Free Recoil by Andy McNab Page B

could get a visa before I left. Some of the websites wouldn’t open, and those that did had none of the information I needed.
    I binned it.
    It wasn’t as if I had to get to Kinshasa before the convoy headed out. She was going into the lion’s den, but at least I knew where the lion’s den was.
    I looked up Ituri province on the border with Rwanda and tried to find this fucking village, Nuka. I might not be able to get there at the speed of light, but I knew a man who could help me. And if he didn’t, he’d wish he hadn’t been born.
    It was scarcely first light when I wandered down to the basement. The chef wasn’t up yet, but Giuseppe was. In fact, he looked like I wasn’t the only one to have sat up all night.
    ‘Mr Stefan is leaving for China later today. He’s told me to offer you a car and driver to take you to the railway station or the airport as soon as convenient – but in any event by lunchtime.’ He couldn’t quite meet my eye. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Nick.’
    ‘No problem, Giuseppe. I knew the fun couldn’t last.’
    He followed me out to the moped with a small package in his hand. ‘For your journey,’ he said. His breath smelled of whisky.
    I rode to the airport with my PVC holdall on my lap. Abandoning the moped outside the terminal was immature, but it gave me some kind of satisfaction. It was bound to be Stefan’s. He owned everything.
    Then, as I checked in, with not so much as a second pair of shoes to my name, let alone a pair of wheels, I had a thought. Everything I owned was in my holdall: a bit of washing and shaving kit, a sleeping bag I’d nicked from Silky’s room, two spare T-shirts and lots of underwear.
    I didn’t have a home, not even a camper van or a tent. I had nothing in the world except a cheap ring and a beautiful German girl, and maybe I didn’t even have her any more.
    Well, that wasn’t completely true. I had the cheese and Branston sarnie Giuseppe had given me. And the small bottle of water he’d emptied and refilled with what looked suspiciously like thirty-year-old malt.

6
    Friday, 9 June 2006
    The seatbelt light flickered on and the crew collected our empty coffee cups. The pilot came on the intercom and thanked us for flying Darwin Air from Lugano, and reminded us that the time in London was nine fifteen a.m. Not that anyone was listening. They were all too busy powering down their laptops and putting their shoes back on. I was the only one aboard not using one, and the only one wearing jeans and a leather bomber jacket.
    The last time I’d flown in a prop-driven aircraft, it had been taking me to war. This smart new Saab was a world away from a cramped, noisy Hercules, but I was feeling every bit as uneasy.
    Last night’s Google had come up with some scary reading. There were about 17,000 UN troops in DRC – the world’s biggest peacekeeping mission – but, even so, they were stretched. Eight Guatemalan soldiers had just been killed in a clash with the Lord’s Resistance Army. That didn’t worry me too much, but what did was reading on and discovering why the UN were so crap at their job in the eastern part of the country. It wasn’t only the rebels kicking their arse, it was the terrain. Swamps, savannah, lava plains, all covered with impervious rainforest and high mountain peaks. The rebels had mastered it better than the peacekeepers. That didn’t worry me. It was the thought of trying to navigate over that terrain and get there before anything happened to her.
    We descended through cloud. The outskirts of London were worn out and grey, but then we did our approach over the sci-fi film set they called Docklands. There were so many cranes, they looked like wheat in a field.
    I didn’t want to power up my mobile again. That blank screen was starting to get to me.

7
    I drove west. I wanted to cross London, get on to the M40 to Oxford, then off towards Hereford. There had been no call from Silky, and it had taken a lot longer than I’d wanted to get