At his side, Bruce had stood up, pacing up and down the front of the auditorium.
‘You’ll be on your own,’ he said. ‘You’ll have the kit, the money, and as for the balls . . . well, you already know you’ve got those. But apart from that, nothing. We have to have total deniability on this one. Nothing must be traced back to Archie’s company, nor to DEF either. When this guy gets malleted, there will be shit flying all over the world - and we don’t want any of it landing on us.’
He raised his left hand. ‘No one should make a decision right now,’ he added. ‘Just think about it, and if you’re up for it we’ll discuss the details of the operation in the morning.’
There’s nothing to think about, thought Steve. Assassinate the most brutal, longest-surviving politician in Africa?
They must be joking.
‘Like Bruce said, no one has to take this job,’ said Archie. ‘And I for one wouldn’t think any the less of a man for saying he doesn’t want to take the risk. But Kapembwa is a mean bastard, and if you’re up for it, you’ll not just be making yourself a pretty hefty wage-packet, you’ll be doing the world a favour as well.’
He grinned, and behind him the film was turned off. ‘Now let’s finish off that food and booze. No point in wasting it.’
By the time they got back to the hallway, Samantha had already slipped away, Steve noticed. So had Newton. He needed a lot of sleep on soft, clean sheets to get over ten years in Broken Ridge and wanted to start as soon as possible. Archie was handing out more drinks: Stella for Nick, Red Army vodka for Ollie and Maksie, Bushmills for Ian, while Bruce was getting stuck into a bottle of Moyet Antique, a Cognac considered by many people to be the finest in the world. It was certainly among the most expensive. Steve grabbed himself a bottle of South African Windhoek Lager, a fine beer, and the only one on the African continent brewed in strict accordance with the German purity laws that made that country’s lagers the best in the world. Archie himself was mixing vodka with bottles of beer, and knocking the stuff down his throat with such ferocity that Steve started to suspect he had a drinking problem.
He didn’t look pissed, but then alcoholics never do. They learn how to hide it.
‘Does the MoD know anything about this?’ asked Steve, standing next to Bruce.
DEF was nicknamed Death Inc. in the trade because of the extreme danger of the missions it took on. But although Bruce had started out on the wilder fringes of the industry, as the Private Military Corporations had grown in power and influence, so he had also moved closer to the Ministry of Defence. His company took plenty of contracts from the government, and although it was privately owned, Bruce was careful never to take on any mission that might offend either Whitehall or the Pentagon.
‘This one really is off the books,’ answered Bruce with a terse shake of the head. ‘Nobody knows anything about it except for the men in this room . . . and I hope to God no one ever finds out.’
‘But—’
‘Put it this way,’ continued Bruce, taking a sip of his cognac, ‘everyone is fed up with Kapembwa making speeches denouncing British imperialism and blaming us for his problems when anyone can see it’s his government’s fault that people are starving and the country is falling apart. There used to be a lot of British business done with Batota and there could be again . . . once the bastard is dead.’
Archie had cranked the music up louder, drowning out any attempt at conversation. ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door’ was blasting out on speakers so carefully built into the walls you couldn’t even see them. It was the Guns ’n’ Roses version, not the Dylan original.
As Axl Rose screeched the words of the dying deputy over the swirling, slashing guitar riff, Archie suddenly addressed them all.
‘That’s what we’ll call it!’ he exclaimed, his face reddening. ‘“Operation Heaven’s Door.”’
‘I’ll bloody drink to that,’ said Ollie. He raised a shot of vodka, slapped Maksie on the back, and downed it in one gulp.
After another hour of heavy drinking, most of the guys were starting to stagger towards their bedrooms. Steve’s head still felt clear enough. He walked along the clifftop towards his room, changed into his trunks and headed back towards the pool. Another swim might clear his mind before bed.
The water felt warm and soft as he dived in. The pool nestled next to the cliffs, with a patio looking out over the ocean, and with few clouds, it was bathed in the soft glow of the moon. Steve did a couple of quick lengths to freshen himself up. It was past midnight, but he already guessed it would be a while before he could get to sleep. Too much on his mind.