Decisive

by David Hickson

  “What background do you need?” said Alassane. “You do not need any background to do your job.”

  “We should expect that there might be people observing us, and everything we do should appear as normal as possible. I would be interested to hear about your country, and your people.”

  Alassane sighed. “The people of our country have a long history,” he said. “This region is the Volta. Where humans started. I, for instance, am a Voltaic Mossi. We are warriors.”

  “Were warriors,” said Bibata. She turned to me and a little of the scorn she had directed at Alassane lingered in her eyes. “The Mossi were a warrior tribe,” she explained. “They blazed a trail of death and destruction through the Volta region over a thousand years ago.”

  She looked down at her grapefruit and scooped a segment from it with the serrated spoon.

  “You are not a Voltaic Mossi?” I asked.

  Bibata looked up at me, some amusement in her round face. “You don’t ask that question in this country, Mr Johnson,” she said. Her eyes twinkled. “Because those who are not Voltaic Mossi have not forgotten the suffering their ancestors endured at the hands of the Mossi.”

  “I thought you said it was a thousand years ago?”

  “It was. But there are some who have not forgotten. Not in all those thousand years.”

  “Is that the cause of the problems?” I asked.

  Alassane shook his head in dismissal of that idea. “That is nonsense. That kind of fighting stopped hundreds of years ago. Bibata comes from a family full of witch doctors and lunatics. They might harbour resentment, but they would be the only ones.”

  Bibata looked down and pierced her grapefruit again, accepting Alassane’s insults about her family with grace.

  “No,” continued Alassane. “Our problems are more recent. The Europeans caused them. The French people, arriving here and acting like this place was theirs.”

  Alassane gave his brow another wipe and directed an irritated glance at the silent Malian businessmen. Then he looked back to me, seeming to realise that our orientation had not struck a particularly friendly note. He stretched his lips over his teeth in what might have been a smile, although the tension in his face deprived the result of any friendliness.

  “We are grateful,” he said, “that the South Africans have agreed to step in at this critical moment.”

  I smiled and allowed a feeling of camaraderie to settle for a moment. Alassane kept his anxious gaze on me. There was something else he needed to say.

  “It needs to be a final solution,” he said, his face stern, his shoulders hunched. “Absolutely final. Here in Africa, there is only one solution, and it is the final one. Are you sure that you understand that?”

  “I am,” I said. “Final solutions are what I am good at.”

  “That is what we heard,” said Alassane, and he sat back in his chair, threatening to topple backwards with the weight of his barrel chest. “There is no time for dialogue. As long as you are aware of that. When you arrive at the meeting, it will be just you and the general. It would probably be better if you do not engage in dialogue with him. There will be no time.”

  “Who needs dialogue?” I said. “I’m in favour of getting straight to the action.”

  Alassane blinked, and his mouth tightened.

  “Would it be impertinent of me to ask to what extent you were involved in the planning of this operation?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I was a military man. I like to understand the chain of command.”

  “I am the only person you need to concern yourself with,” said Alassane, and then he realised he had allowed his friendly smile to fade again, and gave another grimace. “Your first appointment is on the other side of town, Mr Johnson. We should get going.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said.

  “If you have finished your breakfast?”

  I had eaten half a dry croissant and had one cup of the lukewarm chicory soup.

  “I have,” I said. “Let’s go. I’m ready to do what needs to be done.”

  Three

  The street outside the hotel was brown and blisteringly hot, like an earthenware pot in a kiln. Motorbikes buzzed noisily back and forth, carrying up to three passengers each, all without helmets. There seemed no clear understanding of which side of the road anyone should drive on, which was probably why our car was parked in a way that blocked the entrance of the hotel: crossing the road was something best avoided.

  The vehicle they had chosen for the informal guided tour was a dusty silver Mercedes with a cracked perspex sunroof. The window winders were broken, but the passenger seat window, beside which I sat, was missing. The air that oozed through it promised a welcome relief from the oppressive heat.

  Bibata sat in the driver’s seat and Alassane sat behind us, his enormous chest supported on his long arms, his head swivelling from side to side like a rear gunner searching the skies for enemy planes. He seemed unusually anxious for a presidential aide who was conducting a foreign visitor on a pre-planned and perfectly legitimate guided tour of the country’s military resources.

  Bibata drove well, but with excessive caution. A few clicks below the speed limit, bringing the car to a full stop at each intersection, although no other drivers seemed to bother. They mostly accelerated to get through the intersections as quickly as possible.

  A few minutes into our journey, Alassane reached into a satchel beside him on the seat and extracted a leather holster. He handed it to me.

  “We could not obtain the weapon you requested,” he said without regret. “This will have to do.”

  The holster held a Makarov pistol. The Makarov has a straight blowback action that makes it more accurate because the barrel and slide do not need to unlock on the firing action. But it is made entirely of steel, so it is heavy for a handgun. I prefer a Glock or a Beretta. A Makarov is fairly low on my list of preferred weapons, but now was not the time to be difficult about it. I took the gun and released the eight-round magazine. It came away smoothly and emitted a strong smell of gun oil. The weapon was well cared for, and would serve its purpose. I removed the holster from its belt, tucked the Makarov back into it, and placed them both in the inside pocket of my jacket.

