Recoil - Andy McNab [48]
‘Doesn’t it ever get to you?’ I nodded towards the shanty town and the porters collapsed in the shade, eating from old tin cans. ‘These fuckers getting shit, while Standish and the middle men feed off their misery?’
He didn’t have time to answer. Standish reappeared with the Iridium still in his hand, its stubby antenna jabbing the air between us. ‘You understand exactly what you have to do?’
Obviously the call hadn’t cheered him up any. Maybe it hadn’t been his bank manager after all.
‘Yep.’
‘Don’t fuck me about or you and this little rich girl can make your own way back.’ He swung round to Sam. ‘Don’t just sit there. Get on with it.’
I followed Sam towards one of the tents. ‘I’ve got to tell you, mate, there’s only so many times I’m going to be able to turn the other cheek with that arsehole.’
‘Like I told you, Nick, I’ve got my own agenda. I have kids living near that mine and I’ve got the church here so I put up with him, the war, the crap, the hypocrisy, the greed – anything that’s thrown at me. If I didn’t, who’d protect the orphanage? Who’d prevent those kids getting lifted by the LRA?’
We reached the tent flaps but Sam didn’t go inside. ‘You sure you don’t want to know about the boy?’
I tried to read the expression on his face. ‘Only if he didn’t end up going the same way Annabel did . . .’
Sam smiled. ‘He didn’t. He lived. Only just, but he lived.’ He pointed across the strip. ‘The little feller’s over there.’
4
A guy the size of Sam’s fridge back in Erinvale strode towards us from the shanty, eyes masked behind a pair of John Lennon sun-gigs. He gave the odd wave to the miners, and got a much warmer reception from them than the white guys had.
Sam beamed. ‘Crucial!’
He looked to be in his late twenties and, apart from a barely perceptible limp in his left leg, carried himself better than any of the other soldiers I’d seen. His shaved head and arms glistened with good health. His green cargoes looked brand new, and his white T-shirt came straight off a Persil ad. He wore a holster like a cowboy, down on his right hip with some Russian thing hanging off it, maybe to save him carrying an assault rifle and getting gun oil on his top. The other thing dangling off him was a wooden cross round his neck.
Over the last twenty years Sam hadn’t wasted any time.
They headed towards each other with open arms. ‘Crucial! How are you? I’ve brought your coconut butter.’
That explained the shiny, supple skin. I’d seen a lot of Africans moisturize with the stuff – but usually just the women.
The two exchanged hugs and slaps before Sam ushered him over. ‘Nick, I want to introduce you to Crucial – Crucial Umba di Mumba.’
He took off his gigs and gazed directly into my eyes. My stomach lurched. I was hoping to see a different expression in his now, not the one that pleaded with me to hold on to his stick-thin wrists whenever I couldn’t cut away from my nightmares.
My hand disappeared into his big leathery grip.
‘I’m Nick.’
‘I know.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘We met before, man.’
His accent wasn’t as strong as a South African’s and sounded more native, and the tone was surprisingly high-pitched for a man mountain. I bet no one ever told him, though.
‘It’s good to see you, Nick. I wasn’t sure what to expect after all these years.’
He gave me the world’s biggest smile. A diamond glinted from each of his two front teeth. His eyes looked forever vigilant, as if he plugged them into the mains every night to power up his X-ray vision. I wasn’t sure if he could see through me, but he certainly knew he needed to break the ice.
‘Certified conflict diamonds, man.’ He beamed. ‘None of that wishy-washy everyday Posh Spice conflict-free stuff. These had to be fought for.’
Whatever the rights and wrongs of conflict diamonds, the ones on his teeth were a whole lot bigger than the one I’d bought for Silky.
He turned to Sam. ‘We should get the boys paid up and ready.’
Sam indicated his daysack. ‘It’s in there.’
Crucial opened the