He heard the soldier mutter, “Beer,” several times and add some more indistinguishable words. Then, before Shannon could reach for money or pass on, the man snarled and jabbed the barrel of the gun toward him. From then on it was quick and silent. Shannon took the barrel in one hand and moved it away from his stomach, jerking hard and pulling the soldier off balance. The man was evidently surprised at the reaction, which was not what he was accustomed to. Recovering, he squealed with rage, reversed the gun, gripped it by the barrel, and swung it clubwise. Shannon stepped in close, blocked the swing by gripping the soldier by both biceps, and brought up his knee.
It was too late to go back after that. As the gun dropped he brought up his right hand, crooked into a ninety-degree angle, stiff-armed, and slammed the base of the hand under the soldier’s jawbone. A stab of pain went up his arm and shoulder as he heard the neck crack, and he later found he had torn a shoulder muscle with the effort. The Zangaran went down like a sack.
Shannon looked up and down the road, but no one was coming. He rolled the body into the rain ditch and examined the rifle. One by one, he pumped the cartridges out of the magazine. At three they stopped coming. There had been nothing in the breech. He removed the bolt and held the gun to the moon, looking down the barrel. Several months’ accumulation of grit, dirt, dust, grime, rust, and earth particles met his eye. He slipped the bolt back home, replaced the three cartridges where they had been, tossed the rifle onto the corpse, and walked home.
“Better and better,” he murmured as he slipped into the darkened hotel and went to bed. He had few doubts there would be no effective police inquiry. The broken neck would be put down to a fall into the rain ditch, and tests for fingerprints were, he was sure, unheard of.
Nevertheless, the next day he pleaded a headache, stayed in, and talked to Gomez. On the following morning he left for the airport and took the Convair 440 back to the north. As he sat in the plane and watched the republic disappear beneath the port wing, something Gomez had mentioned in passing ran like a current through his head.
There were not, and never had been, any mining operations in Zangaro.
Forty hours later he was back in London.
Ambassador Leonid Dobrovolsky always felt slightly uneasy when he had his weekly interview with President Kimba. Like others who had met the dictator, he had few doubts about the man’s insanity. Unlike most of the others, Leonid Dobrovolsky had orders from his superiors in Moscow to make his utmost efforts to establish a working relationship with the unpredictable African. He stood in front of the broad mahogany desk in the President’s study on the second floor of the palace and waited for Kimba to show some sort of reaction.
Seen close to, President Kimba was neither as large nor as handsome as his official portraits indicated. Behind the enormous desk he seemed almost dwarfish, the more so as he held himself hunched in his chair in a state of total immobility. Dobrovolsky waited for the period of immobility to end. He knew it could end one of two ways. Either the man who ruled Zangaro would speak carefully and lucidly, in every sense like a perfectly sane man, or the almost catatonic stillness would give way to a screaming rage, during which the man would rant like someone possessed, which was in any case what he believed himself to be.
Kimba nodded slowly. “Please proceed,” he said.
Dobrovolsky breathed a sigh of relief. Evidently the President was prepared to listen. But he knew the bad news was yet to come, and he had to give it. That could change things.
“I am informed by my government, Mr. President, that it has received information that a mining survey report recently sent to Zangaro by a British company may not be accurate. I am referring to the survey carried out several weeks ago by a firm called Manson Consolidated of London.”
The President’s eyes, slightly bulging, still stared at the Russian Ambassador without a flicker of expression. Nor was there any word from Kimba to indicate that he recalled the subject that had brought Dobrovolsky to his palace.
The Ambassador continued to describe the mining survey that had been delivered by a certain Mr. Bryant into the hands of the Minister for Natural Resources.
“In essence, then, Your Excellency, I am instructed to inform you that my government believes the report was not a true representation of what was really discovered in the area that was then under survey, specifically, the Crystal Mountain range.”
He waited, aware that he could say little more. When Kimba finally spoke, it was calmly and cogently, and Dobrovolsky breathed again.
“In what way was this survey report inaccurate?” whispered Kimba.
“We are not sure of the details, Your Excellency, but it is fair to assume that since the British company has apparently not made any effort to secure from you a mining concession, the report it submitted must have indicated that there were no mineral deposits worth exploiting in that region. If the report was inaccurate, then it was probably in this respect. In other words, whatever the mining engineer’s samples contained, it would appear there was more than the British were prepared to inform you.”
There was another long silence, during which the Ambassador waited for the explosion of rage. It did not come.
“They cheated me,” whispered Kimba.
“Of course, Your Excellency,” cut in Dobrovolsky hurriedly, “the only way of being completely sure is for another survey party to examine the same area and take further samples of the rocks and the soil. To this end I am instructed by my government most humbly to ask Your Excellency to grant permission for a survey team from the Institute of Mining of Sverdlovsk to come to Zangaro and examine the same area as that covered by the British engineer.”
Kimba took a long time digesting the proposal. Finally he nodded. “Granted,” he said.
Dobrovolsky bowed. By his side Volkov, ostensibly Second Secretary at the embassy but more pertinently resident of the KGB detachment, shot him a glance.
