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

well.’
    The SAS compound was in a corner of the base, wired off from the RAF section. There was the usual concrete admin building, still with its Cold War protection of berms and concrete blast walls, and offices the size of broom cupboards and a slightly larger briefing room. Surrounding it was a huddle of tents and Portakabins. ‘That’s yours,’ Rusty said, pointing to a converted shipping container screened from the sun by an awning and with a clanking, rusted air conditioning unit precariously attached to the outside.
    ‘All the comforts of home,’ said Geordie.
    ‘The canteen’s there.’ Rusty gestured towards a huge khaki tent on the far side of the office block, ‘or if you fancy something edible, there are food shops and cafes in Episkopi at the western end of the base area.’
    ‘And bars?’ Jimbo said, trying not to sound too eager.
    ‘I use the Beach Club at Happy Valley. There’s a spare Landy you can borrow to get down there.’
    Rusty left them to unpack their gear. ‘What’s Rusty’s story?’ Shepherd asked Jock.
    ‘He’s a bit of a legend,’ said Jock. ‘He’s one of the few to have worked undercover in Belfast. His Irish accent is pretty much perfect, Spud says. He was into some pretty heavy stuff over there in the early eighties.’
    ‘Shoot to kill?’ asked Shepherd.
    ‘That’s the story according to Spud,’ said Jock.
    ‘Let’s give him a few beers and see if he’ll tell us some war stories,’ said Jimbo.
    ‘I doubt that’ll happen,’ said Shepherd. ‘He didn’t seem the sort to go running off at the mouth.’
    Shepherd and the others stashed their kit in the shipping container and within half an hour they were stretched out on sun loungers on the sand in front of the Beach Club.
    ‘I’ve said it before,’ Geordie said, ‘and I’ll say it again: this is the life.’
    ‘Remind me, why are we here?’ said Jimbo.
    ‘Because our masters, in their infinite wisdom, have sent us here. Who are we mere mortals to question it?’ As usual, Jock’s low, growling voice and impenetrable Glaswegian accent made even the most anodyne statement sound like a declaration of war. ‘People pay good money to come here on holiday and we’re here for nothing, courtesy of HMG. So stop your whingeing and enjoy it.’
    ‘I’m not whingeing, I’m just wondering how long we’ll get to enjoy it before we’re re-tasked.’
    ‘The longer the better as far as I’m concerned,’ Shepherd said. ‘After a couple of months in Sierra Leone, rescuing diamonds from the mercenaries for HMG - and getting bugger all thanks for it - we’re due a bit of downtime. With a bit of luck they might even forget we’re here. If we stay long enough, we’ll not only get a sun tan, we might even get a bit of skiing in the mountains as well. Now pass the Ambre Solaire and get the beers in.’
    ‘I hate to tell you this, but it’s your round,’ Jock said.
    Shepherd sighed and shook his head. ‘You’ve tried that scam on once too often, you tight-arsed, tartan-wearing, bagpipe blowing, Irn Bru supping, deep fried Mars Bar guzzling git. It’s your round and don’t give me the old “I’ve forgotten my wallet” line either because I can see it in your pocket’.
    ‘That’s not his wallet, Spider, he’s just pleased to see you,’ Geordie said with a laugh. ‘Anyway, when you two drama queens have finished arguing about who’s paying for it, mine’s a pint.’
    Jock departed for the bar, still grumbling.  Shepherd lay back and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his body.  He was just starting to unwind when a shadow fell across his face. ‘About time too, Shepherd said. ‘I’ve got a thirst you could flaming photograph.’
    ‘So glad you’re pleased to see me.’ They were not Jock’s gravel-throated tones, and the accent was English upper-crust, not Glaswegian. ‘After what you said to me last time we met, I wasn’t sure what kind of welcome I’d