The Templar Legion

17

The living room of the flat was white and very modern. A white leather couch, several matching club chairs and a glass-and-steel coffee table sat in front of the white brick hearth of the fireplace. Above the fireplace was a large triptych of Francis Bacon paintings commemorating the death of Bacon’s lover, George Dyer. Bacon’s stark representation of a man writhing and twisting on a beach had been purchased at Sotheby’s for sixty-seven million dollars.

Although he’d owned the painting through the Bambridge Trust for the past three years, Sir James Matheson had never seen it before. He decided that he rather liked it, probably because it so blatantly illustrated violent, passionate emotions that the billionaire industrialist was reasonably sure he didn’t have. Being his father’s son and spending thirteen years in the English public school system had taken care of that.

With Matheson were Konrad Lanz, Major Allen Faulkener and the guest of honor, Francois Nagoupande, fully outfitted in the uniform of a general in the Royal Army. The left side of his chest was weighed down with as many service ribbons and medals as Faulkener could find, including the French Croix de Guerre, the India General Service Medal, the Naval Fleet Reserve Medal, the Victoria Cross, the George Cross, the Order of St. Michael and St. George, the Distinguished Service Medal, the South African Pro Patria Medal, and a very handsome Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Roman Eagle of which Benito Mussolini had been a proud member until his death in 1945. Nagoupande, who now insisted on being introduced as Brigadier General Francois Nagoupande, didn’t have the slightest idea what any of the decorations meant and he didn’t care. As long as he had more medals than Kolingba he was happy.

During his time in London, Faulkener had seen to it that a numbered account was established for him at the Gesner Kantonalbank in Aarau, Switzerland, with a million-dollar deposit as a retainer for Nagoupande’s services as a consultant. Nagoupande was provided with several bodyguards and a satellite television to keep him occupied during the day, as well as several attentive young women to keep the despot-to-be happy during the evening hours. Except for his fitting at Gieves amp; Hawkes, he had not left the confines of the safe house rented in Belgravia. Food was brought in by the bodyguards from various pubs and restaurants in the area.

Faulkener carefully went through the basic plan of action outlined by Lanz in a typed forty-four-page report.

“At twenty-four hundred hours on the day of the incursion,” Faulkener began, “half the four-hundred-man force will land at the Fourandao airport using a Vickers Vanguard aircraft leased from Lebanese Air Transport out of Mopti Airport in northern Mali, which is the assembly point for the entire force. Two of the companies at the airport will be referred to as Vanguard One and Vanguard Two, one hundred men to each company.

“Vanguard One will be responsible for seizing the Fourandao airport and any operational equipment they find on-site, including two Kamov Ka-50 Werewolf attack helicopters known to be based there. Vanguard Two will be responsible for destroying the microwave repeaters at the airport as well as the satellite uplink. Except for the low-signal shortwave signal from the presidential compound in the city, this will effectively cut off Kukuanaland from the rest of the world, including Bangui, the capital of the Central African Republic.

“With this accomplished, two twenty-man platoons, one from Vanguard One and the other from Vanguard Two, will remain behind to secure the airport and a possible line of retreat, although it is unlikely that this will be necessary. These two platoons will be code-named Van A and Van B. Following this, the remaining men of Vanguard One and Vanguard Two will enter Fourandao from the north following Avenue Forno da Cal, as shown on the map, a copy of which will be provided to each man.

“The objectives of Vanguard One and Vanguard Two are the Plaza de Revolution de Generale Kolingba, the offices of the Kukuanaland Ministry of the Interior (located above the Bank of Central African States on the north side of the square) and the walled blocks of flats directly behind the Trianon Palace Hotel. These flats likely house the bureaucratic cream of the Kukuanaland crop and are well guarded. The guards are to be killed on sight, but the occupants of the buildings are to be kept in their flats. Any attempt by any one of the occupants to escape should be stopped with all necessary force.

“One hour before the arrival of Vanguard One and Vanguard Two at the Fourandao airport, the rest of the force will arrive on the Kotto River seven miles downstream from the Fourandao pier at the southern end of the town. They will arrive on the Kotto River in two refitted Short Shetland WWII transport amphibians carrying one hundred men each. They will have the code names River One and River Two and will also assemble in Mopti, three miles north of the town on the Niger River.

“From their landing sites, marked with GPS coordinates on their orders, River One and River Two will travel upstream to the city in ten-man Zodiac Minuteman inflatables, which will be referred to as Zodiac A through V for the purposes of radio transmission. Zodiac A and Zodiac B to remain with the two aircraft on the river. Zodiac A and Zodiac B will contain the pilots, copilots and flight engineers for both planes.

