The fifth item focused on the growing unrest in Karatandu. The situation had deteriorated badly in the past twenty-four hours. The expected government crackdown had backfired. There was fighting in the streets. Protestors against the security forces. Molotov cocktails, bricks and clubs versus the AK-47. Some of the wealthier citizens were fleeing the capital, the reporter claimed. The US State Department had announced it was pulling its diplomatic staff from the country with immediate effect. General Kakuba gave another interview from his mountain hideout. The gold-toothed leader of the KUF angrily denounced Seguma’s regime and called on his followers to take to the streets.

Bowman said, ‘If they keep this up, the rebels won’t need the Russians. They’ll run Seguma out of town themselves.’

‘Not likely,’ Lang said. ‘They don’t have the resources to defeat the government. They’ll loot some shops, burn a few buildings to the ground, maybe even kill some soldiers, but in the end, they’ll lose.’

‘Unless your Kremlin mates help them out,’ Mallet quipped.

‘Still won’t be easy. Seguma’s loyal supporters won’t surrender, not without a fight. It would have been better if Ken had stepped aside gracefully. We could have spared the country a lot of grief.’

Mallet chuckled meanly. ‘You don’t give a crap about these people. The only thing you care about is your bank balance.’

‘That’s not fair. I’ve invested heavily in Karatandu over the years. I’ve poured money into hospitals, orphanages, roads. All sorts.’

‘You must like the place.’

‘Yeah,’ Lang said, ‘I do. The country gets a bad rap in the Western media, but it’s a beautiful place. Once you get out of the cities, the landscape is like an English forest.’

‘Pity.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You won’t ever see it again,’ Mallet said. ‘Not after today.’

Thirty-eight minutes passed. Mallet stepped out onto the balcony to take a call. Bowman snuck out to the kitchen, locked himself in the utility room and snorted up another one of Lang’s pills. When he headed back into the living room, he noticed Lang giving him a funny look. Mallet was still out on the balcony, talking in a low voice on his phone.

Lang parted his lips into a sinister grin. ‘How’s that cold?’

‘Fine,’ Bowman muttered.

‘I’ve seen that look before, you know. In your eyes.’

Bowman steered his gaze away from Lang. He felt a cold tingling on the nape of his neck.

‘You must be in a lot of pain,’ the mobster went on. ‘People who have that look, they’re usually trying to numb something horrible. Some shit they can’t deal with in their lives. Know what I mean?’

‘No,’ Bowman said.

‘Yeah, you do.’

He said nothing more. Another four minutes passed, and then the balcony doors swished open. Mallet stepped back inside, tucked his phone away. He nodded at Bowman.