‘Should I call you an expert, on the Kalashnikov?’
‘Almost, perhaps . . . I read about it, I hope one day to have one. My confession, I have never fired one. My brother will not let me even hold one. He says that only boys ready to die, wanting Paradise, have a Kalashnikov. I can strip one, can clean one, can . . .’
‘Why is it so special?’
‘You want to know? Have you not come to purchase a supply route for hashish? It is narcotics that you want?’
‘Why is it so talked of?’
‘Because it makes a man strong, walk with pride, cannot be defeated. The gun of the humble man, a peasant – the best. Both the fedayeen, anywhere in the world, fight with the Kalashnikov, and we do. It is the rifle of the citizen, not just the élite troops they employ – it is so special. I can get you one, a few minutes and a boy will come who keeps them for my brother. I can, if you want, and . . .’
‘I need to go back to my hotel. Thank you. Thank you again.’
‘This is my room – a nice room?’
‘A lovely room.’
He had her hand again. He tried to lead her from the room but she gazed at the poster on the wall, at the weapon they said, all of them, was supreme. He tugged . . . down the stairs, he babbled about how nice his room was and what a good apartment he and his sister lived in, and she absorbed the outline of the weapon, soaked herself in its image. They paused in the stairwell, and the queue was still there as another man was called forward, and she brushed against one of the kids and his weapon, and understood. The boy grinned, spoke in a sort of patois, was handed the rifle, put it in her hand, let her cradle it, just for a moment, like something new-born in her mind. It was snatched away. She was taken to the scooter and the engine was gunned, and she was driven out into the night. He was grateful to her for coming to his home. She thought herself unique in his life, and that her very presence imported status into his home, unknown before . . . and he treated her with such respect, and brought her to a world of new experience which she drank from eagerly.
She held his waist and the skin was there for her fingers, and she thanked him for letting her touch the rifle, so precious, so cold, so available.
January 2014.
‘I’m a fair man, Dazzer, always have been, and trust to God that I always will be.’
Reuven was a fixture now on the corner of the island of Cyprus that was closest to the Sovereign bases operated by the British military. He was well known as a potential conduit for the off-loading of ‘souvenirs’ illicitly carried home from the Afghan war.
‘A fair man who does a fair deal. Not a man who would cheat, defraud. A fighting soldier who looks for a small reward, in cash, after the trauma and desperate stresses of that brutal place.’
The private military contractor, his stint of duty exhausted, had flown to the garrison airfield with a flight full of UK infantry squaddies. It was normal for the PMC boys to be given a free ride home, courtesy of the military, as if a concession was due because the regular forces could not survive in that hostile environment, the hellhole of Helmand, without the support and logistics of the pseudo civilians. Not a pleasant flight to the eastern Mediterranean because the transporter had been bucked by crosswinds, and for all to see were two flag-draped coffins in the cargo sector. The troops were allowed 48 hours in the sunshine to swim, drink, fornicate if they could find a performing harridan, so that they did not get back to Brize Norton and go home to wives and girlfriends and parents while still reeling from the tensions of the conflict zone. It meant that fewer women were beaten up on their return, fewer pubs trashed to ruin . . . two days was the allotted safety valve period. Checks for contraband were minimal on departure from Afghanistan, would be rigorous at the Oxfordshire airfield and few would breach the security screening.
‘And honest, quite honest. If you believe you can find a better price from another merchant in such goods then, Dazzer, you should seek him out and trade with him. The price I offer is – quite truthfully – the best I can manage.’
Reuven was from the Baltic coast of Russia but had moved a decade before to Cyprus. Ethnic Jewish, with good English, a voice that was quiet and seemed to mince goodwill: he was the calling point for those who had smuggled out hardware, ammunition, ordnance, and then had been too frightened to risk confrontation with the Customs men at the UK end – merciless bastards. He operated from a bar that was Greek-themed, that served over-priced food, that played incessant Mouskouri or Roussos tracks. His table was deep in shadow. Beside him on the bench was the package that Dazzer had brought him to make a bid for, unwrapped, still seeming to carry the smell of war, of decayed dirt.
