The Mission Song Part 18

"And will he?"

"For another fifty pounds a week of your Judas money, he will be as brave as a lion. Then his wife came round the door and said she would protect us for nothing. If somebody had only offered her protection when she was young, she said, she would never have married Mr. Hakim. They both found that very funny."

We had discussed the tricky matter of communication, which I knew from the Chat Room to be the clandestine operator's weakest link. Mr. Hakim's emporium boasted no public phone. The only house phone was in the kitchen. My cellphone was a deathtrap, I explained to Hannah, drawing on my insider's knowledge. With the technology these days, a live cellphone could reveal my whereabouts anywhere on the planet within seconds. I've seen it, Hannah, I've reaped the dividend, you should hear what I hear on my One-Day Courses. Warming to my subject, I allowed myself a digression into the arts of inserting a deadly missile into a cellphone's radio beam, thereby decapitating the subscriber.

"Well, my mobile will not blow you up," she retorted, extracting a rainbow-coloured version from her compendious carry-bag.

At a stroke, our secret link was established. I would take possession of her cellphone and she would borrow Grace's. If I needed to call Hannah at the church, I could reach her through Grace.

"And after church?" I insisted. "When you are out hunting for Baptiste, how will I contact you then?"

From her closed face I knew I had again encountered the cultural divide. Hannah might not be versed in the dark arts of the Chat Room, but what did Salvo know of London's Congolese community, or where its leading voices went to ground?

"Baptiste returned from the United States a week ago. He has a new address and perhaps a new name also. I shall talk first to Louis."

Louis being Baptiste's unofficial deputy head of the Middle Path's European bureau, she explained. Also a close friend of Salome who was a friend of Baptiste's sister Rose in Brussels. But Louis was currently in hiding, so it all depended whether Rose had returned from her nephew's wedding in Kinshasa. If not, it might be possible to talk to Bien-Aime who was Rose's lover, but not if Bien-Aime's wife was in town.

I accepted defeat.

I am alone, bereft until tonight. To operate my cellphone requires, under the strict rules of tradecraft I have imposed on myself following the break-in at Norfolk Mansions, a mile-long walk away from Mr. Hakim's house down a tree-lined road to a vacant bus shelter. I take the distance slowly, spreading it out. I sit on a lonely bench, press green and 121 and green again. My one message is from Barney, Mr. Anderson's flamboyant adjutant and the Chat Room's in-house Don Juan. From his eagle's nest on the balcony, Barney sees into every audio cubicle, and down every eligible female's blouse. His call is routine. The surprise would be if he hadn't made it, but he has. I play it twice.

Hi, Salv: Where the f.u.c.k are you? I tried Battersea and got an earful from Penelope. We've got the usual dross for you. Nothing life-threatening, but give us a bell as soon as you get this message and let us know when you want to swing by. Tschiiss.

With his seemingly innocent message, Barney has aroused my deepest suspicions. He is always relaxed, but this morning he is so relaxed I don't trust a word of him. As soon as you get this message. Why so soon, if we're talking the usual dross? Or is he, as I suspect, under orders to entice me to the Chat Room where Philip and his henchmen will be waiting to hand me the Haj treatment?

I'm walking again, but in a more sprightly manner. The desire to earn back my colours and hence Hannah's respect after the debacle with Brinkley is acute. Out of humiliation comes an unexpected ray of inspiration.

Did Hannah herself not advise me to go to Anderson in preference to his Lordship? Well now I will! But on my terms, not Anderson's or Barney's. I, not they, will choose the time, the venue, and the weapon. And when everything is in place, but not until, I will admit Hannah to my plan!

Practical things first. At a mini-market I purchase a copy of the Guardian in order to obtain small change. I walk until an isolated phone box beckons. It is constructed of toughened gla.s.s, affording the caller all-round surveillance, and it accepts coins. I settle my shoulder-bag between my feet. I clear my throat, shuffle my shoulders to unlock them, and return Barney's call as requested.

