Battle Sight Zero

Chapter 11

Andy sat opposite Zeinab.

What had happened in the night was raw, like a fretsaw had hit a sunk nail.

He maintained the minimum of eye contact and she had her head sunk low and stared down at the plate in front of her and ate a croissant untidily, let tiny flakes of pastry litter the tablecloth, and more caught on her lips. He had not slept well, had tossed in sleep and while pretending to, had manufactured a steady, soft snore. An apple did for him. Had not peeled it, or quartered it. Had chewed it down to the core, then left the last piece on his plate, and had drunk three cups of coffee. They had come down together from the first floor after he had knocked on her door. She’d opened it and he’d seen that her bag was already packed and zipped shut, and he had led the way down the stairs, had seemed easier than waiting for the elevator. He’d muttered something about whether she had slept well, and she had nodded: a lie. She would have slept as badly as he had. She wore the same blouse as the previous evening. Colourful, happy, supposedly expressing a mood that might not exist. He was neutrally dressed, nothing that stood out and made him instantly recognisable: dark jeans and a grey shirt. How he was trained to be: out of any limelight and not attracting attention.

They had come to the hotel, had checked in, and she had been handed two room keys, and she had looked at him, straight into his eyes, and there had been a boldness to her gaze. Andy had reckoned there would not have been a boy either in Savile Town or at the university who had seen those eyes, and the challenge in them. They had gone up the stairs and dumped their bags. The bed in her room was big enough for two, a tight fit, but he had eased away from her as she dropped her bag on the floor, and said something about the length of the drive, and a headache building, and had shrugged as if his control over tiredness and pain was not great. They had gone out of the hotel, a little place on a side-street off the Rue de la République, 55 euro a single room, or 65 euro for a double. He assumed the booking had been made before she had felt the isolation, and fear, of being far from home, alone, only a pretend boyfriend for company, and two singles would have seemed appropriate then… not now, why he had needed to pretend that he slept, affected a slight snore in a gentle rhythm, and had told lies about exhaustion and the ache behind his eyes and the need for a good rest after the drive.

Across the table, picking at a croissant, she looked confused, at a loss. Two other couples had come into the breakfast room. One pair spoke in accents of the south of England and the other ones, from the flags sewn on to their windcheater sleeves, came from New South Wales. Both wives would have thought the boy at the corner table looked decent enough, and both husbands would have run their eyes over her and thought her attractive: all four would have sensed the tension between them, and he was mostly looking at the cornice work on the ceiling edge and she was locked on her plate. They had exchanged a meaningless greeting, and something about the forecast being good for a dry day, and a bit of sunshine, and was it not a shame that the wind had a chill in it. Andy had made a smile of sorts, she had responded with a stare, the old one of the rabbit in the headlights, and neither had replied.

An evening meal in a bistro off the main street. He would damn near have killed for a beer but had declined: alcohol and work mixed a sour cocktail. The place was expensive but she had insisted on paying and she’d bought a half-bottle of wine for herself – like she was steeling her courage for later. They had eaten and he’d noted her growing impatience with the slow service, and they had walked back, collected the keys from the desk and gone up the stairs together. It was pretty much as laid down in the bible of SC&O10. He doubted he had made a good enough job of the tiredness from the drive and the headache racking his brain. Bald excuses given… she had turned on her heel on the landing, had had difficulty slotting her key in the lock, had finally managed and had – sharp temper – kicked open her door. It had slammed behind her. He had felt lousy, inadequate… had seen the anger flash in her eyes and had believed then that he had demeaned himself, sold her short, believed also that she was a picture of prettiness when fury blazed across her face.

He finished his juice, could not manage more coffee. She pushed away her plate, left the croissant unfinished, and scraped her chair back. He looked across at her, then reached out and let his fingers rest on her wrist. She stood. Andy watched.

Zeinab – no backward glance – strode out of the breakfast room, went into the lobby area. She had a small notebook in her hand, and was rummaging in a pocket for her mobile. She made a call. He could not hear what she said. Rang off, dialled another number, was briefer. Then came back and stood beside his chair. Her expression had changed, as if business had been done and matters settled. In a clear voice she told the English and the Australians that they would now be heading off to do the tourist bit, see that bridge that was short of a span, and the Papal Palace, and… she tapped his shoulder, flicked her head. Time for them to move… like a shower had passed, like the sun now shone… In the night he had heard her footsteps in the corridor, had reckoned she paused at his door, would have listened. He had done the snore, loud enough for her to hear. She might have been outside his room for half a minute, then she had retreated, and her door had clicked shut, and he stopped the snoring.

‘You have a great day,’ the English wife said.

