Battle Sight Zero

by Gerald Seymour

  Her security concerned her. She did not intend to die, not as her cousins had met death, on a battlefield. Had no intention of being locked inside an airless prison cell while her life moved from youth and on towards a middle-aged barren void. There was one girl on the corridor of the Hall of Residence who had a picture in her room of a cottage with white-washed walls and a vista beyond of the sea and of mountains. Zeinab knew little of the sea, could not swim, had only ever walked on a beach with Andy – had never climbed a mountain anywhere, had only recently walked with him on the moor between Leeds and Manchester. The place was remote, reached by a stone track that had grass growing thick in its centre, and the clouds low on the skyline. The girl was an independent school product, dripped private means and would leave university with her loan repaid. Zeinab had been returning a cup of milk loaned her the previous weekend. ‘You didn’t have to,’ she’d been told. She’d stared at the picture: there had been an off-hand remark about going there for a couple of weeks in the summer, ‘pretty boring, nothing happens, and it rains most of the time’. A place such as that would be a bolt-hole. She wondered if he would come there. Probably she’d only have to tweak his emotions . . . did not know how they would live, feed themselves, have the cash to survive, but they would be hidden . . . after tonight, he would do as she wanted, was sure of it. She had no interest in the history of a bridge left for hundreds of years without being repaired, little more for an abandoned palace – but could imagine the cottage by the seashore, and a log fire, and them together on a rug. She imagined that she might involve herself in an armed struggle just once – once only – then retreat to safety. Hidden in remoteness with the lorry driver to protect her, and lead a new life and be far from the hunting pack. Possible? Perhaps, perhaps not . . . not possible for the boys from Savile Town who had gone away to war and were buried in the sand, what was left of their bodies. Not worth thinking of . . . whether she could break away at a time and place of her own choosing, or could not.

  Wondered whether he would make that his future: the cottage, the fire burning, the refuge, could not answer. Held tight to his hand.

  ‘Don’t quote me . . . they make rather a pleasing couple.’

  ‘You reckon he nobbed her last night?’

  Gough did his pained face. Little shocked him, but they had between them a regular act that she would ramp up her language and he would play the offended individual. Almost music hall, something of a variety show that they played out. His expression seemed to say that her tongue gave him personal pain . . . They had done it themselves the previous night. Him ‘nobbing’ his assistant, though Pegs had done most of the work, what she’d called the ‘heavy lifting’. Then sharing a quiet cigarette, and hanging their heads out of the window. Then a few hours of solid sleep. They had woken, refreshed, were showered and breakfasted, were outside the hotel in the street off the Rue de la République in time to see the couple emerge.

  ‘That is disgusting, quite vulgar.’

  ‘Just asking – remember what you said about him, not that long back?’

  Their man, the Undercover, had a rucksack slung on a shoulder and carried her bag. She had a hand tucked in the crook of his arm, like they were an item. They had walked to a car park and the rucksack and the bag had gone into the boot of an old VW saloon. She had given him a kiss on the cheek, and had swung her hips and they had set off at a brisk march . . . They would have seemed the stereotypical couple – far from home and crossing a racial divide – and finding each other and exploring a relationship, and she had manufactured a guise of cheerfulness and he seemed smitten . . . They were in the Rocher des Doms gardens. Had circled a spouting ornamental fountain and walked paths bordered by shrubbery. They filtered between a party of schoolchildren and their minders, and a bus load of Chinese tourists, and nothing showed of the truths guiding them: she was testing the security of a potential arms importation route – and he was an agent of the Crown and committed to blocking her ambition, and now they held hands and were young and looked like lovers.

  Gough grimaced. ‘Never enjoy being quoted back.’

  ‘I’ll remind you . . . put your tin helmet back on because it will hurt. Quote, ‘‘He’s gone native’’, end quote. I suggested he needed a ‘‘good kicking’’, but you waffled, Gough, did not stand up to him.’

  ‘Did not have a great many options as I remember.’

  ‘Once his hand is in her knickers, then you’ve lost him.’

  ‘Quite disgusting and not worthy of you, Pegs.’

