(2013) Collateral Damage

by Colin Smith

  He was almost unconscious when the car stopped and they dragged him out, banging his ankles on some projection before he was allowed to fall in a heap on to the hard dirt. They pulled him up, one under each arm, and he found himself next to a wire mesh fence with three strands of barbed wire running around the top. The gag was removed and wrapped around his eyes - he could feel the dampness of his spittle as a blindfold. He inhaled great lungfuls of the scented Mediterranean air. They walked him up steps, through doors, down steps. When they took the blindfold and the handcuffs off he was in the cellar.

  There was evidence that it was sometimes used as a storeroom. Half a dozen empty sacks of the type that might have once contained rice or lentils were piled in one corner; there was also an old ammunition box with Russian markings on it that he sometimes sat on.

  During his first night he had been obliged to urinate on the floor, groping around the walls until he reached a corner as far as possible from the place where he intended to try and sleep. Next morning they had given him a galvanized bucket, which was removed every evening after his last meal. So far he had managed to induce constipation and the cellar did not smell as foul as it might have done. It was a cold place and the urine spent when the handcuffs were removed still stained the floor.

  Dove despised himself for his fear. There was enough of the puritan in him to regard his capture as just punishment for his carousing with the whore and not as the ineluctable event it was. He found himself making an agnostic's secret deals with an authority that, even in his innermost thoughts, he feared to name in case a turncoat obeisance only brought down divine contempt. Instead, he bargained as he did as a schoolboy - no place in the first fifteen for passing this exam. Now, remembering the missing condom, he examined himself hopefully for venereal disease, offering shameful discomfort, even syphilitic insanity, for his life.

  He supposed that in the back of his mind he had considered that his odyssey might lead to his death, even welcomed the idea, but somehow it had never occurred to him that this might happen before he got to Koller. Apart from the meals, delivered by an old man in a grubby shirt while an unsmiling youth covered him with a Kalashnikov from the top of the stairs, nobody asked questions or told him why they were holding him. He became convinced the Front were awaiting Koller's arrival; that the German had discovered that he was responsible for what had happened to the cabinet minister's daughter; had expressed a desire to deal with him personally. When he had read about her injuries in a two-day-old British newspaper he had not felt the slightest remorse. It had been necessary to question her, he reasoned, and as it was she had given him a phoney address for the terrorist. The rest had been an accident and, in any case, she was far less innocent than Emma. He had been amused to read in the newspaper that the police were working on the theory that some member of a rival faction was responsible for her injuries. More disturbing was the description she had given of her attacker once she had recovered consciousness: big build, fairish hair, Midlands or North Country accent, blond hairs on the back of his hand. He found the last part puzzling. Why had she retained that particular detail? He had visions of the guards dragging him to Koller, twisting his fingers until the backs of his hands were clearly displayed.

  Dove was lost in this reverie when the sound of bolts being drawn heralded breakfast. The heavy wooden door swung open and the stubble-chinned old man appeared, carrying a tray on which there was a steaming glass of tea and more hommos. Behind him came the hostile youth with the automatic rifle and, through the door, he glimpsed the beginning of a whitewashed corridor.

  The old man came carefully down the steps, the laden tray he was carrying held slightly to one side so that he could see where to put his feet. As he came closer Dove saw that next to the tea were the cigarettes he had asked for the previous evening. In the present circumstances it seemed a good idea to start smoking again. Dove took the tray and put it on the ammunition box, picked up the cigarettes and began peeling the cellophane from the packet. As he did so he realised that there were no matches with them. 'Light?' he said. The old man looked puzzled. 'Matches. Les allumettes,' said the schoolteacher desperately. The idea of cigarettes and no matches was quite unbearable. He mimed lighting a cigarette, holding the packet as if it were a box of matches. The youth began sullenly searching his pockets with his left hand, holding the Kalashnikov loosely by its pistol grip on his right side so that its muzzle pointed to the floor. At length he found a box and made to pass them to his companion at the foot of the stairs. On impulse Dove, a cigarette in his mouth, strode up three flights to take them directly from the guard. The boy was no more than sixteen years old and had thin, almost feminine, wrists. Dove became filled with a terrible elation, like that wild moment in the loose when a ball tumbles free and a clever forward seizes his chance to score. His big left hand closed around the youth's wrist and jerked, while at the same time he got his right hand to his shirt to complete the throw which landed him heavily on his back, his head against the urine bucket. The Kalashnikov clattered onto the steps; as he picked it up Dove caught a glimpse of the old man taking off down the corridor like a schoolboy, yelling as he went.

