The phone began to ring, trilling softly beside the bed. McFaul ignored it, positioning the camcorder on the edge of the dressing-table. Katilo hadn’t specified why he wanted the camcorder but McFaul could guess at the kind of sequence he had in mind. The major international hotels were served by Kinshasa’s top call girls. For visiting businessmen crazy enough to risk AIDS, a couple of hundred dollars would buy an hour or two of à la carte sex. For Katilo, given his military status, the full menu was probably on the house. McFaul bent to the camcorder. Through the tiny viewfinder, he could see at least three-quarters of the bed. He moved it a little, first left, then right, wondering quite where Katilo preferred to perform. At length he settled on a shot that included the pillow and the waiting triangle of crisp white sheet.
The phone was still ringing. McFaul picked it up. It was Rademeyer.
‘Katilo there?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
McFaul explained about Katilo and his request for the camcorder. Rademeyer confirmed his suspicions.
‘Man’s insatiable.’ He laughed. ‘He keeps a scrapbook of photos. He’s talked me through them a couple of times.’ He asked McFaul if he could see a package Katilo had wanted delivered. Brown Jiffybag. Size of a paperback book. McFaul scanned the room.
‘No,’ he said, ‘can’t see it.’
‘Cupboards? Wardrobes? Tried them?’
McFaul began to search. Except for a Bible, the chest of drawers beside the mini-bar was empty. Across the room, behind the louvred doors, was a walk-in closet. McFaul limped towards it, skirting the huge bed. He was still looking for Rademeyer’s Jiffybag, when he spotted the trip-wire. He froze, motionless beside the bed. The trip-wire was at ankle-height, barely inches away, and his eyes followed it to the wall. The mine was a Claymore, a container the size of a kid’s paintbox, taped above the skirting-board. On the outside, a line of raised letters read FRONT TOWARDS ENEMY. McFaul stepped slowly backwards. The other end of the trip-wire ran to a fixing point by the hinge of the door that led out to the balcony. Beyond the trip-wire, lay the closet.
McFaul circled carefully round the bed. Then he bent to the Claymore, making sure there were no funnies. It was easy to booby-trap a mine like this. Get it wrong, make a single mistake, and the seven hundred steel balls inside would tear him apart. Claymores were the mines you used to protect whole sections of men in the field. Anyone closer than a hundred metres was history.
Finding no booby-traps, McFaul knew he had to make the mine safe. In a leather pouch on his belt he carried a fold-up multi-tool. The multi-tool included a pair of wire cutters and he crouched beside the Claymore, holding the firing pin steady with one hand, cutting the trip-wire with the other. Then he got to his feet, unsteady for a second, suddenly aware of the sweat darkening the thin cotton shirt. Only Katilo would have been crazy enough to risk triggering a Claymore within the confines of a hotel bedroom. God knows what would have happened had the thing gone off.
Remembering Rademeyer, McFaul returned to the phone. When he told Rademeyer he couldn’t find the Jiffybag the South African cursed. He’d been planning to go out. Now he’d have to wait until Katilo returned. He gave McFaul his room number in case Katilo turned up, then rang off. McFaul was still looking at the closet. The door was half-open. Inside, there were clothes hanging on a rail and below the clothes was the cardboard box he’d seen earlier. McFaul replaced the phone and crossed the room again, examining the closet doors for more booby-traps. Finding nothing, he knelt beside the box. Inside, plainly visible, were the land mines. McFaul frowned. There were maybe a dozen mines piled on top of each other, different types, none of them live. He could see the carrying caps, the small plastic screw-in blanks you removed before inserting the detonator. In all, the mines were worth no more than a couple of hundred dollars. Why go to the trouble of booby-trapping a dozen unfused mines? Why post a sentry as lethal as a Claymore?
McFaul’s own room was two floors away. Tucked into a pocket of his holdall was a slim MagLite torch. He returned to Katilo’s room, locking the door behind him, squatting awkwardly beside the box in the confined space of the closet. Katilo’s camouflage smock, hanging on the rail above his head, smelled of cigar smoke. McFaul switched on the torch, the pencil beam probing the recesses of the box. At the bottom, beside a nine-inch anti-tank mine, he saw something sparkling. He moved the torch a little, peering in, trying to make sense of the dancing lights. He put the torch in his mouth, knowing already what it was he’d probably find. The Claymore, after all, hadn’t been such a bad idea.
