Dobrovolsky breathed a sigh of relief. Evidently the President was prepared to listen. But he knew the bad news was yet to come, and he had to give it. That could change things.
“I am informed by my government, Mr. President, that it has received information that a mining survey report recently sent to Zangaro by a British company may not be accurate. I am referring to the survey carried out several weeks ago by a firm called Manson Consolidated of London.”
The President’s eyes, slightly bulging, still stared at the Russian Ambassador without a flicker of expression. Nor was there any word from Kimba to indicate that he recalled the subject that had brought Dobrovolsky to his palace.
The Ambassador continued to describe the mining survey that had been delivered by a certain Mr. Bryant into the hands of the Minister for Natural Resources.
“In essence, then, Your Excellency, I am instructed to inform you that my government believes the report was not a true representation of what was really discovered in the area that was then under survey, specifically, the Crystal Mountain range.”
He waited, aware that he could say little more. When Kimba finally spoke, it was calmly and cogently, and Dobrovolsky breathed again.
“In what way was this survey report inaccurate?” whispered Kimba.
“We are not sure of the details, Your Excellency, but it is fair to assume that since the British company has apparently not made any effort to secure from you a mining concession, the report it submitted must have indicated that there were no mineral deposits worth exploiting in that region. If the report was inaccurate, then it was probably in this respect. In other words, whatever the mining engineer’s samples contained, it would appear there was more than the British were prepared to inform you.”
There was another long silence, during which the Ambassador waited for the explosion of rage. It did not come.
“They cheated me,” whispered Kimba.
“Of course, Your Excellency,” cut in Dobrovolsky hurriedly, “the only way of being completely sure is for another survey party to examine the same area and take further samples of the rocks and the soil. To this end I am instructed by my government most humbly to ask Your Excellency to grant permission for a survey team from the Institute of Mining of Sverdlovsk to come to Zangaro and examine the same area as that covered by the British engineer.”
Kimba took a long time digesting the proposal. Finally he nodded. “Granted,” he said.
Dobrovolsky bowed. By his side Volkov, ostensibly Second Secretary at the embassy but more pertinently resident of the KGB detachment, shot him a glance.
“The second matter is that of your personal security,” said Dobrovolsky. At last he secured some reaction from the dictator. It was a subject that Kimba took extremely seriously. His head jerked up, and he shot suspicious glances around the room. Three Zangaran aides standing behind the two Russians quaked.
“My security?” said Kimba in his usual whisper.
“We would respectfully seek once again to reiterate the Soviet government’s view of the paramount importance of Your Excellency’s being able to continue to lead Zangaro on the path of peace and progress that Your Excellency has already so magnificently established,” said the Russian. The flow of flattery caused no incongruous note; it was Kimba’s habitual due and a regular part of any words addressed to him.
“To guarantee the continued security of the invaluable person of Your Excellency and in view of the recent and most dangerous treason by one of your army officers, we would respectfully once again propose that a member of my embassy staff be permitted to reside inside the palace and lend his assistance to Your Excellency’s own personal security corps.”
The reference to the “treason” of Colonel Bobi brought Kimba out of his trance. He trembled violently, though whether from rage or fear the Russians could not make out. Then he began to talk, slowly at first, in his usual whisper, then faster, his voice rising as he glared at the Zangarans across the room. After a few sentences he lapsed back into the Vindu dialect, which only the Zangarans understood, but the Russians already knew the gist: the ever-present danger of treason and treachery that Kimba knew himself to be in, the warnings he had received from the spirits telling him of plots in all corners, his complete awareness of the identity of all those who were not loyal and who harbored evil thoughts in their minds, his intention to root them out, all of them, and what would happen to them when he did. He went on for half an hour in this vein, before calming down and reverting to a European language the Russians could understand.
When they emerged into the sunlight and climbed into the embassy car, both men were sweating, partly from the heat, for the air-c
onditioning in the palace was broken yet again, partly because that was the effect Kimba usually had on them.
“I’m glad that’s over,” muttered Volkov to his colleague as they drove back toward the embassy. “Anyway, we got permission. I’ll install my man tomorrow.”
“And I’ll get the mining engineers sent in as soon as possible,” said Dobrovolsky. “Let’s hope there really is something fishy about that British survey report. If there isn’t, I don’t know how I’ll explain that to the President.”
Volkov grunted. “Rather you than me,” he said.
Shannon checked into the Lowndes Hotel off Knightsbridge, as he had agreed with Walter Harris to do before he left London. The agreement was that he would be away about ten days, and each morning at nine Harris would phone that hotel and ask for Mr. Keith Brown. Shannon arrived at noon to find the first call for him had been three hours earlier that morning. The news meant he had till the next day to himself.
One of his first calls after a long bath, a change, and lunch was to the detective agency. The head of it recognized the name of Keith Brown after a few moments’ thought, and Shannon heard him sorting out some files on his desk. Eventually he found the right one.
“Yes, Mr. Brown, I have it here. Would you like me to mail it to you?”
“Rather not,” said Shannon. “Is it long?”
“No, about a page. Shall I read it over the phone?”
“Yes, please.”
The man cleared his throat and began. “On the morning following the client’s request, my operative waited close to the entrance of the underground parking lot beneath ManCon House. He was lucky, in that the subject, whom he had noted the day before arriving back there by taxi from his interview at Sloane Avenue with our client, arrived by car. The operative got a clear view of him as he swung into the parking lot tunnel entrance. It was beyond doubt the subject. He was at the wheel of a Chevrolet Corvette. The operative took the number as the car went down the ramp. Inquiries were later made with a contact at the Licensing Department at County Hall. The vehicle is registered in the name of one Simon John Endean, resident in South Kensington.” The man paused. “Do you want the address, Mr. Brown?”