At Close Quarters

9

It was a miserable drive for Holt.

He was relegated to the front seat with George at the wheel and taciturn. Martins and Crane were in the back of the old Volvo, and behind them, separated by stout wire mesh, was the Rottweiler. George was disgruntled because Martins had told him that the state of the car was a disgrace and had refused to leave until the sides had been hosed down and the floor mats shaken out and the ashtrays emptied. Martins was deep in his papers and Crane slept beside him with the ease of a man who catches his rest where, whenever, he can find it.

George drove well – as though it was the only thing he was good at – and he concentrated on the road ahead.

Holt was on his own again.

But then for eleven days he had effectively been on his own, and he had given up the struggle to be party to the planning of the operation. He could cope. He was good at being alone, had been since childhood.

Childhood in a country general practitioner's home, with Mum doubling as receptionist/secretary and nurse, had dictated that there were long times during the school holidays when he was left to his own devices. Being alone was not being lonely, not in Holt's book. Being alone, being able to live in a personal capsule, was fine by Holt. Noah Crane was another loner, Holt thought; they should have had a rapport, except that Crane was too damned good at being alone to share even a common purpose. It had been good last night in the drawing room, after another awful Mrs Ferguson supper, when Martins had launched into a sermon about "the long arm of vengeance" and "the moral evil of terrorism", about "those who have deeper convictions, stronger wills, greater determination, will surely triumph", about "the satisfaction of going the other side of the hill to strike with a mailed fist". High grade crap, and Crane had shown what he thought of it. He closed his eyes and fell asleep. They should have been friends, young Holt and old Noah Crane. That they were not friends was a pity, nothing more, and he'd get there, sooner or later, if it killed him.

He knew they were going to an army camp. He didn't know more because he hadn't been told, and by now he had stopped asking. For a change it was a crisp and clean morning, bright and fine. A good morning for a walk on the wilderness wildness of Exmoor, even a good morning for sitting next to George who spoke not a word and sucked peppermints. They went west across Salisbury Plain, past the ancient hulks of Stonehenge, across the great open spaces that were criss-crossed with lank tracks, past small stone villages with neat pubs and Norman churches. The first time in eleven days he had been away from the crumbling damp pile and the overgrown garden that was encircled by the ten foot high chain-link fence set along concrete posts. Thank God for it, being away. They came to the small, bustling town of Warminster and they followed the red painted signs towards the military camp.

They were checked at the gatehouse. They were saluted as they drove through. Holt didn't turn to see, but he fancied from the rustle of movement behind him that Martins would have given the sentry an imperial wave of acknowledgement. They pulled up outside a square red brick building.

They were escorted to an upper room that was filled with the warm smell of fresh coffee, all except George.

They were in the military world. Friendly handshakes, warm greetings. There was a long heavy box on the floor, half pushed under the table from which the coffee and biscuits were served.

The cups and saucers were back on the table. Three officers in smart pressed uniforms and polished boots, and Martins in a tweed suit, and Holt wearing his sports jacket, and Crane in the same trousers and the same poplin anorak that he had worn since he had arrived.

Ready for business.

"How many marksmen?"

"Just one," Martins said. "Mr Crane is the marksman."

Holt thought the soldiers had assumed that he, Holt, was the marksman. Surprised, they stared at Crane.

Another day that Crane had not bothered to shave.

"What weapon are you familiar with, Mr Crane?"

"More weapons than you've handled," Crane said, indifferent.

Holt saw the glint in the officer's eyes. "I see. Let me put it another way. What sniper weapon are you most familiar with, Mr Crane?"

"Galil 7.62 mm semi-automatic."

"We think ours is better."

"I don't need a sales pitch – I'm using yours because that's what I've been told to use."

Holt chuckled out loud, involuntarily, couldn't help himself, then bit his lip to silence. He wondered if the man had been born to whom Crane could be civil.

Martins said, "It's a British show, British equipment will be used."

Holt reckoned he had the drift. British equipment to be used, and no one too sorry if after a successful snipe the British equipment could be left behind. British ammunition cases… a calling card for the Syrians.

The case on the floor was pulled clear of the table.

Holt saw the rifle lying on its side in a cut-out bed of foam rubber. The rifle was painted in green and brown shades of camouflage. He saw the telescope sights snug in their own compartments.

