Tenth Man Down

NINE

We found Whinger stripped to his shreddies and bandages, stretched out on his American cot. Even from a distance I could see him shuddering with fever.

‘How goes it?’ I said.

‘Average to fucking awful. Let’s hear about the battle, though. Take my mind off this pain.’

‘Basically it was all right,’ I began.

‘It sounded like Guy Fawkes night,’ he croaked. ‘Bloody brilliant!’

‘Yeah. The silveries could have done worse.’

I filled him in on the various phases of the attack, then said, ‘It’s what happened afterwards that I don’t like. The whole lot went bananas. Like after the stampede, only worse. They carved up one of the white mercenaries and ate him. Parts of him, anyway.’

‘Who’d have thought it?’ said Whinger, slowly. ‘Mercenaries fighting for a shower like these rebels. Hardly worth their while.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘There’s something bigger than we know going on here. Otherwise these guys wouldn’t be involved.’

‘They’re after diamonds,’ said Whinger. ‘They’re probably desperate for money. That’s where you and me’ll be in a couple of years’ time — out on the wing for some fifth-rate black army.’

‘Not if I can help it,’ I told him. ‘These bastards are that treacherous, once we get out of here, I’m keeping clear of Africa for a bit.’

‘Me too,’ went Phil.

‘Another thing I can’t understand is Joss,’ I went on. ‘He suddenly flipped. What bugged the bastard? Something happened to tip him over. Until then he’d been high as a fucking kite with excitement.’

Whinger gave a groan and a string of muttered imprecations as he shifted his position. Then he said, ‘There’s something strange about this woman as well.’

‘Oh? What happened?’

‘It was when the firing died down. I’d been trying to follow things from the noise. Then I must have dozed off, because when I woke up there she was, standing right beside me.’

‘I hope you slid your good hand up her shorts.’

‘Did I hell! I had the impression she’d been rummaging in my kit.’

‘So what happened?’

‘I asked what she thought she was doing. She said she was looking for something to drink. I told her to fuck off.’

‘All good for international relations,’ I told him. ‘That’s blown any chance of you getting your leg over. Not to worry. I’m off to sort her now.’

I found her sitting on an upturned wooden crate under a sausage tree; the cylindrical fruits were hanging down from the branches like vast green salamis. We knew from some we’d picked up that they weighed fifteen or twenty pounds, and it crossed my mind that if one dropped straight on to her head, it might solve a few problems.

We’d told her to stay on board the mother wagon, in case the rebels put in a counter-attack and we had to make a sudden move. But here she was, out in the open. Worse, there was no sign of the Kamangan who was supposed to be keeping an eye on her. She had her injured leg stuck out in front of her and her ankle resting on a rolled-up blanket. She was wearing an olive-green T-shirt and a pair of shreddies that one of the lads had given her. Little did she realise that she was dressed in a dead man’s kit — the stuff was Andy’s. If Whinger had put a hand up her shorts, it wouldn’t have had far to go: the shreddies just about covered the ledge of her arse, and no more. Her face was pale under its tan. A rough crutch that someone had cut for her from the fork of a young tree was lying on the ground beside her.

‘Look,’ I began. ‘You’re not supposed to be away from the wagon. Didn’t I tell you? We may have to get out quick. What happened to the guy we put here to mind you?’

‘Oh,’ she waved vaguely. ‘He’s over there, somewhere.’

I forced myself to chill out, and asked, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I still have pain in the head. Quite bad.’ She spoke with a strong German accent, and her voice had a harsh edge that grated on the ear.

‘Did Mart give you aspirin or something?’

‘I take the tablets, yes.’

‘Good.’ I couldn’t help thinking of the ground-up dog-shit. ‘Now, tell me about yourself.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘How about a name, for a start.’

‘Braun, Ingeborg.’

‘And what do you do for a living?’

‘Already I have this conversation, with your friend.’

‘Tell me anyway.’

‘Wildlife,’ she said wearily, shifting her bad ankle. ‘Animals are my business.’

‘Safaris?’

‘Not exactly. We give advice to game-parks, yes?’

‘On what?’

‘Numbers, culling. Naturschütz — conservation.’

‘Who’s “we”?’

‘My company is SWAG.’ She pronounced the letters ess, vay, ah, gay. ‘That means South West Africa Game.’

‘And where’s it based?’

‘Windhoek.’

Again, a very Germanic pronunciation: Wint-herk.

‘We are affiliated with Conscor,’ she added, as if that would make everything clear.

‘Conscor?’

‘The Conservation Corporation. They run the best game lodges: Makalali, Phindi, Londolozi.’

‘So where were you going when the plane crashed?’

‘Ach!’ She drew the back of one hand across her forehead. ‘So many questions!’

I waited, not wanting to give any leads.

Then she said, ‘It is difficult to remember. When did we fall under?’

‘Three days ago now.’ I added a day deliberately.

‘I am unconscious so long?’

I nodded.

‘And my companions?’

‘Killed in the crash, I’m afraid.’

‘So. Their bodies?’

‘We had to leave them. The area was very remote.’

Her pale blue eyes stared at me. I thought, she’s trying to remember. Or maybe she’s calculating, working things out. There was something about her that made the second alternative seem more likely.

‘You have reported the accident?’

‘Of course. We told Kamangan army headquarters in Mulongwe, and also our own people in the UK.’

‘Kamanga!’ Her whole body gave a twitch, as though she’d had an electric shock. ‘I am in Kamanga?’

When I nodded, there was something peculiar about her reaction. For a second she looked almost elated, but then her face clouded. Later, I kept thinking back on that moment, and what it meant. But it was gone in an instant, and she exclaimed, ‘Scheisse! What happened to the plane? Normally it is reliable.’

‘The trouble sounded like dirt in the fuel. The engines were misfiring.’

‘And where did it happen?’

I shrugged. ‘Hard to know. Our maps are so bad, they don’t bear any relation to what’s on the ground. All I can tell you is that the site is a day’s driving north of here.’

‘You cannot find it again?’

‘Not a chance,’ I said. ‘Besides, there wouldn’t be any point. The aircraft was a write-off. It caught fire when it went in.’

‘My companions were burned?’

‘No, they were thrown clear. They were killed by the impact.’

She stared at me, absorbing the information, then asked, ‘You found their papers, their wallets?’

‘Only one. A man called Pretorius.’

‘So. And I?’

‘You were caught in the straps, in the back seats. You owe your life to the fact the fire didn’t start immediately. Fuel was leaking from the wing-tanks, but we just had time to get you out.’

‘We?’

‘Myself and Whinger. He was the one who found you. He got quite badly burnt by the fireball.’

‘This man is who?’

‘Whinger Watson.’

‘Vincha? Is that an English name?’

‘It’s his nickname. His real name’s Fred, but he’s been Whinger ever since anyone can remember.’

