nicky M-16s opening up  through  the
window  between the bookshelves to my right,  just  blasting away  into  the
night. Their muzzle flashes created  arcs  of stroboscopic light outside the
window, as the mesh screen disintegrated.
     Blue was  screaming at the top  of his  voice probably to cease firing,
because that was what happened.  Panic and confusion ricocheted between them
in rapid, high-pitched Spanish. Someone was with Blue at the door, and  they
shouted at each other as  if they  were  trading on the stock market.  Other
voices weighed in from just inside the living area.
     I stayed  curled up  to conceal  myself behind the  water  butt as Blue
moved  out  into  the rain towards  Aaron. The  rest  withdrew inside, still
shouting at each other.
     I had to  act:  now  was  my time.  I stepped into the  rain after him,
keeping to  the  right  of  the  door  to  avoid the light, quickly checking
through the storeroom for movement. There wasn't any.
     Rain fell into  my eyes and blurred  my  vision.  Blue's  back was just
visible in the  light  spilling  from the storeroom,  as  he advanced on the
dark, motionless shape of Aaron on the ground a few metres ahead of him. The
M-16 was  in his right hand,  and the muzzle was trailing down alongside his
calf.
     I was  no more than five paces behind him,  and still walking. I didn't
want to run  and risk slipping. I kept moving,  concentrating on the back of
his head. He was taller than me. Now nothing else mattered as I entered  his
zone. He'd sense I was there soon.
     I leapt behind him and a bit to his right, jamming my left  leg between
his, body checking him, at the same time grabbing  at his face with  my left
hand, pulling hard, trying to pull him back over me. I wanted his mouth, but
felt mostly nose when the warmth of his shout hit my  hand.  The weapon fell
between us as his hands came up to snatch my hand away.
     Still pulling  hard, I arched  him  backwards, yanking  back his  head,
presenting his throat. I raised my right hand high above my head, palm open,
and swung  down hard to  chop across  his throat. I  had no  idea  where  it
landed, but he dropped like a stunned pig in an abattoir, taking me with him
into the mud.
     I kicked myself free, scrambling over the top of him until I lay across
his chest, feeling  the hard alloy  of the  magazines between  us.  My right
forearm  jammed  into his  throat  and I leant  on it with all my weight. He
wasn't dead; it hadn't been that good. The chop had  got the nerves that run
each side of the trachea and fucked him up for a while, that was all.
     No reaction, no  resistance,  no last  kicks yet. I pressed  into  him,
shaking the rain off as it  kept trying to get into  my eyes. Looking up,  I
could see into the storeroom. The  others were probably still in  the living
room, trying  to come  to terms with the even bigger nightmare they were now
facing, waiting for Aaron's body to be  dragged back by this fuck wit  who'd
let him escape.
     I looked down on  him, his  eyes closed,  no kicking  or  resistance. I
eased  off  and  put  my  ear  to  his  mouth.  No  sound  of  breathing.  I
double-checked by digging the middle and  forefinger of my  right hand  into
his neck to feel the carotid pulse.
     Nothing.
     I rolled off  him and felt for Aaron. My hands were soon  warm with his
blood as I felt  up his body for  his neck. He, too,  was dead.  I scrabbled
around in the mud for the M-16, then started to remove Blue's chest harness.
I  rolled him over, unclipping it from  his back,  then dragged off the neck
and shoulder straps. His arms lifted limply in the air as I pulled.
     With  the  harness weighing  heavily  in one hand and  the M-16  in the
other, I ran to  the back  of the  house for the cover and light it afforded
me, and placed  the weapon  on the sink. The  moths had found shelter out of
the rain as well, flitting around the light on the wall between the sink and
the shower as I gulped air, knowing I didn't have much time before they came
out  here to  see what was  taking their  friend  so long. Fuck the heli. If
anyone was still in it now, he was deaf.
     Aaron's  blood dripped off my hands as I took  out a fresh thirty-round
mag and pushed my thumb down into it to make sure it was full. For me it was
too full with thirty rounds1 took  out the top one and pushed down  again to
check the spring had a chance to do its job.  I pressed the release catch on
the right and removed the  old  magazine, then pushed the fresh  one home by
sliding it  into the rectangular housing,  waiting to  feel  it  click  home
before giving it a  shake  to make sure it was secure. I  cocked the weapon:
the sound was barely audible above the rain battering the tin roof.
     There was a round already  in the chamber  and it flew out into the mud
as it got replaced with a new one from the  mag; it wasn't necessary to have
done it, it just made me feel better to see a round going into the chamber.
     I applied Safe, quickly checking the other three mags in the pouches of
the nylon harness. If I was in the shit and changing mags  I didn't want  to
slap on a half-empty one. This  took  precious extra seconds  but was always
worth the effort.
     I put the harness on, straps  over my shoulders and neck,  the magazine
pouches across  my chest, and clipped the buckle at  the  back, continuously
grabbing air in an effort  to keep my heart rate down,  whilst listening for
shouts that would tell me they'd discovered Blue.
     My panting slowed and I  mentally prepared  myself. Pulling  a magazine
from  the  harness, I held it  in my left hand with  the curved shape facing
away  from me so it was ready to be rammed into the magazine housing if this
one became empty.
     Then I grabbed the stock, wrapping my left hand around the whole lot.
     I thumbed  the safety, pushing past  the first click single  rounds and
all  the way to  Automatic, my index finger  inside  the trigger guard, then
moved  out into the rain once more, towards the heli to clear the corner  in
the darkness, and on towards Aaron and Blue. Their bodies were  lying as I'd
left them, motionless  in the mud next to each other as the  rain bounced in
little pools around them.
     Looking into  the  storeroom  and beyond,  I  couldn't see any movement
apart from the blurred images on Luz's screen.
     There was more thunder but no lightning as I moved forward, butt in the
shoulder, weapon up, both  eyes open. My breathing calmed down as it  became
fuckit time once again.
     I stepped up on to the concrete and into the  light from the storeroom.
I moved  inside, avoiding  the cot, lifting my feet up high before replacing
them to avoid the cans, spilt rice, and other shit strewn across  the floor.
Eyes forward, weapon up.
     I  could hear them in the kitchen  area and began to smell  cigarettes.
The talking was heated: today had been one big fuck for all concerned.
     There  was  movement,  a  chair  scraping,  boots walking  towards  the
computer room. I froze, both eyes open but blurred by rain, index finger pad
on the trigger, waiting, waiting ... I was going to have the upper  hand for
no more than  two seconds. After  that, if I  didn't  get this  right, I was
history.
     The boots appeared. Green Guy. He turned, saw me, his scream cut  short
as I squeezed. He fell back into the living room.
     As if on autopilot  I  followed him through the  doorway, stepping over
his body into the  smoke-filled room. They  were panicking, screaming out at
each other, wide eyed, reaching for their weapons.
     I moved off  to the  left,  into the corner, both eyes  open, squeezing
short sharp  bursts, aiming into the mass of movement. The  hot  empty cases
bounced off the wall to the right and then my  back  before clinking against
each other as they hit the floor. I squeezed again ... nothing.
     "Stoppage! Stoppage!" I fell to my knees to present a smaller target.
     It was as if my  world was in slow motion as I tilted the weapon to the
left  to present the ejection  opening. It had  no  working parts: they were
being held  to  the rear.  Looking  inside, there  were  no  rounds  in  the
magazine, no rounds in  the chamber. My eyes were now fixed on the threat in
front.
     I hit the release catch and the empty mag hit my leg on its  way to the
floor.
     Two  bodies were sprawled, one moving with a  weapon, one  on his knees
trying to get the safety off.  I locked on to it. The mist of the propellant
was already mixing with the heavy cigarette smoke. The bitterness of cordite
clawed at the back of my throat.
     I twisted  the weapon  over to its  right  and  presented  the magazine
housing.  The fresh magazine was still in my left hand; I rammed it into the
housing,  banged  it into position from the mag bottom,  and slapped my hand
down hard  on to the locking lever. The working parts went  forward, picking
up a round as I got the weapon into the shoulder, brought the barrel to what
I was looking at, and fired on my knees.
     Another mag and it was all over.
     There was silence as  I  reloaded, apart from the rain hitting the roof
and the kettle whistling on the cooker. Two of the bodies were on the floor;
one was slumped forward over the table, his face distorted with a dead man's
sneer.
     I remained  on my knees, surveying the  carnage.  The  acrid  stench of
cordite filled my  nostrils. Mixed with the cigarette smoke, it looked as if
a dry-ice machine  was running,  covering the bodies,  some  with their eyes
still open, some not. There wasn't much blood on the floor yet, but it would
be there as soon as their bodies gave it up.
     I looked around.  Everybody  I had seen  was  accounted  for,  but  the
bedrooms had to be checked.
     Getting to my  feet,  butt in my shoulder,  I gave  three  short bursts
through the door to Luz's room then forced my way in, and then the same with
Carrie and Aaron's. Both were clear and Luz's window was now closed.
     I turned to the kitchen. The floor was covered  in a mixture of mud and
blood.
     I went over  to the stove, kicking my way past empty cans that had been
shot or pushed on  to the floor, and took the kettle off the  ring. I poured
myself a mug of  tea  from a tin of sachets on the side. It smelt of berries
and I  threw in  some  brown  sugar and stirred it as I  walked towards  the
computer  room, kicking a weapon out of the way. I  dragged the blood-soaked
Green Guy away from the door;
     empty cases chinked together as his body moved them across the floor. I
stepped into the computer room and closed the door behind me.
     Seated in  a  director's chair,  I slowly  sipped  the sweet,  scalding
liquid  while picking out two empty  cases  that had got caught  between  my
chest and the harness  on their way to the floor. My  hands were starting to
shake  a little,  as I  silently  thanked  all those years of  skill-at-arms
training that had made stoppage drills second nature.
     Tilting the mug for the  last  few drops of the brew,  I got to my feet
and went to Aaron and Carrie's bedroom. I pulled off the harness and changed
into an old black cotton sweatshirt with a faded Adidas logo on the front.
     It  was time to drag  Aaron out of the mud.  I put the harness back on,
gathered up their purple bedsheet,  and went to  the Land  Cruiser  with the
M-16.  I  checked  that the keys were still inside,  lowered the  rear seats
ready for Carrie, then climbed into the Mazda and fired it up.
     The  headlights bounced up  and  down as  I bumped  through the  mud to
Aaron. He was heavy  to retrieve, but I finally got him into the back of the
Mazda and wrapped him up in the sheet. As I tucked one corner over his face,
I thanked him quietly.
     Closing the tailgate, I left the wagon where it  was, then dragged Blue
and hid him amongst the tubs  before walking back to the house. I turned off
the livingroom lights and closed the door before  kicking Blue's empty cases
under the desk and  storeroom shelving. Luz didn't need to see any of  that:
she had seen  enough  already today. I knew what happened to kids  when they
were exposed to that shit.
