wings, far away over the reeds. Each time his excitement had surged as the speck had come closer, until he could see it was a slow-flapping heron. He looked also for the predator. Mansoor, the security officer, indulged himself with his search for the Sacred Ibis, but he was also on constant watch for the threat, for danger. The White-tailed Eagle had been up that morning, the hen, but he had not seen it now for an hour. The eagle had no equal, would swoop and kill the gentle bird.
If the Sacred Ibis came, if his hope was fulfilled, it would likely come low across the reeds, and he watched them closely. There were ducks and coots, and an otter. He thought them his allies. If the threat was alive, the waterbirds would panic and the otter would dive, telling him of a killer’s approach…
The visitors arrived. Three cars had brought them from Ahvaz, Susangerd and Dezful. They would have gathered in Ahvaz and come in convoy into the border zone, which was under military control, and to which access was restricted.
He went to check the papers, to satisfy himself. He would get two of his men to move a table under the trees, set chairs round it and carry over a tray of glasses and a jug of juice. He would put more cushions on the chair for Naghmeh, whose pain was worse this week. Then, when the meeting had started, he would come back to sit and search for the ibis among the reeds.
Foxy listened. The sound was good – clear and clean. The technicians he had met on courses and field trials swore that this version of the shotgun directional microphone yielded quality results at three hundred metres, and he estimated it was now secreted no more than 240 metres from the front of the target house. He was using around a hundred metres of cable, sunken, from the microphone to where he lay.
No way he would say it. The position was good, the voices were crystal. He would have claimed they were exposed and at risk from being so close to the target’s zone, and to the bastard who sat and tracked across the lagoon area, seeming to search it. The sounds of visitors and greetings were boosted by the walls and windows of the building behind where a table and chairs had been set, and bounced back.
He realised the skill Badger had shown to get forward to the lie-up, and more to go along the mud strand and place the microphone in the heart of what seemed to be snagged-up debris. He was so damn good – but Foxy wouldn’t say it. Where they were had been dead ground to the view from their night-time position, and a track of sorts led off the bund line to the right. There were more reeds nearer to where he was – on his stomach; the bergens were hidden there and Badger slept there. Foxy needed to have a view of the target house. The weak point with covert listening gear, the technicians always said, was keeping the power going, having battery strength and replacement when recharging wasn’t an option. What they used had Output Impedance of 600 ohms and a frequency range of 50Hz-10kHz and an S/N ratio of 40 dB plus, and he’d thought Badger hadn’t understood any of the specifications. But he had done well to get them there.
He reflected: two kilometres across a hostile frontier, they were alone, exposed. He also reflected that the chance of success was minimal. He knew about the landmines sown in this area by the Iraqis during the war three decades earlier – the woman had a fine voice that commanded attention.
Naghmeh, the Engineer’s wife, was at the centre of the table and around her was her committee. She talked of a village: ‘The new well that was dug fourteen years ago was not deep enough and the water it reaches is inadequate. The answer is for the village to go back to the old well, but that is where the mines were laid. They are not mines against tanks and personnel carriers, but against people. They are the Belgian-made PRB M35 and the NR417. Also put there were the Italian SB33 and VS50, and there are the jumping American mines, the M16 A1 and the Bulgarian PSM 1. If – if – it is possible, I will go to Ahvaz with you to demand funds for the clearance programme. It is owed to the village, which should have decent water. I will go myself.’
Across the table from her, a man and a woman, representatives of a village to the east and a half-kilometre outside the border’s restricted zone, wept quietly.
She spoke of the farmers: ‘You have good sheep, of the best quality, and good goats, but the good land where your flocks and herds should graze is denied you by the mines. You have there the Yugoslav-manufactured PMA 3, which is primarily of plastic and rubber casing. It resists the pressure of flails to detonate it, but tilts on a foot’s weight and explodes. It does not kill but takes a leg or a foot, or a manhood. The shepherd and the goatherd cannot use those fields, and cannot put their beasts onto them. You have waited too long. Too many of your families are crippled, and your children cannot be out of your sight. I will go to Susangerd and not leave until I have the guarantee of action. I can be formidable.’