McFaul reached in, extracting the mines one by one, laying them carefully beside the box. At the bottom of the box was a small polythene bag. Inside the bag were diamonds. McFaul held up the bag, the torch still in his mouth, trying to count the tiny uncut gems. At fifteen he gave up. There were thirty, forty, maybe more. Back in Europe, they’d be worth a fortune. Out here, in Kinshasa, Katilo could exchange them for hundreds of thousands of mines. By taking the diamonds, by putting them to better use, McFaul might spare Angola a little of the agony to come. Fewer shredded limbs. Fewer broken lives. The proposition brought a grim smile to his face and he eased himself out of the closet, leaning back against the bed. Minutes earlier, finding the mines, he’d wondered about setting his own booby-trap. One of the little Chinese Type 72As, for instance, armed and waiting beneath Katilo’s pillow. The notion was beautifully simple, a certain death sentence, years of suffering – his own and others’ – repaid in a millisecond of splintered bone and pulped brain tissue. But a moment’s thought told him the plan was far from foolproof. What if he was right about the call girls? What if someone else’s head hit the pillow first?
McFaul hesitated a moment then pocketed the diamonds. According to the clock beside the bed, it was nearly eight. He began to repack the mines, lowering them carefully into the box, then realised there was no point. The first thing Katilo would check on his return was the Claymore. Finding the wire cut would take him to the closet and once he knew the diamonds had gone, the first name on his lips would be McFaul’s. Who else had the key to the room? Who else knew how to disarm a Claymore?
The phone began to ring again. McFaul looked at it, uncertain. It was already ten past eight. Maybe Katilo had come back early. Maybe he was after his key. McFaul glanced at the camcorder, wondering whether to take it, then dismissed the thought. What mattered now was getting away from the hotel. The less he carried, the better. He turned for the door, then paused. At some point or other, knowing Katilo, he’d proceed with the evening’s entertainment. Diamonds or no diamonds, he’d owe himself a party.
In a folder on the desk, McFaul found a sheet of hotel notepaper. The Biro didn’t work properly and his hand was shaking more than he cared to admit but the scrawled instructions were still legible. ‘Once you’ve found the Power and Self-View buttons,’ he wrote, ‘everything takes care of itself.’ He smiled, folding the instructions and leaving them beside the camcorder. Nice adieu, he thought, checking his pocket for the diamonds.
Rademeyer was watching television when McFaul tapped on his door. McFaul stepped inside without an invitation. Across the room, on a big twenty-three-inch set, Kevin Costner was doing battle with the Sheriff of Nottingham.
‘You find the package?’
Rademeyer was sprawled in the armchair, his hand outstretched, his eyes still fixed on the screen. McFaul shook his head.
‘No,’ he said briefly. ‘Turn that thing off.’
Rademeyer glanced round, one eyebrow raised.
‘Why?’
‘Just turn it off.’
‘Tell me why.’
McFaul lowered himself onto the sofa and emptied Katilo’s polythene bag onto the low glass-topped table.
‘Where did you get these?’
‘Katilo’s room.’
‘You’re crazy, man. He’ll kill you.’
McFaul shrugged. He wanted to know about the diamonds. Were they the ones from Cafunfo? The ones he’d col
lected from Ivan, the dealer?
‘Yeah, probably.’
‘And does he always help himself?’
‘Sure.’ Rademeyer was inspecting them, turning each one over, holding it up to the light. ‘I ship them over to a dealer in the city. Guy pays top dollar. Straight into an account in Zurich.’
‘Was that why you wanted the package? The Jiffybag?’
‘Of course. I’m cheaper than Federal Express.’
‘So what happens to the rest?’
‘They pay for the shopping.’
‘You mean arms?’
‘Sure. Whatever’s on the market. Katilo’s very fashion conscious. Likes the best.’
