The Perfect Soldier (40 page)

Molly and Rademeyer exchanged glances, then Molly led the way into the schoolhouse. The door to the classroom was missing. She stepped inside, tripping at once. Rademeyer helped her to her feet. Uncertain now, she picked her way slowly across to the other side of the room. The door to the dormitory was missing too. She could see the candle-light playing on the bare walls. She paused in the doorway, peering in. Across the room, beside the candle, two camp-beds had been pushed together. There were bodies on the camp-beds, unmoving. Molly thought she recognised the French nurse but she couldn’t be sure. She called her name, very softly.

‘Christianne?’

Nothing happened. Molly looked at Rademeyer, fearing the worst. Rademeyer unzipped the canvas bag and produced a gun. Molly stared at it. It was an automatic, a big thing, steady in his hand. He moved carefully across the room, the gun trained on the bodies. For the first time, Molly saw the bottle. Rademeyer was beside the nearest camp-bed now. He reached out, peeling back the single sheet. Then he let it fall.

‘Long guy?’ he queried softly. ‘Thin? Scars on his face?’

Molly nodded.

‘McFaul,’ she confirmed.

Rademeyer began to laugh, chuckling in the semi-darkness.

‘Rat-arsed,’ he said. ‘The girl, too.’

It was nearly midnight before Katilo came to the schoolhouse. Molly woke up to the cough of an engine. She heard voices outside. In the darkness, she could see nothing. Then the beam of a torch appeared at the window, sweeping around the dormitory, settling on the camp-beds by the wall. Molly kept very still. Already, she felt like a prisoner, unwashed, frightened, her life in the hands of total strangers.

‘Molly?’ She recognised Rademeyer’s voice behind the torch.

‘Over here.’

The torch swung towards her. She shielded her eyes. There was movement across the room. She heard a low curse. McFaul, she thought. She got up and stepped across to the beds. The torch tracked with her. McFaul was sitting upright, rubbing his eyes.

‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s me. Molly.’

‘Who?’

‘Molly. Molly Jordan.’ She paused. ‘James’s mother.’

Christianne began to stir, pushing the sheet back, then Molly heard another voice at the window, deeper, an African speaking English with an American drawl. He was saying something about a party.

‘Party?’

Christianne sounded bewildered, reaching for McFaul, and Molly heard the African chuckling as the torch left her face and drifted down to find the empty bottle of Glenfiddich beside the bed.

They drove away from the schoolhouse in the MSF Landcruiser, Katilo at the wheel. He’d evidently commandeered the vehicle for his personal use and kept trying to start a conversation with Christianne, telling her how responsive it was. Christianne sat between Molly and McFaul in the back, her head in her hands, trying to fight the movement of the vehicle. McFaul sat beside her, stiff, unbending. After recognising Katilo at the window of the dormitory, he hadn’t said a word.

Molly spotted the MSF house from the end of the street. In the garden next door a huge bonfire was alight, flames licking upwards, showering the sky with sparks. There were soldiers everywhere, swaying to music, milling around the garden, spilling on to the street, and they parted with a slow, smiling insolence the moment they recognised Katilo at the wheel of the Landcruiser. There were trucks parked at the side of the road, more soldiers, and when Katilo stopped and opened the door to get out, Molly could hear the music more clearly. It was loud, exultant, something Latin-American, and
it ran like a pulse through the mill of dancing soldiers around the fire.

Katilo opened the rear door, looming over the Landcruiser, motioning McFaul out on to the street. Just the sight of him frightened Molly. The man was so obviously powerful, so obviously in charge. Whatever he wanted, he could have. He was still looking at McFaul. She’d never seen a smile so empty of warmth.

‘The camera, my friend. Pictures. I want more pictures.’

McFaul was still looking at the bonfire. Beyond the dancers, tethered to the stump of a tree, was an animal, something big. Molly saw it, too.

‘What’s that?’

McFaul had his arm round Christianne.

‘A cow,’ he said quietly. ‘Tonight’s cabaret.’

‘What’s it doing there?’