"Salv! Get my message? Good man! How about this afternoon's shift and we do a beer afterwards?"

Barney has never in his life proposed a beer, before or afterwards, but I let this go. I am as relaxed as he is.

"Today's a bit tricky for me actually, Barnes. Heavy legal stuff. Boring but they pay a bomb. I could do you something tomorrow, if that's any good. Preferably evening, kind of four till eight."

I'm fishing, which is what my brilliant plan demands. Barney is fishing and I am fishing. The difference is, he doesn't know I am. This time he is a little slow to answer. Perhaps someone is standing at his shoulder.

"Look, why not now, for f.u.c.k's sake?" he demands, abandoning the soft approach which is not his style at the best of times. "Put the b.u.g.g.e.rs off. A couple of hours won't make any difference to them. We pay you first refusal, don't we? Where are you, anyway?"

He knows very well where I am. It's on his screen, so why does he ask? Is he buying time while he takes more advice?

"In a phone box," I complain cheerfully. "My cellphone's sick."

We wait again. This is Barney in slow motion.

"Well, get a cab. Put it on expenses. The Boss wants to press you to his bosom. Claims you saved the nation over the weekend, but won't say how."

My heart does a double somersault. Barney has played into my hands! But I remain calm. I am not impulsive. Mr. Anderson would be proud of me.

"The earliest I can make it is tomorrow evening, Barney," I say calmly. "The Boss can press me to his bosom then."

This time there is no delayed action.

"Are you f.u.c.king mad? It's a Wednesday, man. Holy Night!"

My heart performs more antics, but I allow no triumphalist note to enter my voice.

"Then it's Thursday or nothing, Barnes. Best I can do for you unless you tell me it's dead urgent, which you say it isn't. Sorry, but there we are."

I ring off. Sorry for nothing. Tomorrow is Holy Night and legend records that Mr. Anderson hasn't missed a Holy Night in twenty years. Philip and his people may be beating on his door, vital notepads have escaped the flames, audio tapes have gone missing. But Wednesday night is Holy Night and Mr. Anderson is singing baritone in the Sevenoaks Choral Society.

I am halfway. Repressing the desire to call Hannah immediately on Grace's phone and acquaint her with my stroke of genius, I dial Directory Enquiries and in a matter of seconds am connected with the Arts Correspondent of the Sevenoaks Argus. I have this uncle, I explain artfully. He is a leading baritone in the local choral society. Tomorrow is his birthday. Could she very kindly tell me where, and at what time, the Sevenoaks Choral Society meets of a Wednesday evening?

Ah. Well now. She can and she can't. Do I have any idea at all whether my uncle is authorised or un authorised I confess I have none.

This pleases her. In Sevenoaks, she explains, we are unusual in having two choral societies. The UK-wide Sing Fest in the Albert Hall is only three weeks off. Both societies are entered, both hotly tipped for a prize.

Perhaps if she could explain the difference between them, I suggest.

She can, but don't quote her. Authorised means linked to a respectable church, preferably C of E but it doesn't have to be. It means having experienced teachers and conductors, but not professionals because you haven't got the money. It means using local talent only and no invited singers from outside.

And un authorised authorised, but again don't quote her, means no church, or none that any of us has heard of, it means new money, it means buy, borrow or steal whoever you can get hold of from outside never mind what it costs, it means no residential qualifications and practically treating a choir like a professional football team. Has she made herself clear?

She has indeed. Mr. Anderson has never done anything un authorised in his life.

Returning to Mr. Hakim's boarding house in what Maxie would call tactical bounds, I wasted no time in calling Hannah with every intention of acquainting her with my achievements to date. My call was taken by Grace, who had troublesome news.

"Hannah's real low, Salvo. Those charity folk, they got so many problems, you wonder where they get their charity from."

When Hannah came on, I barely recognised her voice. She was speaking English.