  Dove ran on after him, fumbling with the rifle, head down, shoulders hunched, vague memories of jolly mock bayonet charges practised at school cadet-force camps returning. The corridor was not very long, twenty metres perhaps. At the end of it was a portiere of some heavy grey material, now half-drawn and flapping on its curtain-rings in the wake of the terrified servant. The schoolteacher followed him through and found himself in a large, quite modern kitchen where a woman, in the short skirt with trousers beneath favoured by Palestinian peasants, stood staring at him open-mouthful, an enamel dish of chopped meat in her hands. Next to her was the old man-he had seized a kitchen knife, still bloody from the chopped meat. Behind them was an open door, through which could be seen the wire mesh fence with the barbed wire on top he remembered from the time they pulled him out of the car. Dove let out a ferocious yell and charged. It was too much for the old man, who jumped back and took an ineffective swipe at the rugby forward, scratching his face and upper arm, as he went careering through the door.

  At the fence Dove turned right and began to follow it around the villa, passing over the grille above his cell as he did so. He rounded two corners until he came to the front, where a big black American car was parked next to a pick-up truck with a belt-fed heavy machine-gun mounted on the back. He sprinted between the vehicles, making for the open tubular steel gates he could see beyond them. There was wetness on his face, but he wasn't certain whether it was blood or sweat.

  As he left the cover of the car for his dash to the gate he became aware of movement on the front porch of the villa to his right. Somebody shouted, 'Dove', but he was going for the touchdown now, right between the posts, the Kalashnikov the ball. Then he was falling, skidding along on his elbows, hanging on to the rifle. He knew right away what had happened. He had tripped over the rooted metal flange the gate was bolted into when closed. He went to get up and there was a short burst of fire. Three little fountains of dust kicked up from the ground about a metre from his head. 'Christ,' he thought, 'so that's what it's like.' Dove pulled himself round, working on his elbows, keeping his belly as close to the friendly earth as possible, then brought the rifle to his shoulder, aimed in the general direction of the porch and pulled the trigger. It refused to budge. He pulled again; still nothing happened. 'Safety catch,' he thought. His fingers searched the mechanism around the breach, found a knob which moved downwards when pressure was applied. Again he heaved at the trigger, but it might have been set in concrete.

  'My dear Dove,' said a familiar voice. 'To fire that weapon I believe you are first required to pull back the cocking handle. But if you try to do that the gentlemen behind you will be obliged to shoot. Please put the bloody thing down and come and have a drink.'

  Dove looked behind him. Less than two metres away stood two solemn young Palestinians in chequered keffiyehs, p
ointing their weapons downwards from the hip. He tossed the Kalashnikov aside and looked up at the smiling figure walking towards him from the porch. It was the Palestinian publisher, still dressed as if he was planning to lunch at his London club.

  7. Training

  Dove was sitting at a table trying hard not to catch the grimy cuffs of his Airey and Wheeler lightweight on the starched white cloth. It had become important not to soil the cloth. The cloth stood for cleanliness, and civilized behaviour. Suddenly he felt very tired. Somebody had given him a handkerchief to dab the knife-cut on his face and he was clutching a large glass of whisky.

  'Well, well, Habibi,' the publisher was saying, 'we didn't realise we had the makings of such a fine fighting man with us. Truly a fedayeen. You had us worried there for a moment. We thought you were going to hurt yourself - or one of us.'

