by John Gardner
“Fully clothed.”
Mostyn holstered his automatic. The African by the door had done the same. “What’re you carrying?” Mostyn asked Boysie, who told him.
“Where the hell did you get them from? You running a personal arms factory?”
“You should talk about arms factories.”
“I am not going to tell you again, Oakes.”
Mostyn leaned against the chairback. His poise transmitting arrogance: the tilt of his head, the manner in which his foot rested, the toe of his shoe touching the floor, heel raised. “I do not involve myself with illegality unless there is good reason. Money is not good reason, though, in the early stages of this particular operation, I had to intimate that it was. I do not dabble in illegal armaments deals.” He turned to the man by the door. “Dacre.” The African straightened up. “The gentleman over there is called Griffin. He is very good. As good as you. Griffin and yourself are responsible for the safety of the ladies. Understood?”
“Understood,” mumbled Dacre.
“Mr Oakes comes with me.”
“Where?” Boysie did not budge.
“To the heart of the matter, lad. To the hurricane’s eye and the still centre of the whirlpool.”
“What about me?” Snowflake Brightwater was on her feet.
“Eyes of hurricanes and still centres of whirlpools are not for the likes of you.” Mostyn hardly paused for breath.
“Rotting, scavenged corpses.” It was the worst exclamation she could muster.
“Obscenity will get you nowhere.” Mostyn allowed his lips to slide into a smile. “You are a lady. Only the brave deserve you, the fair. Stay with the others and you will all be prizes for the victors.”
For once Snowflake Brightwater seemed deflated. “Be brave, both of you.”
“Courage is relative,” sneered Mostyn.
*
The streets were busy. The sun did not shine but the air was wet with heat: a damp that stuck to the face and hands, penetrated clothing, drawing moisture from the body.
“Africa.” Mostyn sniffed. “The whole continent in ferment, or coming up to the simmer. Democracy, communists, fascists, national socialists. You name them. Ferment. Guerrillas; plot; ploy; counterploy.”
“You’re talking poetry again.” Boysie fell into step beside him. “I don’t understand poetry.”
“And you shouldn’t be here. I used you in London because I thought the stink of money would keep your nose to the grindstone. You were a front, an exterior. I let you know a little more—like seeing that the aircraft were carrying arms—in case anything happened to me.”
They pushed their way up the jostling pavement. Boysie noticed how Mostyn even walked in a ruthless manner, shouldering his way through the throng.
“I still don’t read you straight.”
“This tract; this parcel; this bloody rain and heat-ridden segment of land once belonged to the Empire, son. It was part of the far flung. Then we told them to go it alone and they did very well. But the country is restless. The roots are shallow. To put it in a small, hard, round, nutshell, we are on the lip of a coup.”
They were crossing the Square of the Assembly, dodging the stream of late afternoon traffic. There seemed to be a steady flow of people in and out of the tall office block which Mostyn identified as the recently completed Government Administration Building. The people’s dress was mainly European. Only here and there did one see the flash of colour denoting national costume.
“A coup, you said.” They reached the far sidewalk in front of the low elegant House of Assembly.
“A coup d’état?”
Mostyn nodded. “The country is small: disseminated. He who commands this capital commands the country. Ideal for one overblown human with stunted political ideals, and ambition where his balls should be.”
“Where do you fit?”
“The country has a treaty with Great Britain. We would not care for a fascist military dictatorship. Nor would we want to be embroiled in a tiny African Vietnam, even though the politics would be different. We prefer a bloodless counter coup.”
“Who’s doing the couping?”
“The big man? General Bushway. General Elijah Bushway would you believe? Trouble is that he hasn’t even got half the army behind him. Had to call in mercenaries. He’s even got a mercenary military commander.”
“Colonel Peter Suffix?”
“You’re with me.”
“And who gets couped?”
“The gentleman we are going to see now. President Anthony.”
“When?”
“Around six tonight. He’s throwing a shindig, President Anthony that is. Event of the season; everyone will be there. You wouldn’t want to miss that, would you?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“On how much shooting there’s going to be and who’s getting shot at.”
*
They left the camp on foot, marching in file. Suffix rode in the first of the three Land-Rovers which brought up the rear of the column. Suffix’s Land-Rover was identical with the British Special Air Service vehicles built for use on intruder missions. It had an armed position forward for two general purpose machine guns on a coupled mounting, and a third at the driver’s position. In the rear was a mounted Browning machine gun.
Almost half of the men still had to collect their weapons and ammunition from Alaki Barracks.
When they reached the main road the fifteen heavy duty trucks were drawn up ready to receive them.
The men moved quickly: there was no bunching, pushing or talking. Their drill was impeccable.
Suffix’s driver slewed the Land-Rover to the head of the convoy and they drove off, unhurried towards Otuka.
*
The hallway of the president’s residence was gay with flowers. They rose in banks up the ornamented staircases which swept away on each side of the great oak doors leading to the reception room. The air inside felt fresh and cool, scented from flowers. For a second, Boysie reflected understanding for General Bushway. In this kind of climate the head man got to live in good conditions.
