‘Hmm.’ Now he was really curious. ‘Fine, yes, we are.’
‘Good. I’m sending you a few photos on your mobile. Open them while we talk.’
His mobile confirmed the arrival of a multimedia message. One after another, he loaded the pictures. They showed two men in sunglasses, and a woman.
‘Which of them do you know?’
‘All of them,’ he said. ‘They work for me. Security staff. You must have met one of them, out on Lavon Lake. Lars Gudmundsson. He has the internal power of command.’
‘That’s right, I met him. Did you order the three of them to guard the building that you were presumably shot at from on 21 April?’
‘Well, that would be a bit of an exaggeration.’ Palstein hesitated. ‘They were just supposed to keep an eye on the surrounding area. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure if I should bring them. Having private security makes you seem like you’re putting on airs, like you think you’re so incredibly important. But there had been a few threats against EMCO, and against me too—’
‘Threats?’
‘Oh, stupid things. Nothing that we needed to take seriously. Just resentful people with existential angst.’
‘Gerald, are the Chinese involved in any way with EMCO?’
‘The Chinese?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not really. I mean, there were many attempts to take over our subsidiaries. EMCO itself is – was – too tough a nut for them to crack. And of course they had a good old poach in our coalmines.’
‘Canadian oil sand?’
‘That too.’
‘Okay. I’m sending you another photo.’
This time an Asian face appeared on the display. Long, unkempt hair, a straggly beard.
‘No’ he said.
‘You haven’t seen him before?’
‘Not that I know of. If you could let me in on—’
‘Of course. Listen, Gerald, this man entered the empty building just before you took to the podium. Your security team was in the building too. In our view there’s very little doubt that Gudmundsson’s people not only let the Asian man pass, but also made sure that he could.’
Palstein stared at the photo in silence.
‘Are you completely sure that you’ve never seen him before?’ pressed Loreena.
‘Not consciously, at any rate. I would remember someone like him.’
‘Could he be one of your people?’
‘My people?’
‘I mean, do you know all your bodyguards personally, or does Gudmundsson—’
‘Of course I know every single one of them, what do you expect? And besides, there aren’t that many. Five in total.’
‘Whom you trust.’
‘Of course. They are paid by us, and besides, a respected agency for personal security provided them, EMCO has been working with them for years.’
‘Then you may have a problem. If this Asian guy really is the man who shot at you, then there’s good reason to believe that your own people are in on it. I need to ask you one more question, please excuse my abruptness.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘Does the name Alejandro Ruiz mean anything to you?’
‘Ruiz?’ Palstein was silent for a few seconds. ‘Wait a moment. That rings a bell.’
‘I’ll help you. Repsol. Strategic management.’
‘Repsol – yes, I think – yes, for sure, Ruiz. We were on the same flight once. It was a while ago.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Practically nothing. My God, Loreena, we’re not talking about some close-knit family here, the oil trade is huge, there are a zillion people working in it. Even now, by the way.’
‘It seems Ruiz was an important man.’
‘Was?’
‘He disappeared. Three years ago in Lima.’
‘Under what circumstances?’
‘During a business trip. You see, I’m interested to find out whether the attack in Calgary has any precedents. Whether it was perhaps less about you personally and more about what you represent. So I put Ruiz’s files together. Happily married, two healthy children, no debts. But he does have opponents in his own field for whom he was too liberal, too environmentally aware; he was a moralist – nicknamed Ruiz El Verde. For example, he spoke out against oil-sand exploitation and pushed for more exploration of the deep sea. Now, I don’t need to tell you that the companies always shied away from cost-intensive exploration proposals when oil prices were low, and three years ago the demise was already well under way. Ruiz urged Repsol to strengthen their involvement with alternative energies. Does that remind you of anyone? Yourself perhaps?’
Incredible, thought Palstein.
