The Twain Maxim (13 page)

Although he hardly used it, the jet filled him with pride. Most of the things he’d achieved – his meteoric rise, the massive trading profits, saving the world – now seemed dreamlike and unreal. If someone had told him it had all been a fantasy and now he had to go back to his old life, he would have accepted it. Since he’d joined the bank – straight out of school – his entire life had seemed like a gigantic hallucination, his memories of the recent past the crazed visions of a maniac.

Yet the Gulfstream was shining proof that everything he thought had happened really had, and that he actually was sitting on top of the world, the winner of a bizarre lottery.

His ability to read a stock chart had catapulted him into a new universe in which none of the old rules applied. From the outside he might seem the richest, smartest guy around, but inside he felt as clueless as a toddler playing ball beside a motorway.

Jim didn’t have to put anyone right about the route: they were going via Cairo. “Do you have any spare US dollars?” the captain asked. He’d been an RAF fighter pilot in the early nineties but had since flown commercial airliners, then private jets. His face looked as if it had baked in the sun for decades, but he had a wide mischievous smile. He was a
consummate professional, flying the plane with the precision of a surgeon reshaping a film star’s nose.

Jim opened the top compartment of a rucksack that was waiting for him by the small dining-table. He found nothing so he rummaged in the side pockets and pulled out an envelope with a thick bundle of US dollar bills. “How much do you need?”

“A hundred dollars should do it. They’ll clear us in Goma and it’d be better if we included this paperwork with the other forms.”

Jim stripped out a handful of notes and handed them over. He stuck the rest in his pocket. “OK, Ewan, let’s rock,” he said, sitting back.

“Yes, sir.”

He sighed, exasperated, then grinned. “It’s Jim.”

He sat on the leather sofa that ran down the length of the right mid-section of the cabin. Stafford had packed the rucksack. He had no idea what was in it, but there was meant to be enough to last him a long time in the jungle. How Stafford would know about such things he couldn’t guess, and he was a little concerned that perhaps his butler actually didn’t have any idea. The blind might be leading the blind. Jim knew as much about jungle survival as he did deep-sea diving.

There was an inventory in the top flap of the rucksack – a good place to start exploring the contents. The last page was a map of the packing. There was a list of clothes, all linen, $10,000 in cash, a tent, apparently in a flat pack down the right side of the rucksack, a jungle knife, small binoculars, mosquito net, all-weather blanket, fire-making equipment, sanitary wipes, rations for five days, lifesaver
water-purification
bottle, night-vision goggles, lures and a snare
kit, a GPS, copious medical supplies, a survival guide, maps, flashlight, pocket knife and sharpening stone, batteries, pocket tools, tape, vitamins, inflatable mattress … the list went on. He lifted the rucksack. It seemed too light for all this stuff. He folded the inventory and put it back into the top pocket.

His computer and more clothes were in a flight case at the back of the cabin.

The items in the rucksack were a little intimidating. Suddenly Tulip’s advice seemed a lot more sensible.

The inside of the plane wasn’t so small that it was cramped, like the smaller jets, but it wasn’t a large space either. The Gulfstream was like a small flying hotel suite. Jim didn’t employ a steward: even though it wouldn’t have cost much in comparison with the machine itself, maintenance, two highly qualified pilots and fuel, but it seemed silly to Jim to pay someone to serve you a drink when you could pour it yourself. He could have asked Stafford to come, but Jim was appalled by the idea of travelling with a retinue. There was a platter of sandwiches in the forward galley area and that was enough for him. He had leased the plane for three years simply because he could and because he had practically nothing to spend his money on. He had given the bank’s wealth management group, who looked after his affairs,
£
20 million to take care of him if he needed it. The rest he could spend. If only he knew how to.

When you had a certain amount of cash, you needed to develop vices to use it. Gambling and women could eat through fortunes, as could drugs, expensive toys and the wrong kind of friends. For Jim gambling was pointless: he could play the markets and win pretty much every time.
Drugs scared the hell out of him, and he’d never hooked up with the wrong kind of friends – although Sebastian
Fuch-Smith
had demonstrated just how expensive even good friends could be.

And now he had an expensive girl but even she wasn’t a threat to the ocean of cash he had just torn out of the global forex markets.

Spending his money was a puzzle to be solved later.

In his way, Kitson was a successful man. He had a good life and a fine healthy family. Everything had been great in his world until he’d fallen out of a helicopter. He’d been well set up for the rest of his life but had still lost everything.

If Sebastian hadn’t got himself suckered into a stock punt on a ridiculous mine in a godforsaken country, this chain of events would have never kicked off. A few electrons flickering on his friend’s screen had fired a few greedy neurons in his brain and now Jim was flying across the globe at 80 per cent of the speed of sound to find a decomposing body in a jungle at the foot of a volcano that had nearly wiped out a city with a population of 200,000.

