Paul Christopher - The Templar Legion

“Yes.”

The battered, energetic figure of Sir James Matheson stepped into the room. His face had the unhealthy flush of high blood pressure and there were dark bags under his eyes. Matheson closed the door behind him and turned the latch. Lanz stood up and so did Faulkener.

“Mr. Lanz, this is, uh, Mr. Smith.”

Lanz turned to Faulkener, a look of weary irritation on his face. “Actually it’s lieutenant colonel, Major Faulkener, and I haven’t spent the last eight hours driving to Milan and flying here to be treated like an idiot.” Lanz turned back to Matheson. “You’re Sir James Matheson, Ninth Earl of Emsworth, majority shareholder in Matheson Resource Industries. Your address and a computer reverse directory told me that much. The ten thousand euros tells me you have a serious problem that you need solved militarily.” Lanz paused. “How am I doing, Lord Emsworth?”

“Bravo, sir!” Matheson said. He went to the bar, poured himself a tumbler of neat Talisker single-malt and sat behind the desk. Lanz and Faulkener took their seats again. Lanz could still faintly hear the chamber music. The three-piece orchestra had switched to Beethoven’s “Triple Concerto” in C major, Op. 56. Another German. Lanz wondered if Matheson had chosen the music on purpose. Looking at the man he rather doubted it; somehow the industrialist didn’t look as though he had that sort of subtle nature.

“You know of Solomon Kolingba, I’m sure,” Matheson said.

“The breakaway dictator in the Central African Republic.” Lanz nodded.

“Indeed,” said Matheson. “What is your opinion on the stability of his regime?”

“Politically or militarily?”

“Either.”

“I have no idea.” Lanz shrugged. “At a guess I’d say he’ll be like most upstart dictators in Africa. He’ll have his day in the sun but he doesn’t even have the veneer of sanity, so eventually he’ll be deposed himself. It’s inevitable.”

“Deposed from within?” Matheson asked, sipping his Talisker.

“As opposed to what?” Lanz asked, although he had a fairly good idea where this was heading.

“As opposed to a coup d’etat from an outside source,” said Faulkener bluntly.

“A mercenary force?” Lanz asked.

“That’s why you’re here, Colonel Lanz,” said Faulkener crisply. Lanz could feel the silver-haired man itching to use the word Oberstleutnant , or better yet, Obersturmbannfuhrer .

“I have no idea about Kolingba’s military strength.”

“We can give you all of that,” said Faulkener. “But if Kolingba is killed and the garrison is taken the coup would be a fait accompli. The regular army is a farce, small-time warlords at the very best.”

“You have someone to replace Kolingba with?”

“Several candidates. His second in command is the most likely,” replied Faulkener.

“He has no loyalty to Kolingba?” Lanz asked.

“He’s a very greedy man,” said Matheson. “His only loyalty is to himself.”

“In my opinion once Kolingba is removed everything else will fall into place,” said Faulkener.

“But if I am to do this thing, it is not your opinion that is important, Major Faulkener; it is mine.”

Faulkener’s face reddened but he remained silent.

“What’s the first step?” Matheson asked.

“A reconnaissance,” said Lanz.

“To Fourandao, the capital?” Faulkener said.

“Certainly.” Lanz nodded.

“We expected that,” said Matheson.

“We have a cover prepared,” said Faulkener. “There’s not much in the way of tourism in Kukuanaland, so we’ve made you an official with an NGO specializing in foreign aid. We’ve got a passport, contact numbers, a complete legend that will play out if anyone investigates.”

“I know nothing of foreign aid,” said Lanz. “Nor do I have any interest in learning. I am a soldier. I’ll provide my own cover.”

“As what, may I ask?” Faulkener said, reddening again. Lanz was nothing but a hired gun, but he seemed to have taken over the meeting completely.

“As a dealer in small arms,” said Lanz, smiling. “Something General Kolingba and I have in common.”

“When?” Matheson asked.

“As soon as possible.”

“Excellent!” Matheson said. He tossed off the last of the Talisker. “How much?”

“For the reconnaissance and my report?”

“Yes.”

“One hundred thousand euros. Fifty thousand now, paid into my account in Liechtenstein, the balance when you get my report.”

“A little steep, don’t you think, Lanz?” Faulkener said.

“You’re asking me to step into the lion’s den, Major Faulkener. I think the price is fair. If you don’t think so I can always go back to Tuscany.”

“The price is fine,” interrupted Matheson. “Go to Fourandao. Get me that report as soon as possible.”

For all its storied, bloody history, Khartoum is a relatively young city. Established in 1821 by Ibrahim Pasha as an outpost of the Egyptian army, Khartoum grew into a major trading town for slave traders. Nestled on a peninsula where the Blue Nile and the White Nile converge, the city was strategically located, and in 1884 the self-styled Mahdi, or Messiah, of the Arab people laid siege to and eventually massacred the Anglo-Egyptian garrison under British General Charles George Gordon. The British got their revenge thirteen years later when General Herbert Kitchener routed the Mahdist forces in the town of Omdurman on the other side of the river. Patriotic to a fault, Lord Kitchener laid out the new city of Khartoum with a street plan designed like the Union Jack.

Like many African cities Khartoum has two faces: the oil-rich city of lavish resorts, exotic architecture and luxurious apartment buildings and, at the same time, a city of terrible poverty, with children selling stale food products in the souks, or markets, massive inflation and unemployment, lack of fresh water or sewage treatment, an active criminal trade in women and children and a massive black market trade in just about anything you could name.

“This can’t be right,” said Peggy, looking out the grimy window of the Land Cruiser. They were on an unpaved street in south Khartoum. Most of the buildings were low, cheap industrial structures made from concrete blocks with flat, rusty, corrugated iron roofs. The majority looked empty, what few windows they had filthy and broken. At some time in the past there had obviously been a flood, as the marks of the high-water line could be seen clearly on the buildings.

“It’s what it said on that bit of hotel stationery in Ives’s dispatch case,” answered Rafi. “ ‘Trans,’ which we can assume means transportation; ‘Mutwakil Osman, end of Al-Hamdab Street, over railway tracks. Look for old abandoned Petronas station on left.’ ” Rafi pointed. “There’s the Petronas station, there’s the end of the street, and we passed over the railway tracks a half dozen blocks ago.”

“There’s nothing here except the Nile River and some barges,” said Holliday, pulling the Land Cruiser to a stop. Directly in front of the truck the road ended in a patch of weeds that turned into the rough, sloping bank of the Nile. A set of rickety wooden stairs led down to a narrow concrete walkway and several wooden docks that jutted out into the sluggish, wind-ruffled water. Several gigantic barges were moored to the docks, most of them clearly used for dredging Nile mud. Two others were fitted with large ribbed Quonset huts that appeared to be World War Two vintage. Holliday climbed out of the truck. Rafi and Peggy followed. It was hot but the light, faintly aromatic breeze coming off the river was refreshingly cool.

“Surely he didn’t take a boat,” said Rafi, frowning.