Devil's Gate

47

Sierra Leone, July 5

IN HIS EXECUTIVE PALACE, with its marble floors, Djemma Garand sat with Alexander Cochrane. Cochrane had spent the night reviewing the options arrived at by the ad hoc scientific guests.

“Essentially,” Cochrane said, “they’ve all come up with the same solution. I see minor differences, no more.”

Cochrane looked tired. His usual petulance had been replaced by a sense of exhaustion and perhaps fear.

“And your evaluation of their solutions?” Djemma asked, eager to get to the point.

“The fact that they all came to it independently tells me it’s probably correct. I see nothing wrong with their calculations.”

“And the implementation?” Djemma asked.

“In essence, we can use the particle accelerator as it stands now,” Cochrane said. “We just have to generate a heavier charged particle to fire through it. It’s like trading out a twenty-two shell and replacing it with a forty-five. Everything else is the same. The particles will move a little slower, not enough to affect the operation, but they’ll hit with three times the power.” He put his notes down. “It’s rather simple, actually.”

“Pity you didn’t think of it months ago,” Djemma said, the words sliding off his tongue with open disdain.

“This is theoretical work,” Cochrane said. “Not my field.”

“Yes,” Djemma said. “After all, you are just a mechanic.”

The intercom on Djemma’s phone buzzed. “Mr. President,” his secretary said, “a guest has arrived to speak with you. The American ambassador.”

“Excellent,” Djemma said. “Send him in.”

Cochrane stood. “I need twenty-four hours to make the changes.”

“Then I suggest you get to it,” Djemma said. He pointed to a back door. “Leave that way.”

Cochrane obliged, moving quickly out the back as the front door to Djemma’s office opened and the American ambassador came in. Normally, Djemma would meet such a man halfway across the floor, but he remained in his seat, beckoning the ambassador to sit across from him in the spot Cochrane had just vacated.

“President Garand,” the ambassador said in an easy Texas drawl, “I’m sure you know the sad business I’m here to ask you about.”

“Whatever do mean, Mr. Ambassador?” Djemma said. “We are celebrating our Fourth of July. A day late, perhaps.”

The ambassador managed a forced smile but shook his head. “What you’re calling independence is nothing but naked aggression, theft, and the violation of international law. To be honest with you, I can’t recall such a brazen act.”

“Then you must be a poor student of history,” Djemma said. “In 1950, under the threat of nationalizing all of Standard Oil’s assets, the Saudi royal family took half the oil in Arabia. That oil has been worth three and a half trillion dollars over the last sixty years. In 2001, Hugo Chávez of Venezuela did virtually the same thing. In 1972, Chile nationalized its copper mines under Salvador Allende. In 1973, India nationalized its entire coal industry. In 1959, Fidel Castro took Havana, waiting patiently until the Havana Hilton was complete so he could use it as the Communist Party’s headquarters. He seized all foreign assets and has never relinquished them. Do you not recall any of these events, Mr. Ambassador?”

The ambassador took a deep breath. “Of course I recall them, but this is different.”

“Yes,” Djemma said. “And just how different you have not yet discovered. In the meantime, in strict dollar terms, my actions are relatively minor in comparison to the events I have just reminded you of. To be honest, I’m surprised to see you. I would have expected the Chinese ambassador to arrive first; they stand to lose far more than you.”

The last statement was a jab at the ambassador’s pride, but he didn’t react.

“We’re here on their behalf,” he said. “And on behalf of all the countries that have a grievance and a claim. Now, off the record, we’re prepared to consider modifying the repayment terms of your loans, but we’re not forgiving you any of the principal. And before any negotiations start, your forces must withdraw from the industrial institutions owned by foreign parties.”

Djemma smiled. “I make you a counteroffer,” he said. “I will keep what we have rightly taken. And I will ask only for twenty billion a year in grants from your country.”

“What?” the ambassador said.

“I would ask for new loans,” Djemma said, “but considering that I didn’t pay the other loans back, I fear no one will extend us credit. Therefore, it will have to be grants. Do not worry, we will be demanding the same contributions from China and Europe.”

“You can’t be serious,” the ambassador responded curtly. “You steal the world’s property and then demand that we collectively give you sixty billion dollars a year in free money?”

“It is a small amount,” Djemma assured him. “You gave your own banks seven hundred billion a few years ago. You spent a trillion dollars on Iraq, twenty billion a month. What I ask for is a fraction of that, and no one has to suffer. In return, we will allow American corporations to handle many of the construction projects. You may consider it a stimulus program.”

By now Djemma was smiling like a madman. For so long he had listened to the Europeans and Americans lecturing poor nations on fiscal responsibility. Hypocrites, he thought. Look what they had wrought upon themselves. Now he would throw it back in their faces.

The ambassador’s face was turning red. “Your reach is stretching beyond your power to grasp, Mr. President,” he blurted. “This will not stand.”

“The Saudis still stand,” Djemma said. “Chávez still stands. So does Castro. You will find it easier to negotiate than you are letting on. And if you don’t… I warn you there will be consequences.”

This was the first hint of a threat that Djemma had made. He needed to be subtle. By the sudden focus on the ambassador’s face, he knew he hadn’t been too obscure. But when the ambassador began to chuckle, Djemma felt his own ire rising.

“What is so funny?” he demanded to know.

The ambassador settled down, but a smile remained on his face. “I feel like I’m in a production of The Mouse That Roared,” he said. “I could take over this country with a group of Boy Scouts and a few state troopers, and you think you can threaten us?”

The laughter returned, and Djemma snapped. He brought the riding crop down on the desk in a stunningly swift move. The ambassador jumped back at the sound, shocked.

“Your arrogance betrays you, Mr. Ambassador,” Djemma said. He stood, drawing himself up to his full six-foot-two-inch height.

“For too long you and the other rich nations have mocked countries like mine,” he said. “Whether you believe it or not, those days are about to end. The industrialized world will support us, not in dribs and drabs but in substantial amounts. You will help us stand or we will drag you down into the mire with us! Only then will you see the truth. We are not mice for you to play with. Sierra Leone is the Land of Lions. And if you are not cautious, you will feel our teeth in your soft, decadent necks.”

Djemma didn’t wait for a reply from the American ambassador. He pressed the intercom button, and a group of guards entered the room.

“See the ambassador to the airfield,” he shouted. “He is to be deported immediately.”

“This is an outrage,” the ambassador shouted.

“Take him!” Djemma ordered.

The ambassador was hustled outside, and the door slammed behind him.

Djemma sat alone, fuming. He was angry with the ambassador’s arrogance and disdain. He hadn’t expected it so soon. But he was even angrier with himself for jumping at the bait and voicing his threat so forcefully. He hadn’t planned to speak so soon. Now there would be no negotiations. Unless…

He had no choice. He had made a claim that the Americans would assume to be a bluff. He had to demonstrate his power, otherwise they and the world at large would only scoff and laugh with disdain as he ranted and raved: another mad dictator in a banana republic.

He would unleash his weapon in all its glorious power and leave them no choice but to treat him with respect.