They were in the lobby, and she paid the bill for their two rooms.

The Australian husband called after her, ‘Have a brilliant time – don’t do anything we geriatrics wouldn’t do – or couldn’t.’

Laughter played behind her. She might have blushed.

They went upstairs, each to their own room. The silky new nightdress was neatly folded on top of her clothes but she ferreted deep in the bag and pulled out the bulging money belt. Zeinab hooked open the waist of her jeans, lifted her blouse and fastened the strap around her waist. She heard the knock on the door, and it was pushed open. She pulled down her blouse, covered the belt, and zipped up her jeans. He carried his rucksack.

She looped her arms round his neck, straightened his head, made him look into her face, then kissed him… It had been so cold in the corridor in the night and she had shivered outside his door, only the nightdress covering her, and she had heard the noise from inside, the same as her father made when he slept in the room at home next to hers… They talked about it in the Hall of Residence. The girls on her landing gathered in huddles and part of the talk was whispered and part was covered with laughter, and they swapped stories of good times, funny times and horror times. All except her. She was on the periphery, had nothing to contribute. They exchanged detail on size, and how long it lasted, whether he knew what to do or had to be shown, and who put the condom on and who was prescribed the pill, and whether – afterwards – it felt good or was just a sweaty experience and not as satisfactory as a run round a few pavements. Zeinab did not know the answers, and did not join in… kissed him, was content that her phone calls were made, her belt in place, the bill paid. She felt him soften, tension dripping away from his muscles, and his eyes lost their stress.

She took his hand and they came down the stairs and his rucksack was hitched on his shoulder and he carried her bag, and the money belt was tight on her skin and cold. She led him towards the outside door and they passed the breakfast room.

The Australian wife called out, ‘A really great day, that’s what you need.’

The husband said, raucous in his own humour, ‘That’s the way, guys, best foot forward and no mischief.’

The sunlight caught her face, and she pushed some strands of loose hair back from her forehead. The first call had been good, and she had made her request and heard a little snigger in response, and the second call had been answered. The sunlight was powerful but the wind gusted down the side road and lifted spent, dried leaves against her body… Briefly, in the depths of the night, she had believed she had lost control – now had regained it. She held his hand. They walked along the street as the boutiques were opening, and shutters were noisily lifted. Either, or both, of those couples might have been in front of her in a shopping mall in Manchester’s Arndale, or a mall anywhere, and she’d not have cared, would have dropped them, had taken back control. She gripped his hand and they went down the street, towards the Palace and the bridge.

What had happened in the night? Nothing had happened… It would happen, at the end of the day, tonight, it would happen then.

The freighter, with a schedule to keep, and poor stabilisers, ploughed into the swell, broke through the white crests of the waves, rocked and shook, and seemed at times to hit a wall of water, then staggered and pushed on. The wind that whipped the storm was the mistral, and it could rise in intensity to gale force. The captain, rarely off the bridge, was experienced in travelling the routes of the Mediterranean and understood the area south of the French coastline, taking in the islands of Corsica and Sardinia, and crossing as far south as the shores of Libya and Tunisia, some of the most treacherous on any of the world’s oceans. The motion was merciless, and no crew member without a specific job was on deck. He talked constantly to the engineer of the need for speed, but also to safeguard the health of the elderly turbines. Radio silence was not broken. There was a connection he could make on the ship-to-shore system, but he was to be paid healthily for keeping to a timetable, and the promise was on the table of further runs and further increments in cash. The cargo that mattered, the one for which the Margarethe tossed in the storm, was small, wrapped in greaseproof and tougher protection, and in his cabin. The captain felt he was on trial. If his work prospered then bigger cargoes were promised, and money was talked of that would smooth and speed his progress to retirement… maybe a villa on the Italian coast north of Genoa… but the cargo had a deadline for delivery. The freighter pitched and sank and was tossed upwards. Away in a haze to the north was the indistinct line of the shore, but offering no shelter. It was a bad wind, the mistral had no lovers among the seamen working those waters… bad for him and his crew but worse, far worse, for those who’d meet the planned rendezvous at sea. In spite of conditions, the Margarethe made good time.

‘Are they going to be able to do it?’ Crab asked.

‘Why not? It’s what I pay them for,’ Tooth answered.

The wind’s pitch had freshened. Even with rugs and thick coats, the force of it was too severe for them to lie out on the recliners kept on the patio. The sea view, impeccable, was diminished behind the plate glass windows. They drank coffee… Crab had no sea legs, distrusted the water, might have admitted to having a greater fear of an ocean’s depths, in bad weather, than anything else that had confronted him. A pot, with a geranium in it, was caught by a gust and flipped on its side, then careered over the width of the patio. What they could make out of the sea’s surface, through the glass that was encrusted with the sand brought across from Africa by the mistral, was a mess of white caps. They talked nostalgia, what they were best at. Since neither could verify the stories of the other, it was possible that the anecdotes were either true or a fantastic fiction of fake news. Unimportant, they were old friends, and amused each other.

