by Shaun Clarke
But as they turned into a narrow, thronging souk, a veritable river of densely packed Arab traders and their clamouring customers, both men stiffened automatically, expecting to be detected instantly. Dead-eye was not the kind to admit to feeling fear, but even he could not stop a fleeting moment of panic as he followed Terry, a good ten yards ahead. They passed along the crowded souk, no more than an alleyway, between open shopfronts piled high with fruit, vegetables, nuts, carpets, pots and pans, and just about every kind of local household implement. Here, Dead-eye soon noticed, there was little sign of the cameras, binoculars, transistor radios, leather goods and pens that were so popular with the tourists down in the harbour area. Clearly this was a genuine Arab quarter, serving only local people.
Those Arabs were around him now, pressing in on all sides, practically breathing in his face, letting him smell their sweat. He lowered his head as much as possible while still glancing about him, taking in every detail of the narrow souk, which, he now noticed, had still narrower, starkly shadowed, but less crowded alleyways leading off it.
Even as Dead-eye was considering the side alleyways as possible escape routes, the souk opened out into a small, busy plaza full of cafés and food stalls. Now at the other side of the plaza, Terry stopped and indicated, with an almost imperceptible nod of his head, a café directly opposite where he was standing. There were tables and chairs outside, most of them occupied by Arabs reading newspapers, sipping mint tea or playing dominoes or chess.
Recalling that this was one of the meeting places of the guerrilla agents, Dead-eye also stopped walking and leaned against the nearest wall, as if watching the world go by. Glancing sideways, he saw Jimbo doing the same and was relieved that, at least from this distance, he really did blend in with the crowd.
After signalling, with another prearranged, subtle hand movement, that Dead-eye and Jimbo were to remain where they were, Terry approached the café, wove his way between the tables and disappeared inside. Watching the doorway, Dead-eye tensed himself for the sound of gunfire, but none came. Eventually Terry reappeared. He turned along the side of the café and entered another souk.
Dead-eye and Jimbo followed, still keeping well apart. This souk was just as narrow as the first one had been, but Dead-eye and Jimbo were starting to slip more naturally into their roles, gaining confidence from not being detected; now they found the experience less hair-raising and, in Jimbo’s case, even fun. Dead-eye, as always, took a more pragmatic view, treating it purely as a job of work and determined to do it right.
Though frequently having to stop and press themselves against the wall to let Arab traders pass with heavily laden wheeled barrows, or to avoid cows being herded to market through the narrow souk, they eventually reached another busy square, its four sides packed with shops and cafés. Here, again, they kept well apart, each taking a separate side of the square, though all three of them faced the café which Terry had indicated with a barely perceptible nod of his head.
Clearly Terry had learned something about his quarry when he had entered the previous establishment, because this time he took a seat at one of the tables and ordered mint tea. While Terry had been specially trained in Arabic at the Hereford and Army School of Languages and was, reportedly, fairly fluent, Dead-eye felt that he was taking a greater chance than was necessary by sitting at a table and ordering mint tea from an Arab waiter. In any case, another Arab could strike up a conversation, which would make things very tricky.
Dead-eye was even more convinced that Terry was getting too cocky when, half an hour later, he ordered food from what looked like a roadside trader serving a cheap couscous from an unhygienic charcoal stove on wheels. Surprisingly, he got away with it, but watching him tuck into it, expertly scooping the steamed wheat grain up into his mouth like the other Arabs, Dead-eye felt a combination of admiration for Terry’s new confidence and concern that it was becoming a dangerous display of bravado.
Glancing sideways, he saw that Jimbo was also intently watching Terry at his table, either simply envying him for having the opportunity to eat or, like Dead-eye, worried that he was playing with fire.
Another fifteen minutes passed. Terry finished his meal, crumpled the heavy paper it had been served in, threw it to the ground at his feet, as others had done, and sat back again, watching the world go by. Dead-eye and Jimbo, meanwhile, meandered around the square, not wanting to remain too long in one place in case an Arab spoke to them, but always needing to be close to the café that Terry was watching.
