‘You’ll be careful,’ Beth called to him.
Of course he would, always was, but nothing to be careful of. It was an easy run to the airport for a flight to Marseille.
She tried to call him. He did not pick up.
What would Zeinab have said? ‘Hi, Andy, how’s it going?’
She heard the ring tone. Might have said, if he had answered, ‘Just wanted to speak, missing you.’ Might have said, ‘So alone, want to be with you.’ Zeinab let it ring. He was usually good at picking up . . . but he’d not recognised this number. She had said that she would spit in his face, then stamp on it, remove all trace of him, and could hear her own voice saying it, but did not hear him.
‘A dog peed on you.’
‘Did it?’
The sergeant said, ‘Took me a bit of time, but I remembered it. Remembered it while having my lunch, and remembered your name, young ’un. Went into the adjutant’s office and checked the records. The name wasn’t there. Either my memory was banjaxed or the name was deleted. What I’m not short of is the memory of the dog peeing on you.’
‘Did it?’
Always, the instructors preached a lesson of caution concerning a conversation with an older man, a father figure, who had sussed some truths. Tempting to throw in the towel and confide, driven by the loneliness, and say things and believe in the strength of confidences and promises. Should never be done, the instructors said, whatever the temptation and whatever the trust. They were on a common, dull gorse and dead bracken. Andy Knight, or whoever he had been then, had come back to Lympstone, down the hill and against the estuary shore, for a sniper course, had done a stint with 43 Commando and was on the nuke bomb convoys going up from the Thames valley to Scotland, but it had seemed tame, and sniping would be his chosen field. Here was the place to learn it, the dark art. That day was clear enough to him. Each of them had to cross a half-mile of ground while a pair of senior NCOs sat in comfortable canvas chairs and scanned with big-lens binoculars, and the guy who was spotted failed . . . Not ‘nearly managed to stay concealed’, not ‘almost managed it’, but failed. Like it was life and death . . . to a Marine who wanted to be a sniper, be in the isolated and feared élite. He had to get within 200 yards of the spotters, and it was a hell of a way to the finish line. The common was shared between Marines and dog walkers and pony riders. The kids on the ponies stayed on well-worn tracks, but the dogs roamed free and went after rabbits. It was a big retriever, handsome chap, that had found him, had lifted a leg, had doused him, then had skipped off to get back to its mistress, and he had not been seen and had not moved. The woman might have known but they were good ladies and would never snitch on the boys in the undergrowth. He had won through, had reached the final point, had passed and would receive his badge, and the dog’s urine was in his hair and across the back of his neck, and all of them had had a good laugh.
‘God, and how you stank.’
‘Did I?’
He knew where he wanted to go. It was weakness that had brought him here, and a bigger weakness that he had allowed the sergeant to drive him to the common. It was bare, featureless, and hostile in winter to the guys on the sniper course, and the NCOs knew – over the years – every gully and every ditch where a man in a ghillie suit could advance. He did not think that Phil Williams or Norm Clarke would have felt the need to come here, but Andy Knight was a different kettle, and might be closer to burn-out, and needed comfort: would find it and something of his past . . . They said that most rabbits failed to survive in the wild for more than a year. The big beggars, dominant males, might do a bit better. He’d always assumed that it was one of them that had wrecked him. This one – probably a Thumper – had dug the hole wider but had also been cunning enough to get a bit of an old tree root lodged across the width of the entrance which would have given cover from a high-flying predator, a buzzard. He had been going fast, his exam already wrapped up, had been crossing ground, and crouched at the waist, and his right leg had gone into the hole and his impetus had moved forward but his boot was trapped. Wrecked ligaments and a cracked bone, a poor first operation in an A&E which had too great a pressure on it and a novice doing the work . . . He’d be all right, of course, would walk pretty well, would run after a fashion but not far, would be grand for normal life: would be a Marine reject. Sad stuff and all that. Life’s tough, that sort of epitaph. Told he would be missed but that life moved on, and briefly wished well. The big rabbit had done him, and he had gone to the police and been recruited and had successfully disguised the worst of the injury. Had been bored, had looked for something special, had been told about SC&O10. He found the hole. Could have been home to a fox, might have later on. It was no longer in use and was stuffed with leaves. He stood by it, gazed into it, and something of the dedication was further shed, but Andy Knight was good – as they all were – at shielding real life from the psychologists who cast a rule over them. Who wanted to quit? Nobody did. Who should have quit? Pretty much all of them . . . He shook his head, like he was trying to dislodge an unwelcome fly. He started to walk away.
