Decisive, David Hickson [read this if txt] 📗

the woman with him as Bibata. Also dressed in black for the funeral. Where Alassane was hard, Bibata was soft, made up of curves. Not that she was fat; her curvaceous figure could have been described as voluptuous, but she was all business today in her black suit. She had a liveliness in her eyes, perhaps a sense of humour. She gave a small smile to acknowledge her introduction, then glanced anxiously around. Maybe she too was remembering the recent terror attack by the jihadists from Mali.

“Bibata is here as my assistant,” said Alassane, lest I get confused about the hierarchy.

I smiled to show him how pleased that made me feel. We took our seats at the table. Alassane looked as if he wished we had been given special words to exchange to confirm our identities to each other. But there was no need for that. I was here as a businessman. He was a presidential aide. The businessman and the presidential aide were having a business meeting. That was on the itinerary long before they substituted me for the real businessman. There was no need for secret words.

“We were not told what to call you,” complained Alassane.

“What would you have called the man you were expecting to meet?” I said.

“Mr Johnson,” said Alassane.

“Mr Johnson it is then,” I said. My real name was Gabriel, Ben Gabriel, but it was better that nobody here knew that. The British, with typical irony, had always called me ‘Angel’. By a strange coincidence, the arms dealer was called ‘Angel’ Johnson by his colleagues, probably in reference to his role in bringing death to so many. But it was better to stick to plain ‘Mr Johnson’ for today.

“We were pleased the South Africans could help,” said Alassane, and he gave another anxious glance around the room, although there was nobody near enough to hear us.

“Of course,” I said.

“But your accent is not South African.”

“I served with the British.”

“Served? You were a soldier?”

“I was.”

“What is a British soldier doing in Africa?”

“I’ve been asking myself that question for years.”

Alassane nodded and wiped his brow. The ceiling fans were still doing nothing to alleviate the heat.

“Foreigners have a thing for Africa,” he said, as if it was something that bothered him.

“It’s the warm weather,” I said.

Alassane gazed at me as if trying to decide whether I was being disrespectful. But he hadn’t finished complaining, so he said, “The arms dealer is a South African.”

“But this is his first visit to Burkina Faso,” I pointed out. “Nobody has met him.”

Alassane nodded and wiped his brow again.

“You look like him,” said Bibata. “They got that right.”

“Hair dye,” I said.

“And the real Mr Johnson will not pick up the phone and ask to reschedule?” asked Alassane.

“He will not,” I said. I did not think it was necessary to point out that dead people don’t make phone calls.

“You have been briefed?” asked Alassane. “About how this is going to work.”

“Partial briefing,” I said. “You will need to fill me in on the details.”

That was not true, but it was what Alassane expected because partial briefing was the way the South Africans did all these jobs. Too many of their operatives had been captured before fulfilling their tasks in the many countries across Africa that the South Africans liked to poke their fingers into. If I failed and was forced to share what knowledge I had, there would be little I could tell. I would present my false papers, show my dyed hair, and provide the typed itinerary supplied by the efficient presidential aide. Alassane was sliding a newly typed itinerary across the table towards me.

“Been a few changes,” he said, and swallowed as if the mere act of talking about it made him nervous. “Mr Johnson is here at the invitation of General Kanazoe. There has been extensive correspondence between the two of them. This has been provided to you?”

“It has,” I said.

“Then you know that Mr Johnson is an arms dealer. You understand arms?”

“I do.”

Alassane turned suddenly to look around the dining room, as if he might catch someone eavesdropping. His glance lingered for a moment on two businessmen from Mali, sitting in silence at the other end of the room. Then he turned back to me.

“You will discuss arms with the general. You know enough about ‘weapons’ to convince him?” he insisted, using the English word in case the French ‘armes’ had confused me.

“I know which way to point most of them.” I said.

Alassane did not share my sense of humour.

“Mr Johnson will inspect the country’s current military capacity, in an informal manner. You understand what I mean by this?”

“No red carpet,” I said. “It’s all very low key.”

Alassane nodded. Another glance at the two businessmen from Mali, whose silence seemed to disturb him.

“You will inspect armoured cars and discuss them later this morning, in the private meeting with the general.”

He fell silent for a moment. The meeting with the general was the reason for my presence here today, and the thought of what would happen at that meeting was enough to make him pause.

“What can you tell me about the general?” I asked, keeping my tone casual.

Alassane swallowed. “I am to give you the full details later. That is what they said.”

“Of course,” I said, and smiled.

Silence descended upon our table. Bibata poked at her bowl of sliced fruit.

I looked at the newly typed itinerary. Our breakfast meeting was described as an ‘orientation of the honoured guest by the presidential aide’. We had twenty minutes to fill, and the thought of sitting here in awkward silence prompted me to attempt some conversation.

“We are doing the orientation?” I asked.

Alassane shrugged his huge shoulders and then hunched forward over his untouched cup of coffee.

“We would have been explaining some background to Mr Johnson,” he said. “If you were the real Mr Johnson.”

“Why don’t you provide me with some background, anyway?” I said and took a companionable sip of the nasty brown liquid in my coffee cup.

“What background do you need?”