When he had finally digested the lengthy report, studied the photographs of the capital, the palace, and Kimba, and pored over the maps, Sir James Manson sent again for Simon Endean.

The latter was becoming highly curious about his chief’s interest in this obscure republic and had asked Martin Thorpe in the adjoining office on the ninth floor what it was about. Thorpe had just grinned and tapped the side of his nose with a rigid forefinger. Thorpe was not completely certain either, but he suspected he knew. Both men knew enough not to ask questions when their employer had got an idea in his head and needed information.

When Endean reported to Manson the following morning, the latter was standing in his favorite position by the plate-glass windows of his penthouse, looking down into the street, where pygmies hurried about their business.

"There are two things I need to know more about,

Simon,“ Sir James Manson said without preamble and walked back to his desk, where the Endean report was lying. ”You mention here a ruckus in the capital about six to seven weeks ago. I heard another report about the same upset from a man who was there. He mentioned a rumor of an attempted assassination of Kimba. What was it all about?"

Endean was relieved. He had heard the same story from his own sources but had thought it too small to include in the report.

“Every time the President has a bad dream there are arrests and rumors of an attempt on his life,” said Endean. "Normally it just means he wants justification to arrest and execute somebody. In this case, in late January, it was the commander of the army, Colonel Bobi. I was told, on the quiet, the quarrel between the two men was really about Kimba’s not getting a big enough cut in the rake-off from a deal Bobi put through. A shipment of drugs and medicines had arrived for the UN hospital. The army impounded them at the quayside and stole half. Bobi was responsible, and the stolen portion of the cargo was sold elsewhere on the black market. The proceeds of the sale should have passed to Kimba. Anyway, the head of the UN hospital, when making his protest to Kimba and tendering his resignation, mentioned the true value of the missing stuff. It was a lot more than Bobi had admitted to Kimba.

“The President went mad and sent some of his own guards out looking for Bobi. They ransacked the town, arresting anyone who got in the way or took their fancy.”

“What happened to Bobi?” asked Manson.

“He fled. He got away in a jeep and made for the border He got across by abandoning his jeep and walking through the bush round the border control point.”

“What tribe is he?”

"Oddly enough, a halfbreed Half Vindu and half

Caja, probably the outcome of a Vindu raid on a Caja village forty years ago."

“Was he one of Kimba’s new army, or the old colonial one?” asked Manson.

“He was corporal in the colonial gendarmerie, so presumably he had some form of rudimentary training. Then he was busted, before independence, for drunkenness and insubordination while drunk. When Kimba came to power he took him back in the early days because he needed at least one man who could tell one end of a gun from the other. In the colonial days Bobi styled himself a Caja, but as soon as Kimba came to power he swore he was a true Vindu.”

“Why did Kimba keep him on? Was he one of his original supporters?”

“From the time Bobi saw which way the wind was blowing, he went to Kimba and swore loyalty to him. Which was smarter than the colonial governor, who couldn’t believe Kimba had won the election until the figures proved it. Kimba kept Bobi on and even promoted him to command the army, because it looked better for a half-Caja to carry out the reprisals against the Caja opponents of Kimba.”

“What’s he like?” asked Manson pensively.

“A big thug,” said Simon. “A human gorilla. No brains as such, but a certain low annual cunning. The quarrel between the two men was only a question of thieves falling out.”

“But Western-trained? Not Communist?” insisted Manson.

“No, sir. Not a Communist. Not anything politically.”

“Bribable? Cooperate for money?”

“Certainly. He must be living pretty humbly now. He couldn’t have stashed much away outside Zangaro. Only the President could get the big money.”

“Where is he now?” asked Manson.

“I don’t know, sir. Living somewhere in exile.”

“Right,” said Manson. “Find him, wherever he is.”

Endean nodded. “Am I to visit him?”

“Not yet,” said Manson. “There was one other matter. The report is fine, very comprehensive, except in one detail. The military side. I want to have a complete breakdown of the military security situation in and around the President’s palace and the capital. How many troops, police, any special presidential bodyguards, where they are quartered, how good they are, level of training and experience, the amount of fight they would put up if under attack, what weapons they carry, can they use them, what reserves are there, where the arsenal is situated, whether they have guards posted overall, if there are armored cars or artillery, if the Russians train the army, if there are strike-force camps away from Clarence—in fact, the whole lot.” ,

Endean stared at his chief in amazement. The phrase “If under attack” stuck in his mind. What on earth was the old man up to? he wondered, but his face remained impassive.

“That would mean a personal visit, Sir James.”

“Yes, I concede that. Do you have a passport in another name?”

“No, sir. In any case, I couldn’t furnish that information. It requires a sound judgment of military matters, and a knowledge of African troops as well. I was too late for National Service. I don’t know a thing about armies or weapons.”

Manson was back at the window, staring across the City. “I know,” he said softly. “It would need a soldier to produce that report.”

“Well, Sir James, you would hardly get an army man to go and do that sort of mission. Not for any money. Besides, a soldier’s passport would have his profession on it. Where could I find a military man who would go down to Clarence and find that sort of information?”

“There is a kind,” said Manson. “The mercenaries. They fight for whoever pays them and pays them well. I’m prepared to do that. So go and find me a mercenary with initiative and brains. The best in Europe.”

Cat Shannon lay on his bed in the small hotel in Montmartre and watched the smoke from his cigarette drifting up toward the ceiling. He was bored. In the weeks that had passed since his return from Africa he had spent most of his saved pay traveling around Europe trying to set up another job.

In Rome he had seen an order of Catholic priests he knew, with a view to going to South Sudan on their behalf to set up in the interior an airstrip into which medical supplies and food could be ferried. He knew there were three separate groups of mercenaries operating in South Sudan, helping the Christian blacks in their civil war against the Arab North. In Bahr-el-Gazar two other British mercenaries, Ron Gregory and Rip Kirby, were leading a small operation of Dinka tribesmen, laying mines along the roads used by the Sudanese army in an attempt to knock out their British Saladin armored cars. In the south, in Equatoria Province, Rolf Steiner had a camp that was supposed to be training the locals in the arts of war, but nothing had been heard of him for months. In Upper Nile, to the east, there was a much more efficient camp, where four Israelis were training the tribesmen and equipping them with Soviet weaponry from the vast stocks the Israelis had taken from the Egyptians in 1967. The warfare in the three provinces of South Sudan kept the bulk of the Sudanese army and air force pinned down there, so that five squadrons of Egyptian fighters were based around Khartoum and thus not available to confront the Israelis on the Suez Canal.