ight. I'd been wrong, the street lighting wasn't used now that there wasn't much traffic on it any more. We turned left, leaving the lock and Clayton behind us, travelling in silence. A distant arc of light in the night sky indicated the city, along with flashing red lights from the top of a profusion of communication towers. Aaron just stared straight ahead, swallowing hard. Before long we approached the floodlit toll booths by the old Albrook air-force base. The noise of the bus terminal blasted all | around us as power hoses washed the buses. A surprisingly large number of workers were waiting for transport, most holding small iceboxes and smoking. Aaron spent the best part of a minute fumbling in his pockets and the glove compartment at the toll booth. A bored, middle-aged woman just stared into space with her hand out, no doubt dreaming about getting on to one of those buses at the end of her shift. I let my head bob about as we bounced along the pot-holed road and into the sleeping city via El Chorrillo. A few lights were on here and there in the apartment blocks, and the odd scabby mongrel skulked along a sidewalk, then a black BMW screamed past us at warp speed. Five or six heads with cigarettes glowing in their mouths jutted backwards and forwards to the beat of some loud Latin music as it roared down the street. The BM had violet-coloured headlights, and a powerful fluorescent glow beneath the body work made it look like it was hovering. My eyes followed it into the distance as it hung a right, tyres squealing like something out of NYPD Blue. I looked over at Aaron. He probably wouldn't even have reacted if we'd been overtaken by the USS Enterprise. He screwed up his face and deep lines cut into his skin. He looked as if he was going to be sick again as we bounced along, turning right at the junction the BM had taken. Once more we drove past the Pepsi stand, barred up for the night, and into the market area. I thought I needed to say something to fill the silence, but I didn't know what. I just looked out at the rubbish overflowing from the piles of soaked cardboard boxes that fringed the square, and cats fighting over the scraps. In the end it was Aaron who broke the deadlock, wiping his nose into his hand before he spoke. "Nick ... ?" "What's that, mate?" I was almost too tired to speak. "Is that what you do kill people? I mean, I know it happens, it's just that-' I pointed down at the gollock in the foot well "I nearly lost my leg with that thing, and if he'd had his way, it would have been my head. I'm sorry, mate, there was no other way. Once we're the other side of the city, I'll bin him." He didn't reply, just stared intently through the windscreen, nodding slowly to himself. We hit the bay once more, and I saw a line of ships' navigation lights flickering out at sea. Then I realized Aaron had started to shake. He'd spotted a police car at the roadside ahead, with two rather bored-looking officers smoking and reading the papers. I gave myself a mental slapping, but not enough for him to see. I kept my voice calm. "Don't worry, just drive normally, everything's OK." It wasn't, of course: they might stop a beaten-up Mazda just to relieve the boredom. As we passed, the driver glanced up from his newspaper, and turned to say something to his mate. I kept my eyes on the cracked wing mirror, watching the four police cars as I spoke. "It's OK, mate, there's no movement from behind. They're still static. Just keep to the limit and smile." I didn't know if he responded. My eyes were glued to the vehicles in the mirror until they dropped out of sight. I caught sight of my face for the first time. It was a pleasant surprise. My left eye was half closed but not as swollen as it felt. I looked over again to see how Aaron was doing and the answer was, not good. He wasn't enjoying his visit to my planet one little bit. I wondered why and how he'd got involved in this shit. Maybe he'd had no choice. Maybe he was just like me and Diego, in the wrong place at the wrong time. We splashed our way through mini-Manhattan, where large neon signs flashed down from the top of buildings on to the wet tarmac below. It was a completely different world from El Chorrillo, and a whole galaxy away from what had just been happening in the old Zone. Aaron gave a small cough. 'You know what you're going to do with that guy yet, Nick?" "We need to hide him somewhere on the way to your place, once we're out of the city. Any ideas?" Aaron shook his head slowly from side to side. I couldn't tell whether he was answering or if it had just come loose. "We can't leave him to rot... God forbid. He's a human being, for God's sake." There was resignation in his voice. "Look, I'll bury him for you. There's an old tribal site near the house. No one will find him there. It's the right thing to do he's someone's son, Nick. Maybe even someone's father. The family in the picture, they don't deserve this." "No one goes there?" He shook his head. "Not in a few hundred years." I wasn't going to argue with that. If he wanted to dig a hole, that was fine by me. I got back to looking at the neon as he drove, and hoped that someone like him found my body one day. We came to the airport road toll booth the other side of the financial district, and this time I got out a dollar of my own money. I didn't want us standing still any longer than we had to. Diego would take quite a bit of explaining. He paid the woman with a sad "Gracias' and a thanks to me for giving him the money. This wasn't a good night out for him at all. The lights faded behind us as we hit the road out of town. I dug out the wallet again, hit the cab light and looked at Diego's family picture. I thought of Kelly, and the way her life would be if I died without sorting out the mess I'd created. I thought of all the things I'd wanted to say to her, and hadn't ever managed to. I wondered if his mum had wanted to say those things to her son, to tell him how much she loved him, or to say sorry about the stupid argument they'd had. Maybe that had been the stuff that had flashed through Diego's head in the moments before he died, things he wanted to say to these people raising their glasses at the camera as I killed him. The wind through my window got stronger as we gathered speed. I wound it up only half-way to keep me awake, and I tried to concentrate on what I'd seen on the CTR and get back to work. Instead, I found myself wanting to curl up like a seven-year-old, desperate to keep the night monster at bay. "Nick! The police! Nick, what do we do? Wake up! Please!" Before I'd even fully opened my eyes I was trying to calm him down. It's all right, don't worry, it'll be OK." I managed to focus on the VCP (vehicle checkpoint) ahead, set up in the middle of nowhere: two police vehicles, side on, blocking the road, both facing left. I could see silhouettes moving across the two sets of headlights that cut through the darkness. It felt as though we were heading straight into the Twilight Zone. Aaron's foot had frozen on the accelerator pedal. "Slow down, for fuck's sake. Calm down." He came out of his trance and hit the brakes. We'd got close enough to the checkpoint for me to see the side windows of the four-wheel-drives reflecting our headlights back at us. Aaron dabbed at the brakes to bring us to a stop. There was a torrent of shouts in Spanish, and the muzzles of half a dozen M-16s came up. I placed my hands on the dash so they were in clear view. Aaron killed the lights and turned off the engine as three torch-beams headed our way. The shouting had stopped, and all I could hear now was the thump of boots on tarmac. SEVENTEEN The three men who approached with M-16s at the ready were dressed in olive green fatigues. They split up, two going left, to Aaron, the other towards me. Aaron started to wind down the remaining half of his window. His breathing was becoming increasingly rapid. There was an abrupt command in Spanish as the nearest man shouldered his assault rifle. Aaron lifted his arse from the seat and searched around in his back pocket. I saw the red glow of cigarettes beyond the 4x4's headlights as figures moved about in the shadows. A green baseball cap and bushy black moustache shoved its way through Aaron's window and demanded something from me. I didn't respond. I didn't have a clue what he was asking and just couldn't dig deep enough for the energy to look interested. His M-16 swung round from his back and banged against the door. I saw sergeant's stripes and Tolicia' badges on his sleeve. "He wants your ID, Nick." Aaron presented his own. It was snatched away by the sergeant, who stopped shouting and stood back from the window, using his mini-Maglite to inspect the docs. "Nick? Your ID, please don't vex these people." I pulled out my plastic bag lethargically from under my jacket and rummaged in it like a schoolboy in his sandwich box, just wanting this to go away. The other policeman on Aaron's side had been standing behind the sergeant, his assault rifle shouldered. I heard boots behind the wagon, but couldn't see anything in the mirror. I gripped myself: What the fuck am I doing? Switch on! Switch on! My heart-rate pumped up a few more revs per minute, and at the same time as I looked in my bag I made a mental note of where the door handle was, and checked that the door-lock knob was up. Lethargic or not, if I heard the squeak of rusty hinges from the tailgate I'd be out and running. Handing my passport over to Aaron for the sergeant, I knew I was reacting too slowly to all of this. There's a body in the back, for fuck's sake! The sergeant was gob bing off about me as he looked at my passport with his Maglite. I only understood the odd word of Aaron's replies. "Britanico ... amigo vacaciones ..." He nodded away like a lunatic, as if he had some sort of nervous disease. The sergeant now had both our IDs in his hands, which would be a problem if I needed to do a runner. Without a passport, my only option was west, or the embassy. Straining my ears, I waited for the tailgate to open. I ran my hands through my hair, keeping my eyes on the door handle and visualizing my escape route, which wasn't exactly difficult: three steps into the darkness to my right. From there, I'd just have to take my chances. I was brought back to the real world by the sergeant bending down once more and pointing at my clothes as he rattled off something to Aaron. He replied with a funny, and forced a laugh, as he turned to me. "You're a friend and I picked you up from the airport. You wanted so much to see the rain forest so I took you in at the edge of the city. Now you never want to go in again. It was so funny, please just smile." The sergeant had joined in the laughter and told the other guy behind him about the dickhead britanico as he handed back the IDs. Then he banged the roof of the Mazda and followed the others towards the blocking wagons. There was a lot of pointing and shouting, followed by the roar of wagons being revved and manoeuvred clear of the road. Aaron was shaking like a leaf as he turned the ignition, but managed to appear relaxed and confident from the neck up for the police's benefit. He even waved as we passed. Our headlights caught four or five bodies lined up on their backs on the side of the road. Their clothes glistened with blood. One of the kids was still open-mouthed, arms flung out and eyes wide, staring up at the sky. I looked away and tried to focus on the darkness beyond the headlights. Aaron said nothing for the next ten minutes as we bounced along the pot-holed road, headlights lurching. Then he braked suddenly, pushed the selector into Park, and jumped out as if a bomb was about to go off. I could hear him retching and straining as he leant against the Bac Pac, but not the sound of anything coming up. He'd left it all at Clayton. I just let him get on with it. I'd done the same myself, when I first started: sheer terror engulfs you and there's nothing you can do but fight it until the drama is over. It's later, when