Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

The marksman pushed himself up, used the vehicle’s fender to get better traction.

‘What do you want to do now, go where?’

‘I want to go home.’

‘Where is home?’

‘Sort of varied, gets to change, maybe it’s just where there is a warm beer – and no girls that need killing.’

‘Which is a version of “get the hell out”, to anywhere?’

They drifted towards the shadows where the street-lights did not reach. His cheeks were wet, but it might have been because it was raining even harder.

On the balconies of the project’s tower blocks, any vantage-point overlooking the Boulevard Henri Barnier from La Castellane came the rippling sound of voices, a wind that swept up the remnants of the autumn’s dead leaves, in a whisper.

‘It was Samson… I saw Samson… Samson shot the boy, Karym… saved his life one night, took his life on another, it was Samson… Preserved him, then destroyed him… But there was another man who fired, was slow with it, did a mercy shot… Like a dog has been hit by a car, is finished off to end pain… Samson never showed “mercy”… perhaps the other man is out of love with his work. He was an agent and tracked that girl, but he killed her. Why?… It was a good show, as good as any we have had from Samson… I saw his face, the other man’s face, the stranger’s. Samson would not have… I think the stranger wept…’

Within minutes, ambulances had left with the two bodies, and the Ducati 821 Monster had been recovered and driven off on a flat-bed, and a scenes of crime team was at the point in the road where there were oil stains and spilled blood and they worked quickly, anxious to be finished and gone. Within minutes, the queue for buyers had started to shuffle forward and the entrance to the project was again in the hands of the chouffes , who patted them down and then directed them towards the different stairwells where the charbonneurs waited to sell to them and take their money. And, except for the tidying up of the dregs of the occasion, the life of La Castellane had returned to its own degree of normality.

Pegs asked, as they were ushered towards a car and told their destination was the airport, ‘Did you see him, know where he went, was taken?’

Gough answered her, ‘Not had sight nor sound of him.’

‘We’ll not see any more of him.’

‘Not disagreeing. They get to a point, these rather sad individuals, where they’re not up to taking any further punishment. Plenty was asked of him.’

‘We’ll get a bollocking for this, Gough, mark my words. In my water. They’ll hang us out in the wind. Throw the book our way.’

‘Do you think, Pegs, he went soft on her, or was that just part of the job? Which?’

They took their time in grabbing a last look at the scene, where the rain ran on the street and police hurried to clear away their major incident equipment, and Major Valery paused mid-stride to shake their hands but said nothing, and was gone.

She said, ‘I’m not bleeding in a corner for him, Goughie, but I tell you the sad bit. You could say that he was burned out, was running on empty, would want to wash his hands of it all and get back to doing what “ordinary” people do, and knowing who he was. Except that it doesn’t apply with the type suited for that work. They can’t break the link… Don’t fucking laugh at me, I mean it. I’m sad for him… they don’t know another life. It’s a man-trap on their ankle, teeth tight… As trapped as she was, and nowhere to go.’

They were ushered to a car, heard something about a flight having been delayed, the last of the evening, and they’d catch it.

An hour later… He’d asked it enough times. Crab had demanded to know when the plane would eventually take off. Could not wait to get clear. It was a full three-quarters of an hour since the aircraft had been boarded, but the steps were still in place. He saw a man and a woman brought to the base of the steps by a police vehicle, a brisk farewell, nothing to indicate fondness, and they scampered up the steps. Crab did not know them, not from Adam and not from Eve.

He saw a dowdily dressed man, with thin hair plastered down on the scalp, and the rain had been on his shoulders and his ankles were sodden and his shoes looked to have taken in water.

The woman, behind him, hustled him along the aisle. She was well built, had a strong and angular face, a hatchet jaw, and he thought there was an arrogance about her. Her clothing was similarly sodden and her hair was a mess: he wondered how such people, so obviously low in the chain of importance, could be responsible of keeping a plane on the apron all this time. He had a book of crosswords to tide him over, but had forgotten them, and then his seat shook as the woman held it as she lowered herself down behind Crab, and the man was in a seat across the aisle.

They were talking, fastening their belts, and the girl over the speaker system was apologising for the late take-off – as she bloody should. They had started to taxi.

Crab felt a tug at his shoulder.

He turned, irritation rife, would tell any stranger to keep his fucking hands to himself, and the woman’s voice purred in his ear.

‘Wanted to let you know, sir, that it might have been a mistake to give your name, rank and number – know what I mean – to the check-in. We’ve forwarded them on. North West Counter Terror Unit will enjoy matching them to records and locations. We take this sort of thing very seriously. Conspiracy to facilitate the importation of firearms, notably an AK-47 assault rifle is an offence that the courts seem to view in poor light. Any liaison with a jihadi group, people committed to murder and maim in a crowded place, would – I believe – carry with it a sentence of the utmost severity. I would have to assume that your only motive in this matter was to get your hands on “a nice little earner”. You disgust me, sir, and you will disgust the judge who presides on your case. This flight will be met at Manchester. Enjoy your journey, sir, and you might consider calling a solicitor because you’ll need one.’

The voice so quiet and so reasonable, died on him. He wondered, as his hands shook, how the girl had made out, pretty little thing, and with balls to her, and she’d run well when in flight. The aircraft lifted and started to bump through the low dense cloud.

A day later… They were summoned.

The marching orders were for them to attend Room 308, an inner sanctum, where the angels sang and incense burned. They had arrived at the flat they shared in the small hours, and Pegs had made a cup of tea and Gough had done a load for the washing machine including pretty much all they wore. Then Pegs had made a sandwich, and he’d heaped a pile by the door of all the stuff for the dry cleaners. They had come in late, too knackered to touch each other and had slept like noisy logs, and it might be the last time because the anticipated criticism was liable to be vicious, mostly undeserved, and brutal.

They were awaited. The guy who presided in that room – with his nail bomb scar to declaim his ‘sharp end’ experience – identified a man by the window. A Chief Superintendent, a God figure from the national HQ of Counter Terrorist Command, and there was a tall and willowy woman, no make-up and no jewellery who was from SC&O10. A silence hung. Always was a silence when a hanging was due, so they said. The wound was alive and he’d likely been scratching it. Three Zero Eight kicked off, delivered the verdict on Rag and Bone… Gough was not going to permit a critique lying on the carpet with his feet in the air, and Pegs promised to ‘take no shit from them’. A cough and a throat cleared.

‘We think it went well. We have a very clear understanding of a mission fraught with difficulty. It did not work out as our planning suggested it would, but that in no way lessens the benefits gained by the operation. You handled a difficult diplomatic impasse with skill and sensitivity, and are to be commended. Congratulations, very sincerely meant.’