exercises. He had worn it when he had lectured Recce Troop, and his audience of young soldiers had been rapt.
He’d said, out in the rain and scrub beside the shooting ranges, that the basics should always be observed, and he’d used the buzz words that anyone attempting rural surveillance, in Iraq, Afghanistan or Northern Ireland, should have at the forefront of their mind. The outline of the human body was so distinctive that its shape must always be broken. Shadows were an aid, and should be hugged. The biggest giveaway, unprofessional and unforgivable, was the silhouette . Any kit surface, the bulk of binoculars or the length of a spotter ’scope, must be broken up. When a team moved, spacing was critical. The last of his six bullet points was smell: he’d talked of how long it lingered on open ground if there was no wind, and not just fags, toothpaste and weapons oil but the insect repellent you needed to keep man-eating Iraqi mosquitoes at bay. They were terrific, those young fellows, and they gave him respect.
He’d ended the outside session with a popular theme: how useless the Americans were – and the story of the FBI agent in the hunt for a red-neck abortion-clinic bomber in the mountains of North Carolina. The agent was supposed to be on a covert lie-up and had freaked out because he couldn’t take the darkness or the silence. Another, from Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, had started to shriek because he wasn’t permitted, in his hide, to smoke his daily ration of Marlboro Lite.. . And a sheriff’s deputy, gone for a week’s duty in a forest, had broken his spectacles on the first day out: he hadn’t brought a spare pair and could barely see his hand in front of him for the rest of the stag. If Foulkes had been talking to an American audience, then FBI, ATF and the deputy would have become British, and if it had been Germans, the miscreants would have been Poles. It had been a good dinner and he had felt valued. At the table, they called him by the name he’d been given a couple of decades earlier: he was ‘Foxy’ Foulkes.
He’d wandered away from the group, had faced a fading print of paras in the heat of Aden, snapped more than forty-five years earlier before any of his hosts were born. He’d taken the call and felt perplexed by its brevity, the lack of information, but elated. The mood had stayed with him during the rest of the evening, but there was an early start and he needed some sleep before the wake-up call and the long drive. Now he thanked them, grimaced, and said something about an old dog needing its rest. A major asked him for his card: ‘Difficult to get hold of you, Foxy, through the proper channels. Prevarication and obfuscation at every corner. We’ve really benefited from your time and would like you back. The boys enjoyed it hugely, and learned a great deal.’
‘Delighted to.’ He took out his wallet. He fingered in the pouches for his card and a photograph floated down to the carpet. A lad crouched, picked it up and glanced at it. There was an admiring nod as it was handed back to him. ‘That your daughter, Foxy? Pretty girl.’
He flushed, then pride caught him. ‘My wife, actually.’
‘Lucky you. Congratulations.’
Foxy Foulkes warmed. ‘Yes, we’ve been together seven years – second time round for me and the same for her. Frankly, we make a good pair. She works in navy Procurement in Bath. I think we can say, no hesitation, we’re both happier than we’ve ever been. I’ve felt blessed every day since I met Ellie. We complement each other. As you say, I’m lucky to be with her. Anyway, time for bed, if you don’t mind.’
He wouldn’t call her that night – she didn’t like to be disturbed late if he was away. He would call her in the morning. Truth was, he yearned to call her and drop a hint that it was secret business he was wanted for, but she’d be sharp with him at this time. She would have been impressed, of course, if he’d called her with his news, but it was too late. He couldn’t imagine why he was wanted by Six at short notice and at an airfield. What for? Where?
Chapter 2
A man with an angular face and a weary voice had greeted him. He seemed to have the organisation in hand and had told him, ‘I understand people call you ‘Badger’. If you have no particular hostility to the name then that’s what we’ll use. If you don’t know somebody’s name and title – and you don’t know mine – what would you call them?’
He’d said that if he didn’t know the name of a man who ran a show he’d refer to him as ‘boss’.
