Belewa leaned back in his chair, his eyes seeking Atiba’s again. “Why, Sako?” he demanded. “Have you gone mad? Why would you set out to destroy the few rags of international recognition and acceptance this government has!”
“Because we have to strike back!” Atiba exploded in return. “Because we have to show the United Nations and the Americans that we are not afraid, that we will not let ourselves be defeated!”
“And we will do this by killing a helpless old woman in our streets! That would not prove we are brave! It would prove that we are rabid! She was a senior United Nations representative on a peace mission! What kind of respect could we ever hope to gain from such an act? What kind of honor?”
“Respect and honor!” the Chief of Staff spat back. “That’s all you speak of anymore, Obe! What of the victories you promised! What of making things better for the people?”
“And getting our people labeled as mad dogs will make things better?”
Atiba stepped a pace closer to the desk. “At least mad dogs are feared. Under your leadership the Union has become a whipped and beaten cur chased into its kennel by the U.N. and by this Leopard of yours. We are losing, Obe!”
Belewa caught his reply, holding it back for half a dozen heartbeats. And when he did speak, his voice was low and controlled once more. “You are right, my old friend. We are losing. We are losing far more than we can afford. It is time for a change.”
Atiba’s reply was quiet as well. “Yes, Obe, it is.” And then the Chief of Staff’s hand swept back to the gun at his belt.
Atiba never completed the draw. General Belewa had been holding his own drawn automatic just below the level of the desktop. The worn Browning Hi-Power elevated, a three-round burst flaming from its silvered muzzle. Brigadier Atiba, thrown backward by the bullet impacts, crashed to the floor, face upward, unseeing eyes staring, his fingers still hooked under the flap of his pistol holster.
As was his way, Umamgi had taken a step aside when the confrontation had begun, waiting to see the trends before committing himself. However, even with a half-developed plan for assassination in mind, the sudden explosive climax to the conflict between the two men paralyzed him. Brigadier Sako Atiba, the secret card he had husbanded so carefully for so long, had been taken out of the game before his eyes. And Obe Belewa yet lived.
“Aiiiii, Sako!” The soft keening cry drifted across the room on the sea wind. The General sat unmoving, his head tilted forward, his face locked in a grimace of anguish. His eyes were closed, the automatic in his hand momentarily forgotten. Umamgi cut a look at the office door, so far away across the room, and took a silent, sidling step.
“Sako Atiba was my friend,” Belewa’s quiet words froze the Algerian in place, “and a good soldier.”
Belewa had looked up again. His voice was almost casual, but his features were fixed and cold. “But he was not born to lead. He was always a follower.”
Belewa swiveled in his chair to face the Algerian, the leveled Hi-Power in his fist coming to bear with the deliberation of a traversing tank turret. “Tell me, Ambassador,” the African’s voice grew softer yet, “who was he following tonight?”
Umamgi felt a scream well up within him. He clawed wildly for the Beretta. The pistol hung up as he tried to draw it, the silencer snagging in the robes prescribed for a holy man. Belewa’s automatic slammed again, and the last sound Dasheel Umamgi heard was the tinkling of an ejected cartridge case on a desktop.
No one came in.
Obe Belewa knew they were out there, though, in the hall way, waiting. Waiting to see who would walk out the door of this office. Waiting to see who would be the new leader of the West African Union. He let them wonder. Instead, he sat for a long time in the silent company of the friend who had become an enemy and the ally who had never been a friend.
The flies came after a while, buzzing in through the open patio doors, seeking the freshly spilled blood.
Was this what it had come to? He had dreamed of doing good, of uniting and lifting an entire people out of chaos and degradation. But what good was he doing now, beyond giving the flies fresh meat to raise their maggots in? Where had it all gone bad? What had gone wrong?
Thoughts and memories swirled behind his eyes, and he scrabbled among them, seeking an answer, seeking for some one to accuse: Umamgi, Bey, Sako, the Leopard. And yet, somehow he could not bring himself to lay blame upon any of them. Each had only played out a destined role as the conflict had unfolded. Belewa could not condemn anyone for doing what they had seen as their duty, not even Ambassador Umamgi and Sako Atiba.
Could it be that the dream had not gone wrong, but had in fact been wrong from the beginning?
The day of empires and empire builders is past, General.
Gods! Has it all been for nothing!
The pistol still gripped in Belewa’s hand lifted as if of its own volition. The steel of its muzzle, cooled again, felt good pressed against his temple, soothing and simple.
And yet he heard that stern yet gentle voice speak once more. Out of stubbornness and pride, you may allow yourself to slide down into total defeat, taking all that you have built with you. Or you may lift your head again and begin this new and greater battle.
The General lowered the pistol, setting it on the desktop He was puzzled as to how he had come to aim it at himself. That would have been the act of a coward. And while he was many things, good and bad, Obe Belewa was not a coward.
He got out of his chair and circled around to the body of his chief of staff. Kneeling down stiffly, he brushed the flies from Sako’s face and gently closed the lids over the staring eyes. Then, denying himself a limp, he rose and strode to the office door.
He left the gun behind on the desk.
“Essentially, Harry, he’s put everything we’ve asked for on the table and then some.”
Vavra Bey’s matronly features filled the flatscreen of Harrison Van Lynden’s videophone. “He has officially acknowledged the Union’s military operations against Guinea and has personally accepted responsibility for them. He has also personally guaranteed there will be no further acts of aggression and he is pulling the Union army back from the Guinea border.
“Finally, he has agreed to a full repatriation of all Union refugees in Guinea territory. He has promised a full restoration of property and civil rights and has invited a U.N. observation group in-country to supervise the resettlement program and to monitor the Union side of the border zone. He’s giving us everything we’ve been asking for.”
“Well, he’s asking for a whale of a lot in return,” the Secretary of State replied, frowning. “An immediate lifting of all nonmilitary trade sanctions and a whopping big aid package. We took quite a few casualties during the UNAFIN operation, Vavra. I can tell you right now we’re going to have some Congressmen back here who are going to be asking why we’re fighting this guy one day and paying him off the next.”
“The same question will no doubt arise within the Security Council, and I will give them the same answer I give you now. If we are to get these refugees resettled, we must first ensure there will be a country to resettle them in. Believe me, it will be far cheaper in lives and money to allow the West African Union to survive than it would to allow that area to backslide into the anarchy it knew in the nineties. We need someone to be in charge there, and General Belewa is our best and only available option.”
“That still doesn’t get us around the fact that Belewa invaded and took over Sierra Leone to create the West African Union,” Van Lynden replied. “That’s a fact we can’t just sweep under the rug, Vavra.”