we can plan. We are forewarned. I wonder who else in Addis has the same information.”

“Not many people, I’m sure,” replied Seifu. “My information came through two people, and they won’t let it go any further.” Seifu had cautioned his brother-in-law before he left him last night.

Aklilu surveyed the wreckage on his plate. “I’ve heard one or two landowners whining, as I said, but none of them has come up with a story like this. If I move quickly, I can silence them in any case.”

“It would be a good idea, I think. If this gets widely known it could create serious trouble for the government” Seifu pushed away his empty plate and Aklilu sat back in his chair, “Yes, you’re right. We’d soon come under pressure and that could escalate to more discontent. Then we’d have to restrain the malcontents and the government would attract criticism for restraining them. We’ve seen the same cycle recently. I’ve no wish to repeat it. We’ll be better able to cope if we keep this within the government, perhaps best if just between ourselves.”

“Will the landlords be difficult?” asked Seifu. “They won’t like losing their rent.”

“No” Aklilu shook his head, “I don’t think so. The only people they’ll willingly tell are me or His Majesty. And they’d only do that in the hope of being given more land to make up their income. I can listen to their petitions, their complaints, promise to deal with them. I don’t have to hurry. And

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they won’t discuss it with one another for fear of losing face.

One of the most useful reins with which our countrymen can be steered, Ato Seifu, is that. Their fear of losing face. They won’t tell each other that their wealth is diminished.”

“And His Majesty? What about His Majesty?”

“That is not a problem.” Aklilu spoke briskly, “No one sees His Majesty without coming through me. As you well know, I will not allow His Majesty to be troubled by trivial matters.”

“I wondered if you thought perhaps His Majesty should be told,” Seifu spoke hesitantly, “perhaps by you?”

Aklilu threw out an arm in a gesture of appeal. “To what end? His Majesty might seize on the issue as something for his special attention – he is strangely affected by some things these days. And he would run ahead, issuing orders without any regard for the consequences and the problems they might create for the government. It would make our effort to control the situation hopeless. Besides . . .”

“Yes, Excellency? Something else?” The waiter appeared at Aklilu’s side and neither of them had seen him approach.

Aklilu turned to the man and became aware of his outstretched arm. The waiter had obviously seen it as a summons. Aklilu looked closely at the waiter. His expression revealed nothing.

“Yes,” Aklilu said, “creme caramelo for me and . . .” he looked across at Seifu, “and for me too.”

The waiter retreated and Aklilu looked questioningly at Seifu who shook his head and shrugged. They sat in silence until the dessert arrived. Once they were alone again Seifu spoke, “you were speaking about His Majesty.” Aklilu looked around again before he spoke. “Yes, well, yes.” He was now

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hesitant. Although he and Seifu had a working relationship, he didn’t quite trust him. But then he didn’t quite trust anyone. It was how he had survived in his position for many years. He struggled within himself and decided. “Frankly, I shouldn’t care to tell His Majesty about this. I can’t always read him recently. If he decided to be interested, he would want to know why he didn’t know of the problems the last few years with the small-rains failing. That would all become an issue if he got involved in this situation.”

“And that might be difficult for you.” There was a slight note of malice in Seifu’s voice.

Aklilu countered sharply. “And for you too. You are Minister of Agriculture, Ato Seifu.”

There was a pause of a few moments. They were both thinking of the Emperor’s stone cold rages and of his absolute power of appointment and dismissal.

“I take your point. It might be best if we can deal with it without His Majesty.” They sat on for several minutes, the only sound the weaver birds chattering in the tree. Finally Seifu broke the silence. “What else can we do? You can prevent gossip from travelling either up or down, as it were. It’s unlikely that news of the situation will get out at the moment, unless someone that we can’t account for knows about it.”

Aklilu looked around the courtyard and up at the pale blue sky. He spoke slowly, almost thinking aloud, “unless there are travellers or students doing their teaching practice.

Farenji travellers would be the most difficult. Thinking they are helping. But it’s difficult to travel up there. No one is likely to have done it for fun and I don’t think there are any aid projects in the province. Have you ever been there?”

“No,” Seifu replied, “I haven’t. We’ll just have to trust

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that no farenji are there now. It’s unlikely, but they do odd things. A farenji woman once went through the whole of the Simian on a donkey. The students are the most likely problem. I imagine they would have got out quickly if food ran short though. I doubt there are any there now. There won’t be any in the area of this village anyway. At the most there might have been one of two teaching in the elementary school in Weldiya and it’s possible that news hasn’t even reached Weldiya. These villages are way back in the mountains.”

Aklilu gave a dismissive shrug. “The students are controllable anyway. Our information system inside the university and teacher training place is good. We have nipped several of their plans in the bud. They don’t have a newspaper or a union. The Emperor didn’t think it a good idea. So information, such as it is, travels by word of mouth, and we can monitor and channel that.”

Aklilu scrubbed at the shiny folds of his face with his napkin. “Nothing more we can do at the moment. To do anything at all might be to over-react and, anyway, we have no idea how bad this is. Come to that, here is no real proof at all.

Really how good is your information?”

“It’s reliable. It comes from a source that I trust – especially over a matter like this. I’ve no doubt the problem exists and that the people are leaving their land and gathering.”

“I suppose it’s something to be sure of that even. But I wish we had information about the numbers involved.” Aklilu kept abstractedly dabbing his face with his napkin. “I think we can keep a grip on the situation – unless it gets worse.”

Seifu relaxed a little. “It won’t get much worse. The big rains will arrive in six, eight weeks at most. I don’t believe they will fail completely. They never have and I doubt they ever will.”

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Aklilu nodded. “Of course you are right. The big rains will come sooner or later in a greater or smaller quantity. But they will come. We’ve just got to control the information until then. If we can do that, then the problem will pass.”

“Yes,” Seifu nodded in agreement, “once the rains come they will return to their farms with or without seed grain and somehow get going again. Smaller families won’t even be a bad thing. Regrettable, but their first harvest will be small if it is sown with borrowed seed.”

They sat looking round the dusty courtyard. The sun vibrated off the stones. The silence only disturbed by four weaver birds squabbling in the branches of the olive tree. Seifu felt the vastness of Africa about him. He said, “the remoteness helps deal with the problem. It is possible that no one else will ever know about it. Even if they do, by the time news gets out the rains will have come and it will be over.”

He looked across at Aklilu who had closed his eyes and rocked back in his chair. He looked, for all the world, as though he was asleep.

Chapter 2 ADDIS ABABA BRITISH EMBASSY SEPTEMBER 1973

FRANCIS SHAW, Her Britannic Majesty’s Ambassador to Ethiopia sat at his office desk with his back toward open double french doors. He sat upright, hands resting palm down on the edge of the desk. Hands aligned over knees. Stiff, like a window dresser’s dummy. To his mind a “dignified attitude.” Appropriate for a representative of Great Britain to this remote land. Accessible by a weekly airline flight from three carriers and a decrepit rail line from Djibouti on the Red Sea, but still largely unknown. The corner of Africa never really colonized by Europeans. The only African country to have repelled colonial forces twice. Italy both times. Shaw felt he somehow represented an outside, developed, world.

Which is why he felt it appropriate to maintain his London wardrobe. With carefully arranged sparse dark hair, charcoal gray business suit, black oxford shoes from Lobb’s in St James’s Street, laundered white shirt and college tie replete with small diamond pin, he could be on his way to lunch at his London club. But he wasn’t. He was stuck here

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in this minor diplomatic outpost. He had really hoped for more towards the end of his career.

The large shambling figure sitting in the wooden visitor chair across the desk could not have presented a greater contrast. Either in dress, demeanor or attitude. His baggy sports jacket hung open revealing a cotton v-neck pullover that could have once been beige, protecting a checked shirt and floral tie. Dennis Wilkins, forty-three, Counselor at the embassy, number two in the diplomatic hierarchy, was looking abstractedly past the Ambassador through the open french doors to the neatly trimmed grass and the blue wall of eucalyptus that marked the edge of the embassy compound.

Wilkins pushed his fingers through his pile of sandy hair as he shifted uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair.

“I don’t remember, Wilkins, how you came to know Mary Pierce in the first place.”

“We play in a string quartet together.” His reverie interrupted, Wilkins replied abstractedly, without changing the direction of his gaze.

“Oh. she’s in that, is she.” said more as a slightly disapproving statement than a question.

“Yes, she plays the cello.”

“And this musical friendship led her to tell you about a famine?” Shaw was irritated. This kind of information was an intrusion on what he thought of as his diplomatic duties.

“Yes, perfectly natural, I suppose. She doesn’t mix much with the expat community outside of the Mission. I’m probably the only person she knows here at the embassy. She wanted to tell someone. She was distressed. I think she thought that by telling me, she would have made someone aware without a lot of inquisition, red tape . . .” Wilkins’ voice trailed off.

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“Well, I can see that.” Shaw realized he had appeared antagonistic and needed to be a little conciliatory. “What’s she like? I mean, you obviously think she’s reliable, otherwise you wouldn’t have taken her seriously, but some of these missionaries are a bit odd, aren’t they? Perhaps I should say, ‘eccentric’ – it’s a better word.”

The Ambassador looked carefully at Wilkins. He hadn’t meant to say either odd or eccentric. He did think that Wilkins fitted both words pretty well himself. Not that he wasn’t brilliant. Shaw acknowledged that, but it was the way he dressed, and some of the things he was interested in, well . . . he wasn’t the first embassy official to go native.

Wilkins was unaware of the Ambassador’s glance. He turned in his chair and threw his weight on the other arm, his eyes roamed restlessly around the Ambassador’s collection of water colours depicting the English countryside that hung on the wall behind the desk. “She’s quite sound. She’s been here fourteen years, speaks fluent Amharic and Oromo and has a deep knowledge of Orthodox religion – quite interesting when she talks about it. She edits, and mostly writes I suspect, the Amharic newspaper that the mission puts out for the Orthodox Church. She’s not nutty like some of them, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Wilkins smiled as he said it.

Mary was the least “nutty” expatriate that he could think of. In the four years he had been in this post in Ethiopia, he had become close to Mary. Chamber music wasn’t the only interest that they shared, they were both interested in anthropology, prehistory really, particularly the excavations being conducted by the French team at Melka Kunture, just thirty miles from Addis. They visited whenever they could during the digging season. Wilkins and Mary were serious people with serious interests. Mary was far from “nutty.”

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The Ambassador cleared his throat. “Some of these people do exaggerate a little though, don’t they? They do it because they think no-one listens to them.”

“Not her, she’s been here too long.”

“Well, I rely on your judgment, not that I doubt her, of course.” Shaw added hastily, hearing the pomposity in his own words. He usually tried to appear a little more approachable when he dealt with Wilkins. In truth, he was slightly in awe of the man’s accomplishments, his languages, his music, his interest in pre-history. “What did you say she was actually doing in the north when she found these farmers?”

“It was part of her newspaper work. She’s doing a series of articles about the Church, religion, and its meaning in different sections of society. She wanted to interview some of the tenant farmers in the more remote communities. When she got there, not easy by the way, she found an abandoned tenancy. As she travelled deeper into Wollo, she found more people clearly on the edge of starvation. She wasn’t able to get a fix on how bad it might be. She wanted to go back with a medical team.

“Very laudable. I do hope she got the directions right. I wouldn’t want young Cornick to have been on a wild goose chase.” Cornick was the most junior of the embassy’s professional staff and this was his first posting.

Wilkins shrugged, dismissing Shaw’s comment without recognition or reaction and looked at his wristwatch. “We’ll soon know, his appointment is at ten.” And as he spoke the Ambassadors’ English carriage clock struck the hour. The ambassador pressed the key on the office intercom. “Is Mr Cornick here yet?”

“Yes, sir.” There was suppressed laughter in the voice.

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“Ask him to come in, please.” The Ambassador spoke in the clipped polite tone reserved for conveying disapproval to junior staff. Especially secretaries with the giggles.

Jim Cornick gangled into the office and danced, heron like, from one leg to the other, just inside the doorway. He wished he hadn’t been clowning with Kate. He had heard the edge in the Ambassador’s voice.

“Good morning, Cornick.You’re back in one piece?” The Ambassador relaxed his voice to a little more friendly.

“Good morning, sir. Yes, I am thank you. Good morning Dennis – Counselor.” He remembered the Ambassador’s insistence on formality at official meetings just in time. He tried to speak slowly, in a lower voice – more diplomat-like.

He was tormented by what he thought of as his over-squeaky voice. He winced. He was sure he had squeaked, ‘counselor.’

“You’re preparing a written report.” A statement not a question.

“Yes, sir. I got back late last night and I’m working on it.”

Cornick lied, he hadn’t started it.

The Ambassador had guessed that. “Quite. That’s why the Counselor and I would like a verbal report now. Give us an overview, an outline. It could be important – at least so far as giving the situation serious consideration goes.”

“Yes. sir.”

“So sit down and tell us about it.” The Ambassador indicated the visitor chair across from Wilkins.

Cornick sat down and crossed his legs. Then uncrossed them. Perhaps that was too informal at meetings with the Ambassador. Cornick hoped he hadn’t noticed. He glanced at Wilkins slumped in his chair. He was senior enough for it

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not to matter. But Wilkins was aware of Cornick’s discomfort. He tried to ease his path, “How did you get on? Pretty difficult journey, I imagine?”

Cornick seized the opening. “Yes, it was, we had lots of trouble with the local big-wigs. They didn’t want us to travel into the interior at all. That was obvious.”

“Hold on.” Wilkins held up his hand. “Let’s get the whole trip straight in our heads from the get-go. Imagine it’s the written report. Start from the time you left here, go step by step. Slowly.”

Jim Cornick looked ill at ease and fidgeted with his hands.

Wilkins caught his glance and nodded encouragingly. Cornick gathered himself and plunged off again.

“I’m sorry.” He paused to slow and lower his voice, “I left the day after we met, Friday, as soon as it was light, about five thirty. I took Assefa to act as guide and we had decided the night before to take the Land Rover as far as Weldiya and to go off road from there by mule. Assefa comes from the area and he said that Miss Pierce’s instructions would set us in the right direction, but he couldn’t say beyond that as he didn’t know exactly where we were going. Neither did I. We were looking for an area where, according to Miss Pierce, we would find people in distress.”

The Ambassador looked enquiringly at Cornick who was momentarily held by his gaze. “We did. We found people visibly starving.” Cornick swallowed, remembering the sight.

“Very, very thin. Skeletal, almost like Oxfam ads really.” Cornick was visibly shaken by the recollection.

The Ambassador nodded and sat back in his chair with his hands resting on the chair arms.

“Anyway” Cornick went on, speaking a little more quickly,

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“We arrived at Weldiya around five o’clock and then came our first problem. We needed to hire mules, and there weren’t any. No one seemed to know why, or at least they weren’t saying, until Assefa went into a buna beit, chatted to the owner, and found out. They were all dead. The mules usually for hire belong to local farmers. When the rains failed again there wasn’t any grazing and the farmers were using everything edible for themselves. The animals began to starve and eventually they were butchered as one of the last sources of food.”

Wilkins puffed his cheeks and let the air explode through his pursed lips. Cornick carried on. “The next morning, Saturday, Assefa left early and was gone about three hours and when he came back said he’d managed to fix something up.

A man he had spoken with at the buna beit the night before thought he knew where there were still two animals belonging to a tenant farmer out to the east. He agreed to go with Assefa to see if he could hire them. He did and arrived back with them on Saturday afternoon. They were in terrible condition and I didn’t think we’d get far on them. We exchanged half of our canned rations for the mules and then loaded them with the rest. They would never have carried us. So we walked alongside them.

“Next day was Sunday and we couldn’t do anything so we managed to buy some feed at an incredibly extortionate price and feed the mules. It was strange. In Weldiya there was animal feed in the store but the price was maybe ten times the going rate here in Addis. No way could the farmers have afforded it.

“Monday we went early to the District Governor’s office.

There were a number of people hanging around outside with two policemen watching over them from outside the office

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door. We were sent straight in although I suspect the other people had been waiting a while to see him. Do you know him?” Cornick looked at the Ambassador then at Wilkins.

“No,” said the Ambassador. Wilkins shook his head.

“He’s a retired Brigadier. Quite an impressive figure. He was very polite and asked us what we needed the mules for.

He’d obviously heard about Assefa’s efforts in the buna beit.

I said I was working in Addis and wanted to see some of the country before I left and that I’d been told that it was possible to trek to the rock churches from Kobo. I think he was genuinely surprised by that. Maybe it was a mistake. Anyway.

He was very discouraging. He said he didn’t think it was possible, especially with our two scraggy animals. I asked him if we could get better ones and he became guarded. I said it seemed strange there weren’t more beasts around. He blustered, but didn’t say anything about the animals dying.

“We didn’t get anywhere with him but before we left he tried jolly hard to dissuade us from going off road. He said there were bandits in the hills, the peasant farmers were anti-Europeans, there was no water because it was the dry season and that we wouldn’t be able to carry enough for more than a few days. In fact, that was a good point. Without pack animals we’d have to limit ourselves. We couldn’t rely on active springs when we didn’t know where or how to look for them. In the end he gave in, just warned us not to travel too far from the road without sufficient water. He suggested we forgot the churches. I think he thought that I was slightly mad. Crazy English. He definitely didn’t want us nosing around.

“So we set off with the two mangy mules. We calculated we had enough water for five days and we didn’t see a spring the whole journey. We were in the bush from Tuesday

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morning until Saturday, four nights. It really was very rough going. We were always pulling on the mules to get them up the slopes or hauling back on them to stop them from sliding down the scree. I doubt we covered much distance measured in a straight line. Everywhere we found people, food was obviously short. The people and animals are all thin, emaciated in many cases. Every single person we encountered asked for food. Begged almost. We gave away more than we ate of our own supplies. Difficult to say just how bad it is. Some people obviously still had some stores, but they all looked to be in poor shape. I shouldn’t think they’ve eaten properly for some time. Trying to spin out dwindling supplies, I suppose.

Assefa says that some of them told him they couldn’t last out much longer because their stores were practically exhausted. We found two tracts of land deserted – apparently the farmers had travelled south. There’s a rumour that there is still some grain in one spot to the west of Weldiya. Some of the people Assefa spoke to were leaving to go that way themselves. They said it was their only hope.”

Wilkins bent forward in his chair. “ Did you get any idea of how widespread the food shortage is?”

“No. We didn’t really. The further we got from the road, the worse it looked and we certainly didn’t see any land that looked as though it had born a crop recently. Most of what had once obviously been fields were barren stretches of land with deep cracks crisscrossing the surface.”

The Ambassador cleared his throat with a cough. “Do you think it’s a famine? A famine. Not just a shortage?”

Cornick looked at the Ambassador apprehensively. He was nervous of overstating the case, being the cause of alarm, the catalyst starting action. He felt too junior to shoulder that responsibility. “I can’t say. I don’t have any experience

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to compare with. I’ve never seen a famine, but I’ve never seen so many people in such obvious distress. Some of the sights were awful. Pathetic. Sad. The children were the worst.

Distended stomachs and arms and legs that are just bones covered with skin.”

Cornick paused and thought for a moment, the silence and stillness only broken by the twittering of the weaver birds outside. It seemed unreal, sitting in the heavy, plush room discussing what had been so tangibly squalid to him only three days ago. His judgment wavered.

“Some of the people we saw had a little food. I don’t know how much. The signs of starvation are there, the people are hungry, ravenous. I don’t know.” Cornick pulled at his cheek, uncertain.

The Ambassador leant back in his chair, tilted his head back and looked down the line of his nose. “Supposing that relief was available, would it be welcome? Do they need it?”

“Certainly.” Cornick snapped the word. He had made the decision almost unconsciously, overcoming his fears, and replied emphatically. “What I saw was hunger. Real hunger, starvation if you like. They need it alright.”

Silence fell again. The Ambassador and Jim Cornick sat motionless but Wilkins flopped restlessly in his chair. Eventually the Ambassador spoke. “Well Cornick, you’ve had a hard week. We need to think this over carefully. We need your written report. Can you get that done by tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So we won’t delay you. We’ll talk again when we have the report.”

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The door clicked shut behind Cornick and Shaw and Wilkins sat looking at one another.

“What do you make of it?”

Wilkins grabbed at his hair and tugged on it as he spoke.

“In a way we’re in more of a quandary than before he went.

We know there’s some sort of shortage for sure. But what does that mean? How bad is that? How widely does it stretch?

How can Cornick judge? He has no experience of the country, let alone famine.”

“Cornick was the wrong chap to send really. He’s very inexperienced.”

“But we had to,” Wilkins said with a touch of exasperation, “it’s his job.”

“True,” rejoined Shaw.

“Beats me why London promoted him so young. They thought he’d be out of the way here, I suppose. They’d be right ninety-nine percent of the time.”

The Ambassador snapped back to business mode with a jerk. “Let’s think this out. We now know there is a grain shortage but no idea of its proportion. How big or how bad.

Cornick more or less confirms the report of the Pierce woman, so in a way we have two independent witnesses. I wonder how bad she really thinks it is.”

Wilkins didn’t react to Mary being described as “the Pierce woman” but he was in a tight spot. He didn’t want to throw too much weight, too much accountability, on Mary Pierce. It seemed ungallant. But she had been firm in her opinion.

“She said it was serious. She saw starvation and, in her opinion, some of the children might not survive much longer.

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She does have a great deal of experience here and probably a more informed view than Cornick. On the other hand, she has no idea of the breadth of the problem either. It’s pretty difficult trekking off-road up there.”

Shaw had picked up a paper knife and was smoothing the blade between his fingers. “Did she actually say it was a famine?”

Wilkins was being tortured with indecision, between putting Mary in the position of being accountable to Shaw and her own drive to see something done. He replied slowly, thoughtfully, “Yes, she did, but it’s an emotive word. One could say famine without using the word precisely. There must be a technical definition. She may have seen a shortage but shortage, famine, who could tell?”

“Well, you say yourself that she has a lot of experience here and whether she meant the word technically or not, famine only means one thing in most people’s minds.”

This was what Wilkins had been anxious to avoid, but Mary had been very forceful in her opinion and Wilkins consoled himself with the thought that he was still reporting her view mildly compared with the way in which she had conveyed it to him. But he was troubled that he was lending her words authority. If she was here speaking herself, he knew Shaw wouldn’t attach so much importance to them. It was because he, Wilkins, was speaking her words with his voice that Shaw was listening. He worried about the consequences.

He didn’t want to implicate her if this became a major issue but then neither would she thank him if nothing came of her approach. He had hoped that by getting a report filed by an embassy staffer the responsibility would lodge there. In this case with Cornick. But Cornick’s report was inconclusive, he had no idea of the depth or extent of the problem and Shaw

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was falling back on Mary’s report to support Cornick’s. He remembered how angry she had been and thinking it through as he sat here he realized that this was what she wanted – action. She was strong enough to defend her opinion, even if it turned out to be wrong. “You’re right,” he said after a pause, “she obviously thinks it’s a famine, although she doesn’t have any idea of its extent.” He added the last phrase to ease his conscience. He could see how Shaw’s mind was running and guessed that their course was already fixed.

The Ambassador didn’t fail him. “Do you think we should suggest to London that there’s a possibility of supplying food as aid?”

Wilkins let go of his hair and slumped down further in his chair. The die was cast, London would have to know all the facts and their sources. He knew Shaw wouldn’t change his mind now. This was the opportunity he’d been looking for.

He’d cling onto it like a bull terrier. He sighed. “You mean use aid as the opening we’ve been looking for?”

“Yes, it’s ideal. We stumbled on this by accident so it’s unlikely any of the other legations know anything about it. We’d be way ahead.” The Ambassador was getting into his stride now and began to wave objections out of his path. “The size of the problem doesn’t matter very much to London anyway.

They’ll only be up for sending a certain amount of food aid, they can’t feed the whole country. But to supply aid, and to supply it first, before anyone else and before it’s asked for, that has to improve our standing with the government here.”

Wilkins looked doubtful. “Well, I suppose it could. We need to do something, relations are distinctly chilly at the moment and London is eager to kindle a little warmth into them.”

“Yes they are. I think they are concerned about the Canal

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being reopened. The Horn of Africa would become strategically important again if that happens. I hear that the Soviets have been ramping up their attention here. London won’t want to be behind.”

Wilkins reluctantly conceded the point. The Suez Canal was a vital waterway linking the Red Sea to the Mediterranean. It had been closed for six years since the 1967 Arab Israeli war. Shipping from Asia to Europe was forced to sail around the Cape, adding ten days to the sailing time and additional cost to the oil and other shipped goods.

Opening the waterway would be a big deal both politically and commercially.

Wilkins sucked in his cheeks, then said, “the problem will be to broach the subject to the government without word leaking out all over the place. Once we move, we have to move fast or we’ll be gazumped again.”

Ambassador Shaw almost relaxed as he looked across his desk at the slumped figure. “Wilkins, you are a pessimist. We can handle that problem when we get to it. The first thing is to put the proposal to London. We need to get them interested first.”

The following Tuesday the Ambassador and the Counselor were sitting in the same positions, mulling over the developing situation. Ambassador Shaw pinning a piece of paper to his blotting pad with the point of his paper knife.

“This is London’s reply, Wilkins.”

“Yes?” said Wilkins. He was watching a large lizard on the threshold of the open french doors which, pushed up on its front legs, was intently watching Wilkins. The lizard was a resident on the patio and Wilkins had privately named him Len.

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“They’re keen that we should sound out the position with the government.” Shaw looked down at the paper pinned under the paperknife and wondered for the thousandth time whether Wilkins thought he was a fool. He cared a lot about what Wilkins thought.

“What exactly do they say?” Wilkins asked, breaking off his ocular exchange with the lizard.

“They say we should make some tentative, unofficial soundings in the government to test the reaction if we offer to send aid. They want to be sure of our reception before they instruct us to make the offer. They suggest sending grain to relieve the starving and want to know if transport would also be useful.”

“I suppose they think we can use mini-vans.”

“No. For once they are being realistic. They suggest army trucks and volunteer drivers.”

“That makes sense. A lot more sense than some of their ideas.”

“Be careful. You almost sound enthusiastic, Wilkins. But first things first. I’ve got to speak with the government before we can go any further. Who is the best chap to approach?”

“It will have to be Aklilu Habte Wolde. He’s the only one who would dare commit himself on an issue like this.”

“Hmm. I feared that. Unfortunately he’s about the trickiest as well. But if we speak to anyone else they’ll refer us to him anyway. The fewer people we tell, the better the chance of keeping the offer under wraps. Save time anyway, going in at the deep end.”

Wilkins made a little turn of his head, “You never know with Aklilu. It’s impossible to say how he might react.”

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“That’s right,” Shaw said briskly, “I’ll just have to find out by putting our cards on the table. Nothing ventured . . .”

“That is where it could get difficult,” said Wilkins. “If Aklilu agrees, London will have to move bloody fast – it won’t be a secret for long. I don’t relish playing a game of chess with Ato Aklilu.”

The following afternoon, at three thirty, Ambassador Shaw was waiting in the outer office of a suite in the old wooden palace built by Emperor Menelik a century ago, high up in the hills east of the city. The offices of Prime Minister of Ethiopia and Minister of Pen to His Majesty Haile Selassie, Aklilu Habte Wolde. The smell of damp wood hung in the air, although there hadn’t been any rain for over a year.

The Ambassador sniffed it. It wasn’t unpleasant, although it was the smell of destruction made by the fungus and insects that were gradually consuming the building. The Ambassador had only been sitting for a few minutes when the door from the outer corridor opened and Ato Aklilu stepped into the room.

“Ambassador! I am sorry to have kept you waiting. I have been with His Majesty. The Ambassador stood and bowed slightly from the waist as he extended his hand to Aklilu.

