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 basement 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 shore 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 glasses 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 bloody way, and you shot him. You’re mad, Shannon, you’re fucking crazy.”

His voice rose with his rage and bafflement. “You don’t know what you’ve done, you stupid, blundering maniac, you bloody 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.