The motion was worse. He said a prayer, first time in years. Recited what an imam had taught him – and could not speak and had no idea how the terror could be confronted. They went for a rendezvous with a freighter, to take delivery of cargo.
Tooth watched the navigation lights round a marker buoy.
‘A powerful night out there, Tooth,’ Crab said when his friend was back in the car, the door closed and the noise of the night shut out. ‘A desperate night.’
‘The best of nights, my good friend,’ Tooth said. ‘The customs, the coastal radar, they see nothing. The waves are too high and the boat too low in the water. It is a good place, and time, to receive parcels, packages.’
‘He was shitting himself . . . You know, Tooth, when I was a kid there was a guy in gaol who looked, each morning, as if he’d just wet his pants – fear. We still hanged people then, and there was this guy who had bad sweats because a man he’d shot was in hospital and had relapsed, and if he died short of a year after he was hit then it would be murder. Murder then, in this category, was an execution job, rope and a scaffold. He was counting off the days willing the man to live through the next week. He’d taken a turn for the worse . . . What I saw of that Arab of yours, he was shitting and sweating. What’ll it be like out there?’
‘Don’t think about it . . .’ A low laugh. ‘Nowhere you’d want to be. I put the bar high for him. Either he is a punk or he is someone I can use. You test a man before you trust him.’
‘We are going to do well out of this, and even better once the route north is tested, proven. You ever fired one, Tooth?’
‘No, wouldn’t want to. It’s what little bastards do. Losers and failures, and the Baumettes gaol is full of them, and all of them thought shooting with an AK made them a big man and gave them status. Me, I say that firearms are for the ignorant.’
October 2013
Dazzer looked around him. He had survived . . . with little to spare.
Had to hand it to the chopper people. The helicopters had arrived when ammunition was low, when the opposition was beginning to creep forward, little gooks ducking and weaving between the stones of a dried-out watercourse, and inside fifteen minutes they would have been gearing themselves up for the final charge.
He saw bodies, saw a couple of the lorries alight and, rare good fortune, they were loaded with food and general supplies and not the ammunition and ordnance they often carried, and saw an old man who half sat and half crouched and had lost any ability to fight on, and saw the rifle.
Dazzer, operating out of Bagram and doing runs towards the Pass, down beyond Jalalabad, was no longer military. Had been once. Now in his 40s and with a stomach to prove it, along with a shaven head, a few steroid squits livening his complexion, and tattoos over much of his skin, had served with an infantry battalion, then made the sensible choice. The rifle was near the old man but out of his reach. Dazzer was one of the scores who had chucked the Queen’s Shilling and gone for the better pay offered by the host of private military contractors who picked up the military load during governments’ downsizing of the Afghan quicksand. He had a good eye for such things and reckoned it an old weapon, a collector’s piece. He had not shot the old man himself. The two helicopters, Yanks, had done the damage and lifted the possibility of this being Dazzer’s final day as part of the ‘mortal coil’ business. Could have been a bad day for him except that he was a survivor, with the scars and scrapes to prove it, and a couple of times during his Afghan pay days, the medical teams had wondered if it was appropriate with this guy, given the bawdy nature of the ink work on the cheeks of his backside, to call for a priest. They hadn’t, no padre had administered last rites. One of the boys, a scouser, had been hit but a medivac bird had taken him out, not that the regular military ever fell over themselves to get PMCs clear of harm’s way and into a surgery tent, but the civilians put food on their tables and bedding on their cots, and often enough it was bullets going into their magazines. They waited now for an armoured escort that would push a burned-out lorry, written off, over the edge of the tarmacadam road and into a gully. He reckoned the weapon the old man had dropped would earn him something.
