47
Sierra Leone, July 5
IN HIS EXECUTIVE
PALACE, with its marble floors, Djemma Garand sat with Alexander
Cochrane. Cochrane had spent the night reviewing the options
arrived at by the ad hoc scientific guests.
“Essentially,”
Cochrane said, “they’ve all come up with the same solution. I see
minor differences, no more.”
Cochrane looked
tired. His usual petulance had been replaced by a sense of
exhaustion and perhaps fear.
“And your evaluation
of their solutions?” Djemma asked, eager to get to the
point.
“The fact that they
all came to it independently tells me it’s probably correct. I see
nothing wrong with their calculations.”
“And the
implementation?” Djemma asked.
“In essence, we can
use the particle accelerator as it stands now,” Cochrane said. “We
just have to generate a heavier charged particle to fire through
it. It’s like trading out a twenty-two shell and replacing it with
a forty-five. Everything else is the same. The particles will move
a little slower, not enough to affect the operation, but they’ll
hit with three times the power.” He put his notes down. “It’s
rather simple, actually.”
“Pity you didn’t
think of it months ago,” Djemma said, the words sliding off his
tongue with open disdain.
“This is theoretical
work,” Cochrane said. “Not my field.”
“Yes,” Djemma said.
“After all, you are just a mechanic.”
The intercom on
Djemma’s phone buzzed. “Mr. President,” his secretary said, “a
guest has arrived to speak with you. The American
ambassador.”
“Excellent,” Djemma
said. “Send him in.”
Cochrane stood. “I
need twenty-four hours to make the changes.”
“Then I suggest you
get to it,” Djemma said. He pointed to a back door. “Leave that
way.”
Cochrane obliged,
moving quickly out the back as the front door to Djemma’s office
opened and the American ambassador came in. Normally, Djemma would
meet such a man halfway across the floor, but he remained in his
seat, beckoning the ambassador to sit across from him in the spot
Cochrane had just vacated.
“President Garand,”
the ambassador said in an easy Texas drawl, “I’m sure you know the
sad business I’m here to ask you about.”
“Whatever do mean,
Mr. Ambassador?” Djemma said. “We are celebrating our Fourth of
July. A day late, perhaps.”
The ambassador
managed a forced smile but shook his head. “What you’re calling
independence is nothing but naked aggression, theft, and the
violation of international law. To be honest with you, I can’t
recall such a brazen act.”
“Then you must be a
poor student of history,” Djemma said. “In 1950, under the threat
of nationalizing all of Standard Oil’s
assets, the Saudi royal family took half the oil in Arabia. That
oil has been worth three and a half trillion dollars over the last
sixty years. In 2001, Hugo Chávez of Venezuela did virtually the
same thing. In 1972, Chile nationalized its copper mines under
Salvador Allende. In 1973, India nationalized its entire coal
industry. In 1959, Fidel Castro took Havana, waiting patiently
until the Havana Hilton was complete so he could use it as the
Communist Party’s headquarters. He seized all foreign assets and
has never relinquished them. Do you not recall any of these events,
Mr. Ambassador?”
The ambassador took a
deep breath. “Of course I recall them, but this is
different.”
“Yes,” Djemma said.
“And just how different you have not yet discovered. In the
meantime, in strict dollar terms, my actions are relatively minor
in comparison to the events I have just reminded you of. To be
honest, I’m surprised to see you. I would have expected the Chinese
ambassador to arrive first; they stand to lose far more than
you.”
The last statement
was a jab at the ambassador’s pride, but he didn’t
react.
“We’re here on their
behalf,” he said. “And on behalf of all the countries that have a
grievance and a claim. Now, off the record, we’re prepared to
consider modifying the repayment terms of your loans, but we’re not
forgiving you any of the principal. And before any negotiations
start, your forces must withdraw from the industrial institutions
owned by foreign parties.”
Djemma smiled. “I
make you a counteroffer,” he said. “I will keep what we have
rightly taken. And I will ask only for twenty billion a year in
grants from your country.”
“What?” the
ambassador said.
“I would ask for new
loans,” Djemma said, “but considering that I didn’t pay the other
loans back, I fear no one will extend us credit. Therefore, it will
have to be grants. Do not worry, we will be demanding the same
contributions from China and Europe.”
“You can’t be
serious,” the ambassador responded curtly. “You steal the world’s
property and then demand that we collectively give you sixty
billion dollars a year in free money?”
“It is a small
amount,” Djemma assured him. “You gave your own banks seven hundred
billion a few years ago. You spent a trillion dollars on Iraq,
twenty billion a month. What I ask for is a fraction of that, and
no one has to suffer. In return, we will allow American
corporations to handle many of the construction projects. You may
consider it a stimulus program.”
By now Djemma was
smiling like a madman. For so long he had listened to the Europeans
and Americans lecturing poor nations on fiscal responsibility.
Hypocrites, he thought. Look what they had wrought upon themselves.
Now he would throw it back in their faces.
The ambassador’s face
was turning red. “Your reach is stretching beyond your power to
grasp, Mr. President,” he blurted. “This will not
stand.”
“The Saudis still
stand,” Djemma said. “Chávez still stands. So does Castro. You will
find it easier to negotiate than you are letting on. And if you
don’t . . . I warn you there will be consequences.”
This was the first
hint of a threat that Djemma had made. He needed to be subtle. By
the sudden focus on the ambassador’s face, he knew he hadn’t been
too obscure. But when the ambassador began to chuckle, Djemma felt
his own ire rising.
“What is so funny?”
he demanded to know.
The ambassador
settled down, but a smile remained on his face. “I feel like I’m in
a production of The Mouse That Roared,”
he said. “I could take over this country with a group of Boy Scouts
and a few state troopers, and you think you can threaten
us?”
The laughter
returned, and Djemma snapped. He brought the riding crop down on
the desk in a stunningly swift move. The ambassador jumped back at
the sound, shocked.
“Your arrogance
betrays you, Mr. Ambassador,” Djemma said. He stood, drawing
himself up to his full six-foot-two-inch height.
“For too long you and
the other rich nations have mocked countries like mine,” he said.
“Whether you believe it or not, those days are about to end. The
industrialized world will support us, not in dribs and drabs but in
substantial amounts. You will help us stand or we will drag you
down into the mire with us! Only then will you see the truth. We
are not mice for you to play with. Sierra Leone is the Land of
Lions. And if you are not cautious, you will feel our teeth in your
soft, decadent necks.”
Djemma didn’t wait
for a reply from the American ambassador. He pressed the intercom
button, and a group of guards entered the room.
“See the ambassador
to the airfield,” he shouted. “He is to be deported
immediately.”
“This is an outrage,”
the ambassador shouted.
“Take him!” Djemma
ordered.
The ambassador was
hustled outside, and the door slammed behind him.
Djemma sat alone,
fuming. He was angry with the ambassador’s arrogance and disdain.
He hadn’t expected it so soon. But he was even angrier with himself
for jumping at the bait and voicing his threat so forcefully. He
hadn’t planned to speak so soon. Now there would be no
negotiations. Unless . . .
He had no choice. He
had made a claim that the Americans would assume to be a bluff. He
had to demonstrate his power, otherwise they and the world at large
would only scoff and laugh with disdain as he ranted and raved:
another mad dictator in a banana republic.
He would unleash his
weapon in all its glorious power and leave them no choice but to
treat him with respect.