The Operative

became the focus of attention.

The car stopped at the head of the convoy and three men climbed from the back and front passenger seats, all well-dressed compared to the coarse patchwork of Bedouin attire worn by those from the pick-ups and 4x4s: two in traditional robes and shamaghs and one in an expensive western-style suit. They were immediately surrounded by men with AK47 assault rifles and, with a modicum of order, though still looking like little more than an organised rabble, the group made its way towards the carriages.

Stratton raised a small pair of binoculars that had been hanging from his neck inside his jacket to his eyes and focused on the new arrivals.

‘Mister Al-Forouf,’ he muttered as he picked out the man with the sharp suit, slick black hair and well- groomed goatee.

Stratton watched the three VIPs move ahead of the others, climb the narrow steps of the centre passenger carriage and pass inside, followed by a handful of the armed followers. The rest divided up and clambered aboard the other two carriages at either end of Forouf ’s.

Stratton trained the binoculars on the crates being loaded onto the carriages. The last dozen or so caught his attention. He carefully focused on the side of one of the boxes waiting to be loaded and recognised the English writing on the side. The words FLOWER ENGINEERING were stencilled in plain black capitals on a green background, an image fresh in Stratton’s mind: he had seen the same markings only a week ago on several of the boxes that he had photographed when they’d been strapped to the sides of donkeys being led over the mountain pass in Almaty, Kazakhstan.

Stratton checked his watch. It was time to leave. He stepped from the back of the building and walked away into the desert, keeping parallel to the railway line and out of sight of the train as much as possible. A hundred yards or so away he made a sharp right-angle turn back across the rail tracks, glancing at the locomotive that now had thick black smoke issuing from the exhaust at its nose. He kept up a brisk pace across an expanse of open ground speckled with sad, dilapidated vegetation, aiming for a collection of mud huts.

He passed a sleeping dog and a small herd of roaming goats that were futilely searching the dust for a morsel, and stepped over some partially flattened coils of brittle razor wire. He continued on past a crippled, rusting artillery piece, its barrel frozen in a skyward tilt as if in defiance, its breech and under carriage shattered, and around the corner of the first mud hut where he stopped dead in his tracks.

In front of the next hut was Stratton’s transport, an old Russian Army M72 motorbike and sidecar. But sitting on it, inspecting it like baboons examining an unfamiliar fruit, were two Iraqis, both armed with AKs.

A young barefooted boy in grubby shorts and a T-shirt stood watching them. When he saw Stratton he walked over to him and immediately began claiming dramatically in Arabic that he’d told the men that the bike belonged to someone. He begged Stratton to understand that if he was bigger and stronger he would have stopped them.

‘Maalek,’ Stratton said, telling the boy that it was okay. He kept his stare fixed on the two Ali Babas, the affectionate local name for crooks, who had an unmistakable aura of thuggery about them. One was sitting in the sidecar, searching the inside, his AK47 resting across its top in front of him while the other, his assault rifle slung across his back, was trying to start the engine. He was pushing down the crank pedal with great effort but no result and periodically fiddling with a switch on the handlebar as he mumbled obscenities.

The boy started to explain again how sorry he was but Stratton held his hand out to stop him.

‘Maco muchkila,’ Stratton said quietly, reassuring the boy who was clearly upset at having failed in his intention to look after the bike while Stratton was gone.

Stratton looped his canvas bag over his shoulder and under an arm to free his hands. As he walked forward, he took hold of the end of a stout iron bar leaning against the building, moving it out of sight behind his back.

The man in the sidecar looked up with dark, narrow eyes as Stratton closed in while his friend continued his efforts to start the bike.

‘Hazih al darrajah lee,’ Stratton said slowly, putting on a gravel voice in an effort to disguise his poor Arabic as he relayed to them that the bike was his.

The one trying to start the engine paused to wipe his brow before giving Stratton a scowling look. ‘Egleb wajhek,’ he cursed. Then he ignored Stratton and went back to his efforts.