Dead-eye was only about five yards from the door when he saw Terry move. It happened so fast that even Dead-eye was almost taken by surprise. As a well-built Arab wearing a well-cut suit with a shirt and tie stepped out of the café, Terry pushed his chair back, stood up and walked forward as if about to enter. The Arab did not even bother to look up when Terry, still advancing, reached under the flowing futah. Only when Terry had whipped out his pistol, spread his legs and was taking aim, about to fire two-handed, did the man realize what was happening and try to duck sideways. He was too late.
Locking his arms and bending his legs slightly as he had been taught in the ‘Killing House’ in Hereford, aiming square at his target from a distance of less than five yards, holding the pistol firmly and applying pressure equally between the thumb and fingers of the firing hand, Terry fired two rounds in quick succession.
Dead-eye and Jimbo were still reaching for their weapons when the double roar of Terry’s Browning deafened them and the quarry was violently punched back, blood spurting from his chest, to crash over the table directly behind him. The customers cried out and scattered as the table collapsed beneath the shot man and he hit the ground in a welter of smashing bottles and glasses that were spattered with his spurting blood.
Even as the Arab was flopping over onto his side, one bloody hand clawing feebly at the ground, another, also in European dress, emerged from the café, firing a pistol at Terry. The bullets missed and were whining into the scattering, bawling crowd as Dead-eye and Jimbo raised their own weapons in the two-handed firing position and simultaneously discharged two rounds at the man. Their combined double tap, plus Terry’s, made the man drop his pistol, convulse wildly, slam back into the door frame and slide to the ground even as his assailants were turning away to flee.
Glancing back, Dead-eye saw a third man emerge from the café, turn in the opposite direction and race around the far corner of the building. Terry saw him too. Without a word, he turned back, vaulting over a table, above the panic-stricken Arab customers lying on the ground, to run after the man who had fled. Realizing that the third man must be the second target, and that the second man killed was probably only a bodyguard, Dead-eye instantly followed Terry and was in turn followed by Jimbo, who bowled over a few of the Arabs in his haste to catch up with the other two.
As Dead-eye turned the corner of the café, an irate Arab bawled abuse and rushed at him, wielding a knife. Dead-eye ducked. The knife slashed through the air where his head had been. Dead-eye kneed the man in the groin, then clubbed him with the butt of his pistol as he doubled up, gasping.
Dead-eye raced ahead as the Arab was falling. He followed Terry along another narrow alleyway, hearing Jimbo’s rapid footsteps echoing behind him. Luckily, this souk did not contain shops or stalls, which made progress easier, though the three of them bowled over strolling Arabs as they ran, causing startled or angry shouts to erupt in their wake.
The chase led them eventually to the other, even poorer side of Crater, to a rubbish-strewn square wreathed in smoke from the many open fires and food stalls scattered between the tables and chairs of the shabby cafés.
Clearly knowing where his quarry was heading, Terry had replaced his pistol under his futah and stopped running before reaching the square. Instead of entering the square, he took a seat on a wooden bench along the wall of the street leading into it. He then indicated with a nod of his head that Dead-eye and Jimbo should join him, which they did, one sitting either side of
him, the three of them together taking up the whole of the bench to ensure that no real Arabs could join them. As no one was near them, they could talk in low voices.
‘Our man’s in a house between two smaller houses, just about visible from where I’m sitting,’ Terry informed them. ‘He can’t see us from there, though I can see the house, and if we’re patient and don’t enter the square, he’ll finally decide that we didn’t follow him and come out again. If he does, I’ll see him before he sees us. When I make my move, you back me up, keeping your eye out for anyone who makes a move towards me. If they do, finish them off.’
Terry glanced along the alleyway to check that no one was coming, then studied the busy square again. ‘In the meantime,’ he said with great authority, forgetting that he was with two NCOs, ‘let’s pretend we’re three old friends, just sitting and talking. We can speak in English as long as no one is around. If Arabs pass, you stop speaking and I’ll do all the talking in Arabic, keeping my voice low. That should do the trick.’