  Alassane watched me doing this silently, while Bibata concentrated on the driving. There was a tension in the car that I found worrying. This was no joyride, of course, but the only one of us who had anything unpleasant to do was me. And yet the tension was almost stifling. Or was I not the only one that would be doing unpleasant things? The Makarov was not the only weapon in the car. I had noticed the bulge of an underarm holster beneath the tightly closed black jacket that Alassane was wearing.

  We drove in silence for several minutes, working our way through the outskirts of the city. Alassane’s head swivelled constantly as he turned to see who was behind us. Bibata started pointing at various unremarkable buildings as we passed them, as if playing tour guide would ease the tension.

  “Library … museum … that is the cinema.” She turned to me. Bright, friendly eyes. “Burkina Faso is known for its cinema. Did you know that Mr Johnson?”

  I said I had not known that.

  “Oh yes. Ouagadougou is famous for the film festival that is held here every other year. The opening ceremony is held at the football stadium and is the biggest film festival ceremony in the world. Tens of thousands of fans attend the opening.”

  She glanced anxiously in the rear-view mirror. Her glance was directed at Alassane. Alassane was silent.

  “There was an incident there about fifteen years ago,” she said. “An embarrassment to our country. People were killed in the crush to get into the stadium.”

  “Mr Johnson is not interested in the deaths of our people,” said Alassane dismissively. “He needs to focus.”

  Bibata fell silent.

  Our first stop was an army depot on the outskirts of Ouagadougou. It was a vast dust bowl the size of several football fields with a chain-li
nk fence and a broken gate beside which a soldier slouched under the weight of his Kalashnikov AKM.

  A large umbrella provided a patch of shade outside the quartermaster’s office. He was sheltering from the heat in that patch of shade and did not remove his dark glasses when I was introduced to him.

  “Take a look,” he said with a smile full of teeth and a generous gesture towards the rows of armoured vehicles. His face had a sheen of sweat so that he seemed to glow.

  “We will take the car,” said Alassane.

  “Of course,” said the quartermaster. “You need the air conditioning.”

  “The air conditioner is broken,” said Alassane.

  “The wind on your face then,” said the quartermaster. He smiled again and saluted. I didn’t salute back. Arms dealers do not salute.

  Alassane and I climbed back into our car, and Bibata took us on a slow tour of the ranks of armoured vehicles. Alassane wanted to test my knowledge of weapons and asked me to identify the different vehicles, in a way that made it seem as if he was making conversation.

  There were a few Eland-90s from South Africa, and a row of Ferrets from the United Kingdom, but most of the vehicles were Panhards and ACMAT Bastions from France.

  “Of course, from France,” said Alassane bitterly. “Everything here is because of France and the French people.”

  “You were a French colony,” I pointed out.

  “Because they invaded us. Captured our land and planted their flag. They have no right to be here.”

  “But now they provide support, don’t they? These armoured cars are a small part of their support in your fight against terrorists coming over your borders.”

  “That is only because the French are frightened we won’t stop the jihadists.”

  “Not only the French. Most of Europe, and a good portion of the African continent share their concern. That is why I am here, after all.”

  “You South Africans help because you are terrified the whole of West Africa will be lost to Islamic extremists, and you will be squeezed off the bottom of the continent, left to drown, or sent home to the cold, rainy lands you came from. Isn’t that the truth? How would you feel about that?”

  “I’d rather stay here in sunny Africa. If it’s all the same to you.”

  Alassane didn’t think that was funny. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

  “We do have the French to thank for the language,” said Bibata, as if that was a consolation. “If it weren’t for them, you would have to learn one of the other fifty-eight languages we speak in this country so that we could communicate.”

  “They forced the language on us,” said Alassane. “The language, and many of their stupid customs. The French have changed us. Modelled us after themselves, taken away what made us unique. We used to be warriors, but look at us now.”

  “Perhaps the French influence is not entirely a bad thing,” I said, “considering the long memories of some of your fellow countrymen.”

  Alassane looked at me with displeasure and wiped his brow again.

  “And don’t you have the French to thank for introducing democracy to your country? I was reading about that on the plane on the way over.”

  “Yes, we are now a democracy, Mr Johnson,” said Alassane with disdain. “But probably not the democracy you know. We have enjoyed elections for almost forty years, but when an election does not go the way someone hoped, the process of democracy is shelved in favour of a more straightforward, military approach.” He paused a moment to consider me with distaste. “The real Mr Johnson would have understood that. He appreciated the military approach.”

  “I have a fairly thorough appreciation of the military approach myself,” I said, “when it comes to that.”

  “There have been as many coup d’états in this country as there have been elections,” said Alassane. “It took us twenty-seven years to get rid of the last dictator who seized power in a violent coup. And there have already been two attempts to reinstate him, in the years since.”

  “Which is the reason I am here today,” I said, “is it not?”

