A wall of heat and humidity hit us as the door of the aircraft swung open. Sweat beaded my forehead at once as I watched two Africans in threadbare overalls push a rusting flight of steps to the plane.
Tom leaned past me and stared out at the airfield. From his expression he was less than impressed. Over forty years old, and a career RAF man, he was finding it hard to adjust to life on the outside. ‘That must be the welcoming committee,’ he said, as a cloud of flies formed around us.
‘Welcome to the real world, Tom. Better get used to it. There’s no more soft postings and squadron dinners for us, and no more people to hold our hands and tidy up after us. We’re on our own now.’
He scowled and the ever-present frown lines deepened on his forehead. ‘What a dump. Remind me what we’re doing here, Jack.’
‘We’re doing the only job we know, making a few quid for ourselves and upholding Her Majesty’s vital interests at the same time.’
He gave a sour smile. ‘Vital interests spelt D-I-A-M-O-N-D-S. If they’re that vital, why doesn’t Her Majesty send some of her own boys to look after them? No, don’t tell me, let me guess: because some things are better done at arm’s length.’
I met his gaze. ‘Listen, it’s a job of work. We agreed to the terms when we signed the contract. It’s a bit late now for regrets.’
We hurried down the steps and walked across the potholed concrete towards the terminal building. It was stained and crumbling and its windows were filthy and starred with bullet holes.
Tom’s thinning, sandy hair was darkened and plastered to his head by sweat. I could feel my shirt sticking to my back.
Although the shedlike arrivals hall was out of the sun, it felt little cooler. Two soldiers in grease-stained uniforms got up as we approached. They pored over our passports, then dropped them on to the table in front of them. We waited in silence, searching their impassive faces for some clue to the next move.
A group of African men, women and children, most in torn clothes and ragged T-shirts, stood on the far side of the steel gates beyond the arrivals hall, staring at us without apparent interest. There was a commotion and the group parted to allow two men through. They opened the gates and came striding towards us.
The leader was a powerful figure, his skin tanned to mahogany from long exposure to the sun and his hair flecked with grey. A broad grin showed beneath his walrus moustache. Ignoring the soldiers, he walked over and slapped us on the back. ‘Glad you made it, boys. Grizz Riley. You can’t imagine how pleased I am to see you here. I was beginning to think we’d never get another heli crew.’
As he spoke, his companion, a paunchy African with a gold tooth and a shiny suit, began talking to the soldiers in confidential tones. I recognised the type, a local fixer paid to smooth our way past police, customs and other local piranhas.
I heard the words ‘Decisive Measures’, and the rustle of leone bills – the local currency. Pocketing the bribe, the two soldiers, now all smiles, handed us back our passports and waved us through.
Grizz led us outside to a battered pickup. A bullet-headed, square-jawed soldier in faded fatigues stood guard over it. His blond hair was cropped so short that his scalp showed through it, and a network of scar lines gleamed white against the tanned skin. He remained unsmiling, scrutinising each of us in turn.
‘Another new kid on the block,’ Grizz said.
‘Jack Griffiths,’ I said, holding out my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
The soldier scowled, but shook my hand. ‘I’m Rudi,’ he said in a thick Afrikaans accent.
Rudi and the fixer got in the front while we climbed into the back with Grizz. A few heads turned to watch us drive off.
It was an uncomfortable ride. The airport road was potholed and badly scarred by tank tracks. The rusting, burnt-out wreck of one tank had been bulldozed off the road and then left to rot.
We reached the main road that led up the peninsula towards Freetown. Its surface was marginally better and we accelerated towards the capital. The sun was now directly overhead and I was glad of the patches of dappled shade as the road weaved through fringes of rainforest. At intervals there were clusters of mud-and-thatch huts, and an occasional concrete building. Signs advertised bars, shops and cafes, but all appeared to be closed, and many were smoke-blackened and pockmarked by gunfire.
We climbed a forested ridge and saw Freetown sprawling below us, a mosaic of bare earth, grey concrete, palm thatch and multicoloured tin roofing, all overlaid with a layer of red dust.
Beyond the capital, palm-fringed, white-sand beaches, stretching south along the peninsula as far as I could see, looked deserted. This was clearly no place for tourists. Commanding the ridgeline were rows of colonial houses raised above the earth on stilts and shaded by breadfruit and cotton trees. Grizz followed my gaze. ‘It was named Hill Station by the British,’ he said.