‘So.’ Again she stared at me, and I thought, you devious bitch. Don’t bother to tell me you had a conversation with him earlier today, will you? Don’t own up to the fact that you were trying to search his kit.

‘Our luggage?’

‘Also burnt.’

‘All? No bags thrown out?’

I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’ As an afterthought, I asked, ‘Where were the cases?’

‘Some inside, some in the nose compartment. The aircraft went arse over tit. The nose was crumpled first, then the whole thing burned.’ I was thinking, I don’t suppose she’s going to thank us — and sure enough, she didn’t.

‘So where am I now?’

‘Like I said, about a day’s driving south, out in the bush. We brought you with us. It was the only thing to do.’

‘And you are here, why?’

‘We’re training a unit of the Kamangan government forces.’

‘These blex!’ She spat the word out with a mixture of arrogance and scorn that was all too familiar: I’d heard any number of Southern African whites talk about natives with that tone.

‘Some of them are all right,’ I said defensively.

‘Training for what? For the war, I suppose. My God, I would rather train dogs. At least they do not eat each other.’

‘Well, it’s our job.’

‘All these shootings this morning, these explosions.’

‘That was an exercise, a practice battle.’

‘It is finished?’

‘For the time being, yes.’

‘Then you can take me back, perhaps.’

‘Back? Where to?’

‘To Gorongosa.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘The Gorongosa national park. Where we came from. It is in Mozambique.’

‘Mozambique! Jesus! You flew from there?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘But it’s bloody miles away. The border’s far enough. How far’s Gorongosa inside Mozambique?’

‘The park headquarters? Perhaps two hundred, three hundred kilometres.’

‘How long did it take?’

She waved both hands in a gesture that said, ‘How do I know?’ Then, ‘Maybe two hours, three hours.’

‘What time did you take off?’

‘In the morning… what time was the accident?’

‘Lunchtime.’

‘So, we take off at nine, nine-thirty, maybe. Not sure.’

‘Heading for where?’

‘Yes,’ she said, as if still calculating. ‘Now I remember. It was after breakfast. Nine exactly.’

‘And where were you going?’

‘Endlich, to Windhoek, but first to Gaborone, in Botswana. You have a map? I show you.’

‘Okay. Just a minute.’

I walked back through the grove of trees and found Whinger in precisely the same position, still shaking.

‘Had her yet?’ he asked casually.

‘Twice,’ I told him. ‘Listen. She doesn’t realise I talked to you before I saw her. She never mentioned coming over here. She’s lying all the time. Where’s our map of the area, the one without Gutu marked on it?’

‘On the pinkie.’ He pointed at a millboard slung round the windscreen pillar. ‘Why?’

‘I need to check her story. There’s something about her that doesn’t hang together. She says the plane came from Mozambique, and I don’t reckon it can have. She’s fucking curious about where we are, and I don’t want her to know. I want her kept well in the dark about what we’re doing.’

‘What did she think all those bangs were, then?’

‘I told her it was an exercise. Pass the word to anyone you see.’

‘Roger.’

Back under the sausage tree, I asked, ‘How long have you lived in Africa?’

‘All my life. My grandfather came from Germany, 1946.’

Nazis, I thought immediately. Nazis on the run after the war.

‘What did he do?’

‘Skins. Was heisst “Gerberei”?’

‘Tannery?’

‘Ja, ja. He made animal skins. Zebra, cheetah, ostrich.’

I nodded. ‘And what’s Windhoek like now?’

‘Quite small. There is the Kaiserstrasse, with hotels and shops. Otherwise, not much.’

‘People speak German?’

‘All. German and Afrikaans.’

‘English?’

‘Wenig.’

I opened the map and handed it to her, standing beside her to point things out.

‘We’re somewhere round here.’ I indicated a large area.

First she spread the map over her knees, but then she held it out at arm’s length, as far from her as she could reach.

‘Meine Brille,’ she said. ‘My spectacles. To read, I need spectacles.’ She reached to where the left front pocket of a safari shirt would have been.

‘Short-sighted, are you?’

‘Short, no. Long. I can read a newspaper one kilometre distance, but from close, no. You have such spectacles?’

I shook my head. ‘None of our guys uses them.’

‘And the blex?’

‘Don’t need ’em.’

She gave a snort of exasperation, and said, ‘So where is the border of Mozambique?’

‘Away over there.’ I waved extravagantly to the right of the sheet. ‘Well off the map. This is quite large scale.’

‘And we cannot drive there?’

‘Not a chance. We’re too far from the border. And anyway, we haven’t any permission to cross. The frontier guards would go bananas if us lot turned up.’

She glowered at me, as if her predicament was my fault. To lower the temperature, I asked, ‘What were you doing in Gorongosa, anyway?’

‘Wildbemerkung.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Game assessment. Many animals are killed in the civil war. We try to estimate how much game survives, for the possibility of hunting again.’

‘But you say you don’t run safaris?’

‘No. We make totals — counts — from the air, to provide information.’

‘And what did you see? Elephants?’

‘Very few. Most have been shot. Nashorn — total kaputt.’

‘Nashorn?’

‘It is rhino. All gone. But impala okay, kudu okay, giraffe quite good. Zebra, natürlich. Warthog okay.’

‘Well.’ I folded the map. ‘The only thing I suggest is that you go out on the plane tomorrow.’

‘Plane? What is this?’

‘A Kamangan military aircraft is coming down tomorrow on a resupply run. Maybe it could lift you out.’

‘Where does it go?’

‘To Mulongwe, or somewhere just outside.’

‘Mulongwe! Das ist ein Dreckhaufen, a shit-heap. I don’t go there.’

‘You’d be better off there than here.’

‘By no means. The Kamangans cancel all international flights because of the war. There is no way I can get out of Mulongwe. Probably they put me in gaol because I am Namibian. If I go to hospital for my leg, I catch Aids. Quite sure. Mulongwe — no.’

I was thinking, you’ll go where you’re fucking well told. In any case, how did she know what was going on in the Kamangan capital?

Luckily, someone forestalled further argument by shouting for me from our living area. I just said, ‘Sorry, I’ll see you in a minute,’ and walked away.

I couldn’t quite make out what it was that was making me feel so pissed off. The woman’s arrogance didn’t help, but if we were going to get rid of her within twenty-four hours, what did it matter? I also realised I was tired. We’d been up most of the night, and once the adrenalin of the assault had drained away, there was bound to be a sense of let-down. Yet none of this quite accounted for the black feeling that seemed to have settled on me.

I kept trying to analyse the reason. It wasn’t the state of affairs at the mine; for the time being I didn’t much care what was going on there. We’d helped Alpha Commando recapture it, and there our responsibility ended. It didn’t take us to get the machinery going again or to keep an eye on the diamonds — that was down to the Kamangans. I wanted to help old Boisset, but if he preferred to stay put, that was up to him. We needed to get his message through, and maybe we could do that in the evening. The trouble was that for the moment our comms were down. You get these periods when satcom phones don’t work, and there’s nothing you can do but wait for the system to sort itself out.