  'I don't understand,' said Dove. The fight had gone out of him. He had almost scored, but now the ball was back up field. He was numb. Was any of this real? This Arab sitting opposite in a pin-stripe suit, the drink, the sympathetic voice. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and for a moment made himself believe that when he opened them Emma's head would be beside his on the pillow, hair disarrayed, the petulant, childlike lips.

  'They had to do it,' said the publisher, trying to sound apologetic. 'They had to check you out, make certain you were genuine. The bona fide article and all that. That's why they asked me to come here. I just hope they'll let me back in at Heathrow without the virginity test.'

  'You don't look much like a Punjabi bride to me,' said Dove, beginning to recover a little.

  'No, slightly soiled I'll admit, but then you don't look so fresh yourself at the moment. Look, let me show you to your room. You can clean up, and we'd better have a look at that cut too. When you're ready I'll explain what we propose to do.' The publisher rose. 'There's some clean clothes there as well - I think you'll find they fit.'

  Dove's room was clean and simply furnished with a bed, a curtained-off wardrobe, and a small Kurdish rug decorating the bare boards. There was a card table in one corner on which stood an earthenware jug and bowl and clean towels. The publisher was right about the clothes. They were his own and lay in his suitcase on the bed. So did the Webley - unloaded. He wondered how they had managed to get his case out of the Admiral, where security was known to be good. He was shown where to shower and shave, and afterwards one of the serious young guards from the main gate dressed the scratches on his cheek and shoulder with iodine and sticking plaster. Then he went downstairs to where the publisher was waiting. 'Coffee, tea or shall we continue with the whisky?' he asked.

  The schoolteacher thought it better to keep his head clear and allowed the publisher to pour him coffee from a pot with a beaklike spout. The Palestinian talked for half an hour or more. When he had finished Dove leaned back, lit a cigarette and wondered whether he could believe his ears.

  'Let's get this straight,' he said. 'You're proposing to train me at one of your camps, teach me all your tricks, and then turn me loose on Koller?'

  'If you want to,' said the publisher.

  'You mean I have a choice?'

  'Certainly. We can find Koller, but we can't make you kill him. To do that you've got to want to do it very badly. We were rather thinking you did.'

  'I do,' said Dove.

  'In that case,' said the publisher, 'I think we have a contract.' The lawyer came in. 'He's agreed,' said the publisher.

  'Good.'

  Dove turned on the lawyer, whom he had last seen at the university. 'Why didn't you help me when I came to you, instead of having me thrown into your bloody dungeon?'

  'It wasn't my idea,' he said, 'but it was necessary to make sure. I'm sure you'll understand Mr Dove that, in our position, we have to be very certain about who we are dealing with. We admired your courage.'

  Dove was not above flattery; the indignation began to subside. 'When do we start?'

  'Tomorrow,' said the lawyer, playing with his beads. 'And by that I mean a Palestinian tomorrow, not an Egyptian or even a Lebanese tomorrow. I mean that in exactly twenty-four hours time you will be learning to do things you did not think possible.'

  'Now this is the Colt Cobra,' the instructor was saying. 'It's an evil little motherfucker. Cops in the States carry'em as a backup gun. Five rounds, soft nose .38 shells, two-and-a-half-inch barrel. You can wear it in an ankle-holster, a shoulder-holster or just a quick draw-sheath on your bel: and nobody sees you're carrying.' He twirled the snub-nosed revolver in his fingers like a Western gunfighter and started shooting at three Coca Cola cans he had placed on a little mound of earth about four metres away. All five rounds were delivered in rapid succession and the cans jigged about in a suitably gratifying fashion.

  Dove stood there with his hands in his trouser pockets doing his best to look nonchalant, but he blinked and bit his lip slightly at every shot. It was some time since his father-in-law had given him the demonstration with the Webley and he had forgotten how noisy pistols could be. 'Of course, that's just fairground stuff,' said the long-haired Palestinian with the missing ear who had led the schoolteacher's kidnapper. 'We're gonna teach you how to handle these things properly.'

