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‘What else?’

Of course! Everyone knew it. It was just that they also quickly forgot who was affected by the shift in circumstances brought about by the Moon business.

‘At the start of 2020 it was clear that helium-3 would supersede fossil fuels,’ said Tu. ‘The United States put all their eggs in one basket. Into the development of the space elevator, the extension of the infrastructure on the Moon, the commercial backing of helium-3, Julian Orley. He, in turn, worked feverishly on his fusion reactors. Orley and the USA created an immense bubble back then. It could have all gone horribly wrong if it had burst. The biggest company of all time would have exploded like a cluster bomb, the USA would have suffered painful losses in fossil poker with their unilateral arrangement on the Moon, millions and millions of people would have lost their money. Africa would have been able to continue swimming in wealth, financing the never-ending civil wars from oil income and dictating conditions to the rich nations. Think back to the barrel price in 2019.’

‘It was still up then.’

‘For the last time. Because we know it worked! Orley and the USA built their elevator, and the first one ever at that! I’ve researched it in detail, Owen. On 1 August 2022 the moon base was put into operation, and a few days later, so was the American mining station. Two weeks later the mining of helium-3 officially began. A month and a half later, on 5 October, the first Orley reactor went onto the network and fulfilled all expectations. The fusion age had begun; helium-3 became the energy source of the future. In December, the barrel price of oil was a hundred and
twenty dollars, the following February it sank to seventy-six dollars, and in March China followed suit and sent its first helium-3 deliveries to Earth, albeit with conventional rocket technology and in minute quantities. Nonetheless, the two most commodity-hungry nations were on the Moon. Others panted along behind them: India, Japan, the Europeans, all obsessed with staking their claim. It’s not that oil didn’t play a part any more, but the dependence on it was dwindling. The summer of 2023, fifty-five dollars a barrel. Autumn, forty-two dollars. Even that was fairly high, but it kept going down. People expected brisk trade, that it would never be that cheap again, but they were wrong. The important consumer nations had stocked up their supplies in good time. No one sees the need for more depots, and in the car sector electricity becomes a serious option. The countries that export fossil fuels, which have relied exclusively on their income from the oil and gas trade and therefore neglected their native economy, feel the full impact of the resource curse, particularly in Africa. Potentates like Obiang or Mayé see the end dawning. Now they have to pay the price for milking their countries to death. They don’t make the rules any more. Their pals from overseas, who they played off so wonderfully against each other for decades on end, have had enough of being messed around and having very little to show for it, and now, to top it all off, they aren’t interested in oil any more either! That, my friend, is the reason why Washington’s indignation over Mayé sounded more and more scripted as time went on. For China it’s a done deal, catching up with America and freeing itself from the fossil fetters. So what does the crazed man go and do?’

‘You’re not seriously suggesting that Mayé started his idiotic space programme in order to land on the Moon and develop helium-3?’

‘Yes. Precisely that.’

‘Tian, please. He was a madman. The torturer of a country where the greatest technological achievement was the painstaking maintenance of a functioning power network.’

‘Of course. But he said it.’

‘That he wanted to go to the Moon? Mayé?’

‘That’s what he said. Diane found quotations. He was clearly an idiot. On the other hand, experts attested to the launch pad being in good working order. He sent a news satellite into orbit with it, at any rate.’

‘Which broke down.’

‘Regardless. The launch was successful.’

‘How did he finance even the launch pad?’

‘I guess he used the national budget. Shut down hospitals, I don’t know. The interesting thing is that Mayé’s overthrow definitely wasn’t the result of other countries’

interest in his oil. So what worried Beijing so much that they felt it necessary to get rid of the ruling clique of a tiny little country which had become entirely uninteresting, both economically and politically – and right down to the very last man? With this question in mind, I kept looking – and I found something.’

‘Tell me.’

‘On 28 June 2024, a month before his death, Mayé publicly chastised the exploitative nature of the First World on national television and directed explicit accusations at Beijing. He claimed that China had dropped Africa like a hot potato, the money promised to them had never materialised, and above all, that they were responsible for the entire continent withering away.’