Whinger was on my mind, as well. But suddenly I realised, or thought I realised, what the real trouble was. The day before, I’d taken my weekly anti-malaria tablet, Lariam. Back in Hereford the MO had issued each of us with two little foil packs of the big white bombers, one to be taken every week for eight weeks on end, without fail. Everyone said that Lariam was dodgy stuff, but that it was the only drug still proving effective in the part of Africa where we’d be working. The mozzies, apparently, had wised up to all the older drugs like Paludrine and Mepacrine. Several of the lads, particularly Chalky, had been quite nervous of the possible side-effects of Lariam, printed on the leaflet that came with each packet. They’d tried to take the piss out of the warnings, but they hadn’t convinced themselves.

Now I remembered Pavarotti putting on a phoney doctor’s voice as he read out, ‘Most common unwanted effects: dizziness, vertigo, loss of balance, headache, sleep problems. Less common unwanted effects: psychiatric reactions which may be disabling and last for several weeks, unusual changes in mood or behaviour, feelings of worry or depression, persecution, crying, aggression—’ At that point there’d been loud cries of ‘For fuck’s sake!’, and he’d laid off. But I know that Andy, for one, had binned his tablets rather than swallow them, and I suspect a couple more of the guys had done the same, just as they’d rejected the anti-nerve gas stuff handed out before the Gulf War in 1991. I’d taken my Lariam regularly, and so far had had no problems.

But now I felt so peculiar that I began to wonder: was the stuff getting to me at last? If it was, there was nothing I could do about it, and maybe it was this thought that relaxed me. In any case, I drifted off to sleep.

I was woken by Phil shaking my shoulder.

‘Rise and shine, mate,’ he went.

I sat up, sweating all over. ‘Christ! What’s the time?’

‘Midday.’

I’d been out for nearly three hours. I should have felt refreshed, but even when I’d scrubbed my face with a wet rag I still had the same thick sensation in my head, and Phil did nothing to clear it by starting in again about the woman.

‘What’s the matter?’ I said as I sat there trying to get myself together. ‘You had a run-in with her as well?’

‘She fucking started it. She shouted at me as I was going past.’

‘What did she want?’

‘She’s found out where we are, more or less.’

‘How?’

‘One of the silveries told her we were close to the river Kameni.’

‘Fuck it!’

‘Yeah, and now she’s screaming about a place called Msisi.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Christ knows.’ Phil scratched his head. ‘She claims it’s on the river. Therefore she reckons we can’t be far from it. She says it’s a hospital, run by Roman Catholic nuns.’

‘A hospital? I thought such things didn’t exist around here.’

‘This is the only one, apparently. Part convent, part Krankenhaus.’

‘So what?’

‘She wants us to take her there,’ said Phil. ‘She reckons the nuns’ll sort out her ankle.’

‘I don’t believe it. What does she think they’ve got? Fucking X-ray machines that work without electricity? Wait till they hear her. That’ll finish her chances. What’s wrong with Mulongwe, for Christ’s sake?’

‘Dunno,’ said Phil. ‘She just won’t hear of it.’

‘This place, Msisi. Is it on the map?’

‘Not this one.’ Phil picked up the bum map and scanned it. ‘Not if it’s on the river.’

‘How does she know about this convent, anyway?’

‘Her party was going to land there on their way across, just to make sure the nuns were okay.’

‘In that case it must be to the west, somewhere downstream. Try the good map.’

While Phil dug it out, I was turning the idea over in my mind: a quick run down to Msisi would be one way to get Braun off our hands. If the nuns had an airstrip, they could get her flown out from there. Also, maybe they could give Whinger better treatment than we could. Certainly the environment of even a primitive hospital would be less dangerous to someone with major skin loss than the shitty conditions in which we were living. The nuns might have better drugs, too.

But then Phil came back, saying, ‘Nothing. I’ve followed the river all the way down.’

‘Is it supposed to be a village, or what?’

‘No, just a group of buildings on some sort of bluff.’

‘No wonder it isn’t marked, then. Wait a minute, though. I tell you who’ll know: the old Belgian. We’ll go back down and ask him.’

‘Fair enough.’ Phil folded the map away. ‘She’s obsessed about the plane, too. Keeps asking questions.’

‘Like?’

‘It ken fly again, yes?’ He imitated the German intonation perfectly. ‘I told her, “Can it hell?”’

‘She already knew it got burnt out. I told her that myself.’

‘She can’t seem to accept that. She was on about her passport and stuff. “Vot heff zey finded?” I told her you’d found bugger all. She started asking me about Whinger. Did he get into the plane? How did he get burnt? Then it was, “Ve can go back zere, yes?” “No way,” I said. “We’d never find the spot.”’

‘It’s as if she wanted to recover something,’ I said.

‘I suggested that. But she said no, she just wanted to see the place where her companions died.’

‘Stick to that line, Phil. Tell her the place is impossible to find. And don’t take it so hard. I know she’s a pain in the arse, but think of it from her point of view. She’s well in the shit, by any reckoning. Friends dead, plane kaput. Stuck in the middle of Africa. You can’t blame her for panicking a bit.’

We were heading down to the river crossing again when a volley of shots rattled out from below.

Phil’s eyes lit up. ‘Maybe it’s a counter-attack.’

‘More like someone taking it out on the hippos,’ said Pav.

He, Phil and I were on our way to check things at the mine. Because we’d stood down the OP on the cliff, we had no eyes on the compound, and I wanted to know how Joss and his guys were getting on with the machinery. We also needed to quiz Boisset about the convent.

When we reached the bank, we were pulled up short. The pontoon was on the far side, and the Alpha guys who’d taken charge of it were lounging around, having a brew; but when we called to them to come across for us, they just gave us the fingers.

‘Bastards!’ I muttered. ‘What are they playing at?’ Then I yelled, full force, ‘Get that boat over here, in double time!’

At least that made one of them stand up. He started to yell back, and at first we couldn’t understand him. Then we made out, ‘Major Mvula say, no one across.’

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ said Phil, angrily.

‘Turds!’ growled Pav. ‘I’ll wade it. I’ll go over and fucking sort them out.’

‘Nobody’s wading,’ I told him. ‘You didn’t see what happened this morning. The crocs are horrendous. Watch this, though. I’ll soon put the frighteners on them.’

Moving slowly, I unslung my 203 and ostentatiously raised it to my shoulder.

‘Come across now!’ I bellowed. ‘Or I shoot.’

The fellow who’d got up stood looking. The rest didn’t bother to shift. I switched to automatic, aimed a yard to the right of the boat, and put two short bursts into the sandy bank, just at the waterline. The noise and the explosion of spray had the rest of them on their feet, sharpish. They considered doing a runner; we could tell that from the way they looked round behind themselves. But they saw that if they tried to get away, they’d be in our field of fire for at least fifty metres, and they weren’t going to risk it. Seconds later two of them jumped into the ferry, settled at the little club-oars and began hauling themselves over.

