The Perfect Soldier (20 page)

‘There’s a frequency at the top,’ he said over the intercom. ‘My handwriting.’

Molly peered at the map as the plane began to climb. The city of Huambo was circled in red.

‘What’s a frequency?’

‘Four digits. Four numbers. Just read them out.’

There was a new note in his voice. Since the incident with the MiGs, he’d said virtually nothing. Now he was cool, businesslike. Molly found what he wanted, four pencilled numbers on the top of the map. She tried to keep the map steady in her hands, reading them out, watching him making adjustments to something on the dashboard. When the line of digits matched the numbers on the map, he pressed the button on the control yoke again and began to transmit his call sign. At length, a voice answered in Portuguese and a
brief conversation took place. Evidently satisfied, Rademeyer signed off, plunging the Dove into a steep left-hand turn.

When Molly opened her eyes again, they were flying over dense forest, very low. Gradually, mile by mile, the woodland began to thin until the trees gave way to a pale green blur of savannah, wind-rippled and sleek like the coat of a sleeping animal. They flashed over a river, then they were flying beside a road. On the road there were armoured cars, and trucks, and soldiers sitting on benches in the back, looking up at the Dove, waving. Without thinking, Molly began to wave back, suddenly aware of Llewelyn standing at her shoulder. She looked round at him. He was steadying himself with one hand and in the other he had the camera. He leaned forward, an inch from Molly’s face, trying to frame the road in the window of the cockpit. There was a deep gash in his forehead and the blood had caked down the side of his face. Some had reached as far as the collar of his safari jacket, blackening the soiled cotton. The scabs of blood against the pale grey flesh reminded Molly of vagrants she’d encountered on trips to London – unkempt, distraught – and when he finally lowered the camcorder she could see a kind of madness in his eyes, a wild gleam that hadn’t been there before. She was about to ask him how he was, how he’d gashed himself so badly, but by the time she put it into words he’d gone.

Rademeyer again. His voice in her headphones.

‘Ahead,’ he said. ‘Look.’

Molly turned back, settling into the co-pilot’s seat, tightening the harness, telling herself that the worst was over. The ground was rising now and she suddenly spotted a stretch of cleared scrub tufted with yellowing grass. Wheel tracks down the middle of the scrub told her that this must be the airstrip but there were vehicles dotted everywhere, trucks mostly, and the way they’d been parked made a landing impossible.
Seconds later, as they roared over the far end of the airstrip and began to bank to the left, Molly saw men running across the scrub, getting into the trucks. One or two of them started to move, bumping away towards a rough dirt road, and by the time the aircraft had completed a full circuit of the field, the centre strip was empty.

Rademeyer banked sharply, his right hand reaching for the throttle controls. The engine note rose, and the nose dipped, and Molly heard a rumble beneath them as the undercarriage came down. They were still side-slipping in, Rademeyer enjoying himself now, shedding height as quickly as he could, the wing flaps fully down, slowing the aircraft still more. At fifty feet, he kicked the plane level, perfectly aligned for the landing, the aircraft dancing through the bubbles of hot air rising from the ground beneath. The nose was still down, the first line of wheel ruts coming up to meet them, and at the last moment Rademeyer throttled back, lifting the nose, letting the main undercarriage settle on the baked earth. He began to apply the brake with his thumb and Molly heard a hissing noise as the nose came down and the aircraft juddered to a halt.

Llewelyn was back beside her, the camera raised, shooting through the windscreen. One of the trucks was racing out to meet them, three soldiers hanging on in the back. They looked like kids at Christmas. They could barely contain themselves.

Rademeyer reached for the throttle controls again, putting the engines into idle. Llewelyn was still busy with the camera, following the truck.

‘Who are these guys?’ he asked.

Rademeyer released his harness and stretched in the seat.

‘Mine hosts,’ he said, ‘or yours, anyway.’

‘Are you turning the engines off?’

‘No. You owe me seven and a half grand.’

‘It’s in the back. Bag marked “Santos”. I’ll get it.’

Llewelyn retreated to the cabin. Molly heard the door open, the growl of the exhaust and the propellers suddenly magnified. She found the release for her own harness and lifted a hand to her face. Only in the last ten minutes or so, with the shock of the MiGs behind her, had she begun to absorb the real significance of the journey she’d made. This was where James had come, and this was probably the way he’d arrived, emerging from some clapped-out aircraft, ready for the time of his life.

