The Birthday Girl (13 page)

She switched the headlights off as she got within a half-mile of her house, put the car in neutral and switched the engine off THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 99 as she approached the driveway, coasting the last hundred yards into the garage.

Buffy was out of her basket as soon as she heard the kitchen door creak open. She wagged her tail furiously and barked with delight, but Mersiha clamped her hands around her muzzle. 'Hush!' she hissed. Buffy struggled, trying to get free, but Mersiha tightened her grip. 'Be quiet,' she whispered. Buffy put her tail between her legs, not sure why she was being punished, but Mersiha didn't release her until the dog had calmed down. She pointed to the basket and Buffy obeyed, looking at her mistress with sad eyes, hoping for a sign that her anger was only temporary. Once the dog had curled up and put her nose on her tail, Mersiha stroked her behind the ears. 'Good girl,' she whispered. 'That's a good girl.' Buffy's tail flickered but she kept low in the basket and made no sound.

Mersiha put the car keys back on the hook by the door and tiptoed through the hall to her father's study. She closed the door quietly and then opened the gun cabinet and took out the HK-4's case. Working quickly and quietly, she reassembled the gun in its original configuration and put the barrel, spring and magazine she'd used back in their compartments. She stared at the case, checked that nothing was missing, then closed it and put it back in the cabinet, resetting the combination lock. Then she opened the safe in the floor and put back the unused ammunition. She put the key back in the bottom drawer and crept back upstairs to her bedroom. Ten minutes later she was fast asleep.

Freeman was buttering toast when Mersiha came downstairs, still in her nightdress. 'Hiya, pumpkin,' he said. 'You're up early.'

'So are you,' she said, taking one of the slices of toast.

'Hey, that's mine,' he laughed. She raised her eyebrows and took a big bite, then handed it back to him. 'That's okay, keep it,' he said. He patted his stomach. 'I guess one piece is enough for me. Katherine says I could stand to lose some weight.'

'You look fine,' she said, 'for a dad.'

'What do you mean, for a dad?'

'You know,' she said, sitting down and pouring herself a mug of coffee.

'I'm not sure that I do. Do you want jelly?' Freeman still had difficulty referring to strawberry jam as jelly. To Freeman, jelly conjured up images of the green wobbly stuff with whipped cream on top, served at birthday parties to screaming children. To Americans, jelly meant jam, and to make it worse they often insisted on eating it with peanut butter.

Mersiha shook her head. 'I mean, you're in great shape - for someone your age. You know what I mean.'

'Thanks, pumpkin.'

'Now you're mad at me. That's what I get for being honest.'

Freeman scraped some of the butter off and put the dirty knife in the sink. That should save at least twenty calories, he thought. 'I'm not mad,' he said.

Mersiha giggled. 'If it makes you feel any better, Allison Dooley said she thought you were kinda cute.'

'Yeah? Which one's she?'

Mersiha popped the last morsel of toast into her mouth. 'The girl I have riding lessons with. Short mousy hair, braces. Acne like you wouldn't believe.'

Freeman grinned. 'Enough. And don't talk with your mouth full,' he said, wagging a finger at her.

'I've finished,' she said, wiping her hands on a piece of kitchen roll. 'So why are you up so early?'

Freeman sat down at the table and stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. 'We've organised a demonstration for a group of overseas buyers over at the Aberdeen Proving Grounds. I've got to get there early to help set things up. What's your excuse?'

'English test. I need some last-minute cramming.'

'Yeah? What's the subject?'

'Thomas Wolfe. We've been reading You Can't Go Home Again.''

Freeman nodded. 'It's a good book. One of the great American novels.'

'I've never understood why Americans keep calling their language English.'

'They're probably too lazy to change it,' Freeman said, as Katherine walked into the kitchen.

'Too lazy for what?' she asked, patting Mersiha on the head.

'Nothing,' Mersiha said. She stood up and went back upstairs.

Freeman picked up his briefcase and kissed Katherine on the cheek. 'Today's the big day. Keep your fingers crossed.'

'Sure, honey.' She opened the door for him and patted him on the shoulder as he went out, the way a mother might say goodbye to a child. There was something vaguely condescending about the gesture and Freeman wondered if she was annoyed with him. He wished that he had time to talk to her, but he was already behind schedule.

He drove north to the Aberdeen military base, calling Anderson on the car phone to confirm that he'd be there by eight o'clock. Anderson was in one of the company vans and was just driving on to the base. Aberdeen had once been a thriving military town, with tens of thousands of soldiers and support services, everything from softball leagues to amateur dramatics, but it had shrunk to little more than a token presence. Another victim of the peace dividend.