“Good afternoon, Excellency. I only just arrived. I haven’t been waiting any time at all.”

“Good, good. Do come in.” Aklilu unlocked the door to his inner office with a key on a long chain that was attached to his belt and ushered the Ambassador into his inner sanctum. It was in cool darkness and Aklilu opened the wooden shutters to let sunlight flood the room. He gestured to a long table placed end on to his desk to form a T that had three chairs placed down either side. “Please sit down,” and they sat, facing one another.

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“Now, Ambassador, I gather this isn’t a social call. What is it I can do for you?”

“Thank you, Excellency. I have something that I would like to discuss with you, but unofficially. I’d like to consider this an unofficial visit. I’ve come to ask for your opinion, your advice really.”

Aklilu looked at the Ambassador enquiringly. “I will do what I can, but you know my position, I only have an official life. It is one of the penalties of office, but I don’t complain, only ask you not to compromise my position, that would be embarrassing for both of us. Excuse me, of course you appreciate that, but I have to make my position clear.”

“I quite understand, Excellency. I don’t think you need worry. I only want to ask your opinion of your government’s likely reception of a proposition that my government could make.”

“I see. Perhaps I can answer for myself, but I can only conjecture on behalf of the government.”

“Quite, quite. But your opinion would be extremely valuable.”

Aklilu was unmoved by the flattery. When it came to diplomatic fencing Shaw was totally eclipsed by Aklilu. And he knew it.

“What I would like to know,” Shaw continued, “is how your government might react to a proposal that I could make formally, if you agree. It would be awkward for both of us if the issue became official before we had discussed it as it is a proposal that would be to Ethiopia’s advantage.”

Aklilu looked straight into the Ambassador’s face, as an exasperated teacher might look at a student who failed to

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grasp a simple principle week after week. “I doubt it would be to Ethiopia’s advantage alone.”

The Ambassador cursed himself for a fool. He knew he wasn’t handling this interview at all well. “You will be the judge of that, of course. If what I have to offer is of any use.”

“Very well. Perhaps you should tell me what it is.”

The Ambassador made a nervous cough. “My people are a little worried by the situation in the north.”

Aklilu started inwardly. He hadn’t expected this, but his outward appearance remained unchanged.

The Ambassador went on, “I understand that the poor rains have affected the harvests the last few years.”

“They haven’t been as good as in the past, I believe.” Aklilu spoke carefully. Where was Shaw going with this?

“I’ve heard they have been very poor indeed.”

“These things are relative, Ambassador. They may have been shorter compared with other years, but how will next year’s be compared with this?”

“Of course,” retorted Shaw, slightly annoyed. He felt he was being spoken to as a child. “But I have heard that the harvest failed, that there is hardship and suffering among the farmers.”

Aklilu was perplexed. He wondered how much information the Ambassador had. He thought of Seifu and their conversation of two days ago. He hadn’t expected to return to the subject so soon. And not like this. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t mean to be facetious. Of course I am aware of the situation. The government is doing what it can for them.”

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“May I ask what?” Shaw realized too late that he sounded petulant.

“We have long term planting programmes and are setting up education projects to teach better land husbandry and that sort of thing.” Aklilu had dragged his answer from the depths of his memory where, over the years, sundry schemes had been parked after being tossed around for a few months.

Nothing had come of them.

“But isn’t this situation acute? I have heard that people are starving and that there have possibly been deaths. Surely they need relief? Food to get them over the immediate problem?”

“Come, come Ambassador. I don’t think it’s as bad as that. Where do you get such an alarmist view?”

Aklilu had been looking for a more subtle line of questioning to get at the source of Shaw’s information, but the Ambassador was being cagey and he had to ask the direct question.

Shaw was prepared. He had thought this through before the interview. He couldn’t tell about Cornick’s reconnaissance – to admit that would sound like the prying that it was and to suggest that Cornick had stumbled on the starving village by chance would stretch Aklilu’s credulity to the limit.

Either way Aklilu would certainly be resentful of the interference and that would not help. But neither could he mention the report of Mary Pierce. Aklilu would be both disbelieving and dismissive — women were to be respected, but their opinion would not be accepted on an issue like this. Shaw realized that to use Mary as a source would be the end of his cause – a cause that was difficult enough to get across as it was. That was becoming clear.

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“We’ve had several reliable reports recently. Our agricultural aid people have been in Wollo with the UN Food and Agriculture rinderpest teams and they reported on seeing the distress of some of the farmers.” Shaw wanted to pass over this as lightly as possible. Aklilu could easily check where had been working and would find they hadn’t been anywhere near Wollo. The teams had been in the south, around the Rift Valley lakes, nowhere close to Wollo. He could claim they had been on a special assignment but it sounded weak.

Aklilu wasn’t sure why, but he sensed that the Ambassador was hedging. “But they can’t have seen very much? If they were travelling on the road they wouldn’t see much at all. Probably just some beggars. There are always beggars on that road.”

“Well, they got the impression that there is a shortage of grain, of food in the interior. A famine in fact,” the Ambassador almost snapped the words and immediately heard himself becoming rattled. He struggled to modify his voice. “Whether they are right or wrong, I don’t know for sure, but I judge them reliable.You said you had heard something of it, so perhaps I should come to the point.”

“Ambassador, please. I do not mean to be rude. I just fear that the scale of the situation may have been misrepresented to you.”

“That may be Excellency. The fact that there is a famine at all is a cause of concern.”

“Really Ambassador, I do think that famine is too dramatic a way to describe a local shortage of grain, which is what it really amounts to.”

“Shortage or famine, perhaps the word doesn’t matter.

It seems to me, to us, that any hunger is serious, a cause for

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alarm. What I have come to ask is would your government accept a gift of grain to help relieve these people?”

By now Aklilu had sensed what was coming and as the conversation had meandered he had been thinking how to react. He made no sign at all. His mind was busy with two problems. First, how much did the Ambassador know? How sure was he of his facts? The British had, like the other western Europeans, pretty much ignored Ethiopia for the past six years following the closure of the Suez Canal. If it was reopened, the Horn of Africa would one again be strategically important, controlling the western shore of a major sea route from Asia to Europe. Ethiopia would become a player and the British were suddenly eager to strengthen relations. This was quite probably just an opportunistic attempt to improve their standing, an attempt by Britain to get ahead of the other diplomatic legations. An offer made without checking their facts too closely. After all, if the Ambassador had walked in and offered aid, as he had done, and Aklilu had immediately accepted it, what need to check facts? The actual question of famine was of no more importance to the British government than it was to him or to Seifu. It was just a convenient vehicle for diplomacy.

The second problem sprang from the first. The Ambassador obviously had some idea of the situation in Wollo. If he admitted that there was a food problem and accepted the aid, there would be a great fuss made about it. That would be the point for the British. They would hardly send aid and remain silent about it. That wouldn’t be what they had in mind at all. Aid was a diplomatic tool. The world, the Ethiopian court, the government and the Emperor, worst of all the Emperor, would have to know. That would be difficult. His arrangement for suppressing the news of a famine would be useless and he’d have to defend himself against the wrath of

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the Emperor. How much did the Ambassador really know, he wondered.

“That is a kind offer,” he said, “and I thank you for it.”

The Ambassador began to wonder if his initiative would be noticed in Whitehall. But Aklilu went on, “ But really I don’t think we can accept.”

Shaw was confused. “I don’t understand, Excellency.

Why not?”

Aklilu decided to commit himself. The more he thought about it the more likely it seemed that the Ambassador wasn’t sure of his evidence. If he was, he’d have something more than a rinderpest team who had spoken to roadside beggars as witnesses and if he had something more conclusive than that, he would surely have produced it by now. Aklilu only needed to gain a space of a few weeks and the whole problem would dissolve in the arrival of the big rains. They were sure to come.

“It’s a question of degree,” he said. “You have heard an account of a shortage of grain, of food, and you would like to help my country by sending some grain. But believe me, it is only a temporary shortage, not a famine. Not an emergency. This often happens, and the people survive. No one has offered aid in the past and the people have lived. If it happens next year perhaps no one will offer aid, but if the people affected have received free help this year, haven’t they the right to expect it again next year? It is creating an unreliable dependency.”

The Ambassador felt the lance. He understood the Minister’s words. Britain, like every other major power, had ignored Ethiopia when it had no need of the country and now it was trying to make a sad, but regular hardship into the

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reason for making a single gift of aid, hoping to curry favor now that it saw Ethiopia becoming strategically important with the Canal being reopened.

Aklilu had used the goad carefully. He wanted to get the Ambassador on the defensive and the Ambassador was trapped. He couldn’t say how much he knew of the famine but he had to refute the implied jibe. “I have to give way Excellency. Your knowledge of the situation is far greater than mine. It is possible that the people on whom I have relied for these reports have overreacted to what they have seen. They did use the word famine though.”

“I assure you it is not a famine. A temporary local shortage, yes. Some slight hardship, but these people are tough. If we ship grain to them now, we are creating a dependency. We aren’t doing them a kindness.”

“My experience is too limited to dispute that argument.”

The Ambassador wanted to appear humble. Despite the fact that he was here offering aid, he knew that he was really the supplicant. “But I would like to leave the offer with you. If the situation deteriorates, my government will be ready to supply relief. Grain.”

“Thank you, Ambassador. I will keep that very much at the front of my mind. I speak for the government when I say thank you for your offer. Though it appears unnecessary at the moment, the intention is well understood and appreciated.”

“Thank you Excellency.” The two stood and as they walked toward the door the minister paused, “If you want to discuss this again, do come straight to me, don’t feel you have to go through one of my colleagues. It is better kept between us two. It will come to me in the end, anyway. I deal with foreign relations personally.”

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“Thank you, Excellency. I’m most grateful.” Shaw bowed slightly as he shook Aklilu’s hand, turned and left.

That evening, when the staff had left for the night, Aklilu phoned Seifu on his personal line.

Aklilu spoke quietly, “This afternoon something rather odd happened concerning what we spoke of recently.”

“Serious?”

“No, I don’t think so, but I thought you should know.”

“I see.” There was a note of anxiety in Seifu’s voice.

“The British Ambassador was here this afternoon. He knows something of the situation we discussed.”

“Good God.” Seifu’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“He was here to sound out the prospects for his government to supply relief aid.”

“God.” Seifu repeated. “That’s would create exactly the fuss we’re trying to avoid.”

“Quite. But I don’t think anything will come of it. They don’t know much. That was fairly obvious. The Ambassador stalled when I questioned his sources. Maybe they picked up a market rumour and are eager to improve bilateral relations.

Aid is a lever of diplomacy after all. I don’t think they have any solid information.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said we are aware of the situation and keeping a close watch on it. I told him there was nothing to worry about, nothing out of the ordinary, and there certainly wasn’t the crisis he suggested.”

“Do you think he was satisfied?”

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“Yes,” replied Aklilu. “He was unsure of his facts and I think I convinced him that his information of famine was groundless. I think I did. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. If he wants to pursue the question he still has to come back to me.

I will still be in control. There’s nothing to be done right now.

I don’t think it’s important, but you might keep alert for any information coming from that direction.”

“I certainly will. They could be the source of some of the rumours I’ve heard circulating in town. It would be good to know.”

“Yes, it would,” agreed Aklilu, “but we don’t want to appear interested, so don’t get noticed asking questions.”

“Of course. I understand. And you don’t think there is anything we should do?”

“No, I’m sure not. I called because I thought you should know, that’s all.”

“Thank you for that. I am grateful. Is that all?”

“Yes, good night Ato Seifu.”

“Good night, Excellency.”

Chapter 3 ADDIS ABAB BUNA BEIT

IN 1973 ADDIS ABABA was a collection of contiguous villages rather than one coherent city. Ask a resident for the center of town and they will tell you where the center of their town, their world is located. It will be the square, the public building, the monument or the navigable road nearest their own dwelling. Each village is complete. Each has its own unofficial guild of zebanyas, the night watchmen at the villas that dominate the area, who cover for each other and support one another during the spasmodic periods of danger. Late night returning residents are greeted by the first whistle in a chain of whistles as they turn off a road into a residential area, a little village within the city where several villas are clustered. At every gate and driveway another whistle sounds warning the next zebanya along that a bona fide resident is passing along on their way home. Thus is the late-night traffic of Addis Ababa labelled and coded for safe transmission through the night.

Each village has its own souk and its own traders as well as its own middle-class residents. At least, the villagers think of them as their own. By tradition and common consent only

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people from the immediate village work in the surrounding villas. The villagers supply the zebanya, the gardener, the cook, the maidservants and the nanny and each of these, in turn, contributes to the upkeep of their own extended family in the village. So the villas sit at the top of a pyramid. From them the money fans downward. The villas are often sited on a rise or slope above the village, with verandas and gardens so designed that the house is obscured from the view of the villagers – often behind a screen of eucalyptus trees.

And each village has its own meeting places, a tej beit for beer and a buna beit, the coffee house.

There had been no rain for over a year, both the big and small rains had failed in the last twelve months, and in the daytime heat and dust swirled around the bleached open spaces of the city. The buna beit in the village on the east side of the mercato, on the road along which goods travelled in and out of the great market, had its wooden shutters latched back and the windows pulled open on the inside. It still felt close to the customers, not claustrophobic, but close, protective. The heat of day had passed and an exhausted evening cool settled in. Later the temperature would drop further, but for the evening between six and nine it remained at this agreeable, comfortable level.

The buna beit was lit by three naked forty-watt bulbs dangling from the ceiling on long flexes that cast three pools of soft yellow light. The pools seemed to draw the people gathered around them, like moths to a flame. There was a drift of smoke in the room, partly from cigarettes but mostly from a small bowl set in one corner from which a thin wisp of frankincense curled upward into the small room. The shallow wooden bowl had been fired with charcoal before sunset and when it turned to ash the rough lumps of frankincense

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were placed on top. The sharp, pleasant odour drifted in the yellow light.

There were around twelve people gathered. A fluid group, one arriving, one leaving, but with a core of six people who remained at the center. They sat at the tables set under the hanging lights. Round tables with little balls for feet at the end of spindly wire legs that proudly celebrated the atomic age. An age that had done nothing for Ethiopia, or indeed the rest of Africa either.

Some of the group were drinking coffee from tiny cups, some drinking Fanta or Coke and some, nothing at all. They were students from the Haile Selassie University and their finances were erratic, but never enough. There was an easy familiarity within the group, they were friends, fellow students, they had spent a lot of time together and had met here many times before.

It wasn’t illegal to meet as a group, to hold meetings, even formal political ones, but they all knew that their meeting was carefully watched and their conversations reported.

This group would have described itself as radical, not to anyone outside, but to themselves. They were realistic enough to know that there was a gulf between their theoretical left leaning politics and their possible implementation in Haile Selassie’s absolute monarchy. They had held demonstrations in the past; about conditions at the university, the rigging of exam results. Once about the appallingly cramped student accommodation. That had been rapidly dispersed when the riot police, the snowdrops, arrived armed with long wooden clubs. But the protests had never been overtly about politics.

The driving wish of all of them, their objective, was to finish at university with a degree that would land them a job in government or in education. That would be their route to

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success and a middle-class life. But they weren’t thoughtless, they looked out for one another and had views about the plight of so many of the poor who scratched a life in the ramshackle encampments around the city. Some of their own extended families were not so far removed from those conditions.

The group was focussed on a tall athletic figure with a huge halo of Afro styled hair who moved restlessly between the tables speaking excitedly, holding the attention of each one while speaking to the whole group. He exuded confidence and an easy authority and moved fluidly between the tables gathering them into his grasp as he spoke. At this moment he was still, poised with hands resting lightly on the top rail of the chair in front of him, listening intently.

“My sister saw it, Tes. An army truck. Open army truck.

Driven off down the Bishoftu road.”

Tesfaye, Tes to everyone, looked around, “Anyone else seen anything?”

No one replied. One or two heads shook in the negative.

“Something’s going on. There are too many rumours.

The street boys know something is up.”

A girl, one of the permanent members of the group, spoke. “It wouldn’t be so surprising. Every time there’s an international meeting or a foreign visitor, they round up all the beggars.”

The group nodded. It was true. Whenever foreign guests were expected in Addis, the police and army rounded up all the beggars, put them in trucks and drove them several days’ walking distance from the city and abandoned them. Very few would reappear in the city before the dignitaries departed.

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“They weren’t beggars though. They looked like farmers.

Folk from the country.”

“They could be.” The girl from the permanent group spoke softly but with an authority that held the attention of the group. She was a striking presence; tall and willowy, holding her high shoulders back, she wore a close-fitting tunic dress and stiletto heeled sandals. Her slender face with a high forehead and unsmiling eyes contrasted strangely with the flashing emerald sheen of her dress, lacquered nails and minimal carefully applied make up. She was called Guenet.

Like most of the group she was in her second year at the university and, like them, had recently completed her semester of national service. For most of them this had meant teaching in a primary school somewhere remote, away from an urban area. The conspiracy minded critics of the scheme suggested, quite reasonably, that it was a way of keeping the students away from one another and from the city during the time when they were most vocal and potentially politically active. In their first year they were uncertain and cautious.

Many of them were new to Addis and its urban environment and feeling their way around being at university. By their third year final examination absorbed all their time. So by rotating groups of students away from the campus for periods of their second year, the government hoped to control any unrest. Guenet and the others in the group had only just returned from their time in the provinces to the north of Addis and they had seen the beginnings of the struggle of the farmers as the grain supplies ran low. They had seen the dried landscape, the cracked earth, the effect of drought. Nothing could possibly have been planted in that earth.

“They could be. Their grain store must be very low now.

They were struggling to make one proper meal a day for the whole family when we left.”

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Another voice spoke from the darkness outside the pools of light, “My landlord said he saw around twenty or so people from the country sitting in the open ground outside the parliament building two mornings ago, but no one was there when I passed at nine o’clock. They could have been the people in the truck?”

The group began to talk over one another as they assembled their combined experience: “That’s right. Food was running out. We were down to one meal a day ourselves when we left. There was no food in the village.”

“And there was nothing growing. No crop in the fields.

Just cracked earth.”

“And there was almost nothing in our village, and that was the market village. For the farmers it must have been worse than it was in the village,” Guenet took up her point.

“That was weeks ago. If the village is in trouble, what can it be like for the farmers? You all saw what stores they had. Very little, virtually none after the last year.”

“I wonder what it’s like elsewhere?” someone asked.

Tes replied, “It can’t be much better, can it? The rains failed everywhere. Probably larger grain stores in the south, they had a little rain last year. But who knows?”

“So what about the people who have disappeared from outside the government building?”

“Perhaps it’s the same as with the beggars. You know, if you can’t see them, they don’t exist. No problem. The government decides there isn’t a problem, the evidence disappears, no problem.”

“There is if you’re starving,” a voice from the darkness.

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“Of course,” Tes now becoming animated again, “Exactly.

The problem remains with the people suffering, but not for those who don’t. The government safely tucked up here in Addis, decides there isn’t a problem, so it won’t do anything about it. The problem doesn’t exist. Most importantly from the government’s point of view, if the farmers are kept in the provinces, no one will ever know. Just as they never have before. Thousands might die, the government and middle classes go on about their business, no one knows anything.”

“Are you sure, Tes? Do we really know what’s happening?”

Tes stood erect, his halo of hair silhouetted against the yellow light. “Yes, we do. We know about the beginning of the famine anyway. We were there. I don’t know about the farmers coming into town and being shipped out again, but we do know about the hunger, the famine.”

The group were silent as Tes began to prowl between the three tables. He enjoyed the attention and the theatre of the moment – a born actor.

“My friend Mary . . .” glances flickered between some of the group and someone whispered, “the farenji” and giggled.

Tes ignored them and carried on, “Mary has just returned from the north. She says it is famine. People are already dying. They are beginning to leave the land, the farms, and congregating in the villages. There isn’t any food.” His voice had risen as he spoke.

The woman who ran the buna beit fussed around shutting the ill-fitting windows. A chill had started to come on the evening. The incense still smoldered and its vapour snaked in the draft of the slamming windows.

Tes’s voice dropped back to its normal register. “She drove the mission Land Rover up to the north, past Dessie and on

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to Weldiya. Just before Weldiya she left the road and the Land Rover and started to trek into the hills to the west. That was where she found the first deserted farm. She asked the farmer across the valley where the people were and that’s what she was told. They had run right out of grain, run out completely, and the neighbours had almost no grain left themselves.

So this farmer had taken a chance, got his family together and taken off for a village where there was said to be grain.

The farmer Mary spoke to said they would only be able to last another week. They didn’t know what to do. He begged Mary for bread. Can you believe that? An Amhara, a farmer, begging?” Tes paused and looked round the group under the pools of light. They were all listening.

“The wife said that the baby was sick. She doubted it would last the week.”

“What was it sick with?” Guenet interrupted Tes. “Malnutrition to start with, Mary thinks. The usual signs of vitamin deficiency, kwashiorkor, distended stomach, no flesh. It also had dysentery. She dosed it, but thinks it was too far gone. She didn’t have baby food or milk powder so she left them her glucose tablets and some drinking water. But the baby was starving to death and the adults are too by now.

That’s what she says, and I believe her.”

“The babies go first.” Guenet said quietly. “It’s difficult to know how bad it really is. Food was certainly in short supply when we left. My family was getting by on one meal a day. Although that can’t go on much longer, they were only just surviving and their grain will run out soon – if it hasn’t already. We all know Mary. She wouldn’t make more of it than it really is.”

Tes nodded agreement and took over; “Mary has been here sixteen years. She told me she saw the same situation in

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1964, in the same area. No one would pay attention at the time, but she did. She said that now it was bad in the area west of the road between Dessie and Weldiya. Same as in sixty-four. People are dying of starvation. She saw it. Look, Mary is a missionary, was a nun – I know she doesn’t look like it. But she is. Was. A Christian anyway. She has no reason to exaggerate.”

The room was sunk in thought. The only sound was the distant murmur of the city.

A cough from beyond a pool of light and a woman’s voice asked. “What can we do?” and then everyone was speaking at once.

“We have to let the government know that we know.”

“The government needs to do something.” “Let’s get a petition started.” “Can’t we find the farmers in the truck? Stop it?” “Demonstrate. That’s the way to get the word out.” “Why isn’t the government doing anything?”

Voices slowed and stopped and they all looked at Tes. “We could demonstrate. It would show the government that we know and spread the news of famine further among the people here in Addis. Then the government might be forced to take some action. Especially if more of the farenjis take notice.”

“But what can they do?”

“They can organize food for a start. Buy it and distribute it. There’s plenty of food here in Addis. Get some aid going.

Get medical teams. Organize relief camps.” Guenet stabbed the air with a manicured finger to underline each point. The group were aware of the irony. There was food here in Addis.

Absolutely no sign of a famine.

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Tes picked up from Guenet; “OK. shall we do it? Shall we demonstrate?” It was a rhetorical question. “We’ll need the support of the others. Can we talk to them tonight?”

Tes looked at Guenet. They both understood the need for speed. For urgent action. They knew, or were almost sure, that there would be a government informer somewhere in the group. It was now eight o’clock in the evening. If they could arrange the demonstration for the next morning, there would be little time for an informer to report their plan.

The arrangements were made with care, tasks divided among the group. The women to visit the women’s dormitories first and to recruit people known to be reliable while spreading the message further. Then to move out to locate students living off campus. The men were to do the same for the male students. They also organized the recruiting of people to help with constructing banners and placards overnight.

Tes and Guenet assumed leadership roles naturally — seemingly by common consent — and took the lead in the discussion about where to hold the demonstration for most effect. There was really no question. The gate at the south west corner of the campus was ideal. The gate was part of the architecture of a formally designed square, Arat Kilo, where the buildings around the square were occupied by government offices and ministries. The demonstrators could assemble out of sight on the campus, shielded by the perimeter trees, then burst through the Arat Kilo gate and arrive directly in front of the government buildings. It gave the police no time to intervene and would have an impact on the maximum number of government officials in the one location. To find such a large number of officials otherwise would mean marching right around Addis to reach the other government offices spread out around the city, and it was unlikely that

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they could achieve that before the police intervened to stop them. The police were generally unsympathetic to demonstrations, student demonstrations particularly, and anti-government demonstrations even more particularly. And this could easily be seen as an anti-government demonstration.

As the group left the buna beit Tes stopped them with an upheld hand. With a wry grin he said, “Right. Whoever the police informer is, please be silent until midday tomorrow.

Give us a chance.” There was an uneasy chuckle from the group, although one or two of them didn’t smile at all. Many of them had patrons of one sort or another, it was the only way they could afford university. With tuition fees, accommodation, books and food it was difficult, especially for those from outside Addis and from less well-off families. Some of them took casual jobs when they could, but with the labour surplus in the city casual jobs that paid anything reasonable were rare. So they looked for help where they could find it.

Those fortunate enough to find a patron might have free accommodation, help with their tuition fees, or eat with the family. But however it came, patronage in any form, was provided by the wealthier sections of society and that meant, in Ethiopia’s feudal structure, that they were mostly involved in, or close to, government. Which meant that students who received assistance in any form were under pressure to keep their patrons informed of anything that might be of interest or, more pointedly, against their interest. They were all informers really, but it wasn’t often important and most of the students were careful with the news they imparted. They were, after all, students with all the baggage of youth that entailed. But a police informer was a different matter. “Yes, please Ato Informer, don’t let the snowdrops fall on our heads,” echoed another voice.

There was another nervous chuckle from the group.

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Two hours later the police informer was coming to the end of his report to Aklilu Habte Wolde. Following the meeting he was unsure of whether to contact Aklilu or not and finally concluded that tomorrow’s demonstration, the object of the demonstration, was of sufficient importance to require his immediately contacting Aklilu at home and at this late hour.

He had been terrified as he made the phone call from the administrative office of his dormitory. Terrified of being caught using the phone and terrified of Aklilu’s reaction to be contacted by a student, even though he was Aklilu’s informer, so late in the evening. But Aklilu had been uncharacteristically affable and, most surprisingly, had invited the informer to call on him in person. Immediately.

Aklilu now sat planted in a deep sofa that was covered with an unlikely floral-patterned fabric. His feet firmly on the floor, knees apart with his hands resting on them, he sat motionless, indestructible, like the Empire.

He made a sucking noise before he spoke, “Communist inspired, no doubt. Just a poor attempt to rile the government, don’t you think?”

The informer looked uneasy, uncomfortably perched on the edge of a winged chair, cousin to Aklilu’s sofa. He felt that if he sat back in this huge chair he might disappear into it. Like Alice’s White Rabbit. He didn’t answer Aklilu.

Aklilu waited then went on, “There must be communist inspired students in that group. It’s the lecturers who studied in the USSR you know. There are several of them now. Too many really. They were chosen because we thought they’d be least likely to be corrupted by naive communist idealism, but it’s potent stuff for young people in a hurry. We’ve heard about them before, stirring unrest among the students.”

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The informer looked blank. What Aklilu said was possible, but he’d never come across it. “I don’t know,” he said hesitantly, “no one mentioned communism, just famine and the disappearance of some farmers who had shown up in town.”

“But there it is, you see.” Aklilu spoke in a deep easy voice, “there it is. There isn’t a famine, the farmers aren’t coming to Addis. It’s an attempt to stir up unrest. It’s the communist students, for sure.You know who they are. Tesfaye is the ringleader, you say? It’s probably him. Where does his financial support come from? Where does he get his money?”

The informer gulped. He liked Tes. “Ato Seifu, I think.

Not money, tuition, and lodging.”

“Oh yes,” Aklilu sighed. “I’d forgotten.”

