Barney and Rossiter stepped down from the Land Rover. Together they lifted the crate from the truck and edged it across the tail board of the Land Rover. The sides of the square crate were a little more than four feet across. Barney had taken the strain, Rossiter a grunting second fiddle.
'No need to make a fuss, I did it on my own,' the spook said.
'Thanks,' Rossiter said without kindness.
'You'll go a bit softly, won't you?'
'Depends what you mean by softly.'
'You're out from London, you may not know the local scene that well. If you're going to be sitting on a mountain top with a damn great wireless then the Pakkies won't be that pleased. If they find you, there'll be a fair old fuss. I've a useful piece of cooperation going on here…'
'Why don't you just piss off?' Rossiter said.
'I've a fair idea of what's going on over there without your having to sit on a mountain playing with a radio.'
'Piss off, will you, and don't tell me how to run my show.'
'I'm just telling you: people out from London are just a bloody nuisance.'
'Goodnight…' Rossiter turned to climb back into the Land Rover. 'When you're a very big boy you may just get to learn what's going on, perhaps.'
Barney grinned in the darkness. He heard the angry intake of breath from the spook. He eased himself into his seat, and Rossiter was away, turning noisily before Barney had the door closed.
'An object lesson in tact and discretion, Mr Rossiter.'
'Arrogant little shit.' Rossiter laughed.
When a car passed them, heading for Kohat, Barney saw that Rossiter was still grinning broadly to himself.
They backed the Land Rover up to the verandah steps and carried the crate into Barney's room before they turned on any of the lights. Rossiter almost at once said he was going to bed. Barney drew the cotton curtains. He took a heavy knife from his kit, and began to prise away the nails that fastened the crate. The boards creaked as he dragged them up. Barney was no weapons buff. He had come across them in his time, but not in the Regiment. Weapons were no more or less than a tool of Barney's trade.
He could not have said why Redeye was different to him from every firearm he had handled. He saw the slim symmetrical shapes of the top layer of the tubes that protected the missiles and that were wrapped in greased waterproof paper, each holding one missile and the battery coolant unit. Separate and wedged to the side of the crate with polystyrene filler shapes was the launch tube grip stock and optical sight. When he had looked down for a few seconds at the wrapped tubes and the launch mechanism he felt a sense of the ridiculous, and he shook himself as if to get rid of a hallucination, and then lifted back the crate boards. He shut away the Persian lettering that had overstamped the Hebrew script, and banged with his clenched fist down onto the wood so that the nails slid again into the sockets.
He slept long and well that night.
'He says that the mujahidin have learned to be cautious of foreigners who come with offers of help…' said the boy who played the part of interpreter.
Rossiter sighed. 'You must explain that the help we are going to offer is very positive.'
Rossiter eased back on the low plastic coated settee. Barney sat beside him, eyes alert, unmoving. They heard the boy speak, then the reply.
The boy turned to Rossiter. 'He says the leader of your country has been here, and the great men of America, and of Germany and France, and the princes of Saudi. They have all offered their help, they have all promised their support. They all tell us that we are fighting for freedom, they all tell us of our courage and that we are heroes. He says that they do not want to be told of their courage, and that they are heroes, they want the help that has been promised…'
It was four hours since Rossiter and Barney had driven to the refugee camp outside Peshawar. They had walked between the open sewers, they had gone amongst the lines of tents with their surrounds of mud walls, they had come to the prefabricated home of a leader. Now they sat on a settee and round them the shadowed room was crowded with men. Fighting men, hawk-eyed and sharp-nosed and long-fingered and heavy-bearded men. Some stood, some sat on the floor. Only their leader had another chair.
Four hours, and God knows how many of the tiny cups of sweet tea Barney had dutifully drunk. He was used to it, that was the way it happened in Muscat. He almost felt sorry for Rossiter. Rossiter in his bloody suit, as if he were a District Commissioner come to sort out a problem with a bagful of beads. He'd learn.
A part of the plan had emerged during the drive to the camp. Rossiter had found a group, yes. But the group had not actually been propositioned. No, that was going too last. He'd found a group that fought, that didn't just talk about fighting, that's what Rossiter had said. But Redeye, Redeye was far in the future. Redeye hadn't been talked about. And Rossiter's status was not yet established. So, they'd talked for four hours and the way it was going they'd talk another four bloody hours.
Barney was settled, comfortable on the settee, and could watch the closed faces of the fighting men, and wonder if those who had killed his grandfather had looked in any way different.
'I have come to talk to the leader about real help, tell him that.' Rossiter snapped his instruction to the boy. Barney's hand flickered to Rossiter's sleeve. Steady, old thing, there's no hurry.
Again the exchange of words between the leader and the boy.
'He says,' the boy chattered out the answer. 'He says he has no need of blankets or food for his people. He says that each time the mujahidin have asked for real help, for the work they have to do, then the help has been refused them.'
Barney's hand tightened on Rossiter's sleeve, 'Ask him what is the real help that he needs.'
Rossiter flashed him a glance of annoyance. It was the first interruption.
'All the world knows what is the help that is needed,' the boy replied pertly and without reference to the leader. 'Help is needed to fight the helicopter…'
The boy broke off, translated for the old man with the white beard and the narrow spectacles and white cotton trousers and the embroidered waistcoat against whose legs he sat. There was a growl of agreement from the shadow recesses of the room, then a scatter of voices. The boy looked from face to face, absorbing the talk. The boy clapped his hands for quiet.
'They say that from the time the first foreigners came offering to help us, we have asked for aid in fighting against the helicopters. The helicopter is armoured, protected, against it we have rifles. They say, what can a rifle do against armour plating? They say the helicopter massacres them because they are not given the help they have asked for. They say that if the foreigners cared for their freedom then they would be given the weapons to destroy the helicopters.'
Rossiter looked into Barney's face. Barney raised a finger slightly, the gesture that Rossiter should not speak.
'I say again, what is the real help that is needed?'
The boy translated, the voices rose in reply.
The boy held up his hand for their silence. Cheeky little sod, Barney thought, but he can be cheeky when he's pretty and has smooth cheeks and when his back rests against the knees of the leader.
'They want the missile — the missile that will destroy the helicopter.'
'What is the missile you want that will shoot down the helicopter?'
'We have asked the Americans for Redeye, we have asked the Egyptians for SAM 7, we have asked the British for Blowpipe. We know what is available, we are not just peasants off the fields, we know the names of the missiles, we can read,' the boy catapulted his answer to Barney without pause for translation.
'Which is the best?'
'Redeye,' the boy chimed in instant answer.
Rossiter leaned over close to Barney. 'Where in God's name are you going?'