‘Listen, Geordie,’ said Pav, urgently. ‘I don’t know what these cunts are up to, but there’s something funny going on. Crossing could be bad news.’

‘You mean, we could get stuck on the wrong side?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Fuck it,’ I said. ‘I’m not taking this kind of shite from Joss. We’re going over.’ Then, as the ferry was approaching, I added quietly, ‘Don’t take it out on these guys. It’s not their fault. They’re only doing what they’ve been told.’

The oarsmen looked scared to hell. Their eyes were rolling all round their heads, anywhere but at me. Plainly they were expecting me to top them at any minute for insubordination, and feed their bodies to the crocs.

‘Take it easy,’ I said quietly as we set off. ‘Let’s just cross.’ I waited till we were halfway over before asking, ‘When did Major Mvula give that order? What time?’

‘Now.’

‘Right now?’

‘Half hour.’

‘Okay.’

On the far side we set off for the hillocks which had been our firing position in the morning — that was the direct approach to the compound — and we headed for the back of the mounds exactly as we had before first light. Until our setback at the ferry, it hadn’t occurred to me that we’d to have creep up on the mine like this for our second visit, but now I thought we’d take a shufti at what was going on before we walked right in.

Just as well. If we’d come into sight at that moment, things could have turned ugly.

‘Fuck me!’ exclaimed Pav under his breath. ‘A kangaroo court.’

Out in the open compound, between the wrecked mesh gates and the main building, a huddle of twelve or so Kamangans were sitting on the ground in a horseshoe. Halfway round the ring, and just outside it, with his back to us, Joss was poised on a metal chair perched atop a packing case, as if on a throne. Opposite the ends of the horseshoe, like the pillar in the middle of a peepsight, a white prisoner was standing bound with rope to an upright wooden stake. Beside him stood another man wielding a heavy stick, and on the ground close by lay a body.

The prisoner was already far gone. His head was lolling forward, chin on chest, and blood was dripping down his chest. As we eased into view Joss screamed some question at him, and when he didn’t answer, the attendant belted him in the ear with his club, rocking his head violently sideways.

‘Jesus!’ breathed Phil. ‘Isn’t that the guy we brought in?’

‘It is.’ I took a deep breath. ‘What do we do?’

My instinct was to take out the whole of the kangaroo court. With three 203s, we could have done it. Joss as well. But I knew we couldn’t start topping the guys we were supposed to be working for.

‘Rounds over their heads!’ Phil urged. ‘Cause a diversion.’ Already he was pushing his rifle into position.

‘No, no!’ went Pav. ‘For fuck’s sake! They’re so fired up, they’d go completely hyper if they thought we were shooting at them. There’s three of us and about fifteen of them, plus more indoors. We’d get massacred.’

We’d arrived just in time for the final act of a violent drama. Joss screamed the same few words again and again in a high tenor voice, almost a falsetto. When the prisoner gave no answer, he stood up and appealed to the assembled court in a burst of impassioned ranting. Without understanding his exact words, we knew what he was asking: guilty or not guilty? In a single roar a dozen voices gave him the answer he was looking for. Instantly he raised his right hand in a kind of Nazi salute and shouted an order. Half his jurors came up on one knee and levelled their AK47s at the prisoner. Another yelp of command, and cra-cra-crash! A ragged volley riddled the victim, who jerked backward, then slumped into his ropes, with blood pouring from multiple wounds in the chest.

I shot a glance at Phil. His eyes were gleaming. ‘Phworrh!’ he went. ‘Didn’t give the bugger much chance, did they? What the hell did he do?’

‘He was enemy,’ I said, ‘fighting for the Afundis. And he was white. That’s enough.’

We lay still as we watched the court break up and disperse. For the time being adrenalin had cleared my head. I felt apprehensive, but calm.

‘Give ’em a minute or two to cool down,’ I said. ‘If they saw us right now, they might carry on firing.’

‘Let’s pull off,’ Pav suggested.

‘Not a chance,’ I told him. ‘We’re going to sort the bastards out.’

We watched as somebody brought up one of the Gaz jeeps, cut down the body, slung it aboard and loaded up the one already on the ground. The vehicle drove off round the back of the big building, and Joss stalked away into it, throwing strange, dismissive gestures with his right hand. There seemed to be something peculiar about his gait. He was moving stiff-legged, as though on stilts. A couple of squaddies carried away the chair and box that had acted as the seat of judgement.

We gave it five minutes, sweating literally and metaphorically. The afternoon sun beat down on us, and we knew our position was dodgy to a degree. It looked as though Joss was high on something. Power? Drugs? The mercenaries’ hooch? We could have withdrawn and returned later, but that would have entailed loss of face, because sooner or later he’d hear from the boatmen that we’d come across and had been hanging about, too scared to go on. There was only one thing to do: confront him.

We expected to be challenged at the gate, and we were. Two sentries put on a hostile front and barred our way, saying, ‘No visitors to the mine.’ But by then I was quite angry, and the message soon got through. One of them shouted across to the central building, and presently a man came out to wave us across.

‘Chill out,’ I told the others as we went forward. ‘Play it cool.’

We found Joss sitting at a trestle table just inside the big doors, where he seemed to have set up a temporary office. He’d taken off his beret and laid it on one side of the table as he checked names on lists with a corporal standing at his elbow. He looked hot and harassed, and our arrival did nothing to improve his temper.

No cheerful ‘Join the party!’ this time. Instead, he demanded, ‘What do you people want?’

‘Courtesy call,’ I said, easily. ‘We came down to see if you needed any help.’

‘If I want help, I’ll tell you.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Inwardly, I was boiling. Who did this arsehole think he was? Who did he think had planned the attack on the mine in the first place and got his team through it with so few casualties? But all I said was, ‘Sure, but I’d like a word with the old Belgian.’

‘What about?’

‘Private business.’

‘There’s no private business here.’

‘All right, then. I want to ask him about the mission hospital at Msisi.’

‘Msisi? Where’s that?’

‘That’s what I want to find out. Somewhere down river. Whinger’s burns need proper treatment.’

‘Well, you can talk to the man in front of me.’

‘Listen, Joss.’ I kept my voice low, staring into his bloodshot eyes. ‘Watch yourself. I don’t know what’s got into you, but there are one or two things you need to remember. The first is, your president’s getting a full report on this campaign.’

He shot me a glance, but said nothing.

‘We saw you execute those prisoners just now.’

He jerked in his seat, and said angrily, ‘You had no business to be watching.’

‘We didn’t mean to. We stumbled on it. But those shootings might not be entirely to your credit.’