He stood up. “Well, it will have to be stopped. There are new forces at work which, I regret to say, are maliciously directed at the Emperor and our tradition, our way of life. They aim to disturb the peace and the political stability His Majesty has kindled over years.” Aklilu paused and looked at the informer. “The unseen enemy. We’ve imported it from the USSR. Revolutionary communism. Like a weevil in a sack of t’eff, we’ve imported it unseen. It has to be stamped out.

As for this talk of famine, forget it. There is no famine, these students are out to cause unrest just for the sake of it.” Aklilu lied comfortably.

The interview was clearly at an end and the informer stood up, making ready to leave. “No. Wait a moment. I may need you yet. I have to make a phone call. Stay there.”

The informer stood, nervous, as Aklilu crossed the room to a telephone standing on an ornate Italian sideboard. He listened, awed. Aklilu wielded dreadful power yet so quietly

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and with such smoothness that an observer would not necessarily realize what effect or deadly consequence a command so quietly given might have. It was a day later that he found out.

Aklilu had phoned the Minister of the Interior, the political head of the police, who was preparing for bed it was now so late. With his work for Aklilu the informer had discovered that at this level of government day and night didn’t exist. It was on watch twenty-four hours a day. He listened apprehensively to Aklilu’s account of his report. Aklilu’s precis was an interpretation that seemed to miss his, the informer’s, details.

It was an entirely new retelling. When he later looked back he realized that the only things that had remained of his account and had been relayed on the phone were that there would be a demonstration, where it would be, and the time it was planned for. There was no mention of its purpose, farmers, famine or drought. The Minister had heard instead about a demonstration against the Emperor and the government led by communist inspired students that was designed to cause unrest in the city and to challenge law and order.

Aklilu had explained that he was particularly regretful, sad even, to have to make this phone call as the situation reflected badly on himself. He had, after all, encouraged the Emperor to send students overseas to pursue higher studies.

He thought it the best way to pursue progress and development. He had chosen the host countries to provide a broad range of learning and opinion and now they were repaid with this. Aklilu agreed with his junior colleague that the farenji in Ethiopia were probably partly to blame; teachers, lecturers, aid people, and even now some foreign students but no, he didn’t think they should take any action against them. Not yet. He and the Minister obviously shared an understanding of the threat communism posed that some of their colleagues

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had yet to appreciate. It would take time. Best to root it out now among the students. Yes, it really must be made clear that these attempts to stir up trouble for the government wouldn’t work. Yes, they had better do something about tomorrow. That was all.

After ending the call, Aklilu thanked the informer for his diligence and loyalty and dismissed him to the cool of the Addis night. As he reached the bottom step of the veranda, Aklilu called out to him, softly, “One other thing. You had better be at the demonstration tomorrow. It might look odd if you aren’t.”

The riot police in Addis were known as “snowdrops” because of their white riot helmets. The helmets were repurposed full head motor-cycling helmets purchased from a manufacturer in Britain who might have been surprised to find them party to the infliction of injury rather than prevention of it. The snowdrops, ironically named after the first delicate flower of spring, were brutal. Almost a paramilitary force that operated at the margins of the law, the only people they would not confront were army. Individually they spent a good deal of time carousing with the army, making up to the soldiers, many of them having been rejected by the army as their first choice of career. The snowdrop standard enforcement tool was a wooden club, three and a half feet long. With the balance of the weight toward the tip, it was swung with both hands.

The students had assembled at the edge of the university campus, out of sight of the square and government offices, shrouded by the thick undergrowth around the perimeter trees, and concealed from the university buildings behind them by the hill rising away from the square. But the screen of undergrowth also prevented them from seeing the square.

Both unseen and unseeing.

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The snowdrops had arrived before dawn and taken up concealed positions in a government building in Arat Kilo square. The students never suspected that the snowdrops were there. When the snowdrops advanced they came through the parking compounds located on both sides of the building, facing the university gates. They charged in two phalanxes, twenty abreast.

They had waited until the last of the seventy or so students entered the square before they charged. They came fast and it was only seconds before they fell on the students. It was like an explosion. Two hundred snowdrops in two close ranks raced across the square, the first line firing blank cartridges from old Lee Enfield 303 rifles. The crash split the early morning calm and jarred the brain.

The students first awareness was the flash and roar followed by the weight. They were being crushed downward as they collapsed on one another under the rain of thudding, bone-shattering blows from the snowdrop clubs.

Tes was on his back, aware of the strength of the figure standing over him, his club whirring like a rotor blade. And now all the students were prostrate, felled to the ground, and still the blows fell from the riot sticks and rifle butts. He caught glimpses of sky between the bobbing white helmets, the slashing arms and green uniforms.

They were gone and there was silence. Tes found himself crouching in the foetid gully at the side of the road. Instinct told him to be still, to look around without moving. He squinted against the sun as he tried. Nothing. A taxi stopped to pickup two people standing at the corner of the square. Above him the pale blue dome of sky seemed to focus the mounting morning heat – a huge concave lens. Why did the day seem so normal, so quiet he wondered. He had a thudding pain in

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his neck, just below the skull and a fizzing at the bridge of his nose that made him contract his nostrils. It also made his nose run and his eyes water. He wasn’t crying.

He looked down and saw blood on his shirt, touched his face and felt the warm flow from his nostrils. He pinched his nose to stem the flow and winced at the sharp pain. He wrestled his thoughts to order. He should get away from here. He wondered where the others had gone. Maybe they had got back to the university compound, but he wasn’t sure that was wise. If there was going to be more trouble, that’s where the snowdrops would look. But he couldn’t move around in the state he was in, he needed to clean up. He certainly couldn’t go back to Ato Seifu’s looking like this.

Mary. She was the answer. He could walk crouching out of sight along the gully by the roadside and cut up through the wood at the edge of the university. He could get almost all the way to her compound without being seen.

Mary Pierce, described in her Ethiopian Resident passbook as a member of the Scottish Protestant Missions, had arrived in Ethiopia in 1960 ostensibly to teach English at the Sandford School, an outpost of British culture and education. The school had been founded by the wife of Brigadier Daniel Sandford who had planned Orde Wingate’s expulsion of the Italian forces in 1941. Sandford and his family remained in Ethiopia after the war and the school was part of their gift to Ethiopia.

Mary had developed a deep love of her students, the country and its people and although she was now accredited as a teacher she maintained close contact with the Mission, the Daughters of Charity, for whom she helped produce a newsletter.

She had taken Tes under her wing six years ago and had

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directed his education and encouraged his wish to study journalism. They had first met when Tes was fourteen, starting his last four years in high school in Addis and Mary had been asked to speak to the class about her work in journalism. Tes had already decided that he wanted to be a reporter, either on the newspaper or radio or the nascent television news that was just gaining some traction in the capital – if nowhere else. She had encouraged him in his studies and he had found her home a quiet refuge where he could work, away from the raucous life in his lodging with his landlady’s young family rampaging and her husband conducting business from their small common room. The family were a trading connection of his father’s and treated Tes with kindness but Mary provided a quiet sanctuary. Tes was fascinated by her work and by her friends. A world he had never imagined.

Mary’s elderly female cook opened the sheet metal gate and looked at Tes disapprovingly. Not of him, she knew him as a friend of Mary’s, but at his condition. “These young men . . .” she could have been saying, but wasn’t. She stood aside and beckoned him inside. Mary was at her desk in her study when Tes came through the door, unannounced.

“Tes,” she had started to say in a welcoming voice, but it changed to Tes!”a high pitched cry. “What’s happened?”

Tes felt his remaining strength drain away as he slumped into the visitor chair and warmth and security flowed over him.

“Whatever happened?” Mary blurted again, involuntarily. But it wasn’t the time for questions and she was on her feet, briskly telling the maid to bring warm water, cotton wool and disinfectant.

She quietly tidied Tes’s wounds. His nose had stopped bleeding and she washed away the congealed blood. His ear

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was torn and there seemed to be blood coming from inside.

She thought the ear should be stitched and examined for internal damage, but Tes said “No, no hospital.” and she accepted it without question. When she had finished she directed him to a hot bath and had the maid put his shirt to soak.

An hour later he was stretched out on Mary’s sofa in the living room. He wore his own slacks, no socks or shoes and one of Mary’s shirts. A low table had been pulled up to the sofa and on it stood an untouched bowl of clear chicken soup set on a tray. Mary sat at her dining table looking at him over her own lunch. Tes had recounted the morning, the demonstration, the attack, and silence settled between them. Mary was trying to understand it.

“Did Seifu know you were going to demonstrate?”

Tes winced as he smiled, his nose still hurt. Trust Mary to go straight to the practicalities of the situation.

“No. Can you imagine how furious he’d be if he knew?

Especially the way it turned out. I didn’t think it would matter before that. You know he likes to hear about student feelings, what we talk about, so he doesn’t mind me getting involved with student societies. On the other hand he is frightened of what he calls ‘student subversion’. I’m not sure what he thinks that is.” Tes chuckled, then winced again.

He shouldn’t do that. His muscles began to stiffen and ache from the beating. “I think he means anything where student’s views are aired in public. He’s concerned that it might reflect badly on him. He would rather we had no views at all.

Rather like him, flexible. It’s no secret that he supports me.

Why should it be? But he will have a fit if he hears about this. Attacked by snowdrops. I can’t wait for Addis Zemen to appear, I can see the headline; ‘student riot broken up

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by police’” Tes shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Why did they do it, Mary? We hadn’t even started. It was going to be a simple demonstration, we weren’t going to march anywhere. Just stand with our banners calling for some food aid for the farmers.”

“Seifu will find out, won’t he? The newspaper.”

“I suppose so. I’ll wait to see. Will it be in the newspaper though? If the attack was to keep us quiet about a famine, they won’t want any publicity.”

“You were aiming to get action over the famine? You really called it a famine?”

“Yes, we did. But it’s strange. There is something I don’t understand. It all happened very fast, the whole thing was over in five minutes probably, but my memories are jumbled.

I am sure I heard someone shouting, ‘red scum, communists out’ that kind of thing. But who could that have been? Snowdrops? Unlikely.”

“Possibly. It does seem unlikely though.”

“But I’m sure that was what someone was shouting. The worst thing is that they knew. The snowdrops knew about the demonstration.” He looked at Mary who held his gaze and nodded.

“When did you make the arrangements?”

“About eight last night. We laughed about it.” He paused, “an informer.” It was a statement.

“Looks like it,” Mary said. “So they knew very well what the demonstration was about.”

“They must have. They knew everything else.”

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“I think I see what’s happening, Tes.” “So do I. It’s like the farmers being taken away in a truck.

They want to silence any report or idea of a famine. They break up our attempt to spread the information by beating us half to death, and then, to appease anyone who might object to students being beaten, say that the demonstration was promoting communism. An attempt to destabilize the state.

The snowdrops are the good guys. Very neat.”

“Yes, that’s about it. Another cover-up to avoid doing anything for the starving farmers.” She made a despairing gesture. “Oh Tes, thank you for trying.” She said it without embarrassment.

“They are my people. Thank you for caring.”

Mary suddenly stood and stamped with impatience. “It’s too bad, Tes. We must do something.” She stressed “something.”

She went to the open french doors looking out over the veranda and stood, thinking. The sun’s glare bounced off the white tiles. One of three huge earthenware pots at the edge of the terrace had a crack running from top to bottom and was held together by the earth baked solid inside. There had been no water for watering plants for over ten months now. She felt the heat reflected in the still air, like standing at a furnace door.

She watched the air shimmering in a haze over the eucalyptus that bordered the dried watercourse in the dip at the edge of the garden and could feel the cool of the dark wood and shaded white plaster of the room behind her. She stood at the littoral. The sound of Tes pulling a blanket over himself made her turn back into the room. He was shivering, a reaction to this morning, she thought. Her eyes adjusted to the dark of the room from the glare outside and her thoughts drifted back

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to the farmers she had seen in the north. The heat was killing them. They didn’t have a cool, sweet smelling room to walk back into. She looked at Tes; “How do you feel?”

“Okay. Stiff. And shivery. Shock I suppose.”

“Try your soup.”

“I have. A little. I’m not hungry. It hurts to swallow too.”

There was a pink line running along his jaw and his cheek was swelling. “I’ll get some aspirin, it will help.”

She fetched the pills and a medicine glass of water.

“They’re trying to suppress the whole thing, Tess. They don’t want to do a bloody thing.”

Tes almost smiled at the expletive, but winced with the pain in his jaw. “Looks like it. What happened with your embassy contact? Have they done anything?”

“I don’t know. They were going to send somebody to look for themselves. They’re diplomats, slow. It will be reports, meetings, talk about doing something. No action. No one cares, Tes.” Tes reached out from the blanket and put his hand on Mary’s arm, “Yes, they do. You care, I care, lots of people would care if they knew. It’s the people at the top who don’t.

The people who could do something about it. Could be their pride. Admitting there’s a famine. Loss of face.”

“Pride?” Mary repeated, “Pride, when people are dying?”

“What else could explain it? There isn’t any grain in those villages`. Grain is all they need. There is food here in Addis, there is grain, but the dealers won’t release it. It’s criminal, disgusting. I’m sure no one knows how much has been hoarded but the price has become absurd. The grain dealers

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don’t care about the farmers, they’re in league with the landlords. They won’t release grain for the farmers. Who would pay them for it? Any relief will have to come from outside and where’s the money to pay for that? The government has to ask for aid. Back to the British embassy – and all the other farenji. They have to ask. Swallow their pride and ask.”

Mary was thoughtful. “You’re right. And they haven’t asked. They won’t ask. Even if the Brits are persuaded to offer help, the government won’t accept. They’ll deny there is a famine. It will be just like today.”

They sat in silence. The dry smell of the midday heat drifted in from the open french doors. Mary sat forward, “Tes, they have to ask.”

“But they won’t,” he said slowly, his voice dropping.

“They might if the world knew what’s happening. If reports of famine reached Europe. Reports of starving people.

Inaction in the face of that would be difficult for the government. A blow to their image. It might force them to admit there is a problem that needs help, embarrass them into acting. Into asking.”

Tes shrugged, unconvinced; “Maybe. But who would tell the world? We couldn’t even tell the people in Arat Kilo this morning. The control is too tight.”

“I have an idea. I know the BBC stringer. He is an honest reporter and has been here for years. He loves the country and he would care if he knew. It’s time that the aid and diplomacy people committed, came out of their bunkers, otherwise they may as well pack up and clear out. What use are they otherwise? I’ll speak with him. And I can check if the Embassy has done anything. You never know.” She turned to Tes and examined his face. “It’s so stupid. Look what they’ve

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done to you. For what? Pride? Stay still. I’m going to make a cold compress for that cheek.”

That was an order. Mary usually overcame emotion with action.

Chapter 4 ADDIS ABABA I M P E R I A L PA L AC E

AKLILU SAT LOOKING at the transcript that the radio monitor handed him. His large frame hunched over the single crinkled sheet of paper lying in the middle of his grand, otherwise empty, desk. It had obviously been much handled. Aklilu thought of his conversation with Seifu when they had lunched together. Farenji travellers, students, someone else? He knew about Mary Pierce, the informer had spoken about Tes quoting her. Was she the source of both the British Embassy’s interference and this BBC report as well? Or were there others?

Aklilu was not used to surprises, not used to reacting to events. He caused the events. He was the prime mover. It was he who sometimes surprised other people, controlled affairs from the center, the spider in the center of his web. He frowned as he crinkled the edge of the paper with dry fingers, testing its existence. This was a surprise, it was unnerving.

Things could get out of control. He would need to act swiftly to regain command, he knew that. But that wasn’t his immediate problem.

His immediate problem was the Emperor. In another ten 84

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minutes he had to speak with him. An audience. Apparently the Emperor had heard of the report, not heard it himself, perhaps he had read a transcript like the one Aklilu held, although the monitor said that he hadn’t asked for it yet.

The news item had been brief. The problem from Aklilu’s point of view was that it linked an aborted student demonstration with reports of famine. It had run on the BBC World Service three hourly bulletin four times and someone in the Emperor’s private quarters had picked it up. Aklilu couldn’t think who that could be. Which was another thing worrying him.

Ten minutes later Aklilu stood before the Emperor who was sitting on an elevated dais at a desk in a high backed wooden chair, his elbows resting on the desk, the tips of his long fingers lightly touching each other in front of pursed lips.

“We would like to know the truth, Ato Aklilu.” The Emperor never dropped to informality, even with this man he had known for almost fifty years. “Why were they demonstrating about a famine and why were they broken up by the police?”

Aklilu’s face remained set, relaxed, impassive; the tumult of his mind hidden by his slack jowl, the rheumy eye. This would not be the first time he lied to the Emperor, but this time his survival might be at stake and he knew it. He appeared thoughtful as he replied.

“The report seems to be inaccurate in some respects, Majesty.” He spoke in his natural easy voice. “I have studied a transcript of it, although I didn’t hear it myself.” He had deliberately left the transcript locked in his desk drawer. “My reports all indicate that it was an anti-government demonstration organized by a group of communist students. The police have held the ring leaders for questioning.”

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In fact the police had arrested a few of the students following the demonstration and taken them to a police station, but they had released them after giving them an unpleasant few hours. They had been given no specific instructions regarding their detention or interrogation.

“I see,” said the Emperor. “What of a famine then?”

“There are no reports of famine, Majesty. I’m making further enquiries, but I have no reports of famine. The demonstration was clearly an attempt to create unrest, to cause trouble for Your Majesty’s government. We’ve had trouble with this group before. It seems to have started with their education overseas. The group of students that we sent to Moscow. They were exposed to extremist theories of government.

We should have seen it. Unfortunately we didn’t. They were indoctrinated with talk of socialism, Marxism, rousing the people against monarchy, against established government, very ideological. It’s the Soviets’ attempt to revolutionize the people across Africa. Sad really.”

The Emperor nodded, but didn’t speak until, after a long pause, Aklilu felt he should continue. “We may find out more about their motives during questioning. Frankly, I doubt they have any. We’ll certainly find out if they received any specific training for this kind of disturbance. We may need to rethink some of our student placings.”

The emperor still didn’t speak but made a slight “hm” sound.

Aklilu was held in the gaze of the Emperor’s dark eyes.

They seemed focused on something behind him, distant.

Has anyone ever known what this small man with the exquisite hands was thinking, he wondered. A stab of fear ran through him. He was lying but did those eyes really have the power to read a mind? He felt they might.

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After a long silence Aklilu was dismissed with “Thank you Ato Aklilu. That will be all for now.” Aklilu bowed and backed out of the room, his face still impassive, self control hid both his fear and his anger.

The news item on government controlled Ethiopian radio was brief. Aklilu had drafted the announcement in the form of an official bulletin in both Amharic and English. He had written both versions himself to be sure that there was no possible deviation from his intended meaning in either language. It was broadcast in both languages for twenty-four hours. It made no mention of either the BBC or the news item about the famine. It was a bitter and carefully worded attack on foreign radio stations that carried inaccurate reports designed to denigrate, and cast malicious accusations about, the countries of Africa. Reports detrimental to the world’s understanding of developing countries. The bulletin went on to say, explicitly, that certain foreign powers were using news broadcasts to undermine the position of the government of Ethiopia and the Emperor himself both at home here in Ethiopia and in the eyes of the international community. It concluded by stating that recently some particularly spiteful examples had set new low boundaries and were not based on any verifiable facts, to be precise, on no facts at all.

The government expected that these fictions would be treated with as much credence in the international community as they had been treated with at home. None.

Chapter 5 ADDIS ABABA BRITISH EMBASSY I M P E R I A L PA L AC E

ST. MATTHEW’S ANGLICAN CHURCH could have been lifted from the countryside of 19th century England.

An anomaly in Africa. A stone Fitzcarraldo of a church with a mostly expat congregation.

Tonight the tropical dusk had descended to night and yellow lamps cast soft pools of light in the sanctuary. The temperature had dropped down to bearable and Mary Pierce sat in a front row pew with her folded hands resting on top of her cello case. She and Wilkins were alone, practice over, the other two members of the quartet already left for home.

The attack on the students and Tes’s injuries were still running around in her mind. The violence of the suppression seemed curious, out of proportion. The students had been more visibly demonstrative over the last couple of years but the snowdrops had never before responded like this.

Wilkins sat silently as Mary puzzled out her concern; “It really makes no sense. The radio bulletin talked about the students having political motives. It entirely ignored the purpose of the demo, the famine in the north.”

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Wilkins sat elbow on knee, chin in hand. Thoughtful.

“There may be a connection. Difficult to know. Shaw went to see Aklilu yesterday. Tricky as hell to get a meeting with him. But he did. Went to sound out the reception an offer of food aid might get. Totally outmaneuvered and fobbed off.

Aklilu more or less said that Wollo had a recurring seasonal problem. No cause for alarm, but that the government was working on some long term strategies to improve the situation. End of audience. It almost looks as though there’s a conspiracy to suppress any talk of famine.” Wilkins was a loyal lieutenant, but sometimes his frustration with Shaw’s inadequacy lent an edge to his voice. They sat on in the quiet low light. Comfortable in each other’s presence.

The next morning Wilkins, at a loose end, wandered into the Ambassador’s outer office where secretary Kate reigned.

“Is he in?” Wilkins asked. Kate went through the pantomime of calling on the intercom, “The Counselor is here to see you.” “You can go in,” nodding at the door.

Wilkins slumped into his customary chair, “Chatted with Mary Pierce last night.” Wilkins spoke easily, careful never to allow Shaw to make more of his relationship with Mary than circumstances required. “She’s curious about the over-reaction to the student demonstration and the way it’s been reported. Total cover up of the food shortage. It is strange.

Then what isn’t here?”

Shaw shrugged in agreement. “I received a memo from the Foreign Office in yesterday’s bag following up on the BBC stringer report. They asked how bad the situation is – as though we’d know – and asking if there is an opportunity to develop a famine aid program. Given my conversation with Aklilu that might be a long shot. We’re in check really. No famine, no need for aid.”

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Wilkins thoughtfully scratched his beard. “Hmm. That’s about right. We seem to be in a tussle to get the government here to acknowledge that they have a problem. It is interesting that the little BBC radio report has drawn such a strong reaction. I doubt that Aklilu has ever made such an uncompromising speech to the public. The Beeb report obviously touched a nerve. You have to wonder just how bad it might be. I wish we had better information than we have from Mary Pierce and young Cornick. Maybe if we could get a longer broadcast on a magazine programme it would force them to address the situation?”

“It could do. Any idea how that might happen? We’re not a top news destination by a long shot.”

“That’s for sure. Ethiopia is not on the radar of the UK. The mystical Mountain kingdom, never conquered by colonialists, if you discount the brief Italian adventure. It is interesting though. The rest of Africa was divided up among the colonial powers in eighteen eighty four in Berlin but Ethiopia was left alone, or proudly resisted, whatever. I believe Queen Victoria even had an Ethiopian prince studying in the UK at her expense.”

“Yep, Prince Alemayehu Simyen Tewodros. Educated at Rugby, died at eighteen of pleurisy. Tragic.”

“And Haile Selassie was given shelter in the UK during the Italian occupation. Given the connections it’s surprising that we don’t take more of an interest. We certainly maintain strong relations with the bits of Africa where we have economic interests, Nigeria, Kenya.”

Wilkins sat up. “That’s true. And there is a problem in Nigeria right now. I read about it in the Guardian Weekly.

Same as here. Drought. Terrific migration of people and cattle southward, out of the Sahel. People starving and cattle

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dying. There’s a young ITV reporter who apparently went there and recorded a programme that they ran in the UK. Caused quite a stir.”

“Surprising they laid out resources on recording a TV programme in Africa. Something like that might put some pressure on the people here. They couldn’t go on denying the situation.”

“Well, I guess the new generation of reporters are both more comfortable with recording live, on location, and the governors realize that communication is rapidly developing.”

“Yes, but Ethiopia?” Shaw asked tentatively.

“Well why not? A young reporter, eager. A story no one has even heard of? It could be an attractive assignment. A journalistic coup. Career making.”

“And how do we get to said young reporter? We’re in Addis Ababa, not London’s TV-land.”

“Maybe we can, at least I can give it a try,” Wilkins said.

“Mary Pierce is close to the BBC stringer here and she’s pretty fired up over the demo and the famine. She could push him to suggest to his London contacts that there might be some mileage and kudos if one of the British TV channels reported the situation here? Like the West Africa report? And if that leads to us Brits coming through with an aid package, that would be one up for us against both the Americans and the USSR. They are both pushing hard for influence here and we are, after all, eager to maintain our position in Africa.

I’ll try her.”

At the same time that morning, as Wilkins and Shaw were in conversation, Tes was sitting at a long mahogany dining table eating breakfast with Agriculture Minister, Ato Seifu Asrat and his wife Bekeletch Beyenne, who was only ever

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known as BB. Seifu and BB lived in a house built by one of the many army squaddies left behind in the scrambled retreat of the Italian army in 1941. They had been married for over twenty years and the house had been BB’s father’s gift to them when their first son was born. The interior of the dining-room was panelled in dark walnut wood and the matching window louvers were cleverly slanted open to create a pleasant breath of air that drifted through the room. Seifu and BB favoured European dining custom and they were breakfasting on scrambled eggs, toast and coffee. Seifu paid for Tes’s university tuition and accommodation in return for which Tes sometimes answered Seifu’s questions about the students and their moods, although Tes was careful not to use specific names if he could help it. He didn’t want to be accused of being a snitch.

Despite Aklilu’s broadcast denials of a famine, Seifu had spent the night fretting. He was concerned about Tes’s relationship with Mary Pierce who he knew from his own intelligence people had been travelling in the Wollo region. He didn’t know what she had seen, or what she had told Tes or her friend the BBC stringer, but he didn’t want to make Tes aware that it was an issue of concern by asking him too directly. He had to operate on the official line delivered by Aklilu the night before. There was no famine. On thinking it over, he decided that rather than worrying about what they may or may not know, he might be able to use Tes and his relationship with Mary to disarm the situation by getting Tes to feed Mary with some quieting information. Hence his asking Tes to join him and BB for breakfast this morning.

“I heard that Mary Pierce has returned from a foray in the north. Have you seen her since her return?”

Tes sat still, his mind on high alert. Through the silence

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the only sound came from the birds chattering in the garden.

Seifu was a crafty interrogator and a very powerful man, and Tes sensed the trap. He couldn’t compromise Mary by telling exactly what she had seen – or thought. Seifu obviously knew something, but what? How much?

“Yes, saw her a couple of days ago.”

“She had a good journey?” Seifu spoke quietly, almost ruminating on his words. “Gathering information for the Mission newsletter, I suppose?”

“Yes, I think so,” “She’s friendly with the Counselor at the British embassy, I remember. Wilkins. I often wonder if they have an interest in her newsletter.”

Tes was wary. He needed to tread carefully. He shrugged, “I don’t know. She did say that the Ambassador was furious about his treatment by the palace. Wouldn’t speak about anything else. He had been to see Aklilu and says he hadn’t been heard with diplomatic courtesy. But Mary says Shaw is a stuffed shirt of the first order.”

Seifu wrinkled his forehead and looked sternly at Tes. He really shouldn’t make comments like that about the Ambassador, certainly not make them to himself, a government minister. But he let it pass. “Ato Aklilu has had a lot to deal with. There have been the rumours about famine in Wollo that had to be followed up. Fortunately it turns out that they were overblown. The failure of the rains has caused some problems, but nothing serious. Nothing unusual. Made more difficult for Aklilu by a student demonstration. By the look of you, I assume you were there.” A statement, not a question.

Tes looked straight into Seifu’s eyes, “Yes, I was.”

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Seifu made no reply and Tes was left wondering what trouble might be circling around both him and Mary.

