The Mission Song Read online

  Directed by the smiling Janet to the Great Hall I sensed at once that all was not well with the team. Her de luxe buffet breakfast of British sausages, best back bacon and scrambled eggs had attracted few takers among our lads, who sat about in groups, bug-eyed and despondent. At one table Anton conversed in low tones with two equally gloomy anoraks; at another, Benny, vast chin in even vaster hand, glowered sightlessly into his cup. Adjusting my demeanour to the mood, I helped myself to a modest portion of smoked salmon and sat down in isolation to await events. I had barely consumed my first mouthful when the squeak of rubber soles approaching at speed down a flagstoned corridor signalled the arrival of our skipper Maxie in time-yellowed Oxford University rowing sweater, long shorts with frayed ends and old plimsolls without socks. His boyish cheeks were flushed with morning air, his bespectacled eyes radiant. Behind him lurked Spider.

  “Panic's over,” Maxie announced, having first downed the glass of fresh orange juice that Gladys was holding out to him. “Hundred per cent bull's-eye on all fronts” — ignoring the general expressions of relief — “rest of the op is on schedule. Philip and the Gang of Three will touch down two hours ten minutes from now.” Philip, at last! Philip, to whom Maxie answers! “The time now is—”

  Aunt Imelda's watch was running a minute fast. I quickly restrained it. Not in his wildest dreams could Brother Michael have imagined that his dying gift to me would be put to such use.

  “Royal party will follow twenty minutes later. Conference kicks off eleven-thirty hours sharp, pee breaks to be determined ad hoc by Philip. Delegates' lunch buffet at fourteen-fifteen hours subject to Philip's say-so and assuming we've got the bulk of the work behind us, principals only. And we cultivate an atmosphere of leisure, please, not crisis. That's the way he wants it, and that's what we're going to give him. Met. reports are A-1, so it looks good for the alfresco facilities. Absolute latest close-of-play, seventeen-thirty hours. Janet. No Smoking sign in the conference room please. A bloody big one. Sinclair, I need you. Where the fuck's Sinclair?”

  I was about to receive part two of my sealed orders.

  7

  I will not deny that I was a touch nervous following Maxie down the cramped cellar steps, albeit the sight of Spider, Welsh eyes twinkling with honest mischief as he doffed his cap to us in humorous salutation, eased my apprehensions. I was further consoled to discover that, far from being on terra incognita, I had entered a Chat Room in miniature. From an unobtrusive service door not dissimilar to its Whitehall equivalent we proceeded along a soot-stained corridor festooned with overhead cables to a defunct boiler room turned audio centre. Technologically, it was true, we were a far cry from Mr Anderson's state-of-the-art wonderland, but with a lick of green paint, and a couple of his famous hortatory notices on the wall, I could well fancy myself back in the catacombs of Northumberland Avenue with the shadowy march of unindoctrinated feet crossing our cellar windows.

  Watched intendy by Maxie and Spider, I took stock of the somewhat antediluvian arrangements. The cables from the corridor fed into a Meccano grid with two banks of tape recorders, six to a bank and each recorder numbered and labelled according to its task.

  “RA, Skipper?” I enquired.

  “Royal apartments.”

  “And GS?”

  “Guest suite.”

  I toured the labels: RA/drawing room, RA/bedroom one, RA/bedroom two, RA /study, RA /hall, RA /bathroom & wc, GS/living room, GS / bedroom, GS /bathroom, verandah west, verandah east, stone steps upper, stone steps lower, walkway, gravel paths 1, 2 and 3, gazebo, porch, conservatory.

  “How's about it then, Brian?” Spider urged, unable to contain his pride any longer. “We don't all have to be digital in the world, or we wouldn't have been born different, would we? Not unless we want a lot of foreign fishermen poking their noses into our business.”

  I won't say I was shocked. In an undefined way I'd been expecting something like this. So probably it was stage fright that made the hairs rise on my spine, and Maxie wasn't helping matters by urging me to admire what he called my hot-seat at the centre of the room, which at first sight looked about as inviting as an electric chair, but on closer inspection turned out to be an ancient recliner with cables taped up the side of it, and a headset, and a kind of hospital bed-tray with shorthand pads laid out, and A4 paper, and pre-sharpened HB pencils, and a walkie-talkie cradled on the armrest; and on the other arm a console with numbers on it which I was not slow to realise corresponded with the numbers on the tape recorders.

