Gary R Hamilton Books
Unleash the magic of reading

One year ago.

Jean Michel Mbozi thumps the mahogany table with such force that the empty glasses jump and those with water wobble, prompting the owners to reach out and steady them. The soldier at the panelled wood door shuffles his feet and then relaxes as he removes his hand from his side arm, resuming his At Attention posture.

“I will not be spoken to in this way!” 

“Mr. Mbozi …”

“You promised me a fair, negotiated settlement if I brought my people to the table ...”

“Mr. Mbozi …”

“… and this is how you treat me?”

“Mr. Mbozi …”

“We are a sovereign country. We are not cow dung under your shoes that you simply scrape off and dispose of like …”

“Will you shut up! God damn it, man!”

There is stunned silence in the room. Mr. Mbozi looks across the table with his mouth open, stalled in mid-sentence, his eyes wide open. The only audible sound is the hum of the fan, labouring in its task of futility.

Mr. Johnson mops his brow, takes a deep breath, and scratches behind his ear with his little finger. He does not like losing his temper, or for that matter showing any sign of loss of control. “This is as good as it will get.” He says slowly.

“But last year we were getting seventy-five cents on the dollar.” Mr. Mbozi objects. 

“Mr. Mbozi. With all due respect, look around you.” 

Slowly, Mr. Mbozi and his party follow Mr. Johnson’s arm as he gestures around the low ceilinged, single room structure in which they are meeting. To their right, sunlight is streaming through the east-facing window, its inexorable path to the dusty concrete floor partially interrupted by the edge of the mahogany table. A green lizard lazily sits motionless on the window ledge. Suddenly, its tongue flicks out and catches a fly, and for a few moments there is detectable movement of its lower jaw and throat, before it becomes motionless again. Behind Mr. Johnson, a gibbon flickers between the slits in the louvered window as it brachiates through the trees in the distance. To their left, the floor standing fan slowly circulates the warm air blowing in through the open west-facing window. Mr. Johnson picks up his handkerchief, leaving a layer of moisture on the table, and again mops his brow. He surveys the Mbozi party. 

The attaché, sitting to Mr. Mbozi’s right, has intelligent looking, bright, round eyes that match his young round face, and bright white teeth. His navy-blue suit looks like it was tailored on Savile Row. 

The security officer standing behind Mr. Mbozi is overweight and has a very unsteady gaze. A bead of perspiration ebbs its way down his cheek before he uses a thumb to flick it away. His dark suit is crumpled, and his shirt collar looks like it is a size too small. 

The woman on Mr. Mbozi’s left is a mystery to Mr. Johnson. He has to force himself to avoid staring into her alluring, light brown eyes. Her very low, black afro enhances her long, high cheek-boned face. Despite the uncomfortably warm conditions in the room, not a bead of perspiration can be seen on her face. She seems to be impatient for proceedings to end, glancing at her watch on a regular basis, and not really taking any interest in the discussions. He does not recognise her as Mr. Mbozi’s wife from the Intelligence pictures he has seen, nor does his information shed any light on her identity, nor was she formally introduced when the meeting began. Mr. Johnson feels some unease, but he is not sure why. 

“Fifteen cents.” Mr. Johnson says quietly, refocusing his attention on Mr. Mbozi. 

Mr. Mbozi shifts in his chair, “This is …” 

Mr. Johnson holds up a very thin hand, its whiteness contrasts starkly against the dark complexions of Mr. Mbozi’s party across the table. 

“Fifteen.” He says more firmly. 

“Twenty?” Mr. Mbozi asks feebly. 

Mr. Johnson’s shake of his head is almost indiscernible. Mr. Mbozi drops his head and after a moment’s pause, nods. Mr. Johnson opens his briefcase and slides a neat stack of papers across the table and places a silver Parker pen on top. Mr. Mbozi reluctantly glances at the papers, and then looks at his attaché, who promptly picks up the papers and starts reading, quickly flicking through them. 

“Wait! This says fourteen cents. I thought we just agreed to fifteen?” The attaché says, his deep voice bouncing off the bare, whitewashed walls, resonating in the small room. 

“Does it? Didn’t I mention my one percent fee? I’m sorry.” 

“What? This is outrageous!” The attaché barks. He starts to push the papers across the table. Mr. Mbozi softly but firmly grabs his attaché’s arm. 

“Mr. President. I must insist that we walk away from …” The attaché starts. 

“No.” Mr. Mbozi rebuffs. “At this stage we have no choice.” 

In a hushed tone, the attaché leans closer to Mr. Mbozi, ‘Monsieur le Président. Avec tout le respect … (Mr. President, with all due respect ...)’

“In English please.” Mr. Johnson says, but Mr. Mbozi holds up his free hand, turns to his attaché, and nods for him to continue. 

“… I am sure the French would show us more respect than these greedy dogs.” 

“The French have been clear about what they want in return, and that price is too high to pay.” 

“English, please.” Mr. Johnson interjects. 

The attaché ignores Mr. Johnson, “Surely someone in Europe will listen to reason. We are being raped by these people. They have no class, no tradition, no pedigree.” 

“English?” Mr. Johnson asks, showing his frustration. 

Mr. Mbozi holds up his hand again. He turns back to his attaché, “You may be right my friend.” Mr. Mbozi starts to release his hand from his attaché’s arm, when the mystery woman reaches over and softly puts her hand on the stack of papers. 

“Qu’est-ce? Vous préférez être souillée par des hommes en chapeau haut de forme et de perruques bouclées? (You prefer to be defiled by men in top hats and curly wigs?) Their head gear distracts you from the pain that you feel? Who were the imperialists who enslaved us for centuries? Suddenly we can trust them?” Although she matches the hushed tones of Mr. Mbozi and the attaché, the venom in her words make the attaché subconsciously shrink in his chair. “We do this now to set the stage for a new beginning. We will learn who are our friends, and who are our enemies.” She looks Mr. Mbozi in the eye, and then suddenly smiles, the very small diamond embedded in her nose twinkles. “Jean Michel, you have a choice, but you must make it soon. In thirty seconds, maybe a minute, the guard is going to become ill. It should then take me about twenty seconds to kill this white fool and the guard, just before our snipers open fire on the guards around this camp.” 

“How?” An incredulous Jean Michel whispers. 

“The Americans are overconfident. Sign the paper Jean Michel or let me kill them. If you sign, this is a bed in which we must lay, but only for a time.” 

Mr. Mbozi looks from the ‘diamond’ woman to his attaché, who curtly nods his head and positions the top sheet of paper in front of Mr. Mbozi. Mr. Mbozi quickly signs the paper, and with no further notice or ceremony rises from the table. 

“Mr. Johnson, I can’t say this was a pleasure, but I was probably naive to think that it would have been.” He turns and strides towards the door, his party hurriedly follows. The soldier unsteadily steps aside. 

The metal reinforced wooden door is flung open by the attaché and a wall of hot air crashes into the room. Mr. Johnson, standing behind them, instantly turns a brighter shade of pink. He watches as the Mbozi party climb into their Toyota Land Cruisers and disappear into the heavy foliage. The soldier pushes past Mr. Johnson and stumbles out the door. Mr. Johnson briefly glances at the soldier retching in the bushes beside the concrete bunker before closing the door as he re-entered the room. Back at the table, he retrieves a bulky satellite phone from his briefcase. 

“We’re all set. Start putting things in motion.” He walks back to the door, loosens his tie and smiles. “Can someone get me something cold to drink?” He shouts as he opens the door and steps back out into the jungle heat.