‘Yes. Precisely that.’
‘Tian, please. He was a madman. The torturer of a country where the greatest technological achievement was the painstaking maintenance of a functioning power network.’
‘Of course. But he said it.’
‘That he wanted to go to the Moon? Mayé?’
‘That’s what he said. Diane found quotations. He was clearly an idiot. On the other hand, experts attested to the launch pad being in good working order. He sent a news satellite into orbit with it, at any rate.’
‘Which broke down.’
‘Regardless. The launch was successful.’
‘How did he finance even the launch pad?’
‘I guess he used the national budget. Shut down hospitals, I don’t know. The interesting thing is that Mayé’s overthrow definitely wasn’t the result of other countries’
interest in his oil. So what worried Beijing so much that they felt it necessary to get rid of the ruling clique of a tiny little country which had become entirely uninteresting, both economically and politically – and right down to the very last man? With this question in mind, I kept looking – and I found something.’
‘Tell me.’
‘On 28 June 2024, a month before his death, Mayé publicly chastised the exploitative nature of the First World on national television and directed explicit accusations at Beijing. He claimed that China had dropped Africa like a hot potato, the money promised to them had never materialised, and above all, that they were responsible for the entire continent withering away.’
‘Who did he think he was, Africa’s lawyer?’
‘Yes, it’s laughable, isn’t it? But then, while he was saying all this, he let something slip that he shouldn’t have. He said that if Beijing didn’t fulfil its obligations, he would be forced to hawk information about that would incriminate China all over the world. He publicly threatened the Party.’ Tu paused. ‘And a month later he was no longer able to talk.’
‘And he made no indication of what that information was?’
‘Indirectly, yes. He said that his country wouldn’t let anyone bring it down. And, in particular, that the space programme would be extended and another satellite launched, and that certain contemporaries would be well advised to offer their full support unless they wanted a rude awakening.’
Jericho paused. ‘What did China have to do with Mayé’s space programme?’
‘Officially, nothing. But even the dumbest person can figure out that no one in Equatorial Guinea was in a position to build something like that. I mean, physically speaking maybe, but not to make the whole thing a reality. The only thing Mayé came up with was the idea. He waved his millions, and they came from all around: engineers, constructors, physicists. French, German, Russian, American, Indian, from all over the world. But if you look a little closer, one name in particular stands out – Zheng Pang-Wang.’
‘The Zheng Group?’ Jericho blurted out, amazed.
‘That’s the one. Large parts of the construction were in Zheng’s hands.’
‘As far as I know, Zheng is closely connected with the Chinese space travel programme.’
‘Space travel and reactor technologies. Zheng Pang-Wang isn’t just one of the ten richest men in the world, and one with an enormous influence on Chinese politics at that – he also seems to have decided to become Julian Orley’s Chinese counterpart. The cadre are resting their biggest hopes on him. They expect that, sooner or later, he’ll build them their own space elevator and a functioning fusion reactor. So far, though, he hasn’t delivered either of them. There’s a rumour that he’s putting much more energy into infiltrating and spying on Orley Enterprises. In official circles he’s trying to get Orley to collaborate. There’s even talk that Orley and Zheng like each other, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’
Jericho thought for a moment. ‘Mayé’s assassins acted fast, don’t you think?’
‘Suspiciously so, if you ask me.’
‘Conjuring Ndongo up out of nowhere, and then the logistics of the attack. You can’t plan something like that in four weeks.’
‘I agree with you. The coup was prepared just in case Mayé said the wrong thing.’
‘Which he did—’
‘Excuse me, Owen,’ said Diane’s voice. ‘May I interrupt you?’
‘What’s up, Diane?’
‘I have a Priority A call for you. Yoyo Chen Yuyun.’
‘No problem,’ said Tu. ‘I’ve told you everything I needed to anyway. Keep me posted, okay?’
‘I will. Put her through, Diane.’
