Free Personal Protection (A Spider Shepherd Short Story) by Stephen Leather Page A

welcome to it,’ said Rusty sourly.
    ‘So what happens here?’
    ‘Workwise? Not a lot. The Regiment has a permanent cell here, but it’s only two guys - grey-beards like me seeing out the last few years of service before being pensioned off. There are a few Scalies to run the signals equipment and deal with messages to and from the Head Shed in the UK.’ Scalies was short for Scaleybacks, in reference to the radio equipment the signallers carried on their backs like turtle shells.
    ‘So if it’s that quiet, why is the Regiment here at all?’ Jimbo said.
     ‘Partly because historically we’ve used the Base Military hospital here as a stopover to repair guys ill or injured on operations in Africa and the Middle East before sending them on to the UK, but that’s about it.’
    ‘And the other reason?’  
    ‘Because of those.’ Rusty pointed towards the radomes on Mount Troodos, just visible through the heat haze.  ‘Being here gives the Regiment prime access to the intelligence generated through the listening station up there. It’s run by GCHQ on behalf of us and the Yanks. Just about every terrorist organisation in the Middle East maintains an office on Cyprus. It’s a convenient centrally located meeting place where they can launder their money and arrange the purchase of weapons, and it’s also useful as a jumping off point to gain access to Europe through Greece. So both the UK and the US maintain a good sized security presence on the island, but life here is nowhere near as interesting as that makes it sound, at least as far as we’re concerned. Most of the time we’re just watching the grass grow and the dust blow. It’s bloody frustrating. I’m out in a few months and I need to be back in the UK working on my contacts, getting onto The Circuit so I’ve a job lined up for when I hit civvy street, not twiddling my thumbs and counting down the days to my retirement in a dead end job on a sunbaked rock in the middle of the Med.’
    ‘Why did they send you here then?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Punishment detail?’
    Rusty smiled. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you, but it’s mainly because I speak fluent Arabic and, having worked all over the Middle East - Oman, Jordan, the UAE and a couple of places we don’t talk about - I know the culture too. I guess they thought that if you’re going to carry out surveillance on Arab terrorists, it probably helps if you can understand what they’re saying to each other.’
    ‘So that just leaves the question of what we’re doing here,’ Shepherd said. ‘Because none of us speaks a word of Arabic.’
    Rusty spread his hands wide. ‘On that one, your guess is as good as mine. While you’re waiting to find out, you can work on your suntan or go windsurfing and wake-boarding down at the Lemming Beach Club at Happy Valley, or even clubbing at Ayia Napa if that appeals. When I first came here, back in the day, before I’d even joined the regiment, Ayia Napa was just a sleepy little village, with the most perfect beach you’ve ever seen a couple of miles down a one-track dirt road. Nissi Beach was a horseshoe-shaped cove with a little rocky island just off-shore that you could walk through the shallows to reach. The water was crystal clear and as warm as a hot bath.  That’s all still true, but back then there was a small camp-site and a grass-roofed beach-hut where you could buy a beer or an ice cream, and that was it. Now Nissi Beach is wall to wall with high rise hotels, and Ayia Napa is all amusement parks, bars and vomit-strewn streets full of stag and hen nights, clubbers and pissed up squaddies.’
    Jock shook his head. ‘Bloody hell, Rusty, you must be even older than you look. Ayia Napa’s been like that as long as I’ve been passing through here.’
    ‘Sounds perfect,’ Jimbo said, ‘I might take a look tonight.’
    ‘I won’t,’ Shepherd said, ‘I can see enough pissed-up teenagers in Hereford without going looking for them here as