Like their former occupants, the houses had once been white, but they were now faded to a dull khaki brown, stained by rivulets of damp. All of them were surrounded by high brick walls or tin fences topped with shards of broken glass and coils of razor wire.
Mango and breadfruit trees grew in the lush grounds of the Presidential Palace on Signal Hill, but the white walls, unrepaired from years of coups and countercoups, were pitted by shellfire. Lower on the steep hillside the slopes festered with an ugly, sprawling shanty town that ran down to the creek at the bottom of the hill. The shacks were built of packing cases and scrap wood, and roofed with rusting corrugated metal or palm fronds.
Ahead of us, a few overloaded, battered pickups drove down the hill into the city, laden with firewood and farm goods to sell. As we rounded a bend on the steep descent, we came to a juddering halt. A pickup and a beaten-up old Mercedes taxi had collided. Both drivers were out of their vehicles, remonstrating with each other.
As they argued, a human tide began pouring out of the shanty town on the hillside just below the road. Ignoring the drivers’ protests and tearful pleas, the mob began looting the vehicles, stripping them of everything they could carry. The Mercedes driver tried to save his car radio, but he was punched to the ground.
Drivers coming up the hill stopped, sized up the situation and either reversed or pulled three-point turns and disappeared in clouds of dust. A moment later a police car appeared round the corner. It braked to a halt and sounded its siren. The looters barely glanced up from their work of stripping the cars. No policemen emerged from the car and after a moment it, too, reversed down the hill.
Grizz glanced at me. ‘Welcome to Sierra Leone,’ he said. He reached for his rifle, stood up and fired a burst into the air. Then he lowered the barrel, pointing it at the looters. There was a moment’s silence, then they fled in panic and we drove on into the city.
At the Kissy roundabout we turned west through the Lebanese district and drove down East Street past the mosque and the prison. The decaying façades of once-imposing colonial buildings lined the broad streets at the centre of Freetown, but City Hall was a crumbling wreck, surrounded by rows of shabby two-storey buildings. Tattered washing hung from lines suspended across the street, and most of the houses had a firepit in the yard in place of a kitchen.
We pulled up in Garrison Street by a row of battered shops with buckled and scorched steel shutters. Most were run by Lebanese traders, but few had any goods to offer, only a handful of tins and flyblown packages on otherwise empty shelves.
The general store at the end of the street was slightly better equipped, though the goods seemed more appropriate to a frontier town than a capital city. There were mosquito nets, candles, axes, bush knives and the shovels and sieves used by gold panners.
Grizz busied himself collecting supplies, which Rudi took out and loaded onto the pickup, while the store owner ran around scribbling notes on a pad. We left the fixer to argue about the price, and Grizz led us round the corner to a hotel. It resembled a Soviet apartment block and had perversely been built back to front. The balconies faced inland and the bathrooms looked out over the sea.
Grizz left us at the check-in desk.
‘When do we start work?’ I said.
He smiled. ‘Decisive Measures are generous employers. You get one night’s acclimatisation and R ’n’ R. Then we go upcountry to the Bohara mine first thing in the morning. I’ll leave you guys to sort your kit. I’ll be back at six to give you a briefing and then show you what passes for a good time in these parts.’ He sauntered out.
My room was everything I expected: the lights didn’t work, nor did the rusting fan at the centre of the bedroom ceiling. There was a rustle of cockroaches from the bathroom and a stench that made me reluctant to investigate further.
A kerosene lamp stood by the bed, which was draped with a mosquito net. I turned back the covers, lay down and closed my eyes.
I woke soaked with sweat, my heart pounding, the thunder of gunfire still resounding in my ears. Only the noise of the cicadas broke the silence of my room. As I lowered my head back to the pillow, cursing the nightmare that had frightened me awake, I heard the banging of fists on the door and Grizz’s voice shouting, ‘Come on, you lazy bastard. I’ve nearly worn my knuckles off on this door.’
I croaked a reply.
‘Twenty minutes, in the lobby,’ he said.
When I heard his footsteps recede down the corridor, I dragged myself out of bed and walked into the bathroom.