There were flowers in the reception room also. The floor was oak parquet, highly polished; a long room, stretching the depth of the house, the far wall being a huge window which looked out onto the garden. Boysie could see two Shea trees set close together, their branches almost touching.
The walls were hung with examples of Etszikan paintings: bold colours in abstract designs, beautiful primitive work.
To the right and left two doors led off the reception room to the main body of the house. The president and his party entered through the far left hand door.
The president smiled and stretched out his hand to Mostyn.
“Ah, you are welcome, my good friend. Is this the man you spoke of? Mr Oakes?”
Boysie shook the president’s hand, bowing his head, a trifle bewildered at events.
“I think you know my son,” President Anthony stepped back. “He is the chief of my Government Security Corps and has recently been on attachment to London.”
“H-hi there, m-m-man. G-good t-to ha-have you with us.” Mr Colefax grinned.
Boysie shuffled his feet and President Anthony returned his attention to Mostyn. “All is prepared, but I am sad my son will not allow me to watch, or take part in, ‘the final act.”
“It will be better that you are kept safe.” There was understanding in Mostyn’s voice. “I know how you feel though, Mister President.”
A tall Etszikan police officer had come into the room, he stood at attention obviously waiting to speak. President Anthony gestured to him.
“A crowd is starting to gather outside, Mister President: to watch the arriving guests.”
The president turned to Mostyn and raised his eyebrows in question.
“Clear them. You’d better start clearing the streets now as well.” He glanced at his watch. “It is almost time to receive the guests. Come Boysie, we have work to do.”
Already they could hear the police loudhailers at work outside, sweeping civilians from the square and main streets of the city.
14
It had been a long day for General Bushway. He was conscious of his impatience. Not simply the impatience of this day, but the urgency and irritation which had built inside him through the years. Government by committee meant time wasted in endless argument and wrangling. Here, the wrangling was often protracted. This in itself was unbearable. Particularly when he could see the correct solutions so clearly.
He looked out from his office window onto the parade ground where his men were already lining up to embark in the lorries.
All day the activity had been kept to the minimum, now the General was beginning to see his force unleashed. The mercenaries, and specially trained insurgents, would arrive soon. Then they would drive in triumph into Otuka. Within the next few hours he would come face to face with Anthony. After that …
*
Colonel Impato completed his round of inspection: the Hotel Europa; the post office; the Government Administration Building; the House of Assembly and the radio and television stations. He now made one last call at the president’s residence.
Mostyn stood in the hall with Boysie and a dozen members of the Etszikan Police Force.
From behind the doors leading to the reception room came the familiar buzz and clatter of a social gathering getting into stride.
“We’re ready as you can hear,” said Mostyn.
“I’m still not convinced.” Boysie looked troubled. “What if they try a fire fight?”
“My men have the advantage.” In spite of the words, Impato’s voice struck a nervous key.
“Out there, maybe. I’m talking about in here.”
“In here you pray,” said the Colonel.
*
Suffix’s force arrived at Alaki Barracks a few minutes after six. The General’s troops were already embarked in their trucks and Suffix took the opportunity of making himself known to all the men: moving from truck to truck, staying a minute or so with each load while the unarmed men of his force were provided with weapons.
For convenience they had split the total force into two waves. Tilitson and Knox were to lead the first wave, taking charge of the radio and television station; cordoning off the Square of the Assembly, and occupying the Government Administration Building and House of Assembly before Tilitson carried on to the seaboard to take over the post office and the Europa Hotel.
The second wave would follow ten minutes after the first: the hundred picked men, led by Suffix and the General, who would go straight to the president’s residence.
The General came out of his office block, tossing his pistol lanyard round his bull neck. He looked big, magnificent and unbeatable, in combat suit, his peaked cap at a rakish angle.
Suffix saluted. The General put a hand to his cap then extended it, his great paw enveloping Suffix’s hand.
“It has arrived then.”
“Yes, General. Good luck.”
The first lorries started up.
“Permission to leave, sir.” Tilitson stood at attention a few yards from the General.
“Go with speed. Be resolute. You act for this country and a new, enlightened, regime.”
Suffix turned away. The General’s political and melodramatic statements made him uneasy.
Tilitson saluted and doubled off to his jeep.
Motors roared and the first trucks began to move through the gates.
Colonel Impato viewed the area through his binoculars. From his vantage point on the roof of the Government Administration Building, he could overlook the key positions. He even had a view over the House of Assembly into the Square of Independence, where a large number of cars, belonging to members of the government and leading figures of state, were parked before the president’s residence. He tightened the focus and ran the binoculars along the front of the residence. Six police officers stood at ease, guarding the entrance.
He swung the binoculars down to the square below. Quiet and normal.
The roof itself was like a fortress. A machine gun at each corner, and two more angled in on the roof entrance in the unlikely event of anyone getting past the precautions below them, in the building itself.
