Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

‘A proper comedy club in here, Goughie.’

Silly to laugh like a schoolgirl. There had been the barrage of shots fired from the upper window as they had stood, close together and damn near sharing body warmth, and these it seemed would be the men who would deal with a problem, a situation. Gough shushed her. A cigarette packet went round but they were not given the chance to accept or decline. A lighter flashed, and the cigarettes glowed in turn.

They all wore balaclavas. Some had gas guns. Others fingered machine pistols. One, at the bulkhead of the vehicle, had a sniper’s weapon across his thighs, and his head lolled almost to his shoulder, and his breathing was steady and he had a soft and gentle snore. Obvious to Pegs that the burst of shots fired from the upper window had not woken him, nor had any of his colleagues thought it prudent to alert him. She had the feeling, not based on evidence but on intuition, that this was the marksman who had fired the single shot down the darkened street and achieved a head hit that saved a hostage’s life. She allowed her thoughts to cavort off into some ill-defined distance: she and Gough could moan, complain, fret, bicker, and pretend that the weight of the world rested on their shoulders. ‘Guilty, m’lud, of minor exaggeration.’ These were the heroes of the hour, she reflected, and made no fuss and grabbed sleep where, when, it was available, and were at a sharp end that neither she nor Gough knew of, and pretty much any of the others flicking keyboards at Wyvill Road… and in with them, as the cigarette smoke clouded them, she should have placed Andy Knight – whatever the hell his name was – who lived with lies. She let her hand rest on Gough’s leg and wondered how to tell him what she thought.

This one man still slept. The voices were low and she thought from her schoolgirl appreciation of French that they talked about the best socks to go inside their combat boots, also about a football game that would be played the coming Sunday, Olympique against Rennes, and both discussions were without passion and were thoughtful. And one might be called upon to kill that night, and one might confront an assault rifle held by a British zealot and might die… but for the moment socks and football were top of the list.

She shivered, not from the cold nor the damp, or from hunger, but from the thought of what the next hours might carry, what fate. And wondered which of the men was the policewoman’s husband and whether she feared for him… the consensus now was that the German socks used by the Bundesgrenzschutz were the best and that Olympique Marseille would win by three clear goals, and if it would be the sniper. Pegs was humbled, felt small, inadequate.

In Gough’s ear, Pegs whispered,‘Goes against the bloody grain, but I feel a bit of a prayer for our boy is called for.’

Was answered bleakly.‘Already been there, done that.’

Hamid approached the Major.

He had asked who was in charge and had been brought to a control vehicle. The engine ran and fumes belched from the back and inside it was dry and warm, and housed a handful of men and women with computers and phones and radios, and a drop-down desk and a screen with a large street map featuring La Castellane. The Major stood on the top step and the open door flapped behind him.

Difficult to phrase the request. Hamid had rehearsed it many times.

He did not know the Major had not had dealings with him. Rumour spoke of him as being an incorruptible , not accepting arrangements of mutual advantage. The old gangster was rumoured to have owned the criminal investigation department at L’Évêché, and made sufficient profits to have paid them off handsomely. He had seen Major Valery when his brother had been a prisoner of their Somali rivals, but not to speak with. Now, he believed accommodation was necessary. He was met at the bottom of the steps and the door behind was closed. The Major set the tone, seemed to switch off his personal radio.

‘Thank you, sir, for speaking with me. I am Hamid, I am the brother…’

A cold reply.‘I know who you are.’

‘We find ourselves, sir, in a difficult situation.’

‘Do we?’

‘Not a situation that is favourable to the residents of the project.’

‘Explain.’

‘I pick my words with care. I do not wish to offend.’

‘I have many officers here. They would prefer to be in their homes or carrying out useful duties. They are wet, they are tired, they are hungry, but there is a situation I cannot ignore, and at the heart of it is your younger brother.’

‘All true, sir… and with my younger brother is a woman with a Kalash, and an Englishman who has been denounced as a police spy. He is their prisoner… We want your officers to return to their homes and duties.’

‘So that the normal and peaceful life enjoyed inside La Castellane may be normalised? Yes?’

‘You understand perfectly, sir.’

‘There is a red line. It cannot be crossed.’

‘Explain it, please.’

‘It is not possible, in order to open up the essential trading on which the project survives, for the woman involved to be allowed safe passage into the night. It cannot be done. Also, in the short term there would be consequences for your own involvement in this matter. Consequences are difficult to avoid.’

‘I am very frank with you, sir. We have a new delivery for the market of La Castellane. Not just in my hands, but other “traders” in the project are in possession of it. Through the action of my brother – infatuated by this woman – none of us can sell the product, and at a time when it would command the greatest reward, and of course it is already paid for and at a high outlay.’

‘I grieve for you in your dilemma.’

‘I can suggest a programme, sir, by which our mutual problems may be curtailed.’

‘Explain your “solution”, explain also your response to “consequences”, and appreciate that I do not negotiate – but am pragmatic.’

‘I have your word, Major, that you are not wired, and…’

Major Valery lifted his arms. Hamid accepted the invitation and patted him down, as a security guard would have done, under the policeman’s arms, around his waist and inside his legs, then checked that the radio on the clip below the Major’s shoulder was switched off, and stepped back. He then lifted his own arms and was also searched for a bug… There would be no record of their accord.

The first proposition dealt with the situation immediately confronting them, and the second of Hamid’s solutions offered a response to ‘consequences’, and what he would subsequently offer. He was listened to, then given the briefest nod of the Major’s cap, and a little of the water lodged there came down as spray.

‘And now?’

‘I want your hand, sir. I am told of you that is a sufficient guarantee.’

A glove was removed. The hand was shaken, a loose grip but not limp.

They went their separate ways, had arrangements to make.

He thought it was time.

‘Zed, will you listen to me? You should. Should listen.’

She sat on the bed. The boy had gone to the kitchen. He’d heard plates being moved and the fridge opened, and a tap running. He would try, supposed it was owed.

‘Best you can do, Zed, is to chuck it out of the window, and any spare ammunition with it. Get rid of it, and then walk down the stairs and out into the night, and do not try any silly bugger games because they will have eyes on you all the way and image intensifiers which are the lenses that will show you up. Best get it over with, Zed… What I have seen of you is enough for me to make a judgement. You are not a true jihadi , one wrapped up in the faith and yearning for a trip to Paradise. They are few. The many are those who get roped in at an early stage and offer a bit of commitment. In your case it was because of two charismatic cousins, when you were younger and more impressionable – I do not mean to patronise, Zed – and then you met people who could recognise your usefulness, and you went in deeper. I don’t rate you as an extremist, so best now to jack it in.’