The Last Letter from Your Lover

held out a hand. ‘I’m Alexander Frobisher, from the consulate. Where are your children?’
    ‘No. My name is Jennifer Stirling.’
    He closed his mouth and seemed to be trying to gauge whether she had made a mistake. His face was puffy, perhaps adding years to his true age.
    ‘I do need your help, Mr Frobisher,’ she continued. ‘I have to get to Congo. Do you know if there’s a train I can catch? I’m told there are no flights. Actually, nobody will tell me very much at all.’ She was conscious that her own face was glowing with heat, that her hair had already started to come down.
    When he spoke, it was as if he was trying to explain something to the unhinged. ‘Mrs . . .’
    ‘Stirling.’
    ‘Mrs Stirling, nobody is going into Congo. Don’t you know there’s—’
    ‘Yes, I do know there’s been some trouble there. But I have to find someone, a journalist, who came out perhaps two weeks ago. It’s terrifically important. His name is—’
    ‘Madam, there are no journalists left in Congo.’ He removed his glasses and steered her to the window. ‘Do you have any idea what has happened?’
    ‘A little. Well, no, I’ve been travelling from England. I had to take a rather tortuous route.’
    ‘The war has now dragged in the US as well as our and other governments. Until three days ago we were in crisis with three hundred and fifty white hostages, including women and children, facing execution by the Simba rebels. We have Belgian troops fighting it out with them in the streets of Stanleyville. Up to a hundred civilians are already reported dead.’
    She barely heard him. ‘But I can pay – and I’ll pay whatever it takes. I have to get there.’
    He took her arm. ‘Mrs Stirling, I’m telling you that you will not make it to Congo. There are no trains, no flights, no roads in. The troops were airlifted. Even if there was transport I could not sanction a British citizen – a British woman – entering a war zone.’ He scribbled in his notebook. ‘I’ll find you somewhere to wait and help you book your return flight home. Africa is no place for a white woman on her own.’ He sighed wearily, as she had just doubled his burden.
    Jennifer was thinking. ‘How many are dead?’
    ‘We don’t know.’
    ‘Have you their names?’
    ‘I only have the most rudimentary list at the moment. It’s far from comprehensive.’
    ‘Please.’ Her heart had almost stopped. ‘Please let me see. I need to know if he’s . . .’
    He pulled a tattered piece of typed paper from his folder.
    She scanned it, her eyes so tired that the names, in alphabetical order, blurred. Harper. Hambro. O’Keefe. Lewis. His was not there.
    His was not there.
    She glanced up at Frobisher. ‘Do you have the names of those taken hostage?’
    ‘Mrs Stirling, we have no idea how many British citizens were even in the city. Look.’ He produced another piece of paper and handed it to her, swatting with his free hand at a mosquito that had landed on the back of his neck. ‘This is the latest communiqué sent to Lord Walston.’
    She started to read, phrases leaping out at her:
    Five thousand dead in Stanleyville alone . . . We believe that there remain in rebel-held territory twenty-seven United Kingdom citizens . . . We can give no indication as to when the areas where British subjects are, even if we knew them with any degree of exactness, will be reached.
    ‘There are Belgian and US troops in the city. They are taking back Stanleyville. And we have a Beverley aircraft standing by to rescue those who want to be rescued.’
    ‘How can I make sure that he’s on it?’
    He scratched his head. ‘You can’t. Some people don’t seem to want to be rescued. Some prefer to stay in Congo. They may have their reasons.’
    She thought suddenly of the fat news editor. Who knows? Perhaps he wanted to get away.
    ‘If your friend wants to get out, he will get out,’ he said. He wiped his face with a handkerchief. ‘If he wants to stay, it’s perfectly possible that he’ll disappear – easily done in Congo.’
    She was about to speak but was cut off by a low murmur that rippled through the airport as, through the arrival gates, a family emerged. First came two small children, mute, with bandaged arms, heads, their faces prematurely aged. A blonde woman, clutching a baby, was wild-eyed, her hair unwashed and her face etched with strain. At the sight of them a much older woman broke free of her husband’s restraining