some sort of incantation in a language Ben had never heard before. Satisfied, he turned away to let his patient sleep off the booze. His wizened gaze scanned the room and fell on Ben. He gave an odd little smile. ‘I know who you are. You are the white warrior who has come to help us.’
‘I suppose I get pleasure from helping the needy,’ Ben said.
‘I am Pascal Wakenge,’ the old man said. He walked towards Ben, fixing him with an intense stare. ‘You can leave now. There is nothing for you to do,’ he told the guards crowded around Ben. The soldiers dispersed and filed out of the bedroom, just a couple of them hovering in the doorway. Evidently, the witch doctor carried some weight of authority around here.
Ben stood up. Wakenge watched every move he made with great fascination. Something in the old man’s glittering eyes made Ben’s flesh creep. It was easy to understand the sway he would hold over someone who believed in sorcery and witchcraft.
‘Jean-Pierre sees much in you,’ he said. ‘You should not hate him so.’
‘Oh, I’m full of human understanding,’ Ben replied. ‘No hard feelings. He’s only trying to do his job, after all.’
‘He sees much, but I see more.’
‘You do, do you?’
‘I see much death in you, white man. You have killed many. And you will kill more. But there is one you wish to kill more than any other. It is your greatest desire to look this man in the eye as you take his life.’
Ben said nothing. He was positive that Wakenge could tell no such thing. The crafty old man was using what he knew to psych Ben out in search of a sign that he could be a threat. Fortune-tellers and other such cranks, at any rate the more successful ones, were often excellent psychologists and extremely devious at winkling out useful information without their victims realising they were being manipulated.
‘I’m afraid you must have me confused with someone else,’ Ben said. ‘I don’t want to kill anybody.’
Wakenge went on staring at him for the longest time. Ben returned the eye contact, not wanting to be the first to look away. For a few moments it seemed to have become a battle of wills, one Ben was determined not to lose to this creepy old charlatan.
Then Wakenge said, ‘Be warned, white man. You have saved many lost souls in the past. But you should be careful, or you will not be able to save your own.’
Ben gave him a dry smile. ‘I’m going to die?’
‘Soon,’ the old man said.
It was lunchtime in Kinshasa, too, and the bar at the Grand Hotel in the Presidential district of Gombe was crowded with well-to-do locals, bureaucrats and visiting business executives. It was more or less the most prestigious environment that the capital had to offer, even if the electricity went off several times a day, and César Masango fitted into it well. He was perfectly groomed in a handsomely tailored double-breasted suit of light grey silk, tan leather brogues polished into mirrors, and a Rolex Daytona that was even bigger and glitzier than the model that his friend and business associate, Jean-Pierre Khosa, liked to flash around. None of the corporate types milling around him could have guessed that he’d returned only hours ago from a militarised stronghold deep in the jungle. Any more than they could have guessed what his business was here today in the city.
Masango and his two associates had occupied a corner table by the window, where they sat in silence as Masango scanned the busy street and sipped on an $8 cappuccino. His associates didn’t get any, because they weren’t paid to eat, drink, or speak on his time unless specifically permitted.
Masango was waiting for Marius Grobler, a fifty-six-year-old white South African who labelled himself a consultant in international import/export but who was in fact a criminal fence specialising in converting dubiously obtained diamonds, gold and other such high-end commodities into untraceable cash. He was effective, discreet, and had been the first name to come up when discussing the various options for selling Jean-Pierre’s wonderful new acquisition.
The purchase deal had been brokered on Khosa’s behalf by Masango, his political attaché. ‘Political attaché’ might have been an accurate term, if indeed Khosa had anything much to do with politics – which for the moment he did not, although that didn’t deter Khosa’s small but rapidly growing legion of followers from viewing César Masango as the man who would one day put their exalted leader in power. While both men believed that day would eventually come (and all the sooner now that Khosa was set to become much richer), for the moment Masango was happy to act as his universal aide, fixer and back-door man. In return for these services, he received more than the General’s gratitude and the future promise of a top ministerial job when Khosa grabbed the presidency. For brokering this deal, setting up the meeting with Grobler in Kinshasa and attending to all associated matters, Masango’s slice of the diamond sale proceeds would be a lordly five per cent. Which was as generous a percentage as anyone was likely to get from Khosa; in this case, anyhow, it still amounted to a nice little payday for César.
Besides, as only he and Khosa knew, this wouldn’t be a one-off payment. Far from it.
Grobler arrived in a shiny X3 BMW, with three large, unsmiling white subordinates who shadowed him like the bodyguards they in fact were as he entered the hotel lobby and was warmly met by César Masango. The South African was carrying a large silver case attached to his left wrist. He was a slight man and clearly struggling with its weight, but not about to entrust such a valuable load to a helper. His manner was gruff and brusque as he and Masango shook hands. His pale-grey eyes darted left and right as if looking for someone. ‘I’d understood your client was to meet me in person,’ he said, a little nonplussed.
Not missing a beat, Masango smiled and informed him that there had been a slight change of plan, and the meeting was now to be held elsewhere. ‘For security reasons,’ he explained vaguely. ‘I hope you understand. We received reports of a potential confidentiality leak.’
‘Not from my side, there isn’t,’ Grobler snorted. ‘I hope your client isn’t backing out on me here. I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange the funds at such short notice. This isn’t the kind of money I normally carry around with me, you know?’
‘Please be assured, Mr Grobler,’ Masango replied with another charming smile, ‘that the meeting will proceed exactly as intended. It will be my pleasure to take you to him. However, unfortunately, also for security reasons, my client stipulates that you attend the meeting alone.’
Grobler didn’t take this well. ‘These men are my trusted associates. I have no secrets from them.’ Which was blatantly untrue, of course. The men were paid thugs with no knowledge of the deal and nothing to think about except how to keep their employer in one piece if things went south. That possibility was an ever-present occupational hazard in Grobler’s line of work and he had long since learned to be careful.
‘I am sorry,’ Masango said. ‘I am instructed that if this condition is not met, the meeting is cancelled. My client was very specific on this point. It is, as you say, a deal breaker.’
Grobler quickly considered what he had to lose by missing out, then grunted, ‘Very well. But my associates will accompany me to this alternative venue of yours, and wait outside while we do business. Okay?’
Masango
