Battle Sight Zero

by Gerald Seymour

  And fired again, and fired another time.

  Stroked his head and then tried, again to move the bike off her leg and could not shift it.

  Darkness was at each side of the street. If she could get out from underneath the bike, then she could crawl either to her right or to her left and it was only a few metres, and she imagined a ditch alongside the road, for flooding rainwater, and she could nestle down in it and then heave herself farther up the hill. There were swathes there of dark strips which meant rough ground, and the chance was good that she could take herself farther from where she now lay, pinioned. She did not think it a delusion. Zeinab looked down, not easy for her to twist her head that far, but caught a glimpse of her leg. Between the handlebar and the curved shape of the fuel tank, and for a moment was confused by what she saw. Her bone was white and had been cleaned of blood when it had broken through the skin of her thigh and then had pierced the material of her jeans, and still did not think it was deluded to believe she might be able to crawl to the darkness and get clear, escape and fight: be a soldier, be a warrior, be a woman whose name was spoken.

  First, she believed it necessary to hit the spotlight, bury its eye on her. And fired at it, and fired another time, and writhed on the ground and tried to change her shooting position so that she was better able to fire more bullets at it. And cried in frustration at her failure, and the pain tightened its grip. One more effort to get the bike off her leg. More shouts, from the medical team, she imagined. More shots, at the eye of light. Firing and feeling the impact at her shoulder.

  And . . . no more shots. A click when she jerked on the trigger. The V and the needle locked on Battle Sight Zero for close quarters combat, but the magazine was emptied. She had seen him change the magazine, take it out and reposition it, but could not remember what he had done, and was wrestling with it, but could not extract it, and turn it over to use the second magazine that was taped, useless, to the emptied one. Struggled and failed, and howled her anger.

  ‘Are you doing it, are you not doing it?’

  He allowed a brief nod of his head.

  With a fully armed rifle he had been on the nuclear convoys running from the south of England to the loch in the west of Scotland where the submarine fleet was housed, had ridden shotgun when they took the warheads to be fitted on the missiles. He had been on exercises in the Norwegian tundra, had been on stand-by to fight in Afghanistan but had not made the trip . . . He had never fired, not for real.

  He saw her clearly, both images of her were sharp. His Zed – a target and should have been nothing more – summoning all her strength and seemed able to drag the trapped leg away from underneath, and he heard the sharp scrape of metal as it was worked sideways. She pushed aside the corpse under her body, no longer bothered to shelter it. He saw that the rain had diluted the little tributaries of blood that came from the rider’s head wound. From the hours he had been with the pair of them, in the boy’s bedroom, he might have known them better than any one else. One was a would-be jihadi and one was a drug pusher, and he had no hostility to either, only differing degrees of affection. The boy was dead, killed by an expert marksman, and Zed . . .? She had started to crawl, like some pitiful insect that was damaged and tried only to get to cover.

  Her head rose. He saw the bone. She might have been sixty paces from him. Still clung to the weapon and had dropped the taped together magazines that she could not load. The weapon was useless to her but she held it.

  ‘Are you there, Andy, are you?’

  He had no reply to make.

  ‘Andy, where are you?’

  Again he drew in his breath.

  ‘I am a song bird, Andy, and have a broken wing.’

  His lungs were brimful.

  ‘But a broken wing does not kill a song bird. Andy, can you hear me?’

  His elbow was tapped, the marksman’s finger pointed. At the edge of the light cone the medical team in their high visibility clothing were edging forward and would have an escort in the shadows. He started, very slowly, to let the air hiss away between his teeth.

  ‘They’ll put me in a cage, Andy. No key. Please . . .’

  He supposed it was owed . . . no such thing as a free lunch, the guys who did the corruption inquiries always said. He saw her coming off the medical evacuation flight and lifted down on a stretcher, and saw her propped up on crutches in the Central Criminal Court, and alongside her would be the goons who had used, manipulated, her. He saw a judge read out the sentence, big years, and do the same condemnation speech that had seemed suitable for the last time round, and would be as apposite for the next terror case he heard, and saw the manacles and the gates closing on her, and saw the bars on a high cell window. Heard the beat of the feathers, but not the song.

