The Perfect Soldier (15 page)

The closet was at the back of the restaurant. It didn’t have a roof and the tiled floor was under water. Molly found the ceramic footholds on either side of the central hole and squatted as best she could, one hand keeping her skirt up, the other holding the umbrella. By the time she came to use it, the newspaper had turned to pulp, and she squatted there for a minute or two longer, the warm rain pouring off the umbrella, her mind quite blank.

The last few days – Giles’s disappearance, the rush for the visa, the vaccinations, the night flight south – had emptied her of everything. Whatever happened next was out of her hands. The only part of her life that remained in focus was James. Finding him. Tending his body. Saying goodbye. She thought about it a moment longer, what Muengo would really be like, whether or not she’d be able to cope, what she could possibly find there that might soften the loss of her son. Then, without warning, the power came back on. The signals bulb began to fizz in its rusty socket
over the door and she heard a discreet cough in the yard outside.

‘Molly,’ Robbie was whispering, ‘you OK in there?’

The needle on the fuel gauge had been on ‘Empty’ for at least three miles when McFaul drove into the ambush. He was returning to the schoolhouse after a fruitless search for Domingos. He’d been to address after address, hunting for friends and relatives, but no one had any news of the little Angolan. The shelling, everyone said, had been terrible. In the chaos of those four days, anything might have happened.

Now, McFaul began to slow the Land Rover, easing down through the gear box, still preoccupied by Domingos’s disappearance. Bodies had begun to appear at the roadside, roped in cloth or wrapped in straw mats, waiting for someone to come along and bury them. Ahead was a line of oil drums across the road. Abandoned beneath the stump of a palm tree was a burned-out army truck. Of troops, or police, there was no sign.

McFaul brought the Land Rover to a halt, opening the door to move one of the oil drums aside. He was about to get out when he heard the crack of a semi-automatic rifle. At first he didn’t associate it with anything personal. Then there came another shot, and another, followed by a burst of sustained fire. At the same time, the windscreen of the Land Rover shattered, covering him with glass, and he heard the angry whine of bullets ricocheting off a nearby wall. He hesitated a moment, one leg still dangling from the open door, then he saw the line of army troops, six or seven of them, emerging from cover about a hundred yards away. Some of them were laughing. Others were having difficulty
standing up. One was raising his carbine again, taking careful aim.

McFaul threw the Land Rover into reverse, pulling into a tight U-turn, cursing himself for offering such an easy target. These guys were drunk. They’d obviously been looting some of the aid houses, stripping them of everything useful, anything they might eat or drink. That’s what had happened at the schoolhouse. That’s where the fuel and the contents of the freezer had gone.

McFaul was accelerating away now, praying that the diesel held out. He could hear the crackle of small-arms fire behind him and the zip of the bullets past the cab. The guys were having fun, he thought, real turkey shoot. Then there was a sharp metallic clang beside his right ear and he threw himself against the door as the glass in the speedo disintegrated. He looked in the mirror, feeling the engine beginning to falter, seeing nothing but the line of oil drums across the road. He began to weave the Land Rover left and right, trying to throw the soldiers off their aim, gathering speed as he did so. Up ahead was an intersection, the right-hand turn blocked by another army truck. There were more soldiers behind it. He could see black faces peering round the driving cab. A hand appeared, then withdrew, and for a split second, seeing the grenade rolling towards him, McFaul knew he was going to die. It was too close. It couldn’t fail to kill him.

He stamped on the accelerator, pulling the Land Rover to the left, away from the grenade, pure instinct. The offside of the Land Rover caught the blast. The front tyre shredded and the glass in the door blew inwards and McFaul felt the vehicle lurch on its chassis. For a moment he thought it was going to turn over and he hauled on the wheel, trying to keep it upright, still travelling at speed, knowing now that he had to try and make the last half-mile to the hospital. He
could feel something hot and sticky oozing down his right cheek and there was a sharp, burning sensation in his shoulder. Every time he turned the wheel he gasped with pain.

