‘I have to believe, Zed, that I will come out of this in good order. You understand, I do this for you.’
She might not have heard him. Her eyes roved round her. She stood and he was at the wheel of the VW. His mind was straightened, the dilemma answered. He could see the shape of her, and the wind tugging at the cleanness of her hair, and the clothing that hid little of her, and the defiance of her chin and boldness of her eyes: knew what he would do. She spotted the boy.
The boy came on an old scooter. He saw it more clearly in the bright sunlight than in the poorly lit square, past midnight. Not the transport of any person of importance, no status about the Peugeot runabout. A kid’s toy . . . and he wondered how far beyond her depth as a sympathiser with the cause, a jihadi courier, she now was. The kid seemed to ogle her, like she was a trophy. Not a social worker, Andy Knight – who he was that day – shut his mind to her problems, and to the sight of her. The kid came towards her, running the bike slower, letting the engine idle under him, and pointed to the pillion.
Again he shouted, ‘You stay with me, Zed. With me.’
The sun caught the bracelet of gold chain that he had bought her an hour before. He would have sworn that she would have obeyed him, muttered an explanation to the kid, walked back to the car. Wrong . . . she smiled at him. She gave him the wide rare smile, one saved for the grand occasions, the one that had seduced him, and beckoned with her finger, and her leg was lifted, and was swung. She was on the pillion. The Peugeot pulled away.
She played with him. He could see that her arms were round the kid’s waist and already her fingers moved on the thin fabric of his T-shirt. His cheap market-stall anorak flew as he accelerated and her head was on his shoulder and her chest hard against his back. Traffic flowed around them and fumes zapped from the exhaust.
He followed as best he could. He thought she teased him Could not lose him, do without him: he was her ride home, but she mocked him. Twice she turned to check he was still in sight, and then had spoken to the kid, and the little beggar had pulled away sharply from lights, and let the exhaust trail out behind. He could not lose her, and followed . . . a good game, but not a game that would play far. Down to the end of La Canebière, and a hard turn to his right, and he broke across the traffic flow and drivers had to brake, hit horns and swore ferociously.
He followed, did not yet know how and where it would end.
Chapter 15
A dangerous, white-knuckle drive. Before signing up for SC&O10, he had been on speed courses, up to 130mph, sometimes faster. It had been intended that a man ‘behind the lines’ would be able to wriggle from trouble when it seemed about to surround him, break an umbilical. Harder to follow a stuttering scooter that weaved through three lanes of traffic. He could stay back, or risk losing the kid and Zed. He’d sensed she revelled in this new atmosphere of a heady freedom, and he, himself, was responsible. Had loved her, flattered her, and she seemed to him to walk taller, high on the water, more confident than he’d ever seen her. Like an action film, a chase, what the squaddies watched on daytime TV, and he lost them twice and regained them twice. He drove well – needed to tell himself that he drove well because no one else was around to speak up for him. They came to a tunnel entrance and he was boxed on the inside, and three lanes had become two, and he was blocked from moving into the outside and passing the dawdlers. If he lost her, then . . . Traffic soared past him on the faster lane. They spilled out from the tunnel.
He burst from the darkness, blinking in the sudden power of the sunshine, and could see each speck on the windscreen, then the traffic filtered. He’d chosen the wrong lane and had to barge back into the slow flow. The Peugeot was parked across the pavement, with other bikes and small scooters. He went on past it, had no option because a tanker was up close behind him. She had untangled herself from holding the kid round the waist, and he saw her laugh and the smile came and for a moment the kid had hold of her arm. She took it away from him, not snatched it, but as a gentle rebuke, like she was telling him there was business in hand.
The mirror was his friend. There was one parking space and he realised another car was behind him and was laying claims for the bay . . . and a finger was up and the bellowing was directed at him, first muffled and through the glass, then louder when the window was lowered. If he needed it he should not back off. The usual trick, one of the first they had been taught. He fished his wallet out of his hip pocket, held it up, like it contained ID. It did not. Exhaustion came over him now, hit him in waves. Not her, she seemed fit, well flushed, rather lovely. She looked round for him, and the kid seemed starstruck. It was Andy Knight’s work: he had transformed her personality, given it room to breathe. The guy in the car gave up, must have thought he faced an investigator, casual clothing not washed or ironed, unshaven and a beaten-up car: the appearance of a cop, plain clothes.
