Magestic

Copyright © Geoff Wolak. October, 2009.

www.geoffwolak-writing.com

Part 9
2008

The New Year started with PACT getting involved with the Anjouan
Islands, off the coast of Africa, where a coup of sorts was on the
cards. The Rifles landed, and the coup was off the cards. Still, PACT
and the Rifles rounded up the rebel leaders and seized weapons, a
thorough search made of the islands, and the rebel’s expensive
weapons would be costly to replace. Jimmy ticked a box.
After the death of his father, Jimmy had spent more time with his
elderly mother, and she could be seen visiting the house more often,
Han always taking the time to talk with her. She had no
grandchildren, neither Jimmy nor his brother having families, and
loved Shelly and Lucy to bits. Now that she was alone I encouraged
Shelly to visit more often. But to say that she was alone was not
strictly correct. Jimmy’s aunt had become a widow two years earlier
and moved into the old house after Jimmy’s father had died, along
with two cats. The old house also offered a live-in housemaid and
cook and five of our security staff, none of whom seemed to mind
sharing with two old widows. The lads had their lounge, Jimmy’s
mum and her sister had their own.
Jimmy’s brother had always been a bit of a mystery, and I could
count on one hand the number of conversations I had with the guy.
He was a year older than Jimmy, lived in Newbury with his long-
term girlfriend, and shunned any publicity. He did, however, accept
a million pounds off Jimmy towards additional security, and
compensation for the intrusive and annoying press attention. He
worked in a toyshop that specialised in complex model trains and
read a lot. And that was just about all I knew of him.
Sykes kept an eye on Steffan Silovitch, who always used his full
name to try and lose the connection with his famous brother. A
security camera had been set-up in the shop, another across the road,
and the local police knew to keep an eye on the place. He visited
their mother every two or three months, and remembered family
birthdays better than Jimmy. So far, he had not visited Africa, nor
our clubs. No one knew the history between the brothers, and no one
dared ask.
January saw the Prime Minister ask for the nutters and tourists at
our gate to stay away, and the police erected signs: no waiting. The
terrible January weather was keeping most of them away, and the
die-hard kooks were being picked up and moved on by cold and
miserable police officers. Cars that stopped were issued a sixty
pounds fine, and if they returned, even to slow down, additional
fines.
With snow on the ground, and school closed for a few days, we
were all inside and staying warm, the kids playing in the main
house. Sharon had brought her daughter to the house get some work
experience, and I had to stop and wonder how the girl had grown
two feet since the last time I saw her. She was now eighteen. When
did that happen?
Three days after the daughter had started to attend the office,
Sharon approached me before it was time for her to leave, and asked
if I thought there was any work for her daughter – proper work. I
said I’d discuss it with Jimmy, and found him later in the diner with
Michelle, who now qualified as Jimmy’s longest running girlfriend,
of sorts. It was “of sorts”, because Jimmy delighted in annoying
Michelle by sleeping with any beautiful actresses he fancied, then
telling her about it – in detail. I was jealous, of sorts.
‘Sharon’s daughter is looking for work.’
Jimmy gave it some thought. ‘In order to be of any use to us, she
has to first go visit the empire for a few months, get some
experience of the far corners of the empire, then return. Discuss that
with Sharon, and devise a schedule where she would work a few
weeks at each place, and in each country. Then we’ll see.’
‘You must already know?’ I pushed.
‘No, since she was supposed to have died in a car crash a few
months back.’
‘Ah. You … altered it.’
He nodded. ‘So it’s a bit of an unknown. Mystery, eh?’
‘Adds a spice to life,’ I said as I stood. I gave Trish, Helen’s
assistant, the task of planning a schedule and arranging tickets, and
called Sharon at home. She was a little reticent about sending her
daughter around the world, but finally agreed. Young Jane would
now go on her travels, and I decided that the first stop should be the
Cardiff club. She could start with bar work, and work her way up.
The plan had left me wondering about Shelly and Lucy, and what
they would do when they grew up. University? Definitely. But then
what? Jimmy had said that Shelly would be a marine biologist, and
so far it could be said that she had a leaning towards things aquatic. I
guessed that they’d have their own ideas by then, and would ignore
anything I said. By then I’d be “the old man”.
 The next morning, Keely presented me a large file, the detailed
plans for a new rail link across the DRC, through the other country
that was called “The Congo”, joining existing track in Nigeria, and
heading towards Liberia and Sierra Leone. I sat with a coffee in the
diner and scanned the very thorough document, the plans seeming to
indicate a few bridges - quite a few bridges, and four short tunnels.
A trunk of the line would even touch Kinshasa.
I had the file sent by secure courier to the Foreign Office, to the
people we still housed there. They studied it, and reported that it was
feasible, sending the file down to the corporation on the next flight.
The corporation studied it for a week and agreed; it was feasible;
bloody expensive, but feasible. I presented the figures to Jimmy,
who glanced at them, then asked me to make a start, using forty
percent corporation money, forty percent US aid money, and twenty
percent CAR money; and to release the news it to the press. Since
the western press would not be interested in a train line in the DRC,
I got my wife on the case, and she sent the details to the African
Times. Only afterwards did I think that I should have told Kimballa
first, and the Nigerians and others. I just hoped they’d see it as a
‘planned’ new rail line.
I had not put the file down for even ten minutes when Jimmy’s
brother stepped in. ‘Steffan? You looking for Jimmy or your mum?’
‘I was looking for you,’ the tall fella explained.
‘You were?’ I puzzled.
‘The shop that I worked at closed and … Jimmy said you had
track building projects that I might be interested in.’
I resisted a smile and composed myself. ‘The tracks we’re
building, they’re … bigger than Horny gauge for model trains.’
‘I have a degree in surveying, with a Phd in train and cargo
logistics,’ he flatly stated, stood stooped, his chin on his chest.
‘Ah. Well, in that case you’d be ideally suited,’ I acknowledged,
feeling a bit silly. ‘What did you want to do … exactly? It’s in
Africa.’
‘I’ve discussed it with my girlfriend, and we’re happy to move
down there.’
‘Oh. Er … in that case we could make you project co-ordinator, a
house in Goma, near the airport. Nice area, safe, lots of amenities.’
‘OK.’ He waited.
‘Right. Well, when did you want to go?’
‘Next Monday. House is up for rent.’
‘That soon. Well, if you deal with Sharon, she’ll arrange the
tickets … and everything else, and I’ll let them know that you’re
coming. But don’t forget to arrange shots if you’re going to live
down there.’
‘We need that super drug stuff?’ he asked.
‘That would do it. One size fits all.’
‘I’ll arrange it when we get down there.’ He turned and sloped off
in his size thirteen shoes, and I went and found Jimmy. ‘Bit of a turn
up, your brother and trains.’
Jimmy nodded reflectively. ‘He’ll do a good job. And they’ll all
mistake him for me and salute. Variables in play.’
‘Huh?’
‘Nothing. Listen, Chinese not happy about us stuffing America
full of cheap medical kit - that’s their area. So we’ll buy some of
their kit and sell it at cost price around the States.’
‘Won’t that fuck off the distributors for this stuff?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he said with a sigh. ‘But we need to get healthcare bills
down. And that complex making the medical kit, I want it doubled
by the end of the year, which will please the Chinese … no end.’
‘I was thinking about that hospital in Goma, and the health
tourists. What if … we fill it full of Cuban surgeons and offer
reasonably priced operations? Make it … a centre of excellence in
Central Africa?’
‘Great idea. Go do it, young man.’
Pleased with myself, I went off and called the corporation, and
gave the co-ahead to both move more Cubans to the hospital, and to
advertise for paying patients. It then dawned on me that the Cuban
Government might not like the fiscal elements to my plan, so I rang
the Cuban Embassy in London. They would get back to me.
The next day I got a fax from the nice gentlemen in Havana,
happy with the proposed use of their medics, but asking for a small
percentage to come back to them. They asked for twenty-five
percent, I agreed to thirty. I even sweetened the deal with a twice-
monthly direct flight to Havana from Goma hub, on one of our 747s.
This new use of the Cubans had hardly been agreed when they
faxed again. How about we roll out the same idea around Africa?
Without consulting with Jimmy, I agreed to trial it. I could locate
hospitals in Kinshasa, Nairobi, Mogadishu for definite, Zambia,
Sierra Leone – where there were still Cubans at the main hospital,
and Liberia. And Zimbabwe for sure, Malawi, Burundi would be up
for it, and Rwanda. Oh, and Tanzania wouldn’t object.
I studied at the piece of paper in front of me and said, ‘Oh … my
… god.’ Sharon and Helen turned towards me as I stood and headed
off to find the oracle. He was sat reading a newspaper. ‘When you
agreed the Cuban hospital thing, you had more in mind, yeah?’
He lowered his newspaper. ‘Yes.’
‘A rollout to all African capitals, nice clean hospitals with
subsidised Cuban medics, our cheap medical supplies, and
advertised through the Africa Times.’
Without detracting from his study of the papers, he said, ‘And
don’t forget rotations of RF staff, to keep them sharp.’
I faxed back the Cubans and asked if they had enough medics,
and how many medics did they wish to commit? They had upwards
of twelve hundred doctors they could commit to it, so I informed
them that I would roll out the programme in as many capitals as I
could. Giving some thought to the commercial considerations, I
ordered a new company created, and would allocate thirty shares to
the Cuban Government, the rest owned by CAR, the Cubans paid as
contractors. Two minutes later I altered my plans and made it fifty-
fifty.
I went and found Jimmy, who was still sat reading. ‘Listen, if this
model works, and it will because we have cheap everything, then
how about we stick a few hospitals in South America, where the
Cubans already have that programme running.’
‘Yes.’
I stood. ‘It’s been good talking with you.’
I grabbed Helen and Trish, found a quiet corner and we thrashed
out a few ideas. The name Central African Medical Services had
already been sent to the corporation, but Helen said that was fine;
when operating in South America we’d transpose A-African to A-
American. Simple. Helen knocked up a job advert and sent it down
to the African Times straight away.
A week later we had a list of people applying for administrators
positions, most of them British or European, some travelling up
from Africa for an interview, a few already working in Europe. The
European candidates I liked, because they wanted to “go and make a
difference”. The African candidates were looking for work, rather
than a calling, and this project was one step removed from good old-
fashioned missionary work. At the end of the interviews, held at the
club in London, I hired three people straight away. The director for
all operations would be British, the Director for Africa would be
French, and the Director for South America was of mixed parentage,
British and Spanish.
Their first assignment would be to work out of the existing
hospital in Goma hub for a month and get a feel for things, and to
create a master plan. They’d then need to locate suitable buildings in
each capital, or even have them built. I suggested that they try just
Nairobi and Kinshasa to start with, to get the basic model right, and
sent them packing with a good budget – not that they needed it.
Getting back to the house I was upbeat, never happier than when
I was solving problems or creating new ventures. In my lounge I
found Helen with a sour face, Jimmy sat on the sofa, Lucy sat
playing with a Gameboy and Shelly sat with a bruised eye. I knelt in
front of my daughter. ‘What happened, baby?’
‘A boy hit me,’ she informed me, her bottom lip quivering.
I turned to Helen, who faced Jimmy.
Helen said, ‘Jimmy had a word with the boy’s parents.’
‘Damn right,’ I said as I stood. ‘And?’
‘And the local police have been around,’ Helen reported, not
looking happy. ‘The father has taken his family into hiding.’
‘Ah. Well why did the little sod hit Shelly anyway?’
‘She threw his ball over the school wall, or some nonsense,’
Helen explained, her arms folded. ‘Gwen’s been on; they’re not too
happy - they know the family!’
Jimmy stood. ‘Shelly’s bruise will be gone in the morning, I’ve
told the police I didn’t threaten the family - merely hinted how
unhappy I was, and I’ve assured the police that the family is in no
danger. Rest is down to you.’ He knelt in front of Shelly and kissed
her on the forehead. ‘All better in the morning, don’t be sad, OK.’
With Jimmy gone, I led Helen to the kitchen. ‘I would have done
something to the little bastard. Boys don’t hit girls!’
‘They’re kids, seven years old for god’s sakes!’
‘Yeah, well it may have saved my arse by Jimmy ringing the guy.
I would have lost it with him.’
She grabbed a dishcloth. ‘I want you to ask Jimmy not to get
involved in this sort of thing, they’re our kids.’
I forced a breath and leant on the kitchen top, locking my elbows.
‘They’re our kids, and Shelly’s part of his great master plan. We
can’t disentangle ourselves, the world wouldn’t let us.’
‘It should have been our choice, not his!’
‘True, and if I’d been here I’d probably have been charged with
making threats.’
‘Talk to him, or I will!’
I lifted the phone and asked Karl to come over and watch the
kids, leading Helen to the house. In the hallway, I turned towards the
pool, and led a perplexed Helen to the basement. Tapping in a code,
I opened a heavy door and knocked the lights on. From under a cloth
I revealed the gravestone, and stood back.
‘What the hell is that?’ Helen gasped, pointed at our daughter’s
premature headstone.
‘We found it at the funeral of Jimmy’s father; we were meant to
find it. It’s a message for Jimmy … from Shelly.’
‘From … Shelly?’
‘VAT14 is the message, JDI is your doing.’
‘My doing?’
‘Just … do … it: JDI you always tell the girls.’
She closed in on it. ‘VAT14 – JDI. What does it mean?’
‘He knows, but he won’t say.’ I tapped the headstone. ‘Our
daughter sent that back through time. And yes, she’s our kid, not his.
But if that message makes a difference, maybe even to 2025, then
she’s not just our kid – she’s a part of it, an important part of it.
Perhaps even the key part of it all.’
I led Helen out of the basement. ‘We have her till she’s too old
and too independent to be told what to do, then she belongs …
elsewhere.’ In the house we thanked Karl, and I followed Helen into
the kitchen. ‘Just what do you think would happen if we fell out with
Jimmy?’ She didn’t answer, and attended the dishes. ‘What would
happen if we took the kids, said to hell with all this and moved out,
bought a little house somewhere and pretended to be normal?
‘First, our new neighbours would move out, not wishing to be
next door to us. Then who’d run the girls to school? You? Running
the gauntlet of the press, let alone the world’s terrorists. And in case
you had forgotten, this house is his, the clothes on our backs were
paid for my him, the money I have in the bank is his.’
‘So we’re prisoners.’
‘I’m not. I like what I do, and I like being a part of it, and I’m in
this to the finish. However it got started, we’re in it, and you’re far
from bloody innocent; you came here to spy on him. And if you
weren’t doing that, what else would you do doing now? Some shit
job spying on someone else, and risking your life? Most likely you’d
be in prison by now, or dead. Instead you have all this.’
I forced a breath and took a moment. ‘I seriously doubt Jimmy
would do anything to you if you wanted to leave, but he’s not the
problem. What would the CIA do if you were out there and
vulnerable? And if the kids didn’t have armed police guards – then
what? Are you willing to put them at risk?’
She sighed. ‘Some days I just want to run away.’
 I straightened. ‘If you did … you’d go without me.’ She glanced
at me. ‘I’m staying, right to the end,’ I told her, and I meant it. ‘I
don’t always like the idea that I got caught up in this, but I’d rather
be in here than on the outside. This train we’re on is heading for a
brick wall. We can be in the cab, trying to change course, or we can
be in the back, completely unaware of when it’ll crash; blissfully
ignorant.’ I took a moment. ‘You wanted me to go talk with him.
Fine, I will. And you … you give some thought as to what else
you’d be doing if this had not got started.’
In the office, I found Jimmy alone, and sat at my desk. ‘Helen’s
not happy, she wants you to stay out of the kid’s lives, at least the
kind of crap that happened today.’
‘Inform your dear lady wife, my PA, that I have been suitably
chastised. And, in the years ahead, when people try and kidnap and
kill your kids I’ll deal with them harshly, but I’ll get written
permission from her ladyship first.’ He held his gaze on me and
waited.
I took a moment, and sighed. ‘Do we stay together, me and
Helen?’
He turned back to his screen. ‘I’m not going to discuss that with
you.’
‘That’s what I figured. And if she wanted out?’
‘She may say that, but she won’t. Ever.’ He looked up. ‘It’s one
thing to look at the fence and long to be over it, but when you get
over there you’re all alone in the wilderness. And it wouldn’t be a
very pleasant wilderness for you two; press would never leave you
alone.’
‘Just for the record, I have no desire to jump the fence,’ I told
him, fiddling with a stapler.
‘I know. And I created this environment to be as pleasant as
possible for you and the family. This place, and its facilities, is more
about you than it is about me.’
I stood. ‘I appreciate it. Just hope that I can make her see that.’
‘Paul,’ he called. ‘I … got you into this, and sometimes I regret
that. You could be a tired stockbroker in London on the tube, but …
but at least you’d have less pressure.’
‘I wouldn’t swap, you know that,’ I quickly came back with.
‘I know.’
Back in the house, we got the girls ready for bed, the atmosphere
a little frosty. When they were tucked up, and Helen had downed her
second large glass of red wine, things were finally back to normal.
Almost. We sat at watched the news, the sound turned down to a
quiet background hum.
‘If I wanted to go, you wouldn’t come with me?’ she softly asked,
focused on the TV.
‘No,’ I replied straight away, also focused on the TV.
‘And if I took the kids?’
‘I’d still be here. I’d arrange security and money for you, but I’d
still be here.’ I took a breath. ‘Back in 1985, Jimmy told me about
the future, and the war in 2025, and the rise of the Brotherhood. At
first I figured … it’s not my war, it would be a long way off. Then
Jimmy said an odd thing. He said: you can fight them over there, or
wait till they walk up the Richmond High Street. Well, my mum
lives around the corner from the High Street. So if I go … out there
somewhere and fight, the bad guys don’t land up here. And now that
I know where the fight is, I’d rather the fight be over there than here,
our kids in the firing line. Well, everyone’s kids in the firing line. So
if you go, I’ll be on the front line for our girl’s sake.’
She put her feet on my lap, a peace offering, and I started to rub
them. ‘Was a time when I hated the whole idea of kids, and men for
that matter. After the car bomb, and being exposed, I was suddenly
very lonely and afraid. You know, I actually thought Jimmy might
kill me.’
‘If someone pulled a gun on you … he’d step in the way.’
‘I crawled into your bed because I thought that would protect
me.’
‘And I knew we’d be married years before we met,’ I confessed.
‘I knew before we went to Africa together. That’s why I put up with
you.’
‘Hah! I’m a catch.’
‘Well, you weren’t at the beginning, but Jimmy said you would
change after getting pregnant, and you mellowed from hard spy-
bitch to a nice woman.’
‘Maybe I’ve gone too far,’ she considered. ‘Lost the edge I once
had. I should have rung that guy. Hell, in the old days I would have
knocked him down and stuck a stiletto heel in his groin.’
Shelly came downstairs in her Harry Potter pyjamas and fluffy
slippers, her eyes moist. ‘I had a bad dream.’
I lifted her onto me.
‘I want Jimmy,’ she whimpered.
After exchanging a look with Helen, I called Jimmy, and he came
straight over. He sat in a comfortable chair and Shelly snuggled up,
a blanket over her, soon asleep. We left the TV on, the sound down
low, and withdrew upstairs, turning on the TV in the bedroom.
At 6am he was still there, and I woke Shelly. ‘Come on, sleepy
head, school.’
‘It’s Saturday,’ Jimmy reminded me.
‘Is it? Bummer.’
‘You’re a silly head, daddy.’
Jimmy eased up and let Shelly down. ‘Get dressed quick, and
we’ll have breakfast in the diner, yes?’ She ran upstairs. He faced
me. ‘All well in the marital bedroom?’
I nodded. ‘We had a good talk, she’ll be fine.’
Jimmy took a moment. ‘You’ll never know just how jealous of
you I am.’
There was little in the way of words to answer that.
The tabloids ran the story about Jimmy threatening the boy’s
father, but stayed just inside the line where we could start legal
action. I called Gwen, she found me the number of the father, and I
did the dutiful and apologetic bit – at length. I expressed my concern
about his lad hitting Shelly and he was very apologetic in turn. I
assured him that he was in no danger and being silly; Jimmy would
never have hurt him, it was a great big misunderstanding. The family
moved back into their house, having stayed at a relative’s house, and
things would return to normal. Hopefully.
On the Monday morning I drove Shelly to school, the snow now
cleared. She said goodbye for a change, jumped down at the school
gates and walked in. But as I observed, she stopped dead, turned to a
boy poking his tongue out at her, and slugged him with a right hook,
knocking him down. I was out of the car in an instant, running in,
teachers closing in to attend the boy, whose nose was now bleeding.
‘Shelly!’
She became tearful. ‘He hit me!’ she said, stamping a foot.
‘That was the boy?’ I asked, Shelly nodding. I led her inside, and
to the headmaster’s office.
‘Ah, Mister Holton…’ the headmaster stumbled with.
I sighed, frustrated. ‘My darling daughter just punched the boy
who hit her. Nose bleed.’
‘Oh my.’
‘Listen, I’ve sorted it with the parents, at least I had done, and
now this. I would appreciate it if you’d do the job you’re paid for,
and sort this all out. They’re just kids! I know the people who own
this school, and if you can’t get this under control I’ll buy the school
off them and make a few changes. We on the same page, Mister
Headmaster?’
‘I believe we are,’ he reluctantly stated, stiffening and adjusting
his black robe.
‘I’ll leave Shelly in your care.’ I knelt and faced Shelly. ‘The boy
hit you, and you hit him, so you’re even. If I hear of you hitting
anyone else we’ll take you out of school and you’ll study at home.’ I
wagged a warning finger at my tearful daughter, and left, more
frustrated than angered.
In the office I stopped, and let out a loud, exasperated sigh.
‘Shelly just hit that boy with a mean right hook.’
Helen was horrified, Jimmy not commenting. ‘They’ll expel her?’
Helen asked.
‘I doubt it, but we’ll have to wait and see.’ I sat at my desk. ‘But
why don’t you price up some private tutors lunchtime.’
Nothing was said for ten minutes, our office atmosphere like an
“M” Group meeting on a bad day.

