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said Alassane. โ€œYou do not need any background to do your job.โ€

โ€œWe should expect that there might be people observing us, and everything we do should appear as normal as possible. I would be interested to hear about your country, and your people.โ€

Alassane sighed. โ€œThe people of our country have a long history,โ€ he said. โ€œThis region is the Volta. Where humans started. I, for instance, am a Voltaic Mossi. We are warriors.โ€

โ€œWere warriors,โ€ said Bibata. She turned to me and a little of the scorn she had directed at Alassane lingered in her eyes. โ€œThe Mossi were a warrior tribe,โ€ she explained. โ€œThey blazed a trail of death and destruction through the Volta region over a thousand years ago.โ€

She looked down at her grapefruit and scooped a segment from it with the serrated spoon.

โ€œYou are not a Voltaic Mossi?โ€ I asked.

Bibata looked up at me, some amusement in her round face. โ€œYou donโ€™t ask that question in this country, Mr Johnson,โ€ she said. Her eyes twinkled. โ€œBecause those who are not Voltaic Mossi have not forgotten the suffering their ancestors endured at the hands of the Mossi.โ€

โ€œI thought you said it was a thousand years ago?โ€

โ€œIt was. But there are some who have not forgotten. Not in all those thousand years.โ€

โ€œIs that the cause of the problems?โ€ I asked.

Alassane shook his head in dismissal of that idea. โ€œThat is nonsense. That kind of fighting stopped hundreds of years ago. Bibata comes from a family full of witch doctors and lunatics. They might harbour resentment, but they would be the only ones.โ€

Bibata looked down and pierced her grapefruit again, accepting Alassaneโ€™s insults about her family with grace.

โ€œNo,โ€ continued Alassane. โ€œOur problems are more recent. The Europeans caused them. The French people, arriving here and acting like this place was theirs.โ€

Alassane gave his brow another wipe and directed an irritated glance at the silent Malian businessmen. Then he looked back to me, seeming to realise that our orientation had not struck a particularly friendly note. He stretched his lips over his teeth in what might have been a smile, although the tension in his face deprived the result of any friendliness.

โ€œWe are grateful,โ€ he said, โ€œthat the South Africans have agreed to step in at this critical moment.โ€

I smiled and allowed a feeling of camaraderie to settle for a moment. Alassane kept his anxious gaze on me. There was something else he needed to say.

โ€œIt needs to be a final solution,โ€ he said, his face stern, his shoulders hunched. โ€œAbsolutely final. Here in Africa, there is only one solution, and it is the final one. Are you sure that you understand that?โ€

โ€œI am,โ€ I said. โ€œFinal solutions are what I am good at.โ€

โ€œThat is what we heard,โ€ said Alassane, and he sat back in his chair, threatening to topple backwards with the weight of his barrel chest. โ€œThere is no time for dialogue. As long as you are aware of that. When you arrive at the meeting, it will be just you and the general. It would probably be better if you do not engage in dialogue with him. There will be no time.โ€

โ€œWho needs dialogue?โ€ I said. โ€œIโ€™m in favour of getting straight to the action.โ€

Alassane blinked, and his mouth tightened.

โ€œWould it be impertinent of me to ask to what extent you were involved in the planning of this operation?โ€

โ€œWhy do you ask?โ€

โ€œI was a military man. I like to understand the chain of command.โ€

โ€œI am the only person you need to concern yourself with,โ€ said Alassane, and then he realised he had allowed his friendly smile to fade again, and gave another grimace. โ€œYour first appointment is on the other side of town, Mr Johnson. We should get going.โ€

โ€œYes, of course,โ€ I said.

โ€œIf you have finished your breakfast?โ€

I had eaten half a dry croissant and had one cup of the lukewarm chicory soup.

โ€œI have,โ€ I said. โ€œLetโ€™s go. Iโ€™m ready to do what needs to be done.โ€

Three

The street outside the hotel was brown and blisteringly hot, like an earthenware pot in a kiln. Motorbikes buzzed noisily back and forth, carrying up to three passengers each, all without helmets. There seemed no clear understanding of which side of the road anyone should drive on, which was probably why our car was parked in a way that blocked the entrance of the hotel: crossing the road was something best avoided.

The vehicle they had chosen for the informal guided tour was a dusty silver Mercedes with a cracked perspex sunroof. The window winders were broken, but the passenger seat window, beside which I sat, was missing. The air that oozed through it promised a welcome relief from the oppressive heat.

Bibata sat in the driverโ€™s seat and Alassane sat behind us, his enormous chest supported on his long arms, his head swivelling from side to side like a rear gunner searching the skies for enemy planes. He seemed unusually anxious for a presidential aide who was conducting a foreign visitor on a pre-planned and perfectly legitimate guided tour of the countryโ€™s military resources.

Bibata drove well, but with excessive caution. A few clicks below the speed limit, bringing the car to a full stop at each intersection, although no other drivers seemed to bother. They mostly accelerated to get through the intersections as quickly as possible.

A few minutes into our journey, Alassane reached into a satchel beside him on the seat and extracted a leather holster. He handed it to me.

โ€œWe could not obtain the weapon you requested,โ€ he said without regret. โ€œThis will have to do.โ€

The holster held a Makarov pistol. The Makarov has a straight blowback action that makes it more accurate because the barrel and slide do not need to unlock on the firing action. But it is made entirely of steel, so it is heavy for a handgun. I prefer a Glock or a Beretta. A Makarov is fairly low on my list of preferred weapons, but now was not the time to be difficult about it. I took

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