Excerpt: Turn A Blind Eye

“No matter what happens, he doesn’t want his name associated with any of this.” The voice at the other end of the phone fell silent, awaiting confirmation.

“Of course he doesn’t. Let’s not be stupid about things. But if he wants my contribution, then tell him we do things my way, with my rules. Sparing his precious reputation isn’t my problem. How badly does he want this matter resolved? Because he knows, you all know, that I will resolve it, as per our earlier discussion.” He fully expected the long silence, knowing they would deliberate, vacillate. What did they expect? They were making a deal with the devil.

“It’s just that, if there is any fallout, should things not go exactly as planned, then we would like to minimize his exposure. I’m sure you can appreciate our concern in that regard.”

He detested how politicians, especially American politicians, needed to speak in circles. They loved to evade the issue, but they hated to be called dishonest. “Let me put this simply. I don’t fail. Unlike your rueful efforts in Iraq, this operation will be clean, fast and most efficient. As agreed, I will be the front man, and I don’t have any problem with that. Let’s just say it’s come to be expected of me.” He laughed, a cold, calculated laugh.

“Then I take it we have your assurance he will not be mentioned nor involved,” the voice on the other end stated. “We only have agreement by all parties to give the authorization for you to go ahead so long as that assurance is in place.”

He let them wait a long moment. It was good to make them wait. They needed to remember that he was not their puppet on a string. “Your precious assurance is in place. Go ahead and tell him that. And tell him that I am ready to put the pawns in play.” With that, the phone went dead.

Brent Harvey set the secure phone down back in its cradle. He looked around the table at the five other men seated in the heavy wooden and leather chairs. The room was deliberately dark, with only the wall sconces lit. “You heard him. We have a go. Now we need to notify the chiefs, and then we start burying this as deep and as fast as we can.”

On the other side of the world, another phone had been placed back in its receiver. Beside it on the highly polished ebony table sat an elaborately carved ivory coaster, wet with condensation. The aged single malt scotch on the rocks was being downed from its crystal glass.

“I take it that’s a celebratory round,” the other man in the room remarked. You could barely make out his form, settled comfortably in the vast expanse of a burgundy leather wing back chair. The wings were exaggerated, thereby obscuring the face of the speaker. His voice bore the rich, melodious accent of Central Africa. “Perhaps you would consider offering me one as well.” He watched, slightly bemused, as the man drinking the scotch drained the last drop from the glass.

“I think it should be you offering me the drink after that phone call.” The man spoke with the harsh dutch Afrikaners accent, found only amongst the white, and often more affluent, in Southern Africa. His skin was sun-browned, but did not suffer from over-exposure, prematurely aging him like many others on the continent. The lines on his face were those of early age, betraying to the world that he was no longer in the youthfulness of his forties. But there was nothing about his solid build, nor his piercing ice-blue stare that to imply the infirmities of impending age. His barrel chest still rode above his gut, which was firm and not bulging over his trousers. His hands, though manicured, bore long-standing callouses and thick powerful fingers. Even his hair was still thick, coarse and blond, pieces of wiry grey mixed in. He gazed into the empty depth of the crystal glass before placing it back on its coaster. “God I hate dealing with Americans. But it’s all in place now. You will effectively be the head of the new ruling party in that bloody mess up there. I’d damn well better pour you a drink, then.” Both men laughed, as he went over to the gleaming ebony sideboard bar, grabbed another crystal glass, then poured scotch from the Limoges decanter into both glasses. He carried the glass over to the man in the chair and handed it to him. “To your wealth,” he said as he raised his glass.

“And yours,” demurred his co-conspirator.