There will be no conflict here. The Republic of East Africa will be ally to all of you." Mandobar looked to Albondigas and Copefeld in turn, eyes beaming. Far, far down the enormous table, the Tadzhikistan representative began to applaud. Near him, the agent for the Sons of Belial started clapping, as well. What began as a polite ripple quickly grew. Tokumo, Copefeld-even Jamon Albondigas joined in. Like thunder rumbling in across the vast Serengeti, the cheers grew and grew, echoing across the great hall.

And in the place of honor at the head of the table, Mandobar reveled in the accolades from this collection of the world's greatest purveyors of misery and dependence.

THE MEETING DISBANDED late in the evening. The cheers were long dead by the time Russell Copefeld crept alone through the shadowy compound near the darkened meeting hall.

The night was warm. Distant animals until now familiar only from PBS documentaries howled sad, desperate shrieks at the bejeweled African sky.

A line of neat bungalows to his right housed some of the delegates from around the world. Many others had been helicoptered back to Bachsburg after the meeting.

It was now long past midnight, and all of the tidy little houses were bathed in blackness. The only light Copefeld could see came from the cottage of the French delegate. A local brothel had been supplying prostitutes for the delegates since first they arrived at the secret VIP village. No doubt the French agent was at it again.

Copefeld didn't care about the Frenchman or his whores. Right now, all he was interested in was getting paid.

This cloak and dagger was ridiculous. Stealing around like common thieves in the dead of night. He'd be sure to let Mandobar know when they met.

There was nothing wrong with bank transactions. Hell, wasn't that what all of this was about? Untraceable cash, banks willing to look the other way at huge deposits and, most importantly, no tax man breathing down anyone's neck.