Recoil - Andy McNab [21]
Once we were safely on board the carrier fleet I’d been separated from the other two, and eventually flown to Nigeria. From there, armed with a new passport by the embassy, I was sent back to Hereford.
I never saw Sam again. The moment he’d got back to Kinshasa, he’d thrown his hand in and left the Regiment. After that, he disappeared off the radar.
Annabel had landed head first and broken her neck. She’d died immediately. The boy had managed to stay alive somehow, but he wasn’t expected to see his next birthday. That was if he knew when it was.
All in all, a shit job. But fuck it, that was a long time ago. Now there wasn’t any scrubland, dead kids or Milo. There was a beautiful lake, a beautiful girl and the best cappuccino in five hundred miles.
But still I couldn’t get the boy’s pleading stare out of my head. I hated it when this happened. I knew what was coming next.
I leaned forward over the table to sip my brew, feeling as if it was wrong, somehow, to be enjoying the view. I couldn’t help but think about Sam. I knew it wasn’t my fault that I had been stranded on board when the heli took off. I knew I’d done my best to save the boy. But did Sam? Did he know how much I’d wanted to be back on the ground with him and the team?
It wasn’t the only thing that kept me awake at night, but it had a nasty habit of sneaking under the wire when I was least prepared.
Fuck it, so what? Next time, I’d stop at the headlines. I made myself sit back and soak up the surroundings as I checked my watch again. It was a cheapie from Australia, but it always made me smile. Silky had given it to me because I was always asking her the time. The dial was black and a kangaroo‘s paws were the hands. It didn’t have a strap. It hung off a small karabiner key-ring that I hooked on to one of my belt loops. It was well after one. Normally she’d have called by now.
My mobile vibrated. I smiled as I saw the number. I still had her +41 country prefix in my address book. I stopped smiling when I opened up the text.
Can’t make lunch. Sorry. x
I folded up my paper, paid the bill, and went over to the desk to apologize. Could they make it dinner instead? No problem. They knew us. Or, rather, they knew her stepfather.
My mobile kicked off again: And I’m sorry about this morning. xx
I was sorry about this morning too, but I was fucked if I’d dwell on it. She’d been acting a bit strange these last couple of weeks, but it was a small cross to bear.
I jumped on my borrowed moped and headed up to the high ground where the really stinking money hung out.
2
The soles of my trainers squeaked on the marble floor like some sort of intruder alarm. Watch this fucker: he’s not in Gucci loafers . . .
The sun was low, about to disappear over the mountains. It was half six, and Silky should have been home a good hour ago. She never stuffed envelopes for the do-gooders much past five, or signed begging letters or whatever it was she did. I hadn’t quite got round to asking: I was just happy that this beautiful woman still didn’t mind being seen around with me and that her stepdad’s fridge was full of cold Peroni.
Ten-foot-tall statues of Greek gods filled recesses on either side of the hall, each one bathed in its own pool of moody downlighting. Between the recesses, small mahogany tables displayed gem-encrusted ornaments and photographs in crystal frames. When Stefan had furnished this place, the Louis XIV repro department at Harrods must have emptied overnight.
I reached the staircase that swept down to the kitchens. Stefan’s palace was more like a five-star hotel than a home, teeming with staff ready to cook me dinner or polish my shoes and press my suit, if only I’d had one. Even so, I wanted to make my own sandwich if I could get away with it. It felt too weird picking up a phone and having Giuseppe ask the chef to stick a slice of cheese between two hunks of bread.
A lad hurried up the stairs on his way to the front door. I turned and waited in case he was opening it for Silky. That was the sort of thing they did round here.
Just about