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 International. This was a twenty-first century state. Security cameras, computer databases, cellphone monitoring systems, secret security services, the lot. Everything one might expect to find in the UK, the USA, the European Union, the Russian federation; except, perhaps, democracy.
These thoughts were sufficient to take Richard along the reception line until he found himself looking directly into the coolly intelligent eyes of his host. The handshake, too, was cool. ‘Captain Mariner, welcome to Benin la Bas,’ he said, his voice deep and resonant. His English every bit as fluent as his French and Russian had been. His welcome to the man who, more than any other — except for Laurent Kebila, perhaps — had helped to put him where he stood now was, to put it mildly, ambivalent.
‘Thank you Mr President,’ answered Richard smoothly. ‘My visit has been most instructive so far.’
‘Yes. Colonel Kebila was just telling me. And I’m sure you will find that it continues to be instructive.’ He paused a beat. ‘And profitable.’ He paused another beat as he turned to Robin, his face folding into a broad and charming smile. ‘And pleasurable, of course…’
As it happened, Robin found the meal instructive as much as pleasurable. The instruction started immediately she was shown to her seat. On her right sat Max, with the incandescent Irina beyond him. On her left sat Richard, and beyond him a simply breathtaking young woman with the most arresting cinnamon skin and an accent as deep and dark as molasses. As deep and dark, Robin observed wryly, as the young woman’s eyes; not to mention her cleavage. All of which seemed to be aimed at Richard.
‘Darling,’ said her scapegrace husband at his most insouciant, ‘I don’t think you’ve met Dr Bonnie Holliday of the World Bank, have you? Dr Holliday and I met at the airport…’
President Chaka gave a brief speech of general welcome, forbidding all business talk on this occasion, commanding his welcome guests to get to know one another before they began to discuss in more detail why they were here. Discussion that might commence, he suggested, at a series of meetings planned for tomorrow. As Robin already knew Max Asov, and also had a good idea why he was here, and as there was no one opposite her, she focussed her attention on Richard and the dazzling girl who had shared his airport adventure.
‘What is it you do at the World Bank, Doctor?’ she asked.
‘I am on the East Africa desk at Washington headquarters at 1818 H. The local director is stuck in Abidjan, apparently, so they scooted me out at short notice. I’m not really in finances. My doctorate is in African Studies. But I guess that’s OK because my ultimate boss may have started out at Deloitte but she came to us via Education.’
‘African studies,’ said Richard. ‘What school?’
‘Harvard.’
‘So,’ said Robin, ‘at the very least you’ll be able to guide us safely through dinner. You’ll need to if it’s as traditional as what our hosts are wearing.’
‘As safely as your Richard guided me through the airport!’ said Dr Holliday with a dazzling smile.
Quite, thought Robin, smiling back. MY Richard. And don’t you forget it. Either of you.
But, as it happened, one section at least of Bonnie Holliday’s PhD was put to good use, for Dr Chaka was seemingly keen to underline the point he had made by asking for his guests to wear white tie. The first course arrived. It consisted of a small plate of cooked rice in the middle of which was spread four lobes of pale nut. Each plate was garnished with a bright red petal or two. ‘This is the traditional West African greeting course—’ said Bonnie.
‘I know,’ interrupted Robin. ‘Rice and kola nut. How anything this bitter got into the recipe for Coca-Cola, heaven only knows.’ She cast a sideways glance at Dr Holliday’s curves. ‘Still, it kills the appetite. A useful diet aid.’
‘And it’s full of caffeine,’ added Dr Holliday, apparently failing to register the implication of Robin’s comment. ‘And several other stimulants. The locals use it a little like Viagra, so I believe.’
‘Right,’ said Richard. ‘I think I’d better just try a little…’
A moment later, he was using sweet palm wine to try and clear his taste buds as the kola nut was replaced by poached oysters. ‘Is it alcoholic?’ he asked, sipping the milky, fragrant liquid carefully.
‘Not if it’s sweet and fresh. It gets to about four percent after a day but it starts to taste more vinegary then,’ Dr Holliday explained. ‘The oysters are from the delta, I expect,’ she added. ‘They’re famous all along the coast. There’ll probably be shrimp later too. But Benin la Bas oysters are just so famous, for their flavour and for their… qualities…’
‘More aphrodisiacs,’ riposted Robin. ‘It’s a wonder anyone ever got past the hors d’oeuvres!’
The doctor giggled, and her date-brown eyes flickered up to meet the cool grey glaze. There was an instant of girl bonding as they shared a knowing grin before the sweet potato and peanut soup arrived.
Blessedly, the rigour of West African food and drink eased enough to allow a South African Chenin blanc with the Scalopines of Pompano, and the sommelier was even able to find some sparkling Ashbourne Water in the cellars. As Richard sipped this, the fish was replaced by Kyinkyinga, which Bonnie explained were chicken kebabs seasoned with garlic and groundnuts. They were served on rice and Richard for one found them delicious. Fortunately, he was careful not to overindulge, for they were replaced with Egusi soup, which was more like a stew with minced lamb and shrimp on a bed of spinach seasoned with fiery chillies. That was replaced in turn by Boko-Boko — beef roasted in cumin and cinnamon, served on a bed of cracked wheat with plantains in palm oil and okra in greens. A robust Moroccan Shiraz. The Boko-Boko gave way to a light course of fresh shrimps from the outer delta — accompanied by an Algerian white Cabernet — and that in turn was replaced with Jollof rice, with chicken, rice, green beans, onions and carrots stewed together with fresh rosemary, red pepper flakes and nutmeg, partnered with another considerable North African red.