‘I can’t bloody believe this,’ Jimbo whispered at the other side of Terry. ‘We’re both taking orders from this trooper. We’re hanging on his every word.’
‘He’s done all this before,’ Dead-eye replied, talking across Terry as if he was not there, though in a soft voice, ‘and knows what he’s doing. So let’s give him his due.’
‘Bloody amazing, is all I can say. Would you credit it?’
‘Thanks, Sarge,’ Terry said. ‘I take that as a compliment.’
They talked softly for the next fifty minutes, sometimes trading the traditional SAS bullshit but just as often passing comments on the movements of the many Arabs in the narrow alleyway and the busier square. The fifty minutes became an hour, then two, and when another half-hour had passed without sight of their quarry, even Dead-eye, whose patience was legendary, was starting to feel restless. Suddenly, however, he felt Terry stiffening beside him and Jimbo, at the other side of Terry, asked: ‘Is that him?’
Terry nodded and stood as casually as possible, slipping his hand under his futah as he did so. Dead-eye and Jimbo followed him as he walked into the square, picking up speed with each step, then suddenly breaking into a run. His quarry, another well-fed Arab in an expensive suit, saw him coming and actually straightened up, shocked.
Dead-eye and Jimbo were fanning out on either side of Terry, both withdrawing their pistols, when an unwitting taxi-driver braked to a halt just ahead of Terry.
The rear passenger door opened.
Terry was just coming abreast of the taxi when an Englishman started to get out. Without breaking his pace, Terry reached out with his left hand to push the Englishman back into the vehicle. The Englishman was straightening up and about to step out again when Terry reached under his futah and withdrew his Browning with a quick, smooth sweep of his right hand. Spreading his legs to steady himself, he aimed the pistol at the Arab who had just emerged from the mud-brick house straight ahead and was about to duck down between the pavement tables of the cafés on either side.
Terry fired six shots in rapid succession, punching the Arab backwards, almost lifting him off the ground and then bowling him into the dirt.
As the Arab fell, a woman screamed hysterically from inside the taxi, many Arabs in the square bawled warnings or shouted out in fear, and Terry turned back to be faced with the shocked tourist, half in and half out of the taxi.
‘Sorry about that,’ Terry said to the Englishman, then pushed him back into the taxi, slammed the door shut, and was disappearing into the crowd as the Muslim taxi-driver, more familiar with the area than his passenger, noisily ground his gears, made a sharp U-turn, and roared off the way he had come, the dust churned up by his spinning wheels settling over the dead Arab on the ground.
Not having fired a shot, but now holding their pistols, Dead-eye and Jimbo raced after the fleeing Terry, giving him cover until he had disappeared into the nearest souk. One foolhardy Arab grabbed at Jimbo and was slugged for his troubles. Another dived at Dead-eye and landed on his shoulders, but was spun off and crashed down onto a table under which some other Arabs were hiding. They all yelled and scattered around the falling man as he thudded into the ground.
As Dead-eye straightened up, having thrown off the Arab, he saw two others in suits standing near the dead man, spreading their legs to take aim with their pistols. Calling a warning to Jimbo as he prepared to shoot two-handed, Dead-eye fired at one of the two Arabs before either had managed a shot. His victim was jerking backwards, his pistol flying through the air, as Jimbo’s Browning roared beside Dead-eye and the second Arab was also bowled over.
Still not recognized as British, they did not say a word, but turned away and ran as fast as they could along the narrow souk, following Terry. It was not a trading area, so they were relatively unhindered, and eventually, when they were sure that they were not being followed, they slowed down to a walk, gradually caught up with one another and walked together, like three Arab friends, to the car parked on the other side of Crater. Only when they were driving away did they let themselves relax, Terry and Jimbo whooping with pleasure while Dead-eye gazed out of the window, impassive and watchful.
‘You should have seen the look on the face of that tourist,’ Terry said, ‘when I spoke to him in English. He couldn’t believe it!’
‘Must have nearly shit himself,’ Jimbo laughed. ‘I wish I’d seen his expression.’