The peasant farmers, who lived on a poverty breadline, wrung their hands and lacked the courage to look into her eyes.
She talked to the man and his wife, who had spent their own savings and their extended family’s money, to buy a building and develop it as a hotel because they were near to a route used by the pilgrims going towards Karbala and Najaf – the shrine of Ali ibn Abi Talib, son-in-law of the Prophet, where each of the minarets was covered with forty thousand gold tiles. The side of the bund line that led to the border and crossed it, the tracks through the marshes on military roads constructed by the old enemy were mined, and the devices came from Bulgaria, Israel and China. The minefields were not marked and no charts existed to show their placement. The Iraqis who had put them in the ground did not care and the pilgrims would not walk or ride on a narrow track but spread across the elevated ground. Enough had been killed or crippled for no more to come. ‘I will go to Tehran if I have to. Where there is oil there is mine clearance. When the drillers and pipe-layers have to come in, the ground is cleaned. Not only are people and animals killed but the potential wealth of the area is blighted. I will demand that something is done so that pilgrims can use that route and stay at your hotel. I will burn their ears, I promise.’
The couple choked back tears, and the woman let her hand rest lightly on Naghmeh’s.
She turned to two younger women who wore headscarves but not veils. They would have come from a city and had education to go with their intelligence – as she had. ‘I have complained frequently, and will continue to do so, against the corruption that afflicts the mine-clearance work. I will not tolerate it. Corruption is a stain on the Islamic state. We cannot get the clearance teams without bribing officials first – or giving them “bonuses”. Then, when a contractor is appointed, has paid for that privilege, he cannot operate without further theft by officials. I will see whoever I have to see, and sit on their doorstep for however long I have to sit there.’
Her voice was quieter as if the effort of talking through the morning had exhausted her. She sucked in her breath and felt the pain. The silence was broken by a sob from the slighter of the younger women.
She could endure pain and extreme tiredness. She slapped her hand on the table. ‘Now, where is our action campaign? Let us consider where we can advance.’
They all knew of her illness, and that the diagnosis was terminal. They also knew that she was due to travel abroad to consult with a foreign specialist, and that her life hung by a thread. She had their love and respect. Naghmeh could have made a short speech about her condition, telling them of her certainty that they would carry on with the work of mine clearance regardless of whether or not she drove the programme. She did not. None would have believed her.
She thought few of them reckoned there would be another meeting such as this, outside her home in the warmth beside the lagoon where the birds roamed. She faced the water. It jarred that the security officer blocked part of her view, and that his weapon was displayed. .. The pain throbbed, a drum beating in her skull.
They did the charade and logged birds; some species they could name but most they could not. The spotter ’scope, used by Shagger, stood high on a tripod, and Abigail was beside him with binoculars. The sun was high enough for the heat mist to have formed.
Where they were, the marsh waters were blocked and the ground around the raised walls, bulldozed to safeguard the oil-drilling site against flooding, was bare and cracked. There were precious few birds, endangered or common, to look for and she thought they might have to resort to throwing down bread if they were to get a decent entry into the log.
They were watched, mostly by kids, but there were adults, too, men. When the first half-dozen kids had turned up, seemingly materialising from open ground without warning, and the first couple of men, Shagger had murmured, ‘Had to happen, miss, like it was written down on a tablet. Two sets of wheels and us, no escort, and out here, putting up the tripod and the telescope. Always was going to create interest… and the chance of acquisition. I don’t know how long we can sweat it out.’
She had said, ‘By now they’ll be in place and will – I hope – have their eyeball.’
The sun beat down and she sweated. They were, predictably, the main attraction. She could have hoped that the area around the devastated drilling site had been abandoned by the marsh people – that the war and the draining by the dictator, followed by persecution and uncontrolled flooding, then four years of brutal drought, had