there's time to think, not only about what's happened but, worse, what the consequences might have been if things had gone wrong that's when you part company with your last meal. What he was doing was normal. The way I had behaved back there wasn't, not for me. The suspension creaked as he closed the door, wiping his waterlogged eyes. He was plainly embarrassed, and couldn't bring himself to look at me. I'm sorry, Nick, you must think I'm a real pussy. Guys like you can handle this stuff, but me, I'm just not made for it." I knew that wasn't exactly true, but I didn't know how to say so. I never did at times like this. "I saw a couple of guys blown away a few years ago. I had nightmares about it. Then, seeing Diego's body and those kids back there hacked to death, it just..." "Did he tell you what had happened?" "It was a robbery. PARC. They cut them up with those things." He pointed down at the gollock. "It doesn't really make sense -they normally don't bother folks here. No money." He sighed, both hands on the steering-wheel, and leant forward a bit. "You see what they'd done to those kids? Oh, God, how can people behave like that?" I wanted to change the subject. "Look, mate, I think we'd better get rid of Diego. As soon as there's a bit of light we'll find somewhere to hide him. We can't go through that shit again." He lowered his head on to the wheel and nodded slowly. "Sure, sure, you're right." "It'll be OK, he'll be found sooner or later and buried properly..." We drove on. Neither of us wanted to talk about Diego or bodies any more. "What road are we on?" "The Pan-American Highway." It didn't feel like one. We were bouncing around in ruts and pot-holes. "Runs all the way from Alaska to Chile, apart from a ninety-three-mile break in the Darien Gap. There's been talk about joining it up, but with all the trouble in Colombia and the destruction of the forest, I guess we prefer it how it is." I knew about the southern part of the highway; I'd been on it enough times. But I wanted us to keep talking. It stopped me having to think. I leant down and rubbed the sweatshirt wrapped round my now very painful leg. "Oh, why's that?" It's one of the most important stretches of rain forest still left in the Americas. If there are no roads, that means no loggers and farmers, and it's kind of like a buffer zone with Colombia. Folks call it Bosnia West down there" The headlights were sweeping across each side of the road, illuminating nothing. "Is that where we're going, to the Gap?" He shook his head. "Even if we were, this eventually becomes not much more than a track, and with this rain it's just darned impassable. We're heading off the road at Chepo, maybe another ten minutes or so." First light was starring to edge its way past the corners of the sky. We bounced along for a while in silence. My headache was killing me. The headlights exposed nothing but tufts of grass and pools of mud and water. This place was as barren as a moonscape. Not much good for hiding a body. "There's not a whole lot of forest here, mate, is there?" "Hey, what can I say? Where there's a road, there's loggers. They keep on going until everything's levelled. And it's not just about money: the folk round here believe it's manly to cut down trees. I reckon less than twenty per cent of Panama's forest will survive the next five years. That's including the Zone." I thought of Charlie and his new estate. It wasn't just the loggers who were tearing chunks out of Aaron's jungle. We drove on as daylight spread its way gloomily across the sky. A primeval mist blanketed the ground. A flock of maybe a hundred big black birds with long necks took off ahead of us; they looked suspiciously like pterodactyls. Ahead and to our left I could see the dark shadows of trees, and I pointed. "What about there?" Aaron thought for a few seconds as we got closer, clearly disturbed again, as if he'd managed for a moment to forget what we had in the boot. "I guess so, but it's not that far to where I could do it properly." "No, mate, no. Let's do it now." I tried to keep my voice level. We pulled into the side of the road and under the trees. There wasn't going to be time for ceremony. "Want to help?" I asked, as I retrieved the gollock from under my feet. He thought hard. "I just don't want the picture of him in there, you know, in my head. Can you understand that?" I could: there were a whole lot of pictures in my own head I wished weren't there. The most recent was a blood-soaked child staring open-mouthed at the sky. As I climbed out the birds were in full song: daylight was nearly here. I held my breath, opened the back, and pulled Diego out by his armpits, dragging him into the treeline. I concentrated on not looking at his face and keeping his blood off me. About ten metres inside the gloom of the canopy I rolled both him and the wiped clean gollock under a rotted deadfall, covering the gaps with leaves and debris. I only needed to hide him until Saturday. When I'd gone, maybe Aaron would come back and do what he'd wanted to in the first place. It shouldn't be hard to find him; by then there'd be so many flies they'd sound like a radio signal. Having closed down the tailgate I got back into the cab and slammed the door. I waited for him to move off, but instead he turned. "You know what? I think maybe Carrie shouldn't know about this, Nick. Don't you think? I mean-' "Mate," I said, 'you took the words right out of my mouth." I tried to give him a smile, but the muscles in my cheek weren't working. He nodded and steered back on to the road as I tried to curl up once more, closing my eyes, trying to kill the headache, but not daring to sleep. Maybe fifteen minutes later we hit a cluster of huts. An oil lamp swung in one of them, splashing light across a roomful of faded, multicoloured clothes hung up to dry. The huts were made of breeze block with doors of rough planks nailed to a frame and wriggly tin thrown over the top. There was no glass in the windows, nothing to hold back the smoke from small fires that smouldered near the entrances. Scrawny chickens ran for cover as the Mazda approached. It wasn't at all the sort of thing I'd been shown in the inflight magazine. Aaron jerked his thumb over his shoulder as we drove past. "When the loggers leave, these guys turn up subsistence farmers, thousands of them, just poor people trying to grow themselves something to eat. The only problem is, with the trees gone, the topsoil gets washed away, and inside two years they can't grow anything except grass. So guess who comes in next -the ranchers." I could see a few minging-looking cows with their heads down, grazing. He jerked his thumb again. "Next week's burger." Without warning, Aaron spun the wheel to the right, and that was us quitting the Pan-American Highway. There were no signs on the gravel slip-road, just like in the city. Maybe they liked to keep the population confused. I saw a huddle of corrugated roofs. "Chepo?" "Yep, the bad and sad side." The compacted-gravel road took us past a scattering of more basic farmers' huts on stilts. Beneath them, chickens and a few old cats mooched around rusty lumps of metal and piles of old tin cans. Some of the shacks had smoke spilling from a clay or rusty metal chimney-pot. One was made out of six or seven catering-size cans, opened both ends and knocked together. Apart from that there was no sign of human life. The bad and sad side of Chepo was in no hurry to greet the dawn. I couldn't say I blamed them. The odd rooster did its early-morning bit as the huts gradually gave way to larger one-storey buildings, which also seemed to have been plonked randomly on any available patch of ground. Duckboards, instead of pavements, led here and there, supported on rocks that were half submerged in mud. Rubbish had been collected in piles that had then collapsed, the contents strewn. A terrible stink wafted through the Mazda's cab. This place made the doss house in Camden look like Claridge's. Eventually we passed a gas station, which was closed. The pumps were old and rusty, 1970s vintage, with an oval top. So much diesel had been spilled on the ground over the years that it looked like a layer of slippery tar. Water lay in dark, oil-stained puddles. The Pepsi logo and some faded bunting hung from the roof of the gas station itself, along with a sign advertising Firestones. We passed a rectangular building made from more unpainted breeze blocks. The mortar that oozed between the blocks hadn't been pointed, and the builder certainly hadn't believed in plumb-lines. A sinewy old Indian guy wearing green football shorts, a string vest and rubber flip-flops was crouched down by the door, with a roll-up the size of a Rastafarian Old Holborn hanging from his mouth. Through the windows I could see shelves of tinned food. Further up the road was a large wooden shack, up on stilts like some of the huts. It had been painted blue at one stage in its life, and a sign said that it was a restaurant. As we drew level I saw four leopard skins stretched out and nailed to the wall of the veranda. Below them, chained up in a cage, was the scrawniest big cat I'd ever seen. There was only enough space for it to turn round, and it just stood, looking incredibly pissed off as I would be, if I had to stare at my best mates pinned to the wall all day. I'd never felt so sorry for an animal in all my life. Aaron shook his head. There was obviously some history to this. "Shit, they're still got her in there!" For the first time I was hearing anger in his voice. "I know for a fact that they sell turtle too, and r?s protected. They can't do that. You're not even allowed to have a parrot in a cage, man, it's the law ... But the police? Shit, they just spend their whole time worrying about narcos." He pointed a little ahead of us and up to the left. We were driving towards what reminded me of an army security base in Northern Ireland. High, corrugated-iron fencing protected whatever buildings were inside. Sandbags were piled on top of each other to make bunkers, and the barrel and high-profile sight of an American M-60 machine-gun jutted from the one covering the large double gates. A big sign with a military motif declared this was the police station. Four enormous trucks were parked up on the other side of the station with equally massive trailers filled with stripped tree trunks. Aaron's voice was now thick with anger. "Just look at that first they cut down every tree they can get their hands on. Then, before they float the logs downstream for these guys to pick up, they saturate them in chemicals. It kills the aquatic life. There's no subsistence farming, no fishing, nothing, just cattle." We left the depression of Chepo behind us and drove through rough grassland cratered with pools of rusty-coloured water. My clothes were still damp in places, quite wet in others where my body heat wasn't doing a good enough job. My leg had started to feel OK until I stretched it out and broke the delicate scabbing. At least Aaron getting sparked up about what was happening in Chepo had diverted his mind from Diego. The road got progressively worse, until finally we turned off it and hit a rutted track that worked its way to some high ground about three or four kilometres away. No wonder the Mazda was in a shit state. Aaron pointed ahead as the wagon bucked and yawed and the suspension groaned. "We're just over that hill." All I wanted to do was get to the house and sort myself out -though from the way Aaron had rattled on in his eco-warrior Billy Graham voice, I half expected them to live in a wigwam. EIGHTEEN The Mazda rolled from side to side, the suspension creaking like an old brigantine as the engine revs rose and fell. To my surprise, Aaron was actually driving the thing with considerable skill. It seemed we had at least another hour and a half of this still to go so much for 'just over that hill'. We ploughed on through the mist, finally cresting the steep, rugged hill. The scene confronting us was a total contrast