He had sent the message, then, again, switched off the kit. He had no wish to be burdened with an inquest.
He went into the water. The gillie suit billowed out and the cool settled on his legs and stomach. He had done what he hoped was sufficient to protect the Glock and the four magazines he had taken from the bergens, and had sealed them in the plastic bags that the Meals-Ready-To-Eat had been packaged in. The gas grenades and smoke were in other bags and all were knotted tight. The moon did not now have far to fall and sent a spear of light across the lagoon. There was a place, near the far quay, where it merged with another, duller, strip. The silver and lustreless gold met and sliced through each other, near to the quay and about midway between the house and the barracks. The moonlight was stronger and uninterrupted, but the high lamp’s was broken by the shadow, always spiralling, of the shape suspended from a rope.
Badger left behind him, on the far side of the clear ground, the bergens and the craft, ready and inflated.
He went into the water beside the wrecked carcass of the bird; the rats had left nothing worth returning for. He waded the first few paces and was soon up to his chest in water, the weapons, ammunition and grenades under the surface and deep in the suit’s poachers’ pouches. He had tried to evaluate what was ahead of him. Wasted effort. It mattered little. There might be a company of infantry, equipped with modern gear, all fed, watered, rested and alert, dug in with slit trenches and sandbagged sangars between the quay and the high lamp from which Foxy was suspended. He was on the move because he was obligated. It was no big decision for him. To retire, do nothing, to turn his back on Foxy – rotating in the light breeze from the rope – he didn’t consider it.
He came to the mud spit, lay on his stomach and used his elbows and knees to propel himself over the open ground, past the small mess of leaves, branches and dirt that he had used as the hiding place for the microphone. He allowed himself a brief thought that it had been well done. The arrival of the bird, the beautiful leggy creature that had so entranced the goon officer, had probably fucked them. If the goon’s attention had not been on it, where he must have seen something – a flash of light off the gear or a kink in the cable – they would have been out, clear, and gone… He went down again into the water. Ducks came from the dark to his left, were spooked by him and stampeded across the water, struggling for lift-off. The noise seemed loud enough to rouse the dead. But they were up, away, the ripples subsided, and the dented silver and old gold lines of the reflections calmed.
The bed of the lagoon seemed firmer. It might have been an old waterway, and the bottom was settled, weathered down. While he was within his depth he made good progress. Badger had no idea whether he would be able to wade or have to swim. The natural light was good and he could see well. Of course, he could also be seen. He moved steadily and left a wake behind him.
Badger would have appeared, had he been seen while he waded or swam, as detritus that floated on gentle currents. He kept away from the lines of light thrown by the moon and the lamp. Through the scrim netting of the headpiece he looked hard for the guards, their positions, their readiness. One was near the house, close to the front entrance, and illuminated by the security lights; in his view was the short pier to which the dinghy was tied. Another was sitting on a plastic chair by the entrance to the barracks, rigid and upright. His head was still, as if in shock, and he was heavy-built. Badger thought he was the one who had kicked Foxy’s head as they’d pulled him across the dirt. He hadn’t seen the goon emerge from the building. Another guard was further to the right from the barracks, close to the raised bund line that bordered the lagoon.
Police lectures on surveillance in siege situations emphasised that the numbers of hostage-takers must be logged. Why? Because the Germans had screwed up big during the Munich Olympics, and a lesson learned from mistakes of thirty-nine years before were still valid. The point was that German police on the walkway in front of the Israeli team house in the athletes’ village had seen the Palestinians in doorways and windows, and politicians had gone inside the house, but no proper count had been made of how many guys were there with their assault rifles. The rescue plan was based on the premise that there were four armed men – but when the helicopters brought the athletes and their Arab captors to the military airbase where the shoot-out would happen it was realised that there weren’t four targets to neutralise but eight. A recipe for a screw-up. Badger had counted three guards outside, which meant there were five more inside and the goon. Important. Strategies played in his mind… The first dawn light would come soon.
