The Mission Song (31 page)

‘I’m relieved.’

‘I think it’s just a case of calling a halt immediately, and making absolutely sure the halt happens. We’ve got twelve full days before they’re due to go in, so there’s plenty of time. Stop the war plan, stand the Mwangaza down until he can find proper, ethical supporters—well, like yourself, sir—tear up the contract—’

‘There’s a
contract
, is there?’

‘Oh indeed there is! A really shady one, if I may say so, sir. Drafted by Monsieur Jasper Albin of Besançon—whom you have used in the past, and whom presumably your people decided to use again—and rendered into Swahili by none other than my humble self.’

I was getting a bit carried away by now. I suppose the notion that Hannah and I would any minute be emerging from the shadows and leading normal lives was going to my head.

‘Do you happen to have a copy of this contract?’

‘No, but I’ve seen it, obviously. And committed chunks of it to memory, which with me is—well, pretty much automatic, to be frank.’

‘And what makes you think it’s
shady
?’

‘It’s fake. Look, I’ve seen contracts. It’s hypothetical. It pretends to be about agriculture but actually it’s about supplying weapons and
matériel
to start a small war. But who ever heard of a small war in the Congo? You might as well be a little bit pregnant,’ I ventured boldly, quoting Haj, and was encouraged by a knowing smile from my host. ‘And the profits—from the minerals, I mean—the People’s Portion, so-called—are a straight swindle,’ I went on. ‘A fraud, frankly. There’s nothing in it for the People at all. No People’s Portion, no profits for anyone except your Syndicate, the Mwangaza and his henchmen.’

‘Terrible,’ Lord Brinkley murmured, shaking his head in commiseration.

‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, sir. The Mwangaza is a great man in many respects. But he’s old. Well, old for the job, forgive me. He’s already looking like a puppet. And he’s compromised himself so much that I just don’t see how he can possibly cut free. I’m really sorry, but it’s true, sir.’

‘Oldest story in the game.’

After which we traded a few examples of African leaders who had shown signs of early greatness, only to go to the bad a few years later, although I privately doubted whether Mobutu, featured on the desk behind him, had ever qualified for this league. It did, however, pass through my mind that if, down the line, Lord Brinkley thought fit to reward me for my timely intervention, and incidentally keep me onside while he was about it, a job in his organisation might be the answer for both of us, because, my goodness, did they need somebody to sweep out that stable!

His next question therefore took me considerably aback.

‘And you’re quite sure you saw me that night.’

‘What night is this, sir?’

‘Whenever you say it was. Friday evening, am I right? I lost the thread for a moment. You saw me on Friday evening in Berkeley Square. In a house.’

‘Yes.’

‘Remember what I was wearing?’

‘Smart casual. Fawn slacks, the soft suède jacket, loafers.’

‘Remember anything about the house—apart from the number which you didn’t get, or you’ve forgotten?’

‘Yes. I do. Everything.’

‘Describe it, will you? In your own words.’

I started to, but my head was reeling and I was having difficulty picking out salient features on demand. ‘It had this big hall with a split staircase—’

‘
Split?
’

‘- and eagles over the doors—’

‘
Live
eagles?’

‘There were all sorts of people there apart from you. Please don’t pretend you weren’t there, sir. I spoke to you. I thanked you for your stand on Africa!’

‘Can you name a few?’

I named them, if not with my usual aplomb. I was brewing up, and when I start to brew up, it’s hard to get a grip on myself. The corporate raider known as Admiral Nelson on account of his eyepatch: I got him. The famous TV presenter from the world of pop: I got him too. The belted young nobleman who owns a chunk of the West End. The exiled African former finance minister. The Indian clothing billionaire. The supermarket tycoon who had recently acquired one of our great national dailies ‘as a hobby’. I was breaking up but kept trying.

‘The man you called
Marcel
, sir!’ I shouted. ‘The African man you wanted at your side when you made your conference call—’

‘Was the Queen there?’

‘You mean Philip? The man you call the African Queen? No, he wasn’t! But Maxie was. Philip didn’t show up till the island.’

I had not intended to raise my voice, but I had, and Lord Brinkley’s reaction was to lower his own in counterpoint.

‘You go on and on about
Philip
and
Maxie
as if they were these chums of mine,’ he complained. ‘I’ve never met them. I’ve never heard of them. I don’t know who you’re talking about.’

‘Then why don’t you ask your fucking wife about them?’

I’d lost it. You can’t describe blind anger unless the person you’re talking to has experienced it personally. There are physical symptoms. Pins and needles in the lips, giddiness, temporary astigmatism, nausea, and an inability to distinguish colours and objects in the immediate vicinity. Plus, I should add, an uncertainty regarding what you have actually said as opposed to what is boiling up in your mouth but you have failed to expel.

‘Kitty!’ He had flung open the door and was yelling. ‘I’ve got something to ask my fucking wife. Would you mind joining us a minute?’

Lady Kitty stood sentinel-still. Her blue eyes, devoid of their sparkle, stared straight into her husband’s.

‘Kitty, darling. Two quickies. Names. I’m going to shoot them at you and I want you to answer straight away, instinctively, before you think.
Maxie
.’

‘Never heard of him. Not in a thousand years. Last Max I knew died aeons ago. The only people who called him Maxie were the tradesmen.’

‘
Philip
. Our friend here says I call him the African Queen, which I find rather insulting to both of us, frankly.’