to the rough grassland we'd been travelling through. A valley lay below us, with high, rolling hills left and right, and as far as the eye could see the landscape was strewn with felled, decaying wood. The trunks nearest us were almost grey with age. It was as if somebody had tipped an enormous box of matchsticks all over a desert of rust coloured mud. The low mist within the valley made it eerier still. Then, at the far end of the valley, where the ground flattened out, maybe five or six Ks away, was lush green jungle. I couldn't work it out. We started our descent and Aaron must have sensed my confusion. "They just got fed up with this side of the hills!" he shouted above the wagon's creaks and groans. "There wasn't enough hardwood to take, and it wasn't macho enough for the hombres to take these little things away. But hey, at least there are no farmers, they can't clear all this on their own. Besides, there's not enough water down here not that they could drink it if there was." We reached the valley floor, following the track through the downed trees. It looked as if a tornado had torn through the valley then left it for dead. The morning sun was, trying its hardest to penetrate a thin layer of cloud. Somehow it seemed much worse than if the sun had been properly out; at least then it would have come from one direction. As it was, the sun's rays had hit the clouds and scattered. It was definitely time for the Jackie O look again. Aaron followed my lead and threw his on too. We carried on through the tree graveyard until we were rescued by the lush canopy at the far end of the valley. "Won't be long now," Aaron declared. "Maybe forty-five, fifty minutes." Twenty would have been better; I didn't think the wagon could take much more, and neither could my head. I thought it was going to explode. We were back in secondary jungle. The trees were engulfed in vines reaching up into the canopy. All sorts of stuff was growing between them and above the track. It felt like we were driving through a long grey tunnel. I took off my Jackie Os and everything became a dazzling green. Baby-G told me it was 7.37, which meant we'd been on the road for over four hours. My eyes were stinging and my head still pounding, but there wouldn't be any time for relaxing just yet. I could do all that on Sunday maybe, or whenever it was that I finally got to the safety of Maryland. First, I needed to concentrate on how I was going to carry out the hit. I needed to grip myself and get on with the job. But try as I might to think about what I'd seen during the CTR, I just couldn't concentrate. Aaron had been spot on. Forty-five minutes later we emerged into a large clearing, most of it lying behind a building that was side on and directly in front of us, maybe two hundred metres away. It looked like the house that Jack built. The clouds had evaporated, to reveal sun and blue sky. "This is us." Aaron didn't sound too enthusiastic. He put his glasses back on, but there was no way I was wearing the Jackie Os again not if I was about to see their owner. To my left, and facing the front of the house, was a hill with a steep gradient covered with more fallen trees and rotten stumps, with tufty grass growing between them. The rest of the clearing was rough, but fairly flat. We followed the track towards the large building, which was more or less on one level. The main section was a one-storey, terra cotta-roofed villa, with dirty green plastered walls. There was a covered veranda out front, facing the high ground. Behind the main building, and attached to it, was a corrugated-iron extension maybe twice as big as the house itself and with a much higher roof. On my right were row upon row of white plastic five-gallon tubs, hundreds of them, about two feet high and the same in diameter. Their lids were sealed, but sprays of different coloured plants of all shapes and sizes shot from a circular hole cut out of the middle of each. It looked like Aaron and Carrie were running the area's first garden-centre mega store I'd stepped on to the set of The Good Life, Panama-style. Dotted around us were corrugated-iron outhouses, with piles of wooden barrels and boxes, and the occasional rotting wooden wheelbarrow. To my right, past the tubs, was a generator under a corrugated-iron roof with no side walls, and at least ten forty-five-gallon oil drums. As we got closer I could make out down pipes leading from the gutters into green plastic water butts that ran at intervals the length of the building. Above the roof, supported on scaffolding, was a large blue plastic water tank; beneath it was an old metallic one, with all sorts of pipes coming out of it. A pair of satellite dishes were mounted nearby, one pointing west, one east. Maybe they liked to watch both Colombian and Panamanian TV. Despite the technology, this was definitely Planet Tree-hug; all I needed to complete the picture was a couple of milking cows named Yin and Yang. Now that we were nearer the house, I could see the other pickup truck, parked the far side of the veranda. Aaron hit the Mazda's horn a few times, and looked worried as Carrie emerged from the veranda, putting on her wraparounds. She was dressed the same as when I'd met her, but had gelled her hair. "Please, Nick not a word." The wagon stopped and he jumped out as she stepped down from the veranda. "Hi." I got out, ready to greet, squinting to fight both the glare and my headache. I took a few steps towards them, then stopped to give them some space. But there weren't any greetings, kisses or touches, just a strained exchange. Not thinking much, just feeling hot and bothered, I moved towards them. I put on my nice-and-cheery-to-the-host voice. "Hello." It wasn't gel that was holding back her hair; she'd just had a shower. She noticed my hobble and ripped jeans. "What happened? You OK?" I didn't look at Aaron. Eyes give so much away. "I walked into some sort of animal trap or something. I'm-' "You'd better come and get cleaned up. I've some porridge fixed." That sounds wonderful." It sounded shit. She turned to walk back to the house, but Aaron had other ideas. "You know what? I'm going to clean the truck out there's been a fuel spillage in the back and, well, you know, I'd better clean it out." Carrie turned. "Oh, OK." I followed her towards the house as Aaron's sun glassed eyes gave me one last look and nod before going back to the wagon. We were just short of the veranda when she stopped and turned once more. As Aaron moved the Mazda over towards the tubs, I could see my bitten, lumpy face and scary sticking-up hair reflecting back at me in her slightly mirrored glasses. The lenses were too opaque for me to see anything of her eyes. "Luce, our daughter, thinks you're part of aUK study group, and you're here for a few days to see how we work. OK?" "Sure, that's not a problem." I was going to have to do my best to look like a tree-hugging academic. I wished I could see her eyes. I hated talking to mirrored glass. "She knows nothing about why you're really here. Nor do we, come to that. She's asleep, you'll see her soon." She tapped her left lens and pointed at my swollen eye. "Don't worry about that. It'll be fine in a few days." NINETEEN I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open as we stepped across cracked, faded terra cotta tiles, past two dark wood Victorian rocking-chairs and an old rope hammock scattered with coffee- and dribble-stained pillows. The front door was open, and Carrie pulled open a mesh mozzie door with a creak of hinges. To the left, and set above a meshed window, was a wall light, its bowl full of dried insects, fatally attracted to its glow. I caught the screen before it sprang back, and followed her inside. We were in near darkness after the blinding brilliance outside, and there was a strong smell of wood. It was like being in a garden shed. I stifled a yawn; my eyes were trying to close, but I had to fight them. This was virgin territory and I had to take note of every detail. The room was large, with a high ceiling. Hefty tree trunks supporting the building were set into plastered walls, which had once been painted cream but were now scuffed and discoloured. It was furnished like a holiday let, basic stuff, a bit rough, and not a lot of it. Carrie was heading straight to another door, painted a faded yellow, about ten metres dead ahead. I followed as she took off her glasses and let them fall around her neck. To our left were four armchairs built out of logs, covered with dirty cushions with flowery patterns that didn't match. The chairs were evenly arranged around a circular coffee table, which was made from a slice of dark wood more than a metre in diameter. Trained over the coffee table and chairs were two 1950s-style, free-standing electric fans with protective wire covers. The chrome had seen better days, and it was a shame there was no ribbon hanging from the mesh to given them that authentic look. The wall to the left had two more doors, also painted yellow and set into flaking brown frames. The furthest one was partly open and led into what I presumed was their bedroom. A large natural wood headboard held one end of a once-white mosquito net; the other was suspended from the ceiling. The bed was unmade and I saw purple sheets. Men's and women's clothes were thrown over a chair. The wooden butt of a rifle hung on the wall to the right of the bed. I thought I'd keep it a little closer, living out here. Further along, in the corner, was the kitchen area, with a small table and chairs. An array of different-patterned mugs hung from hooks in the wall. On my right, the whole wall, as far as the door we were heading for, was covered by bookshelves. The only break was another window, also covered with protective mesh, which seemed to be the only other source of natural light. I began to smell porridge. Steam rose from a large pot sitting on one of the kitchen units to the side of the cooker. Next to it lay a big bunch of bananas and a bowl of oranges. Carrie disappeared through the door, and I followed her into the larger, corrugated-iron extension. The walls were lined with plyboard, and there was a rough concrete floor. Hanging down from the high ceiling on the end of steel rods were two old and very dirty days-of-the-Raj overhead fans, both stationary. The room was a lot hotter than the one we'd just left, but lighter, with large sheets of clear corrugated plastic high up in the walls serving as windows. The extension might be cheap and low-tech, but what it housed wasn't. Running the length of the wall in front of me and continuing after a right angle down the left-hand side was one continuous desk unit, formed out of trestle tables. On it, and facing me, were two PCs with webcams attached to the top of the monitors; in front of each was a canvas director's chair, the green backrests well sagged with use. The screen of the PC on the right was displaying an image of the Miraflores lock. It must have been a webcam online, because the screen was just at the point of refreshing itself to show a cargo ship half-way out of one of the locks. Going by the bright reflection in the puddles on the grass, we weren't the only part of Panama with sun. The PC to the left was closed down, and had a set of headphones with the mike attached hanging over the camera. Both machines were surrounded by paper and general office clutter, as was the underneath, with wires running everywhere and packs of office supplies. The desk against the wall to the left, facing me, housed a third PC, also with a webcam with headphones hanging, and was surrounded by schoolbooks. This had to be Luce's Land. Carrie turned immediately to the right through the only other door and I followed. We entered what looked like a quartermaster's store, a lot smaller than the other two areas and a lot hotter. It smelt like the local deli. Rows of grey angle-iron shelving lined the walls left and right of me, turning the middle into a corridor. Stacked each side of us were all