Paul Christopher - The Templar Legion

“Certainly.” Matheson nodded.

“That is a ratio of exactly five to one,” said Nagoupande. “With those odds and the knowledge that Kolingba is dead and I am in power there will be un revolution de machetes , as our French colonial masters called it, a revolution of machetes. A great deal of Baya and Yakima blood will be spilled and the small garrisons will be overrun. In a few weeks there will be a People’s Banda Army and I shall be at its head. Any Yakima still alive will almost certainly flee.”

“Limbani among them?” Matheson asked.

“Limbani is dead,” said Nagoupande flatly, his black eyes going cold. Matheson drew in a sharp breath and concentrated on the tip of his cigar to hide the sudden apprehension he felt. Faulkener had convinced him that Nagoupande was just another greedy dictator-in-waiting, ready for his fifteen minutes of fame before he sank back into obscurity, but just now in the certainty of the man’s voice he wasn’t quite so sure.

“You’re positive?” Lanz said. “I don’t like the idea of having to deal with someone else’s army coming out of the jungle at the last minute.”

“When you were on your spying mission in my country, did you see any sign of his presence?”

“No. Not a thing. Just a look on a bartender’s face when I mentioned his name.”

Nagoupande laughed. “Marcel Boganda.” He nodded. “He is an informer for Jean-Luc Saint-Sylvestre, the head of the Department of the Interior. He was head of the secret police back in the days that I was Limbani’s assistant. Boganda was one of the araignees in Saint-Sylvestre’s web.”

“Saint-Sylvestre.” Lanz nodded, smiling wanly. “The name of the customs official at the airport when I arrived.”

“He is shown the passenger lists long before the flight arrives. When he sees a name on the manifest he does not recognize he sometimes investigates,” said Nagoupande. “A careful man, our Jean-Luc.”

“All of this is fluff and flummery,” said Matheson. “The only real threat is from Limbani. He is the only one who has the resources and the education to effect a real revolution in Kukuanaland.”

Nagoupande looked at Matheson indifferently. “Your prejudices are showing, sir. You have me in your mind as another savage from the Dark Continent wishing to rape his country and then retire in luxury and obscurity in some safe haven like Dubai or Switzerland. I am not your average African despot, however. I have an undergraduate degree in anthropology from the Universite de Paris and a master’s degree in political science and economics from the Ruprecht-Karls University of Heidelberg. I returned to my country because I thought I could do something to change it, to make it a better place for my people. I thought that the French had corrupted paradise and that with some time and patience and effort it could be paradise once more. I was wrong. Corruption is a disease that once contracted cannot be cured. Kolingba is only a symptom. ”

“So take what you want, but pay me well, Sir James, and I will be your puppet for as long as you require. Cheat me or betray me and you will live to regret it. The only codicil is that you bring me Solomon Bokassa Sesesse Kolingba’s head on the end of a spear.” Nagoupande smiled pleasantly. “Savage enough for you, Sir James?”

Matheson was quiet for a long moment, smoking his cigar and staring at the painting on the wall that had cost him twice what the “destabilization” of Kukuanaland would amount to by the time all was said and done. There was perhaps ten billion pounds of profit to be made from this worm-in-the-apple of a country and with the shell company Faulkener was negotiating for through the bank in Aarau. Return enough for the risk and all the blood to be shed.

He turned his glance away from the painting and looked at Nagoupande. The man looked ridiculous in his brigadier general’s uniform, but Matheson knew that the uniform was not for the man’s vanity but worn as a symbol of his power to his people, not far removed from the tribal scars some African chiefs still scored across their faces. The more scars, the greater the power.

Matheson knew exactly what Nagoupande’s background was, and in the end his fine speech didn’t matter. Nagoupande was smart enough to do as he was told, because he was easily replaced-one puppet dancing on its strings was much like any other.

“Yes, Brigadier General Nagoupande, savage enough.” Matheson paused. “Quite savage enough.”

Grantham Place was a pricey cul-de-sac off Old Park Lane, and number nine was a large block of Victorian brick flats pierced on three sides by porte cocheres that led into an inner courtyard. It looked very much like a brick version of the Dakota in New York City, a building Captain Jean-Luc Saint-Sylvestre of the Kukuanaland secret police was quite familiar with, being a fan of both Roman Polanski and John Lennon. Of course, in Kukuanaland, the assassin Mark David Chapman would have been summarily executed on the spot and then torn limb from limb.

Flat six was on the second floor; that was easy enough to discover by visiting the English Heritage head office in Holborn, as was the original floor plan for the flat, a six-bedroom monster with two maid’s rooms and four bathrooms.

The long-term lease was held by something called the Bambridge Trust and was represented by a law firm in Edinburgh, Scotland, which paid the rent in full on January 1 of each year. They also paid for regular cleaning and maintenance, and contributed ten thousand pounds a year to English Heritage-beyond which the English Heritage partners knew nothing about the Bambridge Trust, nor did they wish to know anything.

At six thirty p.m., dressed in a well-cut Savile Row suit, Saint-Sylvestre rode the tube to the Hyde Park Corner station, then walked down Piccadilly to Old Park Lane and returned to the main entrance to the Grantham Place building. Nothing had changed since his first visit. He bent down, pretending to lace up his shoe, then turned back down Old Park Lane and stepped into a pub unimaginatively called the Rose and Crown. He took a table with a view through the big bow window to the street. He ordered a Heineken and a steak-and-kidney pie with chips, then settled down to wait.

At six forty-five the parade began with his Mr. X and none other than Francois Nagoupande in tow dressed in a brigadier general’s uniform. Two bodyguards rode along with Mr. X and the ex-lieutenant governor under Amobe Limbani. Twenty minutes later a black Rolls-Royce Phantom whispered down the narrow street, and, craning his neck, Saint-Sylvestre watched as a figure recognizable from the London Times as well as Country Life and the Wall Street Journal appeared. Sir James Matheson, CEO of Matheson Resource Industries and one of the richest men in the world.

Twenty minutes later a cab dropped off Konrad Lanz at the Grantham address. An interesting assortment of witches around the Kukuanaland cauldron, thought Saint-Sylvestre. Of them Nagoupande was the most interesting. Kolingba inevitably underrated him, but ever since Kolingba had seized power Saint-Sylvestre had spent a great deal of effort trying to track him down, to no avail. For the man Kolingba called a blundering bureaucrat and a buffoon, Nagoupande was surprisingly clever at keeping himself hidden.

Nagoupande’s attendance at this evening’s meeting confirmed everything that Saint-Sylvestre had been thinking. Matheson had found something in the hinterland and he was willing to pay whatever it cost to overthrow Kolingba and install Nagoupande to get it. For a moment the secret policeman wondered, not for the first time, whether carrying too many secrets around in your head like he did was inevitably self-destructive.

If Nagoupande were allowed to take power, Saint-Sylvestre knew that the dictator’s new broom would sweep the country clean, searching every nook and cranny. Perhaps it was better to go with the devil you knew than the devil you thought you might know. For now, at least, Saint-Sylvestre was still Solomon Kolingba’s man.