‘It could all be a coincidence,’ Loreena continued. ‘Ruiz’s disappearance. China’s engagement in the oil-sand trade. Even the Asian man your people allowed into the house. Perhaps he’s just harmless and I’m seeing ghosts, but my gut instinct and common sense are telling me that we’re on the right track.’
‘And what do you think I should do now?’
‘Don’t trust Gudmundsson and his people. If it should all turn out to be a mistake, I’ll be the first one to eat humble pie. Until then: rack your brains! About Ruiz. About critical overlaps with China. About pitfalls in your own business; and another thing too – have a think about who might have had a vested interest in your not going along on the moon flight. You can call me, or we can meet up, at any time. Try to find out who the Asian in the photo is, perhaps he might be on EMCO’s internal database. Invest in personal security, throw Gudmundsson and his team out on their ear as far as I’m concerned, but don’t go to the police. That’s the only thing I’m asking of you.’
‘Then you’re asking a lot!’
‘Just not for the moment.’
‘This could all be evidence.’
‘Gerald,’ said Loreena insistently, ‘I promise you, I won’t do anything that puts you in danger, nor keep things from the police. It’s just for the moment. I need a head start to be able to get an exclusive on the story.’
‘Do you realise what you’re telling me here? What you’re asking of me?’
‘We have a deal, Gerald. I may have found your would-be assassin, and that’s more than the police managed in four weeks. Give me time. We’re working on it under extreme pressure. I’ll serve those pigs up to you on a silver platter.’
Palstein fell silent. Then he sighed.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Do whatever you think is right.’
29 May 2025
THE MERCENARY
Night Flight
There was one good thing you could say about Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo: after he’d come to power in August 1979, the human rights situation in Equatorial Guinea had visibly improved. From that point on, there were no more mass crucifixions along the highway to the airport, and the skulls of the opposition were no longer impaled on stakes for all to see.
‘A true philanthropist,’ scoffed Yoyo.
‘But not the first,’ said Jericho. ‘Have you heard of Fernão do Pó?’
Heading towards Berlin at twice the speed of sound, they travelled backwards in time, from the Shanghai dawn to the Berlin night, from the year 2025 to the beginnings of a continent in which it seemed everything that could go wrong, always did. Africa, the unloved cradle of humanity, characterised by dead-straight borders which severed its ancient tendons and nerves, creating countries of bizarre geometry, the smallest of which lay patchwork-like on the western fringes, its history reading like a chronicle of continual rape.
‘Fernão do Pó? Who on earth is he?’
‘Another philanthropist. After a fashion.’
As Tu had insisted on flying his company jet himself, Jericho and Yoyo had the luxurious, twelve-seater passenger cabin to themselves. They were using two monitors, supported by Diane, to familiarise themselves with Equatorial Guinea in the hope of finding answers to the questions of the last two days. The picture only became more and more confusing
with each piece of information the computer provided, and the only thing that had become clear was that the events in Equatorial Guinea could only be understood if one looked at their development from the very beginning. And that beginning started with:
* * *
Fernão do Pó.
A stagnant lake. Dead calm. Curtains of rain billow out over the coastline.
Sweat and rainwater mix on skin, making it look as though it’s been boiled in steam. Orchestrated by the cries of small seabirds, the boats are lowered into the water. The oarsman pulling, a man upright in the bow. The shore comes closer, vegetation takes shape against the deepening grey. The man walks onto the shore, looks around. Once again, an area’s transformation into a state-like zone starts with a Portuguese man.
In 1469, do Pó’s caravels anchor beneath the elbow of Africa, right where the continent tapers off dramatically. The discoverer, the legitimate successor of Henry the Navigator, lands on a small island and calls it Formosa on account of its beauty. Bantus live here, the Bubi tribe. They welcome the visitors in a friendly manner, unaware that their kingdom has just changed hands. From the very moment when do Pó left his bootprints in the sand, they are now subjects of his majesty Alfonso V of Portugal, to whom Pope Nicholas had handed over the entire African island, along with monopoly on trade and sole maritime law, a few years before. At least, the Pope believed that Africa was an island, sharing that misconception with Western Christianity. Do Pó provided proof to the contrary. It was discovered that Africa was in actual fact a continent, and one with a long and fertile coastline, inhabited by dark-skinned people who seemed to have very little to do and who were in dire need of Christianisation. This, in turn, corresponded perfectly with the crux of the papal bull, which decreed that non-believers were to be steamrollered into slavery – a recommendation with which Alfonso and his seafarers were happy to comply.
