The lodge receptionist put down the telephone with a trembling hand.
“Well done, Yasmina,” said General Pascal, stroking the young lady’s cheek with the barrel of his Glock 17. She shuddered as he then traced a line down her slender neck. “Now get me a drink,” he ordered, waving the pistol toward the lounge area. “Whisky. The finest.”
The receptionist hurried to the bar as the general strolled in after her.
“My apologies for keeping you waiting,” he said. “But we need to keep up appearances to the outside world. At least for the time being.”
Mr. Gray turned from studying the leopard-skin shield and spears on the wall to face the general. “By all accounts you’re ahead of schedule. I must confess even I was surprised at the swiftness of your coup.”
“You have to seize life before it seizes you!” General Pascal told him, laughing. “But there’s more work to be done. The head may have been cut off the chicken, but the body still runs around.”
“Is that why you need the heavy artillery so quickly?”
The general nodded as the receptionist gingerly stepped over the dead body of the barman, the victim’s blood still pooling on the parquet floor, and brought over his whisky. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Gray?” asked the general.
“Sparkling water. No ice.”
General Pascal frowned. “I’d have thought a man in your line of work would drink something stronger.”
“And I’d have thought a man of your strength wouldn’t need to drink anything stronger,” Mr. Gray replied coolly.
Their eyes locked and the receptionist took a nervous step back, sensing a change in atmosphere, as if two prowling lions were in the room. Then the general broke into an affable grin at his guest’s sharp retort. He waved the receptionist away.
“Unfortunately, we still have the army to fight before we can take control of this country. But I’m confident of our imminent victory. An army of sheep”—he glanced in the direction of a boy soldier standing guard on the open-air veranda—“led by a lion can defeat an army of lions led by a sheep. And, I can assure you, the commander in chief of the Burundian army is but a lamb compared with me.”
The receptionist served the sparkling water and Mr. Gray took a measured sip. “Equilibrium can supply the weapons you require at short notice,” he said. “But we’ll need payment up front.”
“No problem,” replied the general, downing his whisky in one swift gulp. “Come with me to the mine and take your pick of the diamonds. But first I must introduce you to the man who helped arrange President Bagaza’s sudden demise.”