"If we were just a little bit less black, Salvo. If we had some white excuse in our blood somewhere. Not you, you're okay. But we are shocking. We are black-black. There's no way round us." Her voice faltered and recovered. "We had three kids lodging with a Mrs. Lemon. They never met kind Mrs. Lemon but they love her, okay?"

"Okay."

"Two nights in her boarding house at the seaside, that's a dream for them."

"Of course it is."

Another pause while she collects herself. "Mrs. Lemon is a Christian so she wasn't going to charge. Amelia, she's one of my Sunday School kids. Amelia made a painting of the sun shining on the sea, and the sun was a big smiling lemon, okay?"

"Okay."

"Well, now Mrs. Lemon isn't feeling very well." Her voice rose in anger as she mimicked Mrs. Lemon's voice. "It's my heart, dear. I mustn't get upset. Only I didn't know, you see. We thought the children were just deprived."

Grace takes back her phone, and her voice is as scathing as Hannah's. "There's a fine cafe halfway down the road to Bognor. Coaches Welcome. Me and Hannah, we did a deal with this fine cafe. Thirty chicken nuggets, complimentary meals for the carers and the driver. One soft drink per person. One hundred pounds. Is that fair?"

"Very fair, Grace. Very reasonable, by the sound of it."

"The driver, he's been takin' groups to that fine cafe for like fifteen years. School kids, all kinds of kids. Except they're white. When the proprietor realised ours were goin' to be black, he remembered he had a new policy. "It's the pensioners," he tells us. "They come for the quiet, see. That's why we don't take no kids except white ones." '

"You know what, Salvo?" Hannah is back, this time in fighting mood.

"What do I know, my love?"

"Maybe Congo should invade Bognor."

I laugh, she laughs. Should I tell her of my brilliant plan and risk causing her more anxiety, or keep it for later? Keep it, I tell myself. With Baptiste to worry about, she has enough on her plate already.

My brilliant plan requires paperwork.

For five hours, with no more to sustain me than a chunk of cold lasagne, I go to work on my laptop. a.s.sisted by choice pa.s.sages from my tapes and notepads which I render where necessary into English, plus an a.s.sortment of Philip's verbatims over the sat-phone, I a.s.semble a d.a.m.ning expose of the plot that Mr. Anderson a.s.sured me was in the best interests of our country. Rejecting the traditional Dear Mr. Anderson, I open my attack with: Knowing you as I do to be a man of honour and integrity. Knowing him also to be a slow reader as well as a meticulous one, with views on plain English, I confine myself to twenty carefully compiled pages, which include as a tailpiece an account of the illegal break-in at Norfolk Mansions. In a final flourish I ent.i.tle my completed opus J Accuse! after Emile Zola's spirited defence of Colonel Dreyfus, a saga of moral tenacity beloved of Brother Michael. I make a floppy and hasten downstairs to Mrs. Hakim, a computer buff. With the stolen tapes and notepads returned to their hiding place behind our flimsy wardrobe, and my copy ofJAccusef with them, and the floppy for security reasons discreetly smashed and consigned to Mrs. Hakim's kitchen bin, I turn on the six o'clock news and am pleased to establish that there are still no unsettling reports of a mad zebra on the run.

I was not impressed by the operational arrangements for our rendezvous with Baptiste, but then neither did I expect to be. Since he refused to reveal his current address, he and Hannah had agreed over my head that she would bring me to Rico's Coffee Parlour in Fleet Street at ten-thirty that night. From there, a no-name comrade-in-arms would conduct us to a no-name meeting-point. My first thought was for the tapes and notepads. To take them with me or leave them in their hiding place? I could not envisage handing them to Baptiste on first acquaintance, but out of loyalty to Hannah I knew I must take them with me.

Given her morning's setback and her afternoon's exertions, I expected to find her in sombre mood but such, to my relief, was not the case. The immediate cause of her good spirits was Noah, with whom she had conducted a lengthy conversation only an hour previously. As usual she had first spoken to her aunt in case there was worrying news ahead, but her aunt had said, "Let him tell you himself, Hannah," and put him on the line.

