He raised his head for a look at their faces. There were four of them—Andre in his conspicuous chauffeur’s suit, and two Bantu with semiautomatic rifles slung over their shoulders, dressed in coverall fatigues identical to those worn by the khat chewer. Nze could not see the latter, but thought he might be responsible for the shadow falling over him from behind . . . and realized now that he was not the group’s only user. As the minister knelt there before them, one of the Bantu removed a wad of the drug from a banana-frond wrapping in his hand, passed it to the other tribesman, then got a second wad and put it in his mouth with two fingers.

They chewed and watched him with hyped, bright eyes.

Nze looked away from them to the group’s single white, a lance-thin man in a safari jacket and bush hat. His eyes were pale blue, his skin the color of chalk.

Nze at once saw the camera hanging over his chest from a neck strap. It was a 35-mm with a large objective lens.

The white met Nze’s gaze with his own, studying him. Both hands in the gusset pockets of his jacket.

“Bienvenue,” he said in the lightly accented French that Nze remembered from their trip. “Por le maia distance, se bien regarder aà la lumiè‘re du jour.”

Nze was silent.

“I assume you’ve guessed who I am,” the white said.

Nze gave a slow nod.

The tire, he thought.

The gas can.

The burn-stained ground around him.

He felt himself trembling with fear.

“Let’s hear you say my name,” the white said. “It’s been a grueling ride for everyone. But worn out as we are, we must strive to be polite.”

Nze started to answer and his voice cracked. He wet his parched lips, tried again.

“Gerard Fáton,” he rasped.

The white continued regarding him steadily.

“There you go,” he said. A trace of a smile on his lips. “Monsieur Nze, you should be honored that I’ve come down to say good-bye to you, and capture the moment so that it will be remembered and appreciated.”

Nze’s trembling worsened. He couldn’t make it stop.

“I’ve done nothing . . .”

“And your doing nothing has cost me.”

Nze shook his head.

“What happened in Libreville . . . I did my best,” he said. “My arguments were defeated . . . but your desires weren’t made clear to me until very late. Too late. I had to rush to understand them . . . to prepare. If I’d had more time—”

Fáton vented a sibilant breath through his teeth.

“Lie to me once more, and I’ll have your hands separated from your wrists to make the burning worse.”