‘You’ll need this, Toby. Just sign here.’
Major Richmond handed Ashe a SIG Sauer 9 mm pistol, small enough for the shoulder holster secreted beneath his jacket.
‘And Toby…’
‘Simon?’
‘Body armour.’
‘Check.’
Richmond sat on his plastic chair and surveyed his tiny, windowless office, covered from floor to ceiling in specialised maps of Iraq. ‘Ready for this, Toby?’
‘I feel a hell of a lot better knowing you’re the driver.’
‘You were lucky to get me. Thank Desk: his word reaches far.’
‘What in hell’s happened to Zappa?’
‘What time did he tell you?’
‘4.40.’
‘And what time is it?’
‘4.39.’
‘Relax, Toby. Zap’s a good man. Besides, he’s had to pick up the interpreter. And that’s not always as simple as it sounds.’
‘Regular interpreter?’
‘We’ve done pre-tests and Zap’s fully checked the source background. We do it all the time – standard procedure and usually reliable.’
‘Usually?’
‘Nothing’s perfect.’
There was a knock on the door.
‘Vinny.’
Richmond turned to Ashe. ‘Time?’
‘4.40.’
The major grinned as he opened the door. ‘Vincent!’
‘Major Richmond, let me take your hand. Allow me to introduce Dr Zaqqarah.’
‘Hello, Safi! Good to see you again.’
The slightly nervous, rotund academic gripped Richmond’s hand. ‘Peace be upon you, Major.’
‘One of these days. May I introduce to you a friend from England?’ Ashe was not to be introduced by name. Zaqqarah smiled sweetly and shook hands with Ashe.
As they emerged from the stairwell hatch into the light, Ashe struggled with the glare of the afternoon sun; the heat came hard.
An American sergeant saluted Richmond. ‘We’ve gotten you a BMW, sir.’
‘Class 5 or 7, Sergeant?’
‘Class 5, sir.’
‘I asked for Class 7.’
‘The last one left the compound with Major Rudetsky, an hour ago, sir.’
‘What’s wrong with the Merc?’
‘Fuel pump, sir. It’ll be ready tonight.’
Richmond turned to Zappa. ‘Class 5 today, Zap.’
‘The Lord giveth, Major.’
Ashe looked quizzical.
‘It’s about adapted security features, Ashe. Additional batteries, secondary air-con systems, armoured chassis, bulletproofing, tracking features, weaponry. I’d hoped for the Merc Class 7. Apparently, we’re not important enough. Or you aren’t!’
The two men laughed.
‘I suppose some are more indispensable than others.’ Dr Zaqqarah’s nervous laugh cracked audibly.
The sergeant opened the door for the three men and saluted. ‘Good luck, sir.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
Ashe got into the back of the BMW with the interpreter. The doors slammed shut. This was it: Ashe’s first operation in the field.