     Finally,  using  a  torch from the  storeroom  shelves  to light me,  I
dragged the cot out  into the  rain and threw  it into  the back of the Land
Cruiser.  It just fitted on the opened  lower half  of the tailgate.  Then I
headed for the dead ground and the treeline.
     THIRTY-SEVEN
     The wipers pushed  away the flood  with each stroke, only  for it to be
instantly  replaced,  but  not before  I  glimpsed the  entry point  in  the
treeline.
     The  Land  Cruiser hit a  tree stump and reared up, tilted over  to the
left,  and  came  back  down just  as  the headlights hit  on  the palm-leaf
markers.
     I  left  the  lights and  engine running, grabbed  the torch  from  the
passenger  seat, ran round and dragged out the  cot. With a firm grip on one
of the legs as it trailed behind me, I broke through the treeline.
     "Luz! Where are you? Luz! It's me, it's Nick, call to me!"
     I shone the torch in a broad sweep but it only reflected back at me off
the wet leaves.
     "Luz! It's me, Nick."
     "Over here! We're over here! Nick, please, please, Nick!"
     I turned to my right and pushed towards her, dragging the cot away from
a stand of wait-a-while that wanted to hang on to it. Just a  few feet  more
and  the torch beam landed  on  Luz, soaking  wet, kneeling  by her mother's
head, her hair flat and her shoulders shaking. Carrie was lying beneath her,
in  pain, covered in leaf litter. Seeing  Luz's  face in the torchlight, she
raised a hand, trying to remove the hair stuck her face.
     "It's OK, baby, everything's OK, we can go back to the house now."
     I dragged the cot alongside them, and inspected the job I'd done on her
leg. It wasn't as good as it should have been: maybe I didn't  deserve  that
first-aid badge after all. Thunder rumbled and cracked above the canopy.
     "Where's Daddy? Is Daddy at the house?"
     Luz looked at me from the other  side of her mother, squinting into the
torchlight, her red face wet with rain and tears.
     I looked down  and busied myself  with  the dressings, pleased that the
weather,  distance and canopy would have soaked  up the  sounds of automatic
gunfire. I didn't know what the fuck to say.
     "No, he went to get the police ..."
     Carrie coughed  and screwed up her  pale face,  smothering her ;M child
into her chest.  She looked at me quizzically over her head. I If  closed my
eyes, put the torchlight on to my face and shook my head.
     I?
     Her head fell back and she let out a low cry, her eyes shut tight.
     Luz's head jumped up and down as her chest convulsed. She ;
     tried to steer her mother's thoughts elsewhere, thinking it was ;
     only physical pain.
     "It's OK, Mom, Nick's going to get you back ;
     to the house. It's OK."
     ;V
     I'd done as much as I could with the dressings.
     "Luz, you've got r to help me get  your mum on the cot, OK?" Moving the
torch slightly so as not  to blind her, I looked at her scared face, nodding
' slowly as rain coursed down it.
     "Good. Now  get behind your  mum's head, and  when I say, I want you to
lift her  from under the armpits.  I'll  lift her legs at the  same time and
we'll get her on the cot in one go. Got it?"
     I shone the  torch above  Carrie's head  as  Luz  got  into a  kneeling
position behind her mother's head. Carrie was still thinking of  Aaron. That
pain was far greater than anything her leg was causing.
     "That's  right. Now put  your  arms  under her armpits." Carrie  raised
herself limply to try to help her daughter.
     I  jammed the torch into the mud. The beam shone up into the canopy and
rain splattered on to the  front of  the lens. On my knees, I  slid one  arm
under the small of her back and the other under her knees.
     "OK, Luz, on my count of three are you ready?"
     Thunder reverberated over the canopy.
     A small but serious voice answered, "Yes, I'm ready."
     I looked at what I could see of Carrie's face.
     "You know this is going to hurt, don't you?"
     She nodded, her eyes closed, taking sharp breaths.
     "One, two, three up, up, up."
     Her scream  filled  the  night. Luz was startled. Carrie  had gone down
harder than  I'd  have  wanted, but at least that phase was over. As soon as
she landed she started breathing quickly and deeply through gritted teeth as
Luz tried to comfort her.
     "It's OK, Mom, it's OK ... ssssssh."
     I pulled the  torch from  the  mud and  placed it on  the  cot next  to
Carrie's good leg so that it shone upwards, creating horror-movie shadows on
their faces. The hard bits are done."
     "It's OK, Mom. Hear that? The hard bits are done."
     "Luz, grab your end, just lift it a little and I'll lift this end,
     OK?"
     She jumped  to  her feet and  stood as  if  to attention, then bent her
knees to grip the aluminium handles.
     "Ready? One, two, three, up, up, up."
     The  cot  lifted about  six  inches and I  immediately started crashing
backwards  through  the  vegetation  in  the  direction Carrie's  feet  were
pointing. More thunder rumbled, swamping Carrie's sobs. Luz still thought it
was just pain.
     "We'll see Daddy soon. It's OK, Mom."
     Carrie couldn't hold back and cried out into the storm.
     I kept  checking  behind  me  and soon made out the  lights of the Land
Cruiser penetrating the  foliage. Just  a few paces later we were out in the
open.
     The rain was  relentless as  we  lifted Carrie  into  the  back  of the
vehicle,  like a  patient into an ambulance,  her legs  protruding on to the
tailgate. 'You  need to stay with your mum and hold on to her in case we hit
a bump, OK?"
     There was  going to be  no problem with that. Carrie pulled  her  child
down and mourned covertly into her wet hair.
     As I drove very  slowly  towards the  rear of the house, the headlights
cut through the rain and bounced back off  the shiny  skin and Plexiglass of
the Huey. Its rotors drooped as if depressed by the weather.
     Carrie  was still getting soothing messages from Luz as we pulled up by
the  storeroom  door.  It took  longer  than I'd expected to get her inside,
kicking cans out of the way, not worrying  now there was no one to alert. We
waddled with the cot into  the brightly lit computer room. She was in a  bad
way,  with soaked, bloodstained clothes, pruned  skin, glued  hair, red eyes
and covered from head to toe in leaf litter.
     As we lowered her to the floor near the two PCs, I looked to Luz.
     "You need to go and turn the fans off."
     She looked a bit confused  but did it  anyway.  The fans would make the
moisture  evaporate  quicker,  producing a  chilling effect.  Carrie  was in
enough clanger from shock as it was.
     As soon as Luz left us, Carrie pulled me down to her, whispering at me,
"You sure he's dead, you sure? I need to know ... please?"
     Luz made her  way  back to us as I looked  her straight in the eye  and
nodded.
     There was  no dramatic reaction: she just let go of me and stared up at
the slowing fans.
     There was still  nothing I could  do to help her with her grief, but  I
could do something about her physical injuries.
     "Stay with your mum, she needs you."
     The medical suitcase  was still on the shelf, though it had been opened
and some  of  the contents scattered.  I collected everything  together  and
threw it  back in  the case, then knelt at the side of  the cot and searched
through  to  see what I  could  use. She'd lost blood, but I couldn't find a
giving set or fluids.
     "Luz? Is this the only medical kit you have?"
     She nodded, holding hands with her mother, squeezing her fingers tight.
I  guessed they would have depended on a heli  coming in to get them in  the
event of  serious illness or accident. That wasn't going  to happen tonight,
not with this downpour -but at least it  was keeping Charlie at bay. As long
as it kept  raining so hard he wouldn't be able to fly back to  find out why
contact had been broken.
     I found the dihydrocodeine under the shelves. The label might have said
one  tablet when required, but she was getting three, plus the aspirin I was
pushing from its foil. Without  needing to be  asked, Luz  announced she was
going  to fetch some Evian. Carrie swallowed eagerly, desperate for anything
to deaden what she was feeling. With  this lot down her neck it  wouldn't be
long before  she  was dancing with the fairies, but for now she was studying
the wall clock.
     "Nick, tomorrow,  ten  o'clock..." She  turned to  me,  her  expression
pleading.
     "First things first."
     I ripped  the crunchy Cellophane  from a  crepe bandage  and started to
replace the belt and  bits of sweatshirt in  a figure  of eight  around  her
feet. She had  to be stabilized.  As soon as that was done, we needed to  be
out  of  this house  before  the  weather improved  and Charlie fired up his
helis. Even if  the  rain stopped when we were half-way  to Chepo, the Hueys
would catch us up en route.
     The clinic in Chepo, where is it?"
     "It's not really a clinic, it's  the Peace Corps folks and-' "Have they
got a surgery?"
     "Sort of."
     I  pressed  the soles of  her feet and her toes and watched the imprint
remain for a second or two until her blood returned.
     Two thousand people, Nick.  You've  got  to talk to George, you must do
something.
     If only for  Aar-' Luz  returned with  the water and  helped her mother
with the bottle.
     I didn't disturb  the dressings over the  wound site,  or  the  foliage
packed  between her legs, but  just gradually worked my way up her legs with
the four inch bandages. I  wanted to get her  looking like an Egyptian mummy
from her feet up to her hips. Carrie just lay there, staring vacantly at the
now stationary fans.
     I got Luz to  hold her mother's legs up  a little  so  I could feed the
bandage under  them. Carrie cried out, but it had to be done. She managed to
calm herself, and looked directly into my eyes. Talk to George, you'll speak
his language. He won't listen to me, never has..."
     Luz was on her knees, holding her mum's hand once more.
     "What's happening, Mom?
     Is Grandpa coming to help?"
     Carrie stared at me, mumbling to Luz, "What's the time, baby?"
     Twenty after eight."
     Carrie squeezed her hand.
     "What's wrong, Mom? I want Daddy. What's wrong?"
     "We're late ... We've gotta  get Grandpa ... He'll be worrying ... Talk
to him, Nick. Please, you've got to ..."
     Where's Daddy? I want Daddy." She was getting hysterical as Carrie held
her hand tight.
     "Soon, baby, not yet ... Get Grandpa ..." Then she turned her head away
from her daughter and her voice was suddenly much quieter.
     "Nick has to go and do something for us first and himself. I don't mind
waiting, Chepo  isn't that  far." She stared  at me  for a  few moments with
half-closed, glazed eyes,  then rested her head back on the cot, mouth open.
But there  wasn't  any noise. Her  big, wet, swollen  eyes looked at me  and
begged silently.
     Luz got up and went over to her PC.
     "We'll see Daddy soon, right?"
     Carrie couldn't tilt her head far enough back to see her.
     "Get Grandpa."
     "No, not yet," I said.
     "Get a search engine Google, something like that."
     Both of them looked at me as if I was mad. My eyes darted between them.
     "Just do it, trust me."
     Luz was already clicking the keyboard of her PC at the other end of the
room when Carrie beckoned me closer.
     "What?" I could smell the mud caked in her hair, and heard the sound of
the modem handshaking.
     She stared at me, her pupils almost fully dilated.