sorts, cartons of tinned food, hurricane lamps, torches, packs of batteries. On pallets on the floor were bags of rice, porridge oats and milk powder the size of coal sacks. Enough supplies, in fact, to keep the Good Life going for a year. Laid out in the corridor was a US Army cot bed and a blanket, a dark green US Army lightweight still in its thin, clear plastic wrapping. That's for you." She nodded towards a corrugated-iron door facing us as she quickly closed the one to the computer room behind us, plunging this area into near darkness. "That'll take you outside. You'll be able to see better out there. I'll bring out the first-aid kit." I walked past her, dropped my jacket on the cot, then turned back to see her climbing up the shelves. "Could I see the imagery, please?" She didn't look down at me. "Sure." I went outside. The sun was casting a shadow on this side of the building, which was good as my head was thumping big-time and being in the full glare wouldn't help at all. The crickets were still out doing their stuff; they're not great for headaches, either. In front of me, two hundred metres away, lay the massed ranks of white tubs with their greenery sticking out of the top and the sunlight bouncing off puddles around them as the generator chugged rhythmically. Aaron was in the distance, where the tubs met the track, a hose in his hands, flushing out the back of the wagon. A flock of large black and white birds lifted from the tree-line beyond the tubs and whooshed overhead just above the rooftop. I slumped down on the concrete foundation that protruded along the wall, my back against one of the green water butts, and closed my eyes for a second, trying to relieve the pain. It wasn't happening so I opened the hole in my jeans to inspect the wound. The sweatshirt was still wet and muddy in the creases and knots, even after the clean-up in the drainage ditch. It had done the job of stopping the blood flow pretty well, though I couldn't be sure about infection. I'd had tetanus boosters, but probably only Aaron knew what kind of weird and wonderful microbes lurked in the Panama jungle. I checked out the clotting between the material and flesh: the two had been trying their hardest to dry together and become one, and the swollen bruising around the wound felt kind of numb. I knew from experience that this sort of injury would be a major drama if you were stuck out in the jungle for any length of time, becoming a pus-filled mound within days, but at least here I could sort it out. Carrie appeared from the storeroom with an old-fashioned, brown-cheque red suitcase and a sheet of A4 paper. She placed both on the concrete and lifted the suitcase lid to reveal what looked like quite a good basic medical pack. She came close in to look at the sweatshirt around my leg, and for the first time I caught a glimpse of her eyes. They were big, and very green. Her wet hair had fallen from behind her ears, and I was close enough to smell apple shampoo. She didn't look up at me, just carried on digging around in the case. Her voice was clear, concise. "So, what is it you're here for?" She started to pull stuff out; I wasn't too sure if she was going to dress the wound herself or just show me what was available. She didn't look up at me as she continued. "I was told nothing except that you'd be coming and we were to help." By now there were rolls of bandages in crunchy Cellophane, packs of pills and half-used bottles of medicine on the concrete as she continued to rummage. There's something we need Charlie to do. I'm here to give him a reminder." She didn't look up or otherwise acknowledge my answer. I looked at her hands as she bent over the suitcase and laid out different-coloured tubes of cream. They were working hands, not those of a lady who lunched. There were a few little scars here and there, but her fingernails weren't ingrained with dirt like Aaron's. They were short and functional, no hint of polish, but all the same they looked cared for. "Don't you know what you're here to remind him about? I mean, don't they tell you these things when you're sent out, or whatever the word is?" I shrugged. "I thought maybe you might know." "No, I know nothing." She sounded almost sad about it. There was another pause. I certainly didn't know what else to say, so pointed to the bits and pieces spread about on the concrete. "I need to clean myself up before I dress the wound. I'm afraid I don't have any other clothes." She stood up slowly, looking over at the wagon. "You can use some of Aaron's. The shower is out in back." She pointed behind her. I'll get a towel." Before reaching the door she half turned to me, "We have a two-minute rule here. First minute for soaking, then turn off the hose and soap yourself down. The second minute is to rinse. We get a lot of rain but seem to have trouble capturing it." She gripped on the handle. "Oh, and in case you're tempted, don't drink from the shower. Only drink from the hoses marked with a D that's the only treated water." There was a smile as she disappeared. "Otherwise it'll be giving you a pretty big reminder of why it needs to be treated." I took a look at the printout of the satellite imagery. Its grainy reproduction covered the whole page and was zoomed right into the target, giving me a plan view of the house, the more or less rectangular treeline and the broccoli patch surrounding it. I tried to get to work, but I couldn't do it even knowing how important this was to me, I just couldn't get my head to work. Instead, my eye caught one of the dark brown bottles of pills. The label said dihydrocodeine, an excellent painkiller, especially when taken with aspirin, which boosts its effect big-time. I shook one out and dry swallowed as I sorted in the case for an aspirin. Eventually, pushing one out of its foil, I got that down my neck as well. I placed one of the crepe bandages on top of the paper to hold it down, got up and started limping round the back in the direction of the shower. Maybe it was the light, or just that I was knackered, but I was feeling very woozy. Hobbling past the storeroom entrance, I looked in and saw that the computer-room door was still closed. I stopped and looked at the cot. It was old-style, canvas rather than nylon, on a collapsible alloy frame. I had good memories of these things: they were easy to put up, comfortable, and kept you about two feet off the ground not like the Brit ones, where you needed a physics degree to assemble them, and ended up only about six inches off the ground. If you got a saggy one, you could spend your night lying on cold concrete or with your arse in the mud. Some bird or other warbled and chirped in the distance, and the humid air was heavy with pungent aromas. I sat down on the cot, dragged Diego's wallet from my jeans and looked at the picture once more. Another nightmare for later, I supposed. It'd just have to join the queue. Aaron had finished and was driving back to the house. I got up and closed out the daylight, then stumbled back to the cot, still in my damp clothes, and lay down on my back, my heart pumping faster as my head filled with Kelly, bodies, Diego, more bodies, the Yes Man, even Josh. And fuck it, why had I told Carrie I was here to give Charlie a reminder? Why had I told her anything about the job at all? Shit, shit, shit... The pins and needles returned. I had no control as they moved up my legs and my skin tingled. I turned over and curled up, my arms holding my shins, not wanting to think any more, not wanting to see any more. TWENTY Thursday 7 September I walk into the bedroom, Buffy and Britney posters, bunk beds and the smell of sleep. The top bunk is empty as I move towards them in the dark, kicking into shoes and teen-girl magazines. She is asleep, half in, half out of her duvet, stretched out on her back, stretched out like a starfish, her hair spread in a mess over the pillow. I put her dangling leg and arm gently back under the duvet. Something is wrong ... my hands are wet ... she is limp ... she isn't sucking her bottom lip, she isn't dreaming of being a pop star. The lights go on and I see the blood dripping from my hands on to her mutilated face. Her mouth is wide open, her eyes staring at the ceiling. Sundance is lying on the top bunk, the bloodstained baseball bat in his hands, his eyes black and nose broken, looking down at me, smiling. 'I wouldn't mind a trip to Maryland ... we could go to Washington and do the sights first... I wouldn't mind a trip to Maryland ... we could go to Washington and do the sights first..." I cry, fall to my knees, pins and needles. I pull her from the bed, trying to take her with me. "It's OK, Nick, it's OK. It's just a dream ..." I opened my eyes. I was kneeling on the concrete, pulling Carrie towards me. "It's OK," she said again. "Relax, you're in my house, relax." I focused on what was happening, and quickly released my grip, jumping back on to the cot. She stayed down on the floor. The half-light from the living room illuminated a concerned face. "Here, have some." I took the half-empty bottle of water from her and started to unscrew the top, feeling embarrassed, my legs stinging with pins and needles. I cleared my throat. "Thanks, thank you." "Maybe you have a fever picked up something in the forest yesterday. See what it's like in the morning and we'll take you to the clinic in Chepo." I nodded as I drank, pushing back my soaked hair before stopping to take breath. There's some medication in the kit if you need it." "No, that's fine, thanks. How long have you been here?" "You just woke us, we were worried." She reached out and put the back of her hand to my forehead. "These fevers out here can make you maniacal." T was having a nightmare? I can't even remember what it was about." She started to get up as I pulled the wet sweatshirt away from my skin. "It happens. You OK now?" I shook my head to try to clear it. "I'm fine, thanks." "I'll see you in the morning, then. Goodnight." "Yeah, um ... thanks for the drink." She walked back into the dark computer room, closing the door behind her. "You're welcome." I checked my watch. 12.46 a.m. I had been out for over fourteen hours. Getting slowly to my feet, I squatted up and down, trying to get my legs back to normal while I had some more water. Then I ripped the plastic from the blanket, lay down and covered myself, blaming the drug cocktail for my doziness. Dihydrocodeine does that to you. I tossed and turned, eventually rolling up my jacket as a replacement pillow, but it didn't work. My body was telling me I still needed sleep, but I really didn't want to close my eyes again. Half an hour later I checked Baby-G and it was 03.18 a.m. So much for not closing my eyes. I lay there, rubbing my legs. The pain had gone, and I didn't feel as groggy as before. I felt around below the cot for the water-bottle. Blinking my eyes open, I drank to the noise of the crickets. I didn't want to lie and think too much, so decided to have a walkabout to keep my head busy. Besides, I was nosy. Pushing myself upright, I sat on the edge of the cot for a while, rubbing my face back to life before standing up and reaching for the light switch. I couldn't find it, so felt for the door handle instead and bumbled into the computer room, water in hand. The switch in here was easy to find. As the strip lighting flickered I saw that the living-room door was closed. I checked the darkness on the other side. The plyboard behind the two blank screens nearest me was covered with pinned-up printouts in Spanish, and handwritten messages on university letterhead, alongside Post-its with everyday stuff like 'need more glue'. This was how modern tree-hugging must be: out shovelling shit all day, then back to the PC to work out leaf tonnages or whatever. To the left of that was a cork board with a montage of photographs. All of them seemed to be of the extension being built, and of the clearing behind. A few showed Aaron up a ladder hammering nails into sheets of wriggly tin, some of him with what