The Perfect Soldier (46 page)

‘This used to be the best hotel in town,’ he murmured at last. ‘Can you believe that?’

‘Yeah?’ McFaul had seen a shadow across the car park. Someone moving. Maybe two people.

‘Yeah, Hotel Okapi. Great music. Great food. Great views.’

‘What happened?’

‘They burned it during the riots. Coupla years back. No one’s got round to fixing it yet. Not that there’s very much left.’

The shadows had disappeared inside the building. Rademeyer had seen them, too. He was bending forward now, fumbling in the parcel shelf under the dashboard. Eventually, he found what he was looking for, turning on the interior light and then opening the door and stepping out into the rain. Molly was watching him and McFaul felt her body tense as Rademeyer opened the door beside her. His voice was light, almost apologetic. The big automatic was inches from Molly’s temple.

‘The rest of the diamonds. Just put them in her lap.’

McFaul looked at Molly. Her face was chalk white. She was taking deep breaths, fighting for control. The diamonds were in McFaul’s breast pocket, nestling behind one of the little cassettes. He pulled out the polythene bag and laid it carefully in Molly’s lap. She was trembling now. He could feel it.

‘Give them to me.’ Molly reached for the bag, passing it out of the car. ‘Now get out. Both of you.’

Molly glanced at McFaul. McFaul nodded.

‘Do it,’ he muttered.

Molly got out of the car. McFaul joined her. Within
seconds he was soaking wet, the rain rolling down inside his collar, warm on his skin. They began to walk towards the hotel, Rademeyer behind them. Lightning flickered on the horizon, the sound of thunder rumbling across the river seconds later. The steps up to the hotel were slippery with rain. At the top, the entrance to the lobby lay open to the weather, the big doors ripped from their hinges, electric cables hanging down from the ceiling. Rademeyer had produced a torch. McFaul watched his own shadow advancing across the wreckage of the lobby. Even now, years later, the sour smell of a major fire hung in the air.

‘Hold it there.’

McFaul stopped. Another voice, a deep American accent, somewhere to the left. He reached for Molly, finding her beside him. The voice sounded familiar. Noon, he thought. The get-together in Katilo’s room. The wild-haired American with the courtly manners.

‘Turn the torch off.’

Rademeyer did what he was told. The lobby plunged into darkness for a moment then another torch found Molly’s face. McFaul looked down at her. She was frowning.

‘Larry?’ she said softly. ‘Is that you?’

McFaul heard a chuckle in the darkness behind the torch. He was still looking at Molly. She was shaking her head, relief and bemusement. She glanced up at McFaul.

‘I know this man. His name’s Larry. Larry Giddings. I met him in Luanda. He works for a charity called Aurora.’

The torch began to move. McFaul heard footsteps. He held up his hand shielding his eyes.

‘Lawrence,’ he said, ‘his name’s Lawrence.’

The torch stopped, barely a yard away, touching distance. McFaul saw a hand extended, long elegant fingers, a single signet ring. Molly didn’t move.

‘Piet here tells me you have a problem.’

McFaul glanced over his shoulder. Rademeyer was standing behind him. The automatic was hanging by his side.

‘He’s right.’ McFaul nodded. ‘What else did he tell you?’

‘He said you wanted out.’

‘Yes.’

‘Tonight.’

‘Right again.’

‘Hey.’ The American touched Molly briefly on the arm. ‘We’re friends here. Don’t fret. You wanna take a look at the place? Before we go? Says a lot. Believe me.’

The torch swung round, illuminating the bare, rain-streaked walls, the holes where the air-conditioning units had been ripped out, the fire-blackened sweep of the reception desk, the dark fingers of vegetation creeping in through the gaping windows. In an alcove beside the darkness where the front doors had once been, the torch came to rest on an office safe. It was lying on its back, the door hanging open, the interior full of crumpled beer cans.

The American chuckled again. Then McFaul heard the hiss of tyres and a big four-wheel came to a halt outside. Abruptly, from the darkness behind them, two men appeared. They were both young, white. One had a crew cut and a tight-fitting T-shirt and McFaul recognised the small, neat profile of an Uzi sub-machine-gun cradled in his right arm. The other one was whispering to Rademeyer. Like Giddings, he had an American accent.

Giddings led the way to the entrance. Outside, the rain had eased. At the top of the steps, Rademeyer paused beside McFaul.

‘You’re with Larry now,’ he said. ‘It’s simpler, believe me.’

