Part 6 (2/2)

”Philip coral led the delegates, Philip set the terms of the deal and brought everyone to the table. Forty-eight hours ago there wasn't a cat's chance they would sit down in the same room with each other. So shut up and admire him for it.”

”I will, Skipper. I do. No problem.”

Maxie was loping angrily up the stone steps two at a time with me on his heels. Reaching the library, he flung himself into a chair and beckoned me to another, and there we sat like two gentlemen of leisure while we cooled down. Beyond the French windows, soothing lawns rose gently to the bugged gazebo.

”In a place not a thousand miles from here in Denmark, a seminar is in progress,” he resumed. ”With me?”

”With you, Skipper.”

”Calls itself the Great Lakes Forum. Heard of it?”

I hadn't.

”Bunch of long-haired Scandinavian academics masterminding off-the-record discussions to solve the problems of the Eastern Congo ahead of the elections. Grab hold of all the chaps who hate each other, invite 'em to let off steam, and something wonderful's bound to happen, long as you believe in fairies.”

I gave a knowing smile. We were back on course, comrades again.

”Today's their free day. They're supposed to be inspecting fish smokeries and sculpture parks but three of the delegates have begged off and they're coming here instead. For an off-the-record conference of their own.” He tossed a folder onto the table between us. ”That's the background you're after. Potted biographies, languages, ethnicity of players. Philip's labour of love. Three delegates, one unholy triangle,” he continued. ”Until a few months ago, they were cutting each other's b.a.l.l.s off and butchering each other's wives and stealing each other's land, cattle and mineral deposits. With a little help they're now forming an alliance.”

”Who against this time, Skipper?” I asked in a suitably weary tone.

My scepticism spoke for itself, for what could be the purpose of any alliance in that benighted paradise unless it was against a common foe? I therefore took a moment to grasp the full, the momentous import of his reply.

”Not who against for once. Under whose auspices. Have you by any chance heard tell of this self-proclaimed Congolese saviour chap, an ex-professor of something, who's working the boards these days? calls himself the Mw.a.n.gaza that's light, isn't it?”

”Or enlightenment,” I replied, which was pure interpreter's knee-jerk. ”Depends whether we're being figurative or literal, Skipper.”

”Well, the Mw.a.n.gaza's our key man, figurative or my a.r.s.e. If we can get him in place ahead of the elections, we're home free. If not, we're f.u.c.ked. There's no second prize.”

To say my head was spinning would be a major understatement. Spiralling into orbit was more like it, while at the same time transmitting frantic signals to Hannah.

I have listened to him, Salvo, she is telling me, switching from French to English in a moment of rare repose during our lovemaking. He is an apostle for truth and reconciliation. In Kivu he is everywhere on the local radio stations. Two weeks ago on my day off, my friends and I travelled all the way to Birmingham where he spoke to a great crowd of us. You could have heard a pin drop in that hall. His movement is called the Middle Path. It will do something no political party can do. That is because it is a movement of the heart, and not the purse. It will unite all the people of Kivu together, north and south. It will compel thefatcats of Kinshasa to pull out their corrupt soldiers from East Congo and leave us to manage ourselves. It will disarm the surrogate armies and genocidal militias and send them back over the border to Rwanda where they belong. Those who have a real right to remain may do so provided they truly desire to be Congolese. And do you know what is more, Salvo?

What is more, Hannah?

In 1964, in the great rebellion, the Mw.a.n.gaza fought for Patrice Lumumba and was wounded!

But how can he have done that, Hannah? The CIA a.s.sa.s.sinated Lumumba in 1961, with a little help from the Belgians. That was three years before the great rebellion began, surely.

Salvo, you are being pedantic. The great rebellion was Lumumbist. All who took part in it looked to Patrice Lumumba for their inspiration. They were fighting for a free Congo and for Patrice, whether he was alive or dead.

So I'm making love to the revolution.

Now you are being ridiculous as well. The Mw.a.n.gaza is not a revolutionary. He is for moderation and for discipline and justice, and for getting rid of all who steal from our country but do not love it. He does not wish to be known as a man of war, but as a bringer of peace and harmony to all true patriots of Congo. He is l'oiseau rare: the great hero who is come to cure all our ills. Am I boring you, perhaps?

