The Perfect Soldier

by Hurley, Graham

  Next day it was late afternoon before Molly left for London. She took the train, settling herself in an empty first-class compartment, sitting back and watching the bare, flat fields speed by. She’d had another call from Vere Hallam since her conversation with McFaul. He’d phoned from his office, confirming the evening’s arrangements. They’d meet in the American Bar at half-past seven. He had a table booked in the Grill Room at eight. Afterwards, if she and McFaul wanted to spend the night in town, he’d reserved rooms for them. The rooms, like the meal, were – of course – at his expense. Given the circumstances, and the season, it was the very least he could do.

  She thought about the voice on the phone as the train clattered through Wivenhoe, the last of the daylight gleaming on the river. Vere Hallam had talked to her the way you’d talk to an old friend, real warmth, real affection, and afterwards Molly had found herself wondering whether this was simply a card every politician played or whether, for once, it was sincere. Listening to him on the phone, it was impossible to forget her first glimpse of his wife, the wheelchair edging slowly down the ramp onto Thorpe station, the square of plaid blanket tucked around her knees. Sustaining a marriage like that, coping with a lifetime of paralysis, took someone pretty special.

  The train was late getting into Liverpool Street and McFaul had been waiting for nearly half an hour when the cab dropped Molly outside the Savoy. He was standing beneath the canopy, his tall frame hunched inside a thin, belted raincoat, and he lifted a hand as Molly turned from the cab. Molly hurried across the pavement, strangely pleased to see him. She reached up, kissing him on both cheeks then moistening her forefinger and rubbing off the lipstick.

  ‘You look different,’ she said. ‘Haircut?’

  McFaul nodded, visibly embarrassed, running a hand across his scalp. In Angola, he’d worn a bristly crew cut. Now, he was practically bald. She looked at him a moment, then put her arm through his, tugging him towards the big revolving door, telling him he should have waited inside, out of the cold. The door swallowed them both. A lavish Christmas tree dominated the lobby. McFaul looked round, watchful, awkward. Two women, shrouded in furs, were waiting impatiently for the lift. Molly was already at the entrance to the American Bar, peering in, wondering whether Vere Hallam had arrived. The bar was half-empty. A man in a dark suit rose from a table at the end. He was tall, the suit exquisitely cut. His blond hair was long, curling over his collar, and his smile revealed a row of perfect teeth. He came towards them, his hand outstretched. He moved like an athlete, on the balls of his feet. He looked extremely fit and his face had a glow that suggested a life outside London.

  ‘Molly Jordan?’

  Molly shook the proffered hand, introducing McFaul. McFaul managed a tense smile.

  ‘Drink?’

  Molly chose Campari. McFaul settled for a bottle of Guinness. They sat down, Hallam asking Molly about the journey up, her plans for Christmas, whether or not she’d finished her shopping, deftly getting the evening afloat on a raft of small talk. After the intimacy of their exchange the previous evening, it was strange putting a face to the voice on the phone. Early forties, Molly decided. Maybe a little older. Hard to tell when he was so obviously in such good physical condition.

  A waiter arrived with a handful of menus and Hallam told him to put them on the table. Molly counted them. There were three.

  ‘Isn’t Carolyne coming?’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s had to stay at home. Touch of flu. She sends her regrets.’ He paused. ‘She was devastated to hear about James. She felt awful about not knowing.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. That wasn’t her fault.’

  ‘And Giles, too. He was such a nice man. We miss him dreadfully.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ He reached across, ever attentive, offering her a comforting pat on the arm, and Molly caught the faintest whiff of perfume, something light, the scent of lemons.

  McFaul had produced a video-cassette from a plastic bag. He put it on the table beside Hallam’s glass.

  ‘Compliments of Global,’ he muttered. ‘My boss thought you might like to watch it some time.’

  ‘Ah …’ Hallam touched the cassette with his fingertips, still looking at Molly, ‘is this the one you mentioned on the phone?’

  ‘I haven’t seen it,’ Molly said. ‘Not personally. But … you know … maybe tomorrow or something … when you have the time.’

