The Napoleon Complex

by E. M. DAVEY

“I doubt it. But Livingstone could have waited until he was alone to bury the Disciplina. Stanley would disappear for days at a time hunting big game.”

  “If anything’s buried here,” said Jenny.

  “Hmmm.” Jake glanced at the eldest child, a beautiful girl of ten with a shaved head. She clutched the broken tip of a machete. “Aidez-moi, s’il vous plait?”

  The girl nodded and blinked. “Oui. Pour-quoi?”

  He turned to Jenny. “What’s the French for shovel?”

  83

  Chloë counted the playboy’s breaths slowing down by the second hand of his carriage clock. Only six inhalations per minute now, softer each time. This was how a child slept: zephyrs of tranquillity escaping him as he entered catatonia. When Chloë was certain he was under, she slipped out of bed and padded across the room. She located her skirt (he had ripped it down, thrown it across the room) and from the waistband she extracted a tiny USB drive. She turned on his laptop and opened the password reset wizard. In went the USB drive, which tried ten million combinations per minute. His desktop was a shot of an infinity pool on the French Riviera; five clicks later she had copied the entire contents of his computer and the USB stick went back into her skirt. Conteh had a spaced-out smile on his face as she slid into bed next to him, his eyelids fractionally parted, hand on groin.

  The laptop was thought to contain evidence of Conteh’s lurid financial interests. But it wasn’t connected to the internet, physical space being the best protection against hacking. Only one member of his staff was allowed into his room, and she was deemed unreliable. That was why Chloë had become the new second secretary at the British Embassy. The government wanted some hold on Conteh and his father, though why she knew not.

  Now she had the data.

  Chloë should have been exhilarated; this was proper, old school espionage. Instead she felt dirty, like a prostitute. She was a prostitute. A sexual weapon of Great Britain, wielded to expedite outcomes she wasn’t privy to, taking it on blind faith that they were Worth It. It hadn’t been so bad with Jake. He was palpably decent, nice enough looking. And what they were after had the power to change the world. But Conteh was horrid – an arrogant lover, violent in his thrusting and tearing. He had licked her cheek. She looked at him now, dissecting each detail of the scrunched up face before her. White lines of spittle had formed in each corner of his mouth.

  C had assured her the gamma-hydroxybutyrate would knock him out before he was able to perform. MI6 knew his bodyweight and calculated the dosage; she slipped the powder into his cognac exactly as directed. But Conteh was so randy he’d barely noticed it, the primordial desire to mate trumping even chemistry. If she snubbed him she might not get another invite. So she had made a split-second decision: Chloë Aspinal (née Smith, née Fleming) lay back and thought of England.

  Only there was a snag. For when Conteh awoke he had an announcement to make, and with rising distress Chloë watched him sink onto one knee.

  “I want to marry you.” He giggled wildly, threw himself on the bed. “Miss Chloë, I love you very much indeed. I have never, ever met a lady like you.”

  Silken boxer shorts swelled by the second; a dozen sloppy kisses assailed her and she shuddered involuntarily.

  Conteh pulled back, as if stung. “What’s the matter? Don’t you love me any more, Miss Chloë? Last night you were hot for me I think, yes?”

  Opiate bliss slid across his face at the recollection. It was her duty to lead him on, to see whether further advantage could be eked from this situation.

  After he’d had his way with her again, Conteh became expansive. He talked of their future, made grand plans. Chloë had seen this look dozens of times before: he had fallen head over heels in love.

  “First I must tell my fiancée. Oh golly golly, that will cause a stink.”

  The woman at the reception with the bottle blonde hair. Another innocent about to receive a broken heart with compliments of Vauxhall Cross.

  Conteh was prattling on. “She is from an important family here. But never mind, eh? A worm, I am infected. This my mean task is heavy and odious.”

  “Don’t do it.”

  “Why?” A flicker of anger. “Don’t you love me too, Chloë?”