“On arriving at the Fourandao pier, squads Zodiac C through Zodiac V will reassemble into their requisite companies, radio confirmation of their arrival to Vanguard One and Vanguard Two, and having done so will travel north on Rue de Liberdad to the Plaza de Revolution de Generale Kolingba and seize and hold the southern side of the plaza and the surrounding streets.

“Since the beginning of the incursion takes place well beyond the eighteen-hundred-hour curfew in Fourandao it can be assumed that anyone you meet will be part of the enemy forces and the incursion force will act in accordance with this fact. Anyone assumed to be a civilian during the period of the incursion is to be treated in the same manner.

“On consolidating the incursion force and with the synchronizing of the four company commanders’ watches the main attack on the presidential compound will begin, commencing with a mortar attack from zero minutes to zero fifteen minutes. At the same time LAWs rockets will be fired at the corner guard towers of the presidential compound walls and there will be a concerted attempt to use LAWs rockets to destroy the shortwave antenna tower on top of the compound’s main building.

“Concurrently sharpshooter teams from all four companies will fire on any members of General Kolingba’s compound forces trying to escape from the compound. It is known that there are a number of armored personnel carriers within the compound. Any of these not destroyed in the initial mortar attack must not be allowed to leave the compound and any attempt at this is to be stopped with as much force as necessary, including the use of RPGs, LAWs rockets and the distribution of M-21 antitank mines at the intersection of all streets leading away from the compound.

“There have been a number of rumors that there is an escape tunnel leading from the presidential residence to a building outside the compound. While doing his initial surveillance, Colonel Lanz saw three buildings that seemed in extremely good repair when compared to their neighbors, and one of which, a pharmacy, appeared to be either under surveillance or being guarded by two men in a vehicle wearing plain clothes.

“A study of the methods employed by General Kolingba’s second in command, Olivier Gashabi, a.k.a. Oliver Gash, point to an escape tunnel as a very real possibility. Immediately at the beginning of the mortar attack on the compound it is suggested that the pharmacy building be destroyed with the use of incendiaries and RPG fire. Even then a watch should be kept on the ruins.

“It is estimated that half to two-thirds of the forces within the compound will have been killed or wounded within the first hour after the commencement of the attack. Any attempt to surrender is to be forcibly refused, even if the surrender is offered by Kolingba himself. ”

“It is estimated that there are three thousand members of the Kukuanaland armed forces scattered in small garrisons around the territory, while all command and control functions, including resupply of these garrison troops, is done from Fourandao. ”

“The four-hundred-man incursion force is neither strong enough, large enough nor well enough supplied to hold off a consolidation of these garrison forces for very long, so it is imperative that the head of the snake, so to speak, be killed immediately and completely. The incursion force has no ability to take prisoners or guard them. The destruction of the compound forces must be one hundred percent.”

“What about the civilian population?” Matheson asked.

“The civilian population is entirely cowed by Kolingba. The man is a despot. If he is killed the initial response of the local population will be one of relief.”

“The bureaucrats in the flats?”

“They are to be kept under house arrest,” replied Faulkener. “Brigadier General Nagoupande assures me that there are enough members of his loyal government in exile to fulfill any functions presently being handled by the occupants of the three buildings.”

“And after the brigadier general has formally taken the reins of power?” Matheson asked.

“That will be entirely up to Brigadier General Nagoupande,” answered Faulkener, his voice bland and without emotion. He knew precisely what would happen to them, because Nagoupande had described in vivid detail what he would do to each and every one of them, man, woman and child. There was no need to burden Matheson with the same lurid and obscene information.

“Quite so.” Matheson nodded. “How long is our force supposed to last before they are relieved?”

“Six days,” replied Faulkener, his tone brisk. “This is the amount of time we project it will take for news of the brigadier general’s return to travel by word of mouth throughout Kukuanaland.”

“Jungle drums?” Matheson smiled, lighting a cigar.

“A company called InterMedia did a study several years ago that showed in countries with difficult-to-reach populations, such as those in Africa, Kukuanaland in particular, word of mouth is still the optimum method of communication. According to the study we can expect seventy-five percent penetration within four days and eighty percent within six.”

“And the result of this happy news?” Matheson asked.

Nagoupande spoke for the first time that evening. “I am Banda; you knew this?”

“Certainly.” Matheson nodded.

“That is a ratio of exactly five to one,” said Nagoupande. “With those odds and the knowledge that Kolingba is dead and I am in power there will be un revolution de machetes, as our French colonial masters called it, a revolution of machetes. A great deal of Baya and Yakima blood will be spilled and the small garrisons will be overrun. In a few weeks there will be a People’s Banda Army and I shall be at its head. Any Yakima still alive will almost certainly flee.”

“Limbani among them?” Matheson asked.