Tulip was rising again in Jim’s estimation. He could turn the bloody plane around – but he knew he had to go through with it: it was the right thing to do.

The smoked-salmon-and-cream-cheese sandwiches were good. There was enough for about six people so he took some up to the captain and co-pilot, who were happy enough to see him. He looked out of the cockpit across the plane’s short nose at the vertiginous view to the sea below and found himself trying to remember the name of the Greek kid who had stuck feathers to himself with wax and fallen out of the sky when he flew too close to the sun. He’d had a tough
break. He’d never understood why they had taught such a stupid story at school but now he understood what it meant. What a bunch of miserable fuckers the ancient Greeks were, he thought.

He went back into the cabin and checked his jacket for stomach settlers. He’d remembered to bring some and he wondered if there were more in the medical kit.

Even if there were, he wouldn’t be carrying enough to last him on this trip. Sitting down, he thought of how Jane would love this adventure, all kitted up for a leap into the unknown… He tried to make himself think of something else but the picture of her in the muddy bog kept flashing into his mind. Her smile grabbed his inner eye and held it.

He missed her.

Goma airport was a large green tongue edged on two sides by the city, scarred by a battered black landing strip down the middle. It was truncated by a field of congealed lava.

If Jim could have seen what the pilots saw he would have freaked out.

The airstrip looked like some giant abused cricket wicket, long since abandoned and covered at one end with volcanic pumice. At the far end, near the lava flow, there were some planes, one parked like a stranded boat and apparently used as offices. Jim was still getting over the awesome sight of the Nyiragongo volcano and a glimpse of the airport would have been one view too many. Nyiragongo wasn’t some
long-dormant
mountain with a hole in the top: it was the sort of volcano Hollywood whipped up to destroy the world.

Under dark clouds, heavy with rain, the massive caldera was spewing out white fog as if it were the devil’s own chimney. It was the most evil-looking thing he’d ever seen – like an enormous bomb about to detonate. The Barron property was somewhere to the north of it. Whatever the chart had told him about the future stock price he certainly didn’t feel like believing it now.

Jim looked at the shanties that surrounded the airport as the captain put the plane down lightly. A dozen or more
aircraft sat reassuringly to the right of the runway, and as they taxied along he saw the terminal ahead, a rudimentary but functional 1960s building.

“We’re going to drop you off and turn her straight round, Jim,” said the captain, over the intercom. “If your party isn’t here to meet you I suggest you stay with us and we come back tomorrow.”

There wasn’t any point in replying as he couldn’t talk to the cockpit, but he said, “I’ll be OK.”

The plane pulled to a halt beside the terminal. The
copilot
opened the door and moved out on to the steps. Jim spotted a large European in a lurid Hawaiian shirt standing next to an official. The co-pilot greeted them and there was an exchange of papers. The man in the Hawaiian shirt seemed to be in charge and the official was all smiles and efficiency.

Jim perked up and went to collect his bags.

The co-pilot climbed back in. “All sorted,” he said.

“Thanks, Dave,” said Jim.

The co-pilot offered to help him with his stuff but Jim shook his head – only to regret it as he tried to negotiate the door with the two awkward bundles. The stifling heat struck him immediately and he tottered down the steps. The man in the Hawaiian shirt stepped up to him. “Let me have that,” he said, and relieved Jim of his flight case. “Mark Higgins,” he added.

“Jim Evans – good to meet you.”

“We’ve got to move it,” said Higgins. “The sun’ll be going down soon and I’m not a big fan of flying in the dark.” He pointed to the collection of planes, now two hundred metres away. “If we go immediately, we might get down before it’s
pitch black. We’re only about thirty minutes away if we put our foot down.”

“Sounds good,” said Jim. He shook the captain’s hand. “Thanks, Ewan, good trip back,” he said. He shook the
copilot’s
hand. “Cheers, Dave.” He shook the official’s hand for good measure. “See you later, guys. I’ll call you.” He turned to Higgins. “OK, Mark. Lead on.”

Higgins was practically marching towards the planes. “That’s our Huey,” he said, pointing at the white liveried helicopter. He stowed Jim’s luggage in the back, and they got into the cockpit. Higgins gave Jim a headset, which he put on, then fired up the aircraft and was talking to Air-traffic Control as he did his in-flight checks. Clearance for takeoff came a few seconds later and then they were lifting off. On the ground Jim could see the door closing on the G5 and the stairs being dragged away. The Huey rose into the sky, away from the airport and over the shanties.