  She moved slowly. Quite a simple shot for him. In the magnification of the sight he could see the blood smear on her face, where it had dried close to her left ear.

  He murmured, ‘Let’s get this show on the road, Zed.’

  Did it well, without snatching. Squeezed and felt the impact against the bone beside his shoulder. Saw her recoil from the impact. Nothing spectacular, not arms thrown up and no squeal, instead something that seemed more like a bullet going into a filled and wet sandbag. Not an heroic passing, but he thought it a decent way to finish their business. No fuss, no drama, and he passed the weapon sideways and it was taken from him. He did not have anything to say . . . the marksman cleared the weapon, and would have clicked the ‘safety’ into position. He wiped his eyes.

  It could have been rainwater in them, or might not have been.

  The spotlight was doused. For a few seconds the street was in darkness. Then the coordinated reaction. The street-lights came on. He thought it had been a good shot but twice she had moved, and finally there was a last convulsion . . . Done and over. The medical team were now coming forward, but they’d been given no worthwhile job to do. He stood. Did not know where to put his hands, so dug them deep down in his pockets.

  The marksman pushed himself up, used the vehicle’s fender to get better traction.

  ‘What do you want to do now, go where?’

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘Where is home?’

  ‘Sort of varied, gets to change, maybe it’s just where there is a warm beer – and no girls that need killing.’

  ‘Which is a version of “get the hell out”, to anywhere?’

  They drifted towards the shadows where the street-lights did not reach. His cheeks were wet, but it might have been because it was raining even harder.

  On the balconies of the project’s tower blocks, any vantage-point overlooking the Boulevard Henri Barnier from La Castellane came the rippling sound of voices, a wind that swept up the remnants of the autumn’s dead leaves, in a whisper.

  ‘It was Samson . . . I saw Samson . . . Samson shot the boy, Karym . . . saved his life one night, took his life on another, it was Samson . . . Preserved him, then destroyed him . . . But there was another man who fired, was slow with it, did a mercy shot . . . Like a dog has been hit by a car, is finished off to end pain . . . Samson never showed “mercy” . . . perhaps the other man is out of love with his work. He was an agent and tracked that girl, but he killed her. Why? . . . It was a good show, as good as any we have had from Samson . . . I saw his face, the other man’s face, the stranger’s. Samson would not have . . . I think the stranger wept . . .’

  Within minutes, ambulances had left with the two bodies, and the Ducati 821 Monster had been recovered and driven off on a flat-bed, and a scenes of crime team was at the point in the road where there were oil stains and spilled blood and they worked quickly, anxious to be finished and gone. Within minutes, the queue for buyers had started to shuffle forward and the entrance to the project was again in the hands of the chouffes, who patted them down and then directed them towards the different stairwells where the charbonneurs waited to sell to them and take their money. And, except for the tidying up of the dregs of the occasion,
the life of La Castellane had returned to its own degree of normality.

  Pegs asked, as they were ushered towards a car and told their destination was the airport, ‘Did you see him, know where he went, was taken?’

  Gough answered her, ‘Not had sight nor sound of him.’

  ‘We’ll not see any more of him.’

  ‘Not disagreeing. They get to a point, these rather sad individuals, where they’re not up to taking any further punishment. Plenty was asked of him.’

  ‘We’ll get a bollocking for this, Gough, mark my words. In my water. They’ll hang us out in the wind. Throw the book our way.’

  ‘Do you think, Pegs, he went soft on her, or was that just part of the job? Which?’

  They took their time in grabbing a last look at the scene, where the rain ran on the street and police hurried to clear away their major incident equipment, and Major Valery paused mid-stride to shake their hands but said nothing, and was gone.

  She said, ‘I’m not bleeding in a corner for him, Goughie, but I tell you the sad bit. You could say that he was burned out, was running on empty, would want to wash his hands of it all and get back to doing what “ordinary” people do, and knowing who he was. Except that it doesn’t apply with the type suited for that work. They can’t break the link . . . Don’t fucking laugh at me, I mean it. I’m sad for him . . . they don’t know another life. It’s a man-trap on their ankle, teeth tight . . . As trapped as she was, and nowhere to go.’

