Old Lovers Don't Die by Paul G Anderson Page A

threat. A gang lead by Bosco the Butcher was better trained and a greater threat. Bosco used the same type of violent intimidation that Kariba used, competing perversely for the title of most depraved inhumane atrocity. Raoul had heard that Bosco’s growing influence was that he was supported by Rwandans and Chinese desperate to gain access and control all of the North Congo’s resources, especially tantallum. Plans were already underway to develop a microchip processing factory and mobile phone industry in Rwanda’s capital Kigali. Kariba had suddenly decided the answer to both problems was chemical weapons. He knew that Raoul, with his Syrian contacts, could access them for him.
    Raoul told Kariba that he was fucking mad no one had chemical agents in Africa, and that’s the way it should stay in order not to attract world attention. If word got out, it would lead to an outrage, which would completely stuff up their business. Kariba had looked at him for a few seconds before saying,
    “No one gives a fuck what happens in the Congo as long as they can use their fucking mobile phones and computers. Either get me the fucking gas or Segal will take over.”
    Kariba smashed his hand on the desk and stood up. Raoul knew that Segal would not hesitate to find chemical weapons for Kariba. Anyone could find them if they had the money and Kariba would ensure that Segal had lots of money. He finally agreed and told Kariba he would check with his contacts in Syria and have a reply for their next meeting. The next meeting would be in June, he had replied, and that is when he would expect Raoul to deliver the weapons
    With an alternative supplier in the unscrupulous Segal, it was now Kariba who was able to dictate terms to Raoul, a situation Raoul detested immensely. All his life Raoul had been in charge. He also hated that he could do little about it. Kariba was now so drunk on not only money and power, but also the drugs that Segal supplied that Raoul’s influence had diminished. Segal was an unprincipled whore, even by Congo standards, and now had 40% of Raoul’s ore supply from Kariba. In previous years, Raoul would simply have had Alexey or Pierre bury Segal in a convenient, fast-setting concrete foundation. He wondered momentarily if he was getting too old adjusting to a 60% share of the resources; moreover, he should also have Segal killed as a warning to anyone else trying to muscle in on his business. However, he knew if Segal suddenly disappeared, Kariba would suspect that Raoul had killed him, and that might interrupt the supply of young African girls.
    Raoul arranged an appointment in Damascus. Initially his friend General Alaki had refused; Raoul’s final offer of a US $5 million dollar donation to Alaki’s retirement fund finally changed the General’s mind. Despite having persuaded Alaki to supply Tabun nerve gas, Raoul considered not going through with the deal several times. Kariba was becoming too unpredictable, even by his own wild standards. He was certain that this change in his behaviour was linked to Segal supplying Kariba with mind-altering drugs. Kariba had jived his way into their last meeting complete with sunglasses, earphones, and with his whole entourage talking to each other in some kind of strange finger sign language. This had all magically stopped, when Kariba held up his hand, and then spoke to him in some kind of black American jive language.
    “Shit man, you need to chill out. Ice yourself down. You are tighter than a fat broad’s underwear.”
    That had been a signal for Kariba’s entourage to laugh outrageously and start clicking their fingers and jiving again. What annoyed Raoul more than the fat insult, which he was used to, was the constant clicking of fingers and the rhythmic nodding of heads. Then one of the entourage had twirled to his left, jinked and pointed his weapon indiscriminately at whomever he felt like. Raoul thought that either Alexey or Sharif might protectively shoot one