The Dogs of War by Frederick Forsyth
He was still musing when Endean asked, “May I put a question, Sir James?”
“What is it?” asked Manson.
“Just this: What did he go down there for? Why do you need a military report on how Kimba could be toppled and killed?”
Sir James Manson stared out of the window for some time. Finally he said, “Get Martin Thorpe up here.” While Thorpe was being summoned, Manson walked to the window and gazed down, as he usually did when he wanted to think hard.
He knew he had personally taken Endean and Thorpe as young men and promoted them to salaries and positions beyond their years. It was not simply because of their intelligence, although they had plenty of it. It was because he recognized an unscrupulousness in each of them that matched his own, a preparedness to ignore so-called moral principles in pursuit of the goal success. He had made them his team, his hatchet men, paid by the company but serving him personally in all things. The problem was: Could he trust them with this one, the big one? As Thorpe entered the office, he decided he had to. He thought he knew how to guarantee their loyalty.
He bade them sit down and, remaining standing with his back to the window, he told them, “I want you two to think this one over very carefully, then give me your reply. How far would you be prepared to go to be assured of a personal fortune in a Swiss bank of five million pounds each?”
The hum of the traffic ten floors down was like a buzzing bee, accentuating the silence in the room.
Endean stared back at his chief and nodded slowly. “A very, very long way,” he said softly.
Thorpe made no reply. He knew this was what he had come to the City for, joined Manson for, absorbed his encyclopedic knowledge of company business for. The big one, the once-in-a-decade grand slam. He nodded assent.
“How?” whispered Endean. For answer Manson walked to his wall safe and extracted two reports. The third, Shannon’s, lay on his desk as he seated himself behind it.
Manson talked steadily for an hour. He started at the beginning and soon read the final six paragraphs of Dr. Chalmers’ report on the samples from the Crystal Mountain.
Thorpe whistled softly and muttered, “Jesus.”
Endean required a ten-minute lecture on platinum to catch the point; then he too breathed a long sigh.
Manson went on to relate the exiling of Mulrooney to northern Kenya, the suborning of Chalmers, the second visit of Bryant to Clarence, the acceptance of the dummy report by Kimba’s Minister. He stressed the Russian influence on Kimba and the recent exiling of Colonel Bobi, who, given the right circumstances, could return as a plausible alternative in the seat of power.
For Thorpe’s benefit he read much of Endean’s general report on Zangaro and finished with the conclusion of Shannon’s report.
“If it is to work at all, it must be a question of mounting two parallel, highly secret operations,” Manson said finally. “In one, Shannon, stage-managed throughout by Simon, mounts a project to take and destroy that palace and all its contents, and for Bobi, accompanied by Simon, to take over the powers of state the following morning and become the new president. In the other, Martin would have to buy a shell company without revealing who had gained control or why.”
Endean furrowed his brow. “I can see the first operation, but why the second?” he asked.
“Tell him, Martin,” said Manson.
Thorpe was grinning, for his astute mind had caught Manson’s drift. “A shell company, Simon, is a company, usually very old and without assets worth talking about, which has virtually ceased trading and whose shares are very cheap—say, a shilling each.”
“So why buy one?” asked Endean, still puzzled.
“Say Sir James has control of a company, bought secretly through unnamed nominees, hiding behind a Swiss bank, all nice and legal, and the company has a million shares valued at one shilling each. Unknown to the other shareholders or the board of directors or the Stock Exchange, Sir James, via the Swiss bank, owns six hundred thousand of these million shares. Then Colonel—beg his pardon—President Bobi sells that company an exclusive ten-year mining franchise for an area of land in the hinterland of Zangaro. A new mining survey team from a highly reputable company specializing in mining goes out and discovers the Crystal Mountain. What happens to the shares of Company X when the news hits the stock market?”
Endean got the message. “They go up,” he said with a grin.
“Right up,” said Thorpe. “With a bit of help they go from a shilling to well over a hundred pounds a share. Now do your arithmetic. Six hundred thousand shares at a shilling each cost thirty thousand pounds to buy. Sell six hundred thousand shares at a hundred pounds each—and that’s the minimum you’d get—and what do you bring home? A cool sixty million pounds, in a Swiss bank. Right, Sir James?”
“That’s right.” Manson nodded grimly. “Of course, if you sold half the shares in small packets to a wide variety of people, the control of the company owning the concession would stay in the same hands as before. But a bigger company might put in a bid for the whole block of six hundred thousand shares in one flat deal.”
Thorpe nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, control of such a company bought at sixty million pounds would be a good market deal. But whose bid would you accept?”
“My own,” said Manson.
Thorpe’s mouth opened. “Your own?”
“ManCon’s bid would be the only acceptable one. That way the concession would remain firmly British, and ManCon would have gained a fine asset.”
“But,” queried Endean, “surely you would be paying yourself sixty million quid?”
“No,” said Thorpe quietly. “ManCon’s shareholders would be paying Sir James sixty million quid, without knowing it.”
“What’s that called—in financial terms, of course?” asked Endean.
