World War Moo (17 page)

Peter raised an eyebrow and said something unintelligible behind the mask.

“Next, we have James Anthony Hilton,” Scholzy said. “Don't let the posh British name his father bequeathed him fool you. He's as Belgian as they come, with the exception of pedophilic tendencies. He's heavy weaponry and explosives, plus the keeper of the first aid kit. He can blow legs off and then sew them back on. And don't tell him he looks like Harry Potter, or he'll cut your nipples off and wear them as earrings.”

Geldof stared at the lightning bolt scar running across James's forehead. Even without the glasses, he did look rather like Potter—albeit a version of the boy wizard who grew up in a Glasgow housing scheme, where anyone bringing a magic wand to a fight would get a broken glass in the face, and spent his adult life hanging around dimly lit basement gyms with an assortment of thugs. James didn't even bother returning Geldof's nod.

Scholzy pointed to the last mercenary, whose blond hair was parted in the middle and swept past his ears. He had a goatee, which emphasized his chipmunk cheeks, and a wide nose that appeared to have been broken repeatedly.

“Last and definitely least is Mick Sailor. He was in the Irish army until he punched one too many officers. He's our official psychopath. Every good outfit needs one.”

Mick scowled and pointed a finger at Geldof. “Sociopath.”

“I'm sorry?”

“The discharge papers said ‘sociopath.'”

“Is there a difference?” Geldof asked as politely as he could.

“Of course there's a fecking difference,” Mick said, his face pained. “Psychopaths are psycho, sociopaths are more sociable. Charming, so. Like me.”

Scholzy laughed. “Fortunately, Mick's far better with a sniper rifle than he is with the nuances of psychiatry.”

Geldof stood in the middle of the room, unsure what was expected of him. They hadn't even got going, but he already felt more out of place than ever—which was really saying something. Although only Peter wore armor and a mask, everybody was dressed head-to-toe in black combat gear and wore sturdy boots. Geldof had been provided with neither dress code nor packing list and so was wearing red Converse, light-colored jeans, a fluorescent blue waterproof jacket, and a woolly hat. His rucksack contained two spare shirts, a toothbrush, and three changes of socks and pants.

“Err, should I change or something?” he said.

“Don't worry,” Scholzy said. “We brought gear for you as well. It's in the bedroom. Throw it on and we'll get going.”

*   *   *

An hour later, driving to Charles de Gaulle Airport, Geldof felt better. It was amazing how dressing all in black could make you feel harder and more capable. When they'd walked down the stairs together, the hoodies had melted away in the face of the tight posse of fierce-looking men. Geldof felt his swagger had possessed far more authority than on the way in. He sat up front alongside Scholzy while the others crouched in the back of the truck with the gear. They'd brought an astonishing amount of equipment with them: quad bikes; satphones; sleek, black automatic weapons; grenades; radios; RPGs; mines; assorted explosives; rucksacks full of food and spare ammunition; and lots of other little toys—such as a remote-controlled spy car.

Since the others were out of earshot, Geldof took the chance to ask the question he'd wanted to pose from the moment he walked into the apartment. “Why was Peter wearing a face mask? And body armor?”

Scholzy spoke without taking his eyes off the road or changing his slow, measured driving. “He's had more close shaves than a ladyboy's legs, so he's grown a little paranoid. He likes to prepare for every eventuality.”

“But we're still in Paris. How's that going to help?”

“Better safe than sorry, he says, and his neurosis saved my ass a few times. You may have noticed we brought a lot of kit. That's down to him. You'd be surprised how often you need some of the weird shit he brings.”

“What about the others? Do they have any odd habits?”

“As I said, Mick's a mad bastard, so everything about him is odd. Just don't make any sudden movements and you'll be fine. And it's best not to mention Rwanda around James.”

“Why not?”

“What do you know about the genocide?”

“Some people killed lots of other people.”

“Ah, the young generation. The Internet gives you so much access to information and you use it to look at videos of amusing cats.”

“I don't,” Geldof said.

“I forgot. You're a teenage boy. You just download free porn, heh?”