‘The men had been stealing diamonds,’ he said defensively. ‘They were caught with their pockets full of them.’

I felt my scalp prickle, and I said a silent prayer of thanks that I’d fought off the temptation to load up myself.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘The way you maintain discipline’s your business. But I’m also reporting on your attitude in general.’

‘You take it easy!’ He pulled himself upright and swayed about, banging a fist down on the table. ‘Don’t try threatening me. You went into the strongroom. I’ll have you searched as well.’

Still I kept my cool. ‘Search away if you want,’ I said evenly. ‘But I can tell you, there’s no point. I didn’t nick anything, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have it on me now. I’d have hidden it long ago.’

Joss slumped back into his seat. The man was obviously high on something, but the strange thing was I couldn’t smell any alcohol.

I decided to up the voltage a bit, and demanded, ‘Look. What the hell’s the matter with you? Has one of our guys pissed you off or something? What’s got into you? Calm down a bit.’

I saw his broad nostrils flaring with anger. ‘You’re telling a senior officer how to carry on!’ he shouted. ‘You’ve no business to give orders!’

From close beside me, on my right, Phil uttered a strangled curse. I sensed he was on the point of erupting. With his temper, he might thump the Kamangan commander any second.

I turned towards him, silently mouthed ‘For fuck’s sake!’, and then said out loud, ‘I’m not giving orders. I’m talking about common courtesy.’

‘Courtesy!’ yelled Joss, struggling to his feet again. ‘The best courtesy you could show would be to get back to UK, pronto.’

Still I held my cool. ‘If that’s what you want, fine. We’ll start tomorrow. But I don’t think President Bakunda will be very chuffed if our assignment ends prematurely just because you can’t keep your temper.’

The hands on the table top were clenching and unclenching. Beads of sweat were standing out all over the man’s forehead. I stared at him, amazed that he could have changed so completely in such a short time.

He took a deep breath, sat down again, and asked, ‘What is it you want?’

‘Like I said, to speak to Boisset.’

‘All right. We’ll get him. But only in my presence. No private spying conversations.’ Over his left shoulder he gave a rapid order in Nyanja, and the corporal departed for the inner machine sheds.

I almost added, ‘I’ll talk to him anywhere I bloody well like,’ but I bit it back, and asked, ‘While we’re waiting, how many men did the rebels lose in the attack?’

‘Twenty-seven,’ came the prompt answer.

‘All black?’

‘Twenty-five black, two white.’

‘Including the man shot just now?’

He nodded.

‘No other prisoners?’

A shake of the head.

‘What about the other whites?’

‘They got away. But we found where they’d been living. Over there.’ He gestured towards the bungalow.

‘How many?’

‘Seven or eight.’

‘South Africans?’

He nodded.

Suddenly, going over details of the battle, he had become reasonable again. But when I asked, ‘How many casualties on our side?’ he took offence once more.

‘What business is that of yours?’

‘I need a figure for my report.’

‘Damn your report! Anybody would think you were writing a history of Kamanga.’ His tone was humourless, bitter. I said nothing, waiting for him to continue. He glared at me a couple of times, and eventually said, ‘Four dead, and one flesh wound.’

‘Pretty good,’ I suggested. ‘What have you done with the bodies?’

‘Buried them.’

‘Already?’

‘You have to, in this heat.’

‘With the bulldozer?’

He nodded.

On our way in I’d noticed that the bulldozer was in exactly the same position as when the assault started, but I said nothing. Instead I asked, ‘When’s the plane from Mulongwe due?’

‘What’s that got to do with you?’

‘I wondered if we could put the South African woman on it, to go back? We need to get rid of her somehow.’

‘Why can’t she stay here with us? We can look after her.’

‘She’s wanting out, and her ankle needs treatment. The plane would be best.’

‘It depends on the pilot. He may not want to take her.’

‘Can’t you order him to?’

‘Hey, I said it already!’ Suddenly he was screaming again. ‘Stop telling me what to do!’

‘I asked a question, that was all. What time’s the plane?’

‘Ten in the morning.’

‘What aircraft?’

‘C-130.’

I nodded. A big plane. An idea came to me. If Joss really wanted us out, our whole team could take passage and be back in Mulongwe by evening. If necessary we could bin our vehicles and go. Get Whinger to hospital that way. But I reckoned that such a suggestion might send the Kamangan ballistic, so instead I asked, ‘Any clue about the involvement of the South Africans?’

‘That fellow wouldn’t talk. Only this.’ He riffled through the pile of paper on his desk and slid one A4-size white sheet towards me. ‘We found this in their kit.’ The sheet was blank, except for a name and address printed discreetly in grey lettering across the bottom: INTERACTION, PO BOX 1189, JOHANNESBURG, S.A.

The name gave me a jolt. I knew the firm was one of the biggest private military contractors operating in Africa; it had contacts at the highest level in many countries, and in terms of international law it often sailed dangerously close to the wind. I remembered furious rows about its activities in Sierra Leone, Angola and other places. Was it being supported by the Foreign Office in Whitehall, or was it not? The issue had never been clear. Although nominally based in South Africa, Interaction was run from an office in London by a former army officer called Mackenzie. When one of the papers reported that he’d been a member of the Regiment, he never bothered to deny it, but in fact he’d no more been in the SAS than he’d visited the moon.

Glancing sideways, I saw Phil grappling with the same thought as me, that if Muende had hired guys from Interaction to bolster the rebels, it confirmed what I already suspected: there was something bigger going on than either Joss or President Bakunda realised. And if the firm was involved, we might find ourselves up against former American SEALs or even old and bold ex-SAS, because Interaction was exactly the sort of company guys of that calibre would work for after they’d left the forces.

What I should have said was that if Alpha Commando was about to run into opposition of this calibre, they were going to need us more than ever. But because the atmosphere had become so scary, I was thinking, well, if Joss wants to fight Interaction on his own, fucking good luck to him. I’d rather not get involved against people from our own background. All I said, casually, was, ‘Oh yeah, I’ve heard of these people. They supply private armies — weapons and stuff.’

My train of thought was broken by the reappearance of Boisset, who came shuffling out from the back at quite a lively pace. In the few hours since I’d seen him his face seemed to have filled out and coloured up slightly. He looked less like a living skeleton, more likely to survive.

I tried to sound relaxed as I asked him, ‘How’s it going?’

‘Not bad. We make some progress. One big emergency generator is running, at least.’

‘Great! I wanted to ask something. Have you heard of a place called Msisi?’

‘Certainement. It is a Catholic mission, run by the Poor Clares.’

‘And where is it?’

‘Down river, about sixty kilometres.’

‘You’ve been there?’

‘Once, yes.’

‘What sort of a place?’

‘Quite small. A few buildings above the river.’

‘On a cliff?’

‘C’est ça.’

