Decisive, David Hickson [read this if txt] 📗

looked to Bibata then back to me. “She insisted we keep it quiet,” he said. “Only my boss and I know about it. And this morning I briefed Bibata.”

“Your boss is a woman?” I asked.

Another nod, a dishonest shift of his eyes, and a bulge of the jaw muscles.

“How many women are there in the presidential office?” I asked.

Alassane shrugged. “Several women,” he said.

“Is your boss the vice president?”

Alassane gave me a blank stare. The three of us sat in silence for a moment. Bibata’s grandmother chopped a carrot noisily.

“Do you think it is possible that your boss has changed her mind about the operation?” I asked. “And sent those men to stop us?”

“No,” said Alassane. “It is not possible.”

He fell silent, and his eyes twitched with anxiety. The heat pressed down upon us. The grandmother chopped another carrot.

“How late are we going to be for my meeting with the general?” I asked.

“Not too late, if we leave now,” said Bibata.

“Then let’s leave now.”

Alassane and Bibata both looked at me as if I had not used the language we had in common. Neither of them wanted to get back into that car.

“There is glass all over the back seat,” complained Alassane.

“Why don’t we clear that up?” I suggested. “The car is still operational. It will get us there.”

Alassane looked at Bibata as if it was his opinion that clearing glass off the back seat of the car was something she should be doing.

“Let me fetch a brush and dustpan,” said Bibata.

“If you don’t mind, Bibata,” I said. “I would like you to check the dressing on my arm before we leave. I am sure Alassane wouldn’t mind clearing the glass.”

Alassane said nothing. He didn’t need to use words to explain that he did mind. About clearing the glass, and about the fact that I was the one giving orders.

Six

When Alassane had left the room with his brush and dustpan, Bibata’s grandmother turned away from the stove and said something to Bibata in her singsong language. Then she looked at me in the manner of someone waiting for a translation to be conveyed. Bibata was standing beside me and looking at the dressing on my arm. The layers of duct tape were holding, and there was no sign of any blood.

“Your grandmother has something more to say?” I asked.

Bibata was looking at me with some confusion. It was obvious the dressing on my arm had not needed an inspection. She clicked her tongue, and said, “The dressing is fine.”

I rolled my sleeve down. “What does your grandmother say?”

“Why did you want me to stay here?” said Bibata. “With Alassane not here with us.”

The grandmother reached out to Bibata, took her arm and spoke with insistence. Bibata turned back to me and shrugged.

“She wants you to know that my boss is not of our tribe. But pay no attention to her. She speaks always in riddles.”

“Why is that important, that he is not of your tribe?”

The grandmother spoke again as if she had understood my question.

“She says you should not trust him,” translated Bibata, and she gave a dismissive laugh. “But I think already you do not trust him.”

“Why shouldn’t I trust him?”

“No reason. My grandmother does not trust him. That is all.”

“Does your family harbour resentments after all? Alassane dismissed that idea, but your grandmother is resentful about what happened a thousand years ago?”

“Nobody is resentful. It would be absurd, but I tease Alassane because he is so proud of his heritage and the Mossi tend to think they are superior. I told you: my grandmother is a little crazy.”

“But she doesn’t like you working with Alassane?”

“She tells me he plans to do awful things to me, but that is her craziness, and because she dislikes him. Not because of his heritage, but because he is an extremist – he hates the French, as you must have realised. He is such an angry man. But a job is a job, isn’t it? Better than having no job at all.”

The grandmother nodded and smiled as if she had understood our conversation and was pleased to have conveyed her message. She spoke again and Bibata laughed.

“My grandmother wishes to thank you for what you will do,” she said. Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “And she is confident that you will make the right decision.”

I smiled and said nothing.

“I think it is about a woman,” said Bibata. “All the important decisions that men need to make are about women.”

I picked up the lightweight linen jacket, which we had washed as best we could. It still had a few smears of blood on it, and my trousers had several dark red patches. But if I carried the jacket carefully, I could cover the blood. I hoped that would be enough to prevent alarm at military headquarters. With my back to the grandmother so that she could not see what I was doing, I handed Bibata the Makarov pistol in its leather holster. Bibata looked up at me with surprise.

“Put this in your bag,” I said.

“What for?”

“Do you know how to use it?”

Bibata shook her head.

“You need it,” she said. “For the general. I know what you need to do in your meeting with him.”

“They won’t let me walk into military headquarters with this. I will use something else.”

Bibata opened her mouth, but then closed it. Her eyes were troubled.

“It’s easy to use,” I said. “All you need to do is make sure this switch here,” I showed her the safety, “is in this position. Then point and squeeze the trigger.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

“If you don’t need it, I will get it back from you later.”

“Why would I need it?”

Before I could answer, the door to the kitchen opened, and Alassane came in, his dustpan filled with pebbles of glass.

“Let’s go,” he said. “If we are late, it will cause more problems.”

Bibata shoved the Makarov and its holster into her handbag. The grandmother insisted on holding my hand for a moment