  “I … yes, yes I suppose I do.”

  “Let me tell you about the life we can have together, you and I.” His voice had become throaty. “Your family – they are rich?”

  “They’re comfortably enough off.”

  “And me. Do you think I am a rich man?”

  She looked at the expanses of gold leaf, the fish tank, the gigantic plasma screen.

  “Oh, you’re a very rich man,” she said, channelling dreaminess.

  “It is not so. I can tell you truthfully, I have maybe ten million dollars. But soon, I will be a very rich man. I will be like Mr Abramovich, and have a yacht and a football club. Would you like to be the wife of a billionaire, Chloë? Is that what you have always dreamed of?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  No, she thought. I’d like a nice-looking guy who’s a solicitor or an architect. Someone from the Home Counties perhaps, a rugby player type who wants children and dogs.

  “In one year’s time, we can both be billionaires,” he whispered.

  “How?”

  A crafty look was his eyes. “This Ebola that has killed so many. Did you think it was a natural thing?”

  She frowned. “Of course it was natural.”

  A high-pitched chuckle. “Oh, but there was nothing natural about this outbreak.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  It came out sharper than she’d intended, but Conteh was at sea on dreams of wealth and of her.

  “Your British Secret Service planted it here, Chloë.”

  *

  She burst out laughing.

  “Oh, you are all the same, you British, you white people,” Conteh spat. “Did you not think that we Sierra Leoneans could have a secret service too? Did you think we black people are too stupid?”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid,” she said. “I think you’re wonderful.”

  That placated him.

  “So.” He took her hand. “Let me tell you. We followed a Welshman. He was pretending to be a doctor. We watched him with his needles, his vaccines, here in Freetown, Upcountry. But everyone he treated – they fell sick, Chloë.”

  “I don’t believe you. It’s the most ludicrous story I’ve ever heard.”

  “But I have the proof.” Conteh’s eyes went to his laptop. “Photographs. And, how do you say it in English? Intercepts and suchlike.”

  “But why on earth would we do that?” she persisted. “We were the ones out here helping the sick.”

  “Because you people want to take over here again,” he hissed. “This was always the plan. And the disease has helped you do so – has it not?”

  She couldn’t deny it.

  “If you have evidence,” she began, “… why keep it quiet?”

  Something approaching shame in Conteh’s face then, but his chest swelled with fresh reserves of bombast.

  “How much do you want to be a billionaire, Chloë?”

  She smiled bravely. “Lots and lots.”

  “Me too. Lots and lots and lots. It’s not such a fun life here, being the big fish in a small pond. So my father and I, we had a plan. Not so stupid after all. That’s why we decided. We will let them take over. We will gather our evidence. And the British Secret Service will have no choice. Ten billion of your taxpayers’ pounds will be the down-payment for our silence, and it will only be the start. That is our money, Chloë! Our money, you and I!”

  She smiled sadly. Oh, but you are mistaken, Alex Conteh. If what you say is true, you and your scheming father won’t see a penny. They’ll assassinate you both for sure.

  On the other side of the room: the laptop, violated, just as she had been. Chloë’s gaze returned to the hem of her skirt.

  84

  “The World Health Organisatio
n is able to declare the end of an Ebola outbreak after forty-two days with no new cases,” said the director-general with the chic haircut and the extravagant Swiss-French accent. “This represents twice the maximum incubation period for Ebola. I can confirm …” and here Natalie Le Clerc paused, revelling in the moment, “that today Sierra Leone reached the forty-two day mark. And it is therefore an Ebola free country.”

  She slapped her hands on the lectern and the press conference erupted into cheers.

  “The World Health Organisation commends the British government,” she continued. “Without its strong leadership and the exemplary engagement with traditional leaders, I would not be in a position to make this declaration. However many deaths may have occurred, I do not doubt that without British help it could have been so much worse. That’s why it gives me great pleasure to introduce a very special man, who landed in Geneva only one hour ago to share with us this special moment. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you – the Prime Minister of Great Britain.”