The sergeant fell in beside him, spoke quietly, like an uncle. ‘Rather you than me, young ’un. Don’t think I’d manage it.’
‘Manage what?’
‘Manage being away from this family, I dread that. Living the lie, existing in deceit, not owning a friend. Trying to remember who you are, not who you were. Being alone. I hope to God they protect your back.’
He did not answer.
‘Funny old thing. The dog that peed on you was quite young then . . . I was here a couple of weeks ago. The woman’s still grand, slower, but fit for her age; the dog’s a bit downhill, looked as if arthritis was setting in. Hope we’ve been of use here, and good luck. Stay safe.’
It would be a short train journey back to his parked car, then an easy run to the ferry.
Chapter 9
He sat in the car, engine ticking over, and waited for the queue to nudge towards the ferry.
Andy Knight felt the pressure build, heavier than it had on Phil Williams and weightier than on Norm Clarke, could not have directly answered why this time was harder. Would have liked a drink, but had not had one since leaving the common and his conversation with the veteran sergeant who had successfully read him, and he would not have one now. Alcohol did not sit easily with those living the lie. Remembered the bar of the pub up the road from the Newbury over-spill, but had not been there since enrolling into SC&O10 . . . He’d assumed that he would be watched into the port and that they would have picked him up approaching the check-in process. They’d have been likely to determine he’d no last minute debrief from controllers, was only a boyfriend with eyes on a long weekend with a girl.
No protection on the boat, of course. No firearm in the car, of course. No baton, no gas and no spray; what he needed to safeguard him was the authenticity of his cover and its ability to withstand scrutiny . . . He would have a shit drive ahead of him and would try to sleep as much as possible in a recliner – and not dream. It nagged at Andy that the sergeant had ‘pinged’ him. He crawled forward, had the radio on, soft music – what the pub might have played. He rarely drank. Some of them in the animal crowd drank alcohol but most could not afford it and anyway preferred to smoke. The people ferrying dope around the southern counties were rarely drunk and had the wit to stay sober, stay alert, watch their bags, had a paranoia for maintaining security. In both lives he had fabricated a medical reason for staying off hooch, something about an allergy that was half concocted and half downloaded from the net. Did another few yards along the ramp, and the lowered bridge was just ahead. In the Marines he had taken his good share of ‘bevvies’, and in the early police days he had been ‘bladdered’ when coming off shift like all the other young guys and some of the young girls. The abstinence had come down like a guillotine blade . . . he had never liked to drink in private, alone and solitary, but yearned often enough for the warmth, camaraderie, of the pub up the road from his parents.
