'Good man, Jamel Mobuto. Not bad like his father.'
Sabrina just nodded, realizing she was talking way over his head. She suddenly wondered if he even knew that Jamel Mobuto was in America. Probably not.
'Where you from, missy?'
'America,' she replied.
'Like Chicago?'
'Chicago's in America, yes. But I'm from New York.'
'The Yankees,' he said, grinning at her in the rear-view mirror. f
'That's right. You like baseball?'
He nodded. 'We see baseball on television. And football. Chicago Bears my team.'
'I've got a friend who played professional football. He was a quarterback for the New York Giants."
'Your boyfriend?' he asked excitedly.
'No, just a friend,' she replied with a smile, wondering how Graham would have reacted to being called her boyfriend.
'He still play?'
She shook her head. 'No, he injured his arm in Vietnam. He couldn't play again.'
'Vietnam?' the driver said with a frown. 'What their team called?'
She was about to explain then decided against it. It would only lead to more misunderstanding. She fell silent.
The military presence became significantly stronger the closer they got to Habane. Apart from the roadblocks manned by soldiers armed with Mi6s, old M4i tanks stood menacingly on every street corner. She could sense the same tension that she had felt back at the airport. Most of the soldiers they passed were still in their teens, the uncertainty of the situation etched onto their youthful features.
They wouldn't stand a chance against the heavily armed and well-disciplined squad of ex-Security policemen that were reportedly amassing in the south of the country. But the reports UN AGO had received were mostly hearsay from locals in and around Kondese. Much of it would be propaganda spread by Ngune and his officers. They had also received the draft of a statement made by a deserter who had fled to Chad. He claimed that the squad wasn't nearly as big as Western intelligence had feared and that there was a bitter internal struggle amongst the officers about who would be included in Ngune's cabinet once they had seized power. The animosity was running so high that one officer had already been executed by Ngune for killing a fellow officer in an argument. UN AC O were well aware that the deserter could be a plant to try and lull Jamel Mobuto into a false sense of complacency. But they knew his claims could also be genuine. All they could do was await developments. Mobuto had so far refused the offer of a United Nations peacekeeping force in Zimbala, insisting that his troops would be able to crush any uprising by Ngune and his rebels. Sabrina didn't share his optimism. It worried her.
'Hotel,' the driver announced.
'What?' Sabrina replied, her thoughts interrupted.
'Hotel,' the driver repeated, pointing it out.
The International was a box-shaped building painted out in white and gold. It was certainly nothing spectacular. And it was reputedly the best hotel in town. She shuddered to think what the worst was like. The driver stopped the taxi in the forecourt and a doorman immediately stepped forward and opened the back door. He doffed his cap to Sabrina when she climbed out and snapped his fingers at a porter who came hurrying over and took the suitcase from the boot. What it lacked in appearance, it seemed to make up for in service. She used some of the money in the envelope to pay the driver.
'Thank you,' he said appreciatively. 'If you want to go anywhere, I take you. My name is Harris. The staff know me.'
She nodded then bit her lip thoughtfully as she watched him climb back into the taxi and drive away. Had she tipped him too generously? He'd probably ripped her off anyway. She made a mental note to study the currency more closely once she got to her room.
The Cortina slowed to a crawl and as it drew abreast of the hotel Mcssenga took the Walther from his pocket and aimed it at Sabrina.
'Get down,' a voice yelled but before Sabrina could react she was bundled roughly to the ground in the same moment as Massenga fired.
The bullet smashed into the wall. Massenga cursed angrily, unable to get in another shot at Sabrina who had rolled to safety behind one of the two concrete pillars that stood on either side of the doors. He snapped at Gubene who immediately accelerated and sped off down the road.
The doorman, who had taken sanctuary behind the other pillar, sprang to his feet and ran over to where Sabrina lay. He helped her up, his eyes wide with concern. 'Are you alright?'
She rubbed her bruised elbow painfully. 'I'm alright. I hope that wasn't a traditional Zimbalan welcome.'
'Rebels,' the doorman spat angrily. 'Now they are shooting at tourists.'
Sabrina's mind was in turmoil. Why had someone just tried to kill her? Who, outside UN AGO, knew she was in Zimbala? The questions disturbed her but, pushing them from her mind, she turned to the man who had shouted the warning before knocking her to the ground. He was a small man in his forties with a thin face and wire-rimmed glasses. She was about to thank him when the manager emerged from the hotel and hurried over to them. The doorman explained in Swahili what had happened and the manager immediately began to apologize but Sabrina held up her hand to silence him.
'It's not your fault,' she said with a quick smile.
'Are you hurt?'
'No, I'm fine.'
The manager ushered her into the foyer and led her across to the reception desk. 'I'm sure you want to get up to your room but we need you to fill in the register first. I'm sure you understand.'
She was becoming irritated by the way he was treating her like a child but she let it pass and completed the formalities.
'I'll let you know when the police arrive, Miss Cassidy,' the manager said after the receptionist had handed her key to the porter.
'Don't call the police on my account. I told you, I'm fine.'
'I must by law.'
'Well, you know where to find me. Now, if you'll excuse me.'
'Of course,' the manager replied then bowed curtly before withdrawing to his office to phone the police.
She turned to the man in the wire-framed glasses and held out her hand. 'Sabrina Cassidy. I owe you my life. Thank you.'
'Joseph Moredi,' he replied, shaking her hand firmly. He led her away from the reception desk. 'Can we talk?'
'What about?'
He glanced at the porter who was hovering beside him then turned back to Sabrina. 'Not here. Can we go to your room?'
'I appreciate what you did for me, but I do feel a little shaken right now. Perhaps you could — '
'Please, Miss Cassidy,' he cut in. 'It is important.'
'O K,' she replied, seeing the intensity in his eyes.
They took the lift to the fourth floor and the porter led them to the room. It was spacious and tastefully decorated with a bathroom en suite. The window overlooked the main road. Sabrina tipped the porter after he had put the suitcase on the luggage stand and closed the door behind him.
'I know who tried to kill you, Miss Cassidy.'
'Rebels, I believe you call them,' Sabrina replied.
'His name's Massenga, Thomas Massenga. He was deputy head of the Security Police for the last five years before it was disbanded.' He walked to the window then turned back to look at Sabrina. 'These "rebels", as you call them, aren't in the habit of tailing foreigners from the airport and trying to shoot them outside their hotels. Massenga took a great personal risk coming out in the open like that. I don't know who you're working for but your investigations are obviously linked to the Mobuto brothers. It's the only reason Massenga would have tried to kill you: to prevent you from stumbling on the truth.'
'This is all very interesting, Mr Moredi — ' 'Miss Cassidy, your life's in danger,' he snapped angrily then held up his hands apologetically. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout at you like that. I can appreciate your wanting to keep your cover intact. And I know what's going through your mind right now. You're thinking that I could be working in league with Massenga and the shooting outside the hotel was all staged to try and get you into my confidence. Believe me, it wasn't. But I don't expect you to take my word for that. Jamel Mobuto will vouch for me. We were at Oxford together. I'm sure your organization can contact him in New York. Tell him to set a question that only the real Joseph Moredi would be able to answer. Then call me at this number.' He took a business card from his pocket and placed it on the dresser. 'We can help each other, Miss Cassidy. Please, call me.'