Dictator

76

Carver’s flight got into Johannesburg at quarter-past seven on Monday morning. As soon as he’d made it through immigration and customs he sat down in an airport cafe with a double espresso and his iPhone. Then he logged on to the BBC news pages and looked for headlines about Malemba.

It didn’t take long for his worst fears to be confirmed. The whole Gushungo operation had been blown and Tshonga’s supposedly peaceful takeover had collapsed in a swift series of massacres. Meanwhile, there were rumours of a simultaneous attack on President Gushungo and his wife at their home in Hong Kong. The Hong Kong authorities were remaining tight-lipped, but neither the President nor his wife had been seen in more than twenty-four hours and although a local vicar reported that he had been told that they were suffering from a stomach-bug, some Hong Kong bloggers were suggesting that they were dead and that local authorities were engaged in a massive cover-up. Carver liked the sound of that. The more the truth was glossed over, the less chance there was that anything would ever be traced to him.

Malemba itself was now under the control of a self-proclaimed Committee of National Security, a group of senior military officers who had decreed a state of emergency pending the reestablishment of civilian government. The committee members, like the Hong Kong authorities, refused to comment on stories that Henderson Gushungo was dead. They preferred to focus on Patrick Tshonga, who was described as a traitor, an anarchist and a threat to peace. He was being hunted without mercy, one general stated, and would soon be cornered like a rat. In the meantime, a press conference was being scheduled for the following morning, Tuesday, at which time the people would get a chance to hear the committee’s plans for the country.

The timing seemed about right, Carver thought. If Mabeki had flown direct to Sindele, he would have arrived at roughly the same time as Carver got to Johannesburg. He’d need a day to get his feet under the table, prepare the various bribes, threats and blackmails with which he’d bend everyone to his will, and then appoint whichever stooges would nominally run the country. He’d also have to decide what to do with Zalika. Assuming she was still alive.

In any case, Carver now had his deadline. His best, maybe only chance of killing Mabeki and rescuing Zalika was to do it before Mabeki had the chance to assemble and announce his new regime. Once that African Machiavelli had the full resources of the Malemban police state at his beck and call, he would be almost impossible to touch. It had to be now.

First, though, he had to confront Klerk. He leaned back in his chair, wanting to think through the best approach, one that would give him the flexibility to respond equally effectively, whether Klerk had betrayed the plan or not. Then something caught his eye, a copy of the Johannesburg Star discarded along with the empty coffee cups on a nearby table. The front-page headline screamed ‘Slaughter in Sandton’. Next to it was a sub-head: ‘Death toll rises to seven in billionaire mansion shoot-out’.

A nauseous sense of dread and apprehension clawed at Carver’s guts. He reached across to pick up the paper. Two minutes later, he was on the phone to Sonny Parkes, Wendell Klerk’s head of security.

‘It’s Carver,’ he said. ‘We need to meet. Now.’