The blast of a car horn, embedded in the raw engine noise of a vehicle with no muffler, brought Dan to the front windows of the bank. Billy was standing on the steps staring in disbelief at the car that had just drawn up. It was an ordinary Buick sedan, but there was a dead bushbuck strapped onto the roof. The animal’s head with its pointed horns hung down over the side windows. A human skull and two crossed bones were mounted on the bumper bar. A white bra hung like a flag from the radio aerial. In the company of these bizarre adornments the radiator grille had the look of a set of chrome teeth.
A fair-skinned man wearing a paisley shirt climbed out of the back seat. He yawned, stretching his arms above his head. The shirt fell open, revealing two ammunition belts slung across a bare chest. Three more European men emerged, all carrying automatic rifles. Only one of them wore a uniform – a green paratrooper’s jumpsuit – but in place of a beret he had a bandana made from what looked like a piece of curtain material. A young chimp rode his hip like a baby. As Dan watched, the man took a long swig from a beer bottle.
Dan strode outside, just as a second vehicle arrived. This one was a jeep, fairly new, but filthy. The driver and passenger wore straw sunhats along with army trousers. They’d torn the sleeves from their shirts, revealing suntanned biceps patterned with tattoos.
Billy turned to Dan, wide-eyed. He gripped his gun, but kept the barrel pointing down.
‘Looks like our paratroopers have arrived,’ Dan said dryly. ‘They haven’t had a chance to tidy themselves up.’
In the seconds it took for him to scan the men and their vehicles, Dan pieced together the story behind what he could see. The soldiers of Force Villeroy had not limited themselves to commandeering vehicles. They’d been looting civilian property, hunting game, desecrating a body – and who knew what else. He wondered what had happened to whoever was meant to be in charge.
‘Lieutenant?’ The man in the paisley shirt walked up to Dan. He gave a lazy salute. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He spoke with a slow drawl, reminiscent of an American accent but mixed with something else. ‘I’m Captain Swain.’
Dan’s hand froze, his salute half-formed. This man, wearing what Blair would call ‘fancy dress’, was Villeroy’s Commanding Officer – and a captain.
‘The rest of my boys are settling in at the hotel,’ Swain continued. ‘But I thought we’d call in here first.’
Dan forced himself to gather his composure. ‘I’m pleased to meet you. Sir.’ Looking behind him, he gestured towards the interior of the bank. ‘This is the command post. Come inside and I’ll show you around.’
Dan did a mental tour of the premises. The place was looking more presentable now. The rubbish had been removed and the rooms tidied. Becker had taken over the Assistant Manager’s office, but there was still more space for the newcomers to occupy.
‘I don’t need to see it,’ Swain said. ‘We’re moving over to the hotel. Much more comfortable than a bank.’
‘It’s less secure,’ Dan stated. ‘The situation here is —’
‘The hotel looks fine to me.’ Swain cut off Dan’s words. ‘Plenty of room, food, drinks . . .’ He squinted up at the sun as he talked. Deep wrinkles around his eyes showed his age – pushing sixty, at least. Long in the tooth for a paratrooper. Dan guessed he was another of Blair’s old colleagues from Katanga, perhaps employed without an interview like Hardy had been. Dan glanced over the other men. Most of them were of a similar vintage. They might have fought with the bands of mercenaries who had earned the nickname Les Affreux. Whatever their story was, they were old hands at their trade; they hadn’t become such dissolute characters in the five short days since they were dropped into Kivu.
‘Come and see me,’ Swain instructed Dan. ‘I’ll be in the bar.’
Dan eyed the man in silence. Swain was a captain. His rank was senior to that of a lieutenant. But Dan was still the Commanding Officer of Force Denby. He didn’t have to take orders from the man who was in charge of this rabble. And if the two units were going to be working together, Dan needed to make sure his status was respected. This was the moment to take some initiative.
‘Let’s just get started in here,’ he suggested. ‘There’s a lot of work to do. I’m keen to fill you in.’
