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.
The list Molly carried was, in Robbie’s phrase, ‘pure fantasy’, and by the time she’d half-completed her second lap of the store she’d only managed to find three of the requested items. She paused for a moment by the meat counter. The flies were settling on thick slabs of something bloody while one of the Angolans at the back hacked at the carcass of a goat. Molly peered at her list again. She’d ticked sugar, and sorghum flour, and three packets of cereal, and on her own initiative she’d acquired three dozen bottles of mineral water. At the bottom of Robbie’s list, in the space beneath the last item, the paper carried the indentations of something he must have written on the page above. With some difficulty, and much to her regret, Molly had managed to decipher the scribbled message. She assumed he’d written it after some kind of conversation with the Terra Sancta man in Muengo. ‘Burials imminent,’ it read, ‘quicklime?’
Molly turned away from the meat counter, revolted by the smell. She was about to head for the check-out when she noticed someone smiling at her. He was dressed like a businessman – lightweight suit, striped tie, polished shoes – but unlike every other shopper in the store he was black. He looked late middle-aged, maybe fifty or more, and he carried a great deal of bulk beneath the light grey chalk stripe, but for a big man he moved with extraordinary lightness, appearing at the mouth of a neighbouring aisle and gliding across towards Molly’s trolley. His greying Afro lent him an air of slightly wild distinction and when the smile widened he reminded her of a TV chat-show host, eager to cement a million new relationships.
‘You’re Molly,’ he said. ‘My name’s Larry, Larry Giddings.’
He held out a hand, long fingers, two huge rings, perfectly buffed nails. He spoke in a soft American drawl, a voice that offered the comforts of instant friendship. Molly smiled back. She was about to ask how he’d known her name when he reached out and drew her towards him. Over his arm he was carrying one of the store’s wire baskets. At the bottom of the basket was a list.
‘This place makes you crazy, right? And you know why? Look at this.’ Molly glanced down the list. Giddings’ finger paused at item four. Matches. ‘Last week, hundreds of packets of them. Thousands. Everywhere. And what do I do? I buy three. Three, ma’am. And you know what? That ship ain’t coming back. Not now. Not ever. So what does that make me? Apart from stupid? Yes, ma’am. It makes me crazy. Hey—’ He broke off, talking briskly to the Angolan behind the meat counter in Portuguese, then turned back to Molly. ‘That son of yours? Young James?’
Molly blinked.
‘Yes?’
‘I just wanted to say sorry. That’s all. Just that. But I mean it. I’m real sorry. If I can help in any way, just give me the word.’
Molly was staring at him now, bewildered.
‘How did you know …?’
Before she had time to finish the question, Giddings reached into her trolley and tapped the two-way radio she’d propped amongst her purchases. Robbie had insisted she take it. She’d need a lift back from the supermarket. She was to call him at the Terra Sancta office.
‘Everyone heard it, ma’am. Every soul with one of these. It’s what we do all day. We tune in and we wise up. May I?’ He smiled at her and then turned the radio on, peering at the channel selector. On Robbie’s instructions, Molly had left it on Channel Two. Now, she found herself eavesdropping on several conversations at once. English. French. And another language she didn’t immediately recognise. Her new friend returned the radio to the trolley. ‘One world, ma’am,’ he beamed at her, ‘and all of us listening.’
They walked on. Larry Giddings worked for an outfit called Aurora. He described it as a Christian fellowship, dedicated to the relief of suffering. The organisation was headquartered in Raleigh, North Carolina, but Larry himself came from Fort Lauderdale. He had a nice apartment one block from the sea. Most times, he missed it real bad but the thing about suffering was to share it. Only that way could you ever truly understand these people.
‘Tuning in …’ he said for the second time, ‘and wising up. Your boy’s with the Lord. And the Lord cares.’