McFaul glanced up at her, a look at once pitying and contemptuous. Rademeyer leaned into the car, indicating Katilo with a jerk of his head.

‘He means it. He wants you out. Something to do with a movie.’ He sounded anxious.

McFaul laughed.

‘Tell him the camera’s bust. Tell him the batteries need charging. Any fucking thing.’

Rademeyer looked back at Katilo. The UNITA commander had heard every word. He reached in, across McFaul, his huge hand cupping Christianne’s chin, turning her head towards him.

‘There’s dancing,’ he murmured. ‘Afterwards.’

‘After what?’

‘Good question.’

He let the phrase linger on, then withdrew his hand. Rademeyer was back again, his voice urgent.

‘He’s not joking, man,’ he said. ‘I know this guy.’

‘Yeah?’

McFaul eyed him without enthusiasm, then shrugged, getting out of the Landcruiser. He pushed past Katilo without a word and disappeared inside the MSF house. Within a minute he was back. Molly recognised Llewelyn’s camcorder in his hand. Katilo had joined a group of soldiers beside the bonfire. He was beckoning McFaul across. McFaul told Rademeyer to bring Christianne. Molly, too.

Molly caught up with McFaul, oblivious to the leering soldiers on either side.

‘What happened to Llewelyn’s cassette?’ she whispered. ‘The one he shot here? The one with Domingos?’

‘It’s in there.’ McFaul indicated the MSF house.

‘Is it OK? Safe?’

‘Yeah. He loves it.’

He paused at the kerbside, looking at Katilo, and Molly stopped beside him. Even here, twenty metres from the bonfire, she could feel its heat. There was a strange smell, too, pungent, bitter-sweet, and she began to turn her head, looking for its source.

Beside her, McFaul lifted the camcorder to his eye, panning slowly across the circle of faces around the bonfire. The soldiers were laughing and joking. Some had cans of beer. McFaul ignored Katilo’s beckoning finger, stepping sideways, moving closer and closer to the fire. Rademeyer stopped him.

‘He wants you.’

‘Fuck him.’

‘Do it, buddy.’

Katilo was sauntering across now. He bent to Rademeyer’s ear and whispered something. The pilot nodded, disappearing into the shadows, and Molly watched him talking urgently to a soldier. The soldier, unlike the others, had a
gun, an AK-47. He stooped to pick up something at his feet and Molly recognised Rademeyer’s canvas bag. Rademeyer was coming back. He had a small package in his hand, wrapped in polythene. He tried to give it to Katilo but the rebel commander shook his head, gesturing towards McFaul. Rademeyer stepped across, still holding the package. Molly stared at it.

‘What is it?’

McFaul didn’t take his eye from the viewfinder.

‘Ganja,’ he said. ‘It’s party time. These guys are out of their heads.’ He lowered the camera. ‘Can’t you smell it?’

Someone turned up the music. Katilo told McFaul to follow him. He had his arm round Christianne now, and he loomed over her, the kindly uncle. They circled the fire. On the other side, still tethered to the tree stump, was the cow. It was trying to move from foot to foot, disturbed by the noise and the activity, but other lines snared both legs and a noose around its neck restrained the big head. Molly looked at it a moment, seeing the flames dancing in its huge black eyes.

A group of soldiers detached themselves from the bonfire, seeing Katilo. Their shirts were open to the waist and their bodies glistened with sweat. One of them was smoking. The others began to dance around the cow, clapping their hands, stamping their boots in time to the music. They knew the lyrics of the song by heart and every time they got to the end of a line the soldier with the cigarette weaved towards the cow, stopping inches from its face, blowing smoke up its nostrils. The animal, terrified, tried to back away, but each time it moved the lines tightened, restraining it.

Katilo watched the soldiers for a minute or two, his body swaying to the music, his arm still encircling Christianne. Finally he released her and she nearly fell, reaching out to McFaul to keep her balance. McFaul’s hand found hers. Rademeyer was talking to Katilo.

‘He wants you to film the next bit,’ he said to McFaul. ‘He says it’s very important.’

‘I bet.’

