Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

He stood because he no longer had a target, and would not be denied one. The child did not see the corporal in the rainwater ditch, nor the RPG-7 launcher. The weapon carried an effective range of 300 metres, was expected to hit and kill at that distance, but the corporal lined up the sights on the small body of the child who was well inside that area of limitation.

A flash of light and a storm of dust and the projectile hurtled towards him. Too late to turn and duck away behind the shelter of the rock, too late to identify the engines of the hurrying helicopters, and no chance to respond to the calls of an older man.

Debris was hurled in every direction clear of the impact point. A piece of rock the size of a football – not that the child, before losing a leg or after, had ever kicked a football – speared away from the main body of the rock and careered into the child’s stomach. He had no protection.

He was swept up. Still breathing, and with ferocious pain in his stomach but not crying out, and with a pallor settling on his cheeks, the child was taken as fast as sandalled feet could go over the rock and stone. The helicopters’ engines came closer and the surviving troops put down a barrage of firing, but the tribesmen melted. He was carried to the next valley, and among the stones of the next river-bed, and up a track that only goats and the most sure-footed mule could have managed. His life had passed by the time they rested and no longer heard the sound of the helicopters.

It was done gently, but needed the strength of a grown man. The child’s grip was broken, his fingers prised back, and the old rifle was taken from him. It was thought reasonable to assume he had been responsible for two more fatalities, and those notches were cut with a bayonet’s point. A brief prayer was said and the body laid under a cairn of stones so that a wolf or a hyena or a fox would not be able to feast off the child, nor a vulture ravage the carcase. The rifle, with its much scarred stock was kept; the tribal group regarded it with pride, would hand it on.

A nondescript freighter ploughed through a gathering swell.

A detective chief inspector and a civilian analyst who was his bag carrier – both from the national Counter Terrorist Command – arrived in the tourist city of Avignon, checked into their hotel, did a reconnoitre walk of what was billed as the rendezvous point for Operation Rag and Bone, and looked for their target, spotted her, checked her clothing, went for lunch.

A major of the Marseille city police laboured over paperwork following an overnight killing, and eyed his mobile that rested on his desk and that rang frequently but not with a panic in the caller’s voice.

A marksman from the GIPN spent the day in his apartment, alone because his wife was working, and he watched a succession of wildlife films and dreamed of being there, seeing those creatures of beauty and feral magnificence.

It was a good day, and the sun shone – and two old men lay on recliners with tweed rugs covering them and gazed out to sea, bathed in nostalgia.

New supplies arrived in the projects, including La Castellane, and one boy with a withered arm was, for a few hours, the centre of attention.

The car hammered the last kilometres on the A7 before the turn-off to Avignon.

He parked by the river.

Near dusk and, had it been the season, Andy Knight would not have had a prayer of getting into a car park. But the tourists would not be here for another two months, would start arriving for the Easter holiday. He saw the bridge that stretched out into the river, then seemed to have been snapped off. Everybody knew about the bridge at Avignon. He looked for her, and did not find her.

Somewhere close by would be the two people to whom he reported. He assumed they’d the sense to stay out of sight. There had been an awkward atmosphere last time they had spoken and he sensed their increasing stress that he was easing away from their control. He did not see them – nor did he see her.

The river was wide and high, and occasional tree trunks were washed down in the force of the flow. If she had acquired sufficient tradecraft then she also would be in a vantage-point and would be scanning the parking area, looking for a tail car, and they might have sent foot soldiers who had such skills and they’d be watching him, hawk-eyed. She would have trusted him , he thought, not those who directed her. He locked the car and strolled across damp grass towards the river. Behind him were the old city walls. He shivered; the wind came hard up the river and he was jostled by its strength. He thought it natural, after the long drive south from the service station, to stretch and touch his toes and arch his back and roll his neck. He no longer smoked: Phil had, and Norm, and a Marine far back and forgotten, almost… and he saw her.

There was an opening in the tower built into the wall across the road from him.

What came fast in his mind was that she was short of tradecraft. Should have spent longer studying him and the area, but she came towards the road, started to quicken, hardly looked for traffic, walked straight across. She looked bloody good. He was trained to see small things… she had been to a hairdresser, had her hair cut and it feathered out behind her. He pretended he had not seen her, looked away and saw a tree branch snag on a pillar in the truncated bridge, then work free. Her coat was open and he could see her blouse: scarlet and navy stripes bold for her, as if she was far from Savile Town. He turned back, faced her, feigned surprise. She did a hell of a smile, wide and open and trusting… was she acting? Was she just pleased, far from home – and marginally scared – to see him? His arms out, and hers. They locked, her tight against him, and hugged and held each other. And kissed… If she acted then she did well. And Andy Knight would not have said what he was going to do about the edict laid down to Level Ones by the commanders of SC&O10 about the development of relationships between officers and targets… It was a great kiss. Not a moment for an evaluation of rule books and manuals – might be later, not then.

Nothing to say, just held each other.

Andy sat opposite Zeinab.

What had happened in the night was raw, like a fretsaw had hit a sunk nail.

He maintained the minimum of eye contact and she had her head sunk low and stared down at the plate in front of her and ate a croissant untidily, let tiny flakes of pastry litter the tablecloth, and more caught on her lips. He had not slept well, had tossed in sleep and while pretending to, had manufactured a steady, soft snore. An apple did for him. Had not peeled it, or quartered it. Had chewed it down to the core, then left the last piece on his plate, and had drunk three cups of coffee. They had come down together from the first floor after he had knocked on her door. She’d opened it and he’d seen that her bag was already packed and zipped shut, and he had led the way down the stairs, had seemed easier than waiting for the elevator. He’d muttered something about whether she had slept well, and she had nodded: a lie. She would have slept as badly as he had. She wore the same blouse as the previous evening. Colourful, happy, supposedly expressing a mood that might not exist. He was neutrally dressed, nothing that stood out and made him instantly recognisable: dark jeans and a grey shirt. How he was trained to be: out of any limelight and not attracting attention.

They had come to the hotel, had checked in, and she had been handed two room keys, and she had looked at him, straight into his eyes, and there had been a boldness to her gaze. Andy had reckoned there would not have been a boy either in Savile Town or at the university who had seen those eyes, and the challenge in them. They had gone up the stairs and dumped their bags. The bed in her room was big enough for two, a tight fit, but he had eased away from her as she dropped her bag on the floor, and said something about the length of the drive, and a headache building, and had shrugged as if his control over tiredness and pain was not great. They had gone out of the hotel, a little place on a side-street off the Rue de la République, 55 euro a single room, or 65 euro for a double. He assumed the booking had been made before she had felt the isolation, and fear, of being far from home, alone, only a pretend boyfriend for company, and two singles would have seemed appropriate then… not now, why he had needed to pretend that he slept, affected a slight snore in a gentle rhythm, and had told lies about exhaustion and the ache behind his eyes and the need for a good rest after the drive.