The Perfect Soldier (24 page)

‘So does that mean the rest of the place is … safe?’

‘Shit, no.’ He looked at her a moment, a flicker of life in his strange dead eyes. ‘You know how many mines there are in this country?’

Molly shook her head.

‘No.’

‘Twenty million. That’s two for every Angolan.’ He smiled. ‘Or one for each leg.’

Todd Llewelyn stepped back from the tripod, inviting Bennie to help himself to the camcorder and take a look at the sequence they’d just taped. They’d rearranged the furniture in the schoolroom, putting two rows of seats between the desk and the window. In front of the display of survey maps, Bennie had erected the easel they used for training sessions and on the blackboard he’d chalked the outline of a minefield. Llewelyn had asked him to talk for at least a couple of minutes, and when the camera had finally rolled, Bennie had found himself expounding on the theory and practice of minefield clearance.

Mines, he explained, were normally laid in distinctive patterns. The ‘A’ pattern, for instance, had a big anti-tank mine protected by a triangle of three anti-personnel mines. Once you’d sussed a pattern like this, driving a number of exploratory breaches or ‘safe lanes’ across the minefield, you went for something called ‘roll-up’, clearing the rest of the mined land. This was a lovely theory and worked a treat on a proper battlefield. In the Third World, though, ‘roll-up’ was a nonstarter because the mines were usually scattered at random, obeying no comprehensible pattern. In this case, you had no
choice but to clear the site an inch at a time, leaving nothing to chance. This was known as ‘100 per cent clearance’. Another phrase, said Bennie, was ‘pain in the arse’.

Bennie stepped back from the viewfinder, impressed with his own performance.

‘Great,’ he said. ‘Where does this go out?’

‘People’s Channel.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a new satellite operation but I’m sure it’ll get sold elsewhere. These things usually do.’

‘ITV? BBC?’

‘Maybe.’ Llewelyn shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

Bennie eyed the camera. As well as the training sequence they’d also done a lot of stuff with the survey maps, Llewelyn building up a library of shots he’d need to compile his final report. Bennie looked round at the line of empty chairs.

‘What about an audience? Won’t it look a bit daft? Me talking to no one?’

‘We’ll get some people in later. It’s a simple reverse shot. I can pick it up any time.’ Llewelyn began to detach the camcorder from the tripod. ‘What I really need is something in the minefields. You guys actually doing it.’

‘I know. You said already.’

‘This afternoon then?’

Bennie shrugged.

‘Love to. Love to. You know I would. Depends on the boss, though. He says he’s got to talk to the UNITA boys. In case they get funny.’

‘Is that likely?’

‘No.’

‘Then what’s the problem?’

Bennie laughed.

‘There’s isn’t a fucking problem. Not if you want it that bad.’

McFaul and Christianne were several minutes late at the UNITA road-block. They’d left Molly at the MSF house, already exhausted by her first real taste of life under siege. McFaul parked the MSF Landcruiser in the shade of an acacia tree and walked across to the line of watching soldiers. Most of them were young, still teenagers, and their eyes never left Christianne.

Christianne approached the nearest soldier. He was wearing a rumpled forage cap and the side of his face was seamed with a long, thin scar. She began to explain in French about the rendezvous with Katilo but he indicated with a shrug that he didn’t understand. When she started again in Portuguese, he turned his back on her and walked away.

Ten minutes later, a big Toyota appeared in the distance, travelling at speed. It ground to a halt, broadside on to the road-block. A small, neat man got out. He wore dark glasses, camouflage trousers and a newly pressed US Marine Corps shirt. He had a revolver strapped to his waist and the tall, lace-up boots looked freshly polished. He studied McFaul a moment then signalled to the Toyota without looking round. Another man appeared. He was much bigger, dressed in black fatigues. He carried two lengths of material, evidently the remains of someone’s T-shirt. McFaul eyed them without comment. Blindfolds, he thought. One each.

Christianne was explaining about Katilo again. The man in the dark glasses ignored her. McFaul submitted to a body search, the man’s hands pausing at the bottom of his left leg,
feeling the smooth plastic beneath his jeans. Afterwards, the man stepped back.

‘OK?’

McFaul shrugged, bowing his head, letting the soldier in the black fatigues tighten the blindfold around his eyes. Beside him he could hear Christianne protesting.

