A man holding a wand in each hand marched out of the arrivals hut and walked onto the ramp to a spot roughly midway between me and the presidential welcoming committee. The 767 turned onto the ramp and taxied in the direction of the man with the wands, who directed it to veer a little toward the limos over the last twenty meters. Then he crossed the wands over his head. The pilots hit the brakes; the plane dipped on its nose wheel, and then sprang back. An instant later, the engines died, and the man with the wands became the man who drove the pickup with stairs mounted on the back that would go to the aircraft’s front door. One of the president’s men ran to the trunk of the third limo, pulled out a bolt of red carpet, and unrolled it from the base of the stairs.
I looped around to the front of the plane, as the action would be happening on the side facing the president and his people, then stood out of the way. With the stairs and red carpet in place, and the honor guard now standing at attention with their gleaming rifles over their shoulders, the aircraft’s front door cracked open and swung inwards. A US Army lieutenant colonel appeared in the doorway, stooping slightly, and stepped out on the landing of the mobile stairs. A split second later, a woman barged past him as if the doors had just opened to a fifty-percent-off sale. I recognized her instantly — Leila was dressed in tight jeans, tan boots, and a pale green jacket. A pair of Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses sat on her face, and her long jet-black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. She stormed down the stairs, gesticulating with her hands above her head, followed by two black women who were having a hard time keeping up with her. The one immediately behind her had buzz-cut blond hair and wore jeans and boots, and a photographer’s shirt with lots of pockets. The third woman was tall, black, and wore a tailored safari suit and pith helmet. They looked as if they’d been dressed by Vogue for a photo shoot with Tarzan.
Leila’s rant became audible.
‘Shaquand, I don’t see why — this concert being so damn important — we couldn’t have been given a private plane so that I could have brought all my people,’ she said to the taller of the two. ‘I am completely exhausted. Look at me! I’m a mess! The paparazzi will have a field day with this.’
‘I don’t see any of them around,’ Shaquand said, a hand above her eyebrows as she scanned the ramp. ‘Maybe they hiding. Using those long lenses, y’know.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Leila said. She stopped to examine the ends of her hair. ‘Lord, I hate this humidity. We need to get inside before it rains. Is this what it’s going to be like the entire time? My hair will turn into frizz.’ Over her shoulder, she said, ‘Ayesha, I hope you brought plenty of moisturizing treatments.’
The buzz-cut blonde nodded emphatically, as all three women stopped abruptly when they reached the bottom of the stairs, all forward movement blocked by the official welcome.
Finally the lieutenant colonel, who I figured was Travis, came rushing down the stairs and squeezed past the women.
‘Mr President,’ he said. ‘We are all so thrilled to meet you and your wife, Margaret, who is well known the world over for her style, elegance and graciousness. I am pleased to introduce Leila, our international star, her stylist, Shaquand, and makeup artist, Ayesha.’
The first lady was no Miss Universe, or even Miss Trenton, but after several tours of the Middle East, I was used to hearing extravagant compliments.
‘On behalf of my people,’ the president said with a heavy French accent, ‘I bid you welcome to Rwanda, the most beautiful country in all of Africa.’
‘I kindly thank you, your wife, and your people,’ said Leila, now with a beam that I was sure could be turned on and off like a flashlight. ‘I love your dress,’ she said to the first lady. ‘Those colors… they are gorgeous! Please accept these gifts as a token of my appreciation of your hospitality.’
Shaquand placed a number of CDs in Leila’s hand, which the star then distributed among the Rwandan VIPs. ‘They’re all personally signed,’ she let them know.
Meanwhile, Ayesha handed out posters to the kids. One of them unrolled and I saw a head-and-bust shot of Leila, hair tousled, her bulging cleavage slick with perspiration. The hunger on her face suggested a long period of sexual thirst about to be quenched. The four-year-old boy squashed it under his arm and went back to sucking his thumb.
Now emerging from the plane were two men in army combat uniforms, one black and one white, both NCOs, with eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. From Arlen’s briefing notes, I knew that the black guy was Cy Cassidy, a massive human being two pick handles across the chest with arms as black and thick as a couple of truck tires. His buddy, Mike West, was white and more reasonably proportioned — maybe two hundred and ten pounds, a shade under six feet tall, with dark hair and serious acne scars.
Behind them was a black man who towered over everyone. He was at least six foot six and fast-food-addict soft, the International House of Pancakes written all over his three-hundred-plus pounds. He wore loose basketball gear, several layers of t-shirts from a number of eastern conference teams, a fat gold chain around his neck, a bowler hat on his head, and a sneer on his lips. He was followed by Twenny Fo, rodent thin and of medium height, wearing a blue Adidas training suit, sunglasses with small, round red-tinted lenses, and a white Nike baseball cap with gold pinstripes. He spat the toothpick he was chewing over the stair railing. Behind the rapper was a medium-sized version of the behemoth with the bowler hat, all round shoulders and girth, and a big fan of the Denver Nuggets if the logos plastering his clothing were any indication. The guys waved at the gathering in a way that reminded me of the Queen of England.
Twenny Fo’s third and final ‘blood’ had a goatee on his chin and looked part black and part Hispanic, his hair tightly braided into roughly parallel rows across his head. He wore a combination of green and gray Everlast gear and a tattoo of a pit bull was on his neck. His body was compact and hard, and he walked like a street fighter, a threat in every step. He came down the stairs, lighting a cigarette.
Bringing up the rear was Captain Duke Ryder, short, slightly stooped and a little overweight, and Lex Rutherford, the blond Brit on loan from the SAS, who reminded me of a baby-faced choirboy.
Ryder caught my eye and tipped a finger to his brow in greeting, which I returned. Then he gestured behind him with a tilt of his head and gave me the thumbs-up sign. I took that to mean that the staging personnel and all the dancers mentioned in Arlen’s briefing notes were still on the plane and doing okay. The PSOs would have given them the standard operating procedure — wait on board until the principals were secured inside the terminal, after which they too would be escorted to the safety zone.
A traffic jam was forming at the base of the stairs. Travis steered Leila and her people away to make room for Twenny Fo’s crowd.