The Perfect Soldier

by Hurley, Graham

  Molly’s hand reached up to the bedside cabinet, finding one of the miniatures of vodka. She unscrewed the top, holding the tiny bottle under her nose. She hated spirits, never drank them, never bothered with them. The vodka smelled of nothing. She closed her eyes again, wondering whether she should phone home. Getting calls out of Kinshasa might be easier than the endless tussle with the Luanda international operator. She could ring up Patrick, find out the latest on Giles, find out whether – by some miracle – he’d turned up. She tried to imagine the conversation, Patrick probably preparing for bed, pausing in the hall, lifting the phone, courteous and patient as ever. She’d be in tears within seconds, she knew she would, and at some point Patrick would have to confirm yet again what she already knew. That Giles was dead.

  She shook her head, told herself to get a grip, tried to picture situations she knew she’d handled alone. Running, she thought. The path that led up the lane, beyond the kissing gate. The sounds she made in autumn, dancing through the fallen leaves, the first bright kiss of winter on her lips. By now, the fieldside puddles would be crusted with early morning ice. She tasted the air in her mouth, heard the mew of the seagulls, blown inland by the gales out at sea. She tried to linger on the images, proof that she could cope on her own, but then there was Giles again, back from the ocean, Molly Jay intact, the kettle on, the copy of the Daily Telegraph open on the kitchen table, already sticky with marmalade. He’d be looking up as she fell in through the door, exhausted, triumphant, the backs of her calves coated in drying mud. His long legs would reach beneath the table, pushing a chair towards her. His hand would close on the teapot. He’d offer her a slice of toast. He’d tell her she was mad, and she’d grin back, still breathless, agreeing.

  Molly groaned, turning over, burying her head in the pillow, the miniature of vodka abandoned.

  The phone woke McFaul at dawn. He rolled over in the huge bed and it was several seconds before he recognised the voice at the other end.

  ‘Ken?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You got the telex?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  McFaul struggled upright in the bed. He’d sent the telex last night, handing it to the clerk behind the reception desk and insisting he dispatch it at once. Ken Middleton was normally at his desk in Devizes early. Global ran operations in umpteen time zones and he always claimed it gave him a head start on the rest of the headquarters team.

  Ken was already talking about the tickets, checking the times and flight numbers.

  ‘The twelfth is tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why Paris?’

  ‘It’s closest. There are no direct flights.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. I checked last night. Air France leave at midday. That should do us nicely.’ McFaul paused. He’d asked Middleton for two prepaid tickets to be delivered to the Intercontinental. The way he’d put it in the telex hadn’t left much room for argument. Muengo had been a disaster. He and Bennie had been lucky to get out in one piece.

  Middleton was going through the arrangements again. Once you’d worked in the minefields, thoroughness became a state of mind.

  ‘Who’s this Jordan bloke?’ he said finally.

  ‘Friend of mine.’

  ‘And why am I paying for him?’

  ‘Her.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Yeah. Remember James Jordan? Kid who got himself killed? That report I sent you? She’s his mother.’

  ‘But why the ticket?’

  ‘Dunno really.’ McFaul smothered a yawn. ‘I’d call it an investment if I were you.’

  McFaul called Molly an hour later. She answered the phone at once, a small, cautious voice that suggested she’d been awake most of the night. McFaul explained the travel arrangements. They wouldn’t be returning to Angola, they’d be flying straight back to Europe. The tickets would be prepaid. Katilo would be settling the room bill. Which only left one problem.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Your passport. You said it’s still in Luanda. You’ll have to go to the embassy here. They’ll issue you with a temporary replacement. Tell them it got stolen or something. It happens all the time.’

  Molly began to protest, something about not being the embassy’s favourite person, but McFaul cut her short.

  ‘Rademeyer’s around somewhere,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ll get him to take you. Best you stay together. Otherwise it might get tricky.’

  ‘Tricky?’

  McFaul heard the anxiety in her voice and told her not to worry. Given a fair wind, she’d be back in the UK by the weekend. Plenty of time to get herself together.