‘We did this job, centre of Manchester, the smart end of the city, cracked a jewellers, and we’d lifted a souped-up BMW saloon for the getaway. Trouble was, coming out with balaclavas still on and carrying pickaxe handles, and all the loot, an off-duty cop was passing – got a description of our wheels. We were tuned into the radio. Nothing followed us, we were clear… What happened? Believe it. The retired Head of Finance, pillar of the city bosses, the council, had the same model, same colour. He picked up half a dozen cop cars. Was rammed off the road, and when they’d finished apologising we were long gone… Trust me, one of the better ones.’

‘My favourite, here in Marseille, when the Ministry targeted me – personally named me in briefings – the premier smack importer of the city. A team was formed to investigate me, a conviction demanded by Paris. In that team, I promise you, each officer was on my payroll. Each one, eight of them. I was then the Sun King of the third arrondissement. All of them now live in good properties by the Botanical Gardens and an easy walk to the Prado beaches. It was a comfortable time.’

They competed.

‘Not, of course, what it used to be.’

‘Used to be respect.’

‘We were decent people.’

‘My word was my bond.’

‘No honesty among the young today.’

‘And the way they wave these AKs around, like it’s just a toy.’

‘We had the best days, Tooth.’

‘Lucky to have lived when we did, Crab.’

And another pot was cracked, and Crab told the story about his hacker boys getting through the cyber defences of the city’s main supermarket chain, and lodging an order for boxes of food for free delivery, no charge, to a food-bank warehouse. Kept it up for two weeks and then signed off with sincere thanks from ‘Robin Hood, Sherwood Mansions, Near Nottingham’… It had been eight years ago but he still told it and Tooth would never let him know he had heard it before, word for word, like a fucking gramophone record with a scratch.

Tooth said that he had the best relations with the cops than any of the big men that had gone before him in the city. Their wives knew him and would near curtsey if there were a party and he was introduced, and their teenage kids greeted him with averted eyes, no lip, called him ‘Sir’, and bankers queued to manage his investments, and the presents that were courier-delivered at Christmas filled a spare bedroom.

‘Great days.’

‘The best, we were privileged.’

‘And you know what I am thankful for, Tooth?’

‘What’s that, Crab?’

‘That I’m not on that fucking water tonight.’

‘Like I said, they get paid. They don’t like it, then they should have stayed pimping.’

Karym watched his brother go.

Astride the Ducati Monster, the wind making river trails in his hair, Hamid powered away, rode out of the project, swerved between the big rocks across the entrance to La Castellane.

He thought his elder brother gripped by a foul, sullen mood. He did not know the reason, knew only that Hamid was at work on behalf of the old man – clapped out, past it, from yesterday – who had once been called Tooth: now, likely, had none. Too old, fucked up, teeth rotten or fallen out. He did not know why his brother danced to a tune called by this man who should years before have gone to the knacker’s yard.

Himself, Karym felt good – better than good. Hard to remember when he had last experienced that degree of elation.

The Ducati was gone. He had been told where he should be the next day, at what hour. That seemed secondary. His brother had snapped the instructions at him, his mouth quivering and his lips narrowed, and his fists on the bike handles had trembled, and the wind had ripped at his leather coat: cost him close to a thousand euros, but his brother still refused to pay for better transport for Karym, nothing as good as the Piaggio MP3 Yourban… The cause of his excitement? It was a declaration of war. War was about firearms. Rifles would be issued.

It had been the most intense sensation in his short life, Karym had claimed to his brother. The moment that the kid beside him, holding the weapon at his throat, had been taken down by the marksman. Blood on him, and the kid’s piss, and perhaps some brain tissue. An incredible shot, might only have had a quarter of the head to aim at. The shot of a genius – Samson. They said Samson was a killer, an executioner in history… a brilliant marksman and he would have liked more than anything, to meet the man, be face to face with him. Not to thank him, but to admire him… and it had been the start of the war that would now follow. War was important.

