"Destroyer 012 - Slave Safari.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Remo)

Remo returned the duck and the rice to the refrigerator. Nothing would improve its taste.

"You know, Smitty," he said, "nothing works right in America anymore. Nothing."




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CHAPTER FTVE
President General Dada "Big Daddy" Obode would see no one that morning. The stars were wrong. Hadn't a jackal made its way into the palace grounds the night before and howled three times, yet no one saw the jackal? Where was the jackal? This he demanded out loud on the balcony of his sitting room, once the sitting room of the former British governor-whom Big Daddy had served as a sergeant major in Her Majesty's Kenya Rifles.

"Where is the jackal?" he yelled. And had not the elephants at the Busati Army compound been seen wandering, even before the dry season? Why were they wandering? Who were they looking for? And what of the Minister of Public Safety who had been found nailed to a tree?

General Obode asked these questions of himself and there was no answer. His wise men were not wise, his generals were not courageous, his counselors lacked counsel.

He walked before a large ornate mirror, and looked at his massive frame and his thick dark features. A Hausa among Hausa he was.

"Dada, I ask you to search your heart with honesty and truth," he said to his image in the mirror. "Is it possible that you are the cause of your own problems? Be honest now, because I will brook no deceit, especially from you, you... sergeant major."

General Obode furrowed his brows and thought. He thought a very long time. He looked at his gold watch. Fifteen seconds. Enough thought He had the answer.

"It is not your fault, General Obode. You are a good leader. It is the fault of your enemies. Destroy your enemies and you will destroy he who was responsible for the jackal."

With that he clapped his hands for his clothes, changed his mind and decided he would hold his morning audience. There was a full schedule today. The Ambassador from Libya-that was important because of the money; the representative of the Third World Liberation Organization-that was unimportant because all they did was talk and there were a lot of yellow men. He did not trust yellow men any more than he trusted Indians or white men, at least those white men who were not English officers.

He liked English officers. English officers never bothered anyone, especially during operations when they knew they would muck things up and so left the business in the hands of sergeants major who knew how to get things done. He thought another ten seconds and decided he did not like Arabs either, even though he had been a Moslem from birth.

"Who do you like-honestly, General Obode?" he asked himself.

"I like you, big fella," he said. "You're all right." With that he laughed a booming laugh and laughed, while servants put on his boots and white uniform pantsa nd shirts with the medals and general's pips on the shoulders.

When he was ready for the day, he called for Colonel William Forsythe Butler, who had been insisting that the general see a magazine writer named Remo Mueller, because Remo Mueller had written a nice story about General Obode and nice stories were rare nowadays.

"Nice story today, bad story tomorrow, to hell with him," General Obode had told his American-born chief of staff, who had all sorts of mixed blood mucking up his veins and who called himself black. He was a clever one though, this Colonel William Forsythe Butler. A good man to have around. He was not a Hausa, so he would not be jealous of General Obode's magnificence; he was not a Loni, so he would not hate General Obode for no reason at all. He was, he once had explained, "just an American nigger, but I'm working on that"

A good man. General Obode would humor him. Today, he would try to see this pipsqueak writer with the funny name of Remo.

Colonel William Forsythe Butler was the first to enter. He appeared thin, but General Obode knew him to be a most powerful man, the only one in Busati to have wrestled him to a draw one afternoon, after Obode threw two generals and three sergeants simultaneously before the cheers of his troops. He had been a football player, this Colonel Butler, Morgan State, and then the New York Mammoths-or was it the New York Giants? These names Americans had were all peculiar.

"Good morning, Colonel," said General Obode, sit- . ting down in the ornate high-backed governor's chair which was now the president's chair. "Did you hear the jackal last night?"

"I did, Mr. President."

"And what would you make of a jackal in America if ft howled at night? Three times?"

"We don't have jackals in America."

"Aha," said General Obode, clapping his hands. "And we do not have jackals in the palace grounds, either. Then what would you make of a jackal in your New York City?"