  ‘What for? As a matter of interest?’

  McFaul was sitting at the bureau by the window. Over the broad expanse of river he could see Kinshasa’s sister city of Brazzaville, a frieze of white buildings against the enveloping green of the mountains beyond. Molly was repeating the question, angry now, and McFaul smiled, glad she’d survived the night.

  ‘Christmas,’ he said lightly. ‘Only ten shopping days to go.’

  Katilo was still in bed when McFaul knocked on his door. He let McFaul in and padded across to the bathroom. Beneath the unbelted silk dressing gown, he was naked. McFaul settled into an armchair, helping himself to a pile of cashews from the mini-bar. The summons from Katilo had come half an hour earlier.

  ‘Lunch-time OK?’

  Katilo had appeared at the bathroom door. He’d abandoned the dressing gown for a towel around his waist and McFaul could hear the splash of water filling the bath behind him.

  McFaul nodded.

  ‘I’ll be here,’ he said. ‘Twelve o’clock.’

  ‘You’ve got more tapes? These guys talk a lot.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Katilo looked at him a moment then backed into the bathroom. On the phone, he’d already established the importance of the midday rendezvous. The people he’d be meeting were key players, men who understood the situation in Angola, men who were determined to see the war settled in UNITA’s favour. They were realists, businessmen, guys with no time for the socialists in Luanda. They had access to arms, anything you cared to name, and the purpose of the encounter was to agree a shopping list.

  The way Katilo had put it on the phone made the arrangement sound almost benign, an act of charity, but McFaul had already guessed the way it would really be. In exchange for diamonds, Katilo would buy himself a planeload of weaponry. That’s the way it worked. That was the reason for the detour to Cafunfo. Ivan, the man who ran Cafunfo, doubtless operated under UNITA’s wing. In return for protection – the guards on the door, the line of soldiers fencing the compound from the street – he’d be expected to contribute a hefty percentage of his gems to the cause. The cause arrived regularly in the shape of men like Katilo, highly placed field commanders with the authority to conduct arms negotiations. Ever since he’d arrived in Angola, McFaul had heard about the rivalries between such men, each one jostling for advantage. The tightness of UNITA’s discipline had helped suppress these rivalries but if Sarimbi ever won the war, peace would bring a scramble for the biggest prizes. A seat at the cabinet table. A posting abroad. Untold wealth. Untold opportunities. No wonder Katilo wanted to spread the word. In Africa, like everywhere else in the world, a video of your own was the shortest cut to sainthood.

  Katilo was in the bath now. He called McFaul in. McFaul went to the door, peering through a curtain of steam. Katilo was playing with a plastic soap dish, pushing it to and fro. The water was inches from the top of the tub, displaced by his massive body. McFaul looked down at him. Naked, sprawled in the bath, he was defenceless. Killing a man would never have been easier yet Katilo seemed oblivious to the possibility.

  ‘There’s a big party,’ he said. ‘You should be there. With your camera.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day.’

  McFaul sank onto the toilet. He’d already established the importan
ce of leaving on the Air France flight but he went through it all again. Television pictures were perishable. Getting Katilo’s war on screen meant working fast. Hanging around in Kinshasa would be a waste of precious editing time. Katilo listened, poking at the soap dish, nodding at the logic behind each phrase. When McFaul had finished, he looked up.

  ‘You think it’ll work? The video?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But for me, as well?’

  McFaul stared at him a moment. Underestimating Katilo was a very dangerous game. Dozens of men must have done it and most of them were probably dead.

  ‘Tell me what you will put in it,’ Katilo was saying. ‘Tell me the way it will be.’

  McFaul shrugged. Getting the right words in the right order had never been so important.

  ‘It’ll be very violent,’ he said carefully. ‘Very bloody.’

  ‘With the minefield?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your friend? Domingos?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why? Why of course?’

  ‘Because you put the mines there in the first place.’

