In the main tent, Kate Rashid said, "All Ben Carver knows is what he sees, Colum, the camp and the occasional training. I don't want him to know anything else. Leave the serious business until after the meal."
"As you say. I'll go and give the women their orders, but an old RAF hand like Ben won't miss much."
As he went out, Ben appeared with the box. When he opened it, there were three bottles of champagne and several plastic wine glasses. He uncorked a bottle and started to pour.
"Four glasses, Ben."
"All the comforts of home," Rupert told her.
"Look upon it as a picnic," she said as the Irishman returned. "So, how's the training program, Colum?"
"Much as usual." They all sat down on cushions with their drinks. "Mind you, those Palestinian kids are full of fire, but against Israeli troops they wouldn't last very long."
"I'm sure you're doing the best you can. But let's eat and we can discuss it later."
B
ack at the old fort, the storm was already abating. Villiers and his men waited, and finally he got out his Codex Four and called up Bobby Hawk.
"Where are you?"
"About twenty miles east from El Hajiz Oasis. What about you?"
Villiers told him. "Are you on the move?"
"No, sheltering in a cave."
"Good. It'll blow itself out in an hour or so. We'll rendezvous at El Hajiz. We've lost two men by the way, Omar and Selim."
"Good God, how?"
"I'll tell you when we meet." He switched off his mobile and called to Achmed, "More tea," then he called Ferguson in London and brought him up to date.
A
fter the meal, Kate said, "I've had worse. You've done well, Colum."
"We aim to please."
"I'm glad to hear it. Let's talk." She turned to Carver. "If you'll excuse us, Ben, this is business."
Carver couldn't get out fast enough. The money she paid him for his services was enough to satisfy his greed. He couldn't help knowing about the existence of Fuad, but he very much preferred that whatever they were doing here remained a mystery.
Back inside, Kate was saying, "So you're managing all right with the Palestinian instructors?"
"Just about."
"So if I wanted a serious project taken care of, one that would require expertise in the bomb department, where would I go? I asked you this when we last met, remember, and asked you to think about it."
"The best internationally is still the IRA, although the Prods are moving into the market. What about those people you hired when you wanted a hit on the Council of Elders on their way to the Holy Wells? Aidan Bell, wasn't it, along with Tony Brosnan and Jack O'Hara?"
"All long gone. Sean Dillon killed Aidan."
"Ah. A bastard, Sean, though he was a good comrade in the old days." He smiled. "And him working for the Brits now."
"So what would you suggest?"
"Strangely enough, Aidan's cousin on his mother's side, Barry Keenan. Drumcree is his patch these days. The Provos are out of it. He thinks they're a bunch of old women. His affiliation these days is to the Real IRA, and they're back with old-fashioned Republicanism. There's an Irish saying, which roughly translated means those kind of people would shoot the Pope if they thought it would advance the cause."
"That's a good one. Can you arrange for me to see Keenan?"
"Not in England, there are outstanding charges against him there."
"Ireland?"
"Oh, yes, even in the North the RUC won't touch him, not since the peace process began."
"I'll see him in Drumcree. Arrange it for me."
"It'll take time."
"I'm not in a rush." She stood up. "Let's see if the wind has dropped enough for Rupert to have a look at the camp."
Colum said, curious, "Do you know about this sort of business, Mr. Dauncey?"
"You could say that." Rupert smiled lazily.
T
hey were escorted to a large tent on the outskirts of the encampment. Half a dozen young Arabs were in there, faced by an instructor across two trestle tables, on which various items necessary to the explosives business were laid out. There were timer pencils, other kinds of fuses, clockwork, timers, and various samples of explosives. It was all very basic, and Rupert was not impressed.
"Let's move on," he said to McGee, "before I lose my enthusiasm."
They went to the shooting range, where recruits were lying down, propped on their elbows, cut-out targets of men standing four hundred meters away.
"Pass me your glasses," Rupert told McGee, and he focused on the targets. "Not so good. A few random hits, but most of your men are missing."
"And you could do better? If you were familiar with the AK, you'd know it's at its finest as a close quarter automatic weapon. Four hundred meters is a stretch for anyone." He tried to kill the sarcasm and failed. "But then you know the AK intimately, I suppose?"
"Well, I have been shot in the left shoulder by one, but luckily that was in the last week of the Gulf War." Rupert went forward. "Personally, I've always found it an excellent single-shot weapon."
Colum McGee went and got one from a wooden rack, picked up a magazine, and rammed it home. He held it out. "Show us."
"My pleasure." Rupert handed the glasses to Kate. "Let's just take the first five from the left and the last five on the right."
Colum blew a whistle and made a signal. Everyone stopped firing, unloaded, and stood up. The instructor shouted at them and they moved back. Rupert went forward. He didn't lie down but stood, then raised the AK to his shoulder, and started to fire slowly and carefully. There was a moan from the crowd as he finished, and Kate lowered the glasses and turned to McGee.
"Ten head shots. I only know one other man that good, and he killed my brother George and three men at four hundred meters--Sean Dillon."
"I've never seen anything like it," Colum said.
"Well, you wouldn't," Kate told him. "What next?"
"Unarmed combat. They tend to do well at that. Most of them are off the streets anyway."
The required area was on the other side of the oasis behind the palm trees, where the sand was soft. Young men squared up to each other in pairs. The instructor was a powerfully built man with a bald head and a heavy moustache. His English was very reasonable and his name was Hamid.
Kate said, "My cousin would like to see something of your work."
He looked Rupert over and was not impressed. "Ah, something for the tourists." He beckoned two youths forward. "Try to take me." They looked distinctly worried. "I said, try to take me," he shouted.