‘Owen?’ Yoyo’s voice came through, embedded in street sounds. ‘Nyela got out of the car in the city centre. I followed her for a bit; she was looking in the shop windows and speaking on the phone. She didn’t look particularly worked up or concerned. Two minutes ago she met a man, and now they’re both sitting in the sun in front of a café.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Chatting, having a drink. The guy is dark, but not black, perhaps mixed race. Around fifty years old. You saw the photos of Mayé and his staff. Did any of them look like that?’
‘There aren’t that many photos. And none of them show all of his staff. There’s always someone or other next to him, but you could try searching for the list of his ministers that died during the attack.’ Jericho tried to remember the pictures. ‘None of them had that skin-colour, I think.’
‘What should I do?’
‘Keep at it. How are they acting around each other?’
‘Friendly. A little kiss when they met, a hug. Nothing extreme.’
‘Do you have a rough idea where you are?’
‘We drove over that river twice – the Sprii, Spraa, Spree – one crossing right after the other. The café is in an old railway station, one built in brick with round arches, but nicely renovated. Wait a moment.’
* * *
Yoyo marched along the brick façade and looked out for any markings, street signs or the name of the station. Hordes of people were streaming down from the steps of the subway station. Owing to the beautiful weather, the forecourt looked as if it were under siege: young people and tourists were pushing the turnover in the numerous pubs, bars, bistros and restaurants sky-high. Clearly Nyela had led her into one of the hip quarters of the city. Yoyo liked it here. It reminded her a little of Xintiandi.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Jericho. ‘I think I know where you are. You must have driven over Museum Island.’
‘I’ll be able to tell you in a second.’
‘Okay.’
Yoyo spotted a white S on a green background. Next to it, something was written in light green lettering. She opened her lips and hesitated. How did one pronounce s,c and h one behind the other?
‘Hacke – s – cher – Mar—’
‘Hackescher Markt?’
‘Yes. It could be that.’
‘Okay. Keep your eye on both of them. If nothing happens here I’ll come and join you.’
‘Okay.’
She ended the call and turned round. The station was excreting an even bigger contingent of travellers, most of whom seemed to be trying to catch up on the time they had lost. The rest, chattering away, spread out amongst the folding chairs and tables of the outdoor eateries, on the hunt for free seats. Suddenly, Yoyo found herself staring at a battery of backs. She stuck her elbows out and pushed her way forward. A waiter circled over like a fighter jet and made a move to run her down. With a dart, she managed to escape behind a little green and yellow tree. Scribble-covered boards were obstructing her view. She ran out past the tables into the square, and approached the café with the blue and white striped awning, under which Nyela and the light-skinned black man were sitting.
Were supposed to be sitting.
Yoyo’s heart skipped a beat. She ran inside. No one. Back out again. No Nyela, no companion.
‘Shit,’ she mumbled. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’
But cursing wouldn’t bring them back again, so she r
ushed back out onto the main street, to where Nyela had succeeded in securing a parking place in rush hour and where she herself had parked the car beneath a strict ‘No Parking’ sign.
The Nissan was gone. Breaking down both physically and mentally, she ran on, issuing pleading looks in all directions, up and down the street, begging fate for mercy, just to curse it the very next moment, and then finally gave up, out of breath and with sharp pains in her sides. None of it helped. She had cocked it up. All because of a lousy sign. Just because she had insisted on being able to tell Jericho where she was.
How was she supposed to tell him this?
* * *
A lighter-skinned black man around fifty years old. Jericho tried to imagine him. He could fit in with Nyela in terms of age.
Andre Donner?
Indecisive, he looked over at Muntu. It was all quiet. The lights were out, as far as he could tell through the mirrored glass anyway. After a few minutes he pulled out his mobile, logged into Diane’s database and loaded the photos of Mayé they had found on the internet.
Almost all of them came from online articles about the coup. The whole thing had made waves only in the West African media, where sumptuously illustrated biographies of the dead dictator had appeared as a result of the putsch: Mayé on a visit to a waterworks, Mayé inspecting a military parade, Mayé orating, patting children’s heads, flanked by oil workers on a platform. A man who, even in the pictures, oozed physical presence and narcissism. Anyone who managed to make it into a picture with him seemed strangely out of focus, insignificant, overshadowed, irrelevant. Aided by the captions, Jericho identified ministers and generals who had died in the coup. The others pictured remained nameless. What united them was their dark or very dark skin colour, typical of the equatorial regions.
