It went high into the air a second time, but this time it hit a tree. There was a dull clunk, and the grenade fell short of where it was intended to go. At that moment Janni Dupree started in pursuit, a fresh magazine in his carbine. Timothy shouted a warning, but Dupree must have thought it was a scream of elation. He ran eight paces forward into the trees, still firing from the hip, and was two yards from the grenade when it exploded.

He did not remember much more. He remembered the flash and the boom, the sensation of being picked up and tossed aside like a rag doll. Then he must have pa.s.sed out. He came to, lying out on the laterite road, and there was someone kneeling in the road beside him, cradling his head. He could feel that his throat was very warm, as it had been the time he had had fever as a boy-a comfortable, drowsy feeling of being half awake and half asleep. He could hear a voice talking to him, saying something repeatedly and urgently, but he could not make out the words. "Sorry, Janni, so sorry, sorry ..."

He could understand his own name, but that was all. This language was different, not his own language, but something else. He swiveled his eyes around to the person who was holding him and made out a dark face in the half-light beneath the trees. He smiled and said quite clearly in Afrikaans, "Hallo Pieter."

He was staring up at the gap between the palm fronds when finally the clouds shifted to one side and the moon came out. It looked enormous, as it always does in Africa, brilliant white and shining. He could smell the rain in the vegetation beside the road and see the moon sitting up there glistening like a giant pearl, like the Paarl Rock after the rain. It was good to be back home again, he thought. Janni Dupree was quite content when he closed his eyes again and died.

It was half past five when enough natural daylight filtered over the horizon for the men at the palace to be able to switch off their flashlights. Not that the daylight made the scene in the courtyard look any better. But the job was done.

They had brought Vlaminck's body inside and laid it out straight in one of the side rooms off the ground-floor hallway. Beside him lay Janni Dupree, brought up from the seash.o.r.e road by three of the Africans. Johnny was also dead, evidently surprised and shot by the white bodyguard who had seconds later stopped Vlaminck's last bazooka rocket. The three of them were side by side.

Semmler had summoned Shannon to the mam bedroom on the second floor and showed him by flashlight the figure he had gunned down as it tried to clamber out of the window.

"That's him," said Shannon.

There were six survivors from among the dead President's domestic staff. They had been found cowering in one of the cellars, which they had found, more by instinct than by logic, to be the best security from the rain of fire from the skies. These were being used as forced labor to tidy up. Every room in the main part of the palace was examined, and the bodies of all the other friends of Kimba and palace servants that had been lying around the rooms were carried down and dumped in the courtyard at the back. The remnants of the door could not be replaced, so a large carpet taken from one of the state rooms was hung over the entrance to mask the view inside.

At five o'clock Semmler had gone back to the Tos cana in one of the speedboats, towing the other two behind him. Before leaving, he had contacted the Tos cana on his walkie-talkie to give the code word meaning all was in order.

He was back by six-thirty with the African doctor and the same three boats, this time loaded with stores, the remaining mortar bombs, the eighty bundles containing the remaining Schmeissers, and nearly a ton of 9mm. ammunition.

At six, according to a letter of instruction Shannon had sent to Captain Waldenberg, the Toscana had begun to broadcast three words on the frequency to which Endean was listening. The words, paw-paw, cas save, and mango, meant respectively: The operation went ahead as planned, it was completely successful, and Kimba is dead.

When the African doctor had viewed the scene of carnage at the palace, he sighed and said, "I suppose it was necessary."

"It was necessary," affirmed Shannon and asked the older man to set about the task he had been brought to do.

By nine, nothing had stirred in the town and the clearing-up process was almost complete. The burial of the Vindu would have to be done later, when there was more manpower available. Two of the speedboats were back at the Toscana, slung aboard and stowed below, while the third was hidden in a creek not far from the harbor. All traces of the mortars on the point had been removed, the tubes and baseplates brought inside, the rocket-launchers and packing crates dropped out at sea. Everything and everyone else had been brought inside the palace, which, although battered to h.e.l.l from the inside, bore only two areas of shattered tiles, three broken windows in the front, and the destroyed door to indicate from the outside that it had taken a beating.

