The mustashar, Haquim, had said a family had come from their home and had spat into the face of Meda. He would have liked to have killed them, rolled a grenade through the door or sprayed them with an assault rifle on automatic, but that was not the work of an observer as written down by Major Hesketh-Prichard. He slipped again into the shadows until he could see the lights of the wide street.
The orphan child of the aid agencies, the plaything of American soldiers, the carrier of ammunition for the peshmerga, the thief from the living and the dead, the friend of Mr Gus had no fear when he was close enough to see the high gallows being built by supervised labourers outside the barricaded gates of the headquarters of Fifth Army.
‘Which direction does it face?’
‘To the front, towards the wide street.’
‘Can you see it from the side?’
‘There are screens at the side of canvas. You can only see it from the front, from the wide street.’
‘But above it is open?’
‘No, Mr Gus. It is covered by a roof of more canvas. You cannot see it from high, not from the side, only from the front… Why do they do it so complicated, Mr Gus?’
‘So they can dictate where I will be.’
The sweat of the day’s heat had cooled long ago on his body and the night wind now insinuated the chill into him. The blister was worse on his heel, aggravated by the charge out of the city after the killings. He had the last of the plasters from his rucksack on the wound and the ache of it was inescapable. When the sun had gone down, the stiffness had gripped his shoulders, pelvis and knees, and he had not slept until the boy returned.
‘They do that, the roof and the sides, because of us?’
‘Because of me, not you. You have done your work, Omar. If I want to see Meda brought out, see the rope put on her, see… I have to be in front, because they have covered the sides. I cannot be high, because they have made a roof. They hope to restrict me so that it is easier for them to find me. A man never had a better observer, but it is finished for you – you should go.’
‘Without me you would not even get into the city.’
‘It is not your quarrel.’
‘Do you say that she is only yours, Mr Gus, not mine?’
‘I want you to go.’
‘You are nothing without me – Major Hesketh-Prichard was nothing without his observer. Even he said so.’
As he had waited for the boy to come back he had gone through the checklist he had been given so long ago. Mechanically, in the darkness, by touch, he had cleaned the breech and felt the firmness of the elevation and deflection turrets. He had tightened the screws securing the telescopic sight, he had massaged the lenses with a cloth, and had wiped each of the bullets of. 338 calibre before loading them into the magazine and slotting it back into the rifle’s belly. He could no longer conjure the faces of those who had been important to him so long ago. At each stage of the checklist she had been in his mind, and he had tried to remember the taste of her kiss.
‘Afterwards, will you take me with you? Will you take me to your home?’
Gus let out a low, involuntary chuckle. ‘Ridiculous.’
‘Why is that ridiculous?’
‘Because…’
‘I am your friend here. I can be your friend at your home.’
He could not see the boy’s face but he sensed the smarting resentment… Yes, he could take him home. The boy could sleep on the floor and each morning he could go out into the handkerchief-sized garden at the back of the block, lower his trousers, squat and defecate. Maybe he could thieve the silver spoons from the drawer. Yes, the boy could go with him to work, could sit in the office and be bored witless and look at the wallets protruding from the inside pockets of the jackets draped on chairs and the women’s handbags with the purses displayed. Yes, he could take him up Guildford’s high street on a Saturday morning. He could watch the snake-like movements of the boy’s hands and see his pockets fill. Yes, he could take him to the pub. He would try to intervene in time to stop the flash of a knife if a lout or a yob laughed at the boy’s appearance. Yes, the boy should see Stickledown Range. He could lay the boy on the mat beside him and ask for him to call the distance and wind deflection and know they would be right. Gus reached out in the darkness and his hand found the thin shoulder. He gripped it hard.
‘I would like to sleep now, Omar, and I want you to wake me when it is time to go.’
‘I sort of sat on it, Caspar. I don’t like to be a harbinger, the bringer of bad news. And I’m sorry for it.’
‘I heard it on the radio, Isaac, on their news bulletin. You have nothing to apologize for.’
‘They’re going to hang her in the morning.’
‘Jesus – I didn’t get that from the radio.’
‘They’re going to hang her in the morning – they’ve told the Party faithful to ensure a good attendance.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Did you hear about the shooting?’
‘No.’
‘There was shooting in Kirkuk this morning. You recall the marksman with her?’
‘I remember him.’
‘After she was taken, the rest of her people came out, all except him. He stayed.
Kirkuk this morning was like your Dodge City, Caspar. He shot at least seven soldiers before he backed off – long-shot stuff, one bullet for one man.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘You met her, Caspar, you saw her. She’d twist a man’s head. It could only be a futile gesture of his commitment to her… I have to believe he cannot turn away from her.’
‘Isaac, maybe he should have gone to the Agency’s school. We major in courses on walking out on trusting idiots.’
‘There are PhDs on it at the Mossad. You are not alone on the excellence of walking away. Of course, there’s nothing that he can do for her.’
‘Isaac, I appreciate your calling. Appreciate the advance warning. I won’t sleep much tonight. She was good and feisty – those bastards in Arbil and Sulaymaniyah didn’t deserve her. And we didn’t. I hope she knows he stayed when no other fucker did. Shit…
I have a paper to read so I’m up to speed to entertain a serious asshole who’ll be here about the time she’s dangling… Goodnight, Isaac.’
He cut the link. He reflected that there might just be a job vacancy, or two, or three, in the classified advertisements of the Baghdad newspapers.
Wanted: HANGMAN. No previous experience required. Expertise not necessary. Successful applicant must be prepared to work long hours.
Good career prospects.
The paper had come in two hours earlier and had clogged thirty-two seconds of time on the secure teleprinter. It took thirty-two seconds to transmit the latest piece of Langley optimism, and the plan on the paper would give work for years to a hangman, or two, or three… He was so goddam tired. He started to turn the pages of the paper – and in a few hours, as she was hanged, a shiny-faced man would step off the shuttle plane from Ankara and would be expecting Caspar Reinholtz to be similarly breezy and cheerful, to say that it was the best plan ever conceived for the toppling of the Boss for Life. He was hunched over his desk, the words in front of him bouncing uselessly in his head.
First Phase: A core group of 250 Iraqi exiles would be trained in sabotage techniques by US Special Forces. Second Phase: A further 2,000 exiles receive eight weeks’ basic military training. Third Phase : Twenty groups of twenty men infiltrate Government of Iraq territory to blow up power lines and disrupt internal transport. Fourth Phase: More men are pushed across friendly borders and set up a liberated enclave. Fifth Phase: The overthrowing of the regime of the Boss for Life.
It was always that simple and they always sent the plan on ahead of its author so that a dumb field officer, a Caspar Reinholtz, could not plead the need for time to study it. It would be considered defeatist to tell the author that the plan was a piece of crap.
A plan was dead. Long live the plan.
