Kennedy 35, p.11
KENNEDY 35, page 11
Movement in the restaurant. A young couple, both white, were being shown to a table on the far side of the jetty. They looked European, pale and out of place. When they sat down neither of them spoke to the other. The man immediately looked at his menu while the woman checked her lipstick in a compact mirror.
‘And Bagaza?’ Kite asked.
The waves rolling onto the beach grew louder, the wake from a passing ship.
‘He was the orchestrator of it all,’ Vauban replied. ‘It was his voice on the Radio Mille Collines telling the people that the president had been killed by Tutsi rebels and that as a consequence the government had declared a curfew. I heard that sick, sarcastic psycho at all hours of the day and night, time and time again. “All the loyal population of the republic must take up arms to confront the cockroaches.” It was Augustin Bagaza who told the people of Rwanda that their Tutsi neighbours were murderers. It was Augustin Bagaza who told the Hutus to be rigorous, vigilant, to go out and to commit murder. “Our work has only just begun. This time we must finish the job. We’ve let them off the hook too many times before. We have the power and the right to possess this country. The Tutsis have killed our president. They are getting ready to kill you. To attack is a legitimate self-defence. You must eradicate the Tutsi enemy before they eradicate you.” In French we call it “la banalité du mal”.’
‘The banality of evil.’
‘Exact.’ Vauban again reached for his cigarettes, removing the packet from his shirt before realising the mistake. ‘Bagaza was the voice of the killing, the one who denounced anybody opposed to Hutu power. It was Bagaza who ensured that they were butchered. It was Bagaza who encouraged the Tutsis to seek shelter in churches, knowing that Hutu soldiers, Hutu police, villagers, would descend on those churches and prosecute the killing. I wrote about him, but nobody cared.’
‘I heard that a few hundred UN soldiers could have stopped the genocide but did nothing.’
‘Of course they did nothing!’ Kite indicated that Vauban should keep his voice down. ‘The UN could have closed the radio station to stop the spread of lies and propaganda, but they did not do this. Even when their own soldiers were killed – ten Belgian blue berets captured and beaten and murdered – they did nothing. And the French? My own people? They armed the Hutus! They evacuated their own staff from the embassy in Kigali, they abandoned their Tutsi employees, and as soon as the French diplomatic families were safely at the airport, the massacres began.’ Vauban picked up another stone and tossed it onto the beach. ‘I can still hear the screams. I can still hear the sound of people pleading for their lives.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ was all that Kite could think to say because it was obvious that Vauban, for all his self-regard and preening vanity, was utterly traumatised. ‘You have seen some terrible things.’
‘Don’t feel sorry for me,’ he said, tapping the Zippo against the step. ‘Feel sorry for the beautiful young woman I found on the road with her skirt hitched up and her underwear around her knees. She had been raped. Her throat had been opened up with a machete. Feel sorry for her.’
Vauban’s voice caught on the memory. Kite sensed that he was concealing something.
‘You knew her, didn’t you?’
The Frenchman looked at him, eyes shot with grief, astonished that Kite had intuited the truth.
‘Yes, I did.’
Kite reached out and put his hand on Vauban’s back. For some time neither man spoke.
‘Everybody has a sad story from Rwanda,’ Vauban said eventually, ending the silence. ‘That is mine.’ He sounded utterly broken. ‘I knew it was only a matter of time before they killed her. She would not leave the country. I found a way out for her, but she refused to go.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Her name was Sylvie.’
The slow tapping of the lighter began again, joining a sudden chorus of birdsong as a car moved past on the road above them.
‘Such sadism, such inventiveness, such cruelty. I often reflect on what human beings are capable of.’ Vauban’s words were difficult to hear above the noise of the parking car. ‘The Hutus killed men outright but sometimes left the wives and daughters to bleed to death as a punishment for bringing Tutsis into the world. Where did they get ideas like that if not from Radio Mille Collines and Augustin Bagaza?’ Vauban looked at Kite, as if imploring him to answer. ‘Who encouraged them to believe that rape and torture and mutilation were acceptable acts of self-defence? He did. The snake coming here to dinner. The monster in Dakar who lives as a free man, eating daurade and drinking Canard-Duchêne, while my Sylvie rots in the ground.’