Independent thought

I scanned a report from Zimbabwe, and their use of US dollars to

stabilize their economy. It gave me an idea. I called an expert,
without Jimmy knowing, and asked a few questions. That was
followed by a discreet email, in fact a dozen discreet emails, to
various Africa finance ministers: what did you think of a common
economic zone with US dollars as the reserve currency? The result
was fifty-fifty, with half in favour, two wanting to sign-up there and
then. And why wouldn’t they, their own currencies were used as
toilet paper.
I called Kimballa directly and asked him what he thought, hinting
that it would have significant fiscal benefits. He was keen, and also
had no problem with a parallel currency running. We discussed the
new bank, and if it would work in dollars. After the chat, I cheekily
called the Bank of England, and got through to the busy Governor,
taking his advice at length. A common reserve currency, or a
parallel, in the new economic zone would make all transactions
easier, and it would control the typically Africa hyperinflation, but
would also make the nice man in the White House happy. After all,
the US Treasury could print dollars at no cost, and use them to buy
African oil and ore. It would be OPEC all over again.
Concerned that Jimmy wanted to move away from OPEC
working in dollars, I went and found him and confessed to my
research.
‘The problem with OPEC … is not that they deal in dollars, it’s
that they hold a lot of them, and may drop them. The Africans are
far less likely to drop their dollars in the decades ahead.
Unfortunately, if they all switched now, then the US economy would
get a boost now, instead of in 2017 - when they need it. With the
medical benefits we’ve given them, and the wars that they’re not
involved with, their economy would rocket, then crash even worse
in 2017 – if and when OPEC drops the dollar.’
‘Then when would be the best time to do it?’ I asked.
‘From 2010 to 2015, and in slow incremental steps. Start with our
region, and start paying people in dollars. Give them three months
warning then pay all our staff in dollars. Some are already paid that
way, some in Euros.’
‘It was a good idea, then?’
‘Yes, a very good idea, just a little premature,’ Jimmy
commended. ‘Now, you remember what happened with the drug?’
He smiled. ‘Wait for the phone to start ringing. And don’t forget, it
was your idea.’
I stood, and walked frowning down the hall, wondering why the
phone might start ringing.
The next day Han cornered me, wanting an explanation of this
major shift in fiscal policy.
‘It was just an idea to stabilize the currencies of the countries
we’re involved with. Did you have a particular concern?’
‘Did the Americans ask for this?’ Han probed.
‘No, it was my idea. We’ve started the bank, and that will have
branches all over the region. Besides, it’ll be easier for you.’ I then
made an off-the-cuff remark that would have ramifications. ‘You
have a lot of dollars; you could buy Africa ore with them, pay wages
with them.’
Han seemed to have been hit by sudden realisation, and thanked
me, walking off.
‘You’re welcome,’ I said, puzzling his reaction.
I sat with Helen in our house, eating lunch and discussing our
daughter. When my phone went it was Hardon Chase.
‘Paul, you at the house tomorrow?’
‘You can’t come around, we don’t have enough milk in.’
 Chase laughed. ‘Are you there?’
‘Yes, no trips planned, we’re busy trying to figure ways of
disowning our kids.’
‘I’ll be there for 9am,’ Chase informed me.
‘Does that mean you’re bringing a hundred Secret Service
chaps?’
‘It does, unfortunately.’
‘Will your visit to us, and here … piss of the Prime Minister?’ I
nudged.
‘That’s my next call, he’ll meet us there.’
‘Where you landing?’
‘RAF Fairford – if I pronounce it correctly.’
‘I’ll get the kettle on. And more milk.’ The lined clicked dead.
‘Whoops.’
‘He’s coming here?’ Helen puzzled.
‘Wants a room with us.’
‘What!’
I smiled. ‘Just kidding, we’ll stick him in the main house. That is
what it was designed for.’ I walked around to the main entrance,
finding a dozen police cars coming up the drive. I was, however,
reasonably sure that this was not about Shelly. But not completely
sure. In the office I found Jimmy. ‘Chase is coming here.
Tomorrow.’
He turned his head away from his screen, and nodded. ‘Do you
know what you’ve done?’ he calmly asked, returning to his screen.
‘Not … entirely. They want to discuss Africa using dollars?’
‘And if African nations adopted dollars, and their economies
grew as we expect?’
‘They’d … make a buck?’
‘They’d … make a few bucks, a few trillion bucks.’
‘Ah. In which case … we’re popular, yes?’
‘I told them it was all your doing, and your project. They’re
coming to talk to little old you.’
‘Han was being a bit odd earlier, till I suggested they could pay
wages in dollars.’
‘It may be wise not to discuss that with Chase. Very … wise.’
‘Ah.’ I went and found Han, and asked that he keep it quiet,
surprised when he was most insistent that it be kept quiet as well.
The corridors were full of intrigue, as well as police officers with
sniffer dogs. I cornered the senior man. ‘Hey, you!’ I wagged a
warning finger. ‘One of our Alsatians is on heat, and I know what
you coppers are like. If she gets pregnant I’ll arrange a DNA test,
and send you the fucking bill!’
‘I’ll keep an eye on the dogs,’ the man said with a smile.
Meanwhile, the headmaster at the school had been doing a good
job of making the peace. The nice man then decided to drive around
with the parents of the lad, a surprise for us. They crawled along
through two police roadblocks, through the gate – eventually – past
a hundred armed officers and up to the house, imposing at your first
visit at the best of times.
When the gate staff informed me of their arrival I let my head
drop. ‘Helen, we have visitors; the parents of the boy Shelly hit.’
‘Oh Christ! And why now?’
We met their car outside, armed police and dog patrols rushing
about.
I shook the father’s hand, the man looking terrified. ‘It’s not
normally like this, but the US President is popping in for coffee in
the morning.’ I gestured them inside, and to the diner, where Han
and Ivan sat with Jack. We eased into a booth, teas ordered. ‘So,
how’s school?’ I asked the headmaster.
‘Well, we think we’ve ironed out the problems, and the warring
parties have shaken hands and said sorry.’
‘You should come back tomorrow,’ I suggested. ‘See if you can’t
get the Americans, Russians and Chinese doing that.’
‘They … are all coming here?’ the headmaster delicately
enquired.
‘Bit of a pow wow. Actually, we sit and eat and drink, and get
nothing done, but it makes the voters think that they’re earning their
keep.’
The headmaster stared at Han.
‘This is Han, from the Chinese Secret Service, Ivan from the
KGB, and Jack does our rose garden.’
The labelled men bowed their heads in turn.
We all did the parental apologetic bit in turn, and offered to try
and rein in the worst excesses of our kids. It was going well. Then a
dog nipped Jimmy on the shins in the corridor, right outside the
diner.
Jimmy lifted the heavy Alsatian by the scruff, eliciting a horrible
noise from it. ‘If your fucking dog bites me again I’ll bite it back,
then I’ll fucking bite you!’ he roared at the dog handler. We couldn’t
see what he did to the dog, but it sounded horrible. He stepped in
and ordered a tea, sitting at the next booth, eyeing the parents of the
lad. Calmly, he said, ‘I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize
for any misunderstanding. As a sign of good faith, I’d like to offer
you a First Class trip to Kenya, to one of our lodges.’
The father nodded, still looking terrified, as the senior police
officer stepped in. ‘I’d like to apologise for the dog, Mister Silo.
You … won’t be suing us for millions and millions will you?’
‘No, I won’t. Relax.’
The officer stepped out as Sharon stepped in. ‘British PM be here
later, staying overnight.’ Jimmy nodded.
‘Should my government be here as well?’ Han asked Jimmy.
‘They are here – you’re here. Besides, I would never allow major
decisions to be taken without discussing it with them first. Relax, or
I’ll set the dogs on you.’
We agreed to meet the other parents at Gwen’s house in a few
days, and escorted them out through the police. They drove off as
Sykes arrived in a silver Mercedes, his driver opening the door for
him.
‘All this fuss for the President,’ he grumbled. ‘Got a room for
me?’
‘Ask Cookie or Sharon. I guess the police have grabbed a few,
and we don’t know how many Chase is bringing.’
‘Jack has spare rooms, we’ll stay there.’
It took Shelly longer than normal to get home, despite her police
escorts, and she asked what was going on. She thought we were in
trouble, again, and took some reassuring. All night long the police
patrolled around the house, the advance party of Presidential Secret
Service arriving around midnight and running their own checks.
At dawn I noticed two small marquees on the lawn, TV crews
already in place and looking a bit haggard as our security boys
issued them with tea and coffee. I stopped to say hello, a few of the
lady presenters looking less than presentable without their make-up.
When asked about the President’s visit, I pretended that I didn’t
know.
When they asked if it was a snub to the Prime Minister, I
countered with, ‘It was the Prime Minister’s idea to meet here, away
from it all, and Air Force One can land at the US air base up the
road.’
I figured the school headmaster would understand, and kept
Shelly home; she had official business to attend to. In the diner I met
Jimmy and French Michelle. Michelle was now an early riser, and I
wondered if she had been injected – but didn’t ask. It set me to
thinking as I plonked down.
 ‘With the super-drug out there, what are we doing about Rescue
Force staff?’
‘Some have already injected themselves,’ Jimmy reported.
‘Should we not roll out Doc Adam … to them all?’
‘They’d notice the effects – they’re doctors, but I guess we could
hide it behind the super-drug. Yes, tell Doc Adam to widen his
programme, but on a voluntary basis.’
‘And today?’ I nudged.
‘Today is your show,’ he toyed.
‘Oh. Well, some guidance would be good. That way I won’t upset
anyone.’
‘Treat the subject matter as more of a … what if than a certainty,
and take opinions. That’s all.’
‘You want me to chair the meeting?’ I queried.
‘Yes, you need to start practising, young man. I’d say just be your
self – but I won’t. Try and be polite for a change.’
Michelle laughed, getting a wagged finger from me as Sykes
stepped in.
‘We all secure?’ I asked him.
‘Like bleeding Fort Knox,’ Sykes grumbled.
The PM stepped in with his aide.
‘Sleep well?’ I asked.
‘Great rooms,’ he commended, ordering a coffee before he joined
us.
Jimmy faced the PM and said, ‘Chase won’t get all he wants
today.’
The PM stared back for a moment, then nodded.
‘What does he want, exactly?’ I probed.
‘Let him ask,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘No point in having a meeting if
you all have fixed opinions before hand; these are not Middle East
peace talks.’
I headed back and got the girls up. Despite the stems, they still
slept a lot, and behaved much like normal kids – apart from kicking
world leaders in the shins. I had another shave, changed my shirt,
and fussed over what suit to wear. Helen put on her pin-stripe outfit
and looked gorgeous, and we checked each other over before leaving
the house.
‘Do you know what you’ll say?’ she asked.
‘Not a clue.’ Which was true. We didn’t even know exactly what
Chase was after yet. I put the TV on and watched his motorcade
winding its way towards us, inconveniencing the locals. We’d be
even less popular.
 His motorcade pulled in at 8.30am, and it was a good job the
house offered a lot of parking space. That free space had been
cleared of other cars earlier, most now parked on the grass near the
lake. Police helicopters buzzed overhead, and the TV presenters
were ready, make-up slapped on, their hair done. I stepped out as
Chase pulled up, the cameras now filming live, and got myself
filmed shaking his hand as he stepped out of the car. He waved at
the press before following me inside.
As we progressed, I quickly got out, ‘We can’t talk alone without
a major incident, so the “M” Group representatives need to be in on
it.’
‘I figured that.’
We entered the dining room, the others stood waiting, greetings
exchanged. Good job it was a large room. It took ten minutes to
settle everyone, drinks brought in. Notepads were taken out, the
President’s aides making ready, all eight of them. And for this trip
he had dragged along the head of the Federal Reserve and his
Treasury Secretary. That nailed it; this was about the dollar being
used in Africa.
I stood. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, electioneering politicians, hard
working aides.’ They laughed.
‘Is it an election year?’ Chase asked, causing more laughter.
‘Yes. Now, I guess that we’re here to discuss African fiscal
policy, especially in relation to the dollar, and the proposed future
use of the dollar there. So, I’ll start at the beginning, since this is
fluid, and moving quickly.
‘We’ve created a sub-Saharan economic co-operation group, and
they meet in the Goma hub conference centre. It’s obvious that we
wish that group to grow in stature, and for the existing African
Union to be less influential. We’ve also created a bank in the region,
the purpose being to offer venture capital at good rates to boost
business and to help fledgling businesses. It will also help the
movement of money around the DRC mining areas. To that end, we
have decided to simplify things and pay our staff in US dollars in the
region, since the local currencies are … volatile, to say the least.
May I ask, at this point, if other “M” Group nations plan on paying
their workers in dollars?’
‘We do,’ Ivan stated.
‘If it is convenient and desirable,’ Han stated, making me puzzle
that.
 ‘We have not discussed it,’ Michelle offered, the British PM
saying that it made little difference, but might be easier. They were,
however, all certain that it would add stability to wages.
‘OK, in addition to paying wages in dollars, we have – very
recently – floated the idea of our region in the DRC adopting the
dollar as its official currency. That would simplify things for
everyone there, although many transactions are already dealt with in
dollars or Euros and outside of the region, bank to bank.’
‘Is it certain?’ Chase asked. ‘Your region will adopt the dollar?’
‘More or less,’ I replied. ‘We still have to finalise it with
Kimballa. And, given that our region is – in fiscal terms – a heck of
a lot bigger than the Kinshasa economy, they’d surely follow suit.
So that would mean that the DRC adopts the dollar, as well as
Zimbabwe already using them.’
‘And the other nations?’ Chase nudged.
‘Somali is already in favour, Kenya could probably be persuaded,
and the small nations would sign-up straight away. Zambia and
Tanzania are considering it.’
‘How keen … is Tanzania?’ Chase probed.
‘Their own currency is starting to climb against its neighbours,
which means that small businesses there are suffering at the hands of
the oil dollar. I’m sure they would be interested. Sierra Leone and
Liberia are keen, as is Rwanda.’
‘That covers most of Central Africa,’ Chase noted.
‘It’ll be discussed at the next meeting of the co-operation group,
which is –’
‘Six weeks,’ Helen put in.
‘Six weeks,’ I repeated. ‘From our point of view, it makes life
easier, and should make it easier to trade between nations. But, it
will take many years to roll out, assuming that all of the various
nations wish to join up.’
Chase said, ‘We’ll be happy to help your bank, to send you a few
experts to help out and to build a relationship with the US banks.’
‘Can never have enough experts,’ I quipped. ‘By all means, send
them.’
‘Do you have revised estimated GDP figures for the region?’
Chase asked.
Jimmy handed over a sheet. ‘They’re provisional. And I’ve
factored in a five year roll-out.’
Chase showed his colleagues. ‘And if we desired to accelerate
that process?’
 ‘We’d be concerned about a boom and bust cycle,’ I told Chase.
‘We expect that OPEC may drop the dollar around 2017. Any
support you get from African dollars should peak at that time,
should it not?’
‘Well, perhaps…’ Chase admitted.
Jimmy said, ‘So we would need to see some measures in place to
avoid a boom and bust - to be encouraged to accelerate that process,
always assuming that the Africans will co-operate.’
‘Measures?’ Chase queried.
‘I’m sure that the fine and good gentlemen that you brought with
you could work out a strategy that means there’d be no dramatic
economic benefit, but a smooth curve. Perhaps they could work on
such measures today and tonight, and we’d discuss it again in the
morning.’
Chase glanced at his people and nodded.
Michelle asked, ‘Will this boost the US economy?’
‘Since your economy is linked, do you worry about it?’ Jimmy
asked her. ‘It will brush off on you, as my good habits brush off on
you.’
Everyone at the table froze, Michelle staring back.
‘We’re not worried,’ the British PM stated, breaking the tension,
people hiding smiles.
‘We’re in favour,’ Dave Gardener put in for Israel, making us
laugh.
‘Russia has not decided yet,’ Ivan declared.
‘A stable currency in the region will benefit all,’ Jimmy told Ivan.
‘OK, let’s break for one hour, and I’ll meet with each of you in turn,
so please consult with your governments.’ To the British PM he
said, ‘You can consult with yourself.’
‘It’s the only way anyone listens!’ our PM retorted.
Fresh drinks were ordered as Jimmy and I led the US delegation
to a lounge, security trailing behind. Everyone settled around a
coffee table, drinks placed down, biscuit tins opened, ties loosened.
‘So, what do we need to do to get this moving?’ Chase asked.
‘All that’s in question … is the speed, not the process,’ Jimmy
insisted.
‘So what measures?’ the Secretary of the Treasury asked.
‘A control of house price rises, control of personal debt, and no
wild spending plans.’
‘We’re Republicans,’ Chase noted with a grin. ‘We don’t believe
in public spending.’
‘You’ve cut taxes?’ I asked.
 ‘Small cuts, yes. A … health dividend,’ Chase suggested.
‘Insurance premiums are falling, direct pressure from me.’
‘Good,’ Jimmy commended. ‘The world’s health services will
need an overhaul. There are, apparently, a few out-of-work doctors.’
‘That’s already causing problems. But, they can’t have it both
ways,’ Chase stated. ‘So, if we work out a five year plan…’ He held
his hands wide.
Jimmy said, ‘I’d also work out a five year plan, and then you’d
print lots of dollars and get something for nothing from Africa.’
‘We want Tanzania,’ an aide put in.
‘No doubt,’ Jimmy quipped. ‘And we’ll do whatever we can to
help, we just desire a smooth curve, not a boom and bust. And whilst
we’re on that, housing prices are overheating, and your investment
bank, Liebermans, is stretching itself. Its bubble will burst, and take
down a few others when it does. If you don’t act I’ll cause a run on
it.’
They made a note.
Jimmy added, ‘And you could nudge domestic interest rates up a
bit, dampening the housing market, or build more low cost units.’
We met with Han ten minutes later.
‘You’ll be able to offload more dollars than they realise,’ Jimmy
told Han. ‘And quietly. Besides, if the region grows, then the
Africans will buy cheap goods, your goods, over expensive
American goods. You can still sell in the Yuan if you wish.’
‘My government will take your advice on this, since they are still
analysing it.’
‘Your country is not the problem; an unstable America is the
problem, and this will help at a critical moment.’
Ivan had no problem, or opinion, either way, but Michelle
conveyed European ‘concern’ over favouring the dollar. We grabbed
the President and stepped out to the cameras for a little
electioneering, several US news crews now joining their British
colleagues.
Jimmy began, ‘President Chase is visiting today … to once again
try and urge me to buy American goods for Africa, and that’s what
America needs: you need your salesmen out there selling your goods
and fighting your corner. I am sure that, by the end of this session,
even greater investments will be made in Africa, because I am
fighting their corner. We are also looking at adopting the dollar for
our region of the Congo.’
He made way for Chase, who gave a speech aimed at the folks
back home, followed by the British Prime Minister sucking-up. The
next photo-op was scheduled for the morning, the press booted out
to nearby hotels. That left us re-convening the “M” Group meeting
and airing opinions, which led to lunch around the table, and talk of
other matters.
Shelly came over, and sat asking the President innocuous
questions, such as why did he have so many bodyguards, and so why
did people not like him? Then she asked if, when he stopped
working at the White House, they would put him in a mausoleum –
being careful to pronounce it correctly.
‘Not my doing,’ I insisted as people laughed. ‘Must get it from
school.’
Chase told Shelly, ‘They put dead Russian leaders in
mausoleums. Former American Presidents make a living by visiting
those countries that no one else would visit.’
The various Presidential aides met with the “M” Group
representatives during the day, and we all sat down to a working
meal in the evening, relaxing in the lounges afterwards as the aides
continued to scurry about. At least they did not have far to go,
Cookie keeping everyone happy with coffee and tasty bites.
The following day, at the morning session, the Chinese made a
statement through Han, wishing to see projected figures and plans.
Ivan echoed that, and we got into percentages, but more or less
amicably. Chase and Jimmy made another electioneering speech,
and announced a few new deals, plus the planned new train route.
We bid Chase and our Prime Minister goodbye, the house slowly
returning to normal. When all of our guests had finally departed, and
the police had left us, our own staff performed a thorough search of
everything, Big Paul organising things. He found a watch, a ring, a
few coins, some notes, but no bugs. Calm reclaimed the house.
In the weeks that followed, Shelly came home each day happy
enough, and we sighed with relief when a day without incident was
marked off the calendar. She then brought home a boy from class. I
found myself asking him questions: what he wanted to be when he
grew up, how his studies were going, till Helen grabbed me and
stopped me. I was in shock; my seven-year-old daughter had a male
friend. I always figured I’d not let her have a boyfriend till she was
perhaps thirty – or older. I spied on them through a crack in the
door.
Floods and quakes