‘You’re becoming too cocky for your own good,’ Dead-eye said brusquely, ‘and it’s making you stupid. First you sit at a table where any Arab could have joined you; then you eat Arab food from a dirty portable stove; then, worst of all, you speak English in the vicinity of the Arabs. How fucking daft can you get? You forgot yourself, kid. Never do that again.’
Realizing that Dead-eye was right, Terry and Jimbo remained silent until the Q car was back in the safety of the military compound at Khormaksar. Terry spoke only when they had signed the car back in and were walking to the HQ tent to make their report.
‘I’m sorry, Sarge,’ he said to Dead-eye, looking suitably contrite. ‘You were absolutely right.’
‘No sweat, son,’ Dead-eye said quietly.
Even before making their report to Lieutenant-Colonel Callaghan, Dead-eye and Jimbo were told by the RSM that they were being sent back to the squadron at Thumier for a major operation in the Radfan. Terry was going with them.
‘Back where I belong,’ Terry said. ‘I’ll be a good boy now.’
‘I hope so,’ Dead-eye said with the hint of a smile.
7
‘Welcome back, gentlemen,’ Callaghan said in his HQ tent in the base camp, shaking the three men’s hands and indicating that they should take one of the hard wooden chairs facing his cluttered trestle table. ‘I believe the Keeni-Meeni operation was a success.’
‘Yes, boss,’ Dead-eye said as he and Jimbo pulled up chairs and sat facing him. ‘The two agents and a bodyguard were topped.’
‘How was Trooper Malkin?’
‘A bit on the cocky side, but he certainly knew what he was doing and did it precisely.’
Callaghan grinned at his squadron commander, Captain Ellsworth, sitting beside him. ‘A bit full of himself, was he? Not grandstanding, I trust!’
‘Not grandstanding, boss,’ Dead-eye reassured him. ‘Just thrilled to be showing two NCOs what to do. A little bit careless here and there from overconfidence, but he certainly proved that he’d learnt a lot during his couple of months with the Keeni-Meeni squads. He didn’t let us down that way.’
‘Maybe you should have left him in Aden,’ Ellsworth said. ‘Sounds like he belongs there.’
‘It’s too free and easy there, sir,’ Jimbo explained. ‘Terry works unsupervised. The work’s dangerous, but being on his own – or with just a friend or two – makes it seem like a game. He’s good, but he’s still immature and needs to be brought back down to earth. So he’s better off back here as part of the squadron. Besides, he’s one hell of a signaller – pract
ically psychic – so we wanted him back.’
Callaghan grinned again. ‘Irish background, yes?’
‘Right, boss. A bit of a Paddy. He doesn’t like to be reminded of it, but that’s what he is and the Paddy in him gives him great intuition when it comes to using the radio.’
‘I don’t believe what I’m hearing,’ Captain Ellsworth said, shaking his head. ‘You’re saying that he has psychic abilities that help when it comes to communications?’
Jimbo was grinning now. ‘I’m not saying it’s true, boss, but I am saying that a lot of the men believe that. They think Terry is an exceptional signaller because he’s Irish and has psychic intuition. So they have confidence in him.’
Callaghan chuckled. ‘Far be it from me to disillusion them. Fine. He’s all yours.’ He glanced up automatically when a great roaring passed overhead, indicating that a Wessex was coming in to land. He waited until the chopper had passed on and was descending on the nearby landing pad, then lowered his gaze again. ‘So, gentlemen, let’s get down to business. Now that those communist double agents have been removed, we can mount our operation in the Radfan without fearing that our every move is going to be telegraphed in advance to the enemy. In other words, you’ve just won yourselves some work.’
‘Christ, boss, what’s the second prize?’ Jimbo said.
‘It’s mainly because of the machinations of those agents you terminated,’ Callaghan continued in a serious vein, ‘that our intelligence concerning the strength and whereabouts of the enemy in the Radfan is negligible. We don’t know anything we need to know. We don’t even know where there’s water. We know precious little about the tribesmen. For this reason we want an improvised group to go back into the mountains and try to pick up as much information as it can, possibly even some prisoners. In fact, Captain Ellsworth has already done that once with a much smaller group.’
