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 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 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.