The dramatic effect that the super-drug was having on the world was
not abating, and the news was still full of it. It had already resulted
in job losses, that dark cloud counterbalanced by money saved in the
health budgets. There was talk of tax cuts here, which made us, and
the current government, popular. That just left the problem of a few
out of work doctors. University places were cut back, and the first
protests by medics had taken place. Jimmy then annoyed me by
making an off-the cuff comment that made the front pages: ‘Doctors
in this country would prefer people to be sick, and dying in pain - it
helps them justify their salaries.’ It did not help the mood of the
medics.
As the weather improved through the spring, the world underwent
an adjustment, a large adjustment. And it was all our doing. The
number of emotional TV reports about people coming back from the
edge of death had eased; it was now common and of little interest to
the TV viewing public. The Chinese were happy enough, making a
killing from being the first to package and sell the drug, and we
dispatched close to a million vials to Africa. It wasn’t enough for
Africa, nowhere near enough, and that was deliberate. We didn’t aim
to cure everyone, and even allowed the middle classes to buy a
dozen vials each. We did, however, make sure that all medics and
NGO staff working in Africa took priority.
That programme led us to the next meeting of the co-operation
group in Goma, where we floated the idea of an economic
federation, whilst not pushing the adoption of the US dollar too hard.
The DRC, Zambia, Malawi, Burundi, Rwanda, Zimbabwe, Sierra
Leone, Guinea, Liberia and Somali joined the economic group
straight away, and we did not push the others. We did, however,
explain that our banks would give preference to those countries as
far our as investment capital was concerned – quite an attractive
incentive. Kenya and Tanzania resisted joining the economic group
until they were sure that it did not mean that their hard earned
wealth, what it was, would be shared with the poorer neighbouring
countries. So much for African unity.
Kimballa signed off on our region adopting the US dollar, and the
whole of the DRC adopted the dollar as a parallel currency until
such time as all of the local notes had been collected in. Chase was
happy. He printed a shit load of dollars and flew them over.
 Not to be outdone by Chase, Senator Pedersen met us in Goma
with his colleagues and inspected Gotham City at length, the tallest
tower being his own. I showed him around our hospital, TV crews
filming his party entering, which was odd considering that the place
was mostly staffed by Cubans. Still, he wandered around the wards
with me, meeting and greeting staff and patients. The hospital still
issued super-drug vials, and surgical health tourism was growing
rapidly. The westerners in the region all made use of the facilities,
and mine managers often sent their workers here for the best care
after accidents – which were plentiful. The hospital now offered a
thousand beds and edged close to its capacity on a bad day. At the
rear of the hospital sat three white RF Hueys, kept busy acting as
ambulances for far off mines.
Our new hospital administrators had begun their observations
here, the group’s overall director remaining whilst the others set off
on their travels. We found the overall director in an office next door
to the African director’s office, next door to the hospital director. He
showed us a map on the wall, pointing out the coloured pins for
hospitals now open in Nairobi and Kinshasa, the first South
American centre opening in Rio de Janeiro. Others were being
constructed from scratch.
Jimmy had handed me this project, and did not interfere. I now
had this project to oversee, the nightclubs, Pineapple Music, the
bank and the medical supply companies. I’d consult with Jimmy if I
was unsure about a direction, but otherwise would make my own
decisions. That freed up Jimmy to plot and scheme in world politics,
and spend time staring at the grass or at the wall, which occupied a
fair bit of his time.
Arriving back in the UK, I decided to be bold. It was either that,
or to get snowed under with work. I found Jimmy in a lounge,
watching the TV news. ‘I was thinking of building another office,
somewhere nearby, then I’d stuff all of my projects and staff in it.’
‘Where?’ he asked without taking his gaze off the TV news.
‘Back of the house, down by the fence, other side of the red-roof
houses. Office block, two storey, twenty offices.’
He shook his head. ‘Up past the lake, over the road, is a farm up
for sale. Grab it, and use that. Put a tunnel under the public road; it’s
raised anyway. Oh, and put some apartments up there for staff and
visitors, the kind that don’t need to come in here.’
With Helen helping, I got to work buying the land, and sat down
with Rolf the architect. It had been a while since we’d worked on
anything together, and he was still busy buying houses for us and
renovating them. I handed him a specification, and left him to come
up with a few drawings. I asked for a large room with a large desk,
so he had to adjust his drawings at the second meeting. Scanning his
latest offerings, I then asked for the ground floor windows to made
smaller, and positioned higher, and made the walls thicker; bomb
proof. Behind the office block would sit a block of thirty apartments
hidden behind tall trees. We duly received planning permission and
got to work.
Four weeks prior to a storm hitting Myanmar, we invited
representatives of their secretive junta over to London and met them
at the club. They did not have an RF unit, and had never expressed
an interest in one.
‘We would like you to consider allowing Rescue Force staff
access to your country if you suffer floods in the future,’ Jimmy
began, Han in on the meeting. ‘We have many countries to call
upon, so you may be selective on which rescuers you allow in.’
‘We can deal with our own country … and our own people,’ they
politely stated, making me wonder why the hell they had flown over.
‘But if you allow in our rescuers, and our aid, then you will have
to spend less money yourselves,’ Jimmy pointed out. ‘And such a
joint venture between us may lead to us putting pressure on those
that organise sanctions against you, and criticise you.’
I smiled, and forced it away when they stared at me.
‘You have much influence,’ they noted.
‘We’d also like joint oil projects in your country,’ Jimmy told
them. ‘So, coming back to Rescue Force. What we would like to do,
is to ask you if rescuers from China, Indonesia, India, and other
nations could help you in the event of a flood.’ He handed them a
list of nations. ‘Please choose which nations would be acceptable to
you. Then, if you have a flood, they could assist, and it would be a
first step towards us working together in the future – and towards me
busting some sanctions.’
‘We will consider your proposal –’
‘I’d like an answer by tomorrow,’ Jimmy cut in with. ‘Then, we
can talk about oil, money, and sanctions. I’d like to meet here again,
tomorrow at 3pm.’ We stood and shook their hands, getting back
bewildered looks, not least by the short duration on the meeting.
That evening we met Po, over on a visit, and enjoyed a meal at
the Chinese restaurant, Shelly now adept at the chopsticks, Lucy
coming along. I still used a fork. Later, in the old apartment, when
the girls had been put to bed in the spare room, Helen, Jimmy and
myself in sat in the lounge with mugs of tea.
 ‘This is where it all began,’ I told Helen. ‘And you know the odd
thing - I keep picturing you here, but you weren’t.’
‘That was Judy,’ Jimmy pointed out. ‘Or maybe Katie Joe, or one
of the others.’
I wagged a warning finger as he grinned.
‘It’s transposition,’ Helen insisted. ‘People and places. I
sometimes picture Jimmy at my boarding school.’
‘In a skirt?’ I asked.
‘I was there, off an on,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘I visited perhaps …
ten times.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Had to time it right - when Helen’s uncle would attack her.’
‘And you topped the bugger,’ I remembered.
‘How does it turn out?’ Helen asked after a moment, staring into
her tea.
‘Which bit?’ Jimmy asked.
‘The three of us,’ she said.
‘I won’t say - exactly, but you’ll be there … at the end.’
‘Can you fix it?’ she asked, now lifting her gaze to him.
‘Don’t know … is the simple answer. And I sometimes think that
I’m determined to try and fix it for the wrong reason.’
‘Do explain,’ I nudged.
‘I sometimes think … that it’s a challenge to me – to fix it – and
not a desire to save human life.’
‘Right thing for the wrong reason,’ I quipped. ‘Just like Chase.
So, does it matter?’
‘Not really, the end result speaks for itself,’ Jimmy said with a
sigh.
‘And Shelly has a role to play?’ Helen asked.
‘Yes … and no.’
‘Come again?’ I asked.
‘She has an important role, but I know what she does, and could
do it without her – to a degree. That’s not to lessen her achievement,
but it’s an achievement that I already know about.’
‘Then why re-invent something?’ Helen puzzled.
‘I may not be around when she grows up. So, she should re-
invent it. Besides, I have a question to ask her when she’s older.’
‘Question?’ I puzzled. ‘How could she know the answer, in the
future, if you don’t?’
‘Wait and see,’ he enigmatically stated.
‘What about the message?’ I nudged.
 ‘It may not have been your daughter who sent it. The message
has a hidden meaning.’
I took a moment. ‘I was sat right here when you first told me who
you were; scared the crap out of me. Then you played to my
weaknesses.’
‘Money and girls,’ Helen put in with a sigh.
‘Yep. That and the fact that I’d be rich.’
‘Does your dear lady wife know just how much you’re worth?’
Jimmy toyed.
‘Hell no! She may want to divorce me.’
‘How much are you worth?’ Helen pressed. ‘How much are we
worth?’
‘Over a billion pounds,’ I told her.
‘Might be worth divorcing you,’ she joked.
‘Your daughters would never forgive you,’ Jimmy quietly stated,
stopping Helen dead. ‘And they may restrict access to the
grandchildren.’
After a brief awkward silence, I said, ‘Stuck with me, love.’
The next afternoon, the delegation from Myanmar were a little
more amenable. A deal was struck, allowing in Chinese, Indian and
Indonesians rescuers. And, oddly enough, the French. On the way
back, we dropped in to Mapley.
‘Awake, Bob?’ I asked as we entered.
‘Deployment on?’ he asked, looking up from a mountain of
paperwork, now a wedding ring on his finger after a private
ceremony on the Maldives.
Jimmy explained, ‘Crusty is predicting a major quake in China in
May, mid May. It’ll be a major deployment, so warn everyone now.’
‘How many we sending?’ Bob asked.
‘Around sixty percent; hundred jeeps and two-dozen Hueys.
Cubans will go, but no one else from the Americas. No black
Africans; Chinese can be a bit prejudiced.’
‘Who’ll head it up?’ Bob enquired.
‘Hancock from Hong Kong, he speaks the language,’ Jimmy
explained. ‘Right, next. There’s a UN mission in South Ossetia,
northern Georgia. Get hold of Handy and Rabbit in Mawlini and get
some mine clearance going. I also want a team of fifty sent over
there to … assist, and to provide cover for the mine clearers, plus
hearts and minds to the locals. Send them in via Russia, and get RF
Russia in there. I also want some money thrown at a few NGOs to
help clean the place up a bit.’
 Bob took notes. After a thirty-minute chat we met a few of the
national representatives, and toured the busy base, ending up in the
AMO building. They showed us the latest dummy, the Silo Stiffy,
and I was aghast at how lifelike the damn thing was. As I leant in
and studied it, the head turned and the eyes opened. ‘Help!’ it said,
shocking me upright, the instructors bursting out laughing.
‘Fuckers!’ I whispered.
‘It’s all computer controlled from next door,’ they explained.
‘Voice box as well now; it describes where it hurts in several
languages. You also get make-believe shit to stuff in the colon, bile,
the works. One of these in every frigging hospital now.’
‘Give the out-of-work medics something to do,’ I quipped.
‘Plenty of those about,’ they informed me. ‘Lots more applying to
Rescue Force as well!’
‘Kiss me, Paul,’ the dummy asked in its mechanical voice,
everyone bar me laughing.
‘Fuck … right … off!’
‘Touch me there,’ it said as we left. ‘Please, don’t go!’
The Myanmar flood, created by a cyclone, caused a great deal of
damage, but the authorities duly allowed in the nominated rescuers,
and NGOs to help with the clean up – which would take a while.
That left us to concentrate on the Chinese quake, for which we
packed our bags and headed off to Beijing via Moscow.
Security at Beijing airport was tight, and we were whisked away
in a coach, around to a hotel that Po’s family had built with
permission of the People’s Republic, and now a favourite haunt of
westerners. Po greeted us at the hotel, the manager and his staff
lined up ready. That annoyed me a little, since I just wanted a
shower and a bite to eat, not to be treated like royalty. After ten
minutes of greetings we made our excuses and headed to our allotted
room, two small beds laid on for the girls, Cat in an adjoining room.
Not wanting to face the mêlée below, we ordered room service and
unsociably ate in the room. When Jimmy called, I said we’d face the
bustle in the morning, and he didn’t request our presence.
In the morning, we all sat down to breakfast together and
discussed the itinerary, the first task being to meet those Chinese
officials that constituted their internal “M” Group, Po figuring it to
be about business in Africa. Han turned up as we finished breakfast,
Cat given charge of the girls till Han brought forwards a Chinese
language teacher. The girls would now get some practical Chinese
lessons, which pleased me.
 Glancing at the smog on the horizon on this warm morning, I
boarded the coach with Jimmy, Helen and Han, and we journey the
short distance around to the grey and drab government buildings,
through tight security and to the same building that we had attended
before. I remembered the first time that I had arrived here; I was
terrified, and wondered if we’d ever leave. Now, my head was full
of scenarios, plans, ambitions, and problems to solve; but no fear.
They led us along familiar corridors and down into the bowels of the
building, a few familiar faces waiting, many new ones. Han
introduced me to his assistant.
‘My sister is not a goat,’ the man quipped, dead pan features.
‘Although she is starting to grow a beard.’
I laughed, impressed at how far the stiff Chinese had come in
adopting trivial western humour, not sure if it was progress or not.
Helen had been studying Chinese for quite some time, not wishing
to be left out, and greeted the officials in reasonable phrases. And,
unlike the White House, we had a plentiful supply of tea and coffee
on hand, even biscuits. With cups in hand, we settled about the same
huge table, white boards and maps sat ready.
‘I’ll start with a summary briefing, if that’s OK with you,’ Jimmy
began. The Interior Minister gestured Jimmy towards a white board.
‘Let us start with Afghanistan, Pakistan and India. The Taliban took
heavy casualties from the Somalis, and have not fully recovered. We
continue to supply the Northern Alliance, and the checks and
balances are maintained. Al-Qa’eda continues to attack Northern
Somalia, which is a good thing – we are capturing and killing their
fighters – and they are not directing their interest towards the west.
They are, unfortunately, directing some interest towards Zanzibar
and the oilfields. The interest they’re showing is perhaps forty
percent more than I had anticipated, which may be due to the
acceleration of the extraction from that oilfield. All alterations of the
timeline have consequences.
‘Now, with the use of PACT in Africa, we’re on top of al-Qa’eda
in the horn of Africa, and Zanzibar has settled down. Please note,
that it is my intention to use PACT aggressively in sub-Saharan
Africa to quell all terrorists groups and freedom fighters. You should
also note that PACT will have a key role in the 2025 preparations.
Coming back to Afghanistan, I am happy with where we are. It is
not ideal, but it is neither moving forwards nor backwards. It is
contained, and the Americans will not invade, not with Chase in
office at least.
 ‘Pakistan is getting support from America and Britain, and
making arrests of al-Qa’eda operatives as they move in and out of
Afghanistan. We’ve had an officer placed inside their army for many
years, and the man is now a general. We pay him, and he keeps the
pressure up on al-Qa’eda. He also provides us with information.
‘OK, India. The commando unit now numbers just over six
hundred men, paid and equipped by me, and they enjoy regular
training exercises in Africa. So far they have successfully
intercepted each terror attack by Pakistani Taliban fighters. We have
also struck a deal with the Indians, as you know, to keep those
attacks out of the press. As we speak, the Indians are aware of the
men who will plot against Pakistan with a bomb aimed at Israel. I
see no danger of that plot developing. Instead, the greatest danger is
that the story leaks out. There will be further attacks in India next
week, and the commandos are sat waiting.
‘Africa. The growth curve of the region is well above that which
we anticipated, as is the oil output, and the growth of the Zanzibar
field. I will admit to making some changes there to try and fix other
problems, such as Iranian nuclear ambitions. We also have the
situation where President Chase, someone who I expected to be at
war with, is now on board one hundred percent. As a result of that,
he has invested in the region, and the region continues to grow way
above our previous estimates. All projects are ahead of schedule by
at least one or two years, some five years.
‘Most recently, we accelerated the release of the super-drug, with
the profound affect that it is having on the world, and on cutting
health budgets around the world. Most significantly, it will cut
western health budgets. You must factor in an increase in spending
by the west on your goods.
‘In Africa, we have created the airline as planned, and that is
stable. Despite subsidising the flights, its near one hundred percent
usage is causing a profit. We have also created the bank, as planned,
and that is growing steadily. All mines and oil operations will soon
use that bank, and we can be sure of smooth money flows around the
region, and payment transactions between buyers and sellers. As you
are aware, our region has adopted the US dollar a full five years
ahead of schedule, for reasons that I will outline later. President
Chase is now very keen to see the economic region we have created
grow, and use to dollars. The danger there … is of an overheated
western economy. But I’m afraid we started that process with the
release of the drug. As such, I have asked the various governments
to nudge up domestic interest rates. Whilst discussing President
Chase - he will win the next election easily, and will have my
assistance doing so. OK, questions.’
The Interior Minister started simple. ‘The biggest problem in the
next five years?’
‘I think that, with the factors in play – especially in America –
that Cuba and Venezuela have been dealt with as potential
flashpoints. That goes for a 2015 American attack on you. The US
economy will be buoyant for the next five years at least, with the
health benefit extending well beyond that. I believe that with Cuban
oil, African oil and electric cars, the worst elements of the energy
crisis will be dealt with as well. That leaves earthquakes in several
modern cities causing severe economic problems, plus pandemics up
to 2017, and eventually an OPEC crisis.’
‘Will your plans in Africa be enough to counter-balance OPEC?’
‘No, never. But it may soften the blow some,’ Jimmy suggested.
‘That, coupled with a strong US economy between now and then,
and we’re in a much better position. The danger is that Chase allows
the economy to heat up, and that US banks take bigger risks because
of the feel-good factor. There is also a danger that the next
Democratic President may spend what money Chase has tucked
away under the sofa.’
‘No significant problems between now and 2015?’ they asked.
‘We’ve altered the time line, so we’re in new and uncharted
waters,’ Jimmy cautioned. ‘There is always the danger of the
unpredictable. In 2010 there will be a major quake in Haiti, followed
by another in Chile, and the economic costs will be high. We’ll then
suffer a quake in Europe that will cause severe economic hardship.
The Ukraine may tear itself apart around 2011, but I’m hoping that
the Russians get on top of that. If I was to make a guess, then I’d say
that an overheated economy is the greatest danger, followed by
exposure of myself and the “M” Group.’
‘You expect exposure?’
‘I expect the Europeans to accidentally disclose details and,
combined with the super-drug, it will arouse suspicions. It was
always my plan to deal with exposure around 2010. But, now that
we have the co-operation of the Americans, that may be put back.’
We got into small detail for an hour before breaking for lunch,
eating upstairs. And I still didn’t have the hang of chopsticks. Han
thoughtfully fetched me a fork as Helen and Jimmy made do with
chopsticks. In the afternoon session we got into arguing growth
curves for Africa, and the benefits that the US was receiving.
 ‘Listen,’ Jimmy began, sounding a little frustrated. ‘You … are
not the problem. Future American presidents are the problem, that
and a volatile western economy, and it’s those two that I’m
interested in. You’re not going to invade anyone or be reckless with
your economy. So if I take a few percentage points off you and give
it to them … so be it. You can count the costs in Yuan, but if the
plan goes wrong out there you’ll count the cost it in bodies!’
An hour later we broke for the day, no doubt to give them time to
come up with even more questions. Back at the hotel, Helen and I
found the girls in colourful Chinese outfits, a floral patterned silk,
and looking just gorgeous. We snapped pictures with our phones
before grabbing the digital camera. The girls kept the outfits on
during dinner, Po joining us, Han explained that the outfits were a
gift from him. They were simple, and inexpensive, yet a delight.
The next day Helen made her excuses, not following much of the
talks, and took the girls to the zoo with our Chinese minders. Jimmy
and I re-entered the bunker and rolled up our sleeves, the Finance
Minister and his team now in attendance. Making use of a translator
for some words and phrases, I detailed my areas of operation, the
new bank and the hospitals. The hospitals were of little interest to
them, other than the fact they were part owned by CAR – in which
they had a stake. They were, however, very interested in the bank. I
cut a potentially long conversation short, and quite innocently.
‘Why don’t you send an expert or two to work at the bank – help
to give me some guidance, eh?’ It stopped them dead, and left them
nowhere to go with further probing questions. I explained, ‘The aim
of the bank is to assist with venture capital to established African
businesses, to increase the GDP … and to make consumers of them
sooner.’
‘And the medical equipment factories?’ they nudged.
‘They should help you a lot,’ I suggested, already knowing their
objections. ‘They lower western medical bills, which means the
western governments can offer tax breaks, and so people spend
more. More spending helps you. President Chase has already
lowered taxes and US consumer spending is up a few points. Is that
not good for you?’
They reluctantly agreed, Jimmy sat quietly, observing our hosts
more than myself.
The Minister asked, ‘Which African businesses – which types of
African businesses – will do well in the decades ahead?’
‘Exports will never amount to much, its an internal marketplace
in support of ore, oil and tourism. But, as they grow, their cities will
have all the same needs as western cities, so they’ll have all sorts of
businesses. The growth sector in the next ten years will be those
businesses that support the mines.’ I glanced at Jimmy, and he
seemed happy with report. Well, the monkey had listened to the
organ grinder often enough.
Jimmy took over, and we got into the small detail of a twenty-
year plan that had been seriously disrupted due to recent events. We
factored in revenue from the drug, that revenue diminishing next
year, but still offering up a great deal of money considering how
cheap it was for them to produce. Those figures were programmed
into a laptop by two earnest Chinese geeks. They were just like
western geeks, only more so. We then factored in the increased
western buying of Chinese goods due to tax breaks, the Zanzibar oil,
and the ore from Africa. On the minus side, we asked for money for
the next generation of nuclear power stations, for very conventional
desalination plants that were quite unconventional, and their rollout
to Somalia and Jordan. We also piled on financial requests for dams
in the DRC and Uganda and a pipeline across to Lake Victoria,
another pipeline the other side feeding Kenya.
The geeks did their sums, and their paymasters reluctantly agreed
that they were way ahead of the curve. Jimmy then gave them two
future dates, and suggested that both would cause a sharp drop in
western spending in China, and that was factored in, although it was
hard to estimate the effects. I then piped up and insisted that the
Chinese’s own savings in healthcare be factored in, plus extra
productivity from its workers as a result.
After three hours we had an adjusted growth curve that left China
in a very healthy position in the decades ahead. In order to wipe the
smiles of their faces, Jimmy detailed two pandemics that would kill
fifty million Chinese – even with the drug – plus a rise in middle
class dissention. Our hosts factored in a drop in productivity, due to
many of their key workers being quite dead at the time, and they
adjusted their figures at two key points. That caused a lot of debate,
and further thought would now have to be given as to how to plan
ahead for it.
After lunch, we again got into the small detail, answered specific
questions, discussed the quake deployment, and broke at 3pm to
meet with the current Premier in his office.
When I shook his hand, he said, ‘If you label my sister as a goat
I’ll have you taken out and shot.’ He held his cold stare on me, then
smiled, gesturing us to seats. I began breathing again.
Han sat with us, tea made in small cups as we settled.
 The Premier continued, ‘Of course, it is an odd statement - to
mention someone’s sister here in China - since none have siblings.’
‘And a good policy that is,’ Jimmy mentioned, being carefully
studied.
‘I believe we are ready for the earthquake,’ the Premier added.
‘And I must admit, foresight is a wonderful thing. Although, some
days I wonder if our ability to solve problems is lessened by that
knowledge – and our lack of desire to seek solutions for the
unknown.’
‘A swordsman must practice,’ Jimmy acknowledged. ‘Till he
turns his sword into a plough to work the fields.’
‘Indeed,’ the Premier acknowledged with a forced smile.
‘Although I do not follow such … Christian doctrine.’
‘I’m surprised that you knew the reference,’ Jimmy responded.
‘There are a great many Christians here,’ the Premier
acknowledged. ‘Many phrases woven into our language from your
early missionaries. Are you … a Christian, Mister Silo?’
‘I raise my head and shout at whoever is up there every day,’
Jimmy replied.
‘If you ever get to meet him, you will have a lot to discuss – after
some lengthy apologies.’ We laughed. ‘Now, what do you believe –
or indeed know – about problems we may have with our middle
classes in the future?’
‘That they are easily dealt with – in comparison.’
‘In … comparison?’
‘If you were to compare the houses, household goods, and
luxuries that your people possess… against America, then there is a
shortfall, followed by a natural desire to copy. But if you were to
consider that the Americans offer greater freedom, then that freedom
comes with a price, namely not much of a safety net. They are free
to lose their jobs, to have no healthcare, to suffer high crime rates,
and to live on the streets. You need only manufacture a large net and
sell its virtues, especially in the years ahead when known problems
hit America and the west. They … will suffer great volatility, whilst
you will plod along steadily – yet surely.
‘And, at the end of the day, democracy is over-rated. Once every
four years we get to vote for someone who is not obliged to keep his
election promises, who will do a bad job, and then change to
someone else – leaving a mess behind. The people cannot vote on
individual polices, and big business directs the politicians.
Democracy, in the west, is a commodity that can be bought, or
lobbied for. In America, the Jews are a tiny minority, yet their lobby
groups enjoy a hundred percent success in influencing presidents,
something that will backfire in the future. The blacks and Hispanics
are large minority groups, but have no political clout. In the future
that will change, especially the Hispanic influence.
‘The one good thing about the advancement of technology, is that
the internet allows individuals to voice their opinions, and in the
future that will be real-time, people making their voices heard by
clicking a button and voting. That’s real democracy, which is about
the people voting, not about corrupt politicians trying to make
themselves popular.’
‘An interesting viewpoint, and I will consider our safety net,’ the
Premier offered.
‘Don’t worry about your political system,’ Jimmy told him.
‘When things go badly wrong in the west they’ll admire your
stability, and your ability to react to a crisis. At the end of the day,
people don’t know that all they want is a roof over their heads and
some food – till it’s not there!’
‘We receive criticism every week from American civil rights
activists and politicians,’ the Premier stated, ‘whilst the American
President asks if we can buy more Treasury bonds. We are ungodly
barbarians to be criticised in public, yet asked to loan them money in
private – now America’s single largest creditor.’
‘To try and judge western politicians by any measure of logic –
would be a waste of valuable time,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘China is a
whorehouse.’
The Premier blinked. ‘What!’
I stopped breathing.
‘They like to visit you in the dark of night, yet condemn your
impropriety during the daylight hours,’ Jimmy said with a grin.
The Premier cocked an eyebrow. ‘I doubt that I will make use of
that analogy, Mister Silo. Even in the dark of night.’
We made small talk for twenty minutes, stood for a photo, and