—————— The independent British television channel Thames Television aired the report in the United Kingdom on its “This Week” programme on Thursday October 18th.The channel had, surprisingly, responded positively to the idea of covering a famine in the semi-mystical land of Prester John and had sent the same reporter and crew who had covered the drought in West Africa three months previously. Wilkins’ hunch had paid off.

It was a harrowing, heartbreaking report. Twenty-six minutes long and shot in a largely sepia tonal range, a young reporter slowly walks through the camp in Wollo where the starving farmers have gathered. The camera moves slowly between two rows of ragged people sitting on the ground.

They are quiet, beaten by hunger and loss. He reports that they have sold their cattle or that the cattle have died and that the farmers have left their barren plots of land looking for food, for support. He learns that the farmers are barely surviving on rations of handfuls of boiled wheat, a piece of bread and one cup of tea a day. The people are skeletal, skin over bone, feeble, barely able to stand, reminding the British viewers of the Pathe News coverage of the Nazi concentration camps when they were relieved by the Allied forces at the end of the second war in Europe.

The reporter finds a Catholic monk who has been doing what he can to help, but he can only offer spiritual sustenance to the starving. No practical help. He has no access to food for himself. He is exhausted, his task hopeless. The only other helpers in the camp, where he thinks there may be a

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thousand people seeking help, are a health officer, two nurses and two orderlies. There is no doctor.

There are bodies strewn on the ground. Left where they have died. There is no sanitation and disease is already rampant, spreading the various plagues; malaria, typhus, pneumonia, tuberculosis and gastroenteritis. The reporter estimates that perhaps fifty thousand people have already died in the province and, if this goes on unchecked, maybe a hundred thousand will die at the rate of a thousand a week.

He visits a hospital where seventeen children are squatting or lying outside. They have been refused treatment as they are already too sick to recover. He refers to them as, “tattered remnants of young people.” They will die soon.

—————— At five o’clock on Friday October 19th, four weeks after Mary had approached the BBC stringer for the second time, and the day following the report on British television, the Emperor sat in the grand audience chamber of the Imperial Palace on the smaller imperial throne that he used for audiences, hands held in front of him with extended fingertips touching.

Aklilu stood silently before him, head bowed. His world had just exploded. This had not been an easy audience. The Emperor had heard the account on shortwave radio of the British television report from a famine stricken village in Wollo. In it the reporter had posited that perhaps a hundred thousand farmers would die. The television images were, apparently, horrendous. The Emperor, armed with that information, had interrogated several of his land owning inner courtiers who, confronted with a statement of fact, had reluctantly confirmed that the failed rains had caused problems. Hunger, movement

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of the farmers off the farmed land to villages in search of food, and death for the very young and elderly. Information that they had, not for the first time, deliberately withheld for fear of the Emperor’s wrath. He was, suddenly and unwelcomely, now brought to face a famine that was killing his people. Whether he had known of past famines and ignored them, no one could know. But he was now confronted with the fact of a real ongoing famine because of a farenji television reporter’s broadcast to the world outside Ethiopia.

Haile Selassie never raised his voice, always spoke in quiet modulated tones. “So we do have a problem with the people leaving their land and gathering in villages.” Not a question, a statement. “A migration that started, not this week, not this month, but perhaps four months ago. How could it be that I have never been informed, Ato Aklilu?”

Aklilu remained still, didn’t betray his unease. This was the worst situation he had found himself in for many years, probably ever. He had made himself indispensable to Haile Selassie but was aware that his good fortune and position could be finished, swatted away by the dismissive wave of the Emperor’s hand. He needed to be careful. “Because I did not know myself, Highness.” The lie delivered in a low steady voice. Haile Selassie was a shrewd, crafty, statesman whose face and demeanor never betrayed any emotion. It would be impossible to say whether he believed Aklilu or not. At present Aklilu thought he might.

“How could it be that you weren’t informed? We seem to know well what is happening in our own Ethiopia. We have information from our governors and land agents.”

“But I fear I was not told, Highness. I believe the information was withheld from me. I do not know why, but I do

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now know that Seifu Asrat was informed of the farmers’ distress weeks before the farenji television people arrived in Wollo. But he took no action and didn’t pass the information to me. I don’t know why.” It was early evening and outside there was the bustle of people heading home. Inside the audience chamber was a cold silence. The Emperor sat immobile and Aklilu stood. The one thinking and the other fearfully wondering.

The Emperor’s mind revolved the options. He still didn’t move.

After minutes of silence he decided. He spoke slowly and softly. “There are people who will have heard the British broadcast. The Palace will issue an account of what happened and of our concern for the people and that we will be sending relief. I require an immediate investigation into how many of these village assemblies there are and the number of people in them. You will then search for sources of aid to relieve their distress.” The emperor paused.

Aklilu bent his head, “Yes, Majesty.”

Another long silence. Aklilu’s mind racing over the possible consequences this might have for him personally.

Finally the Emperor continued, “For the moment, we had better relieve Ato Seifu of his responsibility as a minister.

Dejazmach Dereje Makonnen is eager to return to the senate from Gojjam. We could appoint Ato Seifu Governor General of the province and possibly reward him with the title Ras. ” Aklilu inwardly exhaled, breathed a sigh of relief. He knew where to source the aid. He would contact the British Embassy immediately. Seifu would be taking the fall and he would be the conduit for the grain coming as relief.

He would survive.

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The following day, Saturday October 20th, Seifu and Aklilu were again sitting in the shade of the olive tree growing from the hole in the center of the courtyard of the Italian restaurant.

The stillness and silence broken only by the weaver birds’ chatter in the shimmering heat. Seifu was uneasy. He had known Aklilu for a long time and they had supported one another through several twists and turns of court intrigue.

Aklilu disliked this task and had thought hard about how to approach it. He had reached no conclusion how best to do it and, still undecided, broke into the silence. “You heard that British television was in Wollo and aired a report of a famine?” Seifu made no response. He sat, head cocked to one side, looking at the flitting birds. “The Emperor heard of it. He is displeased. He made it clear he wishes it to be publicly addressed. He has ordered that a search for aid from overseas be started immediately. He needs to be seen to be caring for his people. ” Aklilu paused, and Seifu shifted in his chair and turned his head to look straight at Aklilu. Seifu’s lips were pursed, he was still, silent. He knew that the Emperor had heard of the broadcast even if he hadn’t heard it himself. There had been whispering. He had been waiting for the reaction – wondering how it might fall on him and on Aklilu. He knew he was in a difficult position. Aklilu had the Emperor’s ear and he did not. He knew that he and Aklilu were fencing for position and he was in defense, en garde.

Aklilu watched Seifu for a reaction as he continued. “He thinks it will be better to remove you from the immediate situation to avoid unnecessary embarrassment. He asked me to convey his gratitude for your long service to the senate and as a minister. He does have a plan for you. Dejazmach Dereje is eager to return to the senate here in Addis which means that the Governorship General of Gojjam will be vacant. I believe

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His Majesty would like to thank you for your service by offering you that position with the title of Ras. It is a promotion in many ways.”

Seifu, in common with most of the government in the service of the Emperor, had much practice in not showing any reaction to immediate events. Like the Emperor himself they prided themselves on their inscrutability. He leaned back in his chair and seethed quietly. So the fencing bout was over. He would take the fall, prise de fer.

After a long pause he stood, “I understand. Please convey my loyalty and gratitude to His Majesty,” then turned and walked back to his Peugeot. Aklilu watched him and wondered.

As he drove back into town Seifu’s mind raced. He wasn’t surprised, but angry that he would be blamed for the government’s failure to address the famine and accused of allowing the deaths to occur, while Aklilu carried on in a position of favour. And apart from the loss of position, of the respect that his position carried on account of its power, his wife, BB, would not be pleased. As the wife of a Minister she also enjoyed elevated social status and despite their different financial positions, it put her at least equal to, if not above her wealthy brother. Seifu’s first thought was how he was going to explain his firing to her. But then his ever active mind was taken over by another thought. Aklilu would certainly now have to search for aid internationally, and aid of any kind was highly friable financially. Aid was like a colander, however much was put in, some got rinsed and escaped through the holes. He knew of grain being hijacked by the South African government only recently. Hayk Kervorkian, who had lively international connections and kept close watch on international trade and finance, had told him. He knew that

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to get any shipments in time to relieve what now sounded to be a horrible situation with thousands and thousands of deaths would be a raggedly improvised operation. There were likely to be very few of the usual restrictions or scrutiny in an emergency situation. A lot of holes in the colander. Being the Governor General would not be nearly as lucrative as being Minister of the Interior and so long as the grain arrived for the people in Wollo, it wouldn’t harm anyone if he was able to make some money from the situation as the grain was passed along. It was too early to see how yet, but he was fairly sure that there would be a way to manipulate the situation, find the holes in the colander, and somehow insert himself into the financial train. Aid was like that. It offered endless opportunities. If he could embarrass the government and make a little money, he knew that he would somehow feel better. He would especially love to see Aklilu embarrassed. It would be a salve to his pride. This whole famine cover up had ruined him anyway. He was being sidelined from the central government. He really had nothing to lose.

The message arrived in London that the door had been opened and that the grain would be accepted, welcomed even, as famine relief. The British television report had clearly had an effect in several ways.

Chapter 6 ADDIS ABABA BRITISH EMBASSY OCTOBER 26, 1973

THREE DAYS FOLLOWING Seifu’s demotion, Ambassador Shaw and Counselor Wilkins were at their morning meeting in Shaw’s office. The french windows were open to the garden where Len, Wilkin’s lizard, sat in the shade of the flower pot pushed up on its front legs, looking as though it was doing press-ups as it gulped for air. The morning haze had cleared to reveal a pale blue sky in dry air, with still no sign of a cloud. The heat of the day was already starting to build and a hawk turned lazy circles in the rising air, sending the weaver birds noisily scattering. The grass in the compound was a pale yellow — it hadn’t been watered for months now. Despite the stifling thin air, Ambassador Shaw was uncharacteristically cheerful, for him, almost ebullient.

He had left his seat behind the desk and sat in the visitor chair opposite the one in which Counselor Wilkins slumped, already beaten by the still, dry day.

“It was certainly unusual. He was positively polite. Almost welcoming. Not his usual self at all.” The day before, Aklilu had personally called Shaw to ask him to attend the 101

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palace. Shaw had been surprised to receive the invitation, especially at such short notice. Not Aklilu’s style at all. But he had an inkling, at least a hope, that he correctly guessed the reason for the summons. And he had been right. Aklilu had, in a circuitous manner, got to the question of aid. He managed to do it without reference to the British television report or to admit that there was famine. But he had reversed his earlier response, and communicated the palace’s grateful acceptance of the grain aid that the British government had so kindly offered. “Very unusual for Aklilu. He almost tied himself in knots to get to the point.” Shaw stopped abruptly.

That probably wasn’t the correct way to express himself, not when Wilkins was in the room.

After a silence and Wilkins not offering any comment, Shaw continued; “You know, Dennis, I think we almost owe something to Mary Pierce for this. Our thanks anyway. We wouldn’t have had the reporter here if Miss Pierce hadn’t prodded the stringer. Without the television intervention this famine would have gone unnoticed by the outside world. As they have for ever, I suppose.”

“Hmm, yes,” Wilkins grunted in assent. “He’s young, good for his career.”

“And it is good that we alerted London to the situation early. I told Aklilu that we would send wheat, but I think any grain would be helpful. London will have to get a move on.

They’ll have to buy on the world market. I saw a report that came in the last bag. Seems there is a global shortage of grain and prices have rocketed. London will need to do some astute buying. I read that the harvest has been catastrophic worldwide. The USSR crop in Ukraine failed and apparently the Soviets sourced ten million tons of wheat and corn from the US. But when payment fell due, they couldn’t meet the bill.

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No surprise there. Starvation on the way in Ukraine again I wouldn’t wonder.”

“That’s odd though,” Wilkins scratched his beard and shifted position. “Yesterday I heard a whisper that the Soviets had offered to send some grain here as relief aid. Peculiar given their problems at home. I guess the foreign affairs people have a different agenda to their domestic wallahs. Left hand and right hand type of thing.”

“It’s their foreign affairs people. If Egypt opens the Canal, there’s going to be a scramble for influence here, in Somalia and in Yemen” Shaw said. “If shipping can avoid the Cape and start transiting the Canal at Suez, it’s going to alter strategy for everyone in the Horn of Africa as well as in Yemen. Aden will become a diplomatic station again. Massawa will become an important transshipment port. The USSR will want to be a presence. There’s all sorts of mischief they could get up to.

I assume they hope that supplying grain will give them some leverage here with the Ethiopians. Same as us really.”

Wilkins silently sighed at Shaw’s lecturing, rehearsing the blindingly obvious. “Still difficult to see where they can get the grain from though.” Wilkins said. “If they are having to buy on the international market for their own consumption and having difficulty with payment, where are they going to get grain to send here?”

Shaw made a wry shake of his head. “I’ve no idea but we’d better ask London to get a move on anyway. Mary Pierce said the situation is seriously bad so we need to get our relief to Wollo ASAP. And we had better watch what the Russians are up to. If they are able to find grain to send it’s imperative that our aid has reached Wollo before any Russian aid can steal our thunder. Our job is to keep the Ethiopian government onside. I’ll get a message to London.”

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On the morning of Friday October 26th, four days after Ambassador Shaw’s interview with Aklilu and his last message to London asking them to expedite the purchase and shipping of grain, he was sitting at his desk in the Embassy.

As on most mornings there was nothing to occupy him in his ambassadorial role and he sat idly flicking through the pages of a Stanley Gibbons stamp catalog. Shaw was an enthusiastic philatelist with a good collection of British and Commonwealth stamps going back almost a hundred years. The collection was safely locked away in his solicitor’s office in Bride Lane, a little lane off Fleet Street in London. He was wondering how much its value had increased since he had been away.

And thinking of Bride Lane brought him to thinking of his wife, Zelda, in their house in Hampstead in London, close to the Heath. Zelda had trailed through his last two postings with him but had drawn the line when he was posted to Ethiopia. She had flown out to visit twice in the last year, but had not improved her opinion of Addis Ababa as a result. “A dusty little town on top of a mountain,” she had written to her sister on her first visit. As Zelda didn’t mind being separated from Shaw and he didn’t mind the separation either, the situation suited them both. They viewed their marriage rather as a nineteenth century dynastic alignment. Friendly and convenient.

His reverie was broken by the clatter of the radio teletype in the outer office shortly followed by Kate knocking on his office door and delivering the folded sheets of paper.

He scanned the message and without looking up asked if the Counselor was in. The answer being affirmative, he picked up the interoffice phone. “Dennis. Got a moment?”

Wilkins now sprawled in his usual chair, scratching at his

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beard. It was becoming intolerable in the unrelenting heat.

Maybe he should have it shaved off. But it was his identity.

He’d had it almost since he could first shave. Shaw passed him the teletype. “I believe we have action.”

Wilkins stopped scratching and read the message slowly, carefully. He was concerned about Shaw’s enthusiasm for this whole scheme. It seemed to Wilkins that there were too many parts that could go wrong. It was too much risk for very little gain. It wasn’t much grain, after all. Five hundred tons. It sounds a lot but the British television people had thought there were maybe a hundred thousand refugees. At the very best it might be a month’s supply at one meal a day.

And the Ethiopian government had been backed into a corner to accept it. They were reluctant recipients. He wondered just how much goodwill this exercise would really generate.

He finally looked up. “So they have agreed to the airfreight.

I’m surprised. That will be a hole in someone’s budget.”

“Yes, certainly will. But it has to. It would be months getting here by sea. No chance. It has to be airlifted. It’s coming from the US. They have those huge freight aircraft. Looks as though it will arrive in American planes, Pan Am freighters, L-100 Hercules.”

Wilkins looked up from the teletype in surprise. Aircraft identification wasn’t something he expected Shaw to either know or be interested in. Wilkins raised his eyebrows as he spoke, “They will clearly be American planes. Pan Am is Pan American. Where’s the British connection?”

“I know,” Shaw replied a little sharply, “but that won’t matter. It will be the gift of Her Majesty’s Government. We have to purchase it from somewhere. We don’t have surplus grain at home. There’s a shortage in Britain just like everywhere

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else — except America, of course. We’ll have a handover ceremony that will be reported. It gets the government here off the hook and makes us look caring and competent. No one cares how it gets here. Anyway it’s not as though the planes will be on the apron when it’s handed over. They’ll unload and leave. And I doubt anyone will even notice their livery anyway. Who does? They’re just more airplanes. So long as we get the acknowledgement from the government and Himself, mission accomplished.”

Wilkins looked out of the french doors, distracted by the gardener clipping the yellow lawn with hand shears. Why bother clipping dead grass? he wondered. He refocussed.

“And when will it arrive? Do we know?”

“Well I reckon it will need between twenty and twenty five flights.” More information that Wilkins was almost amazed that Shaw possessed. “If they put six aircraft on it, probably four or five days total. We’ll know as soon as the shipping manifests are sent over.”

“And then we have to get it transported to Wollo.” Wilkins ruminated, spoke slowly. How are we going to do that?”

“We don’t. We’ll leave that up to the government. They’ll need military trucks to manage it.”

“That makes sense. They could do that. Be pointless for us to send trucks. Would it be okay if I passed on the news to Mary Pierce? She was, after all, where this began.”

“I don’t see why not. The pieces are all in place and the delivery will be soon. She should be pleased.”

That evening was the weekly rehearsal of the string quartet in St Matthew’s church and, as was their habit, Dennis Wilkins and Mary Pierce hung back after the other two members had left and sat in the front pew quietly enjoying

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the gloom and relative cool of the twilight.

“That is terrific news, Dennis. Thank you for telling me. I hope it’s not too late. I’m not exaggerating. There are a lot of dead people already. At least in the camp that I got to.”

“It will depend on the army, I suppose. I imagine they will cooperate. A lot of the squaddies come from the area. Some of the barracks have been complaining about food themselves, or the shortage thereof.” Wilkins grinned. He sometimes wondered at his own linguistic constructions. “They have the trucks and they have good maintenance crews. The trucks can probably make it.”

“Tes and his student friends will be pleased. Is it okay if I tell them that aid is on the way?”

“I don’t see why not. Publicity seems to be the name of Shaw’s game from this point on.”

The following morning Tes was early for breakfast in Seifu’s house. He had been sitting at the dining table for over two hours when Seifu came in. Seifu looked strained. The news of his firing had not gone well with BB. Last night, like every night since he had been fired, they had again been awake until after four talking, arguing, about what it would mean for them. BB was what the Amhara called, derogatorily, a half caste. Her father one of the Italian squaddies left behind when the Italian army retreated in 1940, the only time a colonial occupier was ejected from an African territory, and her mother an Oromo from Goba. BB inherited different but complementary attributes from each; an explosive temper from her father and an analytic and strategic way of thinking from her mother. But BB’s father came from a family of gelato makers in Sicily and within three years of being abandoned by the Italian military had established a gelato shop in Mojo, an important intersection of trade routes to the south

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and Kenya and to the east and Harar and the Red Sea port of Djibouti. Unlikely as it seemed, gelato was a hit with the travellers and traders passing through and the business had grown and generated enough income for BB to be sent to school in Addis. BB and Seifu retained a strong connection with their Sicilian family and their two sons had been sent to school in Italy when they were twelve years old. Both had become fluent speakers of Italian in addition to their native Amharic and Oromo and their educational English. Seifu and BB and the Sicilian family not only visited one another regularly but had, on several occasions, helped one another with some irregular business transactions. Last night’s conversation had been intense.

BB had been furious, volcanic, when Seifu recounted the afternoon’s conversation with Aklilu that had culminated in his summary sacking.

“Governor of Gojjam? Gojjam? What are we going to do in Gojjam? God forsaken place. No. We aren’t going to Gojjam.”

“And where will we go? How will we live? There at least we get the governor’s house and a salary.”

“Can’t you see the jibe? The cynicism? That’s exactly where the British television people reported a famine from.”

Seifu double took. His wife often surprised him with what she knew. He didn’t bother to ask how.

“I really can’t see what else I can do other than accept.

It will be out of the way, I know, but that may not be a bad thing until this all calms down. I have a feeling of instability about the government. The students are restless and I heard that the army people are too.”

“Maybe it’s time to think of getting away completely.

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Once the Emperor goes, no one knows what will happen.

There is no succession. Asfa Wossen isn’t ever coming back.

He’s safely nested in Switzerland. We could always go to my family in Sicily. You could join the family business. They’d like that. Us being there and you working with them.”

Seifu didn’t react. It wasn’t a surprise suggestion. They had talked it over before.

Seifu was dragging after the long night of conversation with BB, but Tes was fizzing, ebullient. He knew that in some way Mary had been involved in securing aid for the people in Wollo. He wasn’t sure exactly how, but last night she had been explicit. Five hundred tons of wheat to arrive shortly.

He was bursting to tell Seifu. But Seifu was distant, tired, thinking of what BB had said, and at first didn’t register exactly what Tes was saying. But as realization slowly dawned, he came out of his reverie, focussed and expressed interest.

“And they are sending wheat? Who exactly? I’m sorry, I was a little distracted.”

“The British, I think. Not quite sure, but five hundred tons. And soon. It’s been agreed.”

“And when will that arrive? If it is shipped from Europe to Asab or Djibouti it will take a year. Not much immediate use.”

“No. No. That’s the point. It’s being airlifted. It will be here in days, well a week or so, anyway. It’s being sent as aid.”

Seifu thoughtfully loaded a forkful of scrambled egg onto a piece of toast as his mind juggled and sorted the information.

His sacking was a result of his fear of the Emperor. Fear that the Emperor would find out about the hunger and famine

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in the north. Well now the Emperor knew and, as a result he, Seifu, had been sacked, taken the fall and lost his position and salary as well as his income from grateful petitioners.

And now he learned that the aid he had guessed would eventually be forthcoming was arriving as grain, donated by the British – who had shown only very mild interest in Ethiopia over the years since their involvement in re-establishing Haile Selassie as Emperor when the Italians were driven out. The British who were in limbo in Africa. Caught between their colonial past and the recently independent African states.

Unsure how they should act. Uncertain how to relate to a proudly independent Ethiopia. Maybe there was something here that he could leverage to his advantage.

His mind began to race over the situation. He wondered where else Aklilu had searched for aid. America’s attention had been consumed by the Arab Israeli war and they had more or less dropped Ethiopia. But the USSR were new players. They had only very recently taken more interest in Ethiopia when they saw possibilities in its strategic positioning if the Suez Canal reopened. On the other hand, they had a food problem of their own – and they were broke. Their recent failure to complete the payment for the grain purchased from the US had been hugely embarrassing. A great loss of face in the world of international relations. But they would surely like to gain more influence with Ethiopia and if grain was now being shipped by the British, there might be an opportunity there that he could exploit. With the world shortage, grain was difficult to source and expensive, and there was a scramble to secure it. Maybe he could help the USSR bridge intention and execution. Get them into the aid business in Ethiopia at a cost they could still bear, even after the US default. He rationalized that so long as the grain arrived it didn’t matter to the starving people where it came from.

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Britain, the USSR, grain was grain, food, wherever it came from. Being the Governor General in Gojam was a horrible demotion. It would not be nearly as lucrative as being Minister of Agriculture. And, he mused, it would be a salve to his pride to see Aklilu made to look a fool.

He broke his reverie and called for more coffee. “Well, that’s good.” was all he said.

He thought about Tes’s revelation for the rest of that day and the next. He thought about his conversation with BB. This was just the sort of situation that he knew could be manipulated. He just needed to think how.

Chapter 7 ADDIS ABABA BUNA BEIT OCTOBER 27, 1973

TES ARRIVED AT THE buna beit just after six that evening, the smoke from the cooking fires outside the surrounding shelters drifting upward in still air, turning crimson in the last rays of the setting sun. He paused to look back, over the makeshift homes, a stark contrast to the houses of Seifu and Mary. He stood, thoughtful, for a little while, then turned and went inside.

Tes had arranged to meet Guenet, at the buna beit an hour before the others from the group would arrive. It was now four weeks since Tes had been beaten and he had mostly recovered from his injuries although his broken nose was still occasionally painful. Guenet maintained her poise and reputation wearing a stunning yellow shift dress and her trademark stiletto heeled sandals. People often pigeonholed Guenet as superficial. They were very wrong. She was among the highest academic achievers at the university and destined for post graduate education overseas. She was also the close confidant of Tes. The two had established trust in one another since they had met at the university in their first year, 112

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despite their very different family backgrounds – Guenet’s family were from an aristocratic line in Gondar while Tes’s father had been an Oromo coffee trader – and their very different personalities. Tes the extrovert, talkative leader and Guenet quieter, deeper, more difficult to read.

They sat at a plastic topped table that was battered and scarred from student use. Both had small expresso cups of coffee and glasses of Ambo water in front of them. They hadn’t spoken much since the break up of the demonstration. Tes had been under forced quarantine by Mary while his wounds healed and the university had been sporadically closed for a day here and there while the desultory enquiry into the demonstration went on. This was the first time they had an opportunity to speak to one another alone. The buna beit was quiet late on a Saturday, only two other people speaking softly at another table as the low sun slanted in through the open window, catching the wisp of smoke rising from a smoldering lump of frankincense.

Their conversation had turned to the breakup of the demonstration. It had been organized at nine o’clock in the evening for the following morning at nine thirty. No time at all between the decision to demonstrate and the demonstration itself. There really was only one possible explanation.

There had to be an informer inside the group. Guenet and Tes were trying to puzzle it out. They both spoke Oromo and Amharic but chose to speak in English, believing that the woman bar owner would not understand them.

“It could be anyone. So many of the group have patrons of one kind or another. I don’t think any of the parents or families would have been involved. It would make no sense.”

Tes made a clicking sound, “No. But it leaves us in a

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difficult position. We can’t organize anything unless we find out who it is.”

“I can’t think how we might do that.” Guenet was thoughtful. “The whole group will be nervous now. Everyone must have realized that an informer was the only way the snowdrops could have been alerted. We can watch people this evening. But I don’t like it. I thought the group was tightly woven, committed.”

“It was the first time our group has done anything like that. There were other protests before us. Back a few years.

They were broken up by the police too. I’ve no idea what happened to them, the protesters.”

As the sun sank and the temperature dropped, members of the group drifted in, apparently not in a hurry to get anywhere, passing by, out for a Saturday evening stroll. There were no effusive greetings, just a customary “enedamene amasachu” with the polite response “Dehna neh” or “dehna nesh” as one by one they formed a small group around Tes and Guenet.”

The bar owner closed the windows and pulled the metal shutters tight.

The camaraderie of four weeks ago had gone. A harder, more determined, atmosphere was present. And a wariness.

None of the group wanted to back out, but they were all, like Guenet and Tes, aware that there was likely a Judas among them. But no one was going to say so.

Tes stood up, leant on his chair back, and started slowly, “I know you have all heard. There is some sort of food aid on the way to help the farmers in Wollo. Whether our attempt at a demonstration had anything to do with it, who knows?

More certainly the report of the British television reporter

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stirred something. The sudden reversal must be because of that. But it’s too late for many of the farmers. Mary was up there again and she says the death toll is rising rapidly with dysentery now killing the children. I asked her to call in tonight so you can hear what she has to say directly.”

No one was surprised that Mary would be present. They all knew her and trusted her. It was Mary’s nurturing of Tes’s development as a writer and speaker that was at least in part responsible for his acceptance as a leader in this group.

“Has anyone actually seen the TV report?” a voice asked from a pool of darkness at the back of the room.

“Mary heard it referred to on the BBC World Service shortwave. And she says the English newspapers at the embassy had coverage. They must have had a preview. They’ll be cut out of the newspapers at the British Council library, I expect.”

