The Perfect Soldier

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘She had a boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘English? Like you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But younger,’ he’d laughed, showing the pose to his men, ‘eh?’ McFaul had nodded.

  ‘And dead,’ he’d said, turning away in disgust.

  Now, they left the house. The bodyguards had looted as much as they could carry, armfuls of trophies, and they tossed the booty into the back of the truck, awaiting Katilo’s next orders. Katilo was looking at his watch. It was late morning, normally the busiest time of the day in Muengo, but still the streets were empty.

  Katilo looked down at McFaul. Both men were sweating now, the sun hot.

  ‘You think it went on the plane? The camera?’

  McFaul looked away, back towards the house. Christianne would return here, and when that happened the soldiers would find her. Their blood was up. He’d seen it in their faces, looking at the photos on the table, pulling open drawers, sorting through her clothes, sniffing the tiny phials of perfume she kept in a carved wooden box on the dressing table. In the hands of these men, Christianne would be helpless. Afterwards, if she was lucky, they might kill her. Otherwise, they’d just do it again, or sluice her down and pass her round the rest of the army. Little something to amuse the troops. Little present from a grateful commander.

  Katilo was still waiting for an answer. McFaul told him there was one other place they should look.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  The drive across the city took them past the ruins of the cathedral. One end of the roof had taken a direct hit and the road beneath was littered with broken terracotta tiles. The walls were pock-marked with shrapnel damage and a plaster saint in an alcove overlooking the plaza was newly headless.

  The soldier behind the wheel was driving fast, enjoying himself, weaving the truck from kerb to kerb, avoiding the bigger chunks of masonry. On the other side of the city were the streets of tiny bungalows built by the Portuguese decades ago for the clerks and engineers they’d shipped in from the coast. Domingos had lived there and so, still, did his brother, Elias. McFaul had been to Elias’s place a couple of times with Domingos, and now he took the driver around the grid of streets, looking for landmarks he might recognise. Towards the end of the second circuit, the driver was getting visibly anxious. Katilo gave orders only once. Unless you obeyed, unless you did his bidding, the consequences could be painful. So where did this friend of McFaul’s live?

  McFaul shrugged. An old man had appeared in the road up ahead. He was standing beside the remains of a tree. The driver slowed the truck, then stopped.

  ‘Elias,’ McFaul said. ‘Ask him for Elias.’

  The driver spoke to the old man in Ovimbundu. The old man lifted a wizened finger, indicating a turning fifty metres away. The driver gunned the engine, and the old man disappeared in a cloud of dust. The turning took them into another road. The driver began to count the bungalows. At the fifth, he stopped. A dog lay sprawled in the road, its torn throat black with flies, and McFaul took a deep breath, knowing that time was running out. The driver was right. Katilo had no patience. If Christianne wasn’t there, they’d both be in deep trouble. The only card he had to play was the camcorder. Without the means to put Katilo onto videotape, McFaul was worthless. Even his de-mining skills Katilo would probably discard.

  He got out of the truck, crossing the road. He recognised the bungalow now, the stand of orchids beside the gate, the peeling blue paint on the shuttered windows. McFaul paused in the shade of the veranda. A lizard watched him for a moment then darted into cover. McFaul knocked twice on the front door, waiting for a response. Nothing happened. He heard the tailgate of the truck clatter down, then the stamp of boots in the dust. It was suddenly very hot. He knocked again. This time he thought he heard movement inside the house, and a child’s voice, quickly silenced. He knocked a third time, calling Christianne’s name. The bodyguards were at the gate, watching him. At last there were footsteps inside. The door opened an inch. McFaul recognised Elias. Like Domingos, he had far too many teeth.

  ‘Christianne?’ McFaul said.

  The Angolan had seen the soldiers at the gate. He looked terrified. He shook his head.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Go away.’

  ‘Please … is she here?’

  ‘No.’ Elias began to shut the door but McFaul put his foot against the jamb. He’d seen movement in the gloom beyond Elias. He’d seen a face. The face was white.