  ‘Of course.’ Hallam picked up the cassette and put it carefully to one side. ‘Pretty rugged stuff, I hear.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled at McFaul. ‘Word gets around. London’s a small place, smaller than you think. I understand you’ve been trying to get a TV sale. Is that right?’

  ‘Not sale, exactly.’ McFaul frowned. ‘A showing. That’s all we want.’

  ‘To tell the world?’

  ‘Yes. And the more people the better. Obviously.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  The waiter returned to take the order, hovering at Molly’s elbow while she tried to decide. Hallam was recommending the traditional Christmas dinner. Year after year, it was always superb.

  ‘You come here often?’

  ‘I’m afraid I do.’

  ‘It doesn’t show.’ Molly nodded at his waistband. ‘You must have a wonderful metabolism. Lucky thing.’

  Hallam accepted the compliment with a smile, asking the waiter for a bottle of Burgundy. McFaul had settled for steak and kidney pudding. The waiter disappeared and Hallam eased his long frame backwards in the chair, reaching for his Perrier.

  ‘So tell me about these land mines of yours,’ he said, looking at McFaul. ‘Pretend I know nothing.’

  The meal lasted most of the evening. Hallam had reserved a table in the far corner of the big dining room, beside one of the tall windows and Molly sat with her back to the wall, picking at her food while McFaul told Hallam about the minefields. He talked in a low monotone, favouring the MP with his usual candour. He described his early days in the Royal Engineers, learning the job, textbook clearance work, driving breaches across scrupulously laid minefields. He explained the way things were when you obeyed the rules, each minefield tagged and labelled, as neat and tidy as a flowerbed in a city-centre park. He drew diagrams on the tablecloth with the end of his fork, describing the standard patterns, diamond shapes, box shapes, the various ways you could guard the big anti-tank mines with a screen of A/Ps.

  ‘A/Ps?’

  Hallam paused, his fork spearing a fat Brussels sprout, wanting everything spelled out, no ambiguities, nothing lurking in the shadows of this strange conversation, and McFaul nodded, translating the term, turning the bare acronym into flesh and blood.

  ‘Anti-personnel mines.’ He nodded at a packet of cigarettes beside Hallam’s plate. ‘Pick that up. What does it weigh? A couple of ounces? An ounce? Less than that?’ He paused. ‘You know how much TNT you need to take a foot off? Three-quarters of an ounce.’

  He bent to the table again, swallowing another mouthful of red wine, telling Hallam about his days in the Falklands. He’d fought there during the war in 1982. A couple of years later he was back again, part of the mine clearance operation, hunting for millions of Argentinian mines. In the war’s final stages, the Argies had scattered them from helicopters, totally at random, no attempt to keep records or plant warning signs. As a result, the islanders were condemned to live with them for ever. There were beaches on East Falkland where human beings would never walk again. Ever. Miles and miles of sand, permanently off-limits. That’s what mines did. Once they got into the wrong hands.

  Molly was watching McFaul, spellbound. She’d never heard him talk this way, so coherent, so forceful, so effective.

  ‘Terrible.’ She shook her head. ‘Ghastly.’

  Hallam patted his mouth with his napkin.

  ‘I agree. Appalling.’

  McFaul glanced up, his concentration broken for a moment. He looked, if anything, faintly amused. Hallam ges
tured at the food cooling on his plate but he shook his head, returning to the minefields, explaining the way it worked in the Third World, peasant economies strangled, whole villages necklaced by the little tablets of high explosive. He described his days in Afghanistan, the people he’d met, the kids he’d seen buried. He talked about the markets in remote corners of Pakistan, places where the arms dealers dumped the stuff they didn’t want any more. Chinese mines. Soviet mines. American mines. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Each one another coffin. Each one another cripple, begging in the streets.

  The courses came and went, McFaul barely touching his food. In Angola, he said, there were now more land mines than people. In Cambodia, they were running out of crutches. There were people out there trying to help, sure, but each time you went back to these places the problem had got worse. Laying a mine took less than a minute. Finding them again, lifting them, returning the earth to the people, would be the work of many lifetimes.