He’d seen him from the start of the attack. Dazzer reckoned the old man had rheumatism, or arthritis, had mobility problems and had gone as far forward as the factor of surprise would permit. From the first exchange of gunfire, Father William had been at the front . . . good name for the guy, Father William, as good as any. Dazzer had kids in a couple of cities in the UK, might have had more he didn’t know of, and there were two more that his wife cared for. There had been times at home when he had read his kids – the legit ones and the illegits – bedtime stories, and he reckoned he did a star turn when it was You are old, Father William, the young man said, And your hair has become very white: And yet you incessantly stand on your head – Do you think at your age it is right? And he would do the full act beside the bed and read the next two verses upside down, head on the floor, and the kids would howl with laughter . . . Not that he saw them anymore because they were older and didn’t need stories, and their mums didn’t want him back in their lives. It was a Father William who lay, very small and seeming to be no threat, on the roadside. He’d fired the rifle. Dazzer had seen him, and it had near knocked his shoulder away. He knew most versions of the AK-47, but did not think, a cursory glance, that he had handled this one before, a vintage piece.
Perhaps Father William had bad legs and perhaps he’d had poor eyesight, and there was a broken pair of spectacles, heavy black frames twisted and snapped, in the dust of the hard shoulder. He had not been a first: a ‘first’ for Dazzer would have been when a mujahideen, old or young, took off and did a runner. This old boy, a good old boy, had not broken the mould. Dazzer dragged on his cigarette and would have murdered for a beer. The convoy leader was trying to hurry the bulldozer, because this was an idiot place to be hanging about. He walked over to the body. Gave Father William a quick glance, and picked up the weapon.
Worth a bit, or more than a bit . . . It wasn’t for Dazzer to interfere with the body, but permitted to handle the weapon, make it safe. He thought him ‘a good old boy’, Father William, because he had approached without being able to duck and weave, too stiff in the joints, and the Kalashnikov stock had been at his shoulder, and he’d only fired aimed shots, but his eyesight must have been heavily impaired if the thickness of the lenses was a judge. Had come on ahead, the mob of skilled fighting men behind him. Dazzer reckoned that the guy had felt it necessary to prove himself, show that he was not a burden. Father William had fired three times at Dazzer and the gun had been wavering and it would have been pure chance if one had hit. He was rakishly thin and his clothes hung on him, like he was a scarecrow, and his beard was loose and tangled, and strands of hair protruded from under his cap. There had been two spare magazines in a pocket: nothing else marked him as an enemy, willing and able if his eyesight had held up or he had been lucky enough to blast Dazzer to oblivion . . . who would have cared if he had? Answers on a postcard . . . He’d tell them about the old boy when they reached their fortified camp, had had a couple of tins each . . . there must be a story about the age of the weapon that Father William had carried.
It looked to be worth money. He’d heard about dictators and the like, those who had milked their own treasuries, lived in grand sprawling palaces, or did well on the narcotics trails, and they’d bought AK-47s that were gold-painted, real gold, like a bloody fashion accessory. But he reckoned there were others who’d be only too happy – if they were a war groupie or wanted a souvenir of their combat days – to have something that looked to have done business at the coalface. Dazzer had been shot at often enough with Kalashnikovs, and had twice suffered wounds that the field medics had patched, and he knew that age meant no loss of effectiveness. The bloody thing would last for ever. It looked to be 50 years old, but Herbie, who he’d meet up with once the road was cleared and they moved on with a reinforced escort, would be at the stay-ove
r camp, and he’d know if it were even older. Dazzer didn’t do souvenirs. Some of the drivers and the guys riding shotgun used to collect anything they could pull or chop off a dead fighter, but not him. Didn’t do mementoes but did do the sale of anything that looked to have value stamped on it. And, added value was the blood on the stock that leaked into the notches and the bit where a sliver of wood had long been detached, made a tiny puddle there: blood would stain well and would be a talking point for a prospective purchaser.
He picked it up, made it safe, wrapped it tightly inside the folds of an old khaffiyeh that he’d used to keep dust and dirt out of his face since ‘winning’ it for that purpose in Iraq, out of Basra. Two magazines went with the weapon. He was pleased to have his hands on it, and it would fit snug in his armour-plated cab, down under his seat. It was vintage stuff and would fetch a good price, and Herbie would confirm it.