Always the crisis came on quick. He was trapped now and would sweat it out, no choice. Could not be closer to her . . . to the right was a cathedral. In the Marines, in the UK police, and in the SC&O10 gang, he had had no requirement for any form of church architecture, ancient or modern. He did not know the age or the style of this one. It was huge, but one side of it had problems, scaffolding scrambling up the stonework. Further round the bay was a dock area where a warship was tied up, then a stretch of sea that led away from the old harbour. There were islands out in the bay beyond an esplanade and a plaza which was scattered with concrete benches. Next along was an historic castle and he didn’t know its name or its date, or care. Then a café and restaurant doors and a big gym. He assumed it was where she had directed him. He locked the car, walked to a low wall and sat astride it, the car behind him but close enough.
It was his intention they’d get the hell out. Hoped she’d shift herself, be on the road, have taken the fast run for the autoroute and north . . . and wondered how big the package would be, what she was buying. He didn’t think he stood out, reckoned he blended well.
She turned, scanned for him, saw him – was learning, did not wave at him.
Pegs was dragging him. Gough slowed her. She said he was a fucking disgrace. He said that it was one of the finest cathedrals he had ever had the pleasure to be in, awesome carving, space and beauty that were humbling.
‘You could have screwed the whole thing, messing about in there.’
‘You see one of those places, dear lady, once in a bloody lifetime, and four minutes and free entry are worth confronting your impatience. If you did not know, it is near Gothic, that’s the design, parts of it are nine centuries old, and the cupola is . . .’
She snapped across him, ‘And we were bloody nearly late this morning because of your insistence – don’t think I’ll protect you if the inquest heats up. And another thing . . .’
‘Socks smelling again, are they? What else in this litany of recrimination?’
‘We came from our hotel. He’d told us when to be there, but you insisted we were late.’
‘For a damn good reason. What did I want, half a minute to be there, to soak it, have that experience. For God’s sake it was Napoleon Bonaparte’s lodging house we were in front of. Is that not reputable history, where he lived, a colonel in artillery, the great man, here and standing in that window which was above us? Am I not allowed that? God’s truth, Pegs, you can be a Grade A nagger . . . I doubt I’ll ever be back here. He could have been there, looking out, pondering the changes he’d inflict on Europe . . . and the cathedral is astonishing, a triumph of architecture. Can you not see . . .?’
‘Someone has to look after you, just that I drew the chopped-off straw.’
He looked at her. He frowned and the pseudo load of anger slipped from his face. ‘Thank you, appreciated. Move on.’
They sat in front of a café, and the wind was full on them, and she might start soon to shiver. They’d a poor view of the sea and the island out in the bay with the big castle on it, and more history and more romance he told her, where Dumas incarcerated the Count of Monte Cristo, but
had a seriously good view of the open space in front of them.
‘Do you have her?’
‘I have.’
They were in deep shadow from an awning above the café table, would be hard to see, harder to identify. He wondered where those bloody laconic local police were. She did a snapshot photo of her and Gough on her mobile, sent it to them. Sat low in their seats, just another elderly couple. Looked left and saw their man, sitting on a wall and trailing his feet, a picture of bored innocence, and looked across the square and had a fine view of the girl, and the Arab kid with her. He thought it was slotting well, dropping into place.
He asked, ‘If you had to choose, Pegs, either to walk the nave in the cathedral or look up the wall where Napoleon was, and at his window, which would you take?’
She said, fondness writ large, ‘For fuck’s sake, Gough, shut up. It’s where we either break open the fizzy stuff, or a year’s work and resources go under. And soon.’
They were both locked on the girl, Zeinab something, the Tango, the Rag and Bone target, were in a good place, the best seats.
Zeinab stepped out and Karym loped beside her.
