Free The Perfect Soldier by Graham Hurley

Before they send in the bailiffs?’
    ‘It won’t come to that.’
    ‘It won’t?’
    ‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘not if we’re sensible.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘Well …’ he was frowning now, ‘we have to draw up some kind of schedule. Assets. Things we own. They formpart of the estate. Once they’re realised, the money goes to—’
    ‘Realised?’
    ‘Sold. Then there’s another list. Things we’re allowed to keep. There are rules about this, procedures. It’s pretty straightforward. We’re not the first people to go bankrupt. Not by any means.’
    ‘I see.’ Molly nodded, looking at the neat row of charts, carefully stacked away, each of them labelled. Southern North Sea. Eastern Channel. Western Channel. ‘So do you think it was worth it?’ she asked. ‘In the end?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Lloyd’s. Investing. Gambling. Whatever it is we did.’
    ‘I don’t know.’ Giles shrugged. ‘I suppose it served its purpose. James got educated—’ He broke off, turning away, and Molly realised after all how frail this recovery of his had been, how a single word could wreck it all. James. Gone. She got up, manoeuvring clumsily around the table. Boats were all the same. Awkward angles everywhere. She put her arms around him, letting him bury his head in the folds of her coat. The soft cashmere muffled his voice but she caught the gist of it.
    ‘I’m sorry …’ he seemed to be saying, ‘… I’m truly sorry.’
    *
    The second night in the bunker was worse than the first.
    McFaul lay on the sleeping-bag, trying to keep track of the rise and fall of the bombardment. During the day, the mortars had been largely silent and from time to time there’d come the shattering roar of government MiG-23 fighter-bombers flying ground-attack missions from Catumbela, an air force base on the coast. The jets flew in pairs, silver fish that swooped low over the bush to drop their bombs and then thundered away in near-vertical climbs, the favoured tactic against the rumoured
Stinger
missiles. McFaul had plenty of doubts about the military effectiveness of the MiGs but the noise alone was a comfort, evidence that someone out there cared. After dark, though, the initiative returned to the rebels, and from somewhere they seemed to have laid hands on more kit. As well as the crump of the big 120-mm mortars, McFaul recognised the sharper, flatter bark of smaller pieces, 81 mm and 60 mm. They’re getting closer, he thought, shrinking the range, pulling the noose ever tighter around the battered city. Last time anyone tried to count, there’d been upwards of 60,000
deslocados
, displaced people, in Muengo. Add the original population, at least the same again, and you’re looking at a lot of blood.
    McFaul got to his feet, easing the stiffness in his limbs. The concrete on the floor had been laid in a hurry and the thin down sleeping-bag did little to mattress the surface ridges. At night, like now, the bunker was full, a dozen or so people, all European. Most of them were trying to sleep, long shapes in the gloom barely penetrated by the single overhead light bulb. Power in the bunker came from a generator upstairs. The Swiss engineers had wisely installed a brand new Honda and they’d evidently left the Red Cross people with a couple of months’ supply of fuel. McFaul could hear the generator now, a low purring overhead. Since he’d been in the bunker, it had never faltered.
    At the far side of the bunker, beside a flight of wooden steps that disappeared into the house, was the communications set-up: a big HF radio on a steel desk and a couple of Motorolas for local use. All day, one of the Red Cross people had been monitoring conversations between the UN representative in Muengo and the UNITA commander out in the bush. The latter called himself Colonel Katilo. Katilo was Ovimbundu for ‘will not run’, one of the favoured
noms de guerre
. With Katilo, the UN rep had been trying to broker a ceasefire long