Inside the cab, Captain Elias sat behind the wheel, his knuckles white as he scanned the dark city corners for any sign of General Mbeki's military patrols.
Benjamin sat in the passenger seat, using the dim light of the dashboard to flip through the moldy customs ledgers he had salvaged from the docks.
"Mr. President," Elias finally spoke. "Are you absolutely certain those ledgers hold the power you think they do? They are just paper. Mbeki has men with guns. Sterling has the entire Bank of London backing him up. How can a few rotting books stop a military coup?"
Benjamin did not look up from the faded ink of the 1963 export records.
"Captain, you are still thinking like a soldier..." Benjamin replied.
Elias frowned, keeping his eyes on the road. "I do not understand."
"Ambassador Sterling controls Zambura because he has convinced the international community... and my late father that we owe the British Empire thirty million pounds," Benjamin explained, closing the ledger and resting it on his lap.
"That debt is the legal justification for everything they do. It is why they control our export tariffs. It is the invisible chain around our neck."
"But these ledgers, prove that the British Colonial Governor stole fifty million pounds worth of raw diamonds during the transition of power. He did not report the export. He smuggled the wealth out and left the newly independent Republic with empty coffers.
If I release this documentation to the French and Soviet embassies, the international banking courts will have a field day. It proves we do not owe the British anything. In fact, they owe us twenty million pounds in reparations."
Elias's jaw dropped. "If Sterling knows those ledgers exist..."
"He doesn't," Benjamin interrupted. "Sterling assumed the old colonial administration destroyed the evidence before they left."
Benjamin leaned back in his seat. "If Mbeki kills me tomorrow morning, the British will bury this country. But if we survive the siege, I will hold a press conference, display these ledgers, and legally default on the British loans. I will sever their financial control over Zambura in a single afternoon. And without British money backing him, General Mbeki is just a loud man in a uniform."
The truck suddenly lurched as Elias hit the brakes. They had reached the edge of the palace district.
The grand, colonial architecture of the estate loomed in the distance, bathed in the glare of the military spotlights. Mbeki's men had surrounded the perimeter.
"Sir, we cannot drive a massive commercial fuel truck through the front gates." Elias whispered, shifting the vehicle into park near a dark, overgrown alleyway.
"Mbeki's patrols will spot us instantly..."
"I know," Benjamin said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "That is why we are taking the back entrance."
...
Thirty minutes later, the ten disguised guardsmen, led by Elias, were hauling the crates of Soviet weaponry through the damp servant tunnels that ran beneath the estate walls.
Once they breached the palace basement, Benjamin immediately set the next phase of the plan into motion.
"Elias, take five men and begin distributing the AK-47s to the loyalists on the upper floors!" Benjamin commanded.
"Yes, Mr. President!" Elias nodded, already prying open the crates.
"The remaining five men are with me," Benjamin continued. He pointed to the heavy canvas bags filled with the stolen diesel fuel.
While Elias armed the palace guard, Benjamin led his small team to the grand foyer.
The reinforced doors of the main entrance were locked and barricaded from the inside.
Benjamin peered through a narrow slit in the curtains covering the adjacent windows.
Outside, the three British Ferret scout cars were still parked on the avenue leading to the front gates.
The turret machine guns were pointed directly at the building. Mbeki's soldiers were lounging near the vehicles, smoking cigarettes and laughing, completely unaware of the lethal trap being set mere yards away.
Benjamin turned to the nervous guardsmen. They were holding the heavy canvas bags of fuel, looking at the beautiful doors and the priceless imported rugs decorating the foyer.
They hesitated, their traditional respect for the palace conflicting with the orders...
"Open the bottom panels of the doors!" Benjamin ordered sharply.
"Do not pour the fuel on the carpets; it will soak in and burn the house down with us inside. Funnel the diesel through the mail slots and the structural gaps at the base of the doors!"
The men snapped to attention. They quickly uncapped the canvas bags and began pouring the fuel through the narrow openings.
The strong smell of diesel quickly filled the grand foyer.
"Mr. President," Kofi, the old caretaker, rushed into the foyer, holding a flickering candle.
"What... what is happening? Are we surrendering?"
Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed down the marble staircase. Captain Elias jogged into the foyer, a Soviet AK-47 slung over his shoulder.
"The upper floors are secured, sir!" Elias reported. "I have two men stationed on the roof with the RPG-7s. They have a clear line of sight on all three armored vehicles. The rest of the men have established a crossfire perimeter at the second-story windows. If Mbeki's men try to rush the doors, we will cut them to ribbons!"
Benjamin nodded approvingly. "Excellent work, Captain. And the fuel?"
"The exterior portico is saturated!" one of the guardsmen reported.
Benjamin turned to look at the doors. Beyond them, General Mbeki and Ambassador Sterling believed they had trapped a frightened boy.
"Captain Elias," Benjamin said.
"Yes, Mr. President?"
"When the sun comes up, Mbeki is going to demand that I open these doors and sign his treaty,"
"I want you to tell your men on the roof to hold their fire until Mbeki's men step onto the fuel-soaked portico."
"And Elias?" Benjamin added. "When the time comes to ignite the fuel... try to aim for the Ambassador's car. I find his choice in vehicles deeply offensive to our national aesthetic..."