looked like a local, standing next to craters in the ground with half blown-up trees around them. Taking a swig of the water I walked over to what I assumed was Luce's PC. The school textbooks were American, with titles like Math Is Cool, and there was a Tower of Pisa of music CDs ready to play in the drive. The plyboard behind was covered with world maps, best-effort drawings, and pictures of Ricky Martin torn from magazines, along with a Latin band with permed hair and frilly shirts. I looked down at the desk and noticed her name scribbled on exercise books as kids do when they are bored -mine were always covered. Her name was spelt Luz. I remembered from my Colombia days that their Z is pronounced as S. So her name was the Spanish for 'light' it wasn't short for Lucy at all. I could feel the layer of greasy sweat over me as I headed for the living room, checking their bedroom once more before hitting the brass light switch the other side of the door. The room was lit by three bare bulbs, hanging on thin white flex that was taped to the supports. The cooker was a chipped white enamel thing with an eye-level grill and gas-ring hob. There was an old-style steel coffee percolator on the cooker, and various family-hug photos fixed to the fridge with magnets. Near it was a white veneer chip board dining-room set, with four chairs, that could have come straight out of a 1960s household and looked out of place in a world of dark hardwoods. I pulled two or three bananas from a bunch lying next to the oranges, and looked idly at the photographs while my back reminded me I'd been bitten big-time. The pictures were of the family having fun about the house, and some of an older guy in a white polo shirt, holding hands with Luz on the veranda. I peeled the skin off the second as my eye fell on a faded black and white picture of five men. One of them was most certainly the older guy with Luz. All five were in trunks on the beach, holding up babies in saggy nappies and sunhats for the camera. The one on the far left had a badly scarred stomach. I leant forward to get a closer look. His hair had been darker then, but there was no doubt about it. The long features and wiry body belonged to Pizza Man. Taking another couple of bananas off the bunch, I wandered over to the coffee table and sat down, resisting the temptation to give my back a good hard scratch, and trying not to make a noise. I put down the water and munched away. The slab of dark wood looked a good six inches thick, and though the top was polished, the bark around the edge had been left untouched. Strewn across it were tired-looking copies of Time magazine and the Miami Herald amongst glossy Spanish titles I didn't recognize, and a teen mag with some boy band posing on the cover. I sat, finishing off the bananas, while I ran my eye along the shelves. There was a selection of hardbacks, paperbacks, large coffee-table books and carefully folded maps. The well-worn spines covered everything from natural history to Mark Twain, quite a lot of American political history, and even a Harry Potter. But most seemed to be stern-looking textbooks on rainforests, global warming, and flora and fauna. I looked closer. Two were by Aaron. One of the shelves was given over to four hurricane lamps with already blackened wicks, and as many boxes of matches, lined up like soldiers on standby for the next power cut. Below that, two silver candlesticks and a silver goblet sat alongside a selection of leather bound books with Hebrew script on the spine. Finishing off the water, I got up and dumped the banana skins in the plastic bag under the sink and headed for the cot. I'd had a long rest but I still felt like more. I opened my eyes to the sound of the generator and a vehicle engine. I stumbled over the medical case as I made my way to the outside door. Blinding sunlight hit me, and I was just in time to see the Mazda heading into the treeline. As I held up my hand to shield my eyes, I saw Carrie at the front of the house. She turned to me, and I couldn't tell from her expression if she was smiling, embarrassed or what. "Morning." I nodded a reply as I watched the wagon disappear. "Aaron's gone to Chepo. There's a jaguar that's been caged up for months. I'll get you those clothes and a towel. You OK?" "Yes, thanks. I don't think I need to go to Chepo. The fever's gone, I think." "I'm fixing breakfast. You want some?" "Thanks, I'll have a shower first if that's OK. She moved back towards the veranda. "Sure." The hard standing at the rear of the extension was covered by an open-walled lean-to. It was obviously the washing area. In front of me was the shower, three sides formed out of wriggly tin, and an old plastic curtain across the front. A black rubber hose snaked down from a hole in the roof. Beyond it was an old stainless-steel double sink unit supported by angle-iron, fed by two other hoses, with the waste pipes disappearing into the ground. Further back was the toilet cubicle. Above the sinks were three toothbrushes, each in a glass, with paste and hairbrushes alongside a huge box of soap powder. An empty rope washing line was also suspended under the corrugated-iron awning, with wooden pegs clamped all along it, ready and waiting. A few of the white tubs were stacked up in the corner, one of them full of soaking clothes. The ground to the rear of the house sloped gently away so that I could just see the treetops maybe three hundred metres in the distance. Birds flew over the trees and a few puffy white clouds were scattered across the bright blue sky. I pulled back the plastic shower curtain, took off all my kit and dropped it on the hard standing, but left the sweatshirt bandage in place around my leg. I stepped into the cubicle, a rough concrete platform with a drainage hole in the middle, and a shelf holding a bottle of shampoo, a half-worn bar of soap streaked with hairs, and a blue disposable razor not Aaron's, that was for sure. Soap suds were still dripping down the tin walls. I twisted myself to inspect the rash on my lower back, which was now incredibly sore. It was livid and lumpy, and about the size of my outspread hand. I'd probably got the good news from a family of chiggers while lying in the leaf litter. The tiny mites would have burrowed into my skin as I lay there watching the house, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it except play host for the next few days until they got bored with me and died. I scratched gently around the edge of the rash, knowing I shouldn't but I couldn't stop myself. The bruising on the left side of my chest had come on nicely since Sunday afternoon, and my ribs burned even when I reached out to undo the hose sprinkler. I soaked the sweatshirt material with lukewarm water to try to soften up the clotting, then, holding the hose over my head, I counted off my sixty seconds. Closing off the flow, I lathered myself down with the flowery-smelling soap and rubbed shampoo into my hair. When the water had had enough time to do its stuff with the dressing, I bent down and untied the sweatshirt, trying to peel it away gently. My vision blurred. I was feeling dizzy again. What the fuck was happening to me? I sat down on the rough concrete and rested my back against the cool metal. I'd been making excuses by telling myself that all this shit was because I was knackered. But I had been knackered all my life. No, this was going on in my head. I'd been so busy feeling sorry for myself, I hadn't even given serious thought to how I was going to get the job done yet, and had lost a whole day of preparation. I could have been on the ground by now. I gave myself a good talking to: Get a grip ... The mission, the mission, nothing matters except the mission, I must get mission-orientated, nothing else matters. TWENTY-ONE The flesh refused point blank to unstick itself from the material. They'd been mates for too many hours now and just didn't want to be parted. I ripped it away like a sticking plaster, and immediately wished that I hadn't: the pain was outrageous, and that was before the soapy lather started running into the raw, red, messy wound. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" I couldn't help myself. As I gritted my teeth and rubbed soap into the gash to clear out the crap, there was a noise from the sink area. I poked my newly switched-on head out to say thanks `<49' to Carrie for the clothes and towel, but it wasn't her, it was Luz at least, I presumed it was. She was dressed in a blue, rather worn-looking long Tshirt style nightgown, and had the wildest black curly hair I'd ever seen, like Scary Spice plugged into the mains. Near her on the drainer was a pile of khaki coloured clothes and a blue striped towel. She stood there, staring at me with big dark eyes above high, pronounced Latin cheekbones and not a teenage zit in sight. She was going to be a very beautiful woman one day, but not just yet. Sticking out of her nightgown was a pair of lanky legs, skinny as shaved pencils, the shins covered with tomboy bruises. She looked at me, not scared or embarrassed, just interested at the sight of a soapy version of Darth Maul sticking out from behind the shower curtain. "Hold." That sort of Spanish I understood. "Oh, hola. You're Luz?" She nodded, trying to work me out, or maybe she just found the accent strange. "My mom told me to bring you these." She spoke American, tinged with a hint of Spanish. Thank you very much. I'm Nick nice to meet you, Luz." She nodded "See you' and left, going the long way round so as not to pass the shower. I got back to business. The wound was about four inches long and maybe an inch deep, but at least it was a clean cut. The soap and shampoo were starting to cake on me now as I stood and got to grips with the mission, and myself. Letting loose with the hose, I rinsed off for my allotted sixty seconds, having a piss at the same time, and the smell was bad. My urine was a horrible dark yellow, which meant I was very dehydrated. I supposed that might account for the dizziness. I towelled myself dry in the open air, then got dressed in Aaron's clothes, khaki cotton trousers with two map pockets either side, and a very old, full sleeved faded grey T-shirt, telling the world, "Just do it." The trousers were a few inches too big around the waist, but a couple of twists of the waistband tightened them up. The trouser pockets had good Velcro seals, so I put my wallet, passport and air ticket, still in their plastic bags, in the right-hand one. After slicking back my hair I attacked the D hose, sucking at the bitter-tasting water, then stopped for a while to catch my breath as I felt my stomach swell with the much-needed warm fluid. The next thing I did was take my Leatherman out of its case to wash off Diego's blood, then put it into my pocket. After another big water-sucking session, I hung the wet towel on the line like a good boy. With my old clothes rolled in a ball in my left hand and my Timberlands in the right, I walked back round to the storeroom, picked up the medical kit and satellite picture, then, after crawling about under the cot, Diego's wallet, and sat outside on the foundations again. Looking at the sat image I could clearly see the road from Charlie's house down to the gate, wagons parked, diesel fumes belching from a JCB as it dragged a tree stump out of the ground, bodies lazing by the pool. This was good stuff, but told me nothing I didn't already know. I'd been hoping for maybe a covered approach route from the rear or something that would spark off an idea. I found antibiotic powder in a little puff bottle and gave my wound a good dousing, then applied a gauze dressing and secured it with a crepe bandage, realizing, as I saw the dihy-drocodeine bottle, that my headache had gone. Carrie hadn't provided any socks or underpants, so I just had to let my boys hang free and put my own socks back on. They were the consistency of cardboard, but at least they were dry now. I pulled on my boots, rubbed antihistamine cream over the