  ‘Christianne?’

  He pushed inside, not waiting for an answer, pulling the door shut behind him. There was a strong smell of blocked sewers, laced with disinfectant. At the end of the tiny hall, Christianne was nursing a baby. She stared at McFaul, at last recognising the face, and McFaul realised that he hadn’t been near a mirror for days, not since the beating. He must look awful, the bruises beginning to yellow, his face still swollen beneath the heavy stubble. Christianne was whispering to somebody in another room. Celestina appeared, taking the baby, her face averted. She stepped aside and Christianne’s arms were suddenly round McFaul, hugging him. Elias was at the window now, peering through the shutters. The soldiers were coming. Two of them. Three of them. Four.

  Christianne led McFaul into another room. It was even darker in here and McFaul felt his legs giving way beneath him. He reached out, his hand finding the edge of a table, and for a moment he caught his balance. Then it went again and he crashed to the floor, his head snapping back against the cold tiles. Conscious again, seconds later, he could hear the soldiers beating at the door. Somewhere close, a child was crying. McFaul struggled upright. Christianne appeared from another room. She had something in her hand.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  She paused a moment.

  ‘I’ll stop them,’ she said. ‘I’ll give them this. Then they’ll go away. Leave us alone.’ She made a quick, impatient gesture with her hand.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A movie camera. I found it at the schoolhouse. Bennie gave me the key.’

  McFaul stared at her then lay back, helpless with laughter. He heard Christianne at the front door, shouting at the soldiers in French. He got to his feet, one hand nursing the back of his head. He could feel the swelling already and when he took his hand away, his fingers were sticky with blood. Katilo parted the knot of soldiers at the front door. They were already admiring the camcorder, passing it round. Katilo retrieved it and gave it to McFaul. Time was short. He needed shots of himself entering Muengo. They were to return to the airstrip, organise a column of vehicles, tour the city all over again. He wanted shots from the side of the road, shots from on board, shots of his face. He’d seen what McFaul had done with Domingos in the minefields, the care he’d taken, all the pictures he’d recorded before the little man had triggered the mine. He wanted the same attention, the same treatment, nothing less.

  McFaul nodded, reaching for Christianne’s hand.

  ‘She comes too.’

  Katilo hesitated a moment. Christianne was wearing a tight Terra Sancta T-shirt and his men couldn’t take their eyes off it. Finally, Katilo shrugged.

  ‘OK,’ he grunted, eyeing Christianne’s hand, scarlet now with McFaul’s blood.

  Molly Jordan had never been to Larry Giddings’s apartment. The suggestion had been his. Since her return to Luanda from Muengo they’d met twice, once for an afternoon on the Ilha and once for a brief drink at a café on the Avenida Marginale, across from the pink stucco of the Banco Naçional. On both occasions, for reasons she didn’t fully understand, Molly had felt completely at ease in the American’s company. She liked the softness of his voice and the way he never pushed himself at her. She liked the gentle amusement he seemed to derive from life and the way he refused to take either Angola or himself too seriously. And she liked, especially, the knack he had of making her feel wanted, someone worth listening to, someone whose experience, so different to his own, was of genuine interest. All too oft
en, back home, she felt caged by her sex, and her appearance, and by the fact that she was so obviously middle class. Out here, with Giddings, none of that seemed to matter.

  The apartment was on the third floor of a modern block off the Rua Abdul Nasser near the UN office. There were guards on the door at street level and both the lifts were broken. Giddings shepherded her up six flights of stairs, pausing on the landing outside his door to find his key. For a big man, in late middle age, he was remarkably fit.

  The door finally opened and Giddings stepped aside, inviting Molly in. The apartment was tiny, a sitting room with a small balcony, a galley kitchen, a narrow bedroom, and a curtained cubby-hole at the end of the hall that contained a shower, a hand-basin, and a toilet. Giddings completed the tour and they returned to the sitting room. One wall was dominated by a poster for an Edward Hopper exhibition at the Guggenheim in New York, and on the sideboard below was a neat semi-circle of portrait photos, identically framed. There were four of them, kids no older than seven or eight. They were all black and Molly found herself gazing at them, surprised. Giddings looked too old to have children so young.

