65
Jack attempted to tackle the boy with the ball but he was too quick, darted round him, the other children laughing as he sprinted toward the goal and scored. He raised his hands above his head, clapping the goal. He wasn’t really in any condition to be running around chasing a football, but he was off the drip and had time to kill. A whole day before the arrival of the food trucks he could catch a lift with. And besides, they were nice kids. Despite what they might have seen, what they might have been through, they were still able to laugh, especially at the gangling blond-haired giant they ran rings around.
“You look like you’re enjoying yourself.” Dr. Murcia called out from the sidelines. Jack trotted over, a sheepish grin on his face.
“Good to see them making the best of a bad situation,” he said, pointing at the kids. Dr.Murcia nodded, “how’s the infection, clearing up ok? You know if I thought it would make any difference whatsoever I’d tell you to take it easy. Get some rest.” Jack wasn’t listening, his eyes back on the game, “go on! Square it, SQUARE IT!” he shouted at his teammates.
“Sorry doctor, you were saying?” Dr.Murcia shrugged his shoulders in a peculiarly Spanish way.
“No matter. Tomorrow the trucks come. We have arranged for you to be transported back to Kampala with them. And we’ve e-mailed the British High Commission. Told them to expect you.”
“Good, good.” Jack said, eyes on the match, “go on! Foul. FOUL!”
“They might require a bit more information from you than we do, Jack. Especially if you are carrying that Berretta of yours,” he said carefully. Jack’s mind went blank. The gun. The gun Monsieur Blanc had given him. He’d forgotten all about it, stuffed it in his belt. Hadn’t thought to look for it when he woke up. “Keep it,” he said, “not even mine, found it in the jungle.” The doctor nodded and didn’t ask further questions. He would have preferred it if Jack could be honest with him, if only to give him a clearer picture of events that had taken place in the region during the previous twenty-four hours.
66
Patrick Little, desk officer at the British High Commission in Kampala, paid scant attention to the e-mail messages that came in that morning. He was too busy trying to get the air conditioning working. It always packed up at this time of year, too much humidity. The local engineers sent to fix it were worse than useless, didn’t know one end of a spanner from the other. He’d sent them away before they damaged it irreparably.
When he finally got round to checking messages later that afternoon, he only had time to cast a cursory glance over them. One from Refugee Camp 17. His eyes scanned it briefly, thoughts already turned to the chilled gin and tonic waiting for him in the bar at the Emin Pasha hotel, the preferred hang out for the city’s diplomats. A medical officer letting him know a UK citizen who’d visited the Camp would call in at the Commission tomorrow.
Fine, he thought, about to fire off his reply. Another do-gooder that wanted to spend their summer holidays helping a charity. As long as he stood a round at the bar and didn’t give him an earful about the awful conditions in the camps, the government’s lack of intervention, all the usual holier-than-thou stuff and nonsense. He read on, “No papers. Lost tourist.”
Now that was odd. Patrick Little ran a small chubby hand through the thinning grey hair that clung valiantly to the top of his head. There were no companies offering tours in the countryside around Camp 17. A few eco-tours to see the gorillas further south but nothing that far north. The area was too volatile. He picked up his phone and dialled Nick Clarke, Operations and Strategy manager, the not-so-secret MI6 officer attached to the embassy.
“Nick. Hello, it’s Patrick.”
“Patrick, what are you doing still at the office? You’re normally in the bar by half four.” He said jovially.
“Fixing the aircon. Don’t worry, I’ll claim overtime. Listen, I’ve had a message through from Camp 17. Sounds like they’ve picked up a UK national wandering about in the jungle. Lost his papers so they’re sending him our way. Is he one of your lot? Any ops I should know about?”
“Nothing I’m aware of.” Nick replied smoothly. “I’ll make a few calls, let you know. When’s he getting here?”
“Tomorrow morning. Travelling with the aid trucks.” Nick chewed a pen, thinking that over. “Do me a favour will you, don’t let him leave without telling me. I’d like to have a chat.”
“Will do.” Patrick replaced the receiver. He didn’t expect an honest answer from the old spook but he had to do his duty, had to report anything out of the ordinary. What Nick did with that information was nothing to do with him, as the Commissioner reminded him on numerous occasions.
Nick got up from his desk, lighting a cigarette as he did so, ignoring the reminders taped to the walls that this was now a ‘no-smoking building’. As if the building itself would smoke. The pedant in him wanted cross the word ‘building’ out. Nick Clarke was a member of the old guard, public school then Sandhurst before drifting into the Foreign Office. Bad enough they tried to stop you smoking, worse still their bossiness was grammatically incorrect.
A map on the far wall had the locations of the refugee camps, pin pricks in the surface. Thin pencil lines around them sketched out the last known movements of the militias. He took a heavy drag on his cigarette. Camp 17 was between General Nbotou and the Ugandan Liberation Army. Not a place for a holiday.
He wondered if this had anything to do with the message he had received from London a few days earlier. Nothing significant, merely an indication there would be upcoming military manoeuvres in the area, training exercises. Which generally meant some sort of covert op. He poured himself a large whiskey from the cabinet by the window, dropped two cubes of ice into it, then checked through his saved messages.
Notice of manoeuvres, north eastern DRC/Ugandan border, 2–3 days. From Feb 19. It was from Charlotte Kavanagh. PA to Sir Clive Mortimer. Odd that Cyber Crimes were up to something in the region. Still, best to call it in. Let him know the High Commission was expecting someone. Most likely a soldier who’d parachuted into the wrong place. He picked up the phone, dialled London.
“Good afternoon, Charlotte speaking,” the words were said quickly, as if Charlotte had more important things to be getting on with than speaking to whomever was on the phone.
“Charlotte, hello. Nick Clarke calling from the Commission in Kampala. Wondered if I could have a word with Sir Clive?” His voice was gravelly, his tone full of the easy-going authority they bred into you at Harrow.
“He’s in meetings all afternoon. External. Can I take a message?” Charlotte replied, her voice studiously indifferent.
“Tell him it looks like one of the boys parachuted over DRC didn’t complete the…” he paused, stubbing the cigarette out in the tacky shell ashtray on his desk, “didn’t complete the manoeuvres,” he gave the word due emphasis. “Looks like he’s heading to the High Commission. Will be here tomorrow am.” He put the phone down without giving any more information. Something told him Sir Clive would be on the line pretty quickly.
67
The journey in the aid trucks was cramped and uncomfortable, but it was the beginning of his journey home, back to Cambridge, back to Amanda. Jack wouldn’t have cared if it had been on a wooden cart over a cattle grid, as long as it got him back.