  Alassane looked as if he wanted to do things by the book and provide the briefing as we arrived at the military headquarters for my meeting with the general – at the last possible moment, in case I fell into enemy hands. But he wiped his brow again and nodded.

  “Yes,” he said. “The man you are meeting today is planning to try again. He is planning another coup. He intends to replace the president and must be stopped. That is why he must be killed. That is why you are here.”

  “But why a foreigner? Why don’t you apply the final solution yourselves?”

  “Foreigners can do things here that we cannot,” said Alassane. “It is part of the heritage left to us by the French. Foreigners are treated with respect.” He looked out of the window at the rows of cleanly washed vehicles. “A respect they do not deserve.”

  “Even when they are doing your dirty work for you,” I said.

  Alassane had nothing further to say about the subject. He glared at the armoured vehicles with irritation.

  “You seen enough?” he asked.

  “I think so,” I said. “I’m ready for the next event on the itinerary.”

  Alassane turned back to me.

  “The meeting with the general,” he said.

  “Yes, I’m looking forward to that.”

  Alassane was still not enjoying my sense of humour. I had the feeling he would have preferred it if we had needed to communicate in one of the other fifty-eight languages.

  Four

  We left the army depot and drove in silence towards the city centre. Alassane fell silent, and Bibata’s driving became more cautious, as if she was reluctant to reach our destination.

  We drove past the cinema again, then the museum, and the library. Bibata remained silent. The guided tour was over; it was all business now.

  I had been watching the mirrors out of habit and noticed a dusty blue Volkswagen make a turn behind us. It had followed us through several turns.

  “Could you loop back?” I asked. “I’d love to see the cinema again.”

  Bibata glanced at Alassane. He gave a silent nod and turned to watch the car behind us. Bibata indicated, and pulled over. The blue car passed us, but then also pulled over to the side of the road a hundred metres ahead. Bibata did not notice, but waited for another car to pass and then executed a neat U-turn. Alassane swivelled about in the back to watch the blue car. It also performed a U-turn, and a few moments later was sitting behind us again.

  “We’re being followed,” I said. “Is it someone you know?”

  Another anxious glance from Bibata.

  “Nobody we know,” said Alassane.

  “What if we take a detour?” I suggested.

  “Do it,” said Alassane, in a tight voice that made Bibata’s hand flutter as it went for the indicator. Her foot pressed onto the accelerator and the old Mercedes coughed reluctantly, then died. The clicking of the indicator sounded loudly in the silence.

  “Don’t indicate, woman,” hissed Alassane. “Get us out of here. Now.”

  Bibata started the engine again and pulled off with a crunching of tyres on the dusty road. She turned in the direction she had indicated, and Alassane shouted, “Faster woman, faster!”

  Bibata accelerated, and the Mercedes reluctantly sped up. She took a few more turns, but the blue Volkswagen stayed on our tail. There was something menacing about the fact they were so brazen, so apparently relaxed, as if they did not care that we noticed they were following us. Then, as if they realised we had noticed them, they fell back and allowed several cars and a swarm of motorbikes to come between us, so that it seemed we had lost them.

  But a few minutes later they appeared again. Bibata turned onto a narrower, dusty road, with a sparse scattering of single-storey houses on each side. It was a long, straight road. Approaching from the far end was a black jeep, blowing up a cloud of dust behind it.

  I didn
’t like the look of this road. My instinct said it was the kind of road on which our tail might take the opportunity to pounce. I turned back to see what the blue Volkswagen was doing.

  “Can you stop fast?” I asked Bibata.

  Her eyes turned to me, wide with fear.

  “Stop?” she asked.

  “I need to know how fast you can stop this car. If you slam your foot on the brakes, how quickly will we stop?”

  “Don’t stop!” cried Alassane. “Are you crazy? They’re behind us.”

  “They’ve fallen back,” I said.

  Alassane turned to look and confirmed the blue Volkswagen was falling back.

  “What are they doing?” asked Alassane.

  “They are waiting for their moment,” I said. “We need to force them. Slam your foot on the brakes now, Bibata.”

  Bibata did as I said. The old Mercedes skidded sideways, and for a moment I thought we might roll because of the unbalanced brakes, but Bibata succeeded in straightening out and we ground to a halt. A cloud of dust billowed past us.

  “Good,” I said. “Now drive as fast as you can at that black car coming towards us.”

  The motor had cut again. Bibata restarted the engine, and we lurched forward.

  “At the car?” she said, and her hands trembled on the wheel.

  “You are doing great,” I said. “Now drive at that car.”

  “You will get us killed,” protested Alassane from the back, but his eyes were on the blue car, which was now closing the gap between us.

  The cloud of dust we had kicked up reduced visibility. The black car was little more than a blur, but Bibata had her eyes on it, and her foot was pressed to the floor.

  A moment later my suspicions were confirmed when a loud crack sounded. The rear window shattered and chunks of shatter-proof glass burst over Alassane and the back seat. I turned to see Alassane with his head between his knees and thought for a moment that he had been hit. But he raised his head and looked at me with wide eyes.