The Perfect Soldier (42 page)

Katilo had rooms booked at the Intercontinental Hotel. Molly walked through the huge lobby, still numbed, still trying to orientate herself. There were signs for a travel agency, tennis courts, a swimming pool, a sauna. There were shops, still open. There was a pharmacy, shelves of beauty products, a display of perfumes. Everywhere she looked, she was back in Europe. Diorella. Johnny Walker. Benetton. Names she recognised. Names that signposted the journey home. Where did Katilo’s brand of casual slaughter belong in all this? When would the horror end?

By the bank of lifts, Molly leaned briefly on McFaul. Katilo had disappeared.

‘Help me,’ she pleaded. ‘Please.’

The lift doors opened and she felt McFaul’s hand supporting her. It was suddenly very hot and she wondered vaguely whether she might faint. The lift hissed upwards, and the door opened, and suddenly they were in a corridor, walking again. Pictures, she thought, everywhere. Lush studies of the rain forest. Endearing photos of gorillas. An Africa softened and gentled for the hotel’s clientele.

McFaul was bending to a lock. The door swung open. The room was enormous, the king-sized bed softly lit by hidden spots. The windows were floor to ceiling, and beyond the crescent of lights below Molly could see the darkness of the river. She leaned against the door, watching McFaul pull the curtains. Even now, even here, he still carried the camcorder.

He was crossing the room, asking her whether she’d be OK. She felt herself shaking her head. She wanted to be put to bed. She wanted to go home. Like Christianne, she’d had enough.

McFaul said nothing, scribbling something on a piece of paper. He offered it to her. She took it.

‘What’s this?’

‘My room number.’ He nodded at the telephone. ‘Ring if there’s a problem.’

‘There’s a problem.’

‘No,’ McFaul softened a little, ‘you’re upset, that’s all. That’s not a problem. Not compared to what you’ve coped with so far. Last night was a problem. Muengo was a problem. That’s as bad as it gets. Believe me.’

Molly went to the bathroom and sluiced out her mouth with water. Then she sat on the side of the bed and took her shoes off. She could still taste the vomit.

‘Muengo was paradise compared to this. I hate this place. I hate what he did. Can’t you understand that?’

‘Yes. Of course I can.’ He paused. ‘You should sleep. Try and forget it.’

‘I wish I could.’

‘Then try.’

Molly stared up at him, wondering what she had to do to get through to this strange man. The last twenty-four hours had robbed her of her bearings. She no longer knew where she was. She felt lost and very afraid. She wanted reassurance. She wanted to know she could go home.

McFaul bent to Molly and put his hand briefly on her shoulder. She reached up, squeezing it, then let him go. She heard his footsteps across the carpet. When she’d finished throwing up again, she rinsed her mouth and slumped against the side of the bath, her mind quite blank.

After a while, she crawled back into the bedroom. Beside the dressing table was a mini-bar. She opened it, selecting three miniatures of vodka and a carton of mango juice. She lined them up beside the bed and pulled back the covers, not
bothering to undress. She began to shake again, deep tremors, wholly beyond her control. She closed her eyes, trying to find a point of reference, something to seize on, a lifebelt in the swirling tide. All too briefly, she saw her husband. Giles was standing in the well of the
Molly Jay
. It was summer. He was wearing an old pair of blue shorts. He was very brown. He was waving. Molly called his name, trying to attract his attention but he was looking the other way, upriver, grinning.

Molly felt tears, hot, on her face. They trickled down her cheeks, dampening the pillow. Giles wouldn’t have left her like this. Giles would have stayed. He’d have comforted her. He’d have held her tight. He’d have been there in the smallest hours, when it mattered most. He’d have agreed with her about Katilo. The man was a monster. Life meant nothing to him.

Molly’s hand reached up to the bedside cabinet, finding one of the miniatures of vodka. She unscrewed the top, holding the tiny bottle under her nose. She hated spirits, never drank them, never bothered with them. The vodka smelled of nothing. She closed her eyes again, wondering whether she should phone home. Getting calls out of Kinshasa might be easier than the endless tussle with the Luanda international operator. She could ring up Patrick, find out the latest on Giles, find out whether – by some miracle – he’d turned up. She tried to imagine the conversation, Patrick probably preparing for bed, pausing in the hall, lifting the phone, courteous and patient as ever. She’d be in tears within seconds, she knew she would, and at some point Patrick would have to confirm yet again what she already knew. That Giles was dead.