then headed back to the hotel. The girls were full of news about
baby Pandas that they had been allowed to feed, digital images
displayed for me on their cameras.
The next day we hopped onto the coach and drove for two hours,
leaving the smog of Beijing for the coast, and to the nearest supply
of salt water. Our coach negotiated its way through a well-guarded
building site, and arrived at a small and experimental desalination
plant.
Traditional desalination involved boiling water, capturing the
steam, cooling it and making pure water from it; drinking water.
That process of distillation used up energy, which typically came
from electricity, possibly generated by a nuclear power station. This
first plant that we visited used the sun’s energy to heat the air
between glass panels, a large area of glass laid out in front of us, the
size of a football pitch. Salt water was being pumped in one end,
drinking water produced at the other end. Other than capital costs, it
was cheap to run, but did not convert much water compared to its
powerful counterparts. Still, it would be implemented in Somali
since it was cheap to run. The next plant looked similar, but
contained millions of what appeared to be glass tubes.
‘The tubes are made from plastic, from oil,’ Jimmy explained.
‘Salt water goes in one end, the water evaporates and is collected in
good volume. At night, the pipes are flushed with additional
seawater to remove the accumulated salt, then a little fresh water
with some chemicals in. Compared to the first plant, this is much
cheaper to build in Africa; it has few moving parts and maintenance
is very low.’
‘So we use the local oil to make them, to make the pipes,’ I
noted.
Jimmy nodded. ‘But at some point in the future, someone will
notice fresh water supplies not far from the coast in Somali.
Between those supplies and the ocean are certain types of rock that
produce the osmosis and membrane effects, filtering the water. The
first large-scale test is just about ready, a few miles up the coast
from Mogadishu. It takes longer to filter the water, but the volumes
pumped can be huge.’
‘Are those rocks found in the Middle East?’ I asked.
‘In some places, but not quite where I’d like them,’ Jimmy
admitted. ‘Which is why I gave samples of the rocks to the kids in
Shanghai a few years back. Come on.’
We boarded the coach and negotiated more building work to
arrive at an area of large steel vats looking like grain silos. I could
see VAT1, VAT2 labelled. ‘VAT14?’ I whispered.
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ And we found only six of them. Inside them rested
numerous layers of a synthetic fabric, made again from oil, and
substances that the kids had come up with, based on combinations of
crushed rocks.
Jimmy pointed up at a tall vat. ‘There’s very little energy used,
the production costs are small if you don’t try and use nice shiny
steel vats, and maintenance is limited. The water flow is good
compared to other osmosis techniques and … it’s cheap as fuck
basically. Couple of these already in Somalia, the special project
ready for us to test when we arrive.’
Thirty minutes in the coach brought us to a tightly guarded
nuclear power station, long corridors plodded down to find the site
managers office. In the office, I was surprised to find technicians
from Russia, Britain, France and the States.
‘That’s what I like to see, some international co-operation,’ I
quipped.
Each man was introduced in turn as we settled about a table. One
of the men attended a white board, numerous figures already
annotated on it. He gave a twenty-minute talk, explaining the
difference between the cost of building certain types if reactors –
they were all very expensive, but some less so – and the running
costs and efficiencies achieved. Seemed like this plant had been
cheaper to construct, would be cheaper to run, and its efficiencies
were greater - much greater, thanks to a few hints from Jimmy. Its
operational twin was being built in Somalia and would be fully
operational in two years, the aim being to power both Mogadishu, as
well as a few desalination plants of various specs.
We peered down through clear water at fuel rods, although I
wondered why, had tea and a chat, then headed back. In the coach,
Jimmy examined reports of the efficiencies of the desalination plants
and the nuclear plant, making notes. As we arrived back, he handed
his corrections to Han.
Helen and the girls had been on an outing to the great wall,
something I was still yet to visit, and Shelly stood spouting stats to
me about the famous tourist trap.
At dawn the next day we packed up, escorted to the airport for an
internal flight down to Shanghai, a plane for just our party as usual.
In Shanghai, we booked into a very tall hotel, in an area that
reminded us all of Hong Kong, the modern city a stark contrast to its
sedate capital. With Cat taking the girls down to the hotel pool, we
boarded a coach with Han, and made an hour-long journey through
terrible traffic to the military base that housed the brain-trust kids.
This was Helen’s first visit, and I briefed her on the way. She
questioned the kid’s apparent captivity, not that they were kids
anymore. In the main canteen we joined the professor and several
older boys – the eldest now twenty-six, food collected from the
buffet counter.
Jimmy informed the professor, ‘I’ve given Han the necessary
adjustments, and areas to look into.’
 ‘We don’t think we can improve the desalination model any
more,’ the man reported, shaking his head.
‘You’re ten percent short,’ Jimmy pointed out. ‘So keep at it.’
One of the Kenyans announced, ‘I would like to return to Kenya,
to help there.’
‘Of course,’ Jimmy readily agreed. ‘What would you like to do?’
‘Agriculture was my first passion, I’d like to return to it.’
‘I’ll arrange it with Cosy,’ Jimmy offered. ‘We’ll get you a
house, a car and some money.’
‘That is good of you, sir,’ the young man acknowledged.
‘What about others?’ I asked. ‘They homesick?’
‘There is a group of Congolese who desire a return,’ the same
man informed us. ‘Some are interested in mines, some oil, some like
finance – if you have work for them.’
‘I should think so,’ I agreed. ‘Send them to the corporation, and
call me when they get there. Do they have kids?’
‘Some do, yes.’
‘Families?’ Helen queried.
‘The older students here are free to … mingle,’ Jimmy explained.
‘Oh. And where do they live?’ Helen asked.
‘Here,’ Jimmy replied. ‘There’s a crèche, a nursery, and
individual apartments at the rear.’
‘We’ve isolated the anti-body,’ the professor put in, a
conspiratorial nod exchanged with Jimmy.
‘Is it safe to return?’ another young man asked.
‘Not really,’ Jimmy told him. ‘ Others will take an interest in you
if they know about your skills. We’ll have to see if those who return
are … monitored. But, now that we have the anti-body, and much of
the experimental systems working, it’s less of a problem.’
‘And now that the world knows of the super-drug?’ they posed.
‘Its use will not produce many like you,’ Jimmy informed them.
‘Perhaps one in every twenty or thirty thousand, and the kids will
simply be labelled as autistic.’
‘You will not release the blood?’ they queried.
‘No, not yet,’ Jimmy firmly insisted. ‘The time has to be right. If
it were to be used widely in poorer nations, then the population
explosion would cause great hardship.’
‘We found no answer to the pandemics,’ they stated.
‘There are none,’ Jimmy agreed.
‘Pandemic?’ Helen asked.
Jimmy explained, ‘In the years ahead, certain diseases will
mutate, killing many. And no, there’s nothing we can do. Only
people with my blood could tackle it, and even they will fall ill for a
while.’
‘So … what will happen?’ Helen pressed.
‘It will run its course, then come back around every few years till
they find a cure,’ Jimmy replied.
‘And you’re not aware of one?’ she asked, clearly surprised.
‘No, because some diseases are adaptive. There will always be a
need for further research.’
‘And the effect on Africa?’ one of the Kenyan’s asked. ‘Many
will die?’
Jimmy nodded. ‘Yes, and trying to save them would be almost
impossible.’
‘But not completely impossible,’ they nudged.
‘If the blood is used early, the diseases will adapt to it early, and
cause greater problems later. Remember, the flu family is adaptive.’
From the looks on their faces, I doubted that they were buying it,
not completely. After the meal, the young Kenyan men introduced
their girlfriends, and we sat on sofas in the crèche for a while, the
toddlers curious about us strangers. Jimmy handed them a few extra
projects before we inspected the latest variant of their electric car, a
joint venture with a Chinese motor manufacturer. I sat in one,
pushed the start button and sped away. It possessed no gears of
course, being electric, and the acceleration it offered was smooth.
Going around in circles, I stopped, started and pulled away quickly,
trying to imagine pulling away from a junction.
One of the main complaints about electric cars had been the
acceleration bite, but this little baby shifted. Back at the entrance to
the college, I asked, ‘How many miles on a charge?’
‘Five hundred,’ they said with a smile.
‘Five hundred? Shit!’ I reflected as I stood back and inspected
their handiwork. ‘Time taken to recharge?’
‘Flash charge at one hour, over overnight at seven hours.’
‘Re-charge costs?’ I asked.
‘In western terms, ten dollars of electricity,’ the professor stated.
‘That’s a ten dollar tank of petrol then,’ I realised. ‘Less, because
five hundred miles equates to two tanks. Five hundred miles for ten
dollars - that’ll piss off a few people. Capital cost?’
‘Nine thousand pounds here, plus shipping costs and taxes, so
thirteen thousand pounds in the UK,’ the professor ran off. ‘Battery
technology is the expensive part.’
‘But, once bought, you could go a week on one charge at ten
dollars,’ I thought out loud.
 Jimmy pulled up with a screech, easing out of his vehicle with
Helen.
‘Did you just take my wife for a drive?’ I dryly asked.
‘It’s OK, she behaved herself,’ Jimmy said as he approached. He
beckoned Han closer. ‘I want the first thousand shipped to the DRC
straight away, second thousand to the UK. A hundred for Rescue
Force Kenyan, and two thousand for Hong Kong – through Po.’
Han bowed an acknowledgement.
‘We going to upset a few people?’ I asked.
‘Most likely,’ Jimmy responded. ‘Especially the British Prime
Minister, who puts a hefty tax on petrol. If people go electric then he
loses that revenue.’
‘He’s got the health cost benefit, so fuck him,’ I suggested.
‘A good attitude, young man,’ Jimmy commended.
Back at the hotel, we enjoyed the facilities - pool, sauna and
massage – followed by a lengthy meal, the girls reporting their trip
to a technology museum that sounded nothing like a museum; they
had played with robots and video games.
Arriving in Hong Kong the next afternoon, we were picked up in
an electric coach, courtesy of Po. At his hotel we booked into
familiar rooms, time for a wash and change before heading off for a
surprise. The same electric coach took us slowly through the petrol
traffic and to a local taxi firm. We pulled inside its massive garage,
and halted short of assembled TV crews and journalists. I
straightened my tie. Stepping down, the press snapped us, Jimmy
leading us towards Po, whose family owned the taxi firm. A
gleaming green and yellow taxi sat on display, large letters
proclaiming it to be electric, a man in a green and yellow uniform at
the wheel.
Jimmy stood behind the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. For
many years I have invested in electric car technology on the
mainland, and we now have the fruit of that labour in the form of
this taxi.’ He gestured towards the vehicle. ‘This vehicle is electric,
has an acceleration as good as any similar vehicle, and can drive for
five hundred miles on one charge of its battery. That’s … five
hundred miles … on one charge. And that charge costs ten dollars.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is the future … here and now. This taxi
company has four hundred cabs, all of which will now be electric.
And, because of the savings made, we will be subsidising all
journeys for the next month.’
He repeated his previous words in Chinese before fielding
questions, finally being filmed inside the taxi, driving it back and
forth. Helen and I sat in the back and waved for the photographers,
followed in turn by Po and his executives.
Back on the electric coach, thirty minutes later, I asked, ‘Will we
roll out these to the States?’
‘No, not yet. Let them see it working here first.’
I grinned. ‘Best way to get someone’s attention - is to ignore
them.’
‘And there are other reasons,’ he enigmatically stated.
‘How many taxis will go electric?’ I idly enquired as we
negotiated the busy petrol traffic.
‘All of them; it’ll become the law here, and in Shanghai to start
with,’ Jimmy explained. ‘I’ll bring in thousands of them, letting taxi
drivers hire them for next to nothing. The buses will go the same
route soon, no pun intended. We’re even looking at electric
motorbikes. My deal with the People’s Republic, is that they get five
years from now before I release the technology.’
‘The Germans like green technology,’ I put in.
‘They’ll buy some, and the Dutch and the Swedish; the cars will
be big in Europe. In the years ahead you’ll be able to grab an electric
car, drive it town to town, leave it or pick up another – and all for
free. By then we’ll have road-tracking technology, so you just tell
the computer where to go and ease back. It’s great fun to start, then
gets boring. At the end of the day, people like driving like idiots.’
We exchanged indifferent shrugs.
‘What about ships?’ I asked as we negotiated annoyed motorists.
‘Yes, some go electric. They have wind turbines on deck,
recharging as they go. Odd thing is, all the electric energy
technology I’m sharing now – was created by people very short of
petrol. When they developed it, Africa had not been developed, nor
the Zanzibar field or others like Cuba. The people of this planet are
getting the benefit of it, without being short of petrol, which will
lead to less oil needed, so it’ll last a bit longer.’
‘Does that constitute a paradox?’
Jimmy made a face. ‘More or less.’
We enjoyed a relaxing two days at the hotel before heading to
Dubai, changing for a Mogadishu flight, now boarding one of our
own Central Africa Airways Boeing 757s, our tickets swapped at the
last minute for security. Big Paul, and two of his mates, were already
onboard the flight, and armed. They showed me their official Air
Marshal badges. With the aircraft levelling off after climbing,
Jimmy walked back and greeted Somalis in Arabic, some of them
being government officials. He had also scanned all of the faces, just
in case.
At Mogadishu International Airport, our escorts were waiting, the
government here only having been notified of our arrival a few
hours earlier. A coach whisked us the short distance to a hotel that
we had built through our property business. Jimmy had designed it,
so it was secure – and came with a rooftop bar. We drove through
high gates in a high wall, some fifteen feet tall, through pleasant
gardens and to reception. The entire ground level seemed to be solid
concrete and offered no windows, reception built with an airport-
style security check; they did not stop us when we bleeped through
the machines. Checked in, we claimed the top floor penthouse suites,
Big Paul and his mates adopting the room whose door faced the lift.
The first man dragged out a chair and sat staring at the lift doors,
Somali Rifles now in the hotel grounds.
I took Helen and the girls to the roof whilst the day was still hot,
finding the rooftop bar and pool a replica of that which I first found
in Nairobi. With no one apart from us in attendance, I asked a waiter
about its popularity.
‘Sir, only de guest on de first class come to here. Floor number
ten and more bigger, sir.’
Well, that explained it. The girls hit the pool the instant their
clothes were off, and I lovingly accepted a cold beer. For an hour I
sat in the sun with Helen, Cat sat on the edge of the pool. But when I
noticed a pair of binoculars fixed to a wall I went to investigate. By
standing on a bench you could see out over the city, the glasses for
those that liked close-ups.
From what I could see, Mogadishu was doing well, many new
buildings, even a handful with glass exteriors. The streets looked
clean, nearby gardens were well tended, houses offering blue pools,
and there was the distinct absence of gunfire on the breeze. In the
distance, I could make out many cranes earnestly lifting materials up
to the roofs of new buildings reaching skyward. The airport had
looked clean and tidy as we passed through it, and the journey from
it – although along dry and dusty streets – was no different to many
countries I had visited. Yes, Somalia was coming along nicely. I
returned to Helen as Jimmy and Big Paul arrived.
‘Abdi will be up in a bit,’ Jimmy reported.
Since we had four waiters attending us, drinks were quickly
placed down. I questioned the beer with Jimmy.
‘For westerners only, locals would get flogged. They do drink,
some of them, but it’s against the law.’
 ‘How’s the house?’ I asked Big Paul.
‘Lot of building work up the top end,’ he reported. ‘Your new
place. Bunch of temporary security guards watching it.’
‘Found a nice woman to settle with yet?’ Helen asked him.
Big Paul gave her a look. ‘I’ve done my bit for the species, and
procreated, creating a fine lad and a fine daughter.’
‘He finished school?’ I asked.
Big Paul nodded. ‘In college, studying hotel management.’
I turned to Jimmy, and waited.
Jimmy shrugged a shoulder. ‘It was not meant to be, but … why
not.’
‘What was he meant to do?’ I asked.
‘Fuck all,’ Big Paul put in. ‘Bunch of dos jobs.’
‘And your relationship with the girl and her mum?’ I asked.
‘I send them money…’
‘And?’ I nudged.
‘The mum’s not looking to hook up. She has her life down there.’
He made a face then sipped his beer.
General Adbi, Defence Minister, joined us ten minutes later, an
aide and four bodyguards accompanying him. Before he had arrived,
the girls were asked to exit the pool and cover up. This was still
Somalia. We greeted him and ordered cold drinks, non-alcoholic
drinks, our own beers removed.
‘The city looks good,’ I told him.
‘Much building work with the money from the oil, and
investment from abroad,’ Abdi keenly reported.
‘And the new President…?’ Jimmy asked.
Adbi seemed reluctant to answer. ‘He is a politician.’
‘As you may well be, soon enough,’ Jimmy pointed out.
Now Abdi seemed reluctant with that career path. ‘Perhaps.’
‘You must see it as a battle, my friend,’ Jimmy told him. ‘A battle
to get the best quality of life for your people, to increase trade, and
to build the economy. Your service to your people will continue, just
in a different format. And who better to protect their interests …
than you?’
‘Perhaps,’ Abdi acknowledged, brightening a little with the
compliment.
‘Everything set for tomorrow? Jimmy asked him.
‘Yes, all is set. I will accompany you to the facilities, to see how
you make clean water from dirt and seawater. I must tell you, many
here think you are crazy – but I have faith.’
Jimmy smiled widely. ‘Tomorrow we shall see.’
 With Abdi and his party gone, the girls reclaimed the pool, two
white families appearing. I guessed they were from floors ten or
above.
One man came straight over. In an accented voice he began, ‘Sir,
I work for you at CAR.’
‘Take a seat,’ Jimmy told him. The man joined us, his family
grabbing sun beds. ‘Where are you working?’
‘In the northwest, near Baardheere. I have been overseeing a new
railway marshalling junction. When finished, we shall be able to
increase the number of daily trains. Unlike cars, they cannot pass
each other.’
‘No,’ Jimmy agreed. ‘If you have a diagram, bring it up later. I
would be interested.’
The man stood. ‘I will, sir. Enjoy your stay … at your hotel, sir.’
‘We could go by train from here to Mawlini?’ I asked.
‘No passenger trains that I’m aware of,’ Jimmy replied. ‘Be a
rough trip.’
‘Don’t the workers go back and forth, all the way to the DRC?’ I
puzzled.
‘No, they fly. It’s three whole days by train, so they’d need a
week in this hotel just to recover!’
Shelly brought over coins that she had found, plus a diamond
ring.
‘That real,’ I wondered.
Helen had a look. ‘Yes, it is. We should ask reception if anyone
reported it lost.’
‘Can I have it?’ Shelly asked.
‘No!’ I snapped. ‘Some lady lost that.’ I lifted Helen’s hand. ‘See
mummy’s nice rings: how would you like it if she lost them and
someone else kept them?’
Shelly spun around, ran and dived back in, no doubt cursing
under her breath. Jimmy beckoned a waiter and asked for the
manager. When the manager arrived, a Frenchman, we showed him
the ring.
‘No one has reported it lost.’
‘I want you to give me a list of all western women that have
stayed here,’ Jimmy instructed. ‘I’ll take the ring to London, to my
solicitors, and see if they can have it appraised or identified.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the manager said before withdrawing.
‘How could someone not notice it was missing?’ Helen puzzled.
‘The first time you washed your hands you would notice.’
 Jimmy puzzled that with a heavy frown. ‘Big Paul, go down
stairs and ask the manager to check with the police; see if any
western women have gone missing around here.’
‘Something? I asked Jimmy.
‘No, just seems odd that it wasn’t reported.’
Big Paul was back within minutes. ‘French lady went missing a
few weeks back, couple of days, then turned up. Said she’d been to
Kenya on a trip and stayed too long.’
Jimmy gave that some thought. ‘I want name, address, occupation
and passport details.’
Big Paul headed back to the lift.
‘Something?’ I nudged.
‘People don’t come to Mogadishu without good reason, and don’t
visit Kenya whilst forgetting to inform their hotel.’
Big Paul returned with the details, Jimmy calling Sykes with the
passport number. At the end of the call he smiled widely.
Lowering his phone, he called over Shelly. To Helen and me he
asked, ‘How much cash have you got on you?’
We raided our pockets and produced two thousand dollars, which
Jimmy handed to Shelly. ‘That’s for you, for finding the ring.’
With Shelly sitting down to count the money, our money, I asked,
‘What the hell did you find out?’
‘The woman who lost that ring, who never came back for it, is a
nuclear technician, working at the new plant.’
‘Oh shit,’ I let out. ‘She loses her ring, disappears in Kenya, gets
swapped, and her body double doesn’t file a report for a ring that she
doesn’t know about.’
‘The French are spying?’ Helen queried.
‘No, they’re contributing,’ Jimmy pointed out.
‘So who,’ I thought out loud, ‘would be interested, knowing that
it’s next generation? Iranians?’
‘They’re not that good,’ Jimmy scoffed. ‘This took planning. So,
I guess we’ll have to find out.’ He lifted his phone and dialled
PACT, asking for their best agents in the country to get on the case.
Helen and I spent all night speculating on just who may be behind
it, plus trying to persuade our daughter to loan us some pocket cash.
The next morning I took an early swim, boarding the coach later
and now with increased security. We took the long way around the
city, a random route, and journeyed north to the new nuclear facility.
That nuclear facility was on Somali soil, but the area it occupied was
given over to the British Government under license, now sovereign
territory and guarded by Kenyan Rifles and Pathfinders. A small
breakwater and dock had been built, and just about everything came
in by boat. The construction workers had been Swiss and French, no
Somalis let near it.
We slowed as we passed through an outer gate, manned by
Somali Rifles and police, and reached a second gate after some six
hundred yards of parched desert, this one manned by the Kenyan
Rifles. Inside, British and French soldiers patrolled with their own
police officers. Security seemed very good, but an insider, an
employee, had obviously breached it. I had previously questioned
the logic of a sensitive facility on Somali soil, but Jimmy was up to
something, not revealing what. Now we stepped down to a screening
by British police officers.
‘Wanna check my ID?’ I asked the senior man.
‘Since you’re paying my wages – no, sir.’
‘How do you know that I’m me, I could be an impostor.’
‘There couldn’t be two of you, sir.’
I wagged a playfully warning finger and stepped into the cool
interior, soon in a control room, the reactor not ready, and certainly
not working. We made small talk with the managers and staff, asked
about progress and glanced at charts.
Jimmy then shook a ladies hand. ‘Monique, yes?’
She was momentarily startled. ‘Yes.’
‘I read your staff profile,’ Jimmy quickly got in. ‘So, how is your
fiancé?’
‘Fine, sir. We hope to be married next year.’
‘You don’t wear his ring I notice?’
‘Not in work, sir. Metal is not a good idea around here.’
‘Of course,’ Jimmy said with a smile. ‘Oh, you lost this in the
hotel swimming pool.’ He lifted the ring for her to see. ‘Your
engagement ring.’
She blushed. ‘That … can’t be mine.’
‘You’re right, it’s not. It belonged to the woman you killed, and
replaced.’
The managers were now closing in, our suspect going red and
glancing at the faces.
‘You can answer my questions, or I’ll hand you to the Somali
Rifles for interrogation, informing them that I don’t want your body
ever found. Now, I want you to whisper in my ear who sent you. Or
else.’
After many seconds, she leant in and whispered in Jimmy’s ear.
Jimmy straightened, making eye contact with two plain clothes
Pathfinders, who led her out.
 ‘She was a spy?’ the manager gasped.
‘Yes. Is your French head of security here?’
They summoned the man, the managers and technicians disturbed
by the turn of events.
Jimmy stepped up to the man, and looked him over. ‘We’ve just
discovered a spy, who took the place of Monique. Since she – the
original – was a French citizen, I’ll be making a formal complaint to
your President about your lack of ability. You may resign your post
today if you wish.’
Before anyone had a chance to do anything, the plant manager
shouted at the security man and led him out, a toe up his arse.
I closed on Jimmy. ‘Lucky we found that ring.’
‘Very.’
‘Fortuitous, almost,’ I softly quipped.
‘Planned, almost. Someone knows Shelly’s habits well.’
We walked out, boarded the coach and navigated the short
distance to the desalination plant across parched desert. There, Abdi
awaited us with a pack of journalists, and a host of African TV
crews. I even noticed a Jordanian crew.
This desalination plant was not so much a plant, as a long stretch
of moist ground, about four hundred yards long, pipes in and out of
both ends. What the press could not see, that a large sign
conveniently displayed, was that it was actually a deep trench, some
ten metres deep and twenty metres wide, lined with concrete and
filled with a special dust made from rock and compacted down. The
trench rested at a slight angle, and seawater had been pumped into a
reservoir at the far end, now creating a pressure that pushed the
water – very, very slowly – down the trench and through the
compacted rocks. At the far end, filters cleaned up the water and
stored it.
With Abdi and his government colleagues in tow, we now walked
to the arse end of the trench, stepped down into a concrete box and
accepted glasses of tepid water from technicians dressed in white. I
sipped mine, finding it palatable. It was not perfect, but it was OK.
Everyone downed their drinks of plain water, and made suitable
noises and faces. It was not perfect, they agreed, but it was OK.
Climbing back up, we approached the TV crews and the press.
Jimmy began, ‘This desalination facility, the pipe under our feet, is
very cheap to build, simple to operate – since there is nothing to do,
and the end result is clean water, good enough to drink. This is the
prototype. There is a larger version under construction, and that will
provide Mogadishu and its surrounding area with drinking water.
Any country that wishes to send its scientists here is welcome to do
so, to see the very simple technology behind the process.’
He fielded questions for ten minutes, the technicians handing out
pamphlets on the technique.
Moving back toward the coach I asked, ‘This fix Jordan?’
‘Partly. And partly by regular desalination, and partly our plastic
tubes. And we can swap some of this technology for Jordanian
Uranium ore.’
‘Jordan has Uranium?’
‘It has one of the world’s largest deposits. Better to buy it now
than after 2025. It’ll boost their economy as well, when they need
it.’
‘And our spy? Who was she working for?’
‘She fully believes that she’s working for the French
Government.’
‘But isn’t…?’
‘No.’
‘You have an idea?’
‘An idea, but not much more at the moment,’ Jimmy admitted.
As we landed back in the UK, the ground was shaking in China.
Fortunately, the People’s Army had insisted that everyone sleep
outdoors the night before, an AK47 up the backside of anyone not
co-operating. Buildings collapsed, schools and hospitals, and people
in remote areas were still hurt. Rescue Force moved in and set-up
camps and temporary shelters, complete with field hospitals. Five
thousand people died on that first morning, Jimmy suggesting that it
should have been sixty thousand. Now came the awkward part for
the Chinese authorities, the admission that their building codes were
crap, and that local authorities built sub-standard buildings out of
sub-standard concrete. The recriminations would last a long time,
reverberating around like an earthquake.
Shelly had been discussing what to do with her money on the
flight on the way back, and I was tempted to take it off her. I
certainly wasn’t going to allow her to take it to school on Monday.
Back at the house, her first suggestion pleased me: a huge fish tank
for the school, so that all the children could see the colourful fish. I
sanctioned it. Next was a fish tank for our house, which I agreed to
after discussing it with Helen; after all, our daughter was due to be a
marine biologist. Finally, she wanted a golf buggy converted, a pink
Hannah Montana golf buggy. Picturing her tearing around in it I
agreed, wanting to see it parked next to Big Paul’s combat model
with its camouflage colours.
 Two days after returning home, a stray rocket – fired from
Georgia – wounded several Rescue Force staff. Jimmy rang the
President of Georgia and told him that the next time he set foot in
Europe he’d wake to find Jimmy at the end of his bed. And left it at
that. We put together an international team, and they visited
Georgia, leaning on the Georgian President. If he wanted western
aid, he would have to stop his countrymen lobbing the odd missile at
South Ossetia. He’d also have to sleep with a chair up against the
door.