Cafés and bars and shopping outlets were on two sides of the plaza, and it was dominated by the cathedral – what Krait would have called a Crusader place, what Scorpion would have called a Khaffur place. On a third side was the sea, on the fourth was the great fortress, and it would have been a defence against the jihadis of that day, centuries before . . . It was about commitment, why she walked tall, with a good stride, enough for the boy to need to hurry to keep alongside her.
He said, ‘What I learn of you, you have interest in the Klash. I can tell you everything you need to know.’
More than she needed to know, left unsaid. Had done nothing in her short life to warrant fame, to have her name spoken on the radio, to have her home identified and neighbours and strangers gathering outside it because she had lived there. Perhaps had reached the stage, and recognised it, where she craved attention, wanted the soft-focus pictures of herself with the weapon in silhouette. Not in love with the Book, had never been a good student, was not one of the kids in classrooms whose heads moved in metronomic rhythm as they recited. Wanted fame as the skinny models had; with the weapon she would have found a catwalk, and flashbulbs. And fighters in the shrinking defended areas of Syria, where her cousins had been, in the last ghetto, the last block of broken buildings, would hear on texts, news bulletins on their phones as the batteries faded, of what she had done. Would know they were not alone . . . And the kid talked.
‘And can tell you that US troops loathed their M-16 rifle in their Vietnam War. Too many times, in wet heat and in mud and with heavy rain, it jammed, could not fire and was useless but the AK of the North Vietnamese was superior. Senior officers were told but ignored it. It was a scandal. It is good that you are interested.’
The boy touched her hand when he spoke, for emphasis, and perhaps as a small show of nervous admiration – or attraction.
‘And the Americans fighting in the Iraqi city of Fallujah preferred to take a dead jihadi’s AK, his Klash, rather than have their own more complicated rifle. They want to go ‘‘spray and pray’’ which is ideal with the Russian rifle but that is not what the M-16 is made for. Very interesting, yes? The AK has killed more soldiers, more civilians, than any weapon in the history of small arms. I am pleased so much that you are interested.’
They were in the centre of the square. He had stopped to sit on a concrete bench. The wind blistered her. They would have seemed another boy, another girl. She hitched up her coat and her hands were under it, and then she loosened her belt and let her jeans drop two, three, inches at the waist, and wriggled and manoeuvred her hands. She pulled the money belt clear. Then dragged up her jeans and fastened the belt, pushed down the hem of her coat, and sat beside him. She did not know from where, but assumed she was now watched, every motion and movement.
The boy said cheerfully, ‘When you go to war and have a Kalash then you are invincible. You understand? You believe you are supreme. You cannot be defeated, it is the citizen’s rifle . . .’
She opened the belt’s pouch and stared down at the close-packed bank notes. To her, the girl from Savile Town, living on a meagre allowance from a state grant, it was the greatest sum of money she had ever seen. When she went to a cash machine it was exceptional for her to take out more than twenty pounds. She put her hand on his, as if to silence him, and smiled sweetly.
Karym thought her eyes quite beautiful. He had been about to begin telling her of Mikhail Kalashnikov’s life, how it was that the man credited with the rifle’s design had achieved such prominence, and . . . he stared at her. When she had lifted her clothing he had seen her skin. To win that smile there was nothing he would refuse, and his chin shook, and he waited to be told what was wanted of him.
‘I need your experience.’
‘Of course.’
‘Your knowledge.’
‘If I can answer.’
‘You have Kalashnikov rifles in that estate, where you took me?’
‘In that project, in all the projects, there are Kalash rifles.’
‘Old ones and new ones?’
‘Quite old, quite new – from Russia and from Libya and from Serbia, from Iraq, from China – nearly they are the same. Yes?’
‘You could buy one here, “quite old, quite new”, you could?’
He shivered. Even in the bright sunshine the wind was keen, off the sea, and cut the thin clothing he wore. He snivelled, had no handkerchief. Sniffled again, and shivered, but had no handkerchief to clean his nose.
‘I could, if my brother agreed.’
‘If your brother refused such permission?’
‘I would not have it – you have to understand that my brother is a noted man. We have a discipline. If my brother agrees, then anything is possible.’
