CHAPTER 19
In his top floor room of the rebel headquarters, Baptiste strode up and down in front of the television, chest puffed, full of confidence.
'I,m impressed, English. You have delivered, and Namakobo lies dead in a London street. My followers will cry... 'Such is the power of Baptiste!' I need only say the word here in Africa and Namakobo is killed returning to his bed in London."
"That's what I'm here for, Colonel," replied Lundt brusquely, unmoved by Baptiste's praise, and fed up with his ramblings. "But, I presume you realise that now the hard work begins. You must move against Namakobo's government before he makes a miraculous recovery."
"What do you mean, 'recovery'? You saw yourself them dragging his body from the wreckage of the car," Baptiste stated with incredulity. "No man could have survived that."
There was anxiety in his voice. The boisterous arrogance of just a few seconds ago was now tinged with uncertainty, fear and anger. Lundt needed to feed off it. He needed to drive Baptiste to make the next move.
"What we saw, Colonel, was the BBC saying that his condition 1s unknown, that he has been taken to an undisclosed medical facility..."
"He could not have survived. My people used grenades and machine guns. He must be dead!" exclaimed Baptiste.
"You may be right, but remember this: if the British want to maintain control, whether he's dead or alive, they need to buy time. Ifhe is dead, do they want everybody, especially you, to know that?"
Baptiste was silent, confused. Lundt knew it and played on that weakness. He could ill-afford Baptiste to be paralysed by indecision, as he was occasionally prone. Lundt didn't want to have this thing drag on any longer than it had to. He wanted Malfajiri sorted. The rebels needed to move now, without delay, and seize control of the country. If that meant slaughtering every member of the Malfajiri Government and their lackeys, then so be it. Yes, there'd be collateral damage. Yes, civilians would be killed. That wasn't Lundt's problem. After all he'd seen and all that he knew Baptiste, and the Malfajirians were capable of doing to each other, what did he care? Once they'd successfully seized power and the diamond and mining concessions were finally in the right hands, then he'd done his job. He'd collect his money and then they'd move him on to the next one - wherever that was, as long as it was out of this shit-hole.
Lundt gathered himself and continued: "You need to act before BBC World announces that Namakobo's alive. Move before the Vice-President gets the balls to take control, before outside help arrives to back him up. World opinion will erupt into outrage over the assassination and force Britain or the UN into a moral decision to send foreign forces to Malfajiri. You, Colonel Baptiste, you need to strike. Preemptive action. You need your forces to move. You need your officers together here tonight, with you, to hear your command to strike, and in the morning, Malfajiri will wake up with a new President: Jean-Claude Baptiste."
"But, how can we ...?" Baptiste faltered.
"It's all arranged, Colonel. I've been moving the troops into positions across the country for the past three days. They are poised and awaiting your word. They're ready to strike the Government, the Army and the Police. They'll take control of the television and radio stations, the power station and telephone company, the hospitals, transport companies and primary industry. All you have to say is 'Go'."
CHAPTER 20
London
"Something is rotten in the state of Denmark," Davenport noted dryly, downing the remnants of a coffee that had clearly not impressed, and dropping the cup onto a small wooden table beside him. The muted luminescence of the lamp sitting on the table drew deep shadows across the lines and folds of his face, giving the depths of his beard a forest-like quality. He unfolded himself from the maudlin clutches of the soft, floral upholstered sofa that served as the room's centrepiece, and walked around to lean against the mantel, atop the unlit hearth.
"I agree, Nobby," replied Commissioner Sinclair Hutton, facing the fireplace. "But who's directing it ? It's almost as if Namakobo was taunting Baptiste by presenting himself in the open like that. Damn fool!"
"You know the score, Sinclair. Namakobo can't let Baptiste think he's afraid. It's an important part of their culture."
"Yes, and he put the British public at risk by doing it and embarrassed all of us in the process. The media will undoubtedly blame the Met for this mess. Namakobo came over here for our help!" Hutton added emphatically. The son of one of the greatest West Indian cricketers of all time, Hutton had been appointed Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police in 2004 and had seen London through the dark days of July 2005 and onwards. He was every ounce the quintessential stoic, dedicated career policeman. If he'd stuck to the arrangements, as agreed, this would not have happened. Ah, here's the doctor."