Gerald Seymour - At Close Quarters

"You are to be most warmly congratulated, Prime Minister."

"Thank you, I accept your congratulations with pleasure, and later, when I telephone him I anticipate receiving the congratulations of the President of the United States. We are not a nation of boasters, gentlemen, I like to think we are a nation of quiet achievers

… it's been a good meeting. Thank you, Harry."

Major Said Hazan was buried with full military honours in that section of the military cemetery reserved for Air Force officers who had died in the service of the Syrian Arab Republic. There was a large turnout of dignitaries and senior ranking officers. The cause of death, as announced in the Damascus morning newspapers, was given as heart failure brought on by the ravages of an old war wound, bravely borne. Amongst those who carried the coffin to the deep cut grave was Fawzi. He wore a new uniform for the occasion, and the uniform carried the insignia of a captain, and the brigadier who headed Air Force Intelligence and who was the pall-bearer immediately ahead of Fawzi, had told the young man that in the circumstances he was right to have shot the Jew. And no doubt the brave major had been so severely injured in his throat that the Jew's very first assault was fatal.

After the service, after the mourners had dispersed, after the band and the honour guard had been bussed away, the brigadier walked with Captain Fawzi to a distant part of the cemetery where the cypress trees shaded the closely-mown lawns. The brigadier offered Fawzi a job in his department, and offered him also the task of finding a replacement leader for a seaborne mission against the Defence Ministry on Kaplan. When they had finished, they walked back towards the cars, and the brigadier linked his arm to Fawzi's elbow.

"Tell me, who shot Hazan's boy?"

"In shame I do not know."

The name of Holt was not known. The secret of Holt had died with the locking of Crane's fingers on the windpipe of Major Said Hazan, with the blasting away of Crane's life by the Makharov pistol fired at point blank range.

"Come in, Percy For God's sake, man, you look dead beat."

"Didn't get to bed last night, sir, and had to be at the airport at five."

"It's been a first class show." The Director General beamed, and waved Martins to a chair, and he shouted through to his outer office for coffee, and he lifted a half bottle of cognac from his desk leg drawer.

"Thank you, sir."

"I tell you this, when I heard that the sniper chap had been caught, I thought it was all over for us."

Martins eased back in the chair. The personal assistant handed him coffee, in cup and saucer, and the Director General topped up the coffee with cognac. He seemed not to feel his age, nor his tiredness.

"Well, a fair amount of work had gone into preparing young Holt. I thought from the start, from the time I had him down in the country that this couldn't be a man and boy operation, that they had to go in as equals.

I put Holt through a pretty tough induction, toned him up so that he would be just about as able to operate on his own as in tandem, and it paid off."

"And you had damn all help at the far end – more cognac?"

Martins reached forward with his cup. He was a good deal surprised: there was no shake in his hand. He drank. He felt the glow beneath his stubble-covered cheeks. It had been a conscious decision not to shave.

He was straight in from the front line.

"Couldn't put it better, sir, damn all help. I had to insist, lay down the law, that we should have a hot extraction programme after the snipe. Didn't win me any friends, but I had my way. I arranged for them to carry in a Sarbie beacon, and I cudgelled the locals into putting a receiver into the transport of an agent they had operating in the Beqa'a. That was the first thing I made them do, when they got windy about the chopper back-up in the first place. So, Holt fired, knew enough to have avoided detection, then he laid up until darkness, then he moved off. I had predicted that such a long range shooting would create total confusion in Hamid's camp, not much of an idea where the shot had come from. Holt moved off after dark and when he was well clear he activated the bleep. The car driven by this Mossad fellow, their agent, picked him up. I'm the last one not to give credit where credit is due, the agent did his part well, used his lights and his horn to attract Holt, took him on board and drove like hell for the border… "

The cognac was coursing. He felt the dampness in the socks he should have changed on the aircraft. The Director General sat on his desk, hunched forward, an eager audience.

"… So far so good, but of course the Syrians had picked up the bleep and were reacting, and they had road blocks between Holt and the safety of the U N I F I L sector and the security zone. I really lost my rag, sir, I was in their communications area, and I just demanded that a helicopter be sent. Made the air quite blue, sir.

They were jabbering about missile umbrellas, all that sort of rubbish, but I won the day. Well, in the end they sent up a helicopter, they located the car about three miles short of the road blocks, quite a short run thing, they lifted out Holt and the agent. I've no complaints about the way they managed that. That's the short of it, sir."

"Remarkable, Percy."

"Thank you, sir."

From the leather box on the table, the Director General passed Martins a cigar, and lit one himself. The smoke fogged the room.

"You'll take the weekend off. Go and get yourself an ugly big pike. You'll be back here on Monday morning.

Your ears only, for the time being. For your information, Mr Anstruther informs me he is seeking fame and fortune in the commodities market in the City. Mr Fenner is returning to Cambridge, an academic future.

As from Monday morning, Percy, you will head the Middle East Desk."

"That's very good of you, sir."

The Director General swung his legs down to the carpet.

"And Holt, Percy?"

"Peculiar young man, sir. Not the easiest to handle.

Of course, he's been under strain, haven't we all? He was pretty insistent that I drop him at Paddington station on my way in from the airport. I've got the number where he'll be for the next few days. He's gone home I've got something for you, sir, something of a souvenir "

Martins led the Director General through to the outer office. Behind the coat stand, in the corner next to the door, was the Model PM Long Range. "He wanted the sling. That would be enough to remind him of Crane, he said. That was the sniper, sir." Martins laid the gun, immaculately clean, on the table in the corner of the Director General's office.

"Good of you, Percy. The Department will be proud of the trophy."

After Percy Martins had gone, probably in search of bait from a fishmonger, the Director General stood at the window of his high office and he traversed the sky line, and his eye was hard against the sight circle, and he aimed at the flags that flew from the corporation tower blocks across the river, and he followed the flight of a gull. He thought the boy was, as the Prime Minister had said, lucky to have had the opportunity. He thought he would have given an eye tooth to have had the opportunity to fire that rifle in the service of his country. He would take it to Downing Street in the early evening, just the thing to cap a damn good show. He asked his personal assistant to warn the Cabinet Secretary to alert security that he would be coming over at six o'clock and would have a rifle with him.

Together, Major Zvi Dan and Rebecca cleared the barracks room at Kiryat Shmona that had been the home of Noah Crane.

They needed only one black plastic dustbin bag. Into the bag went the second pair of boots, the two sets of old uniforms, the underwear and the socks and the pyjamas, the few items of civilian clothing. There was a letter from a clinic in Houston, there were a few old newspapers. All went into the bag until it bulged. The intercepts from Hermon had told Major Zvi Dan that Crane would never again use the contents of the bag.