Swain didn’t move. He planted his legs a little apart as if braced for a round of sparring. The silky shirt gleamed in the sunshine. ‘I might as well make things clear,’ he said. ‘Your men are to be brought into Villeroy. You’ll be reporting to me.’ He grinned. ‘I feel sure we’ll get along fine. As long as you can loosen up, man. Take it easy.’ He looked past Dan’s shoulder towards the entrance to the bank. ‘How did you go with the safe?’
Dan gave no answer. He looked along the street towards the Hotel Uvira. Its grand entrance was flanked by potted palm trees, now stripped of all their fronds, just the trunks sticking up. The green-and-white striped awning was in tatters; during the Simba occupation it had apparently been slashed by soldiers playing with knives. He wondered how the owners, Monsieur and Madame Dormier, were going to react to the arrival of this new group of mercenaries; the Belgian couple had only just become free of the rebels and now another lot of undisciplined soldiers was about to descend.
Taking a deep breath, Dan looked back at Swain. He forced himself to salute, then turned and walked away. Billy followed him inside.
‘What did that all mean?’ the young man asked. ‘Is he the new boss?’
Dan turned to face him, looking him up and down. ‘Get your face clean, soldier. And find your beret.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then go and get Girard,’ Dan instructed. ‘Tell him to come straight here.’
On the pavement outside the hotel, a group of the paratroopers was playing cards. They sat on ammunition boxes drawn up around an antique table they’d dragged from the foyer, ignoring the protestations of Madame Dormier. As they slapped down cards and called out their bets, they swigged from bottles of beer. The man with the pet chimpanzee was amusing himself burning a thick wad of Congolese bank notes, one by one, in an ashtray. The ground at his feet was strewn with banana peels.
Dan was standing nearby, trying to have a conversation with Swain. Several hours had passed since the arrival of the paratroopers. It was now late afternoon. The Captain had exchanged his patterned shirt for a jumpsuit. It was cinched in at the waist with a belt made of leopardskin, obviously taken from a Simba, dead or alive. He wore a beret, but there were no badges to indicate his past service.
‘Just go over that again, Lieutenant,’ Swain said. He swatted a fly from his neck, then studied the remains smeared on his palm.
Dan was explaining what he’d learned from Tabati about the mutiny and the retreat to the south. The importance of the subject warranted a formal briefing, but Swain had insisted on standing outside in the sun. Dan had been unable to reach Major Blair by radio, so there was no third party to mediate. Dan had no choice but to try and find a way to work with the Captain. There were issues that required urgent attention. Girard had picked up a radio transmission from a Methodist mission station. The person speaking was safe right now, but had heard of other Europeans being taken hostage. The situation was quickly turning into a crisis.
‘My proposal is that I take my men and go south,’ Dan said. ‘There are missionary families out on their own in the bush. And other Europeans as well, on the plantations, and around the mines. I’m very concerned about their safety.’
‘The government army has men down there.’
‘They’ll be sticking to the main road and the towns along the way. We can’t rely on them.’
‘That’s true,’ Swain agreed. ‘And they’re bloody useless anyway. I’ve been involved in plenty of conflicts in my time. I’ve never seen such a hopeless bunch of amateurs.’
Dan bit back a response. He wondered if Swain had any insight at all into the soldiers of the National Army. They were mostly reluctant fighters who’d signed up to earn a meagre wage and now just wanted to go home. They were tribal people, on the whole, who didn’t embrace the idea of the Congo as a nation, independent or otherwise. They didn’t even know the difference between Communism and Capitalism. The power brokers in the cities meant nothing to them. Regardless of who won this conflict, they didn’t expect that their lives were going to improve.
‘I’ll get onto the people in Albertville and see about stirring the Congolese along,’ Swain said. ‘Meanwhile, I’m sending you north. There’s unfinished business up there. You’ll get a full briefing.’ He nodded towards a bundle of papers that he’d dumped on the edge of one of the concrete urns. ‘I’ve got new contracts for your people to sign. And one for you, of course.’