     "Kelly, the Yes Guy. You got to do something ..."
     It's OK, I've taken care of that, for now at least."
     She smiled like a drunk.
     "I got it, Nick I got Google."
     I walked over and took her place  on the  chair, and typed  in "Sunburn
missile'.
     It threw up a  couple of thousand results, but even the first I clicked
on  made  grim   reading.  The  Russian-designed  and  -built  3M82   Moskit
sea-skimming missile (NATO code-named SS-N-22 "Sunburn') was now also in the
hands of the Chinese.
     The line drawing showed a  normal, rocket-shaped missile, quite skinny,
with fins at the bottom and smaller ones midway up its  ten metres. It could
be  launched from  a ship  or from a  trailer-like platform that looked like
something from Thunderbirds.
     There was a defence analyst's review:
     The Sunburn anti-ship missile is perhaps the most lethal in the  world.
The Sunburn combines a  Mach 2.5  speed with a very low-level flight pattern
that uses violent end  maneuvers  to throw off defenses. After detecting the
Sunburn, the US Navy Phalanx point defense  system may have only 2.5 seconds
to calculate a  fire  solution  before impact  when  it  lifts up and  heads
straight down into the target's deck with the devastating impact of a 750 Ib
warhead. With a range of 90 miles,  Sunburn ... Devastating wasn't the word.
After the  initial  explosion,  which  would  melt everyone in the immediate
vicinity,  everything caught in the blast  would become a secondary missile,
to the point of steel drinks trays decapitating people at supersonic speed.
     That was all I needed to know.
     I moved off the chair and walked towards the other two.
     "Luz, you can get your grand ad now."
     THIRTY-EIGHT
     I knelt down beside Carrie. The banjo  you were talking about,  is it a
river? Is that why they have a boat?"
     The drugs were kicking in.
     "Banjo?"
     "No, no where they came from last night, remember? Is it a river?"
     She nodded, fighting hard to listen.
     "Oh, the Bayano? East of here, not far."
     "Do you know where they are exactly?"
     "No, but... but..."
     She motioned me  with her head to bend down closer. When she spoke, her
voice was shaking and trying to fight back the tears.
     "Aaron next door?"
     I shook my head. The Mazda."
     She coughed and started to cry very  gently. I didn't know what to say:
my head was empty.
     "Grandpa! Grandpa! You gotta help ...  There were these men, Mom's hurt
and Daddy's gone for the police!" She  was  getting herself into a frenzy. I
moved over to her.
     "Go and help your mum, go on."
     I   found   myself   facing  George's  head   and  shoulders   in   the
six-inch-by-six  box in the centre of the screen. It was still a bit jittery
and  fuzzy  around the edges, just like last  night, but I could clearly see
his dark suit and tie over  a white shirt. I plugged  in the headset and put
it  over my ears  so nothing could be heard over the tinny internal speaker.
Luz had been protected so far from all this shit: there was no need for that
to change.
     "Who are you?" His tone was slow and controlled over the crackles.
     "Nick. A face to the name at last, eh?"
     "What's my daughter's condition?" His  all-American  square-jawed  face
didn't betray a trace of emotion.
     "A fractured femur but she's going to be OK. You need to sort something
out  for  her at Chepo. Get her picked up from  the Peace Corps. I'll-' "No.
Take  them both  to the embassy.  Where  is Aaron?" If  he was concerned, he
wasn't sounding it.
     I  looked behind me and saw Luz, close to  Carrie but within earshot. I
turned back and muttered, "Dead."
     My eyes  were on  the screen, but there was no change  of expression in
his face nor in his voice.
     "I repeat, take them to the embassy, I'll arrange everything else."
     I  shook  my head  slowly, looking into  the screen as  he  stared back
impassively. I kept my voice low.
     "I know what's happening, George. So does Choi. You can't let the Ocaso
take the  hit. You know  how  many people will be there? People like Carrie,
Luz -real people. You have to stop it."
     His features didn't move a millimetre until he took a breath.
     "Listen up,  son, don't  get yourself involved  in something you  don't
understand. Just  do exactly what I said. Take my daughter and  Luz  to  the
embassy, and do it right now."
     He hadn't denied it. He hadn't asked, What's the Ocaso?"
     I needed to finish my piece.
     "Get it stopped, George, or I'm reaching out to anyone who will listen.
Call it off and I'm silent for life. Simple."
     "Can't do that, son." He leant forward as if he wanted to get closer to
intimidate me. His face took up a lot of screen.
     "Reach out all you want, no one will be listening. Just too many people
involved, too many agendas. You're getting into ground that you  wouldn't be
capable of understanding."
     He moved back, his shirt and tie returning to the screen.
     "Listen  up good, I'll tell  you what's simple. Just take  them  to the
embassy and wait there. I'll even get you paid off, if it helps." He paused,
     to ensure I was really going to get the message.
     "If not? Take my  word for it, the future won't  look bright. Now  just
get with the  program, take them to the embassy, and  don't get dragged into
something that's so big it'll frighten you."
     I  listened, knowing that as soon as I  was through those embassy gates
I'd be history. I knew too much and wasn't one of the family.
     "Remember, son, many agendas. You wouldn't be sure who you'd be talking
to."
     I  shook my head and pulled off  the  headset, looking around at Carrie
with a shrug of exasperation.
     "Let me speak to him, Nick."
     TSfo point. He's hearing, not listening."
     Two thousand people, Nick, two thousand people ..."
     I  went  over to them  both and grabbed  one end  of the  cot with both
hands.
     "Luz, we need blankets and water for your mum. Just pile them up in the
storeroom for the journey."
     I pulled  the cot back so  Carrie was within reach of the  headset, and
placed it over her  head, repositioning the mike so it  was near her  mouth.
Above us,  George's face  still dominated the screen  as he  waited  for  my
answer.
     "Hi, it's me."
     The face on the screen was impassive, but I saw the lips move.
     "I'll live ... all those people won't if you don't do something to call
it off."
     George's mouth worked for  several seconds, but his expression remained
set. He  was arguing,  rationalizing, probably commanding. The  one thing he
still wasn't doing was listening.
     "Just  once, just for  once in  my life ...  I've never  asked  you for
anything. Even the passport wasn't a gift, it came with conditions. You have
to  stop it. Stop it now ... I looked at George,  and  his  cold, unyielding
face as he spoke. It was now Carrie's turn to listen. She slowly  pulled the
headset from her face, her eyes swollen with tears,  and let  it drop on her
chest.
     "Disconnect  it ... get him out  of here ... It's  over  ... Comms  are
closed."
     I left them to it as George had already cut the com ms himself.
     The  box had closed  down.  That was because he'd be getting  on to the
missile crew using the relay.
     Looking up at the ceiling, I followed the black wires from the  dishes,
down  behind  the  plywood boards and out  under the  tables, looking like a
plate of spaghetti as they jumbled themselves up with white wires and fought
with each other on their way to feed the machines.
     Sliding  under  the  desk,  I  started  to  pull  out anything that was
attached to anything else as I shouted at  Carrie. Where's the relay  board?
Do you know where the relay is?"
     I got a weak reply. The blue box. It's near where you are somewhere."
     Luz came back into the room and went to her mother.
     Under the mass of wiring, books and stationery I  found a dark blue and
badly scratched alloy box, just  over  a  foot square and four inches thick.
There were three coaxial cables attached, two in,  one out. I pulled out all
three.
     There was mumbling behind me. I turned just in  time to see Luz heading
for the living-room door.
     "Stop! Stay where you are! Don't move!"  I jumped to my feet and  moved
over and grabbed her.
     "Where you going?"
     "Just to get some clothes. I'm sorry ..." She looked over to her mother
for support. I let go so she could be at her mother's side, and as I  turned
to follow her I noticed a small pool of blood that had started to seep under
the door. I ran into the storeroom and grabbed the  first thing I could find
for the job,  a  half-empty fifty-pound plastic sack  of rice that had  been
kicked over.  I lugged  it back and placed  it like  a  sandbag  against the
bottom of the door.
     "You can't go in there it's dangerous, there could be  a fire.  The oil
lamps fell  when the helicopters came,  it's everywhere. I'll get your stuff
for you in a second."
     Getting back under the table, I ripped out every wire that was attached
to anything, then listened to make sure it was still raining.
     I'll get the clothes for you now, Luz, just stay here, OK?"
     I nearly gagged when I opened the door and  stepped  over the rice bag.
The smell of cordite had gone, replaced by death,  a smell like a bad day in
a butcher's shop. Once the  door was  closed I turned on the light. The four
bodies lay amongst  the splintered wood  and  smashed glass,  their blood in
thick, congealed pools on the floorboards.
     I tried to avoid stepping in anything as I went and got a spare  set of
clothes for  Luz and a sweat top for Carrie. Opening the door,  I threw them
out into the computer room.
     "Get changed, help your mum. I'll stay in here."
     Positioning my  feet  to avoid  the blood, I  started to  pull a  chest
harness from under Green Guy. It must have been dragged from the table as he
collapsed, and was dripping with blood. That didn't matter, what did was the
mags inside.
     I started to wrench off the other harnesses.  They,  too, were soaking,
and  some of the  mags had been  hit  by rounds. The nylon had  split  open,
exposing twisted metal and bits of brass.
     Hefting three harnesses, all filled  with fresh mags, I rescued my docs
from the floor and  collected  two hundred and  twelve  bloodstained dollars
from the five bodies. Feeling  less  naked,  I secured them in my leg pocket
before checking the bookshelf for mapping of Chepo and the Bayano.
     I found what  I was looking for, and she was right: it was to the  east
of Chepo.
     There was  no time to ponder, we  had to leave. The weather might clear
at any minute. If the Peace  Corps couldn't do anything for her, they  could
at least get her to the city.
     I  ran   through  on  to  the  veranda,  and  out  into  the  wonderful
heli-repelling rain.
     As soon as I got to the  Land Cruiser I dumped the kit in the foot well
then  jammed the M-16 down between the passenger seat and  the door before I
closed it.
     I didn't know why, I just didn't want Luz seeing it.
     I went round to the other side and checked the fuel. I had about half a
tank. I grabbed the  torch  and  headed  for  the Mazda.  When  I lifted the
squeaking  tailgate,  the light  beam fell on the  now bloodstained bedsheet
covering Aaron. I could  also see the  jerry-cans secured  at  the  rear and
jumped in beside him, my boots slipping  in a pool of his blood. The sickly,
sweet  smell  was  as bad  as it  was in the house. I rested my  hand on his
stomach to steady myself,  and  discovered  he was still soft. I dragged out
one of the heavy containers and slammed the tailgate shut.
     I unscrewed the Land Cruiser's fuel cap and pulled back  the  nozzle of
the  jerry  can The  pressure  inside was released with a hiss.  I hurriedly
poured the  fuel into the  tank, splashing  it down the side  of  the wagon,
drenching my hands.