  “Soon as we recess, you hightail it down here,” Maxie was saying in his pared-down voice of command. “You listen to whatever you're told to listen to, you interpret in fast order via your headset to Sam in the ops room.”

  “And Sam is, Skipper?”

  “Your coordinator. All conversations are recorded automatically. Sam will tell you which ones to listen to live. Any spare time, you skim the secondary targets. Sam will brief and debrief you and pass your material out to the people who can use it.”

  “And Sam would be in touch with Philip,” I suggested, in my continuing efforts to draw nearer to the fountainhead of our operation, but he declined to rise to the bait.

  “Soon as a recess is over, you whip upstairs, resume your place at the conference table, act natural. The job of Spider here is to service his system, make sure his mikes aren't on the blink, log and store all tapes. He's linked live to the surveillance team, so he tracks the conference delegates' whereabouts, and puts 'em up in lights on his map.”

  It was less a map than a home-made version of the London Underground plan, mounted on hardboard and dotted with coloured light bulbs like a child's train set. Cap askew, Spider placed himself before it with proprietorial pride.

  “Anton's in charge of surveillance,” Maxie went on. “Watchers report to Anton, Anton tells Spider where the targets are located, Spider marks 'em up on his map, you listen to 'em, give Sam the low-down on what they're saying to each other. Every target is colour-coded. Surveillance is naked eye, static posts and intercom. Show him.”

  But first, for Spider's benefit, I had to provide what he called a for-instance. “Name two colours, son,” he urged me. “Your favourites. Any two.”

  “Green and blue,” I ventured.

  “The where, son, the where.”

  “Stone steps upper,” I said, selecting a label at random.

  Fingers flying, Spider pressed four buttons. Green and blue pinlights winked from the far left flank of the Underground plan. A tape recorder began silently turning.

  “Like it, son? Like it?”

  “Give him the master light,” Maxie ordered.

  A brilliant purple light shone forth from the centre of the royal apartments, reminding me of the visiting bishops that the secret child had spied on from the Mission servants' quarters.

  “Master light and royal apartments are out of bounds unless Philip personally tells you otherwise,” Maxie warned. “Contingency mikes. Archival, not operational. We record but don't listen. Got that?”

  “Got it, Skipper.” And — surprising myself with my own temerity — “Who does Philip actually consult for, sir?” I asked.

  Maxie stared at me as if suspecting insubordination. Spider was standing rock-still before his Underground plan. But I was not to be put off, which is something I never completely understand about myself: the streak of mulishness that asserts itself at inopportune moments.

  “He's a consultant, right?” I blundered on. “So who does he consult? I don't mean to be pushy, Skipper, but I've got a right to know who I'm working for, haven't I?”

  Maxie opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.

  I had the impression he was genuinely confused: not by what he knew, but what I didn't. “I thought Anderson had told you all that stuff.”

  “All what stuff, Skipper? It's only background I'm asking for. If I'm not fully briefed I can't give of my best, can I?”

  Another pause, in which Maxie fleetingly share
d his be wilderment with Spider. “Philip's freelance. Works for whoever pays him. He has ties.”

  “Ties with the government? Ties with the Syndicate? Ties who with, Skipper?” If you're in a hole, don't dig, they say. But in this mood there's no pulling me back once I've started.

  “Ties, man! Haven't you heard of ties? I've got ties. Spider here's got ties. We're not official, we're para, but we've got ties and we're arm's length. Way the world works, for Christ's sake.” Then he seemed to take pity on me. “Philip's freelance, he's a consultant. He's under contract. His speciality is Africa, and he's boss of the op. That's good enough for me so it's good enough for you.”

  “If you say so, Skipper.”

  “Philip coralled the delegates, Philip set the terms of the deal and brought everyone to the table. Forty-eight hours ago there wasn't a cat's chance they would sit down in the same room with each other. So shut up and admire him for it.”