There was a chatter from the radio and Impato turned. His radio operator was crouched behind him. The operator acknowledged the call and looked up at Impato.
“They’re just coming into the city, sir.” Impato nodded grimly and loosened his automatic in its leather holster.
*
The radio and television station was a small squat building: pinkish concrete stapled with aerials, standing alone on a patch of dark open ground. In the main entrance there was a reception desk. Two corridors led off to a pair of small broadcasting studios, on one side, and one cramped television studio on the other.
Knox was in the first jeep. He had one truck with twenty men behind him. They came in fast from the main road, the vehicles slewing up dark dust as they pulled to a halt in front of the building.
Two men stayed by the entrance, their automatic rifles at the ready. Not a sound from inside. One minute. Two minutes. They were unprepared for their comrades to reappear, backing out of the building, hands raised, their weapons gone. Just as unprepared for the movement to their left and right. Two squads of army men coming round the side of the building holding them in danger of utterly destructive crossfire.
Knox had been totally unready. Instead of the shirt-sleeved technicians and broadcasters he had expected, his party had suddenly been confronted by rifles and automatic weapons: in front, behind, suddenly appearing from doorways.
A tall black officer gave the command. “Drop your weapons and nobody will get hurt.”
One by one they obeyed.
“Now back out of the main door and try nothing: my men are outside and have you covered. One move and you all get it.”
An army sergeant checked the truck. Bushway’s men were searched and bundled into the vehicle. Nobody bothered about rank. There were two machine guns trained on the truck. The other men who had been waiting inside and around the building now took up defensive positions. Inside, the technicians and broadcasters remained off the air as ordered.
*
Impato’s binoculars picked up the trucks before they reached the Square of the Assembly. There was a jeep in front with a white officer sitting next to the driver. The convoy growled into the square, men leaping from the trucks.
Two groups peeled off: one, headed by the white officer, going straight for the Government Administration Building; the other for the House of Assembly.
The remainder busied themselves in sealing off the entrances to the square. Impato smiled to himself. Below him, the coup was already being prevented. The clatter of men’s boots on the square’s hard surface floated upwards.
*
It felt like a routine exercise as they pulled into the square. Tilitson was proud of the smart, fast way his men worked. The minimum orders needed to be given. He felt elated as he ran up the steps of the Administration Building, his mind already picturing the surprise and panic of the civilian personnel caught unawares in the offices: all those little dolly spade girls. They worked late in the Administration Building.
Tilitson went straight across the foyer to the lifts. One sergeant, two men and himself. He could already hear the remainder of the detachment crashing up the stairs. The two men at reception stood against the wall, hands raised, looking frightened. Tilitson pressed the button for the top floor. Number six. The lift gradually rose.
None of Impato’s men went into action until the whole unit was inside the building. On the ground floor they leaped from the doorways and hiding places. One of the five men left in the main hall whirled and fired at the movement coming from a door, but the bullet went wild, smashing into the concrete wall at the same moment as its instigator was sent spinning across the marble floor by a rip of automatic fire; a slippery trail of blood snakin
g over the floor behind him.
As Tilitson’s men arrived at offices on the other floors they were met by the sudden appearance of troops, outflanking and outgunning them. Not a civilian in sight for the building had been quietly cleared during the late afternoon.
The lift hummed upwards, indicator lights picking off the floors. Four … Five … Six. It stopped with a thud and the doors hissed open.
Tilitson stared into the barrel of a GPMG. From somewhere else in the building there was a shot.
Tilitson reacted, his hand streaking out towards the operating button of the lift. His fingers were two inches from the Down button when the short burst ripped into the lift. They felt nothing, nor did they smell the cordite. The ten or so bullets, fired at close range, left the impression that a small grenade had exploded in the lift, the bodies were so torn by metal.
*
In the House of Assembly things did not go without incident. Sergeant Umata, a regular soldier with ten years’ service, was in charge of a machine gun unit stationed directly in front of the president’s chair—a big carved oak throne—in the main Chamber of the House.
A squad of ten men, each wearing Suffix’s cobra symbol on the shoulder of his combat suit, threw open the doors to the Chamber and Umata shouted at them to stop. One insurgent was too fast, getting off three shots before Umata’s unit could open fire. The second bullet caught Umata in the throat. He died later that evening in the Otuka General Hospital.
*
The young officer reported to Colonel Impato, on the roof, that all insurgent troops in the building were under control.
Within two minutes there was a radio message from the House of Assembly indicating a similar situation.
Impato motioned the men on the roof to be ready. Raising his loudhailer to his mouth he directed it towards the square where Bushway’s men stood ready at the road blocks.
“This is Colonel Impato, Commander of the Army of Etszika.”
One of the men at the north end of the square turned sharply, shading his eyes. Then his rifle came up. A machine gun burst tore from the roof, knocking the man over and splaying him out like a dummy.
“Your mission has failed,” Impato continued. “Your comrades are either dead or under close escort. You are covered from all sides. I suggest you throw your weapons into the middle of the square and place your hands above your heads.”