‘Who did he think he was, Africa’s lawyer?’

‘Yes, it’s laughable, isn’t it? But then, while he was saying all this, he let something slip that he shouldn’t have. He said that if Beijing didn’t fulfil its obligations, he would be forced to hawk information about that would incriminate China all over the world. He publicly threatened the Party.’ Tu paused. ‘And a month later he was no longer able to talk.’

‘And he made no indication of what that information was?’

‘Indirectly, yes. He said that his country wouldn’t let anyone bring it down. And, in particular, that the space programme would be extended and another satellite launched, and that certain contemporaries would be well advised to offer their full support unless they wanted a rude awakening.’

Jericho paused. ‘What did China have to do with Mayé’s space programme?’

‘Officially, nothing. But even the dumbest person can figure out that no one in Equatorial Guinea was in a position to build something like that. I mean, physically speaking maybe, but not to make the whole thing a reality. The only thing Mayé came up with was the idea. He waved his millions, and they came from all around: engineers, constructors, physicists. French, German, Russian, American, Indian, from all over the world. But if you look a little closer, one name in particular stands out – Zheng Pang-Wang.’

‘The Zheng Group?’ Jericho blurted out, amazed.

‘That’s the one. Large parts of the construction were in Zheng’s hands.’

‘As far as I know, Zheng is closely connected with the Chinese space travel programme.’

‘Space travel and reactor technologies. Zheng Pang-Wang isn’t just one of the ten richest men in the world, and one with an enormous influence on Chinese politics at that – he also seems to have decided to become Julian Orley’s Chinese counterpart. The cadre are resting their biggest hopes on him. They expect that, sooner or later, he’ll build them their own space elevator and a functioning fusion reactor. So
far, though, he hasn’t delivered either of them. There’s a rumour that he’s putting much more energy into infiltrating and spying on Orley Enterprises. In official circles he’s trying to get Orley to collaborate. There’s even talk that Orley and Zheng like each other, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’

Jericho thought for a moment. ‘Mayé’s assassins acted fast, don’t you think?’

‘Suspiciously so, if you ask me.’

‘Conjuring Ndongo up out of nowhere, and then the logistics of the attack. You can’t plan something like that in four weeks.’

‘I agree with you. The coup was prepared just in case Mayé said the wrong thing.’

‘Which he did—’

‘Excuse me, Owen,’ said Diane’s voice. ‘May I interrupt you?’

‘What’s up, Diane?’

‘I have a Priority A call for you. Yoyo Chen Yuyun.’

‘No problem,’ said Tu. ‘I’ve told you everything I needed to anyway. Keep me posted, okay?’

‘I will. Put her through, Diane.’

‘Owen?’ Yoyo’s voice came through, embedded in street sounds. ‘Nyela got out of the car in the city centre. I followed her for a bit; she was looking in the shop windows and speaking on the phone. She didn’t look particularly worked up or concerned. Two minutes ago she met a man, and now they’re both sitting in the sun in front of a café.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Chatting, having a drink. The guy is dark, but not black, perhaps mixed race. Around fifty years old. You saw the photos of Mayé and his staff. Did any of them look like that?’

‘There aren’t that many photos. And none of them show all of his staff. There’s always someone or other next to him, but you could try searching for the list of his ministers that died during the attack.’ Jericho tried to remember the pictures. ‘None of them had that skin-colour, I think.’

‘What should I do?’

‘Keep at it. How are they acting around each other?’

‘Friendly. A little kiss when they met, a hug. Nothing extreme.’

‘Do you have a rough idea where you are?’

‘We drove over that river twice – the Sprii, Spraa, Spree – one crossing right after the other. The café is in an old railway station, one built in brick with round arches, but nicely renovated. Wait a moment.’

* * *

Yoyo marched along the brick façade and looked out for any markings, street signs or
the name of the station. Hordes of people were streaming down from the steps of the subway station. Owing to the beautiful weather, the forecourt looked as if it were under siege: young people and tourists were pushing the turnover in the numerous pubs, bars, bistros and restaurants sky-high. Clearly Nyela had led her into one of the hip quarters of the city. Yoyo liked it here. It reminded her a little of Xintiandi.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Jericho. ‘I think I know where you are. You must have driven over Museum Island.’