He talked a little more about James, how his death had shocked the aid community, how people had talked about it on the radio, confiding their own fears to each other. The place was full of mines. Everyone had listened to the briefings, read the specially prepared aid manuals, but that wasn’t at all the same as being out there, translating all those tricksy diagrams and horrible photographs into real life. What had happened to James had already shattered dozens of other lives. Everyone knew it. And everyone mourned.
By the time they got to the check-out, Molly had begun to warm to Larry Giddings. His conversation was like a recently opened bottle of something fizzy, a gentle effervescence that raised her spirits and made her feel less alone. He was constantly slipping back and forth, direct one moment, opaque the next, starting one thought, then returning to pick up another before veering off on a third tack, explaining about the rainy season, about the currency rip-offs, about why it was crazy to even think of swimming on the harbour side of the lagoon. He treated her with great gentleness, as a favourite uncle might. He’s concerned, she thought. He really cares.
At the check-out, the girl rang Molly’s items through twice, then handed her both receipts. Molly looked at them. The difference came to 354,000 kwanzas.
‘May I?’
Molly showed Giddings the till receipts and she watched him going through the items in the trolley. Finally, he looked sternly at the girl and said something in Portuguese. The girl nodded and Molly hesitated a moment before handing Giddings her purse. He took out the wad of local currency Robbie had given her, peeling off nine orange notes and then folding a tenth around it. He did this eleven times and then added some more notes.
‘How much is that?’
‘Eleven million.’
‘Eleven million?’
‘Yeah. Forty-five dollars to you and me.’
He added a handful of other notes and gave it to the girl behind the till, and for the first time, Molly realised exactly what it was that other women in the supermarket were carrying in their carefully guarded plastic bags. Every one was stuffed with kwanza notes.
The other side of the check-out, Molly and Giddings pushed past the security guards. On the street, they were surrounded at once by kids selling identical goods. At the kerbside, there was a big American station-wagon. Taped to the inside of the passenger window was a photocopy of the Aurora logo, a halo circling a cross. Larry unlocked the rear door, shooing the kids away, and then started to load Molly’s shopping. When Molly began to explain about the arrangement with Robbie, the lift she was supposed to summon, he put a finger to his lips and guided her gently towards the passenger door.
‘Take you home, ma’am,’ he explained. ‘The least I can do.’
Robbie Cunningham made contact with Muengo again around noon, tuning the big Terra Sancta HF radio to the UN frequency. When the circuit was established, he gave his call sign and asked for Tom Peterson, adding that it was urgent. The girl who handled most of the UN traffic out of Muengo ran to wake Peterson up. Evidently he was down in the basement that served as the UN bunker, taking a nap.
When Peterson finally got to the radio he still sounded half-asleep.
‘How is it?’ Robbie asked at once.
‘Quiet. I think.’
There was a pause at Peterson’s end and Robbie could hear him talking to the girl in French. The two men had worked together in the Sudan and Robbie knew that one of
his many gifts was a fine ear for languages. To Robbie’s knowledge, he spoke at least four. He was back on the circuit now, confirming that the guns were still quiet. The odd firefight in town. But nothing really nasty.
‘Quiet enough to get a plane in?’
‘Why?’
Something in Peterson’s voice made Robbie pause. If there was a problem at the airfield, he wouldn’t risk mentioning it on air. UNITA might construe it as military information – spying – and if that happened then things could get tricky. Surviving in the aid world meant keeping your distance from both sides. No weapons. No favours. No helpful little updates on the tactical situation. Robbie had his eyes on a note from Todd Llewelyn. The plane he’d chartered had a one-ton payload. Peterson, he was sure, could use every ounce.
‘We have an option on an aid flight,’ he said carefully. ‘What do you need?’
‘Antibiotics. Milk powder. Fuel,’ Peterson said at once. ‘The food situation’s grim. Even the dogs have disappeared.’
‘And?’