Plans, plans and more plans

My new office was finished a month later, and I moved in the people
that I had hired, Jimmy checking their faces first. I had allocated
myself a grand office – chairman of the board, space enough for my
new secretary. Helen was banned, not least because she always took
the piss out of my filing system. That filing system meant that
everything important - and not dealt with - was in plain view, even if
on the floor. I had two walls of continuous desks made up, and now
my existing project files were laid out under their departmental
headings.
On my desk lay the important files, and within hours I knew were
everything was. Stepping out from my office, an open-plan room
offered sofas around a large coffee table, the all important tea and
coffee making facilities nearby. On my immediate left sat an office
for my Pineapple liaison. After him came my bank liaison, because I
thought that was important. Next came the airline, then CAR, then a
guy from the corporation, the property business and finally the
clubs.
Some of the men, and they were all men, now lived in the
apartments, and a few had bought houses locally. When they were
moved into their new homes, and settled into their new offices, I
called the first meeting around the coffee table. My secretary was
Sharon’s cousin, a bit of a forty year old frump, but apparently
excellent at her job. Jimmy recommended her for her sharp tongue,
and ability to tell very important people to “go stick it up their
backsides”.
We all grabbed mugs of tea, and sat facing each other. ‘Welcome
to this … the first meeting of the “Paul is disorganised” club.’
 They laughed.
‘Your job is to make me less disorganised, and to save me time,
because I have only so many fingers, and many pies to dip into. OK,
first rule: if I’m here – I’m here. If I’m not here, chances are I don’t
want to be answering the phone to you lot. If it’s not life or death, it
waits till I come in or call in, because if there’s a meeting in the
house – called at short notice – then I’ll be tied up. You’ll also have
lots of peace and quiet when I’m abroad, which is a fair amount of
the time.
‘What I want from each of you … is a summary of your
departments, and by that I mean a page at most, if not two
paragraphs. Behind that should sit a more detailed explanation,
which I would expect to be more verbal than written, but also
written for the file. But be careful, because Jimmy will ask for
figures and reports, and he’s not as polite as me when things are not
ready. So, for instance, let’s ask – how are things at the club?’
The relevant man reported, ‘Cardiff club is down five percent on
last year, year on year. Food consumption is up, drink down a bit.
London club is other way around, with lots of idiots buying
expensive champagne to impress the ladies. It’s up three percent
year on year, hotel now full most of the time, Cardiff hotel lagging.
And the London club benefits from many corporate meetings being
held there midweek.’
‘Good, short and sweet. No corporate work in Cardiff?’
‘It’s Wales, guv.’
I nodded. ‘OK, that’s the kind of report I like. If I then wish to go
into detail, I’ll do it with you individually. So, let’s start with
problems.’
The airline guy raised a pen. ‘Boeing and Airbus are charging us
for the wages of apprentices in Goma, yet they’re paid by the
corporation.’
‘Rip them a new arsehole. If they don’t pay it back, remind me to
get involved.’
The bank guy raised his pen. ‘The Chinese have sent advisors to
the bank HQ in Goma.’
‘Fine, I was expecting that. Let them audit, observe, and sniff
around to their hearts content.’
‘They’ve offered investment capital, just about a hundred million
dollars, but only for mines.’
‘Fine, use it, but not out of proportion to other investors. Is all
corporation money going through the bank now?’
 ‘Yes, and they’re building a secure cash repository at Forward
Base.’
‘I thought we had one?’ I puzzled.
‘We do, but it’s not big enough. It’s holding a lot of local
currency.’
‘OK. Corporation, what’s new?’ I asked the man.
‘Steffan Silo is working on the rail link –’
‘How’s he … fitting in?’ I probed.
‘He has a house on Spiral Two, he’s taken up golf at the course,
and people often mistake him for Jimmy.’
‘And the train project?’
‘They say he’s come up with some great money saving ideas, and
some efficiencies. Instead of shipping concrete sleepers for the track,
he’s ordered up their manufacture at three sites on the route, and
made the track a twin track. That way, a supply train comes
alongside the crane that lifts the sleepers and track into place. They
think it’ll shave a third off the time at least.’
‘And the cost?’ I asked.
‘Be cheaper, but still expensive as hell.’
‘OK. The roads?’
‘There are new roads down to Zambia, through Burundi and
towards Malawi. Many new internal sections, and the Burundi-
Tanzania section could be a motorway, of sorts. We’ve widened it to
four lanes in some places.’
‘Give that stretch priority over the Kinshasa road. And where the
train track runs from the north, across Southern Sudan and into
Kenya, see if we can’t create a road that follows it. OK, what about
Gotham City?’
They laughed at the name. The corporation representative
answered, ‘We’ve got more apartments than people at the moment,
so we’re building small towns in other areas, where mines are
concentrated and where the roads are good.’
‘And those spare apartments?’ I nudged.
‘They’ll fill up as the factories in the area grow.’
‘Are they growing as fast as they could?’ I pressed.
‘Yes, painfully fast.’
‘And the university?’ I asked.
‘Just about finished, first term is September.’
‘Did we sanction a zoo after all?’ I asked with a frown.
‘There are plans for one, south of the airport, about three miles.’
‘Make a start on it, but let’s make sure it has a captive breeding
program and a lot of interesting exhibits. Let’s have people flying in
just to see that. And coming back to those empty apartments, let’s
see if we can’t think of ways to attract other factories down there.
Start with European companies involved in plastic and synthetics,
since we’ve got the cheap oil right there. Remind me of that in a
month.’
After a hard day at the office, a few piles moved around, some
actually getting filed, I jumped into one of our new electric cars and
sped under the road and down past the lake, halting outside the
house. It was not a long commute. I hadn’t charged the car since I
took receipt of it, and figured it would last a hundred and fifty years
at the rate I was using its battery.
‘I’m home honey,’ I announced. ‘Did you have a hard day at the
office?’
‘More space now that your junk has gone,’ she told me. ‘How is
it up there?’
‘I’m getting a lot done, and I can find my piles on the floor where
I left them.’
‘Shelly, show daddy what you got today.’
Shelly jumped up and led me by the hand out of the front door.
There sat her pink Hannah Montana golf buggy, making me smile.
She unzipped the plastic rain covering and jumped in, so I sat next to
her, peering through the front plastic. She hit the start switch and
then the pedal, shooting off at a worrying speed.
‘Slow down, baby, that’s quite fast.’
She slowed a little, turning and heading around to the front of the
house. And straight for a silver Mercedes coming up the drive.
‘Turn, baby.’
Shelly yanked the wheel.
‘Other way, baby.’
She turned, but so did the driver. His breaking was good, Shelly’s
a bit slow, and we smashed the front of the buggy, plus his lights.
With Shelly giggling, I stepped down as Sykes eased out with his
driver. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mister Sykes.’ I inspected the damage to
his car with my hands in my pockets.
‘Is she on your insurance?’ he barked.
‘Mr Sykes, I dare you to report that you were hit by a pink
Hannah Montana golf cart.’
Jimmy stepped out. ‘Shelly, dear - drive slow, like I told you.’
She reversed, turned and sped off.
‘Send Paul the bill,’ Jimmy told Sykes as he shook his hand and
led him in, a scowl my way. I had to walk all the way back around to
the house.
 ‘Shelly, when you crash into someone else’s car, you stop and
say sorry,’ I told her as we got ready for dinner.
‘What?’ Helen puzzled.
‘She just smashed Sykes car.’
‘Oh, god. I knew it was a bad idea.’
‘There’s an inhibitor in the buggy, I’ll alter it to six miles per
hour,’ I offered. ‘Then she can just crash slowly.’ I inspected the fish
tank, delighted with it. Sometimes, late at night, I’d turn off the main
lights and just watch the fish, the brightly coloured creatures
illuminated by their own tank lights.
In the weeks that followed I began to appreciate the family more,
always having to catch up on what had happened at school or home.
My office was only a third of a mile away, but I was a commuter
now, and not a home worker any more. With President Chase hard
on the campaign trail – but well ahead in the polls, we flew over and
gave him a resounding endorsement, even attending some of his
rallies.

Message in a bottle

Keen to see Gotham City grow faster, I met with several US plastic
manufacturers, but could not convince them of the cost savings; their
markets were here in the States, and Africa was somewhere around
the atlas. I decided to take a more direct route, and followed
Jimmy’s example. I found one of the largest suppliers of plastic
bottles in the US and bought a controlling share without even asking
Jimmy, the money coming from CAR. I sent their best people to
Goma to open a factory. Given that it was a CAR company the land
was free, the oil dirt-cheap, the labour keen – and very cheap.
By time Hardon Chase had been re-elected I was finishing off my
plastic bottle factory at break-neck speed. The first bottles out of the
moulds were sent to African bottling plants, since they were closer.
And we beat their previous purchase costs. When they had been
satisfied, we sent the bottles further, but still within Africa, soon
cornering that market and producing a million bottles a month. That
became five million as a second plant came on line, working twenty-
four hours a day in three shifts.
With African markets just about conquered – stiff competition
coming from Nigeria, I set my sites on the Middle East, and soon
found a few customers there. That led north to Europe, where the
bottles were shipped in very large batches. But not just bottles for
fizzy drinks; we had won orders for the nice shampoo containers and
other products you’d find on the shelf at any chemists. Seemed that
there were a lot of products sold in plastic bottles.
Using my name as influence, I waltzed into the boardrooms of
several British supermarkets, and offered to beat any price they were
currently paying, and to match the quality of their existing line. They
asked for labelling and printing on the bottles, save it being done up
here, so I organised a labelling extension to the factory and bought
equipment that sprayed on coloured images, organising experts from
Europe to operate the new machines. Jimmy knew of the project, but
left it to me. He did not interfere.
We enjoyed New Year 2009 in Fiji, stopping off in Auckland and
Sydney on the way back, but flying back via Goma hub. There I
proudly showed Helen and the girls my bottle factory, the ladies
each recognising the labels for products they used at home,
especially shampoos. My daughters already knew more brands of
shampoo than I did.
Hardon Chase was sworn in on a chilly day, and we stood in the
crowd of honoured guests, feeling suitably cold. And we only got to
talk to him for ten minutes. The day after the ceremony, I visited the
plastic bottle supplier and pointed towards their bottom line, the
company profits now soaring. I set them the task of getting our
bottles into America and in turn they handed me specifications for
the first few lines, which included smaller, but more expensive
bottles, hotel shampoo vials and perfume samples. After working out
a few figures, I estimated that I could put them on a 747SP and fly
them over without killing the margin, till they explained that the
contents came from the Far East. Simple. I shipped my bottles from
Mombassa to South Korea, a year’s supply at a time.
With Shelly celebrating her eighth birthday, Lucy now six, I was
busy opening up new markets in Europe and the UK, and in Gotham
City my plastic factories gainfully employed three thousand people.
At Shelly’s birthday celebration, Jimmy said to me, ‘Good work
on the bottles, really good work.’
It was strange; I no longer felt like Robin to his Batman. Buoyed
by that, I sat down and had a brain storming session with my team.
We isolated the most complex and expensive items we could find
that were made of plastic, and most of them seemed to be fitted to
cars, vans or lorries. We got to work, and chief salesman Paul
Holton got on the phone, always getting through to the managing
director, whether they accepted calls from salesman or not. I soon
had an order for hard plastic parts that would fit cars being
manufactured in the UK. Our margins started to increase, even
though that was not the main aim. The main aim was for Goma
industrial area to make products that sold around the world, and to
employ more people.

Bushfires, mate

After the New Year visit to Fiji, the trip to Sydney had an ulterior
motive; Jimmy wanted to check out the units, to review inventory
and readiness. Before leaving, he had asked Dunnow and his team to
re-assess their previous effectiveness during bush fires. Now, as we
edged into February, reports came in of bushfires, the start of the
season for south Australia.
On February 1st, Jimmy ordered British, French, and German
alpha teams to Australia – just in case. As well as for the experience.
When he dispatched Doc Graham, people figured that something big
may be up. As the days ticked off the calendar, I called up a web
page that I had book-marked and checked the bushfire reports. When
I noticed a report suggesting that they were getting worse, I brought
it to Jimmy’s attention.
‘More bodies and jeeps, please,’ he said to me.
I called Bob Davies. ‘Bob, send the white Kenyans to Australia,
jeeps in Il76 aircraft. Send over New Zealand, Samoa, Fiji. Oh, and
the new Hawaiian teams. But make sure they all have jeeps.’
‘Hueys from Kenya?’
‘Yeah, couple.’
Each day I checked the news, and each day the situation on the
ground was deteriorating. And when I caught a particular news
article I stopped dead; an RF medic had injected a burns victim with
super-drug, and was not only filmed doing it, but describing it as
well. I checked with Bob, discovering that the deployed teams
carried Doc Adams super-drug. In other words, his own damn blood
with the red blood cells removed. Jimmy calmly suggested that
people would put it down to the super-drug. Besides, it was great for
burns.
 The bushfires turned out to be the worst for decades, but our
people were on top of it, the backpacks containing a blood product
from the future. If only they knew.

Bottles, lots of bottles

Seeing my successes back in December, in the plastic bottle market,

the Chinese wanted in, not least because I was pinching some of
their trade. I readily agreed, and they constructed four large
factories, each big enough to land a plane on the roof. They began
producing fittings for the Far East car market and I tried not to pinch
any more of their trade. Since they now employed an additional nine
thousand people I was happy enough.
The spare apartments had gone, but not by workers and
managers; all sorts had moved in. It was as Jimmy said: create the
right commercial conditions and it will attract people to it. These
new residents accompanied small businesses that serviced the
factories; we even had our first brothel open up. Jimmy and I could
not decide if it was a good thing for the workers or not, but left it in
place. After all, if we closed it down it may go underground. At least
this one would pay taxes. That gave me an idea, but Jimmy said no.
With most of the apartments in Goma now full, or at least sold to
someone – absent or otherwise, I commissioned new apartment
blocks, still plenty of investment dollars sloshing around. The zoo
had been built quickly, little more involved than digging ponds and
throwing up fences, and it now housed every type of animal that you
could find in Africa. It stretched almost a mile end-to-end, and came
with a large visitor centre, a small hotel for visiting experts, a staff
accommodation block and a research centre. That research centre,
and its carefully targeted projects, would be sponsored by us; grants
would be available for research into a variety of animals, large and
small, and the diseases that afflicted them.
Sat in my office one day, looking at the literature for the zoo, I
had an idea. I didn’t discuss it with Jimmy first, I simply ordered the
new project. Our zoo would now have a college built next to it, for
Africans to come and study for degrees in zoology. It would come
under the wing of the main university, and all of the places on this
new residential course would be free. When I informed Jimmy, he
just nodded approvingly.
 Unfortunately, we received four thousand applications for just
sixty places, so it was back to the drawing board. I ordered an extra
four hundred rooms built at the zoo college, plus an additional five
hundred at the main university, which was a short commute on a free
electric bus.
Thinking on, I persuaded HSBC and Barclays to open branches
near the airport, and a British supermarket to open a store. A number
of restaurants had popped up, a few shops selling all sorts, and the
locals now enjoyed all the modern conveniences.
One day I asked my team, ‘What could we grow … and sell?’
Bananas, was one answer put forward, coconuts another – for an
export market. I ordered a massive swath of land cleared, irrigation
trenches dug, and banana trees planted. Those trees occurred
naturally in the region, so it was a case of simply finding the
specimens below six foot tall and pinching them. Finding that many
villages already nurtured banana plots, I arranged for their produce
to be bought and transported to a central sorting area. From there the
bananas would go by truck to Nigerian, Kenyan and Tanzanian
markets, some to be shipped up to the UK. In Goma, they were
given out free at various outlets, and each factory had a free
lunchtime delivery. The coconut trees would take longer, but at least
many had had been transplanted. We would have to wait a few years
for any sizeable coconut harvest.
That set me to thinking more. What could we put in the bottles
we made? Fruit? Fruit juice? Tomato juice? I could ship it up to
Europe.
At that point Jimmy stopped me, and asked that I try and feed
Africans with cheap produce, which would also help to boost the
local economy. That led to a big pow-wow with the corporation
staff, and an inventory of all things grown, animal or plant. The
orphanages grew their own crops, and generated around sixty
percent of what they needed. The fish farms were very productive,
but little in the way of crops were currently being grown in the
region; wrong type of soil. Zimbabwe, however, had great soil for
crops, so I sanctioned extra money for farming projects there, so
long as they were super-sized.
Seeing that the land in the DRC was fertile, albeit a little sodden
in most parts, and we had sunshine, I asked about greenhouses.
Glass was expensive to import, they reported.
‘Don’t need glass, we have Perspex factories coming out of our
ears!’ I told them.
 A factory was duly tasked with making small square panels. They
disobeyed that order, and made panels that were six foot high and
three feet across, with one edge rounded and one with a groove; a
green house could be put together in two minutes. Pleased with this
innovation, I ordered up hundreds of thousands of panels and set a
team to work. A hundred miles west of Forward Base, land was
cleared of trees and flattened by Caterpillar bulldozers, the new
muddy zone the size of ten football pitches. Concrete lines were laid,
twelve inches deep and ten feet wide. On them, the panels were
clipped together, soon creating long lines of parallel greenhouses.
Fearing that a storm might topple the flimsy greenhouses, metal wire
was run across each and the individual greenhouses were pegged
down like tents. Large trays, made of plastic, were placed inside the
greenhouses, filled with soil from the nearby ground, and a variety
of plants seeded, including tomatoes.
I was happy with this gardening project, not least because it
gainfully employed two thousand locals. Po shipped us fertilizer for
free, aboard empty trains returning to the region from the coast, and
our crops had an excellent environment in which to flourish.
A nutritionist, a British man, then approached us. He had seen a
write-up on the greenhouses and had been involved with Africa for
many years. His idea was simple: grow the crops locally, convert
them to paste, a bit like tomato sauce, then sell it cheap to Africans.
But because it was a paste, a certain amount of water removed, it
would be concentrated, and free of the additional packaging typical
for loose fruit. That would also mean that transport costs would be
lessened. If we put the mulch in three or five litre plastic containers
it would be cheaper again. I hired the guy on the spot and sent him
off to get started, the processing plants required being very simple to
set-up and run, and employing even more locals.
When a corporation official questioned the cost of employing the
locals, on projects not yet showing a profit, my answer was simple.
‘The oil and ore in the ground belongs to them, not to us. If the
profit from that oil and ore creates jobs, and they get paid, then
that’s the correct use of the money we make. Furthermore, if you ask
a question like that again I’ll give you to the Congo Rifles for target
practice.’
I flew down in March, to see the fruits of my labours, literally,
and took only Big Paul with me after he asked to accompany me.
We stayed one night in the first airport hotel, since I always liked to
check out the ambience – and the quality of service it offered our
guests. As with River View, all those years ago, I would walk
around the guests during the evening meal and enquire if everything
was OK, conversing in a few different languages.
In the morning we grabbed four Pathfinder bodyguards and
hopped onto a bus, simply because I wanted to see what the new
electric buses were like. Very few people were travelling outbound
from the airport, and when the last passenger jumped off I ordered it
to return, stood next to the driver and asking questions of the
vehicle’s performance, passenger numbers, and all the interesting
things that people left behind on it.
Back at the airport we hopped off and waved forwards two green
and yellow electric taxis. I gave the pathfinders dollars for their
driver, worrying that they’d just stick a gun in his face, and we set
off, a very smooth and quiet ride to my latest venture, the fruit
concentrates. At the factory gate they were not expecting us and a
call had to be made. Paul who? Once inside, I sat down in their
canteen with the Pathfinders and Big Paul, three litre containers
grabbed, dishes and spoons to the ready. We squeezed out the
concentrate, one each of banana and tomato into separate dishes, and
sampled them. The banana concentrate was just like mashed up
bananas, and the tomato concentrate just like mashed up tomatoes,
only a little less bitter. That lack of bitterness seemed to come from
the heating process. All in all, we all thought they were great.
The bottling facility had been cleaned and sterilized overnight,
after numerous test batches had been sampled, and now I
ceremonially threw a switch that re-started the machinery, being
photographed by the African Times. An hour later the first batch of a
thousand three-litre containers were ready, filled and labelled. I
ordered them put on a truck and took charge of it, asking for the next
run of a thousand containers to go to the orphanage as the additional
bottling lines were brought up to speed.
With the Pathfinders following in their green and yellow taxis,
Big Paul and I sat in the lorry cab and directed the driver to the
working-class suburbs of Gotham City, on the east and towards old
Goma town. I stopped the lorry at a busy crossroads and stepped
down, our white faces being noticed. From the back of the lorry we
grabbed containers as people looked on, and placed down the
concentrate. With the Pathfinders forming a chain, I lifted the first
container and offered it to a woman stood watching us. She read the
label and walked slowly off with the heavy banana concentrate. Kids
ran forwards, and I gestured towards the containers already lined up
on the side of the road, young kids soon struggling along with my
produce. Other adults, mostly women, now closed in, and each
carried a container away, Big Paul and myself working up a sweat as
we off-loaded them.
People soon came running down the street, and I noticed some of
the same youths more than once, not that I cared. In thirty minutes
we had offloaded the lot, mounting back up for the return trip. The
second lorry sat ready, and I directed it to the university, to the
student canteen; they would be my willing volunteers. We carried
twelve containers inside, finding a few dozen students sat about. I
called them over.
‘I would like you all to taste this new product, and to give an
opinion.’
They fetched dishes and spoons, the refectory staff coming out to
see for themselves what was up. We were a hit; the students and
staff loved it, especially if you added a dollop of ice cream. They
helped us unload a hundred containers, and we set off again. This
time I headed for the nearest factory, a plastic components factory,
and towards their canteen. The manager rushed around, worried, and
surprised at what I was carrying into his staff canteen. We repeated
the taste test, finding similar results, but some of these poor buggers
would find it waiting for them when they got home tonight. I
dumped a hundred containers and set off, offloading all of the
containers at nearby factories before returning to the bottling plant.
The plant machinery was now at full capacity and producing
more containers than I could give out in a lifetime. With an IL76 sat
waiting at the airport, I confirmed that five thousand units would go
to Mawlini, to be sent on to Darfur after some sampling at the base.
The rest would be distributed around our region by truck, sold
through shops and given out free to corporation workers of certain
grades.
Back at the hotel, I showered and changed my sweat-soaked
clothes, having lunch with Big Paul and staying well away from the
fruit. I’d had enough. I was then surprised to find that Big Paul had a
project of his own that he had been working on in secret, but with
Jimmy’s permission, hence his interest in accompanying me for this
trip. It involved fishing, and was to be a surprise for me.
After lunch, we drove around to the airport, a Huey sat waiting.
We threw the pilot and co-pilot into the rear with the bodyguards
and lifted off, Big Paul knowing where he was going. After getting
lost, twice, we eventually found what he was after, an area of what
appeared to be swamp at first glance, a group of modern steel sheds
next to a helipad and a road, a few trucks dotted about and a dozen
workers.
 With the rotors winding down we eased out, being greeted by the
project manager, a local man named Seth. He led us forwards and
pointed out numerous narrow channels of water, each no more six
feet wide, but stretching into the distance with no end in sight. The
banks of each channel appeared to be just overgrown jungle, small
trees and bushes overhanging the water.
‘OK, I’m curious as to how you’d get a fishing rod in there,’ I
told Big Paul, stood with my hands in my pockets.
‘You don’t, the locals fish with nets and spears,’ he began. He
pointed at a channel. ‘This was all shit land, jungle, but without too
many big trees. Basically, it was swampland. We drug the trenches,
each about three feet deep, let them fill up with water, and put in
catfish and other species from the other fish farms. The difference, is
that this needs no one to maintain it, and all the tasty insects from
the leaves fall into the water for the fish.’
I saw a splash. ‘What was that?’
Big Paul grinned. ‘The fish around here don’t wait for the inserts
to fall off the leaves, they jump up for them.’ He nodded to the
manager, who sent forward two men with spears, the men soon
hauling back a catfish some four feet long. ‘They can grow to that
size in a year, and it needs no maintenance. Besides, in the shallow
water like this they breed well, and there’re no competitors for their
eggs.’
The manager handed over a chart. Big Paul said, ‘One acre
produces one tonne a year.’
‘A tonne an acre? That’s good,’ I commended. ‘How big is this
spread?’
‘Two hundred acres,’ the manager informed me.
‘And all it cost was a digger for a week,’ Big Paul pointed out.
‘Excellent.’ I faced the manager. ‘You have permission to
increase the size of this to twenty thousand acres.’ The man blinked.
‘Employ locals, get whatever you need.’ I faced Big Paul. ‘Excellent
project, low cost and natural, and it keeps the locals gainfully
employed.’
We let the pilots fly us back, chatting in the rear about production
quotas. This was low tech, but the fish could be frozen locally and
shipped, or even shipped alive. We spoke of a fish plant that would
clean and process, and I left that to Big Paul to work on. He was a
fisherman at heart.
L’Aquilla

With our RF teams home from the Australian deployment, Jimmy

informed me of a quake in Italy in April. I was concerned, since this
was close to home and in the middle of Europe. We drove over to
Mapley and called in the senior staff.
‘Right,’ Jimmy began. ‘Crusty is predicting a quake in Italy.’
‘Italy!’ they queried.
‘Italy,’ Jimmy confirmed. ‘In the north, some place on the map
called … the L’Aquilla region. It does, apparently, have a history of
quakes, and Crusty has been over there looking at the recent small
quakes. He has a tight date range, which helps I guess. I want all
European Alpha and Bravo teams, and our reconstruction teams.
And I want tents for fifty thousand people set up days before the
quake. Seven days from now you all drive down together, across
Europe.’
‘Shit,’ they let out, sat looking stunned.
‘Doc Graham, you’re in charge on the ground,’ Jimmy ordered.
‘Start making plans now, please.’
Leaving Mapley, we drove east down the M4 motorway and to
London, a 4pm appointment at the Italian Embassy. Once through
the security, we were led straight in to the Ambassador, a warm
welcome offered. The mood would not last.
‘Mister Ambassador,’ Jimmy began. ‘As you know, we have a
man that predicts earthquakes with his clever software, and you will
also be aware that you signed the Rescue Force Charter. That
Charter allows us to move into Italy without additional permission
from you.’
The Ambassador stopped smiling.
Jimmy continued, ‘We are predicting a quake in six days, in the
L’Aquilla region, which may cause a lot of damage, so we are –
obviously – keen to discuss it with you.’
‘Yes … of course,’ the man stumbled with. ‘What … what did
you wish to do, exactly?’
‘We wish to move our people into place before the quake strikes -
to be ready.’
‘But this earthquake prediction is not an exact science,’ the
Ambassador pointed out. ‘Your presence may cause panic amongst
local population.’
‘That … is the price to be paid for vigilance,’ Jimmy insisted.
‘Arriving two days later achieves little. Besides, our man is happy
that he can pin down the date due to small recent quakes and micro-
quakes. So we wish to deploy at the end of this week.’
‘This week? I … will need to discuss this with my Government–’
‘You’d then be in breach of the charter you signed,’ I pointed out.
‘And you’d be expelled from the Rescue Force family.’
‘Again, I need to discuss that as well, and its implications.’
I was just not in the mood. ‘OK, tonight we go public and issue
the warning, with or without your blessing, Mister Ambassador.’
‘Such a move could lead to legal action,’ the Ambassador pointed
out.
‘It could,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘It could lead to people staying put
when you don’t back our warning, being killed, then suing your
government. And let me be clear about something: I would set aside
a hundred million pounds to give to the families of the dead for their
legal costs in attacking your government.’
‘We on the same page, mate?’ I asked the man.
‘I do not appreciate threats.’
‘And we don’t appreciate making treaties and then having people
break them,’ I countered with. ‘You … signed a treaty. All you need
do is stick to it.’
‘As I said, I will consult with my government. This meeting is
ended.’
Back in the car, I said, ‘That could have gone better.’
‘Same old bollocks, same old politics,’ Jimmy commented as we
drove around to the BBC studios. Jimmy went straight for the
jugular. ‘We’re predicting a serious earthquake in Northern Italy, in
the L’Aquilla region for the end of this week, but the Italian
Government has failed to honour the Rescue Force Charter and is
refusing to allow our rescuers in. That will probably lead to Italy
being expelled from the Rescue Force organisation. I just hope that
we’re wrong, and that the people of the region are not killed in large
numbers. I would hope that some, at least, leave the area in the next
few days, those that value their lives, and the lives of their families.’
We had lit the blue touch paper.
Driving back, the Prime Minister called. He had been on the
phone with the Italian Prime Minister, who was furious at many
people and many things, feeling the heat already and not knowing
why – or how this had even come about.
The morning news ran the story, the Italian press all over it,
people starting to pack-up and leave the region in question. At least
some were listening, and the news coverage was a hundred percent
in Italy and Europe. We received a fax around noon from the Italian
Prime Minister, confirming that we’d be allowed in under the
conditions of the Charter he had signed. We had kicked the front
door in, and cut short a lengthy diplomatic process with some very
un-diplomatic language and conduct, Jimmy suggesting that they
would have dragged their feet.
We drove over to Mapley in the morning as the various RF teams
assembled, brought back from abroad and off training exercises.
Fifty white jeeps sat lined up, equipment being strapped to the roof
racks. I patrolled the line under a grey and threatening sky, rallying
the troops and meeting some old faces. We now seemed to have
some large white RF lorries, although I had no idea where they came
from, which were now being stuffed full of tents. These days, we
had white RF tents, not stolen UN tents.
With TV crews filming, and several crews embedded, the teams
ran through their final checks and mounted up. Jimmy walked out to
the line of jeeps, paused as he took in the long line, then blew a
whistle, pointing the first jeep towards the gate. An impressive
column of fifty jeeps, and ten large trucks, moved slowly out of the
gate and towards the Channel ferry ports. In France and Germany,
similar columns were either moving off or getting ready. They were
due to meet in Switzerland late tomorrow, and to drive south
together, a deliberate spectacle for the cameras. Hueys would take
off from various locations tomorrow, refuelling en route to Italy,
another spectacle for the cameras as they grouped together.
Back at the house, we packed our bags ready; we’d be at Mapley
for the deployment. Two days later we drove over early, missing the
nutters at the gate, who all seemed to sleep in late. We dumped our
bags and checked our suits, Helen and Trish setting up the
communications centre. As they were doing that, a column of white
jeeps and trucks a mile long wound its way through Italy and to
L’Aquilla, white Hueys overhead. Italian TV news had filmed the
column on a stretch of straight motorway, the image making the
front pages under the playful heading of “Invasion”. The vehicles
turned off the highway onto side roads and spread out, each moving
to a pre-planned halt, where camps would now be set-up. On the
outskirts of the regions, RF doctors and nurses pulled up at the local
hospitals and made themselves known, many booking into nearby
hotels.
That evening, I gave my first interview, along the lines of “better
safe than sorry”. But so far we had little to report.
As a grey dawn appeared over Italy, the tented cities grew out of
nothing, covering previously green fields with a uniform matrix of
white tents and portable plastic toilets. Many of the local residents
had already given up their homes, but an estimated sixty percent
remained. Now, Italian RF teams knocked on doors and tried to
persuade the stubborn locals to spend a few nights under canvass,
the offer of free food and drink dangled. Many took to the tents,
whole extended families, and all local schools were closed.
The next evening, Jimmy spoke to Doc Graham, urging him to
try and lever more people out of their homes and into the tents. The
teams redoubled their efforts, begging people to leave for the night
at least, and to come back in the morning. Thousands more were
nudged under canvass, cold for them this time of year.
Early the next morning the quake struck, the damage great, the
death toll rising as rescuers returned to those houses that had not
been evacuated, and sifting the rubble. But at least the families in the
tented villages celebrated their survival, and Jimmy ticked a box.
The press descended upon us that day, the communications room
full as we relayed facts, figures and opinions; a well-practised
routine. On the ground, RF teams rushed about under the gaze of a
hundred TV cameras, shoulder flashes of Britain, France,
Switzerland, Germany and Italy displayed. They moved with
professionalism and practised ease, and it made me proud to observe
them on the TV news.
With Mackey sat in the lounge with us, I remembered our first
meeting, at a fair in Scotland. It had taken a long time to get here,
but the teams were now excellent. And he still wore hiking boots to
the office. As we sat there, he informed me of a pending retirement.
Christ, he was almost seventy, I realised.
Packing up, we returned home early the next morning, the kids
glad to see us. The main RF teams returned home a day later,
leaving behind the reconstruction teams, and enough people to man
the tented cities.
Jimmy commented, ‘Those tents will still be there a year from
now, the houses not rebuilt. But we’ll give the Italian Government
some shit over it.’