By the time Freeman arrived, Anderson was supervising the setting-up of the observation area, little more than a temporary stage on which seats would be placed, and a backdrop illustrating the MIDAS equipment under large letters spelling out: Minefield Immediate De-activation System.

Two of the firm's technicians were planting smoke grenades on a prepared area of turf several thousand metres square. Freeman went over and nodded his approval. 'Hiya, Tony,' said one of the technicians, a portly, balding man called Alex Reynolds who had been with the company for twenty-six years. 'This is the big one, right?'

'It'll be great if it comes off, so don't spare the grenades,' Freeman said. 'Lots of smoke, lots of bangs.'

Anderson walked over and slapped Freeman on the back. 'Hiya, Tony. You ready?'

'Sure,' Freeman said. 'Are the VIPs all taken care of?'

Anderson nodded. 'I wined and dined them and dropped them at their hotel at one o'clock in the morning. I thought Arabs didn't drink, but these guys were really putting it away.'

'I hope they don't arrive with hangovers,' Freeman said.

'Don't worry. It'll be just fine. One of their generals was telling me that the sale's a foregone conclusion, they're only over here because they wanted to visit New York so that their wives could do some serious shopping.'

'So we're an excuse, is that it? Great. Just great.'

Anderson grinned. 'Listen to what I'm saying, will you? They're going to buy the system no matter what happens today. They'd have bought it sight unseen. I can handle these guys, they were eating out of my hands last night.'

'Not the left one, I hope.'

'Come on, guys, I've got to concentrate on these,' Reynolds said. 'They're only blanks but I could still lose a hand.'

Freeman nodded and he and Anderson walked back to the observation platforms. 'They're going to be picked up in limousines?'

'Stretch limos. Stop worrying.'

'And you've got back-up systems, just in case?'

'I've got a dozen in reserve. Come on, relax. Hey, what do you call a castrated blind elk with no legs?' Freeman shrugged. 'Still no fucking eye-deer,' Anderson said.

Freeman smiled at the bad joke and wiped his hands on his trousers. 'Look at this, the sweat's pouring off me. Do you think we should get fans or something?'

'Tony, they're fucking Arabs. They're not gonna be worried about the heat.' He stood in front of Freeman, his hands on his hips. 'Do you want me to handle this? You're not looking well.'

'No, it's okay. I'm just a bit under the weather, that's all.' He looked up at Anderson and forced a smile. 'Really, I'll be fine.'

Anderson didn't look convinced. 'I'm gonna give the systems a final once-over, just to be on the safe side. I think worry's contagious.'

Freeman sat back in the chair, his hands clasped behind his neck as he surveyed the testing area. Anderson was right. The equipment wouldn't fail, and the buyers would be impressed.

It was as safe as money in the bank. He was worrying about nothing.

The delegation arrived promptly, ferried from the Peabody Court Hotel in two black stretch limousines. Anderson had even arranged for their country's flag to be flying from the car aerials. Freeman looked over at Anderson and nodded his approval. It was a nice touch.

There were six men in the party, two of them in flowing white robes, three in green military uniforms with golden epaulets, rows of medals and matching black moustaches, and the youngest wore a sharp Italian suit and carried a black leather briefcase. Anderson had seen the man open the briefcase at the hotel and he'd gleefully told Freeman that it contained cash bundles of hundred-dollar bills. They greeted Anderson like a long-lost brother and shook hands with Freeman. Freeman introduced them to Josh Bowers. The Arabs greeted him with curt nods. It was clear that they regarded him as a hired hand.

Anderson ushered them to their seats and handed them leather bound folders containing the company's latest promotional literature and photographs of the MIDAS equipment being used by Thai troops on the Cambodian border.

'Gentlemen, thank you for coming,' Freeman said. 'Over the next half-hour we hope to persuade you that MIDAS is the system of choice when it comes to quick, efficient breaching of minefields.'

From a table to his left, Freeman picked up a dummy landmine, a plastic disc the size of a side plate. He held it up. 'The modern landmine,' he said. 'Plastic container, filled with explosive, no metal parts to be detected by traditional means. Cost to the buyer, a little over three dollars. Cost to the infantry crossing the minefield - at best a wounded man who needs immediate evacuation, at worst a dead soldier or disabled equipment. Dropped from helicopters, scattered from planes or missiles, huge areas can be blanketed with mines which 104 STEPHEN LEATHER then remain deadly for decades. Anti-personnel mines can slow down advancing troops, or can be used by terrorists for maximum disruption at minimum cost.'