‘For who?’

‘You,’ he smiled, ‘and me.’

He nodded at Molly wishing her luck, then he was away down the steps, skirting the corpse of a dead cat. Molly watched as he headed for the Mercedes.

‘My bag,’ she said helplessly.

‘It’s OK, ma’am. Taken care of.’

The American with the T-shirt was at Molly’s elbow. He was nodding at the four-wheel at the bottom of the steps as another flash of lightning revealed the shape of a Nissan Patrol. The rear door was already open, the other young man scanning the shadows in the parking lot. McFaul shook his head, marvelling at the precision with which these men moved. This was a military operation. Semi-official. No question.

Giddings touched him lightly on the arm, and he followed Molly down the steps. The back of the Patrol felt enormous. The American with the Uzi sat on a jump seat, facing McFaul. The heavy clunk as the door closed suggested armour plate but the American had the Uzi raised, the safety catch off, his legs braced against the thick pile carpet as the four-wheel swung out of the parking lot. Back on the Avenue des Nations Unis, McFaul saw Rademeyer’s Mercedes peeling off to the right, back towards the Intercontinental, and he realised for the first time exactly how cleverly the young South African had played it. Whatever had happened in Katilo’s room would be nothing to do with him. The English guy had disappeared, the Englishwoman too, but his own hands were clean and when the time was right he could quietly exchange the uncut diamonds for a great deal of hard currency.

Molly was talking to Giddings now. The American occupied the other jump seat, his elbows on his knees, his body swaying from side to side as the Patrol growled along the waterfront. Soon, McFaul recognised landmarks they’d
passed on the way in from the airport. In the middle of the city they turned left into a business area. McFaul began to relax, warmed by the familiar names. Hertz. Barclays. Sabena. At a corner, beside a big shopping centre, the Patrol slowed. A narrow street led towards the river. Halfway down was a compound protected by a high wall. The Patrol slowed again, the driver flashing his headlights, and a heavy steel gate opened inwards. Uniformed men emerged from the shadows, checking the underside of the vehicle with mirrors and McFaul heard the whirr of a motor as the gate closed again, sealing them off from the city.

The Patrol came to a halt. The back door opened and McFaul found himself in a paved courtyard. The rain had stopped now and the night air was heavy with the scent of frangipani. A three-storey house stood before them. Inside it was cool, the floors tiled, the walls hung with tasteful water-colours. Giddings paused beneath a partly furled flag. Glancing up it, McFaul recognised the Stars and Stripes. Giddings was beaming at Molly. He seemed very much at home.

‘You folks eaten?’

McFaul declined the offer of a meal. Molly said she’d like a drink.

‘You bet.’

They walked along a corridor and Giddings led the way into a small bar. The room was empty. Giddings helped himself to a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, pouring half a tumbler and offering it to Molly.

‘Ice,’ he said, ‘as I remember.’

Molly nodded, gazing up at the framed Inauguration photo of President Clinton that hung above the bar. Giddings poured two more drinks, joining them at a table at the back of the room. He settled into the leather armchair, undoing
the button on his jacket. The suit McFaul had admired in Katilo’s room was still uncreased. Even the dark splashes of rain had gone.

Giddings raised his glass.

‘Piet explained about the Air France deal,’ he said. ‘Tonight you stay here. Tomorrow we ship you out to the airport. No problem.’

‘We?’ It was Molly who asked the question.

Giddings nodded, as affable as ever.

‘Sure.’ He made circling motions with his hands. ‘Me and a couple of buddies. Nice people. People you’d like.’

‘But who? Exactly?’

‘Can’t say,’ he smiled, ‘exactly.’

McFaul eased his long frame in the armchair. The bourbon was working already, stealing round his body, turning off the alarms. The pattern was obvious. He’d seen it everywhere in the Third World, Americans in nice suits, spending their dollars on this side or that, backing rebels, defending governments, offering what insiders in Washington termed ‘covert assistance in support of democracy’. In Angola that would mean UNITA, or – more precisely – Katilo. Thus the meeting in Room 631. Thus the link with Rademeyer.

McFaul took another long pull at the bourbon. Giddings was smiling at Molly.

‘That little get-together this morning.’ McFaul frowned. ‘My apologies.’

‘No problem.’

‘I embarrassed you.’

‘No,’ Giddings shook his head, ‘not me, buddy. Our Lebanese friend maybe, but not me. You’ve got some kind of alternative? For this film of yours?’