“Limbani is dead,” said Nagoupande flatly, his black eyes going cold. Matheson drew in a sharp breath and concentrated on the tip of his cigar to hide the sudden apprehension he felt. Faulkener had convinced him that Nagoupande was just another greedy dictator-in-waiting, ready for his fifteen minutes of fame before he sank back into obscurity, but just now in the certainty of the man’s voice he wasn’t quite so sure.

“You’re positive?” Lanz said. “I don’t like the idea of having to deal with someone else’s army coming out of the jungle at the last minute.”

“When you were on your spying mission in my country, did you see any sign of his presence?”

“No. Not a thing. Just a look on a bartender’s face when I mentioned his name.”

Nagoupande laughed. “Marcel Boganda.” He nodded. “He is an informer for Jean-Luc Saint-Sylvestre, the head of the Department of the Interior. He was head of the secret police back in the days that I was Limbani’s assistant. Boganda was one of the araignees in Saint-Sylvestre’s web.”

“Saint-Sylvestre.” Lanz nodded, smiling wanly. “The name of the customs official at the airport when I arrived.”

“He is shown the passenger lists long before the flight arrives. When he sees a name on the manifest he does not recognize he sometimes investigates,” said Nagoupande. “A careful man, our Jean-Luc.”

“All of this is fluff and flummery,” said Matheson. “The only real threat is from Limbani. He is the only one who has the resources and the education to effect a real revolution in Kukuanaland.”

Nagoupande looked at Matheson indifferently. “Your prejudices are showing, sir. You have me in your mind as another savage from the Dark Continent wishing to rape his country and then retire in luxury and obscurity in some safe haven like Dubai or Switzerland. I am not your average African despot, however. I have an undergraduate degree in anthropology from the Universite de Paris and a master’s degree in political science and economics from the Ruprecht-Karls University of Heidelberg. I returned to my country because I thought I could do something to change it, to make it a better place for my people. I thought that the French had corrupted paradise and that with some time and patience and effort it could be paradise once more. I was wrong. Corruption is a disease that once contracted cannot be cured. Kolingba is only a symptom. ”

“So take what you want, but pay me well, Sir James, and I will be your puppet for as long as you require. Cheat me or betray me and you will live to regret it. The only codicil is that you bring me Solomon Bokassa Sesesse Kolingba’s head on the end of a spear.” Nagoupande smiled pleasantly. “Savage enough for you, Sir James?”

Matheson was quiet for a long moment, smoking his cigar and staring at the painting on the wall that had cost him twice what the “destabilization” of Kukuanaland would amount to by the time all was said and done. There was perhaps ten billion pounds of profit to be made from this worm-in-the-apple of a country and with the shell company Faulkener was negotiating for through the bank in Aarau. Return enough for the risk and all the blood to be shed.

He turned his glance away from the painting and looked at Nagoupande. The man looked ridiculous in his brigadier general’s uniform, but Matheson knew that the uniform was not for the man’s vanity but worn as a symbol of his power to his people, not far removed from the tribal scars some African chiefs still scored across their faces. The more scars, the greater the power.

Matheson knew exactly what Nagoupande’s background was, and in the end his fine speech didn’t matter. Nagoupande was smart enough to do as he was told, because he was easily replaced-one puppet dancing on its strings was much like any other.

“Yes, Brigadier General Nagoupande, savage enough.” Matheson paused. “Quite savage enough.”

Grantham Place was a pricey cul-de-sac off Old Park Lane, and number nine was a large block of Victorian brick flats pierced on three sides by porte cocheres that led into an inner courtyard. It looked very much like a brick version of the Dakota in New York City, a building Captain Jean-Luc Saint-Sylvestre of the Kukuanaland secret police was quite familiar with, being a fan of both Roman Polanski and John Lennon. Of course, in Kukuanaland, the assassin Mark David Chapman would have been summarily executed on the spot and then torn limb from limb.

Flat six was on the second floor; that was easy enough to discover by visiting the English Heritage head office in Holborn, as was the original floor plan for the flat, a six-bedroom monster with two maid’s rooms and four bathrooms.

The long-term lease was held by something called the Bambridge Trust and was represented by a law firm in Edinburgh, Scotland, which paid the rent in full on January 1 of each year. They also paid for regular cleaning and maintenance, and contributed ten thousand pounds a year to English Heritage-beyond which the English Heritage partners knew nothing about the Bambridge Trust, nor did they wish to know anything.

At six thirty p.m., dressed in a well-cut Savile Row suit, Saint-Sylvestre rode the tube to the Hyde Park Corner station, then walked down Piccadilly to Old Park Lane and returned to the main entrance to the Grantham Place building. Nothing had changed since his first visit. He bent down, pretending to lace up his shoe, then turned back down Old Park Lane and stepped into a pub unimaginatively called the Rose and Crown. He took a table with a view through the big bow window to the street. He ordered a Heineken and a steak-and-kidney pie with chips, then settled down to wait.

