The Devil’s Kingdom. Scott Mariani

drifting in the Indian Ocean. The air-sea ‘rescue’ had been carried out with an ancient Puma helicopter the best part of fifty years of age, even more battered and worn out than the two Bell Iroquois choppers, relics from the Vietnam War, that made up the rest of Khosa’s helicopter fleet. Then there had been the prehistoric DC-3 Dakota that had taken them almost to the Congolese–Rwandan border when it ran out of fuel and almost killed them. If Khosa could afford to build a city in the jungle, what was he doing flying around in piles of scrap metal?

      None of it added up.

      Khosa strode along the corridor and threw open a gleaming set of double doors to reveal a suite of palatial proportions. ‘This is my command post,’ he declared proudly, sweeping an arm to usher them inside.

      Ben’s confusion deepened when he stepped into the suite. He’d never set foot inside the White House, or been invited into the Oval Office. But this was the nearest thing. The vast room was decked out in sumptuous style, dominated by a carved hardwood desk the size of a Buick. Its gleaming surface was bare, apart from an old-fashioned dial telephone in red plastic, and a scale model of a Napoleonic-era field cannon.

      Seated at the desk was a small, slender African man of about sixty, with thick spectacles and silvery hair buzzed to a stubble. He wore a crisp short-sleeved khaki shirt that hung on his reedy frame, with a mass of colourful military decorations over his heart and epaulettes studded with regalia. The man rose with a delighted smile as Khosa entered the room. Ignoring the motley crew of prisoners and soldiers who had filed through the doorway, he hurried from the desk and rushed over to greet his commander. They shook hands warmly. ‘It is good to see you again, Your Excellency. I believe the mission was a great success.’

      Ben had never heard a lower-ranking officer refer to a general as ‘Your Excellency’. But this was hardly a normal kind of army.

      ‘Oh, yes. A very great success,’ Khosa replied, patting the lump in his hip pocket that made it look as though he was carrying an apple in there. He removed his beret and skimmed it into the nearest antique armchair, threw his bulk into a silk-upholstered sofa with a deep sigh of satisfaction, drew another of his trademark Cuban cigars from a breast pocket and took his time lighting it. Through a dragon’s breath of pungent smoke, he turned to Ben.

      ‘Soldier, allow me to introduce my second-in-command, Colonel Raphael Dizolele. Colonel, I would like you to meet Major Hope of the SAS, our new military advisor. He is going to help train the army for us.’

      Dizolele turned the smile on Ben, but it wasn’t long before he realised that the new military advisor wasn’t inclined to shake hands.

      ‘This is Captain Dekker,’ Khosa said, motioning at Jeff, who scowled back at him as if he wanted to twist his head off and punt it out of the window. ‘Also a celebrated warrior in his own country. And this young man’ – pointing at Tuesday – ‘is the finest marksman in the British army. I am told he can kill a man from two miles away with a rifle.’

      Or so Ben had claimed on Tuesday’s behalf, mainly as a way to prevent Khosa from having him diced into pieces. Ben worried that his strategy might have worked too well.

      ‘Wonderful news, Excellency,’ said the beaming Dizolele. ‘And this old man is what?’

      Khosa threw a sour look at Gerber, who was just staring at the floor as if he’d fallen into a state of senility. ‘A sergeant of the United States Marine Corps. Major Hope believes he is of use to us. We will see. I have not decided yet.’

      The dismal introductions over with, the colonel updated Khosa on events during his absence. Neither seemed to have any problem discussing business in front of the underlings. ‘There was an incident with some of the workers,’ Dizolele reported. ‘A minor revolt in which three guards were killed, but the disturbance was soon brought back under control and the instigators have been punished.’

      Khosa nodded, his face blank. ‘Good. Anything else?’

      ‘I am happy to report that the payment we expected from America has been received in full, by wire transfer to one of our offshore accounts.’

      Khosa seemed mildly pleased by this. ‘Is the package still intact?’

      ‘In perfect condition, Excellency. Should we return it?’

      ‘It would be a mistake to return it too quickly. Issue another demand instead.’

      Ben wondered what they were talking about. A faint alarm bell was ringing in his mind, but he couldn’t be certain.

      ‘The same again?’ Dizolele asked with a smile.

      ‘No, this time double it to two million. Remind them of what will happen if they do not pay. If they are slow, give them a warning.’

      ‘A warning, by which I take it his Excellency means …?’

      Khosa made a casual gesture, indicating his growing boredom with the conversation. ‘The usual. Whatever does not spoil the goods too badly. I leave such details to your judgement, Raphael.’

      That alarm bell in Ben’s mind was ringing a little more loudly now.

      Dizolele clasped his hands and bowed his head, like a sycophantic mouse. ‘Thank you, Excellency. It will be done exactly as you say.’

      ‘Is there anything else, Raphael?’

      ‘I am also pleased to report that the shipment from our friends in the east arrived safely while you were away. The items are awaiting your approval.’

      This seemed the most welcome news of all. Khosa’s horror mask of a face crinkled with contentment. ‘I will inspect them shortly. Thank you, Raphael. If that is all, you are excused.’

      Once the little colonel had left the room, Khosa stood and paced the deep-pile carpet for a moment or two before seating himself importantly at his desk. He leaned back in the leather chair, laid his big hands flat on the shining desktop and fixed his implacable wide-angle gaze on Ben and the others. His eyes were so far apart that it was impossible to stare back at both of them at once. He seldom blinked, and his breathing was that of a man in the deepest state of tranquillity. He drew another long puff from the Cuban, exhaled a huge cloud of smoke and said, ‘Well, soldier. What do you think?’

      ‘I think you know what I think,’ Ben said.

      ‘I do, soldier. I do. But I would like to hear it from you.’

      ‘I think that whatever dirty little business you’re up to in this luxury rathole of yours, it’s obviously paying off pretty well so far.’

      Khosa smiled. ‘Is this your way of telling me that you are impressed, Major Hope?’

      Ben had known this man less than a week and already he had seen him order scores of brutal executions, lay waste to an African village and personally blow out the brains of one of his own men. Whatever Khosa proved himself capable of, ‘impressed’ wasn’t the word to describe Ben’s reaction.

      ‘It’s my way of telling you that all good things come to an end, General. I wouldn’t get too complacent.’

      Khosa reached out a lazy arm and swivelled the model field cannon on his desk so that its barrel pointed towards Ben. ‘I see. And what else do you think?’

      ‘I think that nothing bad had better have happened to my son,’ Ben replied. ‘Because if it has, all good things might come to an end that bit sooner.’

      ‘You think I should let him go?’

      ‘That would be the smartest move you’ve ever made in your life.’

      Khosa pondered this for a long moment. ‘I would be disappointed, soldier,’ he said at last, ‘if I thought that you had forgotten our deal. Are we not clear on the terms of the arrangement?’

      ‘You want me and my friends here to train your ragtag rabble into something resembling an army,’ Ben said. ‘We do our job, Jude stays safe. Or so you promise.’

      ‘I am