     As soon as the jerry-can was empty I closed the  fuel cap and threw the
metal  container into the  foot well on  top of  the harnesses. I  thought I
might be needing it later.
     THIRTY-NINE
     Having made sure that mud had replaced Aaron's blood on my Timberlands,
I walked back towards  the  glare of the computer  room and checked that the
rice bag was still doing its job.
     Carrie was smoking,  and as I got closer I didn't need a sniffer dog to
tell me  what. Luz was sitting  on  the floor beside  the cot, stroking  her
mother's  brow  and  watching  the smoke ooze  from  her  nostrils.  If  she
disapproved, she wasn't showing it.
     Carrie's flooded eyes stared up in a daze at the motionless fan as  her
daughter  carried  on gently  massaging her sweating forehead. I squatted at
her feet and gave them another pinch. The blood flow was still there.
     As I stood up my gaze switched to Luz. Tour mum tell you where it was?"
The question  about the giggle weed was irrelevant and I didn't know why I'd
asked  it just something to say,  I supposed. Her head  didn't move  but her
eyes swivelled up at me.
     "As if ... but it's OK, today."
     Carrie tried to let out  a  bit of a  laugh, but  it sounded more  like
coughing.
     I bent down and retrieved one  of the crepe bandages from the floor and
put it into my pocket. Time to go."
     She gave a nod as Carrie took another deep drag of the joint.
     "Come on, then, let's get your mother out of here."
     We both had our hands on the cot, Luz at the feet end, facing me.
     "Ready? One, two, three. Up, up, up."
     I  steered  us  while  she  shuffled backwards,  ploughing  through the
littered  storeroom floor. We squelched through the  mud and  slid  her once
more into  the  back of the wagon,  head  first. I  sent Luz  back into  the
storeroom for the blankets and Evian while I used the  bandage to secure the
cot legs at the  head  end to anchorage  points to stop it sliding around on
the  journey.  Carrie  turned her  head towards  me, sounding drowsy on  her
cocktail of dihy-drocodeine, aspirin and giggle weed
     "Nick, Nick ..."
     I was busy tying off in the dull interior lighting.
     What am I going to do now?"
     I knew what she was getting at, but this wasn't the time. 'You're going
to Chepo and then you'll both be in Boston before you know it."
     "No, no. Aaron what am I going to do?"
     I was reprieved by  Luz returning with water and an armful of  blanket,
which she helped me arrange over Carrie.
     I jumped off the tailgate back into the mud and went round and  climbed
into the driver's seat.
     "Luz, you've got to keep an eye on your mum make sure she doesn't slide
about too much, OK?"
     She  nodded earnestly, kneeling over her as I started up and turned the
Land Cruiser in  a wide arc  before  heading on to the track. The main beams
swept over the  Mazda. Carrie  eventually  saw it in  the red  glow  of  our
tail-lights as we crept past.
     "Stop, stop, Nick stop ..."
     I put my foot  gently  on the brake and turned in my seat. Her head was
up, neck straining to look out of  the gap at the rear. Luz moved to support
her. What's up, Mom? What's wrong?"
     Carrie just kept on staring at the Mazda as she answered her daughter.
     "It's OK, baby I was just thinking about something. Later." She  pulled
Luz close and gave her a hug.
     I waited for a while as the rain fell, more gently  now, and the engine
ticked over.
     "OK to go?"
     "Yes," she said.
     "We're done here."
     The journey to Chepo was slow and difficult as I tried to avoid as many
potholes and  ruts as I could. I  really wished there had been  time to look
for another gollock. Going back into the  jungle without one reminded me too
much of Tuesday.
     By the time we came out into the dead  valley the rain had eased  a bit
further  and the wipers were  just on  intermittent. I looked  up  over  the
wheel,  knowing I wouldn't be able  to see, but hoping all the same that the
cloud cover was still low. If not, there'd be a heli or two revving up soon.
     Once we hit the road, which looked more like a river in places, we were
making no more than about ten Ks an hour. My nostrils were  hit by the smell
of cannabis again, and glancing round, I saw Luz kneeling by her mother with
the joint just an inch from Carrie's lips, trying hard to get it  back  into
her mouth between jolts. I fished in my pocket for the dihydrocodeine.
     "Here, give your mum another of these with some water. Show the doctors
or whoever the bottle. She's had four in total and an aspirin. Got that?"
     Eventually the fortified police station came into view and I called for
directions. Where's the clinic? Which way do I go?"
     Luz was the one on top of this now: her mother was well and truly gone.
     "It's kinda behind the store."
     That  I did know. We passed the restaurant and the jaguar  wasn't  even
curious as we drove on into the dark side of town.
     I  flicked  my  wrist  to have  a  check of Baby-G. It was  just before
midnight. Only ten hours in which to do what I had to do.
     I took a right just before the breeze block store.
     "Luz, this the right way? Am I
     OK?"
     'Yep it's just up here, see?"
     Her hand passed  my face from behind and pointed. About three buildings
down was  another breeze block  structure with  a tin roof  and the circular
Peace Corps sign stars and stripes, only instead of the stars a dove or two.
I really couldn't see in this light.
     I  pulled up outside and  Luz  jumped  out of the back. I could tell it
wasn't a medical clinic at all: there was a painted wooden plaque below more
doves which read, "American  Peace  Corps Community Environmental  Education
Project'.
     Luz was already banging on the front door as I looked back at Carrie.
     "We're here, Carrie, we're here."
     I got no response. She was definitely waltzing  with the pixies, but at
least the pain was subdued.
     The door-banging got a  result. As I climbed  out  of the Land Cruiser,
heading for  the tailgate,  a  woman  in her  mid-twenties  with long  brown
sleep-hair appeared on  the threshold, wearing a tracksuit.  Her eyes darted
about rapidly as she took in the scene.
     What's wrong, Luz?"
     Luz launched into  a frenzied  explanation as  I got into  the rear and
undid the security bandage.
     "We're here, Carrie," I said.
     She murmured to herself  as  the young woman came to the rear, now wide
awake.
     "Carrie, it's Janet can you hear me? It's Janet, can you hear me?"
     There was no time for hellos.
     "Got trauma care? It's an open fractured femur, left leg."
     Janet held out her arms and began  to ease the cot out of the  wagon. I
grabbed the other end and between us we lugged Carrie inside.
     The office was barely furnished, just a couple of desks, cork boards, a
phone and wall clock. What I'd seen so far was doing nothing to make me feel
happier about their level of expertise.
     "Can you treat her? If you can't, you need to get her into the city."
     The woman looked at me as if I was mad.
     More people were emerging sleepily from the rear of the building, three
men  in different shades of disarray, and a rush of American voices.  What's
happened, Carrie? Where's Aaron? Ohmigod, you OK, Luz?"
     I stood back as events took over.  A  trauma pack appeared and a bag of
fluid  and  a  giving set  were  pulled out and prepared.  It  was  hardly a
well-rehearsed scene from ER, but they knew exactly what they  were doing. I
looked at Luz, sitting on the floor holding  her mother's  hand once more as
Janet read the dihydrocodeine label on the bottle.
     According to the wall clock it was 12.27 nine and a half hours to go. I
left them to it for a while and went back to the wagon. Once in the driver's
seat I hit the  cab light, wanting to save the torch because I might need it
later, and unfolded the map to get  my bearings  on the Bayano. It came from
the massive  Lago  Bayano  to the east  of  Chepo, maybe thirty K  away, and
snaked towards the  Bay of Panama on the edge  of  the  Pacific. The river's
mouth  was  in line  of  sight  of the entrance to the canal  and,  a little
further in, the Miraflores. If this was the river they were on,  they had to
be at the mouth.
     Sunburn couldn't negotiate high  ground: it was  designed  for the sea.
The  range  to  the  canal  was  just  under  fifty Ks, about thirty  miles.
Sunburn's range was ninety. It made sense so far.
     I  studied  the  map, wondering if  Charlie  was  doing the same before
getting  out there to look for it. He didn't  know  what  I did  so he'd  be
scanning  the  sixty  to seventy miles of  jungle shoreline that fell within
Sunburn's range and  could be used as a  launch  point. That  was  a  lot of
jungle to sift through  in less than  ten  hours. I  hoped it would mean the
difference between me destroying it and him repossessing it so he could hand
it straight over to PARC.
     The map indicated that the only place to launch  from was the east bank
as  the  river  joined  the sea. The west bank also had a peninsula,  but it
didn't project far enough out to clear the coastline. It had to be the east,
the left-hand side  as I  went down  the river. It had to be, and  there was
only one way to find out.
     The Bayano's nearest reachable point  was  seven Ks south, according to
the map,  via  a dry-weather, loose-surface road. There, the river was about
two hundred metres wide. It then  wound  south,  downstream to the coast for
about ten K. In  reality it  would be more, because of the river's bends and
turns. By the time it hit the coastline it was nearly two kilometres across.
     That was it, that was all I knew. But fuck it, I  had to work  with the
information I had and just get on with it.
     I went to the  rear of the wagon and closed the tailgate, then got back
behind the wheel, fired the engine, and moved off.
     I bumbled about  the dark  sleepy town, trying  to head south using the
Silva compass still round my neck. The map was the same 1980s 1:50,000 scale
I'd had for Charlie's house, and Chepo had grown a bit since then.
     It was only then that I realized  I hadn't  said anything to Carrie and
Luz.
     Carrie wouldn't have heard but, still, it  would have been  nice to say
goodbye.
     After  getting two bottles of  Evian down  my  neck and  an hour of the
dry-weather  track, now just  a mixture of mud and gravel,  I saw a river in
the tunnel of light carved out immediately ahead  of me. Stopping, I checked
the map and  distance once more, then jumped out of the wagon with the torch
and picked  my  way down the  muddy bank. The crickets  were  loud, but  the
movement of water was louder.
     The river wasn't a  raging  torrent surging with  a massive  rush, even
after these rains: it was wide  enough to  accommodate all the water  coming
from  the tributaries  that  fed it with a  constant  flow. It was certainly
moving in  the  right  direction, from my right to my  left,  heading  south
towards the Pacific although  so would every other bit of water this side of
the country so near to the sea.
     Running along the bank, I checked  for  a boat, anything that would get
me downstream quickly. There wasn't  even a jetty no  ground sign,  nothing,
just mud, rough grass, and the odd scabby-looking tree.
     I scrambled up the bank,  got into  the wagon, and checked  the map and
mileometer once more.  This river had  to  be the  one I  wanted: there  was
nothing else around here big enough to get mixed up with.
     I drove back up  the track towards Chepo, checking each  side of me for
somewhere to  hide the  Land Cruiser, but  even  after three  kilometres the
ground picked out  by the headlights  still looked  completely bare-arsed. I
finally parked up on the side  of  the road, dragged out the dried-out chest
harnesses, the M-16 and jerry can  then tabbed back towards  the  river with
the kit dangling off me like a badly packed Cub Scout.