“There are some farmers camped outside the cathedral today and no one has tried to move them. I saw some more arriving this evening.”

Guenet spoke, “I suppose that with the Emperor now saying that there is a famine, or food shortage, or whatever he said, the snowdrops are under orders to let them be.”

“There have been some problems though. The regular street beggars have their pitches there and there have been fights with the farmers taking the alms that the beggars usually accept.”

Another voice from the gloom, “They are still suppressing news today though, playing down the problem. Radio Voice of the Gospel said that some foreign reporters were trying to get into the country but had been denied entry

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visas. They must be coming to report on the famine. They’ve never sent reporters before.”

The rattle of an air cooled engine pulling up in the yard outside announced Mary Pierce in her anachronistic, bright yellow, VW beetle with its transfers of butterflies on the hood and doors.

She peered in at the door cautiously, as much not wanting to interrupt as wary of who was inside.

“Mary” Tes called. “Come on inside.”

The group shuffled around and made space for Mary in a chair beside Tes. Mary enjoyed a relaxed familiarity with several members of the group. An unusual familiarity for a farenji in Ethiopia.

There was a reserve, a distance, usually present even among colleagues, between the Ethiopians and the outsiders. But Mary was accepted.

After Mary had been served coffee and greetings exchanged, the meeting turned serious – to Mary’s description of her most recent drive to the north. To the areas of Wollo that she had reported on to Wilkins at the British embassy five weeks or so ago. What she reported horrified them. Not just the disease and death coursing through the encampments, but the presence of food, of grain, in the stores in Weldiya.

“Sacks of grain. Nido milk powder. At incredible prices.

No one could possibly afford them even in normal times.

People dying within fifty miles, and these stores piled high with food no one can afford. It’s incredible. It’s criminal. And no one will do anything. It’s unbelievable.” Mary was passionate, almost in tears, choking on her words.

There was silence. No one spoke or moved. But there was

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a common thought running around the room. The landlords.

The fat cats who lived off these peasant farmers. In good times and bad they exacted a tax of up to seventy percent of what the farmers produced. And now they were hoarding food and trying to gouge extortionate prices from their own peasant tenants. There had been a growing idea, a resentment, among the last generation of students that the system was broken. That it needed to change. This generation inherited the idea – and the frustration – that there was no way to change it.

“Did you manage to get to any of the villages?” Tes asked quietly.

“Only the one nearest the road. The carnage is real. It’s not an impression. It is real. It is heartbreaking. The people are now so thin, and the children are dying daily. They now have a common grave. They are too weak to dig separate ones. They have created just one big hole. The smell is awful.

There will be no one left alive unless help and food get there immediately.” Mary sank back into her chair, defeated.

The thin wisp of incense trailed around their bowed heads. Silence. A distant bark in the evening.

Tes stirred. “How can this happen? How can it keep happening? Why does no one do anything?”

“It’s never reported, but it has happened before. Probably many times. There was a famine in 1965 that my parents remember. But it was never reported. No one cares.”

“The families of dead children care.” A voice from the darkness outside the circle.

“Apparently this farenji TV reporter cared. I’ve no idea how he could have known, but he came. Seems he cared

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enough to get his report on the air. The farenjis care more for our people than the Emperor. Can that be true? How did he know about the famine, anyway? When it’s kept quiet here.”

Mary remained silent.

A puzzled voice from the dark; “But the Emperor has done something. He has promoted education. He started the university. He’s even sent people overseas to study.”

“And the peasant farmers are starving while the landlords do nothing to help them. They watch them die. They are expendable. The feudal system carries on. Seems the two things are pulling in different directions.”

Mary revived and sat forward. “It doesn’t make sense. It never has. And leaving people to die makes no sense at all.”

“It will never change. Not in our lifetimes. Not ever. All we can do is fight to improve it” Tes sighed. Resigned.

Chapter 8 ADDIS ABABA B O L E A I R P O RT OCTOBER 29, 1973

THE FOLLOWING MONDAY MORNING Seifu was in his car, driving on the Bole Road out to the airport. One of the few macadam tarred roads, the heat bounced off the black surface in a shimmering haze. Seifu drove with the windows rolled half down. He pulled around the circle in front of the airport to park to the side of the passenger terminal, in front of the cargo shed. Mid morning, the airport was quiet, almost sleepy. The one flight from Europe due in today wouldn’t be arriving until late afternoon and the domestic DC3 running the route to Asmara left earlier in the morning.

Seifu got out of the car, stretched and sniffed the air. The faintest whiff of aviation kerosene in still, hot air.

Inside the cargo shed he walked over to a prefabricated office built into one corner with a door and a long glass window built into the side facing the piles of goods waiting for customs clearance. He tapped on the glass and the figure seated at the desk, looked up, surprised, and beckoned him to enter.

“Tena Yistilin, getaye” the figure rose from the desk and 119

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offered his outstretched hand. Seifu returned the formal greeting with a conversational “salaam” and waved the head of customs, Getachew Tilahun, to his chair. The office was sparse; just the desk and office chair, the seemingly compulsory two visitor chairs facing one another and a single pin board on the wall with several cargo manifests pinned to it. The only concession to the heat that was building inside the corrugated steel walls was the draft from a large electric fan standing on the floor at the side of Getachew’s desk.

There was no external light, just a single fluorescent tube in the ceiling.

Despite the formality of Getachew’s greeting the two men knew each other well. They had been wary collaborators in several transactions over the past few years. Getachew picked up his phone and ordered coffee. The two exchanged customary pleasantries and inquired after one another’s family wellbeing until the airport coffee shop waiter arrived bearing a small aluminium waiter’s tray with two cups of coffee and two small glasses of mineral water.

Seifu eventually edged around to the reason for his visit. He began cautiously. “You know about the famine in the north. I’m sure you heard Ato Aklilu’s message broadcast on Radio Ethiopia.” He looked at Getachew quizzically. Few people actually bothered to listen to Radio Ethiopia since it now mostly broadcast government announcements. But it was an opening.

“I did, actually” Getachew answered. “I heard from a cousin about a student protest being stopped and I wondered what was going on. So I have been listening. I guess the two events might be linked?”

“Yes, they are. The student work programme backfired when some of them working in Wollo saw the crop failure

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and scooted out early, back to Addis. They somehow got the British news people involved and word reached the Emperor that the Brits had broadcast an account of the famine. A major embarrassment for His Majesty. Major. Diminished in the eyes of the international community. A failure to provide for his people. Distributing bread rolls from the back of the Rolls Royce was seen to be not enough. I don’t know for sure, but I think Aklilu wriggled his way out of any culpability and placed the blame for the silence, the withholding of information, on me. We have worked together for years, striven to shield His Majesty from such news, but it seems that this time Aklilu sacrificed me to save his own skin. The result being my removal from government and sent to exile in Gojjam. I am being exiled as the fall-guy to protect his esteemed Majesty from accusations that he ignored the plight of his people.”

“Hmm.” Getachew murmured. “Not the first time that’s happened, I’m sure.”

“No. It’s not. But losing my position in government here in Addis is a loss of face – and a huge loss of income. My wife is upset and her mother is looking for vengeance. I can almost hear them. Aklilu and the British are to blame for this.

They almost seem to be in league. Probably not, it’s unlikely.

But they are the cause. Anyway, I’ve been thinking. There is a way I can get even with both of them and provide myself with a farewell gift as well. It won’t harm anyone except them.”

Getachew leant back in his chair, curious, almost amused, not quite smiling. He sensed that the power relationship between the two was levelling out. Up in his case. Seifu needed his help. Otherwise why was he here? “Farewell gift? Are you

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leaving? What kind of gift?” Getachew was enjoying himself.

“How would you do that?” he asked.

Seifu ignored the levity; “There is a huge consignment of grain being airlifted as a gift in aid coming from the British.

When it arrives, I just need it held here in customs for seventy-two hours. If that could be arranged, that’s all I need.”

Getachew tilted his head to one side. It was a curious request. He was trying to figure out what Seifu actually wanted. “That could be difficult, Ato Seifu. If it’s aid there will be a big ceremony about its arrival. You can be sure of that.

Aid seems to generally be sent to benefit the donor in my experience.”

“I thought of that,” Seifu replied. “I only need seventy-two hours. Suppose the shipment doesn’t have the appropriate duty paid up front? It could be held pending clearance? Stuff has been stuck here for weeks sometimes when there’s a squabble about documentation.”

“Well if it’s aid, I’m not sure that duty would be paid.”

Getachew paused. “But I suppose it could take a little while to sort out a misunderstanding.”

“Exactly, Ato Getachew. My thought exactly.”

Getachew couldn’t help but look quizzical. What was Seifu up to? He could hardly have ideas about selling the grain.

That would be too obvious a crime. He’d have the world come after him. He needed to know before compromising his own position. “I don’t see what use the grain might be.

You can’t sell it.”

“But I can. That’s the beauty of aid. Government to government aid is rarely, probably never, entirely altruistic. But to the end recipient, it hardly matters where it comes from.

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Starving people don’t care where food comes from. They just need food. Its source is of no interest to them. And we are in a unique situation. We will have competing donors now the famine has been declared, certainly one who can source grain and buy it, and one who can’t afford to pay market price for it even if they can source it. The British and the Russians. I can sell the incoming grain to a grateful would-be donor who otherwise can’t afford to be a player. The grain still gets to the starving, it just means that the credit and good relations created by the gift get placed elsewhere. And the grain never diverts from its route. It still leaves from here, in trucks, to get to Wollo.

Seifu sat back and Getachew almost smiled. “If that can be done without getting caught! It’s ingenious. Clever.

Victimless. I don’t see how it could be done though. And I don’t want to be within a million miles of it if the arrangement goes south.”

“You won’t be. Absolutely all you have to do is stall the custom clearance for two or three days. I promise.”

A long pause as the two sat in silence. The heat of the afternoon rising in the shed, the smell of dry dust floating in the air.

Getachew slowly nodded. “How much are we talking about?”

“I don’t know for sure yet. I don’t know when it’s coming, I don’t know what grain is in the consignment and I don’t yet know quantities or price. It could be five hundred tons of wheat but I’ll let you know. I thought we could split whatever we can sell for on a percentage basis?”

Getachew whistled through pursed lips. “That’s a lot of don’t knows about a lot of airfreight. We’ve never handled a shipment like that. What percentage?”

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Seifu spoke without any expression, “Ten percent after costs?” It was almost a question.

“Twenty” Getachew replied.

“OK”. Seifu held out his hand. He wasn’t haggling over this. “I can deposit in your foreign account.” The two sat on in the early afternoon silence. If only all business transactions were this easy to negotiate. Eventually Seifu spoke. “I need to make the arrangements. I’ll let you know in good time when the grain is on the way. I’ll need to have access to the airside of the customs shed when it arrives. And I’ll need to be there alone.”

As he walked back to his car Seifu heard the clatter of the incoming DC3’s engines. The afternoon flight the locals unkindly called the vomit comet on account of its flying at low altitude in the hot afternoon air. The little plane bounced and jerked violently on its final approach.

Chapter 9 ADDIS ABABA ARMENIAN GENERAL STORE

IT WAS NOW CLOSE to lunchtime and the air was getting hotter and drier. No breeze at all. Everything still. Seifu wound down the car windows, started the engine and turned the cabin air fan to maximum. He sat for a while in the blast of hot air. It made his eyes sting and he turned the fan back down to low. His mind sorting over what he needed to do next. With Getachew on board he needed to arrange the parts of the puzzle, orchestrate them into a sequence that would become a workable plan. After a few minutes, he nodded to himself. He knew who he now needed to speak with, but realizing that with lunch and siesta about to start, he had to kill the couple of hours of down time. He drove slowly back toward town and turned off toward the Emperor’s stables and the Ghion hotel where he could sit on the veranda, have a mezze and a beer, and think over how best to present his idea. The Emperor’s horses would be back from their morning exercise and grooms would be washing and combing their beautiful coats. He always found that calming.

At three-thirty he paid the bill, took a last look at the 125

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horses, now in their stalls with heads peering out over half doors, and started back toward the center of town and the main shopping street, Haile Selassie Avenue. The shops had only just reopened and he parked in front of the one that sold fishing tackle, sporting guns, camping equipment and everything else required for camping, hunting or fishing. The store of Hayk Kervorkian, an Armenian born in Addis whose parents had been brought there as children in 1924. Haile Selassie, when he was still Ras Tafari, had petitioned to be allowed to bring forty Armenian children to Addis following the Ottoman Armenian genocide. The Emperor had a soft spot for the Armenians and many more families subsequently arrived fleeing the ongoing persecution. They had established themselves in Ethiopia where they were now a thriving community centered on their own Armenian church. Over time they had become central to the import export business of Ethiopia such as it was. It wasn’t a large trade, but what there was of it was Armenian and the traders had been allowed very wide latitude in their business dealings. That worked both ways as the Emperor himself was a considerable consumer of European luxuries that the Armenian community were happy to source for him. But many Armenians also still lived in what was now the USSR and Kervorkian maintained some personal as well as some business contacts. He was a sophisticated, urbane person, multilingual like many of his contemporaries, in addition to Armenian he spoke fluent Amharic, Oromo, Russian, English and Italian. Seifu knew Kervorkian well, having helped him move around import regulations affecting several of his past business transactions.

Kervorkian rose from his stool behind the store counter to greet him. “Ato Seifu. What a pleasure.” He spoke in Amharic and ushered Seifu to a small three-legged round table at the back of the store that was just large enough for the two chairs

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pulled up to it. Without asking Seifu, Kervorkian called his office boy to bring coffee. It was customary hospitality.

Their conversation drifted for a while in the late afternoon air with motes of dust flickering in the beam of sunlight crossing the floor by the open door. The exchange of news of their families concluded, the talk slowly turned to the present situation in Addis with the news of the famine in the north and the arrival in the city of several groups of protesting farmers, as well as the recent student unrest. Despite the government’s attempt to disparage the students, people like Kervorkian were too well informed, and too skeptical of the government not to realize what had been behind the students’ action. And Kervorkian was extremely well informed.

Regular visitors to this little table at the back of the store brought news from throughout the Empire as well as from the dark silent corners of Haile Selassie’s court. It was part of his business to know.

“It’s difficult to see where this might go”, Kervorkian tugged at his cheek as he spoke. “I’m told that the students have been getting more and more restless. From what I hear, there is a growing sense of disillusion with the Emperor at the university. But I doubt they can do much. This most recent demonstration was stopped very quickly.”

“The radio reports of the problem in Wollo haven’t helped.” Seifu added. “There seems to be a swell of feeling among the students that the government should be doing something. Although it never has in the past. And the landlords can’t do anything.”

Kervorkian nodded. “Won’t do anything. It doesn’t help that the Emperor has remained so isolated both here and abroad. Foreign governments pretty much ignore Ethiopia.

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But I understand that has always been his wish. To stand aloof from their wrangling. Above it.”

“That might be changing a little,” Seifu replied. “I believe there is a chance the Egyptians will reopen the Canal. If that really happens, then the Horn of Africa will become strategically important again. There’ll be a rush for influence. Ethiopia may not be able to escape the attention of the world’s powers. It could be sucked into the rush.”

“Maybe,” Kervorkian said. Then rang for more coffee.

The dust dancing in the beam of sunlight turned from yellow to gold as the sun dropped toward the west and the shadows lengthened.

The two sat looking at one another over the new tray of coffee. Kervorkian sensed that Seifu needed to speak about something. Although they knew one another quite well, Seifu wasn’t in the habit of calling in for a chat. But he seemed quite at ease, despite the rumour of his sacking.

Kervorkian broke the easy silence. “The Americans have had a sort of slow presence here for years. Couple of so-called auto mechanics down in Harar and a regular contact flight – supposedly re-supplies. It’s possible they’d want to step up their interest if the Canal becomes an issue.”

“So would the Russians, I think,” replied Seifu. “They have had an impact in Somalia and will want to see improved relations established with Ethiopia, despite not being a presence here in the past. Once the Canal opens to commercial shipping, a base here would offer the Soviets opportunities for more disruption in the Red Sea.” “Perhaps,” said Kervorkian, “I haven’t heard anything and they’d have a lot of work to do. I don’t see communism being welcomed here.”

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“Not by the Emperor, that’s for sure.” said Seifu. But think of the students. They are pushing for change. And, frankly, the starving peasant farmers. They don’t have a voice, but couldn’t be worse off. It’s a stretch, I know, but I could see it happening one day. But absent regime change, I think the Russians are probably still looking to improve relations.

Gain strategic influence.”

Kervorkian nodded non-committedly, “Could be.”

“Right now, with the palace in a panic after the leaking of the information about famine and the government’s inaction, would be a perfect opportunity to curry some favour by offering a helping hand.”

“And how would the Russians do that?” Kervorkian asked without changing his voice or his position. But he knew that they were now approaching the core of the reason for Seifu’s visit.

“Well, the obvious thing to do would be to help with solving their immediate problem. The starving farmers, the ‘non-existent’ famine.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness entirely from his voice. “I have heard reports that the death toll is now rising quickly. The farmers need food. If anyone could help with overcoming that situation, I think they’d be feted. At least by the students and, perhaps, international media. Emperor or not.” Seifu was stretching the point with his knowledge of the famine. The only report he had seen was a transcript of the British ITV report. But he didn’t know if Kervorkian knew that he had been sacked, whether he was still privy to palace information or not.

“And you have an idea how to do that, to provide relief, I assume.” Kervorkian spoke with a quizzical expression. “I read the European papers when they arrive. The only useful aid would be grain and there’s an international shortage of

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grain of any kind. The Russians have just defaulted on payment for thousands of tons of wheat and barley from America. I don’t see them as possible donors of aid! Everyone is scrambling on the international market. Prices are through the roof. The USSR is in no position to be a player. They’re broke. They defaulted on the US purchase.”

Seifu was pleased with his role as the bearer of surprises.

Almost enjoying himself. Surprising Kervorkian wasn’t easy.

Not impossible, but unlikely. He leaned back in his chair, as far as he small table and cramped room allowed. “Well, they just might be. I have an option on five hundred short tons of wheat at last year’s price, $500 per. That’s enough to ease the famine for a month or so. Possibly longer. The rains will have to start at some time. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the whole five hundred tons delivered carriage and insurance paid. I imagine the USSR could find that if they are interested in the diplomatic upside. Ethiopia will be strategically important to them if the Canal reopens. At present they are barely visible here. My option runs out in a couple of weeks and, for my own conscience and, to be frank, necessity, I could sell it to a donor who would gift it to Ethiopia. Given my position here, obviously I can’t be seen as party to the transaction. It’s for immediate delivery.”

“Obviously,” Kervorkian replied dryly. “So you want me to approach the USSR to see if they might be the buyer of the grain as aid? You want me to be the broker?” Kervorkian just managed to keep the amusement from his voice.

“Well, yes. That’s the idea. On commission, of course.”

Kervorkian scratched his forehead. “It seems a long shot.

The Russians will never admit to it, but they are in serious trouble with their currency reserves. The failure to complete

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the American grain deal on terms was a serious embarrassment to them. They are now an American debtor.”

“That was a huge amount of money though. This isn’t anything like that and it would offer at least some recovery of their standing internationally.”

“They certainly are sensitive about the failure to complete payment to America. I’m sure there was a huge row.

Podgorny’s position must be doubtful.”

“So this could go some way to recovering their sense of pride, of position as a world player.”

“And you want me to see if they are interested?” Kervorkian spoke under his breath, almost to himself.

“Yes. That’s what I wanted to ask. If you could use your contacts to sound them out?”

“It’s possible. Your timing is good. I have a trip to Beirut at the end of the week. I could take some soundings. And I would earn commission on any deal?”

“Of course. Maybe fifteen percent?”

Kervorkian didn’t move, remained exactly as he sat, the perfect poker player. “Five hundred tons at fifty dollars is only a quarter of a million. So twenty, I think,” a statement made without hesitancy. He did not ask where the grain was coming from, or how it was to be delivered.

It was dusk and the temperature was dropping quickly as Seifu left the Kervorkian store.

Intermezzo C A M P W E S T O F W E L DYA , WO L L O P R OV I N C E LAST WEEK OF OCTOBER, 1973

MARY HAD ARRIVED HOME at four thirty in the afternoon tired and dusty after her seven day expedition and long drive. She was also emotionally wrung out, exhausted.

She had taken a bath and scrambled some eggs and gone to bed. But she hadn’t slept. The images from the village west of Weldya kept dancing into her mind and seemed to be there, present in her darkened bedroom. She got out of bed several times and sat at her desk. But nothing came to her except the awful images. Visions of people with no flesh, just ribs and hip bones on spindly legs. People folded in pain. And the children. Dead children with no flesh either, but distended bellies. Corpses left lying on the ground.

The journey kept replaying in her mind. Not far after she turned off the paved road at Weldya the bones of dead cattle began to appear. Picked clean by hyenas and huge crows.

White bleached bones on the black soil. A procession of bones along the charnel track like a trail in a children’s game.

Then the people. At first a few still scavenging in the thorn and scrub then more, sitting, hands held out, palm upwards.

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She had picked her way slowly along the track, a few huts strung along the way, and people sitting or lying on the earth.

As she edged forward people came staggering and lurching toward her, surrounding the jeep.

There were muffled voices from the straggly group; “Farenji, farenji.” and outstretched hands and pleading eyes.

This was the encampment nearest to the Desse–Weldya road and the one where the British television reporter had filmed weeks earlier. Presumably because it was the most accessible for wheeled traffic. When they left the TV crew had promised that they would have relief sent and the waiting peasants had looked expectantly as Mary edged the jeep forward. Mary was unaware of the promise, but had brought as much food as she could pack into the back of the jeep. Four big sacks of maize, twenty gallons of water and a box full of cartons of eggs. She was nervous as she pulled to a halt. She hadn’t thought how she might distribute the meager relief.

Now the car was surrounded by desperate, starving people.

She cracked open the driver side door. But before she could get out the door was torn from her hand, and she was pulled out and flung to the ground as the stronger of the skeletal men and women ransacked the jeep, dragging the sacks of maize away in a screaming huddle as they fought to get a grip on them. The boxes of eggs were wrenched from the trunk and fell to the ground. The sacks split and left a trail of maize behind the melee as it swayed around the open ground.

Mary lay still until the noise died down then struggled upright and sat, leaning back on the jeep watching the rioting mob as it split and reassembled like a flock of starlings, then slowed and landed, haunched on the ground in silent groups.

She felt helpless, hopeless. What had she expected to do by

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coming here. “Bear witness,” she wondered. “Possibly.” But what could she actually do? Who cares about these people?

Who should care? The sun that burned high in the sky? Silently taking these people’s lives from them?

After a few minutes a wraith, a figure wrapped tightly in a gabi, limped toward Mary and slowly eased down beside her. He addressed her in Amharic; speaking slowly, softly, mumbling, clutching at a small rose-colored stone cross that hung from a thong round his neck. Mary strained toward him to hear. His name was Felaka and he had come to this camp with his wife and second son many weeks ago. Both his wife and child had died in the camp and he was now alone. His wife had died exhausted, worn out with life after the last eighteen months of hunger and the death of three of her other children. “I will soon die as well. Everyone here will die. Unless someone comes to help. The farenji promised they would send someone.”

Mary was going to speak. Then realized there was nothing she could say.

Chapter 10 H I LT O N H O T E L BEIRUT N OV E M B E R 1 , 1 9 7 3

HAYK KERVORKIAN WAS A trader with many contacts in the Armenian diaspora, especially the community in Beirut.

And Beirut was the center of a trading network that rivalled those of western Europe. Located at the edges of western and eastern commerce it was vibrant with trade, intrigue and gossip. A marketplace where almost anything could be traded. Kervorkian usually visited at least twice a year to do some business, keep up with distant family and drink endless cups of coffee with both business acquaintances and friends. The weekly direct Ethiopian Airways flight from Addis to Beirut was leaving on the Thursday three days following his conversation with Seifu, and Kervorkian was aboard with the few other passengers. The Addis Beirut route was not busy.

Since the meeting with Seifu he had been thinking over Seifu’s proposition. Obviously he was up to something and Kervorkian wasn’t surprised. He had heard rumours of Seifu being sacked from government. He had known Seifu since Seifu had become a minister and knew that, like most of his

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government colleagues, he had used his position to his personal financial advantage. Kervorkian had helped him with several doubtful trades. If he had lost his position he would be even less constrained to act in his own financial interest.

Still, he couldn’t figure out from where Seifu might have hijacked five hundred tons of grain. But he assumed that it was hijacked from somewhere.

That there was a worldwide shortage of grain was a fact.

The international press that he read was full of stories of price wars, price gouging. The futures traded on the Chicago exchange were through the roof. But even with the shortage and the price that Seifu was quoting, the market was limited for a shipment with a doubtful provenance. And he had no reassuring idea of where the grain might have come from.

Even if it was to be sent as aid to a developing African country, the donor would need to know where the grain originated. Seifu had only mentioned the USSR as a possible donor.

That was strange. As he ran through the possibilities of other possible buyers of grain to donate as aid he could immediately discount America. They certainly wouldn’t buy grain, even to send as aid. They were still a net producer. The Brits would be too prim about the source of the grain and, anyway, they were far too bureaucratic to handle a situation like this. The French, who had been players in Ethiopia until a few years back, and the Italians who had exited even further back, had displayed little interest in the Horn of Africa recently. Which really only left the USSR. Seifu had led the conversation in that direction as though he knew they would be interested. Kervorkian was a little mystified. With their own severe shortage and their recent problems with the purchase from the US, it seemed unlikely they would be eager to help famine in Ethiopia – except. Except that the Canal was likely to reopen, America was showing signs of weariness

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with Ethiopia, and the USSR was still a strategic player in the Middle-East and heavily invested in Somalia. And they were far less scrupulous about the niceties of shipping and international trade. Kervorkian could only surmise that Seifu knew something that hadn’t been said. That would not be unusual.

At 12.00 midday the following day Kervorkian walked into the bar of the Beirut Holiday Inn. The glittering monument to Beirut’s excess. Not connected to its American namesake in any way; neither in competitive pricing or amenities. Prices were excessive, amenities sumptuous. With dark mahogany bar fittings, Lalique crystal wall lights and red velvet upholstered chairs, the bar was the meeting place for a melange of international celebrity and business. Kervorkian was known here. He scanned the crowd and spotting his quarry, went over to a table by the window at which was seated an elegantly suited youngish man contemplating a large bowl containing shrimp placed over an even bigger bowl of ice. Kervorkian sat down in the facing chair before either of them spoke.

“Welcome to my office. Have a shrimp.” the young man waved a hand at the bowl, “Anything good happening?”

Kervorkian made a little moue. “All well. Nothing to complain of. How is life here?”

“The usual. A little of this, a little of that. What brings you here at short notice? I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon.” Kervorkian’s host was part of the Armenian diaspora settled in Beirut. They were a tightly knit community, mostly engaged in trade, with contacts spread throughout the Armenians settled across the Middle East, the Urals and, surprisingly, still in the USSR itself. It had suited Stalin to maintain good relations with the Armenians as they provided a useful

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channel to the rest of the world without compromising the USSR’s defiant stance against it. Hence Kervorkian’s seeking out the shrimp eater. He sat here most days, apparently watching the world go by but, in fact, conducting his business meetings over the shrimp bowl.

“Something has come up. An unexpected opportunity. I need to speak to someone at the Russian embassy.”

“Ahha. The USSR you mean. Must get the nomenclature correct. They’re very touchy about it. Who is it you are seeing? Or would it be indiscreet to say?”

“Not so much. That’s the point. I’m not sure. I need to speak with someone there engaged on relations with the Horn generally, Ethiopia particularly for preference.”

