Andy McNab - War torn

'Asma, don't be upset…'

He was shocked to see that she was fighting tears.

'I'm not fucking upset,' she spat.

'It's a war. We have Rules of Engagement and international laws governing our behaviour but it's basically a dirty game and you can't trust anyone.'

'You don't understand! Someone who knows nothing about this country and its people thinks he had the right to judge Asad and find him guilty. And today those bastards put him to death! What fucking right do they have to decide who he is and what he thinks?'

'They have the right to decide he's dangerous and that he puts a lot of other lives at risk.'

'I hope they know what the fuck they're doing! Because if they're anything like you, with your posh farmhouse and your polo and your private school, they don't have a fucking clue! You don't even know anything about England. Let alone Afghanistan!'

Weeks did not reply. Asma did not get out. So they continued to sit in the hot Vector watching the men debus. Dave was running around with ammo. The drivers were sharing cigarettes in the shade. Weeks could not remember being more miserable. His wretchedness felt as though it penetrated to his bone marrow. Somehow, together, he and Asma had managed to develop an intimacy despite all the differences between them. And she had just ended all that.

He wondered which gap was wider: the eighty miles between his family's farmhouse and the flat in Hackney where she had been brought up? Or the gulf between England and Afghanistan? The distances seemed so great that they were insurmountable.

She sighed into the silence. He wished she would speak. Apologize, unsay it, reach for his hand. He glanced at her and saw from her deep brown eyes that she would do none of these.

'You fucking idiots don't understand. You talk about the Enemy. But sometimes the Enemy is the Future.'

'What does that mean?'

'His beliefs were too complicated for you fucking morons to understand. He was no fundamentalist but he certainly had principles. If he was fighting for something it was probably Pashtunistan. What makes a bunch of fucking wankers think it's OK to top anyone who believes in a cause? Maybe what he believed in had some value. Shit, I hate you all.'

'All who?'

'All you wankers who think you know. Well, now you'll pay for being so fucking sure. We went into their house and accepted their hospitality and now we've shot their son. At a family wedding, for fuck's sake. It's OK for the SAS, sneaking in and out of here and then going off to kill someone else. We've got to stay here and face it when they take their revenge.'

'Now you're being dramatic.' He heard his own voice, how his vowels had been honed in farmhouses and on polo ponies. He understood how it must irritate her. 'The point of the Regiment's op is that it didn't look like any British Army operation the locals would recognize. The intention was to make them think a rival tribe had carried out the killing.'

She rolled her eyes.

'They're not stupid.'

She was getting out of the wagon now.

'Gordon, I've already explained the Afghan code of honour to you. Now just you wait and see what happens.'

She slammed the door.

IN THE COOKHOUSE, FINN AND MARTYN ROBERTSON WERE TEACHING Angus to play blackjack. Dave always kept an eagle eye on these games but so far he had been unable to detect stakes that were anything higher than matchsticks.

'I bet you earn a lot of matchsticks in a week, working for an oil company,' said Finn as they waited for Angus to decide whether to draw another card.

'More matchsticks than you could ever imagine, Huckleberry. But there's not a lot of chance to spend it here.'

'What do you do with it then?'

'I got houses, I got ex-wives, that's where most of it goes. But I've enjoyed our blackjack, and when I get out of here I think I might just take me to Vegas for a weekend.'

'We do a thing called decompression when our tour ends. We all go to Cyprus to get drunk.'

'Well, I'll need a lot of decompression in Las Vegas after all these months with Emily the Enemy. I just wish she wasn't coming to Jackpot tomorrow.'

'But you're a lucky bastard,' said Finn. 'Money to blow in Vegas. Any chance of a job when I come out of the army?'

Martyn smiled wearily.

'I get asked that every week.'

'Not by people as clever as me, Marty.'

'Maybe not… Come on, Angry, or we'll have to set a time limit.'

'All right, then,' said Angus. 'Give me another card.'

Martyn dealt him a card. Angus looked at the face value and thumped his cards down in disgust.

'Whooooar, that's me out! Bust again!'

Finn picked up the hand and looked at it.

'You need to think a bit more, mate. If you'd stuck at what you had you'd probably have been quids in.'

'He thinks way too much. It took him five minutes to go bust when others could have gone bust in five seconds,' said Martyn.

Angry got up.

'Well, that's me out of matchsticks. It's a stupid game, anyway.'

Martyn raised his eyebrows but said nothing and at that moment Taregue Masud arrived with a cloth to wipe the tables.

'Excuse me, sir, I now ask you for permission to make this table very nice and clean for your game, sir.' A demanding monster with his men, he had been instructed to treat the civilians with great respect.

'Don't make it damp or the cards will get wet,' Martyn told him.

'No, sir, they won't get wet because I will use this towel, sir, to dry the table.'

Angus was leaving. 'I'm going to get my head down now because we're off early tomorrow. So if Jamie Dermott's recording that fucking hopping frog shit in our tent…' He could be heard grumbling all the way across the cookhouse.

'That young man needs to get over himself,' said Martyn.

'He's not called Mr Angry for nothing.'

'He's just like his father,' said Masud. 'Yes, oh yes, his father was just exactly the same. His name's McCall, I believe?'

Finn stared at Masud as the man dried the table with unnecessary zeal, his face frowning with concentration.

'You know his father?'

Masud paused.

'I knew that boy when he walked in here the first day and I've spent these months, many long months, racking my brains to know how I know him. Finally one day I realized. He looks just like his father and his father worked for me in the Falklands. John McCall, I think his name was, yes I'm sure it was John McCall.'

Finn leaned forward, his face all acute angles and his eyes narrow.

'His dad worked for you?'

'John McCall was one of my cooks. We had a tent in a field, gracious knows how many ration packs, not one ounce of fresh food and we had to open all the ration packs and cook for hundreds of men every day. It was a difficult time, an exceptionally difficult time, to tell you the truth, probably worse than Iraq. Because it was very, very cold and we are talking about very, very hungry men.'

Finn said: 'His dad was a cook?'

Masud nodded extravagantly.

'Oh yes, oh yes. We were Army Catering Corps in those days. Then we were the Royal Logistic Corps and then soon after that I was a private company. Doing the same thing for the same boys but as a private company. Well, I ask you, how strange is the world?'

But Finn did not answer this question. He had one of his own.

'So John McCall was a cook in the Army Catering Corps?'

'Oh yes, certainly. He was guaranteed to serve your sausages with a scowl, that was John McCall.'

A huge grin spread across Finn's face.

'So Angry's dad was ACC. Not SAS. Did anyone ever go from being an army cook to fighting in the elite special forces?'

Masud laughed. 'I don't believe that is very possible. To tell you the truth, I think John McCall was just a very grumpy cook, actually, and it seems to me his son is rather similar.'