She shook her head, told herself to get a grip, tried to picture situations she knew she’d handled alone. Running,
she thought. The path that led up the lane, beyond the kissing gate. The sounds she made in autumn, dancing through the fallen leaves, the first bright kiss of winter on her lips. By now, the fieldside puddles would be crusted with early morning ice. She tasted the air in her mouth, heard the mew of the seagulls, blown inland by the gales out at sea. She tried to linger on the images, proof that she could cope on her own, but then there was Giles again, back from the ocean,
Molly Jay
intact, the kettle on, the copy of the
Daily Telegraph
open on the kitchen table, already sticky with marmalade. He’d be looking up as she fell in through the door, exhausted, triumphant, the backs of her calves coated in drying mud. His long legs would reach beneath the table, pushing a chair towards her. His hand would close on the teapot. He’d offer her a slice of toast. He’d tell her she was mad, and she’d grin back, still breathless, agreeing.

Molly groaned, turning over, burying her head in the pillow, the miniature of vodka abandoned.

The phone woke McFaul at dawn. He rolled over in the huge bed and it was several seconds before he recognised the voice at the other end.

‘Ken?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You got the telex?’

‘Yeah.’

McFaul struggled upright in the bed. He’d sent the telex last night, handing it to the clerk behind the reception desk and insisting he dispatch it at once. Ken Middleton was normally at his desk in Devizes early. Global ran operations in umpteen time zones and he always claimed it gave him a head start on the rest of the headquarters team.

Ken was already talking about the tickets, checking the times and flight numbers.

‘The twelfth is tomorrow.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Why Paris?’

‘It’s closest. There are no direct flights.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah. I checked last night. Air France leave at midday. That should do us nicely.’ McFaul paused. He’d asked Middleton for two prepaid tickets to be delivered to the Intercontinental. The way he’d put it in the telex hadn’t left much room for argument. Muengo had been a disaster. He and Bennie had been lucky to get out in one piece.

Middleton was going through the arrangements again. Once you’d worked in the minefields, thoroughness became a state of mind.

‘Who’s this Jordan bloke?’ he said finally.

‘Friend of mine.’

‘And why am I paying for him?’

‘Her.’

‘Her?’

‘Yeah. Remember James Jordan? Kid who got himself killed? That report I sent you? She’s his mother.’

‘But why the ticket?’

‘Dunno really.’ McFaul smothered a yawn. ‘I’d call it an investment if I were you.’

McFaul called Molly an hour later. She answered the phone at once, a small, cautious voice that suggested she’d been awake most of the night. McFaul explained the travel arrangements. They wouldn’t be returning to Angola, they’d be flying straight back to Europe. The tickets would be prepaid.
Katilo would be settling the room bill. Which only left one problem.

‘What’s that?’

‘Your passport. You said it’s still in Luanda. You’ll have to go to the embassy here. They’ll issue you with a temporary replacement. Tell them it got stolen or something. It happens all the time.’

Molly began to protest, something about not being the embassy’s favourite person, but McFaul cut her short.

‘Rademeyer’s around somewhere,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ll get him to take you. Best you stay together. Otherwise it might get tricky.’

‘Tricky?’

McFaul heard the anxiety in her voice and told her not to worry. Given a fair wind, she’d be back in the UK by the weekend. Plenty of time to get herself together.

‘What for? As a matter of interest?’

McFaul was sitting at the bureau by the window. Over the broad expanse of river he could see Kinshasa’s sister city of Brazzaville, a frieze of white buildings against the enveloping green of the mountains beyond. Molly was repeating the question, angry now, and McFaul smiled, glad she’d survived the night.

‘Christmas,’ he said lightly. ‘Only ten shopping days to go.’

Katilo was still in bed when McFaul knocked on his door. He let McFaul in and padded across to the bathroom. Beneath the unbelted silk dressing gown, he was naked. McFaul settled into an armchair, helping himself to a pile of cashews from the mini-bar. The summons from Katilo had come half an hour earlier.

‘Lunch-time OK?’

Katilo had appeared at the bathroom door. He’d abandoned the dressing gown for a towel around his waist and McFaul could hear the splash of water filling the bath behind him.