Peterson reeled off a long list of items. Robbie reached for a box of photocopier paper and wrote them all down. When Peterson had finished he looked at the payload again. A ton wouldn’t be enough. Anything like. Peterson was talking about the airstrip now, oblivious to listening ears. He’d heard a rumour it was closed. Trucks across the landing strip. Nothing in or out.
‘Is this permanent?’
‘No idea.’
‘How about tomorrow? Any chance if we just turn up?’
‘Who? Who just turns up?’
‘Me. And a couple of others.’ He looked at the list. ‘Any chance of a landing?’
‘Is this official?’ Peterson sounded puzzled now. ‘An evacuation flight?’
‘No,’ Robbie shook his head, ‘but we’d bring in the goodies. Or at least some of them.’
He frowned for a moment, thinking suddenly of the Director, back at his desk in Winchester. If the bid was for profile, for plastering Terra Sancta’s logo across the nation’s television screens, then this was certainly one way of accomplishing just that. A city under siege. A mother determined to recover her son’s body. And an airstrip that might – or might not – be open.
‘What do you think?’ Robbie said. ‘You want us to give it a try?’
He bent to the radio, hearing Peterson talking in French again, to a man this time. When he came back he sounded tired.
‘Fernando says it’s a mess. He sees no way.’
‘No way for what?’
‘An official flight. Anything he could sanction.’
‘So where does that leave us?’
There was a moment’s pause. Then a hollow laugh.
‘My thoughts entirely,’ Peterson was saying. ‘Why don’t you check again tonight?’
In Muengo, early afternoon, the heavens opened. Clouds had been building over the distant peaks of the Plan Alto all morning, the air slowly thickening, heavy with the promise of rain. Now, it fell from a sky the colour of putty, a relentless downpour, sluicing noisily from damaged guttering, churning the garden of the Red Cross compound into a porridge of mud and rubble.
McFaul and Domingos splashed across to a gap in the wire fence. Bennie had spent all morning wrestling with the Global Land Rover and a couple of army mechanics had honoured the Brigadier’s promise of help. Thanks to them, the Land Rover was now back in working order. McFaul was delighted. For a full tank, and a couple of extra jerrycans of fuel, he’d in turn agreed to organise the burial of Muengo’s dead.
Bennie was waiting at the wheel of the Land Rover. McFaul and Domingos got in. Like McFaul, Domingos and his family had escaped with flesh wounds. The blast from a near miss had brought down the front wall of his bungalow and they’d fled to a cousin before a direct hit demolished the rest. Domingos’s wife, Celestina, had a gashed arm while Domingos’s injuries were limited to cuts and bruises.
Now he gave Bennie directions to a construction yard beside the blackened remains of what had once been Muengo’s bus station. Bennie drove slowly, wary of submerged shell craters, and McFaul sat beside the passenger door, his right arm back in the sling, his left hand fingering the shrapnel rents where the metal had taken the full force of the exploding grenade. Already, yesterday’s incident belonged to another life. After the air-drop, he should have known the way it would be: the soldiers drunk, short of food, trigger-happy, frightened. He’d been handed all the clues. The blame for the ambush lay with no one but himself. Next time, there wouldn’t be enough luck in the world to get him through.
He glanced back at Domingos. Domingos had also been talking to Captain Tomas.
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I said we wanted protection.’
‘From his own men?’
‘From everyone. Both sides.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Nothing. These guys are losing. UNITA are on the airstrip. They could be in town tonight. You know what they did in the north? Round Cafunfo? The diamonds?’
McFaul shook his head, beginning to regret the conversation. When the mood took him, Domingos could be surprisingly stern. He’d noticed it before, when his kids got out of hand with Celestina. Now he was adjusting the bandage round his head, frowning with concentration.