Stratton understood the comment to mean roughly, ‘Take your eyes away.’ Or perhaps, under the circumstances and more basic -ally, ‘Fuck off.’

He sized up the two criminals – Iraq had been plagued by these types since Saddam had emptied out the prisons, releasing thousands of them just before the war – and decided to deal with the one in the sidecar first since he was watching Stratton more closely. The man relayed a warning by resting his hands on the AK47 lying horizontally across the car in front of him but Stratton could clearly see that the safety catch was on and the stock folded. This was significant insofar as the AK47 had a safety catch that was notoriously difficult to push down when the stock was in the collapsed position. The bad news was that unlike nearly every other assault rifle in the world the first position after ‘safe’ was ‘fully automatic’.

A screaming hoot from the locomotive indicated that its departure was imminent. Stratton relaxed his shoulders, firming his grip on the bar behind his back. As the man in the sidecar glanced in the direction of the train Stratton chose that moment to act.

He sprang forward, swinging the iron bar up in both hands. As the man jerked to life, surprised by the sudden attack and pulling up the gun, the thumb of his right hand trying to force down the safety catch behind the stock, Stratton brought the bar down onto his skull with such force that it caved in the bone around one of his eyes, bursting the eyeball. The man gave out a stifled squeal and went instantly limp, his weapon clattering to the ground, his head dropping forward inside the car, his arms dangling over the sides.

The other man was no stranger to an ambush and, with the agility of a monkey, dropped off the seat to hit the ground on his right shoulder, rolling onto his back and over onto his knees while pulling his weapon strap over his head. But Stratton had not slowed the speed of his advance and maintained his momentum, planting a foot firmly behind the bike’s rear wheel to make a tight turn around it, raising the iron bar on the upswing. The Arab remained on his knees and moved the business end of the AK47’s barrel to point at Stratton as his fingers pushed down on the safety catch. Stratton heard the click and, knowing that he would never cover the short distance in time to strike the weapon aside, launched the bar with all his strength. It turned one revolution as it shot through the air and the end struck a glancing blow to the man’s face, tearing open the side of his cheek and moment arily stunning him.

Stratton closed the gap and as the man levelled the weapon at him again Stratton stretched out a leg, the toe of his boot connecting with the barrel and kicking it aside. His momentum brought him on and the instant before they collided he raised a knee that connected with the man’s jaw, sending him flying back. The man hit the ground but did not release his weapon and as he began to raise it once more Stratton dropped a foot onto the barrel, pinning it to the ground. At the same time he picked up the iron bar. A second later it came crashing down on the man’s forehead. The Iraqi faltered under the heavy blow but there was fight left in him and Stratton, giving no quarter, raised the bar again and brought it down with all his strength. The top of the man’s skull caved in like an eggshell and he died instantly.

Stratton breathed heavily as adrenalin coursed through his body, his gaze darting to the man in the sidecar before scanning the immediate area. The only human in sight was the boy who had taken to his heels the moment Stratton had begun the fight and was now watching from behind the corner of a mud hut.

Stratton dropped the bar, went to his bike, reached down under the tank, turned the small fuel-cock lever, straddled the seat, placed his foot on the crank pedal and pushed it down firmly. The engine didn’t start and Stratton rose up and dropped all his weight onto the crank once again. By the third attempt fuel had passed through the system into the carburettor and the engine burst into life with a throaty rumble. Stratton reached down the other side, removed a heavy metal pin, took a firm hold of the handlebars and placed a foot on the sidecar, yanking the handlebars fiercely to one side while at the same time pushing hard with his foot. The sidecar, now disconnected from the bike, rolled over, the limp Iraqi inside it hitting the dirt, pinned beneath its weight.

Stratton moved his satchel comfortably in front of him, revved the engine, and was about to put it into gear when the boy ran up to him, holding out his hands.

‘Aatini flus,’ he said, more hopeful, demanding money. ‘Aatini flus.’

Stratton looked at the raggedy youngster who, although he had failed to fulfil his task, had at least remained