I turned on the shower and stood under the dribble of brackish water for a few minutes, then towelled myself dry. I pulled on jeans and a clean long-sleeved shirt, then headed down the stairs, not wishing to try my luck with the lift.
I found Grizz, Rudi and Tom in the lobby, staring out through the plate-glass window at the skyline. There had been a slow build-up of cloud throughout the afternoon, climbing the wall of the mountains and piling higher and higher into the sky, building the thunderheads that would bring the evening rain. The sun had almost set and lightning was sparking over the mountains.
As the sky darkened, the lights all over Freetown went out. Tom started and looked round in alarm. ‘Just another power failure,’ Grizz said. For a moment the city was in darkness, then scores of generators fired up in a metallic chorus, counterpointing the croaking of the frogs in the swamps.
We walked to a small meeting room off the lobby. Marks of smoke damage and the crudely repaired outline of an impact from a heavy round or rocket were clearly visible where the wall met the ceiling.
We settled into chairs as Grizz closed the door. He strode to the front of the room. ‘Rudi, you can sleep through the first bit if you want, unless helicopter spotting is one of your hobbies.’
He turned to Tom and me. ‘Have you guys flown together before?’
‘You mean apart from the training course on the Huey?’ I said. ‘Not for a while. Tom trained me though, nearly ten years ago.’
‘It won’t be a problem,’ Tom said. ‘We both know our own jobs.’
Grizz nodded. ‘OK, as I’m sure you’ve been told, you’ll be flying a Huey XI. The helicopter is vital to the resupply and support of the garrison at the Bohara mine. You’ll be based here in Freetown, but your job is to keep Bohara supplied with everything from mining equipment and ammunition to food and medical supplies. The Huey is twenty years old, but it’s been upgraded many times and I can vouch for its condition. It has a door-mounted mini-gun, a nose gun and forward-firing rockets and chaff and flare dispensers. It’s also been fitted out for flight with night-vision goggles.’
‘What about the rebels?’ Tom said. ‘What have they got?’
Rudi stirred and began to show some interest.
‘They’re backed by Liberia,’ Grizz said, ‘and a lot of their weapons come through that regime. They have plenty of AK rifles, a few rocket-propelled grenades and a couple of heavy machine guns. They also captured a ZFU anti-aircraft gun from the government some years ago, but we’re uncertain whether they have the know-how to fire it effectively. The Liberians do have Hind helicopters, however, and there are rumours that one has been allocated to the rebels. You’ll have read about Sierra Leone in the papers, but in some ways the reality here surpasses anything you’ve heard. The government is theoretically in control of the country, but in practice its writ barely runs as far as the outskirts of Freetown.’
He gave a bleak smile. ‘Lives have no value here. Only one thing counts: diamonds. The government owns the mines but is powerless to protect them without the help of private military companies like Decisive Measures, and, like everybody else, the companies take their reward in gemstones. Don’t get the idea that we operate on a lavish budget though, we operate on a shoestring.’
‘What are the rebels fighting for?’ I said.
Grizz shrugged. ‘Just diamonds. They want to defeat the government, but only so they can take control of the diamond-producing areas. The rebels are bloody and brutal fighters but they’re not particularly well equipped; the Liberian regime that backs them creams off most of the diamond wealth that the rebels steal or smuggle out.
‘The regular army is supposed to be on our side but, despite the diamonds, this is the poorest country in the world and the soldiers certainly aren’t growing too fat for their uniforms. When they’re paid at all it’s sporadic, and they’re going hungry: they’re supposed to get one bag of rice a month plus clothing and a gun, but the senior officers keep back as much rice as they can to sell on the black market.
‘In short, we can rely on no one but ourselves here. If it all goes to ratshit, the British government and the UN won’t want to know. There will be no SAS rescue parties flying in to save our arses. We either look after ourselves or we go under.’
He paused. ‘That’s the bad news; the good news is that for the moment we’re in a lull in the fighting. The rebel offensive in the north-east has stalled because of the rainy season. With the dry season almost upon us we must expect an upsurge in activity. For the moment, though, Decisive Measures are simply tasked with keeping the Bohara diamond mine running smoothly. Your job is to get the supplies and the personnel out there to enable it to do so. That’s it. Any questions? Then let’s go and have a beer.’
We went out into the hot, humid night. It was low tide and the sickly, fetid smell of mud and mangroves filled the air.