The day that do Pó arrived changed everything. And yet, ultimately, nothing. If he hadn’t come, then sooner or later someone else would have. Many followed in his footsteps, and the slave trade thrived for three hundred years. Then the Portuguese crown exchanged its ownership of African territory for colonies in Brazil, and the Bantu changed masters. Spain was the new owner. The British, French and Germans began to get involved, all of them fighting for the areas from Cape Santa Clara right up to the Niger Delta—
* * *
‘And then they tried to oppress the natives, a task which was made easier by the discord amongst the Bantu, or to be more precise, the growing rivalry between the Bubi and Fang.’
‘Fang?’ grinned Yoyo. ‘Fang Bubi?’
‘It’s no laughing matter,’ said Jericho. ‘This is Africa’s traumatic past.’
‘Yes, I know. The colonialists thought about everything, just not about ethnic roots. Look at Rwanda, Hutu and Tutsi—’
‘Okay.’ Jericho massaged the back of his neck. ‘On the other hand let’s not pretend that it’s a purely African invention.’
‘No, you Europeans of all people should keep quiet on that matter.’
‘Why?’
Yoyo’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, come on! Look at Serbia and Kosovo. There’s still no peace even seventeen years after independence! Then the Basques, the Scottish and the Welsh. Northern Ireland.’
Jericho listened, his arms crossed.
‘Taiwan,’ he said. ‘Tibet.’
‘That’s—’
‘Different? Just because you lot don’t want to discuss it?’
‘Nonsense,’ said Yoyo, irritated. ‘Taiwan belongs to mainland China, that’s why it’s different.’
‘Well, you lot are the only ones who believe that. And no one is overly pleased that you’re threatening the Taiwanese with nuclear missiles.’
‘Fine, smart-arse.’ Yoyo leaned forwards. ‘So what would happen if, all of a sudden, let’s say Texas, the Cowboys … if they suddenly declared their independence?’
‘Now that really is different,’ sighed Jericho.
‘Oh sure. Completely different.’
‘Yes. And as far as Tibet is concerned—’
‘Tibet today, Xinjiang tomorrow, then inner Mongolia, Guanxi, Hong Kong – why can’t you Europeans grasp the fact that a One China policy is best for security? Our huge kingdom will fall into chaos if we allow it to fall apart. We have to keep China together!’
‘With force.’
‘No, force is the wrong way. We didn’t do our homework there.’
‘You can say that again!’ Jericho shook his head. ‘Somehow I just can’t figure you out. After all, you’re the one who’s so passionate about human rights. That’s what I thought, anyway.’
‘And it’s true.’
‘But?’
‘No buts. I’m a nationalist.’
‘Hmm.’
‘That doesn’t compute with you, right? That the two can coexist. Human rights and nationalism.’
Jericho spread his hands out acquiescently. ‘I’m happy to learn.’
‘Then learn. I’m not a fascist, not a racist, nothing of the kind. But I am absolutely convinced that China is a great country with a great culture—’
‘Which you yourselves have trampled all over.’
‘Listen, Owen, let’s get one basic thing straight. Give it a rest with all the you,you lot, your people! When the Red Guards were hanging teachers from trees, I wasn’t even a twinkle in my father’s eye. I’d rather you tell me how the whole thing with Bubi Fang carries on, if that’s even relevant.’
