His suspicions were confirmed before long. No sooner had they arrived in the Krahn village, where the family of Lunamiel’s loyal and kindly attendant had their home, than she whispered to Lunamiel that the brigadier was deeply in love with her and wished to marry her.
‘I am very flattered,’ Lunamiel answered bravely, ‘but I love Jimfish and want one day to marry him.’
‘You must be crazy!’ her servant told her. ‘You’re a girl from a traditional, white South African family with the highest ethnic requirements. Your father was a policeman, dedicated to keeping everyone safely locked in the prisons of their skins. Your mother employed so many maids she put one to work on each hand when her fingernails needed attention. And yet you dream of marrying a man as pale as a fish in some lights, pale prawn-pink in others, and he sometimes shows an unearthly blue tinge. A fellow so mixed in colour it sent your father wild when he found you two entangled on a red picnic rug in the garden. What would your poor family say to your decision to marry him?’
‘In the first place,’ Lunamiel declared, ‘my mother and father are no more. They were blown to pieces by the liberation army, while at their prayers. Besides, we now know that everything is changed for the best in the new South Africa. Nelson Mandela is out of jail. From now on, race won’t matter, colour won’t count, black, white and brown people will be equal and none of us will ever be made to live in the prisons of our skins.’
‘If you believe that then you are even more foolish than I imagined,’ her attendant told her. ‘Old delusions don’t vanish because a government changes. Far from fading away, I’d say that the colour you happen to be in the new South Africa may count for even more than it did before.’
But she could see that Lunamiel did not believe her and so she thought of another plan. A most interesting item of news from the port of Monrovia reached her and she went immediately to Jimfish.
‘Remember I warned you that the gendarmerie in Zaire would be after you?’ she said. ‘Not for shooting the Minister of Education — no problem there — but for the death of the American agent. Well, I’ve heard alarming news. The CIA is after you now. One of their agents is in this country to hunt you down. Get out while you can or you’re a dead man!’
‘But what will happen to my darling Lunamiel?’ Jimfish asked.
‘Haven’t I brought you out of Zaire? And looked after Lunamiel?’ the dark lady asked. ‘She will manage, rest assured. She’s a white South African raised to believe God is on her side. Like my uncle, the brigadier, who believes that going into battle stark naked, but for his boots and his AK-47, turns enemy bullets to water. Faith drives out fear. But all you have, poor Jimfish, is a talent for attracting disaster, and this time you must save yourself.’
CHAPTER 19
With a heavy heart at abandoning Lunamiel, and reckoning that the best way of escape was by sea, Jimfish made his way back to the port of Monrovia. But the ships that had been docked in the harbour were gone or had anchored out at sea. The reasons were soon clear: the fighting around the port was even more intense than it had been when Jimfish arrived. The army of Samuel Doe continued to hurl itself at the fighters of Charles Taylor, who were in turn assailed by the forces of Prince Johnson, while all sides were harried by the bewigged Small Boys Unit of Brigadier Bare-Butt, who led his juvenile killers with his customary naked aplomb.
But now a new force, uniformed and disciplined, seemed to be trying to reduce the intensity of the fighting between the various combatants. However, the response of those they wished to help was to shoot at these peacekeepers. So murderous was the firefight that Jimfish once again found himself crouching behind the same line of burnt-out army trucks where he had met Brigadier Bare-Butt on his arrival in Monrovia.
Also sheltering there was a small man with a large pistol at his waist. Even without taking into account his crew cut, his military fatigues and his very good dental work, Jimfish knew instantly this must be the American assassin sent to hunt him down. He was on the point of reaching for his revolver in its python-skin holster when the other man held out his hand in the friendliest way and introduced himself.
‘Privileged to make your acquaintance, Mr Jimfish, sir. Can’t tell you my real name. If I did, I’d have to shoot you. Why don’t you call me John Doe? No relation to the man holed up over there.’ He nodded his chin towards the port buildings, where the fighting was most intense. Seeing the puzzlement on Jimfish’s face, he patted his arm soothingly. ‘You thought I was here to conclude your career conclusively, as we call such assignments back at the office. Right you are. I won’t deny we considered that option. We were sure real mad at you when you popped our guy in the palace of the Great Leopard down Gbadolite way. Our man had the job of funnelling arms, along with bushels of bucks, to Marshal Mobutu, as well as fixing visits for our politicians who fancied a bit of R&R in the court of the King of the Congo. But looking at your record, we got to wondering — who exactly is this guy? How is it that, sure as shooting, wherever Jimfish shows up everything falls apart?’
Jimfish blushed at compliments so far from the truth. If the really serious question in life was how to arrive on the right side of history, then he felt further than ever from finding an answer. All he had learnt so far had been that those who claimed to have reached that blessed destination had got there by wading through blood.
Jimfish pointed to the orderly, uniformed troops, who, despite being attacked by all sides, were not firing back. ‘Whose forces are those?’
‘Peacekeepers,’ John Doe said. ‘Troops from Ghana, Nigeria, Sierra Leone, Gambia and Guinea. They’re supposed to stop the fighting.’
‘They don’t seem to be making much difference.’ Jimfish was more puzzled than ever.
‘No peace to keep,’ said John Doe. ‘Basically, they take note of the slaughter, about which they can do zilch. They go through the motions, so the worldwide, bleeding-heart, Something-Must-Be-Done brigade feels a bit better. But the fighters who back Charles Taylor or Prince Johnson or Brigadier Bare-Butt are all in a race, see? Whoever gets to bump off the present leader, President Doe, also gets to run Liberia. Fair enough, you might say. Leave it to the market, and may the best warlord win. But it’s not that easy. We also have a dog in this fight. After all, who was it who founded this goddam country? Settled it with our freed slaves, named it and gave it American values? The rule’s always been you don’t get to be Numero Uno round here without our say-so. When Master Sergeant Samuel Doe blew away President Tolbert ten years back it took us ages to make Liberia safe for American interests once again. If Samuel Doe now goes and gets his career conclusively concluded, by one warlord or another, our years of hard work go down the tubes. So I need President Doe alive and in one piece. We’ve got too much riding on this for him to let the side down now.’
‘But how will you find him?’ Jimfish asked.
The American pointed to the port buildings. ‘Over there is the peacekeepers’ HQ. Word has it Sam Doe ducked into those buildings early today to talk about a truce.’
‘Then he’s safe.’ Jimfish was relieved.
The American shook his head. ‘Alive, maybe. Safe, no. And neither for very long unless we find him first.’
When the fighting slackened, the American signalled to Jimfish and together they made a run for the port buildings.
CHAPTER 20
Moving from room to room, they found scattered cartridge casings and puddles of blood, which John Doe studied as a skilled tracker checks the spoor of the game he is hunting. These traces led to the first floor, where they came across the bodies of several smartly dressed men.