‘It is the best I can manage. I am not a charity, but I am not a charlatan. I pay what it is possible to pay. I am aware of the limited potential of myself finding a buyer for this item, very limited. We must be realistic, Dazzer, we must consider who might wish to purchase it, and why. I believe that the opportunity for re-sale hardly exists. Be very frank with you, tell you that it is, almost, worthless.’
They drank, lager for Dazzer and mineral water for Reuven . . . The contractor had enthused to himself about the value of the AK-47, and had done the sales pitch of the old man – and Father William was a good name for him – who was a freedom fighter when he should have been a pensioner, not that there was a good system of care for the elderly in up-country Afghanistan. All the time he had talked, Reuven had kept his face as still and unanimated as a poker player’s. Dazzer had little fight left in him – and the dreams in his life seldom had happy endings. A shrug, then the look of keen sincerity.
‘Do you know, my friend – my good and trusted friend – how many of these weapons, the different variants on them, have been manufactured, how many? How many millions? Tens of millions? Perhaps a hundred million . . . The value is trifling, even for one of this vintage that has been cared for with love, or that has a history of notoriety.’
He knew. Herbie had told him, but had also painted a pretty portrait of some dick-head who would pay a small fortune for the beast, and would have played up a history of fire-fights and pointed out the old scratched notches of those who had died from bullets shot from this AK-47’s magazines, but Herbie had been clear in his telling of the scale of the production line. Then a pause, and there must have been eye contact from Reuven to the bar and more sparkling water came and another beer with a decent head on it. Bad news would follow, but would be put with the reasonableness of a guy who knew he held the cards. There was no competition. It was a monopoly and Reuven owned it.
‘If you had brought me, Dazzer, the weapon that had been in the bolt-hole with Saddam when the Americans pulled him up into the daylight, and if you had the rifle used in the assassination of the Pharaoh of the Egyptians, Sadat, by the lieutenant – Khalid Islambouli – then I would say to you, again in honesty, that I might manage a more decent return on the item. There is no celebrity attachment to what you bring to me.’
Just another rifle. The beer was good in this bar. Somewhere up at the counter, almost out of sight but able to watch, was Reuven’s minder. He’d be jacketed, and his coat would hang loose to disguise the bulge of the Makharov pistol in a shoulder holster. Not that Dazzer was liable to make a scene and shout, maybe throw a punch because the fantasy of good money was now running in the drains. He’d pointed out the bloodstain that darkened the old wood of the stock, and the notches were now harder to distinguish and the place where the sliver had been was harder to see.
‘So, and we should not waste the time of busy people such as yourself, such as myself, the best I can offer to you is one hundred American dollars . . . probably I make a loss on that. But we are old friends, men with understanding and men with a relationship . . . a hundred dollars. Will you refuse it, Dazzer, and then attempt to bring the weapon through the Customs investigators at your British airport of entry, and risk ten or fifteen years in a gaol, or take it? Which?’
Nothing to argue with. Not a seller’s market, but a buyer’s. He thou
ght the rifle would end up in the arms trade equivalent of a car-boot sale. Not dissimilar from those his parents patronised most weekends in the hope of a bit of a bargain, but never finding anything of value. He looked for a last time at the outline of the weapon. It had been with him in his quarters for close on three months and he had played mind-games with where it had been, who had held it, what stories it had . . . he supposed it might as well, now, have been dumped in the dirt and a main battle tank run its tracks over it, squash it, obliterate it. Did it have a future? Not too sure. An ugly looking old thing, not the rifle that anyone – any more – would covet. He nodded acceptance.
‘A good choice, a sensible choice. A hundred American dollars does not represent the true value of this rifle. I will be the loser, but will not regret having been honest with an old friend . . . and for you there is sufficient money to go to the bars in Akrotiri, even to Limassol, and you will find that a hundred American dollars goes far, quite far – not as far as buying a woman, but very quite far. A pleasure always to see you, Dazzer, and God speed you home.’
