“The what?”
“Nothing. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” said Endean coldly.
“The man has a juju,” said Shannon, “or at least the people believe he has. That’s a powerful protection given him by the spirits, protecting him against his enemies, guaranteeing him invincibility, guarding him from attack, ensuring him against death. In the Congo the Simbas believed their leader, Pierre Mulele, had a similar juju. He told them he could pass it on to his supporters and make them immortal. They believed him. They thought bullets would run off them like water. So they came at us in waves, bombed out of their minds on dagga and whisky, died like flies, and still kept coming. It’s the same with Kimba. So long as they think he’s immortal, he is. Because they’ll never lift a finger against him. Once they see his corpse, the man who killed him becomes the leader. He has the stronger juju.”
Endean stared in surprise. “It’s really that backward?”
“It’s not so backward. We do the same with lucky charms, holy relics, the assumption of divine protection for our own particular cause. But we call it religion in us, savage superstition in them.”
“Never mind,” snapped Endean. “All the more reason why Kimba has to die.”
“Which means he must be in that palace when we strike. If he’s up-country it’s no good. No one will support your man if Kimba is still alive.”
“He usually is in the palace, so I’m told.”
“Yes,” said Shannon, “but we have to guarantee it. There’s one day he never misses. Independence Day. On the eve of Independence Day he will be sleeping in the palace, sure as eggs is eggs.”
“When’s that?”
“Three and a half months away.”
“Could a project be mounted in that time?” asked Endean.
“Yes, with a bit of luck. I’d like at least a couple of weeks longer.”
“The project has not been accepted yet,” observed Endean.
“No, but if you want to install a new man in that palace, an attack from outside is the only way of doing it. Do you want me to prepare the whole project from start to finish, with estimated costings and time schedule?”
“Yes. The costing is very important. My—er—associates will want to know how much they are letting themselves in for.”
“All right,” said Shannon. “The report will cost you five hundred pounds.”
“You’ve already been paid,” said Endean coldly.
“I’ve been paid for a mission into Zangaro and a report on the military situation there,” replied Shannon. “What you’re asking for is a new report right outside the original briefing you gave me.”
“Five hundred is a bit steep for a few sheets of paper with writing on them.”
“Rubbish. You know perfectly well if your firm consults a lawyer, architect, accountant, or any other technical expert you pay him a fee. I’m a technical expert in war. What you pay for is the knowledge and the experience—where to get the best men, the best arms, how to ship them, et cetera. That’s what costs five hundred pounds, and the same knowledge would cost you double if you tried to research it yourself in twelve months, which you couldn’t anyway because you haven’t the contacts.”
Endean rose. “All right. It will be here this afternoon by special messenger. Tomorrow is Friday. My partners would like to read your report over the weekend. Please have it prepared by tomorrow afternoon at three. I’ll collect it here.”
He left, and as the door closed behind him Shannon raised his coffee cup in mock toast. “Be seeing you, Mr. Walter Harris oblique stroke Simon Endean,” he said softly.
Not for the first time he thanked his stars for the amiable and garrulous hotelkeeper Gomez. During one of their long nightly conversations Gomez had mentioned the affair of Colonel Bobi, now in exile. He had also mentioned that, without Kimba, Bobi was nothing, being hated by the Caja for his army’s cruelties against them on the orders of Kimba, and not able to command Vindu troops either. Which left Shannon with the problem of a backup force with black faces to take over on the morning after.
Endean’s brown manila envelope containing fifty £10 notes arrived just after three in a taxicab and was delivered to the reception desk of the Lowndes Hotel. Shannon counted the notes, stuffed them into the inside pocket of his jacket, and began work. It took him the rest of the afternoon and most of the night.
He worked at the writing desk in his room, poring over his own diagrams and maps of the city of Clarence, its harbor, port area, and the residential section that included the presidential palace and the army lines.
The classical military approach would have been to land a force on the side of the peninsula near the base with the main coastline, march the short distance inland, and take the road from Clarence to the interior, with guns covering the T-junction. That would have sealed off the peninsula and the capital from reinforcement. It would also have lost the element of surprise.
Shannon’s talent was that he understood Africa and the African soldier, and his thinking was unconventional. Tactics suited to African terrain and opposition are almost the exact opposite of those that will work in a European situation.
Had Shannon’s plans ever been considered by a European military mind thinking in conventional terms, they would have been styled as reckless and without hope of success. He was banking on Sir James Manson’s not having been in the British army—there was no reference in Who’s Who to indicate that he had—and accepting the plan. Shannon knew it was workable and the only one that was.