Manhunter by Chris Ryan (the false prince series .TXT) 📗

been opened. Suit bags and dresses spilled out of a Louis Vuitton suitcase to one side of the room. A pair of Rolex watches, still in their leather boxes, had been carelessly discarded on an antique side table. On the left, a set of double doors led through to the bedroom. There was a door on the right side of the room connecting to an adjoining room. The PA’s quarters, Bowman guessed.

Jallow, Okello and Deka had spread themselves on the nearest armchairs, watching an episode of Rick and Morty on a flat-screen TV as big as the national debt. In his peripheral vision, Bowman glimpsed two young women lying on the unmade bed in the bedroom. A blonde and a brunette. They were tanned, long-legged, dressed in complimentary dressing gowns. Neither of them paid any attention to Bowman or Kember as they tapped away on their phones.

Lungu ushered them towards the far end of the room. A broad-shouldered figure stood in front of the French windows, smoking a cigar as he gazed out across Hyde Park. Lungu cleared her throat.

‘Sir, the soldiers are here. The ones I told you about.’

The man in front of the balcony slowly turned to greet the new arrivals. Bowman recognised his face instantly from the various reports he’d seen on the news.

Ken ‘The Viper’ Seguma.

The president looked somewhat shorter than he’d appeared on TV. Two or three inches under six feet. He had been living well, apparently. Better than his famished people. His face was plump; his prominent belly threatened to burst out of his tartan waistcoat. His small, round eyes were pressed deep into his skull. A rack of military medals hung from the left lapel of his morning suit. The designer’s label was still attached to the sleeve of his jacket, Bowman noticed.

Seguma took a puff on his stubby cigar. Smoke veiled his face as he studied the men closely.

‘You are from the Special Air Service, correct?’

‘Yes, sir, that’s us,’ Bowman said.

‘Wonderful. Splendid!’ he exclaimed. ‘It is always an honour to meet the men of the famous SAS.’

His voice was strangely stilted. An African tyrant, trying to imitate the accent of an English aristocrat.

‘Yes, I am a big fan,’ he continued. ‘You men are the real deal. Real killers!’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Bowman.

Seguma tapped cigar ash into an empty coffee cup. He said, ‘Martha tells me that some worthless dogs are looking to cause trouble today.’

‘It’s just a possibility, sir. We’ve been sent here to make sure everything runs smoothly.’

The tyrant swatted away his concerns. ‘A few miserable exiles and dissidents. They don’t scare me.’

Bowman didn’t reply.

‘They are nothing but rats, you understand. A great man such as myself does not fear rats. There are rats back home, too, in my country. You’ve seen the news?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘There will be outrage, of course. The media will turn me into a hate figure. But they don’t understand what I’m up against.’

‘No, sir?’

‘These people, you cannot negotiate with them. General Kakuba and his mob talk of a new dawn, but they are only interested in themselves. That is why I call them rats, do you see? You do not take a rat, sit down and discuss policy details with it over a bottle of Beaujolais. You exterminate it. Crush it.’

The president made a clenched fist, strangling imaginary foes.

‘And that is what must be done in my country,’ he went on. ‘I must wipe out the rats, before they spread their disease.’

He spoke matter-of-factly, as if he was talking about the weather, or the cricket score. There was something weird about this cartoonish figure with the voice of an English toff, blandly discussing the slaughter of his own people. Something comical, almost. Bowman found it hard to take him seriously. He was less intimidating in real life than the tyrannical despot he’d seen on the news reports, working himself up into an apoplectic rage.

Lungu’s phone vibrated, breaking the awkward silence. She wandered off to take the call. Seguma watched her, a hungry look in his eyes.

‘Miss Karatandu, two years in a row.’ He grinned at Bowman, revealing a set of pearly white teeth.

‘Yes, sir,’ Bowman said. Because he didn’t really know what else to say.

‘Beautiful women are attracted to me,’ Seguma said. ‘They cannot help it. They are attracted to greatness, I suppose. It is a kind of spell.’

Bowman nodded politely.

Seguma said, ‘Are your brother soldiers guarding anyone else today?’

‘Not as far as we know, sir.’

His grin widened. ‘That is good news. Very good news indeed. It means that my British friends must know that I am very important, do you see? That is why they have sent their best men to protect me, and no one else. I am their top priority.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Bowman said.

‘You agree, then? That I’m an important man?’

‘Of course, sir.’

The president searched their faces. ‘And you would sacrifice yourselves to save me?’

‘If it comes down to it, sir. That’s why we’re here.’

‘Good, very good.’ Seguma took a hit on his cigar and said, ‘It is a great day for our two countries. Our burgeoning friendship, and the marriage of a princess. We should celebrate.’

He barked an order at the bodyguard with the pencil moustache. Deka sighed and brought over a bottle of Macallan 25-year-old single malt and three glasses. He set them down on the desk, sank back into his armchair. Seguma cracked open the whisky, filling his glass to the brim. He offered the bottle to the soldiers.

‘You will join me?’

Bowman said, ‘No thank you, sir. We’re fine.’

‘I insist.’

‘We can’t, sir.’

‘This is good whisky, you know. The best. Very expensive.’

‘That’s very kind of you, sir, but we’re on the job. Me and Dave won’t be drinking.’

Seguma clapped his hands. ‘Excellent! The right answer. Well done.’

Bowman said nothing.

‘I was just testing you both, you see,’ Seguma added.

‘Yes, sir.’

He reached for his tumbler and sipped his whisky. He smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘You’re very professional, I see. Only a good soldier would refuse such an offer.’

‘Thank