Lubowa shook his hand limply. ‘You’re lucky my men didn’t kill you, Mr Mallet. They saw your headlights approaching and thought you might be the Machete Boys.’
‘Are they in the area?’ said Bowman.
‘Not yet. But they will be, soon enough. We’ve heard reports of fighting in the nearest big town. Farangi. Thirty miles from here.’
‘Closer than we thought,’ Loader muttered.
Colonel Lubowa regarded the new arrivals. A look of disappointment crossed his face.
‘Is this all of you?’ he asked.
‘This is everyone,’ Mallet said.
Lubowa shrugged. ‘Then I suppose it will have to do.’
‘Where’s the family, Colonel?’
‘Inside. Mr Gregory is guarding them.’
The two Karatandan officers shared a meaningful look. Bowman thought he saw a nervous expression edging across Mavinda’s face. He wondered about that.
‘Are they OK?’ Mallet asked.
‘Mr Seguma’s family is safe. A few of them have minor injuries, cuts and bruises, but nothing serious.’
‘When did you get here?’
‘Two hours ago,’ Colonel Lubowa replied. ‘About two o’clock.’
‘How many guys have you got guarding this place?’ said Loader.
‘Four. These two men, the two on the gate. And Mr Gregory, of course.’
‘No one else escaped the palace?’
‘No.’
Mallet said, ‘We’d better go and brief Mike.’ He half turned to Mavinda. ‘Tell your men to start unloading their kit. Check their weapons too. Make sure they’re ready for a scrap.’
He spoke to the major in a stern tone. Establishing authority. We’re in charge now. This is what we do. Mavinda didn’t argue. He just nodded at his subordinates. Toothbrush, Lanky and Pockmark marched over to the Unimog, bellowing orders at the squaddies.
‘Follow me,’ Lubowa said.
He led the Cell team and the major towards the entrance. Bowman wearily brought up the rear with Loader, a tight feeling in his chest as he glanced round the estate.
‘Better hope those reinforcements aren’t running late,’ he murmured.
Loader glanced at his mucker. ‘Don’t tell me you’re getting twitchy about a few junkie scavengers who can’t shoot properly. We’ve handled tougher enemies than that in the Regiment.’
Bowman shook his head. ‘It’s not that.’
He swept a hand across the estate.
‘Look around you, mate. There’s a lot of dead ground here,’ he added. ‘Those ditches, the depressions. Plenty of cover for the enemy to hide.’
‘I don’t think the Machete Boys will understand the principle of using dead ground to advance, Josh. They’re a bunch of junkie scavengers.’
‘Maybe not them,’ Bowman admitted. ‘But any decent rebel force that’s switched on will know what to do. They could use that cover to get right in among us. And if that happens, we’re in fucking trouble.’
Twenty-Five
They crossed the marble-pillared porch, passed the two guards posted on the front door and entered a large central atrium garishly decorated in gold and ivory. A nine-foot-tall bronze sculpture of Ken Seguma dominated the middle of the floor space. The atrium was filled with a chaotic arrangement of artwork: Greek statues, Renaissance paintings, ceremonial masks. Colonel Lubowa guided them off to one side, down a long corridor adorned with gilt-framed mirrors and crystal chandeliers. At first sight, everything looked impressive. But the fittings were as worn and tired as the exterior. Damp patches stained the walls. The arms on some of the chandeliers were broken or damaged. Everything looked in need of a lick of paint.
Lubowa led them to the end of the corridor, turned right, then walked down a shorter hallway. Bowman saw peeling silk wallpaper, a faded ceiling mural. At the far end, the room opened up into a lavishly furnished salon. There was a bar to the right, with a row of leather-seated stools and a rack of spirit bottles mounted to the wall. A white Steinway grand piano. At the back of the room, a set of French doors led out to a terrace overlooking a swimming pool set at the foot of the sloped rear garden. The sound of chirping crickets drifted through an open window.
Eight figures sat at a pair of giltwood tables on the left side of the room. At the nearest table, Bowman saw a short, stout woman in her late thirties. She wore a pair of half-moon glasses and a bright-green dress intricately patterned with strange shapes and symbols. Bowman recognised her from the photos he’d seen back at the Shed. Christel Seguma. The tyrant’s third wife. She was dandling a screaming infant on her knee. Next to her was a wide-hipped woman in her fifties with a traditional Karatandan head cloth covering her hair. A slight, well-groomed man was seated beside the two women. He was dressed in a silk tunic embroidered with gold. The brother and sister-in-law.
The other four children sat cross-legged on the floor around the second table. Two boys aged around nine or ten. The president’s sons, Bowman presumed. And a pair of twin girls. The brother’s children. They were younger than the boys. Five or six, maybe. A few years older than Sophie had been when her killers had cruelly ended her life. The twins were dressed in matching yellow dresses, the boys in dapper suits. One of the girls held a cuddly toy bear. The boys were playing a game on an iPad, arguing over whose turn it was to go next. They seemed oblivious to what was going on around them. Which was probably for the best.
A ninth figure walked up and down the terrace. A tall hard-bodied guy with an unkempt beard, holding a clamshell phone to his ear. Bowman caught sight of his face through the glass.
Mike Gregory.
The ex-OC of B Squadron ended the call and stepped inside. He marched straight over to the team and looked them over before his eyes settled on Bowman. A grin cracked his leathery ex-soldier’s face.
‘Josh. My God. It’s really you.’
‘Mike.’
They shook hands. Mike Gregory looked leaner than Bowman remembered. As if he had aged backwards. He had the sinewy, supple build of someone twenty years younger. The kind of physique earned by a lifetime of hard work in the field. Only his face seemed to have got older. His skin