“I play a lot of math games, actually.”

“Sure you do. Anyway, potted history: the Hutus slaughtered almost a million Tutsis. When it started, James was serving as a peacekeeper. He was assigned to protect the prime minister, but he and another nine Belgians were taken prisoner. A mob of soldiers set on them with machetes—hence the big scar—while a whole bunch of other peacekeepers stood by and did nothing. The official story is that all ten died, but James fought his way out and disappeared. After the war he came back and found the soldiers who killed his friends. It didn't go well for them. He didn't feel kindly disposed toward the Belgian military either, so he started working for me.”

There was another question Geldof had wanted to ask, and, even though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer, he posed it anyway. “How many men have you all killed?”

“I don't count,” Scholzy said. “It's about getting the job done. Killing is secondary.”

A chill ran through Geldof as the reality of their mission, and the strong possibility he would see more death, began to sink in. Still, at least he appeared to be in the right company, meaning any death would hopefully be restricted to the other side. “Can you give me details of the plan to get in?”

“My old pal Sergei and his Ukrainian sidekick Andrej are heading over as part of an aerial convoy to drop supplies at Ibrox Stadium in Glasgow, one of the agreed collection points. For a hefty bribe they've agreed to smuggle us in a container under their helicopter and make a slight detour to drop us off outside the city. We ride the rest of the way on the bikes, pick up the target, and a few days later head to a rendezvous point, where Sergei will detour from his next delivery and winch the lot of us up onto his helicopter.”

“Sounds pretty simple.”

Scholzy shot Geldof a sideways look, his face serious. “It always does.”

*   *   *

The first thing Geldof noticed about Sergei, apart from the fact that he appeared to be little more than four feet tall, was that he was shit-faced. The Russian swayed like a flagpole in a strong wind as they disembarked from a truck round the back of the World Food Programme warehouse, which had been set up at the airport for the purpose of marshaling the food aid to be dropped into Britain and delivered to the camp down in Calais. Scholzy greeted Sergei warmly as the others revved up the heavily laden quad bikes and drove toward an open metal container. Once Sergei had staggered off, Geldof tapped Scholzy on the shoulder. “Is he drunk?”

“Of course he's drunk. He flies better that way. I've only flown with him sober once, and it was the most terrifying experience of my life.”

“Where'd you find him?”

“Russians and Ukrainians are the best pilots in Africa. We've flown with Sergei in shitty old Antonovs across the continent. Now these guys are the only ones crazy enough to fly these aid missions over the U.K. We can count ourselves lucky that Sergei is doing this run. It means we're in and out with no fuss. Otherwise we would've had to try to sneak through the cordon on dinghies.”

Geldof looked at the retreating Sergei who, silhouetted against the bright glare of lights overlooking the airfield, was slugging from a flask. “I hope you're right.”

“I plan on coming back alive to spend my money. I wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't the safest way. Now, come on, we need to get all our shit loaded so Sergei can seal it up.”

You'd better be pleased to see me, Mum
, Geldof thought as he followed Scholzy into the yawning mouth of the crate.

*   *   *

A few hours later, Geldof was busy emptying the contents of his stomach over the bare metal floor of the container as it slipped and slid through the air. They'd had Chinese takeout before they left the apartment and the interior, lit by portable lamps in each corner, stank of acrid soy sauce. Scholzy told him the motion was so bad because their crate was suspended by hooks below the helicopter for ease of release, although Geldof kept imagining Sergei nodding off only to snort awake and jerk the controls. The lighter supplies were in the actual cargo hold, where they could be pushed out to fall to the ground. The pilots were under strict instructions not to touch down, even though the protocol was for the army units picking up the supplies to remain outside the stadium until the drop was complete. At any sign of the infected violating this rule, the pilots were to abort.

Mick, his pinched face harshened by the shadow of the lights, turned away in disgust as Geldof retched. “Remind me why we agreed to babysit this fecking eejit?”

“Because he's paying us a shitload of money,” Scholzy said.

“I can't stand puke,” Mick said.

