Death Comes for the Fat Man (43 page)

The only significant center of population within a radius of fi fty kilometers was a substantial village which an SAS patrol had recced a fortnight earlier, finding no sign of enemy occupation. Tracks from the d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 323

downed machine led here and when one of the S and R helicopters did an overflight, it drew ground fire. Normally the response would have been to pump in a few rockets and call up a Tornado strike, but the possibility that captured crew members might be held here gave pause. Shack’s patrol was less than an hour’s journey away. They were instructed to approach with caution, check on the enemy disposition, and if possible confirm the presence of prisoners.

By now Pascoe was drifting away, but the day’s events still lurked at the far end of his mind, ready to emerge, so he stifled a yawn and began the next chapter.

Ten minutes later he was as wide awake as he’d been all day.

15

A C A L L I N T H E N I G H T

I
t was dark when we reached the village.

There’s a lot of crap written about working behind enemy lines.

Truth is, they had no lines. You could waste a whole day the way
we’d just done hanging around in the middle of a lot of emptiness. And
if you stumbled across a village, it didn’t matter what it said on the map.

Sometimes you could stroll in, sit at a table in the local café, order a coffee, and watch while the locals ripped the Saddam posters off the wall and
set fire to them for your approval. Other times the whole fucking place
was a rats’ nest that the fly-boys would need to sanitize before our lads
moved in.

There was a half-moon, and in its ghostly light the place looked almost
picturesque. We hardly needed our kite lights to spot that Abdul was certainly here now, mainly because he was making no effort not to be spotted.

This was because they were packing up to pull out. Not many of them
either, just two armored trucks being loaded up and a couple of jeeps
outside the only substantial house in the village. We went in closer. If
they’d had perimeter guards, they must have called them in prior to the
withdrawal.

My job was to check out whether they were holding prisoners. If I
decided not, I’d wait till the trucks were on the move, then call in their
direction so that the flyboys could take them out on the road. Result, dead
Abdul, a clean settlement, and us on our way without anyone knowing
we’d been around, which was the way we liked it.

The troops were climbing into the trucks. So far we’d seen no sign of
anyone under restraint, and when the Abs were on the move with prisoners, they weren’t shy of showing them, reckoning that this lessened the
chance of a blanket air attack.

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 325

Then Ginger said, “Shack, there’s a guy there wearing a fl yboy’s head-piece.”

I checked it out through my bins. He was right. There was this Ab
prancing around like a hairy Biggles. Got himself a nice trophy to impress
the houris with. But still no sign of the poor sod he’d taken it off.

“Maybe they’re still in the house,” said Ginger.

I’d been thinking the same.

If they were, and if they weren’t brought out in the next couple of minutes, it meant one of two things. I knew for certain these bastards wouldn’t
be leaving living prisoners behind. So either they were dead already or
they would be before long.

All the lads had reached the same conclusion and were looking at me
for orders.

Well, I had mine, which were, Observe, don’t make contact.

I knew that I should sit it out till I was certain they weren’t carrying
prisoners with them, then call in an air strike to take out the column on
the move while we went in to check out the village.

But I was 90 percent certain if I did that all I’d find were bodies.

I said, “Ginger, three minutes you and Lugs take out the trucks. The
rest with me.”

We left them setting up the antitank guns and moved forward.

It was impossible to get close without being spotted by locals but those
we saw faded rapidly away and made no effort to raise the alarm. Wise
move. Sit it out, see who comes out on top, then start cheering—the formula for civilian survival since wars began.

We were less than fifty meters from the house when one of the trucks
started up. At the same time two Ab officers who’d been standing by the
jeeps talking went inside.

I didn’t imagine they’d gone to kiss their prisoners good-bye.

“Where the fuck are you, Ginger?” I began to say. But I needn’t have
worried.

Next moment there was that familiar whoosh! and the nearest truck
went up like a curry fart across a candle. Figures spilled out, many on fire.

The second truck began to move. Another whoosh! Another exploding
fart. We were already running forward, shooting at everything that moved.

No one was in much of a state for shooting back and I left the lads to mop
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up and kept on going right into the building. There were two men and a
woman in the first chamber. They didn’t look military but this was no time
for introductions. I blew them away without breaking stride, went through
another empty room and out into a small central courtyard.

In the middle was a bronze fountain in a sunken basin. It must have
looked pretty when water was sprinkling from the jets into the pool below.

But no water flowed now and the basin was dry and dusty.

But it wasn’t empty.

There were three figures sprawled in it. I didn’t pay them much heed
to start with. I was more concerned with the two Abs who were in the
courtyard.

One of them was standing on the edge of the fountain basin looking
down, an automatic pistol in his hand. The other had an AKK which was
pointed toward me. If he’d started firing as soon as I appeared, that would
have been it. But the fact that I was wearing a burnoose over my desert kit
made him hesitate a fraction and that was enough. I dropped them both
with a single burst.

When I looked at the figures in the fountain, I hoped I’d only wounded
the Abs. Their exit deserved to be a lot slower and a helluva lot more painful.

One of the captured flyboys was still wearing full flying kit. He looked
as if he’d been badly injured when the chopper came down and had died
by the time they got him in here.

He was the lucky one, I’d say.