War brought shape and purpose to life in the housing blocks. The kids would be armed, would go to a state of alert… For himself there was the prospect that Hamid would give him a Kalashnikov, one for him to have, hold, look after, one for him to own… Karym had in his room on that high floor of the building he shared with his sister, every book available in the French language on the history and working of the Kalashnikov. He could recite the dates of manufacture for each phase of the weapon’s development. He knew which of the liberation movements had been sold the AK – the Klash, the Chopper. He could explain how the version sold to the People’s Army of North Vietnam had proved superior to the rifles of the American marines: knew it all. War would be his best chance, for all that his arm was withered, of handling one, having it under his bed and with a magazine loaded, and with the sites set down at the extremity for Battle Sight Zero, close range. Might… His brother ignored him if he talked of the AK. His sister would switch on the TV, turn the sound to its loudest, if he spoke of it. None of the kids who existed off Hamid’s cash cared about the theory, the culture, of the most amazing weapon ever built. He had no one with whom to share his enthusiasm.

But that was detail. More important was war. He presumed it, war, fascinating and unpredictable, brilliant. He walked across the project towards the van that came each midday to La Castellane and cooked burgers… What he should do, Hamid’s instruction, and the hour for it, confused him, and where he should be afterwards. But he had not argued, queried – might have been kicked if he had.

Andy led, followed the Avignon tourist signs.

Held her hand and thought her more relaxed than he’d have expected. He could not say how she had lifted the stress off her shoulders. She talked, he listened. It would be a first time… Andy had not been with any of the women on the animal rights group, nor with the girls who hung around on the edge of the cannabis courier gang. Two or three times, on the pavement, pedestrians had come either side of them, and they’d been pushed together, and their bodies had touched. They went down to the river, where the coaches ejected their passengers, saw the bridge, then climbed steep steps in a tower, and she’d laughed at the thought of her needing help, but it was windy at the top, and she had a sheen of sweat on her forehead.

‘You good?’

‘Fine – very good.’

‘You deserved the break.’

‘Did I, how did I?’

‘Getting your essay done, didn’t you say you had…?’

She flustered. ‘I did…’

‘Go well?’

‘Went good, a decent mark, and…’

He knew she lied. But then if her mind was on couriering Kalashnikovs, imagining them blasting in a concert arena or at a bus station, then an essay on whatever turgid aspect of her study discipline a lecturer had chosen was unlikely to be top of the heap. But a lie was a lie, and she’d looked away quickly.

And she wondered…

… wondered about his future.

Should not have done. Not her concern. Just a lorry driver. Pliable and easy to manipulate. Devoted and simple, and without intelligence – and a possibility that he could provide what she might most want.

Her security concerned her. She did not intend to die, not as her cousins had met death, on a battlefield. Had no intention of being locked inside an airless prison cell while her life moved from youth and on towards a middle-aged barren void. There was one girl on the corridor of the Hall of Residence who had a picture in her room of a cottage with white-washed walls and a vista beyond of the sea and of mountains. Zeinab knew little of the sea, could not swim, had only ever walked on a beach with Andy – had never climbed a mountain anywhere, had only recently walked with him on the moor between Leeds and Manchester. The place was remote, reached by a stone track that had grass growing thick in its centre, and the clouds low on the skyline. The girl was an independent school product, dripped private means and would leave university with her loan repaid. Zeinab had been returning a cup of milk loaned her the previous weekend. ‘You didn’t have to,’ she’d been told. She’d stared at the picture: there had been an off-hand remark about going there for a couple of weeks in the summer, ‘pretty boring, nothing happens, and it rains most of the time’. A place such as that would be a bolt-hole. She wondered if he would come there. Probably she’d only have to tweak his emotions… did not know how they would live, feed themselves, have the cash to survive, but they would be hidden… after tonight, he would do as she wanted, was sure of it. She had no interest in the history of a bridge left for hundreds of years without being repaired, little more for an abandoned palace – but could imagine the cottage by the seashore, and a log fire, and them together on a rug. She imagined that she might involve herself in an armed struggle just once – once only – then retreat to safety. Hidden in remoteness with the lorry driver to protect her, and lead a new life and be far from the hunting pack. Possible? Perhaps, perhaps not… not possible for the boys from Savile Town who had gone away to war and were buried in the sand, what was left of their bodies. Not worth thinking of… whether she could break away at a time and place of her own choosing, or could not.

Wondered whether he would make that his future: the cottage, the fire burning, the refuge, could not answer. Held tight to his hand.

‘Don’t quote me… they make rather a pleasing couple.’

‘You reckon he nobbed her last night?’

Gough did his pained face. Little shocked him, but they had between them a regular act that she would ramp up her language and he would play the offended individual. Almost music hall, something of a variety show that they played out. His expression seemed to say that her tongue gave him personal pain… They had done it themselves the previous night. Him ‘nobbing’ his assistant, though Pegs had done most of the work, what she’d called the ‘heavy lifting’. Then sharing a quiet cigarette, and hanging their heads out of the window. Then a few hours of solid sleep. They had woken, refreshed, were showered and breakfasted, were outside the hotel in the street off the Rue de la République in time to see the couple emerge.