At ten, Semmler and Langarotti joined Shannon in the main dining room, where the mercenary leader was finishing off some jam and bread that he had found in the presidential kitchen. Both men reported on the results of their searches. Semmler told Shannon the radio room was intact, apart from several bullet holes in the wall, and the transmitter would still send. Kimba's private cellar in the bas.e.m.e.nt had yielded at last to the persuasion of several magazines of ammunition. The national treasury was apparently in a safe at the rear of the cellar, and the national armory was stacked around the walls-enough guns and ammunition to keep an army of two or three hundred men going for several months in action.

"So what now?" asked Semmler when Shannon had heard him out.

"So now we wait," said Shannon.

"Wait for what?"

Shannon picked his teeth with a spent match. He thought of Janni Dupree and Tiny Marc lying below on the floor, and of Johnny, who would not liberate another farmer's goat for his evening supper. Langarotti was slowly stropping his knife on the leather band around his left fist.

"We wait for the new government," said Shannon.

The American-built 1-ton truck carrying Simon Endean arrived just after one in the afternoon. There was another European at the wheel, and Endean sat beside him, clutching a large-bore hunting rifle. Shannon heard the growl of the engine as the truck left the sh.o.r.e road and came slowly up to the front entrance of the palace, where the carpet hung lifeless in the humid air, covering the gaping hole where the main gate had been.

He watched from an upper window as Endean climbed suspiciously down, looked at the carpet and the other pockmarks on the front of the building, and examined the eight black guards at attention before the gate.

Endean's trip had not been completely without incident. After the Toscana's radio call that morning, it had taken him two hours to persuade Colonel Bobi that he was actually going back into his own country within hours of the coup. The man had evidently not won his colonelcy by personal courage.

They had set off from the neighboring capital by road at nine-thirty on the hundred-mile drive to Clarence. In Europe that distance may take two hours; in Africa it takes more. They arrived at the border in midmorning and began the haggle to bribe their way past the Vindu guards, who had still not heard of the night's coup in the capital. Colonel Bobi, hiding behind a pair of large and very dark gla.s.ses and dressed in a white flowing robe like a nightshirt, posed as their car-boy, a personal servant who, in Africa, never requires papers to cross a border. Endean's papers were in order, like those of the man he brought with him, a hulking strong-arm from London's East End, who had been recommended to Endean as one of the most feared protectors in Whitechapel and a former enforcer for the Kray Gang. Ernie Locke was being paid a very handsome fee to keep Endean alive and well and was carrying a gun under his shut, acquired locally through the offices of ManCon's mining enterprise in the republic. Tempted by the money offered, he had already made the mistake of thinking, like En-dean, that a good hatchet man in the East End will automatically make a good hatchet man in Africa.

After crossing the frontier, the truck had made good time until it blew a tire ten miles short of Clarence. With Endean mounting guard with his rifle, Locke had changed the tire while Bobi cowered under the canvas in the back. That was when the trouble started. A handful of Vindu troops, fleeing from Clarence, had spotted them and loosed off half a dozen shots. They all went wide except one, which hit the tire Locke had just replaced. The journey was finished in first gear on a flat tire.

Shannon leaned out the window and called down to Endean.

The latter looked up. "Everything okay?" he called.

"Sure," said Shannon. "But get out of sight. No one seems to have moved yet, but someone is bound to start snooping soon."

Endean led Colonel Bobi and Locke through the curtain, and they mounted to the second floor, where Shannon was waiting. When they were seated in the presidential dining room, Endean asked for a full report on the previous night's battle. Shannon gave it to him.

"Kimba's palace guard?" asked Endean.

For answer Shannon led him to the rear window, whose shutters were closed, pushed one open, and pointed down into the courtyard, from which a ferocious buzzing of flies mounted.

Endean looked out and drew back. "The lot?" he asked.

"The lot," said Shannon. "Wiped out."

"And the army?"

"Twenty dead, the rest scattered. All left their arms behind except perhaps a couple of dozen bolt-action Mausers. No problem. The arms have been gathered up and brought inside."