> That was the Fox and Hounds. The usual cross-section of professionals and tradesmen and loafers with the layabouts. Did a fair cheese sandwich, had a proper log fire, had live music on a Friday. The joy of it was walking inside and not reaching the bar before his name was shouted out and smiles greeted him, and money was on the counter for his first drink of the evening. An old name and no longer used, consigned to a bin. There would be guys there, and the regular bar staff, who might wonder ‘what ever happened to . . . .?’, and they might see his mother out walking the dog, or might know his father from the school where he taught and ask them ‘Haven’t seen . . . around, any news?’, and trawl for an answer but not get it. His parents knew no more of him than the clientele of the Fox and Hounds. The drinkers would have been puzzled but his parents would have been wounded. Probably thought that some dispute separated them. The best he had said, one Sunday evening some five years ago, had been a caustic explanation, holding no water: he had been called away to ‘special duties’. He was off and gone. Through the front door, a slap on his father’s back and a peck on his mother’s cheek, and no further explanation and all done with a brusque rudeness because that was a better way of severing the link. Then, to the pub and one big round that had drained his wallet, one drink only and heading for the door on a cold night and feeling the frost forming on his face, and turning round, ‘See you, guys,’ and getting into his car, heading off into darkness. Had never been back and had never phoned his parents. He did not know whether his legends had held so well as Phil and as Norm and as Andy, that no check had ever reached that far, that the cover had stayed strong. Worst of it was the angst that he’d given his parents, who had done nothing that deserved that treatment . . . not proud, but the job came at a price, a high one. He had heard from the instructors in that long run of preparation that there were a few who tried to – as it was put – ‘run with the hare, run with the dogs’, and had a wife and children at home, had friends down in the town who seemed to accept that one year he was clean shaven and with a tidy haircut, and the next year he had grown a wispy beard and had greased hair staining his shirt collar. Better to make the clean break, could have been tracked, followed and stalked and seen going in through the bungalow’s front door, and then they were at risk, could have been petrol-bombed and could have been beaten. Spared them the risk, and the upset they’d have felt was cheap return for the absence of danger.
He was waved forward, drove slowly into the boat, came close to the loader who brought him the last few inches. He cut the engine. He sat for a moment. Should have felt brighter, livelier, was exhausted.
She walked well, felt confident, important.
She was the little girl from Dewsbury, and she came off the Eurostar and hitched her bag on her shoulder, had her shoulders back and her stride long, and she headed for the Metro. She would need the link to Gare de Lyon. A soldier stared at her, and raised his eyebrow a fraction, then looked away.
A puff of pride filled Zeinab.
There were four in the patrolling group. They threaded through the swarm of passengers on the concourse. They had camouflaged uniforms, and carried lightweight infantry rifles and one had a radio set strapped on his back and it was topped with a wobbling aerial. Their heads, all of them, were close shaven and berets were precariously balanced on their skulls. Their battle helmets were hooked to their belts. The soldier might have been from a north African background, and the texture of his skin was the same as hers. He had caught her eye, made contact, and had thought her worth the gesture of the cocked eyebrow, then had looked away, had resumed scanning the people hurrying about their business, eating, gazing at information boards, keeping children happy. The soldier knew nothing . . . it was the extent of her deception that bred the pride . . . might have been close to arrogance.
It was always said in Dewsbury, whispered among women in the privacy of their homes, that the parents of the children who had volunteered themselves as martyrs – or had taken the long journey through Turkey to enlist in the caliphate forces – did not know. It was the perceived truth that parents, uncles and aunts, family friends, school teachers – and the imams – had no suspicion as to what their kids were learning on the internet, what they intended for their future. She had seen, in streets close to home and under the shadow of the great minaret of the Merkazi, doors that had been broken down at dawn by the police arrest teams. Long after the wagons had gone, taking the teenagers or young men, neighbours, friends and relatives had called to offer solace, sympathy, support, and would have had the same answer – with tedious repetition – that they did not know. The pride, what gave the spring in her step, was because she had deceived her mother and father, the student kids on her landing, her tutor, all of them and had a mask across her face that served her well. The extent of the deception thrilled her, and she found the entrance to the correct Metro line. There had been armed police wandering among the benches and past the shop fronts at the London end of the Eurostar, but the sight of regular soldiers was security taken to a different level . . . she had no idea how it would be. She flashed a ticket and went down an escalator and followed signs.