small of my back and the lumps on my face, then packed everything back into the case. I found two safety-pins to secure the map pocket, and took the suitcase back to the storeroom. I dumped all my old kit under the cot and rummaged about for matches, then gouged a hole in the earth with the heel of my Timberland, and emptied the contents of Diego's wallet into it, less the $38.1 watched his picture ID and family photo curl and turn black as I thought about what I was going to do with Michael. I didn't have that many options to consider. It was going to have to be a shoot. Nothing else would work with such little time, information and kit: at three hundred-ish metres, and with even a half-decent weapon, I should be able to drop him. No fancy tip-of-an-ear stuff, just going for the centre mass of his trunk. Once he was down and static I could get another few rounds into him to make sure. If my only chance at dropping him presented itself as he got into a vehicle leaving for or returning from college, then I was going to have to take the shot pretty sharpish. Afterwards, I'd stay in the jungle until Sunday, keeping out of the way before popping out and getting myself to the airport. Even if I didn't find an opportunity until last light tomorrow, I could still be at Josh's by Tuesday. As for the possibility of not seeing the target at all, I didn't want to go there. After pushing mud over the little pile of ash, I headed for the kitchen, keeping the antihistamine with me. I threw the wallet on to the back of a shelf as I passed through the storeroom. The fans in the living area were turning noisily, whipping up a bit of a breeze. Carrie was at the cooker with her back turned; Luz was sitting at the table, eating porridge and peeling an orange. She was dressed like her mother now, in green cargos and T-shirt. I put on my cheerful voice again and gave a general, "Hello, hello." Carrie turned and smiled. "Oh, hello." She didn't look at all embarrassed about last night as she pointed at me with a porridge-covered spoon, but said to Luz, This is Nick." Luz's voice was confident and polite: "Hi, Nick." Thanks again for bringing me the clothes' was answered with a routine 'You're welcome." Carrie ladled porridge into a white bowl and I hoped it was for me. "Sit down. Coffee?" I did as I was told. "Please." By the time I'd pulled up my chair, the porridge and a spoon were on the table in front of me. A bunch of four bananas was next, and she tapped the top of a green jug in the centre of the table. Milk. Powdered, but you get used to it." Carrie turned her back to me and made coffee. Luz and I sat facing each other, eating. "Luz, why don't you tell Nick how we do things? After all, that's what he's here to find out. Tell him about the new power system." Her face lit up with a smile that revealed a row of crooked white teeth in a brace. "We have a generator, of course," she said earnestly, looking me in the one and a half eyes she could see. "It gives power to the house, and also charges two new banks of batteries linked together in parallel. That's for emergencies and to keep the generator noise down at night." She giggled. "Mom goes totally postal if the generator is left on late." I laughed, though not as much as Luz as she tried to drink some milk. Carrie joined us with two steaming mugs of coffee. "It's not that funny." "Then why has milk come through my nose?" "Luz! We have a guest!" As she poured milk into her mug and passed the jug over to me, her eyes were fixed on Luz with a look of such love and indulgence that it made me feel uncomfortable. I nodded at the cooker. "So you have gas as well?" "For sure." Luz carried on with her lecture. "It's bottled. It comes by helicopter with the other stuff, every fifth Thursday." She looked at her mother for confirmation. Carrie nodded. "The university hires a helicopter for deliveries to the six research stations in-country." I looked as interested as I could, given that what I really wanted to discuss was how to get my hands on the rifle I'd seen on the wall, and to see if it was any good for what I had in mind. I peeled a banana, wishing that I'd had a resupply every fifth week during my stays in the jungle over the years. Luz was just finishing her food as Carrie checked the clock by the sink. "You know what? Just leave your plate on the side and go and log on. You don't want to keep Grandpa waiting." Luz nodded with delight, got up with her plate, and put it down next to the sink before disappearing into the computer room. Carrie took another sip of coffee, then called out, Tell Grandpa I'll say hello in a minute." A voice drifted back from inside the computer room. "Sure." Carrie pointed at the hug pictures on the fridge door and one in particular, the guy in a polo shirt with grey-sided black hair, holding hands with Luz on the veranda. "My father, George he teaches her math." "Who are the ones holding the babies?" She turned back and looked at the fading picture. "Oh, that's also my father, he's holding me we're on the far right. It's my favourite." "Who are the ones with you?" Luz stuck her head round the corner, looking and sounding worried. "Mom, the locks picture has closed down." That's OK, darling, I know." "But, Mom, you said it must always be-' Carrie was sharp with her. "I know, baby, I've just changed my mind, OK?" "Oh, OK." Luz retreated, looking confused. "We home-school everything else here. This keeps her in contact with her grandfather, they're real close." I shrugged. "Sounds good," I said, really not that fussed she hadn't answered my question. There were more important things on my mind. It was time to cut to the last page. Is that rifle in the bedroom in working order?" 'You don't miss much, do you, fever man? Of course ... why?" "For protection. We can call your handler for one, it's not a problem. It's just that I haven't got much time and I want to get going as soon as I can." She rested her arms on the table. "Do you people never feel secure without a weapon?" Those intense green eyes burnt into me, demanding an answer. Problem was, I reckoned her question was more complicated than it seemed. "It's always better to be safe than sorry that's why you have it, isn't it? Besides, Charlie's no Mr. Nice." She stood up and walked towards her bedroom, "For sure, like death but if he catches you doing whatever it is you're going to do, you'll need more than an old rifle." She disappeared behind the door. From this side of the room I could see the foot of the bed and the opposite wall. It was covered with photographs, both old and new, smiling adults and children doing more family love-fest stuff. I could hear working parts moving back and forth, and the chink of brass rounds as they fell on to each other. I supposed you'd have it loaded and ready to go, otherwise why have it on the bedroom wall? She reappeared with a bolt-action rifle in one hand, and a tin box with webbing handles in the other. It didn't have a lid, and I could see cardboard boxes of ammunition. My eyes were drawn to the weapon. It was a very old-style piece of kit indeed, with the wooden furniture stretching from the butt all the way along the quite lengthy barrel to just short of the muzzle. She put it down on the table. It's a Mosin Nagant. My father took it from the body of a North Vietnamese sniper during the war." I knew about this weapon: it was a classic. Before passing it across, she turned it to present the opened bolt and show me that the chamber and magazine were clear. I was impressed, which must have been plain to see. "My father -what's the use of having one if you don't know how to use it?" I checked chamber clear and took the weapon from her. "What service was he in?" She sat down and picked up her coffee cup. "Army. He made general before retiring." She nodded over at the fridge pictures. The beach? Those are his Army buddies." "What did he do?" Technical stuff, intelligence. At least there's one good thing that can be said about George he's got smarts. He's at the Defense Intelligence Agency now." She allowed herself a smile of pride as she gazed at the picture. There's a senior White House adviser and two other generals, one still serving, in that photograph." That's some bad-looking scar on the end. Is he one of the generals?" "No, he left the service in the eighties, just before the Iran-Contra hearings. They were all involved in one way or the other, though Ollie North took all the heat. I never did know what happened to him." If he was part of the Iran-Contra affair, George would know all about jobs like this one. Black-ops jobs that no one wanted to know about, and people like him wouldn't tell anyway. The connection between these two, George and the Pizza Man, was starting to make me feel uncomfortable. But I was a small player and didn't want to get myself involved with whatever was going on down here. I just had to be careful not to bump into it, that was all. I needed to get to Maryland next week. Luz called from the other room, "Mom, Grandpa needs to talk with you." Carrie got up with a polite "Won't be long," and disappeared into the next room. I took the opportunity to have a double-take at the tall, square-jawed, muscular George smiling with Luz on the veranda. It was easy to see where she got her big green eyes from. I checked out the digital display on the bottom right of the picture. It was taken in 04-99, only eighteen months ago. He still looked like the all-American boy with his short hair and side parting, and, what was weird, he looked younger than Aaron. The Pizza Man, on the other hand, looked like death warmed up compared with his black-and-white former life. He was skinnier, greyer and probably had lungs like an oil slick, going by the way I'd seen him take down that nicotine. TWENTY-TWO I got back to the real world and examined the weapon, which looked basic and unsophisticated compared with the sort of thing around nowadays. Not that the basics had changed for centuries: trigger, on and off switch, sights and barrel. I wasn't a weapons anorak, but I was familiar enough with the Russian weapon's history to know that, regardless of how it looked, these things had sent thousands of Germans to their graves on the eastern front in the forties. The arsenal marks stamped into the steel of the chamber showed it had been made in 1938. Maybe this was one of them. It had probably quite a history, including zapping American targets in Vietnam. The one I had in my hands had been beautifully maintained. The wooden furniture was varnished, and the bolt action had been lightly oiled and was rust-free. I got it into the aim and looked through the quite unconventional optic sight, unsure if it was the original. It was a straight black and worn tube about eight inches long and about an inch in diameter mounted on top of the weapon. It had to be a fixed power sight as there was no zoom ring to adjust the magnification, just two dials half-way along the sight the top one to adjust for elevation (up and down), and the one on the right-hand side for windage (left and right). The dials had no graduation marks any more the top discs were missing just some scratch marks where it had been zeroed. Looking into the sight and aiming at a fuzzy book spine at this short distance, I could see I had a post sight to aim with. A thick black bar came up from the bottom of the sight and finished in a point in the centre of the sight picture. Just below the point was a horizontal line that crossed the whole width of the sight. I'd never liked post sights: the post itself blocked out the target below the point of aim, and the further away the target was, the smaller it became and the more the post blocked it out. But beggars can't be choosers, and as long as it went bang when I pulled the trigger, I'd be half-way happy. There were also conventional iron sights on the weapon a rear sight that was set just forward of the bolt, about where my left hand would go on the stock. The sight could be set between 400 and 1200 metres. It