of sand.
'Wish I knew.'
Marty said, 'We have to know what we're looking for. It's one mother of a playing field, more map boxes than we've ever tried to cover. We have to know.'
Age, tiredness seemed to lodge on Gonsalves' face. Marty craned to hear him better. He spoke as if he knew what he said was inadequate. 'Well, not wheels… not big groups in caravans… not on roads because there aren't any – there's only one track that goes nowhere. .. Small groups, maybe three or four guys and three or four camels. .. out where nothing exists… A pinhead in a dump truck of dirt. .. Maybe the camels are carrying gear, maybe they aren't. People where they shouldn't be. This is not a refuge for low-life but for the leadership – they must send and receive messages and retain control. Only a very valued few will be summoned to their hole in the ground, people they need to see… Can't help any more than that.'
Lizzy-Jo said, 'We'll give it our best shot.'
He pushed himself up and shook the sand off the map, then folded it and made a mess of that, gave it to Marty. He told them what their cover would be, and he said he'd get down again as soon as was possible but meantime he'd speak each day. Gonsalves started to walk back to the Cessna, his head down, as if he knew he'd failed to convince. He stopped. 'It's good, this equipment you've got?' He waved his arm airily at the birds under the awnings.
Marty said, 'We got the best. If they're out there then we're gonna find them, sir.'
Lizzy-Jo said, 'Our two, First Lady and Carnival Girl, are the oldest UAVs the Agency has deployed. They're nearly ready for a museum.
This cries out for Global Hawk or for an RQ-4. We've got MQ-1 – that's the way it is.'
Marty savaged her with his glance.
Gonsalves didn't pause, ripped at him with his hoarse voice: 'But you've brought Hellfire?'
Marty nodded. 'Yes, we've brought Hellfire.'
'Then let's hope you get to use i t… Any last questions?'
Marty said softly, 'What sort of guy do you think is gonna come to this shit hole?'
'The man they need. The man that can hurt us most, with gear.'
Gonsalves went to the Cessna, clinging to his briefcase. They watched the plane take off and fly away low over the sands that were without end. Neither Marty nor Lizzy-Jo spoke. There didn't seem anything sensible to say. Then she punched his arm and said she'd go make some coffee.
The new idea of the director general, the new broom, was to expose senior officers at the London headquarters building of the Security Service to external opinions and to encourage more lateral thinking.
Michael Lovejoy sat in the auditorium's back row; he always chose a back row when he had not volunteered. Behind his folded newspaper, his study of the crossword interrupted, he yawned – but he listened as he scanned the clues.
The psychologist, from a north-east English university, gripped the lectern tightly. 'What we have to understand – a disturbing and unwelcome truth but nevertheless a truth – is that terrorist leaders have a better understanding of 'profiling' than the people charged with countering political violence. On your side, ladies and gentlemen, you look for obvious and naive stereotyping – not so with your opposition. They – in particular Osama bin Laden and his lieutenants
– have refined a skill in identifying young men of varying social backgrounds and economic advantage who are prepared to make supreme sacrifices for a cause. They look for men who may be willing to die, may want to die as a price for the attack's success, but whether suicidal or not will drive home that attack. We are fond of using the word 'brainwashed' about our enemy. It is inappropriate and erroneous. They are patient and work by gradual progression to the stage where a man is prepared to crash an air-liner into a public building, plant a bomb in a crowded concourse, carry a suitcase filled with explosives and lethal chemicals or microbes into the heart of a city. They lead him towards that goal. They do not hurry. They set ever greater hurdles for him to climb – and all the time he is wrapped in the familial culture. Isolated in training camps or in a wilderness of desolation, he loses contact with any world other than that which is close to him. The family becomes the only society he knows, and he will develop intense pride in that association. They are better at spotting the right man than you are.'
There was a little sucking intake of breath in front of Lovejoy. He was an old hand with the Service. Insults no longer disturbed him.
The psychologist had his interest – and fifteen down, 'The patrician of Coriolanus', eight letters, went unanswered. It was only the newspaper's quick crossword.
'You look upon the terrorist groups, and Al Qaeda specifically, as parasites that lure young men into their ranks. You have the catch-all word of 'loner'. I imagine you search through your Special Branch files looking for these 'loners'. Friendless and inadequate boys, who are impressionable, drifters, and therefore may easily be drawn towards commitment to terrorist outrages, are your targets. Have you done well? I don't think so… Al Qaeda has stood a quantum leap in front of you. 'Loners' may be satisfactory as foot-soldiers, good enough to wash the plates in Afghanistan, but quite inappropriate for the war that I guarantee stretches for years ahead of you. Look for a simple stereotype and, please believe me, you will fail.'
The psychologist paused, gazed balefully at his audience, then sipped from the glass of water on the table beside the lectern.
Lovejoy imagined irritated frowns settling on the foreheads of the younger generation who had taken forward seats: the profiling of loners was taught as a creed in D Branch. He thought he rather liked the cut of the academic.
'I've taken up most of your lunch-hour, and I know you're busy people, but may I leave you with a final couple of thoughts? A retired soldier recently wrote to me and his notepaper was headed, along with his address, 'A beaten path is for beaten men.' The stereotype of the 'loner' is a beaten path, and if you follow it you will be the beaten men and the beaten women. I urge you to look elsewhere.
Where? For quality, for ability, for the best – because it is those young men that the lieutenants of bin Laden search for. Imagine, also, the excitement of being a part of that select fugitive family, picture the personal self- esteem, conjure up a sense of the adventure and purpose. No, no, I promise you, the young man who can damage us, wound us to the quick, revels in that excitement – his true religion – and in the adventure that life brings him. Thank you.'
As quiet, polite applause rippled in front of him, Lovejoy wrote
'Menenius' in fifteen down.
The watercourse was far behind them. They had climbed and scrambled up a steeper slope and now, on the summit, the wind whipped them and their shadows splayed out beyond. The sun sank.
Fahd prayed. He cried out, as if for help, and his eyes were closed, as if the view ahead overwhelmed him. The Saudi was tall and gangling and he seemed to plead to his God, as if God alone could save him. Beside him, the guide knelt, the boy at his side. Tommy made no pretence of worship but had his old army boots off, and his socks, and massaged his feet. He moaned. Hosni did not pray but sat on a rock by the camels, who shredded the feebly growing thornbushes. Caleb sat close to the Egyptian and thought he had not heard such passion in prayer since the first days at X-Ray and Delta when despair was greatest.
He gazed in front of him.
'How far do we go?'
'Only the guide knows – perhaps a thousand kilometres.'
Caleb said, 'It's late to ask it, but why don't we drive?'
'Where there are roads for a vehicle, there are blocks and checks.
The military has blocks and checks… They wait for us, for you, those who have called us, in a place of death where there are no roads, no eyes to watch for us. It is a place of death but also a place of dreamers and fools.'
'Are you a dreamer?'
Hosni said, in a murmur, 'I think I am a fool.'
The guide collected together the camels, and Tommy hurriedly pulled on his socks and his boots. They went down the hill's reverse slope, past a cairn of stones that was the border. Ahead of them, limitless, stretching towards dusk's infinity, was the desert that was made red gold by the sun. Caleb saw the Empty Quarter, where his family waited for him.
