Celine frowned. ‘How far do you think he’d go?’
‘In this situation, as far as it takes to keep your father in office.’
‘In the face of the police and of the army?’ Celine was incredulous.
‘Two of whose most important commanders are now caught up in this business upriver …’
‘Two?’ asked Celine, the last of the amusement draining out of her lovely face. ‘I know about Laurent Kebila, but …’
‘Colonel Mako, his opposite number in the regular army. The man who would need to keep peace on the streets if the police couldn’t hold the line. Once again, Richard came up with a vague idea and the president leaped at it. Conveniently. A bit too conveniently, maybe …’
‘But,’ said Celine, frowning, ‘if Felix Makarov went too far — fomented civil unrest or did anything requiring the kind of reaction you seem to be talking about, then my father would never forgive him. And he’d have done himself no good at all.’
‘If I know Felix — and I do — then I’d say that’s a risk he’s willing to take.’
Amazon
Celine and Robin were still deep in conversation when a discreet knock at the office door announced Celine’s secretary. ‘Remember, Mademoiselle Chaka, the House sits at two this afternoon.’ The secretary frowned officiously.
‘Very well, Yekemi, thank you. Call my car and driver now, please.’
The door had closed behind the young woman before the full significance of her words hit Robin. ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Two! What’s the time now?’ She answered herself, looking down at her watch. ‘One forty-five. Damn and bloody blast! Celine, how long does it take to get to the docks from here?’
‘Ten minutes. Why?’
‘They’re sailing at two. Four bells. And they won’t want to wait. Hell and damnation, I’m going to miss the boat! Richard will be livid!’
‘Don’t panic, my dear,’ advised Celine diplomatically. ‘Come down with me now. I’ll drop you off on my way to the House.’
‘But then you’ll be late!’ cried Robin.
‘Don’t be concerned,’ soothed Celine. ‘There’s always a lot of procedure before they get down to debating anything important. But we’ll still be lucky to make the docks in time. We must hurry. Come along. The car will be outside the door by the time we get there.’
As she exited the front door with Celine at her side, Robin hesitated. She hadn’t really thought Celine’s offer through. Now she found herself confronted by an official limousine flying the flag of Benin La Bas, beside which stood a chauffeur in old-fashioned uniform complete with cap and riding boots.
‘All right,’ allowed Robin, climbing in beside Celine in the back, speaking as soon as the directions to the docks had been detailed and the limo pulled away. ‘Perhaps I was worrying too much.’
But even as Robin spoke, Celine’s car was overtaken by the motorcade transporting Patience Aganga, the minister of the outer delta, which swept past them and turned right towards the parliament building. For a moment, Robin found herself looking across a surprisingly small distance at an unmistakably familiar profile.
‘It’s started already,’ she warned. ‘That was Felix Makarov. Going to attend your debate as a guest of the minister, by the look of things! Now don’t tell me that’s not sinister!’
The docks were still bustling when Celine’s motorcade pulled up — much to Robin’s relief. But they weren’t so busy that Richard failed to notice when, how and with whom she finally arrived. ‘Now that’s what I call thumbing a lift,’ he teased as he greeted his flustered wife. ‘You get the message across?’
‘I’m not the only one at it. Felix is too,’ she answered tartly, striding beside him up the sloping slipway into the echoing activity of the hovercraft’s central loading bay. ‘And chance drove home the message loud and clear.’
‘Really? Do tell!’ Richard draped a suspiciously loving — possessive — arm over her shoulder as he led her through the busy soldiers. As they walked up the bustling loading bay towards the first internal companionway, Robin found herself almost dazzled by the swarming industry of Ivan’s recently re-quartered command. There were squads of men performing final checks on canvas-covered trucks and their contents. Others were securing a range of weaponry from field artillery to handguns and making sure they were safe. Still others were overseeing the final positioning of a pair of T80 Russian main battle tanks, the grey fumes of their exhaust filling the hot stillness of the contained atmosphere like smoke. The heat was stultifying and Ivan had given permission for his men to work without their shirts.
And it suddenly struck her that she was the only woman aboard. The only woman, indeed, in the whole expedition. She didn’t know whether to feel overwhelmed or excited by all the testosterone around her. And — just for the briefest moment — she wondered whether Richard had risked packing something really sexy for her to wear. As though aware of her thoughts, Richard hurried her upwards, away from the muscular distractions. He guided her past their accommodation, allowing her little more than a glance into a cramped cabin meant to accommodate a recently departed RUS, with a bed just big enough to pass for a small double. Then they were off upwards again until finally he walked her forward and she found herself in a strange, almost circular command bridge amid a bustle of officers getting ready to set sail.
As Richard and Robin arrived, Captain Zhukov came on to the bridge. ‘She’s pretty impressive, don’t you think?’ rumbled the big, white-haired captain from behind his walrus moustache.
‘I know her better than Robin,’ Richard said. ‘I was showing her around.’
‘Well, Captain Mariner,’ said Zhukov to Robin with pleasant, old-world courtesy. ‘Please just stay where you are and watch as we get under way. It is a sight you will tell your grandchildren about, I assure you!’
‘He means in the future,’ whispered Richard. ‘In the far, distant future.’
‘All ready?’ Zhukov asked his lieutenant.
‘All ready, Captain,’ answered the young man punctiliously. ‘Forward and aft doors closed. Everything aboard secure. All personnel in their assigned places. All crew ready and waiting.’ As if to support him in his report, the whole great frame of the hovercraft began to throb as the main motors came on line.
Zhukov turned to Robin. ‘We do not cast off, you see. We lift off! Inflate the skirts.’
Robin felt for a disorientating moment as though she was in an elevator car rising towards the first floor. As the deck beneath her levelled and settled, vibrating with suppressed power, Max came bustling on to the bridge. The instant he arrived he seemed to take charge.
‘Full ahead, Captain Zhukov,’ he ordered officiously, and the silver bear of a commander nodded.
‘Pulniv piot,’ he said quietly — or something approximating to that; Robin’s Russian was a little rusty and the captain’s accent was unfamiliar. The helmsman’s hands pushed the throttles forward, however, so the message had got through well enough. The message was also immediately transferred to the engine room, the power to the three huge turbines behind the bridge house cranked up to maximum. With the whole of her massive hull vibrating gently, Stalingrad lifted up her skirts and flew.
Anastasia was not consciously thinking about Ivan, but he was never far from her mind at this time of day. In the first cool of the evening she, Ado and Esan were leading the girls in a route march much like the ones Ivan described in the days when they had been in regular contact. Except that there was no route — they went where Anastasia chose on the spur of the moment. And they did not march — they jogged. Further, in an addition to a routine already deeply foreign to the tribal societies of the west coast, they carried makeshift backpacks. Most of the weight of the backpacks consisted of drinking water, so each time they stopped to rehydrate their burden became lighter. It was a system Anastasia had designed and she found it worked well. The girls were fit, lean and strong. Metamorphosing from a group of frightened schoolchildren into a fighting force. Her Dahomey Amazons reborn.