‘I’ll be able to tell you in a second.’

‘Okay.’

Yoyo spotted a white S on a green background. Next to it, something was written in light green lettering. She opened her lips and hesitated. How did one pronounce
s
,
c
and
h
one behind the other?

‘Hacke – s – cher – Mar—’

‘Hackescher Markt?’

‘Yes. It could be that.’

‘Okay. Keep your eye on both of them. If nothing happens here I’ll come and join you.’

‘Okay.’

She ended the call and turned round. The station was excreting an even bigger contingent of travellers, most of whom seemed to be trying to catch up on the time they had lost. The rest, chattering away, spread out amongst the folding chairs and tables of the outdoor eateries, on the hunt for free seats. Suddenly, Yoyo found herself staring at a battery of backs. She stuck her elbows out and pushed her way forward. A waiter circled over like a fighter jet and made a move to run her down. With a dart, she managed to escape behind a little green and yellow tree. Scribble-covered boards were obstructing her view. She ran out past the tables into the square, and approached the café with the blue and white striped awning, under which Nyela and the light-skinned black man were sitting.

Were
supposed
to be sitting.

Yoyo’s heart skipped a beat. She ran inside. No one. Back out again. No Nyela, no companion.

‘Shit,’ she mumbled. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’

But cursing wouldn’t bring them back again, so she rushed back out onto the main street, to where Nyela had succeeded in securing a parking place in rush hour and where she herself had parked the car beneath a strict ‘No Parking’ sign.

The Nissan was gone. Breaking down both physically and mentally, she ran on, issuing pleading looks in all directions, up and down the street, begging fate for mercy, just to curse it the very next moment, and then finally gave up, out
of breath and with sharp pains in her sides. None of it helped. She had cocked it up. All because of a lousy sign. Just because she had insisted on being able to tell Jericho where she was.

How was she supposed to tell him
this
?

* * *

A lighter-skinned black man around fifty years old. Jericho tried to imagine him. He could fit in with Nyela in terms of age.

Andre Donner?

Indecisive, he looked over at Muntu. It was all quiet. The lights were out, as far as he could tell through the mirrored glass anyway. After a few minutes he pulled out his mobile, logged into Diane’s database and loaded the photos of Mayé they had found on the internet.

Almost all of them came from online articles about the coup. The whole thing had made waves only in the West African media, where sumptuously illustrated biographies of the dead dictator had appeared as a result of the putsch: Mayé on a visit to a waterworks, Mayé inspecting a military parade, Mayé orating, patting children’s heads, flanked by oil workers on a platform. A man who, even in the pictures, oozed physical presence and narcissism. Anyone who managed to make it into a picture with him seemed strangely out of focus, insignificant, overshadowed, irrelevant. Aided by the captions, Jericho identified ministers and generals who had died in the coup. The others pictured remained nameless. What united them was their dark or very dark skin colour, typical of the equatorial regions.

Jericho loaded the film which showed Mayé with Vogelaar, various ministers, representatives from the army and the two Chinese managers at the conference table. He zoomed in on the faces and studied the background. A uniformed man sat two seats behind Vogelaar, following the Chinese presentation with an arrogantly bored expression; he might have passed for lighter-skinned, but then again it could just have been down to the effect of the overhead lighting.

Was one of them Donner?

He looked up and stopped short.

The entrance door to Muntu was open.

No, it had just swung shut! Behind the glass, a tall shadow became visible and disappeared into the reflections of the building opposite. Jericho suppressed a curse. While he had turned his attention to the idiotic task of trying to recognise a man he had never seen amongst a group of complete strangers, someone had gone in over there. If he really had gone in, that is, and not opened the door from the inside. Hastily, he pushed his chair back, tucked away his mobile and walked outside.

Was it Donner he’d seen?

He crossed the street, cupped his hands around his eyes and peered in through the small window. The restaurant lay in darkness. No one to be seen. The only thing of note was a blue flicker from a defective emergency light, behind the small windows in the swing doors that led to the kitchen.