At the end of the road, he wrenched the Land Rover into a right-hand turn. He could hear the remains of the tyre flailing on the road, and a harsh grinding noise as the bare metal rim bit into the tarmac. Up ahead was the abandoned apartment block which housed the hospital. The hospital was on the two upper floors. Over the blue polythene sheeting that hid the windows someone had hung a huge red cross. He concentrated on it, oblivious now to what he’d left behind. The engine was beginning to miss, coughing and jerking, and he took it out of gear for the final few yards, coasting to a halt in the shadow of what had once been the main entrance.

For a moment, he let himself slump behind the wheel. His shoulder had gone numb, no more pain, and when he lifted a hand to his cheek he could feel the fragments of glass embedded amongst four days’ growth of beard. His hand found the door release, his fingers slippery with his own blood, and he leaned his weight against the door, opening it. Then, from nowhere, he heard a voice, felt a hand supporting him, and he looked up, infinitely weary, recognising the freckles and the rich auburn curls.

Christianne was out of breath. She stepped aside, letting two Angolans lift McFaul from the driving seat. They carried him into the apartment block, up several flights of stairs, Christianne following behind. He answered her shouted questions as best he could. Yes, he thought he’d been hit. No, it didn’t hurt too much.

They got to the second floor, pushing through a dirty sheet hanging from the ceiling. The place was in virtual
darkness and there was a strong smell of bleach. The Angolans grunted with the effort of lifting McFaul’s body onto a table and then Christianne’s face was there again, beside his own, her fingers probing for wounds. She produced a pair of scissors and began to cut away at his T-shirt. He felt the coolness of the scissors against his skin, then her face was at eye level again as she inspected his bare shoulder. She was talking to someone else now, in French, and McFaul heard a man laughing. Seconds later one of the Norwegian surgeons was beaming down at him. A shard from the wing mirror had lodged in his upper arm. It had made a mess of his serpent tattoo but he’d seen worse injuries. He dipped a length of McFaul’s scissored T-shirt in disinfectant and began to swab the edges of the wound. The pain made McFaul gasp, a sensation of immense heat, and for a moment he was back in the hospital in Kuwait, semiconscious, trying to make sense of what had happened. It was right what they said about mine victims. It didn’t really hurt for several hours. Losing half a leg had been infinitely less painful than this.

Christianne was back beside him, attending to his face with a pair of tweezers. He could hear the slivers of deposited glass tinkling in the kidney bowl as she coaxed each one out. She was smiling now, one hand steadying his head, the other probing for more splinters. At length, satisfied, she stepped back.

‘Un moment,’
she said.

She disappeared and McFaul lay on his side while the Norwegian bound his arm with a length of torn sheet. The wound was beginning to throb now and he winced as the surgeon tightened the final knot. Later, if they could find any Novocain, he’d put some stitches in. McFaul lay back, sweating, his eyes closed. He knew he’d been lucky. At the road-block, sober, the soldiers would have killed him in
seconds. The grenade, on any other day, would have torn him apart. The shock finally hit him and he began to shake, pulling his knees up to his chin, pushing his clenched fists deep between his thighs. He felt cold, empty. He felt as if every last ounce of courage had drained out of him.

There was a movement by his head and a stifled cough. He opened one eye. Christianne again, and another face beside hers. The forehead was swathed in bandages, and one eye was purpled with bruising, but there was no mistaking the smile. McFaul struggled to get up but couldn’t. He felt his eyes filling with tears and he turned his head away, still trembling. Then a hand closed on his and he heard the familiar chuckle.

‘Hey …’ Domingos was saying, ‘good to see you.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Todd Llewelyn was in the lobby of the Presidente Meridien Hotel, wondering whether the South African would show up, when he recognised the face at the reception desk. The woman had just been dropped in the hotel forecourt. She was tall, elegant, expensively dressed. The Angolan in the suit behind the wheel of the big Mercedes was still waiting for a farewell wave. Like most of the newly arrived in Luanda, the woman looked slightly dazed.

Llewelyn picked up his shoulder-bag and approached the desk. A revolving stand offered a selection of foreign magazines, most of them at least a month old. He began to browse through a copy of
Time
, listening as the woman enquired about a pre-booked room. She’d come from London. She’d be staying a week. She put her Dior handbag on the desk, looking for her passport, asking whether there were any messages. The clerk began to check and the woman turned round, at last lifting a tired arm to the driver of the Mercedes. She’d put on a little weight since Llewelyn had last seen her and she’d done something complicated with her hair, but the mannerisms were still there: the heavy mascara, the over-ready smile, the tiny nerve that occasionally fluttered at one corner of her mouth.