Jim gazed at the lava field that covered the end of the runway and for miles around. It was a black inky scab that had come from the volcano. The helicopter wheeled and headed straight for it. “That’s fucking impressive,” said Jim into his mic.

“Nyiragongo?”

Jim laughed. “Yeah.”

“It’s a big scary bastard. We’re on the other side of it, between it and the other big fucker, Nyamuragira. Basically, if you think of the Nyamuragira volcano as the middle of the property, we have mineral rights in forty miles of the surrounding country. But you probably knew that already, seeing how much of the company you bought.”

“Well…” Jim hesitated “…sure.”

They were coming up on Nyiragongo fast and Higgins was taking them around the west side, away from the smoke cloud that was being pushed to the east by the prevailing wind. “That Gulfstream must have cost a pretty penny to charter down here,” Higgins remarked.

“It’s mine,” said Jim, mesmerised by the smoking cone of the volcano, which they were passing.

“Really?” said Higgins, clearly so surprised that Jim regretted opening his big mouth. “Very smart.”

The light was failing fast as the sun fell quickly to the horizon. “I’d take you up to see the lava lake,” said Higgins, “but maybe another day. It’s basically about as high as this chopper will fly. Twelve thousand feet is about the limit for this thing, but it’s worth the view, if you like that kind of thing.”

“Thanks,” said Jim, “if we have time.”

Higgins nodded. “I think we’ll make it before dark, and that’s great. Daylight’s my friend.”

Mine too, Jim thought.

Higgins was flying with the determination of someone who knew exactly where he was going. They were heading for the left flank of the Nyamuragira volcano, speeding across more lava fields. “We’ll be down in a couple of minutes.”

Jim looked ahead but couldn’t see any significant structures to signify that the mine lay below.

“Here we go,” said Higgins, as if some hidden display panel showed him their destination.

Jim searched the ground in front: a mixture of forest and grassland speckled with trees and an occasional scrappy field. Then a collection of low buildings came into sight and a flat area just before the forested slopes of the volcano. It was a little bigger than a farm complex: three sets of buildings
separated by rough space. The lights of the landing pad caught his eye, its large white H reassuring. The helicopter was throwing a spotlight beam on it.

Jim smiled. Night was falling faster than he’d ever experienced.

The Huey touched down and Higgins pulled off his headset as he threw various switches on the control panels. “Great timing,” he said, as the noise faded. He was clearly relieved to have got down in one piece.

The compound was lit and Jim noted the cordon of razor wire that protected it. The fence was high and wickedly topped with more razor. No one would get in without a lot of effort.

They climbed out of the chopper and collected Jim’s luggage. Jim looked into the cargo hold. Somehow Kitson had opened the door and fallen out. What exactly had happened? He wanted to ask but decided to leave it – maybe it would come out naturally.

Baz Mycock was walking towards them across the landing pad. “Wotcher, mate,” he said. “Have a good trip?”

“Not bad,” said Jim.

“He flew here in his Gulfstream,” said Higgins, smiling and nodding.

“Nice,” laughed Baz, shaking Jim’s hand. “You’re a stylish fella. And apparently you own twenty-eight per cent of Barron now.” Baz’s eyes twinkled in the landing pad’s lights.

“Really?” said Jim. “That didn’t take long.”

“Maybe I should call you ‘
bwana
’.” Baz let out a quacking laugh. “Ker, ker, ker.”

“If you like,” said Jim. He swung his rucksack on to his shoulder and sagged a little.

“Anyway, you kept the price up nicely, thank you very much.” Baz managed a perfectly grateful smile, even though it was exactly opposite to how he felt. If only he could convince Higgins to let him push this one out of the chopper too, he’d be a happy man. “Let me take that,” he said, lifting the load off Jim’s shoulder in an easy sweep.

“Thanks,” said Jim. “Had a bit of a rib removed.”

“Nasty,” said Baz, as they turned for the gate. “Accident?”

“Kind of,” said Jim.

“You’ll have to lighten that up if you’re going trekking,” said Higgins.

“I’ll be all right,” said Jim. “I just picked it up wrong.”

“You can always ditch stuff,” said Baz, opening the gate. “No litter police up there,” he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the volcanoes.

They walked to a small bungalow among the low buildings.

“It’s only cold water in the shower,” said Baz, putting down the rucksack, “and it’s not really cold but you get the idea. Electricity comes on at ten or eleven and stays on till midnight. Getting diesel up here’s a pain in the arse so we eke it out.”

Higgins stood Jim’s flight case next to the rucksack. “Come outside and I’ll show you the lie of the land.”

They went out to an open area in the centre of the camp. A road appeared to lead up to the far left end from the valley below.