  There was a long silence. McFaul felt the sweat beading on his face.

  ‘You think I killed Domingos?’ Katilo said at last.

  ‘I know you killed Domingos.’

  Katilo looked at him for a moment. Then he nodded.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said softly, ‘but I also won.’

  The British Embassy in Kinshasa lies close to the Zaire river. Piet Rademeyer had acquired a brand-new Mercedes with tinted windows, and he pulled into a parking bay beside the embassy compound. The air-conditioning in the Mercedes didn’t work properly, blowing hot air instead of cold, but he’d refused to lower the windows because he swore it ruined the look of the car. Image in Kinshasa was everything.

  Molly got out of the Mercedes and approached the Gurkha on the embassy gate. She’d bought a dress from a boutique at the hotel, borrowing money from McFaul, but it was already damp with sweat, clinging uncomfortably to her. Trying on the dress had been a revelation. In the last two weeks, she must have lost nearly a stone.

  The Gurkha directed her to a small office inside the gate. She’d already phoned from the hotel, explaining the passport problem, and the woman who’d taken the call had given her a reference number. Molly quoted it now, waiting for a minute or so while the official behind the thick plate-glass consulted a list. Finally, he looked up.

  ‘Mrs Jordan?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The Chargé would like a word. Someone will be over to collect you.’

  Molly thanked him, stepping outside again. Clouds were towering over the river, heavy with rain, and gusts of wind were stirring the trees along the Avenue des Trois. Molly bent to the Mercedes, telling Rademeyer that he might have to wait a while. The despair she’d felt overnight had gone. With the promise of a ticket home had come an extraordinary calmness. She’d been tested and she’d survived. She owed apologies to no one.

  A young man from the embassy appeared in the road, inviting her into the compound. The embassy was surrounded by tall walls topped with razor wire. Inside, there were a handful of Barratt-style houses and a swimming pool. Range Rovers occupied the parking spaces, and there were a couple of Zodiac inflatables strapped to launch trailers. Molly looked at the scene as they made for the main door, amused. Forget the flame trees and the trellis of bougainvillaea and she might have been back on some estate in the Home Counties, turning up for midday drinks.

  The Chargé d’Affaires turned out to be a woman in her forties, severely dressed in a neat two-piece suit. Her hair was drawn back from her face in a tight bun and she wore a look of almost permanent impatience. When Molly sat down in front of the desk, she didn’t bother with small talk. She had a telex in front of her, key phrases ringed in red.

  ‘I’ve been in touch with Luanda,’ she said at once. ‘They’re not best pleased.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Molly smiled. ‘Have I broken any laws?’

  ‘That’s hardly the point. As I understand it, they advised you not to go inland. Advice you chose to ignore.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not once but twice.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And on both occasions you went to …’ She frowned, her eyes returning to the telex.

  ‘Muengo,’ Molly said. ‘My son’s buried there.’

  The woman nodded, wrong-footed for a moment, and Molly found herself studying a small, framed photo on the desk. It showed the Chargé perched on a five-bar gate. She was wearing a green anorak and a stout pair of boots. Beside her, bent against the wind, was a fit-looking man in his sixties.

  ‘You take risks,’ Molly pointed out, ‘when you lose someone close, someone you love.’

  ‘That’s hardly the issue, Mrs Jordan. This isn’t Stow-on-the-Wold.’

  ‘Does that make a difference?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it does.’ She leaned back in the chair, softening a little. ‘I’m sorry about your son. We all are. But life can be dangerous out here. Angola’s in a state of war. People die.’ She shrugged. ‘It happens all the time. We do what we can, of course, but it’s never easy.’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘Getting it through to people like yourself.’

  ‘You think I should have stayed at home?’

  ‘I think you should have stayed in Luanda, like we suggested. Flying out in the first place was obviously your decision. It’s a free world. But after that …’ she sighed, ‘it might have paid you to listen.’

  Molly leaned forward adjusting the hem of her dress. She couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so angry. What could this woman possibly know about James? How dare she condense the last two weeks into a lecture about travel arrangements?

