The Devil’s Kingdom - Scott Mariani Ben Hope

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from a side street and rumbled past them in the opposite direction.

      Jeff said, shaking his head, ‘Where did they get the workforce? The materials? The money?’

      Ben could have added a thousand more questions, but there were no answers to be had. Not yet. All he could do was stare at the surreal scene. Maybe Khosa had had their coffee last night spiked with LSD.

      The convoy rumbled on, past empty parks and deserted squares and block after block of high-rise apartment buildings, all giving off the same uninhabited aura. Then the line of trucks and pickups veered across an intersection and rounded a corner, and Ben’s stupefaction racked up to a new level. Because the grandiose eight-storey building he could now see ahead, nestled a little way from the road next to an enormous and extravagantly illuminated plane tree, was the Dorchester Hotel in London’s Park Lane.

      The Dorchester, here in the Congo. Complete with its sweeping nineteen-thirties façade and grand entrance and garden frontage of sculpted shrubs, ornamental railings, stone fountains, and flower beds. Ben closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, it was still there.

      Not dreaming.

      The hotel was the first building they’d seen thus far that showed any sign of life. Light streamed from the entrance and many upper-floor windows were aglow against the night sky. At the head of the convoy, Khosa’s Land Rover turned off the street to park outside the building. The following vehicles kept on going down the street, and for a moment Ben thought the truck was going to do the same – until it too broke from the moving line and pulled to a halt directly behind Khosa’s personal transport.

      The soldiers in the back of the truck jumped up and stabbed and poked with their rifles to get the prisoners moving. ‘Keep your panties on, girls,’ Jeff growled at them. Gerber seemed to take no notice of anything much that was happening around him. Ben and Jeff helped him to his feet, and down the wooden ramp from the flatbed to the pavement.

      Outside the Dorchester Hotel. In the Congo. If Gerber was having the same hard time as the other three accepting reality, he wasn’t letting it show.

      The night air was fresh and still, and fragrant with the scent of the hotel garden flowers whose perfume was strong enough to mask the lingering tang of exhaust fumes left by the convoy. A billion stars twinkled above the silhouetted city skyline. Khosa had stepped down from his Land Rover and paused outside the hotel, his tall bulky outline bathed in golden light shining from the entrance, clasping his hands behind his back in statesmanlike fashion as he exchanged a few words with one of the men who had been riding along with him at the head of the convoy.

      While his soldiers looked dusty and tired from the long journey, the General appeared as fresh and energetic as if he’d just finished a leisurely breakfast and donned a crisp new uniform to attend to the first business of the day. His combat boots gleamed as though he’d spent the whole drive polishing them, the gold Rolex on his thick wrist was resplendent under the lights, and the red beret on his head sat at a jaunty angle. If it hadn’t been for the tribal scarring that distorted his face into a monstrous demon’s mask, he might have seemed almost jovial.

      As the soldiers prodded and shoved the four prisoners in his direction, Khosa turned to give Ben a beaming white smile that looked like the last thing a shark’s dinner might see before being swallowed up in one bite. It was usual for him to ignore Jeff and Tuesday as the underlings they were. As for Gerber, Khosa viewed the ‘Goat Man’ with as much regard as for an inchworm. Ben had twice had to persuade him not to have the old sailor hacked to death by his men.

      ‘Ah, it is very good to be home again,’ Khosa said in his deep, resonant voice. ‘Soldier, welcome to my executive headquarters.’

       Chapter 4

      Khosa led the way to the entrance, a bodyguard flanking him each side and one step back, their guns ready as though they were expecting an ambush inside the grand foyer. Khosa himself seemed completely at ease, like a guy strolling in his front door and about to hang up his jacket and hat and call, ‘Honey, I’m home!’

      Ben followed, with Jeff and Tuesday in his wake both keeping a concerned eye on Gerber. The rest of the soldiers from the truck strutted along behind, their loaded and cocked Kalashnikovs trained on their new guests and menacing scowls on their faces. The real Dorchester didn’t know how lucky it was.

      ‘I know what you are thinking, soldier,’ Khosa declared.

      Ben said nothing. He was painfully aware of the man’s bizarre ability to read minds, so there didn’t seem any point.

      ‘Yes, yes. You had not expected anything quite like my little camp.’ Khosa chuckled. ‘Even if you do not want to admit it.’ He paused at the entrance and turned to admire his little camp for one last moment before stepping inside, arms spread wide.

      ‘It is not a big city,’ he said modestly. ‘Big enough for eighty thousand people at the moment, but growing every week. Tomorrow I will have my Captain Xulu show you around, and you will see for yourself what we have here. The sports stadium is still under construction, to the west. So is the airport, on the other side of it. Both will be finished soon. The hydroelectric power station is to the north, where the river runs. On the other side of the river lies the industrial zone.’ He grinned, obviously delighted by the bewildered expression that Ben couldn’t hide. ‘You are realising, at last, that you should not have underestimated me. Did I not tell you? But you would not listen. Now let us go inside.’

      It had been years since Ben had last set foot in the real Dorchester, and he’d had more on his mind that day than to admire the decor. But from hazy memory the architect of this bizarre recreation seemed to have done a creditable job, right down to the marbled pillars and magnificent tiled floor. The only thing missing from the lobby was any kind of reception staff. Khosa’s boots rang on the tiles as he led them briskly towards the lifts.

      Behind him, Ben heard Jeff say to one of the soldiers, ‘Hey, arsehole, take my luggage up to my room and see to it that everything is cleaned and pressed, okay?’ If Jeff couldn’t blast his way out of a tight spot, he’d joke his way through it. Tuesday was either being more restrained, or he was just too stunned to speak.

      The lift glided up to the top floor. Its doors slid open to an empty corridor with Persian carpeting and artwork on the walls. A sharp-eyed visitor might have noticed the assortment of automatic weaponry propped along one wall, but as far as Ben could tell the rest was authentic.

      Ben was understanding less and less. His confused thoughts whirled back to the events in which Jude had been caught up aboard the cargo ship, the Andromeda of the Svalgaard Line. Jude had described it all in detail afterwards. His take on the situation was that the jewel thief called Pender, travelling in secret under the assumed name Carter, had hired Khosa and his crew to intercept the vessel in the guise of Somali pirates as a means of smuggling off the ship the enormous diamond he had in his possession. Pender had sensibly attempted to conceal the true nature of his precious package from Khosa, until things had started to go badly wrong for him and he quickly ended up as fish bait. In retrospect, he’d made a serious error of judgement in choosing Khosa for the task. That had probably been Pender’s own final thought, too, as the machetes came out.

      Ben hadn’t doubted his son’s account of those events for a moment. But if Jude was right, then Khosa’s discovery of the diamond had been no more than a lucky accident – lucky for him, less so for Pender. Which in turn meant that, up to that point, all that Khosa had stood to gain from the deal was whatever Pender was paying him by way of a cash fee.

      That was where it all stopped making sense, as far as Ben could see. Why would this brutal, sadistic warlord, apparently endowed with the limitless resources needed to build his own private city in the middle of the jungle on such an unbelievably lavish scale, bother to travel all the way to the Indian Ocean to take on a mercenary job for the likes of Pender? If Khosa was already so fabulously rich and powerful, he wouldn’t even have been on that ship to begin with. Especially

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