The Perfect Soldier Read Online Free Page A

if you had three dollars to spare and weren’t too fussy about the ethics of maiming women and children.
    McFaul scraped away the last of the soil, lifting the minegently from its bed. Keeping it level, he began to unscrew the top of the body, working the casing anticlockwise. Inside, he removed the tiny metal booster cup, the primary charge which detonated the larger explosive. Putting the booster cup to one side, he screwed the two halves together again, leaving the mine standing sideways on edge, a signal to the clean-up crew that the 72A was disarmed. Later, before the kids got hold of it, the thing would be collected for storage and eventual demolition.
    McFaul eased his body backwards and then stood up, his eyes still on the mine. The design was simple but clever. The rubber pad on top rested against a convex carbon-fibre diaphragm which would buckle under the pressure of a passing foot. In Cambodia, the locals called them
‘ungkiaps’. ‘Ungkiap’
meant frog, a reference to the distinctive ‘crick-crack’ of the collapsing diaphragm the instant before it detonated the charge and changed your life for ever.
    McFaul stooped to retrieve the bucket and the thermos and then limped back along the safe lane between the stakes. Up on the road, Domingos was standing beside a Land Rover, talking to the driver. The usual crowd of kids had gathered round and some were already climbing onto the back of the vehicle, doubtless looking for goodies, stuff to play with, things to nick. As he got closer, McFaul could hear them chattering to each other, curiosity spiced with shrieks of excitement. He loved their innocence, their appetite for each new day, and their laughter was one of the sounds of Africa that drew him back, time after time, in spite of everything.
    Domingos turned round when McFaul reached the Land Rover. He was a small, quick-witted man in his early thirties with a ready smile and a mouth full of broken teeth. He was paler than most Angolans, and McFaul suspected Portugueseblood, a generation or two back. Now he introduced the stranger behind the wheel.
    ‘Senhor Peterson,’ he said. ‘From Luanda.’
    McFaul muttered a greeting, loosening the buckle on the helmet strap and taking it off. He ran a hand through his greying crew cut, aware of Peterson’s eyes on his face. McFaul’s chin and cheeks were cross-hatched with blue shrapnel scars, a legacy of the accident in Kuwait. They went with the plastic and titanium prosthesis that had replaced the shredded remains of his lower left leg. The prosthesis was state-of-the-art, a real masterpiece, and on a good day McFaul could walk as naturally as any man.
    Peterson got out of the Land Rover, extending a hand. He was dressed like a war correspondent. He wore a loose khaki jacket with epaulettes and big button-up pockets, and the logo on the T-shirt underneath read ‘Kill The Criminal Justice Bill’. He was a tall man, with a long, narrow face and a shock of iron-grey hair, and he had the pallor of someone newly arrived from Europe. His manner was intimate, as if he were greeting a long-lost friend.
    ‘The famous McFaul,’ he was saying, ‘bit of a legend, the way I hear it.’
    McFaul shrugged. The phrase was familiar. It made little sense.
    ‘You fly in this morning?’ he said, wiping his hand on the back of his overalls.
    ‘Yep. Begged a lift on the WFP Beechcraft. I thought they’d be staying over but they’ve gone on to Cubal.’
    McFaul nodded. The big Russian freighters and smaller planes like the Beechcraft were still landing at Muengo but soon he suspected they’d stop. Local rebel units were supposed to have laid hands on American
Stinger
ground-to-air missiles. A
Stinger
could drop an Antonov at three miles. No one liked coming to Muengo any more.
    McFaul bent down, his arms held out straight, letting Domingos tug the heavy armoured waistcoat off. Peterson watched the procedure. The smile on his face looked strained.
    ‘I’m with Terra