  They were ushered to a car, heard something about a flight having been delayed, the last of the evening, and they’d catch it.

  An hour later . . . He’d asked it enough times. Crab had demanded to know when the plane would eventually take off. Could not wait to get clear. It was a full three-quarters of an hour since the aircraft had been boarded, but the steps were still in place. He saw a man and a woman brought to the base of the steps by a police vehicle, a brisk farewell, nothing to indicate fondness, and they scampered up the steps. Crab did not know them, not from Adam and not from Eve.

  He saw a dowdily dressed man, with thin hair plastered down on the scalp, and the rain had been on his shoulders and his ankles were sodden and his shoes looked to have taken in water.

  The woman, behind him, hustled him along the aisle. She was well built, had a strong and angular face, a hatchet jaw, and he thought there was an arrogance about her. Her clothing was similarly sodden and her hair was a mess: he wondered how such people, so obviously low in the chain of importance, could be responsible of keeping a plane on the apron all this time. He had a book of crosswords to tide him over, but had forgotten them, and then his seat shook as the woman held it as she lowered herself down behind Crab, and the man was in a seat across the aisle.

  They were talking, fastening their belts, and the girl over the speaker system was apologising for the late take-off – as she bloody should. They had started to taxi.

  Crab felt a tug at his shoulder.

  He turned, irritation rife, would tell any stranger to keep his fucking hands to himself, and the woman’s voice purred in his ear.

  ‘Wanted to let you know, sir, that it might have been a mistake to give your name, rank and number – know what I mean – to the check-in. We’ve forwarded them on. North West Counter Terror Unit will enjoy matching them to records and locations. We take this sort of thing very seriously. Conspiracy to facilitate the importation of firearms, notably an AK-47 assault rifle is an offence that the courts seem to view in poor light. Any liaison with a jihadi group, people committed to murder and maim in a crowded place, would – I believe – carry with it a sentence of the utmost severity. I would have to assume that your only motive in this matter was to get your hands on “a nice little earner”. You disgust me, sir, and you will disgust the judge who presides on your case. This flight will be met at Manchester. Enjoy your journey, sir, and you might consider calling a solicitor because you’ll need one.’

  The voice so quiet and so reasonable, died on him. He wondered, as his hands shook, how the girl had made out, pretty little thing, and with balls to her, and she’d run well when in flight. The aircraft lifted and started to bump through the low dense cloud.

  A day later . . . They were summoned.

  The marching orders were for them to attend Room 308, an inner sanctum, where the angels sang and incense burned. They had arrived at the flat they shared in the small hours, and Pegs had made a cup of tea and Gough had done a load for the washing machine including pretty much all they wore. Then Pegs had made a sandwich, and he’d heaped a pile by the door of all the stuff for the dry cleaners. They had come in late, too knackered to touch each other and had slept like noisy logs, and it might be the last time because the anticipated criticism was liable to be vicious, mostly undeserved, and brutal.

  They were awaited. The guy who presided in that room – with his nail bomb scar to declaim his ‘sharp end’ experience – identified a man by the window. A Chief Superintendent, a God figure from the national HQ of Counter Terrorist Command, and there was a tall and willowy woman, no make-up and no jewellery who was from SC&O10. A silence hung. Always was a silence when a hanging was due, so they said. The wound was alive and he’d likely been scratching it. Three Zero Eight kicked off, delivered the verdict on Rag and Bone . . . Gough was not going to permit a critique lying on the carpet with his feet in the air, and Pegs promised to ‘take no shit from them’. A cough and a throat cleared.

  ‘We think it went well. We have a very clear understanding of a mission fraught with difficulty. It did not work out as our planning suggested it would, but that in no way lessens the benefits gained by the operation. You handled a difficult diplomatic impasse with skill and sensitivity, and are to be commended. Congratulations, very sincerely meant.’

  Pegs had her head forward, as if her hearing was playing up, and Gough stayed inscrutable.