Jericho loaded the film which showed Mayé with Vogelaar, various ministers, representatives from the army and the two Chinese managers at the conference table. He zoomed in on the faces and studied the background. A uniformed man sat two seats behind Vogelaar, following the Chinese presentation with an arrogantly bored expression; he might have passed for lighter-skinned, but then again it could just have been down to the effect of the overhead lighting.
Was one of them Donner?
He looked up and stopped short.
The entrance door to Muntu was open.
No, it had just swung shut! Behind the glass, a tall shadow became visible and disappeared into the reflections of the building opposite. Jericho suppressed a curse. While he had turned his attention to the idiotic task of trying to recognise a man he had never seen amongst a group of complete strangers, someone had gone in over there. If he really had gone in, that is, and not opened the door from the inside. Hastily, he pushed his chair back, tucked away his mobile and walked outside.
Was it Donner he’d seen?
He crossed the street, cupped his hands around his eyes and peered in through the small window. The restaurant lay in darkness. No one to be seen. The only thing of note was a blue flicker from a defective emergency light, behind the small windows in the swing doors that led to the kitchen.
Had his senses been playing tricks on him?
No, there was no chance of that.
He pushed against the door. Cool, stagnant restaurant air wafted towards him. He glanced quickly around at the tautly pulled tablecloths, the motionless ferns and the bar. From the other side of the swing doors he heard a machine start up, possibly an air-conditioner. He froze and listened. No more sounds. Nothing to suggest that anyone was here apart from him.
But where could the man have disappeared to?
Automatically, his right hand grazed the hilt of his Glock. It was resting in its usual place, narrow and discreet. Even though he had come to warn Donner, there was no way of predicting how the man would respond to his visit. He paced lightly over to the bar and looked behind the ornate counter. No one. Behind the swing doors, the gleam of light flickered icily. He went back into the middle of the room and turned his head towards the bead curtain in front of the toilets. Thinking that he saw some of the cords swinging softly, he looked more closely. Like naughty children caught in the act, they froze into motionlessness.
He blinked.
Nothing was moving. Nothing at all. Nonetheless, he went closer and peeped through the bead lattice into a short, gloomy corridor.
‘Andre Donner?’
He didn’t expect any answer, nor did he get one. The door on the left led, as far as he could tell, to the men’s toilets, and opposite them was their female counterpart. At the end of the corridor was another door, marked ‘Private’. He pushed his hand between the cords, awakening them to a lively murmur, then pulled them further apart. He hesitated. Maybe he should put off the inspection of the toilets and the private room until later. His gaze wandered back to the swing doors, and at that moment the hum of the generator stopped. He could now clearly hear—
Nothing.
He had preferred the sounds of the machine.
‘Andre Donner?’
He was answered by dry stillness. Even the noises from the street seemed to be cut off here. Slowly, he walked over to the swing doors and peered through one of the tiny windows. There wasn’t much to see. A little world of its own, made up of chrome and white tiles, chopped up in a strobe effect by the defective fluorescent lamp. The archaic body of a gas cooker with dark attachments, covered by a tarnished cooker hood. The corner of a workbench. Roasting pans and pots were piled up in a cupboard.
He walked in.