‘The people were fleeing. Some of them worked in the diamond mines. They’d collected bagfuls of the dust you get down there. Sometimes you find little tiny diamonds in the dust. Nothing big. Nothing important. But enough to feed a man and his family for a year …’
Domingos nodded, gazing out through the mud-smeared windscreen. His voice was low, barely audible over the drumbeat of rain on the cabin roof. McFaul glanced across at Bennie. The Londoner had always been fascinated by Domingos. It was his first job in Africa and the little Angolan wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting. Africans, in the books he’d been reading, were either starving or bone-idle, or off the planet on ganja and umpteen wives. For the first time, Bennie’s eyes left the road.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what happened to the diamonds?’
‘They swallowed them. Before they ran.’
‘And?’
‘The soldiers caught them, the UNITA soldiers. They’d beaten another man. They knew what was happening.’
‘So what did they do?’
‘They cut them open. Alive. Looking for the diamonds.’
‘Fuck me. You kidding?’ Bennie shook his head in amazement, dropping a gear and hauling on the wheel to avoid a half-submerged electricity pole, and Domingos laughed softly, laying a hand on McFaul’s shoulder.
‘So you see how it is with the commander here? The man has a lot on his mind. And his soldiers, too.’
The soldiers were waiting outside the construction yard. They were sitting in the back of an ancient Russian truck, immobile, their rifles upright between their knees, water sheeting off the peaks of their forage caps. The rain had soaked through their camouflage fatigues and the thin cotton clung to their bodies, giving them a strangely alien look, mottled and blotched like visitors from another planet. Some of them watched as Bennie pulled the Land Rover to a halt, incurious, listless, beaten. Domingos spotted the officer and got out to talk to him. Inside the compound, he could see the digger Bennie had found earlier. It was yellow, a Japanese model. Apparently one of the aid people had hired it some weeks earlier.
Domingos returned. Already the rain had penetrated his bandage, softening the blackened crust of dried blood.
‘The men will help,’ he said briskly. ‘The officer wants to know where you’re going to dig.’
McFaul had already chosen a spot. Bennie had the keys to the digger and Domingos took the wheel of the Land Rover, leading the little convoy back through the city to a hillock beside a grove of mango trees. The run-off from the hillock had turned the surrounding ground into a quagmire and for a moment or two McFaul thought they were going to bog down. The rain had begun to ease now, watery patches of blue appearing between towering stacks of cumulus, the
horizon already veiled with rising steam as the sun reached through.
Beneath the trees, already parked, was the Toyota Landcruiser which belonged to MSF. McFaul limped across, his boots squelching in the mud. Christianne was sitting behind the wheel. She looked pale and drawn, and her fingers kept returning to the thin gold crucifix she wore around her neck. When McFaul’s shadow fell across the cab, she wound the window down, her eyes drawn at once to his sling.
‘How is it?’
McFaul said it was fine. He was embarrassed by what had happened at the hospital when he’d first arrived. He’d never lost control like that in his life. It was worse, in a way, than the ambush.
‘You get him out OK.’ he asked, peering into the back of the Landcruiser.
Christianne nodded. She’d just brought James’s body from the schoolhouse. She’d disinfected the freezer and done what she could about the smell with a can of borrowed aftershave. With luck, hostilities permitting, the building would be ready for reoccupation by nightfall. She went through it all without a trace of emotion – just another chore, another hour or so of tidying up – but McFaul knew the price she’d really paid. Until the rebels had taken the airstrip, she’d been planning to fly James out. Now, she’d have to bury him.
McFaul reached into the cab, a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and she clung to it a moment before turning her head away. McFaul stepped back from the Landcruiser, hearing the driver of the soldiers’ truck gunning the engine as the back wheels slipped on the sodden grass. They were off now to collect bodies from the roadside, four days’ worth of Muengo’s dead. No one knew for sure how many had been killed in the shelling but Bennie had done a quick recce in the Land Rover after the morning’s repairs and he was planning to bury at least sixty. He was still at the controls of the digger, eyeing the ground where it began to rise beneath the mango trees. The sun was hot now, crusting the mud on the thickly welted tyres.
The Perfect Soldier Page 14
