‘You could have sent an invite,’ said Steve. ‘Or just texted me.’
Lois sighed. ‘And the chances of a reply were what, exactly? One per cent, two per cent.’ She turned around and started walking through the house, picking up a couple of old motoring magazines as she went and chucking them in the bin. ‘It’s a lovely cottage, Steve, but it needs brightening up. You know, it’s about time you settled down.’
‘Maybe he will soon,’ said Samantha, stepping into the room.
Samantha.
Steve took a deep breath. How the hell did she get here? Last time he had seen her, she was in South Africa.
‘She seemed such a lovely girl I thought I’d let her in,’ said Lois.
‘And you did ask me to come and see you when we both got back to England,’ said Sam, kissing Steve on the cheek. ‘So here I am.’
Steve grinned. The truth was, she was probably the person he most wanted to see right now. And dressed in tight blue jeans with a bright red sweater, she looked fantastic, her tanned skin and golden-blond hair the perfect antidote to the cold winter’s day outside.
‘Now you boys get some drinks, and us girls will rustle up something to eat,’ said Lois, disappearing with Sam into the kitchen.
‘A half-open tin of beans and a microwave burger,’ said Steve, thinking about the contents of his fridge. ‘That should be a slap-up meal. Maybe we should go to the pub?’
Sam flashed him a smile. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said sweetly. ‘We’ve already bought some proper food.’
Fourteen
GET A BLOODY MOVE ON, mate, we haven’t got time to waste,’ shouted Ollie from the driveway.
Steve paused for a second. Sam was still holding him in her arms. Her skin felt soft and warm, and her hands were gripping him with a tightness that went beyond the merely physical. Last night, Lois and Sam had cooked up a delicious meal, and then shared a couple of bottles of wine with Ken. After he had left, Lois had gone up to bed, leaving Steve and Sam alone together. The two women had got on brilliantly. Steve had had plenty of girlfriends over the years, but none of them had been serious. They certainly hadn’t been the kind of girls who’d spend half the evening chatting to his mum. In fact, most of them you’d be too embarrassed to introduce to your parents at all.
‘You’ll be back soon, won’t you?’ she said.
‘I promise.’
‘You’d better be,’ she said, trying to stifle a choke in her voice. ‘I promised your mum I’d get you to that Christening. She showed me a picture of the baby. He’s so sweet.’
Christ, thought Steve. A bird ganging up with my mum . . . that’s the last thing I need.
He climbed into the rental car. Ollie was picking him up and driving him down to London because they now had just one day left to make their final preparations. They were taking the unit up to Aberdeen tonight for a final briefing from Bruce, then getting a flight for Madrid in the morning. From there, they’d connect onto a flight for Johannesburg.
They had kit to source.
And they were still a man short.
‘You getting serious with that girl?’ said Ollie. There was a sly grin on his face.
‘Maybe.’
‘Well, I hope she’s a better bet than the last bird you took up with.’
Steve knew perfectly well what he was getting at. In Afghanistan he’d hooked up with a Russian girl, Orlena, who’d placed her brother Maksim in the unit and then turned out to be betraying them. ‘I did a full body search,’ he replied. ‘And I couldn’t find any tracking devices.’
‘I bloody hope so,’ said Ollie. ‘It’s going to be dangerous enough out in Batota without our own team trying to kill us as well.’
It was a two-hour drive down to the flat on the Battersea side of the Thames that Bruce allowed his men to use as a base when they were in London. Along the way they discussed the men and kit they still needed. Nick, Ian, Chris, Maksim and Newton had all kipped down there for the night and the place was already smelling like a barrack room. There were the remains of a take-away curry on the table next to the TV when Steve and Ollie joined them. Chris had been out scouring the shops for kit they might need. He had stocked them up with boots and rucksacks and medicines, but didn’t want to get any kit that looked military. South Africa had a strict ban on its own citizens working as mercenaries, and it was even tougher with foreigners. The last thing they needed was trouble from immigration: and that was precisely what they’d get if they landed at the airport looking like the Foreign Legion.
‘We’ll pick up the kit we need in Jo’berg,’ Chris said. ‘There’s not much in the way of military gear you can’t buy there, so long as you know the right people.’