I glanced at Joss to see how he was enjoying this private conversation. In the state he was, I thought he might take offence at the fact that I was ignoring him. Luckily, he seemed bored by my questions, and had started talking to his corporal again. Better still, when one of his junior officers appeared in the open doorway and called him, he got up and walked out.

I waited till he was clear, then asked, ‘This mission, is it a hospital?’

‘A small one, yes. It is funded by the Red Cross.’

‘Which side of the river?’

‘The north side. Opposite of here.’

‘Is there any bridge, any means of crossing?’

Boisset shook his head. ‘Not for many kilometres.’

‘So how would we reach it from here?’

‘First, you cross over here to the north bank, by the pontoon. Then there is a road… there was a road, a track. You have a map?’

‘Here.’ I pulled our good map out of the thigh pocket of my DPMs and spread it on Joss’s table.

It took the Belgian a minute to find his bearings; then he pointed with a long, black fingernail, and said, ‘We are here, above the big bend in the river. Non?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘Yes. Here is Gutu. And Msisi must be here.’ Again he pointed to a spot on the river. ‘You go along the north side of the river, past the so-called Zebra Pans. Yes, here.’ He indicated two small oblongs coloured light green, in the middle of brown surroundings. ‘Areas of flood in the rains, but dry now.’

‘And the road?’

‘Only a bush track. It leads round the south side of the pans, between them and the bank of the river. Perhaps it is grown over by now. But once you have found it, you need only follow it. In the end you will see a hill, with the mission on top. White buildings, with big mahogany trees growing round them.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

‘You go to Msisi now?’

‘We may try tomorrow. One of our guys has got burnt and needs treatment.’

‘Ah yes, the Poor Clares will treat him.’

Joss had reappeared in the doorway, still talking.

‘François,’ I said, in a low voice. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

Boisset gave another shrug. ‘He is very angry.’

‘You’ve said it. But why? Is he on drugs or something? He’s behaving like a lunatic.’

‘Maybe he does not like Gutu, the mine. He prefers to be somewhere else.’

Who wouldn’t? I thought. I just had time to ask, ‘The bulldozer. Is it working?’

Boisset shook his head. ‘Mais non. Ça ne marche pas. It will not go for many days. The fuel pipes are all shot through with bullets.’

‘I thought so.’

Joss was back, swaying, no less aggressive. ‘Finished your private conversation yet?’

‘Sure.’ I nodded. ‘If there’s nothing we can do here, we’ll be getting back to camp.’

‘Get back to camp. Stay in camp. I don’t want to see you here any more.’

Did he mean today, or any day? I wasn’t going to ask. I shot Boisset a glance and saw consternation on his face. He, too, was baffled by this head-on hostility.

‘Come on,’ I said to Phil, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘We’ll have another chat in the morning, when the temperature’s lower.’ Turning to Boisset, I said, ‘Thanks for your help. Be seeing you.’

With that I swung round and walked out. No thank you to Joss, no goodbye. If I’d had FUCK YOU written across my back in big white capitals, my message couldn’t have been clearer. As we headed for the gate I tensed myself, half expecting somebody to open fire on us from behind. Going through the strongpoint I muttered to Phil, ‘The bastards never buried anybody. They must have thrown the bodies in the river.’

Even when we were in dead ground behind the hummocks, I was uncomfortable. Only when the surly boatmen had landed us on the north bank of the river did I start to feel safe.

Reading my thoughts, Phil said, ‘If we sank the pontoon or cut it loose, at least we’d confine the buggers to the far side.’

‘Yeah,’ I went. ‘That might delay them, but it would really strop them up. I can imagine a couple of kamikaze swimmers braving the crocs to come over with special orders to take us out.’

We’d been expecting the resupply that evening; now it wasn’t due until the morning. If a fresh infantry unit had come in, I’d have felt a lot safer: reinforcements might have calmed Joss down and made him feel more secure. As things stood, the situation looked so threatening that I changed our plans. It certainly wasn’t safe to remain where we were: we might easily end up getting our throats cut by our nominal allies. So, instead of staying in camp with the Kamangans, we used the last hour of daylight to hive off our own vehicles and equipment and shift to a new site a kilometre away, higher up the hill. There we set up a defensive position and staked out the approaches with trip-wires.

Ever since our showdown with Joss, my mind had been on the witch doctor and his bones. The death of the South African mercenary brought the score of white casualties to four. I didn’t bring the subject up with any of my mates, because I knew they’d think I was becoming obsessed. All the same, it wouldn’t go away.

With Whinger out of action, we were down to eight fit men. By the time dark fell, I wasn’t the only one feeling apprehensive. We’d put three guys out on stag, watching possible routes to our location, in touch by covert radio to give us early warning of anyone approaching. That left only five to hold a Chinese parliament on what we should do.

Once we’d got some food down our necks, we gathered round Whinger’s cot so that he could join the discussion. With a big piece of gauze stuck over the right side of his face, and his arm and leg swathed in bandages, he showed up well in the dark. He was cursing steadily with the pain, but it chuffed everyone to have him with us.

Pavarotti, Chalky and Mart were on the first stag, so round the prostrate Whinger were Phil, Genesis, Stringer and Danny. The woman had eaten in the back of the seven-tonner, and I’d told her on no account to leave it. The arrangement suited all parties. Without quite putting it into words, she’d managed to give the impression that she didn’t like being at close quarters with a group of dirty, sweaty soldiers. As for us, we were chuffed to have her out of earshot.

‘All right,’ I kicked off. ‘How does anyone feel about binning the task and going home?’

‘Won’t the shit hit the fan if we do?’ Stringer asked.

‘Well, we’re supposed to give Alpha Commando six weeks. We haven’t completed three yet. But because Joss has gone bananas, there’s a strong case for pulling out right away.’

‘What’s wrong with the guy?’ asked Danny.

‘You tell me. He’s on something powerful, for sure.’

‘He’s gone round the fucking bend,’ said Phil. ‘You should have heard him yelling insults.’

‘What did you do to annoy him?’

‘Nothing. That was it.’ Phil was full of indignation. ‘We didn’t give him the slightest hassle. It was as if the battle had got to him. The sight and scent of blood put him right over the edge.’

‘You really think he might send guys to top us?’ Danny sounded incredulous.

‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ I went. ‘Like Phil says, he wasn’t making sense. He was just mouthing off. But even if he was still on-side, I reckon we’re too bloody close to the war zone to carry on as we have been. In fact, we’re in the war zone. If we carry on any further, we won’t be training the silveries any more, we’ll be fighting their campaign for them.’

‘You’ve got a point,’ Stringer agreed. ‘After today, training’ll be too fucking dangerous. While our attention’s tied up trying to get some discipline into these bastards, we could get attacked.’

‘Yeah,’ went Genesis. ‘Caught with our pants down.’

‘Christ!’ exclaimed Phil. ‘Just as we’re getting to grips with these arseholes of rebels. Why don’t we whack a few more of them?’