They ran in at him together. He avoided the first boy's punch easily, grabbed him by the jacket, then fell backwards, a foot on the boy's stomach, and tossed him high in the air. The youth crashed to the ground, Hamid rolled on his front and kicked backwards at the other boy, dislodging his left kneecap. The boy lay crying on the ground.
Hamid confronted Kate, Rupert, and McGee, hands on his hips, smiling triumphantly. "Is that good enough?" There was a kind of contempt in his voice.
"Hell, you're too good for me. I pass." Rupert put a hand up placatingly.
Hamid laughed, head thrown back, legs apart, and Rupert kicked him between them, dead center. Hamid went down hard and started to assume the fetal position. Rupert put a foot on his neck.
"Very careless, fella, very. I could break your neck easily, but I won't, because I imagine help is hard to find out here."
He turned to Kate. "Is that it? Can we go now?"
"You bastard," she said, but she was laughing.
Carver was doing something inside the Scorpion. When he saw them approach, he got out. "Ready to go?"
"We'll spend the night in Hazar, then we'll leave at seven for Northolt." She turned to McGee. "I'll leave Keenan and Drumcree to you."
She climbed inside, Rupert followed her, and they took off a few moments later.
W
hen Villiers and his men reached El Hajiz, Bobby Hawk and his troops were already there with three Land Rovers.
"Good to see you." Villiers held out his hand. "Decent trip?"
"Better than yours, by all accounts. What happened?"
"I'll fill you in later. Let's set up camp."
They laagered up the five Land Rovers in a semicircle against a bluff, the scattered palms of the pool of the oasis behind them. Some of the men cut fuel from nearby thorn bushes with their jambyas and lit a fire. Soon, water was heating in two pots and Villiers spoke to the assembled men.
"For those of you who were not there, Omar was shot dead by a sniper at the pool at Hama."
There was an excited buzz of anger.
"Settle down. Later, Selim was murdered in Hazar, his throat cut. I know who did these things. It was Abu, the bodyguard of the Countess. He could have killed me, but did not. At Hama, he struck again, hitting a water bag Achmed was carrying. Obviously, he could have killed him, too, but chose not to. I exposed myself, called him to face me. Again, he could have shot me but didn't, because the Countess wants me alive. I will only die if we venture over the line, so we stay in Hazar for now. I just wanted all of you to know all of this."
He turned to Achmed. "Put three men at the machine guns, everyone else can eat."
Later, Villiers and Bobby were presented with a stew, courtesy of Heinz, composed of baked beans and a cock-a-leekie soup, with plenty of unleavened bread to go with it.
"Not quite the officers' mess at Windsor," Villiers said.
"Not bad, though," Bobby Hawk said. "It's given me a taste for honest plain food, all this canned stuff we're eating."
He was only twenty-two, and had already done a tour in Kosovo with the Lifeguards in Challenger tanks and armored cars. The chance for a posting to the Hazar Scouts was something he'd been unable to resist, although it had put back his promotion to Second Lieutenant. Villiers, of course, could have told him the opposite. His time with the Hazar Scouts would count for a great deal for his future military career.
They finished eating, and one of the men took their mess tins and another brought them enamel mugs and a kettle of the bitter black tea that even Bobby was developing a taste for. Dusk was falling, and the men moved to squat by the Land Rovers and left them to the fire.
"Do you think he's out there, sir--Abu?"
"I'm sure of it."
"Do you think he'll have another go?"
"Yes, but I don't think he plans to kill anybody else. It'll just be another warning--a reminder that Kate Rashid has her hand on my neck."
"I hope you are right, sir," Bobby said, feelingly.
They sat and talked for an hour. A Scout came forward and tossed more thorn branches on the fire, refilled the kettle with fresh tea and boiling water, and put it close to them.
Bobby picked up the kettle to pour the tea, when there was a single shot, and a puncture appeared, hot liquid spurting as the kettle flew from Bobby's hand.
"Jesus Christ." Bobby jumped up and pulled the Browning from his holster. He stood there, gun extended.
"No," Villiers cried. "It's Abu all over again. If he could hit the kettle, he could have hit you."
The Scouts reached for their rifles, one of the machine gunners opened up into the darkness. Villiers jumped up and waved.
"Stop shooting. He won't fire again."
There was silence. Bobby holstered his Browning and managed a shaky laugh. "I hope you're right, sir."
And then there was a second shot, a heart shot that lifted the boy off his feet and hurled him backwards. The Scouts roared with anger and they started to fire indiscriminately into the darkness. Villiers crouched beside Bobby, who heaved convulsively and died.
Villiers experienced such rage as he had never known. He called to his men. "Stop firing now!" They lowered their weapons reluctantly, and he turned, back to the fire, and spread his arms wide. "Abu, I am here. Where are you? Do you kill boys now? Come try a man!" But the only reply was the sound of a Land Rover starting up and moving away.
A
bu drove one-handed and held a scarf against his right cheek. It had been a lucky escape. A stray machine gun bullet, part of the return fire to his kettle shot, had creased his right cheek. He was angry with himself for doing what had not been necessary. His strategy in shooting at Achmed at Hama and the young officer had been sound; he had just wanted to show them that he could have killed them. His second shot at Bobby Hawk could not even be excused as a reflex action. He'd taken his time, and hesitated, but then rage and pain had proved too much for him. He could have shot Villiers, but at least he was sane enough not to have done that. The Countess would understand. At least he hoped so. He pulled in at the side of the dirt road, opened the medical box, and found the plaster dressings, with which he covered his wound. Then he carried on, driving through the night toward Hazar.
T
he men were putting Bobby Hawk in a body bag. Villiers sat by the fire drinking from a half bottle of whiskey, kept in the medical box for medicinal purposes. He drank deeply from the neck of the bottle and smoked a cigarette.