Getting tangled in a mosquito net while trying to look like a stoic, commanding world leader was not exactly the historical debut Benjamin had in mind.
Benjamin spent three minutes wrestling with the white fabric, silently cursing the previous owner.
He walked over to the grand wardrobe in the corner of the room. Inside, he found a collection of finely tailored suits. He selected a sharp, dark blue two-piece.
As he dressed, he forced his mind to compartmentalize the lingering headache and focus entirely on the grand chessboard of the 1968 global economy.
He looked at his reflection in the standing mirror. He adjusted his tie, forcing his facial muscles into a mask of unbothered calm.
The Republic of Zambura was currently a textbook example of a neo-colonial trap. The British had officially lowered their flag three years ago, but they had never really left. They still controlled the central bank, they owned the telecommunications infrastructure, and they dictated the international trade agreements.
Zambura's entire economy was based on exporting raw, cheap agricultural goods... mostly cocoa and rubber while importing heavily marked-up manufactured goods.
It was a rigged game designed to keep the national treasury perpetually empty.
If a country only exports cheap fruit and imports expensive tractors, they will eventually have to borrow money from the very people selling the tractors. It was economic slavery with extra steps.
And then there was the oil.
Right now, beneath the western deserts, millions of barrels of crude oil were sitting undiscovered. In a few years, the energy crisis of the 1970s would hit the globe, and the price of oil would skyrocket.
If Zambura could hold onto its drilling rights until then, the country could generate enough wealth to build schools, hospitals, and skyscrapers. They could become a sovereign powerhouse.
But wealth without the power to protect it was just a giant target painted on the country's back.
Benjamin slipped into his suit jacket. If he wanted to protect the oil, he needed a real military. A nation in 1968 could not defend its borders with good intentions and United Nations treaties.
He needed hard, undeniable firepower. He needed modern assault rifles to replace the obsolete, bolt-action relics currently carried by the army. He needed anti-tank RPG-7s to deter foreign incursions. He needed heavy armored vehicles to secure the capital, and a squadron of jet aircraft to control the skies.
Currently, his inventory consisted of exactly zero assault rifles, zero armored vehicles, zero aircraft, and a military general who was actively trying to murder him.
"Well," Benjamin sighed. "Nowhere to go but up."
He turned and walked out of the bedroom, stepping into the cavernous, marble-floored hallway of the presidential residence. The palace was a beautiful relic of colonial architecture, featuring high arched windows and grand chandeliers, but the cracks were literally beginning to show.
The wallpaper was peeling near the baseboards, and the brass fixtures were tarnished. The state simply didn't have the funds for upkeep.
As he walked down the corridor, his leather shoes clicking softly against the marble, he passed a pair of presidential guards. They were dressed in crisp, green uniforms, but Benjamin immediately noticed their weapons.
They were holding old British Lee-Enfield rifles... guns that belonged in a World War II museum, not in the hands of a modern security detail. Furthermore, the guards wouldn't even meet his eyes. They looked nervous, shifting their weight, their knuckles white as they gripped their wooden rifles.
They knew a coup was coming. They were just waiting to see who they were supposed to take orders from by the end of the day.
Benjamin simply offered a polite nod and kept walking toward the grand drawing-room at the end of the hall.
He didn't barge through the heavy oak doors immediately. Instead, he stopped a few feet away, leaning casually against the plaster wall, and listened. The doors were thick, but the men inside were not bothering to keep their voices down.
They clearly believed the young president was cowering in his bed, too terrified to eavesdrop.
"I am losing patience, Ambassador," a deep voice rumbled from inside the room. This was General Mbeki.
"My soldiers have not been paid in weeks. They are restless. The market square is filling with angry students. If we do not act decisively today, the capital will burn."
"Let it burn a little, General," a second voice replied. Ambassador Sterling of the United Kingdom.
"A touch of chaos makes the people desperate for order. It makes them compliant."
Benjamin narrowed his eyes. He didn't need to see the men to understand their dynamic. General Mbeki was a blunt instrument, a warlord who wanted cash and immediate power.
Sterling was the puppet master, treating the general like a useful, albeit annoying, guard dog.
"I did not orchestrate the removal of the old man just to sit around and wait for his weak, sniveling son to stop crying," Mbeki growled,
"I have loyal men surrounding the perimeter. I should just walk into his bedroom, put a bullet in his head, and declare martial law. The military council will back me."
"And then what, General?" Sterling asked, his tone dropping to a freezing chill.
"You shoot the boy, and then the United Nations condemns you. The international banks freeze your personal accounts. The Americans decide you are unstable and fund a rebel group to overthrow you. You cannot just shoot a head of state and expect the world to applaud."
"Then what is your brilliant plan, Englishman?" Mbeki spat.
"Legitimacy, General. It is all about the paperwork," Sterling explained smoothly. "The boy is terrified. His father just died of a 'heart attack'. He knows he is entirely alone. We will present him with the Emergency Stability Act. It transfers all executive decision-making and economic veto power to the military council... meaning you. In exchange, he gets to stay in the palace, play dress-up, and pretend he is the president. He lives, you rule, and my government's mining concessions are officially signed by a recognized head of state. Everyone wins."
"Except the boy," Mbeki grunted.
"The boy gets to keep breathing. That is a luxury in his current position," Sterling said casually. "Once he signs the documents, you can send your men out to clear the protesters. Use live ammunition if you must. Just ensure the docks remain open for our export ships."
Standing in the hallway, Benjamin felt a cold clarity wash over him.
They wanted him to legally sign away the sovereignty of Zambura so that Sterling could drain the country's resources and Mbeki could play dictator with foreign money.
If Benjamin refused to sign, Mbeki would likely lose his temper and shoot him anyway. If he signed it, he would be a powerless prisoner in his own home, delaying his inevitable assassination by a few months at best.
Benjamin reached up and adjusted his tie one last time. He needed to flip the table. He couldn't fight them with military force, so he had to fight them with pure, unadulterated psychological warfare.
He had to convince the arrogant Ambassador and the bloodthirsty General that he was completely insane, entirely unpredictable, or harboring a massive secret weapon they didn't know about.
He reached for the brass handles of the drawing-room doors.
Before his fingers could graze the metal, a frantic, wheezing sound echoed from the far end of the hallway.
Benjamin turned to see Kofi sprinting toward him, his worn-out shoes sliding wildly on the polished marble floor. The old caretaker's face was the color of ash, his eyes wide with a terror so profound it bordered on madness.
"Mr. President!" Kofi hissed, waving his arms frantically as he skidded to a halt in front of Benjamin, completely forgetting his earlier assumption that Benjamin was dying on the bedroom floor.
"Calm down, Kofi. Breathe," Benjamin whispered, glancing at the drawing-room doors to ensure the men inside hadn't heard the commotion.
"What is it?"
"It... it is General Mbeki's men, sir!" Kofi gasped.
"They are no longer just waiting at the perimeter gates!"
Benjamin frowned, his analytical mind snapping into high gear. "What do you mean? Have they breached the palace doors?"
"Worse, sir," Kofi whimpered, tears welling up in his eyes as he pointed a trembling finger toward the grand windows overlooking the front estate.
"They have driven three heavy armored vehicles straight onto the front lawn! The cannons are pointed directly at the main residence!"
Benjamin blinked. He looked at the doors, then looked at the terrified caretaker, and finally let out a chuckle.
General Mbeki had brought tanks to a diplomatic meeting. The man had absolutely zero subtlety.
"Excellent!" Benjamin smiled, patting the caretaker on the shoulder.
"I was worried this meeting was going to be boring!"