The firing stopped, and Susan said: ‘I think we got him. Anyway, he’s vanished. Oh – oh – he’s back – no, this is another guy, different headdress. How-the-fuck-many of them are up there?’
In the brief quiet Tamara again heard someone shout: ‘Al-Bustan!’
Susan used her radio to call for urgent reinforcements and an ambulance for Pete.
There was another exchange of fire between the soldiers and the high bridge, but both sides had good cover and it looked as if no one was hit.
They were pinned down and helpless. I’m going to die here, Tamara thought. I wish I’d met Tab a bit sooner. Like five years ago.
On the pedestrian bridge, the jihadi with the gaunt face reappeared, on the riverbank where the parapet ended and the roadbed of the bridge blended into the stony ground, only about twenty yards away. As she moved the sights towards him he got down on the ground, and she knew he was about to lie flat and take careful aim and shoot at all of them sheltering under the cars, something she felt sure he would do with no remorse.
She had only a second or two to do something about it. Without thought she got the man’s face in the sights of the pistol, looking through the notch of the rear sight and getting the white dot of the forward sight between his eyes. Some distant corner of her mind marvelled at how calm she was. The barrel of her pistol followed the slow downward movement of the man’s head as he settled to the ground, moving quickly but not hastily, knowing as she did that anything but a quietly calm shot was likely to miss. Finally, he steadied himself and gripped his rifle and brought up the barrel, and then Tamara squeezed the trigger of her Glock.
The gun kicked up, as it always did. Calmly she brought the muzzle down, and re-sighted on the head. She saw that there was no need for a second shot – the man’s head was shattered – but she squeezed the trigger anyway, and her round smashed into a motionless body.
She heard Susan say: ‘Good shooting!’
Tamara thought: Was that me? Did I just kill a man?
The other jihadi appeared farther along the riverbank, running away with his rifle in his hand.
Tamara shifted her position so that she could see the high bridge, but there was no way to tell whether the shooters were still there. She could hear the sounds of trucks and cars continuing to pass. She noticed the throaty roar of a high-powered motorcycle: if there were only two shooters they might have fled on that.
Susan was thinking along the same lines. She spoke into her radio. ‘Before you deploy to the pedestrian bridge, check the road bridge in case any of the shooters are still there.’
Then she spoke to the soldiers under the green car. ‘Stay where you are while we find out whether they’ve all gone.’
Most of the commuters had now exited the pedestrian bridge on the far side. Tamara could see some of them clustered around a scatter of buildings and trees, peeping around corners, waiting to see what would happen next. The two border guards in their bright shirts appeared at that end of the bridge but hesitated to cross back.
Tamara began to think it might be over, but she was willing to lie here all day until she felt sure it was safe to move.
A US army ambulance came racing along the dirt road and pulled up behind the green car.
Susan shouted: ‘All guns take aim at the high-bridge parapet, now!’
The three soldiers who were still unhurt rolled from under their car and took cover behind other vehicles, aiming their rifles at the high bridge.
Two paramedics jumped out of the ambulance. ‘Under the green car!’ Susan yelled. ‘One man with gunshot wounds.’
No shots were fired.
The paramedics brought a stretcher.
Tamara stayed where she was. She watched the remaining jihadi running along the riverbank. He was almost out of sight and she guessed he was not coming back. The two border guards began to walk cautiously back across the bridge. They had their pistols out, too late. Tamara muttered: ‘Thanks for your help, guys.’
Susan’s radio squawked and Tamara heard a distorted voice say: ‘All clear on the road bridge, colonel.’
Tamara hesitated. Was she willing to bet her life on a fuzzy radio message?
Of course I am, she said to herself. I’m a professional.
She rolled out from under the car and got to her feet. She felt weak, and would have liked to sit down, but she didn’t want to look like a wimp in front of the soldiers. She leaned on the fender of the Peugeot for a moment, staring at the bullet holes. She knew that some rifle ammunition could smash all the way through a car. She had been lucky.
She remembered that she was an intelligence agent and she needed to glean any available information from this incident. She said to Susan: ‘Ask if there are any bodies on the high bridge.’
Susan put her radio to her mouth and asked the question.
‘No bodies, but some bloodstains.’
One or more wounded men had been driven away, Tamara concluded.
That left the one she had killed.
Determinedly, she stepped towards the pedestrian bridge. Her legs felt stronger. She walked up to the body. There was no doubt that the jihadi was dead: his head was a mess. She took his gun from his unresisting hands. It was short and surprisingly light, a bullpup rifle with a banana-clip magazine. There was a serial number on the left side of the barrel near the join with the frame. Tamara recognized the gun as having been made by Norinco, the China North Industries Group Corporation, a defence manufacturer owned by the Chinese government.
She pointed the gun at the ground, pulled the magazine release rearward and disengaged the banana clip, then opened the bolt and took out the chambered round. She put the banana clip and the single round into the pockets of her trucker jacket, then she carried the unloaded rifle back to her ruined car.
Susan saw her and said: ‘You carry that like it’s a dead dog.’
‘I just pulled out its teeth,’ said Tamara.
The paramedics were loading the stretcher into the ambulance. Tamara realized she had not even spoken to Pete. She hurried over.
Pete looked ominously still. She stopped and said: ‘Oh, Christ.’
Pete’s face was pale and his eyes stared upwards.
A paramedic said: ‘Sorry, miss.’
‘He asked me for a date once,’ Tamara said. She began to cry. ‘I told him he was too young.’ She wiped her face with her sleeve but the tears kept coming. ‘Oh, Pete,’ she said to his lifeless face. ‘I’m sorry.’
*
A switchboard operator said: ‘I have Corporal Ackerman’s father on the line, Madam President. Mr Philip Ackerman.’
Pauline hated this. Every time she had to speak to a parent whose child had died in the armed services, it wrenched at her heart. She was forced to think about how she would feel if Pippa died. It was the worst part of her job.
‘Thank you,’ she said to the operator. ‘Put him on.’
A deep male voice said: ‘This is Phil Ackerman.’
‘Mr Ackerman, this is President Green.’
‘Yes, Madam President.’
‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Pete gave his life, and you gave your son, and I want you to know that your country is profoundly grateful to you for your sacrifice.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I believe you’re a firefighter, sir.’
‘That’s right, ma’am.’
‘Then you know about risking your life for a good reason.’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t ease your pain, but I can tell you that Pete’s life was given for the defence of our country and our values of freedom and justice.’
‘I believe that.’ There was a catch in the man’s voice.
Pauline judged it was time to move on. She said: ‘May I speak to Pete’s mom?’
There was a hesitation. ‘She’s very upset.’
‘It’s up to her.’
‘She’s nodding at me.’
‘Okay.’
A woman’s voice said: ‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Ackerman, this is the president. I’m very sorry for your loss.’
She heard the sound of sobbing, and it brought tears to her own eyes.
In the background the husband said: ‘You want to give me the phone back, honey?’
Pauline said: ‘Mrs Ackerman, your son died in a tremendously important cause.’
Mrs Ackerman said: ‘He died in Africa.’
‘Yes. Our military there—’