“And you’d like me to tell you who that is? If I know.”

“That would be helpful. What I really need is to speak in person with whoever it is. Any chance you could help with that?”

The great thing about the relationship between the two was that both understood enough of each other’s business not to ask questions. Questions often required answers and that knowledge could often prove inconvenient to know. “Wait here. I’ll be back. Help yourself to a shrimp.” The young man got up and walked out of the bar. Kervorkian sat back in his chair and looked out of the window at Beirut scurrying by.

The young man returned after forty minutes and asked Kervorkian to return that evening at seven for a drink and at five minutes to seven, Kervorkian was again in the bar of the Holiday Inn, but this time standing to the side of the bar itself, glass of ice and mineral water in hand, watching the opening to the hotel lobby. At seven precisely the young shrimp eater walked in holding the arm of a stocky balding

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man and came straight over to Kervorkian. “This is deputy Ambassador Sergie Sokoloff.” Kervorkian made a little bow, “Gospodin, Ambassador.” The ambassador looking a little surprised responded, “Baron,” and held out his hand with a very faint smile. The linguistic gymnastics of the introductions having established that relations were friendly, Kervorkian suggested they might walk out to the lobby where it was quieter and where they settled into three armchairs around a small table.

There was a slightly awkward silence, Kervorkian wondering quite where to start. “I think you wished to speak with someone from our legation?” Sergie Sokoloff asked in almost perfect English, a compliment to the diplomatic language school of the USSR. With unspoken consent the conversation continued in English. Kervorkian wondered if Sokoloff knew he spoke Russian. He decided not to mention it.

“Well, yes. I do. It’s a little unusual but it concerns the famine surging in the horn of Africa. Ethiopia especially. Maybe you have been following it?”

“A little,” Sokoloff replied cautiously. “We are interested in the area.”

I believe that, thought Kervorkian. I’m sure you have been following it. Seifu had been right about the Canal opening causing some strategic realignments.

“It is bad. The latest estimates suggest that a quarter of a million people are in immediate danger of dying. They need relief. And there is now a world shortage of grain, as you know.” Kervorkian chose his words carefully. After the USSR defaulting on the American purchase he couldn’t embarrass Sokoloff by alluding to it. “The Ethiopian government is apparently out of foreign currency and the price of grain has gone through the roof anyway.”

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A group of suited business men emerged from the bar and were making noisy goodbyes. Kervorkian waited until they had left through the lobby doors; “It’s not that there haven’t been famines in Ethiopia before but the problem has always been the reluctance of the government to acknowledge that they need help from outside.”

There was a pause. A few seconds’ silence.

“We do have some information on the famine,” Sokoloff spoke quietly.

“The Americans don’t seem inclined to help. They are moving their resources to Somalia, I’ve heard.”

“That’s our understanding too.”

“The need is urgent, the donors reluctant and the grain in very short supply and very expensive. It is a problem. A lot of deaths will happen.”

Sergie Sokoloff was not a fool. He realized that he hadn’t been asked to a meeting at short notice to discuss famine in the Horn of Africa. “And you have a solution?”

“Possibly. But I don’t know how to go about implementing it. It’s complicated.”

Sokoloff remained silent, impassive. He had been a successful junior league chess player.

Kervorkian went on; “I have a client who is, I think, eager to help. They have grain on a short call option; wheat, about 500 tons. I know that if that grain was consigned to Ethiopia, they would sell for what they are paying: five hundred dollars a ton. For their own reasons they would remain anonymous.

It would be an imperative part of any deal. But we need to find a buyer.”

Sokoloff understood perfectly what Kervorkian was

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saying. “And this consignment, if it arrived in Ethiopia as aid, would be the gift of whoever the buyer is? Publicly acknowledged and visibly thanked?”

“That would be the understanding. It would be the deal.”

“And you are looking to sell the entire 500 tons?”

“Yes, I don’t think the shipment can be split. The short call is for the whole five hundred.”

“And the price?”

“It’s an incredible deal at present. I don’t think they are looking to make a profit, obviously not at five hundred. I believe that is the strike price. The seller won’t have a profit margin.”

“And why are they doing it?”

Kervorkian had though of the question and had an answer; “They have a connection to Ethiopia and wish to help – but anonymously.”

Sokoloff didn’t blink. He was a seasoned operative and had been dealing with the Middle East for years. He wasn’t surprised that there were anonymous players involved. He knew there would be a complicated back story to a deal like this. But if he could get the grain to Ethiopia as aid from the USSR, there would be diplomatic upsides that would overcome any scruples about the origin of the gift. Ethiopia as a client state in the Horn of Africa could be strategically important when the Canal reopened.

“This is a very interesting offer. I will consult with Moscow. When is the call option due?”

“We have eight days.”

“I will get back to you the day after tomorrow with an

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answer.” With that Sergie Sokoloff stood up from the lobby chair, bowed, and left.

Kervorkian looked at his friend, “In confidence.”

“In confidence,” the shrimp man replied.

On Sunday afternoon Kervorkian was sitting at a table at the front edge of the semicircular terrace of Beirut’s Saint George Beach Club and Hotel overlooking the pool and the beach. It was pleasantly warm in the fall sun and Kervorkian wondered what it would be like to live on a coast with an ocean nearby. The air in Addis was dry, maybe ten percent humidity. It seemed to make the people dry too. Brittle. Down here, by the sea, the air was almost tangible. Soft, comforting. It made people relax and smile.

He had received a note at his hotel earlier that morning asking him to be here at three. A quieter time following lunch when people retired for a siesta or lay quietly by the pool sunning themselves. There were only a few occupied tables on the terrace. Kervorkian had arrived early in order to have time to maneuver to a table with some space around it as people left. At a few minutes after three Sergie Sokoloff walked through the doors to the terrace; still wearing his business suit and tie, looking slightly out of place here on a Sunday afternoon. But that was Beirut. You never could tell who was who and what their business might have been. Kervorkian had abandoned his tie for the afternoon in recognition of the day. He had ordered a bottle of sparkling mineral water and two glasses that stood in the middle of the table. Sokoloff looked around and took note of the other guests as he sat down. A wariness that was part of his KGB training. They sat quietly surveying the few sunbathers left by the pool.

Eventually Sokoloff spoke. “I have an affirmative response from Moscow. If the USSR is clearly the donor and

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can be publicly acknowledged, I have the go ahead to make the necessary arrangements.”

“Certainly. I am sure that will be arranged. If you can supply shipping documents showing the USSR as the shipper of record, that would help. There is some South African connection that would be embarrassing for both Ethiopia and the USSR.” Kervorkian was lying about South Africa, but wanted to be sure that the Russians would supply new documents.

Sokoloff almost jumped. “South Africa? No. We cannot have anything to do with South Africa.”

Kervorkian moved his hand in a stroking, soothing motion. “That won’t happen. If you can get me the shipping documents, a bill of lading and a set of labels showing the USSR as the country of origin and the Ethiopian government as the consignee, my client will ensure that the grain arrives with the correct information.”

“That can all be arranged. How do I get them to you?”

“With the time constraint it would be best if I left here with them. Is that possible?”

Sokoloff nodded. The USSR for all its bureaucracy could move quickly when necessary. “Yes, I’m sure I can arrange that. Give me three days.”

“About payment. I will need to have an irrevocable letter of credit deposited with my bank in Switzerland the moment that your embassy in Addis have confirmed that they have sight of the goods in Ethiopia. Following confirmation that the LOC is with the bank, the goods will be cleared from customs and handed to your appointed person.”

“That can all be arranged. We have funds in Switzerland enough to cover the transaction.”

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Four days later Kervorkian boarded a Middle East Airlines flight from Beirut to Nicosia in time to catch the weekly BOAC flight from London onward to Entebbe and Addis. In his very large carry on bag was a bill of lading and a bundle of several hundred shipping labels.

The following Saturday Seifu received a phone call from Kervorkian’s wife inviting him and BB to lunch the next day at a vineyard on the edge of town. Seifu knew the vineyard and had met with Kervorkian there before. It had been founded by an Italian during the brief occupation of Ethiopia in the 1930s and was now owned and run by one of the sons of the founder and his Amhara wife. On Sundays a long table was erected on the veranda of the house overlooking the vineyard and a leisurely afternoon-long lunch was served to the family and any guests who happened to drop by. Seifu and BB arrived early, just after midday, and spent an hour wandering around the vineyard and among the rows of vines.

Seifu spotted Kervorkian’s car pulling into the driveway and they sauntered over to greet Kervorkian and his wife.

Kervorkian and Seifu’s wives had known one another since they were children and with arms around one another moved off to the end of the veranda leaving Seifu and Kervorkian with Signor Buzzeto, the vineyard owner who waved them to join the five other guests already seated at the long table. The Buzzetos’ regular Sunday lunches were relaxed afternoon conversations at which a succession of the vineyards own wine was served along with the intermittent arrival of Italian mezze dishes as the conversation rolled round and around the table. Other guests, who were mostly from the Italian business community, stayed a while, exchanged greetings, had something to eat, or not, and left to be replaced by others who dropped by. Neither Seifu nor Kervorkian drank the wine but stuck to the Ambo mineral water served in bottles. Eventually,

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after two hours or so, Kervorkian turned to Seifu and asked if he’d join him in a walk around the vineyard.

Kervorkian took Seifu by the arm as they walked. “I made the inquiry that we discussed and received a very positive reply. They need confirmation of the timing. It seems that not only is the need great here, but our friends insist on being the first to respond.”

“That will not be a problem. The goods are already in Cyprus and can be airfreighted almost immediately. At present I do not know of any other shipments proposed. Are they agreed to the price?”

“Yes, no problem. That amount is available in Switzerland.”

“The timing is in the hands of your clients. We will need their cooperation with the preparation of shipping documents. I will need them delivered here before the airlift starts.”

“That is already looked after. I have airbills showing the USSR government as the shipper consigned directly to the Ethiopian Government.”

Seifu almost whistled. He hadn’t expected such a rapid result. His mind raced around the arrangements that needed to be made.

“I would like an irrevocable letter of credit drawn on a Swiss bank for the full amount.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.” Kervorkian almost smiled. “And similarly I would also like a letter of credit deposited in Switzerland. For fifty thousand US.”

Chapter 11 ADDIS ABABA EMBASSY OF THE USSR N OV E M B E R 1 2 , 1 9 7 3

IN THE FIELDS OUTSIDE Sioux Falls in North Dakota nestled a complex of buildings occupied by the U.S. Geological Survey Earth Resources Observation and Science Center. In July 1972 the Landsat 1 satellite was launched from there to monitor the extent and uses of the earth’s natural resources as well as run programs for the NASA space programme. In the early summer of 1973 it recorded something previously unknown to the West, the burnt out barren fields in Ukraine, the centre of wheat production in the USSR. Which is why the USA was not surprised when the USSR, a prodigious producer of grain sufficient not only for its vast territories and population of 250 million people but also for export to client states, came calling to purchase ten million short tons of wheat in July of that year. Unfortunately the USSR defaulted on payment for the grain and eventually a settlement was reached that more or less amounted to the US subsidizing the USSR. Before the purchase of the US grain, the government in Moscow had kept knowledge of the catastrophic crop failure 146

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from escaping by exercising iron control over the starving population. There had been widespread purges in the government offices, publications of all kinds, of writers, teachers, students and factory workers. Intimidating the population into silence.

The USSR diplomatic service worked on a “need to know” information distribution system and the group was very small. Aleksey Shchiborin, the Ambassador of the USSR to Ethiopia, had been part of the controlled group who was aware of the harvest failure and the grain purchase. But he did not, officially, know of the purges in Ukraine.

This morning, Monday November 12, 1973, he was at his desk in his office at the Diplomatic Mission of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics to Ethiopia. The embassy was nestled in the centre of a large garden in the rising ground at the base of Entoto, the peak that rose to over ten thousand feet above the city. Like other embassy compounds in Addis the garden was hedged in by a corrugated iron fence topped with barbed wire beyond which stands of eucalyptus trees lined the slope.

Shchiborin was another diplomat who sometimes resented his posting here. But then, on the other hand, this was out of the way, a quiet and boring posting. Quiet and boring was often preferable if one was a political appointment of the USSR. He had his suspicions about recent events in Ukraine. Despite the control of information, there were always whispers. But like all his peers in the Soviet diplomatic service, he spent a lot of time rehearsing and mentally cataloguing just what it was he shouldn’t know. It was as though he had two memory banks; one contained what he knew but shouldn’t know, and the other what he knew that he should know. It was important to access only the second. He didn’t

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know about the purges. Life within the administration of the USSR could spin on a dime, end in a second, on the whim of an apparatchik in Moscow. Distance wasn’t a guarantee of safety, but sometimes out of sight – out of mind. And nothing much happened here.

Until now. He hoped that yesterday’s arrival wasn’t about to change that. He sat looking through the open door at the dust covered eucalyptus trees drooping in the sun, drumming his fingers on his desk top, running a finger around the inside of his buttoned short collar, easing it from his neck. The heat was already mounting and he felt sticky. It was both strange and unexpected. A new First Secretary. The embassy had never run to a First Secretary before. Too far away and unimportant to warrant one. The whole focus of Moscow in the Horn of Africa was on Somalia. And this First Secretary wasn’t a First Secretary. He was actually a political commissar sent on an external mission by the MER — Ministry of External Relations. Shchiborin knew that the moment his arrival was announced. Shchiborin ran over the intermittent diplomatic tasks he had performed recently. They were very few; so few that he couldn’t see how he might have transgressed in any way. But you never knew. One of his staff could have reported him for some perceived offense, or slight? He didn’t think so.

You never could know though — until it was too late. Certainly he had not been informed of the arrival of the new man.Was he here to watch him? He hadn’t been on top form recently, he knew. He found the relentless sun and dry heat enervating, dragging him down, and now he had an almost permanent headache pounding at the base of his skull, all at a time when he sensed that he needed to be especially alert and on guard.

He wasn’t supposed to, but he had picked up the news about the purges in response to the recent crop failures in

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the USSR territory of Ukraine. He had put the events together by listening to the reports on the Voice of America — America’s propaganda radio broadcast to the world. He had been convinced of the veracity of the reports when the British BBC World Service carried the same news.

Both were sources that he wouldn’t be sharing with his new comrade. He wasn’t supposed to be able to access either broadcasting organization. There had been no word from Moscow about either the food problem or the purges. Officially they didn’t happen and didn’t exist. And so he wouldn’t know. He wasn’t supposed to know. Following news services not directly connected to a posting was not encouraged if not explicitly forbidden. And now Moscow had sent a political commissar here, to this dusty outpost of not much political interest. This couldn’t be good. He was alarmed.

There was a perfunctory knock at his office door followed immediately, before he could answer, by Comrade Sokolov walking through it, standing stiffly in front of Shchiborin’s desk with “Good morning, comrade.”

“Comrade” Shchiborin replied, almost with a question mark, and indicated the chair in front of his desk.

Sokolov was a slight man, about five feet six with a pale complexion, thin hair cut short and parted on one side. He was wearing a standard issue government suit made of thin grey fabric which, by chance, was ideal for daytime in Addis Ababa, a couple of degrees north of the equator. Not so suitable for a European winter.

There was a pause as Sokolov looked around. He seemed satisfied with the surroundings and launched into a formulaic series of questions about the mission’s relationship with the Ethiopian government and its officers. A verbal questionnaire he had rehearsed many times. The govern-

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ment of Haile Selassie, being an absolute monarchy, was not favourably inclined to communism and the interaction between Shchiborin and the palace was limited to formal occasions. Shchiborin’s responses were, accordingly, long on descriptions but short on detail.When he had finished with his questioning, Sokolov appeared to be satisfied and sat back and rummaged through the briefcase that he still held firmly on his lap, finally producing a thin cardboard file. Still clutching the file in his left hand, he tapped it with the forefinger of his right. “And so. We have received some reports from the field here.”

Shchiborin inwardly winced. Of course he knew the drill.

As the Ambassador he would be kept clear of any intelligence operations although he hadn’t expected there would be any here, in this dusty mountain kingdom that deliberately kept the world at bay. He was very familiar with the fact that Haile Selassie had been willing to accept the offer of a few places at USSR universities for its young military officer cadre and that the expectation would have been that they would owe at least some fealty to the USSR in return.

Otherwise why create goodwill and an intelligence asset if you weren’t going to deploy it? But he hadn’t himself noticed that there was anything much to watch for, to keep under observation here in the mountain kingdom. The thoughts raced through his mind. He really should have known they would check on him. He maybe could have kept a closer eye on the army officers. But he didn’t think his slackness could affect him adversely. He had held the Kremlin’s line. He was a perfect representative of his country.

Sokolov pointed to the file. “Apparently the university students organized a rally recently. But it was stopped almost as it started. It was in your report.”

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“Yes.” Where was this going? Shchiborin thought.

“They were protesting about a famine in the north?”

“Yes. That was our information. I reported that. But it isn’t really an issue. It’s happened every year for the last few years. The rainy seasons have been getting shorter with lighter rain and the small rains haven’t appeared at all for the last couple of years. This year the big rains seem late. But they always pull through. The government doesn’t worry about it.”

“Hmm. It does seem to have become something of a news item in the rest of the world. These students have grabbed the attention of the British anyway. Their ITV has been carrying reports.”

Shchiborin remained quiet. This was information that he was almost sure he shouldn’t know. And he couldn’t see where this was going. As much as he wouldn’t be supposed to know about the ITV report, he was definitely required not to know about the harvest problems in the USSR. What wasn’t said, didn’t exist in the USSR. “The Collegium of the Ministry has been giving thought to our position here in the Horn of Africa. Now that the Ethiopian government has a credibility problem, it might present an opportunity.”

Shchiborin gulped. “It’s not that bad. I thought we were invested with the Somalis anyway?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. It does seem that the Americans are moving on Somalia and are losing interest here in Ethiopia. I’m sure they see the opening of the Canal as critical and that the Somali coast will be important. But with our experience, all we can say is, good luck. The Somali government is very difficult to manage. The thinking at MER is that if we could improve relations with Ethiopia we could still maintain

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our influence over the Canal from here. And there are possibly some longer range opportunities if the Americans do move out entirely.”

Shchiborin knew he shouldn’t ask, but couldn’t help himself, “What opportunities?”

“We can’t see clearly at the moment but Comrade Gromyko himself has been involved in the decision. It could be a long game. Perhaps we could make a start at improving relations by offering a little help, very publicly, with some relief for the famine in the north that the British TV has been covering? Before the Brits do?”

Shchiborin’s eyes grew wide, he couldn’t help but say what he knew he shouldn’t know, “But we have a famine at home. We just defaulted on paying for ten million tons of grain that we were trying to buy from the US. What can we send that’s useful?”

Sokolov frowned. “Yes. Well you shouldn’t know that. It didn’t happen. Anyway, this is different. We won’t use grain that is needed for the fatherland.”

Shchiborin grimaced, he had made a misstep, misspoken.

That could cost him in the future. But he was a seasoned diplomat. He recovered and tamped down his incredulity.

His job was to represent the USSR overseas. The making of policy was not within his purview, and policy was certainly not his to question. If MER had decided that they would court Ethiopia with this aid, then his job was to see it done.

But there were things he needed to know. What aid could they send? When? How? “What do we have to send?”

“We have access to five hundred tons of grain. I don’t

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know what, wheat maybe. It’s not in the USSR. It’s coming from somewhere else. Europe probably.”

“That’s not a lot.”

“No. But it’s more than anyone else can put their hands on at the moment. It would help until the rains start.”

“But where are we finding the funds to buy it?” Shchiborin blurted. He couldn’t help himself. “I don’t know about the US deal, of course,” he added hastily, now flustered. This was going really badly.

“Look. You don’t need to know about this either. I don’t know. My job is to discuss how we can best present this aid to the government here when it arrives, extracting friendship and goodwill in return and with maximum publicity directed at the people themselves.”

Chapter 12 ADDIS ABABA I M P E R I A L PA L AC E N OV E M B E R 1 2 , 1 9 7 3

DURING THE MANY LONG YEARS of the reign of Haile Selassie, the Emperor’s morning was divided into discrete hour long audience periods; an hour for the distribution or retraction of positions and honours, an hour when the Emperor heard petitions for financial relief, an hour when ministers could be summoned and questioned on the affairs of their department and an hour when the Emperor acted as the supreme justice of the country, the very last court of appeal, dispensing sentences at his own whim.

Emperor Haile Selassie had completed the first two hours of audiences and was at the end of the hour of ministers when Aklilu had been summoned. He was now standing in front of the throne in the Audience Hall of the Imperial Palace.

The Emperor was seated on the throne that had been modified with extra long legs to accommodate his stature and preserve his elevation over his subjects. Since the problem in Wollo had come to the Emperor’s attention, Aklilu had avoided His Highness as much as possible without attracting attention to his absence, but this morning when he had been 154

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summoned by one of the court flunkies, he had no alternative but to appear.

He guessed, almost knew for sure, what the Emperor wanted to hear about. Aklilu had been acutely aware that the British TV documentary about the famine in Wollo had caused the Emperor unprecedented embarrassment and, worse, added to his fears that his throne might be threatened. Although it was impossible to read his thoughts from his demeanor, Aklilu understood that rage was boiling behind the black implacable stare. Since that TV broadcast, Haile Selassie had ordered the search for aid donors and the overseas diplomatic missions of Ethiopia had been put under pressure such as they’d never known. The response so far had not been very fast or very positive. Haile Selassie’s policy of isolating Ethiopia from Africa below the Sahara, and holding it aloof from colonizing powers, had not encouraged much diplomatic interaction with other world governments. Now Aklilu was here, sure that he would be asked for a report. He did have the small British offer, but yesterday’s conversation with ex-minister Seifu had left him in an awkward position even with that. He was, once again, going to have to dissemble, but he felt uneasy. For the first time he felt his position was being reviewed by His Majesty. He was used to Haile Selassie’s silences. They were usually pauses for thought. He now feared that the thoughts may be about him. His position.

Yesterday morning, Sunday November 11th, Seifu had sent an urgent message asking Aklilu to meet him at Jan Meda race ground that evening. Aklilu had sensed that Seifu was up to something but couldn’t say what. The conversation had been a threat although it was difficult to parse. He certainly didn’t trust Seifu, he never had entirely, but especially not now, following his sacking. It was already dark and the racing had finished when he arrived. There were just a few

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straggling spectators left along with the grooms attending to their horses. Aklilu had pulled up alongside Seifu’s Peugeot parked in the paddock and the two had walked a short distance away from the activity. Seifu’s animosity had been palpable. What he had said was still ranging around Aklilu’s mind.

Seifu was leaning on the rail edging the path from the horse boxes to the paddock. His leg was troubling him more these last few days.

“You know all this problem with finding aid donors is really just a sop to HS’s vanity. I’m certain he is fearful that word of famine in the country is damaging his reputation internationally. And worse, raising questions about his government’s competence. His isolated mountain kingdom turns out to be as fragile as any other country. Subject to the same forces of nature. We seem to be in a jam together. You can’t deny that you knew about the famine. I told you myself. We decided together that it would just go away. That we had best ignore it. In fact it was your idea to say nothing.”

Aklilu turned and stretched out his two hands to lean on the rail alongside Seifu. “I know,” he grunted.

Seifu continued, “It was the British television report that caused the trouble, led to HS’s rage, and, courtesy of you I imagine, the loss of my position.”

Aklilu remained still, looking into the darkness.

“I know how that report happened. The chain of communication that led to the British TV reporter. It is possible it could happen again. Another international news report.

But it might reveal something worse than the famine. At least, worse for you and me. You actually. I’ve already paid the price. Next time it would be you. I was the sacrificial

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lamb last time. I’ve nothing further to lose. It would be you to take the next fall. If HS discovered that you were party to keeping the famine secret, suppressing the news, withholding the information from him, it would be you.”

Aklilu remained still. Showed no reaction. Seifu couldn’t see his face.

“You are the most senior government official, long-time confidante, but you serve at his pleasure, just like all of us.

It would be unfortunate if your decision to ignore reports of famine got loose on international media. You would find yourself in my position, demoted, sacked, possibly worse.”

Seifu stopped, turned to look at Aklilu who was still staring into the darkened meadow, the centre of the track. Eventually he nodded. “That would be unfortunate.” He realized he was being threatened. He had wondered why.

Seifu went on to explain. He said that he knew there had been approaches to several possible aid donors and that some grain, a gift from Britain, was already being shipped. He also understood that sending grain by air was both complicated and expensive. It would take a while for the British delivery to complete – if it ever did. There were always possible hitches in these arrangements.

He continued, “I heard that the Brits are getting pushy, they want an audience with the Emperor. I can see that they want to extract as much diplomatic capital as they can from the situation, but if other possible donors thought the problem was solved, and that there was little political leverage to be gained by sending more aid, they would probably evaporate. It would be best to keep the British Embassy from seeing the Emperor until you can have the official handover. I have contacts and can be sure that British TV is alerted when

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it’s scheduled to happen. All you need to do is to prevent a premature audience with the Emperor. Delay might encourage more donors to come forward.

Aklilu looked at Seifu quizzically. He did not want his complicity in the suppression of their knowledge of the famine to ever become public – and certainly not ever get to the ear of the Emperor. But he couldn’t make out what Seifu was driving at.

Still, on thinking it over last night after leaving Seifu, he knew his own position with the Emperor was tenuous and if there was going to be a hitch with this grain from Britain, it would not be good for him to have the British crowing to the Emperor before all the grain was safely in hand. And after last night’s meeting, he was fairly sure there was going to be a hitch. Which is why he was doubly wary of the Emperor this morning, Monday, November 12th.

He stood in his usual place in front of an impassive Emperor who was seated on the small audience throne with his hands in his lap, the tips of his fingers touching. The audience had ranged across several administrative issues before it arrived at the point Aklilu had been nervously expecting.

“What progress has been made in providing relief for the people in Wollo?”

Aklilu was aware of the silence. The bustle of the city shut out. Not a sound. He was on slippery ground between the Emperor and whatever Seifu was up to. Last night’s conversation had worried him. “Our embassies have been very active in seeking support. Daily we expect good news.”

“From where do we expect to receive a positive response?”

Aklilu thought of the Emperor’s prejudices, He still harboured something close to hatred for Italy and had an

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unspoken fear of Eastern Europe. His reign had become more fragile over the last ten years, since the army mutiny in 1960 and, despite his calm authority in public, he was privately shaken by the thought that there were educated army officers with socialist leanings moving up through the ranks.

He had, mistakenly he now realized, allowed some of the young officer recruits to take advantage of the free university education offered to them by the USSR and they were now members of the junior officer corps.

Aware of these prejudices and the Emperor’s growing paranoia, Aklilu threaded a narrow course. “We have a favourable reception in France and in Britain and, surprisingly, an unsolicited approach from Australia. The embassies are all in talks. There will always be some unspoken quid pro quo with any aid that’s offered. We are evaluating the options.

We need to be careful.”

The Emperor remained perfectly still. This was the most unnerving moment in any interaction with him. The silence and his stillness. They were frightening. But Aklilu remained calm. This was a gamble. He had often obfuscated, but rarely, if ever, outright lied to the Emperor. At length the silence broke.

“Most certainly we must be careful. But we need to show some action soon. We need to quell the unrest.”

“Of course, Majesty. As soon as possible.”

As Aklilu backed out of the door he drew a deep breath.

He didn’t know what exactly, but he had a feeling that events were unspooling around him.

By the Wednesday following Aklilu’s interview with the Emperor, November 14th, there was a feeling of unreality, of disconnect, in Francis Shaw’s office at the British Embassy.

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Shaw was wishing that he had done better in his career.