  “I will, Skipper. I do. No problem.”

  Maxie was loping angrily up the stone steps two at a time with me on his heels. Reaching the library, he flung himself into a chair and beckoned me to another, and there we sat like two gentlemen of leisure while we cooled down. Beyond the French windows, soothing lawns rose gently to the bugged gazebo.

  “In a place not a thousand miles from here in Denmark, a seminar is in progress,” he resumed. “With me?”

  “With you, Skipper.”

  “Calls itself the Great Lakes Forum. Heard of it?”

  I hadn't.

  “Bunch of long-haired Scandinavian academics master minding off-the-record discussions to solve the problems of the Eastern Congo ahead of the elections. Grab hold of all the chaps who hate each other, invite 'em to let off steam, and something wonderful's bound to happen, long as you believe in fairies.”

  I gave a knowing smile. We were back on course, comrades again.

  “Today's their free day. They're supposed to be inspecting fish smokeries and sculpture parks but three of the delegates have begged off and they're coming here instead. For an off-the-record conference of their own.”

  He tossed a folder onto the table between us. “That's the background you're after. Potted biographies, languages, ethnicity of players. Philip's labour of love. Three delegates, one unholy triangle,” he continued. “Until a few months ago, they were cutting each other's balls off and butchering each other's wives and stealing each other's land, cattle and mineral deposits. With a little help they're now forming an alliance.”

  “Who against this time, Skipper?” I asked in a suitably weary tone.

  My scepticism spoke for itself, for what could be the purpose of any alliance in that benighted paradise unless it was against a common foe? I therefore took a moment to grasp the full, the momentous import of his reply.

  “Not who against for once. Under whose auspices. Have you by any chance heard tell of this self-proclaimed Congolese saviour chap, an ex-professor of something, who's working the boards these days? — calls himself the Mwangaza — that's light, isn't it?”

  “Or enlightenment,” I replied, which was pure interpreter's knee-jerk. “Depends whether we're being figurative or literal, Skipper.”

  “Well, the Mwangaza's our key man, figurative or my arse. If we can get him in place ahead of the elections, we're home free. If not, we're fucked. There's no second prize.”

  To say my head was spinning would be a major understatement. Spiralling into orbit was more like it, while at the same time transmitting frantic signals to Hannah.

  • • •

  I have listened to him, Salvo, she is telling me, switching from French to English in a moment of rare repose during our lovemaking. He is an apostle for truth and reconciliation. In Kivu he is everywhere on the local radio stations. Two weeks ago on my day off, my friends and I travelled all the way to Birmingham where he spoke to a great crowd of us. You could have heard a pin drop in that hall. His movement is called the Middle Path. It will do something no political party can do. That is because it is a movement of the heart, and not the purse. It will unite all the people of Kivu together, north and south. It will compel the fat cats of Kinshasa to pull out their corrupt soldiers from East Congo and leave us to manage ourselves. It will disarm the surrogate armies and genocidal militias and send them back over the border to Rwanda where they belong. Those who have a real right to remain may do so provided they truly desire to be Congolese. And do you know what is more, Salvo?

  What is more, Hannah?

  In 1964, in the great rebellion, the Mwangaza fought for Patrice Lumumba and was wounded!

  But how can he have done that, Hannah? The CIA assassinated Lumumba in 1961, with a little help from the Belgians. That was three years before the great rebellion began, surely.

  Salvo, you are being pedantic. The great rebellion was Lumumbist. All who took part in it looked to Patrice Lumumba for their inspiration. They were fighting for a free Congo and for Patrice, whether he was alive or dead.

  So I'm making love to the revolution.

  Now you are being ridiculous as well. The Mwangaza is not a revolutionary. He is for moderation and for discipline and justice, and for getting rid of all who steal from our country but do not love it. He does not wish to be known as a man of war, but as a bringer of peace and harmony to all true patriots of Congo. He is l'oiseau rare; the great hero who is come to cure all our ills. Am I boring you, perhaps?

