[This is the fifth installment in a series of short stories titled “What Happened to Those Characters?”.  Each one revisits a character or characters from one of my novels and takes a peek at what happened later.  This one is about Denise Dupont, the CIA operative in Evil Agenda, the second book in my “Clones and Mutants Trilogy.”  Enjoy.]

Channeling Idi Amin

Steven M. Moore

Copyright, 2014

                Denise Dupont knew she looked stunning but felt groped.  The dictator’s eyes were all over her.  Part of the job.  He flashed a toothy smile.  She smiled back.

She was dressed in a flowing gown, its multiple hues like a neon sign in Paris inviting the fat man to dine on her.  The native headwear and large golden earrings topped her off, but Samuel Chibuzo wasn’t looking at the top.  Spike heels made her as tall as any man in the ballroom, but he wasn’t admiring those either.

God, he’s repugnant!

The self-declared Black Pope and leader of the Christian Brotherhood of West Africa, Royal and Divine Monarch and President of the Federal and Independent Republic of West Africa, and chief and principal shaman of three major tribes in the country, already had eleven wives and twenty-three children.  She was trying to tempt him enough so that he wanted to make her number twelve.

It doesn’t look that hard.

He was waddling toward her like a retired Sumo wrestler high on pot.  Even with air conditioning, the African leader perspired.

The moment of truth approaches.

***

                Rumors had it that Samuel Chibuzo ate his enemies.  Dupont didn’t know about that.  Her CIA briefing hadn’t talked about dietary predilections.

After parachuting onto a soccer field in the capital’s suburbs, it had taken only two days to find the reporter.  That woman now sat tied in a chair in Dupont’s downtown hotel room, guarded by a local CIA operative.  Even with the gag, Dupont was able to copy the woman’s face enough to match the poor quality passport photo.  She would attend the ball as Katrina Opeyemi, reporter for ANN, or the African News Nexus, an internet ezine that carried news about the continent and the world.

She had no weapons except her hands and feet.  That would be enough if she could get close to Chibuzo.  He wasn’t the target per se, just an inconvenient and bloated obstacle standing in her way.  His humble abode, the rest of the Black Pope’s Palace, was the target.

“Miss Opeyemi?  Might I have a word?”

She inclined her head to the dictator.  “Mr. Chibuzo.  Or, should I say, Your Excellency, Mr. President, or King Samuel?”

“I’m a humble man, and your humble servant.  Just call me Samuel.”

What a charming ogre!  “You probably think I’m here for an interview.”

“Are you?  You’re rather famous, you know, but you look a bit different than you do on streaming video.  Whatever.”  He waved a hand as if he were slapping away bad thoughts.  “I would love to give you an interview in my private chambers.”

“I received an invitation for this ball months ago and planned a vacation trip here in order to attend,” she said.  “Tonight I’m not a reporter, just a reveler, enjoying fine music, food, and drink.”

“You have an English accent.  Were you educated in the United Kingdom?”

“In London.”  She hooked her arm in his.  “In lieu of an interview, would you like to show me around your palace?  It seems like an art museum, it’s so sumptuous.”

He was a full two meters tall and probably weighed more than he appeared to weigh because of his height.  He leaned into her a bit and she refrained from drawing away from his perspiring shoulder.  He raised his right hand.  Servants appeared immediately.

“Bring Miss Opeyemi a glass of your best champagne and some of that imported caviar,” he ordered.  They sped off to do his bidding.  “They will take care of you.  Ask that man over there to show you to my chambers after the ball ends at midnight.”  He indicated a tall, slender man dressed in white who was checking invitations.  “He’s my aide.”

An aide who also heads up palace security.  That was in her briefing.

She had been in this game so long that she no longer even had an adrenalin rush.  What happens at midnight is under my control.  But then she smiled.  Unless Cinderella loses more than her slipper.

***

                Samuel Chibuzo’s grandfather, the first Black Pope, had become famous for decreeing homosexuality punishable by death.  His official reasoning, although not original on the African continent, had been simple but incorrect—homosexuality was sin and AIDS was the punishment for that sin.  The real reason was also simple—a successful dictator needs a class of people to serve as scapegoats, a distraction from all the ills incurred during his rule.  His citizens were so busy pursuing homosexuals that they tended to focus only on that and forget about hunger, famine, and oppression.  When he became Black Pope, he even blessed that persecution as God’s work.  Son Samuel had continued God’s work.