In his jumbled thinking his posting to Ethiopia was now a curse, not because nothing happened, but because it did. He now construed that Addis was, after all, a problem posting, not a warehouse on the way to retirement. He still wished for a posting with few problems to see out his last mission.

Somewhere in Europe – an improbable thought, an impossible dream. But here he was and the problems were here with him. He hated these disturbances, intrusions into what should have been a quiet life. His swansong.

“Why would they do that?” he glared irascibly at Dennis Wilkins who was slouched in his usual chair on the opposite side of the desk. “It’s aid for God’s sake.”

Wilkins ran his fingers through his tangle of beard. “No idea. Administrative snafu I suppose.”

“Can’t be. Someone must have alerted them to the incoming flights. It must have been cleared.” He paused, thought, then added, “wouldn’t it?” He had no idea how these things worked.

Wilkins shrugged. “No. I’ve no idea. Not my line of expertise at all. You heard what Jim Cornick said. He went out to the airport when we got notice that the first flights had arrived and got a brush off from the customs guy. The stuff on the planes was unloaded and impounded. With no declared value and no duty paid, they won’t release it.”

“That’s ridiculous! It’s aid!” Shaw repeated, his frustration bubbling at his loss of control. Never a great strategist or administrator, Shaw’s tolerance for complication was low. Maybe this was all too difficult. Maybe he shouldn’t have started it.

Jim Cornick had driven out to the airport that morning, the embassy teletype having announced the landing of the

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last of the convoy of flights delivering the grain. When he arrived at the customs shed, he had been surprised to find that the cargo was still unreachable, held on the airside, and had gone to seek out the head of airport customs.

He had found Getachew Tilahun in his office lair in the corner of the shed sitting at his desk behind a pile of manifests. Cornick had introduced himself and Getachew had feigned surprise that someone from the British embassy should be in his office. “How can I help you?” he had asked.

If he hadn’t known the answer already, the arrival of three Pan Am Hercules flights in the last twelve hours would most certainly have alerted him. Addis was a civilian airport with very low traffic.

Cornick explained that he was there to check on the arrival of a large consignment of grain. He assumed that Getachew would know about the delivery with its huge size and especially with the disruption that the arrival of twenty or so heavy freight flights would have caused.

Getachew could hardly disagree. “Of course. It is filling the cargo shed.”

“I was wondering why it is still airside? We would like to arrange for it to be trucked out.”

Getachew had rehearsed this conversation, suspecting it would occur. “Ah, well. It can’t be moved yet. There is duty to be paid and there seems to be a problem with the airbills and commercial invoice. We haven’t found one.”

Cornick was flustered. This didn’t make sense. “It’s aid.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have the authority to release it. If it is aid, I need authority from above to release it. It’s not a decision that I can make.”

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Cornick recognized absolute authority and that he was not in a position to pursue the conversation further. There was no argument that he, a junior foreign diplomat could, or would be allowed, to make.

Now the problem had arrived as an unwelcome presence in the Ambassador’s office. “Sometimes I really hate this place,” Shaw suddenly blurted. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he rapidly corrected himself. “But what can we do?”

Wilkins shifted around in his chair, eased his shoulders, less excited by the situation than Shaw. “I guess we have to follow up on why the stuff is impounded. We asked for it to be consigned to the embassy, not to the government, to avoid any problems. London thought that would head off any chance of it being nicked. It’s Ethiopia though. The land of magic. Someone is playing games with us.”

“I do wonder,” mused Shaw, “I wonder if there is a possibility that the head of customs is looking for a little backsheesh? Seems unlikely. It would be very cheeky.”

“No. Very unlikely. He’d be afraid we’d go over his head.

Unless . . .”

“His boss?”

“That would probably be Seifu at the top of the chain.

I don’t see it. Although if they were in it together, could be, I suppose. Come to think of it, why can’t he go straight to Seifu to get clearance?”

“Perhaps Seifu won’t cooperate. There is a rumour he’s been removed from office, if he has, he can’t. Or maybe he is up to something with the customs chap.”

“Aklilu?”

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“No. Aklilu won’t touch it. He works up to the Emperor, not down to operations.”

“Maybe there really is a problem with his nibs.” said Wilkins, irritably. “Maybe the whole realization of the famine is proving too difficult for the palace to handle. They were blindsided by the ITV television report. The idea of them accepting aid will be a huge dent in their pride. They’ve never asked, or accepted, aid before. The Emperor is probably furious.”

“But he’s probably the only person we could trust to both see the problem and to fix it. He will, somehow, despite his horror of foreign intervention, take credit for the grain. The famine relief. It’s in his interest.”

“We can hardly ask for an audience to discuss the aid being stuck at the airport.”

“No. We need to obfuscate. Dissemble a little.”

“Hmm,” Wilkins shrugged. Tugged at his hair. This was a silly idea from the start.

Ambassador Shaw was surprised when Aklilu’s office granted an appointment for him to see Aklilu the next morning, Thursday, November 15th. It could often take weeks to arrange a formal visit. It seemed to Shaw that everything was moving strangely since word of the famine had leaked to the outside world. And the famine relief was, he realized, a tricky proposition for the palace to handle. He knew the admission that there was a famine back in 1960 had led to an aborted revolution put down swiftly by the Imperial Army, something that had only ever been mentioned once since. In the narrative of the history of Ethiopia, it was never to be mentioned. It was never to be mentioned as a disaster, let alone a problem, ever again. Famine was part of a natural cycle, as it

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always had been. And the idea of now accepting aid from outside the country was anathema to both the Emperor and the court. It suggested failure, an inability to manage the affairs of the country. It suggested to the outside world that Ethiopia was on the same level of incompetence as Africa south of the Sahara. Black Africa. Colonized Africa. It meant an intrusion of the outside world into the affairs of the closed world of the Ethiopian empire. The almost mystical world of the mythical Prester John. Shaw knew enough to understand the problem, the hurt pride. The clash of modernity and Ethiopia’s feudal polity was a constantly shifting balance in the calculations of Haile Selassie and his court.

Shaw was turning those thoughts over in his mind as he sat at a low coffee table in Aklilu’s formal office in the Imperial palace. The room was in deep shade, cooler than outside, the shutters and blinds half closed. Aklilu sat on a sofa and directed Shaw to a wooden chair that stood opposite. After his conversation with Seifu, Aklilu knew very well why Shaw had requested this meeting. He thought he did, anyway – and was mindful of Seifu’s warning, his threat.

“It’s good to see you. How can I help you, Ambassador?”

“Well, since we have been able to help with sending some aid to the people in Wollo, I would like to present Her Majesty’s compliments to the Emperor. It seems appropriate to bring our two countries closer together. I thought an audience could perhaps be arranged?”

“Certainly, certainly. That would be appropriate. And how is the shipment coming along? When will we be able to announce it? Aklilu was a better hand at diversionary diplomatic conversation than Shaw. Shaw prided himself on being “direct”, “plain spoken”, possibly qualities that had prevented

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him from rising higher in the diplomatic service. Aklilu was a master diplomatic skirmisher. Shaw wasn’t helped by not speaking Amharic. It was almost as though Aklilu used the thoughts and constructions of Amharic when he spoke English. Shaw was aware that he often hadn’t altogether understood what had been said in these conversations. Now Aklilu had skewered him to the point that he wanted to broach with the Emperor. Shaw didn’t believe that Aklilu had not been notified of the arrival of the grain, but he certainly couldn’t say so and so went along with the pretense. “It’s being shipped now, so any day.”

“Excellent. It would be appropriate to arrange an audience with His Majesty once the grain is here. I will see to it.”

This wasn’t the outcome Shaw had sought to maneuver Aklilu around to. But he couldn’t think how he could have managed the conversation better.

It was only when he had left the palace that Shaw asked himself why Aklilu had pretended not to know that the grain had arrived. Sitting in his car he shook his head. He really didn’t understand so much of what happened here. He didn’t know what to do. He’d talk with Wilkins.

When Shaw left Aklilu sat on in his darkened office. He had done what Seifu had suggested, asked, but he didn’t know what purpose it served or what he had achieved. He would find out in time. It probably wouldn’t be good, but nothing was in the last few weeks. He felt surrounded by clouds – only there were no clouds. The sky outside was still relentlessly, rainlessly blue. He preferred the darkness in here. But he would have an investigation made into just what was going on at the airport.

Back in the British embassy Shaw recounted the unsatisfactory conversation to Wilkins – who wasn’t much surprised.

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“Par for the course, I’d say. Never quite understand where we are.”

Shaw was now both angry and tense, “what the hell are we going to do? How are we going to get it released? What are we going to tell London? What are we going to do?”

Wilkins remained calm, unruffled by Shaw’s panic, settled back further into his chair, legs crossed, “Usual performance. Keep on playing. Wear ourselves out banging our heads against the wall until something finally gives way.

Someone is playing games with us and a penny to a pound says we have to pay someone off.”

“Who? How do we find out how to free the jam?”

“Best we can do is to keep on asking. Find out what’s going on. We’d better station Cornick at the airport to keep badgering, keep an eye on things.”

Chapter 13 ADDIS ABABA I M P E R I A L PA L AC E A N D B O L E A I R P O RT N OV E M B E R 1 5 A N D 1 6 , 1 9 7 3

THE LAST OF THE L-100 Hercules flights transporting the grain had arrived at the airport late in the evening six days after Kervorkian returned from Beirut, Tuesday, November 13th. Bole airport was complicated for both take off and landing, situated at over 7,500 feet altitude in a bowl set in the Ethiopian Highland plateau, the Roof of Africa, landing required dropping below the ridge formed by the surrounding peaks and rolling around the bowl for both the downwind leg of the landing pattern and final approach. The pilot of last night’s L-100 had a difficult time on final approach, crabbing the plane in the crosswind to maintain runway alignment. The air was always unstable late in the day with powerful thermals generated by the daytime heat but last night the wind shifted and had become severely gusty.

Conditions that hadn’t occurred for months. It had caught the air traffic controller by surprise and without that warning the pilot had to wrestle with the unexpected turbulence to get the plane safely to touchdown and roll out on the short runway. The landing was hard, but successful. For the first 167

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time in over a year there was a blemish in the pale blue sky – the setting sun sinking into a band of dark purple cloud running low along the western horizon.

The same Thursday morning that Shaw was being brushed off by Aklilu, at eleven o’clock, Seifu and Kervorkian were seated at the small coffee table at the rear of Kervorkian’s store.

“It’s all there, I checked myself. Went out there this morning.”

“Good. And once I hand over the shipping documents, my part has, I think, been done. From here on it’s your show.

Unless you need anything else?” Kervorkian was unfailingly polite, but his meaning was clear. He had brokered the deal but wanted nothing to do with its execution.

“No, I don’t think so. I understand. Getachew at the airport is doing a good job, but he is getting a bit twitchy. He has been fending off both Aklilu’s people and the British embassy people.”

“He’ll be okay as soon as the grain is out of the way.”

“He’ll slip up if we don’t act quickly now.” Seifu still used ‘we’. “Where are the labels, by the way? I’ll need them today or tomorrow.”

“They’re safe. Here in the store. I’ll give them to you now or you can let me know when you’ll collect them.”

“Hold onto them. They’re too bulky for me to take. I’ll let you know. Tonight or tomorrow. You’re sure they’ll pass off okay?”

“I expect so. They’re the real thing. And look, the Soviets don’t care, so long as they get the credit, and by the time it is over the British won’t make a fuss. They’d lose face.”

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“You’re right. It’s strange isn’t it? The Soviets suddenly interested in Ethiopia. And the British too. Although they’ve always had a small interest – ever since Wingate and the liberation from the Italians. But a passing interest, a token really. Just enough to stay in play, I imagine.”

“The Canal is more important to the British than the Soviets. The Soviets don’t have any military or commerce that requires eastern sea routes. They can walk to China for all intents and purposes. They might even invade it given the present state of relations.”

“They are up to something. They jumped at the idea of sending aid. I thought they were stuck in Somalia. Overseas expansion has never looked to be in their planning. At least, we never thought so. And Somalia was more opportunism than planning. I can’t see what their interest is. No doubt we’ll find out soon enough.”

Kervorkian scratched his beard. “Sometimes I do feel that things are going to blow up here. The army officers have been grumbling about their pay – and the regular troops complain about the food! Food! This whole situation with the starving farmers isn’t good. Not that it’s new. But with the foreign exposure and concern you can’t help feeling that there’s going to be more trouble. It’s not good that there is food in the shops here and in the cities in the north, close to where people are starving. I can see that the pressure is building. Anyway, when do you plan to get this grain released?”

“Soon as possible. It’s not safe at the airport despite Getachew. He’s feeling some pressure. I don’t think we need much time. I need to tell the Palace that aid is on the way and that a formal acceptance at the airport would be expected.

They’d probably like that anyway. They’d be seen to be responding to the reports of famine, to the needs of the people.

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They need to recover their position internationally after the British television row. And the whole point for the Soviets is recognition by the Palace, by the government. So I need to get it organized. Maybe it can happen in three days if I get to Aklilu today. He’ll see me, I’m sure. He’s in a slightly difficult position himself. I doubt the Emperor would want to appear, but it might help Aklilu recover his standing if he showed up.”

Seifu was waiting in Aklilu’s outer office when he returned from lunch at three thirty. Unannounced visits to Aklilu were not only unusual, they were unthinkable. Aklilu wielded absolute control over who got to see the Emperor, and his own office maintained rigid control over who got to see Aklilu.

But Seifu had ignored the command of the equerry when asked to leave and the equerry, still nervous of Seifu’s standing, despite his sacking, had not forced the issue and allowed him to remain, seated on a hard bench, in the outer office.

Aklilu didn’t react when he saw Seifu but invited him to follow into the inner office. Aklilu took his seat behind the desk and left Seifu standing. Without any greeting or preamble Aklilu stared at Seifu and asked, “Well? What news of relief for the starving?” A slight sarcasm or petulance in his voice.

“We have it. It will be delivered in three days’ time. Grain of some sort.”

Aklilu rarely reacted to news either good or bad. That had helped him maintain power over the long years. But the corners of his mouth did, very slightly, relax. He was relieved.

“That is excellent news.” Aklilu almost said, “well done.” But he caught the impulse, he never would do that. “His Majesty will be pleased. He has expressed his concern several times.”

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Seifu said nothing in response, instead, “It would be good if there was some sort of official recognition? A handing over ceremony at the airport, perhaps? Do you think, His Majesty . . .” his voice tailed off.

“I think not, Ato Seifu. It would make too much of the situation. But I think I could do it. If you could make the arrangements, I would be grateful. I will also make your work known to His Majesty. It will, perhaps, change your standing.”

Seifu acknowledged the remark with a bow. “I will confirm the time at the airport.” He turned and left Aklilu wondering what this had been about.

Seifu regained his car with a sigh of relief. He hadn’t had to say anything about the amount of grain or its origin. This might just work out.

At eleven the following morning, Friday, Seifu pulled the Peugeot into a parking space in front of the Bole Airport customs shed. There were only three other cars there – a quiet Friday mid morning. He turned off the engine and sat watching a kettle of hooded vultures circle silently in the hotair thermal rising from the single concrete runway.

The sun had become a relentless irritation with the blue dome of the sky stretching from horizon to horizon uninterrupted by the slightest wisp of a cloud. The back of his right hand stung from the sun pitching on it as he held the steering wheel. More than twelve months since the last rain. It was becoming unbearable. People were becoming taciturn, withdrawn, irritable. Seifu wasn’t an exception. He had his plan under control, but it sometimes made him jumpy to think of the consequences if he was caught. He saw no reason that he should be caught, but it was always a possibility. He was

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concerned about Getachew who had been showing worrying signs of fear in the last few days. He was a weak link and needed constant reassurance.

Seifu was also worried about Aklilu. Certainly a more reliable co-conspirator than Getachew but also more likely to have come under real pressure. Aklilu was caught between the Emperor, who was undoubtedly not happy with him since the Wollo situation had become international news, and the British embassy who were pushing him for information about the impounded grain. Seifu needed to constantly reassure both Aklilu and Getachew that they just needed to stay calm for a couple more days.

The British embassy had been very upset, almost outraged as far as diplomatic protocol allowed, at the stalling of the reception of the grain. He knew that yesterday Ambassador Shaw had seen Aklilu and that Aklilu had not been pleased that he had been forced to grant an audience or that he had to obfuscate. He was a polished and practised statesman and not at all averse to non-committal, slightly cloudy, responses to questions – but this was trickier. He had directly misled Shaw over knowing that the grain had arrived and headed off the possibility of an interview with the Emperor.

He hadn’t liked it. He was caught between the Emperor and the British embassy and if he slipped either of them could cause his fall from office. In the evening he had called Seifu to complain.

The conversation was still in Seifu’s mind as he entered the gloom of the customs shed. It took a while for his eyes to adjust from the glare outside. Despite the shade, it was even hotter in here with the sun pounding on the corrugated iron roof. Getachew was in his box of an office vacantly staring out through the glass window over the piles of manifests on

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his desk. They were the same manifests as on Seifu’s last visit.

Apparently nothing was moving very quickly through customs at present.

“I’m pleased to see you! Any news about moving this consignment yet?”

“Just another day or two. It’s almost settled. No need to worry. It’s all working out.”

“You don’t have to deal with them. Its a lot of pressure. I had a couple of people sniffing around here last night, asking questions. I’m sure they were Aklilu’s people. I really don’t want to get across him. They knew about the grain.”

“They probably do. But I don’t know that. What could Aklilu want to know? Don’t worry.”

Bur Seifu was a little concerned. What were Aklilu’s people up to? He thought he had Aklilu boxed in.

“And the British?” Getachew asked. Almost imploring, his voice rising an octave. “They were here this morning. They wanted to see the grain. It’s still airside so they couldn’t. But it’s a lot of pressure.”

Seifu made a soothing, smoothing motion with his hands.

“Don’t worry. Everything is moving along. Another couple of days and we’ll be done.”

As he slowly walked back to his car he took in the heat haze vibrating off the runway and the vultures still circling in a dust devil.

The next day Friday November 16th, Seifu called on Kervorkian at six o’clock in the evening and collected the shipping documents, labels and waybills. Kervorkian had stowed the documents in a hidden drawer inside an Ottoman sideboard that sat at the back of the store. The labels were

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stuffed inside a flour sack inside a huge woven cane basket.

Kervorkian helped Seifu wrangle the sack into the trunk of the car and shook Seifu’s hand. Neither spoke but Kervorkian patted Seifu’s shoulder as he got into the car.

Seifu arrived at the airport customs shed at eleven pm.

Since leaving Kervorkian he had been to his house and changed into dark trousers, a black cotton anorak and gym shoes. He parked down the side of the shed, away from the dim airport night lighting. The main lights were long extinguished. The Bole airport could only operate in the daytime.

Its mountain location, with only the most rudimentary landing navigation beams, made night landings and takeoff too dangerous for scheduled flying. With the moon low in the sky, just visible through a thin skim of cirrus cloud, a dim silver light was cast from horizon to horizon. Seifu was so focussed on his task, so wary of discovery, so intent on being silent, that he failed to notice the change in the night sky. The only noise out here was the occasional howl of a hyena in one of the dried watercourses running alongside the runway.

There was an ordinary street door in the side of the shed where he parked and he gently pushed it open. He could see a low yellow light at the back of the shed, past the wire fencing guarding the airside cargo. He called out softly and heard Getachew respond, “Back here.”

“Come help me get the labels from the car.”

Getachew appeared from around the side of the pallets of grain and came out through the open gateway in the wire wall and the two of them retrieved the gunny sack of labels and envelopes from the car, heaved them inside and dumped them beside the pallets.

The grain was in fifty-pound bags stacked on five hundred

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one-ton pallets stacked in pairs. It looked to be a daunting job. Getachew looked from the stacks to Seifu. However are we going to do this? They are all marked with the US company markings. We can’t move the pallets to get to each sack” “That won’t be a problem. No one will worry about the origin of the grain. This grain was sent by Britain. But they obviously had to purchase it on the world market. It’s who gifts it to Ethiopia that will count. And the Soviets have just purchased thousands of tons from the US themselves. It’s logical that this small gift would be part of that purchase.

So long as the manifest and waybills show the Soviets as the shipper, it will all be okay. The Soviets will want some publicity in the world press though. So we need to stick these USSR labels on the visible sacks.

For four hours they worked carefully pasting the labels in Russian over the stencilled English markings on the visible side of the pallets. It was painstaking work made more difficult by the dim light they worked under. But the Russian labels were big. Big enough to cover the markings on the sacks and then some.

By five o’clock they had managed to convert the origin of the visible sides of the shipment to a gift of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. The USSR. When they finished, Seifu had briefed Getachew. “We’re almost done. Keep this all airside. Someone from the Soviet embassy will arrive to check that the stuff is here. Let them inspect it. But only release it to the Soviets when they present the shipping documents.”

Seifu then went back to his house where a grumbling night guard woke from his slumbers to open the gates. BB and the staff were still asleep and he went to the dining room, sat at the table and prepared a large manila envelope in which

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he stuffed the waybills showing the shipper of the grain as the government of the USSR. He slid the envelope into the drawer where he kept his stationery, under a stack of similar envelopes.

At seven the following morning, Saturday, after napping for two hours, he showered, shaved and changed into his daily business clothes – suit, white shirt, tie, and black Oxford shoes. At nine o’clock he phoned the residence of the Ambassador from the USSR, Aleksey Shchiborin. Nine o’clock was an early hour for the USSR legation, but since the arrival of comrade Sokolov they had been on high alert, and on their best behaviour. Shchiborin answered immediately.

“We could meet for coffee this morning.” Shchiborin didn’t need to ask who was calling. He had instructions.

“Certainly. Where?”

“Ghion hotel. Can you be there at ten.”

“I’ll be there.” and Shchiborin rang off.

At ten Seifu was already sitting in one of his favourite chairs on the veranda of the Ghion hotel, overlooking the Emperor’s stables, watching the grooms burnishing the thoroughbred horses sleek coats when a hastily dressed Shchiborin arrived. Seifu waved him to the chair opposite.

“Beautiful, aren’t they” Shchiborin looked around and realized Seifu was referring to the horses. He had no idea about horses. He had been born in the steel town of Magnitnaya and been whisked from there to the Moscow School for Diplomats. He was unsure of the meaning of the question and the motive of the questioner. “Yes?” he replied, almost asking a question himself.

“Yes. A magnificent stable. One is a gift to His Majesty from the Queen of England.”

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Shchiborin looked at the horses unseeingly.

Seifu realizing Shchiborin wasn’t a horse person, came back to business as a waiter appeared. “Coffee?”

“Yes, black.” Shchiborin almost snapped.

“Okay,” Seifu realized small talk wasn’t required. “The grain is ready for delivery to the government. It is with customs at present waiting for release.”

“When will it be released?” Shchborin asked, then realized. “Ah. On payment.”

“Yes, you’ll want to check that the delivery is complete and in order and I’ve arranged for that. Once you confirm that the goods are here, I will show you the clearance documents. Then, if you will give instructions for payment, and I have confirmation that payment is in the bank, the documents will be with the customs people at the airport and the stuff will be yours.”

“What’s the timing?”

“As soon as possible. If you can get the payment made within two days, we could arrange for the hand-over in three days’ time. I believe that the Prime Minister Aklilu Habte Wolde would like to thank the USSR in person. Maybe a ceremonial occasion?”

“That would be excellent! Moscow would be very pleased.” Shchiborin was thinking of Sokolov lurking back at the embassy. “I will get things moving. It’s Getachew at customs, correct?”

“Yes, Ato Getachew will get you access to inspect the shipment. You will see that it is consigned to the Embassy of the USSR and that the USSR government is the shipper”

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“I’ll go over to the airport immediately then contact my people.”

“Once you confirm that, you’ll need this.” Seifu slid a slip of paper over the table top. It contained numbers for a bank account in Bern, Switzerland. “And I’ll need your help in confirming payment.”

Shchiborin looked at Seifu quizzically. “How?” “I need access to a radio telephone. You have one at the embassy, I’m sure. It’s the only way I can get confirmation of payment quickly.”

Shchiborin chewed his lip, thinking. That would break all the embassy security protocols. But Shokolov had been sent almost certainly to see that this transaction went through smoothly. He would get Shokolov to sanction the use of embassy secure communications. That would keep him out of trouble. “I will speak with my people. We will see it done.”

Seifu knew that his call would be listened to whatever precautions he might take. The Soviets were being handed a perfect blackmail opportunity. He couldn’t see any alternative. Overseas telephone calls from private citizens had to be booked days in advance. He had booked a call for the earliest opportunity. But that opportunity was in three days’ time.

He needed to call the nominal beneficiary of his accounts in Switzerland. A person in an imposing office building in Bern.

It had seventy plus small brass plates attached to the wall of the lobby, each with a company name. Seifu’s contact occupied a small office at the back of the building on the third floor. He would move all the accounts as soon as the Soviet money was received. Moved to new accounts with different numbers. He would sort out the final details when he arrived there. “Once I have confirmation that payment is made, you will have the shipping documents.”

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Shchiborin swallowed his coffee, stood up, bowed very slightly, said “spasiba”, turned and walked quickly away.

Seifu had nothing to do for the next twenty four hours.

He sat looking at the stables without seeing. The horses were now inside anyway. He ordered more coffee and let his thoughts wander to Switzerland, to Sicily. How much longer could the Emperor live? No one really knew how old he was.

What would happen when he was gone? The Crown Prince was in a hospital in Basel with a bullet in his head. He would never return. As his mind slowed down from last night’s effort at the customs shed and this morning’s work making arrangements with Shchiborin he slowly became aware that the sun’s pinpoint glare had gone and a softer muted light filtered through a thin skim of pearl grey that covered the sky.

Looking to the west he saw darker bands of cloud climbing.

He stared, almost lost in wonder, as though he’d never seen a cloud in the sky. The first cloud for more than a year. It almost seemed spiritual.

At midday he drove home and ate lunch with BB, then slept a siesta and, to kill the time, took her to see a just released movie at the only theatre in Addis. The Day of the Jackal. It seemed strangely appropriate.

The next day, on Sunday afternoon, Seifu received a messenger from Shchiborin saying that he would be welcome at the embassy on Monday morning. He called Getachew and arranged to meet him in the usual coffee shop in the afternoon.

Chapter 14 ADDIS ABABA B O L E A I R P O RT N OV E M B E R 2 0 , 1 9 7 3

FOR THE LAST SIX DAYS, since Shaw’s unsatisfactory interview with Aklilu, Shaw and Wilkins had been engaged in a frustrating and fruitless quest to obtain the release of the grain shipment sitting in the airside of the airport customs shed, behind the wire wall. Shaw had called Aklilu’s office each day asking for a further meeting but had not received a reply. Wilkins had stationed Cornick at the airport to try and capture an interview with Getachew, but Getachew hadn’t appeared at the airport, at least when Cornick was there. The customs shed was deserted except for the airport security guards, the big freight doors half closed. There was no movement either in or out.

Shaw’s administrative discomfort was only made worse by the shifting weather. The sun had gone, dimmed by high cirrus cloud, a grey-blue blanket of cloud that trapped the heat – until last night. This morning altostratus had given way to mounting nimbostratus clouds and gusts of air had begun to rattle his office’s open french doors. It was approaching midday and he still had no news about the release 180

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of the grain. The stirring air made him feel that he too should take some action. He asked Kate to find Wilkins for him.

“Any report from the airport?” Shaw almost pounced on Wilkins as he entered.

“No, nothing. Cornick went out there again this morning.

Hasn’t come back yet.” Wilkins was also getting a little testy.