She frowned, and ventured a forefinger to her lip. ‘Sorry. Can’t do a Philip either. There’s Philippa Perry-Onslow but she’s a girl, or says she is.’

‘And while we have you, darling. Last Friday evening—what time was it, did you say?’

‘Now,’ I replied.

‘So seventy-two hours ago if we’re going to be precise—Friday, remember, when we normally go to the country, but forget that for a moment, I’m not trying to put thoughts into your head—
where were we
?’ He glanced ostentatiously at his watch. ‘Seven-ten p.m. Think very hard, please.’

‘On our way to Marlborough, of course.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘For the weekend. What do you think?’

‘And would you swear to that in a court of law if necessary? Because we have a young man here—very gifted, very charming, means well, I’m sure—who is under some very serious—some very
dangerous
for all of us—misapprehensions.’

‘Of course I would, darling. Don’t be silly.’

‘And
how
did we go to Marlborough, darling? By what
means
?’

‘By car, of course. Brinkley, what
are
you on about?’

‘Did Henry drive?’

‘You drove. Henry was off.’

‘At what time did we leave, would you imagine?’

‘Oh darling. You know very well. I had everything packed and ready by three, but you had a late lunch as usual so we hit the
worst
rush-hour traffic in the world, and didn’t make the Hall till nine and sups was ruined.’

‘And who spent the weekend with us?’

‘Gus and Tara, of course. Freeloading, as usual. High time they took us to Wilton’s. They always
say
they will, but they actually never
do
,’ she explained, turning to me as if I would understand.

I had been cooling down till then, but meeting her expressionless gaze head-on was enough to bring the heat rushing back.

‘You were
there
!’ I blurted at him. I turned back to his wife: ‘I shook his bloody hand, your husband’s. Maxie was there too! He thinks he can do good in Kivu but he can’t. He’s not a schemer, he’s a soldier. They were on the island and they planned a proxy war so that the Syndicate could hoover up the coltan market and short-sell it, and they tortured Haj! With a cattle prod that Spider made for them. I can prove it.’

I’d said it, and I couldn’t unsay it, but at least I had the wisdom to stop.

‘Prove it how?’ Brinkley enquired.

‘With my notes.’

‘What notes?’

I was pulling back. I was remembering Hannah. ‘As soon as I got back from the island, I made notes,’ I lied. ‘I’ve got perfect recall. Short term. If I’m quick enough, and I’ve got the verbatims in my head, I can write everything down, word for word. Which is what I did.’

‘Where?’

‘When I got home. Straight away.’

‘Home being where?’ His gaze dropped to the letter lying in front of him on his desk:
Dear Bruno
. ‘Home being in Battersea. You sat down, and you wrote out everything you remembered, word for word. Marvellous.’

‘Everything.’

‘Starting when?’

‘From Mr Anderson onwards.’

‘Onwards to where?’

‘Berkeley Square. Battersea Power Station. Luton airport. The island. Back.’

‘So it’s
your
account of what
you
saw and heard on
your
island, recalled in the tranquillity of
your
Battersea home, several hours later.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sure you’re very clever but that is not, I’m afraid, what we would call either
proof
or
evidence
. I happen to be a lawyer. Do you have the notes with you?’

‘No.’

‘You left them at home perhaps.’

‘Probably I did.’

‘Probably. But you can put your hands on them, of course, should you ever take it into your head to blackmail me or sell your ridiculous story to the public prints.’ He sighed, like a good man who has reached a sad conclusion. ‘Well, there we have it, don’t we? I’m very sorry for you. You’re persuasive, and I’m sure you believe every word you say. But I would warn you to be circumspect before you repeat your allegations outside these four walls. Not everyone will be as lenient as we’ve been. Either you’re a practised criminal of some sort or you need medical help. Probably both.’

‘He’s married, darling,’ Lady Kitty put in helpfully from the wings.

‘Have you told your wife?’

I believe I said no.

‘Ask him why he brought a tape recorder.’

‘Why did you?’

‘I always carry one. Other people carry computers. I’m a top interpreter, so I carry a recorder.’

‘Without any tapes,’ Lady Kitty reminded us.

‘I keep them separate,’ I said.

There was a moment when I thought Brinkley might tell me to empty my pockets onto the table, in which case I would not have been accountable for my actions, but I believe now that he didn’t have the nerve. Passing under Lady Kitty’s battery of CCTVs, I would gladly have turned right instead of left, or for that matter hurled myself under the wheels of a convenient oncoming vehicle rather than confess the scale of my folly, anger and humiliation to my beloved Hannah, but fortunately my feet knew better than I did. I was about to enter the café, but she had seen me coming and met me on the doorstep. Even from a distance, my face must have told her all she needed to know. I took back the tapes and notepads. She held my arm in both her hands and steered me down the pavement the way she might have guided a casualty away from the scene of the accident.

From a supermarket somewhere we bought lasagne and a fish pie to cook in the Hakims’ microwave, plus salad, fruit, bread, cheese, milk, six cans of sardines, tea, and two bottles of Rioja. Hailing a cab, I managed to recall the address of Mr Hakim’s hostelry and even gave the driver a street number twenty houses short of our destination. My concern was not for myself but for Hannah. In a mistaken gesture of gallantry, I even went so far as to suggest she resume sleeping at her hostel.

‘Good idea, Salvo. I take a beautiful young doctor and leave you to save Kivu.’

But by the time we sat down to our first home-cooked meal together, she had recovered her high spirits.