Dupont was a bit more enlightened.  She swung both ways, sometimes as part of her work, but mostly because she was looking for that certain someone, male or female, who would be her soul mate.  Part of her past was associated with thwarting some business adventures of an otherwise successful sociopath.  She didn’t know much about the pair involved in that gig, Kalidas Metropolis and Sara Holiday, but still admired them—they seemed to have what she was looking for.

I’m damn sure I won’t find it in Samuel Chibuzo.

Her real name wasn’t Denise Dupont, of course, any more than it was Katrina Opeyemi.  In her line of work, names were irrelevant.  She took many names, played many roles.  Denise Dupont was a useful alias, especially when she spoke French—that name was on her French passport.  Denise Bridges was on her English passport.  Daniela Ponte was on her American.  

***

                The aide was British.  A white man serving a black, which probably means he’s an ex-mercenary.  Fortunately, he didn’t know her.  She didn’t know him either, only of him.  Her briefing.

He led her up one of the spiral staircases, the one on the right.  Both had multiple landings where one could observe fine suits of armor or glass cases with old military uniforms.  She felt like she was in an English castle.

“You must feel at home here, Mr. Adams.”

“Mr. Chibuzo is a good employer,” said Gerald Adams, the lanky head of Chibuzo’s security.

“That’s not what I meant.”  At the next landing, she gestured to the case filled with old guns.  “The décor is very English.”

“Africa had to struggle to shake off the yoke of the British Empire.  It’s ironic, I suppose, that some leaders value trappings of English aristocracy.”

“I take it you don’t.”

“I pay little attention to history.  I live for the now and try to plan for the future.  That seems more practical.”  At the top of the stairs, they stopped in front of two broad doors.  Adams opened one.  “Please, make yourself at home.  The President will be with you shortly.”

Dupont entered a sumptuous Victorian style library with lots of wood bookshelves, accessible with ladders on wheels, and many leather-bound tomes.  She walked to one case and removed a first edition of a Dickens novel.  The first edition in book form, she reminded herself.  Many Dickens’ works were serialized novels before appearing in book form.  At least, she thought that was the case.

She opened the book and saw the scrawled dedication from Dickens to the Duchess of something or other.  A diplomat’s wife perhaps?  She hefted the book.  The leather probably added a pound or two, but this tome would make a good doorstop.  Or, a weapon!  She smiled at that idea.  But the plan wasn’t to kill Chibuzo.  She had another job to do.

“Besides being a beautiful woman, I see you have a taste for the finer things in life,” said Chibuzo, entering from a side door to the study.  “Would you like a sherry, my dear?”

The seduction dance began.  When he handed her the glass, it was with the right hand.  The left caressed her cheek.  “I’m so glad we met this evening.  Your beauty graces my humble abode.”

She swirled to one side and took a personal tour around the library, figuring the dictator would prefer to feast on her with his eyes rather than make any exertion to follow her.  The briefing said that he was incurably lazy—a hedonist who thought a woman’s place in life was to please him in every way, including taking the lead sexually.  She’d use that against him.

As she toured, she hid the fact that she emptied her glass in a planter.  She wanted to avoid becoming tipsy and preferred that the Black Pope become drunk instead.  She suspected the drink was drugged anyway.

“Shall I pour myself another one?” she said, as she approached the ornate liquor cabinet.

“Please.  Be my guest.  Bring me another too, if it’s convenient.”

The sherry was in a crystal decanter.  She would have to guess the provenance.

She sipped at her second glass, deciding the whole bottle wouldn’t be drugged.  Excellent.  She drugged his glass to speed things up.  “It’s quite good.  Let me guess.”  She rattled it off, including the year.  “Am I correct?”

“My dear, how would I know?  Be assured that it’s the very best.  I only purchase exquisite sherry.”

She sat in the wing chair across from him.  “Looks like we’re not going to take that tour.  I wanted to see the royal bed chambers.”

