Gerald Seymour: A Deniable Death

A second shot was fired. The impact, the dirt spatter, was further from Badger. Two shots fired and two heaps of earth hit. Perhaps the man had similar torments of exhaustion, the injury in his leg ached and he wanted out. Anger built in him, and frustration. That was good for Badger, because a cold-minded man was a more formidable opponent. He talked softly and Foxy’s ear was an inch from his mouth.

‘Different when you look into their faces, right? When you see them playing with the kids, doing everyday life.’

If he had been alone, Badger would have backed his chance of crossing the open ground as better than even odds. But it was not only himself. There was a quaver in his voice now, annoyance. ‘What are we doing here, Foxy? What are we doing on their ground? What were we ever doing in this God-forsaken fucking place? Please, Foxy, I have to be told.’

Another shot was fired. He saw the flash as the cartridge case was ejected. The report echoed away from him. He didn’t think the man would turn, head away, lose all heart, but he did believe that the firing of three shots showed frustration and anger, which would destroy concentration. Badger moved his head, lost sight of the man. He saw two white shapes on a horizon. They were minimally small. He wondered if it was there that the wire strand lay and if the burned tank was to his right, and the trucks that had skidded off the bund line into stagnant water, and the fallen watchtower. He needed an answer from Foxy but was denied it. He started to move again, and the silence was back, no wind blew and no cloud protected him. The heat haze was his friend.

‘Us coming here, it wasn’t in my name. Us walking in here – tanks, bombs, guns – that wasn’t in my name. Up in the north, should I have thrown it back in their faces? I’m a policeman, Foxy, not a fucking soldier… Give me an answer that works, please.’

He thought he heard Foxy, thought the clipped, nasal voice told him about casualties and rehabilitation clinics, about the coffins coming in shiny hearses up a High Street in the blazing sun or when there was snow piled at the kerbs, or when rain drizzled to reflect the misery. It told him about the ‘national interest’… He could only hope that the haze would hide him.

‘They’re waiting for us, Foxy, the girl and the guys are.’

Corky gestured ahead, past the expanse of open ground and past the solitary man who tracked his target. She refocused the lenses. The binoculars found them.

Abigail Jones saw a jeep and two lorries. They were short of where the first two vehicles had lost traction in the sand. She wouldn’t have seen it with the naked eye, but the glasses pulled the scene into her face. A cluster of men stood around a casualty, but the new troops who had reached that point didn’t stop to help, merely paused long enough to be given the general direction of the flight and pursuit. She could pick out different uniforms, good camouflage patterns and a different scale of weaponry. She recognised three RPG-7 launchers, and a machine gun. She turned to Corky, raised an eyebrow.

‘That’s IRGC, miss, Revolutionary Guards, not the riff-raff. But you knew that, miss.’

Her name was called, Shagger’s voice, behind her. She swung on her feet. He pointed away, down the track they had used. In the far distance the sunlight blazed off the windscreen of the BMW saloon they had tipped off the track into shallow water. Dust billowed. There were three or four pick-ups, crudely painted in olive green, and a Land Rover among them. Two of the pick-ups had machine guns fastened to cross-bars behind the drivers’ cabs. Her lips must have pursed, and maybe she cursed quietly. Shagger had an answer for her.

‘That’s Iraqi Army, likely from al-Qurnah – and that’s heavy fire-power they’re carrying. We’re between a rock and a hard place, miss, or a lump hammer and an anvil.’

She said that the Black Hawks were in the air, which meant little. She was shivering, couldn’t halt the tremors, and no longer had certainties.

A truth had come to Mansoor. The quiet allowed his thoughts to collect. Truth won through against his exhaustion and hunger, the heat of the high sun, and he realised the enormity of his failure. He saw the Engineer, whom he had been ordered to protect, leave home with his wife to go abroad in secrecy and on a journey where, if his arrangements were known, he would be vulnerable to attack. He saw, also, the man in camouflage who had been dragged from the water and had resisted interrogation. He could not justify his failure to alert senior officials immediately after the capture. Who would understand his motives? He doubted that, in the length and breadth of Ahvaz or from one end to the other of the garrison camp, he could have rooted out one man prepared to say that his actions had been reasonable, given the pressures he faced.

He was like the dog that searched for a rabbit’s scent. Had it, held it, lost it and searched again for it. He could not see him. The fierce light mocked him. Often he would have sworn an oath on the Book that he saw movement in the heaps and humps of dirt that stretched away from him. Three more times he fired and heard only the report of the bullet.

The man he hunted had destroyed him. He might as well have exposed himself and urinated on Mansoor’s boots. The heat of the day had come and the shimmer of the ground made a greater confusion. He sank to his knees. For a minute, no more than two, he had lost the trail. Here the ground was dry dust and he had to search for a place – no larger than a piastre – where the crust was broken. He followed a new line and went closer, imperceptibly, to a raised spur on which two heavy white vehicles waited. He saw a woman there, whose skirt moved in the wind, and men, all with the same T-shirt decoration, stood around her.

They pointed beyond him, and when he turned and saw the extended cordon line approaching, he knew little time was left him.

‘You have been most patient.’ The consultant leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, and peered into the face of his patient. ‘A few of those who consult me are able to match your patience, but not many. I have explained in detail the size of the tumour, where it is located, what it is adjacent to and the importance of those areas in terms of speech, mobility and quality of life. You have listened and not interrupted. For that I am grateful. You will appreciate that it is my duty to take you through these matters. Now I can conclude.’

He smiled. It was the first time he had allowed any signal of his professional opinion to be on display. He saw her jaw drop.

‘I would use what we call the gamma knife – more simply, that is surgical radiotherapy – to extract the problem area under general anaesthetic. It is a technique that we have used with good results in Germany.’

Her husband had caught her arm and seemed to crumple in the shoulders.

‘Nothing is foolproof and nothing is guaranteed. Success is based on skill and experience. Enough to say that we feel optimistic of a good outcome. When I was called out of here, while I was explaining our diagnosis, it was to hear the opinions of others to whom I had given access to the scans. Their opinions, broadly, matched mine. We can do the operation. The alternative is that you will be dead within two months.’

Why did he persist? Easier, by far, to say that surgery was no longer an option and tell the patient to go home and spend her remaining days with her family. He could not have been gainsaid. But there was about her something magnificent that had captivated him. He had thought her husband a rat-faced bastard, and a regime man, but the man’s face was wet with tears.

‘We would start the necessary pre-operative examinations tomorrow, and I believe I could have access to surgery time, at the university medical centre, in Hamburg-Eppendorf, within a week.’