  ‘You reckon, Gough, he’s going to get her in the shrubs, do it there? Horny enough for al fresco? I’d say that he’s moving offline, and I’d say she’s wanting it bad. You were squeamish on reading a riot to him . . . That’s where we are. Like it or not, it’s where.’

  The couple had moved on and were now at a railing, looking down through bare trees, watching the river far below, swollen with winter rain, and the wind sang in the branches. The main flow of the river was at the end of the broken historic bridge. How it had been broken, why it had not been fixed in many centuries, might have confused Gough had he permitted that irrelevance room to breathe. He and Pegs stood back from them. He – their man – continued to hold her hand and she laughed, and he used his free hand to tap decisively at his backside. Gough understood. Their man’s palm was across the back pocket of his jeans, and the gesture was clear enough. Pegs, too, had caught it, the signal . . . First bloody indication they had been given that he expected them to be traipsing after him, having him under ‘eyeball’, and he had not phoned them in the night.

  ‘We drill it into them, not that most of them are listening, but we are bloody emphatic: it is poor tradecraft to shag female targets. The way to erode objectivity . . . Of course he’ll shag her. Just hope they both enjoy it.’

  ‘I know what they’re told.’

  ‘They are not friends, they are targets.’

  ‘I merely said that they make a pleasing couple. I don’t need a damn lecture.’

  ‘Pleasing?’

  ‘It’s what I said.’

  ‘They would, wouldn’t they? I mean, they come out of the same locker.’

  ‘Meaning – meaning what?’

  ‘So much in common. Made for each other. If it were a dating agency then it would be a brilliant match. In their veins, compatibility . . . it’s so obvious, Gough, it’s biting your bum. They both lie to survive, both carry a knapsack of deceit. Both trust nobody, both hide themselves away, and are friendless and incapable of affection, trust, to anyone outside their own security bubble. I echo you, ‘‘a pleasing couple’’, and so they bloody should be, but sorry for the speech. You all right? Look a touch peaky.’

  Gough bridled. He felt the stress. Neither he nor Pegs was trained up to the standards required for full surveillance tasking. Didn’t have to do it, and there were sufficient specialists from Five or the Counter-Terrorist Command to do the usual play-acting – changing clothes, riding fast motorcycles, wandering around with a water board gilet on, just standing in a street and looking around and having a dog lead hanging in the fist. Not their job. A disaster if they showed out and the girl saw them, identified them as a threat. They hung back . . . Then the couple swung. Quick movement, as if she had seen enough of a bridge, useless for hundreds of years, and she gave her boy’s hand a sharp tug. They moved quickly and there was nowhere for Gough and Pegs to go, no hole to crawl into. In front of them was a rubbish bin. In Andy Knight’s hand was a slip of paper. No eye contact from him, but the girl saw them, allowed a short smile to cross her face. Yes, they made a ‘pleasing couple’. And what did he and Pegs look like . . .? Not worth considering. They passed by the rubbish bin. The pieces of paper fluttered from his hand, then was dropped. Pegs talked, would have the first word and the last, quietly in Gough’s ear.

  ‘Then you have to line up the consequences . . . if he didn’t shag her last night then he will when they get into bed this evening. She’ll get a rough ride and enjoy it.
Worth a punt down at the bookies’ shop, Gough . . . All right, all right, what could you have done? Not much. Could hardly kick him off the agenda.’

  Neither Gough nor Pegs responded to the girl’s smile. Their man did not look at them. Gough waited until they had passed, then put his hand deep into the bin, felt the paper, clamped on it, brought it up and into the light. The wind caught it, snatched it and it was carried up the path. She went after it, stamped on it, gave it back to him. Her glance described him as a burden to her, then she laughed. He read it: Do not know where we stay in Marseille this evening. Do not know her schedule. Will make contact when possible. He told her. She snorted. His was a lifetime of work handling agents, assets, men and women who worked on the perimeter of safety, most often beyond the Golden Hour in which it was hoped rescue or help would reach them if they were corralled in danger. He thought such a man, at the end of his tether, straining it taut, would easily have the impulse to jack it in – if he were not humoured. There was no other game in town. Gough could have bullied. He had seen the girl and noticed the language of their bodies: young peoples’, and he was old, tired, and his confidence in ultimate victory was dented, badly.

