Tom Cain - Dictator

‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’

Wendell Klerk’s low rumble of a voice had, if anything, become even deeper in the years since Carver had first heard it.

He turned to look at his host. Klerk had acquired a few more lines on his face and the curly hair had gone from coal black to steely grey, but the man’s pugnacious air of vitality and determination was undimmed.

‘Good to see you again, Sam,’ Klerk said, taking Carver’s hand in a crushing grip. ‘Glad you could make it. I want you to know that I have not forgotten what you did for me and my family. I can never repay you. Never.’

Carver gave a wry smile, thinking of the massive fee that had been deposited in his Geneva account. ‘You made a pretty good stab at it, Mr Klerk.’

The tycoon laughed. ‘Ja, that’s true! But hey, call me Wendell. You are my guest, in my home. I don’t want to stand on ceremony.’

Klerk went across to the table where the drinks had been left. He ignored the water, poured himself a deep measure of whisky, downed it in one and refilled his glass before rejoining Carver by the fireplace.

‘David Shepherd did that for me – finest wildlife artist in the world,’ Klerk said, looking up at the painting. ‘What’s really remarkable, he was working entirely from photographs. The old bull was dead. I had shot him – quite legally I should add. Those are his tusks: one hundred and eleven, and one hundred and thirteen pounds respectively. We were in northeast Namibia, the Caprivi Strip. I tell you, man, when I came back to Cape Town with those beauties, no one could bloody believe it. Mind you, they cost me the love of a fine young woman.’

‘How so?’

‘Her name was Renee. Beautiful girl, but she hated the idea of me shooting such a magnificent creature. I tried to explain that it is vital to cull the herds for conservation purposes. If elephant populations are allowed to expand too much, they will destroy their habitat through overeating. Then there is nothing left for them, or other animals, or even the human population, and that is when things turn nasty. It is far better for everyone to manage the elephants through controlled hunting. It even provides legal ivory so that there is less opportunity for poachers to make money.’

‘What did Renee say to that?’

‘She said she didn’t care. Killing animals was wrong and she couldn’t love a man who could slaughter a defenceless elephant. I said to her, try wandering up to an angry bull elephant and see how defenceless it is. How would you like one of those tusks jammed right through your guts?’

‘I bet she didn’t like that.’

‘No, she certainly did not! But my argument still stands. Sometimes the herd must be culled. Sometimes the rogue male must be destroyed. Do you understand what I’m saying, Sam?’

‘Sure.’

‘Good,’ said Klerk. ‘Because there is someone I want you to cull.’

Carver closed his eyes for a second and sighed. ‘You know I don’t do that kind of thing any more,’ he said. ‘I quit a long time ago.’

Klerk nodded. ‘That’s what I heard, yes.’

‘So why are you asking?’

‘Because this is a special case,’ said Klerk. He placed his whisky glass on the mantelpiece. When he spoke again, his hands were in front of him, palms up in something close to supplication. ‘Listen, I truly believe that what I am about to ask you to do will make the world a better place. You could be saving tens, even hundreds of thousands of lives. Millions of people will be freer, healthier and more prosperous.’

Carver took another sip of his drink. ‘And how, precisely, will I do that?’

Klerk looked him straight in the eyes. ‘By killing that mad, tyrannical old bastard President Henderson Gushungo of Malemba.’

‘Why bother? The man’s in his eighties. He’ll die soon anyway.’

‘That’s what people said when he was in his seventies,’ Klerk replied. ‘But in the past ten years, while people have waited for him to go, the whole country has fallen apart. We’re talking an annual inflation rate of eleven million per cent. It is literally cheaper to wipe your arse with Malemban dollars than buy toilet paper. You know, they just printed a one-hundred-trillion-dollar note, and it’s worth less than the scrap of paper it’s printed on.’

‘Is that why you want him dead, to lower the rate of inflation? You sure the reason isn’t more personal than that?’

‘You know, Carver, that’s what I like about you: there’s no bullshit. Ja, I admit it, I’d like to see Gushungo dead for what he did to my family. He ordered the attack on the Stratten Reserve. The deaths there were down to him and he must pay for them in his own blood. That debt is long overdue. But I mean what I say about the shit he’s heaped on Malemba, too.’

Klerk’s right hand was clenched now, just the index finger sticking out, jabbing at the air between them as he spoke.

‘My homeland used to be the breadbasket of Africa, but vast areas of rich, fertile farmland are now just dust and weeds. The only thing stopping mass starvation is food aid from the West. The average life expectancy is just over forty-five years. More than one person in ten has HIV. There’s been an epidemic of cholera. And on top of all that, the people have to put up with oppression, rigged elections, forced eviction from their homes and resettlement in squalid camps miles from bloody anywhere. I tell you, man, it’s a disaster.’

‘I get it,’ said Carver. ‘The man’s an evil tyrant. But that’s what they said about Iraq. And killing Saddam didn’t do much good, did it? You take out the bastard at the top, you don’t get a sudden outbreak of peace and love. You just get some other bastard taking his place. Or even worse, a whole bunch of other bastards all fighting for the top spot while innocent civilians get caught in the crossfire. And if you do it illegally it just makes matters even worse. Why would Malemba be any different?’

‘Because there is an alternative: a genuine democrat waiting for the chance to govern the country properly and peacefully. I presume you’ve heard of Patrick Tshonga, head of the Popular Freedom Movement?’

‘Is he that guy who keeps winning elections without ever getting power, the one whose son was killed in a light aircraft? The authorities said the crash was an accident, as I recall.’ Carver gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Oh yeah, I know all about that kind of accident.’

Klerk took out his mobile phone and pressed a speed-dial number. ‘Could you bring in our other guest please, my dear? And the laptop, too, if you don’t mind.’

The two men waited in silence for a minute or so. Then the door opened and Alice walked in, holding the slender aluminium body of a MacBook Air under one arm like a futuristic evening-bag. She was accompanied by a tall, powerfully built black man whose shaved head was dusted with a stubble of greying hair. His huge shoulders seemed to strain at the fabric of his suit and his neck bulged over the collar of his shirt. He looked like a retired NFL player, the kind of guy who’d played in the trenches, slugging it out on the line of scrimmage. If he’d been allowed to claim his country by solitary combat, the President wouldn’t have stood a chance.

‘Good evening, Mr Carver,’ he said. ‘My name is Patrick Tshonga. I have the privilege of leading the struggle for democracy in Malemba. I presume Mr Klerk has already made the request that was the reason for inviting you here tonight?’

‘Yes, he has,’ said Carver as the ever reliable Terence slipped into the room bearing more glasses and fresh supplies of whisky. ‘And I was about to tell him how I used to think I was making the world a better place by taking out the bad guys. Then I realized that it made no difference. The world carried on just like it had before. And I had more deaths on my conscience.’