Old Enemies (20 page)

Yet if the father had any reservations about his relationship with his son, they were as nothing compared with what he felt about Harry. If it were a fault to be born British, in Sean’s eyes it was a crime to have been in the army in Northern Ireland, and nothing less than damnation to have served in the hated SAS. A record like that could mean only one thing. Harry had blood on his hands. Irish blood. All the way up to his elbows. Even sitting with a man like this was enough to curdle a decent pint. These two men shared a past, and their mutual loathing spilled over in each other’s eyes.

‘Well, at least we understand each other, Sean.’

‘I think we do, Mr Jones.’

‘Since neither of us wants to ruin our reputation by being seen with each other,’ Harry said, ‘I’ll be off.’ He swallowed the last of his beer and rose stiffly from his seat. ‘But one last thing. A bit of advice.’

Breslin sighed. ‘Don’t let me be delaying you. I swear you’ve tried to give me more than enough advice for one day.’

‘The kidnappers.’

‘What about them?’

‘All my instincts tell me they’re hired hands. Mercenaries. And kidnap isn’t their usual style of business. I may be wrong but right from the start they seem to have been in one hell of a hurry, like they have a deadline. Kidnappers often let the family wait for days, weeks, before they get in touch, let them stew, but not this lot. It seemed they couldn’t wait to get on with it.’

Breslin stared, didn’t respond.

‘Don’t delay too long, Sean. Time’s not on your side in this one.’ He leaned on his stick and was limping for the stairs when Breslin spoke.

‘In the name of God, sit down and finish yer drink.’

‘I already have.’

‘Then have another.’

Harry stopped, startled, turned slowly. ‘With you?’

The eyes remained as cold as a winter’s dawn, but Breslin waved a paw and ordered two fresh pints. He waited until they were making damp rings on the table and the barman had retreated before he spoke. ‘I’m beginning to think you sit next to the Devil himself.’

‘Because I’m English.’

‘Because all too often you turn out to be right.’ The admission seemed to leave a bad taste in his mouth, which he attempted to wash away with another swig of beer. ‘They’re in Italy, just like you said. Their man took a real wobble when Hiley threw the suggestion at him, then those very strange people back in the voice lab say it hit him right where it hurts.’

Harry nodded, but said nothing. Being right about Italy didn’t give him bragging rights with a man like Breslin.

‘But this stuff about them being in a hurry. Hiley – clever fella, that one – he told them we couldn’t be burying the diaries forever, that we needed a time limit. They came back and said six months, but he said that wasn’t good enough, that we’d have to start publishing something or the whole feckin’ lot would leak. Very persuasive, he was.’

‘He’s right.’

‘Six months. Does that sound like they’re in a hurry to you, Mr Jones?’

‘Depends what they come back with. There’s something in those diaries that simply won’t be relevant in six months. And if you were sitting on their pot, you’d give yourself a good margin for safety, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yeah. That’s what I was thinking, too.’

It was the first time they had agreed about anything. They sipped in silence for a moment.

‘They’ve sent proof of life?’ Harry asked.

Breslin nodded.

‘How is he?’

‘Happy as a lamb in April, what do you expect?’ Breslin spat sarcastically. He sucked at his unlit cigarette, but seemed to derive no satisfaction from it. His lips grew thin, as though sewn together by someone who’d made a pretty poor job of it.

‘Tell me, Sean, how deep were you into things? Back during the Troubles?’

‘Let’s just be saying that you and I will probably both end up in Hell, but squatting on different sides of the fire.’

‘Not on different sides, not on this one.’

Breslin’s lips were working now, the first sign of emotion his face had betrayed, and as they parted they poured forth scorn. ‘For the love of God, this is not about you and me, nor even you and my daughter-in-law. This is about Ruari.’

‘I understand. Your son as good as said you’d crawl across broken glass for him.’

‘God help me but I’d even sit down and drink with you.’

‘I’m sure you’d prefer the broken glass.’

‘Any day.’

