Free Rogue's March by W. T. Tyler Page B

That’s why he came.”
    â€œ He ?” Major Lutete leaned forward. “He? He is the ambassador. El Capo. Numero uno .” He was thin, his skin pale and pockmarked, like a métis . “Of course.”
    â€œWho?” asked the newly arrived major.
    â€œReddish,” Lutete replied. “CIA.” He pronounced it as a single word, in two syllables. “Of course.”
    â€œSo what will he do now?” N’Sika asked.
    â€œHe’ll tell his ambassador not to be worried.”
    â€œWhat did he say about the President? What did he ask?”
    â€œI told him the President was sick, senile, useless, an old man corrupted by fear and everything else. He understood.”
    â€œAnd what did he say?” N’Sika asked.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œ Nothing ?”
    The room was silent. The four majors gazed at de Vaux suspiciously. From beyond the door the para officers were talking softly among themselves, waiting.
    N’Sika leaned forward, almost angrily: “And so what else did he tell you? ‘Go do this thing, but do it silently, like a dead man’s sleep, a virgin’s dream, no blood spilled, no American blood, no President’s blood!’”
    The four majors were suddenly uncomfortable; de Vaux’s face was as cool as ever. “No, not a word about that. How it’s done isn’t his business. It’s the way it is with men like that.”
    N’Sika sat back slowly, his eyes still on de Vaux; but Major Lutete wasn’t satisfied. “And after it is done, what will he do? He will tell his government, he will tell Washington. Then Brussels will know, Paris, everyone—”
    â€œAfterwards doesn’t matter,” N’Sika said. “By then it will be too late.” He looked at Lutete’s pale face. “Besides, what will he tell them? The President moves three million dollars to Zurich—dollars, not francs. Everyone knows—the ministry, the Central Bank, even my chauffeur. Even your driver. But what does this man Reddish do? What do the Americans do? Nothing. Nothing except give him more dollars for the rural roads, ten million this time. Jean-Bernard is right. That’s the way it is with men like that, your friend one minute, your assassin the next. Open the shades, open the windows.”
    Major Fumbe and de Vaux rose and pulled open the iron shutters as the others watched. Sunlight flooded the room, lighting up the presidential portrait and the map of the capital positioned on the tripod to the left of N’Sika’s chair. Suddenly conscious of the President’s glazed, dusty stare, one of the majors got to his feet and pulled the frame from the wall.
    â€œIf the Americans care nothing, as de Vaux says,” Major Fumbe grumbled, returning to his chair, “why do we bother with Masakita and the jeunesse ?” He sat down heavily, the bulbous eyes heavily lidded, gluttony gone, face glistening with water. “Why not go directly to the présidence .”
    N’Sika turned in irritation. “And what would the army do then? Where would GHQ send its helicopters? To kill you, me, and the rest of the paras. If the President’s generals and the rest of the army need a reason not to fight us, Masakita is the reason—”
    â€œLutete could go now, talk to the chief of staff—”
    â€œIt is too late!”
    â€œIt is not such a good plan,” Fumbe muttered. “No. Masakita is trouble.”
    â€œIt is the same plan we talked about last week, the week before. Where were you then, sleeping! What is different now that it is going to happen?”
    â€œThe Americans know,” Fumbe replied weakly.
    â€œIt was Reddish who went to Kindu to see the guns there,” Lutete said. “Who can trust this man? He helped hire the mercenaries. He was with the President during the rebellions, always with the President …”
    His voice died away. They waited