Claiming to believe I am not taking her seriously, she wilfully flings back the bedclothes and sits up. And you have to know how beautiful she is, and how mischievous in love, to imagine what that means. No, Hannah, you are not boring me. I was temporarily distracted by the night whisperings of my dear late father, who had a dream very like yours.

One Kivu, Salvo my son ... At peace with itself under G.o.d and the Congolese flag .. . Freed of the pest of foreign exploitation but willing to absorb all who sincerely wish to share in the divine gift of its natural resources and the enlightenment of all its people .. . Let us pray you live long enough to see that day dawn, Salvo my son.

Maxie was waiting for my answer. Well, had I heard of this Congolese saviour chap, or hadn't I? Like the Mw.a.n.gaza, I opted for the Middle Path.

”Maybe I have at that,” I conceded, careful to inject just the right amount of disinterest into my voice. ”Isn't he some kind of recycled prophet of consensus?”

”Met him, have you then?”

”My goodness no!” how could I have given him such an absurd impression? - ”I make rather a point of steering clear of Congolese politics, to be frank, Skipper. I take the view I'm better off without.”

Which, pre-Hannah, was pretty much the truth. When you a.s.similate, you choose.

”Well, steel yourself, because you're about to meet him,” Maxie informed me, again glancing at his watch. ”The great man will be accompanied by a retinue of two: one faithful acolyte alias political advisor, and one semi-faithful Lebanese middleman named Felix Tabizi, Tabby for short. The Prof's a s.h.i.+, so's his acolyte.”

Tabby, I repeated to myself, as I was wafted back to the glittery house in Berkeley Square. Tabby the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Tabby the eleventh-hour cliff-hanger. I was about to ask what a semi-faithful Lebanese middleman thought he was doing in the Mw.a.n.gaza's entourage, only to discover that Maxie was already telling me.

”Tabby's the Prof's necessary evil. No African leader is complete without one. Ex far-out Muslim, used to run with Hamas, but recently converted to Christianity for his health. Helps manage the old boy's campaign, smoothes his pa.s.sage, handles his finances, washes his socks.”

”And his languages, Skipper? Mr. Tabizi's?”

”French, English, Arabic, and whatever he picked up free on his travels.”

”And Philip. What languages would he be speaking?”

”French, Lingala, bit of Swahili, not a lot.”

”English?”

”Of course he b.l.o.o.d.y does. He's an Englishman.”

”And the Professor speaks everything in the book, I take it. He's an educated man.” I didn't intend this as a dig at Maxie's lack of linguistic expertise, but from his frown of displeasure I feared he had taken it as such.

”So what's your point?” he demanded irritably.

”Well, you don't really need me, do you, Skipper? Not upstairs. Not as such. Not if the Mw.a.n.gaza speaks French and Swahili. I'll just stay down in the boiler room with Spider and listen in.”

”Total and utter bulls.h.i.+t. You're star of the show, remember? Chaps who are in the business of changing the world don't expect to do their own interpreting. And I wouldn't trust Tabizi to tell me the time of day in any f.u.c.king language.” A moment of reflection. ”Apart from which, you're essential equipment. The Mw.a.n.gaza insists on speaking Swahili because French is too colonial for him. We've got one chap who speaks perfect French and minimal Swahili, and another who speaks a bit of Swahili and minimal French.”

Flattered as I was by star of the show, I had one more question. More accurately, Hannah had.

And the desired end-effect of the conference, Skipper? Our dream outcome? How would we define that? which is a thing I always ask my clients.”

It wasn't, but my recalcitrance touched a nerve in him. ”We're sorting the place, Sinclair, for Christ's sake!” he expostulated in a pent-up voice. ”We're bringing sanity back to a f.u.c.king madhouse. We're giving p.i.s.s-poor, downtrodden people their country back and forcing 'em to tolerate each other, make money, get a f.u.c.king life. Have you got a problem with that?”

The patent sincerity of his intentions, which to this day I have no cause to question, made me pause but not relent.

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