‘I request that you reconsider, sir,’ Dan began. ‘The situation is urgent. We could end up with civilians being used as human shields by the Simbas.’
‘Where would they get that idea?’
Dan’s jaw clenched. ‘Well, it’s not new, is it?’
Swain looked interested. ‘Have you seen it done?’
‘I met someone, once, who was present at the Vinkt massacre.’
Swain nodded vaguely. ‘Remind me.’
‘The Wehrmacht captured more than a hundred refugees who were trying to escape from a town in Belgium, and used them to form a human shield so they could cross a bridge under fire. About eighty of the hostages died.’
‘All right, I get your point. I’ll seek further Intelligence,’ Swain said. ‘Let’s put that fellow Becker of yours onto it. I’ve just had a drink with him. He knows his stuff . . .’
Dan pressed his lips together, saying nothing. He wasn’t surprised the Captain had already formed a connection with the Sergeant. They made a good pair. Dan didn’t trust either of the men to make a priority of rescuing isolated families. They had bigger fish to fry.
‘Meanwhile,’ Swain added, ‘I suggest you and your men get used to the idea of looking that way.’ He swung his arm, pointing past the denuded tops of the palms, towards the north.
It was at this moment that Henning and Bailey rounded the corner. They’d just returned from touring the perimeter and were due a couple of hours off. Henning was dressed impeccably, as always. Bailey looked quite presentable as well. Since arriving in Uvira, he had started wearing a full uniform. Dan didn’t know if he was being influenced by the presence of the matrons of the town, who perhaps reminded him of his mother, or by a desire to impress the younger women. Regardless of the reason, the smarter dress suited him. He looked not only cleaner but healthier, somehow. Now, at the end of the shift, his shirt was half-unbuttoned – revealing the head and shoulders of the eagle tattoo – but it was still neatly tucked in.
As the two men caught sight of the newcomers, Dan watched their faces freeze and their postures transform. He was reminded of cats responding to an alien presence, fur lifting, limbs growing long and tense. Muscles coiled, ready to spring. He guessed this was a territorial response rather than anything personal – it was unlikely that Henning and Bailey both had past history with any of these men.
One of the paratroopers stood up. He took off his shirt, showing his chest, which was emblazoned with a tattoo of a tiger. As he watched Bailey approach, there was a tilt to his jaw, a faint sneer on his lips. Dan could see a contest of will and ego looming that was going to end in bloodshed.
Dan had no choice but to end his conversation. ‘If you would just excuse me, sir.’
Swain waved him away, looking quite happy to join the group around the table. Dan marched along the street to accost his men. He handed Henning the keys to the Land Rover. ‘You’re driving,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
For a few seconds, the pair looked torn. But as Dan met their gaze, they snapped to attention.
Once they were inside Dan’s vehicle, he explained who the troops were. Then he broke the news that Swain was now in charge.
‘You’re fucking kidding,’ Bailey said. ‘He doesn’t even look like an officer. And as for the pack of animals he’s got with him . . .’ He spat out through the window.
Dan quelled a desire to smile. The man sounded as outraged and judgemental as a reformed smoker being asked for a light.
‘I haven’t been able to get onto Major Blair yet,’ Dan said. ‘So let’s just wait and see. There might be a misunderstanding.’ He tried to sound reassuring, but the fact was that Blair had made the decision to send the Captain and his men to Uvira. It was a reasonable plan for the two units to be merged, but why hadn’t a lower-level officer been selected for Villeroy, so that Dan could be in charge? He felt hurt and betrayed, on behalf of his men as much as himself. It felt as though the success of Nightflower had not been recognised. Then, there was the puzzle of why Blair hadn’t sent men of a better calibre. Perhaps there weren’t many recruits for him to choose from. He may have had no room to move. Maybe the decisions were even coming from someone else. Dan knew he would probably never know the answers to these questions.
