The Perfect Soldier Read Online Free PDF Page A

late?’
    McFaul looked at him for a moment or two, suddenly aware of how tired he felt.
    ‘You tell me,’ he handed his helmet to the waiting Domingos, ‘I only work here.’
    Robbie Cunningham took the first Winchester exit off the motorway, peering through the rain to avoid the tangle of roadworks. He’d dropped Liz at the flat in Chiswick and doubled back towards the M3, pushing the rusty Escort to the limit. Westerby, the Director, had called the meeting for half-past four. With luck he’d just make it.
    Terra Sancta was headquartered in a sprawling Victorianvicarage on the city’s western edge. A big new extension to the rear of the building would treble the office space but the project was a month and a half behind schedule and what the Director called ‘the worker bees’ were still caged in the main building. Robbie shared an alcove with a fax machine, an unsteady pile of phone directories and a file of agency press cuttings. The file was on the thin side, a fact of which he was uncomfortably aware. In a good mood, the Director would refer to this as ‘disappointing’, though Robbie had no illusions about what he really meant. Third World charities survived on press coverage. Without profile, without your name in the papers, you stayed poor.
    The meeting was to take place in the Director’s own office. The room had once been the largest of the vicarage bedrooms, and for some reason the Director had hung on to the hand basin in the corner. He was soaping his face when Robbie knocked and entered, slipping into one of the two empty chairs at the long deal table. As far as he could judge, the meeting had yet to begin.
    The Director returned to the table. He looked older than his fifty-seven years. He was wearing a shapeless grey cardigan and the shirt beneath was open at the neck. There was mud caked on the bottom of his baggy corduroy trousers and his hair looked unusually wild. He settled himself at the head of the table behind an unopened file, murmuring a collective welcome to the half-dozen assembled faces. Robbie looked at the typed sticky label on the file. It said ‘James Jordan’.
    Before the Director had a chance to begin, the woman beside Robbie took a folded telex from her handbag and slid it down the table. Her name was Valerie. She looked after Africa.
    ‘From Luanda this afternoon,’ she said. ‘I thought you ought to see it.’
    The Director looked at her a moment, a pained expression on his face. He was famous for hating surprises. Aid, in his view, was about development, about the Third World marching to the slow, steady drumbeat of self-improvement. It was folly to rush things, to surrender to mere events. His least favourite words were ‘crisis’ and ‘emergency’.
    He unfolded the telex and read it. Then he looked up, sharing its contents with everyone else.
    ‘It’s from Peterson,’ he said glumly. ‘He thinks the press people may be on to us. Already.’
    He looked pointedly at Robbie who answered the accusation with a firm shake of his head.
    ‘Not this end,’ he said. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
    The Director gazed helplessly at the telex, then passed it to Robbie. Robbie read it quickly. Before flying to Muengo, Peterson had evidently received a phone call from the Reuters stringer in Luanda. He’d heard rumours about a dead aid worker. It wasn’t impossible that he’d been monitoring the radio traffic. Everyone did it. Peterson had naturally stonewalled but soon there’d have to be some sort of announcement. How was he to play it?
    ‘Well,’ the Director was sitting back now, polishing his glasses, ‘what are we to do?’
    Robbie was about to frame an answer when there was a brisk knock at the door. Before the Director could answer, the door opened and a figure stepped in. The white trenchcoat was streaked with rain and the umbrella left a trail of drips across the fitted carpet.
    ‘Came straight down,’ the figure said briskly. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ The Director