Children of War

by Martin Walker

  ‘They have agreed to tell the tribunal what they know of Sami’s time at the mosque,’ the Brigadier explained, and led them up the last set of stairs to the balcony, the older Imam on Ghlamallah’s arm.

  ‘That’s good,’ Nancy said when they were out of earshot. ‘It means we’ll get Ghlamallah’s voice on tape. We’ve got some special equipment that washes out all the voice-modifiers you can buy. There’s a lot of queries about some of the voices on the phone taps and it would be useful to have something on him.’

  ‘Whatever happened to those pixels in the photos on his smartphone?’ Bruno asked, remembering Nancy had said the NSA had software that could scan them for hidden messages.

  ‘They were clean,’ she said, shrugging. ‘But I’m not surprised. The jihadis have known we had that capacity for some time. But they don’t know we’re now reading their Mozart playlists.’ She checked her watch. ‘This is an unscheduled hearing. All the others are done. I was hoping it would be all wrapped up tonight and we’d have the final report tomorrow. The Brigadier said he’ll stay up all night writing it.’

  ‘And then you go back to Paris?’ Bruno asked, trying to keep his voice level. He knew he’d remember her and those sudden moments when he had felt the jolt of attraction pass between them. Suddenly his mouth was dry again.

  ‘Probably straight to Washington, a lot of meetings as we draft the three options.’ She was looking into his eyes as if searching for something.

  ‘Three options? You know already?’ They were at least a metre apart but he felt she was much closer than that. There was a strange disconnect between the words they were exchanging and another quite different and deeper communication that seemed to be taking place.

  ‘It’s the way things are done in Washington.’ Nancy’s voice sounded faint. She closed her eyes, half-turned and took a deep breath. Whatever sudden charge had begun to flow again between them seemed to fade. Bruno supposed he ought to be grateful. She was leaving within a day or so and he’d never see her again.

  ‘Some president, I think it was Nixon, wanted every decision that came up to him to be on one sheet of paper with no more than three options.’ Now her voice was normal again, crisp and efficient, with a slight tone of mockery, as if she knew there was more to life than the politics of Sami.

  ‘So for Sami the options have been pretty clear from the start,’ she said, still looking away from him up the staircase. ‘One, we demand extradition and trial in the United States. Two, we demand a trial and punishment but leave the jurisdiction to France. Three, we accept a tribunal verdict that he’s not fit to stand trial and treat him as a cooperative witness who stays in protective and medical custody. The Brigadier and I have talked about it, we agree, and we’re going to do all we can to get the most sensible decision, option three.’

  ‘It sounds as though whoever drafted those options knew that one and two were hardly possible, politically. They wanted option three all along.’

  ‘Exactly.’ She turned back to face him, but without that intensity that had so stirred him a moment earlier. ‘That’s how bureaucracies work, how our political masters want us to work, reshaping the complexities of the world into three clear choices.’

  She laughed, a warm sound, almost a chuckle that seemed to embrace him in a complicity of two professionals trying to make sense of a crazed world. ‘So here we are, two servants of our separate states, conspiring to bring about the only rational outcome while standing on the landing of a stone staircase in a medieval castle and wondering about a bunch of jihadi nuts on the loose and trying to kill us and everyone in here.’

  Bruno said nothing, wanting to extend this moment, to remember her as she looked now. The time stretched and she looked away again.

  ‘We can’t stay here. What are you planning on doing now?’ she asked.

  He closed his eyes and took a breath. It was over. He straightened his back and brought himself back to his duty. ‘I’m off to track down a little old Jewish lady, Kaufman’s grandma. The Brigadier is worried that she might be at risk, now the news of her bequest has gone public.’

  ‘Oh, Arab terrorism, Jewish money, I think I get it,’ she said. ‘And that car certainly stands out a mile. Have you seen the Sud Ouest website?’

  She whipped out her smartphone and called up Delaron’s news story with the image of Maya waving cheerfully as she stepped into her Rolls. A second photo below showed Bruno, the Mayor and Maya coming out from the collège.

