Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

He burst from the darkness, blinking in the sudden power of the sunshine, and could see each speck on the windscreen, then the traffic filtered. He’d chosen the wrong lane and had to barge back into the slow flow. The Peugeot was parked across the pavement, with other bikes and small scooters. He went on past it, had no option because a tanker was up close behind him. She had untangled herself from holding the kid round the waist, and he saw her laugh and the smile came and for a moment the kid had hold of her arm. She took it away from him, not snatched it, but as a gentle rebuke, like she was telling him there was business in hand.

The mirror was his friend. There was one parking space and he realised another car was behind him and was laying claims for the bay… and a finger was up and the bellowing was directed at him, first muffled and through the glass, then louder when the window was lowered. If he needed it he should not back off. The usual trick, one of the first they had been taught. He fished his wallet out of his hip pocket, held it up, like it contained ID. It did not. Exhaustion came over him now, hit him in waves. Not her, she seemed fit, well flushed, rather lovely. She looked round for him, and the kid seemed starstruck. It was Andy Knight’s work: he had transformed her personality, given it room to breathe. The guy in the car gave up, must have thought he faced an investigator, casual clothing not washed or ironed, unshaven and a beaten-up car: the appearance of a cop, plain clothes.

Always the crisis came on quick. He was trapped now and would sweat it out, no choice. Could not be closer to her… to the right was a cathedral. In the Marines, in the UK police, and in the SC&O10 gang, he had had no requirement for any form of church architecture, ancient or modern. He did not know the age or the style of this one. It was huge, but one side of it had problems, scaffolding scrambling up the stonework. Further round the bay was a dock area where a warship was tied up, then a stretch of sea that led away from the old harbour. There were islands out in the bay beyond an esplanade and a plaza which was scattered with concrete benches. Next along was an historic castle and he didn’t know its name or its date, or care. Then a café and restaurant doors and a big gym. He assumed it was where she had directed him. He locked the car, walked to a low wall and sat astride it, the car behind him but close enough.

It was his intention they’d get the hell out. Hoped she’d shift herself, be on the road, have taken the fast run for the autoroute and north… and wondered how big the package would be, what she was buying. He didn’t think he stood out, reckoned he blended well.

She turned, scanned for him, saw him – was learning, did not wave at him.

Pegs was dragging him. Gough slowed her. She said he was a fucking disgrace. He said that it was one of the finest cathedrals he had ever had the pleasure to be in, awesome carving, space and beauty that were humbling.

‘You could have screwed the whole thing, messing about in there.’

‘You see one of those places, dear lady, once in a bloody lifetime, and four minutes and free entry are worth confronting your impatience. If you did not know, it is near Gothic, that’s the design, parts of it are nine centuries old, and the cupola is…’

She snapped across him, ‘And we were bloody nearly late this morning because of your insistence – don’t think I’ll protect you if the inquest heats up. And another thing…’

‘Socks smelling again, are they? What else in this litany of recrimination?’

‘We came from our hotel. He’d told us when to be there, but you insisted we were late.’

‘For a damn good reason. What did I want, half a minute to be there, to soak it, have that experience. For God’s sake it was Napoleon Bonaparte’s lodging house we were in front of. Is that not reputable history, where he lived, a colonel in artillery, the great man, here and standing in that window which was above us? Am I not allowed that? God’s truth, Pegs, you can be a Grade A nagger… I doubt I’ll ever be back here. He could have been there, looking out, pondering the changes he’d inflict on Europe… and the cathedral is astonishing, a triumph of architecture. Can you not see…?’

‘Someone has to look after you, just that I drew the chopped-off straw.’

He looked at her. He frowned and the pseudo load of anger slipped from his face. ‘Thank you, appreciated. Move on.’

They sat in front of a café, and the wind was full on them, and she might start soon to shiver. They’d a poor view of the sea and the island out in the bay with the big castle on it, and more history and more romance he told her, where Dumas incarcerated the Count of Monte Cristo, but had a seriously good view of the open space in front of them.

‘Do you have her?’

‘I have.’

They were in deep shadow from an awning above the café table, would be hard to see, harder to identify. He wondered where those bloody laconic local police were. She did a snapshot photo of her and Gough on her mobile, sent it to them. Sat low in their seats, just another elderly couple. Looked left and saw their man, sitting on a wall and trailing his feet, a picture of bored innocence, and looked across the square and had a fine view of the girl, and the Arab kid with her. He thought it was slotting well, dropping into place.

He asked, ‘If you had to choose, Pegs, either to walk the nave in the cathedral or look up the wall where Napoleon was, and at his window, which would you take?’

She said, fondness writ large, ‘For fuck’s sake, Gough, shut up. It’s where we either break open the fizzy stuff, or a year’s work and resources go under. And soon.’

They were both locked on the girl, Zeinab something, the Tango, the Rag and Bone target, were in a good place, the best seats.

Zeinab stepped out and Karym loped beside her.

Cafés and bars and shopping outlets were on two sides of the plaza, and it was dominated by the cathedral – what Krait would have called a Crusader place, what Scorpion would have called a Khaffur place. On a third side was the sea, on the fourth was the great fortress, and it would have been a defence against the jihadis of that day, centuries before… It was about commitment, why she walked tall, with a good stride, enough for the boy to need to hurry to keep alongside her.

He said, ‘What I learn of you, you have interest in the Klash. I can tell you everything you need to know.’

More than she needed to know, left unsaid. Had done nothing in her short life to warrant fame, to have her name spoken on the radio, to have her home identified and neighbours and strangers gathering outside it because she had lived there. Perhaps had reached the stage, and recognised it, where she craved attention, wanted the soft-focus pictures of herself with the weapon in silhouette. Not in love with the Book, had never been a good student, was not one of the kids in classrooms whose heads moved in metronomic rhythm as they recited. Wanted fame as the skinny models had; with the weapon she would have found a catwalk, and flashbulbs. And fighters in the shrinking defended areas of Syria, where her cousins had been, in the last ghetto, the last block of broken buildings, would hear on texts, news bulletins on their phones as the batteries faded, of what she had done. Would know they were not alone… And the kid talked.

‘And can tell you that US troops loathed their M-16 rifle in their Vietnam War. Too many times, in wet heat and in mud and with heavy rain, it jammed, could not fire and was useless but the AK of the North Vietnamese was superior. Senior officers were told but ignored it. It was a scandal. It is good that you are interested.’