‘Sandhurst …’ Mako was saying in his abyssal growl. ‘Like I keep saying to Kebila, Sandhurst’s for parade ground men. Now, while I was at West Point …’
And suddenly Richard understood Mako’s ring. Wedding finger, left hand. Plain band outermost. Stone and embossing innermost. On the finger that was traditionally joined to the heart. The ring worn with the seal and stone closest to the heart. It was Mako’s West Point graduation ring.
‘Well?’ snapped Max impatiently, cutting through Richard’s thoughts.
The three soldiers stopped talking. Stopped walking. Came to attention — or, in Mako’s case, something like it. ‘Perfect choice from my point of view,’ answered Ivan easily. ‘Except that he kicked my ass. Colonel Mako will fit right in. And I believe the men will listen to him.’
‘Mako?’ Max rapped.
‘No trouble, sir. I can brief these guys. If they don’t listen then I’ll kick ass till they do. The men seem to have taken a shine to me, though, so it shouldn’t be necessary. Especially as the senior lieutenant here let me kick his ass a little to boost my standing with his troops.’
‘Kebila?’ asked Max, visibly relaxing.
‘I’m not sure that popularity with the men is the highest requirement for an instructor, sir. But if that’s the way the colonel and senior lieutenant want to proceed then that’s fine. The president has already given his authority for the transfer of Colonel Mako’s duties, as suggested by Captain Mariner. So it only remains to establish how quickly Colonel Mako can get his kit and whatever he needs to begin briefing Senior Lieutenant Yagula’s men aboard.’
‘Couple of hours,’ rumbled Mako.
‘Then I believe we can brief the captains and their crews with a view to departing immediately after the men have been fed their midday meal. On Volgograd, that will be at fourteen hundred hours.’ He looked at Ivan.
‘Fourteen hundred’s fine,’ said the Russian easily. ‘We’ll just have to settle for a light obed.’
‘Fourteen hundred,’ said Richard half an hour later. ‘That’s not much time. Can you both make that?’
Richard, Robin, Max and Felix were in the hotel’s bistro, finishing a light and early lunch. Taken, Richard noted, without the traditional bottle or two of vodka. ‘I can make it,’ promised Max. ‘I’ve got the hotel staff to start moving my stuff aboard Stalingrad. I assume you’ll be going on to Stalingrad too, now there’s more room.’
‘We will,’ confirmed Richard. ‘But what about you, Felix? Are you coming aboard Stalingrad?’
‘No,’ said Felix roundly. ‘I’m staying here. There are still some important details to be ironed out. The contracts between President Chaka’s government and Bashnev/Sevmash for the deployment of the Zubrs is not yet satisfactory and we also have to firm up details about oil concessions and whether we can return our placer systems to the delta — or even get involved in the promising situations with regard to gold and diamonds upcountry. Not to mention, of course, dotting the ‘i’s and crossing the ‘t’s about Lac Dudo and all that coltan.’
‘I smell a rat,’ muttered Robin in their room half an hour later still. ‘That stuff Felix was talking about is only relevant under one set of circumstances.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Richard. ‘If Julius Chaka retains the presidency. However, if Celine replaces her father in the Oval Office, then Felix will have wasted his time, effort and money. And he’ll look like a fool.’
‘Felix won’t like any of that — particularly not the last bit. Not at all.’
‘I agree. Look, if you trust me to get the kit packed and aboard, I think you ought to make a little visit to the offices of the loyal opposition. It was part of your job description anyway.’
‘That’s just what I was thinking, my love. And of course I trust you to pack,’ answered Robin. ‘But I am certainly coming upriver so you just remember where we’re going and how much privacy we’ll get. Don’t get too adventurous with my underwear.’
‘Right,’ said Richard, crestfallen. ‘See you aboard Stalingrad at four bells. And don’t be late.’
In a lingering memory of the dark days of President Liye Banda, the offices of the opposition party were in the centre of Granville Harbour, immediately opposite the forbidding fortress of the central police station. Robin wondered how Celine Chaka felt each time she came in to work past the sinister building where she had spent so much time in the cells — and a certain amount of it in the brutal regime’s torture chambers.
But she was far too sensitive to ask. Instead, when Celine rose from behind her desk, offering a hand and a smile, Robin forgot all about her friend’s past, preferring to focus on the present and the future.
‘Robin!’ said Celine, coming round the desk, hand held out, to enfold her friend in an embrace. ‘How lovely!’
Lovely was the word Robin would have used to describe Celine. Tall and reed slim, black hair pulled back from her high forehead in the local style. Dark almond eyes. Full, smiling lips. The traditional costume emphasized the depth of her chest, the breadth of her hips and the length of her thighs. There were very few women whose figure Robin envied. Celine was one of them.
‘I thought you ought to know at once, Celine,’ announced Robin, ‘that things are about to get dirty.’
‘Really? How so?’ Celine was gently amused, both by Robin’s forthrightness and by her genuine outrage.
‘Felix Makarov!’ spat Robin, as though the syllables explained everything.
‘What’s he up to now?’ probed Celine, still amused rather than concerned.
‘The rest of us are just about to head upriver, but Felix is staying behind. He has one or two more details he wants to firm up with your father.’
‘I see,’ said Celine. Her tone made it clear that she did.
‘He knows any agreement he makes with your father will have to be renegotiated with you if you win. So in between discussions, he’ll be doing his damndest to make sure that you don’t win!’
‘He’ll have to join a long line, Robin,’ Celine admitted, shaking her head.
‘Felix doesn’t join lines, Celine. He takes action. And heaven alone knows what he’s dreamed up!’
‘But this is becoming a civilized country, Robin. There is the rule of law. There is security!’
‘And that’s another thing. Do you suppose it’s just a simple coincidence that your father chooses now — of all times — to send his chief of security upriver when there’s no one here in Granville Harbour to watch your back?’
Celine gave her bell-like laugh. ‘But Robin,’ she said. ‘I believe it was your Richard who caused Laurent Kebila to be reassigned!’
‘It was. But that doesn’t stop it being politically expedient.’
‘I know that. And I’m prepared for a vigorous campaign. No holds barred. But still, Robin, we’re not talking about Amin, Mobutu, Bokassa or Liye Banda here. We’re talking about my father!’
‘It’s not your father I’m worried about. It’s Felix. You could cost him millions if you win — and a lot of time and face starting all over again. I think he’ll be quite happy to act behind your father’s back and deny all knowledge later.’