Chapter #16Counting Coups by: imaj   You stare across the Avenue Leopold at the presidential palace. The thick traffic makes it difficult to fully see the squat ugly building, but you can still make out the charcoal markings where the rocket hit earlier. It’s more like a bunker than anything else - a legacy of the short and violent history of Cabinda as an independent country.
Right now, you can see small groups of soldiers patrolling the grounds and manning the main gates directly opposite you. You figure that will change in - you check your watch - about five or so minutes.
The ground shakes and a loud explosion rings in your ears. You look west and spot a fireball rising over where the airport is.
“Early,” you mutter. “Buncha jokers”
The traffic in the street grinds to a halt. Some drivers pour out their cars, looking round to see what happened. Bewilderment turns to anger and confusion as they spot the fading remnants of the explosion. There is even weary resignation from some, all too familiar with the country’s endless cycle of violence. Other drivers stay in their cars, hitting their horns in frustration and rage.
Then there’s a roar from the gates to the palace as enough of the soldiers manage to gather their wits and respond. Three military trucks roll out onto the street, each one a different old model that looks as if it was bought surplus from a long forgotten warehouse in Europe. They ram the other cars out of the way where they don’t move fast enough. People scramble for cover, diving out the way of the convoy.
That’s your cue. There’s only two soldiers left at the gate. You wait for a fourth truck to pass between you before pulling down your cloak over their eyes. They don’t register your presence as you sneak into the ugly little brick building that serves as a gatehouse.
Another soldier waits inside, but his attention is firmly focussed on a bank of security monitors. The cameras are a problem - they can penetrate your cloak and anybody watching through them will spot you. There’s a simple solution to that though. You pull out your knife and sneak up behind the soldier. The strands of your cloak engulf him and he does not notice you pull the knife across his throat until it is too late. Blood spurts over the consoles. You ignore it though, quickly checking the cameras to see where there are still soldiers patrolling the palace complex. Then you start yanking out cables till the monitors turn black and lifeless.
Then it’s back out to the palace grounds by the back door. You dash across the ornamental garden, taking a route that should avoid the few soldiers left in the complex. The low hedges and flower beds provide little cover. Even if someone spots you, it should be lost in the wider chaos of the attack at the airport. For the moment, speed is more important than stealth.
You make your way along the eastern wing of the palace building, a row of wide windows and doors. The inside of the building is hidden behind closed blinds. You give one of the doors an experimental tug but it doesn’t budge. So you move along, hugging the wall and staying low. When one of the doors bursts open and two more soldiers come running out, you wait just long enough to distract them with your cloak. Then you quickly pass through the door before it closes behind them
The gloomy room you’ve entered is some kind of press centre. Thick cables crawl over the floor, connecting to bulky old fashioned TV cameras. Rows of cheap seats face a wooden lectern emblazoned with the Cabindan flag. You carelessly flick one of the cameras on as you pass, it’s screen flickering on and recording as you step out of the room.
A soldier surprises you as you step out into a dark hallway. He curses in French as he struggles to raise his submachine gun, but you recover quicker than him. He stumbles as you push past him. The break in eye contact is enough for you to deploy your cloak. You slit his throat messily with your knife. By the time the blood is spilling out and staining the carpet, you are bounding up a flight of stairs.
Two more soldiers run down the steps above you, but you catch sight of them first. You press yourself against the wall and they speed past you, your presence obscured by your cloak. After a moment’s consideration, you let them pass without incident. They’ll find their dead compatriot almost immediately, of course, but you can factor that into your plan.
You open the door at the top of the stairs a crack. Light peeks in through the tiny gap. Beyond, you can make out two soldiers standing ramrod straight at either side of a double door. There’s a different air to this pair - they seem fuller, more confident and stand just that little bit taller than any of the other soldiers you have seen. You decide that they must be bodyguards, which means you’re close to your goal.
Your cloak settles over the pair as you step out the door. They remain utterly still as you cross the hallway. Only when you sink your knife hilt deep into the first one’s neck does that composure waver then shatter. The second soldier immediately falls into an alert stance, scanning the hallway with increasing incredulity as the impossibility of what he is seeing sinks in.
You don’t wait any longer. A tap on the forehead sends the second guard down unconscious. Then you finish him off with a slash across the neck, splattering blood all over your coat. As you stand back up, you can hear angry shouting coming from beyond the double door - a man and a woman.
They are too wrapped up in their argument to notice as you enter the room, giving you the chance to slip your cloak round their senses. The man, and you recognise him from the inflight magazine as President Jabari Nzinghe, rushes about the room. He’s grabbing clothes and other items and stuff them into a large suitcase sitting on top of an unmade bed.
“Move, woman,” screeches Nzinghe. His voice is as whiny as you expected from everything you’ve read about the man.
“I’m not going anywhere Jabari,” she replies in French. The woman lies on the bed languidly, occasionally picking items out of Nzinghe’s suitcase and tossing them to the floor. You’d guess she must be at least a couple of decades younger than him. “You worry too much.”
“Move or I leave you behind,” shouts Nzinghe, gesturing wildly. As if to emphasise, an alarm bursts out. “See,” he screams, his voice cracking.
“Too late,” you murmur into Nzinghe’s ear from behind, dropping your cloak. He falls to the floor whimpering, your knife stuck in his guts. His blood soaks into the thick carpet.
The woman on the bed reacts slowly, horror gradually dawning on her face. She scrambles backwards, falling off the bed and stumbling onto the floor. The woman tries to back away as you approach, her nightgown bunching round her thighs as she moves her legs ineffectually. Her mouth opens to scream as you kneel down beside her, but no sound comes out.
You press your hand to her forehead and make sure no sound ever comes out again.
Her imago flows inside you as she starts to shrink. When you stand back up, all that is left is a grey skinned doll. You kick the crude representation under the bed and out of sight. Then you stride out of the bedroom, unbuttoning your coat as you go.
As you step outside the double doors and into the hall outside, you spot a familiar looking figure at the far end of the hall, several metres distant.
“That face ain’t a good look on you squirt,” says the real Rick Bredon.
To stop reminiscing, attend to Fi's reports in "A Short Hop" 
 You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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