They set off in the direction of Sector Seven, the next area due to be checked. Dan didn’t expect to see anything suspicious there; he was really giving Henning and Bailey the chance to absorb the information they’d just learned. And if he was honest, he needed some time out to try and adjust to the new situation as well. He sat in the passenger’s seat, his arm draped over the machine gun. Henning drove with his usual mechanical precision, while staring through the windscreen from under a lowered brow. Behind him sat Bailey. He kept kicking the seat with his boot, creating a restless staccato beat that Dan knew would soon start to annoy Henning. None of the men spoke; a moody quiet enveloped them.
After driving for some time they reached the narrow streets of the sector. Dan’s gaze trailed over the lines of small huts. This was a poor part of town, where only Africans lived. The air smelled of charcoal, kerosene and open drains. There was a large square of common ground worn bare by foot traffic. Women dressed in bright clothes sat there in groups, on mats spread over the earth. In front of them were piles of peanuts and small pyramids of tomatoes and yams.
A little boy rode a scooter between the mats, raising dust and squashing a bunch of greens. A woman shouted at him, but the kid just grinned and kept going. Dan smiled at the scene. It was so ordinary. Only days had passed since this place would have been silent and empty, the people driven inside by fear of what might happen during the showdown between the Simbas and the White Giants. It was extraordinary how the natural life of a place asserted itself after a crisis. The same scenario was being played out all over Uvira, among the Europeans just as much as here.
When they neared the boundary of the sector, the scene began to change. The streets became wider, the houses more solid.
‘Do you want to keep going, sir?’ Henning enquired. ‘Or head back to base?’
‘Back to base,’ Dan replied. ‘It’ll be dusk soon.’ He sighed, mentally preparing himself for another encounter with Swain. When Henning reached the next corner, he took a turn to the right. The lake was visible in the distance. Lit by the late sun, it was like a swathe of pink satin.
Dan looked idly out at the passing buildings. Henning had to stop while a dog with a lame leg hopped slowly across the road. They were beside a large old factory that looked abandoned. Several of the ground-floor windows were broken and the vehicle entrance was boarded up. Dan stared at the sign that hung above the doorway. It showed a picture of a girl holding up a bottle. Her teeth were white and her smiling lips bright red. Her hair was a mass of golden curls. The image brought a twist to Dan’s stomach. It was instantly – painfully – familiar. Marilyn used to buy Vinaigre à la Fille Souriante. There was always a bottle, with this colourful illustration on the label, in the kitchen of the cottage in Banya.
Henning must have noticed the sign too. He read out the name with a sneer in his voice. ‘Smiling Girl Vinegar. I’m not surprised the business has failed. It is a stupid name.’
‘I guess it is.’ As he spoke, Dan glanced across the upper floor of the building, noticing how the windows reflected the sun’s glow, mirroring the pink of the lake.
Henning slapped the steering wheel impatiently. ‘Come on, dog. Get moving.’
Dan swept his gaze back, focusing on one of the windows. He’d seen something there – just for an instant. A woman’s face. It was like a fragment of a dream, half-remembered. An oval of pale skin. Dark eyes, just smudges. An impression of lips; nothing more. Before he’d had time to see the face properly, the figure must have stepped away, the glass becoming a blank sheet of pink once again.
As Henning let out the clutch, the Land Rover edging forwards, Dan put his hand on the driver’s arm. ‘Stop. Stop here.’
The soldier looked at him in surprise. ‘Right here, sir?’
Dan stared up at the window. He wondered if he could have imagined what he’d seen – the vision evoked by some strange combination of the face on the factory sign and the haunting memory of the woman in the Jaguar. But Dan was a game hunter and bushman as well as a soldier; picking up the details of a scene, capturing them in his head, was second nature to him. He didn’t make mistakes.
He turned to Henning and Bailey. ‘We’re going inside.’