Movement to the left. Vauban’s demeanour suddenly changed. Kite followed his eyes across the narrow stretch of water. A man and a woman were strolling along the nearside of the jetty, a waiter showing them to a table. The man was a prosperous-looking African of about forty-five wearing a pale grey suit and white shirt. The woman was at least twenty years younger, elegant in a floral print dress with high heels and large hooped earrings.
One glance at Vauban told Kite who they were. He looked haunted, sweat pouring down his face.
‘That’s him.’
16
As the butcher of Kigali and his Lady Macbeth sat down, Kite sent four clicks on the radio to confirm that the target’s identity had been established. Augustin Bagaza ostentatiously flapped a napkin into his lap. He was neither as tall nor as thickset as he had appeared in the photographs Kite had been shown in London: those had made him look like a huge, abrasive thug. Grace Mavinga adjusted the strap of her dress. It seemed every man in the restaurant was staring at her.
Vauban spat on the sand and cursed in French.
‘Let’s just fucking kill him now,’ he said. ‘Mike is too slow, too careful. Ackerman is a fucking bureaucrat. I want Bagaza dead. I will kill him myself.’
It sounded like the sort of thing men say when they have no intention of doing anything other than acting tough. Kite remembered the first time he had set eyes on Vauban at the guest house: the cool, beachside poseur sipping a Flag and hitting on Martha. He seemed now to be an entirely different person. Confronted by the sight of Bagaza, he looked haunted, a man whose composure had been stripped away as if by some merciless and incurable disease.
‘That’s not what we’re here for,’ he told him quietly.
‘You think I can live, I can work, I can feel anything while this monster is free?’
The lapping surf dragged Vauban’s words out to sea. There were two clicks on the radio; they were being summoned back to the taxi.
‘Come on, he’s settled in, let’s go,’ Kite was worried that Vauban was at risk of blowing the operation. ‘We’ve got to check in with Omar.’
Reluctantly the Frenchman followed him back up the steps. Omar had parked some distance from the entrance around a narrow bend in the road. Kite opened the passenger door of the Peugeot. Vauban sat in the back without saying a word. The smell of sweat and old cigarettes was the smell of Dakar at night.
‘Chauffeur is parked over there,’ Omar told them, indicating a dark blue Citroën. ‘So it was definitely Bagaza?’
Vauban was smoking a cigarette and breathing loudly. Kite answered for him.
‘It’s Bagaza.’
Omar whispered a Wolof phrase in apparent relief. A taxi passed and stopped in front of the entrance. As two men got out, one of them paying the driver, Omar hunched forward.
‘Wait a minute.’ He took hold of the wheel. ‘These guys …’
‘You know them?’ Kite asked.
The men were both white with the look of well-financed European ex-pats. No wives or girlfriends in tow, a business-like sense of purpose in the way they moved and spoke to one another.
‘The shorter one is from the French embassy. Yves Duval. Clever, devious, likes the local girls a little too much. Everyone assumes he’s DGSE although he has business interests in Dakar, Abidjan. I never saw the other guy before.’
The second man was not as tanned as his colleague and looked beaten by the heat. Kite assumed he had recently flown in from France.
‘Coincidence?’ he asked.
‘Who knows?’ Omar waved a fly out of the car. ‘Lagon is a famous place. Everybody comes here to eat. The French do a lot of business here, spend a lot of money. Could be related to Bagaza, could be something else.’
Kite could feel the voodoo bad luck moving beneath his skin again. He sent a series of clicks on the radio for Ackerman to make contact. Three minutes later he heard the American’s voice on the open channel.
‘I’m out of earshot. Go ahead.’
‘Two white males just arrived. The taller one, blue shirt, is Yves Duval. French liaison.’