‘I’d still like to help. If you want it.’

Breslin took a deep swig of his beer, swilling it around to wash a bad taste out of his mouth. He ran a hand through his hair so that it stood up on end as though it had a mind of its own, was cussed, awkward, like the man himself. ‘In my country we’re forced to hack our living from a hard soil, Mr Jones. We hold on to what we have. We learn to love with a fierce passion, even when we know how often that happiness is sure to be ripped from our hands. I love Rauri, and with every part of my Irish soul. He is the future, my future, even after I’m dead and long gone. So I will accept your offer of help, because you are my enemy’s enemy.’

‘I understand.’

‘And even if fairies build their nests at the bottom of my garden and it turns out that I should live for a thousand years, there’s not one of them when I’ll be of a mind to trust you.’

A bulbous silver moon hung over Harare, swollen with rain. The clouds had cleared, at least for the moment, leaving a sky filled with a million angels’ eyes, yet down on the streets the city still sweated. Concrete and Africa made an uncomfortable combination. In Chombo’s view it had been a mistake for Africans to mimic the colonial master and adopt his clothing, his language, his way of life. The white man was not suited to this place and neither were his habits, least of all this city, which blotted the landscape like a mausoleum. It had been known as Salisbury but they had wiped that away, given it the Shona name of Harare, yet its puddles were still the same and its stench had grown even worse. In some ways Chombo missed the old days. As he sat on his balcony and listened to the buzz-saw sound of mosquitoes cutting through the rumble of traffic, he reflected on how much simpler many things had been in colonial times. Four words, that was all they had needed in those days. Hate The White Man. A straightforward creed made all the easier by the stupidities of the white-pimp Prime Minister Ian Smith and his absurd henchmen. But old habits die hard, the hate lingered on, except now all too often it was turned on themselves.

During his time in Boston, Chombo had given a lecture to his fellow students about the situation back home in what was then called Rhodesia. He gave many such talks on the campuses that crowded the Charles River basin, evenings of colour and passion, pizza and beer, when he had described the fight for freedom in his home country. Often there was a fee for his labours, and always he found a choice of gullible young women keen to show off their liberal East Coast consciences by inviting him into their beds. One evening in a crowded library he had offered his usual performance, the eyes of his audience filling with indignation as he had denounced the imperialist oppressor, when a young man stood up at the back of the hall to ask a question. He had dark eyes and beard, and was wearing a yarmulke, no surprise there. ‘Hey, Chombo, enjoyed the talk, almost as much as I did last year. Long live the revolution,’ the young man called out, to the accompaniment of many nodding heads and a scattering of applause. ‘You’re dedicated, that’s for sure, gotta give you that. But if the revolution’s over there, man, what the hell you doing here?’

Even then Chombo had known how to play the martyr. ‘That is a very good question, my friend. And the answer is this. It is because the revolution cannot succeed without your help, your moral support and your money. And also because,’ he proclaimed to the rows of young, eager faces, ‘Mr Ian Smith’s bullets do not recognize the fact that I, Moses Chombo, have a Ph.D.’ Well, not quite true, he had a master’s and was intending to work towards a doctorate, he’d even got a grant for it, although in the event he would never manage to finish it. That night he had crashed his car, with two drunken teenagers on board, sisters, they’d been badly injured, and his life had taken a different course. Yet in all the years since, and no matter how fast and how far he ran, he could never escape those days and the lie they gave to his legend.

He blew another lungful of smoke into the heavy night air in an attempt to keep the mosquitoes at bay and looked across the rim of his glass at Takere, who was sitting opposite. When first they had formed their alliance he would have invited the security man to share a drink, but not any more, it was enough that he be allowed to sit. There was an order of things, and Takere had to be kept in his place.

‘Six months,’ Chombo muttered. ‘You said they would accept that.’ It sounded like an accusation.

‘I said they
should
accept that. It is extremely reasonable, in exchange for a child’s life.’

