the demand from law enforcement and military training units all over Europe.
‘You want to break down for the group how you just did that?’ Jeff asked Ben.
‘We need to look beyond the accepted principles of combat shooting in order to become really fast and accurate,’ Ben told the class. ‘Forget what you’ve been taught about focusing on the sights of the weapon. And don’t think too much about it. When you’ve shot enough to develop the right reflexes, muscle memory will bring the firearm to alignment instantly and without conscious thought. Even at twenty-five metres we’ve found it’s possible to get good, solid hits in less time if you let the sights fuzz out and focus on the target instead. You’ll also have better peripheral vision awareness of hostage movement or additional threats. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ came the muttered replies from the group.
‘Let’s try it again,’ Jeff said.
‘Just like old times,’ Jeff said to Ben as the class broke up for lunch.
Ben said nothing, because he knew Jeff was angling for him to stay on permanently. He didn’t want to commit to anything. His plans were unchanged: to wait a couple more days to let things settle down in Paris, return there to finish doing up the apartment, and go looking for an estate agent.
But Ben privately couldn’t deny that, after a few days back at Le Val, it was beginning to feel like home again, almost as if he’d never left the place. Initially, he’d resisted Jeff’s invitation to get involved with the training side of things, and instead made himself useful elsewhere. He’d helped the decorators finish painting the new classroom building, driven into Valognes in the old Land Rover to fetch supplies, and mended part of the perimeter fence that had blown down. The rest of his time, he’d spent sitting by the fire in the farmhouse kitchen smoking cigarettes and reading with a glass of wine at his elbow, or revisiting his old running tracks through the wintry Normandy woodland with Storm trotting along at his heel. In the evenings, he and Jeff dined together and drank more wine and talked about everything except Ben’s coming back to work at Le Val.
Tuesday Fletcher, the new recruit, was a dynamic addition to the team. He had a quick wit, a lively manner and a ready smile that dazzled away the wintry cold and drumming Normandy rain. Ben liked him at once, and watching him spatter cherry tomatoes for fun at six hundred metres with an L96 sniper rifle, he had no problem conceding to the younger man’s superior marksmanship skills.
‘Sorry to hear what happened on your selection,’ Ben said to him as they were packing the gear away in the armoury room.
Tuesday shrugged. ‘Just one of those things. Would’ve been nice to have been the first black kid in the SAS.’
‘I always used to think it was wrong that we didn’t have any,’ Ben said.
‘Don’t know what they’re missing. We’re great for night ops. Nobody can see us coming in the dark,’ Tuesday joked.
‘Tuesday – is that a nickname?’
‘Nope. It’s what it says on my birth certificate.’
‘Seriously?’
Tuesday laughed and gave another of his patented room-brighteners. ‘I was born Tuesday, March third, 1992. Mum said they called me that so I’d have a birthday every week instead of just once a year like all the other kids. Truth is, she wanted to call me Troy and Dad wanted Sam. After I was born they fought over it for six weeks, until they were about to get fined for not registering me quick enough. So they both caved in and just called me after the day of the week I popped out. If that hadn’t happened they’d still be fighting over it now. Stubbornness runs in the family.’
Join the club, Ben thought.
That got Ben back to thinking about his own family. Jude was on his mind a lot over those days, as he reflected about the past and all the regrets he had about the way he’d handled things. If there was a league table for fathers, they’d have to invent a new bottom place just for Ben. The only thing he’d ever given Jude was the birthright of his own wild temperament. Hardly much of a legacy to pass down from father to son.
It was painful to contemplate all the ways he’d been such a letdown as a parent, just as it hurt to think about all the missing parts of their relationship. He’d never seen the boy grow up, never got to know him properly, or had the chance to do the things a father should do to bond with his child. He’d inherited Jude just as Jude had inherited him, two strangers brought together by a tragedy brutally foisted on them by the car crash that had ended the lives of Michaela and Simeon Arundel. Ben missed them both deeply, but he knew that Jude’s pain was deeper still and would never go away. Yet they’d barely ever talked about it. Ben regretted that too.
He wished Jude could be here now. He blamed himself for having missed him before his departure, and was trying not to blame Jeff for not having told him sooner that Jude was at Le Val, even if he understood Jeff’s reasons. Then, of course, there was the undeniable fact that Ben hadn’t exactly made himself easy to get in touch with. But seven whole weeks! If he’d only known, he’d have been here. They could have spent that time together. Maybe tried to start again.
Or maybe it would just have made things worse. He worried that it was too late to try and repair things between him and his son, just as it was probably too late for Ben to fix the profound rift between him and his ex-fiancée, Brooke Marcel. Ben already believed in his heart that Brooke would never speak to him again.
If Jude never wanted to either, then Ben would just have to accept that, too.
On the morning of the fourth day since leaving Salalah, the Svalgaard Andromeda completed its south-westerly route down the Yemeni coast and arrived dead on schedule at the Port of Djibouti. Under the watchful eye of the bosun and a sun so searingly hot that the sky was burned almost white, Jude and the rest of the crew laboured and sweated for most of the day unloading cargo. When the gruelling toil was finally done, word came down from the captain that they were free to hit port for a few hours that evening before setting out again the following morning.
Condor and Mitch were first off the ship, in gleeful search of cheap beer and loose women – both of which, being old hands on the East Africa run, they knew exactly where to find in sufficient quantities to gorge themselves to the maximum. Even the dour-faced Scagnetti was smiling at the prospect of being let loose on land for a while.
Jude resisted all invitations to come ashore and have a good time with a polite smile and a ‘That’s okay, you go and have fun.’ He spent the evening instead in his cabin, relaxing with a book. The next morning, he was predictably one of the only crew members who wasn’t suffering a thudding headache and queasy stomach from a serious night on the town. Nobody had been stabbed, robbed, or detained by the port police. Scagnetti appeared to have managed to go the whole night without getting into any bar brawls.
The ship departed from Djibouti shortly after 9 a.m. and cruised back out into the infinite blue on a north-easterly bearing that would carry them around the Horn of Africa before turning south.
Mid-afternoon, the first of that day’s incidents occurred.
Jude was far forward on the cargo deck, one of a small party of mostly hungover and groaning ABs working to clear up after the previous day’s unloading,
