The three men had hardly said a word to each other since they left the training camp. Doles had nodded off for most of the journey in the van. Hank felt tired, but not enough to sleep just yet. He was aware Stratton had not slept either and wondered what was on the man’s mind. He had the feeling something was troubling him; perhaps it was the responsibility of the operation. Hank was tempted to start a conversation but couldn’t think of a way into it, past that invisible wall, which discouraged anyone from getting too close.

But Doles seemed to be close to Stratton. They had a connection of some kind. Hank thought about striking up a conversation with him instead. Doles had the potential to be quite the chatterbox. Hank still had difficulty understanding his Scottish accent though, and when he did found him to be quite opinionated, or perhaps it was just the forceful way he talked. The man had a habit of talking at you rather than with you. But Hank felt it would only be a positive thing to get to know him better, and indeed all of the men, including Stratton. As he pondered what he might open with, Doles beat him to it.

‘Long time since I was in France,’ he said without looking at Hank. ‘It was during the Falklands war . . . Christ, I was still a single man in those days. Seems like yesterday.’

‘You were in France during the Falklands war?’ Hank asked, curious.

‘Aye. Bastards were sending Exocets to the Argies even after that lying turd Mitterand promised Thatcher he wouldn’t send any more. And he bloody well knew it because his bloody brother was chief executive of the company that made the bloody missiles.’

‘What were you doing there, or can’t you say?’

‘Christ. It was more’n two decades ago . . . They were shipping the Exocets across France and through Italy and then loading them on to Peruvian merchant ships that would then deliver them to the Argies. We were minutes from blowing one batch of missiles to hell when Thatcher called us off. She had a change of heart about taking the war into Europe. Bastards wouldn’t even give us the frequencies of the Exocets they sold to the Argies either. As far as I’m concerned the fucking frogs sunk our ships and killed our sailors as much as the Argies did.’

Hank thought he understood most of what Doles had said. One or two more heavily accented words had escaped him but he’d got the gist of it. Hank knew very little about the Falklands conflict and even less about European politics.

‘And to think those bastards were Scotland’s allies against these Sassenachs for hundreds of years,’ Doles went on, nudging Stratton with his foot at the word ‘Sassenach’. Stratton raised an eyebrow at Doles then went back to looking into the blackness. Hank wondered if Stratton liked Doles or just put up with his familiarity. He started to wonder if Stratton had a family, brothers and sisters, and what he was like with his folks.

Doles nudged Hank.‘You Americans don’t like the French much either, ain’t that right?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know any French people myself.’

‘They were all that stood between you lot still having a Union Jack for your national flag. I don’t understand why you and the French aren’t big pals. Strange bloody lot if you ask me. Mind you, can’t expect much else from a race that’ll eat anything that bloody moves. Ain’t that right, Stratton?’ Doles said, nudging him with his foot again. Stratton’s only indication that he heard Doles was a slight smile.

Doles mellowed as his thoughts drifted to another time and place. ‘My first girlfriend was French. I met her a week before my SBS selection course. She was an au pair for a Rupert and his wife on the officers’ married patch just across the field from the camp. I met her on Hamworthy beach. She was absolutely, staggeringly fucking gorgeous. A bloody ten if there ever was one.’ Doles smiled as he pictured her lying there.

‘What happened to her?’ Hank asked.

‘A couple weeks after passing selection they sent me to play games in Central America. I was gone six months. I couldn’t write to her of course. It wasn’t cool to write to a girlfriend while on ops . . . When I got back to Poole she was gone. The officer she worked for had got a draft to 45 commando up in Arbroath and took his family with him. She didn’t go with them. I heard she waited around in Poole for a couple of months. She would go to the guardhouse about once a week and ask to speak to me. I don’t know if she even knew I was out of the country. Maybe she thought I didn’t want to speak to her . . . Anyway, then she left town and went back to France, I suppose.’

‘You never saw her again?’ Hank asked.

‘Yes,’ Doles said. ‘Once. About ten years after. I was walking up the steps into the pictures in Bournemouth with the missus and our two wee boys. She was coming out with some bloke. She recognised me right away and smiled, just a little . . . Great smile she had . . . No one else noticed but me and her. I looked back at her as she walked up the road, and she looked back at me.’

Doles drifted into silence.

‘That’s a pretty sad story,’ Hank said.

‘See, Stratton. Hank was touched. Not like you, you cold-hearted bastard.’

‘Wait till you’ve heard it a dozen times,’ Stratton said.

‘If it hada worked out you could be daddy to a couple of French kids by now,’ Hank said, emphasising the irony.

‘She wouldn’t have married him once she really got to know him,’ Stratton said.

‘Is that right? And what does that say about my missus?’ Doles asked, acting as if he had been insulted.

‘You’re Anne’s only flaw.’

‘Bastard,’ Doles said, without malice. ‘What’s your excuse for being single, then?’

Stratton went back to staring out of the window, as if Doles’s comment had cut the conversation dead. Hank was aware some kind of exchange had just taken place between them.

Stratton got to his feet and they watched him walk down the carriage and into the head.

‘Did you say something to piss him up?’

‘Piss him off, not up. No. I just raked up some old stuff that’s all.’

‘Would I be right in guessing woman problems?’

‘Depends how you look at it. He was almost married once.’

‘Almost?’