  ‘Not possible – a pleasing couple, what I said. I’ve more faith in him than . . . Ever answered, Pegs, the question? What we ask of them, is that too much?’

  ‘Pretty puerile. They do a job, they’re volunteers, get well paid, can fiddle their expenses. No need to bleed for them . . . It’s bloody closed.’

  What was ‘bloody closed? The cathedral was closed for lunch. And the café was closed. And the Papal Palace had been abandoned six and a half centuries before – decamped back to Rome and Vatican City – and entry to it was eleven euro each . . . forget it. How would it end? The weapon would be carried home in a VW Polo, would be doctored during the ferry crossing, bugged. It would travel uninterrupted through Customs, then tailed in a huge surveillance operation. It would be delivered to the individuals in this sprouting conspiracy who mattered . . . the guns would go in, armed police, and the network would be for the cage. Arrest warrants in Yorkshire, and later a trial, and the Undercover behind a screen for his evidence. A triumphant drink after sentences were handed down, but unlikely that the star man would show. They rarely appeared for the post-game binge, were never seen again. That was how it would be if he could hold tight to his man . . . could no longer see him. Could no longer get an ‘eyeball’ on a boy and a girl who walked hand in hand. He lit a cigarette, gasped on it.

  Pegs said, ‘Sod it, let’s go and find some lunch.’

  Gough said, ‘The Kalashnikov, it’s a symbol of their power. They will walk tall if they have weapons with that hitting power. We are groping in the dark. It’s why it’s important, on a whole new and lofty level. It matters.’

  February 2008

  She was widowed. She wore black and a veil covered most of her face, but her eyes were visible: like those of a she-cat caught against a vertical cliff, towering up and over her as predators closed in. They blazed defiance. Her hands were uncovered; one held the emptied magazine of her AK assault rifle, and the other rummaged in the drape of her clothing for the opening that would allow her to reach the two loaded magazines held in webbing against her body. She could not defend herself, could only rely on her eyes to spit anger at the advancing enemy.

  At that altitude in the mountains west of Jalalabad, the rain-bearing clouds were low over the crags and valleys and it was an optimum time for that small force of mujahideen to confront the patrol of a section of American troops – Marines. Excellent weather conditions, the rain was heavy and on the verge of drifting to sleet, and in the night it would fall as snow. The widow was not tactically trained, had never attended a course run by military instructors, but she had been a member of that tribal group since her father and brother had been killed soon after the Americans had arrived, almost seven years before. A weapon had been given to her. It had belonged to a cousin, also killed, and she had held it – battered, scraped with two rows of notches cut on the wood of the stock, somehow almost invisible – at her wedding in the mountains, aged seventeen, to the son of their leader and principal tactician. She had been with him, when the American helicopters had come around a curve in a valley, the wind blowing away the sound of their engines, the surprise total, and an Apache had strafed the group. She had fired at the beast, hovering, almost contemptuously, long enough to exhaust the magazine and doubted she had achieved even one strike against its armour plate, and when it had gone, banking away, she had realised her husband was dead. Peaceful in death, his face calm, but his stomach and chest had taken machine-gun rounds. They had not taken precautions against pregnancy, but no child had been born: now no one else looked for her hand in the group. She was a fighter and lived with them, ate with them, was the same as each of them except that, when darkness came, she would move a little away from the men, wrap herself in her blanket, and sleep alone and isolated until the morning. And that day, excellent weather for the ambush because the cloud was low enough on the rock-face to prevent the helicopters from flying, the Marines would not have the protection from above on which they seemed, to her, so dependent. At the moment the first shots were fired, and some Americans already down, and the fierce, anguished shouts of those unhurt or only lightly wounded bouncing from the granite walls, they had scattered.

