Harry sprawled out in the back of the hybrid limo, tight lipped. Riding with his diplomatic entourage in a presidential car, elation might have been the mood. But not with la vida left behind and after an exhausting flight to this obscure African city. Niamey.
To top it off, the Senators lost the game on the plane by one goal; he was pissed. And the hockey highlights had been obscured by their scramble to review recent interchange with these High Impact Climate Change Countries. This HICCC. A bunch of snivelling countries who couldn’t keep up. And who would destroy what everyone wanted—a first world lifestyle.
Representing Minister Kendall’s office would be enough of a crapshoot. And thoughts of drones snuck out of the penalty box, no matter how he slammed his mind’s door. Shit!
André and Paul stepped with him out into the heat, Hotel Gaweye commissionaires opening the limo doors. Presidential guards escorted them up the stone steps, and then up elevators to the door of the executive meeting room.
Harry prepared his look for entry, as there would be introductions. Paul had reviewed the Minister’s reminder list on priorities—Canadian energy exports first. Of course. He also mentioned a name, a Ms. Tamanna Meacham. First name Bangladeshi, André’s research told them, but a Welch surname. Peculiar. Drop assumptions, interpret carefully, read her position. As always, scan for anything personal. They stepped through the door, and he assessed the room at a glance. A brown woman, and a Caucasian man, both dressed casually, sat at the conference table. He led his team in single file to the chairs directly opposite. Harry, now flanked by his team, turned on his winning Scout smile along with his career-building likable squint. They placed their slim cases down beside them and took seats.