Dictator

28

Zalika slipped off the auburn wig and removed the tight stocking cap beneath it, revealing a head of pale brown hair, highlighted with streaks of blonde. She shook her head and scrunched her hair with her fingers, then grinned at him. ‘Still don’t see it?’

She tilted her face forward and lifted her index finger to her eyes, removing the hazel-coloured contact lenses that had covered them. When she raised her head again, her eyes were a deep jewelled blue.

‘How about now?’

Now Zalika’s whole face slipped into focus. She’d had some work done on her nose, Carver reckoned – it was much less prominent than before – but that aside, the teenage girl he’d met a decade ago was clearly visible in the woman who stood before him. And yet she’d changed utterly.

‘Yes,’ said Carver. ‘Now I see it.’

‘Superb!’ laughed Klerk, clapping his hands with delight. ‘Zalika, my dear, that was a magnificent performance. I apologize, Sam. It was hardly fair to play such a cheap trick on the man who saved Zalika’s life. But the best way to convince you that she could fool someone else was if you had already been fooled yourself.’

Zalika gave a little pout of mock contrition, then she took a couple of steps towards him until she was close enough to reach out and take his hands in hers.

‘Will you forgive me?’ she said, looking him in the eye.

The knowing, teasing look had returned to her smile, but much more openly now that she did not have to play at being Alice the sexy secretary. Carver suddenly felt a very strong urge to wipe that smile off her face, whether by kissing her or slapping her he didn’t much care.

She gave his hands a little squeeze, as if she knew just what he was thinking, and leaned forward to kiss him, very delicately, on the cheek.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘of course you will.’

She’d asked one question, but she’d answered another one altogether.

‘Good,’ said Carver. ‘I’m glad we’re agreed on that.’

A silence fell on the room, eventually broken by a harsh, guttural cough. Zalika spun round, saw Klerk with his fist to his mouth and frowning as if in deep discomfort. She burst out laughing. ‘God, Wendell, I’ve never seen you looking embarrassed before!’

‘Not at all,’ growled Klerk, clearing his throat. ‘I just wondered if you could stop flirting for five seconds and demonstrate to Mr Carver here that you really do know as much about President Gushungo as I just said you did.’

‘Of course,’ said Zalika. ‘I’d be delighted.’

She picked up the remote control and turned back to the TV, clicking her way through a series of menus until she came to a PowerPoint file titled HG-HK. ppt. She clicked it open and a picture of Henderson Gushungo appeared on the screen.

‘Just in case we’d forgotten who we were dealing with,’ Zalika said.

Now she was all business.

‘Before we go any further,’ she continued, ‘I just want to explain how we – well, I actually – arrived at the location that was chosen for this operation. The obvious place to attack Gushungo, of course, is Malemba itself. But it is also the least suitable. The President has the nation’s entire armed forces to call on as personal protection. His secret police are everywhere. He still has a lot of allies, men who know that their only hope of staying in power is to keep the old man alive as long as possible. We also have reliable information suggesting that Gushungo has at least four doubles. Their basic role in life is to take a bullet that’s meant for him, so it would be depressingly easy to take out the wrong man and kill some innocent lookalike instead of the real thing. And if that were not bad enough, the total collapse of the country’s infrastructure would make it a hard place to leave in a hurry. Of course we could organize a fast extraction if we had to. But the state Malemba is in makes everything much more complicated and much less reliable than you’d want it to be. So if Malemba’s no good, when does Gushungo go abroad?’

She clicked the remote control and a new picture appeared of the President standing in front of a giant Bedouin tent, shaking hands with a man wearing vivid purple silk robes, a matching pillbox hat and impenetrable black shades.

‘There are still some states willing to welcome Gushungo. This is him meeting Gaddafi in Libya last year. He also had the brass nerve to attend an EU summit on relations with Africa in Lisbon. Officially, the European nations are opposed to his regime. All his bank accounts within the EU and even Switzerland have been frozen. But it’s very difficult for them to prevent a head of state entering a European nation, particularly if he’s been invited to attend a multinational meeting, or an event held by an international organization like the United Nations. So here he is in Rome, for example.’

Now the picture on the screen showed Gushungo, surrounded by a scrum of bodyguards and photographers, standing in front of the Colosseum.

‘He went to a UN conference there and talked about the need to preserve global food supplies and meet the threat of climate change,’ said Zalika. ‘This from a man who has reduced his country to a desert! When I think of how our farms used to be when I was a girl: the land looked after so beautifully; wonderful crops every year; plenty of work for everyone… and now it’s all gone. It makes me so angry.’

‘You are not alone, my dear,’ said Tshonga. ‘We all feel the same way.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘Anyway, there are opportunities when the President makes these visits. But the host countries give him the same protection they provide for any head of state. These days all the western nations have excellent special forces, the Middle Eastern and Asian ones, too. I’m sure you could find a way past them if you had to, Sam. But again, it adds to the risk. Which left me with one final option.’

Another picture appeared on the screen. It was blurry, taken at long distance with an extreme telephoto lens. It showed a close-up of Gushungo wearing a dressing gown, leaning on a balcony.

Click.

Now the picture expanded and revealed that the balcony was on the top floor of a slender four-storey building perched on a hillside, with similar constructions on either side.

‘This is dear old Henderson, beloved Father of our Nation, sunning himself at his new holiday home,’ said Zalika. ‘It’s in Hong Kong. And that’s where we’re going to get him.’