“The second matter is that of your personal security,” said Dobrovolsky. At last he secured some reaction from the dictator. It was a subject that Kimba took extremely seriously. His head jerked up, and he shot suspicious glances around the room. Three Zangaran aides standing behind the two Russians quaked.
“My security?” said Kimba in his usual whisper.
“We would respectfully seek once again to reiterate the Soviet government’s view of the paramount importance of Your Excellency’s being able to continue to lead Zangaro on the path of peace and progress that Your Excellency has already so magnificently established,” said the Russian. The flow of flattery caused no incongruous note; it was Kimba’s habitual due and a regular part of any words addressed to him.
“To guarantee the continued security of the invaluable person of Your Excellency and in view of the recent and most dangerous treason by one of your army officers, we would respectfully once again propose that a member of my embassy staff be permitted to reside inside the palace and lend his assistance to Your Excellency’s own personal security corps.”
The reference to the “treason” of Colonel Bobi brought Kimba out of his trance. He trembled violently, though whether from rage or fear the Russians could not make out. Then he began to talk, slowly at first, in his usual whisper, then faster, his voice rising as he glared at the Zangarans across the room. After a few sentences he lapsed back into the Vindu dialect, which only the Zangarans understood, but the Russians already knew the gist: the ever-present danger of treason and treachery that Kimba knew himself to be in, the warnings he had received from the spirits telling him of plots in all corners, his complete awareness of the identity of all those who were not loyal and who harbored evil thoughts in their minds, his intention to root them out, all of them, and what would happen to them when he did. He went on for half an hour in this vein, before calming down and reverting to a European language the Russians could understand.
When they emerged into the sunlight and climbed into the embassy car, both men were sweating, partly from the heat, for the air-c
onditioning in the palace was broken yet again, partly because that was the effect Kimba usually had on them.
“I’m glad that’s over,” muttered Volkov to his colleague as they drove back toward the embassy. “Anyway, we got permission. I’ll install my man tomorrow.”
“And I’ll get the mining engineers sent in as soon as possible,” said Dobrovolsky. “Let’s hope there really is something fishy about that British survey report. If there isn’t, I don’t know how I’ll explain that to the President.”
Volkov grunted. “Rather you than me,” he said.
Shannon checked into the Lowndes Hotel off Knightsbridge, as he had agreed with Walter Harris to do before he left London. The agreement was that he would be away about ten days, and each morning at nine Harris would phone that hotel and ask for Mr. Keith Brown. Shannon arrived at noon to find the first call for him had been three hours earlier that morning. The news meant he had till the next day to himself.
One of his first calls after a long bath, a change, and lunch was to the detective agency. The head of it recognized the name of Keith Brown after a few moments’ thought, and Shannon heard him sorting out some files on his desk. Eventually he found the right one.
“Yes, Mr. Brown, I have it here. Would you like me to mail it to you?”
“Rather not,” said Shannon. “Is it long?”
“No, about a page. Shall I read it over the phone?”
“Yes, please.”
The man cleared his throat and began. “On the morning following the client’s request, my operative waited close to the entrance of the underground parking lot beneath ManCon House. He was lucky, in that the subject, whom he had noted the day before arriving back there by taxi from his interview at Sloane Avenue with our client, arrived by car. The operative got a clear view of him as he swung into the parking lot tunnel entrance. It was beyond doubt the subject. He was at the wheel of a Chevrolet Corvette. The operative took the number as the car went down the ramp. Inquiries were later made with a contact at the Licensing Department at County Hall. The vehicle is registered in the name of one Simon John Endean, resident in South Kensington.” The man paused. “Do you want the address, Mr. Brown?”
“Not necessarily,” said Shannon. “Do you know what this man Endean does at ManCon House?”
“Yes,” said the private agent. “I checked up with a friend who’s a City journalist. He is the personal aide and right-hand man of Sir James Manson, chairman and managing director of Manson Consolidated.”
“Thank you,” said Shannon and put the phone down.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” he murmured as he left the hotel lobby and strolled down to Jermyn Street to cash a check and buy some shirts. It was the first of April, April Fool’s Day; the sun was shining and daffodils covered the grass around Hyde Park Corner.
Simon Endean had also been busy while Shannon was away. The results of his labors he imparted to Sir James Manson that afternoon in the penthouse over Moorgate.
“Colonel Bobi,” he told his chief as he entered the office.
The mining boss furrowed his brow. “Who?”
“Colonel Bobi. The former commander of the army of Zangaro. Now in exile, banished forever by President Jean Kimba. Who, incidentally, has sentenced him to death by presidential decree for high treason. You wanted to know where he was.”
Manson was at his desk by this time, nodding in recollection. “All right, where is he?” he asked.
“In exile in Dahomey,” said Endean. “It took a hell of a job to trace him without being too obvious about it. But he’s taken up residence in the capital of Dahomey. Place called Cotonou. He must have a little money, but probably not much, or he’d be in a walled villa outside Geneva with all the other rich exiles. He has a small rented villa and lives very quietly, probably because it is the safest way of ensuring the Dahomey government doesn’t ask him to leave. It’s believed Kimba has asked for his extradition back home, but no one has done anything about it. Besides, he’s far enough away from Kimba to assume he’ll never present a threat.”