At the BBC, as a line producer on a flagship documentary series, Alma Bradley had wedded a skittish femininity to a ruthless talent for mixing it with the roughest competition.
She’d kept long hours and taken few prisoners and when the editor’s job was boarded there was no one at Kensington House who didn’t win money on the inevitable bets. That Alma would end up in charge was never in doubt. The real question was quite where she’d go next.

The clerk behind the desk had found a message. The name of the sender confirmed Llewelyn’s worst fears.

‘Senhor Tavares,’ he said, ‘from the Ministry of Information.’

Alma thanked him, reading the message and folding it into her handbag. The Louis Vuitton luggage was already on a trolley, being wheeled across the lobby. She followed the concierge and disappeared into the lift without a backward glance.

Llewelyn returned the magazine to the rack. Alma Bradley was the living proof that there was still money and fame in television documentaries. Her freelance production company, ABTV, had projects placed with all the major outlets. She’d built a team around her who’d managed to generate a flood of irresistible ideas, trademarked by that rare knack of finding the right human face for the really important issues. Molly Jordan was the perfect ABTV vehicle and the note from the Ministry of Information proved it. Antonio Tavares headed the government’s Media Liaison Unit. Llewelyn had spent an hour in his office only yesterday. Without his approval, and a hefty fee, nothing got filmed.

‘Mr Llewelyn?’

It was a soft male voice, freighted with a heavy South African accent. Llewelyn spun round. A man in his mid-twenties was standing beside the magazine rack. He was much shorter than Llewelyn had somehow expected. He was wearing bleached denims and a cotton leisure shirt. His hair was blond, curling over the collar of his shirt, and under
the tan he affected an air of almost permanent amusement. He wore a bracelet of elephant hair on one wrist and a big Seiko watch on the other. In a different life he could have been a minor film star, or the owner of a suddenly fashionable restaurant.

Llewelyn extended a hand. His contact at the airport had described this man as the best pilot in Southern Africa. Not cheap, he’d said, but completely fearless. The kind of guy you pray for when the weather’s impossible, and one engine’s out, and you’ve somehow lost the map that matters. The kind of guy you need to get you to Muengo. Real artist.

‘Piet Rademeyer?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Good to meet you.’

At Rademeyer’s suggestion, they went through to the hotel’s coffee shop. He seemed to know the place well, trading small talk with one of the under-managers on the way. Llewelyn chose a table at the back, beside one of the big panoramic windows. Rademeyer ordered coffee and toast, letting Llewelyn make the running. From time to time he interrupted the older man, his questions direct to the point of aggression.

‘Why Muengo?’

Llewelyn hesitated. He was still thinking about Alma Bradley. Somehow she must have picked up the story. Maybe the press report in the
Guardian
. Maybe a pre-publication leak in the
Sunday Mirror
. Either way, it didn’t matter. Competition changed everything.

‘Business,’ Llewelyn muttered. ‘It’s just important we get in. That’s all.’

‘What kind of business?’

‘My business.’

‘You know the place is under siege?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Llewelyn paused again. ‘The people I’ve been talking to say that might not be a problem. Not for you.’

The young pilot laughed.

‘They mean I’d risk it,’ he said, ‘that’s all. It’s no guarantee we’d get in there.’

‘Of course. But you’d try.’

‘Yeah, I would.’ He nodded. ‘How much are you paying?’

‘How much would you want?’

‘That wasn’t my question. They explain the normal rate?’

‘Yes. Five thousand dollars a day. All in.’

‘Treble it.’

‘For a Twin Otter?’

‘No.’ Rademeyer was spreading grape jelly on the remains of his toast. ‘A Dove.’

‘How big’s that?’

‘Smaller than an Otter. Six up. Or fewer bodies and more cargo. Depending. It’s your call. You decide.’

‘Is this your aircraft?’

‘Yes.’

‘You own it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it’s still fifteen thousand dollars?’