McFaul muttered something to Christianne and Molly saw her tucking the T-shirt into her jeans. Katilo clapped his hands. Slowly, the dancing soldiers came to a halt. Katilo made a short speech. Afterwards, there was cheering. Then he gestured impatiently to the soldier with the AK-47. The man produced a long machete. Katilo took it, cutting the air a couple of times, short, vicious sweeps, the men quiet now, watching him. He stepped across to the cow. The animal saw him coming, rearing desperately backwards, but the lines held it fast, and Katilo paused for barely a second before bringing the machete up, a single movement, the blade tearing through the exposed windpipe. The cow opened its mouth, gasping, and Molly heard the hiss of escaping air as its legs began to buckle. Katilo slashed again, deeper this time, and blood fountained over the watching soldiers as the animal collapsed.

Molly turned away, sickened, hearing the men beginning to cheer, and then the music pulsed again, even louder, and she looked round to see McFaul, inches from the dying animal, following Katilo’s every movement as he sliced open the hanging bulge of stomach, spilling loops of hot viscera into the dusty grass. His work done, he tossed the dripping machete to a soldier and gestured for him to butcher the animal. Then he began to clear a circle in the grass, tossing fragments of broken school-desk into the flames. The soldiers helped him, building the bonfire even higher, and when the circle was wide enough, Katilo looked round, calling for Christianne.

Soldiers found her in the road, bent double, vomiting. They brought her back, presenting her to Katilo, and Katilo dismissed them with a wave, taking her hand, spinning her
round, a grotesque jive, Christianne already dizzied and reeling. Katilo caught her before she fell, holding her upright, acknowledging the roars of his men, and then he made her dance, the puppeteer with the rag doll, her body pressed to him. McFaul taped everything, barely feet away, ignoring Katilo’s jibes, oblivious to the yelling soldiers, the stamp of a hundred boots, and when Katilo finally released her, he tracked her falling body, tightening the shot as she lay sprawled at the African’s feet.

Katilo stood over her, gazing down. Then he barked an order and abruptly the music stopped. The men stopped, too. No more yelling. No more dancing. Katilo began to unbutton his shirt. Naked above the waist, he looked round, finding McFaul, making sure he was still taping. Then he began to address the soldiers again.

Rademeyer knew a little Ovimbundu. Molly was standing beside him. She was beyond fear now. The waiting was over. Whatever they did to Christianne, they’d do to her. James, after all, had got off rather lightly.

She glanced at Rademeyer, seeing the surprise in his face. Katilo’s speech was over. He was standing above Christianne, gazing down at her fallen body. She lay quite still, her knees drawn up to her chin, her eyes closed. Katilo looked at her a moment longer then spread his shirt wide, stooping and draping it over her. The soldiers stared at him. Then, disappointed, they began to drift back towards the fire. Molly watched them, flooded with relief. McFaul was looking at Rademeyer.

‘What did he say?’

Rademeyer was watching the soldiers at work on the cow, hacking at the warm flesh.

‘He said we’re leaving tomorrow.’ He shrugged. ‘Something to do with Zaire.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

They left Muengo an hour after dawn. Soldiers in a truck called at the schoolhouse and took them to the airfield. In the cool morning light, the city seemed almost normal, women and children making their way to the market, old men sifting through piles of rubbish, even the occasional dog chasing the fat black crows that stalked through the pale grass at the roadside.

Katilo was already at the airfield, prowling around the Dove, peering into the recesses of the engines while Rademeyer completed his checks. From somewhere, he’d produced a new set of camouflage fatigues and he had an enormous automatic strapped to one thigh. He was eating a banana and when McFaul lowered himself from the back of the truck he unbuttoned the breast pocket of his shirt and handed him a slim cassette. The camcorder, he said, was already on board the plane. He wanted pictures when they took off, pictures in the air. They’d be calling at Huambo first, UNITA’s city to the north, and he wanted McFaul to be taping there too. Colonel Katilo was embarking on his travels. And he needed the evidence to show the world.