No idea what it would be like to face troops down the length of a station corridor, or across a concourse at an airport, along the aisles in the shopping centre in Manchester. She imagined that above the noise of screaming shoppers or passengers, would be the shouting of the soldiers. The young one who had raised an appreciative eyebrow at the sight of her, would have had a good voice coming from a strong chest, would have tried to dominate her with its authority. The chance that he – any of them – had ever fired in anger before, shot to kill, was negligible. Nor would she have if it were her, Zeinab from Savile Town who nobody knew of, if she had the Kalashnikov. She sat on a train and it rolled into the darkness of a tunnel. Shouting and screaming around her, and the hammer of her heart and the panting of her breathing, and the finger on the trigger . . . it was that sense of excitement that gripped her. And she was trusted . . . not just by Krait and Scorpion, but the older man and the one with the scars on his neck . . . and she was the enemy that was not recognised.
She remembered how it had been at home. Weeping from her mother, abuse from her father, and doors slammed in their fury, impotent, when she had announced that she would leave home and go to university across the Pennines, and neither had realised that it was part of her march towards this new role, chosen by her, to be a fighter . . . With the weapon in her hand, could she have aimed at that soldier, seen his face, seen his eyes, seen the shake of the barrel’s tip, and fired at him? She had no doubt of it.
Liberated . . . in good time for her train to the south . . . free.
‘I will treat you, of course, with respect, and listen to your requests, but . . .’
They had been escorted to the second floor of the city’s police headquarters, L’Évêché, and might have come from another planet, a different civilisation, from the way their ID and passports had been scanned at the ground-floor reception desk.
‘. . . I have a full schedule, and your approach comes outside the correct protocols. I run the affairs, criminal, of the northern sector of France’s second city. Am I supposed to end normal duties, and go back to them when you have finished your assignment?’
In the taxi from the airport, Pegs had suggested some initial ‘bluster’ was predictable, and the man they’d meet would soon soften. She had launched into her schoolgirl French, and made a fair fist. He was a major, and had replied in flawless English, and both she and Gough had ducked their heads in appreciation. So it had started on a poor footing.
She said, ‘Any help that we can have would be gratefully received.’
They had been brought up to the office via a creaking elevator and then along gloomy painted corridors; men and women, some in uniform gazed at them as if they were an alien force . . . probably justified. Gough was familiar with French investigators coming to London who received short shrift in terms of welcome, and cooperation with the Italian
s was rationed more tightly, barely existed for the Germans. The Major was behind a small desk in a spartan office and both of his visitors were perched on hard chairs. There was a family photograph on a wall, him with a wife and a child, another of the Republic’s current President, and a map that his eyes had wandered to that showed the northern sector of the city. On his desk were a screen and a keyboard and model cars in the livery of the carabinieri and the New York City police, and a toy wagon in the colours of the Guardia Civil. Against a wall was a hatstand that doubled as a coat-hanger, and it was skewed at an angle under the weight of a harness for a shoulder holster, pistol included, and a flak-jacket . . . at Wyvill Road there were no firearms on display, and protective vests were issued from stores in the cramped basement. No coffee offered but Gough thought that was an oversight, not rudeness. By his feet was the duty-free bottle in a plastic bag that he had protected through the journey, and the building’s security procedures.
The Major answered her. ‘I have delayed a meeting this afternoon to see you. When we have finished I go to that. Then we have the end of the day – I go home. Perhaps tomorrow we can look more fully at the situation confronting you . . . Where are we? You are working on codeword “Rag and Bone”, you believe a weapon is to be brought by a new route into this city, you believe also that this is a test run for future shipments. You have an Undercover trailing a female target – except that he and you have lost her. You are confident of regaining contact. It is vague, yes? One weapon, yes? Perhaps only one – or two or three. A very few. A trial, and the hope that if the system is satisfactory more will be ordered, and you are nervous that extremely potent weapons will replace knives on your streets. We know about such firearms, we have that experience, and Marseille is awash with assault rifles . . . But you do not know the contact with whom the female target deals. You don’t . . .’
Battle Sight Zero Page 22
