Andy McNab - Recoil

The woman who answered had such a strong accent I felt she was beating me over the head with it.

'Hello, it's Nick Stone again. I called last night for Lex. Is he there?' I carried on through acres of glass and concrete, past Vodafone stalls hiring out mobiles and dozens of businessmen poring over their laptops in the hot zone.

'You're late, man. Didn't you leave last night?'

'We stopped off in Jo'burg and Port Elizabeth.' My mouth tasted like a rat's arse and I could only just peel open my eyes.

'It's Saturday afternoon, man. He said he'll meet you at the bar.' The way Mrs Bring-Back-Apartheid pronounced it, it sounded like something you'd do if you were looking for an oilfield.

'Which bar? And what's his last name?'

'You coming by car?' She started spouting roads and exits.

'Whoa, I'll find a pen and paper. I'll call you back.'

I closed down the mobile and went over to a Nescafe stall masquerading as a street barrow. I got the loan of a pencil while the vendor made me a very bad cup of instant coffee. Granules lapped against the rim of the cup as she handed it to me because the water wasn't hot enough.

Lex being in a bar wasn't good news. Bars meant alcohol, and where I came from, it was ten hours from bottle to throttle. Well, sometimes.

I called the number again, and had to keep slowing her down until I had the details. 'OK, the False Bay bar. Where's that?'

'Erinvale. He'll be there all night.'

'His surname?'

'Kallembosch.' She said it like I was stupid and should have known, but I tried to sign off pleasantly.

'And what's your name?' Nice to be nice, and all that.

'Hendrika.' She sounded as if she had done resistance-to-interrogation training.

'Thanks, Hendrika.' I couldn't help myself. 'Have a nice day.'

As I crunched my way through the Nescafe, I checked my balance at an ATM. I knew Crazy Dave wouldn't have given me a penny, but I lived in hope. Even in my current state of frustration, I was still struck by the two things that got me every time I came to Africa: the quality of the light and the brilliant blue of the sky. It was like they'd passed a law banning clouds.

I didn't hold the thought for long. As the taxi turned east out of the airport on to the N2, I resisted the temptation to tell the driver to put his foot down. I wouldn't get back in the air any quicker. I had to grip myself and calm down. I was making as much progress as I could.

The driver seemed a nice enough guy, but this place was full of horror stories about passengers being driven out to the townships, drilled in the head with a 9mm and robbed. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. 'Give us a look at your road atlas, mate.' I pushed myself forward between the two front seats so I was level with him. 'I'd like to check out the area. See how the land lies…'

He passed it back to me. Erinvale was the other side of Somerset West, some forty Ks east of Cape Town. The estate lay between two mountain ranges and the coastline of False Bay.

I handed the map back. 'Looks just like Switzerland.'

'Mediterranean climate, man.' He beamed proudly. 'Rain in winter. That's why we make great wine.'

Sweat was pooling at the base of my spine. I opened the window. My sunglasses were in the holdall, in the boot, so I had to squint against the light. My eyes were still stinging, and my body had developed the layer of grease that comes with long flights and the constant battering of the hot, stale air they pump out to stop you getting too energetic with the flight crew. The last thing I was looking forward to was a night in a smoky bar with a grizzled old bush pilot swinging the lamp while he told me his war stories, but if he ended up flying me into DRC as soon as he could focus on his instruments, I'd have to lump it and smile a lot.

I checked my mobile again. The signal was good, but the display was still empty.

It only took us about twenty minutes to reach Somerset West, but there'd been plenty of time to see why the area was called Cape Wineyards. The sun beat down on thousands of rows of vines that stretched all the way to the horizon. They must have been shifting a fair few cases. Every house was in perfect repair, every wall, fence and roof a pristine red or white. From where I was sitting I could almost smell the fresh paint, and there wasn't an HIV poster in sight.

We took a left for Erinvale. It turned out to be a heavily protected country estate. Security scrutinized us at the entrance before the white range gates were opened and we were waved through.

The Merc glided over perfectly level Tarmac. Either side of the road were hundreds of acres of deep green grass, dotted with white sandy bunkers. Electric golf carts piloted by men in yellow polo shirts trundled out of the driveways of enormous mansions.

We took the direct route to the clubhouse, which could have doubled as a grand hotel. Sprinklers threw a fine mist across the fairway, and there were rainbows everywhere. Things were looking up. Maybe Lex was downing an orange juice after a quick eighteen holes.

I paid off the driver with rand I'd bought with my Swiss francs at Heathrow, and walked into the reception area, holdall in hand. Dark wood panelling lined the walls. A giant fan moved lazily above me, but it was only cosmetic. The air-conditioning took care of business. This place had only been built to look old.

The Indian greeter was dressed in a crisp white shirt that looked as if it had just come out of its wrapper. He gave my sweatshirt and jeans the once-over as he stepped forward.

'I'm meeting Lex Kallembosch.' I beamed, hoping he didn't get close enough to smell me. 'He said he'd be in the False Bay bar.'

'Yes, sir.' He held out his hand for my bag. 'I'm afraid Sir requires a jacket and tie for the clubhouse.' He eased me towards the cloakroom. 'We have a small selection of jackets and ties, sir, but I'm afraid…' He indicated my sweatshirt with barely concealed distaste.

'No shirts?'

'One moment, sir.' He disappeared behind a curtain and returned with a white bundle in his hands. 'The laundry basket… I'm sorry, but-'

'Not a problem. Thanks.' I made sure I chose one about three neck sizes too big so it didn't strangle me when I did up the top button.

The greeter was as happy as he was going to get with my turnout. 'If Sir would like to follow me…' In my chunky-checked sports jacket, crumpled white shirt and red-striped kipper tie, I looked like the star of a seventies detective series.

He navigated me into the lounge. A dozen or so men were sitting either at the bar or at tables. The panelling gave the place the feeling of an old colonial club, where retired colonels hatched plots over a few G-and-Ts and a bowl of Bombay mix, or Mark Thatcher's mates cooked up get-rich-quick schemes. Big picture windows overlooked the first tee. In the distance, the sun was winding down for the day, dipping towards the horizon.

A white guy in a dark suit detached himself from the bar and came towards me, hand outstretched. 'Nick, right?' His accent was as thick as his legs and forearms. These people must eat meat eight times a day.

'Lex?'

We shook. His face was so tanned it had cracks, and his hair so sun-bleached he must have showered in Domestos for the last fifty years.

He led me back to the bar. 'Listen, man, I don't need to know how your flight was. Just tell me you have the money.' He laughed loudly at what I hoped was a joke. His teeth sparkled. Maybe he cleaned them with Domestos too. 'If that's a yes, I'll get you into the shit. Then, if you and this woman manage to meet up and stay alive, I'll fly you back out again.'

Fuck the money. I'd find a way out of that in a minute. 'When do we go?'

Maybe I'd suggest Silky paid him double when he got her back here, but I somehow doubted Lex spent too much time thinking long term.