Steve nodded. ‘What the hell were you doing there?’
‘I told you, I needed the money.’
‘You needed your sodding head examined, more like,’ said Steve. ‘Christ, man, Broken Ridge bloody Jail. Nobody except a complete nutter would go near the place, and certainly not a bloke who is meant to be getting married in four weeks.’
‘It makes me feel alive,’ said Ollie, his tone turning reflective. ‘Only combat does that. It’s the same for you, Steve. It’s just that you haven’t admitted it to yourself yet.’
‘For me? Now you really are crazy, mate. I was well out of all this crap until your sodding bird started coming and weeping all over me. I only agreed to rescue you so I could shut the woman up.’
‘Like I said, I owe you.’
‘Then do me a favour.’
Ollie tossed a shell into the waves crashing up over the beach. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know what this Sharratt guy wants, but if he’s hiring Death Inc. and if it’s got something to do with Africa, then you don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out that it’s going to be bloody dangerous.’
‘And . . .?’
‘Just don’t try and persuade me into anything,’ continued Steve. ‘I’ve risked my balls once this year, and that’s enough.’
Ollie nodded.
‘And don’t expect to get rescued again.’
But Ollie had already turned around and was climbing the stairs back up towards the lodges.
By the time dinner was served, Steve had grabbed a couple of hours’ kip, and changed into the clothes that had been left out in his room. A fierce sunset was streaking across the sky when he joined the rest of the party on the terrace of the main house. A selection of rock classics was playing in the background - the Stones, Queen, Guns ’n’ Roses and Bruce Springsteen - and a waitress was handing out cocktails. All the boys had changed into the new clothes. Steve had never seen them looking so smart, and for a brief moment, he felt proud of them. They were rough and coarse, but they were also the finest group of men Steve had ever fought alongside. And although he never really missed the bombs and the bullets, there were plenty of days back at the dealership in Leicestershire when he missed the company of his mates.
Sharratt had laid on a massive spread. The table was piled high with food: different cuts of pork, beef and chicken, five different types of fish, salads and vegetables, plus a selection of wines, spirits and beers from around the world. Nick was sticking to the Stella, the only thing he liked to drink, but the rest of the guys were laying into the booze as if they might not see any more for weeks. Maksim was holding up a bottle of Red Army Vodka, a brand first distilled for the Russian Army’s elite officers in the 1920s, and now made by a small company in Rostov on Dom and sold at huge prices in Moscow’s nightclubs. He was teaching Ollie how to knock back neat glasses of the stuff and mix it with caviar in your mouth.
As they helped themselves to food, the blonde from the beach joined them, and introduced herself as Samantha Sharratt. She was wearing a short leather skirt, boots, and a white blouse with a couple of buttons open to display more than an inch of cleavage. I guess that’s what a billion pounds buys you, decided Steve ruefully. The best-looking woman in the room. Mind you, he reflected, even the waitresses were pretty hot. There was probably more than enough talent to go round. Even Nick might score.
‘I’m a rich man,’ said Sharratt, standing up and looking around the room. ‘But I’m also an angry one.’
The men fell silent. They’d all eaten, had a few drinks, and now they were about to find out what they were doing here. Even though Archie Sharratt was slightly built, when he spoke there was a natural authority to his manner. Steve had seen it in the Army. It was nothing to do with school or rank: it was a way of speaking man-to-man even when you were addressing a crowd, and you were as likely to find it in a Geordie squaddie as you were in a Sandhurst officer.
‘I’ll tell you guys a bit about myself, because later on I’ll be asking you to do a job for me, and I reckon you’ve got a right to know what kind of bloke you’re working for. I’ve made some money in the City - well, a lot of money if I’m being honest, probably a lot more than I’m worth - but that’s not who I am. What makes a man is where he comes from, not where he chooses to go.’ He paused, looking at Newton. ‘I was born in a country that is now called Batota. It was a damned fine country - God’s own land. After the war, thousands of Europeans moved there to make a better life for themselves and their families. They called it the Promised Land because that is what it is. The soil is rich, the rivers are deep, you can grow anything you care to put in the ground, it has every mineral underneath it you can think of, and the people . . . well, left to themselves they are the gentlest, kindest souls ever put on the planet.