  Victor Milne hurried onto the stage, grinning like a Cub Scout in receipt of a nationwide trophy. He pecked the Swiss on both cheeks and gave her a third on the smacker for good measure, then swung to face the blaze of flashes, little pewter eyes scanning for journalists of note.

  “Thank you for those kind words, Madame Le Clerc,” said Milne. “You do me too much honour.”

  Abruptly the smile fell from his face and in that instant, reared up before the World Health Organisation logo – a world map, serpent coiled around it – he resembled some diabolical mega-villain in his lair.

  The room fell quiet.

  “This is a big moment for Sierra Leone,” he said. “But it’s also a time for reflection on the enormous sacrifice made by the many British doctors and nurses who laid down their lives to get us to this point. And of course, on the heroism of Britain’s Armed Forces that made this selfless work possible. Because without stability, there can be no medical response. Without peace, no advancement. Without security, no eradication of this ghastly, frightful, murderous disease.”

  Le Clerc was nodding in agreement.

  “But this is no time for complacency,” Milne continued. “Because we’ve got another fight on our hands, a bigger fight. For I say to the Nigerian people, we will not rest until your country is Ebola free too.”

  The director began clapping.

  “And wherever Ebola may blight in the future, whatever corner of the world that may be in, I make the same free and frank offer of British help in those lands. In times gone past, Europeans looked at the world and asked what it might do for them. In this brighter age, we must ask the world what we can do for its people.”

  Furious scribbling in notepads.

  “But I did not come here today merely to talk about Ebola. I also came to address the people of Sierra Leone directly. Because Ebola is not the only pestilence stalking that beautiful country. Malaria kills twice as many people each year, as do typhoid and cholera. In our short time in Sierra Leone, we’ve seen great strides in sanitation and health education. But the work’s only half done. I want to see a Sierra Leone where every town has its own hospital, every village a doctor, every bed a mosquito net. My dear people of Sierra Leone, you are our brothers and our sisters. That’s why I make this further offer. Give our doctors the honour of continued residence in your mountains and forests, and we the British people will not rest until the life expectancy in Sierra Leone is equal to any state in Western Europe. That is our pledge.”

  Another round of applause filled the room. The director-general was wreathed in smiles, giddy at the unexpected commitment. Even Milne was flushed.

  “Thank you, thank you,” he said. “Let me finish by paraphrasing another great Prime Minister …” At once Milne realised the gaffe – another – and he hesitated, calculating the damage. They would hang that one around his neck. But the crowd was in a frenzy and he bulldozed on. “Where there is discord, may we bring harmony. Where there is despair …”

  *

  Milne was led from the building on a wave of triumph.

  “Is this to be your legacy, Prime Minister?”

  “What do you make of all this talk of a Nobel Peace Prize, Prime Minister?”

  “Where’s the money for this going to come from, Prime Minister?”

  The money? Why, from Sierra Leone herself of course. From the coltan and the oil rigs, from the diamond mines and rubber plantations. From the vast maws they would tear in virgin rainforest for copper and gold, from the newly-cleared plains where cows would graze and coffee would thrive. And all of it run by a nationalised capitalism, taking as its model the China of the last decade, faltering though that country’s economy finally was. Because when the Book of Fate was his, Britain would do it better. That would pay for a few poxy mosquito nets, with billions to spare. And thence to Nigeria, already tumbling into his grasp. And thence to India, which he couldn’t snaffle unaided – but if he knew in advance what ruses would succeed? He’d be unstoppable. And thence – who knows? No country on earth could not be Britain’s again, could not be his. But he brooked no more questions, he stopped for no man, surging through the throng of reporters like a galleon in full sail.

  Only when he reached his car did the jubilation wither. It was replaced by hunger. His spymaster was in the back; and Milne had bigger fish to fry.

  “So tell me,” he said as the BMW slalomed through the streets at high speed, the police driver piloting it with the pomp of a gold medal winning skier.