  Giddings smiled at her, anticipating the question.

  ‘Adopted them all,’ he said. ‘Took them all home with me, coupla years back. Surprised the hell out of Rose.’

  Molly found herself grinning. Rose was Giddings’s wife. He had photos of her, too. He carried them in his wallet, an ample, handsome woman with a face like an opera singer. His evident infatuation with her was one of the reasons she felt so much at ease.

  ‘Your kids came from here? They’re Angolan?’

  ‘Sure. One’s from Luanda. City kid. The rest come from up-country.’

  ‘And you just met them?’ Molly shrugged. ‘Made friends?’

  ‘No better way. The kids here are knock-out. It’s one of the reasons you know things will get better. There’s begging, sure. Kids got no choice. But you ever see the way they share stuff out? Can you imagine that? Back where I come from? The land of plenty?’

  He beamed at the row of little faces on the sideboard and Molly thought of the meal she’d shared with Robbie at the Arcadia, the eyes in the darkness beyond the light. At the end of the meal, while Robbie was paying the bill, she’d emptied her purse of small change and given it to the oldest and she could still see him solemnly dividing the money between them. Giddings was right. White kids weren’t like that at all. Too much money. Too much to lose. Funny, she thought, how wealth breeds selfishness.

  Giddings was making coffee. Molly sat at the small circular table, inspecting his collection of CDs. They occupied a shelf beside her head, a long list of jazz titles, names she’d never heard of.

  ‘You like the saxophone?’

  He was back already, balancing a tray and closing the door to the kitchen with his foot. There was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the tray and he splashed generous measures into two glasses without checking whether she liked bourbon. The smell of fresh coffee from the cafetière filled the room.

  Giddings leaned over, selecting a CD, slipping the disc into the player on the shelf below. Molly recognised the soft, rich wail of a saxophone. The theme was vaguely familiar and she thought at once of James. He’d gone through a phase when he’d listen to nothing but jazz, haunting a club in Colchester, returning at three in the morning with plans to buy his own instrument. She wasn’t sure but she thought the saxophone was what he had in mind, and she told Giddings how he’d saved up for months, finally blowing the money on a very old motor bike.

  Giddings smiled, his feet tapping to a burst of wild drumming. Then he raised his glass.

  ‘To James,’ he murmured. ‘Safe journey.’

  They talked all afternoon. By nightfall most of the bourbon had gone. Molly sat in a low chair, out on the balcony, watching the sky crimson in the west. The sun was low now, fattening by the minute, flooding the ocean with colour, and the air was still warm, tainted by the smell of prawn heads and cheap petrol.

  Giddings had changed into a T-shirt and a pair of baggy jeans. He sat on the concrete floor of the balcony with his back against the French windows, nursing the last of the bourbon. Molly had finished telling him about Giles. The news from Lloyd’s about their financial affairs, she said, didn’t matter one way or another. Given the choice, she’d gladly trade solvency for her husband’s safe return.

  Giddings held up his glass, squinting at the sunset through the pale liquid.

  ‘You wanna talk to this guy?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘This Patrick guy? The one you mentioned? The attorney? Only there ain’t a problem. You got the number there?’

  Giddings disappeared into the sitting room and returned with a telephone. Molly looked at it. She’d been trying to phone England since her return from Muengo but she’d never got past the operator. International lines were always busy. Even Alma Bradley, it turned out, did everything by telex.

  Giddings was offering her the phone.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Just do it.’ Molly began to explain about her earlier attempts but he waved her protests aside. ‘Just do it,’ he said. ‘It’s a satellite phone. No big deal. Just go right ahead. Trust me. You got the country prefix? Know the number?’