Molly reached for the sun visor over the windscreen. On the back was a mirror. She studied her face for a moment, determined to look her best. Somehow, over the last couple of days, she’d acquired the faintest tan and it gave the lie to the way she really felt, setting off the blonde curls that fringed the wary smile. She’d lost weight, too, and it suited her, hollowing the planes of her face. She looked at herself a moment longer, feeling the plane rocking beneath her as someone jumped out. Then there were voices outside, and Rademeyer’s, much closer.

‘You getting off or what?’

Molly nodded, apologetic, wriggling out of the seat. She paused at the cockpit door, thanking the young South African for the flight. He grinned back at her, exactly the way James used to, immensely pleased with himself.

‘Pleasure,’ he said. ‘Here. Little souvenir.’

He gave her the T-shirt he’d shown her at Luanda airport and she looked at it a moment, then began to thank him again as he plunged a hand into the back pocket of his jeans and produced a small card.

‘Here,’ he said again.

‘What’s that?’

Rademeyer didn’t seem to hear her. He was peering back through the cabin, a frown on his face. He shouted something in Portuguese to one of the soldiers, then slipped out of his seat, gesturing for Molly to go ahead.

‘Address and phone number,’ he muttered, ‘in case you need me again.’

Outside, the soldiers were unloading the cargo, rolling the heavy fuel drum across the grass and then manhandling it onto the back of the truck. Llewelyn appeared round the tail of the aircraft and began to use the camcorder, walking slowly towards the truck. Molly watched from the aircraft door as Robbie moved to intercept him but one of the soldiers got there first. He was a big man, older than the rest. He held a hand up, the huge spread of his palm cupping the end of the lens. Llewelyn looked annoyed, the expression of a man troubled by a passing insect. He lowered the camcorder, moved to one side, then began to shoot again. The soldier gazed at him and muttered something under his breath. Then he stepped across to Llewelyn and hit him hard beneath the ribcage. Llewelyn folded up with a tiny gasp, curling himself on the ground, protecting the camcorder. The soldier studied him a moment, insulted. Then he kicked him in the small of his back and wandered away, shrugging.

Molly jumped down from the aircraft and ran to Llewelyn. His eyes were closed. He was breathing hard, the way people do when they get excited, and his lips were moving, some wordless curse. Molly bent low, cradling Llewelyn’s head in her arms. The sun was fierce on the back of her neck and when she looked up she could see the soldiers watching her curiously from the truck. Llewelyn’s hand found hers.

‘Nothing’s easy,’ he muttered, ‘believe me.’

They left the airfield on the back of the truck. As they bounced along the red dirt road Molly had seen from the air, she heard the Dove beginning to move. She looked back, both hands on the grab rail, watching the plane taxiing to the end of the strip. It made a final turn then gathered speed, a little blue toy against the greens and browns of the surrounding scrub. Four hundred metres later, it was airborne, climbing steadily away as the trucks resumed their positions on the airfield, Muengo’s door firmly closed against further arrivals. Seconds later, their own truck lurched to a halt. Molly heard voices again, turning to see a line of oil drums in the road. There were more soldiers here, heavily armed teenagers, their skinny frames criss-crossed with bandoliers of ammunition. Someone in the cab was arguing with one of the soldiers. Looking down, Molly could see a black hand gesticulating angrily. Beyond the oil drums was a Land Rover with the Terra Sancta logo on the door. Beside her, Robbie was waving at it.

The soldier in the cab got out and told Robbie to join him on the road. The stuff from the Dove would have to be transferred to the Land Rover. Robbie helped Molly and Llewelyn off the back of the truck. Llewelyn was still bent double, walking with difficulty. Robbie began to help with the oil drum but the soldiers waved him away. Half of the food and the fuel was carried to the Land Rover. The rest stayed in the truck. When Robbie began to protest it was Llewelyn who pulled him aside.

‘Not worth it,’ he mumbled, ‘believe me.’

The truck drove away, disappearing in a cloud of dust towards the airfield, and the soldiers at the road-block abruptly lost interest. The man in the Land Rover finished
securing what was left of the cargo and approached Molly.