"He is third boy in his cla.s.s, Salvo, imagine," she explained, all aglow. "We spoke English together and his English is really coming on, I was amazed. And yesterday his school football team won the Kampala under-tens and Noah nearly scored a goal."

I was sharing her euphoria when a mauve BMW with rap music pouring out of every open window screeched to a halt in the street outside. The driver wore dark gla.s.ses and a pointed beard like Dieudonne's. The burly African man beside him reminded me of Franco. We jumped aboard, the driver slammed his foot down. With erratic twists, we raced southward with precious little regard to traffic lights or bus lanes. We b.u.mped across a pot-holed industrial wasteland of tyre dumps, and swerved to avoid a trio of kids stacked on a wheelchair who came careering out of a side turning with their arms out like acrobats. We pulled up and the driver shouted, "Now." The BMW made a three-point turn and roared away, leaving us standing in a reeking cobbled alley. Above the Victorian chimneys, giant cranes like giraffes peered down at us from the orange night sky. Two African men sauntered towards us. The taller wore a silky frock-coat and a lot of gold.

"This the guy with no name?" he demanded of Hannah in Congolese Swahili.

"You speak English only, Salvo, she had warned me. Anyone who speaks our languages is too interesting. In return, I had extracted an agreement from her that, for the purposes of our interview, we were acquaintances not lovers. Her involvement in these events was of my own making. I was determined to keep her distant from them wherever possible.

"What's in the bag?" the shorter man asked, also in Swahili.

"It's private for Baptiste," Hannah retorted.

The taller man advanced on me and with slender fingers sampled the weight and contents of my shoulder-bag, but didn't open it. With his colleague bringing up the rear, we followed him up a stone staircase into the house, to be greeted by more rap music. In a neon-lit cafe, elderly Africans in hats were watching a Congolese band playing its heart out on an industrial-sized plasma television screen. The men were drinking beer, the women juice. At separate tables, boys in hoods talked head to head. We climbed a staircase and entered a parlour of chintz sofas, flock wallpaper and rugs of nylon leopard skin. On the wall hung a photograph of an African family in Sunday best. The mother and father stood at the centre, their seven children in descending sizes to either side of them. We sat down, Hannah on the sofa, I on a chair opposite her. The tall man hovered at the door, tapping his foot to the beat of the music from the cafe beneath.

"You want a soft drink or something? c.o.ke or something?"

I shook my head.

"Her?"

A quiet car was pulling up in the street outside. We heard the double clunk of an expensive car door opening and closing, and footsteps coming up the stairs. Baptiste was a Haj without the grace. He was sleek, hollow-featured and long-limbed. He was designer-dressed in Ray-Ban sungla.s.ses, buckskin jacket, gold necklaces and Texan boots embroidered with cowboy hats. There was an air of the unreal about him, as if not only the clothes but the body inside them had been newly bought. He wore a gold Rolex on his right wrist. On catching sight of him, Hannah leaped to her feet in joy and cried his name. Without answering, he pulled off his jacket, slung it over a chair, and murmured, "Blow," to our guide, who vanished down the stairs. He placed himself pelvis forward and feet astride and held out his hands, inviting Hannah to embrace him. Which after a moment's puzzlement she did, then broke out laughing.

"Whatever did America do to you, Baptiste?" she protested, in the English we had agreed upon. "You are so' she hunted for the word 'so rich suddenly!"

To which, still without a word, he kissed her in what I considered an excessively proprietorial manner, left cheek, right cheek, then her left cheek a second time while he took the measure of me.

Hannah had resumed her place on the sofa. I sat opposite her, my shoulder-bag at my side. Baptiste, more relaxed than either of us, had slumped himself in a brocade armchair with his knees spread towards Hannah, as if proposing to enfold her between them.

"So what's the headache?" he demanded, thumbs Blair-Bush style jammed into his Gucci belt.