‘No sweat,’ he called, ‘it’s just a precaution.’

They were led through the road-block and helped into the back of the Toyota. McFaul heard the doors shut and the engine start. Then they were accelerating away, the big springs soaking up the ruts and the pot-holes on the baked-earth road. McFaul could feel Christianne’s body beside him. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. Somebody was smoking in the front now. He could smell the tobacco, the harsh, acrid tang of the stuff they shipped up from South Africa, and he took a deep breath, glad of the chance to mask the stale, sour smell of the blindfold.

The journey went on, the driver punishing the gears, the Toyota swaying and bouncing from one corner to the next. Twice McFaul tipped his head back, trying to see out beneath the blindfold, but both times he got no further than a thin strip of light, the tops of the front seats, and the wide, blue African sky diffused through the tinted windscreen.

At last, they began to slow. In the silence after they’d stopped, McFaul heard voices, someone laughing. Then the door beside him opened and he felt an arm tugging him out. He’d abandoned his sling now and he tried to protect the line of stitches with his left hand. Upright, he waited for Christianne to join him.

‘Ask them to take these things off,’ he told her, ‘for Christ’s sake.’

He heard her putting the request, first in French, then in Portuguese. There was more laughter. Then they were walking
again, uneven ground, tripping and stumbling. Suddenly it was much cooler. McFaul could feel pebbles beneath his feet and a damp, weedy smell, like the breath of some creature from the swamp. Somebody was talking, definitely French, and he heard Christianne’s reply. She sounded wary, even a little frightened. For the first time, he began to wonder whether the rendezvous with Katilo was such a great idea.

‘What’s going on?’ he murmured.

Christianne didn’t answer. The other voice was closer now and McFaul could smell aftershave, Calvin Klein, the stuff Bennie used. Without warning, the knot on his blindfold was loosened, then untied. At the same time, McFaul felt a chair nudge the backs of his legs. By the time the blindfold was off, he was sitting down, rubbing his eyes, peering into the gloom of what looked like a cave.

Katilo sat opposite, sprawled in a collapsible director’s chair. The only photo McFaul had ever seen of the man didn’t do him justice. He was wearing combat trousers, belted at the waist, and a simple olive green T-shirt. He had a broad chest, and well-muscled arms, and when he smiled his whole face seemed to radiate energy, like an athlete in peak condition. He was speaking in French to Christianne but his eyes flicked back and forth between them, ever playful. According to the big Seiko watch on his wrist, it was five past two.

‘He says he’s sorry about the blindfolds,’ Christianne touched her face, ‘but he hopes you’ll understand.’

McFaul grunted, non-committal. Five past two meant they’d been travelling for little more than twenty minutes. Ten miles, say. Maybe less.

‘Tell him about the minefields,’ he said, ‘tell him what we want to do.’

‘He’s asking whether you’d like a drink. He’s offering beer or whiskey.’

‘Lager,’ McFaul said briefly, offering Katilo a thin smile. The last thing he wanted to do was waste time but he knew that meetings like this got nowhere without the ritual courtesies.

Katilo clapped his hands and McFaul heard a movement behind him. He looked round. Naked light bulbs hung from loops of black cable and the fissured rock above their heads was glistening with moisture. Behind him, the cables disappeared behind a hanging blanket and somewhere close by McFaul could hear the chatter of a generator. Katilo was talking again, a deep bass rumble. Whatever the joke was, it made Christianne laugh. McFaul turned back in time to see Katilo leaning forward, his arm outstretched, one hand on Christianne’s knee. He wore an enormous silver ring on the forefinger of one hand.

Christianne glanced at McFaul. She was plainly terrified.

‘What does he want?’

‘He says he’s got some videos.’

‘Videos?’

‘Yes. We can have
Terminator 2
or
Baywatch
. I don’t think he’s joking.’

The makeshift curtain parted behind McFaul and the cave was briefly flooded with daylight. A soldier in full combat dress offered McFaul a can of lager. Katilo was watching him, a smile still curling the wide, fleshy lips. McFaul accepted the can, waving away the proffered cup.

‘South African?’ he murmured.

‘Of course.’ Katilo nodded. ‘Castle. The best.’

‘You speak English?’

‘Yes. Doesn’t your girlfriend want anything?’

McFaul shook his head.