Haiti

A week later, and with the weather improving, Jimmy handed me a

new project, as if I didn’t have enough to do. Haiti would suffer a
quake in 2010, and we needed to make preparations now. I sat down
with paper and pad and had it all worked out within two hours. In
the main house I asked Helen’s assistant, Trish, about planned trips,
and fixed a weeklong holiday in Cuba for Helen and myself, no kids
allowed. Uncle Jimmy would be helping out with the girls, a task he
relished. I grabbed Big Paul and Karl and told them to pack; we’d
leave in two days.
Landing in Cuba, in the tourist north, our low-key minders drove
us around to a new hotel, built by us through the property business.
The hotel had been laid out in the shape of a horseshoe surrounding
a large pool and park, and totalled three hundred rooms. Settling in,
Helen found it odd for the girls to not be with us. She rang the house
within ten minutes of unpacking, finding the girls in the diner with
Jimmy, eating all the things that we generally rationed – or
disallowed.
‘He’s spoiling them,’ she complained after the call.
‘That’s what uncles do. And grandparents. C’mon, sangria at the
beach bar.’
We knocked on the room shared by our earnest bodyguards, and
led them down to the bar, picking up two plain-clothed Cuban
officers in the lobby. With some sangria downed, Helen relaxed a
bit. Local ladies offered massages on tables, just on the grass in front
of us, so we both lay face down and indulged ourselves for an hour.
Returning to the bar, I stepped towards the guys, and time started
to slow down.
I reached their table, moving in slow motion, focused on Big
Paul’s hideous Hawaiian shirt. A silver coin on the floor spoke to
me. It offered me my life back. I bent down, touched it, and Karl’s
head exploded, the high velocity round passing through my
bodyguard, my friend, and making a very large hole.
A shove from Big Paul, and I was somehow underwater, the clear
pool water tainted with delicate swirls of red blood as I looked up at
the sky. A splash caught my attention, a blurred face, a lot of hair
swirling in the water, a hand on my head lifting me up. I broke the
surface facing Helen.
‘Paul!’ she screamed.
‘I’m OK,’ I got out, scanning the people running back and forth.
A second shot rang out, indistinct, then a third.
‘Stay down!’ Big Paul shouted, now knelt next to a short and
stubby palm tree.
We stayed in the pool till the screaming had subsided, realising
that most of the holidaymakers had fled. Looking over my shoulder,
I could see a large pool of dark red blood that used to be Karl, a hole
in the back of his head big enough to fit a tennis ball in. That fate
had been meant for me, and I had to stop and ask – why?
The air filled with the sounds of sirens, police officers soon
running about, and we were still in the pool, Big Paul close. The
officers formed a line and we eased up, bent double and running
inside. Through the lobby we sloshed, leaving wet footprints.
They escorted us to our room and took up position outside as I
closed the door. I reached for my phone and dialled Jimmy as Helen
towelled down, my wife shaking, but not from the cold. ‘Jimmy,
Karl is dead, sniper aiming at me.’
‘Helen OK? Big Paul?’
‘Just Karl, round took his head off. I think maybe a fifty calibre
from the hotel next door.’
‘Then we were lucky. They’ve had their shot, they won’t get a
second one. Take it easy for a few hours, decide what to do, I’ll deal
with the security.’
I hung up and stripped off the wet clothes, placing on dry ones,
putting the wet clothes on the balcony before I realised that was
probably a bad idea. From the balcony I confirmed where the shot
had come from: roof of the hotel next door. I opened the door and
told the police what I thought before attending the mini-bar. I
twisted the top off a small bottle and handed to Helen. ‘Down it in
one, it’ll help to take the edge off.’
She did as asked, and I could see her hand trembling. I eased
down to her on the bed, an arm around her. ‘We’re still alive, and
the kids are OK.’
‘Karl got engaged last week,’ she got out before bursting into
tears.
I had forgotten, someone had mentioned it in passing. And I
knew that it was not the loss of Karl that she was crying over. I
hugged her tightly, the image of Karl’s head still fresh. And that
coin. That coin saved me.
But who wanted me dead, and why now? We were in Cuba, so
we were close to the States. Were the CIA still pissed? At least, were
some elements still pissed at us? And what about all the people we
got sacked? My mind was racing with possibilities. Jimmy had not
issued a warning, so this was an aberration in the timeline,
something unexpected. And the more we fixed things, the more of
these we could expect.
Helen eventually composed herself, a knock at the door leading
to the local police chief stepping in.
 ‘We can talk?’ he asked in a heavy accent.
I showed him to a chair and sat on the bed, his assistant standing.
‘You are not hurt?’
‘No. And the sniper was on the roof of the building next door, I
worked out the angle.’
‘We know, he killed the two officers guarding you,’ the man
unhappily reported.
‘Look for Americans,’ I suggested.
The chief took a moment. ‘CIA?’
‘We have had problems with some of them. They lost their jobs.’
The chief nodded slowly to himself. ‘Our President has called
me; he is most concerned. Such things as this are rare here. Who
knew you would come here?’
‘Just the household staff, a few others. We only book tickets a
day or two before we travel for added security.’
‘Someone knew your intentions. This sniper, he must have taken
a day or two to travel.’
‘I’ll … investigate who knew in our organisation,’ I offered. ‘If
we find out anything … we’ll tell you.’
‘If this man is a professional, he will have a way to leave this
island.’
‘He’ll go to a house nearby, five or ten miles, isolated, and wait
for a week or two.’ After I said it I wondered why, but it made
sense. ‘Use all of your men - we’ll pay their wages. Search isolated
farms. Start ten miles out and work in. I’m serious, we will pay the
wages, pay them overtime, bring them in from other areas.’
‘I would have done so, our President wishes this man found.’ He
stood, and I followed him up. ‘You will stay here?’
‘Yes, for a few days, then I have business in Haiti.’
As I showed them out, Big Paul stepped in, his tacky Hawaiian
shirt spattered in blood. He reported, ‘They found a rifle on the roof,
but it won’t have prints.’ He stood at the window, peering down at
the crime scene below.
‘Then the shooter’s still in that hotel,’ I thought aloud. I dialled
Jimmy. ‘Get on a flight. The sniper is in the hotel next door, posing
as a guest.’
‘On my way.’
Jimmy handed the girls to Cat, jumped into a car and headed
towards Heathrow with a police escort, flashing lights all the way.
By the time he arrived he had hired a 747 over the phone – his credit
was good, the plane for just him and the security detail. A flight plan
was filed as the plane took off, the Cuban authorities notified when
it was in the air.
Helen and I ordered room service, and we sat in the room with
the curtains drawn, numerous calls taken; the news was now all over
the world. I had asked the police chief to stop any guests from
leaving the hotel next door for twenty-four hours, and he agreed.
Still, if our sniper was any good he’d be in no hurry, he’d be sat
around the pool with an accomplice, a woman. And I was
determined to have him.
Jimmy arrived at 4am, a ten-hour flight from London, brought
around under heavy escort. ‘You holding up?’ he asked.
Helen nodded, but didn’t answer.
‘Helen,’ he called. ‘Toughen up. Some day soon someone may
pull a gun on the girls, and I need to be sure that you’ll fight, not
sob.’ He led me out.
In reception, he spent an hour looking at names before leading me
next door. The same exercise was repeated, one name causing him to
pause before continuing. ‘No.’
‘You paused at a name.’
‘Did I?’
I put a finger at the name.
‘May as well wake him up, then. Since we own this damn hotel,
we can make it official.’
With the police close, we took the stairs up to the man’s room,
the individual booked in with his wife according to the register. At
his room, the police stood either side of the door, Big Paul with his
back to the wall. Jimmy knocked, a finger over the spy hole.
‘Hello?’ came an American accent.
Jimmy nodded to an officer, who said ‘Hotel Manager’ in
Spanish. The door clicked open and revealed the man stood there in
the room’s electric light. He was in his forties, moderately fit, but
displayed no tattoos of a military nature that I could see.
‘You’re … Jimmy Silo,’ the man stated, stood surprised.
‘I got here quickly in my time machine,’ Jimmy whispered. ‘So,
as the owner of the hotel, I’d like to apologise for the … disruption.’
‘You … you wake people at 4am to apologise … for the
disruption.’
‘Not all of them, just the special ones.’
‘Special?’ the man repeated.
‘Those that have served time in Columbian mercenary units.’
The man stared back for almost ten seconds, then tried to slam
the door. When Jimmy was in your doorway that was always more
of a hope than a practicality. Jimmy slammed his arm into the door
as he moved forwards, Big Paul moving in behind him. Jimmy
caught the man with a kick to the back, a right hook at the ‘wife’
sending her flying and knocking her cold. The man had hit the floor,
making contact with the sliding doors with his head. Jimmy dropped
and punched down, a blow to the ribs. I could hear the crack from
outside. The police rushed in, grabbing the couple, not that they
were resisting. I began to search the room, but Jimmy led me out.
‘He’s not our man,’ Jimmy stated as we headed back for the
lobby.
‘No?’ I queried.
‘No, he’s the man we were supposed to find. We’ll find out that
he was paid to be here to … watch some innocent tourist. And the
woman probably has no idea.’
In the lobby, Jimmy asked for coffee and food from the
receptionist, and sat himself where he could observe the stairs and
lift. ‘We have a few hours. Maybe I’ll recognise the man, maybe
not.’
‘You sure that’s not him?’ I pressed.
‘What agency would screw with us?’ Jimmy posed. ‘No, if
someone was going to make an attempt they’d need to be very sure
of themselves. A simple check of that man’s name in the CIA
database would have revealed him. Shit, even I knew his name.’
The police returned, and we positioned them around the exits as
we sat quietly sipping coffee and eating cake. The hours passed
slowly. At 6.45am the first early-bird tourists appeared, old couples
with towels wanting a dip, odd looks towards us as they recognised
our group.
At 8.30am I figured most of the guests had trailed past us, and
were now in the restaurant. We stood, stretched, and walked in,
playing like owners and apologising to the guests for the disruption.
A few photographed us as we walked around the tables. Having met
just about everyone, Jimmy returned to a table and sat, now facing a
man in his sixties, a woman in her thirties, and a teenage girl.
‘How are you?’ he politely asked the woman.
‘It’s rude to sit without being invited – even if you do own the
hotel.’
‘I’m glad you said that, because I needed to place the accent to
the correct part of Canada.’
The woman hesitated.
‘Canada? We’re American.’
 ‘No, you’re not. They may be, but you’re not. They may just get
away with a very long prison term. You, on the other hand, would be
handed over to me – since I have a lot of influence here, Kate.’
She was up and running, Big Paul catching her with a punch and
sending her across a table. Screams went up as the police grabbed
her.
Jimmy faced the older man. ‘There was probably a time when
you believed in the good guys winning. I strongly suggest that you
dig deep and find what’s left of your morality, and strike a deal. If
not, I’ll fly you to Africa, where they’ll cut bits off and make you eat
them.’
The young girl burst out crying, now led away by the police.
Jimmy held his gaze on the elder man, police now stood behind him.
‘What kind of deal?’
‘You tell all, I decide what happens to you. Roll … the dice, my
friend.’ He waited.
‘The Company hired us for this.’
Jimmy shook his head.
‘No?’ the man queried.
‘No, the people hiring you were disgraced former members. That
leaves you with a retirement plan in the Caribbean, otherwise known
as a Cuban jail. And the inmates may not like you.’
‘Kressip.’
‘Mister Kressip is an incompetent buffoon. Try again.’
‘He had another man with him, a hand missing.
‘Ah, well … you may have just earned a reprieve,’ Jimmy said as
he stood. A nod to the police and the elder man was led away. ‘Can I
have your attention, ladies and gentlemen,’ Jimmy loudly called.
‘Yesterday, someone tried to assassinate Paul. These were the
people behind it, and they have now been caught. By way of
compensation - for your disruption, you will all get a full refund
from us, and the offer of another holiday free of charge. I hope that
you can make the most of what is left of your holiday. Once again, I
apologise for the disruption.’
We turned to leave.
‘Hold on!’ a British man loudly called, and we stopped. A tall
and wiry man in his fifties walked forwards, a hooked nose and an
unhealthy red complexion; he reminded me of my old school
headmaster. ‘I, for one, will not be looking for a refund. My wife
had cancer and you …’ He stumbled. ‘Your drug cured her. No one
has done more for Africa than you, so you … you can shove your
refund.’ He wagged a finger. ‘And my sister sent ten thousand
pounds to Rescue Force, most of her life savings.’
The people on his table started to clap, soon followed by the
others in the restaurant, many standing. I stared at them,
dumfounded. They didn’t want to lynch us, they actually wanted to
thank us, gunfire disturbing their holiday or not.
‘Do you have a camera?’ Jimmy asked the man, leading him back
to his table. A silver digital camera was produced. ‘Ladies and
gentlemen, if you would honour me, I’d like a group photograph.’
He gestured people towards the fruit counter, tallest at the rear, kids
at the front, Jimmy stood with an arm around the man’s sister. Big
Paul took several snaps. ‘Please email a copy,’ Jimmy requested of
the spokesman before we left.
Without saying goodbye to Helen, Jimmy headed back to his
waiting aircraft under heavy escort.
In our room, I found Helen sat staring through a crack in the
curtains. ‘We caught them,’ I softly stated. ‘Jimmy recognised
them.’
‘I used to be stronger than this,’ she muttered.
I sat on the edge of the bed. ‘That was the work you were doing.
And … and back then you didn’t care - you had nothing to lose.
Now you do. C’mon, pack; I’ll bring forwards the trip to Haiti. Day
there and we’ll head back home.’
Later that day we boarded a plane to the Dominican Republic, no
direct flights to Haiti available, and hired an executive jet for the
short trip to Port Au Prince. Sykes people had already landed in
Cuba and were now making arrangements for Karl’s body, and to
continue the investigation.
We spent the night in a well-guarded, yet rundown hotel in Haiti,
the shit hole of the Caribbean, a place with a crime rate slightly
higher than the Congo before we got involved there. It was an
unpleasant room, in a strange in a violent city, and we hardly spoke.
In the morning, a car whisked us around to the Presidential Palace, a
grand white building that was out of place with the rest of the city. It
felt odd to approach it, knowing what would happen in a few short
years. The President welcomed us, Helen conversing in French and
acting as translator, our hosts English limited.
‘Thank you for your time in seeing us,’ I opened with.
‘We are most thankful that you have turned you attention this
way.’
‘Let me get down to business. We would like to open an
orphanage here, room for ten thousand children.’ They blinked. ‘We
would then like to help you with your security, offering to take your
young men and turn them into fine soldiers.’
‘How many soldiers?’
‘Five thousand to start with, and we would pay for everything,
creating barracks here. We would also equip them.’
‘The Haitian Rifles?’ the President asked with a smile.
‘Yes, sir, the Haitian Rifles. We would also like to open a Rescue
Force unit here, trained in Cuba.’
‘How many?’
‘Two hundred to start with,’ I informed him. ‘And again, we
would pay for everything. We would then like to open small clinics
here.’
‘We do not get many visitors like you,’ the President said with a
smile. ‘We agree to all of that.’ He handed over the documents. ‘Ask
for whatever facilities you need.’
I handed over a banker’s draft for twenty million dollars.
‘Towards your administrative costs in dealing with us.’
‘You have an … interesting approach.’
Little more than twenty minutes after entering the Presidential
Palace we were leaving, documents in hand and heading straight
back to the hotel, grabbing our luggage and setting off immediately
to the airport, where our jet waited. We said nothing on the way, and
my wife’s mood was worrying me. That jet took us down to
Barbados, where we hopped onto a 747 bound for London, a discreet
change of plans – just in case. On the flight, sat in First Class, people
delicately ignored us, glances made underneath eyebrows.
Jimmy was waiting in the coach at the airport, with the girls, a
thoughtful touch. Through good old British rain we journeyed
slowly home, the girls relaying to us all of the treats Jimmy had
allowed them, showing us the new laptops he had bought them,
Shelly’s customised with Hannah Montana stickers, Lucy’s adorned
with Harry Potter stickers.
I studied the rain streaking diagonally across the windows, and
heaved a sigh. To Jimmy I said, ‘You found the mastermind?’
He nodded. ‘The gentlemen lost a hand in a grenade accident a
long time ago. He recently lost the second hand, just before getting
arrested.’
‘Should make going to the toilet hard,’ I commented, no joy in
my voice. ‘Karl’s fiancée?’
Jimmy took a moment. ‘Wants nothing to do with us.’
‘She blames us?’ Helen asked.
 Jimmy made a face and shrugged. ‘Anger has to find a focus. I’ve
compensated her, but I doubt she’ll stay in touch. I compensated his
parents as well; they’re OK about it. Well – not OK about it, but
they don’t blame us. Mood at the house is a bit off, Rob and the
guards a bit down, as you can imagine.’
Shelly told me, ‘Karl has gone to work in London.’
I glanced at Helen, then addressed Shelly as she fiddled with her
laptop. ‘Yes, baby, he’s gone to work in London.’
The next day I sat in my office, and just stared at the piles,
wondering why I was bothering with any of this. I swivelled my
chair and watched the rain hit the window for a minute before
picking up the first report: Big Paul’s fish farm. A diagram showed
the areas developed, those yet to be developed, and rate of progress.
I heaved a big breath and turned the page.
Jimmy knocked, and stepped into my office, the first time he’d
viewed it. Without taking in the place, as if he’d been here many
times before, he sat opposite me. ‘Weather forecast for the next
week is good, so how about our Scottish Castle? Your romantic trip
away was … cut short, so I thought we’d go … fishing.’
I eased back and, swivelling, glanced through the window, the
clouds broken.
Jimmy added, ‘The files will still be there when you get back.’
‘Have you spoken to Helen?’
‘She’s my PA: where I go, she’s obliged to follow … or be absent
from work without a note from her mum. I may have mentioned it to
Lucy, who’s keen.’
‘Yeah … why not.’ I stood.
That evening we departed by coach, our escorts following, soon
on the M5 motorway and heading north. At 5am we negotiated tight
bends down to the Castle, and I noticed a few tents on the grass as
we pulled up. The castle staff were, quiet sensibly, fast asleep. As
were the two girls. Jimmy and I stepped down and stretched, Big
Paul easing out of his Range Rover as the sky adopted an amber hue,
the sun fighting to rise. As a group, we walked down to the concrete
jetty, the tide low and the sea dead calm.
‘Peaceful,’ I noted.
‘I’ve got all the fishing gear,’ Big Paul idly commented.
We sat on the coach till 6.30am, a maid at the castle noticing us
and opening up. As quietly as we could, we claimed our rooms, soon
heading down to a full English breakfast, the first customers of the
day. Four RF medics joined us, surprised to find us in residence, and
we caught up on the RF gossip. A Royal Marines Major and Captain
came down to breakfast a little later, their men camped out on the
hillside. Still, the men had the weather. And if they didn’t, they were
supposed to be tough.
Big Paul set out before us and grabbed winkles for bait, plus a
Mackerel pilfered from the kitchens, and some squid. The girls put
their little pink Wellington boots on and we walked down as a group
to the jetty, plenty of room for the group to fish off. Big Paul’s two
rods were already set-up, and he patiently helped Lucy whilst I
assisted Shelly, the girl’s rods suitably small and light. They lowered
their baited hooks over the side, straight down till the weights
touched the bottom. Helen laid out four deckchairs and opened a
magazine, Jimmy and myself casting out. Despite the rocks at the
shoreline, the bottom of the loch was supposed to be mostly sandy.
With our rods set-up, we admired the view down the loch, the day
warming quickly. Ten minutes later, Big Paul pulled in a flatfish, the
girls excitedly examining it, the odd arrangement where its eyes
were both on the top of its flat head. Our first catch was not big
enough for the pot, so was tossed back in.
When Shelly screamed I assisted, holding the rod whilst she
reeled in a six inch Blenny. I unhooked it and put it in her bucket,
my daughter squatting and studying her catch. After all, it had put up
a fight. Lucy brought up crabs, shrieking and shaking them free.
When Shelly brought up a crab, she grabbed it from behind and
shoved it towards Helen’s face, causing a shriek.
The day warmed nicely, everyone removing layers of clothing,
lunch brought out to us, wet wipes to remove the stink of fish off
fingers. Big Paul caught flatfish, eels, and a horrible looking
Monkfish – all destined for the pot.
At 2pm I sat with Jimmy on the deckchairs, faces to the sun, cans
of lager in hand, the girls off exploring rock pools with Helen.
‘Peaceful here,’ I commented.
‘Far from the madding crowd,’ Jimmy responded.
The RF team leader came and asked for a few fish, his team
intending to eat some raw, cooking the rest. Big Paul took a bit of
persuading, but allowed the man two fish.
At 4pm, the day hot and the tide right out, the sand was now
exposed. We could see Shelly itching for a swim, goggles in hand
and nagging Helen. Jimmy and I walked around, undressed down to
our pants and walked in, the water absolutely bloody freezing.
Shelly disappeared below us, back up a minute later with a lobster
held high.
 ‘Hey, Big Paul!’ I shouted from the water. ‘Shelly got a lobster;
better than your crappy fish.’
Shelly took her catch to the beach and studied it intensely for
several minutes, soon going back for more, five large lobsters
recovered from the depths. I figured we’d be eating them over Big
Paul’s meagre catch. Chilled, we all towelled down and dressed,
retiring to our rooms, the castle chef handed his live ingredients for
tonight’s feast. I had figured that the girls would shy away from
boiled lobster, but no, they observed us break them open. The girls
copied, creating a mess, but enjoyed the white lobster flesh. So what
if the waitress crunched exoskeleton as she walked around – we
owned the damn place.
The good weather extended to the next day, so we ventured up
the opposite hillside to the castle, peering down from our lofty
vantage point, RAF jets screaming by. We met two RF teams out
hiking, sweating as they plodded along with heavy rucksacks, and
loudly encouraged them to put one foot in front of the other. The
girls picked heather and chased after rabbits as we sat on the grass
and took in the view, time moving very slowly.
Hiring a local tourist boat the next day, we donned red life jackets
and set off, soon slowing to enjoy sea otters in the distance. That
experience was topped by numerous inquisitive seals popping their
heads above the water to view us. Colonies of seabirds were
observed from a distance, the craft’s captain giving a running
commentary of interesting facts, and we glimpsed dolphins on the
way back. With a few hours of daylight left, we followed Big Paul to
the trout stream and practised fly-fishing, not catching a damn thing.
The girls had enjoyed the boat trip, and nagged a little, so we
repeated the loch excursion the following day, this time heading
further around the headland, the wake of our boat briefly attracting
dolphins. It took all of my strength to stop Shelly from plunging in
after them.
After five days at the castle we all displayed modest suntans, and
had all slowed to a different pace, to holiday pace. The Canadian
style canoes were brought out of a shed and washed off, the whole
gang setting off on an around-the-bay paddle, inquisitive sea otters
again glimpsed. Then, following Jimmy’s direction, we suddenly
sped up and reached the middle of the loch and upped oars. When
Shelly shrieked I spun around, to see a dolphin breaking the surface
nearby. These dolphins, British dolphins, were nothing like Flipper
off the TV; they were eight feet long and a darker colour, black and
white almost. They were bigger than our damn canoes. The pod
honoured us with their company for ten minutes, gracefully sliding
through the water and circling us.
Turning back towards shore, I noticed other canoes, a darker
colour, two men in each. ‘Who are they?’ I asked Jimmy, now
concerned.
‘Royal Marines, Special Boat Service,’ Jimmy responded. ‘Come
on, let’s race them.’
We picked up the pace and closed the distance, moving back
towards the loch shore and adopting a parallel course.
‘Nice day for it,’ I shouted across the water’s calm surface.
‘You Jimmy Silo?’ a man asked, looking very tired.
‘Yes,’ Jimmy responded. ‘Want a race back?’
‘You’re not exactly in fast canoes, guv,’ a solider responded.
‘Thousand pounds if you beat us in,’ Jimmy said, he and Big Paul
taking the lead. It was the like the opening scene to Hawaii Five-O,
and I even hummed the tune. Helen and I picked up the pace, soon
cruising quickly along and surprising the soldiers, Jimmy in a mad
race with the lead military canoe, he and Big Paul frantically
paddling.
‘Come on, ya fucking Marine poofters,’ Big Paul shouted at
them. He had been Special Air Service; these lads were Special Boat
Service, their archenemies in dick measuring contests.
Jimmy got into his rhythm, and his damn canoe was about to
break the surface and start flying, pulling away from us, the girls
encouraging mummy and daddy to go faster. Jimmy’s canoe hit the
sand first, by two lengths, and Big Paul was suitably ungracious and
rude, the solders downright bleeding knackered. Well, they had
already completed a ten-mile ocean trek. We pulled in just behind
the last soldier’s canoe, a respectable placing for a married couple
with kids. Big Paul was soaked from Jimmy’s splashes, Jimmy now
splashing his face with cold seawater.
It was a good finish to the holiday, and after a wash and a meal
we set off south towards the house. En route, Helen and I agreed that
we had enjoyed this more than we figured we would have enjoyed a
week without the girls. I think we both turned middle-aged in that
instant.
We had found more time for each other this trip, even with the
girls with us, and held hands a lot. And, after Cuba, Helen seemed
more affectionate, more needing of my attention. I guess all it
needed was to be shot at. Again.
War in the desert