“And Shannon, the mercenary?” asked Manson.
“Due back sometime today or tomorrow,” said Endean. “I booked him into the Lowndes from yesterday onward to be on the safe side. He hadn’t arrived this morning at nine. I’m due to try again tomorrow at the same time.”
“Try now,” said Manson.
The hotel confirmed to Endean that Mr. Brown had indeed arrived, but that he was out. Sir James Manson listened on the extension.
“Leave a message,” he growled at Endean. “Ring him tonight at seven.”
Endean left the message, and the two men put the phones down.
“I want his report as soon as possible,” said Manson. “He should finish it at noon tomorrow. You meet him first and read the report. Make sure it covers every point I told you I wanted answered. Then bring it to me. Put Shannon on ice for two days to give me time to digest it.”
Shannon got Endean’s message just after five and was in his room to take the call at seven. He spent the rest of the evening between supper and bed making up his notes and the memorabilia he had brought back from Zangaro—a series of sketches done freehand on a pad of cartridge paper he had bought in the airport in Paris to while away the time, some scale drawings done from measurements between fixed points in Clarence that he had paced out stride by stride, a local guidebook showing “points of interest,” of which the only interesting one was titled “the residence of His Excellency the Governor of the Colony” and dated from 1959, and an official and highly flattering portrait of Kimba, one of the few items not in short supply in the republic.
The next day he strolled down Knightsbridge just as the shops opened, bought himself a typewriter and a pad of paper, and spent the morning writing his report. It covered three subjects: a straight narrative of his visit, including the episode of the soldier he had killed; a detailed description of the capital, building by building, accompanied by the diagrams; and an equally detailed description of the military situation. He mentioned the fact that he had seen no signs of either an air force or a navy, and Gomez’ confirmation that neither existed. He did not mention his stroll down the peninsula to the native shantytowns, where he had seen the clustered shacks of the poorer Caja and beyond them the shanties of the thousands of immigrant workers and their families, who chattered to one another in their native tongue, brought with them from many miles away.
He finished the report with a summary:
The essence of the problem of toppling Kimba has been simplified by the man himself. In all respects the majority of the republic’s land area, the Vindu country beyond the river, is of nil political or economic value. If Kimba should ever lose control of the coastal plain producing the bulk of the nation’s few resources, he must lose the country. To go one step further, he and his men could not hold this plain in the face of the hostility and hatred of the entire Caja population, which, although muted by fear, exists beneath the surface, if he had once lost the peninsula. Again, the peninsula is untenable by Vindu forces if once the town of Clarence is lost. And lastly, he has no strength within the town of Clarence if he and his forces have lost the palace. In short, his policy of total centralization has reduced the number of targets necessary to be subdued for a takeover of the state to one—his palace complex, containing himself, his guards, the armory, treasury and radio station.
As to means of taking and reducing this palace and compound, they have been reduced to one, by virtue of the wall surrounding the entire palace. It has to be stormed.
The main gate could perhaps be rammed down by a very heavy truck or bulldozer driven straight at it by a man prepared to die in the attempt. I saw no evidence of any such spirit among the citizenry or the army, nor signs of a suitable truck. Alternatively, self-sacrificing courage by hundreds of men with scaling ladders could overwhelm the palace walls and take the palace. I saw no signs of such spirit either. More realistically, the palace and grounds could be taken wit
h little life loss after being first pulverized with mortar fire. Against a weapon like this the encircling wall, far from being a protection, becomes a death trap to those inside. The door could be taken apart by a bazooka rocket. I saw no signs of either of these weapons, nor any sign of one single person capable of using them. The unavoidable conclusion reached from the above has to be as follows:
Any section or faction within the republic seeking to topple Kimba and take over must destroy him and his Praetorian Guards inside the palace compound. To achieve this they would require expert assistance at a technical level they have not reached, and such assistance would have to arrive, complete with all necessary equipment, from outside the country. With these conditions fulfilled, Kimba could be destroyed and toppled in a firefight lasting no longer than one hour.
“Is Shannon aware that there is no faction inside Zangaro that has indicated it wants to topple Kimba?” asked Sir James Manson the following morning when he read the report.
“I haven’t told him so,” said Endean. “I briefed him as you told me. Just said there was an army faction inside, and that the group I represented, as interested businessmen, were prepared to pay for a military assessment of their chances of success. But he’s no fool. He must have seen for himself there’s no one there capable of doing the job anyway.”
“I like the sound of this Shannon,” said Manson, closing the military report. “He’s obviously got nerve, to judge by the way he dealt with the soldier. He writes quite well; he’s short and to the point. Question is, could he do the whole of this job himself?”
“He did mention something significant,” interjected Endean. “He said when I was questioning him that the caliber of the Zangaran army was so low that any assisting force of technicians would have to do practically the whole job anyway, then hand over to the new men when it was done.”
“Did he now? Did he?” Manson said musingly. “Then he suspects already the reason for his going down there was not the stated one.”
Dogs of War Page 14