The Perfect Soldier Read Online Free PDF Page B

were, ever-sunny, ever-cheerful, making the most of what pitifully little they had. In his view, a withdrawal of aid was inconceivable. Angola was in big trouble, no question, but to abandon it now was beyond comprehension. If Terra Sancta existed for anything, it existed for this.
    He raised a hand, rehearsing the old arguments in his head, but the Director ignored him. They’d had this out before and the Director had little taste for public dissent.
    Llewelyn was musing aloud, his eyes moving slowly from face to face, his command of the meeting established.
    ‘You’re all worried about the downside,’ he was saying, ‘the negative publicity. You’ll have the media round your neck over Jordan and you’re afraid the rest will come out …’ His gaze reached the Director. ‘Am I right?’
    ‘Perfectly.’
    ‘So we’re into damage limitation. Or perhaps damage deflection. Yes?’
    ‘Alas, yes.’
    Llewelyn nodded, snapping open his briefcase, the visiting GP. He produced a yellow lawyer’s pad. The Director was waiting for his next word. The patient was sick. There was the possibility of a scandal. What would this enormously experienced media giant recommend?
    Llewelyn was scribbling something on his pad.
    ‘Anyone been in touch with the parents?’ he said without looking up. Robbie stirred.
    ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘I have.’
    ‘And how are they taking it?’
    ‘The father’s in a state. The mother …’ he hesitated, ‘I’m not sure.’
    Llewelyn glanced up, that same expression in his eyes, open intimidation.
    ‘You’re not sure?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    Robbie shrugged, refusing to lose his nerve.
    ‘On the face of it she’s pretty together, very coherent, very much in control …’ He paused. ‘In fact she wants to go out there.’ There was a sharp intake of breath from the end of the table. The Director looked genuinely shocked.
    ‘You’re serious?’ he said.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘She wants to go to Angola?’
    ‘That’s what she said.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘To fetch her son. To …’ he gestured at Jordan’s file, ‘find out what happened. Say goodbye, I suppose.’
    Llewelyn was leaning back in his chair, listening to the exchange, the pose of a man who’s heard it all before. For the first time, he smiled.
    ‘It’s common enough in these cases …’ he said. ‘Believe me, I’ve seen it over and over again. The Falklands was a classic example. Every time the casualty lists came in, the M.O.D. was swamped. Mothers mainly, funnily enough …’
    ‘I’m sure.’ The Director was still looking at Robbie. ‘So what did you tell her?’
    ‘I told her it would be extremely difficult.’
    ‘Impossible. It would be impossible.’ The Director frowned. ‘And what did she say?’
    ‘She didn’t say anything.’
    There was a brief silence. Llewelyn was making a note onhis pad. At length he put his pen carefully to one side, folding his arms.
    ‘Why would it be impossible?’ he said softly.
    Robbie began to answer but the Director cut in.
    ‘For one thing, it’s a war zone …’ he began, ‘just getting in there would be a nightmare. Then there’s the situation on the ground. Places like Muengo are in chaos. People are dying. There’s a food problem, no drugs, no power, poor water. The situation’s appalling, completely out of control.’
    ‘I understand that,’ Llewelyn said gently, ‘but why would it be impossible?’
    The Director was frowning now, confused, watching helplessly as Llewelyn took the conversation back to Robbie.
    ‘This Mrs Jordan …’ he mused, ‘… what’s she like?’
    ‘I just told you.’
    ‘I meant to look at, to be with. Nice woman? Sympathetic? Pretty?’
    Robbie shrugged.
    ‘Middle forties, smallish, trim …’ he paused, remembering the pile of abandoned jogging gear, ‘and fit, too, I imagine.’
    ‘Pretty?’ he asked again. ‘Good-looking?’
    ‘Yes.’ Robbie frowned, feeling curiously insulted by the question.