Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

‘How much will you pay?’

‘What you ask, four hundred American dollars – more than it is worth. I tell you the price in Europe is four hundred, and in Somalia it is also that figure, and if I travel to parts of Sudan it could be as little as eighty-five dollars, for the whore whose legs are almost emaciated with mosquito bites but can still work.’

‘Thank you, bless you.’

‘Four hundred dollars, and the bag to take it away in.’

They shook hands across the table.

The new owner carried it out into the sunshine, held the bag easily, showed his pass at the guarded gate, and hurried to where his ship was berthed, and it was enveloped in a haze of dust as the fertiliser was tipped into the holds. In the morning it would start a fresh journey, through the Canal and out into open seas, heading for the Somali port.

Samson carried the bag, canvas and unmarked, by the strap, let it swing by his knees, not obvious. The boss was behind him. There were others from the GIPN but shut away in a van and round a corner, out of sight. He took a seat at a table next to the English couple, and Major Valery was alongside. He’d have felt naked without the rifle that banged against his leg. The bag was heavy, had his vest in it, and his balaclava, and the rifle with the telescopic sight fitted – set at Battle Sight Zero, the usual killing distance – and some smoke grenades and flash-and-bang… The meeting had been dull enough to send him to sleep, or musing and far away with images of cheetahs and jaguars in his mind. He was alert now, in good shape. A sharp glance from the Major towards the English police officials, a bare flick of an eyebrow for recognition… He recognised the kid who walked with the girl, strolling and her with a money belt in her hand, the ties trailing. Approaching them was a slightly older man, north African, who carried a package, long and hard and heavy. Samson had enough experience to recognise the shape of a Kalashnikov assault rifle… He was wondering if the kid had burned all the clothing that was bloodstained from the single shot and the head of his target breaking apart, or if the kid had no replacements and had put his gear through three washings. He might have a useless arm but had shown enough guts to get up and go, fire his scooter’s engine, and there’d have been something tasty in the bag the kid would not give up. The Major murmured in his ear that the older guy was a dealer in La Castellane, small-time punk. Two targets of interest to watch, and coming closer, and no orders given him, and no understanding yet of what was required of him.

Andy Knight, living with his current name, not Phil and not Norm, and not what he had once been, watched it play out. Thought it had a certain staged quality, but only recognised by him and the very few others privy to the entertainment… would not have been noted by the kids who played football, or the skateboarders, or the lovers on benches or the tourists drinking expensive coffees. He saw it, understood.

The girl, his Zed, moved well, and seemed to show confidence, ought to walk well because she was heading in the direction of a life-changing outcome. Something haughty in her stride, and he wondered how close she was to landing on an island of arrogance. Watching her in his role as an undercover, he had not sensed her control waver after she had been spread-eagled on a pavement and him half over her, protecting her and she had been for a few brief seconds helpless and vulnerable. Had not lasted beyond the riposte. Up on her feet and belting one of the boys from the police station who acted out the extras’ roles. Vicious reaction… And she had dangled the confidence in the face of the lorry driver, had chosen him, patronised him, then had permitted the short experience in their bed before hammering off on the pillion in the night… and her life was now at a crossroads. It was predictable which choice she would make: the one that changed her life. Without hesitation she walked ahead.

As he saw it, the man approaching her was streetwise, wary, and glanced around him as he carried the roughly wrapped package. But would only have attracted the notice of a trained officer. They came steadily together… the kid sometimes skipped to stay alongside her.

It could have been one of those Cold War scenarios. The spy swap choreography. Their man coming one way across the ‘kill zone’, or our man on the centre line of a road bridge and heading towards a welcome committee, and seeming all so desperately normal. She had the money belt, and that would go one way and the package would go the other – and unwrapped, maybe smeared with gun oil, its contents would then be destined for a shopping mall or one of those clusters of streets where the bars were close together and the restaurants and the pubs, and mayhem, and then more to follow… Except, of course, that the trafficking of the package was monitored and would be managed, and the weapon made harmless in transit, and all would go well and there would be a silver lining to the thundercloud, and a happy ending which left good guys and good girls whooping in happiness. The Undercover knew about cluster-fucks, and cock-ups and failures of coordination, and the right hand and the left hand not acknowledging each other and the law in police covert operations which stated ‘If something can go wrong, it will go wrong…’ which was why what she did was life-changing.

They were close. Normally, in the spy swaps, the pawns in the game came level and did not pause but kept on going. No nod no raised eyebrow, no ‘Sorry mate, but I have to tell you the food is bloody awful over there, I wouldn’t go where you are heading, not for love and not for money.’ He watched a deviance in the laws of quality swaps. He stopped and she did. A quick movement of her fingers and it was more than 100 metres away, but he reckoned she flicked back the zipper on the pouch, and he would have seen the bank notes, and the kid was earnest and close in talk – and the package went to the kid first. He held it, then took out a short-bladed knife and slashed the tape and the bubble-wrap and was pulling away the covering. Had made a small hole, enough for an inspection. He thought that Zed knew nothing about the difference between a deactivated Kalashnikov and one that was all-singing, all-dancing, ready to go… an ethnic Pakistani girl and two north African boys gathering for conversation in multi-cultural and multi-ethnic Marseille, nothing more natural. He looked around him and could see the shapes of two men sitting in heavy shadow near to the spot where he had first noticed the guy who brought the package, and saw the people from Wyvill Road, and… the hand grasped the money belt. She held the package. The kid tried to take it off her, might have thought it too heavy for her to carry. No bloody way, she pushed him clear and turned, and…

He heard the shout. A gruff voice of protest, and of anger. A shout that echoed across the open space of the plaza, and a few heads turned. He saw a man standing at the far extremity of the space, small and bearded, wearing tinted glasses.

‘He’s a cop.’

Tooth shouted in his own language. Was on his feet. Shouted it again, in Crab’s language.

‘A cop. He’s a cop.’

But his voice would not have reached the cathedral’s doors and would not have been beaten back from the walls of the Fort Saint-Jean. He was pointing. To be engaged in business, to be dealing, and to be under police surveillance, was about as great a crime, in the life of Tooth, the legend in organised crime in the arrondissements of the northern sector of Marseille. A capital crime, good enough to wheel out the disused cobwebbed guillotine last used in the yard of the Baumettes gaol, was to be so careless as to bring a cop to the party. He was gesticulating, in a fury, and he pointed across the plaza and towards the wall on which a man sat, swinging his legs loosely, and behind him was a small car parked in limited space, then the road tunnel that linked the two sides of the vieux port . And the man stopped swinging his legs and froze on the wall, then stood. Tooth did not stay to see the end of it. Scurrying for an exit point, heading for his car, and his long-time friend, Crab, came after him.