A single note was passed him. Reuven’s face seemed to betray a sort of personal pain as if he had merely helped an old and distant friend, had forsworn all his normal commercial instincts. A bit of kindness . . . Dazzer slipped the note into his wallet . . . he would fly the next day, then in the evening would meet some of the guys who had missed on this tour of duty and they’d swap anecdotes and drink miserably. The morning after, Dazzer would be back at the agency that hired him out, and would try to seem spirited and keen and be looking for another mission back to Helmand and the fag-end of the campaign . . . The rifle? Bloody near already forgotten. Out of sight, on the bench, was the rustle of the paper and the wrapping being refastened, then Reuven flicked almost noiselessly with his fingers and his minder came close behind Dazzer, took the parcel and was gone. A last smile from Reuven, a dismissal. Just a piece of junk . . . Dazzer went out into the warm evening air . . . wondered where it would go, who would have it next. He had seen, the final glimpse of it, that the rear-sight was still at an extremity position, perfect for close quarters, almost hand to hand, where the killing grounds were: Battle Sight Zero. An old warrior’s piece of kit, but with tales to tell – and no one wanting to hear them or to pay for them. He’d not get a woman for what he was paid, but the rifle would buy him sufficient beer and shorts to knock him into oblivion. Could have dumped it on the road where Father William had died for the trouble he had gone to . . . and sort of missed it.
Pegs had not slept again. She sat in the chair of her room. In the next room down the corridor was Gough. A part of the conspiracy of their relationship, not advertising the ‘man and mistress’ roles, she made it a point to get back to her room before dawn, get in the bed, rumple the sheets, make the pretence. She thought the time might come, sooner than later, when the brilliance of a spotlight would be aimed at her. Then, powerful forces would seek to show that her attention, and Gough’s, had slipped, almost a dereliction. The substance for her gloom was the brief message passed to her via her mobile.
Not a bag of laughs at my end. Sorry and all that. I assume the transfer happens tomorrow, and we head off then if we are to make that ferry, that schedule. I am not inside her loop, don’t know where she will collect. Don’t know where she is right now, which is not helpful. I saw her in the square outside the hotel – not having a fag but in conversation with a young male, likely north African, and she went away on his scooter. Best you put me under surveillance, and with back-up close by, closer than the Golden Hour. Sleep tight.
More than a year of work put in, a successful bid for the quality resource of an Undercover, and it came to climax, and the target had gone walkabout. Just bloody depressing – a potential cluster-fuck. She had put off waking Gough, now did so. She wore the sort of pyjamas, thick and buttoned to the throat, which would have been respectable in a practising convent, went out, locked her door, knocked on his, waited. The building was quiet, had that night-hour emptiness. Inside, she sat on the end of his bed, let him blink out the tiredness in his eyes, told him and watched him sag, wince as if it were personal. They’d go down together, walk the plank, the sharks congregated underneath, dorsal fins breaking the surface.
She asked, grim, ‘That club of yours, they take new members?’
‘What club?’
‘Where I said you were signed up, a founder member . . . because, Gough, I don’t think we’re good enough.’
‘What’s the club?’
‘For God’s sake, you old goat, what you lectured me on – the Maudlin Club, and I rubbished it. I’m ashamed. I fear for us.’
‘We do our best.’
‘Not enough – another day, another dollar. See what it chucks up. Dog shit or rose petals but I’ll get my application off, Gough, to your club . . . See you.’
He and Tooth were off to bed late. Crab had been told they would rest in and take a bit of leisure on the patio if that bloody wind eased off.
He’d recognised the respect for his long-time friend that the young man had shown when offloaded from the fishing boat. Bloody near drowned rather than admit he’d failed in his job. Good for a senior man to have respect, not to be treated like filth on the uppers of his shoes . . . He’d look forward to the late morning exchange, money for hardware. Would get the old juices flowing, and only the start of the business plan which would make more juice, more money, and keep his hand in.
But he was a long time getting to sleep and the wind stayed fierce, and noisily shook the villa . . . He seemed to be on the pavement, face down, and his wrists were pinioned with plastic stays, and he heard the fucking gun cocked, and around him were screams, shouts, sirens, and the sobbing of those alive, or half dead. He yelled up at the cop for him not to shoot . . . not to do an execution as formal as those done in his youth on the Strangeways scaffold. ‘Nothing to do with me. It was just business. I didn’t know what . . .’ A bit of an untruth, but the best he could do, and he closed his eyes and tried not to see the boot of the cop, or the tip of the barrel, and hear the scrape of the safety going off. ‘. . . I didn’t know what the fucking thing would be used for. I just do business.’