  He looked like most of the other fedayeen at the training camp, with a black and white chequered keffiyeh knotted around the shoulders of his drab olive green shirt like a Jewish prayer shawl. Yet he was one of the most American Americans Dove had ever met. Now that he was a mentor he was more amenable to questions than he had been at their first meeting, and soon explained his background.

  His name was George and he told Dove that he had served a hitch with the US Marines in Vietnam, which he called 'Nam' in the proper fashion. Afterwards he had gone to Berkeley on the GI Bill and studied politics. His upbringing had been entirely in the States and Dove noted that the Arabic he spoke to his comrades sometimes appeared halting. He had, he explained, been taken to California as a child, his parents being among the few Palestinian refugees allowed to emigrate there.

  The lawyer had been as good as his word, better in fact, for Dove had arrived at the camp the previous evening. They had taken him south by Land Rover towards the Israeli frontier, turning off the coastal road shortly after the village of Adlun then following the mountain route through the market town of Nabatiye, where he noted that the chipped old stone houses had weathered Israeli explosives better than the holed and sagging modern villas. At dusk they had bounced along a dirt-track that skirted the stone revetments and glacis slopes of Beaufort Castle, the old Templar bastion brought out of retirement by a garrison of fedayeen. Finally they came to a coppice of pines overlooking the broad green sweep of the Litani River valley.

  Here were half a dozen tents almost invisible until you walked into them for, besides being pitched among the conifers, they were also heavily camouflaged with cut branches. Alongside the tents were several deep-slit trenches. Dove assumed these were a precaution against Israeli air raids. Positioned in a small clearing nearby there was a quadruple-barrelled Czech anti-aircraft gun plus a Russian Dushka heavy machine-gun on a stand bolted to the back of a pick-up truck, like the one Dove had dodged between when he made his dash from the villa.

  The schoolteacher rightly suspected that the camp was not a permanent training establishment. From conversations with George he concluded that it was one of the many changing positions held by the various Palestinian Freikorps who wandered the Fatahland area south of the Litani river. It was the sort of place where a man could be quietly trained to do a certain job without being over-exposed to people or things they would rather he did not see. Yet the tents were pitched less than five miles from Israel.

  The lawyer's promise proved something of an exaggeration. They were anxious to get Dove to his target and, however dedicated, nobody can be transmuted into a martial superman in just over a week. This being the case, George wisely decided to concentrate on weapon-training.

  Dove learned to load and fire the Kalashnikov on single-shot or automati
c, the mysteries of the cocking-handle at last explained, but the emphasis was on pistols. In the end, it was decided that the Colt Cobra was unsuitable because, for travelling purposes, the weapon had to be flat enough to conceal in the false panel of a suitcase. Instead, George selected a Walther PPK modified to fire a soft-nosed 9-mm bullet in order to give it greater stopping power. 'It's been throated,' he explained to the schoolteacher when he showed him the automatic. 'The feed ramp from the magazine has been altered to take the dum-dum. You could knock over a goddamn elephant with this.'

  'Where did you learn so much about guns, George?' Dove once asked him as they came off the makeshift range. They were out of the conifers, lying in the long grass on a gentle slope looking down towards the Israeli border, having a lunch-break of flat Arab bread, tomatoes and goat's cheese. There was a Flanders of poppies growing in the long grass and it was warm, but not yet the baking heat of high summer. Other men might have found the atmosphere restful.

  George lit a cigarette and toyed with the Kalashnikov he was carrying as well as a pistol. 'Nam mostly, I guess,' he said.

  'What, pistols as well?'

  'Sure. Some outfits were encouraged to buy their own as a backup. You could either get 'em in Saigon or send away for them mail-order. I remember we had this sergeant, big black motherfucker, got himself a .44 calibre Derringer, you know, the little two-shot piece the cardsharps in the Wild West had. He used to carry it around in his sock. What an asshole. He got into a fight in some girlie bar in Da Nang and wasted half his foot. After that, word came that Derringers were out. Only proper cannon allowed. I used to carry a .357 Magnum, Smith and Wesson. Then I got wounded, mortar frags in the legs, and some motherfucking medic stole it off me on the medivac chopper.'