As Dan climbed out of the Land Rover, he was aware of the two men swapping looks. Then they snapped into combat mode, falling in behind him, covering his back, pistols drawn.
Reaching the doorway, Dan paused. In other circumstances he might have hammered loudly on the door and waited for someone to answer it – then the soldiers could see if any help was needed. But this scenario was not that straightforward. Why had the woman ducked away from the window when she realised she’d been seen? Why was she even here, sheltering in an abandoned factory, days after the town had been liberated? Who was she? And what was she doing?
Where there were unanswered questions like this, Dan preferred a cautious approach. Bailey had made the same assessment. He took a drag of his cigarette, then extinguished it so that tobacco smoke would not betray their presence when they entered the building.
Dan turned the handle of the door and pushed. It didn’t budge.
‘Let me have a go,’ Bailey said in a low voice. He had his shoulder flexed, his body poised to throw his weight against the panel.
Dan shook his head. He gestured towards a spot near the handle. Splintered wood showed where the door had been levered open. Dan turned the handle again, pushing harder. The door moved a fraction. ‘There’s something behind it.’
There was a scraping sound as Dan forced open a gap. As soon as it was wide enough he pushed his way inside. The air smelled of dust and mould overlaid by the acid tang of vinegar. He scanned a large space, taking in the huge wooden vats and the barrels lined up on their cradles.
The three moved through the shadowy factory, eyeing hundreds of dusty bottles lined up in rows, some empty, others full of liquid. There had been no Simbas on the rampage in here; the place looked as if it had been left untouched since the day it was closed up. A broom stood by the main door, a pile of dirt beside it. Dan pictured the last person to leave the factory, taking the time to sweep the floor. Perhaps they thought it was a temporary closure, just until the economy improved.
Dan headed towards a staircase in the far corner. As he stepped on a loose floorboard, bottles clinked together, making a soft musical sound. He froze, letting the movement settle.
At the bottom step, he turned to Henning and Bailey. With a hand gesture, he ordered responsive fire only. He peered up the stairs, squinting in the fading daylight. The banister was made of metal, polished by decades of use. Dan ran his free hand along it as he climbed. There was no dust; this was the access that was in use by whoever was above him.
At the top of the stairs he entered a short corridor with open doorways to left and right. Peering past a stack of old packing crates, he saw a bicycle wheel and the hose of a vacuum cleaner. With a flick of his finger he told the others he was going to search the first room.
‘Stop there!’
A voice came from somewhere nearby but Dan couldn’t find its source. Then a figure appeared in the furthest doorway, a tall, slim woman. Long red hair draped her shoulders. Dan remembered the mysterious driver of the white car. This person wore civilian clothes – trousers and shirt – but had army boots on her feet. Light glanced from the barrel of a Kalashnikov, raised and aimed. From her grip Dan could tell she knew how to use the weapon.
‘I’ll shoot you if you come any closer,’ the woman called out.
She was American. Not young, Dan estimated, but not old either. Her tone was clear and matter-of-fact. Dan heard the faint click of the safety catch being turned off. He exchanged glances with Henning and Bailey. She meant what she’d said.
‘We’re not here to cause any problems,’ Dan responded. ‘I saw your face at the window and came in to make sure you were okay.’
‘Then you can go.’
In the quiet Dan could hear the woman’s jerky breath. Behind her bravado she was afraid.
‘I’m Lieutenant Miller.’ He spoke calmly. ‘These are two of my men, volunteers Henning and Bailey.’
‘I know who you are,’ the woman said. ‘You’re mercenaries.’ She made the single word sound like an indictment.
Bailey looked at her with disgust. ‘We’re fighting the Simbas. Rescuing people.’
She seemed about to respond when a sharp cry suddenly pierced the stillness. It reminded Dan of the sound made by an animal caught in a gin trap. The woman looked behind her into the room. Her face was taut with distress.
‘Who’s in there?’ Dan asked. He took a step closer.