“I've smelled a lot worse come chuffing out of your Irish arse,” said James, prompting a snort of muffled laughter from Peter.

“So, Geldof,” Mick said. “How you going to make yourself useful? What's your special skill, apart from chucking up your guts?”

Geldof wiped saliva from his chin. “I'm good at maths.”

“Jesus. I hope you've at least sharpened your compass so you can stab somebody in the fecking eye with it.” Mick rummaged around in his bag and threw something. Geldof caught it reflexively and found himself holding a heavy handgun. “Take that. If you're coming along, you may as well learn how to kill.”

“I don't want to kill anyone,” Geldof said, holding the butt of the gun by his fingertips.

“Happy to pay us to do it though, aren't you? Look, it's easy. Click off the safety, point, and pull the trigger.”

Scholzy plucked the gun from Geldof and slapped it back into Mick's hands. “Enough mucking around. He's more likely to shoot one of us by mistake.”

Mick looked like he was about to argue the toss when Geldof's stomach lurched up into his throat. The radio crackled into life and Sergei's voice, vowels equally thick with booze and his Russian accent, came through. “We are descending to the drop site. Twenty minutes to unload, and we are on our way.”

Above the whining clatter of the rotors, something clunked. The rotor sound grew louder.

“That's the cargo doors opening,” Scholzy said.

They hovered for five minutes as crates hit on the ground. After a particularly loud thump, Scholzy patted Geldof on the back. “Chin up. That's the other big crate under the helicopter gone. We'll be on our way in a minute.”

“Why couldn't he drop us off first?”

“The other pilots would've noticed. He's going to claim the release mechanism for this crate is stuck. When we're out of the city again, he'll say it finally released itself.”

Geldof had enough time to give him a wan smile before the floor of the crate dropped away. Scholzy, his eyes widening, appeared to float in the air beside him for a second before their heads thumped off the roof of the crate. With a chorus of swearing, they plummeted to the floor. One of the quad bikes slid toward Geldof and stopped with its tire just a few inches from his nose.

“What just happened?” Geldof said, his voice panicky.

“He dropped us,” Scholzy hissed. He got on the radio. “What the fuck are you playing at Sergei?”

“Yes, I am here. I pressed the wrong button. Sorry, my friend.”

“Never mind sorry. Get that fucking winch down and pick us up again.”

“Too late,” Sergei said. “We are the last helicopter. The army is coming now.”

“I'll kill you for this, you drunken fuckwit,” Mick shouted, raising his gun up to the roof.

For one horrible second Geldof thought he was going to pull the trigger, either sending bullets ricocheting through the interior or ripping into the helicopter and bringing it down on top of them. Scholzy, who'd let go of the call button, put a hand on Mick's forearm. “Zip it. We still need him to pick us up. He won't come back if he thinks we're going to kill him.”

“He's right,” said James. “Let's not tell him we're going to put a bullet in his brain. Until right before we do it.”

“Sergei, how many soldiers can you see?” Scholzy asked once Mick had fallen silent and the airwaves were open again.

“Two trucks, about a dozen soldiers. But that is not your biggest problem.”

“Christ, what else?”

“When the helicopters come, people know there is food. They always come. Sometimes the crowd can get ugly.”

“And how big is this particular crowd?”

“Maybe five hundred people, all outside the stadium. There are more soldiers holding them back.”

“And do they look ugly?”

“British people are always ugly. These ones look hungry. They are the worst kind.”

“Fucking perfect,” Scholzy said. “Sergei, you'd better be back to get us.”

“We will have a drink and laugh about this little mistake when it is all over.”

“Just be at the pickup point.”

“Have I ever let you down?”

“Yes. Two fucking minutes ago. Literally and figuratively.”

Sergei laughed. “This is why I like you, Scholzy. You always keep your sense of humor. I will see you in a few days.”

The whine of rotors grew in pitch and then faded. Geldof heard raised voices and the chug of a diesel engine.

“We've probably got a few minutes before they open up the crate and find out it's not full of food,” Scholzy said. “Everybody on the bikes.”