The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (english novels to improve english txt) 📗

The first move, from the AssDepDG, was a trawl through every one of the recommendations posted by Jonas Merrick of 3/S/12. It became obvious that his strike rate was high, and at least one stabbing incident and a vehicle attack could have been prevented if action had been taken on Jonas’s thoughts. And they had gone through his Irish stuff, and then his insight into the work practices of East Bloc spies – best on the Czechs and the Hungarians.

Now, notice was taken of his opinions. His judgements were heard. Thames House had access to the most sophisticated computer programs, could achieve breakthrough science in the manipulation of mobile phones, could summon up brilliant brainpower, but the AssDepDG had given a place of importance to a man who seemed without talent, could not hold his own in argument, seemed dull and boring – that was Jonas Merrick’s assessment of himself. The role of 3/S/12 was to predict the re-entry of UK recruits who had gone to the black flag, had enlisted, had fought, were now heading home. To track them and neutralise them. Easy? No. If Vera had been awake, if he had confided his worries to her, which would have been a crass breach of security and had never happened, he might have said in the privacy of their bed, “The point is that the ones we’re looking for are the most dangerous. They are hardened, have come through a weight of artillery and air bombardment, have been out-gunned on the battlefield, have lost the new family that had embraced them. They have an angry hatred of us who plod to work each day, and watch the soaps in the evenings, and swill beer down at the pub, and to whom the biggest catastrophe in the world is if some bloody football team loses at the weekend, or if the bloke is shagging another woman. They loathe us, only think of getting back and wiping the smugness off our faces. And they are skilled and . . . Do you know much about crocodiles, Vera? No, don’t suppose you do . . .” Did not say it, and nursed the anxiety alone.

The emptiness ahead of the dinghy was broken by two faint lights, might have been those of a small boat, a trawler. Cammy was at the back and held the arm of the outboard and tried to steer them forward and they were lifted high by the waves, then pitched down.

When he turned, he could see more lights moving away, deeper into the dunes. The smuggler team, father and sons, had their own vehicle but would have taken the stolen people carrier . . . It would have different plates on it by morning, and within a week would have been spray-painted: might make up for some of the shortfall in the deal. Then those lights were gone and a blackness formed behind them.

The teacher, at the front of the dinghy, used both hands to cling to the slack rope on the sides and seemed to be flung high and then disappear below the water level when they dipped. The women clung to the two children. The psychologist was rigid in fear and crouched as low as he could. Cammy could not have done without them. They were pathetic and terrified and could do nothing to help drive the dinghy forward, yet he needed them. Had he been with his brothers – Stan and Mikki and Ulrike, with Dwayne and Pieter, with Tomas, there would have been laughter and shrieks of excitement and they would have been together and thought themselves untouchable. The Iranians did not know his name, he had been told their names but had forgotten them. They had researched their trip. They had told him basic facts. They had waded to the dinghy, their clothing was drenched, the crossing – if it was successful – would last for a minimum of ten hours. They would already be suffering from “cold water shock”, and the wind blew a chill air over them and each wave they broke into spattered them with spray.

It was a surprise to Cammy that they made any progress at all. He’d have thought there was a fair chance they would be pushed straight back and that the spinning propeller blades on the outboard would grind into the sand, then break, and they would be dumped in a couple of feet of water: humiliated, screwed. But the dinghy was going forward.

They were level with the twin lights, and then passed them, faced another wall of darkness. The moon, if it were going to appear, was not yet clear of the dunes behind them. Cammy thought it felt like the buffeting they had been under when artillery was called down on them, or a mortar barrage, and they could be lifted, could be dropped, could feel the impact when they were landing in the troughs. The tiny dinghy was somehow staying afloat and was making a hesitant passage. Sometimes they were high above the swell and pirouetting on the wave crests, and sometime they were far below the water level and the spray came over them and he could barely see the teacher clinging on at the front.

The women had screamed when the first waves broke over them. Now they kept up a sort of keening moan. He knew that sound. The brothers would be with a strike battalion that had surged through a village, had fought past Syrian troops or Iranians who did not have the luxury of air support, would have done their combat and then would have trudged back, through the wrecked buildings, and the follow-up cadres would have come after them and would have had the names of all those who were government supporters or who had a son who had gone to fight on the “wrong” side. Bodies would be in the street . . . The sounds that the women made then were the same as the women now as they