“Play up, play up and play the game!” murmured Faraj.
“I’m sorry?”
“Just a poem I learned in school.”
Jean stared at him blankly for a moment. “We need to make a look-out position. Maybe cut a hole in these shutters or something.”
He shook his head. “Too risky. And we haven’t got the tools to do it with.” Climbing on to the pile of deckchairs, he peered through the small side window. “Try this.”
He climbed down and she took his place. Through the small opening, barely a foot square, she could see right across the northwest quadrant of the cricket ground. Beyond the post-and-rail fence at its boundary, several hundred yards away, the perimeter road was visible, and on its far side the rain-darkened sweep of the Terrace and the George and Dragon.
Disappearing into the back room, Faraj returned with the binoculars and passed them up to her. Outside Number One, the Terrace, stood a dark red Jaguar. On the ground floor, through the tall windows, she could see a tall, unmoving figure. Was that him? she wondered. The man who, on the other side of the world, had been selected to die. To die with his family around him, as so many innocent citizens of Iraq, Afghanistan and other states had died. Blown to pieces without warning. Casually-jokingly, even-and by strangers, as if they were no more than a cluster of pixels in a computer game. And then dismissed as “collateral damage.”
She shook her head. These people were about to learn about damage. About to learn the difference between the real and the remote.
The tall figure moved away from the window, and Jean was about to lower the binoculars when a figure in the road caught her eye. A man in a pale raincoat had just exited a black car in order to stretch his arms and legs.
“There’s security there,” she whispered urgently. “A man in a car, and… yes, another inside the car.”
Faraj nodded. “It was to be expected. We’ll have to approach the house from the back.”
“There’s a back alley running between two of the houses. When it’s dark I’ll find my way in there. The garden’s probably alarmed or spotlit, but I should be able to lower the device over the wall. It’ll go off near to the side door of the house.”
“They’re well built, these old houses, no? Solid?”
“Pretty well built.”
“We might not kill them all.”
“It’s the only option we’ve got, Faraj.”
“Let me think about it. And get changed, you have to buy us some food.”
She nodded, and went into the back room. There, making sure to keep her head below the level of the windows, she washed her hands, using a cracked rind of Lifebuoy soap that she found in a saucer by the sink, and dried them on one of the cricket shirts. Then, locating her washbag, she took out her small stock of make-up, and went through the half-forgotten ritual. A faint skim of foundation, a touch of shadow on the eyelids, and a pale dab of lipstick. She wanted to look like someone who had woken up in a comfortable middle-class home and had muesli and fresh orange juice for breakfast, not like a terrorist who had slept filthy and hungry beneath a fenland bridge. From her rucksack she took one of the knotted bin-liners of clothes. There was a soft lilac cashmere sweater, grey combat pants and a fitted denim jacket with a quilted lining, all bought in a mid-range Parisian department store. As she had hoped, the hiking boots looked more or less OK with this outfit, in a studenty sort of way. And the ensemble teamed up well with its final component-a small grey mono-strap backpack.
When she was ready, she looked at herself in the changing room mirror. The transformation was startling. Her hair, instead of falling flat and lank to her shoulders, now neatly framed her face. He had made a surprisingly sensitive job of it. And the make-up, of course, made all the difference. There was nothing remotely threatening about the bland and conventionally feminised creature that looked back at her. Hesitantly, she went through and showed herself to Faraj. He nodded, and said nothing, but some unreadable emotion touched his gaze.
“I should go shopping,” she said, patting her trouser pockets to check that she had the velcro wallet.
“I’ll wire up the weapon,” he answered. “Don’t be seen on the way out.”
“When I knock six times, let me in. Any other number of knocks, it’s not me, or they’ve taken me.”
“I understand. Go.”
58
A quick look through one of the high changing-room windows estab lished that the coast was clear, and Jean let herself out. She walked back into the wood and then took the northeasterly path, coming out at the side of the road bordering the cricket ground. The shops-a panel-beating and exhaust repairs yard, a newsagent’s, and a village stores incorporating a sub-post office, were at the near end of The Terrace, and as she crossed the road she saw a fair-haired young man saunter down the steps of Number One. Like her, he seemed to be heading for the shops. This must be the man’s son, she thought with a crawl of foreboding.
She steadied herself. In the long term, the action that she was taking today would save lives. It would make the West think twice before raining bombs and bullets on those they considered faceless and of no consequence. The cascading triple detonation in which the British family would die would serve as the scream of those countless others across the world who had died without a voice. The young man would have to give up his life with the rest.
The two of them reached the village stores at the same time, and he stood aside politely as she pushed the door open. Inside, as she crammed a basket with bread, mineral water, fruit, cheese, chocolate, and for good measure a couple of Christmas cards and a packet of green tinsel, she felt the young man’s eyes on her. Covertly glancing between the aisles, she saw a tall figure in jeans, a T-shirt, and a motorcycle jacket. He was unshaven, and his hair stuck up on one side of his head as if he had slept on it that way. Catching her eye, he grinned amiably at her, and she looked away. She was prepared to kill him, but she couldn’t bring herself to smile at him. And why-why-did she think that she recognised him?
Near the counter, and with a heart-thumping shock, she saw a photograph of herself on the front of the Daily Telegraph. It was a particularly unsympathetic portrait that her mother had taken at Christmas three or four years ago. WOMAN, 23, SOUGHT… Taking a copy, forcing herself not to read further, she refolded it so that the images were on the inside.
“Rain’s stopped, anyway!” It was the young man-a boy he was, really; he couldn’t have been more than eighteen-by now in front of her in the queue.
“That’s true,” she said flatly. “How long for, though?”
The question, as she had intended, was unanswerable, and he did not reply, just shuffled good-humouredly from leg to leg. When the till girl had scanned his Cheerios and his six-pack of Newcastle Brown Ale cans, he asked for the total to be put on account.
“Which account would that be?”
“Mrs. Delves’-I’m her son.”
The girl leaned comfortably back in her chair. “That’d be your little sister, then-that Jessica. I had a big smile off her yesterday. She’s gorgeous!”
“Well, she’s certainly got a strong pair of lungs on her.”
“Bless! Give her a smacker from me, won’t you?”
“OK. Er… who shall I tell her it’s from?”
The girl spread her fingers and glanced downwards. She was wearing an engagement ring with a pale blue stone. “Beverley,” she said.