     FORTY
     Saturday  9 September  I  seemed to  have spent my  whole  life sitting
against a tree  in  the mud, listening to a million  crickets disturbing the
night. I  wasn't under the  canopy this time, but down  by the Bayano  as it
rumbled past me out there in the dark.
     The mozzies weren't out in such force  here, but enough had found me to
bring  up a  few  more lumps  on my neck to replace the ones  that had  just
started going down. I ran my tongue around my mouth: my teeth felt more than
furry now, it was as if they  had sheepskin coats on. I thought about what I
was doing here. Why couldn't I smarten up? Why hadn't I just killed  Michael
and had done with it in the first place?
     With only half  an hour  to  push  before first light and a move to the
target,  I knew  I was bullshitting myself. I knew I would  have  done  this
regardless. It wasn't just the fact that so many people -real people were at
risk: it was that maybe, just for once, I was doing the right thing. I might
even end up feeling a little proud of myself.
     Pulling my knees up and resting my elbows on them to support my head, I
started to rub my stubbly, sweaty face on my forearms. I could hear the weak
but rapid wap  wap wap of a Huey  somewhere out  there in  the  darkness.  I
couldn't see any navigation lights, but could tell it was only one aircraft.
Maybe Charlie had been back to the house. After what  he'd found waiting for
him there, he'd be out looking, but I had no control over that.
     Anyway, for the  time being  he'd be having those  aircraft  search the
coastline for Sunburn rather than us three.
     Invisible birds started their morning songs  as a bright yellow arc  of
sunlight prepared to  break the  skyline  and  yield  up  a hot morning. I'd
already repacked my  docs and map in the two layers  of plastic  bags, tying
each one off  with a knot. I checked the Velcro  flaps on the individual mag
pouches of  the  harnesses to ensure  that  they weren't going  to fall  out
during the next phase. Finally, I made sure all my clothing  was loose, with
nothing tucked in that might catch water and weigh me down.
     I undid the plastic clips for the back straps of the  harnesses and fed
the ends through the handle of the jerry-can  before refastening them. I did
the same with the neck straps, through  the carrying handle of the M-16. I'd
learnt from  my  own experiences,  and from others, that  more soldiers  get
killed negotiating  rivers than ever die  in contacts under the canopy. That
was why  everything  was attached to the  empty jerry-can and not to me, and
why I hadn't moved until first light.
     I  dragged  the  whole lot  down to the edge of  the tepid, rusty-brown
water. It felt good as I waded in up to my thighs, then ducked my head in to
take  the sweat off my  face.  Refreshed,  I  heaped the three harnesses and
weapon  on  top of  the  floating jerry-can,  which  wanted  to go  with the
current.  It was stronger than  it had looked  from  the  bank, and  freshly
dislodged  foliage, green and  leafy, sped  past as  the jerry-can bobbed in
front  of me, now more  than half submerged with the weight  of  its load. I
pushed  on into  gradually  deepening water, forearms over  the  weapon  and
harnesses, until eventually my feet began to lose touch with the riverbed. I
let myself go with  the flow, kicking  off from the mud like a child with  a
swimming float. The stream carried me with it, but  I kept contact with  the
bottom to keep some  control, alternately kicking and going with the current
as if I was doing a moonwalk.
     The  loggers had been here and both sides of  the  river  looked like a
First World War battlefield,  a wasteland of mud and tufted  grass, just the
odd dead tree left standing.
     Because of  the river's meandering route I had no idea  how long it was
going to take to get  to the mouth, not that there was much I could do about
it: I was committed.
     After about half an hour, with the  sun  low but clearly  in  view, the
jungle  began  to sprout  up on either side  of me,  and as  the foliage got
denser it  cut out more and  more light. The sun  wasn't yet high enough  to
penetrate the  gap the  river created  in the canopy,  so above  me was just
brilliant blue sky. Apart from the noise of the moving water, there was only
the odd screech from more invisible birds up in the canopy.
     I kicked along, keeping near the left bank, always  having contact with
the bottom as  the  river got wider. The opposite bank gradually got further
away,  looking  as if  it was another country  now.  The jungle gave way  to
mangrove swamp, making the place look like a dinosaur's backyard.
     The river  soon widened to well over  one and a half Ks. As I rounded a
particularly wide, gentle bend, I could see the Pacific Ocean lying just a K
further  downstream.  In the  far distance I could see  two container ships,
their funnels spewing smoke as the sun bounced off the calm, flat surface of
the sea.
     A lush green island sat out there five, maybe six Ks away.
     I kept on going, keeping my eyes peeled for anything that would help me
locate Sunburn.
     The  current  was slowing and I moved  downstream  another five hundred
metres.
     Then, maybe two hundred  metres from the river mouth, approaching me to
my left, was a small, open-decked  fishing boat that had been dragged  up on
to  the bank and left to rot; its rear had  collapsed altogether, leaving  a
skeleton of grey,  rotting  wood. As  I got  closer I  could see there was a
clearing  beyond the boat in which stood a small  wooden  hut in  a  similar
state of decay.
     I floated past, my eyes  scanning the area.  There  had  been movement,
fresh movement. I could clearly see the dark underside  of  some large ferns
just up from  the bank, and some  of  the two-foot-tall grass growing around
the boat was interlaced where it had been walked through. Only tiny details,
but  enough. This had to be it, it  had to be. There was no other reason for
it to be here. But I couldn't see any sign in the mud leading from the bank.
     I carried  on for another fifty metres, with the  ocean in  front of me
now, until  the canopy took over and the boat  disappeared. I touched bottom
and slowly guided the jerry-can ashore.
     Dragging the kit  into the canopy, I got on my knees and unbuckled  the
harnesses and M-16. The weapon wouldn't need any preparation: a brief dip in
a river wasn't going to stop it working.
     I donned  the  first chest harness  and adjusted the straps so that  it
hung lower than it should have, virtually around my waist. Then I put on the
second, a bit above the first,  adjusting it so  it  was at the bottom of my
ribcage, and the third  one higher still. I rechecked that all the mags were
stored facing the correct way, so  that as I pulled them  out with  my  left
hand the  curve of the magazine would  be facing away from  me, ready  to be
slapped straight into  the weapon. Finally, after  rechecking chamber on the
M-16,1 sat on the jerry-can  for a minute or  two longer, mentally adjusting
and tuning myself in to the new environment. The coolness of the water on my
clothes began to lose out to  humid  heat  once more as I checked Baby-G. It
was  7.19, and here I was, Rambo'd up, bitten half to  death,  my  leg  held
together by a soggy bandage, and no plan except to use all my mags.
     This would be my 'go, no-go' point. Once I  moved from here there would
be no turning back unless I fucked up totally and was running for my life. I
looked down and watched the drips  from the harnesses hit  the  mud,  making
little moon craters,  not wanting to check my  docs in my map pocket just in
case the knots hadn't worked. This was wasting time, I was as ready as I was
ever going to  be, so just get on with  it...  Wiping my  hair back with  my
fingers,  I stood  up, jumped  up and down  to check  for  rattles and  that
everything was secure. Then I removed the safety catch, pushing  past single
rounds, all the way to Automatic.
     I  moved towards  the  hut,  pausing  every  few paces,  listening  for
warnings  from the birds and other jungle life, butt in my shoulder, trigger
finger against the guard, ready to shoot and scoot with a full mag to scare,
confuse and, with luck, kill while I broke contact.
     The  ground was a  lot  wetter and muddier  here because we were at sea
level.  I wanted to get a move on but also had  to  take my time; I  had  to
check the area around the hut, because it would be my  only escape route. If
the shit hit the fan it would  be a case of straight down to the river, pick
up the jerry-can, jump in and go for  it, down to the sea.  After that, well
whatever.
     Like  a  cautious  bird rooting for food  amongst  the  leaf  litter, I
squelched  forward  four  paces  per bound,  my Timberlands heavy with  mud,
lifting  my feet up high  to clear the crap and mangrove vines on the jungle
floor as I concentrated on the sun-bleached wooden hut ahead.
     I stopped just short of the clearing, went slowly on to my knees in the
mud  and protective foliage,  looked and listened. The  only  man-made sound
around here was the water dripping from my clothes and chest harnesses on to
the leaf litter.
     The track leading into the canopy had been used recently, and something
had  been pulled along it  that  cut  a groove  through the mud and  leaves.
Either side of that groove were footprints that  disappeared  with the track
into the trees. I hadn't seen any sign in the mud as I floated past, because
it had been covered with dead leaves and maybe even had water poured over it
to wash away the sign.
     Past the  bank, though, the sign was clear to  see: stones pressed into
the  mud by boots,  crushed leaves, broken  cobwebs. I got up and started to
parallel the track.
     Within twenty  paces I came across the Gemini, with  a Yamaha 50 on the
back. It had been dragged up the track and pulled off to the right, blocking
my  way. The craft was empty apart from a couple of  fuel  bladders and some
fallen leaves. I was tempted to wreck it, but what was the point? I might be
needing  it myself soon, and destroying it  would take time as well as alert
them to my presence.
     I moved on, and could  still see masses of ground  sign heading in both
directions as the narrow track meandered around the trees. Still paralleling
the track to  my left, I started to move deeper into the canopy, using it as
my guide.
     Sweat  trickled down my face as the  sun rose and lit the gas under the
pressure cooker.  A heart-monitor bird was  up in the  canopy somewhere, and
the  crickets just never stopped. Soon the  sun was trying to penetrate  the
canopy,  shafts  of bright light  cutting  down  to  the  jungle floor  at a
forty-five-degree angle.  My cargos  had a  life of their own, the weight of
the wet, caked-on mud making them swing against my legs after each pace.
     I patrolled on, stopping, listening, trying to keep up speed but at the
same time  not  compromise myself by  making  too much  noise.  I  continued
checking  left, right and above  me,  all  the  time thinking:  What if? and
always coming  up with the  same answer: Shoot and scoot, get into cover and
work out how to box round and keep moving to the target. Only when  I knew I
was fucked would I try to head back to the jerry-can.
     There was a metallic clang in the trees.
     I froze, straining an ear.
     For several seconds all I could hear was my own breath through my nose,
then the clang rang out again. It came from straight ahead and just slightly
off to my left.
     Applying the safety catch with my right thumb, I went down slowly on to
my  knees, then on to my stomach. It was  time  to move slower than a sloth,
but BabyG reminded me it was 9.06.
     I inched  forward on  my elbows and toes, with the weapon to my  right,
exactly as I  had done when I  attacked the Land  Cruiser, except  that this
time I was having to lift my body higher  than I'd have  wanted  to stop the
chest harnesses dragging in the mud.
     I was  panting: the  crawl  was hard  work.  I put out  my  hands,  put
pressure on my elbows and pushed  myself forward with  the tips of  my toes,
sinking into the mud.