When he drove away, after the bulldozer had cleared the road, he found that his hands were shaking. Did not usually have the trembles after an action, but it was the sight of Father William that had done it, him being pitched without ceremony down into the gully with the wrecked vehicle, while his rifle was well wrapped and well cared for, and under Dazzer’s seat. He’d keep it safe until he had the big freedom flight out, then go to his buyer, and it would be a decent earner.
Zeinab’s phone call was done.
Reservations had been made by the London people, those she had met in the park. Naturally they would have been cautious.
She would challenge him. They were into Marseille and she did not speak, let him concentrate on the signs and driving in close, fast traffic. Her hand had tightened on his thigh. As he increased speed, she increased the pressure of her fingers. He had a strong face, she thought, not an artisan’s. He drove well. A strong face and calm eyes. Something nagged. A vehicle ahead of him cut between lanes, carved through his road space, and all around them were blaring horns and oaths, but he had stayed cool, swerved, braked and manoeuvred, had driven on . . . why the nagging concern when he was a professional driver and did not swear or flick a finger in the air? He did not wriggle under her hand, did not make eye contact with her. It would be her challenge. The nagging doubt, or confusion, was gone.
They went below ground, down into the car park she had directed him towards, and named the hotel’s street.
He zapped the car, saw the lights flash and the locks click home.
He carried the bags.
She had hooked her hand in his arm, and carried a sheet of paper with a photocopied street map . . . she found La Canebière, the main through road in the city. Evening had come and crowds were dense on the pavements. He felt her stiffen and her hand was claw-like on his arm. She had seen the soldiers; he had not. They were a stick of four and the smallest of them had a big combat radio on his back. They had rifles, helmets slung from their webbing belts, wore bulletproof vests. They seemed wary, alert, fingers alongside the trigger guard. The soldiers came past, then were lost in the crowds.
‘Why are they here?’
He said, ‘Don’t know . . . No idea.’
Ignorance was better than the alternative: ‘They are here, dear Zed, because this country is awash with north Africans intent on getting to Paradise, lifting a leg over six dozen Paradise-based virgins, and the best way to stop them, limit their effectiveness, is to shoot them, given half a provocation. Double tap to the skull. Shoot one of the beggars in the chest or stomach and he might muster enough reflex to squeeze off any detonator button in his hand – blow the side off his head and he may drop what sets his gear off and the bloody thing might just fail . . . end result, a few shoppers, some school kids out on a big deal evening, might live. It’s what the troops are there for.’ Shrugged. How would a heavy goods vehicle driver know why troops were on the streets of France’s second city?
They crossed the road, on to a shopping street with a reputation, but he thought it cheapskate. She led. They cut away from the main drag and came into a small square where men hosed down the cobbles and others packed away unsold fruit and vegetables and dismantled the tables. Low light, and music and laughter bubbling from a score of fast food places, and cafés, and the shadows were deep. She’d paused under a high neon strip in a bistro’s doorway. Checked her map again. She was looking around her, and the wind caught at her hair and her clothing, and shifted rubbish from where the market had been, and saw the hotel’s sign. The notice outside said the rate was 95 for a single, and 105 for a double, with shower. They had come down Rue des Récolettes, were now in Cours St Louis. Opposite the front door was an armurier, the double windows filled with pistols, rifles, machetes . . . She was watched. Men ogled her, women looked at her with suspicion. They would have seen the texture of her skin, noted that she wore her hair uncovered. She looked hard at him, then led the way to the door. It was his problem . . . He heard the receptionist question her: it was she who had rung in, had changed the booking?
‘Yes, that was me,’ she said. ‘Not two singles but one double, with shower.’