  Bruno hadn’t seen it and he was startled. The job of protecting Maya had suddenly grown urgent. And personal too: if the men who’d attacked him saw his photo, he reflected, they might think they were getting two targets rather than one.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, but he was already calling Kaufman. Nancy turned away with a natural courtesy, pretending to be checking emails, giving him space. Bruno explained briefly, listened, agreed to meet and rang off.

  ‘They’re in Bergerac, sightseeing with the Rolls-Royce. I’ll drive there now to meet them and let them use my Land Rover. I’ll bring the Rolls back and put it in a friend’s barn.’

  ‘I should come, too. There has to be a woman in the back to replace Maya. Besides, I’ve always wanted to be driven in a Roller.’

  Bruno shook his head. ‘We’re not playing bait. We just have to get that damn magnet of a car off the street.’

  ‘We’ll be bait whether we like it or not. We’re armed and we know what we’re doing. We’ll tell the Brigadier and he’ll arrange back-up. We have a chopper and squad of troops on call. How long is the drive?’

  ‘From Bergerac back here, thirty, forty minutes, maybe less.’

  ‘I’ll go see the Brigadier. You organize the weapons and flak vests. I’ve got my Glock but I want an M-16 or something like it. If we’re ambushed, some grenades would be useful, maybe some smoke.’

  Bruno stared at her in disbelief but she was already heading up the stairs. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Look, this is Périgord, civilian country. We don’t go round gunned up like that.’

  ‘Bruno, you’re not a fool. You know how these jihadists will be armed. And how else are we sure to bring them out? They aren’t going to try hitting this place, it’s a fortress. We’ve got the sniper zones covered. They’ll be desperate to hit something, anything, and they won’t be able to resist an Israeli million-airess in an utterly recognizable car.’

  Bruno could think of nothing he could say that wouldn’t sound ridiculous, but had to say something.

  ‘You’re a diplomat,’ he ventured.

  ‘I’m a law enforcement officer and these people are terrorist criminals and enemies of my country,’ she snapped. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Lead on,’ he conceded, ‘but we’ll both go to see the Brigadier. We can’t do this without authorization and only he can fix the support.’

  The more he thought of it, the more inevitable the idea seemed. Maya would be at risk. Her car would be unmistakable. He had to get to Bergerac and arrange an alternative car for her. It was reasonable to take precautions, which should include helicopter reinforcements on stand-by. He found himself rehearsing the arguments he’d present to the Brigadier.

  But there was no need. The Brigadier seized on the plan even before Nancy had finished explaining. ‘A damn sight better idea than twiddling our thumbs here and waiting for them to come to us,’ he said, and began organizing the troops for the helicopter, the communications and an ambulance.

  27

  The map was spread open on the hood of Bruno’s Land Rover. Nancy and the Brigadier stood to his left and the young para-troop lieutenant and his three-man team to his right. Bruno said, ‘We have to think like them, to know only what they know.’

  Bruno explained that the jihadists knew from the media that Sami was in the château and probably out of their reach so long as he remained there. Short of artillery, the château should be deemed safe. They also knew that Bruno was based in St Denis and that Maya Halévy with her very identifiable car h
ad been with him there that morning. They knew she was extremely rich, so they would assume she would be staying at the most luxurious hotel in the region. Without question, that meant the Vieux Logis in Trémolat. They would be wrong, she was staying at Pamela’s but the jihadis weren’t to know that. They would focus on the Rolls-Royce and Trémolat.

  The lieutenant cleared his throat. ‘My men have been listening to the local radio. They’ve got a reporter following this woman and her car around like she’s a film star and sending in regular bulletins. She was in Mouleydier early this afternoon, apparently she was there in the war when it was destroyed. Now she’s in Bergerac. She went to the Protestant temple, another place she remembered.’

  ‘Should we call the radio station and tell them to stop?’ the lieutenant went on. ‘They don’t know it but they’re putting her life in danger.’

  He took out his phone and called Philippe Delaron.

