“Und you vill remove Sir Denis Lambsmitt from ziss operation!”
“You have my guarantee.”
“Our partnership depends upon it.”
Chase cradled the phone and sat a moment longer in bed, brooding at the mirrored bathroom door, in which he could see reflected the room’s main window. It wasn’t Sir Denis’s keenness, the likelihood of his discovering their plot, that was agitating Emil Grossbarger so much; no, not at all. Chase saw through that. The fact was, Emil Grossbarger liked Sir Denis Lambsmith, he considered himself Sir Denis Lambsmith’s friend, he was trying to protect his friend, ease his friend out of the area of danger.
Who would do that for me?
In Chase’s world the evidences of friendship were so few that he almost never had to remember the existence of such a thing. To have it flaunted in his face here and now, under these circumstances, involving two such creatures as Grossbarger and Lambsmith, was galling, insupportable. Who would concern himself for Baron Chase in that way?
They use me, that’s all. Even Amin doesn’t really like me.
Chase picked up the phone to change his airline reservation.
In one of those coincidences that aren’t so farfetched as they at first appear, Sir Denis was on the same plane. He had been in London, he explained, at meetings with the Coffee Board, when the request had come in from the Ugandan government that he be reinstated as the Coffee Board’s mediator. He had learned this news not much sooner than Chase, and both men had promptly made arrangements to return to Kampala, Chase to see what he could do to regain control of the situation, Sir Denis at the request of the Ugandan government. The most sensible route for them both was the all-night London-Tripoli-Entebbe, Air Uganda flight.
They met in the VIP lounge at Heathrow, where Chase was savagely delighted to see the man who had just become his enemy, and where Sir Denis obviously had to use all his diplomatic skills to suggest pleasure on his side at the encounter. After normal greetings and expressions of surprise and joy, they got themselves drinks at the bar, and then Chase insisted on changing his seat assignment so they could travel together. “You needn’t do that, if it’s too much trouble,” Sir Denis said, and Chase smiled, showing his teeth. “No trouble at all,” he said.
The lounge receptionist made the change, and Chase carried his new boarding pass over to where Sir Denis sat by the windows, leafing through an old issue of Punch. Moving dots of red and white light in the blackness beyond the windows defined the wanderings of taxiing planes. “Not a bit of trouble,” Chase announced, and settled with angry happiness into the overstuffed chair to Sir Denis’s right.
Sighing, Sir Denis closed the magazine and showed its cover to Chase, saying, “I fear I’m no longer English. I’m away from the country too much these days; half the cartoons in here make no sense to me.”
“England is a club,” Chase said, as though agreeing with Sir Denis’s point. One of Chase’s grievances was that he himself was Canadian, which was one small step from being nothing at all.
“England is a club? Perhaps so.” Sir Denis smiled ruefully, dropping the magazine onto the table beside his chair. “I may have permitted my membership to lapse.”
“At least we got you back onto the Brazil-Uganda team,” Chase said with his most welcoming smile.
Sir Denis looked at him keenly. “Did you have something to do with that?”
With a modest shrug, Chase said, “You seemed the right man for the job. I merely said as much to Amin.”
“I see. Thank you very much.”
Sir Denis’s disappointment was evident, and Chase laughed to himself because he knew why. Sir Denis had assumed it was Patricia who had worked his renomination; and in fact it might well have been. Chase smiled at the thought of what hoops Patricia would run this old fool through. “It was my pleasure,” he said.
Amin himself met them at Entebbe. He was in another of his personae, that of the distinguished statesman. His medium-gray single-breasted suit was beautifully tailored to maximize his shoulders and chest while minimizing his gut. His tie was a dark blue, modestly figured with silver lions rampant, and his shirt was snowy white, still faintly marked with the creases from its folding by the manufacturer. His feet, which were of normal size, looked tiny in their shiny black shoes under his imposing top-heavy figure. Only the bulging side pockets of the suit jacket—containing, as Chase well knew, wads of cash in shillings or pounds or dollars, to be spent or given away as whim might dictate—spoiled the tailored perfection of his figure.
Amin came out of the terminal building alone, striding across the tarmac toward the plane as they disembarked. His happiest and most welcoming smile beamed out at them, and he strode forward with his hand already outstretched. As the other passengers—Ugandan or European businessmen—glanced nervously and curiously out of the corners of their eyes, Amin approached Sir Denis and pumped his hand, saying, “My friend-ah, my friend-ah. How could I continue without you completely? That-ah mee-nister that-ah fired you is gone from the post. Gone from my-ah government-ah completely. When I-ah hear what he do, I act-ah at once.”
He’s taking the credit for it himself, the wily bastard. Chase stood to one side and smiled, willing Sir Denis to see his stance as that of the modest civil servant permitting his superior to claim the rewards for his own unsung work.
As for Sir Denis, he seemed, at least on the surface, honestly delighted to be in the presence once more of President for Life Idi Amin Dada. In fact, he said so. “I’m delighted, Your Excellency. I hope I may go on being of use to you.”
“Oh, yes. Oh, yes, we-ah work together like-ah—” Briefly, Amin was seen to flounder for a smile; then he found it: “—like-ah Cain and Abel. Brothers.”
“Brothers,” agreed Sir Denis, utterly unflappable. “Delighted,” he repeated; so even he was at a loss for words.
Amin didn’t bother to shake hands with Chase, but he acknowledged his presence with a big grin, saying, “Welcome-ah home, Baron. You been-ah now gone too long.”
So he had. “It’s good to be back,” Chase said, returning Amin’s smile.
“My right-ah hand,” Amin said, and grinned again at Sir Denis, saying, “What-ah you think-ah my Baron? Maybe I make him now a duke.”
It was a joke Amin had essayed before; Chase responded as he always did: “Oh, no, sir, I’m content to be a lowly Baron.”
“Modest completely. Come along-ah.”
Here in Uganda the rainy season was less relentless than it was to the east, through the Rift Valley, and today was one of the periods of respite. Though the tumbling clouds still roiled across the sky, there was a faint glow in the air and a soft warmth that was not quite too humid for comfort. From the dankness of London to the austere aridity of Tripoli to the tropical breeze of Entebbe was a journey from Purgatory through Hell to Heaven. Meteorologically speaking.
Today’s car was the black Mercedes convertible, the one the Israelis had imitated last summer in their raid for the hostages. That false Mercedes, emerging first out of the bowels of the landed lead aircraft with the flags of Uganda and of Amin’s presidency fluttering above its headlights, had distracted and confused the airport garrison just long enough. For weeks afterward Amin had refused to travel in his own Mercedes, as though blaming the car for his humiliation, but he hadn’t been able to keep away from it permanently; the meanings and symbols of the Mercedes-Benz were too powerful.