‘Oh, I’d like that… and over there, that’s Foxy. I don’t think anyone else will need identifying. Foxy and Badger. Very good. We’ll talk a bit when we get there, but in the mean time I’d be grateful for your patience.’
They had been led by ground crew towards the Lear jet, its engines ticking over and the steps down. All bizarre, but Danny ‘Badger’ Baxter was not one to be fazed by lack of information. The flight was smooth, they were above the clouds and…
He had shown his documentation at the gate, and the RAF police hadn’t jotted down any of the details listed on his Box ID. He’d been told to park his wheels in a space outside the perimeter fence, like no one wanted to acknowledge that he had ever been here. Then he’d been taken in a minibus to a prefabricated departure annex. He was half dead on his feet, had left Builth before five, reached the airbase a half-hour before dawn and hadn’t spoken to either of the other men waiting for the flight call. He had almost been asleep when the boss had spoken to him.
When he’d left home to take up the work in Wales, locked the door of his bed-sit in the hostel the police used in Bristol, he had been wearing clothes that could either be described as rugged or vagrant’s gear, but he had clean socks and underpants that probably stifled most of the smell; he looked ragged, and felt out of sorts because of it. He’d noted that the other two had eyed him as if they expected dog-shit on his shoes and fleas in his clothing. He was unshaven and hadn’t run a comb through his hair.
It was a black-painted American aircraft, with no markings that he’d seen. The pilot spoke with a drawl and dispensed minimal information. How long would they be up? Wasn’t told. What was the flight’s destination? Wasn’t told. Would there be in-flight coffee and a bacon sarnie? Wasn’t told. The boss sat in the front seats, and across the aisle from him there was a heavy-set guy, who also had an American twang but a more civilised one than the pilot’s. There wasn’t a girl with a coffee jug or anything to eat. The remaining passenger, Foxy, had what Baxter reckoned was a death pallor, and there were nicks on his throat, from shaving; one had transferred blood to the collar of his clean shirt. He wore a blazer, and the tie knotted at the collar might have been a military one; his hair was neatly cut and brushed, his slacks had knife creases and his shoes were polished. Badger didn’t own a blazer, had precious few shirts that were smart enough for a tie, and the only one of those easily at hand in the hostel would have been black – for funerals. The man had looked exhausted in the departure area, out on his feet, and by the time they had been up a half-hour a gentle rhythmic snoring was coming from Foxy’s den. Badger knew about foxes, had often enough lain up in hides at the edge of woodland to watch a remote house. The foxes, cubs and adults, would come close to him and scratch for worms or sniff around him. He was fond of them.
There weren’t many that Danny Baxter was fond of. His father and mother lived in the shadow of the nuclear-warhead factory at Burghfield, near Reading, in Berkshire, had a bungalow there and a second-hand vehicle business. He reckoned the location, close to Armageddonville, meant they’d picked up a property cheap to live in and work from. He saw them no more than twice a year and there was nothing of his work he could talk about and nothing of their lives that he was much interested in.
No one at the hostel would have cared that he was being ferried – destination unknown – in an executive jet, and probably by now his regular oppo, the faithful Ged, would be heading east to Leeds in Yorkshire where he was based. He would be thinking more about how much of his gear he could get into the washing-machine than about where Badger was going.
No woman to care… There had been Fran – ‘Frances’ to her developer father who owned the harbour-side flat overlooking the water in the Bristol dockland. She’d been a third-year student, history of art, at the university and might have found him exciting, might have craved a bit of rough. They’d been together a bit more than six months but it was never going to last. No row, no flying plates: he’d left a note for her one day, propped on her pillow, which had an epic view over the water. Keep safe, have happy times, and best luck, Badger. He’d loaded up his big Bergen and a little rucksack, all he owned in the world, closed the door, locked it, put his keys through the letterbox and tripped down the stairs to the little van, nondescript, that he used, and driven out of her life to the hostel. A bloody awful exchange, but the time had arrived when she might have thought him right for moulding to her style or chucking out. He had done it in his own time and at his moment of choosing.