He leered at her.  “That’s a bit direct.  Do I excite you?”

“You’re growing on me.  I find you exotic and mysterious.”

“That’s supposed to be my line.”  His speech was now slurred.  “But come, I will show you the bedroom wing.  It’s rather large due to my extended family, but my own bedroom is modest.”

***

The leer had changed to a look of lecherous desire.  Dupont, dressed only in undergarments, rubbed the huge man’s back.

“You must relax, Your Excellency.  You’re too tense.”  She watched the stirrings under the man’s enormous striped boxers.  He really needs to lose some weight and ingest more little pills than sherry.  She smiled.  Of course, HQ’s other little pill didn’t help his attempts at full erection.

The Black Pope didn’t make it.  He collapsed on the floor.  She used her strong arms to soften the fall, checked his pulse, and shook her head.  Stupid bastard.  Did he really believe I was interested in him?

She quickly dressed, converting her gown into a simple dress using an invisible hem and her high heels into flats by unscrewing the spikes.  She was ready to move.

It wasn’t hard to find the third wife.  Even in sleep, Dupont recognized the face.  She jostled the woman.  She woke with a start, but a finger to the lips quieted her.

“I’ve come to get you out.”

“I won’t go without my children,” the woman said, matching the whisper.

Dupont sighed.  Not in the briefing, guys!  “OK.  Where are they?”

“In the nursery.  Another wing.  Follow me.”

Three children, a girl and two boys, were delighted to go on an adventure with their mother.  Their bedclothes reminded Dupont of Peter Pan.  The girl looked like a black Wendy; the boys, a black John and Michael.  The Darlings were overdressed for the hot climate awaiting them outside, but Dupont could do nothing about that.

The five of them found their way downstairs and into the kitchen, where there was supposed to be a service door.  She no longer trusted the briefing though.  As usual, I’ll have to be creative if it’s not there.

Dupont entered the kitchen and stopped cold.  Adams covered her with an automatic.

“I saw what was happening on one of the closed circuit surveillance cameras and decided to take care of it myself.”

“Do you even care why I’m doing this?”

“My guess is that wife number three is becoming tired of our great leader.  Somehow, she sent a message to the American embassy that she was willing to exchange detailed information on Mr. Chibuzo’s plans, information she probably gathered from pillow talk.  The old bastard brags a lot, especially when he’s going at it with one of the wives.  How am I doing?”

“Very well.  It apparently doesn’t bother you that those plans involve terrorist attacks and invading neighboring countries?  I can save thousands of lives.”

He laughed.  “Hell no.  That’s just more money for me.”

“And why didn’t you just shoot me?”

“And alarm the little tykes?  What kind of savage old curmudgeon do you think I am?”

“So, what now?”

“You’ll allow me to tie you up.  Eventually I’ll make you disappear.  Quietly.”  He smiled.  “You’re not Opeyemi, are you?”

She shrugged.  “Does it matter?”

“Keep the children out,” said Adams.

Wife number three had entered the kitchen behind Dupont.  Her eyes went wide and her jaw dropped when she saw the gun.

“You should stay out too,” said Dupont.

She then felt the handle of the large knife in her right hand.  It was hard to test its balance with just one hand, though.

“Mind if we sit down?” she said.

“I’d prefer it, as a matter of fact.  I’ll tie you to a chair.”  In the hand not holding the gun, he showed a braided rope.  “Woven surgical Kevlar and Teflon.  No one gets out of this.  Maybe I’ll use it for a garrote later on.”

She reached for a chair with her left hand and threw the knife with the right.  It wasn’t a good throw, but it hit Adams in his bony shoulder, slicing into muscle and ligaments before falling to the floor.  He tried to shift the gun to his other hand.  He didn’t make it in time.  She broke his larynx and finished him with the kitchen knife.

She recovered the gun and knife and turned to wife number three.

“Get the children.  Try not to let them see Adams’ body.  There will be a car waiting to take you to the Embassy.”

Wife number three, a huge smile on her face, nodded.

Dupont rubbed her fist.  If Chibuzo survived coming events, she might be back for him.  That made her smile.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, May 21st, 2014 at 4:00 am and is filed under Steve's Shorts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.