Hard going to sleep that night. Harder to erase the sight of that drowned rat coming off the boat, up the pontoon, carrying the package in the plastic bag.
He pretended sleep.
She had left the room door unlocked, and he had too when he had gone down to use the reception desk phone – left his mobile clean. He lay on his side and saw through narrow lidded eyes that she came in on tiptoe. Floating across the room, soundless, she stripped and dumped the clothes where they had been before.
He wondered what he would be told . . . She came to the bed and eased in beside him. A grunt, a cough, seeming to come alive, and he started up. Her hand touched his shoulder, as if to calm him.
‘You all right?’ she murmured.
‘I’m good, and you?’
‘And me, but I could not sleep. I dressed, went out, walked a bit. Just me and the street cleaners, and they were setting out the fruit and vegetable stalls, just walked . . . I didn’t disturb you?’
‘Not at all . . .’
He thought she lied well. She was snuggled up close and her fingers worked on his chest. He thought she might, probably had, gained a taste for it, like making up for lost time . . . might have said the same of himself. But each were the other’s plaything. He could have quizzed her as to where she had been, what she had seen, and might successfully have picked a hole in the lie, proven the untruth: no advantage gained. I didn’t disturb you? . . . Not at all. He had taken the opportunity, back in the room, listened in the quiet, then worked through her bag, found the money belt. Had unzipped it, had counted, found the value of what he was supposed to take to the ferry port and drive home. Big money . . . Not anything else. He would have been more skilled than her in the art of covert searching, but he carried nothing that was remotely incriminating. The couple below had started ag
ain, getting value for their bed, and their springs sang.
‘. . . and what’s today’s schedule?’
‘Maybe a walk this morning, then my business, then we hit the road.’
‘The business – in the city?’
‘I’m collected and . . .’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Not necessary, and you don’t have to.’
Their hands were lower, searching and moving with gentleness but increasing pace, and their breathing was faster.
‘Not letting you out of my sight. Won’t argue with you. I am with you. Too precious to me, Zed, to have you loose here – a difficult city. I am with you. Don’t care what you’re doing . . . heard the old one? “Hear nothing, see nothing, know nothing”. That’s my promise. I will be there.’
She squirmed under him. Who led? Both did. The dawn was outside the curtained window. The other couple were quiet. Replacing the sounds of the bed springs were the preparations for the day’s market, and the first scrapes of metal as the overnight shutters were lifted . . . He had busted the rules of the house, SC&O10’s, and he let the wonder of it happen, and did not know where he would be when he next slept, or where she would be.
Chapter 14
He had showered first, flushed away the smells of the night, had dressed casually – not the previous day’s clothes, left stubble on his face. Zed had taken her turn in the bathroom and he thought she scrubbed herself hard as if she too wanted to erase what had happened; or perhaps she always did, washed fiercely. He was not proud . . .
Had reason not to be proud. The psychologists who monitored them had a mantra about burn-out which was apparent when the invented legend palled, lost relevance, when the Undercover might cross over and take up the target’s cause or criminality, or when the strain of living the lie became overwhelming. He preferred what an old instructor had told him, a woman of almost unique ugliness, never knew her name, and the stories of her verified successes were often rumoured; she had been with him at the start but he’d not seen her for months before being Phil, then acting out Norm, then Andy. She said that the danger, and the time to quit, was when the Undercover knew that he, or she, was ‘running on empty’. Had ignored the evidence of the needle drifting down towards the red sector on the gauge, was on a long road, far from any garage marked on the satnav, had gone on too long . . . was, in effect, a danger to colleagues, a pushover to adversaries, was putting himself at risk and the great mass of citizens that should have been better protected. She said that it wasn’t brave to hood-wink the team leaders and carry on with symptoms hidden, was not courageous to be in the field and refusing the inevitable . . . shelf-life, she’d said, was finite, might not be long: the Undercover would know it long before it became apparent. Dressed, ready to go, rucksack packed with the little he had brought, he sat on the bed, and thought some more. Thought where they might be, the people who had seemed – once – important to him.
Battle Sight Zero Page 33