  A waiter appeared with a tray of crackers. A Japanese couple at the next table were wearing paper hats. The waiter offered the crackers to Molly.

  ‘Take one, madam,’ he said, ‘there are ten-pound notes in some of them.’

  Molly and McFaul exchanged glances. Hallam took three crackers, leaving them beside his plate.

  ‘Tell me how I can help,’ he said quietly.

  McFaul produced a folded sheet of fax paper. He passed it across the table. Hallam read it, then looked up.

  ‘I think you’ll find we don’t export mines like that.’ He nodded at the cigarette packet. ‘They’re yesterday’s technology. You should be talking to the Chinese, or the Pakistanis. They’re turning out millions of the things.’

  ‘I know. But we want a total ban. Every kind of mine.’

  ‘That might not be wise. Or even necessary.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Hallam reached for the fax and flattened it against the table. Molly tried to make sense of the closely spaced lines of type. The fax contained the text of a formal motion to be presented to Parliament. Halfway down, it spoke of the need for the government to recognise the unacceptable nature of all anti-personnel mines and ban their manufacture, use, export, transfer and stockpiling. She read the sentence twice. It didn’t seem to leave much room for ambiguities.

  Molly looked up. McFaul was toying with a cracker while Hallam, quietly emphatic, made a series of points about the defence industry. Arms sales were a real success story. We’d managed to capture 20 per cent of the world market. Export earnings ran into billions. One job in ten depended on defence. When he’d finished, he spread his hands wide, a gesture Molly interpreted as helplessness.

  McFaul hadn’t taken his eyes off Hallam’s face.

  ‘Have you ever watched a kid bleeding to death?’ he said. ‘Or his mother trying to hoe a field on one leg?’

  ‘That’s hardly the point. You can’t blame our mines for that.’

  ‘A mine’s a mine,’ McFaul insisted, ‘there’s absolutely no difference.’

  ‘You’re wrong. You should listen to what the MOD people are saying. I popped over this afternoon. Took the precaution of getting myself briefed.’

  ‘I know what they’re saying,’ McFaul said thickly, ‘and it means fuck-all.’

  The Japanese couple at the next table were looking apprehensive. Molly encouraged them with a smile. Hallam was leaning forward now, patient, sincere, eager to explain.

  ‘On the contrary,’ he was saying, ‘I think the army boffins are talking a great deal of sense. The technology’s there to be used. As I understand it, we’re making mines safe. Doesn’t that meet with your approval? Given your obvious … ah … interest?’

  McFaul looked away a moment, lost for words, and Molly reached out, restraining him, anxious to avoid a scene. The fax was still lying on the table. She found a phrase that had earlier caught her eye.

  ‘I’m a bit lost,’ she said. ‘What does “self-neutralising” mean?’

  Hallam folded his napkin and put it carefully to one side.

  ‘It’s a gadget they put in mines these days. I gather they become harmless after a certain period of time. It’s a new technology. We’re up there with the world leaders.’ He smiled. ‘For once.’

  Molly glanced at McFaul, wanting confirmation. McFaul was still looking Hallam in the eye. She’d never seen such naked contempt.

  ‘This is a game the Brits play,’ he said quietly. ‘The guys who work in the field, the guys who know, want mines banned. All mines. We say they’re no better than gas or germ warfare. We say they’re weapons of mass destruction. And you know what? Some of the major players are beginning to agree with us. You take the States. Even France. They’ve introduced voluntary bans. No export. No sales abroad. But the Brits? They just move the goalposts, start hiding behind the technology. Your friend here’s right. There are firms making mines that switch themselves off. There are smart mines, mines that talk to each other, mines that get up and boogie. The Brits think that’s a wonderful combination. Nice clean conscience. Lots and lots of export orders. In fact they’ve even got a word for it. You’ll find it in the sales brochures. They call it “value added”.’

  Hallam was looking pained, his fingers steepled together over his empty plate.

  ‘That’s hardly fair …’ he murmured.

  ‘You’re right. And you know why? Because some of them don’t work.’

  ‘A tiny fraction.’

