The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (best summer reads of all time txt) 📕

the business of putting Cameron Jilkes in a cage and denying him the sweet-scented last thought of martyrdom, the Valhalla final moment of a jihadi life. All about encouraging others, and nothing encouraged less – in Jonas’s opinion – than sitting in a cage for days and weeks and months and years and knowing the key was lost.

Chapter 11

Time drifted for Jonas.

By now had he been at home, he would have been overseeing the cat’s last visit to the flower beds, then checking the locks, front and back, and he would already have folded away the maps on which they based their vacations . . . He had not yet advised Vera that, all being properly in place, they would have done the journey by this time the next day and would be tucked up in the caravan: she might have had a celebratory sherry and he might have opened a beer, low alcohol. Liked that route past Stonehenge: it was always best when the sun was about to set and the stones were in silhouette, or dramatic when the sun had gone and the moon had risen . . . He allowed himself to grin, no mirth, because if the weather stayed as now – steady rain – there would be no setting sun and no rising moon.

His phone beeped in his pocket. The American from that base in the Gulf. Appreciated the call but had imagined it would come when the matter in hand was settled. He did not gush thanks, never did, seldom thanked those who came back to him, but it would have been deep into the small hours where he was soldiering and likely he had been up all night annotating the information . . . more pegs going into the holes and the picture gaining greater focus . . . Kami al-Britani had been coded as Kilo Bravo One. A German woman was listed as Kilo Bravo Two, and an Estonian was Kilo Bravo Three. There had been a South African and a Ukrainian, four and five. The Canadian national was Kilo Bravo Six, and there was a Belorussian who the intelligence analysts had labelled as Kilo Bravo Seven. He listened carefully to the distant voice, did not interrupt.

“So, Kilo Bravo One was the focus point of the group and the others were his shock force, his inner circle. They would have seen themselves as brothers – yes, we did that at military college, your King Harry and the “band of brothers”, élite and special. Grand while it lasted, and what I’ve dug out has them in retreat from Barghuz and probably with the intention of disappearing, heading off to new territory, then hunting down another enemy to scrap with. Trouble was the “disappearing” and the “heading off” failed. Began to be degraded. The file says that Kilo Bravo One lost all his siblings, one after the other. By the time he quit the scene and went off our radar he was alone, our assessment . . . You got a feed on him, Mr Merrick?”

“Just sniffing for him. I’ll call you if it becomes pungent. Please, some guidance.”

“Shoot, Mr Merrick.”

“I believe I already have the answer but what annoyed them most?”

“Made them mess their pants? It’s the eye in the sky. They even started buying up big quantities of kitchen tin-foil, what the lady back home wraps meat in before it goes in the oven. Could not get their hands on the big sheets that they drape over marathon runners at the final line. They thought that the foil would deflect the heat-seeking kit on either the camera lens or on the Hellfire guidance, would shield them. They learned otherwise . . . That eye up there and the soft sound drove them fair to distraction. The top weapon we had. The Russians just dropped heavy ordnance, and the Syrians put barrel bombs out of choppers. Both were Stone Age compared to what we and your people used. Answered?”

“Very clearly. Good night.”

No small talk, nothing about the weather down in Qatar, about the state of the beach and whether the sharks were friendly. He switched off. He did not do a running commentary and would only call the AssDepDG when he had something to tell him: not his concern if the man sweated.

Footsteps approached. Not the ones he expected, but a lurching, stumbling giant. A guy making it back from the pub down in the village and he paused behind them. Pissed against a tree, finished and grunted and struggled to get his zip back up, and then must have realised that the car had folk in it. Would have had a good evening in the pub and was everybody’s friend. Jonas did not do enough stints outside, and was ignorant of how to send an unwelcome visitor on his way. The man was at the driver’s window, belched and then tapped it. The window came down and he must have thought that his luck was in place and chat would be good. An armed cop wearing a bulletproof vest and with heavy stuff on his lap . . . Could he be of any assistance?

The answer came “Just fuck off, and fuck off fast.”

A response that Jonas thought appropriate, and more footsteps. The drunk stumbled away, and the policewoman returned. She settled in her seat. Turned. Passed him a dog lead. He heard panting, then saw a lolling tongue over her shoulder and smelled its foul breath. He thought it was a spaniel.

Jonas said, “I suppose they thought we needed a dog as well as a lead. Not true. Only need a lead. If we have use for a dog it will be later, not now . . .”

She said, “Disabled owner, needs two sticks for walking. She’s Rosie, that’s the dog. Doesn’t get the exercise it should. And a thermos, tea without sugar, and a half pack of biscuits.”

He had the lead and opened the door. The dog was settled on her thighs and wriggled and must have found it uncomfortable to share her lap with an H&K assault weapon. He stretched, asked that they