all came down to a lack of money. There always seemed to be so many other things in Namola that needed to have money spent on. It was no wonder that he had been unable to agree to the captain’s request for the yacht to be dry-docked at one of the larger shipping yards outside Monaco so that her motors could be serviced properly and her keel cleaned.
Lattua promised himself that the next oil cheque would go toward getting the yacht fixed and repainted. In the meantime, he would give thought to purchasing a new addition for the country’s air force. A large transport jet with the right sort of interior fittings would be ideal. He wondered who he could get to pay for such an acquisition. The World Bank was out of question. They wouldn’t even return his phone calls these days. He needed another sponsor and it would have to be someone with very deep pockets.
Lattua pondered the problem as he devoured the large breakfast that his steward placed before him. He couldn’t enjoy the food when he recalled how little money the Namolan treasury held at that moment. In an effort to take his mind off such unpleasant thoughts he remembered what the blond had said to him the previous evening.
Gesturing to his steward he issued his instructions, ‘Ring the escort agency. I want three women tonight.’
2
Rushing down the runway at ever increasing speed the small private jet lifted off from the dusty Namolan airfield and headed into the clear blue sky.
The jet had been chartered by The Fund, a British charity, and it carried three passengers. As it banked to port the sole passenger, on that side of the plane looked down at the sprawling encampment below.
Blue smoke from innumerable cooking fires gave the hastily erected houses a ghostly aspect, and the occupants of those small huts appeared as black specks, moving slowly up and down along the streets which separated the rows of prefabricated dwellings.
A great sadness gripped at Eliza Strang’s chest as she watched the camp and its occupants disappear from view as their plane crossed the coast and headed north.
Seeking moral support, she glanced over the aisle to where her companions sat holding hands. Nori and Ali Akuba were originally from Nigeria and had narrowly managed to escape persecution in their homeland by migrating to England. There they had been able to raise a family and start their own business until Fate in the form of the enigmatic Jade Green, had conspired to raise the couple from obscurity to the position they now held as Directors in The Fund, one of the newest and most heavily financed charities on the world stage.
Nori Akuba, who also had a tear in her eye, smiled sadly and acknowledged Eliza’s look. She too, felt sad at their leaving but knew that it was for the best.
All three of them were tired beyond normal exhaustion and it was a tiredness of the spirit as much as their physical being.
There was always so much to do in the camp, and so very much that they could simply not achieve, no matter how hard they tried.
On more than one night, Nori had dropped exhausted into bed and sobbed uncontrollably. Endless hours of hard work had seemed to prove fruitless, and the refugees she had attempted to care for continued to die. Taking her into his arms, Ali had held her. He had not tried to tell her to stop and allowed her tears to flow while wishing that he could do the same.
Slowly, the three of them had come to the same unpalatable truth. You can’t save everyone, no matter how hard you try. It simply couldn’t be done. Money wasn’t the answer. Some of the poor souls were beyond help when they arrived. There was nothing that the three of them could do even with all the resources they had at their command.
The only answer was tirage. Help for those who could be helped, and as much as it went against everything they held dear, they had to force themselves to ignore those who couldn’t be helped. In that way they had been able to claim some small victories. Lives had been saved and a future, even if it were a precarious one, had been obtained for the lucky few.
***
When the jet reached its cruising height and the seatbelt light had been extinguished, Eliza made her way to the toilet located off the small galley at the rear of the plane.
After relieving herself in the first toilet in months that was not swarming with flies, she washed her face and hands and she took a paper towel to dry herself. As she did so she caught sight of herself in the mirror. It was the first time that she had seen herself in a full sized mirror since arriving in the refugee camp and the sight before her came as a complete shock.
Where had she gone, the young, white faced Goth with her host of body piercings that would have looked back at her a short time ago?
It had begun in Paris of course. The members on the board of The Fund had carefully explained to her that she would never be accepted in Africa in her Gothic dress and makeup so she had reluctantly agreed to the makeover.
Fellow board members, Suzie Ryan and Lana Reynolds had taken Eliza and her friend Justine under their wings and overseen their transformation. Out had gone the Goth, and in her place had arrived a young, middle class professional woman.
Now, standing before the mirror, even that incarnation of Eliza Strang had disappeared to be replaced by her current persona.
Her hair, which had been styled by one of the best hairdressers in Paris, was a complete mess. A perfunctory brush through had done little to give it any shape and it sprung from her head at various angles. Its colour was no longer a dyed black, but more chestnut with lighter streaks where the long days in the sun had bleached the tresses a lighter hue.
Her face, like her hair, had undergone a dramatic alteration. Eating sparingly, working hard and experiencing the soul destroying setbacks of camp life had sucked the youthful fat from her body, and had been replaced by hard, sinewy muscle. The clothes that she had brought with her from England now hung loosely on her spare frame and her once palid skin was now deeply tanned. The eyes in the mirror were now those of a far older, more world-wise person.
With a grimace she recalled how much trouble she had experienced with Customs when she had relinquished her Gothic looks and re-entered Britain bearing a passport photo that looked nothing like her present self and wondered if she would have the same problem yet again. Yet, she realised with a grin, with all the problems she had been forced to overcome in the past months, a doubting Customs official would be of little consequence.
***
Nori watched as Eliza returned to her seat and compared the efficient young woman that she now knew with the wilful young girl that had left England.
The differences in Eliza were obvious and Nori could see that her husband had changed as well. There were now small touches of grey at his temples and his forehead was constantly creased in thought. If he had been reticent about his part in their venture before they had left, he had certainly come into his own when the pressure had been on. Her husband’s personal strength had been the reason that she had been able to carry on despite being forced to watch countless innocent women and children dying around them. It had enabled her to wake up each morning and return to the impossible task of trying to keep a starving, disease ridden population alive for one more day.
She took his large hand in hers, lifted it to her lips and kissed it.
***
Ali looked down at his wife as she took his hand and smiled.
‘It will be wonderful to spend some time with our children,’ he said quietly.
