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

of them. That was not the way that Raoul liked doing business. The only consolation, despite all the clicking noises and sunglasses, was that deliveries were on time and the money continued to flow. In addition, he needed to keep the whore Segal from gaining any more advantage.
    A nerve gas such as Tabun would be dropped or exploded above Bosco’s men. Alaki had agreed to supply the latest Syrian quad copters, which would enable Kariba to release the gas from treetop height, killing hundreds of Bosco’s men on the ground. Each of the quad copters was a million dollars - it was another $4 million donation into the general’s retirement fund. Even with such a delivery system, Raoul did wonder, with Kariba’s men high on drugs, that there was the potential for them to gas themselves. Outside of the irony of that happening, the more significant issue was that if they did learn to fly the quad copters, then there was no guarantee as to who else Kariba would not use it on. He had to go ahead with the supply of the Tabun and the meeting in June in the Congo; his addiction demanded it.
     
    Raoul’s private car met him at Goma airport and quickly whisked him past all the shanties and begging children to the Ihusi Hotel. He walked slowly up the loose stone pathway of the Ihusi Hotel. He had to walk slowly; stone pathways in the Congo were treacherous when you were as obese as he was. On either side of the path were small, neatly cropped trees shaped to resemble African animals and birds. Mostly they were carefully trimmed small elephants, lions, and hippos, but the last two trees were shaped like large green vultures hovering above prey. Raoul always paused in front of them for a few minutes and offered a silent prayer to an unknown God. The tree vultures had their talons outstretched like small knives and neatly sharpened beaks; they were a reminder to him that unless he was careful in Africa, he could also be a carcass picked over by the increasingly deranged human vulture he had come to meet, Kariba Offengowe.
    The Ihusi Hotel was normally one of his favourite places to stay, washed on both sides by the calming waters of Lake Kivu. The one exception was the month of June, the month that Kariba had demanded a meeting. June was the prelude to the rainy season in the Congo and the humidity was disgusting. Five minutes after leaving his air-conditioned car, Raoul knew his obese body would be overheating and unable to cope with 96% humidity. Perspiration would be soaking his shirt, making it stick to him like some giant rubbery spider’s web. His wet shirt would wrap around between his rolls of fat, emphasising his huge stomach, which would bounce repulsively as he walked. He hated such a conscious reminder of his physical unattractiveness. The reminder of how fat he was threatened to destroy the remaining vestige of vanity to which he tenaciously clung. He constantly tried to reassure himself that being a large size in Africa was a sign of prosperity. Despite his ratiocination, he always tried to disguise his fat stomach by wearing his shirt loose. That did not work in June in the Congo, for the humidity made it like a wet T-shirt contest for repulsive satyrs.
    “Fuck Kariba,” he said loudly to himself.
    Walking from the pathway up the steps to the reception area, he caught a reflection of himself in the large picture window. He tried to ignore it, knowing it would probably confirm his worst fears. His vanity instantly overrode his inhibition. He glanced quickly at the reflection and physically recoiled in horror from what he saw. Perspiration enthused by the smug humidity was gathering on his head; small pools coalesced around his temples before running down in rivulets through the grey-black stubble beard that he grew to hide his double chin. The remaining hair on his head was plastered to his bald scalp, greasy strands falling on either side in front of his ears. The image repulsed him.
    “Fuck Kariba to hell!” he shouted