The barrel of the Kalashnikov jabbed towards him. ‘Don’t move.’
‘Okay. Okay.’ Dan raised his hands, his pistol pointing to the ceiling.
The cry died away into a moan.
‘We can help,’ Dan said, ‘if you tell us what’s going on.’
The woman was silent for a moment, her face torn with indecision. Then she shook her head helplessly. ‘My friend needs morphine. He’s in terrible pain.’ There was a raw edge in her voice.
‘What happened?’
‘He was shot in the abdomen. I thought he was getting better, then he got a fever.’
‘We can take him to hospital.’
‘No. He . . . can’t go there.’
Dan narrowed his eyes. A man was in agony in that room. There must be a real reason why his companion wasn’t seizing the offer of help. Were the pair criminals, on the run from the law, who’d been caught up in the fighting by mistake? It didn’t seem likely, but it was the best explanation Dan could come up with.
‘We’ve got a field pack in the Land Rover,’ he told her. ‘It’s got morphine in it. But you’ll have to let us see him.’
‘No.’
‘Well, that’s the deal,’ Dan said firmly. He sensed Henning and Bailey moving in closer to him, ready for action.
The woman stepped forward into the hallway. As his eyes adjusted to the changed light, Dan saw that the front of her shirt and trousers were stained dark red.
‘Are you hurt too?’ Dan asked.
‘It’s not my blood.’
Dan studied her face, shiny with sweat. There was a smear of dirt on her cheek. The long hair was matted into stiff strands. She looked different to the person he’d glimpsed in the rear-vision mirror of the Jaguar – but he felt sure it was her.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
She looked as if she were considering how to answer him. When she finally spoke, she seemed to be addressing herself, as much as him. ‘It doesn’t matter who I am, any more. It’s over now.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘My name is Eliza. Eliza Lindenbaum.’
Dan stared at her. Anyone who’d ever lived in the Congo knew that name. The Jaguar was probably just her everyday car; she’d have a Rolls Royce or two at home as well. He could think of nothing that would explain her presence here in an abandoned vinegar factory in Uvira.
Eliza lowered her rifle, but Dan noted that she left the safety catch turned off. In response he returned his pistol to the holster on his belt. When he gestured for his men to do the same, they complied. They looked unarmed, now, but Dan knew Bailey had a second pistol in a special pocket he’d added to the back of his trousers. The moment Eliza looked away from him, he’d slip it out. He’d keep it hidden from view, but ready for use in a flash.
The woman backed away from them, disappearing into the room. Dan went after her. As he stepped over the threshold, he breathed the familiar battlefield smell of blood and damaged flesh. It was lighter in here, with a bank of windows running along the wall. His eyes went straight to a stainless-steel bench, topped with a makeshift mattress made from pieces of carpet. He stared in surprise. An African man lay there. A soldier, still wearing the remains of a uniform. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a wide bandage made from cloth around his upper abdomen. He wore army trousers, the waistband soaked in blood. His head turned from side to side like a newborn baby searching for milk. Dan’s eyes focused on his forehead. There was a small white cross. The mark of the Simbas.
‘He’s thirsty all the time,’ Eliza said. ‘His lips are dry.’ She put down her rifle and picked up a bottle. She lifted his head gently, pouring water into his mouth. Most of it dribbled straight out, running down his neck.
‘Exsanguination results in dehydration,’ Henning said. He stepped forward, looking more closely at the man. ‘You can see, his eyes are sunk in.’
Eliza turned to him. ‘Are you a medical officer?’
Henning shook his head.
‘He’s from the Foreign Legion,’ Bailey said. ‘He knows everything.’ There was no hint of sarcasm in his tone. ‘Let him look.’
Eliza lifted the bandage away. A dark hole made a blot on the black skin. Plasma leaked from the wound, glistening like fresh tears.