‘Afraid so. Like I said, it’s your call. Get a better price somewhere else …’ he shrugged, ‘you’ll maybe save yourself some money.’

Llewelyn gazed out of the window. A tiny fishing boat was putting out to sea, its wake feathering the flat grey waters of the lagoon. Fifteen thousand dollars was an enormous chunk out of the programme budget, the production equivalent of all their other travel and accommodation expenses.

‘Does that price guarantee a landing?’ he enquired.

‘No.’

‘Just getting there?’

‘Yep. And taking a look. If they’ve blocked the field, trucks, tractors, whatever, it could be evil. Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On whether they know what they’re doing. The Dove’s a tough old airplane. There are ways and means.’

Llewelyn nodded, uncertain what lay at the end of this conversation. Until a couple of years back, Piet Rademeyer had been flying for the South African Air Force. Heading north, he’d evidently given himself five years to make his fortune. At prices like these, he’d be rich by Christmas.

‘They tell me you flew jets. Back home.’

Rademeyer reached for the last of his coffee.

‘Mirages,’ he said briefly. ‘Plus some of the bigger stuff. They tell you about the payment procedure as well?’

‘Half up front, half on completion.’

‘Sure, but in dollars.’ His hand went to the back pocket of his jeans. Llewelyn took the folded card, flattening it against the table. The card read ‘Rademeyer Aviation’. Underneath there was a Luanda box number.

‘On the back,’ Rademeyer said, nursing his coffee.

Llewelyn turned the card over. There was a handwritten address in Johannesburg and a line of digits underneath.

‘Bank of Natal,’ Rademeyer explained, ‘and the number of the account.’

‘You want the money deposited there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Before we fly?’

‘Half of it.’ He nodded. ‘A banker’s draft will do. Dollars, though. Like I said.’

Llewelyn thought about the proposition for a moment. He’d need to organise the banker’s draft through Pegley in London. For the time being, he’d pretend that $7,500 was
the total fee. That way he’d avoid tiresome arguments about extortion. Not that Pegley wouldn’t have a point. He glanced up. Rademeyer was studying the mirror behind Llewelyn’s head. Alma Bradley had appeared at the other end of the coffee shop. She’d changed into a mid-length cotton dress, a vivid green patterned in yellow. The long blonde hair, secured by a velvet ribbon when she’d arrived, now hung down her back.

Llewelyn leaned forward over the table.

‘It’s crazy money,’ he said. ‘How about five up front, five on completion? Providing we land?’

Rademeyer showed no signs of having heard him. He’d half-turned in his seat now, watching Alma as she sat down and signalled the waitress for a menu. The last thing Llewelyn wanted was Alma knowing he was already here. He put a hand on Rademeyer’s arm. The South African didn’t take his eyes off the newcomer.

‘OK,’ Llewelyn said hastily, ‘let’s talk about the rest, the balance. When does that become payable?’

‘Whenever we get back.’

‘
Whenever?
’

‘Sure.’ Rademeyer turned round at last, amused again, lifting his empty cup in a mock toast. ‘Welcome to Angola.’

McFaul stood beneath the shower at the back of the schoolhouse, trying to sluice away the smell of the hospital. The smell hung on him like a garment. It was everywhere. In his hair. On his body. Even in the folds of the khaki shorts he’d only just put on. He let the falling water splash over him, determined to rid himself of the heavy animal scent of decaying flesh and blocked latrines.

The shower was Domingos’s design, a jerrycan supported
on a revolving cradle. A chain device up-ended the jerrycan and three puncture holes spouted a couple of gallons of the clear, cold water he and Bennie hauled daily from the local well. McFaul let the last of the water dribble down his upturned face, returning the soap to its plastic box. The hard-baked earth at his feet had turned to a rich, soupy mud, oozing up between his toes, and he could feel the warmth of the sun on his shoulders. He reached for the towel he’d left on the window sill and began to pat himself dry, taking care to avoid the flap of sutured skin high on his right arm. The stitches had gone in last night. Christianne had brought over some Novocain she’d kept in a stash at the MSF house, and she’d woken one of the Norwegian surgeons with the promise of half a bottle of vodka. By midnight, his arm bandaged and throbbing, McFaul had been back at the schoolhouse.