‘Come on!’ Gen needled him. ‘You’ve had a good blast-off today. Won’t that satisfy your blood lust for a bit?’

There was silence except for the crickets and the odd shot from the direction of the mine. Then Whinger croaked, ‘It’s unlike you, Geordie, wanting to chicken out.’

‘You didn’t hear Joss carrying on,’ I told him. ‘It was horrific. I’m not chicken. I’m just trying to be realistic.’

‘All right,’ he persisted. ‘So what are we going to do? Tell the Kremlin we don’t like it?’

‘I’m not doing anything unless everyone agrees.’ I looked round the darkened faces. ‘Usual drill. We need a majority verdict. It’s just our silvery friends are starting to behave like fucking apes. If you’d seen them shoot that guy…’

‘Let’s all of us go down in the morning and give Joss a right bollocking,’ Phil suggested.

‘That’d send him totally ballistic.’

‘What if we do carry on?’ Stringer asked. ‘What’s next on the agenda?’

‘When the aircraft comes in with the relief garrison, Joss’s guys are supposed to hand the mine over to them,’ I said. ‘Then, in theory, they’ll be free to move on, and we’re supposed to go with them.’

‘To?’

‘Good question. The next enemy base is reported to be at Kapani. That’s a town about three days south of here. On another river. The objective is the bridge bringing the main road in from the south. If Alpha can capture that, or cut it, they’ll have a stranglehold on the rebels’ main supply route. I was planning to carry on with them at least as far as that.’

‘Help them plan that attack, too,’ went Phil.

‘That’s the obvious option.’

‘And what if we quit?’ Stringer persisted.

‘We piss off back to Mulongwe under our own steam.’

‘HMG wouldn’t like that,’ went Whinger. ‘What if Muende gets the upper hand, takes over the uranium mines and starts shipping the stuff to Gadaffi? Then we’d look a right bunch of pricks.’

‘Too bad,’ I said. ‘What does anyone think?’

Stringer began to say something, but before he got it out Genesis asked, ‘What about the woman? She’s hell-bent on getting to the convent at Msisi.’

‘Don’t I fucking know it,’ I told him. ‘But we can’t head that way. If we’re splitting with Alpha, we need to get our arses away to the north pronto.’

‘Don’t you think we ought to go and check things?’ Gen persisted. ‘I mean, if there’s twelve holy sisters there, they could be in trouble.’

I looked at our walking bible and saw him staring into the darkness. Obviously he was fancying the chance of visiting a religious retreat and helping the nuns out. That’d give him a bigger kick than shagging them.

‘What are Poor Clares, anyway?’ I asked, playing for time.

‘They’re Franciscan nuns,’ he replied, immediately. ‘Named after St Clare of Assisi, who was a disciple of St Francis. They lead a life of prayer and spend most of their days in silence.’

Phil was fanning himself with one hand in sarcastic appreciation of such great knowledge. ‘What the fuck do we do when we get there?’ he demanded. ‘Sing a few hymns, dig in, and spend the next six months defending the holy sisters, without talking to anybody?’

‘They may be wanting out,’ said Gen. ‘We might need to organise an airlift.’

I turned to Danny, who was in charge of our transport, and said, ‘By the way, make sure there’s no keys left in dashboards tonight. I wouldn’t put it past the Kraut to try doing a runner in one of the vehicles. Even if she can’t walk, she could probably drive.’

‘Sure, sure.’ Danny looked faintly peeved at the suggestion that he couldn’t be trusted to do his job. ‘She’ll not get far.’

‘To hell with the convent,’ Whinger announced. ‘She’s going out on the fucking relief aircraft, even if you have to carry her aboard kicking and screaming.’

‘At least Msisi exists,’ I said. ‘I asked the Belgian. Apparently he’s been there, and it’s only a couple of hours downstream from here.’

‘Eh, Geordie,’ went Whinger. ‘You gone soft on the woman or something?’

‘Piss off, mate,’ I told him. ‘I’m just considering options. What if the plane doesn’t come tomorrow, for instance? What if it goes U/S? There’s a very good chance of that. Then we’ll be stuck with her.’

I paused, looking round the circle. Various ideas were chasing each other round my head.

‘Try the satcom again,’ I told Stringer. ‘I wish to hell we could have a word with the Kremlin.’

Stringer stood up, went over to the pinkie with the comms equipment on board and began to fiddle with his aerials.

‘Leave the woman out of this for the moment,’ I said. ‘She’s only a side issue. We haven’t answered the main question. What do we want to do? Go on or pull out? What’s the crack on that? Whinger?’

‘It depends on Joss,’ he replied, his voice heavy and slow. ‘He may have settled down by tomorrow. If he has, carry on. We’ve only lost one guy, and that was to an elephant. Pure bad luck. If we watch ourselves, there shouldn’t be a problem.’

‘But if he’s still the same?’

‘Then fuck off, fastest.’

‘Okay. That’s you. Danny?’

‘I agree. If Joss pulls round, no reason not to carry on.’ He shot me a look, and went on, ‘I dunno about you, Geordie, but it strikes me there’s something big going down here.’

‘Like what?’ I waited, knowing that Danny often had good ideas, but was slow to articulate them.

‘The South African involvement. This company, Interaction. These guys wouldn’t be pissing about with the rebels if it was just a question of diamonds. Southern Africa’s full of diamonds.’

‘So?’

‘There must be some other agenda. Something that’s really got them going.’

‘Okay, I agree. But what are you saying? That we should stick with it, or what?’

‘If Joss comes back on-side, yes, we should.’

‘Right. Genesis?’

‘I disagree. If we go any further south we could land ourselves in the shit. We might not be able to get back at all. And as we know, the chances of getting lifted out of the bush are zero. I’m for pulling off, first to the convent, then to Mulongwe. Bollocks to the uranium, and to the agreement.’

Next round the circle was Phil, and I knew before I asked him what his answer would be.

‘Fuck Joss. Go for it! Get stuck in with Alpha and go for the bridge. Let’s have another good shoot-out and hit the rebels where it hurts.’

Before I could say anything else, Mart’s voice abruptly came up in my earpiece with ‘Green One’.

‘Green One, roger,’ I answered.

‘Got an intruder,’ he said quietly.

I held up a hand to stop anyone talking, and asked, ‘What is it?’

‘Somebody coming up the track from below.’

‘Sure it’s not an animal?’

‘Definitely human. I had him in the kite-sight.’

‘Stand by. I’ll be with you.’

Our meeting broke up as though a bomb had landed in the middle of the group. In seconds the guys vanished outwards into the darkness and took up prearranged positions — all except Gen, who grabbed Whinger’s cot by the head-end and dragged it alongside one of the pinkies. I ran the few yards to the seven-tonner and hissed at Inge, ‘Stay where you are. Don’t move. We’ve got problems.’