The whole situation was ridiculous. He had felt all along that something would go wrong. And the aid was hardly enough to earn the undying gratitude of the government. Probably none at all from the Emperor. The arrival of aid would make him look inadequate, uncaring. His imperial claim on authority had been weakened by the 1960 mutiny and had been very slowly eroded, a little at a time, ever since. This unwelcome admission of famine had been a further blow to his air of authority, invincibility. Maybe a threat to his Crown.

Wilkins and Shaw kept going over the possible reasons why the grain was still being held without reaching any conclusion that made sense. Shaw suddenly stood.

“I think we should go out there ourselves and take a look.

This whole situation is intolerable. We are getting the runaround from these people.”

“If you think so. It’s not a bad idea. Go see for ourselves.

We really need to wrap this up. We had better take my car, the embassy car would be too obtrusive, noticeable.”

“Good idea. You can drive.”

As they walked to Wilkins Peugeot, a noise stopped them, made them turn, a rushing sound racing toward them through the stand of eucalyptus at the edge of the compound. A squall driving golf ball sized raindrops coloured with Sahara sand spattered the concrete. They stood looking at one another without speaking. The first rain for eighteen months.

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The zebanya ran toward them holding out umbrellas.

Wilkins drove carefully. People were scattered across the road, running for cover from the squall. It eased as they gained the Bole Road and they made easier progress to the airport. But as Wilkins swung the car around the traffic circle in front of the passenger terminal, the storm returned.

This time as a steady tropical downpour driven on powerful gusts of wind. Wilkins suddenly pulled the car to the side of the road leading to the freight shed. There was a group of people, some struggling with umbrellas, standing around a figure who appeared to be addressing them. Shaw looked questioningly at Wilkins who shrugged. “I’ll take a look.” He struggled out of the car trying to open his umbrella against the wind in a futile attempt to avoid getting soaked. A gust blew the umbrella inside out and he gave in, trailing it from his hand like a broken bird. He walked slowly to the back of the crowd who were straining to hear the speaker above the noise of wind and rain.

Wilkins surveyed the group from the back and slowly identified some of them. Newspaper people. The Herald, Addis Zemen had actual reporters and there were three others he recognized as stringers for UK, French and German press agencies. The French stringer nodded to him as he edged into the back of the group.

Now Wilkins was alarmed. But not really. Although he knew he should be. Really he was more curious than alarmed.

The figure speaking, standing under an umbrella being ineffectually fought to cover him by a young man dancing in the gusting wind, was Aklilu? Aklilu? Wilkins squinted. Whatever would Aklilu be doing here, standing in the rain, in front of a gaggle of newspaper reporters. That would not be something Aklilu would do. And yet he was. And even more incredible,

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the discredited Seifu was standing beside him. This was strange. He thought that Seifu had been estranged from Aklilu as dangerous to know. He was sure that he’d heard that.

Very odd. But as Wilkins focussed he slowly construed what was happening. The third figure in the trio addressing the assembled reporters was the Ambassador from the USSR, Aleksey Shchiborin. Wilkins sighed. A less experienced, less cynical diplomat might have felt their stomach heave, have felt sick. Wilkins just sighed a second time and turned back to the car. He was now soaking wet.

Whatever Wilkins thought, Aklilu Habte Wolde was not having one of the better days of his life either. He felt that both reality and his position were leaking away from him this morning. Seifu had invited him out here to accept this donation of aid and somehow, he couldn’t recall on the spot, he had expected this to be the aid coming from Great Britain.

Only when the Soviet limousine had drawn up and Shchiborin stepped out did Aklilu begin to sense that something wasn’t right. The picture was entirely wrong. This shouldn’t be the Soviet Ambassador, it should be Ambassador Shaw from Britain. But he was standing in front of a group of journalists, Seifu at his side, expected to thank someone for a gift of aid. A gift, incidentally, that was still inside the customs shed under cover from the driving rain. Aklilu looked at Seifu with undisguised anger and an unspoken question.

Seifu ignoring Aklilu’s glare, remained uncharacteristically calm, almost statesman-like. “The Ambassador from the Soviet Union, Prime Minister.” Seifu bowed toward Shchiborin as he made the introduction. Aklilu acknowledged Shchiborin but turned slightly to Seifu, “And this is the donor of the grain?”

“Yes, Excellency.” Seifu almost smirked.

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Aklilu had not survived generations of ministerial infighting and risen to the position of Minister of Pen, keeper of the emperor’s appointment calendar, prime counselor, by showing any reaction to what was said, or done. He remained impassive, calm. He and his master Haile Selassie had that in common. When they addressed one another, neither had ever been able to read the other’s thoughts or intention. In a strange way it was why they were both wary of one another but needed one another. Later, when Aklilu had time to think over this present situation though, he knew it was going to cause a serious rift. This aid, which was going to recover his position with the Emperor following the debacle of the foreign interference over a famine was instead, almost certainly, going to cost him his position. The one place, the one country, the one empire that Haile Selassie was most wary of was the Soviet Union. He had learned his fear from the army officers that he had sent there for training. It had been a mistake. It had sown the seeds of discontent with imperial rule. But right now he, Aklilu was being forced to thank these very people for rescuing the Emperor’s people from death through starvation. Starvation caused by a drought which, by the way, he seriously doubted was any worse than the previous ones. His immediate thought was to get rid of these Soviets with as little fanfare as possible. Once that was done he would consider his other problems; the Emperor and how to deal with Seifu.

Wilkins regained his seat in the Peugeot and sat uncomfortably wet, relating to Shaw what he had seen. Shaw visibly crumpled and slumped down further into the car seat. This wretched place. Nothing ever went right. Retirement in Bath seemed ever more attractive. “We’ve been played. They’ve been playing us off against the Soviets the whole time. We scratched and fought to find this grain and the Soviets have

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been goaded into competing with us. I bet the Soviets just redirected some of the stuff they bought from the US – the stuff they defaulted on. It’s outrageous. Grain purchased from the US to relieve the starvation in Ukraine, that they couldn’t pay for and finally got on a lease, diverted to Ethiopia as aid? For what reason? What are they after? The Ethiopians will get aid from both countries. Good for them. I don’t understand why though. What’s in it for the Soviets?”

Wilkins scratched his beard and shifted uncomfortably in his damp clothes. His trousers were sticking to the car seat. “I can’t see the government playing us off against one another for the sake of the aid. The aid seems to be an embarrassment to them. Why would they want to double that? And why the Soviets? What are they up to? They have their hands full in Somalia. Ethiopia has never been an interest for them.

There’s never been any report that they have intentions here.

Unless we’ve missed something.”

They sat squinting through the rain pounding on the windshield, the windscreen wipers unable to keep up, watching the press begin to pack their gear and leave. When most of the press had left, Wilkins drove back around the circle and parked in front of the terminal. He didn’t want Shaw and himself to be seen by any straggling journalists. He most certainly didn’t want anyone at all to know they had been watching the ceremony. “Let’s go and find the customs chap, Getachew. See if we can get the grain released. Even if we are behind the Soviets, at least we will have shown concern.”

Shaw nodded reluctant agreement.

Battling against wild gusts of wind, they picked their way around the hoses of water gushing from the gutter downspouts of the passenger terminal to get to the front of the customs shed. There was no one stationed at the entrance

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and they walked in unchallenged. The only sound was the rain thundering on the corrugated iron roof. There were piles of goods that had been cleared piled up on the land side of the shed, awaiting collection. The whole of the back wall was stacked high with sacks of grain. Wilkins walked over to take a look. He grunted when he saw the labels in Russian.

There was no sign of the grain donated by Great Britain.

Wilkins scratched his beard, wondering. He worked his way along the wire wall to the large goods gates that slid back to allow cleared goods to be fork-lifted through. They were locked tight but Wilkins peered through the lattice into the gloom. He couldn’t see much. He certainly couldn’t see any grain. He started walking back to Shaw full of thought, but he didn’t say anything.

The light was on in Getachew’s box of an office and Wilkins stopped and looked through the big window. Manifests piled high on the desk, but no sign of Getachew. He tried a few shouts and stopped, embarrassed by the sound of his voice bouncing around off the metal walls, competing with the rain tattoo.

Getachew and Seifu were, in fact, closeted together in one of the pilots’ lounges at the back of the airport, airside. Getachew had seen Wilkins and Shaw arrive at the hand-over ceremony and had quickly left through a back door in the airside of the customs shed. He had no wish to confront them today. Never, if that was possible. But he knew that there would be some explaining to do. His own reasoning was that he had nothing to do with the grain. Not directly. He had delayed it for a few days waiting for clearance. That was all. He wasn’t interested in who was clearing it, so long as the documents were in order.

That would be his defense. It would probably work. Anyway, now, he assumed that interest in the grain would evaporate very quickly. Now that he rains had come.

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The two of them sat looking through the window toward the runway, watching the rain pool on the concrete apron outside. “What will happen now?” Getachew asked. “Now the rains have started, it will be difficult to move the grain in trucks. The tracks will be impassable off the main highway.”

“You’re right. They need to get west off the highway at Wollo. That track will be impassable in the wet season. Might make it in a jeep, but not a truck, especially a loaded truck. I don’t know what they’ll do.” The two sat on for a while longer looking at the rain bouncing off the apron.

Shaw and Wilkins gave up. Defeated – at least for the day.

Wilkins started the slow drive back peering grimly ahead as he maneuvered the 504 around the rivers of water flowing across the road and the people trudging along trying to do the same thing, brown mud splashing up from bare feet and staining white shemas and pants up to the knees. Their shoes hung around their necks so as not to spoil them.

Chapter 15 ADDIS ABABA WO L L O P ROV I N C E DECEMBER 18, 1973

THE RAINS HAD BEEN both violent and short, no more than ten days in bursts of torrential downpours. By December the sun had reappeared, with clinically sharp rays and skies smooth sheets of pale blue. The stifling heat hadn’t built back but the thin air of the highlands meant that the rainwater had evaporated rapidly.

The university had been closed for a week following the demonstration, then reopened only to be closed again by the army when rumours of another student protest circulated.

The students were left unsettled, unsure what would happen next. Without direction they had given up on studying.

And not only the students, there was an air of uncertainty throughout Addis. An unquantifiable uneasiness that something was going to happen. Something not good.

The students spent their days speculating on the possibilities, meeting in the buna beit or in the offices of some sympathetic university suppliers, vendors of the quotidian necessities of life; food, cleaning services, office supplies. With the 188

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university closed, their livelihoods were threatened just like the students’ education.

There was a feeling of indignation, of anger, in the group.

They talked over and over the debacle of the grain that was supposed to help the farmers in Wollo. They had felt invested in that and were shocked to find the grain had never been delivered. Left to rot in the rain when the road was impassable.

They knew that they had been in some way instrumental in the news of the famine escaping the Ethiopian government information wall -- and in the government finally having to accept that there was a famine, although the word had never been used – and in the government’s request for aid. They knew they had been right and that the government had tried to suppress them and the report of famine. Their anger had built and was now quietly expressed by a previously unthinkable criticism of the government, of the system. The failure of the government and its loss of agency fueled them with a growing sense of power. They even made jokes about the Emperor.

Guenet had not been surprised when her father appeared in town, tracked her down to her dormitory, concerned for both her safety and her education. She had been marked out in secondary school as an outstanding student and her father, Principal of the Technical College in Bahir Dar was determined that she should have every opportunity to excel. He had always hoped that she would get to study for a higher degree in Europe, his own prejudice being in favour of France. To which end he had been corresponding with a Jesuit friend, until recently resident in Addis who, in turn, had reached out to a colleague at the Sorbonne. Sensing the developing uneasiness in Ethiopia, he had expedited the conversation and was here to discuss with Guenet the possibility of an early departure from Ethiopia.

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With the recent events here in Addis, Guenet was not averse to the suggestion. But she had one task to perform that she felt she couldn’t, or at least shouldn’t, share with her father.

At the meetings in the buna beit there had been many speculative conversations about what might have happened in the village in Wollo. The village for which the rotted aid grain had been destined. Eventually Tes had volunteered to make the journey and Guenet, to the surprise of many of the group, had said she would go with him. Not asked if she could go, just stated that she would.

Mary, who had been straining to make the journey herself, was also an eager travelling companion. They had no idea of the driving conditions following the rains and were nervously discussing taking Mary’s VW Beetle when Tes remembered that Seifu had kept a Jeep in his compound. No one had seen or heard of Seifu since the rained-out grain presentation and when Tes had visited the Seifu compound he found it deserted. The house was open but there was no one living in it and the zebanya complained that the bill collector for the water supply had been calling and threatened to cut the supply if he wasn’t paid. The only real concern of the zebanya seemed to be that he himself might be without water. His family in the village kept him fed. When Tes and Mary arrived to remove the Jeep, the zebanya just shrugged and when the engine fired without trouble Mary drove it out of the compound through the gates held opened by the zebanya.

Mary had the Jeep and two jerry-cans filled with petrol and, starting before dawn, picked up Tes and Guenet at the university. To the unspoken surprise of both Tes and Mary, Guenet had appeared in a grey hooded sweater, black trousers and hiking boots, carrying a rolled sleeping bag and with

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a backpack slung on one shoulder. The boots and backpack were clearly well used and she looked perfectly at ease. Just not the Guenet that either Mary or Tes had ever seen. They made good time to the turn-off past Dessie where they camped for the night pulled into a washout off the highway. In the morning they started down the track toward the village. It was barely discernible as a track and Mary carefully steered around outcrops of black obsidian rock that were breaking through the surface. The fields that had once been planted were still riven with the same huge cracks running through them that had been there before the rain. The storms had been violent but not long enough or sustained enough to have penetrated the ground to any useful depth. But the rain had washed the loose volcanic topsoil down into the gullies leaving a hard undersurface dotted with outcrops of withered short grass that had struggled to grow but been quickly defeated by the sun. The mescal daisies, cruelly named for the month of Meskerem, the month supposed to follow the rains, had appeared briefly within days of the last rain but all that was left of them was the occasional dried stem poking up.

They bumped slowly along the track until the tops of the tukuls of the village appeared. Mary pulled the jeep to a stop in the centre of the settlement and turned off the engine. No one appeared to meet them. Not even village dogs. There was silence. With the abandoned tukuls dotted around them, they could almost hear the sun. The tukuls were picked clean, with the distressed thatch hanging loose in long sheafs. They left the jeep with its doors wide open and slowly walked through the settlement, examining it, tukul by tukul. They peered into dark interiors through low doorways.

They walked past the last tukul of the settlement, along the edge of a gully until Mary suddenly stopped, her breathing quickened. She called softly to Tes and Guenet,

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weirdly afraid to break the silence. Mary pointed at a bleached white bone embedded in the rim of the gulley. It looked like a human femur. It was strange, the one bone not eaten by the hyenas. Tes crouched and scraped the loose gravel from around it. After a few moments he stopped scraping, dug his fingers into the loose scree and held up a small rose-colored stone, carved into a cross with a string hole pierced through it. They didn’t speak, but walked back to the jeep and sat, contemplating the ghost of the settlement. Tes held the stone in his upturned palm and in the silence they heard the suffering voices of the dead farmers, of Felaka and his family. Of Felaka’s last prayer.

Finale ETHIOPIAN HIGHLANDS C A M P W E S T O F W E L DYA , WO L L O P R OV I N C E

FELAKA HAD LAIN shivering with fever on the wet floor of the tukul. The rain poured through the shredded straw of the roof in a steady stream. It had arrived three or four days ago, he couldn’t say, when exactly. The sky had become leaden, lowering over the village, tangible, as though a hand stretched out would touch it. And then the rain had arrived, roaring down from the peak above them, following a gale of wind. It stung the body through the thin cotton of his tattered gabi. He had crawled into the tukul and hadn’t moved since. The days had become one as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

His mind wandered over his life. He remembered a son who left for Addis. Had he? He thought he had. But why had he never heard from him? Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps that had been a dream. What could a son have done in Addis? He wouldn’t have land to farm there. He couldn’t think what people might do otherwise. You had to farm to live. Grow food, raise animals.

But he had been a farmer. He could remember the life.

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It had been good for most of his time. He knew that he had owned cattle and that he had grown grain. They had a good life even with the tithe exacted by the landlord, or his agent.

He had only ever seen the agent. Never the landlord. They had a little compound with four, or was it six, he couldn’t remember, four or six tukuls where he and his sons and their families had lived. His sons working on the farm, their wives helping with the animals and the harvest and cooking and feeding the children. It had been a good life and he was grateful for it. He thanked God for it.

And Almaz had been his helpmate for those many good years. She had born children and managed the family. A good wife. Now she had died after struggling for weeks to hold on. In the end she had gone. He prayed for her soul. He wondered if, without a proper funeral or grave, she would be accepted into the afterlife. He had lost her body with the others. He had been too weak to bury Almaz, had just been able to scrape loose volcanic earth over her. It wouldn’t be enough to stop the hyenas, but there were none now anyway, just rotting skeletons, like the people. And they disappeared together as the torrents of rain stripped the loose black soil into the rushing rivers of the gullies carrying the bodies with it. Maybe they will have to remain as ghosts.

The children would be accepted, he thought. Especially the youngest. They didn’t have to have any recommendation when they died. God would just reclaim them without question. They had been the first to die and had been buried properly. Their bodies would remain in this land. But they had died hungry and as a result suffering from kwashiokor and marasmus. Now with the rains the last survivors were slowly going, dying of cholera and typhoid carried on the contaminated water. The rains were bringing death.

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His mind floated. There was no point now anyway. With no land and no children, there could be no life. He was too old to start anew, even if that was possible. He knew that it would never be.

His mind wandered back to the visits of the missionary woman. She had promised to bring help. Every day for a while after she left, he had hoped. And every day nothing had happened until, slowly, day by day, hope died.

He thought he should pray. He felt death close. But his mind wandered. His fear now was not living, but what would happen if he died and hadn’t been praying properly? Would God understand?

Coda

TIR 1966 Ethiopian. January 1974 in the Gregorian calendar, the year the revolution really started. Getachew Tilahun was sitting at his desk in his office box in the customs shed.

The rains had ended at the beginning of December and the relentless blue sky had reestablished itself, although the heat was still bearable. Outside anyway. Inside his steel box the fan whirred, stirring the air. He looked at the calendar on his desk. January 1 Gregorian and Orthodox Christmas still days away. Here, at the airport, a bridge between Ethiopia and the rest of the world, he saw enough to be aware that the country was far more than just eight years adrift. He wondered what was going to happen. The affair with the grain and the sudden interest from the outside world left him questioning.

Not uneasy, but thoughtful. He felt that the Ethiopia of the last thirty-seven years was about to be reshaped once again.

He had been born in 1939, and remembered nothing of the Italian soldiers or the victorious return of Haile Selassie.

Now he wondered what would happen next. No one knew precisely when Haile Selassie had been born. The

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rumours suggested that he was probably ten years older than the palace declared. However old he was, he couldn’t go on forever and the Crown Prince, if the Palace bulletins were to be believed, was in hospital in Switzerland recovering from an assassination attempt. There had never been any real attempt to establish a succession anyway. Asfaw Wossen was a shadow. Never part of the Imperial train.

Getachew wondered what he should plan for himself, if anything. When he was leaving school he had thought of joining the army. His father’s connections were good enough to get him admitted to the officer training school. It would be a secure job and if it worked out would enable him to move up a few ranks in civil society. Officer positions often led to palace patronage and financial improvement. But then a civil administration opportunity came along and he had opted for that and had risen quickly through the ranks to his present position. It was a younger cousin who had joined the army as an officer cadet who had first spoken with him about the political situation. Made him think about what would happen when the Emperor died. That had been nine months ago, after the cousin had returned from eighteen months studying in the USSR. That had been the catalyst for his reading. He had never before thought much about political structure, but with guidance he had worked through the list his cousin provided.

A number of the books had been banned by the government for their political content but seemed to be surprisingly available in French and English. And it was his cousin who invited him to the meetings. They were held in the late evenings in the buna beit frequented by Tes, Guenet and the students who were an integral part of the group that included several army officers. There was a sense of camaraderie in the group. They had all been on the same reading trajectory and

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shared a sense of danger – of something about to explode.

The students were still nervous about the informer, despite having identified and isolated him, they were still wary, and the young officers were certainly compromising their careers by being there. The irony was not lost on them that the Emperor had been instrumental in orchestrating their education in the USSR only for them to now question the utility of the whole imperial structure. A thought that would certainly find them in jail, if not worse, if ever discovered. The camaraderie was accompanied by a shared sense of danger. Despite that, Getachew was an enthusiastic contributor to the discussion.

Since the delivery of the grain and the brief rains breaking the drought, the Soviet embassy had developed a strong interest in the students as well as the government of Ethiopia. Attache Sokolov had been more persistently active in country than any Soviet diplomat had ever been. He had already managed to recruit several people within the university group, both instructors and students, and among the military officers returning from the USSR. He was receiving regular reports of the students’ political positioning and the growing disaffection among the officers and troops in both the army and airforce. At the end of December 1973, Ambassador Shchiborin was recalled to Moscow to be replaced by a more outgoing, publicly visible comrade. But one also better versed in the clandestine aspects of the diplomatic craft.

Ambassador Shaw had been recalled to London also at the end of December. The British had exercised their supposed sangfroid and he was not accused of inefficiency or any inadequacy. The matter of the grain was never raised by the mandarins of Whitehall and Shaw never wished to hear the word grain ever again. Or Africa for that matter. He was relieved to take early retirement, albeit under a slightly grey cloud, and retire to Hampstead and Zelda – who was a little

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vexed at having him home, in the house and largely unoccupied. She maintained her schedule of afternoon tea parties and, in season, the occasional evening at the opera in Covent Garden, alone. Shaw retrieved his collection of British and Commonwealth stamps from his solicitor’s safe in Bride Lane and spent his days recalculating its value and walking on the Heath.

Wilkins stayed in Addis. He was the person on the spot and available when Shaw departed but, unlike Shaw, he was deeply interested in Ethiopia and its ancient culture. His spoken Amharic was excellent and, with Shaw out of the way, he was able to spend more time outside the embassy and with Mary. Mary had finally, formally, resigned from the Order and the two of them spent more and more weekends camping with the French archaeologists at the dig at Melka Kunture. They both continued to play with the string quartet which gave them great solace over the next two years as the skein of revolution unwound. Wilkins and Mary shared a genuine interest in, and concern for, Ethiopia and its people and their antennae were sensitive to the slow creaking that could be heard just below the surface of everyday life. They knew that change was coming.

The person whose circumstances were most dramatically altered by the debacle of the grain was ex-minister Seifu Asrat. Three days following the rained out presentation of the grain at Bole Airport Seifu, accompanied by BB, appeared at the small back office in the impressive building close by the Bundeshaus in Bern, Switzerland. Having ascertained that two hundred and fifty thousand US dollars had been recently deposited in one of his accounts he instructed that fifty thousand be sent by wire transfer to an account in Beirut and fifty thousand wired to a corresponding bank in Geneva. He then had his account closed and a new one opened

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in BB’s name to house the hundred and fifty thousand that remained. They then took the train from Bern to Geneva where they rented a car and drove along the shore of Lac Lehman to a little town called Gland. Seifu had rented a tiny cottage close to the shore and they stayed there until the spring.

In late March a car arrived driven by an employee of BB’s Italian grandfather’s business and they were driven overnight to Rome where they found a room had been reserved for them in the Hotel Albergo, one of the beautiful traditional hotels of Italy. The next morning they started again for Sicily via the ferry at Cannitello and after another nine hour drive arrived in Palermo. Later in the year they were joined there by Taye, BB’s brother, and his wife. Life in Addis had become too dangerous for people with overseas connections.

Aklilu Habte Wolde was still Prime Minister and Minister of Pen. Haile Selassie had, of course, learned that the aid grain had come from the USSR although he also knew there was very real doubt about its provenance. His security detail was certain that it was the same grain that had been purchased by the British. It would be impossible to say whether he was angry at the situation, or furious with Aklilu. But Aklilu had been by his side for almost the whole of his reign since he returned from exile in thirty-nine and had been a significant support and companion in maintaining power and order. One could never discern any emotion; anger, happiness, indifference, it was impossible to say. The slim, five-feet two-inch-high emperor who terrified people with his eyes remained in power but received less and less respect from the people and his own military. His security people told him about the increasing unrest among the university students and the recent turmoil in two of the army barracks. He no longer went for drives or distributed bread and birr from his Rolls Royce’s window. He never left the

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palace and the daily audiences were slowly discontinued. He sensed his time was closing in on him. But he had survived in his mountain kingdom for almost forty years and held on.

He knew he had to be careful. And being careful, he knew, made him look weak and indecisive. He was aware, he said so, that in sending the young officers to the USSR he may be sowing the seeds of his own destruction.

Author’s Note

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION, built around one real event. On October 18th, 1973, the British television station Thames TV broadcast a report from Ethiopia made by the television presenter Jonathan Dimbleby. At the time I lived in Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, where we were only dimly aware of the famine that had been developing in Wollo Province. We were aware that the last two rainy seasons had failed and that water supplies were becoming thinner. But the scale of the disaster only became apparent to us when we returned to the UK and learned of the Dimbleby report.

Famine was certainly not unknown to the peasant farmers in Ethiopia. There had been sporadic famines for centuries. The feudal system of land tenure, where seventy percent of the farmers’ crop was tithed to the landlords, almost ensured that there would be problems for them. But nothing had ever been done to address the situation – until this British television report alerted the world and embarrassed the government of Haile Selassie into asking for assistance.

The failure of the government was the catalyst that put 202

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the revolution of 1974 into motion. By the end of 1974 Emperor Haile Selassie was in jail and the government overthrown by a group of junior military officers, the military junta, the Derg. What ensued were years of terror under the Derg’s idea of communist rule.

I left Ethiopia in the summer of 1974 just as the revolution got underway and almost immediately drafted the outline for this book. But life took over and I did nothing further with it.

Until in 2015 I met the English poet, Lee Harwood, and over a long conversation related the bones of the story. Lee urged me to dust off the files, which I did, and mulled over for the next several years. Recovering mental images from almost fifty years ago proved both challenging and rewarding.

My thanks to my early readers: Kris Butler, Betsy Elliott, Lisa Gillard Hanson and Jenny Rae. My biggest debt is to my friend and long-time colleague, book designer and typographer Bruce Hanson, who designed both the cover and the text.

My wife, Beatriz Casoy Ashfield was my cheer leader and early reader and made space for me to write. My debt to her is far greater than a book.

The book is dedicated to the Ethiopians who suffered in successive droughts and who were killed during the years of the Red Terror following 1974.

KEITH ASHFIELD grew up in post-war London with the British thirst for abroad. His early start in journalism quickly morphed into trade book publishing and then to international educational publishing developing projects with governments and educators. He has worked in the United Kingdom, Ethiopia and Nigeria with shorter commissions in Kuwait, Beirut, the Philippines and Indonesia. In 1985 he and his wife, Beatriz, moved to the United States where they ran an academic publishing house for fifteen years and have lived in various locations since retirement. They presently live in Philadelphia.

This book draws on his experience in Ethiopia in the early 1970s — famine and the politics of aid fomenting the turmoil that led to regime change.

His interest in Ethiopia survived his residency and the revolution of 1974 and he retained both friendships and professional links. In the mid-1970s he served on the British Parliamentary Commission on Human Rights in Ethiopia His daughter, Bendy, was born in Addis Ababa at the time this story unfolds. She lives and works in London.

THE REIGN FAILS

Ethiopia 1973, the mystical mountain kingdom.

No rain for over twelve months, drought and starving peasant farmers. An Emperor surrounded by a sycophantic government afraid to tell him the truth. Interfering foreigners who blow the whistle.

A story of the politics of aid, its consequences for a nation, and the seeds of revolution.

The Reign Fails A novel by

Keith Ashfield

Keith Ashfield