The Twain Maxim (27 page)

Mbangu had got them straight into the airport, no questions asked. He was a powerful untouchable so that even though they were armed to the teeth they drove in the battered bus straight on to the runway and up to the Gulfstream. He shook Jim’s hand as the young man staggered last into the plane. Mbangu’s face wore a knowing look. The Presidential 707 sat parked by the terminal and the G5, a far more expensive plane, was leaving with its interesting crew.

An Englishman had been loaded into an air ambulance, yet another rarity, and two injured pilots had been taken away by a CIA man in a black limo. He had seen the fireball fall to earth. They said it was the second from Nyamuragira but it looked to him to have come from elsewhere. He would, no doubt, be asked to work out what had happened but, meanwhile, when the jet had taken off, he would cross the border into Gisenyi. The lava flowed into Goma, not the town on the other side of the lake. Once the volcanoes had settled he would begin his evaluation, but not until then. He stood back as the steps were pulled away, then strode to the terminal to watch the jet head on its way.

“I hope there’s a shower on this flying gin palace,” said Smith. “Frankly, you two are as ripe as vintage Stilton.”

“There is,” said Jim.

Pierre was running up and down the jet. “This is big,” he said emphatically. “Whose is it?”

“Mine,” said Jim, and collapsed into his seat, exhausted.

“This is big, Jim,” said Pierre again, as if he hadn’t already made himself clear.

“Thanks,” said Jim.

“Buckle up,” said Jane.

Jim did as he was told, then tilted the chair back. “Wake me when we level out.” He fell straight to sleep.

Smith looked at Jane. “Close call?”

“Very,” she said.

Pierre bounced up and down in his luxurious leather seat. Then he stopped and looked at Jane. “Are we going to America?”

“England,” she said.

“Great Britain,” corrected Smith. “London.”

“That’s fine,” said Pierre. He was beaming as the plane lifted off.

“Let’s rock,” said Smith, sarcastically.

“Let’s roll,” said Jane, putting her seat back with a sigh.

“Let’s fly,” said Pierre.

The rear compartment of the plane was like a small hotel room, with a toilet and shower. Jim stripped off and Jane examined him. “You’ve healed up,” she said. “You’re covered in cuts, bruises and bites but the wounds are healed. No leeches, but it looks like you’ve had a few.”

Jim touched the side of her face. “You were incredible. You
are
incredible.”

“You’re not too bad yourself.”

He kissed her.

“In that shower, soldier,” she said, “before I puke.”

The hot water was heavenly, if not plentiful. Black filth ran from his head and torso and formed slurry in the shower tray. He piled on the shower gel – it would take a lot to get him clean. He could have stood there for hours but Jane was next so he sluiced the mud and grime away with the spray, turned off the water and stepped out. He dried himself, put on a robe and staggered into the cabin.

“That’s better,” she said, sniffing him.

“And you stink.”

She laughed and went into the shower room. The door closed.

Jim sighed as he sat down. He might not be able to stand up again, he thought.

A moment later the shower door opened and Jane emerged. “What is it with you?” she said, slapping something on to the table. She was smiling ironically. “Gold nuggets in your shower tray.”

“Maybe you’ve some in your pants too,” he offered.

She grinned. “I’m not answering that,” she said, and went back for her shower.

Pierre was teaching Smith how to play Congo poker. He appeared to make up the rules as he went along. Smith didn’t mind – the kid clearly had the right idea about life and Smith enjoyed his explanations of how exactly he had won. The kid made him laugh.

From time to time Pierre looked out of the window. He had never flown in a plane before. “You aren’t very good at this game,” he said.

“Clearly,” said Smith.

Jane came into the main cabin. She was wearing a pair of Jim’s jeans – with the bottoms turned up about four inches and anchored at the hips with her belt – and one of his white T-shirts. He was following her. “Your turn,” he called to Pierre. “The shower’s waiting.”

“I don’t need a shower,” Pierre assured him.

“Trust me, mate,” said Smith, “you do.”

Pierre threw down his poker hand and got up.

“Check for gold,” said Jane, pouring a sprinkle of tiny nuggets on to the table.