‘She’s not in the mood,’ he said briefly. ‘And she’s not my girlfriend.’

McFaul took a deep pull from the can. UNITA logistics evidently extended to proper refrigeration.

‘We’re here to talk about the minefields,’ he said at last, ‘around Muengo.’

‘You want to clear them?’

‘Yes. Like I said on the radio. Just a handful, two or three, before we leave.’

Katilo considered the proposal, his elbows propped on the arms of the chair, his fingers steepled together. Finally, he shrugged.

‘Why not?’ he said. ‘We have plenty more mines.’

‘But I need to be sure.’

‘Of what?’

‘My men. Their safety.’ McFaul lifted two fingers, aiming into the darkness at the back of the cave. ‘No accidents. No silly mistakes. None of your soldiers getting the wrong idea.’

Katilo was studying Christianne again. He had the indolence of someone with limitless time and limitless patience. McFaul swallowed another mouthful of the lager. For Christianne read Muengo, he thought. When I want you, I’ll take you.

‘We’re flying out in three days,’ McFaul began, ‘you’ll know that.’

‘Of course.’

‘Three days isn’t a long time. Not in our trade.’

‘
Comment
?’ Katilo was frowning at Christianne.

‘Trois jours n’est pas longtemps,’
she said at once,
‘pour trouver les mines.’

‘Ah, bon. Je comprends. Exact.’
He grinned at her. ‘Your Mr McFaul here, your friend … why does he do this work? Why does he bother? When we,’ he clicked his fingers, ‘just start all over again?’

Llewelyn rode out to the minefield in the Global Land Rover with Bennie and Domingos. Back in the schoolroom, the three men had spent nearly an hour arguing about the sequence Llewelyn insisted was vital to the film’s success: where it should take place, what it should include.

Domingos wanted to wait for McFaul’s return, not because he was nervous of the rebel troops but because he respected McFaul’s judgement. He’d worked for the Boss for nearly five months now and he couldn’t remember a single occasion when he’d got it wrong. He was methodical, he was cautious, and he was more or less intact, three reasons for postponing the shoot until they were sure it had his approval. Bennie, listening to Domingos, had shaken his head. Time was short. This programme of Llewelyn’s was all-important. Saving lives meant spreading the word and just now Bennie couldn’t think of a better way of doing exactly that. Working in a real minefield could wait until tomorrow. Doing what Llewelyn called ‘the tight shots’ in a safe area, a place they both knew had been cleared, would be the best possible use of time.

Now, the Global Land Rover came to a halt on the embankment overlooking the path to the river. In all likelihood they’d be back here in the morning, protected by Katilo’s blessing. According to Domingos’s records, there were just seven metres left to clear. Between the road and the live remnant of the minefield there were nearly eighty metres of secured terrain, ample scope for the TV man and his menu of shots.

Bennie got out and went to the back of the Land Rover. At Llewelyn’s suggestion, he’d brought a boxful of demo mines, plastic casings emptied of explosives and used in the schoolhouse for training. Reburied, these would serve as real mines, targets for Global’s repertoire of tricks.

First, Llewelyn wanted an electronic search, the team working together, one forward, one back, both men fully kitted up in the protective gear, using the new Ebingers to sweep the ground before them. The soundtrack, put together back in the UK, would signal the likelihood of a mine, the distinctive yowl as the electronic sensors picked up the tiny particles of metal in the firing mechanism without which the mine wouldn’t explode. Once located, Llewelyn wanted Domingos and Bennie to go through the whole procedure, laying down the Ebinger, getting to work with the bayonet and the camel-hair brush, establishing the exact position of the mine, scraping away the soil around it, exposing the thing to the naked eye. There was real drama here, big fat close-ups, sweaty faces, steady hands, flesh and blood pitted against the terrible chemistry of high explosive.

Bennie hauled the box of demo mines from the back of the Land Rover, wondering what the film would look like once everything had been cut together. He didn’t much like Llewelyn – too pushy, too pleased with himself – but he’d recognised the face the moment he’d met him, and just listening to the man you knew he’d do the biz. Where the film might lead was anyone’s guess but just now Bennie would do anything to get himself out of the front line. In this trade you were wise to follow your instincts. A thousand quid a week was good corn but Bennie’s instincts were beginning to tell him it was time to look for something a little safer.