I proceeded cautiously, fully conscious that my first duty was to prepare him for the shock I was about to inflict on him. As gently as I could and in hindsight, I admit, with a touch of Anderson-like verbosity I advised him that what I had to tell him was likely to upset certain loyalties he had, and certain expectations regarding a charismatic and respected political figure on the Congolese scene.

"You talking about the Mw.a.n.gaza?"

"I'm afraid I am," I agreed sadly.

I took no pleasure in bringing him bad news, I said, but I had made a promise to an unnamed person of my acquaintance, and must now discharge it. This was the fictional character that Hannah and I, after much debate, had agreed upon. I will add that there are few things I enjoy less than talking to dark gla.s.ses. In extreme cases, I have been known to request my clients to remove them on the grounds that they curtail my powers of communication. But for Hannah's sake I decided to grin and bear it.

"Man person? Woman person? What kind of f.u.c.king person?" he demanded.

"I'm afraid that's not something I'm prepared to divulge," I retorted, grateful for this early opportunity to print my mark on the proceedings. "Let's call him he for simplicity's sake," I added, as a conciliatory afterthought. "And this friend of mine, who is totally trustworthy and honourable in my opinion, is engaged in highly confidential government work."

"British f.u.c.king government?" with a sneer on British which coupled with the Ray-Bans and the American accent might have raised my hackles, were he not a valued friend of Hannah's.

"My friend's duties," I resumed, 'provide him with regular access to signals and other forms of communication pa.s.sing between African nations and the European ent.i.ties that they are in touch with."

"Who the f.u.c.k's ent.i.ty? You mean governments or what?"

"Not necessarily a government, Baptiste. Not all ent.i.ties are nations. Many are more powerful and less accountable than nations. Also wealthier."

I glanced to Hannah for encouragement but she had closed her eyes as if praying.

And what this friend of mine has told me in total confidence, after much agonising," I continued, deciding to come straight to the point, 'is that a secret meeting recently took place on an island somewhere in the North Sea' - I allowed a pause for this to sink in 'between your Mw.a.n.gaza - I'm sorry to have to tell you this and the representatives of certain East Congolese militias' - I was watching the lower half of his face for signs of dawning apprehension, but the most I got was a barely perceptible straightening of the lips 'and other representatives of an offsh.o.r.e anonymous syndicate of international investors. At this same conference it was agreed that they would jointly mount, with the a.s.sistance of Western and African mercenaries, a military coup against Kivu." I again waited for some hint of a reaction, but in vain. A covert coup. Deniable. Using the local militias that they have done a deal with. Units of the Mau Mau forming one such militia, the Banyamulenge another."

Instinct having advised me to keep Haj and Luc out of the equation, I once more glanced at Baptiste to see how he was taking it. His Ray-Bans, so far as I could determine, were beamed on Hannah's bosom.

"The ostensible purpose of the operation," I pressed on more loudly, 'is to create an inclusive, united, democratic Kivu, north and south. However, the actual purpose is somewhat different. It's to milk the Eastern Congo of all minerals the Syndicate can get its hands on, including large stockpiles of colt an thereby notching up untold millions for the investors, and absolutely nothing for the people of Kivu."

No movement of the head, no change in the direction of the Ray-Bans.

"The people will be robbed. Ripped off, as per usual," I protested, feeling by now that I was talking to no one but myself. "It's the oldest story. Carpetbagging by another name." I had kept back my trump card till last. "And Kinshasa is in on the plot. Kinshasa will turn a blind eye provided it gets a piece of the action, which in this case means the People's Portion. All of it."

From upstairs a child screamed and was soothed. Hannah gave a remote smile, but it was for the child, not for me. Baptiste's blacked-out expression had not altered by a quaver and his impa.s.sivity was by now having a seriously r.e.t.a.r.ding effect on my narrative powers.

"When is all this s.h.i.t supposed to have happened?"

"You mean, when did I talk to my friend?"

"The meeting on the f.u.c.king island, man. When?"

"I said: recently."

"I don't know recent. Recent how? Recent when?"

"Within the last week," I replied, because when in doubt stay close to the truth.