Freeman threw the mine on to the ground in front of him. It was a dummy, but he had to suppress a smile when he saw one of the generals flinch. 'What is needed is a cost-effective system that can neutralise such fields without the need for specialised units,' he continued. 'The beauty of the MIDAS system is that it can be carried and utilised by standard ground troops with a minimum of training.'

Two of Freeman's employees, men who worked on the MIDAS production line, stepped out of one of the trailers, dressed in desert camouflage fatigues and black combat boots. They were carrying Ml6s and on their backs were MIDAS haversacks in matching camouflage material.

'Picture the scenario. A platoon, isolated from its main force, finds itself cut off by a minefield. Enemy troops are close behind, time is running out. In the normal course of events, it would take more than five hours to clear a path just a hundred metres long. The platoon would be lost. But with MIDAS, it's a different story.'

The two men jogged to the edge of the prepared area. 'The clock is ticking,' Freeman said. The men knelt down, put their rifles on the ground and slipped off their haversacks. They opened the haversacks and each lifted out a plastic tray. From the tray they each took out a grey bulbous projectile, about the size of a bottle of washing-up liquid. There was a fitting on the bottom which screwed into the barrel of their rifle, and they installed them with quick twists. 'Thirty seconds,' Freeman said.

The men lay on the ground, pointed their rifles over the field and turned to look at Freeman. He nodded, and a second later both men fired. The projectiles soared into the air in a puff of smoke accompanied by a dull, thudding explosion. They arced through the air, pulling a line behind them which whistled as it unwound from the bottom of the haversacks.

'The rocket-assisted projectile pulls two hundred metres of explosive line behind it,' Freeman explained as the projectile fell to the ground. 'Because of the rocket's on-board gyroscopic THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 105 guidance system, the line shows a deviation of less than one degree from its intended trajectory. Forty-five seconds have passed.'

The men took small metallic pistol grips from the haversacks and looked across at Freeman again. He nodded, and they pressed small rubber switches on the sides of the grips. The explosive lines detonated, kicking up earth and grass and creating plumes of black smoke. The detonation was accompanied by a series of explosions and puffs of white smoke as the grenades went off. The wind was coming from the east and it blew the smoke to the side, away from the observation platform. Freeman had insisted that Anderson check the wind direction in advance.

'The explosive line clears a path over a metre wide through the minefield, simultaneously detonating all mines close to die line and those that are tripwire-activated. In less dian one minute our platoon has two metre-wide paths through the minefield.'

The two men picked up the haversacks and their Ml 6s and jogged along the cleared paths to the other side of the prepared field. At die far end they turned and waved their weapons above their heads.

Freeman turned back to the observers. 'And that, gentlemen, is the MIDAS touch.' He smiled to show that he knew it was a bad joke. The Arabs looked at him blankly so Freeman quickly continued. 'Several of the systems can be used together to provide a path for vehicles, or to clear airfields that have been immobilised. The MIDAS system comes complete widi markers to define the cleared padi, and a dozen lightsticks so that it can be followed at night.'

He looked across at Anderson to see if there was anything he hadn't covered. Anderson nodded his approval. Freeman clasped his hands together at waist level as he addressed the visitors. 'I can confidently say that our mine clearance system is more effective, more economical and more portable than any produced by our competitors. In addition, we can guarantee immediate delivery on any order up to five hundred units and our production line is capable of assembling new units at the rate of one hundred a week.' One of the military 106 STEPHEN LEATHER officials put up a black gloved hand to stifle a yawn and Freeman realised that it was time to draw the presentation to a close. 'If there are any questions, we'd be more than happy to answer them.'

The Arabs looked at each other, but no one had anything to say. Five minutes later they were in their limousines, heading for the airport.

'What do you think?' Freeman asked Anderson as they watched them go.

'Piece of cake,' his partner said.

'The military guys seemed bored.'

'That's just their way. They don't want to appear too keen, that's all. Their order will be on my desk before the week's out.' He sniffed and pinched his nose.

'Are you okay?' Freeman asked. Anderson's eyes looked red, as if he'd been rubbing them.

'Head cold,' Anderson said. 'I've got some medicine back at the office.'

'Hell, you should take the rest of the day off. You've earned it. Go to bed with a couple of whiskies, sweat it out.'