‘Quite a few years ago now. She was a fine lass. A nurse in Poole. Sally. A lot of fun . . . They were a great couple, ideal, know what I mean? Or so it seemed to everyone else anyway.They must’ve been together some four years I think . . . Four or five . . . Anyhow, something about the job started getting to him, inside his head. We used to hang out a lot. He was my best pal, you know what I mean? Anne and me, Anne’s my wife, and him and Sally would get together at least once a week. Then he started to change, didn’t want to hang out any more . . . Anyhow, one day Sally just up and left while he was away on a job somewhere. They had a nice little cottage together out in the sticks.When he came back she was gone. No letter, fuck all . . . Smart as he is I don’t think he’s ever quite understood why.’ ‘Do you know why?’ Hank ventured.

‘He got himself fucked up . . . He started thinking too deeply about things to do with the job. He forgot to stay detached I think.’

‘No chance of him getting back with Sally?’

‘No. She’s gone. She got frightened . . . Anyhow, he’s not ready for anything like that. He’s got to straighten some things out.’

Hank was intrigued. ‘A woman can change a man,’ he offered.

‘That’s true,’ Doles said.

Stratton exited the toilet and came back to his seat.

Doles stood. ‘I think I’ll have a wee piss m’sel,’ he announced and headed up the carriage.

Stratton went back to looking out of the window in silence. Hank decided this was as good a time as any to ask the question that had been niggling him.

‘Stratton?’

Stratton didn’t acknowledge him at first. ‘Stratton?’ Hank repeated.

Stratton looked at him as if he had just woken up.‘What?’ he said.

‘The driving exercise. When I ran into that buggy. Was I wrong? It’s been kinda bugging me - the buggy thing.’ Hank smiled at his childish play on words, despite Stratton’s blank look.

‘What do you think?’ Stratton asked.

‘Tell you the truth I ain’t sure. I did what I thought was right at the time. Then afterwards, the guys . . . well, I got the impression I’d screwed up, you know. Be kinda nice to know what you think.’

‘Would you do it again under the same circumstances?’

Hank thought about that a moment. ‘Let me ask you this first, if you don’t mind . . . Why’d everyone have to do those tests?’

‘Why’d you join Special Forces?’ Stratton asked.

‘I wanted to be a soldier and I wanted to be the best of the best,’ Hank replied.

‘You sound like a commercial,’ Stratton said.

Hank knew his answer was on the pathetic side but he did have a deeper, more meaningful one when in a serious mood. ‘I think a lotta guys don’t really know what they’re getting into when they join Special Forces. There’s no way you can truly know what it’s about till you join. Then you find yourself doing things you never imagined, no matter how much you’d heard about it before. For me, it’s not just a job. It’s a constant struggle to prove myself, and not only to myself, to the guys I work with.You know what I mean?’

‘Not really,’ Stratton said.

Hank felt that Stratton knew exactly what he meant even if it wasn’t how he felt about it. It was like a snub. Hank was suddenly unsure if he liked Stratton at all.The guy didn’t seem to have any respect for him.

‘Why’d you join SF?’ Hank asked.

‘I joined the Marines first because I had nothing else to do at the time. By the end of training I was disappointed. I looked at the guys I’d passed out with and thought I was better. Since I was stuck in the mob for a few years I decided to see what SF had to offer.’

‘What do you think about the job?’

‘It has its moments.’

‘Did it teach you anything about yourself?’

‘I learned that I like working by myself. Sometimes I get the chance.’

Hank decided he and Stratton were worlds apart. Hank liked being in a team. The team ethos appealed to him. He did enjoy the feeling of self-importance when he did small tasks alone but that was not what Stratton meant. Stratton meant he didn’t like working with people. There was a big difference in this business. Hank decided that’s what it was about Stratton, the shield around him. He was a lone wolf, nothing more complex than that.

‘So?’ Hank continued. ‘What about the test? You never answered my question.’

Stratton was staring out the window again. ‘It wasn’t a test,’ he said. ‘There are no exercise solutions.’

‘Then what was it all about?’

‘It was an opportunity for you to take a look at yourself. You can only do that under pressure. That’s when you know who you really are.’

‘So, there is no answer?’

Stratton looked into Hank’s eyes a moment then leaned forward. ‘It was a question, Hank, but not one I can answer for you. Every SF operative thinks he has a right to be in the job because he passed some tough selection course. But some of us are not as qualified as we like to think we are. Some of us don’t have what it takes and don’t know it because we don’t often get the chance to find out who we really are, and when we do it’s sometimes too late. You ran into that pram and killed a baby instead of yourself. You know a little bit more about yourself today than you did last week. That’s all.’

‘But I wouldn’t have done that back home, not in a normal day in my life. When I hit that buggy I was on ops.’

‘Hank. I don’t give a shit.’

Stratton sat back, ending the conversation. Doles returned, took his seat, and checked his watch. ‘Should be on the ground nicely for eight. Even have time for a spot of scran before the stake-out.’ He took a deep breath, exhaled, and closed his eyes as if the ritual was enough to set him off to sleep.

Hank was thinking about what Stratton had said and was still unclear if the man approved of what he had done yesterday or not. Stratton closed his eyes. Hank decided Stratton was the kind of guy no one got to know very well. He was in a different place to anywhere Hank had ever been or was likely to go.

The train burst out of the tunnel and Hank looked at the French countryside for the first time.The light was only just starting to creep over the horizon. He thought of Paris, what it looked like. All his images were from movies and all contained the Eiffel Tower. He closed his eyes. He would see Paris soon enough, but as a spy, kind of. That was neat. None of the guys back home had been a spy in Paris. His thoughts went back to the buggy and the baby flying out of it and he was confident he’d done the right thing, as far as military logic was concerned. But would he really have killed himself had it happened in civvy-street? he wondered. He truly couldn’t say. Hank decided that Stratton’s little exercise was bullshit. He didn’t believe he knew himself any better because of it.