“Which is the reason I am here today,” I said, “is it not?”
Alassane looked as if he wanted to do things by the book and provide the briefing as we arrived at the military headquarters for my meeting with the general – at the last possible moment, in case I fell into enemy hands. But he wiped his brow again and nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “The man you are meeting today is planning to try again. He is planning another coup. He intends to replace the president and must be stopped. That is why he must be killed. That is why you are here.”
“But why a foreigner? Why don’t you apply the final solution yourselves?”
“Foreigners can do things here that we cannot,” said Alassane. “It is part of the heritage left to us by the French. Foreigners are treated with respect.” He looked out of the window at the rows of cleanly washed vehicles. “A respect they do not deserve.”
“Even when they are doing your dirty work for you,” I said.
Alassane had nothing further to say about the subject. He glared at the armoured vehicles with irritation.
“You seen enough?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said. “I’m ready for the next event on the itinerary.”
Alassane turned back to me.
“The meeting with the general,” he said.
“Yes, I’m looking forward to that.”
Alassane was still not enjoying my sense of humour. I had the feeling he would have preferred it if we had needed to communicate in one of the other fifty-eight languages.
Four
We left the army depot and drove in silence towards the city centre. Alassane fell silent, and Bibata’s driving became more cautious, as if she was reluctant to reach our destination.
We drove past the cinema again, then the museum, and the library. Bibata remained silent. The guided tour was over; it was all business now.
I had been watching the mirrors out of habit and noticed a dusty blue Volkswagen make a turn behind us. It had followed us through several turns.
“Could you loop back?” I asked. “I’d love to see the cinema again.”
Bibata glanced at Alassane. He gave a silent nod and turned to watch the car behind us. Bibata indicated, and pulled over. The blue car passed us, but then also pulled over to the side of the road a hundred metres ahead. Bibata did not notice, but waited for another car to pass and then executed a neat U-turn. Alassane swivelled about in the back to watch the blue car. It also performed a U-turn, and a few moments later was sitting behind us again.
“We’re being followed,” I said. “Is it someone you know?”
Another anxious glance from Bibata.
“Nobody we know,” said Alassane.
“What if we take a detour?” I suggested.
“Do it,” said Alassane, in a tight voice that made Bibata’s hand flutter as it went for the indicator. Her foot pressed onto the accelerator and the old Mercedes coughed reluctantly, then died. The clicking of the indicator sounded loudly in the silence.
“Don’t indicate, woman,” hissed Alassane. “Get us out of here. Now.”
Bibata started the engine again and pulled off with a crunching of tyres on the dusty road. She turned in the direction she had indicated, and Alassane shouted, “Faster woman, faster!”
Bibata accelerated, and the Mercedes reluctantly sped up. She took a few more turns, but the blue Volkswagen stayed on our tail. There was something menacing about the fact they were so brazen, so apparently relaxed, as if they did not care that we noticed they were following us. Then, as if they realised we had noticed them, they fell back and allowed several cars and a swarm of motorbikes to come between us, so that it seemed we had lost them.
But a few minutes later they appeared again. Bibata turned onto a narrower, dusty road, with a sparse scattering of single-storey houses on each side. It was a long, straight road. Approaching from the far end was a black jeep, blowing up a cloud of dust behind it.
I didn’t like the look of this road. My instinct said it was the kind of road on which our tail might take the opportunity to pounce. I turned back to see what the blue Volkswagen was doing.
“Can you stop fast?” I asked Bibata.
Her eyes turned to me, wide with fear.
“Stop?” she asked.
“I need to know how fast you can stop this car. If you slam your foot on the brakes, how quickly will we stop?”
“Don’t stop!” cried Alassane. “Are you crazy? They’re behind us.”
“They’ve fallen back,” I said.
Alassane turned to look and confirmed the blue Volkswagen was falling back.
“What are they doing?” asked Alassane.
“They are waiting for their moment,” I said. “We need to force them. Slam your foot on the brakes now, Bibata.”
Bibata did as I said. The old Mercedes skidded sideways, and for a moment I thought we might roll because of the unbalanced brakes, but Bibata succeeded in straightening out and we ground to a halt. A cloud of dust billowed past us.
“Good,” I said. “Now drive as fast as you can at that black car coming towards us.”
The motor had cut again. Bibata restarted the engine, and we lurched forward.
“At the car?” she said, and her hands trembled on the wheel.
“You are doing great,” I said. “Now drive at that car.”
“You will get us killed,” protested Alassane from the back, but his eyes were on the blue car, which was now closing the gap between us.
The cloud of dust we had kicked up reduced visibility. The black car was little more than a blur, but Bibata had her eyes on it, and her foot was pressed to the floor.
A moment later my suspicions were confirmed when a loud crack sounded. The rear window shattered and chunks of shatter-proof glass burst over Alassane and the back seat. I turned to see Alassane with his head between his knees and thought for a moment that he had been