Smith pushed them around with a fingertip. “Curious,” he said.

Jim sat down and picked up Pierre’s cards. “What are we playing?”

“Blackjack,” said Smith.

“I’m bust.” Jim threw down the five cards.

“So I win at last,” observed Smith. 

Stafford opened the door. “Hello, sir. Good to have you back.”

“Thanks,” said Jim. He, Jane and Pierre trooped in. “And thanks for all the organising,” he added.

Stafford and Jane exchanged a funny look. Odd, Jim thought. They seemed to recognise each other.

“Drop your bags in the hallway,” Stafford said. “I’ll deal with them. Will Madam be staying?”

“Yes,” said Jim.

“Very good.”

Pierre was staring at the butler. “Are you his father?” he asked Stafford.

“Good Lord, no,” said Stafford. “I’m Mr Evans’s retainer.”

“What do you retain?” Pierre asked.

Stafford smiled. “I’m his butler.”

“Butler?” said Pierre.

“Through here, Pierre,” called Jim.

“Servant,” said Stafford, quietly. He looked a little uncomfortable now.

“OK,” Pierre said. He ran to the window. “Oh, big river,” he said. “Big, ugly grey river.”

“I think it’s cute,” said Jane.

“Cold-looking river.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go swimming in it,” said Jim.

Stafford came into the room. Pierre ran over to him. “Take a photo of me with your servant,” he told Jim, and grabbed Stafford’s arm.

“Good idea,” said Jane, smiling mysteriously. She took out her iPhone and photographed the pair.

The iPhone faked a camera snapping sound. “Got it,” she said. She highlighted Stafford’s face and sent it to Virginia. “Look,” she said, resizing the image. She showed Pierre, who took the iPhone and passed it to Stafford.

“Very good,” he said, as Jane reclaimed it.

Jim was booting his trading screen while he talked to St George. “I know – it’s a miracle … Nothing, really – the least I could do.”

Jane’s phone went “bing”. “Just a Coke Lite for me,” she said to Stafford, in reply to his question.

“Beer,” said Pierre.

“We’re out of beer, young man,” said Stafford, “Coke, tea, coffee?”

“Bad news,” said Jim into the phone. “What bad news?” He made a T-shape with his fingers at Stafford, who nodded.

“Coke,” said Pierre.

“I own Barron?” Jim threw a look to Jane. “That’s all right – I think the place has got a future. If the volcano doesn’t rub it out, that is. I’m sure Terence’s friend Alan will be pleased. Look, I’ve got to go.”

Jane was smirking at her iPhone. She stuck it under Jim’s nose. There was a picture of Stafford. It was captioned “Bertie Lees. MI1/MI10 retired”.

Jim had heard of MI5 and MI6 but not MI1, let alone MI10 “I know,” he fibbed.

“OK, OK,” she said.

“Do you think I’m a muppet?” he asked, smiling.

Jane pulled a face. “Well, no, of course not.”

“I don’t mind if you think I’m a muppet.” He laughed.

She thought he was laughing because he’d scored a point, but he was laughing because he was a muppet.

Had to go. See you soon. Love Jane.

Jim was staring out of the window at a pile driver as it hammered the rusty braces of the copper dam into the foreshore forty feet in front of the window. He was dreaming of the coming excavation. What amazing artefacts were buried deep under the mud and rubble of the London dockside? If he could find such bizarre and interesting bits on the surface, how much more might be encased in the
morass below? Every minute, at random intervals, there was a loud clang as a heavy weight on a vertical track lifted and fell from above on to the iron casing. It was whacking the wall section into the banks of the Thames, like a hammer driving a giant flat nail.

Bonk!

Jim sensed Stafford entering the room. “Come and sit down,” he said.

Bonk! The pile driver crashed, and a ratcheting noise followed as the hammer was lifted.

“Dreadful racket,” said Stafford, parking himself opposite.

Bonk! There was the chug of a primitive engine doing its jerky work.

“I’ve got some bad news and some good news,” said Jim, absently.

“What is the bad news?” asked Stafford.

“I don’t know how to say this, but your goddaughter, Tulip, is a call-girl – well, let’s say a courtesan – working for dark forces.” Jim studied Stafford closely for his reaction. “I’m afraid I got acquainted with her a bit too well.”

