‘It’s half two in the morning in London. They might be off getting pissed on espresso martinis as far as I know.’
Loader said, ‘It ain’t like Six to go silent. Usually, you can’t stop that lot from gassing off.’
‘We can’t worry about that now. Keep driving. I’ll try them again once we reach the mansion.’
Bowman stuck close to the Hilux. Behind them, the Unimog headlamps burned like halos in the rear-view mirror. The convoy steered away from the river and cut south across the plain. Fifteen minutes later they hit Rogandu.
There was nothing to announce the village. It simply emerged from the darkness, a handful of unlit streets laid out in a rough grid and set in the middle of a barren, dusty landscape. They passed rickety shacks and wattle-and-daub huts, run-down farms. The minaret of a mosque towered like a lighthouse above the dwellings. Bowman looked round but saw no signs of activity. The dead hours. Everyone would be asleep. Maybe the locals didn’t even know about the rebellion yet.
They reached a T-junction south of the town and slewed left on to a modern metalled road running east towards the mountains. They were only a mile from the country residence now, Bowman realised. The road had been built at the request of the mansion’s owner, probably. The building had been intended for the use of Mr Seguma. Therefore, it would need excellent transportation links, fit for the president. Unacceptable to expect the head of state to travel in the same discomfort as his impoverished people.
They drove past a densely wooded area on their right. A scattering of farms and tin huts and unfinished buildings on their left. The Hilux made a sharp right and bombed down a single-lane approach road leading south between the two dense sprawls of woodland. The convoy continued on the approach road until they broke clear of the forest, and then Bowman caught his first glimpse of Seguma’s country residence.
At four o’clock in the morning, in the gloom before first light, he couldn’t see much. There was a whitewashed three-storey mansion set in the middle of a large parcel of land, at the end of a long front driveway. Lights glowed in several of the ground-floor rooms. Bowman spied a smaller one-storey building to the left of the mansion. Some sort of guest house, perhaps. A stone archway towered like a triumphal arch above the entrance to the driveway, two hundred metres beyond the treeline.
‘Seems quiet enough,’ Loader observed. ‘Looks like we got here in time.’
‘Only one way to find out,’ Mallet said.
The Hilux slowed as it neared the sentry box to the left of the archway. Two Presidential Guards stepped forward, raising their AK-47 rifles at the pickup truck and shouting for the driver to stop. The Hilux slammed on the brakes just short of the driveway, the rest of the convoy ground to a halt, and then the older guard approached the pickup while the second guy kept his rifle trained on the Land Cruiser. He looked young and bug-eyed with fear. The rifle visibly trembled in his grip.
‘Bit nervy, ain’t they?’ said Loader. ‘Like they’re one step away from doing a runner.’
‘These lads have just seen most of their muckers get carved up and shot,’ Mallet replied. ‘They’re bound to be jumpy.’
There was a swift exchange between Mavinda and the older guard. Mavinda pointed to the vehicles behind him, gestured at the mansion. The guard back-stepped from the Hilux and barked an order at his comrade. The bug-eyed soldier. The latter relaxed his stance and lowered his rifle, waved them through the gate.
The convoy passed under the huge archway in single file, the Hilux leading the way. The driveway dipped down slightly, then rose on a gentle incline and hooked around a fountain surmounted with a bronze eagle. The estate looked neglected, thought Bowman. Weeds poked through the cracks in the blacktop. The lawn was dotted with crumbling statues and withered trees. There was a half-derelict pagoda to the left of the drive, overlooking a rancid pond. An ornamental garden to the right, sloping down towards an irrigation ditch. The mansion itself looked like it had seen better days. The marbled columns were dulled and weathered. Sections of the ornate parapet were badly damaged. The once-gleaming white façade had buckled and flaked away in places, revealing the crumbling brickwork beneath.
‘This place is frigging huge,’ said Loader.
‘Almost big enough to house your entire family, Tiny,’ Mallet said.
‘Piss off, John. I ain’t got that many kids.’
‘Depends on your definition of “many”, I suppose. What are you up to now, anyway? Twelve, thirteen?’
‘Eight,’ Loader replied. ‘But we’re expecting in June. A boy.’ His face swelled with pride.
‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it,’ said Mallet.
‘You didn’t ask.’
Mallet looked back at him. ‘What do you think I am? Your fucking therapist? I’ve got enough on my plate without trying to keep on top of your ever-growing brood.’
Loader looked hurt. Mallet grinned at him.
‘Cheer up, Tiny. I’m just joking. Congratulations.’
‘Thanks, John.’
‘Let’s hope he doesn’t inherit your looks, eh?’ he went on. ‘Otherwise the poor sod will have even less luck with the women than your sorry arse.’
The convoy pulled up behind a trio of mud-spattered Land Rover Defenders parked in front of the mansion. Bowman killed the engine, the team got out, Major Mavinda and his three subordinates climbed out of the Hilux, and then the rest of the platoon hopped down from the back of the Unimog.
Two more soldiers stood guard at the entrance. They stepped aside as a stumpy, bull-necked officer strode out of the mansion and made a beeline for Major Mavinda. He seemed to know Mavinda. Bowman sensed an easy familiarity between the men as they greeted one another. They swapped a few lines in the local lingo, and then Mavinda introduced the stumpy officer to the Brits.
‘This is Colonel Joseph Lubowa,’ he said. ‘Commander of the Karatandu Presidential Guard.’
‘John Mallet.’ He extended a hand, indicated