‘I understand. What would be the price of a rifle, not old and not new?’
‘It could be to make an alliance and then very cheap. It could be a quick deal, or a weapon with a history which an owner needs to get clear from. Could have come from Serbia which is more expensive, could have come with cocaine from the Spanish ports and driven here.’
‘What is the price?’
‘An average . . .’
He looked at the clouds hurrying across the sky, and the white crests on the waves around the islands, and the spray on the rocks, and he shrugged and his hands gestured the difficulty of answering a question with so many parts of it uncertain.
‘. . . Your estimate?’
‘Three hundred euro. That would be top, without ammunition. For the settling of a debt, my brother would accept three hundred.’
‘Only three hundred, not more?’
He remembered the denomination of the notes in the belt. They would buy the delivery of a small parcel in order to test the security of the route and for a down payment on a second, larger, delivery, what his brother had told him, and had chuckled. Her breath caught in her throat, and her fingers clenched as if anger started to burn . . . She would have thought . . . All crooks. Thieves and liars. Deceivers and dishonourable . . . She and her people were ripped off, conned, asked to hand over double or treble what the merchandise was worth, and took no risk, but cheated. But, nothing she could do. The deal had been agreed far away, by Tooth and other men of importance. Her cheeks had flushed. Which made her prettier, and she snorted.
Karym snivelled again. She took a paper handkerchief from her bag, passed it to him. He filled it noisily, and stood and went to the next bench where there was a rubbish bin where a wasp was circling, and looked around. Karym saw Tooth and another man, also old, and a hundred metres away and out of the wind and pretending to read newspapers, and saw his brother and gave no sign of recognition, and saw the boy who drove her, who sat on a wall and gazed at the sea and had the wind full on his face, and he waited for a signal. It was business. If she did not understand ‘business’ then she was an i
nnocent. Any man or woman who was an innocent in ‘business’, would fail: in the project, to be an ‘innocent’ was to be at risk. Quiet had fallen. Some kids were listlessly riding skateboards, and others played football, tried to manage the back hammer kick, but without enthusiasm. He saw his brother go between two café parasols and was lit by the sun.
Hamid sweated.
Must keep his coat buttoned, must keep the package hidden.
The procedure demanded by the old man, with the villa on the headland and still clinging to power, was against all Hamid’s instincts. Himself . . . a café with the blinds drawn and a back room, and the customer at the same disadvantage as any purchaser of hashish who came to La Castellane. And deployed around the café would have been a score of his kids, some armed and all wary, with their mobiles cocked, or women with whistles; and the investigators easily spotted because they would only come to the project with huge fire-power in reserve. How he would have done it, but not his decision.
He was a small player, a facilitator. Like a tart who yearned to be in a big man’s bed. He grinned – the ‘tart’ who shared his home was Latvian, pale-skinned, natural blonde, said little, cooked decently, was well built enough to be a symbol of his success, and might even ride with him if he soared in stature, or might be dropped for something better, more attractive . . . one step at a time. He circled the wide paved area, and looked around him. He saw locals with their children, cyclists and the skateboard kids, and a tourist group following a raised parasol and heading for the cathedral, and saw an old couple, foreign, who had a guidebook and an opened map . . . He saw his brother, and saw the girl, and his gaze lingered on her, and she sat upright, looked straight ahead, and the kid was babbling in her ear – would be the usual shit about the Russian-made rifle or its imitators, and he needed to get the business done and then be back in La Castellane before the evening because he had new stock in, and regular bulk customers were forewarned, and he wanted time to prepare for successful trading. The girl said nothing, seemed to look far out to sea, where the wind whipped the waves. He hated the fucking sea. He would never get into a small boat again. Had not managed to choke out the taste of the fucking sea. Nothing that he saw disturbed him. He came to that darkened corner where a big, tossing, bending umbrella denied light to the table beneath. He sat with them. He opened his coat, took out a Swiss knife, slashed the strapping, freed the package, still wrapped as it had been when lobbed from the hatch in the freighter’s hull towards the fishing boat and his outstretched hands.
Battle Sight Zero Page 36
