A Deniable Death (23 page)

What had they been doing there in days gone by when British squaddies had patrolled, Yanks had driven by in their armour-plated carriers, the foot-soldier was pleased to get a ten-dollar bill for putting the roadside bomb in place, and some damn man – who had glasses, good-features, a fine-looking wife who was dying and kids who were frightened – had laboured at a bench, making the bombs that took the lives in this place, which stank of donkey, dog, fly and human shit? The rant rioted in his mind. What were they doing there? The answer: would need a cleverer man than Foxy. He could have praised Badger for making the scrape, constructing the hide, saving them, but he didn’t.

Perhaps he was too preoccupied to hand out praise. He would have given his left testicle bollock for the chance to hold on to Ellie, cling to her – would have given the whole handful of his tackle for the chance to hold her and be loved. Fractionally, beside him, Badger shifted, his arms moved and then his elbow dug sharply into Foxy’s ribcage. He passed Foxy a flapjack. Foxy ate the flapjack, then said, wiping crumbs, ‘Life’s cheap, worth nothing, especially an Arab’s. Iranians would see it like shooting a diseased dog. Don’t expect there to be a court of human rights getting steamed up about it.’

Badger said nothing. They should have been bonded by the experience, but Foxy realised that neither would offer anything to the other.

The officer was back on his chair and his glasses were at his chest. The ducks and waders were again on the water, and the officer had his float out, watching it. The woman had come out from the house with her mother, who carried the washing basket, and the kids had their plastic toys. The guards had resumed their watch from the shade of the palm trees. Hard to believe it had happened, that anything had happened. He thought he and Badger would not have been so fortunate. It would not have been quick: interrogation, torture, slow execution – and not by a bullet. He had no idea what he was doing there, then and now, what was his business.

He would have liked to talk about Ellie, but the man beside him had no interest in her.

The washing was pegged out in the sunshine and the children played. The officer caught two small fish, which he unhooked and threw back. Nothing was said and nothing was learned.

Then the shivers started, rustling the old fronds that covered them, and he couldn’t help himself – so nearly dead, and so damned isolated.

‘The marsh area is one of the great wonders of the world. It is a unique and precious place. We’re doing everything we can to protect your homes, keep you safe, and to maintain the habitat of many centuries . . .’

The crowd had more than doubled, might have trebled. Abigail Jones was at the broken gate. She had put a scarf over her hair and still wore the loose cool robe. She had a bag, a local craftwork effort, slung on her shoulder and in it were her communications, her medical pack and her pistol, with two spare magazines, three flash grenades and a purse with some money. She had reflected that the bag contained all that the modern young woman needed if she was promenading in sunny Iraq . . . Different from what would be in the bags of the girls she had been at school with or shared benches with in college lecture rooms. She’d have said that the comms, the pack with the dressings and morphine syringes were the most important items – not the weapons because she had Harding behind her: the M-16 would be slung across his chest, his thumb would be on the safety, his finger on the trigger guard, and there would be a bullet in the breach.

‘. . . We’re trying to let the whole world know how beautiful, and how important, are the marshlands where you live. We want to establish the extent of the wildlife that has survived the war with Iran, the persecution by Saddam and now the drought. We need to say with accuracy what birds are here and what animals. We don’t want to interfere in any way with your lives. The whole world knows of the hospitality of the
madan
people, but we ask that you leave us to count the birds and other creatures.’

If they believed that shit they’d believe anything. They didn’t. They were close to her. There was no hostility in the eyes, but the sort of deadened dullness that came from poverty, hardship, and the sense that an opportunity had presented itself. Two vehicles, good for stripping; radios, binoculars and telescopes that would fetch useful money in the
souk
at al-Amara; weapons that would augment those filched from previous conflicts fought out in the marshes – she had heard that old Turkish rifles retrieved after the battle of al-Qurna, December 1914 and British-issued Lee Enfields were still seen on a tribesman’s shoulder. There were also food, medical supplies and money. Little whistles of breath came between Harding’s teeth, his way when he was tense. He would have known she was talking shit and convincing none of them, but she had started and would finish, and her Arabic was fair enough for her to be understood.