  “We’re going to the British Consulate General,” said C. “Things are moving in Burundi.”

  85

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Jenny.

  Jake was panting and he stood with his hands on his waist, like a footballer calculating an eighty-ninth minute free kick.

  “What am I thinking?”

  “That we are perpetrating an act of archaeological vandalism.”

  An hour’s labour had produced a three-foot pit under the stone; one decent push and it would topple. A dozen children looked on in wonderment.

  “You know me too well.”

  They heaved, and it fell in slow motion – before crashing into the dirt with a whump that engulfed them in dust. The night was full of screeches of disbelief from the Burundian contingent. A bowl of compacted earth was revealed, undisturbed for a century.

  Jake began digging once more.

  “What is that thing?” Milne studied their progress via geostationary satellite.

  “A monument,” said C. “Engraved by Stanley and Livingstone when they camped there.”

  “Stanley and Livingstone? Why them?”

  C was a study in ignorance. “I’m sure we’ll have some theories soon. But more pressingly …”

  He selected another feed. A motorbike, two riders, speeding along the lake.

  “The CIA,” he said.

  “How far away?”

  “Twenty miles. So give it fifteen minutes, at these speeds.”

  “Do they know Wolsey’s location?”

  “Most probably,” said C.

  “Where’s our side?”

  “They crossed into Burundi an hour ago. It’ll be another hour before they arrive. Executive decision time.”

  The screen cut to a map of eastern Africa; a green dot moved steadily west at Mach Two, closing on Burundi.

  “I scrambled a Eurofighter from HMS Queen Elizabeth,” said C. “She’s lying off the coast of Tanzania.”

  “So you’ve unilaterally invaded the airspace of a sovereign nation,” muttered Milne.

  “You were giving a speech.”

  “Not to worry, you did the right thing. How long before it can intercept the Yanks?”

  “We should reach the location with two minutes to spare. Then it’s a Brimstone missile, if you see fit. That makes it thirteen …” he checked his watch. “No, twelve minutes to make the call.”

  “Saints preserve us.” Milne stood up and stuffed both hands in his pockets. “I
didn’t get into politics to kill Americans, you know.”

  “Hold on, wait …” C had returned to the first satellite. “Something’s happening, sir.”

  “Jake. Look behind you.”

  He continued pumping the spade into the ground, earth cascading over one shoulder.

  “Jake,” she hissed again.

  Crunch.

  Metal hit metal, just below the surface. When Jake turned his smile fell away like a stage curtain. Ten men stood there, armed with Kalashnikovs, Belgian FN FAL rifles, old revolvers and just for good measure one pitchfork.

  He dropped the spade.

  “Rebels,” said C. “Or a pro-government militia. In practical terms it doesn’t really matter which.”

  “What’s their prognosis?” said Milne.

  “It’s an African civil war – so total lottery. Killed, arrested or kidnapped. Unless Frobisher can talk her way out of it.”

  “You are spies.” The commander’s face was a web of scar from some ancient immolation. One ear had been burned away completely, the other melted down until only a spire remained: like the ear of a goblin.

  He enunciated with a slow hatred. “Spies, sent here to help the usurper.”

  “We’re not spies,” said Jenny calmly. “We’re archaeologists.”

  “Archaeologists?” His head flinched to one side like a cockatoo. “What meaning you, archaeologists?”

  “Historians,” said Jake. “From a university in England. Here to study this monument.”

  He reached for his wallet, but the movement startled them and every barrel pointed at his head.

  “Please leave this to me,” said Jenny.

  “This is war,” shouted the commander. “What history guy is coming to a war? No. You are foreign maggots, here to meddle in our affairs. Are you not?”

  “Sir,” began Jenny. “I can assure you that …”

  But the commander’s attention was no longer with her. His gaze had fallen to the hole; to the spot where the moonlight played on an alien surface beneath the topsoil.