  The widow had believed, as the rain whipped into her face and her veil hung sodden across her mouth, that she had identified a particular rock, 25 or 30 metres from her, behind which an enemy had taken refuge. She had blasted an entire magazine at one side of the rock to shift him, then had reloaded with the second magazine already taped to the first, and had fired another thirty shots, but as the weapon clicked feebly, telling her the ammunition was finished, magazine empty, she had realised she had lost him. She was attempting to reload. Perhaps with more instruction she would have been more cautious in how much she had fired with the selector on automatic. She did not know where he was, and it was difficult to get her hand under the fold of the material enveloping her because it hung heavy from the soaking by the rain.

  He faced her. He was enormous, wearing a backpack that broadened his shoulders, a helmet that made his head grotesque, kit hanging from a belt at his waist, and more in the pockets of the jacket he wore over his tunic, had a rifle raised, held at his shoulder. His face was black, his cheeks the colour of burned wood from the cooking fires they lit, and a smile played at his mouth and his gums were pink and his teeth brilliantly white, and he almost laughed. Almost laughed and with good cause. He had come from between a cleft of lichen-covered rocks, and when she had been blasting the granite wall he had been behind a stubby thorn tree, hidden by its trunk. Shooting continued below her, above her, and to her right, and she could hear the cries of her own people and the guttural shouts of the Americans. She could not turn and run because the rock behind her was too steep and wet, and the soles or her sandals would not get traction nor her fingers a grip. She could not charge him. She could not hurl the useless Kalashnikov at him and hope at that distance to disable him . . . She spoke her husband’s name. Said it quietly, just a murmur, and the wind broke the words that were her husband’s name, and then the endearments, almost a prayer . . . She did not know if the black-skinned American would try to capture her – rape her, torture her, shut her in a cage as an exhibit of interest – or would savour a moment of amusement and then shoot her. She went on with the task, seeming impossible, of freeing a filled magazine from the pouch close to her stomach, where his rifle seemed aimed.

  She had a clear view of the finger that was inside the trigger guard. Saw it tighten . . . it seemed, peculiarly, as if it would demean the memory of her dead husband if she wriggled and attempted to avoid what was an inevitability. She hoped he saw, through the slit of her veil, wet enough to cling to her cheeks, the hatred she felt for him, and it seemed in his own eyes, down the sight of the rifle, that he had good entertainment from corralling this woman – as if she we
re a goat about to be herded into a small thorn-fenced compound. The finger squeezed, the grip tightened, and the fun fled and the teeth disappeared and she saw his lips tighten. She had her own magazine free in her hand and snaked it towards the underside of the weapon, what she had been given and what had once been the prized possession of her cousin.

  Against the patter of the rain and the wind’s murmur, she heard the metal sounds of the jam. They laughed about it around the fire in the evenings, when they ate and before they prayed for the last time, and she was the only woman amongst them, and was watched and was approved of, and older men told stories of the weakness of American equipment. . . . One old fighter had said, chuckling and croaking on the humour of it, that a child could fix a mis-fire on an AK-47, but that an American needed a college eduction to be able to clear out a jammed cartridge in a rifle used by the Marines – and the same story in every war they had launched: Vietnam, Iraq, and now the quagmire among the rocks that was her home country. Big eyes, once laughing, stared at her, and the fingers had left the trigger guard and now tried to eject the bullet, and his expression changed and reflected fear . . . for good reason. She had the magazine lodged in its place. She had slight arms, little flesh on them, but they harboured enough muscle for her to arm the weapon easily. He would have heard the scrape call of metal on metal as the Kalashnikov was again made lethal. He might have thought of home, and of children, of any place far away, and her own finger was on her own trigger. Her sights were set at what they called, those who had taught her to shoot effectively and to handle the weapon, Battle Sight Zero. He would be another scraped gouge on the old wood of the stock, almost ready for the beginning of a third row.

  The widow took her time, savoured it, would not have hurried – should have, should have been long gone, the moment the Marine had displayed the jam to her. Should have, but had not. The grenade bounced close to her like a small toy. She was too involved in the process of killing him to have registered its significance. The hatred ruled her.