Stafford knew he’d been rumbled. “I’m flabbergasted,” he said, his face expressing cartoon shock. He leant forwards earnestly. “What is the good news?” His eyes narrowed intently.

“Well, I’m going to need a chairman for Barron. You’re used to working in large secretive organisations so you’ll know what to do.”

“Large secretive organisations?” Stafford queried.

“You know,” said Jim, “the Royal Household.”

“Right you are,” said Stafford, sitting back uncomfortably. “Of course.”

“It’ll be good money if you fancy it – a quarter of a million a year or something like that.”

Stafford folded his arms. “I’ve never been particularly motivated by personal gain,” he said, in a slow, measured voice.

“Well, you’ll be like me and paying most of it to the government in tax, so I shouldn’t let that hold you back.” Jim smiled. “Think about it.”

Stafford stood up. “I will,” he said. He left the room and went to his quarters, where he took his suitcase from the built-in wardrobe. His target was going to compromise him. He put the suitcase down. He was retired: he could walk away from the mission and into the twilight there and then. Nobody would say anything but “Thank you”.

He took his gold hunter from his pocket and flipped the lid open. It was one thirty p.m. A gentleman never retires before tea, he thought, and a player never retires full stop. He shut it and put it back into his pocket. He would remain in the crease and bat on.

Pierre stood by the entrance to the headmaster’s wing. It had a stone portico that was somewhat weathered after two hundred years. From where he stood he could see the headmaster writing at his desk. England was a cold damp place. Even with the sun out and the sky blue, it was chilly. He felt utterly isolated in the school. The children were babies, soft and weak, like infants. They were friendly to him and he tried to be friendly back, but they were princes and children of rich, famous people: he had no understanding of their minds as they had none of his.

On the sports fields he could laugh and play with them but
he could be too rough for them. Compared even to the teachers, he had the soul of an old man. He was a veteran of a horrific world that was as far away and unfathomable to them as the one he now lived in was to him. He missed his homeland; he was a hostage and a prisoner of it. He was trying very hard not to let himself and Jim down.

He pulled at his shirt collar. Every morning when he saw himself reflected in the mirror while he did his hair he thought he looked like a Kinshasa politician in his school uniform – and perhaps one day that was what he would become. Meanwhile the collar chafed his neck. The children in the town from the other schools opened their collars and slipped their ties low as a mark of rebellion but not his school friends. They wore bow ties and upheld the uniform. Pierre understood uniform: it defined who you were and who were your allies and enemies. He shared this knowledge with his new friends.

A black Mercedes pulled into the car park and Pierre jumped up and down with delight. Jim got out of the front passenger seat and then the back doors opened. An African couple got out. They were both smartly attired, but the woman wore Congolese national dress.

Jim was smiling but Pierre was looking past him. His mouth fell open and he ran forwards. His parents threw their hands into the air and rushed to meet him.

“Maman! Papa!” he cried, throwing himself into his mother’s embrace. He turned and grabbed his father. They were all crying.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” said Jim, “but I wanted to see the look on your face.”

Pierre and his parents were delirious with joy.

Jim turned away, his eyes burning. The headmaster had come out to join them and was now watching the scene. Jim walked up to him. “Wonderful,” said the headmaster. “truly wonderful.”

“How’s he getting on?” asked Jim.

“Surprisingly well,” said the headmaster, “considering all he’s been through.”

“I’d like to help the scholarship programme a bit more,” Jim told him.

“That would be most kind.”

Pierre and his parents were talking and hugging. It was the happiest scene in the world.

Jim looked down at the cheque. It read: “One billion pounds only” and had his signature at the bottom. Stafford held out his bowler hat, which contained a series of folded paper slips in it. “I wonder which charity is going to be the lucky winner,” said Jim, dipping his hand in and rootling about. He took one out and opened it. “And the winning charity is …” He looked up at Stafford. “Why does this have your name on it in your handwriting?”

Stafford affected a pained grin. “Very amusing, sir. Will that be all?”

“That’s a very good question,” said Jim.

THE END