Solo

half-Lowele, she explained, she thought that the Fakassa junta that had provoked and engineered secession were crazy. What did they think the rest of the country was going to do? Sit on their collective hands? Allow themselves to become impoverished? At least the British government had acted quickly, she said. If they hadn’t come down on the side of Zanzarim immediately and refused point-blank to recognise the new republic, perhaps Dahum’s de facto existence might have become a foregone conclusion. Alacrity was not normally a virtue of Her Majesty’s governments, Bond thought – there would be more at stake here than preserving the rule of international law.
    ‘Do you want a pudding?’ Bond asked, lighting a cigarette.
    ‘I’d rather have a proper drink somewhere,’ she said.
    ‘Excellent idea, Ogilvy-Grant. Let’s go back to the Excelsior.’
    Blessing drove them to the hotel, Bond looking out of the window at the garish cinema of the night-time city that was Sinsikrou. Blaring high-life music seemed to come from almost every house, and multicoloured neon tubes appeared to be the illumination of choice. Dogs, goats and hens searched the storm drains for titbits; naked children stood in doorways staring at the passing cars, entranced; off-duty soldiers swaggered through the roadside crowds, Kalashnikovs and SLR rifles slung over their shoulders. And every time they stopped at a traffic light or when the gridlock of cars slowed them to walking pace, street-hawkers would appear at their windows trying to sell them combs and biros, dusters and cheap watches.
    The bar at the Excelsior was surprisingly busy.
    ‘It’s a very popular place,’ Blessing said, spotting an unoccupied table at the back of the room. ‘Especially since the war began.’ They sat down and Bond ordered himself a large whisky and soda and a gin and tonic for Blessing.
    The air conditioning was on and working and the chill was welcome after the humid, loud night outside. Not that it was any quieter in here, Bond thought, looking round the room. A lot of white men, some in assorted uniforms, not many Zanzaris.
    ‘Who are they?’ Bond asked Blessing, indicating the men in uniform.
    ‘The pilots – they fly the MiGs. East Germans, Poles, a few Egyptians. They’re on a thousand dollars a day – cash. Very popular with the ladies.’
    Bond had noticed the prostitutes. They sat at the bar or sauntered suggestively among the crowded tables. Beautiful black women with bouffant wigs – modelled on American pop stars, Bond thought, as one of them caught his eye and beckoned him over with a flap of her glossy taloned fingers.
    The chatter of conversation was loud and already raucous – everyone drinking heavily. The air smelt of booze, sweat and cheap perfume – redolent of sex and danger. There was a kind of frontier recklessness about the atmosphere, Bond thought, and recognised its allure. These pilots had been out dropping bombs and napalm on Dahum. The temptations offered in the bar at the Excelsior would be hard to resist.
    He looked at the men. Ex-Eastern bloc air-force pilots, all on the older side – retired, superannuated, cashiered – earning good money as mercenaries fighting in a nasty little African war . . . $1,000 a day – after three months you could quit, take a couple of years off, build a house back home, buy a smart foreign car.
    He ordered another round of drinks from a touring waiter, leaned closer to Blessing and lowered his voice.
    ‘I reckon we can safely talk in this din,’ he said. ‘What’s your plan?’
    ‘I did a quick recce last week when I knew you were coming,’ she said. ‘The only way into Dahum is by road, or, rather, by road and water. The main highway’s impossible – jammed with non-stop military traffic.’ She sipped at her drink. ‘I think you have to be driven as far south into the delta as possible. Then a local fisherman – I’ve made contact with one man – will take you through the swamps and the creeks by boat.’
    ‘Is that realistic?’ Bond wondered.
    ‘There’s no front line as such,’ she said. ‘And there’s constant smuggling of food and supplies into the heartland. It’s a labyrinth, a huge network of waterways and streams and creeks. That’s one reason why the war’s gone on so long.’
    ‘Who’ll drive me south? Christmas?’
    She looked at him and smiled. ‘I thought I would,’ she said. ‘I speak Lowele. You’d need a translator, anyway.