‘Copy. I passed them just now. Seated inside, not with Bagaza. I know the other guy. Met him in Paris at an event in the Louvre. Maurice Lagarde.’
Ackerman coughed loudly, indicating that Kite should stay off the radio. Someone had moved within earshot of the American’s position. When the threat had passed, he returned to the conversation.
‘The situation has developed here. Our friends have yet to order. Asked for a table for three. They’re waiting for someone.’
More coughing. Ackerman sent a click signal to indicate that he was heading back to the jetty. Kite put the radio down and pointed to the glove compartment.
‘Can I borrow your binoculars?’
Omar took out a pair of Celestrons, wiping the lenses before handing them over. No longer smoking, Vauban had closed his eyes and was leaning against the headrest, humming a tune. Omar looked at Kite as if to say: ‘He’s crazy, let him sleep.’
‘Is it normal for Bagaza to meet people?’ Kite asked. ‘You ever seen him with anyone other than Mavinga?’
‘Only ever with his woman. Likes to keep a low profile, stay out of sight. But remember, he’s been gone for three days.’
‘So why Lagon? Makes no sense to show his face. It’s like having dinner at the Ivy. Who’s joining him?’
‘I guess we wait and see.’
Vauban sniffed noisily, as if the two men were disturbing his rest, then suddenly lurched forward, possessed by a violent anger.
‘Could you stop fucking shouting?’ he said, though neither man had raised their voices.
‘Calm down,’ Kite told him. ‘Nobody was shouting. It’s your Lariam.’
The Frenchman appeared to accept this explanation and leaned his head back again, muttering about the heat. Kite hoped Strawson would send him back to the hotel. Now that he had positively identified Bagaza, his usefulness had passed.
‘I’m going back to the beach, see what I can see.’ As he opened the door of the cab, Kite caught Omar’s eye. ‘Come and find me if you need me.’
‘Will do,’ Omar replied. ‘I have a feeling this is going to be a long night.’
17
Kite walked back along the road, passing the entrance to Lagon. He saw a young Senegalese man sitting on the ground beside a Honda motorcycle. He might have been a paid guard keeping an eye on the bike, but equally could be part of Strawson’s team. Kite did not acknowledge him.
He found a narrow path down to the beach. It was dark but there were still groups of young Senegalese men gathered on a stretch of sand south of Lagon, some swimming in the ocean, others standing around talking and showing off to girls. Kite found a secluded spot about a hundred metres from the restaurant. He brought the binoculars up to the jetty. Panning right to left he could see Ricky and Nancy Ackerman on the city side, two tables away from Bagaza. Beyond them, the young white couple who had ignored one another when they arrived were now talking animatedly, laughing over glasses of wine. He could not yet tell if they were a surveillance couple putting on an act or just civilian tourists who needed alcohol to loosen up. There was no sign of Duval or Lagarde.
Kite put the Celestrons down and waited. Seconds later Bagaza was on his feet, greeting a man in a well-cut Italian suit. Kite focussed the binoculars on the new arrival. He was African, younger by about five years, with the slick, easy nonchalance of a well-travelled executive. Kite noted the patent leather shoes and expensive wristwatch; emerald-green cufflinks glinted in the light. The man wanted to demonstrate that he had money; a government minister would have concealed his wealth under a mattress and dressed for dinner in an off-the-peg jacket. So was this guy local or from out of town? Handsome with a conman’s smile, Bagaza’s guest was the sort of person Kite’s mother would have described as a ‘Flash Harry’.
Kite studied the body language between the three featured players. They had evidently met before. Mavinga seemed comfortable in the man’s company and there was laughter as he sat down; this wasn’t a dinner to which she had been dragged reluctantly. Kite radioed Omar who told him that he had seen the man getting out of a taxi outside the restaurant; he was not known to anyone on the surveillance team.
‘So he’s not government?’ Kite asked.
‘Unlikely.’ Kite thought he could hear Vauban snoring in the back seat. ‘Lagon is too exposed, too public. Maybe he’s just a friend.’