'Yeah, maybe I will,' Anderson said. 'You can hold the fort?'

Freeman pulled a face. 'What's to hold?'

Anderson held up an admonishing finger. 'I won't listen to this. You're turning into Mr Gloomy again.'

'Go home, Maury.'

Anderson slapped him on the back and went over to the car park where he'd left his white Corvette.

Freeman went over to the field where Alex Reynolds was patiently disarming and digging up the smoke grenades that hadn't been detonated during the demonstration. 'You did a good job, Alex,' he said.

'It's a great system. They'd be crazy not to buy it,' Reynolds said. 'What do you think?'

Freeman looked across to the car park, where Anderson was over-rewing his Corvette. 'I don't know, just keep your fingers crossed.'

# #

He spent the rest of the afternoon in his office deciding whether or not to book exhibition space for an arms show that was being organised in Berlin later in the year. It was important to keep the product on display - advertisements were all well and good, but they produced little in the way of hard orders. The arms shows were where the buyers went with their cheque books and shopping lists, and there was even an element of impulse buying among some of the Third World countries, especially once they realised that Freeman's company wasn't averse to paying 'commissions' to middle-men. But the shows were getting increasingly expensive, and there was no shortage of exhibitors. Following the break-up of the Soviet Union, dozens of new suppliers were flooding the market with products, some of them military surplus but much of them new equipment at prices well below those of Western manufacturers.

Far Eastern manufacturers were also trying to capture a bigger share of the market, and as most of them were subsidised they happily paid the extortionate charges the organisers were asking. Freeman's company didn't have the luxury of a government hand-out, and every penny counted. The smallest exhibition area at the Berlin show cost more than three thousand dollars a day, and that was before travelling and hotel expenses, plus the cost of shipping their equipment across the Atlantic. He read through the glossy brochure and studied the layout of the exhibition hall. On the back was a list of exhibitors who had already signed. The big boys were all there - multi-billion-dollar corporations from the United States and Europe such as McDonnell Douglas, General Dynamics, British Aerospace, Plessey, Thompson CSF, and Deutsche Aerospace - and dozens of firms from all over the Far East were represented. Mitsubishi Heavy Industries had taken out a huge stand close to the refreshments area, a shrewd move. Chinese firms had already pre-booked five per cent of the space, and Freeman recognised one of them as being a rival manufacturer of mine clearance systems.

He knew that he had no choice, so he pulled out a company cheque book, made a cheque out for the deposit, and filled out the application form, requesting a small stand close to the main entrance. He dropped the envelope in his out tray and picked up his briefcase.

He drove home, his brow furrowed. His mind wasn't on the road and he almost clipped a car as he switched lanes on the highway. He waved an apology to the driver, a blue-rinsed old woman who was eating a hamburger as she drove with one hand, and forced himself to concentrate. It wasn't easy. The firm's financial problems kept creeping back into his thoughts, insidiously at first, a nagging worry at the back of his mind that wouldn't go away, but kept on growing until all he could think about was the negative cash flow, the salary bill and the lack of orders. He began to have imaginary conversations with possible buyers, his bankers, and with Anderson, and before long he was talking to himself out loud. He caught a truck driver looking at him and realised how it must look, a mumbling middle-aged man with a face like thunder. He turned the radio to a station playing classical music, hoping that would calm him down, and hummed quietly as he drove the rest of the way home.

{Catherine's Toyota wasn't in the garage but the back door was open so he guessed that Mersiha was home. He dropped his briefcase on his desk, then called up the stairs, asking if she was there. She came running down the stairs and hugged him, then grabbed his hand and pulled him into the kitchen. 'Do you want a beer, or a soda?' she asked.

Freeman said he'd have a Coke and she took a can from the refrigerator, poured it into a glass for him and then sat down with him at the kitchen table. 'How did it go?' she asked.

Freeman reached over and ruffled her hair. It always amused him how much interest she showed in his business. 'No way of telling,' he said. 'We pulled out all the stops and they made appreciative noises, but the only thing that counts is if they come through with an order.'

'When will you know?'

'When the order arrives. Until then we just have to wait.'

'They're being inscrutable, huh?'

'It's the Chinese who are inscrutable. The Arabs are just impossible to read. Speaking of reading, how did the English test go?'

'It was a breeze.' She switched into a halting mid-European accent. 'Now I speak English good, yes?'

'Mersiha, you never spoke English like that, not even when I first met you.'