     Moving through the undergrowth six inches  at a  time, I could feel the
gloop  finding  its way up my neck  and forearms. I stopped, lifted  my head
from the jungle  floor, looked and listened for more activity but still only
heard  my own breath, sounding a hundred  times  louder than I wanted it to.
Every  soft crunch  of wet  leaves beneath  me  sounded like the popping  of
bubble wrap
     I was constantly looking for alarm trips wires, pressure pads, infrared
beams or maybe even string and tin cans. I didn't know what to expect.
     A mud-covered Baby-G now told me it  was 9.21.1 made myself feel better
about the time by thinking that at least I might finally be on target.
     Mosquitoes materialized from nowhere, whirring  and  whining  around my
head. They landed on my face and must have known that I couldn't do anything
about it.
     There was noise, and  I froze.  Another clunk of metal on metal then  a
faint, fast murmur above  the noise of the crickets. I closed my eyes, leant
my ear towards the source,  opened my mouth  to cut  out internal noises and
concentrated.
     The inflection  in the voices wasn't Spanish. I strained to listen, but
just couldn't work  it out.  They  seemed  to  be  talking  at  warp  speed,
accompanied now by the rhythmic thud of full jerry-cans.
     It was 9.29.
     I had to get closer and not worry about the noise,  not worry about the
people making it. I needed to see what  was happening so  I could  work  out
what I had to do within the next twenty minutes.
     FORTY-ONE
     I lifted my chest from the mud and slithered forward. Very soon I began
to  make out  a small clearing beyond the wall of green. Sunlight penetrated
the canopy in thick shafts, dazzling me as it bounced off the wet ground and
perimeter foliage.
     Movement.
     The black-shirted guy who'd  been on the veranda crossed  left to right
in the clearing before disappearing as quickly as he'd arrived, carrying two
black bin liners  half  full and shiny in  the sunlight. He wore a  US  Army
webbing belt with two mag pouches hanging down from it.
     I  took some slow, deep breaths to re oxygenate myself. The thud of  my
pulse kicked in my neck.
     I made another two slow advances, not bothering to lift my head to look
forward through the foliage. I'd know soon enough if they'd seen me.
     The  voices came again from  my right,  a lot  clearer, and faster, but
still in control. I could understand them now, sort of... They were  Eastern
European, maybe Bosnians. The doss-house had been full of them.
     The small cleared area in the trees was about the size of half a tennis
court.  I couldn't see  anything, but  heard  the unmistakable  hiss of fuel
under pressure being released in the vicinity of the voices.
     One more slow, deliberate bound  and now I heard the  fuel splash.  Not
daring even to rub my  lips together to wipe off the mud, I strained my eyes
to the top of their sockets, my mouth open. I felt dribble run down from the
corners.
     Black  Shirt was  to  my  half  right,  maybe  six, seven  metres away,
standing  with  the little fat guy who'd  been  with him that night.  He was
still wearing the same checked shirt. The jerry-cans were being emptied over
the assembled  contents of  their  camp:  camouflage  netting, American Army
cots, a generator turned on its side, plastic bin-liners full and  tied. All
were piled into a heap. It was nearly time to leave, so they were destroying
any evidence linking them to the site.
     I remained perfectly still, my throat dry and sore as I tried to listen
to the two Bosnians above the din of  crickets  and bird calls. Their voices
still came from my right, but we were separated by foliage.
     Holding my breath, straining my muscles  to  keep total control of them
to cut down on noise, I edged forward another few inches, my  eyes glued  to
the two at the rubbish dump just a few metres away as the  last  of the fuel
was  poured and  the cans thrown on top.  I was so  close I could  smell the
fumes.
     As the  area to my right opened up  a  bit I  saw the backs  of the two
Bosnians,  dressed in green  fatigue tops  and  jeans, bathed in a  shaft of
sunlight. They were bent  over a fold-down table,  one twisting the hair  on
his beard as  they both studied two screens inside  a  green metal  console.
There were two integrated keyboards below each screen.  That had to  be  the
guidance system; I'd wondered what it looked like. To the right of it was an
opened laptop, but the sunlight was too bright  for me to make out what  was
on  any  of  the  screens.  Beside  them  on  the ground  were five civilian
rucksacks, two  M-16s with mags on,  and another  jerry-can probably to deal
with the electronic equipment after the launch.
     I wanted to check the time  but Baby-G was covered  in mud. I  couldn't
risk movement so close on target.  I watched the two Bosnians talk and point
at  the  console  screens,  then  look over  at the laptop  as  one hit  the
keyboard. Beyond them I could  see  cables running down from the rear of the
console and into the jungle. The Sunburn had to be  at the river's mouth. As
I'd  have expected,  the guidance  system  was separated  from  the  missile
itself. They wouldn't have wanted to be right on top of shed loads of rocket
fuel when it went off. There was  no generator noise, so I guessed the power
supply must be part of the missile platform.
     The Bosnians  were still gob  bing  off as the fifth member came out of
the canopy from behind the console. He, too, was  dressed in a green fatigue
top, but had black baggy trousers, an M-16 over his shoulder and  belt  kit.
He lit a cigarette  with a  Zippo and watched the Bosnians hovering over the
screens. Sucking  in deeply  on his nicotine hit,  he used his free  hand to
wave the bottom of his shirt to circulate some air around his torso. Even if
I hadn't recognized his face, I would have known that pizza scar anywhere.
     The two  fuel pourers moved away from the rubbish  dump  as Black Shirt
lit  up as well. They were totally uninterested  in what was going on at the
table just behind them and mumbled to each other as they checked the time.
     All of a sudden the  Bosnians  began to jabber and their voices went up
an octave as Pizza Man sucked on his filter and bent in towards the screens.
     Stuff was happening. There  must be only minutes left. I had to make my
move.
     Taking  a deep  breath, I pushed up on to my  knees, my mud-caked thumb
shifting the safety to Auto as the weapon came into the shoulder. I squeezed
with both eyes open, short, sharp bursts into the mud by the dump. There was
a rapid  thud, thud,  thud, thud as the rounds penetrated the first layer of
mud and slammed into the harder ground.
     Unintelligible screams mixed with the sound  of rounds on auto  as  the
Bosnians panicked and  the  other two went for their weapons. The fifth just
seemed to vanish.
     My shoulder rocked back with another short burst  as I held the  weapon
tight to stop the  muzzle rising. I didn't want to hit the Bosnians: if they
could fly the thing, they could stop it. The sounds of automatic gunfire and
panic echoed  round the canopy and a cloud of cordite  hung in  front of me,
held by the foliage.
     The mag emptied as I kept on squeezing. The working parts stayed to the
rear.
     I  got to my  feet and moved position before  they reacted to where the
fire had come from. I ran to the right, towards the  table, using the cover,
the mud  heavy on  my clothes, pressing the magazine-release  catch  with my
forefinger,  shaking the weapon, trying to remove the  mud-clogged magI felt
the  mag hit my thigh as I fumbled at the lower  harness  and pulled  out  a
fresh  one. I  smacked it  on and hit the release  catch. The  working parts
screamed  forward  as  long bursts of automatic fire came from my left, from
the clearing.
     I dropped instinctively. Mud splattered my face and the air was  forced
out of my lungs. Gasping for breath, I crawled like a madman, pushing to the
edge of the clearing.  If they saw me they would fire where I'd  dropped for
cover.
     I was  in time  to  see the Bosnians disappearing down the track, their
terrified voices  filling the gaps between  bursts  of gunfire. I  also  saw
Pizza  Man,  the other side  of  the clearing, in cover, shouting at them to
come back.
     "It's just one man, one weapon! Get back!"
     It wasn't  happening, the other two were following the Bosnians, firing
long bursts into the jungle.
     "Fucking assholes!"
     Weapon  in  the shoulder,  he  took single shots at them. Fuck  that, I
wanted them alive.
     Flicking safety to single rounds, I gulped in air,  closed my  left eye
and  took aim centre  mass of  what  little  I  could  see of  him,  stopped
breathing and fired.
     He dropped like a stone, disappearing into the foliage without a sound.
     The  other two were still  firing into shadows  as  they moved down the
track.
     A cordite mist hung about the clearing as I let off another magazine at
them.
     Steam  oozed out of the cooling  vents  on the  mud-covered  stock  and
around my left hand. Shit, shit, shit...  I wanted to create noise, I wanted
to create confusion, I wanted to  get  everyone sparked up, not lose them in
the jungle. But I wasn't going to chase them. It was pointless, there wasn't
enough time.
     I changed mags and crossed the clearing towards Pizza Man,
     weapon in the shoulder, moving fast but  cautiously.  The others  might
still come back, and I still couldn't see him.
     He was alive, panting  for breath and holding  his chest, eyes open but
helpless.
     Blood flowed gently between his fingers.
     I tossed his weapon to one side and kicked him.
     "Close it down! Close it down!"
     He just lay there, no reaction.
     I grabbed  his forearm  and dragged  him into the clearing, and  it was
then that I saw the exit wound gaping in his back.
     His  eyes were shut tight, taking the pain of the round and movement. I
dropped  his arm as he mumbled, almost smiling, "We're coming  back, asshole
..."
     I leant over him, butt  in the shoulder, and thrust the muzzle into his
face.
     "Stop it! Fucking stop it!"
     He just smiled beneath the pressure of the metal stuck in his skin. The
weapon moved as he coughed up blood over the end of the barrel.
     "Or what?" He coughed up some more.
     He  was  right. I kicked him out of frustration  as I ran to the table,
checking the track for the others, checking Baby-G.
     Just three minutes to go.
     The left-hand VDU  was full of  Russian symbols, the other was  a radar
screen with a hazy green background peppered with white dots as its sweeping
arm moved clockwise.
     The laptop displayed the webcam image of the  locks. A  cable  led from
it, along the ground and up a tree, where a small satellite dish was clamped
to a branch.
     I  looked back at the  laptop. I  could  see  the band  playing,  girls
dancing  and crowds in the seats and more standing against the barriers. The
Ocaso  was in pride of place on the  screen. Passengers thronged  the decks,
clutching cameras and handy-cams.
     Scrambling round  to  the back of  the table,  I  fell to my knees  and
started pulling  out the mass of wires  and  thick  cables that led from the
back of the console and out towards the sea. Some were just slotted in, some
had a bracket over them, some were screwed into their sockets.
     I  tried  desperately  to  disconnect  them  two  at  a  time,   almost
hyperventilating  in  frustration  as my wet,  muddy  hands slid  about  the
plastic and metal. I  flapped  like  a  child in  a blind panic,  yelling at
myself, "Come on! Come on! Come on!"
     I looked over at the dump, wishing I had a gollock. But even if I found
one  and started  slashing  cables,  chances  were I'd electrocute myself. I
couldn't tell which were transmission and which were power.
     Curled up in  pain, Pizza Man was watching me,  his  shirt  soaked with
blood and covered with mud and leaf litter.
