Shaka II Read Free Page B

Robert got to his feet and raced to the man with the laser, hurling himself against the man’s back and sending him sprawling. Somehow he got his hand on the gun as the two went down in a heap and he came up firing. The first blast of deadly light turned one of the pistols to molten metal, the second went right between the third man’s eyes. The man whose gun had melted threw himself at Robert, which was all but suicidal: I don’t think Robert had ever lost a fight since he began building his body up after that one experience as a boy. He reached out a long, powerful arm, grabbed the man by the throat, lifted him off the ground until the wild thrashing became feeble twitching, and then literally threw him away.
        The first gunman, the one with the laser whom he had disarmed, got up, took one look into Robert’s eyes, didn’t like what he saw, spotted some police running onto the field, and raced to them, his arms in the air, screaming that he surrendered.
        Robert walked over to where the President cowered behind the podium, gently lifted him to his feet, and kept a steadying arm around him until the medics arrived about a minute later.
        It was not only an act of extreme heroism, but it had been seen by eighty million people, two-thirds of them eligible to vote in the upcoming election. That night Lloyds lowered his odds to four-to-one, and within a week, when matched against the President, it was six-to-five pick ‘em. By election day Robert was an odds-on favorite, and he won the way a heavy favorite should.
        The morning after the election he issued executive pardons to the two surviving would-be assassins. There was some brief outrage in the press, but he pointed out that if he, who had literally risked his life to prevent them from killing the President, was willing to forgive them, what right did anyone else have to hold a grudge?
        “That was a remarkable act of generosity,” I said when he and I were briefly alone in his office. I had been appointed his Chief of Staff, but it was entirely for show; he saw who he wanted, when he wanted.
        “You have no idea,” he replied with an unfathomable smile.
        “I think the people will love you all the more for it: a hero-but a hero with compassion.”
        “The thought had crossed my mind,” he said dryly.
        “I can’t get over how serendipitous it was,” I continued. “I think you were actually winning the debate, and it probably wouldn’t have won you ten extra votes. But those crazed killers showed up and suddenly you’re the biggest hero we’ve had since…well, Nelson Mandela was a Xhosa, so…since Shaka himself.”
        “His name, as I keep telling you, was Tchaka,” replied Robert. “And the most serendipitous thing in the past month is that Lloyds paid off promptly.”
        “I didn’t know you needed money.”
        He shrugged. “If I hadn’t been elected, I wouldn’t have needed it.”
        “I don’t understand,” I said.
        “You will,” he replied. “The day after tomorrow Dlamini and Gumbi”-the two surviving assassins-“will be released. We’ll give the press a few days to ask them the usual endlessly stupid questions. Then, by next week, when the interest and the crowd have died down, you’ll pay them a visit.”
        “And?”
        “And give each of them half of my Lloyds winnings.”
        “You hired them?” I said, wondering why I didn’t feel more shocked at the revelation.
        “Be a realist, John,” he answered easily. “What killer in his right mind commits murder-or tries to-in front of eighty million viewers?”
        I stared at him for a long moment. “Welcome to the wonderful world of politics,” I said bitterly.
        He shook his head. “No, John,” he corrected me. “Welcome to winning.”
        

6.
        
        I was Robert’s first major appointment-the Postmaster for all South