Somali and Ethiopia shared a long border, and as such shared a few
small areas that had been disputed over the years, but mostly just by
those locals living close to them. One day in July, a brash group of
young Ethiopian soldiers walked up to the border and to a Somali
checkpoint. The Somali border officers on duty smiled and
welcomed their visitors, soon held at gunpoint and marched across
to Ethiopia.
When the news reached Jimmy he called Ngomo straight away.
‘Launch Operation Bucket and Spade.’ He opened the basement
command centre and I was worried, and rightly so. Jimmy had been
waiting for just such an incursion, and hinted that this incursion was
both advanced and ‘timely.’
In Somali, Abdi put on his combats and his boots and called in
his senior officers. Ngomo ordered the Pathfinders – those now
training in Somali, to board their helicopters and fly up to the section
of border in question. There they disembarked, marched all night
and crossed the border, encircling the small town where the Somali
border guards were being held. And I found nothing in the news
about the men’s abduction, puzzling it. The Pathfinders liberated the
captive men, storming the police station where the Somalis were
being held, killing thirty Ethiopians. Extracting the men and
withdrawing, the alarm was sounded, the Pathfinders now killing
anyone that approached or challenged them. They walked a mile out
of town, skirmishing on the way, to be picked up by helicopter and
whisked back across the border. Now Reuters reported the Somalis
abducted, making me scratch my head.
The morning edition of the African Times ran the story that the
Somalis had been abducted, and that the Somali Rifles had rescued
them. They neglected to mention the sixty dead Ethiopian soldiers,
plus the odd slow moving Ethiopian housewife and a few goats.
The Ethiopian Government responded with threats, and moved
tanks towards the border. That constituted a ‘material threat’ to a
member of the economic co-operation group, which triggered a
mobilisation of some ten thousand Rifles from a variety of nations,
even from down in Zimbabwe. Mawlini went on full alert, the base a
hive of activity as Jimmy told me to pack a bag. With a bad feeling
about where this was heading, and Jimmy not being very
forthcoming, we flew down to Goma hub overnight, changing to a
flight to Mawlini and arriving in time for breakfast. Booked in at the
hotel, we climbed to the rooftop bar in time to see a dozen Cobras
take off.
Mac came up to us. ‘We going to fucking war or something?’
‘Hope not,’ Jimmy responded.
Mac did not seem convinced by that. ‘All the Cobras are live-
firing in the desert like they’ll be needed soon!’
‘As I said, let’s hope not,’ Jimmy reiterated, camel steaks placed
down.
Mac sat and studied us. ‘You reckon the Ethiopians are daft
enough to attack Abdi?’
‘Abdi has no fighter aircraft, few tanks, and the Ethiopians do,’
Jimmy pointed out.
‘So what happened at that border incursion?’ Mac asked.
‘Somali Rifles launch a quiet and discreet rescue – Somali style.’
‘They shot up the whole fucking town!’ Mac noted.
‘As I said – Somali style.’
‘Congo Rifles flew in here last night; Zimbabweans, Zambians,
the lot,’ Mac reported. ‘Fucking flights all bastard night long!
They’ve all driven over the border.’
‘So, besides that, how’re things, Mac?’ I lightly asked.
‘Aye, fucking peachy,’ he quipped.
A long way off, a column of Ethiopian tanks moved east, and
towards the town that had witnessed the quiet and discreet Somali
rescue. They halted at the border, their orders simply to protect that
part of their territory. Since the Somalis did not have many tanks of
their own, it was a bit of overkill. Across the border, in the hills and
rocks that flanked the border road, the Pathfinders and Somali Rifles
dug in and made ready.
After a camel steak breakfast, I drove around to the helicopter
compound, finding Hal walking across the apron with his gunner.
‘Aren’t you a bit old for all this?’
‘Still show you how to fly, sonny. What’s the flap anyway?’
‘Ethiopians may cross the Somali border.’
Hal stopped dead. ‘And we’ll go out and attack them? Paul,
Kenya has a border with Ethiopia. You looking to start a war?’
‘Somali and Kenya are signatories of a mutual defence pack.’ I
shrugged. ‘Politics.’
He poured me a cold drink in the pilot’s lounge, and we slouched
down. After a moment studying me, he said, ‘You lost a bodyguard
in Cuba?’
 I nodded. ‘Bullet was meant for me. Missed by six inches, if that.
Guess I haven’t been doing enough to help the world of late.’
‘They caught them?’
‘Ex-CIA, and ex … because we got them fired.’
Hal shook his head, wiping sweat of his forehead with a sleeve.
‘It’s a fucked up world. After that drug you released I figured you’d
be popular.’
‘We are in some circles. And … there’s something you need to
know. I … asked Doc Adam to inject you with the wonder drug a
few years back, when you fell ill after Mozambique. You were touch
and go.’
‘That explains a lot; it took ten years off me. I go jogging in the
mornings with the others.’
‘You got the full strength dose, most just get a quarter of that,’ I
explained, bending the truth a little.
‘Most of this lot have had it lately, hell of a difference – they all
jog around the airfield in the mornings! And none of the big-brained
fucking doctors can figure it out. Quacks!’
‘It’s made a difference around the world,’ I sighed.
‘Made more than a difference, Paul,’ Hal stated, a serious
expression adopted as he eased forwards. ‘Folks around here have
put two and two together … and come up with an AIDS orphanage
free of AIDS.’
I glanced at the other pilots. ‘We injected them all years ago,
cured the lot.’
‘And in the Congo, and down in Zimbabwe?’ Hal nudged.
I nodded. ‘We injected about fifty thousand kids.’
‘That’s fifty thousand reasons why people should not be trying to
shoot holes in you.’
‘Well, there are other things we’re involved with, like world
politics.’
‘Always a dangerous business. How’s the family?’
‘Great. We just had a holiday in Scotland, good weather, nice
break away. How’s your nipper?’
‘Growing rapidly. She wants to be a nurse,’ Hal enthusiastically
reported. ‘She was up here the other week, stayed with me during
half term. She likes to fly as well, and she’s smarter than me. That
orphanage of yours – they bring them along quickly, by god. I got a
computer in the house, and she teaches me how to use the damn
thing!’
‘Listen, if there’s any action over the border – be careful, huh.’
‘Yes, mum.’
 Driving back, ten minutes later, my escorts stopped at the Rifles
HQ building and informed me that I was wanted inside. I found
Ngomo and Jimmy huddled around a map. ‘Didn’t you used to have
a desk job?’ I asked Ngomo as I shook his giant steak of a hand.
‘I prayed for a conflict,’ he boomed. ‘And Ethiopia delivered.’
I scanned the map, seeing marks for Rifles units all along the
lengthy border. ‘They kissed and made up yet?’
‘No, they threaten to take the land they claim,’ Ngomo reported.
‘We shall sit and wait like the spider.’
After twenty minutes of listening to movements and dispositions
reports coming in, I got the impression that they were plotting
something. They used the word ‘trap’ and ‘trigger’ a lot. Driving
back to the RF compound, Jimmy explained that the senior staff
were not happy and wanted a word about the drug. We pulled up at
the lecture theatre and stepped in, finding twenty of the senior staff
assembled.
‘God bless all here,’ I said. ‘Who’s round is it?’ It did not
generate a smile, just polite, forced movements of cheeks.
‘So,’ Jimmy began, his hands held wide. ‘You have some
questions.’
Doc Hoskins asked, ‘May we ask … did the kids at the orphanage
get injected with the wonder drug?’
‘They did,’ Jimmy responded without hesitation.
‘They were tested upon?’ a doctor asked.
‘No, we … were tested upon, Paul and myself. Fifteen years ago
we were both injected. And, as you can see, there are no side effects,
Paul producing a healthy set of girls. And as for Ebede, you need to
be aware of only one thing: ninety-five percent of the kids were
terminal, most dying of AIDS. From the day I took over we lost no
more than half a dozen, and none since that time.’
‘You had the drug all those years ago?’ they queried.
‘As you’ve already mentioned, it had to be tested. So we injected
terminal patients, thousands of them, and all survived. Besides, we
didn’t want to cause the kind of reaction that the drug has caused,
the furore, and the misuse of it.’
‘Misuse?’
‘Old ladies inject themselves to look better. The drug doesn’t
always go to the sick or the terminal.’
A man raised his hand. ‘I have friends who are experts in disease
medicine, and they can’t make head nor tail of it.’
‘I’m sure they’ll figure it out eventually,’ Jimmy said. ‘And don’t
ask me, I’m no scientist.’
 ‘Were the Rifles injected?’ a woman asked.
‘Yes, all inoculated. That’s why they’re so fit.’
‘Jimmy, you haven’t aged a day since I met you,’ Coup stated. ‘Is
that the drug?’
‘There’s a stronger version,’ Jimmy suggested. ‘The common
drug, the one curing AIDS, is one eighth of the strength. The drug
Doc Adam has been offering you is one quarter.’
‘What’s the difference – in practical terms?’
‘If you take Doc Adam’s drug you’ll sleep four hours a night and
run thirty miles before breakfast, as well as being immune to every
disease known to man. It also seems to slow the ageing process.’
‘Fucking hell, Jimmy,’ Coup let out, the medics glancing at each
other.
‘If you have any doubts, don’t use it - it’s a personal choice. I
will, however, recommend the lower dosage for all Rescue Force
staff working in tropical areas.’
‘What effect does it have on trauma patients?’ they asked.
‘Injecting a trauma patient will accelerate the healing process;
four weeks will become four days. And its excellent for burns;
someone with ninety-percent burns would be cured in a week.’
A chorus of whispers shot around the room.
‘Where the fuck did it come from?’ they asked.
‘Russia, some accidental breakthrough, and the CIA had it for
twenty years. I bribed a few people, got hold of it, and developed it
for AIDS treatment. Rest was a side effect.’
‘Will it be carried by all RF staff in the field?’ a man asked.
‘I hope so, because it’ll make a hell of a difference. But it’s not
cheap, not yet.’
‘You all driving the electric cars?’ I asked, wishing to change the
subject.
They nodded. ‘I haven’t charged mine in a month,’ someone said.
‘Another miraculous breakthrough,’ someone curtly commented.
‘There’s no pleasing some people,’ I quipped.
Jimmy told the man, ‘The technology was there twenty years ago,
but hidden by the oil companies. There’s also a shit load of secret
patents that I’m after, all sorts of technology that they don’t want out
there.’
‘You out to fix the world, Jimmy?’ a medic asked.
‘Yes.’ He waited as they glanced at each other.
This group was not stupid, they had observed us close up for
many years, and these latest breakthroughs were astounding. They
loved us to bits, but were just as curious as anyone else. For the first
time, I felt that our cover was about to be blown.
A man raised his hand. ‘When this “M” Group of world leaders
meet – do you address them?’
‘Yes, about a variety of projects I’m involved with, in particular
African investment.’
The same man said, ‘You have a drug that cures everything –
which is impossible, an electric car that never stops, your man
Crusty predicts quakes – which is impossible, you make more
money than anyone else on the planet, and you don’t age. Is there
something we’re missing, Jimmy?’
‘Some gratitude,’ I suggested, now secretly worried.
‘There’s only one thing to say to that,’ Jimmy began. ‘Wait and
see what I do in the next few years. You ain’t seen nothing yet,
people.’
‘Do you have any sensible questions?’ I asked.
‘You mind if I ask why they tried to shoot you in Cuba?’ Coup
asked.
I stepped closer to him. ‘A difference of opinion, about releasing
advanced technology,’ I carefully stated, and lied. ‘Our electric car
will cost the oil business a lot of money, but might just save global
warming. You figure it out.’
Jimmy put in, ‘When we took over in the Congo they tried to kill
us many times - they even shot down a plane - because they wanted
to continue to remove ore, and to keep Africa poor. Now look at the
Congo.’ He held his hands wide. ‘Jobs, hospitals, law and order, and
- most importantly - a future. Not everyone wants that for Africa.
Now, does anyone wish to question the value of what I have
achieved for Africa?’
No one responded.
‘Fine, because I fancy some lunch. We’ll be here a few days if
you have Rescue Force questions, problems or gripes.’
In the rooftop bar I said, ‘Ungrateful bunch of fuckers.’
‘They’re not stupid, they can see it more than most. They’ve seen
me pull far too many rabbits out of the hat, and they’re afraid. And
I’m afraid that the clock is counting down.’
‘You think we’ll be exposed?’
‘Two or three years.’
I sighed. ‘Not looking forward to that; be even more nutters at the
gate then. And I have two kids!’
‘They’ll turn out fine. The kids, not the nutters. Now, shut up and
order.’
 That evening, the Ethiopian tank commander got bored of sitting
in his warm tank, and ordered his troop of twenty-five tanks
forwards - without permission from his superiors. The Pathfinders
sat quietly eating meat from tins, no fires allowed, and carefully
watched the tanks trundle past as the sun set on the horizon.
The TV news had been reporting the build-up of African Rifles
units some ten miles from the Ethiopian border; tents pitched,
campfires going. And no armour. No tanks, no armoured personnel
carriers, and no air cover. They were a tempting target, sat having a
brew and sing-a-long around the campfire.
The last tank in the slow moving Ethiopian column was closely
followed by four support vehicles. As soon as the last of those
vehicles had rounded a bend, the Pathfinders on the Ethiopian side
of the border blew a very large hole into the road at a narrow
passing. No re-supply would be coming anytime soon, and no retreat
was now possible.
History would record that, as soon as the Ethiopians knew that
their tanks had crossed the border, a recall order had been
dispatched. Jimmy knew that as well, but he had a plan. The road in
front of the lead tank blew, alerting the column to the fact that
something was amiss. It was the cue for the Pathfinders, who took
their time to pick off the intruders with anti-tank rockets.
By dawn, the border road was strewn with burnt-out tanks and
destroyed lorries, bodies littering the roadside. None of the invaders
had survived. Kenyan military cameramen had filmed the scene at
dawn and transmitted it by satellite, the Ethiopian Government
waking to the images of a tank column that had been decimated.
They, the Government, did not wish to escalate things, but they had
a population to serve, and that population now wanted blood,
protests breaking out in the streets.
Ethiopian Migs took off and headed east at high speed, their
target being Mogadishu, secure in the knowledge that the Somalis
possessed no aircraft. It was a mistake, because north of Mogadishu
someone had positioned a great big brand new shiny nuclear reactor,
paid for with western money. Now, high above Mogadishu, an
American AWACS plotted the approach of the Migs. An operator
tracked their course, projected that they were on a course for
Mogadishu, and got on the radio.
‘Ethiopian Migs heading directly for the nuclear power plant.’
The truth had been stretched by some twenty miles.
I had been in the Rifles HQ when the message was received, and
became seriously concerned.
 Jimmy tapped the map. ‘There’s never a US Navy carrier battle
group around when you need one. Oh, I forgot, there is one – off the
coast of Mogadishu.’ He made eye contact with me. ‘Forget my own
head if it wasn’t screwed on.’
‘Carrier battle group?’ I repeated.
‘F14 Tomcat; the best aircraft ever invented, now or in the future.
Joint strike fighter? Bollocks!’
The AWACS reported the nuclear facility under threat, several
flights of F14s screaming in at wave-top height to avoid being
detected. The residents of Mogadishu received a rude wake-up call
as the jets screamed overhead, heading west. A few minutes later,
the formations of Ethiopian Migs were buzzed at high speed by the
F14s and thought better of it, turning for home. Problem was, that
AWACS operator.
‘Bogeys turning after you, they’re hostile. Break and engage.’
The Migs turned in a circle and headed west in hurry, the F14s
vectored onto them. None of the Migs survived. As the last Mig hit
the desert sands, scaring the goats, the UN Security Council met in
the middle of the night in New York. They sent Ethiopia a complaint
about the attack on the nuclear facility, and aggressive moves
against the peaceful US F14s, the communiqué leaked to the press.
Ethiopia was now down twenty-five tanks and six expensive
Migs, this whole episode being a very costly adventure for them.
Not wishing to invade Somalia, but wishing to appease its unruly
crowds, the Ethiopians mobilized their army and moved columns
towards their southern border. One particular column, in the very
south, was isolated on the map by Jimmy. If you drew a wiggly line,
you could – if you were a bit drunk – say that it put them on course
for Mawlini. And that was not allowed.
The base alert was sounded, all non-essential staff ordered to
leave, medics to make ready for casualties. The Rifles were already
on the border, and anyone moving towards us would have to be
suicidal. As I stood there, quietly cursing Jimmy for arranging all
this, I heard the Cobras take off. I stepped outside to see a line of
twenty Cobras and ten Hueys disappear into the distance, my
thoughts with Hal. I heaved a breath, cursed Jimmy, and returned to
the map table.
The Ethiopian tank column had no intention of crossing the
border, but a move towards that border was a provocation. What
were the tanks there for, if not to attack? They halted ten miles short
of the border and formed a nice neat line, their parking skills
admirable. On their hot engines they heated water for a brew, and lit
cigarettes, wondering if they could hear distant thunder as they
discussed the current market rate for goats. Time was when a weary
soldier could go home for the weekend, buy a goat and slaughter it
for a good family feast. Not any more, prices were rising. As they
lamented about better times in years gone by, the roar grew. The sky
was clear, so they scratched their beards.
The first Cobra in the line fired from a mile out, hitting a tank and
decimating the crews sat around it. It followed-up with anti-
personnel rockets before banking southwest, its colleagues taking it
in turn to fire at the line of neatly parked tanks. The tank crews
managed to move several tanks, forwards or backwards, but their
efforts were of little use. Inside an hour some thirty tanks and twenty
support vehicles were burning, few left alive as the Cobras returned
to base.
‘Job done,’ Jimmy stated.
‘And the purpose of this in the grand scheme of things?’ I testily
questioned.
‘To … diminish the Ethiopian Army and Air Force a little, to let
them know that our nuclear reactor will be protected, to discourage
them from any future border incursions, and to let all the terrorists in
the Middle East know that we have a great big shiny nuclear plant
here. Now, without that plant we could not have justified the US
involvement, and their involvement will help to peg the power plant
as western, and therefore a nice target.’
‘Why the fuck … would you want them to target it?’
‘Mop up. If they come for it … we’re ready. And they will, their
best fighters being lost in the process.’
‘It’s a hell of an expensive decoy!’
‘Oh, it does have a genuine need here, but I like to have several
uses for something. And now CAR will open up a few nice oilfields
here, in Somalia. Guess … where?’
I gave it some thought. ‘Along the Ethiopian border?’
Jimmy lifted his eyebrows and nodded. ‘If not dealt with now,
they would have disrupted our oil production later.’
‘And you’re using Somalia to mop up Middle East terrorists.’
‘Better than the Richmond High Street!’
The UN asked for a ceasefire, and got one. The Rifles were
pulled back, a few brigades left in place as a token gesture, and
peace reclaimed the region, the Ethiopians now certain to think
twice about future border incursions. CAR would move into the new
region and sink wells, striking oil, finding a substantial field.
 And in the weeks that followed, Arab fighters journeyed to
Somali, to a well prepared killing zone that a fly could not get
through, our agreement with an enlivened Abdi being that the
attacks would not be made public.
Back at the house, I had asked Jimmy, ‘What exactly would
exposure entail?’
‘A good speech by me, support of the world leaders, and then lots
of silly questions about Elvis, and what would happen if I killed my
own grandfather.’
‘Oh. And … it’s certain in the years ahead?’
‘Would have been around 2010, but … but the drug has aroused
suspicions ahead of time. But, on the other hand, the drug will make
us popular. The electric car is five years ahead of itself, so that will
arouse some suspicions as well. But, Hardon Chase and Petrosi at
the CIA are onboard, so they could manufacture some nice decoys
and be helpful. They’ll have to be careful about lying to congress,
and if asked directly they’d have to admit the truth. Then we’d go
and live on a small island. Or in China. You know, I actually
thought about relocating there if things got hairy over here.’
‘And will they? Get hairy?’ I pressed.
‘Like a roller coaster. But all you need to deflect attention away
from yourself, is something far more scary on the horizon – and that
we have by the bucket load, unfortunately.’
‘I’m sure you know what you’re doing…’
‘But?’
‘But I have a family. And … people shoot at me,’ I pointed out.
‘If and when we’re exposed, the world’s governments will have
no choice but to offer better protection than a US President,’ Jimmy
said, adopting a reassuring tone. ‘And I’m hoping that, with Hardon
Chase on our side, we can drag it to the end of his term.’
‘Four years,’ I thought out loud. ‘Shelly will be … twelve.’

