Defender(73)

There came a gentle tap on his door. "Come,'' he said.

"Dr Siziba has arrived, Sir. I have him in the sitting room."

"Very well, Richard. Please ensure that we're not disturbed, and tell Mrs. Johnson that if I'm not ready by seven, then she should go on without me. I'll join her at the restaurant later."

"Very good, Sir. Would you like me to show Dr Siziba in?" "No, that's alright. I'll collect him. We'll have coffee in here."

The butler left with a deferential nod. Johnson stood, straightened his jacket and walked out to the sitting room.

Doctor Siziba's eyes were cruel, soulless holes that carried not the slightest hint of warmth or humanity. Nestled deep within shadowy, crater-like sockets, their uncompromising attention bore down with the self-assured air of a man confident that his star was on the rise. Framing them, the skin of his face was a mottled, coffee-brown, angrily pockmarked by years of adolescent acne. Teeth, partially hidden behind full, feminine lips, were stained yellow by nicotine, and a mat of shiny black hair sitting upon an unusually high forehead was combed back in a petrified wave crowning fierce, angular features. The title Doctor was not an office one would naturally associate with this creature. Siziba was a cold, calculating political survivor, reviled in his country, his persuasions feared by his larger, immediate neighbours.

That was all of little consequence to Abraham Johnson.

"It's good of you to join me at such short notice, Doctor Siziba. I trust that you are well and your accommodation comfortable?"

"I am and it is," Siziba replied flatly.

'I'm glad to hear it," Johnson said. They shook hands. It was the briefest of contact. Siziba's hand was in and out of Johnson's with the precision and economy of a stiletto being plunged between ribs.

"Perhaps you would follow me," said Johnson uncomfortably, guiding Siziba back towards an impeccably furnished sitting area within his study. Coffee had been left for them.

Johnson reclined into the sumptuous burgundy leather sofa opposite Siziba and gazed languidly into the dark, vacant eyes of a man who had presided over the murders of many thousands of his countrymen. Itmattered not to Johnson. Politics had seen Siziba ousted from the Presidency some years ago. Business would see him returned to power.

"So, I think that you would like to discuss some outstanding business with me."

"I would very much. There are things I would like to discuss in order to guide our respective interests to a position of mutual benefit. Mutual benefit, you will agree, is to remain the basis of our arrangement."

"I do agree, and I am interested to hear what you have to say. I'm sure you will appreciate that I have been very disappointed with recent issues. Although, I am confident you are about to allay any concerns that I have." The subtle barb was not lost on Johnson; he had expected a frosty reception. In the interests of expediency Siziba had been left out of the original plan that had resulted in Baptiste being identified as the most convenient candidate to ascend to the Presidency. It had been a mistake. But to Johnson, that was all part of the game. One plan hadn't worked so an alternate was required. And the Malfajirian's willingness to talk, despite a bruised ego, was an indication that the man was hungry fot the proposal to proceed.

Johnson had done his homework. He'd thoroughly researched the impact of Siziba's return and his ability to control the planned escalation of rebel violence in Malfajiri. Siziba's strength and reputation for cold efficiency was needed to restore order where Baptiste had failed. Johnson needed him as much as he needed Johnson.

"Now, there's something I need you to do for me, Doctor. I presume you still have loyal supporters in Australia?"





* * *





As their conversation continued inside, across the street and parked a discrete distance from the residence, Senior Constable Dave Ingham checked the digital images he had captured as Siziba had arrived.

He would wait to see what he could get when the man finally left.





PART FOUR





THE PEACE DISINTEGRATED





CHAPTER 47





QF32 A380-800

LHR to SYD via SIN





Gregory Cornell felt vindicated.

They had finally acknowledged the role he had played and the risks he had taken. He couldn't believe how quickly the ticket had been arranged, business class, and the harbourside hotel room in Sydney sounded perfect. Of course, the cost was that he had one final task to attend to; a meeting which was likely to be disagreeable but, in the scheme of things, a small price to pay to put this whole mess behind him. He would be free of the constant feeling of dread and scrutiny that had threatened to overwhelm him back in London.

Australia would give him time to think, to plan the future.