  ‘Philippe, it’s Bruno. You owe me a lot of favours already, but here’s a big one. You’re in Bergerac with Maya now. You know where she’s heading? No? She’s having dinner at the Vieux Logis. Yes, I’m told she’s staying there, hardly a surprise. It’s the best place around. Anyway, if you want an interview, Trémolat is the place to be. You should be able to get a word with her on the doorstep.’

  He closed his phone. ‘Let’s work on the assumption that they’re listening to the radio. They’ll have at least one car, maybe two or even three. They have one good sniper rifle and I don’t know what else. Do we have any intel on their available weapons?’ he asked the Brigadier.

  ‘According to Rafiq, in the mosque they had small arms, grenades, explosives, a couple of Minimi machine guns with 200-round belts and some RPGs. That was all. We have no idea what they took with them when they left the mosque, but we’d better assume they brought all the weapons they could.’

  Bruno pursed his lips. Rocket-propelled grenades were as good as light artillery at close quarters. And a Minimi could spew out a full belt in just over ten seconds, laying down a terrifying amount of fire.

  ‘Let’s not forget what we know about them,’ he said. ‘The Niqab was in the paras, until invalided out after a jumping accident. He’s trained in French fighting technique, just like us. The tactics and solutions he’ll go for are those we’d probably choose ourselves. And I was told the Caïd was a sous-off, again trained, but I don’t know in whose army.’ He turned to the Brigadier. ‘Can you get me that info, and phone through anything you have on the strong man, and whether any of them went through a sniper course?’

  He looked at the lieutenant and his three men, all that could be fitted into the light Fennec chopper. ‘We’ve all been trained the same way, so if I say anything that seems unlikely to you, speak out.’

  ‘In their shoes, I’d worry about being able to stop a car that big unless they set up a pretty powerful barricade,’ he went on. ‘They might try with the RPG but I think the most rational military probability is that they’ll look for a sniping point by the Vieux Logis or an ambush point on the road from Bergerac. Probably both, one sniper in place and two for the ambush.’

  Bruno’s mind went back to the scene in the woods where Rafiq had been murdered.

  ‘One guy, I think his name’s Mustaf, is as strong as a horse, and he used logs to block another car at a previous ambush.’ He pointed at the map. ‘The main road from Bergerac to Trémolat goes through Mouleydier and Lalinde. The obvious route is to cross the river at Lalinde then turn off left, where the road is signposted to Trémolat and joins the D31 road to cross the river into Trémolat at this bridge. It’s by the place where the river widens out to make the water-ski lagoon.’

  Bruno moved his finger to the bridge. ‘I wouldn’t mount an ambush after the Trémolat bridge, too many houses, too much chance of being seen. I’d rather try it either here, where the D31 makes this dog-leg curve, or here, at the sharp left turn just before the bridge. Either one makes sense, but if they disable the Rolls and block the bridge, then they can’t get to the Vieux Logis to pick up the sniper, if they’ve left him there. They could leave their car on the far side of the bridge or they might just abandon him. Any comments?’

  The lieutenant spoke first, to ask where the helicopter should wait to fly in support if those were the two likely ambush points. It would have to be behind some high ground to muffle sound that might alert the jihadis. He pointed to the two likely spots, one behind the village of Cales and the other by the campsite of La Pénitie.

  His sergeant objected that the first one was too close to the car’s route, which wouldn’t matter, but the contour lines didn’t look helpful, which would.

  ‘La Pénitie it is,’ said Bruno. ‘You’re a bit more than three clicks from the ambush sites, say one minute flying time, a bit more to gain altitude and pick up speed. You can be hitting them from the rear in less than ninety seconds after we call you in, or after you hear gunfire.’

  ‘Is this Rolls car armoured?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘No, but it’s so heavy it might as well be. Why?’

  ‘I was thinking of the window glass,’ the sergeant said. ‘If these guys want to stick together rather than separate, and that’s how they train us, then I’d use the sniper to take out the driver at one of these two turns where the car has to slow, probably the sharper of the two turns. Once the driver’s hit, it will be easy to stop the car and kill the woman, or grab her as a hostage. It gives them options.’