  The Chief Superintendent said, ‘We expect a considerable level of success, a large trawl and a network emasculated before getting clear of puberty. I believe them to have been a particularly focused and dangerous group, not least the woman at the heart of the smuggling concept. We add our congratulations to both of you, and for your control, in trying circumstances, minimum resources, of your Undercover. First class – and to be added to the list is the excellent cooperation you received from our French colleagues – pretty rare – and that is down to your winning ways. It was a damned good effort.’

  The woman said, ‘You don’t need to know where he is – anything, in fact, about him. The French took him down to Toulon, he spent the night at the airport, had a flight in this morning. I saw him briefly, thought he looked rough. Don’t know yet whether he’ll call it a day. Plenty try to, few succeed. What I am pleased about is that a ring of dangerous young people, carrying huge burdens of hate will be negated . . . The thought of a flow of automatic assault rifles coming into the UK is too frightful to contemplate . . . It leaves our people scarred, damaged at the end, but that’s the price that has to be paid, by them – by that boy – not by us.’

  Did they want coffee – did not. Did they want to share anecdotes – again, did not.

  Back in the office, within ten minutes, they’d their gear together and would go their separate ways, take a good furlough, might bump into each other again after Human Resources had done their worst with new postings, but might not.

  A week later . . . Coordinated arrests were done efficiently and allowed for the two time zones.

  At 04.00 Zulu, the sledge cracked open the door of Crab’s mansion in the bacon belt area of Altrincham, while a line of unmarked cars and police vans, all with blue lights rotating, ostentatiously filled the tree-lined avenue. A good show put on for the neighbours and an effort to humiliate him, and he was taken out, handcuffed . . . Across the range of the Pennine moors a car was stopped and a man who went by the codename of Krait was spread-eagled on the road under cover of automatic weapons and then dragged away, and another – known as Scorpion – was intercepted o
n his way to a poste restante address . . . and in the capital city, two men were taken into custody – identified because of the tickets that had not been destroyed as the traveller had been instructed, and they indicated where the documents had been purchased, and by whom, for a journey between UK and Marseille.

  And, at 05.00 European time, when a middle-ranking officer, a Major, led a team of specifically chosen detectives, up to the gates of a coastal villa, and used an armoured car to break them down, and an old man – who had once been a legend in the undercurrent life of organised crime in Marseille – was snatched from his bed. One photographer only, from La Provence, was present to record the arrest . . . Also visited that morning, in the apartments that seemed to belie the meagre pensions paid to former investigators, were men who had done well from association with Tooth, and it was a safe bet that they would soon be in an orderly queue to denounce everyone’s actions, not their own, in the hope of leniency . . . And Hamid was taken, in bed with a girl, and no crowd had gathered to impede the police, and a brother due to be buried that day when he would be in the interview room, pleading surprise that a deal had not been honoured.

  A terse message would be sent within an hour from the Major at L’Évêché to a senior officer working from an address in Wyvill Road, London, SW8: Colleagues, A good day for us (and ‘Samson’ not needed and left in bed), and my appreciation of a fine association. Valery. All considered satisfactory.

  And a month later . . . The mourners were leaving. Not just family but the whole population of the road in which she had lived, and many who had been her contemporaries at school, and a few had journeyed from Manchester Metropolitan to attend. It was unfortunate but inevitable that the procedures for a funeral embodying that faith had been delayed. She should have been buried within a few hours of her death, but there had been many obstacles placed in the way of her parents’ wishes. A French magistrate had not hurried, and details had remained vague as to the exact circumstances of death, and the British authorities had been slow to reveal what information they were in possession of . . . but arrests, and charges and initial appearances before magistrates, and trial dates set, had brought matters into the public domain. Bluntly, everyone in that street, in the community of Savile Town, had either seen with their own eyes, or knew of, the repeated visits by detectives of the North West Counter Terrorist Unit to the home address, and it was claimed her bedroom had been systematically ripped to pieces. Her father had said, repeatedly, that he refused to believe the allegations made against her, her mother had said that their only daughter was a ‘dutiful and obedient girl, perfect in all ways’. When the body of Zeinab was prepared for burial, having been washed and then bound in white sheets, a shroud, they would have seen the single bullet entry wound, and the exit, in her chest and adjacent to her spine.