For the officer it was a labour of love. "It is the Parker-Hale M. 85 bolt action, detachable box magazine, militarised bipod with provision for either swivel or cant adjustment. It will travel with a 6 x 44 daylight 'scope sight, and also the passive night vision job. We reckon it, in the right hands, to have a hundred percent success ratio at a first shot hit at anything under 650 yards, but the rear aperture sight has the capability of up to 975 yards."

"What's the weight?"

"With one magazine full and the telescopic sight it comes out at a few ounces under fourteen pounds…

Going far, is it?"

"Not your concern," Martins said.

"Far enough for the weight to matter," Crane said.

"You want to fire it?"

"Prefer to fire it than have lunch."

"Then you'll want some kit."

"Right, and I want kit for him." Crane jerked his thumb at Holt, then turned to him. "Go and have the best shit and the best piss you've had all week, and get back here smartish."

Holt would have been gone ten minutes.

He came back into the room. Crane already wore camouflage battledress and his clothes were in a neat folded pile on the edge of the table. Crane tossed a tunic and trousers to Holt, pointed to a pair of boots and a pair of heavy khaki socks.

They walked for half an hour till they reached a place that satisfied Crane. Out of the camp, away up on the plain, beyond the red flag flying a warning of live shooting. They settled into beaten-down bracken. Crane said that Holt wasn't to talk, wasn't to move. Hundreds of yards ahead of them, across a shallow valley of young trees, Holt could just make out the barricade of sandbags and in front of it the human-shaped target.

Five hours and thirty-five minutes after they had taken their positions, Holt lying half a body length behind Crane and a yard to his right, the marksman fired.

One shot. No word, no warning that he was about to shoot.

Holt's legs were dead, his bladder was full, his mind was numbed.

They lay in the bracken a full ten minutes after the single shot, then Crane stood and walked away with the rifle on his shoulder, like he had been out after wood pigeon or wild duck.

Holt stumbled after him, bent to massage the circulation back into his legs.

Crane had his head down, was walking into the wind.

"The way you fidgeted we wouldn't have lasted an hour."

"For God's sake, I hardly moved."

"tiardly isn't good enough, not in the Beqa'a."

They were picked up by a waiting Land Rover and driven back into the camp.

By the time that Holt and Crane had peeled off their battledress, the human-shaped target had been carried into the room.

Holt saw the single bullet hole. The hole was central upper chest. A group formed. Two of the officers and Crane and Martins, with an inventory sheet, ticking off a list. The talk was in a jargon shorthand which Holt did not understand. As he dressed he found that his eyes always strayed back to the single hole on the target, a single killing shot. God, he could hardly tie his shoe laces. And he was making a mess of knotting his tie. He had his shirt buttons out of kilter. As if at last it were serious… as if every other thing since the steps of the Oreanda Hotel had been a cartoon for a comic paper.

Grown men discussing in low voices the grained weight of specific bullets, and the holding capacity of a Bergen, and night walking speeds, and the quantity of

"compo" rations required. Grown men talking through the logistics of a killing snipe… that was bloody serious, young Holt.

The third officer stood beside him.

"We let you loose for an hour then we went onto the hilltop above and had a look for you. How far were you apart?"

"Why?"

"We saw you pretty quick, we never saw him. Was he far away?"

"Pretty far," Holt lied.

"It was a hell of a shot, 750 yards. Incredible. You know in one week in Belfast I once had seven hits, all between 600 and 1000, but I knew the weapon, always used the same one. I tell you, to get a perfect hit with the first shot with a new weapon, unbelievable."

"Perhaps he just likes killing people," Holt said.

"Don't we all? My sweat is that all I get to blow away these days is pheasants… I envy you. I envy him more."

"Then you're out of your mind."

"Just trying to make conversation," the officer smiled.

Across the room the murmur of voices was unin-terrupted. Holt caught occasional phrases, descriptions.

Something called a Rifleman's Assault Weapon, something about low day/night signature, something about standoff demolition, something about minimal training, something about a Rifleman's Assault Weapon being right for young Holt. But Crane shook his head, didn't look at Holt, just indicated that he wanted none of that for Holt.

Holt's hands flickered uselessly at his tie. The officer knelt in front of him and without fuss tied Holt's shoelaces.

"You're fortunate to be with him. Marksmen are a rare breed. They tend to survive. Wherever you're going, whatever the opposition, they'll regret that guy ever turned up. Good luck."