  ‘I went to Muengo to find out about my son,’ she said softly. ‘I wanted to know how he died.’

  ‘I understood your son stepped on a mine.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Then perhaps he should have listened, too. Most aid workers are more careful. We get very few casualties.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘No.’ Molly shook her head, colouring now. ‘My son didn’t simply die. He was killed. Someone killed him. That’s why I came to Africa. That’s the question I wanted answered.’

  ‘It was a mine,’ the Chargé said again, ‘he stepped on a mine.’

  ‘Of course he did. But mines are put there. They’re not part of the landscape. They don’t grow. They’re made by somebody. Sold by somebody. Bought by somebody. Two weeks ago, I didn’t know that. Now I do.’

  ‘And does it help? Knowing that?’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because …’ Molly stopped, looking at the photograph on the desk again. ‘It’s important, that’s all.’

  ‘Important for who? You?’

  ‘Others. Other mothers. Other sons.’ She nodded at the photo. ‘Even husbands.’

  The Chargé looked at her a moment, as cold as ever.

  ‘That’s my father,’ she said at last, ‘in case you were wondering.’

  ‘OK,’ Molly shrugged, ‘your father, then. It makes no difference. Somebody close to you dies, you want to know why. It’s not an act of God. It’s not an earthquake or a hurricane or something. It’s man-made. Literally. Someone dies. Someone gets killed. There has to be blame. Does that make sense? Or am I being silly?’

  ‘Foolish. You’re being foolish.’

  ‘Foolish? To care about what happened? Foolish?’ Molly paused, remembering the morning in the schoolhouse, Bennie’s voice drifting in through the open window, telling her exactly the way it had been with James. ‘My son was blown up by a big mine. It tore him nearly in half. They brought his body back to Muengo. There was nowhere to keep it. He had a girlfriend. She wanted to—’

  ‘Please, Mrs Jordan …’
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br />   The Chargé was frowning now, embarrassed, wanting the conversation over, but Molly shook her head, refusing to let her off the hook. She’d started this conversation, for God’s sake. And now she had to listen.

  ‘My son did nothing wrong. In fact he was trying to find a child when it happened. He might have been headstrong but his heart was in the right place. He was trying to help. Can you understand that?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘And you’d understand how a mother would feel? Back in the UK? Getting a phone call explaining that her son was dead?’

  ‘It must have been awful.’

  ‘It was. But there are things you can do. Weeping’s not enough. You have to find out.’

  ‘Find out what, Mrs Jordan?’

  ‘Find out what happened. Find out who killed him.’

  ‘And you’ve got an answer? To that last question? A name?’

  Molly paused, taking a deep breath, letting some of the anger subside. Then she shook her head.

  ‘I’d love one,’ she said quietly, ‘but it isn’t that simple, is it?’

  McFaul arrived late for the midday meeting. It was ten past twelve before he made it back to Room 631. Two large Africans stood outside the door, both wearing black jumpsuits. McFaul showed them his hotel registration card and asked for Katilo. When Katilo opened the door, McFaul could smell the rich, heavy scent of cigar smoke.

  He stepped inside, retrieving his bag from the guard who’d been searching it. Two men were sitting on the long crescent of sofa. One was enormous, a middle-aged man spilling out of a rumpled linen suit. He had a dark, almost Mediterranean complexion and the cigar between his pudgy fingers left circles of blue smoke as he talked animatedly to the man beside him. The latter looked a little older, a well-dressed black in his late fifties. He had a wild head of hair, beginning to grey at the edges, and when he saw McFaul he smiled.

  Katilo did the introductions. The fat man’s name was Sarkis. He was a trader. He had a fine house in the mountains behind Beirut. Another in Antwerp. He came to Zaire often. He knew lots about diamonds. The other man’s name was Mr Lawrence. He was an American, a good friend of Katilo’s, a firm ally of Angola’s, a man UNITA could trust.