Читать книгу Legacy - James Steel, James Steel - Страница 15

Here we go again, Alex thought as the plane swept in over the rusty iron roofs and palm trees of the shantytown around the Aéroport de Bangui-M’poko in the capital of Central African Republic.

It was midday and as soon as the door opened, hot African air swept into the cabin like a slick of warm oil. By the time their Air France flight from Paris had disembarked and they had walked over the burning tarmac to the arrivals shed, Alex’s shirt was plastered to him with sweat.

The 1960s terminal was dilapidated and filthy. Windows were broken and chewed sugarcanes, nut husks and litter were piled in corners. The noise from the press of people battered him. The air was thick with the strong smell of body odour.

When he got to the customs desk the uniformed officer looked at him with the quiet stare of a hyena eyeing a gazelle on the savannah.

He tapped the table in front of him with the end of his large truncheon and Alex dutifully dumped his rucksack down. He glanced across to where Col was getting the same treatment at another desk.

Welcome to Africa, he thought, as his baggage was unpacked and items of interest removed. The new MP3 player and bottle of whisky that he had deliberately placed at the top disappeared behind the desk; then Alex accidentally dropped a fifty-dollar bill out of his breast pocket and was through.

‘How’d ya get on?’ said Col as they met up on the other side of customs.

‘Didn’t get anything we need.’ The important kit for the mission was buried at the bottom of their bags.

They scanned the brightly dressed scrum of Africans milling around them.

‘Bienvenue à Bangui, Monsieur Devereux.’

A large black face with three tribal scars cut down each cheek emerged out of the throng. A gigantic hand extended and gave him a soft handshake. ‘Je m’appelle Patrice Bagaza.’

A huge man with an understated manner, as if he was embarrassed by his size, he averted his eyes as he shook Alex’s hand. He was wearing a long red and green print shirt, jeans and flip-flops.

‘Bonjour,’ said Alex carefully.

‘Monsieur ‘Waites.’ Patrice didn’t attempt to pronounce the ‘Th’ at the start of his name and shook Col’s hand as well. He then turned and shouted in Sango to make a path through the crowd.

Patrice’s bulk forced a way and the two men followed in his wake, loaded down with rucksacks. Their visa said they were here to go big-game hunting and they were dressed in lightweight outdoor gear: boots, walking trousers, slouch hats and tan waistcoats with lots of pockets.

Once they were through the chaos of the terminal, Patrice led them across the road to an old yellow Peugeot estate in the car park.

They stashed their bags in the back with the equipment that Patrice had assembled for them. As he shut the boot he turned to Alex and smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Devereux, I’m not going to make you speak French the whole way. That was just for the plainclothes security police in the crowd; they take an interest in whites coming in.’

Alex was caught off guard by the switch to American-accented English. Kalil had said they would be met by the cartel’s contact but Alex had not been sure what language they would be speaking. Besides, his French was passable from previous ops in Congo.

‘That’s fine,’ he smiled, conscious that he was reliant for now on this man.

They drove into town but Patrice didn’t seem to want to talk; he concentrated on steering them through the manic traffic. Old Peugeots, Renaults and Citroëns wheezed and limped alongside newer Toyotas and Mitsubishis. Trucks and buses were piled up with people and goods, and slouched on their axles; driven at top speed, they swerved around the worst potholes. Patrice was unfazed by it all, and weaved through them on the wide Avenue de I’Indépendance.

Alex and Col opened the windows to try to get a cool breeze but it was like having a hair dryer turned on your face. They looked out at the town; it had the rundown appearance of somewhere that had been taking a battering since its heyday in the 1960s. Most of the houses and buildings dated from then; their peeling whitewash was stained brown with red dust from the earth verges and were pockmarked by bullet holes. All the houses were heavily fortified against the outbreaks of rioting and looting over the years, with crude bars welded over windows and doors. Rubbish was strewn everywhere: plastic bags, newspapers, wrappers and cola nut skins. Sitting on beer crates at the roadside were ‘Gaddafis’ — youths selling stolen petrol from large jars; named after the oil-rich Libyan president, who had interfered in the country so often.

Driving through the centre, they circled the main traffic island. Alex saw it was covered with the distinctive spiky leaves of cassava plants; it had been turned into vegetable plots by civil servants used to being unpaid for months.

They headed out of town on Boulevard de Général de Gaulle, along the north bank of the Ubangi River. Alex looked out across it; it was over a mile wide, a great brown snake coiling through the heart of Africa.

Patrice drove them out east into the bush. The buildings gave way to vegetable patches and then the jungle began to take over. Dirt replaced tarmac, and they bumped past the mud huts of the village of Damara with red dust trailing behind them. A kilometre on and Patrice turned right up a small track to a football pitch surrounded by trees; long grass grew across it and the goal posts sagged at either end.

He parked in the shade out of the fierce sun. The three men got out and began unpacking the kitbags.

‘MP5s, as requested, with silencers,’ said Patrice, as he handed them machine guns. Both men checked them deftly, before pulling off their civilian kit and putting on camouflaged combat jackets and trousers. Alex prowled off round the field to make sure it was secure whilst Col went through the compasses, radios and homing beacons.

Patrice sat and smoked a Gauloise. When Col was satisfied that the kit was in order he sat with his back against a tree and read a biography of CAR’s former ruler, Emperor Bokassa, called Dark Age. Alex waited in the car with his long legs stretched out of the door and read through his maps and notes for the mission.

The hundred-degree heat sat heavily on the field. Nothing had the energy to make a sound. An hour passed and the men waited; Alex occasionally looked up at the sky and checked his watch.

When the distant noise of the helicopter broke the stillness he flicked his eyes at Col. They picked their kit up and readied themselves. Patrice grabbed his holdall out of the boot, then pulled a jerry can out and shook petrol over the inside of the car.

The camouflage-painted Mi-17 roared in; tree-tops thrashing in its wake. Alex never got over the shock of seeing such a huge, ungainly object hanging in midair, as if a bus were hanging over his head. Sunlight flashed off the cockpit windows as the pilot swung it round into the centre of the field and flared to hover two feet off the ground. Alex glimpsed Arkady Voloshin at the controls, cigarette clamped in the corner of his mouth as ever; his eyes narrowed as he scanned the tree line.

The door in the side was open; Yamba Douala crouched in combat gear with a 7.62mm machine gun poking out of the door in case they needed cover.

Grass and dust billowed crazily in the downwash as the two whites ran out through it, hunched under their packs.

Patrice stood back from the Peugeot and flicked his Gauloise into it. The petrol whooshed and then the fuel tank exploded as he ran to join them in the helicopter. Yamba hauled him and his bag inside as the big turbofans lifted them up.

The huge aircraft disappeared east over the trees towards the next phase of the operation.