Now, his shorts still dripping wet, he stepped round the corner of the building. Christianne had given him a sling, a big square of torn sheet she’d folded into a triangle, and he was still trying to tie the knot one-handed when he saw one of the battered army jeeps bouncing down the track towards him. McFaul gave up with the knot and began to fold the sling. The jeep braked sharply and a young officer got out. He was carrying a zip-up briefcase and his shirt looked newly pressed. He gestured at the bandage on McFaul’s arm. The water had penetrated the bandage and it was newly pinked with blood.

‘The Brigadier hopes you are well,’ he murmured awkwardly. ‘We still don’t know what happened.’

McFaul looked at him a moment, trying to gauge what lay behind the wary smile. Then he indicated the open door of the schoolhouse. Inside, it was cooler. Bennie had been up for hours, crossing the city to assess the damage to the
Land Rover. McFaul pulled two chairs towards the table and poured water from a thermos into the only clean glass. The young officer eyed the water before extending a hand.

‘My name is Tomas,’ he said. ‘I work for the Brigadier.’

McFaul accepted the handshake and gestured for the young officer to sit down. Earlier, he’d been on the radio to Muengo’s military HQ. He needed to know what lay behind yesterday’s incident. Was it a mistake? A chance encounter? A handful of kid soldiers with too many guns and too much Sagres? Or was it something more sinister? A calculated attempt to blow away an accredited member of the aid community? The latter, in McFaul’s view, was unlikely but three minutes’ conversation on the radio had left him none the wiser. The Brigadier was busy. There was much work to do. Perhaps someone might be sent to the schoolhouse.

Tomas was nursing the glass. When he put it to his lips, they barely touched the water.

‘I nearly got killed,’ McFaul pointed out. ‘You’ll know that.’

Tomas nodded.

‘There’s an inquiry,’ he said at once. ‘We need to know exactly what happened.’

‘Your soldiers tried to kill me. Once at a road-block. Again with a grenade.’ McFaul touched the bandage briefly. ‘That’s what happened.’

‘I understand.’

The young officer began to look uneasy again. He reached for his briefcase and unzipped it. There was nothing inside. He looked nonplussed for a moment, then asked for the Land Rover’s maintenance manual.

‘Why do you want that?’

‘Mr Bennie says we’ll need it.’

‘You’ve seen him? This morning?’

‘Yes. He’s outside the hospital. Our men are helping him.’

‘
You’re
repairing it?’

‘Of course. The Brigadier insists. We have engineers.’ He risked a smile. ‘Good with their hands.’

McFaul gazed at him for a second or two, recognising the gesture for what it was. There wouldn’t be anything as formal as an apology but this was the next best thing. The Land Rover would be seen to. A handful of young soldiers would be taken aside and dealt with. Global Clearance, after all, had its uses.

McFaul reached across the table and took the glass. He swallowed the water and stood up, leaving a damp patch on the wooden seat. His precious supply of beer was in the dormitory next door. When he returned, limping back towards the table, the young officer couldn’t take his eyes off McFaul’s false leg.

McFaul put both cans on the table, pulling one tab, then the other. He lifted the can of Sagres, inviting Tomas to do the same. The young officer was grinning now.

‘Anaesthetic,’ McFaul said gruffly. ‘Cheers.’

It was late morning before Molly Jordan found the supermarket. She’d left the Terra Sancta house at eleven, armed with a shopping list from Robbie. Todd Llewelyn had evidently been able to sweet-talk a pilot into taking them to Muengo, though it would be at least a day before they’d fly. The guy’s plane, said Robbie, was down the coast at Benguela, undergoing an engine change, and he’d be leaving at noon to fetch it back.

Super-Africa lay three blocks from the waterfront, a single-storey concrete warehouse protected by heavy iron grilles over the windows and two armed guards at the door. The
shoppers were almost all Europeans, women mainly, and they drifted up and down the aisles, stopping from time to time when they found something worth looking at on the shelves. Most of the stuff on display was either tinned fish from Portugal or South Africa, or roughly packaged bags of basic foodstuffs, staples like rice, maize, sugar and coffee.