“Mr. Semmler says she identifies herself as the Russian ship Komarov, a freighter.”
“Tell Mr. Semmler to man the port radio before going to work on the palace transmitter. Tell him to make to Komarov: ‘Permission refused. Permanently.’ Thank you, Doctor.”
They parted, and Shannon took Endean back to his truck. He took the wheel himself and swung the truck back on the road to the hinterland and the border.
“Who was that?” asked Endean sourly as the truck sped along the peninsula, past the shantytown of the immigrant workers, where all seemed to be bustle and activity. With amazement Endean noticed that each crossroads had an armed soldier with a submachine carbine standing on point duty.
“The man in the hallway?” asked Shannon.
“Yes.”
“That was Dr. Okoye.”
“A witch doctor, I suppose.”
“Actually he’s an Oxford PhD.”
“Friend of yours?”
“Yes.”
There was no more conversation until they were on the highway toward the north.
“All right,” said Endean at last, “I know what you’ve done. You’ve ruined one of the biggest and richest coups that has ever been attempted. You don’t know that, of course. You’re too bloody thick. What I’d like to know is, why? In God’s name, why?”
Shannon thought for a moment, keeping the truck steady on the bumpy road, which had deteriorated to a dirt track.
“You made two mistakes, Endean,” he said carefully. Endean started at the sound of his real name.
“You assumed that because I’m a mercenary, I’m automatically stupid. It never seemed to occur to you that we are both mercenaries, along with Sir James Manson and most of the people who have power in this world. The second mistake was that you assumed all black people were the same, because to you they look the same.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“You did a lot of research on Zangaro; you even found out about the tens of thousands of immigrant workers who virtually keep this place running. It never occurred to you that those workers form a community of their own. They’re a third tribe, the most intelligent and hardworking one in the country. Given half a chance, they can play a part in the political life of the country. What’s more, you failed to recognize that the new army of Zangaro, and therefore the power in the country, might be recruited from among that third community. In fact, it just has been. Those soldiers you saw were neither Vindu nor Caja. There were fifty in uniform and armed when you were in the palace, and by tonight there’ll be another fifty. In five days there will be over four hundred new soldiers in Clarence—untrained, of course, but looking efficient enough to keep law and order. They’ll be the real power in this country from now on. There was a coup d’état last night, all right, but it wasn’t conducted for or on behalf of Colonel Bobi.”
“For whom, then?”
“For the general.”
“Which general?”
Shannon told him the name.
Endean faced him, mouth open in horror. “Not him. He was defeated, exiled.”
“For the moment, yes. Not necessarily forever. Those immigrant workers are his people. They call them the Jews of Africa. There are one and a half million of them scattered over this continent. In many areas they do most of the work and have most of the brains. Here in Zangaro they live in the shantytown behind Clarence.”
“That stupid great idealistic bastard—”
“Careful,” warned Shannon.
“Why?”
Shannon jerked his head over his shoulder. “They’re the general’s soldiers too.”
Endean turned and looked at the three impassive faces above the three Schmeisser barrels.
“They don’t speak English all that well, do they?”