‘. . . We ask you, please, to leave us so that the birds and the creatures are not disturbed and we can count and observe them. Later, when we have finished, we will reward your co-operation generously. We’re doing this for you.’

She thought she had sounded so hollow.

They gazed back at her. They might decide that she and her guards were weak and rush the gate, might decide that they could shift around the fence – down in many places – infiltrate and overwhelm, or they might conclude it best to wait till darkness, not many hours away. The eyes stripped her. She had – like everyone who did a Baghdad posting – read the works of the explorers, mostly British from a half-century or a century before, who lauded the culture of the
madan
men and the lifestyle of many millennia. They would kill her, steal from her body – maybe rape her after death – and blood lust would determine that the bodies of Corky, Shagger, Hamfist and Harding were mutilated. It wasn’t political, nothing to do with the offensive intrusion of a foreign army. It was all about the economic necessity of survival, requiring items of value to be taken to the
souk
at al-Amara, even Basra, and flogged off so that a new widescreen television could be bought with the generator to power it.

She smiled to the front and said, in English from the side of her mouth, ‘Not an overwhelming response. I’m getting nowhere.’

‘It wasn’t my shout, ma’am.’

It had been Abigail Jones’s decision to seek out the abandoned exploration site, and the more reliable maps showed no settlements near to it. There had been no alternative. Actually, she didn’t know Harding’s given name, and knew less about him than she did about any of the rest of her detail. She had never learned what military units he had been with – airborne, armour, marines, military police? He stayed apart from the banter of the others, but when he spoke it was worth her while to hear him out. All that was personal about Harding – who had been with Proeliator Security for eight years – was in his wallet, a photograph of a woman: a frail face under sparse grey hair, not his mother but the aunt who had brought him up in abject penury somewhere in the Midwest. She thought that, when this was over, he’d hit the Russian whores in the Dubai hotels. He was the smartest of the team, immaculate each day in his fatigues, and careful. She liked that, valued it.

‘I don’t see this as sustainable.’

‘When they’re hungry enough, ma’am, or thirsty, they’ll come. Could be tomorrow or the day after, could be tonight or in half an hour. We’d have to drop a hell of a number of them to win.’

‘Not what we’re here for – it would be a disaster. Don’t even think about it.’

She kept the smile fixed, but none of them stepped a half-pace back, and nobody answered her. If they’d heard Harding’s voice, recognised him as American, he might not be killed but sold on. There were chickens in cages in the
souk
, waiting to be sold and slaughtered, goats and sheep that were worth good money. They’d get a better price for the American than they would for Corky, Shagger and Hamfist. She turned to Harding. ‘Talk to me.’

‘It’ll be hard to stay here, ma’am, but
here
is within an acceptable distance of our people. Further back, wherever that’s possible, is not acceptable. Already they’re hung out, rags in the wind. I don’t see an option, hard as it is staying our ground.’

‘I hear you.’

‘My opinion, ma’am, it’s not possible – and the other guys would say it – to leave them out there beyond help. Wouldn’t be able to hold my head high again.’

‘Then we’ll hack it. Somehow. Thank you.’

They might be lucky and they might not. They might have time, the angels singing with them, and they might not. She bit her lip.

‘Have I spoken out of turn, ma’am?’

She shook her head. He had spoken with politeness, respect, but had given a clear message –
rags in the wind
– and two men far forward couldn’t be left, after guarantees had been given. She had little sense of honour, obligation, when she gave the Service’s word, but her men would have believed in necessary trust, and she had felt the younger man against her body, inside it.

‘Hack it and sweat it out.’ She walked away from the gate, and considered how many dollars to feed out now, how many later.

The consultant phoned Berlin. He leaned back in his chair and gazed through the window at the sleet spattering the glass. He gave the switchboard the name and was asked his own.

‘My name is Steffen. I am calling from Lübeck.’