"Mr Crane doesn't trust luck."

"I hope you win."

"I'm scared out of my mind."

The officer looked embarrassed, finished with the shoelaces, stood and smiled awkwardly.

When they went down the stairs, out to the Volvo, George was holding the Rottweiler back from the opened hatch of the car and three private soldiers under the supervision of the quartermaster sergeant were loading equipment, wooden and cardboard boxes and two Bergens. When they had finished, George had to rummage in the load to make a space for his dog.

Martins signed three sheets on the quartermaster's clipboard.

The officers waved them away, waved to them until they were round the corner, gone from sight.

Out onto the main road.

George driving fast. The dog snoring again.

"You're off tomorrow, Holt," Martins said.

He didn't ask whether he could telephone his parents when he was back at the house, tell them he'd be away for a few days.

He didn't even ask what was a Rifleman's Assault Weapon, and why it needed minimal training and why it was not right for young Holt.

He thought about a young man from the far side of the world, a young man of his own age. A young man with a crow's foot scar on his left upper cheek.

They drove in silence.

It was evening when they reached the house.

George was left to park the car, unload the equipment, exercise the dog. Martins hurried to the telephone.

Crane said he was going to have a shower. It was as if everybody had too much work on their hands to concern themselves with young Holt, so scared he could scream and starting the journey for the Beqa'a the next day.

Everyone too busy.

Holt sat in the living room, turned the pages of a magazine, didn't read the text, didn't register the photographs.

He heard Martins stamp into the room.

"It's too damned bad. She is becoming quite impossi b l e… "

He didn't take the cue, didn't ask what was bad, who was impossible. Too bitter to be feed man for Percy Marlins's little act.

"She is cooking for a dinner in the village hall, not for us. We come second to the village hall social evening.

Sometimes that woman goes too far."

"I fancy a night out," Holt said.

"A cabaret at the village hall? That's a poor joke, Holt."

"It's all a piss-poor joke, Mr Martins. I fancy a night out."

"Now, wait a minute… "

"Alone. Don't worry, Mr Martins, I won't run away.

You can tell the horrible people who run you that young Holt says you've done a hell of a good job in trapping him."

"Don't you understand, it's for your country."

He had drunk seven pints of best bitter. He had drunk three whisky shorts.

He stood on the stage.

The comedian was long away. The magician had packed and gone.

There was an untouched pint and another whisky on top of the piano.

The clock on the square tower of the village church that was across the road from the hall chimed the strokes of midnight.

He had given them his whole repertoire. He had led them in his South Pacific selection, his Presley impression, his Jim Reeves collection. He had them going with his choruses, he had them clapping to the hammer thump of the pale young rector on the piano beside him.

He rocked on his feet. His face was flushed. He could hear the shouting and the cheering from the audience.

He understood his audience. It was an audience that he recognised from his village at home. They were the farm workers and their wives, and the Post Office staff and their wives, and the council workers and their wives, and the builders and joiners and their wives.

Because he had drunk too much he had pushed his way forward and climbed the steps to the stage after the magician had taken his bow, he had offered himself when he had thought the evening was flattening out.

"Give us one more, young 'un." The shout from the back, from the darkness beyond the footlights and the smoke haze.

The rector shrugged. Holt whispered in his ear.

Holt sang.

"'Wish me luck, as you wave me goodbye, With a cheer, not a tear, make it gay.

Give me a smile,

I can keep all the while,

In my heart while I'm away.

Till we meet once again you and I,

Wish me luck, as you wave me goodbye,'"

How many of them knew where the Beqa'a valley was?

How many of them had any idea what the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine was? They joined in for the chorus.

'"Wish me luck, as you wave me goodbye, Cheerio, here I go, on my way.

Wish me luck, as you wave me goodbye…'"

Holt was not aware of the spreading quiet. His song, his voice filled his head. A young man saying his farewells, heading for the Beqa'a with a marksman who could kill with a state-of-the-art rifle at 750 yards. A young man who had been told he was going to the Beqa'a to have a man killed for his country. Did any of them care? Small safe people, living small safe lives, in a small safe community. A lone voice, and a piano, desperate for tuning, echoing through a tin-roofed village hall in the English countryside.

'"Wish me luck, as you wave me goodbye.

Wish me luck,

Wish me luck,

Wish me luck