  Bruno nodded. ‘I’m glad you’re with us. That’s the best thought yet. What’s your name?’

  ‘Duclaud, Sir, Gilbert Duclaud, Sergent-chef. Do we know if any of these guys were trained as snipers? And whether they only have that FN-F2 sniper’s rifle you spoke about, or might they have the big bastard, the Hécate, the one that fires the 12.7 round? In the right hands, that’s a killer at over a kilometre.’

  ‘Not as far as we know. And since they haven’t used it on us here, when they might have been able to reach a target, we’ll have to assume not.’ Bruno smiled at him; sergent-chef had been his own rank. ‘Right, we’re running out of time,’ Bruno went on. ‘The sooner you guys are in place, the better. We’ll test the radio link when we’re on the road and if that fails we have the mobile phones.’ He turned to Nancy. ‘Got everything you need? Sorry there’s no M-16.’

  ‘I feel like something out of Star Wars,’ she laughed, brandishing the FAMAS at him. The standard French infantry assault rifle, it was known to the troops as le clairon, the bugle, from its strikingly modernistic shape. ‘But now I’ve shot off a couple of magazines, we’ll get along fine.’

  Bruno was also taking a FAMAS, and the guns were short enough to fit into the sports bag they’d use to conceal them when changing cars.

  ‘We’ve only got the one size of flak vest,’ the sergeant said apologetically, bringing them up from the bag at his feet. ‘But they’ve got the Kevlar plates, they’ll stop most rounds.’

  Without hesitation, Nancy stripped off her shirt and jacket, down to her bra. The other men turned their heads away to give her privacy. Taking off his own gear, Bruno didn’t notice until he began shrugging on the heavy vest and suddenly saw her eyes on him and taking her time before she pulled the vest over her head and her black bra. He caught his breath as his eyes lingered and he felt himself flush, knowing the sight would stay in his memory. And then her head poked out of the neck and she was grinning at him cheekily. He laughed and ducked his own head into his vest and began to adjust the straps. This was a remarkable woman.

  ‘Roll up your right trouser leg, mademoiselle, if you please,’ the sergeant said, and knelt to strap the black velcro scabbard around her ankle and shin. Bruno was already fitting his own when the sergeant handed her a blackened commando knife, serrated down one side. Bruno checked the blade against the hairs on the back of his forearm and nodded, thinking if it came down to that, they were in real trouble.

  ‘One more thing,’ the sergeant said, and pushed forward a short soldier with a Red Cr
oss armband and a wide grin on his coal-black face.

  ‘Field dressings, just in case,’ he said. ‘If either of you gets hit, I’m in the chopper and I’ll be with you very fast. Count on it. And there’s a morphine ampoule wrapped inside each dressing. There’s a carbon pencil attached and remember to write M on the forehead if you have to use it.’

  They climbed into Bruno’s Land Rover, checked their equipment, and he told her to duck down as he drove past the small media encampment of satellite vans on the access road. He headed for Bergerac, seeing the helicopter dip over them in salute before wheeling and heading off toward Trémolat. Nancy began checking their radios. Standard French infantry kit, they were clipped to the flak vests and covered by the civilian jackets. Hers was the same red that Maya had been wearing on her visit to the school, the colour the jihadis would be expecting from monitoring the Sud Ouest news site. Bruno was certain now that they would be; every time he came on the radio Philippe gave a plug for his newspaper story.

  ‘Comms are good,’ she said. ‘Let me check the cellphones, if we can hear anything over the rotor blades.’ He felt her hand snake under his civilian jacket, feeling for the pouch on his belt. He caught his breath. She gave his thigh a friendly pat once she’d extracted the phone.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘That didn’t hurt a bit, did it? First contact, Bruno, and don’t tell me you weren’t counting.’

  Not sure what to say, he said nothing as she began punching the speed-dial buttons they had programmed into the phones.

  ‘OK, they work, not great, but if all else fails they’ll probably hear me scream for help.’ She sat back, watching the road. ‘Trémolat is over to the right, west of here, if I recall the map.’