“In front of you to the left are the soldiers’ quarters.” Higgins pointed to some buildings that, now Jim studied them, looked like basic barracks. “I wouldn’t go down too close – they’re a rough lot. We pay the government a shit load for them but I doubt they see any of it. We bung them some
extra, but let’s just say they aren’t the happiest bunnies ever to hop across the face of the earth. Over there on the right is where we house the Chinese crews. We’ve got just three looking after the camp at the moment – the rest are up country doing their thing. But you’re not interested in that, are you? You’re here for Terry, right?”

“Yeah,” said Jim.

“Right,” said Baz. “Anyway, the big bungalow next to this,” he pointed behind them, “is mine and Mark’s, and the one up top is like an office. It’s neat and tidy but nothing splendid.”

Jim glanced at the barracks again. They were lit but seemed deserted. “I think I’ve got all that.”

“When you’re sorted,” said Higgins, “come to our hut and we’ll have something to eat.”

Jim opened his flight case and took out the satphone. He walked outside as he switched it on. It was still very hot and humid, but without the sun, it was significantly cooler than it had been earlier. There was a strong signal so he dialled home. Stafford replied.

“I’m here,” Jim told him.

“Very good,” said Stafford.

“Obviously the phone works fine. Anything for me?”

“No calls,” said Stafford. “All quiet on the home front.”

“Great,” said Jim, “I’ll be in touch.” He looked at the handset, or “terminal”, as the manual called it. It was rather like his indoor wireless phone, oversized, clunky, with a fat, stubby antenna jutting from the top. Even so, however unfashionable it looked, he was very happy that it worked. It was his lifeline.

Back inside, he stripped off and went into the bathroom, which smelt of disinfectant. He ran the shower – thankfully the water was only tepid – washed quickly, and then dried himself on the towels provided. The bungalow was pretty basic but it covered the basics and met the case: the air-con was blowing cold, the bed against the wall was enclosed in a white gauzy mosquito net and there was a low table at the foot. He put his flight case on the low table and opened it, took out fresh clothes and got dressed. Stafford had done well – the linen felt good against his skin in the humidity, seeming to absorb the moisture like blotting-paper. He turned reluctantly to the rucksack, picked it up and slung it on to his shoulders. He paced around the room, flexing his muscles. It didn’t feel too bad now but what about when he’d had it on for an hour or two? Perhaps he could strip out some of the contents. For a start he wasn’t going to need ten days’ rations. He dropped it back on to the floor, slipped the sat phone into his pocket and went out.

The door to Baz and Higgins’s bungalow stood open, although the insect screen was closed. He pushed it and went in. He found himself in a large lounge with a kitchen table plonked in the middle and four mouldering armchairs. The floor was made of unglazed red brick. There was a little bar with a stock of bottles and glasses in the far corner and a large map of Congo on the end wall, roughly framed with unvarnished wood.

Higgins was sitting at the table with a beer. “You set?” he said, as Jim came in.

“All sorted.”

“Good.”

Baz sauntered in. “There you are,
bwana
,” he said, then
shouted over his shoulder, “Oi, MBD, how’s it coming?”

“Soon,” an African voice responded.

“Food’ll be up shortly,” said Baz. “Beer?”

“Thanks,” said Jim.

Baz went to the bar and opened a fridge, took out two bottles of Primus beer and opened them. He walked over to the table and handed one to Jim. “Here’s to Barron,” he said, clicking his bottle against Jim’s.

Higgins waved his by the neck in a token gesture.

“Cheers,” said Jim, and sat down.

“We’ve got a bit of a problem with your journey into the hinterland looking for Terry,” Baz began.

“What is it?”

“Well… how can I put it?” He coughed. “I’m not going with you and neither is Mark.”

“OK,” said Jim.

“And the Chinese won’t take you, not that I can spare them even if they wanted to. Then there’s the soldiers and, trust me, you wouldn’t want to go with them – even if they were falling over themselves at the prospect. So, it’s ticklish.”

“What about the drilling crews?” asked Jim.

“They’re up country and they aren’t breaking off for anyone. They’re contractors, paid by the day and by the hole.”

“What’s your solution?”

“My solution?” Baz laughed. “It wasn’t my idea for you to come out and start wandering around in the jungle, mate.”

“You’re right,” said Jim, putting his beer down. ‘I should have held off for a couple of days and got a dozen ex-SAS down here.” He pulled out the sat phone and got up. “I’ll get on to it.”

“Wait,” said Baz – a bit terse, Jim thought. “That’ll cost a fucking fortune.”

“Not really,” said Jim. “A couple of mil maybe. But the wait for them to arrive might cost Terence his life.”

Higgins was giving Baz the hairy eyeball.

“Hold on a minute, let me think,” said Baz. “MBD!” he called. “Come in here.”