"The presidential armory?"

"In the cellar, under our control."

"And the national radio transmitter?"

"Downstairs on the ground floor. Intact. We haven't tried the electricity circuits yet, but the radio seems to have a separate Diesel-powered generator." " Endean nodded, satisfied. "Then there's nothing for it but for the new President to announce the success of his coup last night, the formation of a new government, and to take over control," he said.

"What about security?" asked Shannon. "There's no army left intact until they filter back, and not all of the Vindu may want to serve under the new man."

Endean grinned. "They'll come back when the word spreads that the new man has taken over, and they'll serve under him just so long as they know who is in charge. And they will. In the meantime, this group you seem to have recruited will suffice. After all, they're black, and no European diplomats here are likely to recognize the difference between one black and another."

"Do you?" asked Shannon.

Endean shrugged. "No," he said, "but it doesn't matter. By the way, let me introduce the new President of Zangaro."

He gestured toward the Zangaran colonel, who had been surveying the room he already knew well, a broad grin on his face.

"Former commander of the Zangaran army, successful operator of a coup d'etat as far as the world knows, and new president of Zangaro. Colonel An toine Bobi."

Shannon rose, faced the colonel, and bowed. Bobi's grin grew even wider.

Shannon walked to the door at the end of the dining room. "Perhaps the President would like to examine the presidential office," he said. Endean translated.

Bobi nodded and lumbered across the tiled floor and through the door, followed by Shannon. It closed behind them. Five seconds later came the crash of a single shot.

After Shannon reappeared, Endean sat for a moment staring at him. "What was that?" he asked unnecessarily.

"A shot," said Shannon.

Endean was on his feet, across the room, and standing in the open doorway to the study. He turned around, ashen-faced, hardly able to speak.

"You shot him," he whispered. "All this b.l.o.o.d.y way, and you shot him. You're mad, Shannon, you're f.u.c.king crazy."

His voice rose with his rage and bafflement. "You don't know what you've done, you stupid, blundering maniac, you b.l.o.o.d.y mercenary idiot."

Shannon sat back in the armchair behind the dining table, gazing at Endean with scant interest. From the corner of his eye he saw the bodyguard's hand move under his floppy shirt.

The second crash seemed louder to Endean, for it was nearer. Ernie Locke went back out of his chair in a complete somersault and sprawled across the tiles, varying the pattern of the old colonial marquetry with a thin filament of blood that came from his midriff. He was quite dead, for the soft bullet had gone through to shatter his spine.

Shannon brought his hand out from under the Oak table and laid the Makarov 9mm. automatic on the table. A wisp of blue smoke wriggled out of the end of the barrel.

Endean seemed to sag at the shoulders, as if the knowledge of the certain loss of his personal fortune, promised by Sir James Manson when Bobi was installed, had suddenly been compounded by the realization that Shannon was the most completely dangerous man he had ever met. But it was a bit late for that.

Semmler appeared in the doorway of the study, behind Endean, and Langarotti slipped quietly through the dining-room door from the corridor. Both held Schmeissers, catch off, very steady, pointing at Endean.

Shannon rose. "Come on," he said, "I'll drive you back to the border. From there you can walk."

The single unpunctured tire from the two Zangaran trucks in the courtyard had been fitted to the vehicle that had brought Endean into the country. The canvas behind the cab had been taken away, and three African soldiers crouched in the back with submachine carbines. Another twenty, fully uniformed and equipped, were being marshaled into a line outside the palace.

In the hallway, close to the shattered door, they met a middle-aged African in civilian clothes. Shannon nodded to him and exchanged a few words.

"Everything okay, Doctor?"

"Yes, so far. I have arranged with my people to send a hundred volunteer workers to clean up. Also another fifty will be here this afternoon for fitting out and equipping. Seven of the Zangaran men on the list of notables have been contacted at their homes and have agreed to serve. They will meet this evening."

"Good. Perhaps you had better take time off to draft the first bulletin from the new government. It should be broadcast as soon as possible. Ask Mr. Semmler to try to get the radio working. If it can't be done, we'll use the ship."