‘The bleeding stopped,’ Eliza said. ‘He seemed better. But then he started shaking. He’s had a fever for two days. He says things that don’t make sense.’ A shudder crossed her face. ‘He sees things that aren’t here.’
Henning nodded. ‘Hypovolemic shock. There’s not enough blood in his body for his heart to work properly. The brain is starved of oxygen.’ Very gently he felt the area around the wound, then moved his probing fingers up towards the ribs. ‘It is rock hard. His abdominal cavity must be full of blood. Infection has set in. How long ago was he shot?’
‘Six days ago.’
Henning raised his eyebrows – just ridges of skin, the white hair almost invisible. Dan knew what he was thinking. This soldier wasn’t a casualty of Force Denby’s entry into Uvira. He was shot before they arrived. Perhaps he was a victim of the mutiny Inspector Tabati had talked about.
‘He will go into organ failure unless he gets a blood transfusion,’ Henning said. The way he spoke English, carefully delivering each syllable, made his words sound brutally blunt.
‘Simbas are being treated in the hospital,’ Dan said. ‘It’s better to be captured than dead.’
Eliza shook her head slowly. ‘The National Army will interrogate him, sooner or later. He’ll be tortured. In the end he’ll be executed.’
Dan was quiet as he absorbed her words. ‘I might be able to protect him, at least for now. My unit is controlling the town. I am the Commanding Officer.’ Even as he was speaking, he remembered his words were no longer true; but surely even Swain would stick to the basic rules of war in a public setting like Uvira.
‘No one can protect him,’ Eliza said. ‘He’s too important.’
In the quiet that followed, the man started mumbling. His words were unintelligible but Dan thought he was speaking Swahili. The Simba had a distinctive face – finely formed, handsome, with high cheekbones. Dan felt he’d seen it somewhere before. Perhaps it was in the deck of photographs Becker kept in his shirt pocket: his collection of ‘wanted’ Simbas. Many were so blurred they were almost meaningless; some were years out of date. But the Intelligence Sergeant loved to show them around. As Dan searched the injured man’s face, noting the sweat beading on his skin, an image flashed into his mind. It was of Hardy reciting his quote about the Scarlet Pimpernel.
He turned to Eliza. When he spoke, his voice was low as if he were delivering a secret. ‘He’s the Okapi.’
Pride lit Eliza’s eyes fleetingly. Then she shook her head. ‘Not any more. He left the Simbas. He had to.’ Her eyes screwed up as though she were remembering events she did not want to revisit. ‘His dreams are gone. His life is over. It’s all over.’
Suddenly she covered her face with her hands. They were shaking. She was on the brink of collapse, Dan realised. He guessed she’d had very little sleep over the four days, and probably no proper food.
Dan turned to Bailey. ‘Get the field pack. There should be some ration boxes somewhere too.’
As Bailey set off at a jog, Dan looked around the room. It appeared to have been used as some kind of laboratory – perhaps it was where the vinegar was tested. There was a sink in one corner and a second stainless-steel bench. A desk stood near the door. Dan saw some car keys attached to a leather tag decorated with the Jaguar badge. There were two empty whisky bottles – not Ballantine’s, but Johnnie Walker. Hanging from the back of a chair was a snakeskin shoulder bag and a silk scarf. Dan could have been on safari, looking at the possessions of one of his wealthy clients. They were bizarrely out of place in this setting.
When he turned back to the bed, the man had opened his eyes. He was staring blankly at the ceiling. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in a grimace of agony. Eliza moved into his line of vision.
‘I’m here, Philippe,’ she said softly. ‘Just hold on. These men have morphine. You’ll get it very soon.’
She picked up one of the man’s hands and held it in both of hers. Her pale fingers stood out against his dark skin. Dan watched her face. A look of tenderness softened the distress that gripped her features. He could tell that the two were more than comrades or friends: they were lovers. A chill spread inside him. The man, Philippe, was almost certainly going to die. Eliza was going to be left alone. He could already see the cloud of grief hanging over her, waiting to descend.