‘That is disgusting, quite vulgar.’

‘Just asking – remember what you said about him, not that long back?’

Their man, the Undercover, had a rucksack slung on a shoulder and carried her bag. She had a hand tucked in the crook of his arm, like they were an item. They had walked to a car park and the rucksack and the bag had gone into the boot of an old VW saloon. She had given him a kiss on the cheek, and had swung her hips and they had set off at a brisk march… They would have seemed the stereotypical couple – far from home and crossing a racial divide – and finding each other and exploring a relationship, and she had manufactured a guise of cheerfulness and he seemed smitten… They were in the Rocher des Doms gardens. Had circled a spouting ornamental fountain and walked paths bordered by shrubbery. They filtered between a party of schoolchildren and their minders, and a bus load of Chinese tourists, and nothing showed of the truths guiding them: she was testing the security of a potential arms importation route – and he was an agent of the Crown and committed to blocking her ambition, and now they held hands and were young and looked like lovers.

Gough grimaced. ‘Never enjoy being quoted back.’

‘I’ll remind you… put your tin helmet back on because it will hurt. Quote, ‘‘He’s gone native’’, end quote. I suggested he needed a ‘‘good kicking’’, but you waffled, Gough, did not stand up to him.’

‘Did not have a great many options as I remember.’

‘Once his hand is in her knickers, then you’ve lost him.’

‘Quite disgusting and not worthy of you, Pegs.’

‘You reckon, Gough, he’s going to get her in the shrubs, do it there? Horny enough for al fresco? I’d say that he’s moving offline, and I’d say she’s wanting it bad. You were squeamish on reading a riot to him… That’s where we are. Like it or not, it’s where.’

The couple had moved on and were now at a railing, looking down through bare trees, watching the river far below, swollen with winter rain, and the wind sang in the branches. The main flow of the river was at the end of the broken historic bridge. How it had been broken, why it had not been fixed in many centuries, might have confused Gough had he permitted that irrelevance room to breathe. He and Pegs stood back from them. He – their man – continued to hold her hand and she laughed, and he used his free hand to tap decisively at his backside. Gough understood. Their man’s palm was across the back pocket of his jeans, and the gesture was clear enough. Pegs, too, had caught it, the signal… First bloody indication they had been given that he expected them to be traipsing after him, having him under ‘eyeball’, and he had not phoned them in the night.

‘We drill it into them, not that most of them are listening, but we are bloody emphatic: it is poor tradecraft to shag female targets. The way to erode objectivity… Of course he’ll shag her. Just hope they both enjoy it.’

‘I know what they’re told.’

‘They are not friends, they are targets.’

‘I merely said that they make a pleasing couple. I don’t need a damn lecture.’

‘Pleasing?’

‘It’s what I said.’

‘They would, wouldn’t they? I mean, they come out of the same locker.’

‘Meaning – meaning what?’

‘So much in common. Made for each other. If it were a dating agency then it would be a brilliant match. In their veins, compatibility… it’s so obvious, Gough, it’s biting your bum. They both lie to survive, both carry a knapsack of deceit. Both trust nobody, both hide themselves away, and are friendless and incapable of affection, trust, to anyone outside their own security bubble. I echo you, ‘‘a pleasing couple’’, and so they bloody should be, but sorry for the speech. You all right? Look a touch peaky.’

Gough bridled. He felt the stress. Neither he nor Pegs was trained up to the standards required for full surveillance tasking. Didn’t have to do it, and there were sufficient specialists from Five or the Counter-Terrorist Command to do the usual play-acting – changing clothes, riding fast motorcycles, wandering around with a water board gilet on, just standing in a street and looking around and having a dog lead hanging in the fist. Not their job. A disaster if they showed out and the girl saw them, identified them as a threat. They hung back… Then the couple swung. Quick movement, as if she had seen enough of a bridge, useless for hundreds of years, and she gave her boy’s hand a sharp tug. They moved quickly and there was nowhere for Gough and Pegs to go, no hole to crawl into. In front of them was a rubbish bin. In Andy Knight’s hand was a slip of paper. No eye contact from him, but the girl saw them, allowed a short smile to cross her face. Yes, they made a ‘pleasing couple’. And what did he and Pegs look like…? Not worth considering. They passed by the rubbish bin. The pieces of paper fluttered from his hand, then was dropped. Pegs talked, would have the first word and the last, quietly in Gough’s ear.

