Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

He picked it up, made it safe, wrapped it tightly inside the folds of an old khaffiyeh that he’d used to keep dust and dirt out of his face since ‘winning’ it for that purpose in Iraq, out of Basra. Two magazines went with the weapon. He was pleased to have his hands on it, and it would fit snug in his armour-plated cab, down under his seat. It was vintage stuff and would fetch a good price, and Herbie would confirm it.

When he drove away, after the bulldozer had cleared the road, he found that his hands were shaking. Did not usually have the trembles after an action, but it was the sight of Father William that had done it, him being pitched without ceremony down into the gully with the wrecked vehicle, while his rifle was well wrapped and well cared for, and under Dazzer’s seat. He’d keep it safe until he had the big freedom flight out, then go to his buyer, and it would be a decent earner.

Zeinab’s phone call was done.

Reservations had been made by the London people, those she had met in the park. Naturally they would have been cautious.

She would challenge him. They were into Marseille and she did not speak, let him concentrate on the signs and driving in close, fast traffic. Her hand had tightened on his thigh. As he increased speed, she increased the pressure of her fingers. He had a strong face, she thought, not an artisan’s. He drove well. A strong face and calm eyes. Something nagged. A vehicle ahead of him cut between lanes, carved through his road space, and all around them were blaring horns and oaths, but he had stayed cool, swerved, braked and manoeuvred, had driven on… why the nagging concern when he was a professional driver and did not swear or flick a finger in the air? He did not wriggle under her hand, did not make eye contact with her. It would be her challenge. The nagging doubt, or confusion, was gone.

They went below ground, down into the car park she had directed him towards, and named the hotel’s street.

He zapped the car, saw the lights flash and the locks click home.

He carried the bags.

She had hooked her hand in his arm, and carried a sheet of paper with a photocopied street map… she found La Canebière, the main through road in the city. Evening had come and crowds were dense on the pavements. He felt her stiffen and her hand was claw-like on his arm. She had seen the soldiers; he had not. They were a stick of four and the smallest of them had a big combat radio on his back. They had rifles, helmets slung from their webbing belts, wore bulletproof vests. They seemed wary, alert, fingers alongside the trigger guard. The soldiers came past, then were lost in the crowds.

‘Why are they here?’

He said, ‘Don’t know… No idea.’

Ignorance was better than the alternative: ‘They are here, dear Zed, because this country is awash with north Africans intent on getting to Paradise, lifting a leg over six dozen Paradise-based virgins, and the best way to stop them, limit their effectiveness, is to shoot them, given half a provocation. Double tap to the skull. Shoot one of the beggars in the chest or stomach and he might muster enough reflex to squeeze off any detonator button in his hand – blow the side off his head and he may drop what sets his gear off and the bloody thing might just fail… end result, a few shoppers, some school kids out on a big deal evening, might live. It’s what the troops are there for.’ Shrugged. How would a heavy goods vehicle driver know why troops were on the streets of France’s second city?

They crossed the road, on to a shopping street with a reputation, but he thought it cheapskate. She led. They cut away from the main drag and came into a small square where men hosed down the cobbles and others packed away unsold fruit and vegetables and dismantled the tables. Low light, and music and laughter bubbling from a score of fast food places, and cafés, and the shadows were deep. She’d paused under a high neon strip in a bistro’s doorway. Checked her map again. She was looking around her, and the wind caught at her hair and her clothing, and shifted rubbish from where the market had been, and saw the hotel’s sign. The notice outside said the rate was 95 for a single, and 105 for a double, with shower. They had come down Rue des Récolettes, were now in Cours St Louis. Opposite the front door was an armurier , the double windows filled with pistols, rifles, machetes… She was watched. Men ogled her, women looked at her with suspicion. They would have seen the texture of her skin, noted that she wore her hair uncovered. She looked hard at him, then led the way to the door. It was his problem… He heard the receptionist question her: it was she who had rung in, had changed the booking?

‘Yes, that was me,’ she said. ‘Not two singles but one double, with shower.’

She was told that a card was needed; she rooted in her bag, found her purse, counted euros on to the desk… then looked back at him and he saw, clear and defined, the challenge in her eyes. She was given the key, told what floor. And no one there to feed him advice, nor to reiterate the regulations of an Undercover on the payroll of SC&O10, and hardly cared, and followed her up the stairs.

‘When I give up, you know what?’ Gough had his hands together like a supplicant at Sunday morning worship, and looked across the cotton tablecloth and over the small candle, and his elbows were firmly planted on the table.

‘What should I know about?’ Pegs replied, curt.

Their order had been taken. They were the only clients and a woman behind the desk left them in peace: seven of eight tables empty, but the woman’s first remark to them had been, inevitable, to enquire if they had a reservation. They were near to their hotel, and had wandered along gloomy streets in the old quarter and had found this place.

‘I am going to walk out of Wyvill Road, out on to the pavement, and then…’

‘And then what?’

‘I will have shredded my pass, and my jacket will weigh a whole ton less. Ditched the burden that I carry, and…’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Gough. So tedious when you’re maudlin.’

‘I will take off my coat, chuck it in the air. I’ll use that wall beside the pub to get myself upside down. I will handstand my way across the street…’

‘You’ll fall on your face.’

‘Why, why will I do it?’

‘Asking me, telling me?’

‘Trying to tell you… Failure, lack of achievement, not enough success. I go out through the door, magic card gone, expenses reference number deleted, and I’m toast. Maudlin? Perhaps. The truth? Yes. Whether on Rag and Bone, we have lined up a good result is no matter. We screw down this kid, and the boys that liaise with her, and we have a few bottles and think we’re God Almighty’s élite of detectives. Is London safer the next morning? Is Manchester, or Leeds, or bloody Dewsbury? Don’t think so. There’s a gap on the ground and there are plenty willing and able, to fill it. We are not going to win… there is no Mission Accomplished day, even on a faraway horizon. What personal sense of esteem can we fool ourselves we deserve to enjoy? We’ll go and nothing will have changed. At best what we have done is shove a thumb against the crack in the dyke wall. Just temporary, sticking plaster. There’ll be another crack the next day, the next week.’

The woman brought their food. Chicken for her, fish for him. A litre of house red to wash it down.

Gough barely looked at his plate. ‘We are so thin on the ground. We’re trying to do this job with paupers’ money. We have a man on the plot and pitiful resources deployed to protect him. Why? Because there are a hundred operations competing with Rag and Bone, and we are so fortunate that we happened to be around at the right time and laid a hand on our man’s shoulder. We have no slack, Pegs.’