was set at the all-round 'battle sight' setting of 400. The foresight was protected by a cylindrical guard on the muzzle. I placed the weapon on the table and went and helped myself to more coffee from the cooker. Thinking about this rifle's possible history reminded me that, years earlier, in the early eighties, when I was an infantry squaddie in BAOR (British Army of the Rhine), I'd owned a Second World War bayonet that an old German had given me. He told me he'd killed over thirty Russians with it on the eastern front, and I wondered whether he was bullshitting me, since most Germans of that generation said they fought the Russians during the war, not the Allies. I'd put it away in a cupboard at the house in Norfolk and forgotten about it; then, along with everything else, it had been sold to pay for Kelly7 s treatment. A skinhead with a stall in Camden Market gave me twenty quid for it. I'd nearly finished pouring when Carrie returned. "Do you know how to adjust the sights?" "No." It would save me a lot of time if I didn't have to experiment. "It's got a PBZ at three hundred and fifty yards," she said, walking to the table. "Do you know what that is?" I nodded as she picked up the weapon and turned the dials. "Stupid, I'm sure you do." I could hear the clicks even above the noise of the fans before she handed it to me. There, the notches are in line." She showed me the score marks levelled off against the sight on both dials to indicate the correct position for the sight to be zeroed. I put down my coffee, took it off her and checked out the dull score marks. "Anywhere I can go to check zero?" She waved her arms. Take your pick. There's nothing but space out there." I picked up the ammunition tin. "Can I have some of your printer paper and a marker pen?" She knew exactly what I needed it for. Tell you what," she said, I'll even throw in some tacks for free. See you outside." She went into the computer room and I went out through the squeaking mozzie screen and on to the veranda. The sky was still brilliant blue. The crickets were going for it like there was no tomorrow, and a monkey or something was making a happy noise somewhere in the canopy. But I wasn't fooled. No matter: after a shower and some cream on my back, the love affair with the jungle was back on. Even in the shade of the veranda, it was already much hotter out here. I was glad I was beginning to feel better, because it was an oppressive heat. My dizziness had all but disappeared, and it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get to grips with what I was here to do. The mozzie screen squeaked open and chopped off my train of thought as Carrie came out carrying a crunched up paper bag. She handed it over. "I've told Luz you might go hunting later, so you want to try out the rifle." I'll be over there." I indicated the treeline about two hundred metres away, to the right of the house. It was on the opposite side to the track, so if Aaron came back early from rescuing jaguars he wouldn't get a 7.62 in his ear. "See you in a bit." As soon as I left the shelter of the veranda, the sun's fierce glare blinded me. I screwed up my eyes and looked down. Most of the moisture had evaporated off the grass, but the heavy humidity meant the puddles were still intact apart from a muddy crust around the edges. I could feel my shoulders and the back of my neck burning as I kept my eyes on the rough, thick-bladed grass. I knew that once I got to the treeline things would improve. It would be just as hot and sticky, but at least this rabiblanco wouldn't be getting blow-torched. I had a quick check of Baby-G. Unbelievably, it was only 10.56. The sun could only get hotter. Carrie called out from behind me, still on the veranda. "Look after it." She pointed to the weapon. "It's very precious to me." I had to squint to see her, but I was sure there was a smile. "By the way, only load up four rounds. You can place five in the magazine OK, but can't close the bolt without stripping off the second round got it?" I lifted the weapon as I walked. I'd keep the PBZ (point blank zero), if it still existed. Why mess with something that might already be right? I might cock it up by trying to improve it. I let my hand drop with the weapon and carried on towards the treeline, thinking of how the three snipers in London would have reacted to the idea of using a PBZ to drop a target, on top of ammunition that could have been made by the local blacksmith. To ensure consistency, they'd have pulled apart every one of the rounds I supplied them with to check there was exactly the same amount of propellant in each cartridge case. PBZ is just a way of averaging out the averages to ensure the round at least hits the target somewhere in the vital area. Hunters use it; for them, the vital area is an area about seven inches centred on the animal's heart. The way it works is quite simple. As a round leaves the barrel, it rises, then begins to fall because of gravity. The trajectory is relatively flat with a large 7.62mm round like these: over a range of 350 metres the round won't rise or fall more than seven inches. As long as the hunter isn't further away than 350 metres, he just aims at the centre of the killing area, and the round should drop the bear or whatever else is charging towards him. My shoot should be from a maximum of 300 metres, so if I aimed at the centre of the target's sternum, he should take a round somewhere in the chest cavity what is known in sniper world as a target-rich environment: heart, kidneys, arteries, anything that will make him suffer immediate and catastrophic loss of blood. It was not as sophisticated as the London snipers' catastrophic brain shot, because the weapon and rounds weren't exactly state-of-the-art, and I hadn't had enough practice. A heart shot would probably make the target unconscious, and kill him in ten or fifteen seconds. The same went for the liver, because the tissue is so soft; even a near miss can sometimes have the same effect. As the round travels through the body, crushing, compressing, and tearing away the flesh, a shock-wave comes with it, causing a massive temporary inflation of neighbouring tissues that messes them up big-time. A hit to the lungs would incapacitate, but it might not kill him, especially if he was treated quickly enough. The ideal would be for the round to hit the target's spine high up, above his shoulder-blades, as it exited, or entered if I took him back on. This would have very much the effect the three snipers had been trying to achieve: instant death, dropping him like liquid. This was all very fine in theory, but there was a host of other factors to contend with. I might be trying to hit a moving target, there might be a wind. I might only have one part of a body to aim at, or only one weird angle to take the shot from. Trying not to think about the boy smiling out of the Lexus, I wandered the two hundred or so metres to the treeline, put down the ammunition box, and stood for a while in the shade, looking towards the hill, the target area. Then I set off towards the rising ground. I found a suitable tree and pinned a sheet of paper to the bottom third of the trunk with one of the drawing pins. With a marker pen I drew a circle about the size of a two-pound coin and inked it in. It was a bit of a lumpy circle with uneven edges because I was pushing it against the bark, but it would do. I then pinned a sheet above and another below the first, then, making the best of the shade, turned and walked back with the weapon and rounds, counting out a hundred one-yard paces. At that range, even if the sight was wildly inaccurate, with luck I would cut paper to see how bad it was. If the zero was out by, say, two inches at a hundred yards, then at two hundred yards it would be four inches, and so on. So if I lay down initially at three hundred, I could be six inches out, either up, down, left or right, possibly missing the paper altogether. Trying to see my strike as I fired would waste time, of which I didn't have much. A hundred paces later and "still in the shade of the treeline, I checked for beasties, sat against a tree, and slowly closed the bolt action. It was extremely well made: the action was soft, almost buttery, as the oil-bearing surfaces moved over each other without resistance. I pushed the bolt handle down towards the furniture (the wood that shapes the weapon), and there was a gentle click as it fell into its locked position. Before I fired this weapon I needed to find out what the trigger pressures were. Correct trigger control will release the firing pin without moving the weapon. All trigger pressures are different, and nearly all sniper weapons can be adjusted for the individual firer. I wasn't going to do that because I didn't know how to on a Mosin Nagant, and I wasn't that particular anyway I usually adjusted myself to whatever the pressures were. I placed the centre of the top pad of my right index finger gently against the trigger. There was just a few millimetres of give as I squeezed backwards until I felt resistance. This was the first pressure. The resistance was the second pressure; I gently squeezed again, and instantly heard the click as the firing pin pushed itself out of the head of the bolt. That was fine for me: some snipers prefer no first pressure at all, but I quite liked having that looseness before firing. Pulling the bolt back once more, I took one of the twenty-round boxes of large brass 7.62 rounds out of the ammunition box, and fed in four, one at a time, from the top of the breech, into what should have been a fixed five-round mag. Then I slid home the bolt once more, watching as it pushed the top round into the chamber. There was a slight resistance only as I pushed the cocking handle down towards the furniture and the bolt locked into place, securing the round so it could be fired. The on off switch was at the back of the cocking piece, a flat circle of metal at the rear of the bolt about the size of a fifty-pence piece, and turning it to the left I applied Safe. It was a pain in the arse to do, but I supposed there wasn't much call for them when this thing was made it was too busy killing Germans. I looked for a small mound in the rough ground to double as a sandbag, and after a beastie check, lay down behind it in the prone position. The steel plate of the weapon butt was in the soft tissue of my right shoulder and my trigger finger ran over the trigger guard. My left forearm was resting against the mound and I let my hand find its natural position along the stock of the weapon, just forward of the rear sight. There were grooves cut into the furniture each side to give a better grip. Your bones are the foundation for holding a weapon; your muscles are the cushioning that holds it tightly in position. I had to make a tripod of my elbows and the left side of my ribcage. I had the added benefit of resting my forearm against the mound. I needed to ensure that the position and hold were firm enough to support the weapon, and that I was also comfortable. I looked through the sight, making sure there was no shadowing around the edges of the optic. There was no problem about closing my left eye: half the job had already been done for me yesterday. The biggest mistake made by novice firers using a post sight is that they think the point to aim at is where the horizontal line crosses the post. It's not, it's the top of the post, right where the point is. The horizontal line is so you can check there's no canting (weapon tilting). I took aim at the centre of the not-too-circular black circle then closed my eyes and stopped breathing. I relaxed my muscles slightly as I emptied my lungs. Three seconds later, I opened my eyes, started to breathe normally, and looked through the sight once more. I found that my point of aim had shifted to the left-hand edge of the sheet of paper, so I swivelled my body round to the right, then did the same thing twice more until I was naturally aligned to the target. It was pointless