     Fighting another connection, I spun the laptop  round just as the image
started to refresh from the top.
     A  high-pitched whine started within  the  canopy, winding  up  like  a
Harrier jump jet before take-off.
     Within seconds the noise surrounded me.
     Four cables to go. The more I tried to pull or unscrew them, the more I
lost it.
     I gave one big tug in frustration and despair. The console slid off the
table  and landed in the  mud. The  high-pitched whine became a  roar as the
rocket engines kicked in.
     In almost the same  instant  there was a deafening,  rumbling boom, and
the ground began to shake  under my  feet. I  stayed on my knees, looking up
into the canopy as its inhabitants took off in a panic.
     I didn't see  vapour,  I didn't see anything, I just felt the sickening
rumble  as the  missile  left its platform and surged out of the jungle. The
treetops shook and debris rained down around me.
     I  didn't know what  to feel as I  released  my grip on the  cables and
looked over at the laptop, mesmerized, catching the last glimpse of the ship
as the image faded.
     I could hear Pizza  Man,  still curled up  in  the leaf  litter  like a
child,  panting, trying to get oxygen. When I looked at him, he was smiling.
I was sure he was trying to laugh.
     The  screen  was  blank  and there was  nothing I  could do  but  wait,
wondering if I'd be  able to  hear the explosion, or if the sound  would get
swallowed up by the jungle and distance.
     My chest heaved up and down as I tried to take deep breaths, swallowing
hard,  trying  to relieve  my  dry  throat, just  waiting  for the screen to
refresh or stay  blank  for ever as the camera  would surely be taken out as
well.
     I was right: he was laughing, enjoying the moment.
     The first strip at the top started to show and I could  hardly  contain
the terrible feeling of expectation.
     Slowly, lazily, the image unfolded and I braced myself for the scene of
carnage,  trying to convince myself that  the camera being intact was a good
sign,  then thinking I didn't know how far the camera was from the locks, so
maybe not.
     The picture  refreshed  itself. The  ship  was  intact,  everything was
intact. The  dancing  girls  were throwing  their  batons  in  the  air  and
passengers were waving at the crowd on shore. What the fuck had happened? It
should have made it there by now: it travelled at two  and  a half times the
speed of sound.
     I didn't trust what I was seeing. Maybe  it was the image that had been
captured just before the  explosion, and  I was going to wait  for  the next
cycle.
     I'd never felt so exhausted, and all other thoughts had left my mind. I
didn't  even care about a possible threat from  the  other  four,  though if
they'd had any sense they'd already be dragging the Gemini into the water.
     The  smell of sulphur hit me as the exhaust seeped through  the jungle,
creating a low, smoky mist around the area and making it look like God lived
here as the vapour was exposed to the brilliant shafts of light.
     Pizza Man made gurgling sounds, coughing up more blood.
     The top of the image began  to unfold and this time I saw smoke. I knew
it. I  jumped to my feet and hovered over the laptop.  Sweat dropped  off my
nose and chin and on to the screen. My sweatshirt pulled down on me with the
weight of mud as I gulped in air to calm my heart rate.
     Still  the  only thing I could see was smoke as the  picture rolled  on
down.
     It hadn't worked.
     I sat back in the mud, more exhausted than I'd ever been in my life.
     Then,  as  the image filled the screen, I saw that the ship  was still,
there.
     The smoke was coming from its funnels. The crowds were still cheering.
     The  sounds of  the jungle returned. Birds screeched above  me as  they
settled  back in their roosts.  I sat there, almost bonding with the mud, as
the  seconds  ticked by.  And  then,  starting as  quiet  as a  whisper  but
increasing  very rapidly, came  the distinctive wap wap wap  of  much bigger
birds.
     The sound got louder and then came the rapid rattle of rotors as a Huey
zoomed  straight over  me.  Its dark  blue  underbelly  flashed  across  the
treetops,  and I could hear others circling as its downwash shook the canopy
and vegetation rained down about me.
     Time to switch on.
     I  jumped to my feet and grabbed  a jerry-can, dousing the console with
fuel, making sure it poured into the cooling vents at the  back, then  I did
the same  to  the laptop. I picked up  two  rucksacks  and threw them over a
shoulder, hoping that whatever made them weigh so much was stuff I could use
in the jungle.
     Finally grabbing the weapon, I moved to Pizza Man, manhandling him over
on to his back.  There  was no resistance. His legs started to tremble as he
looked at me with a satisfied smile. The small entry wound high in his chest
oozed blood each time he took a breath.
     "It didn't work," I shouted.
     "It didn't make contact, you fucked up."
     He  didn't  believe me and hung on  to the smile, eyes closed, coughing
more blood.
     I reached into his pocket and pulled out the Zippo.
     The heli had returned  and was over by the river,  flying low and slow.
Others were now closer. There were long, sustained bursts of automatic fire.
They had found the escaping Gemini.
     I knew he could  hear  me. That's  Charlie's people.  They'll  be  here
soon."
     His eyes  flickered  open and he  fought to keep the smile  through the
pain.
     "Believe me, you  fucked up, it didn't work. Let's hope  they  keep you
alive for Charlie. I bet you two have a lot to talk about."
     In truth, I didn't  have a clue  what they'd do. I just wanted to  kill
that smile.
     "I hear he had his own brother-in-law crucified.  Just think  what he's
going to do to you ..."
     As  I  heard  heli noise  almost directly overhead I  ran  over to  the
console and flicked the lighter. The  fuel ignited  instantly. They  mustn't
fall into Charlie's hands; then all he would need was another missile and he
would be back in business.
     I turned and ran from the  flames. Passing Pizza Man, I couldn't resist
giving him a taste of the kind of kicking I'd got in Kennington.
     He did the same as I  had, just curled  up and took it. I  heard shouts
from the track. Charlie's boys were here.
     I flicked the Zippo again and tossed it on to the dump.
     As  the roar of  the Hueys  became almost  deafening, I shouldered  the
rucksacks, picked up  the weapon, and ran into the jungle as fast as the mud
on my boots would let me.
     FORTY-TWO
     Friday 15 September  Pulling down the visor to shade me from the sun, I
watched  through the dirty  windscreen  as passenger after passenger,  laden
with oversized cases, was dropped off outside Departures. I felt a twinge of
pain in my calf and adjusted myself in the seat to stretch my damaged leg as
the roar of jet engines followed an aircraft into the clear blue sky.
     There had been enough anti-surveillance drills en route  to the airport
to throw  off Superman,  but  still I  sank  into the seat  and watched  the
vehicles that came and went, trying to remember if I had seen any of them or
their drivers earlier.
     The  dash  digital said it was nearly  three  o'clock, so I  turned the
ignition key  to power up the radio,  scanning the AM channels for news even
before the antenna  had fully risen. A stern American female  voice was soon
informing me that  there were unconfirmed  reports that PARC were behind the
failed missile attack, which appeared to have been aimed  at shipping in the
Panama  canal. It was sort of  old news now and  low down the running order,
but it seemed that after it  launched, fishermen saw the missile fly  out of
control before falling into the  bay  less  than half a mile from the shore.
The US had already reestablished a presence in the republic as they were now
trying to fish out the missile and set up de fences to stop any such further
terrorist attacks.
     The polished voice continued, "With approximately twelve thousand armed
combatants, PARC  is  Colombia's  oldest, largest,  most  capable  and  best
equipped  insurgency. It  was originally  the military wing of the Colombian
Communist  Party, and  is organized  along  military lines.  PARC  has  been
anti-US since  its inception in 1964. President Clinton said today that Plan
Colombia,  the one  point three  billion-'  I flicked it  back on to the  FM
Christian channel and hit the  off switch before cutting the ignition again.
The  antenna retracted with  a quiet electric buzz. It  was the first bit of
news  I'd heard about the incident.  I had done my  best to avoid  all media
these  past  six days,  but  hadn't  been  able  to  resist  any  longer the
temptation to find out what had happened.
     The injury still hurt. Pulling up  one leg of my cheap and baggy jeans,
I inspected  the clean dressing on my calf and  had a little scratch  at the
skin above  and  below  it as a jet  thundered  just above  the  car park on
finals.
     It had  taken three long, wet and  hot days  to walk out of the jungle,
clean  myself up, and  hitch  a ride  into  Panama  City. The  rucksacks had
contained no food, so it was back to jungle  survival skills and digging out
roots on the move. But at least I could lie on the rucksacks and keep out of
the  mud, and although they didn't fit very well, the spare  clothes  helped
keep the mozzies off my head and hands at night.
     Once I'd reached the city, I  dried out the two hundred odd dollars I'd
lifted from the guys in the house in the sun  and the blood flaked  off them
like thin  scabs.  I bought clothes and the dirtiest room in the old quarter
that didn't care as long as I paid cash.
     Up  until  Tuesday,  four days  ago, my credit  card  still hadn't been
cancelled,  so it looked as if things were still OK with the Yes Man.  After
I'd cleaned myself up, I went into a bank  and took out  the max  I could on
it, $12,150, at some  ripoff exchange rate, before using my ticket to Miami.
From there I took a train to Baltimore, Maryland. It had taken  two days  on
four trains, never buying a ticket for more than a hundred dollars so as not
to  arouse  suspicion. After  all,  who pays cash for  any  journey  costing
hundreds?  Only people who  don't want a  record  of their movements, people
like me.  That's  why the purchase  of  airline  tickets for  cash is always
registered. I hadn't minded the Yes Man  knowing  I  was out of Panama as he
tracked me to Miami, but that was all I'd wanted him to know.
     But now,  three days  later,  who knew?  Sundance  and  Trainers  might
already be sightseeing in Washington, even phoning that  half-sister to tell
her that once they'd finished off some  business they'd come to New York for
a visit.
     I  heard  the door  handle go and Josh was at the window  of his black,
doublecabbed Dodge gas-guzzler. One hand pulled  open the driver's door, the
other cradled a Starbucks and a can of Coke.
     I took the coffee as he climbed into the driver's seat,  and  muttered,
Thanks',  as I  placed the  paper  cup  in  the  centre console  holder.  My
fingernails and  prints  were still ingrained with  jungle dirt; they looked
like I'd been washing my hands  in grease. It would take a few more days yet
to wash out after my holiday from hygiene.
     Josh's eyes stayed  on  the entrance to the long-term  multi-storey car
park, the other side of our short-term one.  A line of  vehicles was waiting
to take a ticket and for the barrier to raise.
     "Still thirty minutes to push until we're due," he said.
     "We'll drink them here."
     I nodded, and pulled back on the ring pull  as  he tested the hot brew.
Anything  he said was  OK by  me today.  He had picked me up at the station,
driven me about  for  the last  two hours,  and had listened  to what I  was
proposing. And now here we were, at Baltimore International airport, where I
should have arrived from Charles  de Gaulle in the first  place, and he  had
even bought me a Coke.