The kitchen wasn’t that small after all. It was surprisingly spacious for a restaurant like Muntu. Three walls were taken up with shelves, cupboards, fridges, a sink unit, oven and microwave. Along the fourth wall were storage surfaces and struts, draped with casserole dishes, pans, soup ladles and splatter screens. A longish work table took up the centre of the room, occupied at the stove end by two huge pans, bowls of finely chopped vegetables under cling film and closed polystyrene boxes. As if to balance it out, a huge slicing machine was enthroned at the opposite end. The kitchen smelled of stock, congealed frying fat, disinfectant and the cold sweetness of thawing meat. The latter was resting half-covered on a baking tray, pale brown in the pulsing light and coated with iridescent skin, its bones protruding. It looked like the hind leg of some huge animal. Kudu-antelope, thought Jericho. He couldn’t picture the breed, but he was sure he was staring at the leg of an antelope. He suddenly pictured the whitish tendons and ligaments under the fur of a living creature, a masterpiece of evolution which enabled the animal to take such stupendous leaps. A highly developed flight mechanism, but ultimately useless against the smallest and quickest of all predators, the rifle barrel. Cautiously, he went closer to the stove. The bluish flicker was increasingly reminiscent of an insecticide device, every flicker a record of death. Smeared wings and little legs, compound eyes, staring unfazed before they boiled in the electronic heat and exploded. In the crystal silence, he could now hear the humming of the lights too, their stumbling clicking when they sprang on and then died again, like some strange code. His gaze fell on a casserole dish on the stove. The contents gripped his attention. He looked in. Something was wriggling in it, something that seemed to be alive and squirming in the pulse of the lights, a headless, rolled-up snake.
Jericho stared at it.
He suddenly felt the temperature fall by several degrees. Pressure exerted itself on his chest as fingers encircled his heart, trying to bring it to a standstill. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He felt someone breathing behind him and knew that he was no longer alone in the kitchen. The other person had stalked in without a sound, appeared from nowhere, a professional, a master of disguise.
Jericho turned round.
The man was considerably taller than him, dark-haired, with a strong jawline and light, penetrating eyes. In an earlier life he had had a beard and been ash-blond, something which was only detectable from his light eyelashes and brows, but Jericho recognised him at once. He
was familiar with the faces of this man; he had seen them again just a few minutes ago, on the display of his mobile.
Jan Kees Vogelaar.
Alarmed thoughts came in a rush: Vogelaar was waiting for Donner in order to kill him. Had already killed him. A body in the freezer cabinet. And he was in the worst possible position, much too close to his opponent. Unbelievable stupidity on his part, to have gone into the kitchen. The ghostly effect of the flickering neon light. The weapon in Vogelaar’s hand, pointing at his abdomen. Talk or fight? The failure of rational thinking.
Reflexes.
He ducked and aimed a blow at Vogelaar’s wrist. A shot freed itself from the weapon, echoing into the base of the cooker. Springing back up, he rammed his skull against the man’s chin, saw him stagger, grabbed the saucepan and hurled it towards him. A twitching alien whipped out, the skinned body of the snake. It smacked Vogelaar in the face, the casserole dish scraped his forehead. With all his strength, Jericho kicked out at the hand holding the gun, which clattered to the floor and slid under the workbench. He reached for his Glock, grasped the hilt and tumbled backwards as if he’d just been hit by a ram. Vogelaar had got a grip of himself, turned on his own axis as quick as lightning, flung up his right leg and given him a kick in the chest.
All the air drained from his lungs. Helpless, he crashed into the cooker. Vogelaar whirled up to him like a dervish. The next kick got him in the shoulder, another, his knee. He fell to the floor with a cry. The huge man leaned over, grabbed his lower arm and rammed it hard against the edge of the cooker, again and again. Jericho’s fingers twitched, opened out. Somehow he managed to maintain his grip on the Glock and sink his left hand into Vogelaar’s solar plexus, but it had zero impact. His opponent hit his lower arm again. A sharp pain flooded through him. This time, the pistol flew out of his hand in a wide arc. He punched Vogelaar’s ribs repeatedly with his free hand, around his kidneys, then felt the grip around his arm loosen. Released, he crawled sideways.
Where was the Glock?
There! Not even half a metre away.
He threw himself forwards. Vogelaar was quicker, pulling Jericho up and hurling him towards one of the huge pans. Instinctively, he tried to get a grip on it, buckled over as Vogelaar kicked him in the back of his knees, and ripped the pan down with him as he fell. A torrent of greasy broth gushed down over him, hailing bones, vegetables and meat. Filthy and wet, he writhed around on the kitchen floor, then saw the other man leaning over him, saw his fist coming down towards him, grabbed the empty pan with both hands and rammed it as hard as he could against Vogelaar’s shins.