Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [39]
* * *
‘Their main concern, not surprisingly, is that they will be paid.’
It was cold in the warehouse and it smelled of spice. Ace’s eyes were having trouble adjusting to the dim interior after the brilliant sunlight outside. Miss David stood beside Ace, not bothering trying to conceal her contempt for the men in the room. They stood or sat on the wooden crates that filled the front section of the small building. Their clothes were counterfeits of Western designer jeans and T-shirts. There were six of them, all in their late twenties or thirties. They were mercenaries, Kurds who had been displaced by warfare since their early childhood. The four‐wheel‐drive vehicle they’d arrived in was parked at the back of the warehouse, just inside the mechanical wings of the folding garage doors. It was a Suzuki with what looked like a modification for mounting twin fifty‐calibre machine guns over the front windscreen. The two Kurdish leaders were calling themselves Massoud and Dfewar. Ace didn’t necessarily believe that these were their real names. It wasn’t going to be that kind of operation.
‘They would like some form of advance, or at least some sign that payment is guaranteed.’ Miss David looked like she would spit. ‘My advice to you is just tell them to go to hell.’
But Ace was already kneeling on the floor, opening her rucksack. One of the grey plastic cables fell on to the dirt floor and the Kurd named Dfewar instantly picked it up for her. He brushed it off and Ace gave him the other cables and the three‐and‐a‐half‐inch floppies. Dfewar was the technical expert. Ace didn’t foresee any problems with him. The other leader, the man called Massoud, remained sitting on a box of carpets and chain‐smoked Egyptian cigarettes, picking flakes of tobacco off his lips, occasionally looking at Ace and smiling politely.
Ace got up from the floor, brushing the dust off her knee. Some of the men averted their eyes. Not Massoud. He watched her closely as she moved and Ace suddenly found herself unpleasantly aware of the bare flesh of her arms and legs, the band of skin exposed by her knotted shirt. Gooseflesh prickled on her in the warehouse chill.
The attitude of Turks towards women was beginning to change under the reforms of President Erel, but the Kurds were a culture exiled within a culture. They held on to their traditional attitudes; it was about all they had left. Some of these men might not take kindly to accepting commands from a woman. If she was going to work with them effectively as a team she’d have to break the ice. Massoud was the weapons specialist; he’d be handling the explosives on their errand. It shouldn’t be hard to establish some common ground.
Ace reached inside her rucksack again and felt for the plasticized antislip surface of the hand grenade. Designed for use with sweating hands. Ace’s hand was dry as it closed over the grenade. She pulled it out. A grey egg shape with Korean script and a barcode on the flattened top. It looked like a designer soft‐drink can, except for the warning label, a favourite of Ace’s. Detonate Near Enemy. Ace tested the weight of the grenade in her hand for a moment, then casually lobbed it across to Massoud, sitting on his crate in the warehouse shadows. Ace knew he would catch the grenade, look at it with approval, then perhaps look up at her and smile. Then she would walk over and join him. They’d inspect the grenade together, perhaps have a technical discussion translated by Miss David. Mutual respect would break the ice. Then everything would be all right.
But Massoud didn’t catch the grenade.
It took him by surprise and his hand jerked up awkwardly. He caught the grenade on the point of his wrist, knocking it to the floor. As the grenade rolled across the packed dirt Massoud jerked his feet away from it. For a moment there was an unmistakable look of fear on his face. Ace saw it, and, much worse, the other men in the room saw it.
The Kurds were laughing. One of them reached down and