“We should expect that there might be people observing us, and everything we do should appear as normal as possible. I would be interested to hear about your country, and your people.”
Alassane sighed. “The people of our country have a long history,” he said. “This region is the Volta. Where humans started. I, for instance, am a Voltaic Mossi. We are warriors.”
“Were warriors,” said Bibata. She turned to me and a little of the scorn she had directed at Alassane lingered in her eyes. “The Mossi were a warrior tribe,” she explained. “They blazed a trail of death and destruction through the Volta region over a thousand years ago.”
She looked down at her grapefruit and scooped a segment from it with the serrated spoon.
“You are not a Voltaic Mossi?” I asked.
Bibata looked up at me, some amusement in her round face. “You don’t ask that question in this country, Mr Johnson,” she said. Her eyes twinkled. “Because those who are not Voltaic Mossi have not forgotten the suffering their ancestors endured at the hands of the Mossi.”
“I thought you said it was a thousand years ago?”
“It was. But there are some who have not forgotten. Not in all those thousand years.”
“Is that the cause of the problems?” I asked.
Alassane shook his head in dismissal of that idea. “That is nonsense. That kind of fighting stopped hundreds of years ago. Bibata comes from a family full of witch doctors and lunatics. They might harbour resentment, but they would be the only ones.”
Bibata looked down and pierced her grapefruit again, accepting Alassane’s insults about her family with grace.
“No,” continued Alassane. “Our problems are more recent. The Europeans caused them. The French people, arriving here and acting like this place was theirs.”
Alassane gave his brow another wipe and directed an irritated glance at the silent Malian businessmen. Then he looked back to me, seeming to realise that our orientation had not struck a particularly friendly note. He stretched his lips over his teeth in what might have been a smile, although the tension in his face deprived the result of any friendliness.
“We are grateful,” he said, “that the South Africans have agreed to step in at this critical moment.”
I smiled and allowed a feeling of camaraderie to settle for a moment. Alassane kept his anxious gaze on me. There was something else he needed to say.
“It needs to be a final solution,” he said, his face stern, his shoulders hunched. “Absolutely final. Here in Africa, there is only one solution, and it is the final one. Are you sure that you understand that?”
“I am,” I said. “Final solutions are what I am good at.”
“That is what we heard,” said Alassane, and he sat back in his chair, threatening to topple backwards with the weight of his barrel chest. “There is no time for dialogue. As long as you are aware of that. When you arrive at the meeting, it will be just you and the general. It would probably be better if you do not engage in dialogue with him. There will be no time.”
“Who needs dialogue?” I said. “I’m in favour of getting straight to the action.”
Alassane blinked, and his mouth tightened.
“Would it be impertinent of me to ask to what extent you were involved in the planning of this operation?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I was a military man. I like to understand the chain of command.”
“I am the only person you need to concern yourself with,” said Alassane, and then he realised he had allowed his friendly smile to fade again, and gave another grimace. “Your first appointment is on the other side of town, Mr Johnson. We should get going.”
“Yes, of course,” I said.
“If you have finished your breakfast?”
I had eaten half a dry croissant and had one cup of the lukewarm chicory soup.
“I have,” I said. “Let’s go. I’m ready to do what needs to be done.”
Three
The street outside the hotel was brown and blisteringly hot, like an earthenware pot in a kiln. Motorbikes buzzed noisily back and forth, carrying up to three passengers each, all without helmets. There seemed no clear understanding of which side of the road anyone should drive on, which was probably why our car was parked in a way that blocked the entrance of the hotel: crossing the road was something best avoided.
The vehicle they had chosen for the informal guided tour was a dusty silver Mercedes with a cracked perspex sunroof. The window winders were broken, but the passenger seat window, beside which I sat, was missing. The air that oozed through it promised a welcome relief from the oppressive heat.
Bibata sat in the driver’s seat and Alassane sat behind us, his enormous chest supported on his long arms, his head swivelling from side to side like a rear gunner searching the skies for enemy planes. He seemed unusually anxious for a presidential aide who was conducting a foreign visitor on a pre-planned and perfectly legitimate guided tour of the country’s military resources.
Bibata drove well, but with excessive caution. A few clicks below the speed limit, bringing the car to a full stop at each intersection, although no other drivers seemed to bother. They mostly accelerated to get through the intersections as quickly as possible.
A few minutes into our journey, Alassane reached into a satchel beside him on the seat and extracted a leather holster. He handed it to me.
“We could not obtain the weapon you requested,” he said without regret. “This will have to do.”
The holster held a Makarov pistol. The Makarov has a straight blowback action that makes it more accurate because the barrel and slide do not need to unlock on the firing action. But it is made entirely of steel, so it is heavy for a handgun. I prefer a Glock or a Beretta. A Makarov is fairly low on my list of preferred weapons, but now was not the time to be difficult about it. I took