‘Then you have to line up the consequences… if he didn’t shag her last night then he will when they get into bed this evening. She’ll get a rough ride and enjoy it. Worth a punt down at the bookies’ shop, Gough… All right, all right, what could you have done? Not much. Could hardly kick him off the agenda.’

Neither Gough nor Pegs responded to the girl’s smile. Their man did not look at them. Gough waited until they had passed, then put his hand deep into the bin, felt the paper, clamped on it, brought it up and into the light. The wind caught it, snatched it and it was carried up the path. She went after it, stamped on it, gave it back to him. Her glance described him as a burden to her, then she laughed. He read it: Do not know where we stay in Marseille this evening. Do not know her schedule. Will make contact when possible. He told her. She snorted. His was a lifetime of work handling agents, assets, men and women who worked on the perimeter of safety, most often beyond the Golden Hour in which it was hoped rescue or help would reach them if they were corralled in danger. He thought such a man, at the end of his tether, straining it taut, would easily have the impulse to jack it in – if he were not humoured. There was no other game in town. Gough could have bullied. He had seen the girl and noticed the language of their bodies: young peoples’, and he was old, tired, and his confidence in ultimate victory was dented, badly.

‘Not possible – a pleasing couple, what I said. I’ve more faith in him than… Ever answered, Pegs, the question? What we ask of them, is that too much?’

‘Pretty puerile. They do a job, they’re volunteers, get well paid, can fiddle their expenses. No need to bleed for them… It’s bloody closed.’

What was ‘bloody closed? The cathedral was closed for lunch. And the café was closed. And the Papal Palace had been abandoned six and a half centuries before – decamped back to Rome and Vatican City – and entry to it was eleven euro each… forget it. How would it end? The weapon would be carried home in a VW Polo, would be doctored during the ferry crossing, bugged. It would travel uninterrupted through Customs, then tailed in a huge surveillance operation. It would be delivered to the individuals in this sprouting conspiracy who mattered… the guns would go in, armed police, and the network would be for the cage. Arrest warrants in Yorkshire, and later a trial, and the Undercover behind a screen for his evidence. A triumphant drink after sentences were handed down, but unlikely that the star man would show. They rarely appeared for the post-game binge, were never seen again. That was how it would be if he could hold tight to his man… could no longer see him. Could no longer get an ‘eyeball’ on a boy and a girl who walked hand in hand. He lit a cigarette, gasped on it.

Pegs said, ‘Sod it, let’s go and find some lunch.’

Gough said, ‘The Kalashnikov, it’s a symbol of their power. They will walk tall if they have weapons with that hitting power. We are groping in the dark. It’s why it’s important, on a whole new and lofty level. It matters.’

February 2008

She was widowed. She wore black and a veil covered most of her face, but her eyes were visible: like those of a she-cat caught against a vertical cliff, towering up and over her as predators closed in. They blazed defiance. Her hands were uncovered; one held the emptied magazine of her AK assault rifle, and the other rummaged in the drape of her clothing for the opening that would allow her to reach the two loaded magazines held in webbing against her body. She could not defend herself, could only rely on her eyes to spit anger at the advancing enemy.

At that altitude in the mountains west of Jalalabad, the rain-bearing clouds were low over the crags and valleys and it was an optimum time for that small force of mujahideen to confront the patrol of a section of American troops – Marines. Excellent weather conditions, the rain was heavy and on the verge of drifting to sleet, and in the night it would fall as snow. The widow was not tactically trained, had never attended a course run by military instructors, but she had been a member of that tribal group since her father and brother had been killed soon after the Americans had arrived, almost seven years before. A weapon had been given to her. It had belonged to a cousin, also killed, and she had held it – battered, scraped with two rows of notches cut on the wood of the stock, somehow almost invisible – at her wedding in the mountains, aged seventeen, to the son of their leader and principal tactician. She had been with him, when the American helicopters had come around a curve in a valley, the wind blowing away the sound of their engines, the surprise total, and an Apache had strafed the group. She had fired at the beast, hovering, almost contemptuously, long enough to exhaust the magazine and doubted she had achieved even one strike against its armour plate, and when it had gone, banking away, she had realised her husband was dead. Peaceful in death, his face calm, but his stomach and chest had taken machine-gun rounds. They had not taken precautions against pregnancy, but no child had been born: now no one else looked for her hand in the group. She was a fighter and lived with them, ate with them, was the same as each of them except that, when darkness came, she would move a little away from the men, wrap herself in her blanket, and sleep alone and isolated until the morning. And that day, excellent weather for the ambush because the cloud was low enough on the rock-face to prevent the helicopters from flying, the Marines would not have the protection from above on which they seemed, to her, so dependent. At the moment the first shots were fired, and some Americans already down, and the fierce, anguished shouts of those unhurt or only lightly wounded bouncing from the granite walls, they had scattered.

