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He was shuffling the pack of cards in his hand, impatient to start dealing. We figured he might be a hard rough bastard, recalled Steve - but a madman? That wasn’t part of the plan. The Commandant’s eyes were taunting him, daring him to take the bet. He glanced across at Ian but, as before, could see nothing behind the other man’s dark glasses. If I win, I get to keep your gold - and I’ll put your right hand in the jar next to this one.’ ‘If you win, you can have your white man. Then: ‘We deal one more round,’ he continued, the laughter suddenly stopping. ‘From the last man who lost a hand of poker in this bar,’ Abago chuckled, a pair of pumpkin seeds spitting out of his mouth as he did so. ‘Christ,’ muttered Steve under his breath. Then, as Steve looked closely, a shape.Ī shape that looked suspiciously like a human hand.
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He returned a minute later, carrying a jar which he placed carefully down on the table. One of the soldiers scurried behind the bar. ‘Let’s up the stakes,’ he said finally, and clapped his hands together. ‘The white man goes free,’ Steve told him.Ībago closed his eyes briefly, as if deep in thought, while the smoke curled up around his face. One of the prisoners stumbled forwards, torching up a greasy flame, allowing the fat man to take a long, thoughtful drag of nicotine before he blew some smoke back into the air. And in any kind of battle, whether it is fought with guns or playing cards, numbers are usually enough to ensure victory.Īnd after an hour, the money in the Commandant’s pocket had been emptied.Ībago reached out for a cigarette. He knew the cards, and the odds on every possible combination - and in poker that kind of experience gave you the edge.īut it was two against one. All those years in jail had turned him into an expert in just about every card game. He’d grown up in Belfast, turned himself into the IRA’s most skilful bomb-maker, then done ten years in the Maze before being released under the Good Friday agreement and reinventing himself as a mercenary working for the same private military corporation as Steve. Ian was a skilful poker player, noted Steve.
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Ian and Steve were working as a team, playing off one another. Over the next hour, the game ebbed and flowed, the gold coins and the dollar bills pushed slowly around the table. The next hand went to Steve, the hand after that to Abago. This time, Steve folded with a pair of sixes, but Ian collected the pot with a straight flush. ‘You’ve got a game,’ he said, flashing a huge grin. One of the prisoners was backing away, his chains clanking as he did so. He glanced towards the Commandant.Ībago’s eyes were darting from the gold to the money, and back again. ‘But I like to see some real stakes,’ he continued. He’d pulled out $1,000 in crisp new notes and placed them on the table in front of him. ‘Like I said, I’ll play you for his freedom,’ Steve repeated. You could fake any of them, but a man such as the Commandant would know the weight and feel of real gold, and could tell it instantly from tin plate. In Africa, there were only three currencies that mattered: dollars and gold and bullets. He reached down and picked one up, assessing its weight.