  Molly nodded, fingering the touch pad. She’d no idea why a satellite telephone should be so special but if the call got through she didn’t much care. Faintly, she heard a series of clicks. Then the number began to ring. She blinked, sitting upright in the chair, suddenly aware of how much she’d drunk. Patrick, she thought. Probably minutes away from leaving the office. And now me to cope with.

  The number answered and Molly recognised the plummy tones of the receptionist. The woman was explaining why Patrick was busy. Molly cut in.

  ‘It’s Mrs Jordan,’ she said. ‘Just put me through.’

  The line went dead for a full minute and Molly was about to hang up when she heard Patrick’s voice, a gentle enquiry, no surprise, no drama, utterly characteristic.

  ‘Molly? Is that you?’

  Molly blinked again, Luanda a blur. She looked around, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Giddings had disappeared.

  ‘Me,’ she agreed, sniffing. ‘Sorry about this.’

  ‘Sorry about what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She closed her eyes a moment and counted to five, determined to get things in the right order. Patrick was telling her how anxious everyone had been. Angola sounded a million miles away. Most people he talked to hadn’t a clue where it was.

  ‘It’s nice,’ Molly heard herself saying. ‘A nice place.’

  ‘Good, good. So how are you?’

  The conversation went on, Molly marvelling at how easy it was to slip into small talk. Her son was dead. Her husband was missing. And here she was, asking Patrick about Alice. Was she well? Was she still playing golf?

  ‘It’s nearly Christmas,’ Patrick was roaring with laughter, ‘bit chilly for golf.’

  The laughter subsided. There was a silence. Molly focused on a crack in the concrete, summoning the courage to ask about Giles. Was there any news? Had the search been called off? Might there be …?

  Patrick cut in.

  ‘The search was called off four days ago,’ he said gently, ‘and I’m afraid the signs aren’t good.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  Molly felt the chair moving beneath her, then realised it was her body swaying back and forth. Patrick’s tone of voice. Bad news. Definitely.

  ‘Tell me, Patrick,’ she said. ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘Fishermen have turned up some bits and pieces. French chaps, day before yesterday.’ He paused. ‘They took them into Boulogne.’

  ‘What? Took what?’

  ‘Some rigging. Some bits and pieces of hull.’

  ‘Molly? Molly Jay?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’ He paused again. ‘These are trawler-men, Molly. They were dragging the bottom. I’m very sorry.’

  Molly nodded, gazing out at th
e ocean. The sun had nearly disappeared.

  ‘So it’s definite? She sank?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘And Giles? Did he …? Did the fishermen …?’

  ‘No trace, I’m afraid. But … it’s November, Molly. I’ve talked to the air/sea rescue people. They’re saying an hour, maximum.’

  ‘An hour what?’

  ‘An hour in the water. After that … it’s just too cold.’

  ‘But he had one of those suits, those special things. I know, I saw it on board, before I came out here. It’s orange. It made him look like the Michelin man. It was hanging in the—’ She broke off, hearing Patrick’s voice again, coaxing her towards the truth.

  ‘An hour,’ he was saying, ‘even with a survival suit.’

  Molly nodded, knowing he was right. This wasn’t the tropics, the sea warmed to blood-heat, the kids skinny-dipping all day. This was the English Channel in the depths of winter, slate-grey, hostile, ice-cold. She shuddered, reaching for Giddings’s glass, trying to remember the chart she’d seen in the cabin the afternoon she’d driven over to the marina. Giles had plotted a course south. It would have taken him through the Straits of Dover. Night, she thought. He must have been off-watch. He must have been hit by something. Something big. Something that had chopped his little boat in half and left him thrashing in the darkness, watching the lights recede, knowing that the game was up. Maybe he hadn’t been wearing the suit at all. Maybe it had all been too sudden for that. She tried to swallow the bourbon but couldn’t, letting it trickle back into the glass. Patrick was saying something about life insurance. Giles had been fully covered. The assessors had already been in touch. The absence of a body was a problem but he was doing his best to sort everything out.