“There is a word for it on the Stock Exchange,” Thorpe admitted.
Sir James Manson tendered them each a glass of whisky. He reached round and took his own. “Are you on, gentlemen?” he asked quietly.
Both younger men looked at each other and nodded.
“Then here’s to the Crystal Mountain.”
They drank.
“Report to me here tomorrow morning at nine sharp,” Manson told them, and they rose to go.
At the door to the back stairs Thorpe turned. “You know, Sir James, it’s going to be bloody dangerous. If one word gets out…”
Sir James Manson stood again with his back to the window, the westering sun slanting onto the carpet by his side. His legs were apart, his fists on his hips.
“Knocking off a bank or an armored truck,” he said, “is merely crude. Knocking off an entire republic has, I feel, a certain style.”
eight
“What you are saying in effect is that there is no dissatisfied faction within the army that, so far as you know, has ever thought of toppling President Kimba?”
Cat Shannon and Simon Endean were sitting in Shannon’s room at the hotel, taking midmorning coffee. Endean had phoned Shannon by agreement at nine and told him to wait for a second call. He had been briefed by Sir James Manson and had called Shannon back to make the eleven-o’clock appointment.
Endean nodded. “That’s right. The information has changed in that one detail. I can’t see what difference it makes. You yourself said the caliber of the army was so low that the technical assistants would have to do all the work themselves in any case.”
“It makes a hell of a difference,” said Shannon. “Attacking the palace and capturing it is one thing. Keeping it is quite another. Destroying the palace and Kimba simply creates a vacuum at the seat of power. Someone has to step in and take over that power. The mercenaries must not even be seen by daylight. So who takes over?”
Endean nodded again. He had not expected a mercenary to have any political sense at all.
“We have a man in view,” he said cautiously.
“He’s in the republic now, or in exile?”
“In exile.”
“That could be arranged.”
“There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?” asked Endean.
“There must be troops loyal to the new regime, the same troops who ostensibly carried out the coup of the night before, visibly present and mounting the guard by sunrise of the day after the attack. If they don’t show up, we would be stuck—a group of white mercenaries holed up inside the palace, unable to show themselves for political reasons, and cut off from retreat in the event of a counterattack. Now your man, the exile, does he have such a backup force he could bring in with him when he comes? Or could he assemble them quickly once inside the capital?”
“I think you have to let us take care of that,” said Endean stiffly. “What we are asking you for is a plan in military terms to mount the attack and carry it through.”
“That I can do,” said Shannon without hesitation. “But what about the preparations, the organization of the plan, getting the men, the arms, the ammo?”
“You must include that as well. Start from scratch and go right through to the capture of the palace and the death of Kimba.”
“Kimba has to get the chop?”
“Of course,” said Endean. “Fortunately he has long since destroyed anyone with enough initiative or brains to become a rival. Consequently, he is the only man who might regroup his forces and counterattack. With him dead, his ability to mesmerize the people into submission will also end.”
“Yeah. The juju dies with the man.”
“The what?”
“Nothing. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” said Endean coldly.
“The man has a juju,” said Shannon, “or at least the people believe he has. That’s a powerful protection given him by the spirits, protecting him against his enemies, guaranteeing him invincibility, guarding him from attack, ensuring him against death. In the Congo the Simbas believed their leader, Pierre Mulele, had a similar juju. He told them he could pass it on to his supporters and make them immortal. They believed him. They thought bullets would run off them like water. So they came at us in waves, bombed out of their minds on dagga and whisky, died like flies, and still kept coming. It’s the same with Kimba. So long as they think he’s immortal, he is. Because they’ll never lift a finger against him. Once they see his corpse, the man who killed him becomes the leader. He has the stronger juju.”
Endean stared in surprise. “It’s really that backward?”
“It’s not so backward. We do the same with lucky charms, holy relics, the assumption of divine protection for our own particular cause. But we call it religion in us, savage superstition in them.”
“Never mind,” snapped Endean. “All the more reason why Kimba has to die.”
“Which means he must be in that palace when we strike. If he’s up-country it’s no good. No one will support your man if Kimba is still alive.”
“He usually is in the palace, so I’m told.”
“Yes,” said Shannon, “but we have to guarantee it. There’s one day he never misses. Independence Day. On the eve of Independence Day he will be sleeping in the palace, sure as eggs is eggs.”
“When’s that?”
“Three and a half months away.”
“Could a project be mounted in that time?” asked Endean.
“Yes, with a bit of luck. I’d like at least a couple of weeks longer.”
“The project has not been accepted yet,” observed Endean.
“No, but if you want to install a new man in that palace, an attack from outside is the only way of doing it. Do you want me to prepare the whole project from start to finish, with estimated costings and time schedule?”
“Yes. The costing is very important. My—er—associates will want to know how much they are letting themselves in for.”
“All right,” said Shannon. “The report will cost you five hundred pounds.”
“You’ve already been paid,” said Endean coldly.
“I’ve been paid for a mission into Zangaro and a report on the military situation there,” replied Shannon. “What you’re asking for is a new report right outside the original briefing you gave me.”
