He reached down and picked one up, assessing its weight. In Africa, there were only three currencies that mattered: dollars and gold and bullets. You could fake any of them, but a man such as the Commandant would know the weight and feel of real gold, and could tell it instantly from tin plate.
‘Like I said, I’ll play you for his freedom,’ Steve repeated. ‘You win, you keep the coins. I win, the white man goes free . . . tonight.’
‘I’ll play for that,’ said Ian.
‘For the white man as well?’
Ian shook his head. ‘I play only for myself,’ he said. He’d pulled out $1,000 in crisp new notes and placed them on the table in front of him. ‘But I like to see some real stakes,’ he continued. ‘If I win, I get the gold as well.’
‘Sounds fair to me,’ said Steve. He glanced towards the Commandant.
Abago’s eyes were darting from the gold to the money, and back again. The bar had fallen silent. One of the prisoners was backing away, his chains clanking as he did so. He’s expecting a fight, decided Steve. And he might well be right.
Suddenly Abago shook with laughter. ‘You’ve got a game,’ he said, flashing a huge grin.
The cards were dealt.
This time, Steve folded with a pair of sixes, but Ian collected the pot with a straight flush. The next hand went to Steve, the hand after that to Abago. Over the next hour, the game ebbed and flowed, the gold coins and the dollar bills pushed slowly around the table. Ian and Steve were working as a team, playing off one another. Ian was a skilful poker player, noted Steve. He’d grown up in Belfast, turned himself into the IRA’s most skilful bomb-maker, then done ten years in the Maze before being released under the Good Friday agreement and reinventing himself as a mercenary working for the same private military corporation as Steve. All those years in jail had turned him into an expert in just about every card game. But Abago was just as skilful. He knew the cards, and the odds on every possible combination - and in poker that kind of experience gave you the edge.
But it was two against one. And in any kind of battle, whether it is fought with guns or playing cards, numbers are usually enough to ensure victory.
And after an hour, the money in the Commandant’s pocket had been emptied.
‘A bet’s a bet,’ said Steve flatly.
Abago reached out for a cigarette. One of the prisoners stumbled forwards, torching up a greasy flame, allowing the fat man to take a long, thoughtful drag of nicotine before he blew some smoke back into the air.
‘The white man goes free,’ Steve told him.
Abago closed his eyes briefly, as if deep in thought, while the smoke curled up around his face. ‘Let’s up the stakes,’ he said finally, and clapped his hands together.
One of the soldiers scurried behind the bar. He returned a minute later, carrying a jar which he placed carefully down on the table. There was a dark, murky liquid inside. Then, as Steve looked closely, a shape.
A shape that looked suspiciously like a human hand.
‘Christ,’ muttered Steve under his breath.
‘From the last man who lost a hand of poker in this bar,’ Abago chuckled, a pair of pumpkin seeds spitting out of his mouth as he did so. Then: ‘We deal one more round,’ he continued, the laughter suddenly stopping. ‘If you win, you can have your white man. If I win, I get to keep your gold - and I’ll put your right hand in the jar next to this one.’
Steve paused. He glanced across at Ian but, as before, could see nothing behind the other man’s dark glasses.
His gaze flicked back towards Abago. The Commandant’s eyes were taunting him, daring him to take the bet. We figured he might be a hard rough bastard, recalled Steve - but a madman? That wasn’t part of the plan.
‘Take the bet,’ ordered Abago. He was shuffling the pack of cards in his hand, impatient to start dealing.
Steve felt cornered; how should he play this?
‘Piss off,’ he said finally, his tone flat.
For a moment, Abago remained motionless. Then he picked up one pumpkin seed and snapped it between his fingers.
‘I said: take the bet.’
‘Maybe the three of us could play another round?’ interrupted Ian.
‘Silence,’ rapped out Abago.
Steve looked straight into the man’s eyes. ‘I told you, forget it.’
In the next instant, five soldiers stepped forward. All of them were carrying AK-47s, and from the smell of grease and oil on their barrels, Steve could tell they were loaded and ready for use.
They lowered the guns into position, pointing straight at Steve’s chest.
‘We deal the cards right now,’ said Abago, his smile gone. ‘Like it or not, you’re taking the bet.’