The other two men in the basin were naked. They’d been bound with
wire to the fountain. The wire had been so tightly twisted round their
calves that the blood had stopped flowing to the flesh below, which was
greeny-white. OK, they’d probably suffered some damage in the crash as
well, but that was nothing to what had happened since. Their bodies bore
the signs of beating, cutting, and burning. One of them was already dead,
which was just was well as his eyes had been half gouged out. I thought
the other was gone too but he suddenly raised his head. He still had one
good eye which took me in, then his mouth opened but he couldn’t speak.

I poured some water from my canteen into the palm of my hand and
moistened his lips. Then I started to untwist the wire that bound him but
I could see that it was pointless, and so could he.

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 327

He spoke, a low croaking noise, but I could make out what he said.

“Shouldn’t bother, old chap.”

I gave him some more water and this time he was able to drink.

I said, “Don’t worry, mate, you’re safe now,” and he made a sound
which I think he intended as a laugh.

When he spoke again, his voice was stronger.

“Told these chaps I was entitled to a phone call, but they didn’t oblige.

Any chance now?”

I thought he was delirious, then I saw what his one eye was looking
at. The Ab with the pistol who’d been about to shoot him had a satellite
phone in a pouch on his belt.

I bent down to remove it. The Ab opened his eyes. His mate was
clearly dead but this one still had a spark. I gave him a promissory smile
and took the phone. It was Eastern European I think, but basically the
same as the ones in use back at base. I switched it on. The battery was
charged.

I said, “Who do you want to ring?”

He said, “My wife,” and whispered a number.

I punched it in. I’m not a fanciful man but my mind was painting
pictures now. It would be midnight back home. The phone would probably be ringing in a dark house. She’d hear it, sit up in bed, get up, and
set off downstairs. She’d be part irritated, part concerned. Who could be
calling at this time of night? It couldn’t be good news, that was for sure.

Then she’d reach the phone and pick it up and . . .

“Hello?” said a woman’s voice in my ear.

I held out the phone but his fingers were broken and most of them had
the nails ripped out, so I had to hold it to his ear.

“Hi, darling,” he said.

To me his voice sounded like glass crackling under a rolling pin, but
there had to be enough there to recognize.

“Oh God,” she said. “Is that you?”

This was a conversation I didn’t want to listen to, but I had no choice.

I tried to direct my mind away but when two voices a thousand miles apart
are speaking the last words they’ll ever speak to each other, it’s impossible
not to listen.

I won’t write their words here.

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They wouldn’t look much if I did.

But at that time, in that place, with him knowing he was dying, and
her beginning to understand it, they were so moving they blotted out for a
moment the noise of gunfire and explosions in the street outside
But it couldn’t go on for long. It was a miracle he was still able to talk
at all.

He stopped in midsyllable. And the din of battle returned.

And for me love stopped, hate returned.

I spoke into the phone.

“Sorry, love, he’s gone.”

What else was there to say? Nothing. Not then.

Maybe when I got home, I’d find this woman and tell her everything I
knew about her husband’s death. She deserved that at least.

But for now I had more urgent business.

I bent over the Ab and gave him a drink from my canteen. He looked
at me gratefully. Then he stopped looking grateful.

He only lasted a couple of minutes, which was disappointing.

I gave him one last kick and went to see if my lads had left any more
of those murdering bastards for me to kill.

16

T H E F U L L E N G L I S H

Next morning Pascoe rose early and had a cold shower to wake himself up.

He hadn’t slept well.

A second reading had been followed by a third.

Then he got up, had another drink from the minibar, and tried to recall all that Ellie had told him about her lunch with Maurice Kentmore.

Once more Dalziel’s deep distrust of coincidence was uppermost in his mind.

OK, it hadn’t been his wife but his brother who Christopher Kentmore had spoken to as he lay dying. But in terms of drama, and of novel sales, a dying man speaking to his wife from the battlefi eld made a much better story.

He’d riffled through the pages to the end of the book. In the short last chapter, Shack returned to England. It consisted mainly of descriptions of energetic sexual encounters with various old and new fl ames, and equally energetic encounters with various antiwar protesters. After the last of these, in which he consigned a trio of what he called bearded leftie dickheads to intensive care, he drove north, thinking,
Now it was
time to go and talk to people who knew from experience what war was
really about and why there could be no compromise with the enemy we
were fighting. The desert makes you see choices simply. We win or we die.

Me, I intend winning.

If the episode in the book were based on a real incident in which Sergeant Young helped Christopher Kentmore to speak to his brother, what more natural than that Youngman should have called on Maurice to fill him in on the background?

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Then later, when he had joined or even founded the Templars to take the fight to the terrorists in the UK, perhaps memory of Kentmore’s reaction had made Youngman think of him as a possible recruit.

Was Kentmore the kind of man who’d get involved in such madness? On the surface, perhaps not, but that’s what surfaces are for, to hide beneath. From his record during the foot and mouth crisis, and his actions on
Fidler’s Three,
he seemed to be the kind of man who had no trouble moving forward from belief to action.

Which didn’t mean he was equipped to deal with all the consequences of action.

Military experience might inure soldiers to the concept of collateral damage and friendly-fire casualties, but a civilian who got involved, especially outside the supporting framework of the concept of a just war, could be devastated at the thought that his actions, in no matter how good a cause, had shed innocent blood.