It was likely that I was going to spend a lot of time flying abroad, so I thought I’d rather live outside the sprawl and close enough to the airports to mean I’d be able to get home quickly after a flight, or spend the least amount of time travelling to the airport.
I once had a girlfriend who lived in Englefield Green in Surrey, so I took a train out there to watch a Boeing 777 fly directly overhead just as I approached the first estate agent. I scuttled back to London again without looking at one property.
I became more scientific, by stretching a map of West London out on the bed and working out where the flight paths were located. Then I checked the major road and rail links into London and elsewhere, finally settling on the area to the north of the M40 and outside the M25, which left south Hertfordshire and Buckinghamshire.
I checked the internet sites and gasped at the price of property in those areas, but then realised that my current financial situation placed me beyond the worries that I’d always had before. I contacted a dozen estate agents and arranged for them to send suitable properties to my office address. I suddenly lost interest in a flat and rather fancied a quaint country cottage with wisteria and roses.
I spent the next few days checking out properties, and finding nothing that exactly fitted my requirements, although my requirements weren’t exactly clear. I still didn’t entirely feel at home here.
By the following Monday I was bored by the hotel but had to go into the office and see my boss. I checked out, determined to rent somewhere if I had to stay here any longer.
“Ghana?” I repeated.
I was in Maryanne's London office that was just slightly smaller than her New York equivalent. There was a bonus in that her view to the East, taking in St. Paul’s Cathedral and the Tower was simply spectacular. I wondered just how much this piece of real estate cost her.
“Have you a problem with Ghana?” she asked with a small smile.
“It's too close to Mgombi to be a coincidence.”
“Ah, there's a thing. Well, it seems that things are unravelling fast for your good friend Malcolm. The Vietnamese were severely pissed by the lack of diamonds, but the Chinese have stepped in with all kinds of promises in exchange for all the contracts and mineral rights that most of the rest were after. This has caused some consternation back home as there will be nothing in it for the people, which is not what Malcolm promised before the coup. Both your government and mine are severely pissed at the broken promises and I believe are regretting backing the coup in the first place. My friend Holasu G'ymbai has been encouraged by those he left behind as well as those governments that stood by and failed to help him last time, as they feel the time is right for a popular uprising against Malcolm's regime.”
“Oh yes, and how much aid are the Americans giving him?” I asked.
“Oh dear Julianna, you really are a cynic.”
“That doesn't answer the question.”
“As I understand the situation, I believe that some advisors and equipment have been offered, on condition that there is substantial political will to change within Mgombi.”
“Sounds slightly reminiscent of Vietnam in the sixties,” I said.
“Not quite, but I understand what you say. Anyway, Holasu is sufficiently encouraged to fly into Tamale and meet with some army commanders and politicians who already want to see him return. I thought it appropriate that you be there to cover the event for the news agency.”
“Me? Does he know about me?”
“I think he believes Captain Carlisle died in Vietnam. It wouldn't help you or him to know the truth, don't you agree?”
“Possibly.”
“He is aware that one of my operatives managed to re-secure the diamonds, and I may have sort of hinted that there is a connection between you and the deceased captain.”
“But the diamonds, surely he's now the proud owner of them, or have they been sequestrated by someone else?”
She laughed.
“No, Julianna, he has them, or to be completely honest, he has access to the funds that were realised by their being cut and sold on the open market.”
“So he can buy mercenaries,” I suggested sarcastically.
“You should know me better than that, Julianna; all the funds will rebuild his country.”
“So, what exactly do you want me to do?”
“See it finished as my eyes and ears. Give yourself closure so you can get on with your life.”
That made me think. This whole thing started in Mgombi, so it would be appropriate that it ended there, no matter how that ending should turn out. I thought about my life since being 'executed'. Okay, so I spent a good deal of the time feeling screwed up, but I'd felt more alive than at any other time in my life.
“Okay, just let me know where, when and what you want from me?”
Two days later I arrived at Accra International Airport. As soon as I stepped off the plane onto the tarmac, I was bathed in sweat and so by the time I'd walked the short distance from the plane to the arrivals hall, I felt exceedingly damp. The last time I'd been in these climes, I'd been wearing combat gear with all the equipment, so I was grateful to just be wearing a light summer dress. As I stood in line for my passport to be checked, there were three large fans blowing air at the sweating lines of people all waiting for the six bored uniformed immigration officers in their little booths. There were three lines for Ghanaian and other local African Nationals, and three for the rest of us. After ten minutes, the African lines had all passed through, so I was waved forward to one of their booths.
“You're welcome,” the young woman in the green uniform greeted me with hardly a glance at my face, while looking at my Canadian passport, flicking through to examine the visa and then noting the details I'd written on the landing form.
“Thanks.”
“You're a reporter?” she asked.
“Yup, I guess so, but I'd sooner call myself a journalist.”
“Is this your first time in Ghana?” she asked.
It wasn’t, but as far as my current identity was concerned, I had to admit that it was.
“How long are you staying?”
“I'm not sure, two, maybe three weeks. It depends on work.”
Finding no good reason to deny me entry, she stamped the passport and handed it to me.
“Enjoy your stay in Ghana.”
I thanked her, but like her kind across the globe, she was already looking at the next person.
The airport at Accra seemed like International Airports all over the world, until you step outside the building. Having arrived from London at around 9.30 in the evening, it was dark and although still hot, a lot cooler than during the day. Heavy security presence ensures that no local people enter the terminal building without a ticket to travel. Therefore, whereas in most airports, meeters and greeters throng the arrivals terminal, at Accra, this happens outside the terminal. One is suddenly assaulted by the smell of ripe Africa, a sea of dark, mostly grinning faces and a fight amongst the men to push or carry any foreigner's baggage, as there just might be some cash in it for the lucky and pushiest few.
As two men assailed me to push my trolley, a large black arm swept them out of the way.
“Hi Harvey, been here long?” I asked.
Harvey just grinned and used the trolley as an improvised battering ram to secure our release from the masses and over a busy, pot-holed dual-carriageway to the car park.