Women sat at the side of the street, their goods – dried fish, rice, cassava roots, chillies and potato leaf – spread in front of them on palm leaves laid in the dust. Their hungry, pot-bellied children played around them as they waited.
Here and there a solitary street light flickered into life as the power was restored, but most were broken, their wiring stolen and sold for scrap, or cannibalised for other uses.
We passed several burnt-out and derelict houses. Those that remained intact had iron-barred windows, stout locks and razor-wire fences. The walls were still clapboard, however.
Grizz led us along the road fringing the beach. It was lined with restaurants. From the name boards over the doors, most of them, like the shops, were run by Lebanese. Many were deserted, but at one the owner still presided over his bamboo-fronted bar, perched on a rusting stool, his paunch spilling out of his torn, stained T-shirt. The bar was full of expatriate mineworkers, traders, soldiers and government officials and a scattering of dull-eyed whores.
The menu was limited: groundnut soup and rice. I ordered food and beer for all four of us.
Grizz took a swig of his beer, lit a cheroot and glanced at Tom. ‘So what brings you here, Tom? Apart from the money, of course. Bottom line, that’s what we’re all here for, isn’t it?’
Tom sipped his drink. ‘Money and boredom, I suppose,’ he said. ‘I’ve been pensioned off by the RAF, but it’s a bit early in my life to be getting out the pipe and slippers, so I thought I’d give this a go.’
‘Any family?’
‘No. Well, I’ve two children, but they’re grown-up now. One lives in Australia and the other’s in New York.’
‘And your wife’s back in England?’
As Tom stared down into his beer, the overhead light deepened the furrows in his forehead and he looked even older than his forty-five years. ‘She left me a few months ago.’
Grizz studied him for a moment. ‘So your break-up would have been another reason for a change of scene?’
Tom didn’t reply. After a moment, Grizz switched his attention to me. ‘What about you, Jack? You’re too young to have been pensioned off. What’s the story? Rub some air marshal up the wrong way?’
‘Something like that.’
Grizz waited for me to continue. As the silence lengthened, he smiled. ‘Fair enough. It’s none of my business, anyway, as long as you do your job here.’ He shot a glance at Rudi. ‘And you’re certainly not the only one working for Decisive Measures who’s got a bit of a history behind him.’ He paused. ‘So, got any wives or children?’
‘Not last time I looked,’ I said. ‘What about you?’
‘Plenty of each – three wives, four children. All in the past tense now, though.’
‘Even the children?’
‘Oh, I send them a card on their birthdays and things, but it only upsets them if I go to see them. It’s better all round if I stay away.’ He tried to force a smile, but his eyes belied it.
‘And you, Rudi?’ I said.
‘Fifteen years in the South African Defence Force fighting bush wars against the ANC. I quit the day Mandela was sworn in.’
‘Any family?’
He shook his head and ended the interrogation by walking over to the bar. By the time he returned with more beer, Tom, Grizz and I had moved the conversation on to less personal ground.
Rudi stayed aloof from the chat, downing a succession of beers and replying in monosyllables to any remarks directed at him, but his watchful eyes showed that he missed little of what was said. Finally, as if we had passed some secret test, he banged another four beers down on the table and gave a broad smile. He took a long pull on his drink, then put his feet up on the table and rocked his chair back.
‘This could be God’s country, Jack – perfect beaches, diamonds, any woman you want for the price of a pack of cigarettes, and just enough trouble from the rebels to keep us in work. You couldn’t have a better posting.’ His speech was a little slurred, and though he smiled he had the air of a man who could change moods in a second.
As Rudi was warming to his theme, a taxi pulled up outside. A few moments later two tall, striking women entered the bar. One had long black hair cascading around her powerful shoulders, a mouth lipsticked in vivid red and skin so dark it seemed blue-black in the dim light. The other was model-thin with close-cropped dark brown hair, coffee-coloured skin and eyes of piercing blue. I could not take my eyes off her.
‘Jesus,’ Rudi said. ‘Some good-looking whores at last.’
He had just reached the two women when Grizz returned from the bar with another round. He took in the scene and winked at us. ‘This should be entertaining.’