  ‘So what? You sell these things by the tens of thousands. One dud in a hundred and you’re back where you started. You know the failure rate in the Gulf War? These so-called “smart mines”? Twenty per cent. Twenty per cent. That’s one mine in five. Still lying there. Still live.’ McFaul touched his face for a moment, then leaned forward again. ‘So tell your friends in the MOD they’re wrong. There’s no such thing as a smart mine. A smart mine is a fairy-tale. Mines are unsmart. Mines are evil. All mines.’ He picked up the fax, letting it fall to the table. ‘You should ban them tomorrow.’

  Hallam studied McFaul a moment. Heads turned across the room as a chef entered with an enormous birthday cake. There was a ripple of applause, growing louder. The chef stopped at a table and a plump girl in red began to count the candles. She stopped at twenty-one.

  ‘So what do we do about the bad guys?’ Hallam enquired. ‘Just leave the mines to them? Deny ourselves the option of having any?’

  ‘Doesn’t apply.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We are the bad guys.’

  ‘That’s naive, with respect. We live in the real world. Imperfect though that world may be.’

  The birthday party were on their feet now, toasting the chef. Molly was looking at the cigarette packet, half-open on the table. James, she thought. Lying in the freezer in the schoolhouse. His body torn to shreds.

  ‘He’s right,’ she murmured, looking at Hallam, ‘mines are evil. I’ve seen the results. I’ve been there. And he’s right.’

  Hallam offered her a look of mute sympathy.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘but I can only go on the briefings we get. I’m assured we’re not breaking the rules. We don’t touch the kind of kit that finds its way to Angola. We’re just not players in that game. We insist on the responsible use of mines. Absolutely insist. Otherwise there’s no sale.’

  McFaul stirred again.

  ‘Responsible what?’

  ‘Use.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means what it says. There’s a convention, a code, you know as well as I do. Minefields must be marked, mapped. Civilians must be protected.’

  ‘But they’re not.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you. As far as we’re concerned, they are.’

  McFaul snorted, a short, mirthless bark of laughter.

  ‘Have you ever been in a war?’

  ‘No, but that doesn’t invalidate my—’

  ‘Do you know what war means? Tearing up the rules? Getting right down to it? Kill or be killed?
Dark night? Pissing down with rain? Some guy trying to slot you?’ He paused, nodding. ‘You should try it some time. See how responsible you feel then. With your map and your torch and your handful of signs.’

  Hallam was showing the first signs of irritation, tiny spots of colour, high on each cheekbone. His Christmas pudding lay untouched in a pool of brandy butter.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘I’m simply trying to explain the logic behind our position.’

  ‘There isn’t one. You’re trying to square the circle. It won’t work.’

  ‘It has to work.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s the way we’ve chosen to make our living. As a country. As a nation. That’s how we pay our way in the world.’

  ‘Who? Who’s chosen?’

  ‘Me. And you. And fifty million others. I’m afraid we live in a democracy, Mr McFaul. Much though you might regret it.’

  ‘Fine,’ McFaul picked up the fax again, ‘then why don’t you put this through the Commons? See who dares oppose it? See how many votes there are in maiming women and kids?’

  Hallam shook his head, under control again, more sorrow than anger, and Molly was suddenly aware of a woman picking her way towards their table. She was young, in her early twenties, and she wore a striking trouser suit with a low, scooped neckline. She paused beside Hallam, touching him lightly on the shoulder. She had beautiful eyes, barely any make-up. She was smiling.

  ‘Do you have the key?’

  Hallam glanced up at her, feeling in his jacket pocket. He produced a room key and gave it to her. She bent to his ear, whispering something, and Molly caught the scent she’d noticed earlier. A hint of lemons, underscored with something muskier. The woman was already turning away. She had poise, and grace, and confidence, apologising for interrupting the conversation, glancing back over her shoulder, smiling at McFaul. McFaul watched her as she made her way back across the Grill Room. When she’d disappeared, he reached for one of the crackers, offering it to Hallam.

  ‘Pull it,’ he said drily, ‘then you can get off to bed.’

  Outside on the street, half an hour later, the rain had stopped. McFaul turned up his collar against the wind, bending to kiss Molly goodbye.