Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

Nothing to argue with. Not a seller’s market, but a buyer’s. He thought the rifle would end up in the arms trade equivalent of a car-boot sale. Not dissimilar from those his parents patronised most weekends in the hope of a bit of a bargain, but never finding anything of value. He looked for a last time at the outline of the weapon. It had been with him in his quarters for close on three months and he had played mind-games with where it had been, who had held it, what stories it had… he supposed it might as well, now, have been dumped in the dirt and a main battle tank run its tracks over it, squash it, obliterate it. Did it have a future? Not too sure. An ugly looking old thing, not the rifle that anyone – any more – would covet. He nodded acceptance.

‘A good choice, a sensible choice. A hundred American dollars does not represent the true value of this rifle. I will be the loser, but will not regret having been honest with an old friend… and for you there is sufficient money to go to the bars in Akrotiri, even to Limassol, and you will find that a hundred American dollars goes far, quite far – not as far as buying a woman, but very quite far. A pleasure always to see you, Dazzer, and God speed you home.’

A single note was passed him. Reuven’s face seemed to betray a sort of personal pain as if he had merely helped an old and distant friend, had forsworn all his normal commercial instincts. A bit of kindness… Dazzer slipped the note into his wallet… he would fly the next day, then in the evening would meet some of the guys who had missed on this tour of duty and they’d swap anecdotes and drink miserably. The morning after, Dazzer would be back at the agency that hired him out, and would try to seem spirited and keen and be looking for another mission back to Helmand and the fag-end of the campaign… The rifle? Bloody near already forgotten. Out of sight, on the bench, was the rustle of the paper and the wrapping being refastened, then Reuven flicked almost noiselessly with his fingers and his minder came close behind Dazzer, took the parcel and was gone. A last smile from Reuven, a dismissal. Just a piece of junk… Dazzer went out into the warm evening air… wondered where it would go, who would have it next. He had seen, the final glimpse of it, that the rear-sight was still at an extremity position, perfect for close quarters, almost hand to hand, where the killing grounds were: Battle Sight Zero. An old warrior’s piece of kit, but with tales to tell – and no one wanting to hear them or to pay for them. He’d not get a woman for what he was paid, but the rifle would buy him sufficient beer and shorts to knock him into oblivion. Could have dumped it on the road where Father William had died for the trouble he had gone to… and sort of missed it.

Pegs had not slept again. She sat in the chair of her room. In the next room down the corridor was Gough. A part of the conspiracy of their relationship, not advertising the ‘man and mistress’ roles, she made it a point to get back to her room before dawn, get in the bed, rumple the sheets, make the pretence. She thought the time might come, sooner than later, when the brilliance of a spotlight would be aimed at her. Then, powerful forces would seek to show that her attention, and Gough’s, had slipped, almost a dereliction. The substance for her gloom was the brief message passed to her via her mobile.

Not a bag of laughs at my end. Sorry and all that. I assume the transfer happens tomorrow, and we head off then if we are to make that ferry, that schedule. I am not inside her loop, don’t know where she will collect. Don’t know where she is right now, which is not helpful. I saw her in the square outside the hotel – not having a fag but in conversation with a young male, likely north African, and she went away on his scooter. Best you put me under surveillance, and with back-up close by, closer than the Golden Hour. Sleep tight .

More than a year of work put in, a successful bid for the quality resource of an Undercover, and it came to climax, and the target had gone walkabout. Just bloody depressing – a potential cluster-fuck. She had put off waking Gough, now did so. She wore the sort of pyjamas, thick and buttoned to the throat, which would have been respectable in a practising convent, went out, locked her door, knocked on his, waited. The building was quiet, had that night-hour emptiness. Inside, she sat on the end of his bed, let him blink out the tiredness in his eyes, told him and watched him sag, wince as if it were personal. They’d go down together, walk the plank, the sharks congregated underneath, dorsal fins breaking the surface.

She asked, grim, ‘That club of yours, they take new members?’

‘What club?’

‘Where I said you were signed up, a founder member… because, Gough, I don’t think we’re good enough.’

‘What’s the club?’

‘For God’s sake, you old goat, what you lectured me on – the Maudlin Club, and I rubbished it. I’m ashamed. I fear for us.’

‘We do our best.’

‘Not enough – another day, another dollar. See what it chucks up. Dog shit or rose petals but I’ll get my application off, Gough, to your club… See you.’

He and Tooth were off to bed late. Crab had been told they would rest in and take a bit of leisure on the patio if that bloody wind eased off.

He’d recognised the respect for his long-time friend that the young man had shown when offloaded from the fishing boat. Bloody near drowned rather than admit he’d failed in his job. Good for a senior man to have respect, not to be treated like filth on the uppers of his shoes… He’d look forward to the late morning exchange, money for hardware. Would get the old juices flowing, and only the start of the business plan which would make more juice, more money, and keep his hand in.

But he was a long time getting to sleep and the wind stayed fierce, and noisily shook the villa… He seemed to be on the pavement, face down, and his wrists were pinioned with plastic stays, and he heard the fucking gun cocked, and around him were screams, shouts, sirens, and the sobbing of those alive, or half dead. He yelled up at the cop for him not to shoot… not to do an execution as formal as those done in his youth on the Strangeways scaffold. ‘Nothing to do with me. It was just business. I didn’t know what…’ A bit of an untruth, but the best he could do, and he closed his eyes and tried not to see the boot of the cop, or the tip of the barrel, and hear the scrape of the safety going off. ‘… I didn’t know what the fucking thing would be used for. I just do business.’

Hard going to sleep that night. Harder to erase the sight of that drowned rat coming off the boat, up the pontoon, carrying the package in the plastic bag.

He pretended sleep.

She had left the room door unlocked, and he had too when he had gone down to use the reception desk phone – left his mobile clean. He lay on his side and saw through narrow lidded eyes that she came in on tiptoe. Floating across the room, soundless, she stripped and dumped the clothes where they had been before.

He wondered what he would be told… She came to the bed and eased in beside him. A grunt, a cough, seeming to come alive, and he started up. Her hand touched his shoulder, as if to calm him.

‘You all right?’ she murmured.

‘I’m good, and you?’

‘And me, but I could not sleep. I dressed, went out, walked a bit. Just me and the street cleaners, and they were setting out the fruit and vegetable stalls, just walked… I didn’t disturb you?’

‘Not at all…’

He thought she lied well. She was snuggled up close and her fingers worked on his chest. He thought she might, probably had, gained a taste for it, like making up for lost time… might have said the same of himself. But each were the other’s plaything. He could have quizzed her as to where she had been, what she had seen, and might successfully have picked a hole in the lie, proven the untruth: no advantage gained. I didn’t disturb you?… Not at all . He had taken the opportunity, back in the room, listened in the quiet, then worked through her bag, found the money belt. Had unzipped it, had counted, found the value of what he was supposed to take to the ferry port and drive home. Big money… Not anything else. He would have been more skilled than her in the art of covert searching, but he carried nothing that was remotely incriminating. The couple below had started again, getting value for their bed, and their springs sang.