McFaul nodded, remembering his first encounter with Katilo in the cave by the river. He’d been showing off his latest acquisitions. The SB-33, the little Italian mine they called the ‘Gucci’, had been his favourite. Rademeyer was still looking at the diamonds.
‘You really steal these?’ he said at last. ‘Lift them from his room?’
McFaul ignored the question.
‘Katilo’s due back at nine,’ he said. ‘I need to be out of here.’
‘Very wise.’
‘And you need to take me.’ McFaul frowned. ‘Me and Mrs Jordan.’ Rademeyer was on his feet, hands raised, fending off the suggestion.
‘Shit, man …’
‘I’m serious.’
‘You be as serious as you like. The answer’s no. I know nothing about it. Not this. Not you. Not any fucking thing. You want to end up in the river, that’s your business. But don’t involve me, eh?’
McFaul was dividing the diamonds into two piles. The biggest pile he pushed towards Rademeyer.
‘Yours,’ he said briefly. ‘Mrs Jordan’s downstairs in the lobby. You’ve got a car. You’ve got a plane. We need to be away before the shit hits the fan.’ He paused a moment, thinking of Katilo again. Had he tucked a 72A under his pillow, it would have been a wonderfully apt phrase.
Rademeyer was back beside the diamonds. A little of the fear had drained from his face. He picked up the diamonds, weighing them in his hand.
‘You really think I can fly out of here? Just like that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you really think this is all it takes?’
McFaul ignored the question, reaching forward and scooping the smaller pile of diamonds into the polythene bag.
‘Half down. The rest on completion.’ He smiled. ‘Deal?’
Rademeyer’s eyes had returned to the empty TV screen. He reached for the remote control. He was frowning.
‘I need to make a call.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Give me five minutes.’
McFaul rejoined Molly in the lobby. So far he’d told her nothing. Simply that the schedule had changed. They had to go to the airport. They were leaving Zaire a little earlier than planned. Now, she sat beside the new Adidas holdall she’d bought from one of the hotel boutiques. The expression on her face told McFaul everything he needed to know.
‘Pleased to be off?’
‘Delighted.’
McFaul sank into the chair beside her. A delegation of some kind had just arrived, a dozen or so black businessmen in identical purple blazers. They were clustered round the reception desk, arguing about room allocations. Molly asked again exactly where they were going and McFaul heard himself talking about Angola, his eyes never leaving the big revolving door that led to the street outside.
‘Angola? You mean Luanda?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought—’
‘We’re going with Rademeyer. The Dove’s a bit short on range for anything more ambitious.’ He glanced at her a moment. ‘It makes no difference. There are flights back to Europe from Luanda. You’ll be home in a couple of days.’
‘But what about the tickets? Air France? I thought—’
‘Doesn’t matter. We go tonight.’
Something in his voice brought her questions to a halt and he saw the first doubts ghost across her face. Something had happened. Something awful. And now they had to go. McFaul felt a hand on his knee. She was leaning forward, one arm outstretched.
‘What’s he done now?’ she asked. ‘Tell me.’
‘Who?’
‘Katilo.’
McFaul tried to look unconcerned.
‘Nothing,’ he ran a tired hand over his face, ‘yet.’
Rademeyer arrived minutes later. McFaul spotted him by the lifts, recognising the blue canvas bag. The last time he’d seen it was under armed guard at the barbecue in Muengo. He got to his feet, shepherding Molly towards the door. Rademeyer joined them outside. It was raining again, fat drops falling from an inky sky. Rademeyer left the bag beneath the hotel awning, telling them to wait. The Mercedes was in a nearby parking lot. He’d bring it round. McFaul began to protest but Rademeyer was already halfway across the road, his jacket pulled up over his head, running towards the fenced compound reserved for hotel cars.
The rain got heavier and a wind began to stir the line of trees along the Avenue Batetela. The wind brought with it the smells of the river, the hot, swampy breath of Central Africa, and McFaul felt the touch of Molly’s hand again, slipped through his arm. He looked down at her. She was staring out, beyond the road, beyond the river bank, her face quite emotionless, and McFaul sensed at once how frightened she was.
