“There have been a number of rumors that there is an escape tunnel leading from the presidential residence to a building outside the compound. While doing his initial surveillance, Colonel Lanz saw three buildings that seemed in extremely good repair when compared to their neighbors, and one of which, a pharmacy, appeared to be either under surveillance or being guarded by two men in a vehicle wearing plain clothes.
“A study of the methods employed by General Kolingba’s second in command, Olivier Gashabi, a.k.a. Oliver Gash, point to an escape tunnel as a very real possibility. Immediately at the beginning of the mortar attack on the compound it is suggested that the pharmacy building be destroyed with the use of incendiaries and RPG fire. Even then a watch should be kept on the ruins.
“It is estimated that half to two-thirds of the forces within the compound will have been killed or wounded within the first hour after the commencement of the attack. Any attempt to surrender is to be forcibly refused, even if the surrender is offered by Kolingba himself. ”
“It is estimated that there are three thousand members of the Kukuanaland armed forces scattered in small garrisons around the territory, while all command and control functions, including resupply of these garrison troops, is done from Fourandao. ”
“The four-hundred-man incursion force is neither strong enough, large enough nor well enough supplied to hold off a consolidation of these garrison forces for very long, so it is imperative that the head of the snake, so to speak, be killed immediately and completely. The incursion force has no ability to take prisoners or guard them. The destruction of the compound forces must be one hundred percent.”
“What about the civilian population?” Matheson asked.
“The civilian population is entirely cowed by Kolingba. The man is a despot. If he is killed the initial response of the local population will be one of relief.”
“The bureaucrats in the flats?”
“They are to be kept under house arrest,” replied Faulkener. “Brigadier General Nagoupande assures me that there are enough members of his loyal government in exile to fulfill any functions presently being handled by the occupants of the three buildings.”
“And after the brigadier general has formally taken the reins of power?” Matheson asked.
“That will be entirely up to Brigadier General Nagoupande,” answered Faulkener, his voice bland and without emotion. He knew precisely what would happen to them, because Nagoupande had described in vivid detail what he would do to each and every one of them, man, woman and child. There was no need to burden Matheson with the same lurid and obscene information.
“Quite so.” Matheson nodded. “How long is our force supposed to last before they are relieved?”
“Six days,” replied Faulkener, his tone brisk. “This is the amount of time we project it will take for news of the brigadier general’s return to travel by word of mouth throughout Kukuanaland.”
“Jungle drums?” Matheson smiled, lighting a cigar.
“A company called InterMedia did a study several years ago that showed in countries with difficult-to-reach populations, such as those in Africa, Kukuanaland in particular, word of mouth is still the optimum method of communication. According to the study we can expect seventy-five percent penetration within four days and eighty percent within six.”
“And the result of this happy news?” Matheson asked.
Nagoupande spoke for the first time that evening. “I am Banda; you knew this?”
“Certainly.” Matheson nodded.
“That is a ratio of exactly five to one,” said Nagoupande. “With those odds and the knowledge that Kolingba is dead and I am in power there will be
“Limbani among them?” Matheson asked.
“Limbani is dead,” said Nagoupande flatly, his black eyes going cold. Matheson drew in a sharp breath and concentrated on the tip of his cigar to hide the sudden apprehension he felt. Faulkener had convinced him that Nagoupande was just another greedy dictator-in-waiting, ready for his fifteen minutes of fame before he sank back into obscurity, but just now in the certainty of the man’s voice he wasn’t quite so sure.
“You’re positive?” Lanz said. “I don’t like the idea of having to deal with someone else’s army coming out of the jungle at the last minute.”
“When you were on your spying mission in my country, did you see any sign of his presence?”
“No. Not a thing. Just a look on a bartender’s face when I mentioned his name.”
Nagoupande laughed. “Marcel Boganda.” He nodded. “He is an informer for Jean-Luc Saint-Sylvestre, the head of the Department of the Interior. He was head of the secret police back in the days that I was Limbani’s assistant. Boganda was one of the
“Saint-Sylvestre.” Lanz nodded, smiling wanly. “The name of the customs official at the airport when I arrived.”
“He is shown the passenger lists long before the flight arrives. When he sees a name on the manifest he does not recognize he sometimes investigates,” said Nagoupande. “A careful man, our Jean-Luc.”
“All of this is fluff and flummery,” said Matheson. “The only real threat is from Limbani. He is the only one who has the resources and the education to effect a real revolution in Kukuanaland.”
Nagoupande looked at Matheson indifferently. “Your prejudices are showing, sir. You have me in your mind as another savage from the Dark Continent wishing to rape his country and then retire in luxury and obscurity in some safe haven like Dubai or Switzerland. I am not your average African despot, however. I have an undergraduate degree in anthropology from the Universite de Paris and a master’s degree in political science and economics from the Ruprecht-Karls University of Heidelberg. I returned to my country because I thought I could do something to change it, to make it a better place for my people. I thought that the French had corrupted paradise and that with some time and patience and effort it could be paradise once more. I was wrong. Corruption is a disease that once contracted cannot be cured. Kolingba is only a symptom. ”
“So take what you want, but pay me well, Sir James, and I will be your puppet for as long as you require. Cheat me or betray me and you will live to regret it. The only codicil is that you bring me Solomon Bokassa Sesesse Kolingba’s head on the end of a spear.” Nagoupande smiled pleasantly. “Savage enough for you, Sir James?”
Matheson was quiet for a long moment, smoking his cigar and staring at the painting on the wall that had cost him twice what the “destabilization” of Kukuanaland would amount to by the time all was said and done. There was perhaps ten billion pounds of profit to be made from this worm-in-the-apple of a country and with the shell company Faulkener was negotiating for through the bank in Aarau. Return enough for the risk and all the blood to be shed.
He turned his glance away from the painting and looked at Nagoupande. The man looked ridiculous in his brigadier general’s uniform, but Matheson knew that the uniform was not for the man’s vanity but worn as a symbol of his power to his people, not far removed from the tribal scars some African chiefs still scored across their faces. The more scars, the greater the power.
Matheson knew exactly what Nagoupande’s background was, and in the end his fine speech didn’t matter. Nagoupande was smart enough to do as he was told, because he was easily replaced-one puppet dancing on its strings was much like any other.
“Yes, Brigadier General Nagoupande, savage enough.” Matheson paused. “Quite savage enough.”
Grantham Place was a pricey cul-de-sac off Old Park Lane, and number nine was a large block of Victorian brick flats pierced on three sides by porte cocheres that led into an inner courtyard. It looked very much like a brick version of the Dakota in New York City, a building Captain Jean-Luc Saint-Sylvestre of the Kukuanaland secret police was quite familiar with, being a fan of both Roman Polanski and John Lennon. Of course, in Kukuanaland, the assassin Mark David Chapman would have been summarily executed on the spot and then torn limb from limb.
Flat six was on the second floor; that was easy enough to discover by visiting the English Heritage head office in Holborn, as was the original floor plan for the flat, a six-bedroom monster with two maid’s rooms and four bathrooms.
The long-term lease was held by something called the Bambridge Trust and was represented by a law firm in Edinburgh, Scotland, which paid the rent in full on January 1 of each year. They also paid for regular cleaning and
