‘All set?’ he enquired of Newton.
The man nodded, but remained silent.
‘Good. We’ve a busy day ahead,’ said Steve tersely.
As they stepped out of the barracks building they saw that the rain had eased up, but it might return at any moment: you could feel it in the stickiness of the air. Wallace had already led his men out onto the parade ground. They were as shabby and disorganised as the first time Steve had seen them. None of them knew how to drill properly, and none of them had any idea how to hold their weapons. There were only two fighting forces in this country, he thought - the Sixth Brigade, and Tshaka’s guerrillas. And one of them was about to get beaten.
‘A good morning for a hanging,’ said Wallace. He lit up his cigar and choked violently as the smoke flooded his lungs.
‘If you like that sort of thing,’ said Steve flatly. Up above, he could hear the sound of a chopper. It was still above the clouds, but quickly dropped down, and within seconds the Chinese-built Z-11 military helicopter had landed on the parade ground. Based on the French AS 350B, the Z-11 weighed two tons and had room for six seats. A huge cloud of dust was kicked into the air as it came into land, and a few of the soldiers scuttled out of the way. The pilot killed the engine, allowing a minute for the dust to settle before pulling out the steps that allowed Kapembwa to step out into the fort.
‘Ever met a President before?’ hissed Ollie at Steve’s side.
‘Not one I’m about to assassinate,’ he answered with a half-smile.
Kapembwa was in late middle age, but was still a strong, commanding figure as he stepped confidently from the helicopter and down onto the ground. Of medium height and build, his hair had greyed but was still thick, and had been combed carefully into place. He was wearing a dark charcoal suit with a white open-necked shirt and a baseball cap. As his eyes swept through the fort, you could feel the man’s presence immediately: imperious and cruel, his was the look of a man who came to command and conquer. And, if necessary, destroy.
Matola was walking steadily at his side. Over six foot, he was dressed in full military uniform, with a handgun prominently displayed on his belt. You could see the resemblance to Newton right away. It was there in the cut of his face and the shape of his eyes. Twin brothers, thought Steve. They may have separated a couple of lifetimes ago, but you could see the bond instantly.
‘Tshaka is here?’ said Kapembwa, looking straight at Wallace.
‘Yes, sir,’ Wallace replied respectfully.
‘And who are the men I need to thank?’ Kapembwa went on.
‘These chaps,’ said Wallace, nodding towards Steve and the rest of the unit.
Kapembwa took a step forward, offering Steve his hand. He shook it. But the man’s handshake was limp and cold, as if the blood had been drained out of his veins.
‘Who is your leader?’ Kapembwa asked.
‘We don’t have one,’ Steve told him.
A slow smile - the smile of a crocodile - started to crease the older man’s lips. ‘Every order of men must have a leader.’
‘Not us. We work for each other.’
‘Trust me, I know more about politics than you do, and I know that you have a leader,’ said Kapembwa. ‘Even if he hasn’t revealed himself yet.’
We’ll see about that, mate, thought Steve. But he remained silent.
‘You have captured a dangerous criminal,’ continued Kapembwa. ‘For that, Mr Wallace will make sure you are well paid. But you should know as well that you have earned the gratitude of the Batotean people.’
Not like we will in the next few minutes, thought Steve.
When we put a round of bullets into you.
‘Bring out the prisoner, Mr Wallace,’ commanded Kapembwa.
Wallace barked an order to one of his men. A minute later, Tshaka was led out of the cell block, and marched across the parade ground. The barrel of an AK-47 was jabbing into his back. He carried himself with dignity, noted Steve. He was striding purposefully towards his fate, even though he must know there was little chance of escape. A blindfold was strapped around his face, his hands were tied behind his back, and his uniform was torn and dirty. There was a smell of blood and dirt clinging to his skin. But he showed not so much as a flicker of fear as he was led towards a stake that had been hammered into the centre of the parade ground.
‘I’ve waited a long time for this moment,’ said Kapembwa, a thin smile on his lips.
Newton had taken five steps forward and was shaking Matola by the hand. The two men were remaining calm, betraying no emotion. But as Newton turned around, there was a tight smile drawn on his lips. He whispered a word into Matola’s ear, then looked back to Ollie and nodded twice.