Prince Ali Bin Something

Sykes took a call at his London office inside the MOD building,
from a Saudi Prince that insisted on meeting him. The British
Government were not about to upset the Prince so, after consulting
with the Prime Minister, Sykes drove around to the hotel that the
Prince was now staying at, protection in tow. In a penthouse suite he
found the Prince and his entourage, Sykes leaving his security staff
outside the door.
‘Greetings, Mister Sykes,’ the Prince announced from where he
sat in the window, his aides stood waiting. ‘Please, do come in.’ His
accent was the result of an expensive education, finished at Oxford
University. He sat now in his full regalia of white Arab robes. But,
despite being a prince, he was fifty-five years old.
Sykes eased down. ‘Thank you, Your Highness. How may I be of
service?’
‘So much more polite that your countryman; Mac, I believed he
was called, the commander of the base at Mawlini.’
‘You … spoke to Mac?’ Sykes puzzled.
‘Yes, with regard to a donation to Rescue Force. He referred to
me as Your Worshipfulness, which may be down to his lack of
education, or the attitude he picked up in your army. I would hope
that he was just being ignorant, but I have also had correspondence
with his paymaster, the legendary Mister Silo, who referred to me as
Your Royal Smelly Fly Trap.’
Sykes shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘My Government would like to
distance itself from both … sets of references.’
‘Ah, ever the eternal diplomat, Mister Sykes, the product of a
proper education.’ The Prince dismissed his entourage to the next
room. ‘Now, let me be frank, Deputy Director Sykes – a Deputy
Director for a very long time. Mister Silo and his associates first
caught my attention many years ago, since I take an interest in the
horn of Africa and Somalia, and I have followed his activities very
closely. May I say, Mister Sykes, that I as a child I enjoyed a puzzle
to solve, and your Mister Silo has been a source of amusement for a
decade or more. Amusement – in that I am amused when I ask my
staff questions that confound them.
‘You know, the Somalis slapped my ambassador about the face
and threw him out of the country - the first time in living memory
anyone has shown us such affront. But my spies inside the Somali
establishment suggested that your Mister Silo cautioned tolerance
and diplomacy, at a time when I thought such an affront might have
been his doing. He is an enigma, wrapped in a puzzle, surrounded by
a high fence with dogs that have very sharp teeth. And by those
dogs, I mean people like yourself.’
‘Your Highness?’
‘Don’t be coy, Mister Sykes. I have spent three hundred million
dollars on bribing people the world over in order to unwrap some of
the puzzle that is Jimmy Silo, and I know more than you might wish
me to. Recently, both an American gentleman and a French
gentleman were most forthcoming, and most generously rewarded.
You see, Mister Sykes, I have a lot of money, and I don’t mind using
it to solve puzzles that keep me awake at night. In Riyadh, I have a
team of ten men who do nothing other than scour the world for
information about one James Silovitch. They collate it, sort it, sift it,
make intelligent assessments, then tie themselves in knots when they
try and explain what motivates him. I have ten researchers, and
twenty opinions, which is why I like to bribe former members of the
intelligence services.’
‘I’m not one of them, Your Highness,’ Sykes firmly pointed out.
‘Indeed no, or I would have no respect for you. No, you are a
puzzle in yourself – in that no one has ever held such a post as yours
for so long: “M” Group liaison. And you look … fit and healthy.’
‘Did you have a question, Your Highness,’ Sykes nudged.
‘I know far more than you realise, and I seek an audience with
Mister Silo, for which I have already donated a substantial amount
to Rescue Force Kenya, to this rude man, and may make further
substantial donations. I may also make public what I found out,
something that may make your job a tad harder in the near future.’
Sykes pulled out his phone, and selected Jimmy’s private
number. ‘Jimmy, it’s Sykes. I’m sat here with Crown Prince Ali
Bin–’
‘Tomorrow, 2pm at the house, three aides, British police escort.’
He hung up.
Sykes stared at his phone for a moment, then put it away. ‘Mister
Silo will see you tomorrow, at his residence in Wales, at 2pm. You
are requested to bring only three aides under a British police escort.’
The Prince smiled widely. ‘And yet, Mister Sykes, you did not
even ask a question. It was as if … he knew in advance.’ He stood.
‘Please send me an escort in the morning, at the prescribed time to
depart – allowing for dreadful London traffic.’
Sykes had followed the Prince up, and now bowed respectfully.
At 1.30pm the next day, the three-vehicle convoy arrived at the
house, extra police laid on. I knew who was coming, and when the
vehicles pulled up I stepped outside to greet them.
‘Alright, mate,’ I offered the Prince, he and his aides now dressed
in a western suits, looking up at the house and taking in the grounds.
‘The ever-rude Mister Paul Holton.’ We shook.
‘It’s not the words that are spoken, but how they are heard, that
sets the tone,’ I said, one of Jimmy’s phrases.
The Prince stopped. ‘Then I shall listen with better ears.’
 I gestured him inside, and led his party to a lounge, the group
keenly peering into each room like tourists as we progressed. In the
lounge, Jimmy sat reading a paper. He did not stand, but he did at
least lower the paper, folding it neatly. I gestured the Prince’s party
to a sofa. ‘Drinks, gentlemen?’
The Prince sat. ‘Would you ask Cookie for four green teas,
please.’
I sat and lifted a phone, ordering the teas, a beer for myself.
Jimmy began with, ‘Did you come here with the intention of
bugging this meeting, Crafty?’
The Prince smiled widely. ‘No one has called me Crafty since
boarding school, here in England. And no, no bugs.’
‘Are you sure?’ Jimmy posed. ‘Really sure that you trust your
men, that your uncle does not keep track of you – and your
activities?’
The Prince stopped smiling, and I noticed Big Paul hovering in
the doorway. Jimmy now beckoned Big Paul in, and pointed at the
man on the end. Big Paul gestured the man up, then patted down the
man’s lower back. He faced Jimmy and nodded. The Prince was on
his feet, shouting in Arabic. He got back a few terse words, the man
stepping out, Big Paul following closely. Sitting again, the Prince
composed himself. I took out the gizmo for interfering with
electronics and turned it on.
‘I apologise for that,’ our visitor offered. ‘Family.’
‘And when your family is your boss…’ Jimmy said, his hands
wide. ‘So, how can I help you?’
‘I believe you already know the answer to that question.’
‘Yes, but it would be impolite to assume.’
‘And yet, not impolite to treat me like your gardener.’
‘Who is the king, and who the serf?’ Jimmy posed.
‘I shall adopt … a subservient role for this meeting, since this is
your house.’ The teas were brought in, so Jimmy grabbed the spare
one. ‘I have bribed a great many people, and I have spent a great
deal of money doing so, many hundreds of millions of dollars –’
‘What a waste,’ I cut in with.
‘Perhaps. But I like to solve problems, especially when they
affect me directly. May I ask, first of all, if you are blocking the
African nations from joining OPEC?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I ask … as to why?’
‘It was a gloriously foolish mistake for the Americans to persuade
OPEC to trade in dollars. A great benefit for America for decades,
but the books will need to be balanced at some point. That point, in
the years ahead, will see OPEC dropping the dollar, and problems
for the American President in power at the time, who, having a large
nuclear arsenal, will wish to use it to … solve problems.’
‘Ah,’ the Prince said after a long pause. He sighed, ‘It is
something we know of, yet never dare speak of; like a distant
relative who is in prison.’ He sipped his tea. ‘Are my assumptions
about you correct, Mister Silo?’
‘You would have to list them, for me to correct you,’ Jimmy
suggested.
‘You work for this Mister Magestic?’
‘If not in body, then in spirit, yes.’
‘An … intriguing answer. And he can predict the future with
great accuracy?’
‘He can indeed.’
The Prince took a moment, staring into his tea. ‘The Chinese
super-drug, filtered through pigs blood; was that in any way
deliberate – the choice of pigs?’
‘No, just simple biology.’
‘But the drug that you were injected with was pure; a
concentrate.’
‘Correct.’
‘And if one wanted to obtain this drug…?’
‘It’s expensive,’ Jimmy pointed out. ‘And I am selective about
who receives it.’
‘My price … is one hundred million dollars, but I have some
questions first. It cures and prevents all diseases?’
‘Diseases are adaptive. There may occur something in the future
that may make you unwell.’
‘But would not kill me?’
‘No.’
‘And it would slow ageing?’ the Prince pressed, and by his tone I
figured that it was the main point of interest.
‘You would live to be a hundred and sixty in good health.’
‘That is a long time. And with further injections?’
‘You would live forever,’ Jimmy suggested.
‘And if I wait, will the drug be developed in the decades ahead?’
‘Yes, in around fifteen years, maybe less.’
The Prince thought it through. ‘I wish it now.’
‘Order the transfer of the funds to Rescue Force Kenya,’ Jimmy
suggested as he stood.
 The Prince and his aides followed Jimmy up, and I wondered
where my bloody beer had gone. Our guest took out his phone and
ordered the transfer.
‘Follow me, but just you,’ Jimmy told the Prince, and led him
out. They stepped down to the basement, where one of Sykes
doctors waited. Jimmy took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve,
instructing the Prince to do likewise. The doctor drew blood.
‘I heard that it was blood to blood,’ the Prince commented,
injected a moment later, two full needles worth.
‘You’ll run a temperature for a day, drink plenty of water,’ the
doctor explained. ‘Your urine will smell bad for a week, and you
should eat more protein, more meat. You’ll sleep less and be able to
start exercising after five days.’
‘Exercising?’
Jimmy explained, ‘You’ll be able to run marathons – and win!’
‘The soldiers, the Rifles?’
‘Have all been injected, and are very hard to kill,’ Jimmy pointed
out. ‘Pray that you are never on the receiving end of their anger.’
Jimmy led the Prince out, thanking him for the donation, and
waved the cars goodbye.
‘That supposed to happen?’ I asked as we stood on the gravel at
the front of the house.
‘Yes. I’d be tempted to use him, but he can’t be trusted.
Besides…’
We turned, stepping into the house.
‘Besides what?’
‘A year from now his uncle will kill him.’
‘Then why inject him, for fuck’s sake?’ I pressed.
‘First, the money, and second … he would have gone public with
what he thinks he knows.’
I rang Rudd and asked him to check the bank account, getting
back a “Fuck me!” The Prince was good to his word, and would
soon be jogging about the royal palace in, well, wherever he came
from. And I never could pronounce his bleeding name.
I then rang Mac. ‘Mac, what did you say to that Saudi Prince?’
‘I was right polite, like. Honest,’ Mac protested.
‘I know, he just donated a hundred million dollars to you.’
There was a long pause. ‘He what?’
‘You heard, check with Rudd. He said you persuaded him.’
‘Oh … he … er did, did he. Well, aye.’
‘Nah, just kidding. You nearly blew the fucking deal, you dosy
fucking Scotsman. Jimmy had to twist his arm to get the money.’
 ‘We got the money?’
‘Yeah, check with Rudd. Free beer for the troops this weekend,
you rude bastard.’

A hell of a September

At the beginning of September, Jimmy informed me of a flood and

two quakes. Then I noticed the dates. ‘You’ve got to be kidding!
‘Nope, they all occur at the same time.’
‘They serious?’
‘Quite serious, yes.’
‘We’ll split three ways?’ I questioned, getting back a nod. Oh,
hell.
On September 15th we drove over to Mapley, a command meeting
called, the senior staff up from Mawlini. After an hour of meeting
and greeting, taunts and jibes, they eventually settled.
‘OK,’ Jimmy began. ‘I have a guy who reckons he can tell the
difference between a bad cyclone, and a really bad one.’
‘What’s the difference?’ they asked.
‘One cause lots of damage, one causes lots and lots of damage,’
Jimmy said with a shrug. ‘He’s betting a cyclone in the Philippines
will be a peach, so we’ll attend. That just leaves us the other
problem: Crusty has come up with two earthquakes, both faults on
the same plate, or crust, or whatever. And guess what: they all fall
on the same day.’
‘The same fucking day? Three places? Three deployments?’ Bob
Davies queried.
‘Three major deployments,’ Jimmy emphasised, causing a chorus
of complaints.
‘Where?’ they asked.
‘Sumatra, Samoa, and the aforementioned Philippines. But,
they’re not too far apart.’
‘Jimmy, your globe at home is a bit small, maybe,’ Doc Hoskins
said. ‘They’re all a thousand miles apart.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘But on the map they’re only this much.’ I held my
forefinger and thumb close.
‘The budget cover this?’ Bob Davies asked.
 Jimmy nodded. ‘Leave that to me. Now, Samoa is a small island,
so numbers will be limited, Sumatra will be headed by their own
teams, and the Philippines will have their own people as well. So,
work out some numbers and teams accordingly. I want the
Australians, New Zealanders, the Fiji unit, Hawaii unit and Hong
Kong as principles, Chinese behind them. British and French Alpha
teams to Samoa, some Hueys to the Philippines, some to Samoa.
‘Right, Doc Graham, you’re running the show from here, since
not even a superhero like you can be in three places at once. I want
the New Zealand director responsible for Samoa, the Australian
national director to handle Sumatra, and you can choose someone
for the Philippines field command. Questions?’
They all grumbled under their breath, and we left them to it, our
part done. We were the money and the direction, they were the nuts
and bolts, the plans and procedures, the small detail; as well as a
bunch of whinge-bags who loved stuff like this, yet always moaned
and pretended that they didn’t.
The following afternoon we returned, and they presented a plan
to the entire assembly of national representatives in the lecture
theatre; dates, times and routes. Advance parties of facilitators
would set off within days, working like movie scene scouts and
getting a lay of the land; hotels, access airfields and storage
facilities. They would book themselves into hotels, reserve rooms,
and start paying local workers to be prepared.
We stopped for lunch and made a few adjustments to the plan,
before touring the airfield and greeting trainee rescuers and old
hacks alike. A few new buildings had sprouted up, and some seemed
to have moved all by themselves. That, or I had just forgotten the
layout. The UK Huey training school had grown, and now qualified
dozens of fresh pilots each year. One new building caught my
attention, over the road from the main gate, and we drove over. The
large building announced itself as “Diagnostic Training and
Testing”, which could mean that they tuned cars. We walked in,
being greeting by nurses and doctors in their typical hospital
uniforms, and climbed the stairs to a darkened observation lounge.
We sat with a few grey-haired old doctors and peered down through
soundproof glass at a Silo Stiffy, getting a commentary through
speakers.
‘Start again!’ a senior man shouted.
The trainee, or young doctor, walked back to the door, stopped,
and advanced when waved forwards. The dummy relayed a few
symptoms and was checked over, soon going into arrest. From a side
room a crash team rushed in, the young doctor shouting instructions
at them.
‘Stop!’ went up from the instructors. ‘You useless fucker! Start
again!’
Laughing, we eased up and wandered the building. After all,
we’d paid for the damn thing. Ten such rooms had been set up, one
dummy now being operated upon. We sat next to other onlookers.
‘Will the patient make it?’ I whispered to the man next to me.
‘He’s not bad. First time appendix for the young lad.’
‘Is it realistic enough?’ I asked.
‘Oh, hell yes. You sometimes forget it’s a dummy.’
‘These all hospital employees?’
The man turned his head and nodded. ‘A hundred a week come
through here: short, sharp shock treatment. It scares the hell out of
some people, but they leave knowing what to do, and having
practised it. Save fumbling on their first few patients.’
‘Is our drug … making people redundant?’ I risked.
The man made a face. ‘In some areas, but it doesn’t affect trauma
or injury, or geriatric medicine, which is seventy-five percent of it.
The researchers were affected the most, but they’re not doctors,
mostly biochemists.’
I felt better. Biochemists: fuck ‘em.
We returned on Sept 25th with our bags and reclaimed our rooms,
expecting a busy week. Helen fired up the communications centre
and I fired up a Huey, taking Air Cadets for a spin and posing for
group photographs.
In Bob’s office, the communications officer sat keenly ready.
Jimmy told him, ‘Set filter to operation Philippine Storm.’
Fingers hurriedly struck keys. ‘Filter active.’
‘Sound deployment.’
‘Deployment order sent, Operation Philippine Storm activated.’
‘Re-set filter to Operation Sumatra IV and Operation Samoa I,
and sound deployment.’
‘Filters set, sending signals.’
Bob and Jimmy both signed three forms, authorising the
deployments. A distorted tanoy message echoed, teams forming up
ready and being checked before heading towards waiting coaches,
the local Air Cadets observing with keen envy. From the roof of the
command building I watched the coaches pull away, our people
heading towards Gatwick airport, where jeeps were now being
loaded into the backs of IL76 transports. Our Hercules, four of them
in the fleet now, were winging their way towards Samoa.
 The only hiccup to the whole thing was the reaction of nice
people of Samoa and American Samoa. When we issued the warning
they all collectively panicked, many fleeing to New Zealand.
Tourism died instantly and holidaymakers rushed to get off the
island, those planning on travelling now cancelling their trips.
Fortunately for the hotel owners, a very mad bunch of people called
“RF watchers” descended in force, keen to see and feel a quake
close up. The hotels filled back up.
On the islands, indigenous peoples living near the coast moved
inland, to where we had already formed tented camps, and boats
brought villagers over from small islands. To be fair to them, the
local authorities handled it well.
Given that half of the name American Samoa was “American”,
and the island was technically a US colony, Hardon Chase sent a
few thousand soldiers, a medical team and many tents. The poor
island was weighed down with more rescuers than indigenous
people.
On the 25th, the cyclone started to have an effect on the
Philippines, and the last few flights to land were buffeted. Now there
was little our people could do till the rains stopped. They hunkered
down in hotel rooms in Manila, since tents were out of the question
during the storm. Theirs was a waiting game.
During the day of the 28th, night time in Samoa, the ground
shook, and the crazy quake followers jumped up and checked their
equipment, rushing outside in the hope of filming a tsunami actually
coming ashore. They were not disappointed, and several were killed,
many injured, making me shout and curse at them from afar. The
locals, feeling the ground shake, ran for the hills, and few were
injured or killed. Houses had been destroyed by the quake and
resulting tsunami, but the tented towns easily coped with the influx.
Search and rescue operations began, but there were few missing
persons to find. A long and costly rebuilding programme began.
The next afternoon the quake struck Sumatra, the people less
prepared and many killed and injured across a wide area. There, our
people were more keenly needed, and kept busy.
In the control room, warm bodies came and went all day and all
night, people sleeping when they could. It was a well-oiled machine
these days, but there was always the unexpected, such as searching
for a bunch of twelve tsunami watchers who were now missing. In
Sumatra, a chimney had toppled onto a RF jeep injuring its crew,
which meant several other teams now had to extract them, and we
had to arrange return flights and medical care.
 In Manila, the rain lashed the streets and filled the gullies, people
and houses swept away. Our teams ventured out whilst the storm
was still raging, being filmed yanking people up out of the water
from the sides of bridges, our Hueys following victims caught in fast
flowing rivers as they sped along toward an uncertain fate. One
Huey hit a power line and dropped like a stone, breaking in two, the
crew and passengers all suffering minor injuries. I checked if
Dunnow was flying. Each incident generated a mountain of
paperwork, forms and more forms, plus families to be notified.
Poor old Bob Davies and Doc Graham were knackered, dark
rings around their eyes. I felt like injecting them. Still, we all pitched
in and covered for them when they wanted a few hours sleep. I even
called a few families to inform them of injuries to their loved ones.
Helen kept the press fed with updates and details, names of British
rescuers injured, and I kept the press fed with coffee and doughnuts.
By time October appeared on the calendar we were just about
done in Samoa, long-term teams left in place, the main body of
rescuers withdrawn. Sumatra was dragging on a bit with searches in
remote areas and the outbreak of disease, but we scaled down and
withdrew many of the teams. The Philippines, on the other hand,
was getting worse and we increased the size of the teams, Hong
Kong deploying two hundred rescuers, European Supplementals
being flown out – when the weather permitted. Some got stuck in
Singapore. Remote villages were cut off by mudslides, and the few
deployed Hueys were kept busy.
We left Mapley after five days, the girls staying with us some of
that time, and returned feeling tired. But it was a contended kind of
tired, a feeling that we had made a difference. A mountain of
paperwork awaited me, and my team gave me verbal reports to
speed things up. Sat there, I’d say: yes, no, no way, or tell them to
fuck off. Two hours cleared quite a backlog. The report about our
electric cars had caught my interest.
Several British politicians had taken to driving the cars in order to
show their green credentials, and a number of London taxi drivers
had adopted them. Many of those new cars had been smashed up
within weeks by other, jealous, taxi drivers, a lesson for the future.
We had given the staff at Mapley a hundred vehicles to make use of,
and they could be seen tearing along the motorways, all sporting
large lettering that proclaimed them as electric cars. Bumper stickers
announced: the car in front of you is electric.
In South Wales, we had given a hundred cars to taxi drivers, who
were now making huge profits from having not paid for their
vehicles, plus the low running costs. Several more were duly
smashed up by their rivals, but at least they all wanted one now. The
staff at Pineapple and CAR were handed them as pool cars, and they
became a common sight. In Sweden, the government took delivery
of a thousand and sung the car’s praises. That was echoed by the
Dutch, the Germans and the French. We even had the first few cars
stolen and driven to Moscow. Well, you know you have a good
product when Russian mafia gangs steal them to order over BMWs
and Mercedes.
Jimmy then introduced hundreds of them to the islands of Malta
and Tenerife, where fuel imports were costly. Tourists were soon
being whisked around in taxis that cost around a penny a day to run.
Advance orders for the cars, from China, topped fifty thousand
around Europe.
In the States, a report both puzzled me, and made me smile
wryly. Several of our cars had crashed and caught fire, injuring
drivers, several more leaked fumes and made their drivers ill, and
their road safety was being panned. That was all very interesting,
since we had not sent any to the States, and the cars had not been
given either import licenses or road worthy certificates yet. Still,
numerous lawsuits were pending against the Chinese manufacturer.
Given that it was illegal to import the vehicles to the States, I
couldn’t wait for the day in court to come around: madam, where did
you buy this vehicle?
I sent Pineapple Music magazine a lengthy piece on the
conspiracy by the oil companies, and they ran it, the article soon
copied in the mainstream press. Jimmy had been right to keep the
cars out of the States.
In China, meanwhile, they were rolling out electric buses based
on the same technology, their oil consumption dropping by the day.
They had also designed a car for the internal markets, a tad cheaper,
and were rolling them out as only the Chinese could, by the
thousands each day. Prince Ali Bin something may have been
feeling a lot fitter these days, but his bank balance was about to
catch a cold.
India then bought the technology off China for a staggering sum
of money, a portion of which came our way. Soon, those little
yellow taxis with lawnmower engines would all be electric, and
Prince Ali Bin Something would be echoing around his bank vault,
the one that used to be full of cash.
Unit 402

Flying down to Goma hub overnight, Jimmy mentioned Unit 402,

the reason for the visit.
‘Wasn’t that a pop group in the sixties?’
‘I think that was Unit Four Plus Two.’
At the airport hotel, we welcomed Ngomo and a Pathfinder
captain into Jimmy’s room, Big Paul having checked for bugs at
length. We had brought in two chairs from my room, and now sat
facing each other, tea served from a tray on a coffee table.
‘How’s the Ethiopian border?’ I asked Ngomo.
‘Quiet, unfortunately,’ he sighed.
‘Well, I may have some work for you,’ Jimmy began. ‘In Europe,
I now have a team of agents monitoring African politicians visiting
Paris, London and Switzerland. These … politicians are all involved
in stealing money from their governments here, and hiding it in
banks in Europe for their retirement, plus the use of prostitutes and
cocaine. It is my intention to monitor them here, to collect evidence
and to expose them.’
That surprised me, since Jimmy vowed never to get involved with
African corruption, instead, making use of the politician’s
willingness to be bribed. This seemed to be something of a U-turn.
Jimmy continued, ‘Unfortunately, exposing them will be bad for
business, and bad for Africas reputation. Still, we can’t have them
stealing the money that I’m helping the various governments to
make.’
The captain piped up. ‘If they fell ill, or had accidents, then
Africa would not be painted with their colours.’
My eyes widened.
‘An interesting idea,’ Jimmy reflected. He faced Ngomo. ‘What
do you think, old friend.’
‘I think … that a small team of good men could arrange a few
accidents well enough. A little food poisoning, fishing accidents, car
accidents.’ He shrugged. ‘These things happen all the time.’
‘They do,’ Jimmy agreed with a dangerous smile. ‘But such a
unit would need a man we can trust to stay the course of time.’
‘I would be happy to serve Africa in this way,’ the captain
offered. ‘I have no love for such men.’
‘Could you find others … like yourself?’ Jimmy asked.
 ‘Perhaps … eight or nine thousand,’ the captain quipped. ‘The
soldiers hate the politicians; they see the fat pigs wasting money.’
Jimmy opened a drawer and retrieved a wad of dollars, handing it
to Ngomo. ‘Such a mission would have to be … off the books.’
‘Indeed,’ Ngomo agreed. ‘No written records.’
Jimmy handed him a sheet of names. ‘These gentlemen are the
worst of the fat pigs. But those at the bottom of the list deserve a
loud and public passing. A … message to others.’
‘There are no leaders on this list,’ Ngomo noted.
‘They would be … too noticeable,’ Jimmy suggested. To the
captain he said, ‘This mission requires careful planning, delicate
execution, and the detailed removal of any evidence.’
‘I have a few ghosts in mind,’ the captain offered.
‘More money will be available via my man Cosy in Mombassa,’
Jimmy told Ngomo. ‘Ask for what you need to make the project run
smoothly. Don’t take risks, old friend. And for those on the list in
Somalia, Abdi will assist you – with relish.’
We left the hotel an hour later, hopping on the return flight.
‘Should have done this a long time ago,’ I commented.
‘I wasn’t planning on doing it all,’ Jimmy reflected. ‘But …
lately I just feel – to hell with being nice.’
‘You’ve altered a lot of plans of late,’ I posed.
‘Yeah,’ Jimmy reflected. ‘I opened up African oil to help the
western economies, then released the electric car five years early,
plus the drug. They’re getting all the goodies up front. But, if the
momentum and the co-operation can be maintained, we could sail
through 2015 and 2017, a straight enough run at 2025.’
‘Those Russian coffee shops…’
‘No.’