They were checked at the gatehouse. They were saluted as they drove through. Holt didn't turn to see, but he fancied from the rustle of movement behind him that Martins would have given the sentry an imperial wave of acknowledgement. They pulled up outside a square red brick building.
They were escorted to an upper room that was filled with the warm smell of fresh coffee, all except George.
They were in the military world. Friendly handshakes, warm greetings. There was a long heavy box on the floor, half pushed under the table from which the coffee and biscuits were served.
The cups and saucers were back on the table. Three officers in smart pressed uniforms and polished boots, and Martins in a tweed suit, and Holt wearing his sports jacket, and Crane in the same trousers and the same poplin anorak that he had worn since he had arrived.
Ready for business.
"How many marksmen?"
"Just one," Martins said. "Mr Crane is the marksman."
Holt thought the soldiers had assumed that he, Holt, was the marksman. Surprised, they stared at Crane.
Another day that Crane had not bothered to shave.
"What weapon are you familiar with, Mr Crane?"
"More weapons than you've handled," Crane said, indifferent.
Holt saw the glint in the officer's eyes. "I see. Let me put it another way. What sniper weapon are you most familiar with, Mr Crane?"
"Galil 7.62 mm semi-automatic."
"We think ours is better."
"I don't need a sales pitch – I'm using yours because that's what I've been told to use."
Holt chuckled out loud, involuntarily, couldn't help himself, then bit his lip to silence. He wondered if the man had been born to whom Crane could be civil.
Martins said, "It's a British show, British equipment will be used."
Holt reckoned he had the drift. British equipment to be used, and no one too sorry if after a successful snipe the British equipment could be left behind. British ammunition cases… a calling card for the Syrians.
The case on the floor was pulled clear of the table.
Holt saw the rifle lying on its side in a cut-out bed of foam rubber. The rifle was painted in green and brown shades of camouflage. He saw the telescope sights snug in their own compartments.
For the officer it was a labour of love. "It is the Parker-Hale M. 85 bolt action, detachable box magazine, militarised bipod with provision for either swivel or cant adjustment. It will travel with a 6 x 44 daylight 'scope sight, and also the passive night vision job. We reckon it, in the right hands, to have a hundred percent success ratio at a first shot hit at anything under 650 yards, but the rear aperture sight has the capability of up to 975 yards."
"What's the weight?"
"With one magazine full and the telescopic sight it comes out at a few ounces under fourteen pounds…
Going far, is it?"
"Not your concern," Martins said.
"Far enough for the weight to matter," Crane said.
"You want to fire it?"
"Prefer to fire it than have lunch."
"Then you'll want some kit."
"Right, and I want kit for him." Crane jerked his thumb at Holt, then turned to him. "Go and have the best shit and the best piss you've had all week, and get back here smartish."
Holt would have been gone ten minutes.
He came back into the room. Crane already wore camouflage battledress and his clothes were in a neat folded pile on the edge of the table. Crane tossed a tunic and trousers to Holt, pointed to a pair of boots and a pair of heavy khaki socks.
They walked for half an hour till they reached a place that satisfied Crane. Out of the camp, away up on the plain, beyond the red flag flying a warning of live shooting. They settled into beaten-down bracken. Crane said that Holt wasn't to talk, wasn't to move. Hundreds of yards ahead of them, across a shallow valley of young trees, Holt could just make out the barricade of sandbags and in front of it the human-shaped target.
Five hours and thirty-five minutes after they had taken their positions, Holt lying half a body length behind Crane and a yard to his right, the marksman fired.
One shot. No word, no warning that he was about to shoot.
Holt's legs were dead, his bladder was full, his mind was numbed.
They lay in the bracken a full ten minutes after the single shot, then Crane stood and walked away with the rifle on his shoulder, like he had been out after wood pigeon or wild duck.
Holt stumbled after him, bent to massage the circulation back into his legs.
Crane had his head down, was walking into the wind.
"The way you fidgeted we wouldn't have lasted an hour."
"For God's sake, I hardly moved."
"tiardly isn't good enough, not in the Beqa'a."
They were picked up by a waiting Land Rover and driven back into the camp.
By the time that Holt and Crane had peeled off their battledress, the human-shaped target had been carried into the room.
Holt saw the single bullet hole. The hole was central upper chest. A group formed. Two of the officers and Crane and Martins, with an inventory sheet, ticking off a list. The talk was in a jargon shorthand which Holt did not understand. As he dressed he found that his eyes always strayed back to the single hole on the target, a single killing shot. God, he could hardly tie his shoe laces. And he was making a mess of knotting his tie. He had his shirt buttons out of kilter. As if at last it were serious… as if every other thing since the steps of the Oreanda Hotel had been a cartoon for a comic paper.
Grown men discussing in low voices the grained weight of specific bullets, and the holding capacity of a Bergen, and night walking speeds, and the quantity of
"compo" rations required. Grown men talking through the logistics of a killing snipe… that was bloody serious, young Holt.
The third officer stood beside him.
"We let you loose for an hour then we went onto the hilltop above and had a look for you. How far were you apart?"
"Why?"
"We saw you pretty quick, we never saw him. Was he far away?"
"Pretty far," Holt lied.
"It was a hell of a shot, 750 yards. Incredible. You know in one week in Belfast I once had seven hits, all between 600 and 1000, but I knew the weapon, always used the same one. I tell you, to get a perfect hit with the first shot with a new weapon, unbelievable."
"Perhaps he just likes killing people," Holt said.
"Don't we all? My sweat is that all I get to blow away these days is pheasants… I envy you. I envy him more."
"Then you're out of your mind."
"Just trying to make conversation," the officer smiled.
Across the room the murmur of voices was unin-terrupted. Holt caught occasional phrases, descriptions.
Something called a Rifleman's Assault Weapon, something about low day/night signature, something about standoff demolition, something about minimal training, something about a Rifleman's Assault Weapon being right for young Holt. But Crane shook his head, didn't look at Holt, just indicated that he wanted none of that for Holt.
Holt's hands flickered uselessly at his tie. The officer knelt in front of him and without fuss tied Holt's shoelaces.
"You're fortunate to be with him. Marksmen are a rare breed. They tend to survive. Wherever you're going, whatever the opposition, they'll regret that guy ever turned up. Good luck."