In the marquee, Anderson is engrossed in a conversation on his cell phone. He stands up from the American table and looks for a quiet corner to continue the exchange. He dodges a few of the waiting staff, who are clearing the dining tables. They carry bottles of vintage ports, plates of ripe English and French cheeses, and boxes of Cuban cigars for the banquet's final course.
"Yes, Mr President." Anderson puffs on his cigar.
He listens for a few seconds.
"Like I said, sir, everything's under control. It's only us left against the South Africans and the Russians—they've teamed up against us."
He listens again.
"Yes, Mr President, just the three teams left. We lost Books, which was mighty unfortunate but the girl . . . " Anderson stops as the President interrupts him. "That's right, Mr President, her name's Sophia. She's sure got some spunk about her. She just gone and covered herself in Books' blood." Anderson laughs. "Seems like she's stepping up."
Anderson realizes he has walked too close to the Russians' table. He glances over and notices the British Prime Minister and her delegation in talks with the Russian and South African contingents.
"The Prime Minister? Yes, sir, she's here." Anderson nods over at the British PM. She acknowledges him with a curt, yet slightly embarrassed wave, then looks away and returns to her negotiations.
Anderson turns away from the table. "What's she doing? Well, sir, like most Brits, she's trying to score herself another free lunch!"
He listens, then laughs, "I totally agree with you, Mr President, it's real hard for a rattlesnake to hide anywhere in the desert."
As he ambles back to the American table, he steps around a technician trying to fix a blank TV screen.
"I will, sir. Any news, you'll be the first to know—I'll be sure to keep you posted. Yes sir, I'm confident, I really am. Goodbye for now and give my kindest regards to the First Lady."
Anderson clicks the off button on his phone. He looks up at the TV screens. He is deep in thought.
The Americans' official photographer, Gilbert Merridrew, steps forward and snaps a few shots of Anderson.
"Merridrew," Anderson says.
"Yes, sir?"
"Fuck off."
***
The African-Russian convoy arrives at the red Canadian container. Botha climbs down from the Humvee and strolls towards it.
Alexei joins Botha, glances at the South African's collar and watches the digits count down: 01.14.50, :01.14.49, :01.14.48 . . .
"Worried, Alexei?" Botha asks.
"We have just over an hour—it is not long."
"Patience, my friend. They are near. Their fear pervades."
They hear the sound of the gray Humvee's engine in the distance and turn toward the noise.
"Mikhail arrives," Alexei says.
"Good, then we are back to full strength."
The gray Humvee and Pieter's bike pull up alongside the container. Pieter trots over to the container, Mikhail plods after him.
"It is done?" Botha asks.
"It is done," Mikhail says.
Pieter explains, "All numbers on both containers are destroyed. No one can possibly read them."
"Excellent." Botha is pleased. "We work as a team. We all prosper from each other's abilities. Anything else to report?"
Pieter shakes his head.
Botha waves a hand at the numbers on the container. "Then we will reward ourselves and our Russian friends with another code."
Pieter retrieves the two remotes from his uniform and enters the code number into them. More LEDs light up on all their collars.
"We need only four more." Alexei looks at the six blue LEDs lit up on all their collars.
Something on the horizon catches Mikhail's eye. Worried, he points outwards, over Botha's shoulder. "Look—can you see it?"
The African-Russians turn and see small wisps of gray smoke snaking upwards into the sky.
Botha chides Mikhail, "Why do you look so glum, my Russian brother? Our work brings us another reward." He raises his binoculars and examines the smoke. "It is them—the Americans. I am sure of it."
"So, now we attack?" Alexei asks.
"Now we stalk. We find their position. We find out how many are still alive. We find out how many vehicles they drive. Then we have knowledge and then the advantage and the power of surprise. Only then do we attack them and then—"
"Then?"
"And then, we slaughter them." Botha brings down his binoculars. "Pieter?"
"Yes, Ng'ombe?"
"Prepare yourself. I have another mission for you."
