The Perfect Soldier Read Online Free Page B

Sancta,’ he said at last. ‘Acting CR.’
    McFaul accepted Domingos’s proffered towel, mopping his face. CR meant Country Representative, one of the rungs in Terra Sancta’s administrative ladder. The man would have a rented house back on the coast in Luanda and responsibility for maybe thirty aid workers. It was an important job, far from easy, and McFaul began to understand why Peterson’s smile seemed so tight.
    ‘You’re here about last night? The boy? Jordan?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You want my opinion?’
    ‘Your help.’
    ‘How?’
    Peterson glanced at Domingos then took McFaul by the arm, trying to guide him away from the Land Rover. Instinctively, McFaul resisted the pressure, wanting no part of any confidential conversation. For once, Domingos wasn’t smiling.
    ‘You’ll be writing some kind of report?’ Peterson asked.
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘May I see it?’
    ‘Yeah, when it’s done.’
    ‘Who else gets a copy?’
    McFaul looked at him a moment, at last understanding why he’d bothered to stop by.
    ‘My lot,’ he grunted. ‘The office in Luanda. The embassy people. The ODA …’ he shrugged, ‘and whoever else my boss thinks may be interested. Up to him really.’
    He paused, letting the circulation list sink in. The ODA was shorthand for the Overseas Development Administration, the Whitehall department responsible for funding the mine clearance work. They had close links to all the UK aidoutfits. Peterson began to make a point about the importance of proper briefings but McFaul interrupted him.
    ‘Jordan was an arsehole,’ McFaul grunted, ‘and he’d done it before.’
    ‘So I understand. All I wanted to say was—’
    ‘No.’ McFaul shook his head. ‘You listen to me. There are rules out here. We don’t make them up to keep ourselves amused. They’re not for negotiation. They matter. There are things you do and don’t do. The boy thought he was immune. He knew it all. He wouldn’t be told.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘You understand that?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Your people understand that?’
    ‘I hope so.’
    ‘So do I. For their sake. And yours.’
    McFaul turned away, letting his anger subside. Last night, after the Mayday on Channel Two, he’d driven out with Domingos in the two-tonner. They’d spent the hours of darkness by the roadside, waiting until first light to spade the remains of James Jordan into a body bag. The Médecins Sans Frontières girl, Christianne, had done what she could to help, insisting on staying with them until the body had been recovered, but the price of the boy’s stupidity, his recklessness, was plain to see. Everyone knew how much the prat had meant to her. Poor cow.
    McFaul stood at the roadside, looking down the line of stakes. Peterson joined him.
    ‘All I came to say,’ he murmured, ‘was sorry.’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘It can’t make things any easier for you.’
    ‘It doesn’t.’ McFaul glanced across at him. ‘Are you taking the body back? Only there’s a space problem.’
    ‘So I understand.’
    ‘There’s only one fridge at the hospital and they’re short of fuel for the gennie. If the bad guys get their act together, there won’t be any fuel at all. Then we’ll have to bury him.’
    McFaul broke off, watching Peterson working it out for himself. Mercifully, very few aid workers got themselves killed but when it happened, repatriation of the remains became a priority. Africa could claim white lives but white bodies, however mangled, belonged back home.
    Peterson was looking at his watch.
    ‘There might be another aid flight this afternoon,’ he said uncertainly. ‘No one seems to know.’
    Peterson eyed the sky, like a man assessing the weather. The road to Muengo had been off-limits for months, a combination of land mines and the fear of UNITA ambush. The only way in or out was by air.
    ‘It’s Sunday afternoon,’ McFaul grunted, ‘no one likes flying on Sunday afternoons.’
    ‘Tomorrow then. Or the next day. Would that be too