McFaul took the cassette without a word. Christianne was already inside the aircraft, occupying a seat on the left, immediately behind the bulkhead that separated the cockpit from the cabin. McFaul joined her, sitting across the aisle. Christianne barely acknowledged his presence, her hands
tightening on the lap-strap, her knuckles white. She’d spent the night in a corner of the schoolhouse, silent, brooding, too shocked by what had happened to sleep or even talk. The realities of the war had broken her. Her commitment to Muengo was at an end.

They took off to the east, Katilo in the co-pilot’s seat, McFaul trying to steady himself in the open cockpit doorway. Using the camcorder in so confined a space wasn’t easy and in the end he simply held the thing at arm’s length, pointing it sideways at Katilo, hoping the shot would work. The Dove climbed steadily in the still morning air and at Katilo’s insistence Rademeyer hauled the aircraft into a long, shallow turn, circling the city before setting course for Huambo. In the cabin, Molly gazed down. From two thousand feet, Muengo seemed barely touched by the war, a sprawl of toy-like houses enfolded by the river, the long shadow of the cathedral clearly visible. Only as the Dove began to level out, still climbing, did she recognise the track that led out of town, following it until she found the tiny clump of mango trees dotting the hillock below which James lay buried.

Molly pressed her face to the cold Perspex, keeping the trees in view as the aircraft droned north. Unlike Christianne, she’d managed a couple of hours’ sleep and now the events of the previous evening seemed curiously remote, something she might have seen in a film, or read about in a certain kind of novel. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe it had happened. On the contrary, her head still thumped from the cans of Castle lager that Katilo had forced on them all. But there was something else about the scenes around the bonfire that seemed to sum up the last two weeks. From the moment she’d stepped off the jumbo at Luanda airport, Molly’s life had changed. Not simply the smells, and the heat, and the colour. Not simply the poverty and the lengths to which you
were forced to simply survive in the place. But something infinitely more personal. She’d come here to find out the truth about James and she’d discovered, instead, the depth of her own ignorance. Life was at once simpler and more complex than she’d ever imagined. Things that had once seemed to matter – money, possessions, status – were in fact worthless. Things she’d maybe overlooked – curiosity about others, compassion for their needs – were literally beyond price. Life, in the end, was about other people. Turn your back on your neighbour, and you were nothing.

McFaul stepped back from the cockpit, pulling the door shut behind him. He glanced down at Christianne then sank into the seat across the aisle from Molly, pulling a cassette from his pocket and showing it to her.

‘Is this what you wanted?’

Molly looked at the cassette, recognising Todd Llewelyn’s scrawl on the sticky label. ‘Muengo,’ he’d written. ‘Minefields.’

‘Is this the one with Domingos?’

‘Yes.’

‘From Katilo?’

‘Yes.’

‘He just gave it to you?’

‘He has to. He wants to be part of a film I’m supposed to be making. He’s seen it dozens of times. He’s no fool. He knows what it’s worth.’ He paused. ‘Back home.’

‘And
you’re
making this film?’

‘Yes.’ McFaul nodded. ‘Court photographer. By royal appointment.’

‘And he believes you?’

‘Of course. And so he should.’

‘You mean it’s true? You’re really doing it?’

‘Absolutely.’ McFaul gestured at the camcorder. ‘I’ve used
one of these before. In Afghanistan. You just point and shoot. Amazing piece of kit.’

‘But what happens afterwards? In the UK? What will you do then?’

‘I’ll put it together.’

‘By yourself?’

‘If I have to, yes.’

Molly thought of Alma Bradley. Wasn’t film-making complex? Difficult? Didn’t you need years of experience? McFaul had pocketed the little cassette again and now he was examining the camcorder.

‘There’s a woman in Luanda …’ Molly began, ‘a professional TV producer. She’s English. From London.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. She’s very interested in,’ her eyes went to the pocket of McFaul’s shirt, ‘all the stuff Llewelyn shot.’

McFaul nodded, saying nothing. Behind the usual mask, there was something new in his face. The eyes, Molly thought, something kindled, something burning, the surly indifference he’d shown the previous evening quite gone. Molly leaned across the aisle, raising her voice against the drone of the engines.

‘Her name’s Alma …’ she said, ‘Alma Bradley.’

