FLYING FORBIDDEN FLAGS / Chapter 1

FLYING FORBIDDEN FLAGS CHAPTER 1 He was awake, his body wet with sweat and shivering in the cool night air. The nightmare hung on the fringes of his mind, and he knew that if he dropped back into sleep the nightmare would envelop him once again - he would be back on the same grim battlefield, unable to move, staring mesmerised at the column of tanks grinding relentlessly towards the spot where he stood, absolutely alone, friendless, bereft of colleagues or anyone at all to support him as he waited with only an automatic rifle to stop the onslaught of all that armoured metal.
     It was always the same dream; only the tanks ever changed. Sometimes they came in the shape of a German panzer brigade, surging across the plain of northern France like a scene from a old newsreel. Tigers, Panthers, Leopards - blitzkrieg tanks with predatory names. Nazi panzerwagens camouflaged in mud-green and mud-brown, with arrogant black and white swastikas on their turrets and death's-head pennants straining against the wind as the tanks screamed towards him across the plain. Then it would be old Russian T52s decorated with grim red stars pounding shells into shattered buildings as they pushed the Germans from the snow-covered mortuary that had been Stalingrad.
     Sometimes it was even the Americans. World War II Shermans with ground troops sheltering behind the tanks as the armoured column advanced. And in his dream he would see jaunty Yankee helmets with macho chin straps casually undone, hear the sound of Glen Miller in the air. String of Pearls and American Patrol. Friendly, cheerfull, Yank music, that everyone associated with the allied side. But even Uncle Sam's flamethrowers were meant for him.
     Challengers. T72s. Abrams M1s. Up-to-date dinosaurs clad with scales of reactive armour to neutralize incoming shells. New-age battle-machines with servo-controlled gun turrets that tracked him with computerised accuracy. His subconscious could be relied upon to conjure up an impressive variety of tanks.
     Yet no matter how the tanks differed, the rest of the nightmare was always the same. He stood rooted to the spot, alone, with only his rifle to prevent the assault, a futile David standing his ground against an armour-plated and invincible Goliath.


Malcolm Richardson swung his legs out of the bed and fumbled for his clothes.
     It was always the same before going out on a job. The planning was complete, everything under control, the thing organised until it felt almost trivial, routine, but there was no escaping the build-up of adrenaline. On the day he always woke in the early hours with the same nightmare in his mind.
     He picked up his jeans and sweat shirt from where he had discarded them the night before, and then without bothering to look for socks, slipped his feet into a pair of scuffed training shoes. His old rucksack was in the bottom of the wardrobe, and he dragged it out and made his way through the kitchen to the rear door of the bungalow. Outside the moon illuminated the forecourt of the garage with its ancient petrol pumps and run-down workshop. The faded sign above the workshop doors caught the full strength of the moon's rays. STATION-SERVICE ST-JEAN-DU-BOIS, proprietaire M. Richardson.
     He fumbled in his pocket for the key to the workshop doors, trying to concentrate on the task he had to do next, but the nightmare still hung on the fringes of his mind.
     It seemed so inappropriate. He was no David going out to challenge a Golliath: there was no glory in the job he was going to do that day. He was going to kill someone, a simple murder with no ideological purpose to dress it up so that there would seem to be some excuse. But this was a new age. The Twentieth Century was over, and all revolutionary ideals had long ago been cast aside.
     Malc sucked in his breath. Once there had been something to believe in, a sense of purpose where the end justified all conceivable means. The death of an individual could have been rationalised, a step on the great march of progress, but today the death of Ibrahim Youssef had no significance at all. It was just an event, a casual hit for which his old friend Hamid would be grateful and - because Hamid was aware that nothing came for free in this new post-modern age - would swell the balance of his bank account.
     'You don't have to do it,' Hamid had said, taking a quick nervous drag at his cigarette.
     Hamid's fingers were stained with nicotine, but then Hamid was a good Moslem and couldn't use alcohol to steady his nerves.
     'It's up to you, Malc. But Brahim would recognise anyone connected with the organisation. It has to be somebody from outside.'
     Of course he had agreed: that was what old colleagues were for. Once upon a time he and Hamid had been both friends and colleagues, although that had been long ago when he could make common cause with a liberation fighter who believed in a Palestine that was to be socialist and free. But things were different now. The dreams of a socialist future were dead and buried long ago, and any sort of Palestine would have to do if Hamid was to see it in his lifetime.
     'The man is not particularly important in himself. But that's not the point at issue here.'
     Hamid ground out the stub of his cigarette and reached for another. It was a Camel. Hamid always smoked Camels.
     'On one side, it's a question of example. Brahim is using his position in the organisation for his own ends, and it would be unhelpful if he were to be seen to get away with it. But there's a much more important aspect. Brahim is using contacts which were established for the benefit of the movement. It's a sensitive issue. Some of the people we rely on might withdraw their support if they thought their facilities were being used to move drugs.'
     Hamid had taken another nervous drag at his cigarette.
     'Look, Malc... We can make other arrangements. I wouldn't want to jeopardise your situation, just for Brahim.'
     Then Hamid had laughed, but there had been no humour in the laugh.
     'Friendship's a strange thing, MaIc. Here am I arranging for you to take care of Brahim, and yet he was a friend of mine as well once.'