The widow had believed, as the rain whipped into her face and her veil hung sodden across her mouth, that she had identified a particular rock, 25 or 30 metres from her, behind which an enemy had taken refuge. She had blasted an entire magazine at one side of the rock to shift him, then had reloaded with the second magazine already taped to the first, and had fired another thirty shots, but as the weapon clicked feebly, telling her the ammunition was finished, magazine empty, she had realised she had lost him. She was attempting to reload. Perhaps with more instruction she would have been more cautious in how much she had fired with the selector on automatic. She did not know where he was, and it was difficult to get her hand under the fold of the material enveloping her because it hung heavy from the soaking by the rain.

He faced her. He was enormous, wearing a backpack that broadened his shoulders, a helmet that made his head grotesque, kit hanging from a belt at his waist, and more in the pockets of the jacket he wore over his tunic, had a rifle raised, held at his shoulder. His face was black, his cheeks the colour of burned wood from the cooking fires they lit, and a smile played at his mouth and his gums were pink and his teeth brilliantly white, and he almost laughed. Almost laughed and with good cause. He had come from between a cleft of lichen-covered rocks, and when she had been blasting the granite wall he had been behind a stubby thorn tree, hidden by its trunk. Shooting continued below her, above her, and to her right, and she could hear the cries of her own people and the guttural shouts of the Americans. She could not turn and run because the rock behind her was too steep and wet, and the soles or her sandals would not get traction nor her fingers a grip. She could not charge him. She could not hurl the useless Kalashnikov at him and hope at that distance to disable him… She spoke her husband’s name. Said it quietly, just a murmur, and the wind broke the words that were her husband’s name, and then the endearments, almost a prayer… She did not know if the black-skinned American would try to capture her – rape her, torture her, shut her in a cage as an exhibit of interest – or would savour a moment of amusement and then shoot her. She went on with the task, seeming impossible, of freeing a filled magazine from the pouch close to her stomach, where his rifle seemed aimed.

She had a clear view of the finger that was inside the trigger guard. Saw it tighten… it seemed, peculiarly, as if it would demean the memory of her dead husband if she wriggled and attempted to avoid what was an inevitability. She hoped he saw, through the slit of her veil, wet enough to cling to her cheeks, the hatred she felt for him, and it seemed in his own eyes, down the sight of the rifle, that he had good entertainment from corralling this woman – as if she were a goat about to be herded into a small thorn-fenced compound. The finger squeezed, the grip tightened, and the fun fled and the teeth disappeared and she saw his lips tighten. She had her own magazine free in her hand and snaked it towards the underside of the weapon, what she had been given and what had once been the prized possession of her cousin.

Against the patter of the rain and the wind’s murmur, she heard the metal sounds of the jam. They laughed about it around the fire in the evenings, when they ate and before they prayed for the last time, and she was the only woman amongst them, and was watched and was approved of, and older men told stories of the weakness of American equipment… . One old fighter had said, chuckling and croaking on the humour of it, that a child could fix a mis-fire on an AK-47, but that an American needed a college eduction to be able to clear out a jammed cartridge in a rifle used by the Marines – and the same story in every war they had launched: Vietnam, Iraq, and now the quagmire among the rocks that was her home country. Big eyes, once laughing, stared at her, and the fingers had left the trigger guard and now tried to eject the bullet, and his expression changed and reflected fear… for good reason. She had the magazine lodged in its place. She had slight arms, little flesh on them, but they harboured enough muscle for her to arm the weapon easily. He would have heard the scrape call of metal on metal as the Kalashnikov was again made lethal. He might have thought of home, and of children, of any place far away, and her own finger was on her own trigger. Her sights were set at what they called, those who had taught her to shoot effectively and to handle the weapon, Battle Sight Zero. He would be another scraped gouge on the old wood of the stock, almost ready for the beginning of a third row.

The widow took her time, savoured it, would not have hurried – should have, should have been long gone, the moment the Marine had displayed the jam to her. Should have, but had not. The grenade bounced close to her like a small toy. She was too involved in the process of killing him to have registered its significance. The hatred ruled her.

She fired. He was attempting to squirm away and duck his big body – what she had refused to do, maintaining her dignity – and she fired, and his movements were insufficient to save him. The weapon kicked hard and she needed all her strength to hold it, keep the aim on the dropping body and she barely heard the shout of her commander, and did not register that the grenade had come to rest five metres from her feet.