‘Tom Peterson,’ he held out his hand, ‘I’m amazed you made it.’

McFaul and Domingos knelt in the dinghy at the foot of the embankment watching the little blue Dove circling the city. At length it levelled out and began to climb away to the north. Without question, it had landed and McFaul wanted to know why.

Domingos shrugged. Nothing in this war could any longer surprise him. He’d spent an hour or so at first light picking through the ruins of his bungalow and the games UNITA played had ceased to interest him. The pile of dented cooking pots, torn clothing, and salvaged tins of fish and corned beef were all that remained of sixteen years of family life but even this was a blessing compared to the wilderness in which most of Muengo was now living. Only the previous evening, he’d visited the town’s derelict cinema, looking for a neighbour who’d also lost his house. Camped inside were hundreds of families, exposed to the rain, living in conditions that left Domingos shamed and speechless. Now, he flicked through his working notes. Anything he could do, any gesture he could make in the face of such primitive chaos, would be a fingerhold on the life he’d left behind.

He glanced towards the bank, looking at the stretch of pockmarked earth that served as a path to the river. The river here was upstream of the pool beside the bridge where people washed and the water was less polluted. The rebels had been aware of this and during earlier hostilities they’d seeded the path with mines, mainly the little Chinese Type 72s, no bigger than a tin of shoe polish. They’d worked under cover of darkness, scattering the mines at random, digging some
in, leaving others on the surface, giving McFaul’s teams no choice but to search every square inch of the hard-baked soil, probing with the bayonet, opening a corridor down towards the river. Because of the shelling, they hadn’t been back to this site for four days and the rains had come on the second night, softening the earth.

Domingos looked round. Unlike the other sites he’d listed for priority clearance, this one was close to the encircling front line. Through binoculars, it was possible to pick out the dark smudge of newly dug UNITA trenches, about a kilometre away, but Domingos had his doubts about their marksmanship from such a range.

‘We could do it this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Me and Bennie.’

McFaul shook his head, throttling back the outboard, keeping the dinghy steady against the tug of the current.

‘No,’ he said firmly.

‘Why not?’

‘Too dodgy. Give me a day to sort it out with Katilo. Then we can do it properly.’ He balanced himself in the dinghy and then reached across and tapped Domingos’s notes. ‘How far did we get? It seems like a year ago.’

Domingos consulted his notes. As usual, he’d marked the furthest extent of the de-mined area on the site itself but the rains had carried the line of wooden pegs away.

‘Eighty metres,’ he said, squinting into the sunshine. ‘About seven metres to go. Half a day?’

McFaul followed his pointing finger, then shook his head.

‘Double it,’ he grunted.

Tom Peterson was driving Molly Jordan to the MSF house where Christianne lived. He’d already dropped Robbie
Cunningham and the TV man at the UN compound where he knew Fernando would offer them floor space. Their safe arrival must have been the result of some special leverage with the UNITA people, and Fernando would doubtless want to know about the small print of this mysterious relationship. Like it or not, Robbie Cunningham and his party appeared to have lifted the siege single-handed.

Peterson slowed the Land Rover to a crawl, trying to avoid a woman in the middle of the road. She was pushing a wooden barrow. On the barrow was a very small coffin. As they passed, Molly turned in her seat to see the woman’s face. She’d said nothing since they’d dropped the others at the UN compound, staring out at the rubble and the shell damage and the abandoned, burned-out vehicles. Even Peterson’s murmured consolations for the death of her son she’d barely acknowledged. At first, he’d put this reserve of hers down to exhaustion. Now, he was beginning to wonder.

‘Bit of a shock, I imagine,’ he said lightly.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘All this. After London.’ He paused. ‘Is it London you live in? Or out in the sticks?’

‘Thorpe,’ Molly said, ‘in Essex.’

She was twisted round in her seat now, still looking at the woman with the coffin. There were soldiers up ahead, guarding a truck. There were a dozen or so sacks in the back of the truck, barely visible from street level, but the crowd around the truck was growing by the minute. Peterson slowed again, still thinking about Thorpe. He’d been there once, years ago, for a wedding.

‘Nice church,’ he said. ‘Good pub, too. King’s Head? King’s Arms?’