Recoil - Andy McNab [26]
‘They must have a radio or something – sat phone?’
‘Sat phones are a luxury we can’t afford . . . There’s one at the camp, but—’
‘When will she get there? Are they part of a relief convoy from Kinshasa?’
‘Tim phones us every couple of days, or if there’s an emergency – which is most of the time at the moment.’ He tore the top sheet off a memo pad and scribbled a number.
I counted twelve digits. It must be an Iridium.
‘Please don’t use this unless you absolutely have to. They’re swamped by casualties. I’m sure she’ll contact you as soon as she can.’
‘You’re right.’ I swigged the dregs and put the cup down on the desk. ‘But will you ask Tim to remind her anyway?’
He nodded.
‘And I need the exact location of this camp, mate. You got a map reference or the name of the village?’
Étienne didn’t ask why I wanted to know so much as he wrote down the details. Just as well because I wasn’t going to tell him. How could I, when I wasn’t sure myself?
He walked me to the door. We shook, and he kept his grip as he looked me in the eye. ‘Nick, I’m not going to bullshit you. It’s a horrible, dangerous place. I’m still having nightmares, but she obviously felt she had to go. All I can say is our camps have never been attacked. Let’s keep our fingers crossed and pray it stays that way.’
5
Fuck praying.
I rode the moped back uphill like a man possessed. I needed to get to the house and throw my stuff together and – fuck – do what, exactly? Were there planes or trains this time of night? To where? How the fuck would I get myself into the middle of the jungle and find that poxy village? I didn’t even know where I wanted to go. All I knew was that I was going to get her out of that shit-hole and find out one way or another if she would marry me. It wasn’t brain surgery.
Maybe Stefan could do something. Maybe he had some way of contacting her I didn’t know about. Maybe he controlled her bank account and credit cards – maybe he could threaten to cut her off if she didn’t turn straight round. I mean, there wasn’t much love lost between them, but even so, he wouldn’t want her risking her life for what he’d see as a bunch of worthless natives. No, why would he do anything now? Everyone else seemed to know but me: she’d always been like this. Maybe he already knew. Fuck it, who cared? I didn’t need anything from him.
I dumped the moped next to a big blacked-out BMW parked right outside the front door and stormed into the house.
I half ran down the hall. Stefan was back in the sitting room with a whisky, but he was no longer alone. Two Chinese guys, both very formal in grey suits and ties, were standing with him by a desk, poring over maps and papers. Cigarettes dangled from their mouths.
He saw me, excused himself and started into the hallway. There was no need. I gave him the middle finger and a cutaway sign before I headed for Silky’s room.
What the fuck did she think she was playing at? This was grown-up stuff. It wasn’t a party. She couldn’t just phone a cab home if she got bored.
As I paced her floor, I stared at the twelve-digit number for so long I could have recited it. I wanted to call, but I resisted. What was the point? Even if the flight got in tomorrow morning, it would take them days to get there. The roads were shit – when there were roads.
What time would they land?
I Googled Kinshasa airport. There was a contact number, and the time difference was only one or two hours from GMT, depending.
I dialled. The line crackled, and there was a distant ring tone. I got a faint voice over background mush. It sounded like the airport was at the bottom of an ocean. I struggled with my French and the guy struggled with his English, but we established between us that the plane from Geneva was arriving at six thirty in the morning. I thanked Jacques Cousteau and hung up.
It would take them ages to get landside. African bureaucracy had to be experienced to be believed. They