The connection was made. He didn’t waste time on pleasantries. He began with the costs, in euros. There was the fee for his own time, for the clinic nurses, for the scanner, and the fee for X-rays, for the staff operating the scanner and the radiology team. He continued with the potential sums required if the examination showed that a stereo-tactic was possible and that an operation had a chance of success, then added, ‘You should have no anxiety that we would conduct the procedure merely to gain the payments when we have no hope of a favourable outcome. We have a long waiting list. We only take a patient into theatre when there are grounds for optimism.’

The numbers were in front of him and bounced in his eyes. A consultation and examination – and a verdict that denied hope – would cost thousands of euros. Surgery, then close supervision in intensive care and a further period of convalescence would add up to tens of thousands. He said that debit cards could be used, in advance, but not credit cards or cheques; a money order taken out on a German bank would be acceptable.

Were discounts available to the Islamic Republic? He said that his own remuneration might be subject to a realistic adjustment, but all other fees were non-negotiable. He had made provisional reservations for facilities on the following Monday.

The fees were agreed.

He finished, ‘Such a reservation will attract comment because, as yet, the patient has no identity. I am not interested in the patient’s name, but would be grateful for one that matches a passport and the medical records brought from Tehran. I would suggest a name is furnished as quickly as possible, or suspicion will be aroused. We are talking about an initial appointment for nine in the morning, Monday.’ He allowed a whiff of sarcasm. ‘I trust that finding a name for the patient will not prove too great a problem.’

The consultant rang off. He had pushed to the limits, but he had won nothing, and danced to their tune.

In his office, Len Gibbons moved paper round his desk, sent it in clockwise circles, the other way, then north, south, east and west. The phone did not ring. The sheets were the contents of two files, cardboard and downloaded from the computer. The phone did not ring because there was – obviously – nothing to report from that far-away front line, nothing of
significance
. It was the life of intelligence officers, such as Len Gibbons, who handled men and women who were sent across borders and were at the extremities of survival, that the phone only rang when matters reached breaking point. He liked to have paper on his desk and regarded the screen as a poor substitute. Through the door, which was open, he could see Sarah was at her desk, typing briskly, not in the style of his own battering two fingers. She would be busying herself with the detail of the accounts for the operation – wise, sensible, and mind-destructively dull. Nor had there been contact from the Towers.

The paper he moved anti-clockwise was headlined
Joseph Paul Foulkes
. It wasn’t the first time he had read the résumé of a biography, or the tenth, and wouldn’t be the last.
Foxy
to his friends – not many of them. Aged
51
, brought up in West Yorkshire, grammar-school educated, joining the local
Police
at eighteen marrying
Liz (Elizabeth Joyce Routledge)
, a hospital worker, fathering two
daughters
, and specialising with the force in the élite
Covert Rural Observation Post
unit. Noticed. Advised that a careerenhancing move would be a transfer to the Metropolitan Police and
Special Branch
, then sent to
Northern Ireland
and given commendations for his work in dangerous country. A flair for languages. Courses at a language laboratory in Whitechapel, one on one, then six months of cramming in the culture aspects at the
School of Oriental and African Studies
, then
Bristol University
, and the military’s
Beaconsfield camp
, culminating in a useful knowledge of Farsi, the principal tongue of the Iranian diplomats based in the capital. Where they met contacts – woodlands, parked cars, remote country hotels, restaurants and lorry drivers’ cafés – he used the shotgun microphones or the larger parabolic versions and listened. Twice he had provided evidence leading to
conviction
and imprisonment. The marriage had not survived. Posted to Basra,
Nov 03–Feb 04
for work with
Intelligence and Interrogation
, utilising his language skills in Farsi. Second wife was
Ellie (Eleanor Daphne Wilson)
, now aged
33
, employed by Naval Procurement in Bath. Remains a serving police officer, with good reputation, running
CROP skills courses
. Summary:
Reliable, self-opinionated, wealth of experience
. Gibbons would say that Foxy Foulkes was as good as any spewed up by the computers – he was what he had, and almost as old as himself.