"I have just spoken to Mr. Semmler," said the African. "He has been in touch with the Toscana by walkie-talkie. Captain Waldenberg reports there is another ship out there trying to raise Clarence port authorities with a request for permission to enter port. No one is replying, but Captain Waldenberg can hear her on the radio."

"Any identification?" asked Shannon.

"Mr. Semmler says she identifies herself as the Russian ship Komarov, a freighter."

"Tell Mr. Semmler to man the port radio before going to work on the palace transmitter. Tell him to make to Komarov: 'Permission refused. Permanently.' Thank you, Doctor."

They parted, and Shannon took Endean back to his truck. He took the wheel himself and swung the truck back on the road to the hinterland and the border.

"Who was that?" asked Endean sourly as the truck sped along the peninsula, past the shantytown of the immigrant workers, where all seemed to be bustle and activity. With amazement Endean noticed that each crossroads had an armed soldier with a submachine carbine standing on point duty.

"The man in the hallway?" asked Shannon.

"Yes."

"That was Doctor Okoye."

"A witch doctor, I suppose."

"Actually he's an Oxford Ph.D."

"Friend of yours?"

"Yes."

There was no more conversation until-they were on the highway toward the north.

"All right," said Endean at last, "I know what you've done. You've ruined one of the biggest and richest coups that has ever been attempted. You don't know that, of course. You're too b.l.o.o.d.y thick. What I'd like to know is, why? In G.o.d's name, why?"

Shannon thought for a moment, keeping the truck steady on the b.u.mpy road, which had deteriorated to a dirt track.

"You made two mistakes, Endean," he said carefully. Endean started at the sound of his real name.

"You a.s.sumed that because I'm a mercenary, I'm automatically stupid. It never seemed to occur to you that we are both mercenaries, along with Sir James Manson and most of the people who have power in this world. The second mistake was that you a.s.sumed all black people were the same, because to you they look the same."

"I don't follow you."

"You did a lot of research on Zangaro; you even found out about the tens of thousands of immigrant workers who virtually keep this place running. It never occurred to you that those workers form a community of their own. They're a third tribe, the most intelligent and hard-working one in the country. Given half a chance, they can play a part in the political life of the country. What's more, you failed to recognize that the new army of Zangaro, and therefore the power in the country, might be recruited from among that third community. In fact, it just has been. Those soldiers you saw were neither Vindu nor Caja. There were fifty in uniform and armed when you were in the palace, and by tonight there'll be another fifty. In five days there will be over four hundred new soldiers in Clarence-untrained, of course, but looking efficient enough to keep law and order. They'll be the real power in this country from now on. There was a coup d'etat last night, all right, but it wasn't conducted for or on behalf of Colonel Bobi."

"For whom, then?"

"For the general."

"Which general?"

Shannon told him the name.

Endean faced him, mouth open in horror. "Not him. He was defeated, exiled."

"For the moment, yes. Not necessarily forever. Those immigrant workers are his people. They call them the Jews of Africa. There are one and a half million of them scattered over this continent. In many areas they do most of the work and have most of the brains. Here in Zangaro they live in the shantytown behind Clarence."

"That stupid great idealistic b.a.s.t.a.r.d-"

"Careful," warned Shannon.

"Why?"

Shannon jerked his head over his shoulder. "They're the general's soldiers too."

Endean turned and looked at the three impa.s.sive faces above the three Schmeisser barrels.

"They don't speak English all that well, do they?"

"The one in the middle," said Shannon mildly, "was a chemist once. Then he became a soldier; then his wife and four children were wiped out by a Saladin armored car. They're made by Alvis in Coventry, you know. He doesn't like the people who were behind that."

Endean was silent for a few more miles. "What happens now?" he asked.

"The Committee of National Reconciliation takes over," said Shannon. "Four Vindu members, four Caja, and two from the immigrant community. But the army will be made up of the people behind you. And this country will be used as a base and a headquarters. From here the newly trained men will go back one day to avenge what was done to them. Maybe the general will come and set up residence here-in effect, to rule."