‘Yes. I wonder what happened to the woman.’
Bollocks. What woman? They hadn’t told me about her yet.
Then some bastard took a shot at us. The bullet kicked up the ground a yard away. I quickly whipped around the plane, putting it between me and where I presumed the shooter was. Another shot. That flat crack from a British Lee Enfield .303. It hit the airframe somewhere. The rudder swung aimlessly as the aircraft swayed. Then another. At Collins that time, I guessed. He still hadn’t moved. I looked around the Auster. The big captain had drawn his .45, and was facing the great tree under which the Dingo driver was crouching. He crooked his left arm up, and balanced the big pistol in its angle, aiming up into the tree’s canopy. Bat Masterson or Wyatt Earp. I was impressed that he seemed to have all the time in the world – great gun-fighters do, I’m told. He fired once, and a small man tumbled immediately from the tree, preceded by his rifle.
Unfortunately the Dingo driver had been sheltering underneath, and it hit him. It obviously wasn’t his day.
Collins beckoned me out.
‘It’s OK. I got him. They left someone staking out the plane.’
I followed him across the clearing. Shouts in English closed in on us.
The man who had shot at us wasn’t a man. He was a boy, and he was already dead. Collins’s bullet had taken him through the chest. It was a small chest, and there were bits missing. A hole big enough to put my fist in. His eyes were open. He looked surprised.
‘How old, do you think?’ Collins asked me.
‘Maybe fourteen.’
‘Poor little sod.’ Then he sighed, and said, ‘They don’t give me nightmares any more, you know. They used to.’
Just as the other soldiers filed into the clearing the driver struggled to his feet. They’d done this before: they fanned out, and kept to the edges.
The driver was cradling one arm with his other hand. Collins seemed to notice that immediately.
‘What happened to you?’
‘Rifle fell on me, sir. Don’t think it’s broken, sir.’
Collins sighed again. He was good at it. Then he used his big voice.
‘You just stood in a puddle of petrol, and fired off a flare; then you tried to light a fag in the same place. Then you stood under a tree with a terrorist in it, who, for his own reasons, chose to shoot at me instead of you. Finally he drops a rifle on you, and still you get away with it. You know what you are, don’t you, son?’
A few knowing faces of the other squaddies were wearing smirks by now. The driver looked properly crestfallen, and went for it.
‘A bleeding idiot, sir?’
‘That too . . . but no, son. What you are is bloody lucky, and I like having lucky men around me. Consider asking for a temporary transfer to my troop when we get back.’
‘Seriously, sir?’
‘Very seriously. I could use a lucky driver.’
‘Yessir.’
‘What were you saying before we were interrupted, Mr Collins?’ I asked.
‘Something about wondering where the bint had got to. The girl.’
‘Which girl? I think I missed something.’
‘The one they were giving a ride to – the observer’s girlfriend. I think they were trying to impress her.’
I considered my options. I didn’t have any.
‘We’re stuck up here for a bit then, aren’t we?’
‘I’m afraid we are. Better make the best of it.’
‘Any idea how long for?’
‘Until they organize a couple of patrols. The rest of the day at least, OK?’
‘It has to be, doesn’t it?’
What I was thinking was, I hope this isn’t the day that the Saudis invade a friendly neighbour without me. When I ran that scene in my head I decided it was very unlikely: I’d heard nothing but good of them before I arrived in Cyprus.
We pulled back to the vehicles – Collins had them reversed under the cover of the trees – taking the two bodies with us. They were laid side by side in the bed of the lorry, and covered by ground sheets. I shared a cigarette with the young lieutenant, and asked him, ‘Is it always like this?’
‘Not all of the time. Periods of absolute normality, sometimes for weeks at a time. Then all hell breaks loose for a couple of days. It’s an odd way to live.’
‘I was in bombers during the war. It could be the same – bombing Dresden one night, and dining at the Troc the next. Sometimes it was like dreaming.’
‘Working out which is the dream, and which isn’t. That’s the way to get through it. I’m Warboys, by the way, Tony.’ The same as Yassine’s hotel, and why had I thought of Dresden, not the twenty other places in Germany I’d flown over by night? Bloody Pete, of course.
‘I’m Charlie Bassett.’
‘I know. You’re supposed to be hot stuff with a radio.’ I let that pass. We all have reputations we didn’t earn. Most of them are bad; so be thankful for small mercies.
When Collins called him over I followed. My nose always got the better of me.
Warboys asked, ‘Sir?’
‘Fancy a scout around, Tony? See if you can pick up which way they went, and if the pilot and passenger were with them?’
‘Didn’t know about the passenger, sir.’
‘Well, you do now.’ Collins sounded moody. ‘Some girl they were trying to impress. Daughter of a navy commander, I’m told, and a bit of a troublemaker.’
‘Shall I go with him?’ I offered. Warboys seemed an all right type to me. I didn’t like the idea of him trailing a terrorist gang on his own. But Collins only grinned at me.
‘No, I need you to ride the radios. Stop bloody volunteering for things – you’re old enough to know better. You’ve nothing to prove. Let the youngsters get on with the bad stuff – it’s what they’re here for.’
Warboys explained, ‘My old man has an estate in the Borders, and I’ve been stalking since