‘No, but that doesn’t matter either. Katilo’s got the camcorder. As far as I’m concerned, the film’s dead and buried. As long as we get out tomorrow.’

‘Yeah?’ Giddings was looking at him carefully. ‘You mean that?’

‘Sure.’

‘But I thought … our UNITA friend told me …’

‘It’s bullshit. I work in the minefields. I’m an ex-sapper. I don’t know one end of a camera from the other.’

‘You kidding?’

‘No. Katilo thought different. I didn’t bother him with the truth. I was happy to go along with it. That’s why I’m here. That’s why we’re still in one piece—’ He broke off, emptying the tumbler, accepting a refill, aware of Molly watching him. The bewilderment was back in her face, her eyes returning again and again to Giddings. She must have known this man well, McFaul thought. Well enough to trust him.

Giddings got up and disappeared into the corridor, apologising for the delay in Molly’s food. He’d ordered soup and crackers and a light salad. He’d find out what had happened. Molly waited for a moment or two, watching the door.

‘Who is he?’

McFaul shrugged.

‘CIA. Or something bloody close.’ He looked at her. ‘Who did you think he was?’

‘I told you. I thought he worked for the charity people, Aurora. In fact I thought he ran it.’

‘He probably does.’ McFaul paused a moment. ‘You know about the CIA? Zealots in nice suits? All that stuff?’

‘Yes, more or less, but how does that …’ Molly gestured helplessly with her glass, ‘square with the rest of it? Aurora is religious. He told me about it. He lives in Florida. He’s an evangelist. He’s worked in Angola for years. He wasn’t lying, I know he wasn’t. In fact, I—’ She broke off, looking across at McFaul, wanting him to solve the riddle, to plot a way back from the impasse.

McFaul reached down, pulling up the leg of his jeans and loosening the straps on his leg.

‘Two hats,’ he said, ‘at least. It happens all the time. Cambodia. Afghanistan. Middle East. Man says he does one thing, it’s probably true. What he doesn’t tell you about is the rest.’

‘And you think Larry’s like that?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what does that make him?’

‘A patriot. These guys wave a flag for it. Freedom. Democracy. God, even. They have convictions, real beliefs. Belief justifies pretty much anything.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘With Giddings?’ McFaul waved his glass towards the corridor. ‘He’ll be in town to keep an eye on Katilo. UNITA was a client. Washington backed them all the way. Probably still does.’

‘How?’

‘How do you think?’

‘I don’t know. Tell me.’

Molly was leaning forward now, half-fascinated, half-repelled. There was still no sign of Giddings or the food.

‘How?’ she said again.

McFaul looked at her a moment.

‘Fact or speculation?’

‘Fact.’

‘OK,’ McFaul began to tally the points on the fingers of one hand, ‘Mobutu runs Zaire. He got there with CIA help. Through Mobutu, Washington has been supplying arms. To people like Katilo.’

‘You mean Larry? Larry supplied arms?’

‘He’d have been part of it, certainly. He’d have been fronting for various organisations. There are cut-outs, fuses
that blow along the way. Nothing’s ever traced directly to Washington but that’s where it would have come from. In the end.’

‘These arms,’ Molly was staring at him now, ‘they include mines?’

‘Of course.’

‘American mines?’

‘All sorts. Whatever’s available.’

‘And they went down to Angola?’

‘Yes. Amongst other places.’

‘But how? How did they get there?’

‘By plane mostly. You’ve seen the state of the roads. They’re impassable, most of them.’

‘So who’s been flying them? These mines?’

‘Who do you think?’

Molly looked away, saying nothing and then she thought of Rademeyer, back in his room at the Intercontinental, counting the diamonds. In all, he’d be looking at a small fortune. Enough to retire. Enough to make room for someone else to risk their life shipping munitions south. UNITA paid top dollar. And Central Africa was probably full of eager young men like Piet Rademeyer. Molly cleared her throat. Her face was flushed. Anger and bourbon.

‘So you’re telling me that Giddings gets the arms for Katilo?’

‘Got, certainly. He’d have been part of all that.’

‘So …’ she gestured helplessly towards the door, ‘the mine that killed James might have come from here? Through him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Piet might have flown it?’

‘Possibly. Unless it came up through South Africa … and even then he might have got the contract.’ He paused.
‘Rademeyer’s different. He does it for the money. Pure and simple. If that’s a phrase you can live with.’