Beyond the gatehouse that guarded the approaches to the hotel, he could see the headlights of an approaching car. It turned in from the road, a long stretch limousine, tyres hissing on the wet tarmac. Beneath the hotel awning, it stopped. The windows were of smoked glass, the occupants invisible. The front passenger door opened and a tall man in a black jump-suit got out. McFaul recognised him at once, one of the guards he’d met outside Katilo’s room. The guard was bending to the limousine, opening the rear door, and McFaul watched Katilo appear, first his legs, then his arms, then the rest of him. He stood unsteadily on the pavement. He was very drunk. He saw McFaul and waved imperiously at the car.
‘You want it, my friend? Tonight? You and your lady? Please …’ He offered Molly an extravagant bow.
Molly turned away. McFaul couldn’t take his eyes off the car. The rear door was still open, and the guard was looking in, saying something in French. At length, a woman got out. She was in her twenties. She was wearing an Air France uniform, pleated blue skirt, white blouse. She had fine auburn hair, carefully plaited and secured at the back with a butterfly clip. She was beautiful.
Katilo was beaming at her, introducing McFaul.
‘Mon metteur en scène,’ he said. ‘He makes my films.’
He looked round at McFaul, wanting confirmation, and McFaul nodded, still looking at the girl. A flurry of rain caught her in the face and McFaul heard a soft curse as one hand went to her head and she ducked for cover, letting Katilo encircle her with his arm, capturing her, protecting her, pulling her inwards. She looked up at him and for a moment McFaul thought he detected real warmth in her smile. Then Katilo had turned on his heel, sweeping her into the revolving door, dismissing the car and the guard with a regal wave.
Rademeyer was at the kerbside, sitting behind the wheel of the Mercedes. The front window was down and he was watching Katilo and the air hostess making their way across the hotel lobby. The receptionist already had the key, her arm outstretched, and Katilo took it with another stage bow, playing to the audience of impressed African businessmen. Then he began to carve a path across the crowded lobby, heading for the lift, and as the purple blazers closed ranks behind him, McFaul heard Rademeyer calling impatiently from the kerbside.
They drove out of the hotel, the rain sheeting down in the glare of the headlights. Ahead lay the Avenue des Nations Unis, the boulevard which ran beside the river. To get to the airport, you turned right. Rademeyer was indicating left. McFaul leaned forward, one hand reaching for his shoulder.
‘Where are you going?’
Rademeyer smiled.
‘Detour,’ he said briefly. ‘Trust me.’
&nbs
p; McFaul hesitated a moment, uncertain, then sat back against the dimpled leather. Whatever happened now, they were in Rademeyer’s hands. He was the one who’d get them to the airport. He was the one who’d fly the plane. McFaul’s hand went to the breast pocket of his shirt. The last couple of days, he’d been carrying the little Hi-8 video-cassettes everywhere. There were three of them in all and he knew he owed them his life. They’d been his passport out of Muengo. They’d taken him here, to Kinshasa. And now, with luck, they’d see him safely back to the UK. He smiled to himself, reaching for Molly’s hand, feeling her answering squeeze. Never again would he slag the likes of Todd Llewelyn. The media might still be a sick excuse for real life but just sometimes it had its uses.
Rademeyer was looking in the mirror again, beginning to slow. Set back from the boulevard, McFaul could see the looming bulk of a large building. It looked like an apartment block, or perhaps a hotel. It was shrouded in darkness, no lights anywhere. Rademeyer turned in off the road, slowing to avoid pot-holes. They were in some kind of parking lot and as Rademeyer pulled the Mercedes into a wide turn, the headlights drifted over the bodies of abandoned cars. Some had burned out. Others had wheels missing. One or two were without doors. The Mercedes was still moving, Rademeyer peering into the darkness. At length he grunted, spotting something, flashing his headlights, letting the car coast to a halt.
With the engine off, McFaul could hear nothing, just the incessant drumbeat of the rain on the roof. Rademeyer’s window purred down. The noise of the rain got louder. Molly stirred, moving closer to McFaul.
‘What’s happening?’
‘I don’t know.’
Rademeyer slid the wrapper off a stick of chewing gum. The clock on the dashboard read 21.31. McFaul leaned forward.
‘When does the airport close for the night?’
The Perfect Soldier Page 40
