Free Recoil by Andy McNab Page A

have never been attacked. Let’s keep our fingers crossed and pray it stays that way.’

5
    Fuck praying.
    I rode the moped back uphill like a man possessed. I needed to get to the house and throw my stuff together and – fuck – do what, exactly? Were there planes or trains this time of night? To where? How the fuck would I get myself into the middle of the jungle and find that poxy village? I didn’t even know where I wanted to go. All I knew was that I was going to get her out of that shit-hole and find out one way or another if she would marry me. It wasn’t brain surgery.
    Maybe Stefan could do something. Maybe he had some way of contacting her I didn’t know about. Maybe he controlled her bank account and credit cards – maybe he could threaten to cut her off if she didn’t turn straight round. I mean, there wasn’t much love lost between them, but even so, he wouldn’t want her risking her life for what he’d see as a bunch of worthless natives. No, why would he do anything now? Everyone else seemed to know but me: she’d always been like this. Maybe he already knew. Fuck it, who cared? I didn’t need anything from him.
    I dumped the moped next to a big blacked-out BMW parked right outside the front door and stormed into the house.
    I half ran down the hall. Stefan was back in the sitting room with a whisky, but he was no longer alone. Two Chinese guys, both very formal in grey suits and ties, were standing with him by a desk, poring over maps and papers. Cigarettes dangled from their mouths.
    He saw me, excused himself and started into the hallway. There was no need. I gave him the middle finger and a cutaway sign before I headed for Silky’s room.
    What the fuck did she think she was playing at? This was grown-up stuff. It wasn’t a party. She couldn’t just phone a cab home if she got bored.
    As I paced her floor, I stared at the twelve-digit number for so long I could have recited it. I wanted to call, but I resisted. What was the point? Even if the flight got in tomorrow morning, it would take them days to get there. The roads were shit – when there were roads.
    What time would they land?
    I Googled Kinshasa airport. There was a contact number, and the time difference was only one or two hours from GMT, depending.
    I dialled. The line crackled, and there was a distant ring tone. I got a faint voice over background mush. It sounded like the airport was at the bottom of an ocean. I struggled with my French and the guy struggled with his English, but we established between us that the plane from Geneva was arriving at six thirty in the morning. I thanked Jacques Cousteau and hung up.
    It would take them ages to get landside. African bureaucracy had to be experienced to be believed. They might not even be granted visas.
    They? Was she travelling with other volunteers? I hadn’t asked Étienne. Did they already have visas? Something else I’d forgotten. There was so much I didn’t know.
    They might be turned away. They might not even get landside .
    That was the first positive thought I’d had. If Silky was denied entry, she’d be put straight back on the plane. If not, there’d be a window of maybe an hour or two, from about ten a.m. local time, when I might get through to her mobile. If she’d taken it with her, and if it was switched on. And assuming there was coverage in the city . . . What the fuck did I know?
    I got back on the keyboard. KLM flew there from Milan, about an hour’s drive south, but not every day. And all their flights seemed to go through South Africa. To get to Kinshasa direct on a scheduled airline, you had to fly via Brussels.
    Even assuming I got on to a flight, if these guys could have problems getting visas, what chance did I stand? Democratic Republic of the Congo wasn’t exactly a tourist Mecca. How was I going to bluff my way in? I was beginning to feel like a snowball rolling down a hill.
    I Googled for DRC consulates or embassies, to try to find out if I