Warlord. James Steel

all shows in his appearance: six feet two, lean, shaven-headed. His face is as daunting as a dark cliff with lines like rivulets worn into it by exercise, self-denial and hardship.

      ‘How’s the clinic going?’

      ‘Oh, OK, you know. I bribe the right people in the Ministry of Health, I argue with the right people in the Ministry of Health and sometimes we get supplies and sometimes we don’t. We’re not going to save Africa but I am racking up God points big time.’

      Alex laughs. ‘Good works.’

      ‘Yes, good works. Isn’t Catholic guilt a marvellous thing?’

      ‘Hmmm.’

      The laughter eases out of Alex’s voice as he gets to the point of the call. ‘Well, I have a good work in mind.’

      ‘Oh, dear.’ Yamba sounds amused.

      ‘Hmm, this is quite a big good work actually.’

      ‘Oh no, what are we doing this time? Haven’t we interfered with enough governments? You’re not on that again, are you?’

      Alex’s voice begins to sound more serious. ‘Well, this time we’re going to set up a new country.’

      Yamba stops laughing.

      Smoke drifts across the forest glade, catching in a shaft of lemony morning sunshine. Otherwise everything is still and silent.

      It’s just after dawn and the raucous chorus of birds has died down. The glade is surrounded by high trees and thick undergrowth, wet with dew. Two large mounds covered in earth, ten feet in diameter, burn gently and little streams of smoke emerge from cracks at the top like snakes and, in the absence of any wind, slide away down the slopes.

      The charcoal burner stirs from under his shelter of white plastic sheeting and pokes a long stick into the bottom of one of the piles, checking if it is ready. He is of indeterminate age – he is so black and wizened by his trade he could be middle-or old-aged. He reeks of smoke and his eyes are red and rheumy. His body is streaked with smears of sweat-congealed black charcoal powder.

      He’s been up all night tending to his two kilns. He has to heat the bundles of wood cut from the forest just enough to drive off the excess water – too much and it will turn to ash, too little and it produces unsaleable smoked wood. What he wants is that light, brittle residue that the women of Kivu use to fuel their cooking fires. The trade is worth thirty million dollars a year, wood in the deep bush is free and all he needs to do is to live in this isolated spot cutting trees and tending his kilns.

      Charcoal burning is not a job for every man. The skills are jealously guarded and kept within a secret community; he learned the trade from his father along with many other secrets about how to communicate with the spirits of the trees and the animals that live in the forest and how to make charms for all of life’s requirements.

      He picks up a spade and starts shovelling earth over the vents at the bottom of the heap to cut off the flow of air. The combustion inside the mound gradually dies off and the streamers of smoke emanating from it fade to wisps and then stop. He makes himself a cup of black sweet tea, finds a sunny spot and settles back to wait for one of the traders he supplies.

      He dozes off but about midday a call from the bush on the slopes below him wakes him up and he hears the sound of a man breathing hard and the thud of his feet on the mud.

      A bare-chested man emerges through the bush heaving his tshkudu uphill. The lean fibres of his chest muscles stand out as he pushes on the handlebars.

      ‘Ah, Antoine, good to see you,’ the charcoal burner says quietly and offers him a drink from his yellow plastic jerrycan of water.

      Antoine smiles, takes grateful glugs, and then splashes his body and wipes off the sweat. He accepts a cup of tea and the burner asks, ‘So what’s going on in the world?’

      ‘Oh, did you hear about that riot up in Butembo?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Oh, Socozaki was playing Nyuki System. Nyuki were losing two–nil and so their goalkeeper walks up the pitch and tries to cast a spell on the other goal. So all the Nyuki players go mad and have a brawl on the pitch and when a policeman comes on to stop them he is pelted with stones by the spectators.’

      Antoine shakes his head. ‘So then the police fire tear gas and the crowd stampedes. Eleven people were crushed to death. What can you do?’

      ‘Eh,’ the burner agrees, ‘the goalkeeper should have been more crafty.’

      ‘Hmm. So how much for the bags?’ Antoine jerks his head towards the pile of grubby sacks.

      The burner names his price and Antoine looks disappointed. Then he pauses and a sly look creeps onto his face. ‘Ah, but I have a present for you from the Kudu Noir.’

      The charcoal burner sits up. ‘Show me.’

      The trader gets up and pulls a bundle out of a plastic sack on his tshkudu; it’s about a foot long and carefully wrapped up. ‘Have a look, it’s the real thing.’

      The burner opens it, looks inside and smiles slyly. ‘A girl?’

      ‘Yes.’

      The burner nods with satisfaction. ‘That’s good, female spirits are more powerful. I’ll make the powder; the Kudus will be pleased with this. OK, so now we can trade.’ He also gets up, goes over to his shelter and pulls out a small packet of grey powder in a clear plastic bag.

      The trader looks at it with bright eyes. ‘The real thing?’

      ‘Yes. It’s pure albino bone. Sprinkle it in a mine and the gold will come rushing to you.’

      He rubs his jaw. ‘OK, what’s your price?’

      Chapter Ten

      ‘You are joking, Devereux! You are joking! You’ve lost it, mate …Oh my God.’ Col rubs his forehead and draws his hand down the side of his face in disbelief. ‘Who d’ya think we are, the UN? We’re mercenaries, mate, not … whatever … nation builders or summat, you know the Red Cross, like.’

      Alex looks back at him with a raised eyebrow. ‘Col, I’m not asking you to put on a nurse’s uniform.’

      Col and Yamba are both in the drawing room at Akerley. Alex didn’t tell Col the plan beforehand: he knew this would be his response and is prepared to ride out the storm.

      Col is five foot six and balding with his remaining hair shaved down to grey bristles. He has grim eyes, a small moustache stained with nicotine and tattoos of the Parachute Regiment on one forearm and Blackburn Rovers on the other.

      Alex sits in the armchair and waits for the tide of scorn to abate; his expression is as calm and patient as Fang’s was the week before.

      Col eventually sees this. ‘You’re not joking, are you? Oh Jesus.’ He rubs his face before trying again. ‘It’ll be just the same as when they went into Iraq and Afghanistan. You just don’t know what chain reaction you are going to set off. Better to leave well alone, let ’em stew in their own juice. If they want to fooking kill each other and run shitty countries then let ’em. People get the governments they deserve. All Africans are fooking mad, you know that!’

      He looks at Yamba who keeps his face pointedly blank. This is a favourite topic of Col’s for riling him and he is not going to rise to the bait that easily.

      Despite appearances, the three of them actually get on well together because they are all exiles from their social backgrounds, united by their sense of professionalism and dedication to each other. Alex’s troubled upbringing makes him loathe the rigid mental straitjacket of county society. Yamba was forced out of his homeland as a boy and has only been grudgingly let back in recently. Col should just be a Northern hard man but his quick mind was bored rigid by its staid culture and he sought escape in the army. He speaks good French (with a strong Lancashire accent) and travels widely in Africa