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.”

“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.”

“Well, he would have to be installed in the palace and broadcasting on the radio that he has conducted an internal coup d’etat and taken over the country, by midday of the day following the night attack on the palace.”

“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 back-up 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 then: 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 upcountry 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.”