Ahead, there was silence. Behind him, he heard the night sounds of the birds, their splashes in the water, and the incessant frogs’ croak. He coiled himself. His hands went down into the pouches and took out the plastic bags. He prayed that the water had not saturated the grenades.
A post held the timbers in place and had been sawn off some inches above the top of the quay. The high lamp left a small space of dense shadow beside the post. He stacked them there: the grenades and the short-blade knife. He coiled himself tighter, his hands on the top of the quay. He would be fifteen or twenty feet from where Foxy hung, forty-five or fifty from the guard who sat by the door into the barracks. That would be the closest weapon to him, and there were two others within two hundred feet that had a killing range of more than a thousand feet. Behind the entrance to the barracks men would have rifles close by. Badger recalled what military people had told him. On the Brecon mountains, in Wales, he had been with paratroops; in the heather, gorse and bracken of Woodbury Common, south Devon, he had been with marine commandos. He had done surveillance on them to challenge his own skills. He had won their respect and they had talked to him late at night in their bivouacs. They were attack troops and he was a croppie, a voyeur, who should not get involved. The message paras and marines preached – rare for them to agree on something – was that an assault would always achieve short-term aims if launched at ruthless speed, with the devastating factor of surprise. It had hardly seemed appropriate to a guy who made his living by moving with a stealth that did not disturb wild creatures attuned to danger.
‘What are you?’ Badger murmured. ‘Foxy, you’re a stupid bastard.’
He loosed the spring. He had bent his knees, straightened them and, in the same movement, had heaved himself up with his arms. His knees landed hard on the quay. Water cascaded off him, and more sloshed in his boots. He tried to run fast, straight, but his movement would have been that of a shambling bear and he was huge and wide-bodied in the gillie suit. He threw the first of the grenades, the ‘flash and bang’, which did the stun job, and saw it fly forward as the guard fell back in his tilted chair, then pitched sideways. He had dropped his weapon. There was bright light, white, and with it came the deafening noise that ripped through his headpiece, under the scrim. He reached the door, and the guard was on his side, clutching his head. Badger threw two more flash-and-bangs into the hallway, and followed them with two gas ones. If they’d done their job they would have deafened, blinded, induced vomiting and put up a smokescreen that men would hardly want to charge through. Another, gas, went towards the guard who had sat close to the house. He hurled two more flash-and-bangs in the direction of the man beyond the barracks towards the elevated bund line. He himself had some protection from the scrim that dripped water and covered his face. Enough? He didn’t know – would find out soon.
He kicked the weapon away from the guard at his feet, who was trembling, and heard volleys of screaming – in terror – from inside the barracks. He turned his back and ran – shambled – towards the lamp.
‘You know what you are, Foxy? I’ll tell you. An idiot.’
The hands hung a foot, or a foot and a half, off the ground, the head level with Badger’s waist. Foxy was a bigger man than himself. Not even on tiptoe could Badger reach the rope knotted to Foxy’s ankle. Nothing to step on so he jumped. He caught the leg. He had the knife in his hand and sawed hard at the rope.
He didn’t know how long he had – seconds, not minutes. The gas inside the barracks would be good, but the one he had thrown towards the guard by the house would drift and thin, and the blindness from the flash would be short-lived. Seconds left, and he had no free hand to throw more grenades. He saw the rope fray.
There was shouting – might have been the goon, the officer, or one of the older guards.
They fell. He was on top of Foxy, and Foxy’s body took the weight of his fall, but the wind went from his lungs and he had to gasp. ‘Bloody idiot, you are. Nothing else.’ Almost slapped Foxy’s face. Badger tossed the last grenades: a smoke one towards the barracks, one flash-and-bang in the direction of the house and the other towards the last guard who had been outside. He hoisted Foxy onto his shoulder in the fireman’s lift and staggered.
Badger couldn’t run. He managed a crabbed trot, but not in the straight line that would have gone direct to the pier.
It seemed to him that he went slowly, and his back was exposed. He didn’t weave because he sought to break a rifleman’s aim but because of the weight of the man – the idiot. And Foxy was a stupid bastard. He expected to hear the drawl put him down, counter him with contempt, but heard only the shouting behind. He went down the pier.
He dumped Foxy. He dropped his shoulder and let Foxy fall into the dinghy. The impact shook the craft and water splashed into it as it rolled. He pushed it away from the pier and went into the water, which was at his waist, reached across, snatched the Glock that was under Foxy’s back and pulled it out. He had the twine at the front end of the dinghy in his hand and struck out, best foot forward. He couldn’t have said how long it was till he was beyond the flood of light from the high lamp, when the first shots were fired at him, not aimed but a wild volley on automatic. Then he was out of his depth and used the side of the dinghy to support himself, kicking with his legs and paddling with his hand.
‘A fine bloody mess you’ve put us into, Foxy. Idiot.’
There were more shots and two came near. Water spouted in front of the dinghy. Badger groped behind him, didn’t turn. He found Foxy’s hand, took hold of it, squeezed the Glock into the palm and told Foxy he could help. He could either shoot back or he could use his hands to propel them. They had reached a fair speed now, and there must have been a suspicion, in Badger’s mind, of hope. He thought his aim would take them close to the mud spit where the bird had been and across or around it. Then they’d hit the shallow water and wade through it, get over the open ground and reach the inflatable and the bergens, andThat was a lifetime ahead. There were no shots from behind him in the dinghy, but that didn’t bother Badger and he thought Foxy would have enough nous, experience, to shoot when required to.
He knew it would not be long before organisation was regained behind him. He stamped his feet to get a better grip but the water was up to his chest and the bed below him was mud.
‘It’ll be bad, bloody, Foxy, when they get it together. How did you get me into this? Don’t sulk on me.’
He could see the spit, and it wouldn’t be long before they were organised.
With boots, fists and the butt of his rifle, Mansoor drove his Basij peasants out of the barracks and onto the quay.
It mocked him. He was an officer of the al-Quds Brigade, a veteran of undercover operations in occupied Iraq. He had been wounded in the service of the Islamic Republic and bore the scars of it. Neither his rank nor his experience could alter the enormity of what he saw. It laughed at him. It was a length of rope with untidily cut strands that hung from the lamp-post. It was well lit and the wind stirred it a metre above his head. There was more than a slashed rope to mock him. The pier, away to the side where the dinghy should have been moored, jeered at him, too.
Lashing furiously around him, Mansoor created a fear of himself that was greater than the fear brought by the grenades. He beat his authority into them, and broke off only once. He had gone into the communications room, made the link, sucked in the air to give himself courage and reported that a prisoner had escaped, that his barracks was under attack from a special-forces unit that had now retreated towards the Iraqi frontier. He and his men had beaten off the assault but the prisoner, believed a casualty, had been taken. He had cut the link and gone back outside. His eyes wept and his hearing was damaged, but the scale of the catastrophe inflicted on him ensured that Mansoor regained control. It could not have been otherwise: if he sank into a corner and shivered, he would be hanged as a traitor.