‘Who?’

‘The TV producer. The one in Luanda. She’s very well connected. She seemed …’ Molly shrugged, ‘very nice. Not at all like Llewelyn.’

McFaul raised an eyebrow at the mention of Llewelyn’s name then the plane hit an air pocket, dropping like a stone, and McFaul managed to catch the camcorder before it tumbled from his lap. He nursed it, protective, leaning back in the seat, gazing out of the window, and Molly watched him for a moment or two, wondering whether to try again. If
Alma made the film about the minefields, it would get Robbie off the hook. No threat of a Terra Sancta exposé. No awkward explanations back in Winchester. She felt McFaul’s hand on her arm. He was nodding at the cockpit door.

‘He hasn’t even bothered to bring a bodyguard,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t that tell you something?’

Molly frowned, confused.

‘About what?’

‘Katilo and me,’ he patted the camcorder, ‘and this.’

The Dove landed at Huambo forty minutes later, spiralling down in a tight corkscrew from ten thousand feet. Piet Rademeyer taxied back to the apron of oily tarmac, closing down the engines. A single aircraft was parked in front of the blackened concrete of the terminal building, the dented nose propped on a pile of shredded lorry tyres. Katilo appeared from the cockpit of the Dove, his massive frame filling the narrow aisle, and he paused beside Christianne, motioning her out. She got to her feet, unsteady, avoiding McFaul’s eyes.

Molly gazed up at her.

‘What’s happening?’

‘I’m getting off.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s all arranged.’

She reached out, the touch of her hand cold and lifeless, and Molly sensed at once that she didn’t want to prolong the conversation. Then Katilo stirred, nudging her down the aisle, and Molly felt the heat bubbling in as the door opened at the rear of the cabin. A truck had appeared on the tarmac outside and Molly heard the boom of Katilo’s voice, turning to the window in time to see him organising a gaggle of soldiers. The truck backed up to the Dove and Rademeyer body-checked down the aisle, yelling in Portuguese. The
de-mining equipment from the schoolhouse was secured in the cargo space at the rear of the fuselage and the aircraft rocked as the soldiers began to unload. Another vehicle was weaving between the line of parked aircraft, a dirty Peugeot estate car with a torn Red Cross flag tied to the bodywork. It pulled up alongside the truck. A man and woman got out, both young. The woman ran to Christianne, hugging her.

‘MSF.’

Molly looked up. McFaul was standing over her, bent to the window. Dropping Christianne off had evidently been his idea, part of the deal he’d struck with Katilo. Huambo was currently in UNITA hands, the rebels’ prize after months of siege. The city was home to tens of thousands of refugees and Médecins Sans Frontières had stayed on, protected by guarantees from UNITA’s high command. Aid flights still operated from here to Luanda, and within a day or so Christianne would be on a 747 back to Europe.

Molly watched her getting into the Peugeot, settling herself in the back. An ancient fuel bowser had turned up now and Rademeyer was dragging a frayed length of hose across to the wing tanks on the Dove. Christianne was pointing at him, talking to the woman beside her, and as the Peugeot began to move she caught Molly’s eye. Molly lifted a hand, responding to Christianne’s tired wave, looking up at McFaul as she did so but McFaul had already turned away, no longer interested.

They left Huambo half an hour later, climbing into a clear blue sky. Katilo had reappeared with a handful of fresh fruit and he sat in the cabin, sawing into an overripe pineapple with McFaul’s bayonet. Back on the ground at Huambo, McFaul had gone forward into the cockpit and found the
map Rademeyer was using. The pilot had already china-graphed the route north from Huambo, and the thick blue line dog-legged to Kinshasa via a tiny dot marked Cafunfo.

Kinshasa was the capital of Zaire, an hour’s flying time north of the Angolan border. Here, according to McFaul, Katilo planned to conduct a little business. He’d be meeting a couple of key contacts in the war against the socialists, men without whom UNITA’s army simply couldn’t function. They were comrades-in-arms, fellow-travellers on the road to a free Angola, and it was important for the film that Katilo should be pictured in their company. Quite what these meetings would entail, McFaul didn’t know, but more pressing was the detour en route. Cafunfo was in Lunda Norte, a remote northern province, the home of Angola’s diamond mines. McFaul had never been there but the area was infamous. It produced millions of pounds’ worth of gemstones, enough to fund the UNITA war machine. Cafunfo, McFaul suspected, was where the rebels kept their piggy-bank.

