Other than Fredericks, who'cl been nothing but professional and clearly welcoming of a spare pair of hands, he'd yet to meet any of the Chiltonford crew or Alga Creek employees, so he decided to err on the side of caution and prepare for the worst.
CHAPTER 16
The plan to kill President Namakobo was basic. It had to be.
While there had been planning, and it had been elaborate, it was by those who believed there would be time to organise, recruit and prepare. There were plenty of ways to assassinate the President, and among those loyal to Baptiste, many willing to do it.
A martyr dying a glorious death in a spectacular explosion, would send Namakobo to hell, the willing sacrificial lamb to his virgins, and the triumphant Baptiste to the Presidency. An assassin's bullet, with discipline, meticulous timing, and the precision of perfect flight, would catch the unsuspecting Namakobo right between the eyes without him ever having heard the shot. Or poison administered by a trusted aid or associate - a cold and intimate murder, akin to slipping a blade between the ribs of a brother, forcing the slender, silver steel in, and up to the hilt, watching the life withdraw from the eyes of the victim.
Such was the inveigling flavour of the great Baptiste's call to his willing, mindless flock. Incredibly, there was no shortage of sheep ready to pay the ultimate sacrifice for their fearless shepherd. Stupid bastards, thought Lundt amidst his latest musings on the blind fervor of Baptiste's followers. If only they knew.
Whilst the more senseless, extravagant options held great appeal for Baptiste - keen to capitalise on making Namakobo's death a glorious transition of power to the rightful leader - Lundt would not entertain them. It wasn't in his make-up to do so. He had endured countless hours of Baptiste's cocaine-induced exhortations and rants, foretelling Namakobo's death in visions. Of the hundreds he had heard, Lundt recalled Baptiste's fantasies of the president dying by a bomb, gun, or poison, as the most likely to succeed.
And so, as the time for planning a spectacular death had passed, and excess had fallen in place behind economy, Lundt issued his instructions.
There would be a primary and a backup. Both would be blunt.
Both would be ugly.
He wondered again about the two new arrivals from London.
Whoever they were, they were too late to stop anything.
CHAPTER 17
Alex Morgan looked at his watch, a battered old Tag Heuer he'd had since he was a Lieutenant. It was 3pm on his first day at Pallarup, the sun was scorching high in the sky and the place resembled a massive three ring circus being dismantled, ready for the road trip to the next town. But, in this case, the gear would be staying. Only the people were moving on. He took off his sunglasses, wiped the sweat from his eyes across the bottom of his t-shirt and turned back to help a couple of the expats and local staff who were struggling to dismantle a HF radio antennae that wasn't coming down without a fight.
Half an hour earlier, Morgan had wrapped up a few hours of training with the staff, running them through a series of arduous but necessary exercises to prepare for an emergency evacuation. Embarkation and disembarkation drills in and out of the helicopter were exhausting in their repetition but, for the mostly uninitiated group of civilians, absolutely critical if they were to be prepared to operate under pressure. When the time came to evacuate, Morgan had told them, it would arrive without notice and they would have no time to waste. He had ended the session with a final: "Everybody hold up your passports and personal information cards!"
He tugged his from the lanyard under his shirt and held it high above his head by way of example. Satisfied that they all had their own, he said. "From here on, they stay with you - and I mean 'on your person' - until you get home."
"Alex! Got a minute?" It was Fredericks, calling out from the cabin of one of the Chiltonford Land Rovers as it braked to a sudden halt in a cloud of red dust. He clambered out, heading straight to Morgan.
"Sure," Morgan responded with a grunt of exertion, as he managed to release a cable tie from a piton in the ground. The men around him let out a joint, much-relieved howl of approval. The obstinate cable tie had been the one point in dismantling the entire antennae assembly that had been halting progress.
"My guy in town tells me there's been a lot going on since we flew up here yesterday."
"What's happening?" asked Morgan. "Trouble already?"
"You could say that," Fredericks answered. "The Defence Minister was hacked to death at his home last night - he'd just finished dinner and, apparently, answered a loud banging on his front door. They used machetes and tomahawks."
"Jesus," Morgan hissed.
"Later, a couple of cops pulled over a car under their curfew 'stop and search' powers, and were shot for their troubles, point-blank in a street full of people. Nobody saw a thing." Fredericks' voice was low.