trying to force my body into a position that it didn't want to be in: that would affect the round when I fired. I was now ready to take the first shot. I took three deep breaths to oxygenate my body. If you're not oxygenated you can't see correctly; even if you're not firing a weapon, if you just stand and gaze at something in the far distance and stop breathing, you will see it go blurry very quickly. The weapon sight moved up and down with my body as I sucked in air, and settled to a gentler movement as I started to breathe normally. It was only then that I took off the safety, by pulling back and turning it to the right. Acquiring a good sight picture once more, I aimed before taking up the first pressure. At the same time I stopped breathing, in order to steady the weapon. One second, two seconds ... I gently squeezed the second pressure. I didn't even hear the crack, I was so busy maintaining concentration and non reaction while the weapon jumped up and back into my shoulder. All the time I kept my right eye open and followed through the shot, watching as the point of aim came back to settle on the centre of the target. That was good: it meant my body was correctly aligned. If not, the point of aim would have moved to where my body was naturally pointing. The round needed to be followed through because although there might only be less than a second between me taking the second pressure, sending the firing pin forward and striking the round, and the bullet heading up the barrel as the gases forced it out towards the target, the slightest movement would mean the point of aim not being the same at the instant the bullet exited the muzzle as when I fired. Not good news if you're trying to kill somebody with a single round. That was the end of the firing sequence. I became aware of the different colours and sizes of the flocks of birds lifting from the trees. The canopy rustled as they screamed and flapped their wings to make their getaway. In real time there are many occasions when these drills can't be used. But as long as you understand them, and have used them to zero the weapon, there's a good chance you can take on an opportunity target and drop it. I looked through the sight to check where my round had fallen. I'd hit the top of the main sheet of paper: about five inches high. That was OK, it should be high at this close range: the optic was set at 350. The main thing was that it wasn't higher than seven inches. The problem was that, although the round was at more or less the correct height for the range, it had gone to the left of the centre line by maybe as much as three inches. At 300 yards that would become nine inches. I would have missed the chest, and maybe hit an arm if he was static and I was lucky. That wasn't good enough. I lay back and watched the birds coming back to their nests. I waited maybe three minutes before reloading because I needed this to be a cold barrel zero: when I took the next shot, the barrel had to be as cold as the last. Variations in the barrel's temperature will warp the metal. Taking into account the inconsistency in the ammunition, it would be stupid to zero with a hot, or even warm barrel, since it would be cold when I took the shot. That got the little sniper in my head ticking away. It reminded me that damp, humid air is thicker than dry, causing the bullet to drop faster. Hot air has the reverse effect because it is thinner, so offers less resistance and sends the bullet higher. What was I supposed to do on a very hot day in a very humid jungle? Fuck it, I'd leave it alone, I'd only just got rid of my headache, I didn't want it back. Five inches should be OK. I'd be confirming back at 300 anyway. I took another shot and followed through, my point of aim staying on the circle. My round still cut paper to the left, less than a quarter of an inch in from the first. The shots were well grouped, so I knew that the first round wasn't just a wild crazy one; the sight did need adjusting. The birds were well pissed-off at being disturbed a second time, and I sat up and watched them as I waited for the barrel to cool. It was then that I saw Carrie making her way towards me from the rear of the house. TWENTY-THREE She was about 150 metres away, swinging a two-litre bottle of water in her right hand. I waved. As she looked at me and waved back, I got a flare of sunlight from her wraparounds. I sat back against the tree and watched her get nearer. She looked as if she was floating above the heat haze. When she got closer I could see her hair flick back and forth with each stride. "How's the zero going?" Tine, just off a bit to the left." She held out the bottle with a smile. The condensation glistened on the plastic: it had come straight out of the fridge. I nodded my thanks and stood up, catching my own reflection again in those fly's eye glasses of hers. I sat back down against the tree, unscrewing the top. She looked down, fingering her hair behind her ears. "It's a real hot one today." "Sure is." It was routine, the bullshit stuff that people exchange when they don't know each other, plus I was trying to keep her well away from any mention of last night. I got the bottle to my lips and took some long, hard swallows. The plastic started to collapse in my fingers; I wasn't letting any air past the tight seal of my lips. She stayed above me, hands on hips, in the same position as the Yes Man had taken a few days earlier, but without the attitude. The sight might've taken some knocks over the months. I use the iron sights, they're never off anyone out here in the open is within their range." I stopped drinking. There was a pop and a gurgle as air rushed into the vacuum and the plastic resumed its normal shape. "Ever had to?" Her glasses hid any clues her eyes might be giving away. "Once, a few years back. These things can happen out here, you know." She put out her hand for the water. I watched as she threw her head back and took five or six gulps above me, her throat moving with each swallow. I could hear the fluid going down, and see the muscles in her right arm tauten as she tilted the bottle. Her skin had a light sheen of moisture; on me it would just have looked like sweat. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Question. If it's just for protection, how come you're checking the scope?" She pointed into the jungle. "No good in there, is it?" I gave her my most disarming smile. "As I said, I just like to be prepared, that's all." "And is that down to your training, or down to you?" She hesitated. I wished I could see her eyes. "How do you get to do this sort of thing?" I wasn't sure I could explain. "Want to help me?" She caught my tone and went with it. "Sure." We took the few paces over to the grassy mound. "Is silence your way of dealing with it, Nick? I mean, is silence the way you protect yourself from the things you need to do for your work?" I saw my reflection as I tried to look through her lenses: she was smiling, almost taunting me. "All I want you to do is aim dead centre into the black circle. I just want to adjust the sights." "One shot zero, right?" "Right." "OK, tell you what you aim, you're stronger. I'll adjust." I opened the bolt, ejecting the empty case, reloaded and applied Safe as we reached the mound. "I want the same elevation." She raised her eyebrow. "Sure." I was telling her how to suck eggs Instead of supporting it with my left hand, I started to push the stock into the mud. Her sandals were inches from my face. "Tell me when." I looked up. Her sunglasses were now on the back of her neck with the arms facing forward and the black nylon retaining necklace dangling down on to her vest. Her huge green eyes were blinking to adjust to the light. I started to pack mud around the stock: the weapon needed to be locked tight into position for this to work. Once that was done, I checked that the score marks were still in line on the sight, and aimed dead centre of the black circle. "OK." There was an "Affirmative' from above as she pushed down on the mound with her sandal led foot, compacting the earth around the stock as I held it firmly in position. My arms strained as I tried to keep the weapon in a vice-like grip to ensure the post sight stayed dead centre. I could have done this on my own but it would have taken a whole lot longer. She had finished packing the soil over the weapon and I still had a good sight picture, so I told her this "On' and moved my head to the left so she could lean over and see the target through the sight. Our heads touched as her right hand moved on to the windage dial on the left side of the optic, and started to turn it. I heard a series of metallic clicks as she moved the post left until the point of aim was directly below the two rounds that I had fired, whilst remaining in line with the centre of the black circle. It only took her fifteen seconds, but it was time enough for me to smell the soap on her skin, and feel the gentle movement of air as she controlled her breathing. My breath stank after not brushing since Saturday, so I moved my lips to divert the smell away from us both as she clicked away. She moved her head back more quickly than I wanted her to and squatted on her knees. "OK, done." I could feel the warmth of her leg against me. I had to move my arm out of the way to drag my Leatherman out of my pocket and passed it up to her, glad that I'd cleaned it. "Score it for me, will you?" She opened out the knife blade and leant over to scrape a line from the dial on to the metal housing of the optic, so I'd be able to tell if the dial had been inadvertently moved, knocking the zero off. Her vest was gaping in front of me as she worked and I couldn't stop myself looking. She must have seen me: I couldn't move the focus of my gaze quickly enough as she returned to her kneeling position. "Who sprinkled you with horny dust?" There was a smile to go with her question, and she kept her big green eyes on mine, but her expression couldn't have given me a bigger no. "Are you going to confirm?" Pulling the weapon from the mud, I cleared my throat. "Yeah, I suppose I'll annoy the birds again." She stood up to get out of the way. "Ooookay ..." I recocked and went through the firing sequence, aiming at the centre of the circle and, sure enough, I pissed off the birds again big-time. The zero was good; the round went in directly above the point of aim, roughly in line with the other two rounds to the left. At 300 the round should cut paper slightly above the circle, but I'd soon find out. I was still looking through the sight when I felt Carrie's knees against my arm again. "Is it OK?" I kept my eye on my shot, still checking. Teah, it's fine. Dead on." I ejected the round and moved my head away from the sight as she leant over to pick up the empty cases. We stood up together and she walked back into the shade as I cleaned the mud off the rifle's furniture. "If that wasn't a window to your mind, I don't know what is." Maybe I should have worn her Jackie Os. Tour eyes aren't as silent as your mouth, are they?" I heard the metallic clink of the empty cases as she threw them into the ammo box. She sat down under a tree, crossing her legs. I worked hard to think of something to say as I walked over to her. "How did the house come to be here? I mean, it's a bit off the beaten track, isn't it?" She picked up the bottle and took a swig as I settled down a few feet away. We faced each other and I took the water when she offered it to me. "A rich hippie guy built it in the sixties. He came down here to escape the draft." The fly's eyes looked at me, and the smile stayed on her face as she fished out a tobacco tin and Zippo from her cargos. "He swapped the forests of Vietnam for the forests of Panama. Apparently he was a real character, kept the dealers and bars in Chepo in business for over twenty years. He died maybe eight or nine years ago." There was a pop as the tin opened, and she picked out one of the three or four ready-prepared roll-ups. She giggled to herself, showin