The Dogs of War

“What’s that called—in financial terms, of course?” asked Endean.

“There is a word for it on the Stock Exchange,” Thorpe admitted.

Sir James Manson tendered them each a glass of whisky. He reached round and took his own. “Are you on, gentlemen?” he asked quietly.

Both younger men looked at each other and nodded.

“Then here’s to the Crystal Mountain.”

They drank.

“Report to me here tomorrow morning at nine sharp,” Manson told them, and they rose to go.

At the door to the back stairs Thorpe turned. “You know, Sir James, it’s going to be bloody dangerous. If one word gets out…”

Sir James Manson stood again with his back to the window, the westering sun slanting onto the carpet by his side. His legs were apart, his fists on his hips.

“Knocking off a bank or an armored truck,” he said, “is merely crude. Knocking off an entire republic has, I feel, a certain style.”

eight

“What you are saying in effect is that there is no dissatisfied faction within the army that, so far as you know, has ever thought of toppling President Kimba?”

Cat Shannon and Simon Endean were sitting in Shannon’s room at the hotel, taking midmorning coffee. Endean had phoned Shannon by agreement at nine and told him to wait for a second call. He had been briefed by Sir James Manson and had called Shannon back to make the eleven-o’clock appointment.

Endean nodded. “That’s right. The information has changed in that one detail. I can’t see what difference it makes. You yourself said the caliber of the army was so low that the technical assistants would have to do all the work themselves in any case.”

“It makes a hell of a difference,” said Shannon. “Attacking the palace and capturing it is one thing. Keeping it is quite another. Destroying the palace and Kimba simply creates a vacuum at the seat of power. Someone has to step in and take over that power. The mercenaries must not even be seen by daylight. So who takes over?”

Endean nodded again. He had not expected a mercenary to have any political sense at all.

“We have a man in view,” he said cautiously.

“He’s in the republic now, or in exile?”

“In exile.”

/> “Well, he would have to be installed in the palace and broadcasting on the radio that he has conducted an internal coup d’état and taken over the country, by midday of the day following the night attack on the palace.”

“That could be arranged.”

“There’s one more thing.”

“What’s that?” asked Endean.

“There must be troops loyal to the new regime, the same troops who ostensibly carried out the coup of the night before, visibly present and mounting the guard by sunrise of the day after the attack. If they don’t show up, we would be stuck—a group of white mercenaries holed up inside the palace, unable to show themselves for political reasons, and cut off from retreat in the event of a counterattack. Now your man, the exile, does he have such a backup force he could bring in with him when he comes? Or could he assemble them quickly once inside the capital?”

“I think you have to let us take care of that,” said Endean stiffly. “What we are asking you for is a plan in military terms to mount the attack and carry it through.”

“That I can do,” said Shannon without hesitation. “But what about the preparations, the organization of the plan, getting the men, the arms, the ammo?”

“You must include that as well. Start from scratch and go right through to the capture of the palace and the death of Kimba.”

“Kimba has to get the chop?”

“Of course,” said Endean. “Fortunately he has long since destroyed anyone with enough initiative or brains to become a rival. Consequently, he is the only man who might regroup his forces and counterattack. With him dead, his ability to mesmerize the people into submission will also end.”

“Yeah. The juju dies with the man.”