It detonated. The Marines pulled back. A sergeant had thrown his last grenade towards her before scampering down the slope. She was felled. The Marines picked up the man she had killed. One kicked hard at her body, wasted effort because she was gone.

She would have no grave beside her husband’s; her body would be flimsily protected by a cairn of stones. Her weapon would be carried away, but not her. Her weapon had value.

He sat on his settee and watched a television documentary.

The marksman from the Groupe d’Intervention Police Nationale held a mug of coffee and his hand did not shake, showed no signs of tremor. A pile of newspapers was spread on the cushions beside him. He accepted the name given him. To them he was Samson, to himself he was Samson. It was an amusing name, not one shared with his wife though the chances were she would have heard it uttered in the gossip corridors of Headquarters. The name was best known in the projects on the north side of Marseille, where the north African immigrants were housed. In the tower blocks, the women would lean from windows or step out on to the narrow balconies and would watch for him. He did not know how the name had slipped outside the GIPN ‘immediate ready’ room where they lounged on hard chairs, played cards, drank coffee, shared rumours. The precision of his head shot in the street’s darkness would have enhanced an already formidable reputation.

His wife would have known that he had killed again, but he had not spoken of it to her. She would have known from the talk the next morning among colleagues working out of L’Évêché. Unlikely that his daughter would have known anything, an accountancy student in Lyon. Probably, if the Major had thought it necessary, a police psychologist could have been allocated to him. The matter had not been broached. No signs of ‘combat stress’ were apparent: PTSD symptoms were absent. He did not revel in what he had done, ending that young life with a shot of superb expertise, difficult light, the target’s head moving every few seconds, the tension building as the target’s behaviour grew increasingly erratic. Took no pleasure from it, and would certainly not have boasted of the challenge he had confronted. Nor did he show any sign of regret that the kid was dead, that a family was pitched into mourning. Showed nothing… might have filled in another duty roster with a session directing traffic at the junction where La Canobière ran into the Place du Géneral de Gaulle, short of the vieux port. In a commercial break in the documentary he had raided the fridge, been grateful his wife had restocked a box with the pastries he enjoyed. The TV programme told the story of a cheetah family from the Tanzanian reserve of Serengeti, the mother’s efforts to protect her cubs from predators, and later would cover the break-up of the family as the cubs achieved maturity, had to fend for themselves. Beautifully filmed, stunning vistas.

He was not indifferent to the killing, but was untroubled… he had other wildlife films stacked up in the memory of his TV, tigers from central India, jaguars living in the Pantanal of Brazil, bears from beyond the Canadian segment of the Arctic Circle… Nor was he much concerned with the boy whose life he had, perhaps, saved. All he remembered of him was that his arm was withered and almost useless, that he had not fainted in the moment after the single shot was fired, that he had wriggled clear of the corpse had righted his cheap old scooter, that he had fled the scene. Had done that with determination and skill, given the weakness of his arm. It would have involved money, involved the conflict zone of rival gangs… not his concern. He doubted he would see the boy again.

In an earlier commercial break – tedious adverts for competing banks, cheap furniture, holidays in the sun – he had checked the papers. Always, of course, he wore a balaclava, had done so once the name, Samson’s, was attached to him, was abroad in the projects, since the name had given him almost celebrity status. In La Provence one picture showed a grainy image of a man walking discreetly between the shadowed doorways of the street, with a rifle against his leg, and the sniper sight clearly visible, but the balaclava hid the face and there was no mention of his name.

He was a figure of mystery, of contradictions, hoped to remain so. He had enjoyed the film about the cheetahs. Now he would go to the café on Rue Charras, rout out his friends, go to play boule with them, the secondary pleasure on any free day, except that it would be cold – even in the sunshine – because of the force of the wind. He was relaxed, comfortable. A body in the morgue did not trouble him, and his reputation as an executioner would have brought a shrug to his shoulders, a grimace to his face. It was his job, to shoot at a man if it were necessary, to kill him, do what was asked of him – stay distant, uninvolved.

They sat in the car. Belts were fastened. Andy said how long it would take to drive into central Marseille. The engine turned over.

Seeming casual, he put the question. ‘What sort of business is it, for you – there? What you have to do.’

He was deflected. ‘Just some family business. You wouldn’t be interested. Boring business.’

He drove out of the car park and together they started to scan road signs for the A7 route. They had enjoyed lunch, done window shopping, ate an ice-cream. He didn’t follow up the question. The reason for his insertion, gathering clandestine information, was around an hour and a quarter away, and the city he drove towards had a reputation, deserved, for ruthless brutality. He found music on the car’s radio, thought it might drown out the thought of fear.