Crane had the pocket night sight to his eye. He rarely used it. Crane's bible said that reliance on a night sight was dangerous, hard to switch back and forth between a night sight and natural night vision. They were making as much noise ahead as Holt had conjured up on the first of the night march tests in the Occupied Territories – so bloody long ago, back in the time before history books Holt thought the man who complained, who could not see, might be German or Austrian or Swiss German.
There was a stampede of stones away from the path, and the sound of another kicking, and the sound of another whimper. He thought they were moving faster, he thought the noises moved away.
Holt waited on Crane.
He heard the call of a hyena above. He heard the barking of a dog behind and below from among the village lights of Ain Zebde. He waited on Crane.
Methodically, as was his way, Crane replaced the pocket night sight in the pouch on his belt.
"It's a European," Crane whispered.
"What's a European doing…?"
"God, didn't you learn adding at school? There are three hoods with a European prisoner on our track. A European, with a bag over his head, who cannot see where he's going, with Arabs, that adds to the movement of a hostage."
"A hostage… " Holt repeated the word, seemed to be in awe of the word.
"Moving a hostage on my bloody route." A savageness in Crane's whisper.
"What do we do?"
"Keep going, have to."
"Why, have to?"
"Because, youngster, we have a schedule. We have an appointment. We have to move behind them, and move at their pace. I don't have the time to lie up. And I'm better keeping them in sight, I'm better knowing where they are."
"A hostage?"
"That's what I said."
"Definitely a hostage?"
"He's tied to one of them. He's got a European accent.
He's short of trousers, just a blanket over him. We're in an area of Syrian control, so they move him at night They'll be from Islamic Jihad or Hezbollah, they don't trust the shit Syrians any more than I do… Don't kick any bloody stone, youngster."
Carefully, with so much care, Holt pushed himself upright. He stood. All the time he could hear the fading sounds of movement ahead. He let Crane move off, get the fifteen paces in front. He struggled to ease the pressure of the straps on his shoulder.
Best foot forward, on a shared path.
He could not help himself. He should have concentrated solely on each footfall. There should have been nothing else in his mind, no chaff, no clutter, nothing other than the weight of the ball of his foot testing for the loose stone, for the dried branch, for the crisped leaf.
The chaff and the clutter in his mind were the thoughts of love and vengeance.
He had told his girl, his Jane Canning who was the personal assistant to the military attache, that he loved her. A long time ago, he had told his girl that he loved her. His girl was ashes, he did not even know where the parents of his girl had scattered her ashes. Too distant from them to know whether they had taken her ashes to a sea shore or taken them to a heathland of heather flowers or taken them to the serenity of a woodland. His girl was ashes, gone, dust, earth. So many things that he could remember of her. Meeting in the canteen at the School of East European and Slavonic Studies and thinking she was stunning. Waiting for her when she was late and the tryst was the pavement outside the Odeon cinema in Leicester Square and hoping to God that she hadn't stood him up. Coming to her own bachelor girl flat, with a bunch of freesias and a bottle of Beaujolais and wondering whether he would get back to his own place before the end of the weekend. Holding her and kissing her when she had told him that she had landed Moscow for a posting, and wasn't it marvellous because he was headed there in a few weeks' time, and cursing that for those few weeks he would be without her and she would be without him. Scowling at her because she had put him down for ever and ever, amen, in the corridor of the Oreanda Hotel in Yalta…
"Don't be childish, Holt."
He had told his minder, his Mr Martins who worked the Middle East Desk of the Secret Intelligence Service, that he wanted vengeance. Bloody light years ago. He would know the man that they called Abu Hamid the moment that he could focus the lenses of the binoculars upon him. No doubt. He had seen the man they called Abu Hamid for nine, ten seconds. He didn't believe he would ever forget the face and the crow's foot scar.
Bloody light years ago he had wanted vengeance, he had told Martins that he wanted the eye and the tooth, both.
He thought that his desire for vengeance was sapped, he thought that he had simply never had the guts to walk away from Mr Martins in England, to walk away from Mr Crane in Israel. He thought that he was on the west slopes of the Beqa'a because he had never had the guts to turn his back on something as primitive as vengeance. He thought that he would in no way benefit from the sniping of Abu Hamid. He knew that nothing would change for Jane, nor for her parents either, even if they would ever know. And would anything change for him?
"I'd want him killed."
They were at the seventh rally point of the night.
It was where Crane had told him they would spend the few minutes of rest. An exact man was Crane, each rally point reached on time, the perfect instrument of vengeance.
Holt huddled against Crane. The wind caught at the sweat running on his body and chilled him.
"Can I talk?"
"Whisper, youngster."
"Where are they?"
"Ahead, perhaps a quarter of a mile."
"And it's a hostage?"
"What I reckon."
Holt swallowed hard. He caught at the sleeve of Crane's tunic shirt.
"He's more valuable."
"Riddles, youngster."
' 'A hostage is more valuable than sniping Abu Hamid."
"You know what you're saying?"
"There is more value in bringing back a hostage alive than in leaving Abu Hamid dead behind us."
"I didn't hear that." Crane tugged his sleeve clear.
"To bring back a hostage alive, that is a genuine act of mercy."
"Then you're forgetting something, youngster."
"I am not forgetting a fellow human being in danger."
"Forgetting something big."
"What is bigger than rescuing a man from that sort of hell?"
"Your promise, that's what you're forgetting."
"A hostage is alive, a hostage is an innocent…"
Crane turned away, his voice was soft and cut the edge of the night wind. "I gave my word, youngster. I don't play skittles with a promise."
"A hostage is worth saving. Is Abu Hamid worth killing?"
"I gave my promise. Pity you don't see that that's important."
"They aren't worth it, the people who've got your promise."
"Time to move."
"A hostage's freedom is worth more than your promise."
"I said it was time to move."
Holt stood.
"If I ever get out of this I'll hate you, Mr Crane, for abandoning a hostage."
"If you ever get out of this, youngster, it'll be because of my promise… Just stop pissing in the wind."
Crane searched the ground ahead with the pocket night sight. They moved off. The gap between them materialised. Holt could hear the distant sounds ahead of the progress of a hostage and his captors. To the east of them, below them, was the village town of Khirbet Qanafar. They went quiet, traversing the slope side of the valley wall. When they next stopped they would be at the lying up position overlooking the tent camp.
In the village town of Khirbet Qanafar the merchant lay on a rope bed and snored away the night hours.
Many years before, when he had first forsaken his lecture classes at Beer Sheba and moved into his clandestine life in Lebanon, he had found sleep hard to come by, he had felt the persistent fear of discovery. No longer; he slept well covered by a blanket that he fancied had come from the headman's own bed.