The President began to protest, but Takere cut him off before in his narrow-minded mood the man said anything they might both find difficult to forget. ‘They are haggling. It is a game. It is to be expected.’

‘It is not a problem? I have your word on that?’

‘A game. Which we must also play.’

‘What is it that you suggest?’

‘We must dissuade them from making further demands.’

‘How?’

‘By reminding them of what will happen if they do not cooperate.’

Takere smiled. Chombo thought it was the cruellest expression he had ever seen. The man actually enjoyed this. And it was as if Takere could read his thoughts because he was nodding. ‘To be successful, Mr President, you must learn to be a butcher. It is necessary,’ he said softly.

Chombo looked out into the darkness. The clouds were returning, the moon had disappeared and taken with it all the angels.

‘Do whatever you have to do. It must remain six months,’ he whispered, as the rain began to beat down upon his world.

For most of the time Ruari was left in darkness. There were two windows in the cellar, small, less than a foot high and so smeared with dirt they allowed nothing more than a dull light to penetrate for a few hours every day. He had begun to hate the darkness. It left him with nothing but the ghosts, and his thoughts, which grew ever more disturbed. Oh, he hated his captors, of course, but yet somehow in this world of near perpetual darkness he had begun to miss them, welcoming every glimpse, even the abuse they hurled at him. Little Shit was a name he wore with pride. And even when de Vries and Nelu arrived to record another message, he had learned to squeal quickly, to avoid unnecessary pain, and grew almost sorrowful when they packed up the laptop and left.

The hours dragged so slowly yet surely he had been here for weeks? It was becoming so difficult to tell the passage of time in the half-light – he was fed, he crapped; was beaten, strained to pick up any sign of life from the other side of the door, but it was thick and heavy and he could hear only an occasional muffled noise. So he waited with eagerness for the next time they would disturb him, and didn’t care for what reason. Almost anything was better than being left idle and alone.

So when the door to the cellar opened with an unusually purposeful clatter and the light was switched on, Ruari felt a tremor of anticipation. Even though he was temporarily blinded, he knew something exceptional was about to happen. This was more than just another feeding time. He could hear de Vries giving orders, and as his eyes adjusted he saw Grobelaar, and Nelu with his laptop, and Cosmin carrying a bucket. He was fascinated to see that Cosmin’s face had recovered from its bruising, and assumed his own must be back to something like normal, although his touch detected a distinct kink in his nose that hadn’t been there before. Nelu busied himself with the laptop, setting it on a small rickety table and switching on the camera, adjusting its position until Ruari was full frame. The image was grainy and desperately indistinct, the light bulb gave out only a few meagre watts and wasn’t strong enough for anything other than the most primitive of recordings. Ruari felt no sense of alarm.

Eventually Nelu seemed satisfied. He nodded at de Vries, and the men began to draw closer to Ruari, their shuffling feet kicking up dust from the dirt floor. They pulled out masks from their belts and covered their faces from the camera. Strange, it made them look like executioners on the scaffold, Ruari thought. Only then did he begin to feel a sense of menace.

Ruari huddled in the dirt, de Vries towering above him. ‘Little Shit, this is a moment you might want to start screaming. Yes, scream your lungs out,’ he said.

Then Cosmin dragged his bucket closer and from it pulled a glistening heavy-duty knife.

Fear is a more powerful tool than physical pain. As Terri watched what was happening from her home in Notting Hill, a tremble took possession of her lower lip. She could not tear her eyes from the screen.

They had been alerted to expect a message, so all the members of the family negotiating group had gathered in the dining room, waiting. Now they watched the images that were emerging from the dimly lit cellar. They were blurred and at first difficult to follow, shapes that were little more than shadows, colours that were bleached, but suddenly from the midst of confusion appeared a face. It was Ruari’s. He was looking up, wide-eyed, an expression of confusion spreading across his face. Terri gasped, her fingers reached out, as though to touch her son, but froze as the camera picked up the unmistakable outlines of the knife. Anonymous, unrecognizable hands grabbed for the boy. That was when he started screaming.