Burning Angels

Figures clustered around the tables, gazing at the TV with something approaching rapture. The voice of the commentator boomed out from the tiny screen set above the bar, where racks of bottles sat behind thick metal mesh. It was showing some game from the UK Premier League. Football was massive in Africa — even more so in the slums, where it was close to a religion.

But Jaeger’s mind was all on Simon Chucks Bello.

‘So, I have found him,’ Mburu announced, his voice deep and gravelly. ‘It wasn’t easy. This kid had gone deep. Real deep.’ He eyed Dale. ‘And he’s scared. After what he’s been through, he’s not inclined to warm to mzungus.’

Dale nodded. ‘That’s understandable. But tell me, do you believe him?’

‘I believe him.’ Mburu’s gaze flicked from Dale to Jaeger and Narov and back again. ‘Despite what you may think, kids here know the difference between right and wrong. They don’t lie — not about shit like that, anyway.’ His eyes flashed defiantly. ‘There’s a brotherhood here in the ghetto. It’s like nothing you will ever find outside.’

Mburu had clearly had a tough life. Jaeger had sensed it in the hard, calloused hand that had gripped his in welcome. It showed in the lines of his face and the smoky yellowing around his dark eyes.

Jaeger gestured around the bar. ‘So? Can we meet him?’

Mburu gave a faint nod. ‘He’s here. But there is one condition. What the kid says goes. If he doesn’t want to play ball — if he won’t come with you guys — he stays.’

‘Got it. Agreed.’

Mburu turned and called into the shadows. ‘Alex! Frank! Bring him.’

Three figures emerged: two older kids — big, muscled teenage boys — steering a smaller one between them.

‘I run a charity — the Mburu Foundation — doing education and development in the slums,’ Mburu explained. ‘Alex and Frank are two of my guys. And this,’ he gestured at the smaller figure, ‘is one of the Mburu Foundation’s smartest kids. Simon Chucks Bello, as you may have figured.’

Simon Chucks Bello was one striking-looking dude. His dusty, wiry hair stood out at crazed angles, as if he’d just been electrocuted. He was wearing a red T-shirt displaying a print of the Eiffel Tower, with the word PARIS

emblazoned beneath it. It was several sizes too big and hung off his sparse, bony frame.

A big gap between his two front teeth gave him an even cheekier, more streetwise look than he would have had otherwise. Below his ragged shorts his knees were scuffed and scarred, and his bare feet sported cracked and broken toenails. But somehow it all seemed to add to his indefinable charm.

Yet right now, Simon Bello wasn’t exactly smiling.

Jaeger tried to break the ice. He glanced at the TV. ‘You a Man U fan? They’re taking a beating today.’

The kid eyed him. ‘You want to talk football ’cause you think football’s the key. I like Man U. You like Man U. So suddenly we’re friends. It makes us seem the same.’ He paused. ‘Mister, why not just tell me what you came for.’

Jaeger held up his hands in mock surrender. The kid sure had attitude. He liked that. ‘We were told a story. First off, we just want to know if that story’s true.’

Simon Bello rolled his eyes. ‘I told this story a thousand times over. Again?’

With Mburu’s help, they persuaded the kid to give them a potted version of his tale. It turned out to be exactly as Falk Konig had related it — with one notable exception. The kid talked a lot about ‘the boss’, as he called him — the mzungu who had called the shots on the island, overseeing all the horrors that had unfolded there.

From the description, Jaeger figured it had to be Hank Kammler.

‘So Kammler was there,’ Narov muttered.

Jaeger nodded. ‘Seems like. I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that Falk glossed over that detail. It’s not exactly what you’d want in a father.’

Jaeger outlined to the kid the deal he was proposing. They wanted to take him away from the slum, just for long enough to ensure that he was safe. They feared that those who had kidnapped him might come again, especially if they learned that he had survived.

The kid’s response was to ask for a soda. Jaeger ordered them all some drinks. He could tell by the way the boy fingered his cold bottle of Fanta what a rare treat it was.

‘I want your help,’ Simon announced, once he’d drained his bottle.

‘That’s why we’re here,’ Jaeger told him. ‘Once we’re out of this place—’

‘No, I want your help now,’ the boy cut in. He eyed Jaeger. ‘You do for me, I do for you. I need your help now.’

‘What d’you have in mind?’

‘I got a brother. He’s sick. I need you to help him. You’re a mzungu. You can afford it. Like I said: you do for me, I do for you.’

Jaeger glanced at Mburu questioningly. By way of answer, Mburu got to his feet. ‘Come. Follow me. I’ll show you.’

He led them across the street to a roadside stall. A young boy, maybe nine years old, was seated alone, half-heartedly spooning up lentil stew. He was stick-thin, the hand that held the spoon shaking horribly. A black Mburu Foundation T-shirt hung from his skeletal frame.