At six forty-five the parade began with his Mr. X and none other than Francois Nagoupande in tow dressed in a brigadier general’s uniform. Two bodyguards rode along with Mr. X and the ex-lieutenant governor under Amobe Limbani. Twenty minutes later a black Rolls-Royce Phantom whispered down the narrow street, and, craning his neck, Saint-Sylvestre watched as a figure recognizable from the London Times as well as Country Life and the Wall Street Journal appeared. Sir James Matheson, CEO of Matheson Resource Industries and one of the richest men in the world.

Twenty minutes later a cab dropped off Konrad Lanz at the Grantham address. An interesting assortment of witches around the Kukuanaland cauldron, thought Saint-Sylvestre. Of them Nagoupande was the most interesting. Kolingba inevitably underrated him, but ever since Kolingba had seized power Saint-Sylvestre had spent a great deal of effort trying to track him down, to no avail. For the man Kolingba called a blundering bureaucrat and a buffoon, Nagoupande was surprisingly clever at keeping himself hidden.

Nagoupande’s attendance at this evening’s meeting confirmed everything that Saint-Sylvestre had been thinking. Matheson had found something in the hinterland and he was willing to pay whatever it cost to overthrow Kolingba and install Nagoupande to get it. For a moment the secret policeman wondered, not for the first time, whether carrying too many secrets around in your head like he did was inevitably self-destructive.

If Nagoupande were allowed to take power, Saint-Sylvestre knew that the dictator’s new broom would sweep the country clean, searching every nook and cranny. Perhaps it was better to go with the devil you knew than the devil you thought you might know. For now, at least, Saint-Sylvestre was still Solomon Kolingba’s man.

Saint-Sylvestre nursed several pints, then left the noisy pub and took up a station in the outdoor cafe of the Rendezvous Mayfair casino a little farther up the road. Grantham Place itself was blocked by the rear wall of an apartment block on Brick Lane, so if they exited the building he was sure to see them.

At eleven thirty Nagoupande and his bodyguards left Grantham Place, minus Mr. X. Lanz was next to leave half an hour later, and fifteen minutes after that the Rolls-Royce appeared and Mr. X and Sir James Matheson departed. By rights the flat should have been empty, but Saint-Sylvestre waited another half hour to be absolutely sure. At a quarter to one he finally left the cafe, walked half a block and turned down Grantham Place.

He knew there was a porter’s lodge halfway through the porte cochere on the Old Park Lane side, but at the Grantham Place entrance there was a ten-foot-tall scrolled and spiked wrought-iron gate instead, the original iron locks replaced by modern Yales. Saint-Sylvestre took his tubular electric pick and a torsion bar out of his pocket, looked around and then fitted the torsion bar into the lock, pressing down the tumblers.

He then inserted the pick on the end of the electric unit, hit the button three or four times to get the pins lined up, then twisted the torsion bar to the left. The gate swung open. Saint-Sylvestre put the electric pick and the torsion bar back in his pocket, pulled the gate open fully and stepped through into the empty interior courtyard. He walked across to the interior door and repeated the process with the pick gun when he was sure the way was clear.

Pocketing the little device, he climbed three steps and turned down a short hall that led to the elevator lobby. There was a sleepy-looking security guard behind an elegant reproduction Louis Quinze desk reading the Daily Mirror. As Saint-Sylvestre appeared the man’s head came up out of the paper and stared.

“His lordship forgot his reading glasses,” explained Saint-Sylvestre with a smile. The security guard nodded and went back to his paper. Saint-Sylvestre climbed into the empty elevator and rode up to the second floor. A few moments later he had successfully bypassed the lock on flat six and let himself inside.

The flat was expansive, just the way the floor plan had indicated, furnished in an anonymous ultramodern style that reflected nothing about the people who occupied it. All there was to show that it had recently been occupied was a fresh cigar butt in a huge cut-glass ashtray in the living room and a collection of used drink glasses piled into the dishwasher in the kitchen.

Presumably the cleaners would be in to give the place the once-over before it was used again. It looked as though his efforts had been wasted. He checked every room and came up empty-handed. Then he pulled open the louvered doors on the coat cupboard in the entrance hall and found a single object out of place, along with the scent of an expensive aftershave.

If memory served, the aftershave was a scent developed by the Sultan of Oman back in the 1960s-Amouage Die Pour Homme, probably purchased in an effort to impress Nagoupande, since it cost something like two or three hundred dollars an ounce. But the object that had caught his interest was a business card: Leonhard Euhler, Gesler Bank, 11 Rathausgasse, Aarau, Switzerland.