Kite continued to watch the group for some time. Plainly in an ebullient mood, Bagaza ostentatiously ordered the more expensive dishes on the menu, pointing at a platter of iced shellfish on a neighbouring table while his friend refilled their glasses.
‘What do you think?’
Kite almost dropped the binoculars. Strawson had crept up behind him, the sound of his approach concealed by the rolling waves and the traffic on the petit Corniche.
‘Jesus. Gave me a fright.’
‘No shit.’ Strawson looked up at the jetty. ‘Didn’t I teach you to keep eyes in the back of your head?’ When Kite didn’t answer he added: ‘Nice little place you found. What’s going on?’
‘There’s something about this guy. The one with the suit and the chunky watch. He doesn’t look local.’
‘We’ve never seen him before. Could be anybody. Right now we have a bigger problem.’
Kite felt the needle of a mosquito on his arm and flicked it away. It left a small droplet of blood on the skin which he wiped on his trousers.
‘What sort of problem?’
‘Lady Macbeth left the lights on, drapes open. Guess what Naby sees through the window?’
‘Idi Amin playing backgammon?’
‘Very funny.’ Strawson wiped sweat from his face with a sodden handkerchief. He was still wearing the white suit, the hems of the trousers stained and frayed. ‘Suitcases. Lots of them. Shrink-wrapped and ready to fly. They’ve spent the last three days packing. They’re clearing out of Dakar.’
‘So this is the last supper?’
Kite raised the binoculars. Bagaza was laughing again. It took half a second for the sound to echo across the water; by the time Kite heard it the Rwandan was reaching for a basket of bread.
‘And they choose to spend it with this guy. They’re celebrating. Oysters and langoustines. Why?’
It did not take long for Kite’s question to be answered. No sooner had he finished polishing off his first glass of champagne than Bagaza’s guest reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. Without ceremony, he quietly slid the package across the table. Bagaza pushed the bread basket out of the way, picked up the envelope and placed it in his lap. Mavinga watched all this intently. And now all three were smiling, refilling their glasses and raising a toast.
‘There are your ratline passports,’ said Kite.
‘That what it looks like?’ Strawson did not have a pair of binoculars of his own and was relying on Kite to describe what he was seeing.
‘Makes sense. Their bags are packed, the apartment has been cleaned out. Could be money he owes him, a contract, a deed. Maybe he already has the passports. Doesn’t really matter though, does it? Evidently Bagaza is leaving Senegal.’
‘Then we have to take him tonight.’
‘And the French?’
‘What about them?’ Strawson sounded like he didn’t care. ‘It can’t be coincidence they’re in the same place at the same time on his last night in the city. Maybe they have a meeting planned for later. Maybe Lagarde being here is an all-clear signal for Bagaza to make his move. None of that changes the fact that if this operation is going to succeed, it has to succeed tonight.’
‘Do you still want to take him in the apartment?’
‘Where else do you suggest?’ There was suddenly an edge of impatience in the American’s voice. ‘Flights start leaving around 5 a.m. We can’t stop him getting on a plane. I’ve got two guys outside Rue Kennedy. Most likely Bagaza enjoys a long, leisurely dinner, settles his check, accompanies Lady Macbeth back home and the Closers wrap him up.’
‘And if they don’t go home?’
Strawson had been sitting just behind Kite on a small wooden crate. Climbing to his feet with the groan of a middle-aged man whose joints had seized up, he said: ‘That’s when we improvise. That’s maybe when we need you to play the eager cub reporter.’
Kite looked back at the jetty. ‘You see the couple on the far side of the deck?’ Strawson took the Celestrons and pointed them at the restaurant. ‘Blonde woman with her back to us, man in a polo shirt across the table?’
‘Sure.’ The American moved the binoculars fractionally to his right. ‘What about them?’
‘Are they ours?’
‘Negative.’
‘An hour ago they were barely speaking. Now it’s all laughter and conversation and taking their time over the food.’
‘You think maybe DGSE?’
‘If we’re doing it, what’s to stop them doing it?’
