‘He’s not my boyfriend, Sarge,’ she said, flushing. She’d met Kevnar a few times and he always had a smile for her; they’d chatted twice. She doubted he’d be interested in her. She was thirty-seven next birthday and had been career army for eleven years. She’d had the occasional sexual partner over the past decade but no one who could have been described as a boyfriend. She was pretty much resigned to spinster-hood and had persuaded herself that she’d never wanted children anyway.
‘Go on, we can spare you for five,’ said the sergeant. They were waiting to rendezvous with an Iraqi repair crew who were going out to fix a mobile phone mast on the outskirts of the city. The last time a crew had gone out their truck had been blown apart by an RPG and the phone company had requested armed support.
‘Thanks, Sarge,’ she said. John Petrocelli was career army, too, but had only joined up five years ago. He was on the fast-track to greater things, but Beavis had more or less given up on promotion, as she had marriage and motherhood. She’d joined as a grunt and she’d leave as one.
It was her second tour of duty in Iraq, and she was enjoying it as much as the first. Iraq was one of the few theatres where women were put in combat roles, usually on searches and raids. The reason was simple: many Iraqi women were covered from head to foot in the traditional burkha and would resist to the death any attempt by a man to search them. But they had to be searched because the burkha was perfect for concealing weapons and explosives. This meant that on every mission involving potential contact with locals there had to be at least one woman in the unit.
Beavis had come under fire several times and had already been awarded the Combat Action Badge. Many of her male colleagues complained about being in Iraq. They hated the heat, the food, the lack of entertainment and, most of all, being pitted against enemies who refused to fight like men. Combat in Iraq consisted of ambushes, sniper attacks and IEDs. The insurgents specialised in sneak attacks and killing from a distance, taking lives without risking their own. It wasn’t a form of combat for which the infantry had trained, and it meant that every time they left the Green Zone they were in a constant state of tension, not knowing if or when they would be under attack. Beavis had never complained about being posted to Iraq. It was stressful, and at times uncomfortable, but she had never felt more alive than when she was out on patrol with an M16 in her hands.
She held the weapon barrel down and strolled over to the group, trying not to appear over-keen. The contractors were big men from West Virginia, whose bellies hung over their belts. They wore sidearms and carried shotguns.
Kevnar grinned when he saw her. He had a great smile, thought Beavis. It was the first thing she’d noticed about him. He was always smiling, always happy. She smiled back and wished she’d been able to put on a smear of lipstick. His smile revealed perfect teeth, not a filling to be seen. Beavis’s parents hadn’t bothered with fluoride when she was growing up so she had half a dozen crowns at the back of her mouth. She realised that she was staring at his and forced herself to look away.
‘You are busy today, Diane?’ asked Kevnar.
She loved his accent. The only word she could come up with to describe it was ‘treacly’. It was soft and sweet, and made her shiver. ‘We’re guarding some phone technicians,’ she said.
‘Be careful,’ he said.
She was touched by his concern. The last time they’d spoken she’d asked about his family, and what he’d told her had reduced her to tears. He’d had a wife and two small children, a boy aged three and a girl just about to turn one. He’d been working as the doctor in the small Kurdish village where he’d been born. Late one evening a farmer had turned up on his doorstep. The man’s daughter was about to give birth to her first child and was in a lot of pain. The farmer had brought his tractor with him and had driven Kevnar to the farm. It had been a difficult birth but finally the woman produced a healthy girl. When Kevnar got back to his village the next morning, the first sign he saw that something was wrong were the dead dogs lying in the street. Then he’d seen an old woman face down in the gutter, mouth open, blood running from her nose. Further along the street there were more dead dogs, and the village baker was lying on the ground outside his shop, dried blood all over his face.
Kevnar had leaped off the tractor and raced home. His wife and children were dead in their bloodstained beds. Saddam Hussein had decreed that the Kurdish village should be used to test a new batch of nerve gas that his scientists had been developing. Two hundred and nineteen people had died that night. It hadn’t been war, it hadn’t been punishment; it had been nothing more than a scientific test. Beavis couldn’t imagine how Kevnar must have felt, but he had smiled and shrugged, and said it was in the past and he had to live for the future.
‘We’re going for a meal tonight, myself and two of the Americans,’ he said. ‘There is a restaurant I have suggested they try, just outside the Green Zone. You would like it, I’m sure.’
Her breath caught in her throat. Was he asking her on a date? Her heart began to race. ‘That sounds fun,’ she said.
‘Are you allowed to eat out of the Green Zone?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘We’re not prisoners.’ She undid the strap of her helmet and removed it, shaking her dyed blonde hair and wishing she had a comb. ‘I’d love to come, Kevnar,’ she said.
‘Perhaps afterwards I could show you where I live,’ he said.
‘That would be great,’ said Beavis. ‘Where shall I meet you?’
The bullet smacked into the side of her head, just above her right temple. It exited on the opposite side, blowing out a chunk of brain matter and blood that splattered across the road. Kevnar was running for cover before her body hit the ground.
Shepherd held the phone to his ear, listening to the ringing tone. A wire led from the bottom of his Nokia to a laptop computer in front of Amar Singh. Charlotte Button was sitting behind the desk, sipping a cup of tea. Ali answered.
‘Tom, it’s Graham May,’ said Shepherd. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Fine.’
‘You haven’t fired those guns yet, have you? Remember, I’ll only take them back if you haven’t, and that goes for practice shots.’
‘When can we have the rest?’ asked Ali.
‘Two days max,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve been thinking maybe it’s not a good idea for me to drive up to you. You can collect them from here, same as last time.’
‘Same place?’
‘Probably,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll let you know the day before. Listen, Tom, I might have something else you’d be interested in.’
‘Yeah?’
‘You heard of C4?’
‘It’s an explosive, right?’
‘Damn right. Top of the range. The American military use it.’
‘And you’ve got some?’
‘It’s on the way. Should be here at the same time as the Ingrams.’
‘I don’t think this is the sort of thing we should be talking about on the phone,’ said Ali.
‘It’s not a problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’ve both got throwaway mobiles. I’ll be dumping this one as soon as our deal’s done. Now, are you interested or not?’
‘How much can you get?’
‘As much as you need.’
‘What’s it cost?’
‘Five hundred pounds a kilo.’
‘What would a kilo blow up?’
‘Half a kilo would blow up a car, no problem,’ said Shepherd.
‘And what about detonators? Explosives are no good without detonators.’
‘As many as you want,’ said Shepherd. ‘Fifty quid a go.’
‘I’ll have to talk to my friends,’ said Ali.
‘Don’t leave it too long,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got other buyers.’
‘For explosives?’
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can shift all I’ve got coming. I’ll need to know soon.’
‘But we get the guns, right?’