The three stood around the bed, watching Philippe in silence. Dan felt helpless, seeing him writhing in pain. If it had been an animal lying here, anyone with a gun would be putting the creature out of its misery. From down in the street came the sound of the Land Rover door being slammed. Then there were footsteps thumping over the floorboards and moving on up the stairs.
Bailey dropped a ration box onto the desk and brought the field pack over to the bed. Henning rifled through the box, finding the morphine and unwrapping a syringe. He held up a glass ampoule, flicking it with his finger to make any bubbles rise; then he snapped off the top. Dan undid the man’s trousers, pulling down one side to expose a hip. As the needle went in, and Henning pushed on the plunger, a look of relief came over Eliza’s face.
The next few minutes passed slowly. The morphine didn’t seem to be taking effect. Philippe’s jaw was still clenched with agony.
‘The circulatory system has collapsed,’ Henning explained. ‘The drug is just sitting there under the skin, not being carried away . . .’
‘Give him some more,’ Eliza said. ‘Please.’
‘It is dangerous,’ Henning warned. ‘When it eventually disperses, he will have a double dose. It could kill him.’
Eliza drew in a long breath. She leaned towards Henning, her blue eyes dark with despair. ‘Is he going to die, anyway? Tell me what you really believe.’
Henning lowered his gaze. In his face, Dan glimpsed the softer man the Legionnaire might once have been. ‘He is not going to live.’
Eliza looked at Philippe, her eyes filling with tears. She pressed her trembling lips together, then she turned to Henning. When she spoke her voice came out in a whisper. ‘Take away the pain.’ She repeated her words, finding strength and clarity. ‘Please. Take away the pain.’
Henning looked at Dan, his brow knotted with uncertainty. Dan met his gaze. He knew he was being asked to give a soldier permission to kill, outside a field of combat. It was not a difficult decision to reach; and all he had to do was nod. Yet his head refused to move. He looked, again, at Philippe. The man was gasping for air. He turned towards Dan, as if aware that this white man held in his hands the power to release him. The pleading in his eyes was intense, yet the emotion seemed to come from far away, as if Philippe had already begun his journey to another place.
‘Do it,’ Dam murmured to Henning. ‘Let him go.’
When the second ampoule had been emptied, and then a third – this time directly into a vein – Henning rubbed the area around the injections.
Gradually the pain faded from Philippe’s face. He turned towards Eliza, his eyes seeking hers. His lips moved. No sound came out but Dan recognised the words that were formed.
‘Nakupenda sana.’
Eliza brought Philippe’s hand to her face and held it there. Tears ran down her face. ‘I love you too. I love you with all my heart.’
Dan pulled over the chair so that Eliza could sit down beside the bed. She lowered herself to the seat while still holding Philippe’s hand. She bent her head over him, her hair falling forward, hiding her face. The natural red colour was darkened with crusted blood, Dan saw. He could smell the sweat on her skin, blending with traces of stale perfume.
Dan watched Philippe’s chest rising and falling, slow and steady. Eliza’s teardrops fell, forming glistening spots on the black man’s skin. After a few moments, Dan moved away, standing over by the desk. As if by unspoken agreement, Henning and Bailey joined him, leaving the two alone. In the light that pooled by the window they were like actors abandoned onstage, just waiting for the curtain to come down.
Philippe’s breathing became shallow and uneven. Dan saw that his eyes were closed. Eliza kept hold of his hand. Her knuckles whitened, her grip tightening – as if she could, even now, prevent him from leaving. Dan’s own eyes ached with tears. This woman was a complete stranger but her pain touched him. Like a husband or a father, he wanted to be able to come to her rescue – to save her from what she had to face.
Eventually, the figure on the bed became still. There was no sound of breath passing between the parched lips, no movement of the ribcage. Eliza let out a long moan that rose into a wail. Then she laid her head on his chest. Her shoulders heaved as she broke down and sobbed like a child.