Mart was about two hundred metres to the east. He’d stationed himself on a bank where the track came up over a steep little rise. He’d told us that from that vantage point he could see out over an expanse of open bush.

We hadn’t expected any visitors, certainly no friendly ones. But the one thing we needed to avoid, above all, was any risk of a blue-on-blue — a clash between our own people.

My boots made no sound in the dust as I scurried forward. The moon was still low in the sky, but the starlight was strong, and I could see quite well. When I reckoned I was halfway to Mart’s position I called him on the radio, and said, ‘Closing on you from behind.’

‘Roger,’ he answered.

‘Anyone in sight?’

‘Negative.’

He must have been watching me through the kite-sight. Long before I could see him, he came on the air with, ‘I have you visual. Keep walking.’ A few seconds later I saw his head come up from behind a rock and I crouched beside him, looking out over the drop.

‘Where was the guy?’ I whispered.

‘See the big tree?’ He handed the sight over. ‘Just to the left of it. The track’s coming nearly straight towards us at that point.’

‘What was he doing?’

‘Walking slowly. Carefully.’

‘Weapon?’

‘Yep. At the ready. Looked like an AK47.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘Disappeared into that dead ground on our right.’

As he whispered, I was scanning with the sight, which gave out a faint, high hum. I searched the ground to our front, checking every shape, looking for a black figure moving across the fluorescent green background.

‘Nothing,’ I breathed. I switched the sight off. Its tiny scream died, and we crouched side by side without speaking, listening to the cicadas grinding away all round. The air was comfortably cool, but the mozzies were out and about. Every few seconds, one came whining past.

If any of the other guys got a contact nearer camp, we’d hear immediately over the radio, so I felt that our rear was covered. But who the hell was this, on the move out front? Because the area was devoid of civilians, it could only be someone from Alpha Commando. My stretched nerves told me it must be a scout, sent up to spy on us, or the lead man in an assassination squad.

Minutes passed. Nothing stirred in the dark landscape below us. Up above, the stars were bright as diamonds. Diamonds. The trouble they caused. I thought of the prisoner slumping under a hail of bullets at the kangaroo court. Seeing the guy killed like that had shaken me more than I liked to admit. It was one thing to be hit by rounds in the middle of a battle, another to be deliberately murdered in front of an audience.

Could Mart have made a mistake? I didn’t think so — and I wasn’t going to ask him again. He took the sight back and switched it on once more, waited for it to warm up, scanned, switched off. There was no point in calling the other guys to find out if they’d seen anything; they’d tell us soon enough if anything showed.

Suddenly, there was a noise behind us, a voice. Somebody had spoken, very close. We both leapt round, weapons levelled. A black human shadow was standing on the track about six feet away. My finger was on the trigger. I came within a split-second of firing, but in the last instant I realised that anybody planning aggression wouldn’t have spoken in the first place — he’d have fired a round or come at me silently with a knife.

‘Sir!’ The voice was high, frightened, African. ‘Sergeant Geordie.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I am Jason. Jason Phiri.’

‘Mabonzo!’

‘Yassir.’

‘Jesus!’ I let out my breath with relief and took a step forward. Even in the starlight, Jason’s scarecrow frame was recognisable. At close quarters I could smell his body odour, acrid with fear. ‘You nearly bought it then. What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I come warn you.’

‘What of?’

‘Major Mvula, he has bad spirits.’

‘I know.’

‘They make him mad. He send men to kill you.’

‘Kill me?’

‘Cut throat. All British soldiers.’

‘When?’

‘Tonight. Twelve o’clock, a killing party will come.’

‘Fucking hell!’ I looked at Mart, then back at Jason, then at my watch, which was saying 2135. A shiver ran up my spine at the way the tracker had come round behind us and got in so close without our having the faintest inkling of his proximity. I supposed he must have heard the tiny whine of the kite-sight, and worked on that.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Come back to camp. We need to talk.’ Then I went on the radio with, ‘Green One. We’ve found the intruder. He’s friendly. We’re bringing him back. All stations recover to base.’

In less than a minute we were back in our temporary camp, and in another couple we’d heard Jason’s story. Joss had detailed an assassination squad, under Lieutenant Akuli, to come up and wipe out our entire contingent, and burn our bodies on a big fire.

‘They coming with knives, guns,’ the tracker added.

‘Great!’ I said.

‘Fucking hell!’ went Phil. ‘Let’s booby-trap them. Light a good fire to draw them in, and let ’em have it.’

‘No thanks,’ I told him. ‘If we haven’t got an international incident already, we’d definitely have one after that.’ I looked round the anxious faces. ‘Forget that. We’re leaving now. I’m not messing with these turds any more. Pack up and get moving west. Where’s the woman?’

‘In the truck,’ said Mart.

‘Okay. She can stay there. Eh, Jason.’

‘Yassir?’

‘How did you know where we were?’

‘I track you. Major Mvula send me tracking Brits.’

‘Have you told him where we are?’

‘Yassir.’ He nodded.

‘So you’ve been up and down, and up a second time?’

Again, he nodded.

‘You must have shifted your arse. What are you going to do now?’

‘Come with you, sir.’

I stared at him. His sharp cheekbones glinted faintly in the moonlight, but apart from them and his eyes, he was almost invisible.

‘You’re quitting? Changing sides?’

‘Yassir. The major, he got real bad spirits.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Evil got into him. I come with you.’

Suddenly I felt choked. This guy had probably saved our lives, and was risking his on our behalf. I reached out and brought my hand down on his bony shoulder.

‘Good on yer, Jason.’ Then a thought occurred to me. ‘What about your kit? Have you left it behind?’

‘No sir. Backpack here.’ He pointed into the bush behind him, then started rummaging in a trouser pocket. ‘Old whitey, he say give this.’

‘The Belgian?’

‘Yassir.’

He pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper and handed it across. Opening it carefully, I turned the sheet to the fire. Obviously it was a message, but the handwriting was so small and scrawly that in the flickering firelight I couldn’t read it.

‘Torch, somebody,’ I said.

Pav handed one over and I shone the beam on the paper. There were two short lines of irregular pencil scribble that seemed to be some sort of code.

Jesus!’ I went, ‘What the hell is this?’

Stringer, peering over my shoulder, said, ‘It’s French, or a sort of French. He’s run the words together to make sure the blacks can’t understand it. Give it here. I’ll sort it.’

I handed the note over with, ‘Rather you than me.’

Apart from speaking some French, Stringer was a brilliant cryptographer, always working at his codes and doing crossword puzzles when he wasn’t on the weights. If anyone could decipher the message, he would.

‘Get everything squared away,’ I said. ‘We’re rolling in five minutes.’

‘Why we go now?’ Inge’s nagging voice grated out behind me at a moment when I least wanted to hear it. ‘It is playing, yes?’

‘Playing? You mean an exercise? Far from it. The blacks have turned nasty, and we’ve got to get out.’