Decisive, David Hickson [read this if txt] 📗

“A woman?”

“I suspect she is his insurance policy. If I am correct, my escort has brought her along as a scapegoat in case things go wrong. He intends to kill her as well.”

General Kanazoe replaced the handset.

“Very well,” he said. “And I suppose your masters have told you how they would like the matter to be resolved? You have your orders?”

“I do.”

“I will respect that. How long do you need?”

“An hour should do it.”

The general got to his feet and held out his hand. I stood up and shook it.

“What is your rank?” he asked.

“I only reached corporal, General.”

“Reached? Once a soldier, always a soldier.”

“I was discharged.”

“But you are here on behalf of the South African military. You are still in service, only for different masters?”

“Not in service, I am an employee of the South Africans. The things I do for them are not, strictly speaking, the things expected of a military man.”

“Don’t be so sure, Corporal. What makes a good soldier is the ability to perform a necessary task without consideration of the personal price. What you are doing fits that description.”

The general was still grasping my hand. He gave me a smile.

“Trust a Burkinabé to come up with such a crazy scheme,” he said. “It is a pity, really. An interesting idea, to get the French off our backs by creating an international incident over a foreign assassin.”

“But lucky for us,” I said, “that his chosen target had some foreign friends.”

“Lucky for all of us,” he agreed. “That man Alassane made the mistake politicians often make. The mistake of underestimating the military.”

Eight

I realised the single benefit of the general’s office when I left it. It was the air conditioning. As I stepped out of the building, a wall of intense heat struck me. It grabbed at my breath, but I kept moving. I did not want to be a static target for Alassane.

Somewhat to my surprise, Alassane and Bibata were not in the parking area. I had assumed that he would attempt to complete his operation within the military compound, which was why I had asked them to meet me outside. But there was no silver Mercedes without a back window in the parking area. I wondered whether they had changed cars so I studied each vehicle there, but none of them held two occupants. I scanned the surrounding buildings, but there were no threatening silhouettes. No open windows with the barrel of a gun protruding.

I stepped cautiously through the pedestrian gates and collected my passport from the security hut. I behaved as if I had done what I came to do and was a professional assassin making my exit. Act normally for the guards, an edge of anxiety for Alassane. Move slowly, no rush. Make my way to the airport.

I walked along the dusty road, checking the tops of buildings, searching the usual danger spots. And then, with a crunching of gravel, the silver Mercedes pulled alongside. Indicator lights flashing, Bibata still carefully obeying the rules. Her eyes were slightly wide and fearful. She looked at me, perhaps wondering what signs there would be in the face of a man who has just killed someone. I had no worries there; my face was full of those signs.

I climbed into the passenger seat and turned to face Alassane. He was coiled like a spring in the back seat, full of tension. I had not been wrong about his intentions, I could see it in his face.

“All done?” he asked.

“All done,” I said.

He stared at me, as if wondering whether he could believe me.

“It’s quiet,” he said. “I thought you would have problems getting out.”

“Give them time. Let’s get away from here.”

Alassane nodded. Bibata engaged the gears, and we lurched forward.

The international airport of Ouagadougou was a desultory collection of brick buildings with fading paint. They cowered beneath a tower of cloud that looked as if it was preparing to unleash a storm of some magnitude, which might provide a little relief from the persistent heat. In the Mercedes, despite the missing windows, we were all sweating. Alassane knew his moment was coming, and the closer it came, the more his anxiety built. I had seen it before in people who intended to kill but who had no experience. My clothes were damp with sweat, and there was blood on the sleeve of my shirt. The pain in my arm had increased and had become a dull throb in rhythm with the beating of my heart.

Outside the main terminal building stood a cluster of impatient passengers, hoping for some relief from the heat. The air conditioning in the terminal building had not been working the previous night, and I guessed they had not yet fixed it. Some passengers were smoking, others were standing around chatting, and a few were looking about, hoping for something to distract them. Several pairs of eyes watched our approach.

“Park around the back,” said Alassane, pointing to a small side road that led to a row of aircraft hangars. Vast structures of corrugated iron and steel columns. The air around them vibrated with heat.

Bibata frowned and turned to Alassane with confusion. That was the confirmation I needed. Alassane intended to kill us both.

“Over there,” said Alassane with irritation, pointing at the nearest hangar. He shifted restlessly in the back seat as if he wanted to leap from the car before it stopped.

Bibata glanced at me, and I gave what I hoped was a reassuring nod and a tightening of the mouth. Bibata was a kind person. Not the ideal person with whom to face an inexperienced killer. For the first time today, Bibata did not indicate as she turned off the road. We pulled up beside the hangar.

Alassane opened the back door and leapt out of the car. Bibata opened her door, but looked back to me with fear in her eyes.

“Bring your bag,” I said. “When we enter the hangar, pass me the gun.”

“What