give the bastards a run. It would be the third time that he had taken part in the escape and evasion exercises of the Presidential Guard.
He was one day past his 26th birthday. In two weeks' time it would be one year since he had first come to Iraq.
Colt would have liked his father to know how he was spending the next few days. It would give the old man pleasure.
At the village of Al Mansuriyah, below the escarpment of the Jabal Hamrin, as the sun climbed, they were met by a jeep. Colt was given a rucksack filled with a sleeping bag, field rations, water, and a first-aid kit. He was given a map, compass, and binoculars. He was shown on the map the village of Qara Tappah.
T w o of the Presidential guardsmen were giggling as they pointed to the name of the village that was his target.
He told the guard, his minder, to get back to Baghdad. He told the troops to go and scratch themselves somewhere else. In the centre of the village was the square, dominated by a portrait of the Chairman. Colt sat at a table outside the cafe that saw everything that moved in the village. He asked for coffee and fresh cake. He put his feet on an empty chair. He closed his eyes.
He would move at the end of the day. He was that rare person.
He was the person, taught by his father, who preferred darkness to light, night to day.
She was hurrying that morning. There was little enough in her life that she could honestly say was exciting, but that morning she was a little nervous, and, yes, a little excited. She wanted to get all of the washing out, then cross her fingers for a dry day with a bit of sunshine and a drying wind.
"Morning, Mrs Bissett."
Little Vicky, and she'd be standing on tip toe to see over the fence, and not even dressed yet.God alone knew what the girl did after the golden boy had gone off to sell his 57 varieties, heaven only knew why she couldn't get herself dressed before ten o'clock.
She had a mouth full of pegs. "I've told you, Vicky, I don't answer to that."
A hesitation, a smaller voice. "Morning, Sara . . ."
"Good morning, Vicky."
It was her own fault. If she hadn't been an awkward, obstinate bitch of a teenager, it would all have been very different. If she hadn't sulked with her father, fought like a cat with her mother, she wouldn't now be hanging up Frederick's threadbare underpants on the drying frame in a tiny back lawn in Lilac Gardens, Tadley. There should have been a nice young man on the Sun-ningdale marriage circuit, and then a nice house in Ascot, and probably a cottage in Devon, and two boys at a good prepatory school in Surrey. But it had been her choice. She had turned her back on her upbringing, but it didn't matter how many times she told Vicky. She was always going to be Mrs Bissett to Vicky, and Mrs Bissett to Dorothy on the other side.
"Got none of this 'flu, then?"
"Wouldn't have the time for it, Vicky."
" Y o u busy, then?"
She saw Vicky's face, over the fence, crestfallen. Poor little soul must be as lonely as sin. Come in, join the club . . .
She said cheerfully, "Big day today, Vicky. I'm joining an art class."
She didn't have to tell the girl. She didn't have to tell anyone.
She hadn't told Frederick, there just hadn't seemed to be the right time.
"Oh, that's clever, Mrs . . . Sara."
"Probably be a bloody mess."
She should have stayed and talked with the girl, but this morning, unlike most mornings, she had a deadline to meet.
Simply didn't have the lime to make soap-opera conversation over the fence. It was their fence, and it was coming down, and she had pointed that out to Frederick, and she had known he wouldn't do anything about it, any more than he would buy himself new underpants. He said that he much preferred the money they could afford for clothing to go onto the boys' backs, and onto her. She thought that her father probably now earned more than £100,000 a year, but she did not know for sure because it was nine years since she had last visited him, four years since
He was one day past his 26th birthday. In two weeks' time it would be one year since he had first come to Iraq.
Colt would have liked his father to know how he was spending the next few days. It would give the old man pleasure.
At the village of Al Mansuriyah, below the escarpment of the Jabal Hamrin, as the sun climbed, they were met by a jeep. Colt was given a rucksack filled with a sleeping bag, field rations, water, and a first-aid kit. He was given a map, compass, and binoculars. He was shown on the map the village of Qara Tappah.
T w o of the Presidential guardsmen were giggling as they pointed to the name of the village that was his target.
He told the guard, his minder, to get back to Baghdad. He told the troops to go and scratch themselves somewhere else. In the centre of the village was the square, dominated by a portrait of the Chairman. Colt sat at a table outside the cafe that saw everything that moved in the village. He asked for coffee and fresh cake. He put his feet on an empty chair. He closed his eyes.
He would move at the end of the day. He was that rare person.
He was the person, taught by his father, who preferred darkness to light, night to day.
She was hurrying that morning. There was little enough in her life that she could honestly say was exciting, but that morning she was a little nervous, and, yes, a little excited. She wanted to get all of the washing out, then cross her fingers for a dry day with a bit of sunshine and a drying wind.
"Morning, Mrs Bissett."
Little Vicky, and she'd be standing on tip toe to see over the fence, and not even dressed yet.God alone knew what the girl did after the golden boy had gone off to sell his 57 varieties, heaven only knew why she couldn't get herself dressed before ten o'clock.
She had a mouth full of pegs. "I've told you, Vicky, I don't answer to that."
A hesitation, a smaller voice. "Morning, Sara . . ."
"Good morning, Vicky."
It was her own fault. If she hadn't been an awkward, obstinate bitch of a teenager, it would all have been very different. If she hadn't sulked with her father, fought like a cat with her mother, she wouldn't now be hanging up Frederick's threadbare underpants on the drying frame in a tiny back lawn in Lilac Gardens, Tadley. There should have been a nice young man on the Sun-ningdale marriage circuit, and then a nice house in Ascot, and probably a cottage in Devon, and two boys at a good prepatory school in Surrey. But it had been her choice. She had turned her back on her upbringing, but it didn't matter how many times she told Vicky. She was always going to be Mrs Bissett to Vicky, and Mrs Bissett to Dorothy on the other side.
"Got none of this 'flu, then?"
"Wouldn't have the time for it, Vicky."
" Y o u busy, then?"
She saw Vicky's face, over the fence, crestfallen. Poor little soul must be as lonely as sin. Come in, join the club . . .
She said cheerfully, "Big day today, Vicky. I'm joining an art class."
She didn't have to tell the girl. She didn't have to tell anyone.
She hadn't told Frederick, there just hadn't seemed to be the right time.
"Oh, that's clever, Mrs . . . Sara."
"Probably be a bloody mess."
She should have stayed and talked with the girl, but this morning, unlike most mornings, she had a deadline to meet.
Simply didn't have the lime to make soap-opera conversation over the fence. It was their fence, and it was coming down, and she had pointed that out to Frederick, and she had known he wouldn't do anything about it, any more than he would buy himself new underpants. He said that he much preferred the money they could afford for clothing to go onto the boys' backs, and onto her. She thought that her father probably now earned more than £100,000 a year, but she did not know for sure because it was nine years since she had last visited him, four years since
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