Rudi’s bulky figure loomed over the two women as he propositioned them, waving a ten-dollar bill. The black woman ignored him, turning her back and talking to the barman. The other heard Rudi out in silence, eyeballing him without blinking. Then she took the bill, tore it in quarters and dropped it on the floor.
‘Even if I was a whore,’ I heard her say, ‘it would take more than you could earn in a lifetime to persuade me to sleep with an ox like you. But I’m not a whore; I’m a paramedic. Part of my job is to patch up dumb mercenaries when they get shot. I look forward to making your acquaintance again under those circumstances.’
Rudi stared at her, the veins knotting in his forehead. I was afraid he might strike her, but he shambled back across the room.
He swore in Afrikaans. ‘That bitch needs teaching a lesson.’
Grizz raised an eyebrow. ‘That bitch is a bloody good medic. Now have a drink and take your beating like a man. There’s plenty of whores will take your money without hitting on women who won’t.’ Rudi reverted to sullen silence.
‘So who is she?’ I asked Grizz.
‘She’s called Layla. She works for Medicaid International, but she’s seconded to us part of the time. She deals with medical problems at the mining compound and holds clinics in the villages.’ Grizz smiled. ‘And don’t waste your time; we’ve all tried.’
I saw her move to the bar. ‘I’ll get the next ones,’ I said.
I walked over and stood next to her as I ordered the beers, then glanced at her. ‘Hi, I’m Jack,’ I said. ‘I fly helicopters. I gather we’ll be working together now and again.’
She looked me up and down. ‘I’m Layla.’ Her accent was English but with a faint lilt. ‘I don’t think so. I work with mercenaries as little as possible. My job’s to save lives.’
‘So’s mine.’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Just like your friends over there.’ She walked back to her table, leaving me staring after her.
I went back to the others. Rudi was still mechanically downing one beer after another and his mood was turning increasingly ugly.
Grizz glanced at him and then at us. ‘Maybe we could round the evening off with a couple of beers back at the hotel,’ he said.
Rudi shook his head, his eyes still fixed on Layla and her friend. ‘Not me. I’ll see you later.’
Grizz shrugged. ‘You guys with me? I’ll just hit the can and we’ll be out of here.’
On his way back from the stinking lean-to that acted as the communal toilet, I saw him stop and speak to Layla. She turned and looked at Rudi, then frowned and nodded.
Grizz walked back over to us. ‘Let’s go.’
Tom and I followed him outside. The taxi that had brought Layla and her friend was still waiting, parked a few yards away. Grizz signalled to it and we climbed in.
‘Wait a moment, please,’ Grizz said.
Tom looked puzzled. ‘What for? Rudi said he was staying put.’
He smiled. ‘I think you’ll enjoy this company more than Rudi’s.’
As we waited, the rain began to fall. In seconds it was battering down, blanking out the view and turning the brown water coursing down the road to foam.
Layla and her friend appeared in the doorway of the bar. They hesitated at the sight of the rain, then glanced behind them and ran for the taxi. By the time they had reached it they were soaked to the skin, their hair plastered to their scalps.
Layla jumped in next to me, her wet clothes clinging to her, showing every contour of her body. As her friend also squeezed on to the crowded back seat, Layla was pressed against me. My nostrils were full of the musky aroma of her perfume, and I could feel the soft swelling of her breast against my arm. The heat of her body seemed to burn all the way down my side.
The taxi moved off along the road, inching through the flood. I glanced behind us. The huge figure of Rudi was visible for a second, framed in the doorway of the bar, staring after us, then the curtains of rain blocked him from view.
We were halfway back to the hotel when the storm ended as abruptly as it had begun. The floods began to ebb away and a watery moon appeared as the clouds parted. Even this late, traders came out of the buildings and doorways where they had been sheltering and began setting up again, lighting candles and storm lanterns to illuminate their wares.
The hotel bar was deserted but still open. ‘Fancy a last drink?’ I said, unsuccessfully trying to hide my disappointment when Layla exchanged a glance with her friend, then shook her head.
‘Nothing personal. We’ve all got an early start in the morning.’
‘Have we?’
‘You guys are the helicopter pilots, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Then don’t stay up all night drinking. I’m flying up to Bohara with you in the morning to run a clinic at the mine.’ For the first time all evening, she gave me a smile. I could still smell a faint trace of her perfume in the air long after she had disappeared up the stairs.