     He still  looked  the  same, shiny  brown  bald head, still hitting the
weights, gold-rimmed glasses that somehow  made him look more  menacing than
intellectual.
     From my side I couldn't see the torn sponge scar on his face.
     The Starbucks was still a bit  too hot for him so he  nursed  it in his
hands.
     After a  while  he turned towards  me. I knew  he hated me: he couldn't
hide it  from his  face, or the way  he talked to me. I would have  felt the
same, in his shoes.
     There'll be rules," he said. 'You hear what I'm saying?"
     Another jet came down over the wagon and he shouted over the roar as he
pointed every other word at me.
     "You are first going to sort out this shit you've got us all in, man. I
don't care  what it's about or what you have to do just finish it. Then, and
only then, you call  me. Only then we talk. We don't deserve this shit. It's
a grim deal, man."
     I nodded. He was right.
     Then,  only  when that's done,  this is how  it's going  to  be like  a
divorced couple,  a  couple that  do the right thing by their kids. You fuck
that  up, you fuck yourself up. It's the only way  it's  going to  work. You
hearing me? It's the last chance you're ever getting."
     I nodded, feeling relieved.
     We sat  there  and  drank,  both of us checking the vehicles  that were
trying to find a space.
     "How's the Christian thing going?"
     "Why?"
     'You're swearing a lot nowadays ..."
     "What the fuck do you expect? Hey, don't worry about my faith, I'll see
you if you ever get there."
     That  put paid to that  conversation. We  sat for another  ten minutes,
watching vehicles and listening to the aircraft. Josh gave occasional  sighs
as he thought about what he had agreed to. He was certainly not happy, but I
knew  he would do it anyway, because it was the right thing. He finished the
Starbucks and put the cup `<49' into the console holder.
     That recycled paper?"
     He looked at me as if I was mad.
     "What? What7s with you?"
     "Recycled, the cup. A lot of trees are used making those things."
     "How many?"
     "I don't know a lot."
     He picked  up  the cup.  The  sleeve says sixty per  cent post-consumer
recycled fibre feel better now, O spirit of the fucking woods?"
     The cup went back into the holder.
     "Meanwhile, uptown ... they're here."
     We drove out of the car park and followed signs for long stay,
     eventually turning into the multi-storey.  I  bent  down into the  foot
well  as if I'd dropped something  as  we  approached the barrier and ticket
machine.  The last thing Josh  needed was  a picture of us together at  this
time.
     I could  see plenty of empty spaces but we  drove straight up the ramps
to the second-to-last floor. The top floor was  probably uncovered, and open
to observation.  This  was  the  next  best floor: there  wouldn't  be  many
vehicles  coming up this far,  and those that did  would be easier  to check
out. I had to hand it to Josh, the guy was thorough.
     We pulled into a space and Josh nodded at a metallic green Voyager with
a  mass  of  cartoon-character baby  sun screens  pulled  down,  effectively
blacking out the rear. The plates were "Maine -the Vacation State'.
     "Five  minutes, got it? This is  dangerous, she's my  sister, for God's
sake."
     I nodded and reached for the handle.
     "Just  remember,  man,  she  missed  you  last  week.  You  screwed  up
big-time."
     I got out and as I approached the Voyager the front window powered down
to  reveal a woman  in her  mid-thirties, black and  beautiful, with relaxed
hair pulled back in a bun. She  gave an anxious half-smile and indicated for
me to go round to the sliding door as she got out.
     "I appreciate this."
     There was  no  answer from her  as  she went  over to Josh's  wagon and
climbed in next to him.
     I felt some apprehension at seeing  Kelly.  I  hadn't done so for  just
over a month now.  I slid the door across.  She  was  strapped into the rear
seat, staring at me, a little confused, maybe a little wary, as I got inside
to conceal us both.
     It's incredible how much children seem to change if you  don't see them
every day.  Kelly's hair was cut  much shorter  than when I'd last seen her,
and it made her look about five years  older.  Her eyes and nose seemed more
defined somehow, and her mouth a bit larger, like a young Julia Roberts. She
was going to be the spitting image of her mother.
     I put on my smiley face, moving baby toys out of the way to sit down in
the row in front of her.
     "Hello, how are you?" Nothing exuberant, nothing over the top as  I sat
between two strapped-in baby seats and looked back at her. The reality of it
was, I just wanted to throw  my  arms  around  her and give her the  world's
biggest hug, but didn't dare  risk it. She might not  want me to;  maybe  it
felt strange and new to her as well.
     Something the size of a Jumbo  was taxiing upwind of us. I could hardly
hear  myself think and  stuck my finger in my  ear and made a funny face. At
least I got a smile from her.
     Josh's  sister had left  the engine ticking over, and I could  feel the
air conditioning working overtime as I pulled myself over  the back rest and
kissed her cheek. There wasn't any coldness in her reaction, but nothing  in
the way  of exhilaration either. I understood:  why get excited, only to  be
let down?
     "It's great to see you. How are you?"
     "Fine ... what are those lumps on your face?"
     "I got stung by some wasps. Anyway, what are you up to?"
     "I'm  on a vacation with Monica are you going to stay with us? You said
you were coming to see me last week."
     "I know,  I know, it's just that... Kelly,  I... Listen, I'm  sorry for
not doing all the things I said I would with you. You know, call, come visit
when I said I would. I  always wanted to do those things, it was just, well,
stuff, you know."
     She nodded as if she knew. I was glad one of us did.
     "And now I've mucked it up again and have to go away for  a while today
.. . but I really wanted to see you, even if it was only for a few minutes."
     There was a roar  that  almost made  the  Voyager  shake as  the  jumbo
thundered down the runway and lifted into the sky. I waited, frustrated that
I couldn't say what I wanted to until the noise died.
     "Look, maybe I was jealous of  Josh when you  started to live with him,
but now I know it's the right thing, the best thing. You need to be with his
gang, having fun, going to  Monica's for a holiday. So what  I've worked out
with Josh is, once I come back  from sorting some stuff out, I'll be able to
do things you know, coming to see you, calling, going on holiday.  I want to
do all those things with you, because I miss you so much and think about you
all the time.  But it has to be like this now, you  have to  live with Josh.
That make sense?"
     She just looked and nodded as I carried on, barely taking breath.
     "But just  now I've got to make sure I finish  stuff so  that I can  do
those things with you.
     That OK?"
     "We will go on vacation? You said we would one day."
     "Absolutely. It might  not be  immediately,  though. After you get back
from Monica's you'll be going to a teacher for a while,  and I have  to sort
out... well..."
     "Stuff?"
     We smiled. That's right. Stuff."
     Monica opened her door with a wide smile for Kelly.
     "We gotta go, honey."
     Kelly looked at me with an expression that I couldn't read, and for one
terrible moment I thought she was going to cry.
     "Can I talk with Dr. Hughes?"
     Concern must have been written all over my face.
     "Why? Why's that?"
     Her face conjured up an enormous grin.
     "Well, my dad just divorced my other dad.
     I got issues."
     Even Monica laughed.
     "You been watching too much Ricki Lake, honey!"
     She closed the door on a smiling Kelly and Monica drove out.
     Josh spoke through  his window as I  walked back, watching  his  sister
leave.
     "You'll get the transportation for the train station outside Arrivals."
     I nodded and turned towards the lift with a  small wave, but he  wanted
to say more.
     "Look, man, maybe you ain't quite the dwarf I thought you were. But you
still gotta sort your shit out, then  we get to sort our shit. You gotta get
a grip of your life, man, get some religion, anything."
     I  nodded as  he drove  out, two vehicles behind the Voyager, and leant
against a concrete support as another aircraft thundered overhead on finals.
     She was fucked up enough and the  way I acted made it worse. But I  was
no longer going to sign her  over to Josh  and  walk away. That was the easy
way  out. She  not only needed but  deserved two  parents, even if they were
divorced. I hoped that me being there, if only a little, was better than not
at all. Besides, I wanted to be there.
     So that was the plan. Once  I had  sorted out the 'stuff, I'd come back
here and we'd do it correctly. Sort out visitation rights, and a system that
gave Kelly what she needed, structure to her life and the knowledge that the
people around her were there for her.
     However, the  'stuff wasn't going to be easy.  Two obstacles had to  be
overcome if  I wanted to stop  me,  Kelly, and even Josh  and  his lot, from
being targets now and for ever.
     George and the Yes Man.
     The  long-term solution to  this problem had to be through George. He'd
be able to call  off the  dogs. And the way  to contact him would be through
Carrie. How I was going to do this I hadn't a clue, because George was going
to  be severely  pissed off. That was a whole  new world that I hadn't  even
started to work out yet.
     First I needed  to get  to Marblehead, and the two trains I was  taking
would get  me there by six  tomorrow morning. It  shouldn't be  hard to find
Carrie, or her mother. The place wasn't that big.
     As for the short-term problem of the Yes Man,  he had to be dealt  with
quickly, just in  case  Sundance and  Trainers were already  on their way. I
still had the security blanket, which I'd tell George about,  and Kelly  was
safe. The Left Luggage ticket was valid  for three months and hidden  behind
one of the pay phones at Waterloo. I would have to go and get it before then
and put it somewhere else.
     No way was  I going to call  him yet, though. The call would be traced.
I'd do that tomorrow, when the train got me into  Boston South. Or maybe I'd
call  once I  got into  Union  Station  in  Washington,  before getting  the
connection north.
     Then I thought, Why bother going back to the UK at  all? What was there
waiting for me apart from the sports bag?
     I  started to  fantasize and  thought that maybe,  if I played my cards
right,  George could even fix me  up with a  US  passport. After all,  I had
stopped  the system getting  into PARC's hands and maybe sticking out of the
top of an aircraft carrier. I'd say that was pretty Stars and Stripes.
     I pushed away  from the  concrete  and reached the lift  as  the  doors
opened  and a  couple pushed  out  a luggage trolley  carrying far too  many
suitcases.
     Who  knows? Maybe while  I was  sorting stuff  out, Carrie would let me
sleep on her mother's couch.
     Andy  McNab  joined  the  infantry as  a  boy  soldier. In 1984 he  was
'badged' as a  member of 22 SAS Regiment and was involved in both covert and
overt special  operations worldwide  During  the Gulf War he commanded Bravo
Two  Zero,  a patrol  that, in the words  oi  his  commanding officer, 'will
remain regimental history for ever'. Awarded both the Distinguished  Conduct
Medal (DCM) and the Military Medal  (MM), McNab  was the British Army's most
highly decorated  serving soldier when  he finally left  the SAS in February
1993 He wrote about his experiences in twc phenomenal bestsellers, Bravo Two
Zero, whicr was filmed in 1998 starring Scan Bean, and Immediate Action.
     His  novels,  Remote  Control,  Crisis  Four  and  Firewall,  were  all
bestsellers.
     Besides  his  writing  work, he lectures to  security and  intelligence
agencies in both the USA and the UK.