Jimfish said, politely but firmly, that he was done with history, with blood and violence.
But John Doe would not take no for an answer. ‘Not sure history is done with you. President Doe is dead. The hunt is on for those close to him. You could be next.’
‘I never knew him,’ said Jimfish.
‘It’s who you hang out with,’ said John Doe. ‘Samuel Doe always pushed and promoted his own Krahn tribe. You’ve been an honoured guest in his village. Get out fast or you’re dead meat.’
‘Where can I go?’ Jimfish asked. ‘There are no ships in the harbour and the roads are full of soldiers.’
His American friend nodded. ‘Why not spend time in our embassy compound? Safe enough. See it this way — the Soviets are down the tube, we’re the only superpower still standing. The world’s a dangerous place. Help us in our mission to spread democracy and dignity around the globe.’
Jimfish was very wary. ‘How would I do that?’
‘We’re planning a small operation in Somalia very soon,’ said the other.
The prospect made Jimfish feel quite weak. ‘Thank you, but no,’ he said. ‘It sounds like an invasion.’
‘This time it’s going to be different,’ John Doe promised. ‘We will march into Mogadishu with the stars and stripes flying high and the Somali people will cheer us as liberators.’
‘What are you liberating them from?’ Jimfish asked.
‘From themselves, from poverty, hunger, Communism,’ said John Doe. ‘Somalia had the usual dictator who killed his people in the usual way. But he hopped into a tank the other day and headed south, taking along much of the loot from the national bank. They used to be funded by the Soviets, but they got divorced and now they have nothing. Somalia’s a basket case.’
‘Then what can you do?’ Jimfish was increasingly puzzled.
‘It’s a basket case with big advantages,’ his American friend explained. ‘In Liberia and Sierra Leone different factions and tribal groups fight each other to the death. But Somalis are the same stock, follow one religion, speak the same language. They’re one big family and they really ought to get along just fine.’
‘Then maybe you should leave them alone?’
John Doe patted him on the shoulder. ‘Somalia needs us, Jimfish. In go the marines, followed by the aid agencies. We’ll supply food, medicine, movies and love.’
‘It still sounds like an invasion,’ said Jimfish.
‘“Intervention” is the word. Humanitarian. Surgical. Brief. Targeted at the starving, the sick and all who yearn for democracy. And you have a very special role to play.’
There was something about this cheery reassurance that worried Jimfish.
‘What will that be?’
The American became quite choked up. ‘We’re calling our mission “Operation Restore Hope”. Hope needs a harbinger…’
Jimfish had no idea what ‘harbinger’ meant, but it had a good ring to it. And so did ‘hope’. After having been a one-man weapon of mass destruction, whose arrival in half a dozen countries, though it may not have caused, had certainly coincided with sadness and savagery, it would be a relief — Jimfish felt — to be a harbinger of hope.
CHAPTER 21
Sierra Leone, 1992
The helicopter lifted into the powder-blue, empty African sky, en route to Somalia. His American friend carried a linen bag on his lap, occasionally patting it soothingly as if it were a baby. He was very cheerful.
‘Lovely little bird, this Blackhawk. Some really gorgeous killing features. Nothing flying today is quite like it. We’re going to make one stop on our way. I need to see a man about a war going on right next door in Sierra Leone. Just a hop and a skip away.’
He opened the white linen bag and showed Jimfish what looked like a heap of grubby stones or chips of gravel.
‘Rough diamonds. In this neck of the woods diamonds are the fuel everything runs on.’
‘Rocket fuel?’ Jimfish wondered.
‘Any kind of fuel you care to name,’ said John Doe. ‘That’s the beauty of these babies. The war in Sierra Leone is paid for with these dirty little stones that polish up real neat, look good in candlelight. They change hands amongst guys who often don’t have any hands, because slicing them off is a big thing for fighters on all sides.’
Jimfish was horrified. ‘That’s a crime, surely?’
John Doe nodded. ‘Worse, it’s dumb. If you want a good conflict currency, why not go for something grown-up like the dollar? But in West Africa diamonds are a warlord’s best friend. Everyone wants to get their hands on these babies. Even if they’ve got no hands.’
A couple of hours later the Blackhawk put down in Freetown and a jeep with driver and an escort of white soldiers met the chopper.
‘My, but we’re honoured,’ said John Doe. ‘Seems the Commandant has sent his own jeep for us. What gives? Let me have a little one-to-one with the driver.’
When he came back to Jimfish he was shaking his head in amazement.
‘Apparently the Commandant’s a hard-nosed bastard, all neck and no brains, but the driver says he wants to meet you. Alone.’
‘Who are these white soldiers?’ Jimfish asked as they drove into Freetown.
John Doe urged him to watch his language. ‘Civil contractors is what we call them. Or security consultants. Or enhanced assets. Or strategic suppliers. Never soldiers.’
As they reached the town, John Doe hopped out of the jeep. ‘So long, Jimfish. Good luck!’
Jimfish was uneasy at being left alone. ‘Where are you going?’
‘The Commandant wants to see you on your own. I’ll be talking loot with a local warlord.’
‘You talk to warlords?’ Jimfish was shocked.
‘Constructive engagement,’ said John Doe. ‘You have a good day now. Meet you back at the Commandant’s office.’
Have a good day! How could he do that when he remembered Lunamiel, abandoned in Liberia, the plaything of Brigadier Bare-Butt. The more he saw of the world, the less he understood. Worse still, what he did understand was so crazy, so cruel, that none of the lessons of his old teacher Soviet Malala seemed to apply; not rage nor the many sides of history, neither the lumpenproletariat, nor the settler entity. Never had he felt so confused. And the menacing silence of the white soldiers escorting him — when he asked them their names or their reasons for being in Sierra Leone — made him even more miserable. Soon he would be heading to Somalia, another country he did not know, on a humanitarian intervention he did not understand, on a mission he did not like the sound of — not one little bit. And what, for heaven’s sake, was a harbinger of hope?
The jeep dropped Jimfish at the door of a large hotel which had been badly damaged by rocket fire, like so many of the buildings in Freetown. He was led into what was once the manager’s office and there sat a man in military khaki, wearing a cap laced with gold braid and large sunglasses, who sported a bushy beard as broad as a shovel. The armed escort saluted their chief, who returned the salute, and this went on for some time before the escort was dismissed.
Jimfish felt more wretched than ever, faced by the man in the gold braid. What was he to say to this imposing personage? As John Doe had warned, he did look all neck; it was as broad as a baobab trunk, climbing from his tunic collar up into his heavily gold-encrusted cap. But when the Commandant pulled a bottle out of the desk drawer and asked him if he’d like a brandy and Coke, Jimfish’s heart leaped. It was such a stroke of luck he hardly dared to believe what he had heard, but the man’s accent was unmistakeable.