McFaul nodded.

‘I’ll be here,’ he said. ‘Twelve o’clock.’

‘You’ve got more tapes? These guys talk a lot.’

‘No problem.’

Katilo looked at him a moment then backed into the bathroom. On the phone, he’d already established the importance of the midday rendezvous. The people he’d be meeting were key players, men who understood the situation in Angola, men who were determined to see the war settled in UNITA’s favour. They were realists, businessmen, guys with no time for the socialists in Luanda. They had access to arms, anything you cared to name, and the purpose of the encounter was to agree a shopping list.

The way Katilo had put it on the phone made the arrangement sound almost benign, an act of charity, but McFaul had already guessed the way it would really be. In exchange for diamonds, Katilo would buy himself a planeload of weaponry. That’s the way it worked. That was the reason for the detour to Cafunfo. Ivan, the man who ran Cafunfo, doubtless operated under UNITA’s wing. In return for protection – the guards on the door, the line of soldiers fencing the compound from the street – he’d be expected to contribute a hefty percentage of his gems to the cause. The cause arrived regularly in the shape of men like Katilo, highly placed field commanders with the authority to conduct arms negotiations. Ever since he’d arrived in Angola, McFaul had heard about the rivalries between such men, each one jostling for advantage. The tightness of UNITA’s discipline had helped
suppress these rivalries but if Sarimbi ever won the war, peace would bring a scramble for the biggest prizes. A seat at the cabinet table. A posting abroad. Untold wealth. Untold opportunities. No wonder Katilo wanted to spread the word. In Africa, like everywhere else in the world, a video of your own was the shortest cut to sainthood.

Katilo was in the bath now. He called McFaul in. McFaul went to the door, peering through a curtain of steam. Katilo was playing with a plastic soap dish, pushing it to and fro. The water was inches from the top of the tub, displaced by his massive body. McFaul looked down at him. Naked, sprawled in the bath, he was defenceless. Killing a man would never have been easier yet Katilo seemed oblivious to the possibility.

‘There’s a big party,’ he said. ‘You should be there. With your camera.’

‘When?’

‘Soon. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day.’

McFaul sank onto the toilet. He’d already established the importance of leaving on the Air France flight but he went through it all again. Television pictures were perishable. Getting Katilo’s war on screen meant working fast. Hanging around in Kinshasa would be a waste of precious editing time. Katilo listened, poking at the soap dish, nodding at the logic behind each phrase. When McFaul had finished, he looked up.

‘You think it’ll work? The video?’

‘Yes.’

‘But for me, as well?’

McFaul stared at him a moment. Underestimating Katilo was a very dangerous game. Dozens of men must have done it and most of them were probably dead.

‘Tell me what you will put in it,’ Katilo was saying. ‘Tell me the way it will be.’

McFaul shrugged. Getting the right words in the right order had never been so important.

‘It’ll be very violent,’ he said carefully. ‘Very bloody.’

‘With the minefield?’

‘Yes.’

‘And your friend? Domingos?’

‘Yes.’

‘And me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Why? Why of course?’

‘Because you put the mines there in the first place.’

There was a long silence. McFaul felt the sweat beading on his face.

‘You think I killed Domingos?’ Katilo said at last.

‘I know you killed Domingos.’

Katilo looked at him for a moment. Then he nodded.

‘You’re right,’ he said softly, ‘but I also won.’

The British Embassy in Kinshasa lies close to the Zaire river. Piet Rademeyer had acquired a brand-new Mercedes with tinted windows, and he pulled into a parking bay beside the embassy compound. The air-conditioning in the Mercedes didn’t work properly, blowing hot air instead of cold, but he’d refused to lower the windows because he swore it ruined the look of the car. Image in Kinshasa was everything.

Molly got out of the Mercedes and approached the Gurkha on the embassy gate. She’d bought a dress from a boutique at the hotel, borrowing money from McFaul, but it was already damp with sweat, clinging uncomfortably to her. Trying on the dress had been a revelation. In the last two weeks, she must have lost nearly a stone.

The Gurkha directed her to a small office inside the gate.
She’d already phoned from the hotel, explaining the passport problem, and the woman who’d taken the call had given her a reference number. Molly quoted it now, waiting for a minute or so while the official behind the thick plate-glass consulted a list. Finally, he looked up.