“Five hundred is a bit steep for a few sheets of paper with writing on them.”
“Rubbish. You know perfectly well if your firm consults a lawyer, architect, accountant, or any other technical expert you pay him a fee. I’m a technical expert in war. What you pay for is the knowledge and the experience—where to get the best men, the best arms, how to ship them, et cetera. That’s what costs five hundred pounds, and the same knowledge would cost you double if you tried to research it yourself in twelve months, which you couldn’t anyway because you haven’t the contacts.”
Endean rose. “All right. It will be here this afternoon by special messenger. Tomorrow is Friday. My partners would like to read your report over the weekend. Please have it prepared by tomorrow afternoon at three. I’ll collect it here.”
He left, and as the door closed behind him Shannon raised his coffee cup in mock toast. “Be seeing you, Mr. Walter Harris oblique stroke Simon Endean,” he said softly.
Not for the first time he thanked his stars for the amiable and garrulous hotelkeeper Gomez. During one of their long nightly conversations Gomez had mentioned the affair of Colonel Bobi, now in exile. He had also mentioned that, without Kimba, Bobi was nothing, being hated by the Caja for his army’s cruelties against them on the orders of Kimba, and not able to command Vindu troops either. Which left Shannon with the problem of a backup force with black faces to take over on the morning after.
Endean’s brown manila envelope containing fifty £10 notes arrived just after three in a taxicab and was delivered to the reception desk of the Lowndes Hotel. Shannon counted the notes, stuffed them into the inside pocket of his jacket, and began work. It took him the rest of the afternoon and most of the night.
He worked at the writing desk in his room, poring over his own diagrams and maps of the city of Clarence, its harbor, port area, and the residential section that included the presidential palace and the army lines.
The classical military approach would have been to land a force on the side of the peninsula near the base with the main coastline, march the short distance inland, and take the road from Clarence to the interior, with guns covering the T-junction. That would have sealed off the peninsula and the capital from reinforcement. It would also have lost the element of surprise.
Shannon’s talent was that he understood Africa and the African soldier, and his thinking was unconventional. Tactics suited to African terrain and opposition are almost the exact opposite of those that will work in a European situation.
Had Shannon’s plans ever been considered by a European military mind thinking in conventional terms, they would have been styled as reckless and without hope of success. He was banking on Sir James Manson’s not having been in the British army—there was no reference in Who’s Who to indicate that he had—and accepting the plan. Shannon knew it was workable and the only one that was.
He based his plan on three facts about war in Africa that he had learned the hard way. One is that the European soldier fights well and with precision in the dark, provided he has been well briefed on the terrain he can expect, while the African soldier, even on his own terrain, is sometimes reduced to near helplessness by his fear of the hidden enemy in the surrounding darkness. The second is that the speed of recovery of the disoriented African soldier—his ability to regroup and counterattack—is slower than the European soldier’s, exaggerating the normal effects of surprise. The third is that firepower and hence noise can bring African soldiers to fear, panic, and headlong flight, without consideration of the smallness of the actual numbers of their opponents.
So Shannon ba
He worked slowly and methodically and, being a poor typist, tapped out the words with two forefingers. At two in the morning the occupant of the bedroom next door could stand no more and banged on the wall to ask plaintively for a bit of peace so that he could get to sleep. Shannon concluded what he was doing five minutes later and packed up for the night. There was one other sound that disturbed the man next door, apart from the clacking of the typewriter. As he worked, and later as he lay in bed, the writer kept whistling a plaintive little tune. Had the insomniac next door known more of music, he would have recognized “Spanish Harlem.”
Martin Thorpe was also lying awake that night. He knew he had a long weekend ahead, two and a half days of monotonous and time-consuming poring over cards, each bearing the basic details of one of the forty-five hundred public companies registered at Companies House in the City of London.
There are two agencies in London which provide their subscribers with such an information service about British companies. These are Moody’s and the Exchange Telegraph, known as Extel. In his office in ManCon House, Thorpe had the set of cards provided by Extel, the agency whose service ManCon took as a necessary part of its commercial activities. But for the business of searching for a shell company, Thorpe had decided to buy the Moody’s service and have it sent to his home, partly because he thought Moody’s did a better information job on the smaller companies registered in the United Kingdom, and partly for security reasons.
After his briefing from Sir James Manson on Thursday, he had gone straight to a firm of lawyers. Acting for him, and keeping his name to themselves, they had ordered a complete set of Moody’s cards. He had paid the lawyer £260 for the cards, plus £50 for the three gray filing cabinets in which they would arrive, plus the lawyers’ fee. He had also engaged a small moving firm to send a van around to Moodies, after being told the set of cards would be ready for pickup on Friday afternoon.
As he lay in bed in his elegant detached house in Hampstead Garden Suburb, he too was planning his campaign—not in detail like Shannon, for he had too little information, but in general terms, using nominee shareholders and parcels of voting stock as Shannon used submachine guns and mortars. He had never met the mercenary and never would. But he would have understood him.