Dark Heart by Peter Tonkin Read Free Book Online

escort.’
    â€˜Hmmm.
We?
’
    â€˜Ah. Didn’t I mention Dr Holliday of the World Bank?’
    â€˜I see. A doctor. An elderly masculine doctor of economics, I assume? Very much in the mould of Professor Lagrande here?’
    â€˜One out of three isn’t bad . . .’ he began, a little sheepishly.
    The doors hissed open and the six of them stepped out into the cavernous magnificence of the Granville Royal Lodge’s newly completed Gala Ballroom. The ballroom seemed to take up one entire level of the hotel. Richard gazed up genuinely impressed by the scale of the architectural vision and the simple efficiency of the civil engineering. Chandeliers hung in widening circles, the gleams from their lustres glimmering white, yellow and blue, as though they were diamonds of the first water. And the light from candle bulbs reflected equally brightly in glassware and silverware on the tables that encircled the huge, waxed, interior-sprung dance floor that matched a gargantuan porthole in the centre of the ceiling, whose massively toughened glass allowed those in the ballroom to look up into the cool blue water of the illuminated swimming pool which lay, miraculously, immediately above them.
    Andre Wanago, the hotel’s urbane manager, greeted the six of them as they stepped out of the lift and escorted them at once to President Chaka who was standing nearby, waiting to greet his guests, flanked by the senior members of his government. Richard scanned the faces of the exclusive group of men, recognizing all of them. The flight down here had not been wasted. The two most important, Minister of State for the Inner Delta and the Minister of State for the Outer Delta, stood at Chaka’s right shoulder. And Colonel Laurent Kebila stood at his left, bringing the reception line to an unexpected end.
    But then, even as the Colonel’s easy presence amongst the most powerful in the land began to sink in – with the realization that Kebila was standing where Richard had expected to see the Minister of Police and Security Affairs – something else struck him. Of the whole group round Chaka, only Kebila was in anything like Western dress – the khaki army uniform with the eagle and stars on his epaulette that stated his rank. All the others were in traditional West African clothing. They were all attired in various versions of the flowing robes known locally as a grand boubou.
    As Andre Wanago gracefully ushered the little group forward, Richard took the opportunity for a swift look around – aided in his endeavour by his excellent eyesight and his considerable height. Yes. There could be very little doubt. All of the locals were wearing traditional – easy, comfortable – dress. Men in the grand boubou robes; women in female equivalent, the m’boubou. All the visitors were in ball gowns or penguin suits, like Andre and his formally attired waiters. So, where the male guests were – perforce – straitjacketed in their costumes of black and white, their hosts were relaxing in a rainbow of patterned silk and cotton.
    Just as the ballroom by its very existence gave a strong message, so did the difference in dress code. The ballroom said, ‘Benin la Bas can do anything Western or Eastern technology can – even when it comes to cutting-edge hotel design.’ And the dress code said, ‘We are an African nation on the African continent. This is now our country and no longer your colony. We belong here as you men in your penguin suits do not. What we have we might share – but you will need to come to us to get any of it.’
    That had been Colonel Laurent Kebila’s message too, of course. He had been watching Richard from the moment he stepped off the Boeing – perhaps from the moment he had bought a ticket under his own name – all it would take was a little Trojan virus in the booking systems of the airlines connecting to Granville Harbour