She was told that a card was needed; she rooted in her bag, found her purse, counted euros on to the desk . . . then looked back at him and he saw, clear and defined, the challenge in her eyes. She was given the key, told what floor. And no one there to feed him advice, nor to reiterate the regulations of an Undercover on the payroll of SC&O10, and hardly cared, and followed her up the stairs.
‘When I give up, you know what?’ Gough had his hands together like a supplicant at Sunday morning worship, and looked across the cotton tablecloth and over the small candle, and his elbows were firmly planted on the table.
‘What should I know about?’ Pegs replied, curt.
Their order had been taken. They were the only clients and a woman behind the desk left them in peace: seven of eight tables empty, but the woman’s first remark to them had been, inevitable, to enquire if they had a reservation. They were near to their hotel, and had wandered along gloomy streets in the old quarter and had found this place.
‘I am going to walk out of Wyvill Road, out on to the pavement, and then . . .’
‘And then what?’
‘I will have shredded my pass, and my jacket will weigh a whole ton less. Ditched the burden that I carry, and . . .’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Gough. So tedious when you’re maudlin.’
‘I will take off my coat, chuck it in the air. I’ll use that wall beside the pub to get myself upside down. I will handstand my way across the street . . .’
‘You’ll fall on your face.’
‘Why, why will I do it?’
‘Asking me, telling me?’
‘Trying to tell you . . . Failure, lack of achievement, not enough success. I go out through the door, magic card gone, expenses reference number deleted, and I’m toast. Maudlin? Perhaps. The truth? Yes. Whether on Rag and Bone, we have lined up a good result is no matter. We screw down this kid, and the boys that liaise with her, and we have a few bottles and think we’re God Almighty’s élite of detectives. Is London safer the next morning? Is Manchester, or Leeds, or bloody Dewsbury? Don’t think so. There’s a gap on the ground and there are plenty willing and able, to fill it. We are not going to win . . . there is no Mission Accomplished day, even on a faraway horizon. What personal sense of esteem can we fool ourselves we deserve to enjoy? We’ll go and nothing will have changed. At best what we have done is shove a thumb against the crack in the dyke wall. Just temporary, sticking plaster. There’ll be another crack the next day, the next week.’
The woman brought their food. Chicken for her, fish for him. A litre of house red to wash it down.
Gough barely looked at his plate. ‘We are so thin on the ground. We’re trying to do this job with paupers’ money. We have a man on the plot and pitiful resources deployed to protect him. Why? Because there are a hundred operations competing with Rag and Bone, and we are so fortunate that we happened to be around at the right time and laid a hand on our man’s shoulder. We have no sl
ack, Pegs.’
‘Eat your food, Gough. Enjoy.’ She topped up his glass, filled it to the brim.
‘I cannot estimate how he will shape up. Don’t know where he is. I have a duty of care, am supposed to have, but it’s abrogated.’
‘Less time worrying about him, Gough, more time worrying for yourself – and worrying about what happens to me. If we lose the package, worse, if we lose our asset, you and I will be so alone. No one will stand our corner, and . . .’
She stood. Her plate was less than half cleared. He might have had a few small bites at his chicken. She cleared her glass, gestured for him to empty his. She walked to the counter and put down 100 euros in notes. She picked up the order pad, tore off a couple of sheets, and would fill them in later, do it with left-handed script. She led him out of the door. The wind caught them on the street, narrow and poorly lit, cobblestones rough under their tread.
‘Sorry and all that, Gough, but we need to get close up, personal, do it better than we did last night. Or we might as well get on the first plane out. Ditch it. Cannot leave him much more bare-arsed than we’ve already done . . . Agreed, it would be nice to win sometimes.’
He felt crushed, emotion drained, no ambition. They walked arm in arm.
Out in the city centre, by the hospitals and the principal cemetery – on Rue d’Orient – Major Valery prepared for bed. He had a routine. Had followed it since the start of his duty in Marseille after his transfer from the north. He thought that routine as relevant now, or more so than when he had brought his children and his wife here from the city of Lille.
Battle Sight Zero Page 30