An otter swam alongside him – ten or a dozen feet away – for a half-minute and showed no fear of him, but then dived and he saw it once more, fifty or sixty yards away. After it dived the second time he didn’t see it again. Coots skirted him but didn’t bluster away. It was good that he could walk on the bottom… Badger imagined there had been trade through here a century before, and a crossing point at the frontier for pilgrims and traders, smugglers and traffickers. That was why the quay had been built, but then the waterline would have been a yard higher, lapping near the top of the structure.
The light on the water was brighter, the silver and gold mixed. He moved more slowly. He now tested each step so that he didn’t slip and splash. If the level was up to his lower chest, he crouched in the water and only his headgear would have been visible. He could see Foxy clearly. The free leg was bent at the knee, askew at the hip and seemed to wobble, as if with spasms of life, and the blood had dried on the wounds.
It was what he might have called – like the retrieval of the microphone and the cable – the ‘rules of the trade’. It was not about emotion. He would never have said he was ‘fond’ of the old bastard, that he had enjoyed Foxy’s company.
He went under. No warning. Took a step and plunged. The water was in his nose, his throat and his ears. He couldn’t thrash, daren’t. Darkness was around him and the cool of the water was on his face. He went down further, the weight of the suit dragging him. Pain built in his chest, and he tried to come up.
There was light. He gasped and trod water. None of the guards had moved or shouted… Foxy turned on the rope.
‘When, miss?’
‘When we have some light,’ Abigail Jones answered Shagger.
It was the third time he had asked the question and been rewarded with the same answer. It was with increasing concern that Harding, Hamfist, Corky and he had watched the crowd of young men growing at the gate. Five minutes before, Corky had revved up the lead Pajero and gone onto full beam; the headlights had lit the crowd. It was predetermined that Corky would drive the front vehicle, Hamfist the second. Both had plotted how they would get through because there seemed to be junk – wood pallets, an old refrigerator, some rusted oil drums – blocking in the road.
‘Thank you, miss. We’re ready when you want it.’
‘Nice to know,’ she said evenly. Brutally, they had no more cash to shell out. They didn’t have a hundred dollars between them, and might have needed a thousand to get shot of the place. ‘Not yet, but soon.’
She swivelled, turned away. She thought it was too early. Here, they were boxed in but had the freedom to go for a break-out, could drive hard and straight. To hell with what they hit – a barricade or a host of shouting men – but if they were too early at the extraction point they would be stuck on a raised road with nowhere to go except back because in front was the border.
A bleep on the machine in her inside pocket. It was repeated. She hauled up her robe, flashing ankles, knees and thighs, had a hand in the pocket and the machine out. More bleeps and she was all thumbs and almost cut the connection. The screen showed the message: Gone forward to get Foxy, then pushing for home. Nothing else. She had gone back to ‘Transmit’, had powered in the necessary codes that did the scrambling and been rewarded with the ongoing whine that said the recipient of her call had switched off. She had stood in the darkness and howled in frustration – like a hyena or a wolf. Was she any more of a lunatic for howling than her Jones Boys? Unlikely. They’d have understood. They wore their T-shirts, with the band’s logo, and were a brotherhood. They’d have known why Badger had sent the message, then refused to accept any call that might query it. They’d be rooting for him. And Abigail? There had been a depth in the eyes, a sort of abyss and going far… She said she hoped they would go, come hell or high water, in an hour, and it would be a few minutes before dawn. Shagger left her. She would be under the gun and care of Corky while he went back to the Pajeros to tell Harding and Hamfist that they wouldn’t move for at least an hour.
If they made it out – if – they would disperse that evening, dawn the next morning at the latest. She doubted that ever in her life again would she recapture moments such as being with Badger; fighting off the marsh people at the oil-exploration compound; negotiating with the sheikh; running agents across a frontier, knowing them to be condemned by their greed; and seeing the two figures move off towards a hostile frontier; to have been responsible