  Claiming to believe I am not taking her seriously, she wilfully flings back the bedclothes and sits up. And you have to know how beautiful she is, and how mischievous in love, to imagine what that means. No, Hannah, you are not boring me. I was temporarily distracted by the night whisperings of my dear late father, who had a dream very like yours.

  One Kivu, Salvo my son . . . At peace with itself under God and the Congolese flag . . . Freed of the pest of foreign exploitation but willing to absorb all who sincerely wish to share in the divine gift of its natural resources and the enlightenment of all its people . . . Let us pray you live long enough to see that day dawn, Salvo my son.

  • • •

  Maxie was waiting for my answer. Well, had I heard of this Congolese saviour chap, or hadn't I? Like the Mwangaza, I opted for the Middle Path.

  “Maybe I have at that,” I conceded, careful to inject just the right amount of disinterest into my voice. “Isn't he some kind of recycled prophet of consensus?”

  “Met him, have you then?”

  “My goodness no!” — how could I have given him such an absurd impression? — “I make rather a point of steering clear of Congolese politics, to be frank, Skipper. I take the view I'm better off without.”

  Which, pre-Hannah, was pretty much the truth. When you assimilate, you choose.

  “Well, steel yourself, because you're about to meet him,” Maxie informed me, again glancing at his watch. “The great man will be accompanied by a retinue of two: one faithful acolyte alias political advisor, and one semi-faithful Lebanese middleman named Felix Tabizi, Tabby for short. The Prof's a Shi, so's his acolyte.”

  Tabby, I repeated to myself, as I was wafted back to the glittery house in Berkeley Square. Tabby the bastard, Tabby the eleventh-hour cliff-hanger. I was about to ask what a semi-faithful Lebanese middleman thought he was doing in the Mwangaza's entourage, only to discover that Maxie was already telling me.

  “Tabby's the Prof's necessary evil. No African leader is complete without one. Ex far-out Muslim, used to run with Hamas, but recently converted to Christianity for his health. Helps manage the old boy's campaign, smoothes his passage, handles his finances, washes his socks.”

  “And his languages, Skipper? Mr Tabizi's?”

  “French, English, Arabic, and whatever he picked up free on his travels.”

  “And Philip. What languages would he be speaking?”

  “French, Lingala, bit of Swahili, not a lot.”

  “English?”

  “Of course he bloody does. He's an Englishman.”

  “And th
e Professor speaks everything in the book, I take it. He's an educated man.” I didn't intend this as a dig at Maxie's lack of linguistic expertise, but from his frown of displeasure I feared he had taken it as such.

  “So what's your point?” he demanded irritably.

  “Well, you don't really need me, do you, Skipper? Not upstairs. Not as such. Not if the Mwangaza speaks French and Swahili. I'll just stay down in the boiler room with Spider and listen in.”

  “Total and utter bullshit. You're star of the show, remember? Chaps who are in the business of changing the world don't expect to do their own interpreting. And I wouldn't trust Tabizi to tell me the time of day in any fucking language.” A moment of reflection. “Apart from which, you're essential equipment. The Mwangaza insists on speaking Swahili because French is too colonial for him. We've got one chap who speaks perfect French and minimal Swahili, and another who speaks a bit of Swahili and minimal French.”

  Flattered as I was by star of the show, I had one more question. More accurately, Hannah had.

  “And the desired end-effect of the conference, Skipper? Our dream outcome? How would we define that? — which is a thing I always ask my clients.”

  It wasn't, but my recalcitrance touched a nerve in him. “We're sorting the place, Sinclair, for Christ's sake!” he expostulated in a pent-up voice. “We're bringing sanity back to a fucking madhouse. We're giving piss-poor, downtrodden people their country back and forcing 'em to tolerate each other, make money, get a fucking life. Have you got a problem with that?”

  The patent sincerity of his intentions, which to this day I have no cause to question, made me pause but not relent.

  “No problems at all, Skipper. Only you did mention democracy at the end of a gun barrel, you see. And I was naturally wondering who exactly was in your sights when you said that. I mean, at the end of the gun barrel. Given there's an election coming up. Why get in ahead of it, if you follow me?”