‘Fang,’ Jericho corrected her patiently. ‘The Bubi lived on their island. They didn’t care two figs about the coast until Spain united the mainland and islands into the Republic of Equatorial Guinea. And the Fang dominated on the mainland: another Bantu tribe, who greatly outnumbered the Bubi and were less than pleased at being thrown in a pot with them overnight. In 1964, Spain gave the country full autonomy, which in practice meant that they fenced two groups who couldn’t stand each other inside a state border and left them to their own devices. Something that could only end in disaster.’
Yoyo looked at him with her dark eyes. And suddenly, she smiled. So unexpected and untimely a smile that he could do little else but stare back at her, confused.
‘By the way, I wanted to thank you,’ she said.
‘Thank me?’
‘You saved my life.’
Jericho hesitated. The whole time, while he had swum so bravely through the hot water that Yoyo had got herself into, he had contented himself with his own sense of reward. Now he felt taken by surprise.
‘No need,’ he said feebly. ‘It’s just the way things turned out.’
‘Owen—’
‘I didn’t have any choice. If I had known—’
‘No, Owen, don’t.’ She shook her head. ‘Say something nice.’
‘Something nice? After all the trouble that you’ve—’
‘Hey.’ She reached out. Her slender fingers clasped around his hand and squeezed firmly. ‘Say something nice to me. Right now!’
She moved closer to him, and something changed. So far he had only seen Yoyo’s beauty, and the small flaws in it. Now, waves of unsettling intensity washed over him. Unlike Joanna, who controlled and regulated her erotic potential like the volume dial on a radio, Yoyo could do nothing else but burn seductively, relentless, a bright, hot star. And suddenly he realised that he would do everything in his power to make sure that this star never burned out. He wanted to see her laugh.
‘Well.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Any time.’
‘Any time what?’
‘I’d do it again, any time. If you ever need saving, let me know. I’ll be there.’ More throat-clearing. ‘And now—’
‘Thank you, Owen. Thank you.’
‘—let’s carry on with Mayé. When does it get interesting for us?’
She let his hand go and sank back in her seat.
‘Difficult to say. I’d say that in order to understand the relations in the country, we need to go back to i
ndependence. With the change to—’
* * *
Papa Macías.
In October 1968, the same damp and humid climate reigned in the Gulf of Guinea as on any other day of the year. Sometimes it rained, then the land, islands and sea would brood in sunshine that made the beaches glisten and brought all activity to a standstill. The capital city, located on the island and little more than a collection of mildewed colonial buildings with huts gathered around them, was seeing the advent of the first State President of the independent republic of Equatorial Guinea, chosen by the people in a memorable election campaign. Francisco Macías Nguema of the Fang tribe promises justice and socialism, and forces the remaining Spanish troops to retreat, an action which had already been agreed in any case, although they had imagined a slightly more conciliatory end. But ‘Papa’, as the president named himself out of his love for his people, is accustomed to having a good and hearty breakfast. The defeated colonialists were horrified to discover that he was a cannibal, with a tendency to eat the brains and testicles of his enemies. You couldn’t expect a teary goodbye from someone like that.
And yet that’s exactly what happened.
A sea of tears, a sea of blood.
The young republic was defiled almost as soon as it was born. No one there was prepared for something as exotic as market economy, but at least they had enjoyed a flourishing trade in cocoa and tropical woods. Macías, however, enflamed with glowing admiration for Marxist–Leninist-supported despotism, was interested in other things. The last units of the Guardia Civil had barely cleared their posts before it became clear what was to be expected from testicle-eating Papa and his Partido Unico Nacional. The army reinforced Macías’ claim to god-like absolute dictatorship with clubs, firearms and machetes, prompting the remaining European civilians to flee the country in terror. Numerous posts were taken by members of his Esangui clan, a sub-tribe of the Fang. The fact that the island, the most attractive part of the country, seat of the government and economic centre, was Bubi territory had been a thorn in the side of the numerically superior Fang for a long time. Macías fanned the flames of this hate. At least he had had the decency to annul the constitution before breaking it.