Sunk into the concrete floor of the workshop was a maintenance pit, the bottom covered with a layer of oily sludge. Malc dropped a short length of plank into the pit and then took a screwdriver from a tool rack on the wall. He lowered himself down carefully to avoid the oil, and positioned his feet on the plank. With great care he began to lever out a brick at one end of the pit. The brick came out easily and he slipped his arm through the opening and removed a collection of packages wrapped in polythene which he placed on the edge of the pit. They were like old friends, each package with its own weight and feel that identified the contents. Guns, amunition magazines, 9mm cartridges in sealed waxed boxes, plastic.
     He sorted out the packages, putting some in his rucksack, and stacking others in a pile ready to be replaced in the cavity before he resealed the entrance with the brick. Ha was still thinking about his conversation with Hamid. So why had he agreed? Was it just for old times sake? Just for nostalgia, to be involved in something once again? He shivered once more although he knew it was not in the least cold. His mind was turning back the time, filling up with images of the times he had spent with Hamid which now seemed so long ago. Brothers in arms! Hamid had said. We'll fix them, Malc!
     He remembered the tanks.
     That had been a true nightmare, there had been nothing dream-like about the tanks he and Hamid had faced that day. Those tanks had been definite, material entities, real tanks about which there could be no mistake.
     1982, the invasion of Lebanon by the Israelis, the so-called Operation Peace for Galilee. A whole brigade had been on the move: columns of Israeli tanks moving up the baking-hot roads into the Lebanon. Fedayeen fighters throwing everything they had against the Israeli tanks, but there was little to stop the tanks targetting the village houses where the fedayeen were making their stand. Shells were exploding, removing whole walls so that the roofs collapsed. Then the fedayeen were falling back as they tried hopelessly to contain the might of Israel grinding up from the Galilee.
     He had been with the remnants of Hamid's group, positioned a few miles back along the road. Hamid had been beside him, the two of them crouching at the edge of the sun-dried bunker, staring out across the arid hills of southern Lebanon and the road from the Galilee along which at any moment the Israeli tanks could be expected to appear. A wind had begun to lift the sand, and then suddenly his heart had jumped as he had seen the outline of the tanks growling towards him through the swirling sand the wind was carrying across the road.
     He had never seen tanks close up before, and he had held his breath as he listened to the screech of metal tracks on metal wheels and the high-octane crackle that came from glowing exhausts as the tanks moved cautiously up the road. His grenade launcher had been tight against his shoulder, Hamid's hand on his arm, restraining him from firing until the range was right. Then the pressure on his arm had gone.
     He had glanced up. Hamid was standing at the edge of the bunker, upright, oblivious of danger, the ever-present cigarette in his mouth, calmly waiting for the right moment as the tanks approached.
     Now! Hamid had said, and his eye had refocussed once more along the sights. But as he had felt the grenade launcher kick against his shoulder, all he had really seen had been Hamid's chequered headscarf fluttering like a solitary flag in the breeze blowing up from the Galilee.
     And from then on he would have done anything for Hamid.