Molly listened to McFaul’s musings, remembering hearing something similar from Robbie back in Luanda. He’d been talking about the same place, she was sure of it. Alma was hoping to make a film there, though she couldn’t lay hands on the right government official to fix a permit. That’s why Robbie had got her so interested in a different film. And that’s why Molly had found herself back in Muengo, looking for Llewelyn’s wretched cassette.

Molly adjusted the seat, making herself comfortable. The sun was hot now through the Perspex beside her face and after the traumas of the last twenty-four hours she felt an extraordinary sense of peace. Something in McFaul had definitely revived. There was a sense of confidence, of purpose about the man, and when he told her not to worry about the next few days, she was glad to believe him. She was to
treat it like a holiday. They’d pause for an hour or so at Cafunfo. Then they’d fly on to Kinshasa. They’d doubtless spend the night there. They might even book into a hotel. Hot water. Soap. A chance to wash her hair, wallow in the bath, climb into fresh clothes, borrowed or bought. The thought brought a smile to her face and she gazed down at the land below, the pale green flanks of Africa, an animal sprawled in the heat. Her eyes began to close and she drifted away, lulled by the drone of the engines, waking with a start minutes later. Katilo’s huge bulk occupied the seat in front of her. His face was pressed to the window, childlike, the eyes dreamy, transfixed by the view. At length he became aware of Molly watching him and he half-turned in the seat. His voice was soft for once, barely audible over the noise of the engines.

‘You know what Angola means? In Kikongo?’

‘No.’

‘Iron.’ Katilo smiled. ‘You understand?’

Molly gazed down at the view again. She could see the gleam of a river, and mountains beyond.

‘Land of iron?’ she queried. ‘Like the diamonds?’

‘No,’ Katilo’s smile had broadened, ‘iron land. Like the people.’

The Dove began to descend an hour or so later. Katilo was still in the seat in front of Molly and he reached back to McFaul, shaking him awake, telling him to get the camcorder ready. The plane was losing height quickly now, Rademeyer throttling the engines back, and Molly watched through the window as they banked steeply, chasing their own shadow across the flat expanse of bush. A river came into view below the wing. The water was muddy brown, flecked white where
rocks feathered the current, and on either side the river banks were pocked with huge pits. There were men in the pits, tiny black dots, and Molly could see them looking up as the aircraft roared overhead, screening their eyes against the sun.

Katilo was talking now, playing the tour guide. The men below were
kamanguistas
, illegal miners, poor Angolans who risked everything in their fevered hunt for diamonds. Tens of thousands of them trekked here from all over Angola, driven by stories of fabulous wealth. Angola’s gems were amongst the world’s finest. Most of them were mined from the bed of the river, or from the banks either side. Elsewhere, the state company, Endiama, diverted the river, using bulldozers to excavate the gravel bottom, but here the
kamanguistas
did everything by hand, preferring to take their chances on their own. Every week, said Katilo, a dozen or so bodies were recovered from the river, miners who’d drowned trying to make their fortune. But every week as well, other
kamanguistas
would emerge from the turbid water with a tiny handful of gems, enough to feed their families for the rest of their lives.

The plane began to bank again and the river disappeared. Molly heard the rumble of the undercarriage and then the engine note changed and the nose dipped and the smudgy browns and greens of the bush came up to meet them. The landing was hard, the Dove jolting to a halt in a cloud of dust. Katilo was on his feet already, eyeing the rear door. His hand had closed on the butt of the big automatic and Molly noticed that the strap securing the gun was hanging loose. The engines raced briefly as the plane taxied back down the strip. Through the window, Molly could see a big American four-wheel, a Chevrolet, keeping pace with the Dove. There were two men in the front. The one behind the wheel was grinning.