‘Excellent.’ He stops and turns to me. There’s a disarming grin on his face. ‘You’re showing the first signs of a competent Intelligence Branch officer. Wouldn’t it be better if I put that on your appraisal form rather than mention that you assaulted me with a weapon while I was on my way home?’
‘It’s not a weapon.’ I pull out the mobile from my pocket. ‘And I didn’t assault you.’
He sighs.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘You’re upset. Let’s go to the Phat Phuk. Good Vietnamese scoff. It’s just up here.’ He searches my face for a signal of assent and, as he knows he eventually will, finds it.
True to his apparent concern, Seethrough does have my leg looked at. He arranges for a car to take me the next day to a surgeon in Wimpole Street, who’s unimpressed by my do-it-yourself repairs. A sour look comes over his face as he peers at my attempt at stitches through an illuminated magnifying glass. Then he deadens the leg with an injection and a stout serious-looking Polish girl fastens a surgical mask to his face. My ragged black stitches are pulled gently free from the enclosing skin and replaced with neat loops of biodegradable suture that doesn’t need removing. I lie on my stomach and feel nothing, thinking of the steady eyes of the guardian of the Mahdi’s shrine.
‘It feels much better when it’s done with anaesthetic,’ I tell the surgeon.
An hour later I’m limping to Regent’s Park and marvelling at its greenness. After the dust and desiccation of Khartoum, it’s so much easier to understand why the Islamic vision of paradise is a verdant place with running streams and fountains. I sit for a while on a bench beside the main avenue and watch people passing. They seem extraordinarily preoccupied and utterly unaware of the luxury of their surroundings.
Later I walk along the shady paths by the ponds and through the rose garden and back to the Outer Circle, where I’ve parked Gerhardt. I have not paid attention to the time and there’s a ticket on the windscreen. England is unreal to me again.
At home, nothing seems to have changed, although my private world has gone through indescribable tumult over the past few weeks. I mow the lawn and clear the pond of leaves, and count my fish to see if they’re all there. I write up a long report for Seethrough on everything that’s happened in Khartoum, and send it as an encrypted email via the Firm’s server.
I call Jameela at her home for three days in a row but there’s no answer. Then, on the fourth, she picks up. Her faint voice carries on it a flood of memories. She was released without harm after twelve hours. But I have a burning question.
‘Yes,’ she says, in answer to it, ‘it was real. All of it.’
‘What do we do now?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know.’ She weeps.
I don’t know either. I want to ask when we’ll see each other again, but the question sticks in my throat and the result is a long and agonising silence in which each impulse to speak is superseded by its opposite. Neither of us knows what to say. There is only a silent knowing which we both instinctively feel is undermined by words; it’s the very thing we detected in each other when we first met and which took us both by surprise with its intensity. Even at this distance from each other we are in its grasp again.
I call H too, and he invites me to his home to catch up. I drive there the following day. It’s sunny and H is in his garden on a ladder, picking caterpillars from the leaves on his rear porch.
‘They’re eating my wisteria,’ he says, ‘but I don’t like to kill the little buggers.’ I help him gather them up and put them in a box which he’s planning to empty in a neighbouring field.
He doesn’t like the look of my limp, so a long walk isn’t part of our plans.
‘Thought we could put in an hour’s target practice,’ he says. ‘Good for morale. We’ve got permission to use the drive-in range, so we don’t have to creep around any quarries.’
It’s not far. Eight miles from the bridge at Hereford we reach a village where there’s an ancient church with an illustrious history. I half expect to see a works access only sign of the kind that usually indicates a secret government facility, but there’s nothing of the kind. We turn off the main road opposite the church, and drive almost a mile along a country lane barely wide enough for two cars. At an unremarkable crossroads H turns along the way he knows. We pass a derelict-looking farm and suddenly there are high chain-link fences on both sides of the road, beyond which any view is obscured by thick twenty-foot-high deciduous hedges. Poking above them are some high-frequency antenna arrays resembling rotary washing lines, the kind used for long-range agent communication, but there’s not much else to betray a special forces training camp.
We turn in opposite a cluster of low buildings. H slows the car, puts his window down and waves to the man emerging from the security post, who smiles as he recognises him.
‘Alright, H-?’ calls a thick Scottish voice. ‘Nae seen you fra while.’
‘You know how it is,’ says H, and tells him we’ll be about an hour.
‘Nae grief, mate,’ comes the reply.
We pass a small car park with a fleet of scruffy identical vehicles which look as though they’re used for training. A helicopter with no registration markings sits in a neighbouring field. To our left, a quarter of a mile away, rises a wooded slope which H calls Gibbie’s Hill, where he fondly recalls catching wild eels to eat on an E amp; E exercise. We drive towards it across some innocent-looking open land, past some equally innocent-looking buildings, and then some slightly less innocent-looking ones. These, H says, are former ammunition storage facilities, protected by mounded blast-protecting revetment walls and once linked by rail when the site was used as a hideaway for government munitions. The Regiment calls them bunkers. H points out the bunker with the mocked-up interior of a house where he used to practise hostage rescue scenarios. One of the rooms contains a comfy sofa where, despite the bullet holes, H says he used to sleep when it got too late to go home.
At the foot of the hill the road loops around and we pull up at the entrance to what at first looks like a small open-air stadium.
It’s a hundred and fifty feet square, with steep grassy banks on three sides, which rise to about thirty feet. The whole area is fenced off and guarded with a barrier on its open side, which faces south so that no one has to shoot into the sun. Vehicle drills of the kind we’ve earlier practised are carried out within the central enclosure, but H doesn’t want me to risk aggravating my leg, so we work on grouping and then snap shooting with the Brownings. Then, because H can’t resist the opportunity, we practise shooting from a moving vehicle, which is as noisy as it is exhilarating. And as he rightly suggests, good for morale.
We drive back in the afternoon. As we reach the village near his home I offer him a drink at his local. But he seldom goes there any more, he says. He used to when he first moved to the area years ago, he says, but that was before the SAS became such a big deal. He stopped going to the pub not long after the Prince’s Gate hostage rescue, when people who heard he was in the Regiment would treat him disturbingly, like a kind of god.
The thing I like about H is that he prefers to be invisible. I can’t really picture him, after all this is over, going public and giving lectures to the local British Legion in pubs around Hereford and Leominster. Nothing makes him stand out in either habit or appearance, unless you count the small knife that always hangs from the back of his belt or the length of opaque plastic that he carries in his wallet, which can be put to so many different uses.
The few Regiment men I’ve met all share this quality. They are the last ones you would identify as members of the most feared military unit in the world. They are all exceptionally fit, and exertion comes easily to them. They enjoy order and precision in physical tasks, and prefer action to theory, which makes them wary of pretence or self-importance and suspicious of men who wear moleskin trousers. They take solace in beauty of the kind not found in art galleries but in the mist that hovers over a bend in a river at dawn. They rarely smoke, but tend to drink more than most. Much more, in fact. They love the quiet life of the English country village until the next operation in a country that most of us have never heard of. It’s true they keep strange things in their garages, but they get points on their driving licences like anyone else.