s no need. I wanted her to come in; it would certainly make
my job a lot easier, and if Wayne kept his eyes open I'd get a warning.
     A strange thought struck me. I'd seen Sarah so  many times in shortterm
accommodation,  when we'd stayed in  hotels or flats, but this was the first
time  I'd seen where and how she lived for real. I felt like a voyeur, as if
I were watching her undress through her bedroom keyhole.
     Basically it was just a large one-bedroom apartment, furnished, I could
see at once, by the "accommodation pack"--the standard furniture provided on
the diplomatic circuit. Very plush, very expensive, very sophisticated,  but
not much of  it, which the  FCO (Foreign  and Commonwealth Office)  probably
called minimalist because that way it sounded fashionable.
     The  rest of it you  bought yourself with  an  allowance. She obviously
hadn't got around to that yet.
     In the  main room there was a slightly lighter  blue carpet than in the
hallway outside, and a matching blue sofa  and chairs. In the  far left-hand
corner  was a long sideboard with  three drawers, facing a large window that
looked  out on to the rear of  the  building and  one of the creeks that ran
into the Potomac. Next to the window was a bookcase, its four shelves filled
with hardbacks. I  went  over and  scanned the  spines.  Quite a few  titles
seemed to be  concerned  with the Middle East and terrorism, and there was a
complete set  of the 1997 Economist world reports.  One shelf  started  with
biographies--Mandela,  Thatcher  (of  course,  she  would  have that),  JFK,
Churchill--and  ended  with  a  couple  of  Gore  Vidal's books,  plus a few
heavy-going  ones on  American  history  and  a collection of  Oscar Wilde's
plays.  The  bottom  shelf  held   what  looked  like  large-format,  coffee
table-type  books. They were lying flat because  of their  size and I had to
twist my head to see the titles. I recognized The Times  World Atlas because
it  was  the free  offer of that which had enticed me into  one  of the book
clubs I'd used when  becoming Nick  Davidson, and  then  there  were several
pictorial ones on different countries in the Middle East, and  one about the
U.S.
     Both the sideboard and bookcase were made from a light wood veneer, and
the walls were emulsioned  off-white. There had been no effort whatsoever to
personalize this flat. It was as anonymous as my house in Norfolk, though at
least she had a sofa and a bookcase.
     There  were a few society,  news  and what's-on-in-Washington magazines
beside the sofa on the floor, piled on top of each  other. A phone was lying
on top of the mags, its digital display telling me there were no messages.
     The  walls were  bare apart from some bland  views  of D.C.  that  were
probably taken when JFK- was boss. There were two lamps: a normal table lamp
on  the floor just in front of  the  sofa, its wire snaking away  across the
carpet, and a  standard lamp over by the bookcase, both with matching  white
shades. That was her all over; she  might be highly professional in her job,
but when it came to her personal admin she was a bag of shit. But what did I
expect from someone who wouldn't even know her way around Tesco?
     There wasn't  a television set, which didn't  surprise me. She'd  never
watched  it. If you asked her about Seinfeld and Frasier, she'd probably say
it was  a New York law firm.  My  eyes  moved back to the bookcase.  On  the
bottom  shelf sat a large  glass vase, but  there were  no  flowers  in  it,
instead  it was filled with coins and pens and all the rest of the shit that
people  pull out of their pockets  at  the end of the  day. Near it was  her
social calendar:
     thick, gilded  invitations  for drinks  at eight  at British Embassy or
American Congress functions. I  counted seven for the last month. It must be
a terrible life, having  to scoff all those free vol-au-vents and knock back
glasses of champagne.
     On the  sideboard was a standard, all-in-one,  solid-state  CD  player,
probably quite inexpensive, but serving its purpose. About a dozen  CDs were
stacked on top of each other, and as I walked over I could see that three of
them were still in their cellophane. She hadn't had enough time to play them
yet maybe next  week. There was also a boxed set of five classical operas. I
turned the cases to read the spines. Cosi Fan Tutte was there, of course one
of the few things I did know about her was that it was her favorite.
     I  looked at the rest of  the music: a  couple of 1970s Genesis albums,
remastered on CD, and what looked like  a bootleg  cover of  a  group called
Sperm Bank. I'd have to have a listen to that one, it was so out of place.
     She and I had never really talked that much about music, but I knew she
loved opera while I'd hear things on the radio and  think. That's good, I'll
buy that, but then lose the tape before I'd even played it.
     The standby light was still on. I pressed "open," put in the Sperm Bank
CD  and hit  "play."  It  was  some  kind  of weird  Tahitian rap/jazz/funk,
whatever they call it very noisy but very rhythmic. I turned the volume up a
bit  so I could  hear it big time, and  felt very  fashionable. Fuck it, the
chances of her coming back here were ziff.
     I'd  had  my first  cursory  look  in the living room,  now I'd try the
kitchen.
     It was about fifteen feet square, with units completely filling up both
sides  of the wall, so that it ended up being  more like a  passageway.  The
stove, oven and sink were all built-in.
     I had  a mooch in  the cupboards above the work surfaces, trying to get
some idea of how this woman lived. It was nothing to do with the job now.
     I was just curious to see this other side of her. There  was hardly any
food,  and  probably never had been.  There were cans  of convenience items,
like rice and packet  noodles, which could just be  opened and boiled, and a
couple  of packs of gourmet coffee,  but no spices or herbs or anything else
you'd need  if you cooked at home. On the few occasions  when  she wasn't at
embassy  dos,  or being dined in  restaurants, she probably got by  with the
microwave.
     I opened another cupboard and found six of everything the accommodation
pack again plain white  crockery, six cups, six  glasses. Over 60 percent of
the cupboard space was empty. In the fridge was half a carton of milk, which
wasn't looking too healthy it smelled and looked as if it held  the cure for
HIV Next to that were some bagels, still  in their plastic  bag, and half  a
jar  of peanut  butter,  and that was it.  Not  exactly Martha Stewart,  our
Sarah. At least I had some cheese and yogurt in mine.
     The  bathroom was  between the kitchen and the bedroom.  There  was  no
bath, just a shower, sink and toilet. The room had been left as if she'd got
up normally, done her stuff and dashed off to work. A dry but used towel lay
on the  floor next to a laundry bin that was half  full  of jeans, underwear
and tights. No sign of a washing machine, but I wasn't really expecting one.
Sarah's clothes would go to a dry cleaners, or to a laundry  for a fluff and
fold.
     The bedroom was about  fifteen by twenty feet, with a walk-in wardrobe,
but  no other  furniture apart from a double  bed and a single  bedside lamp
sitting  on  the floor.  The duvet was thrown to  one side  where she'd just
woken up and tossed it off. All the bedding was plain white, the same as the
walls. There were pillows for  two people, but only one of them looked slept
on. Again, there were no pictures  on the walls, and the Venetian blinds  on
both windows were closed. Either she'd just got up and gone to work, or this
was simply how it always was.
     The walk-in  closet had  mirrored sliding  doors. I  pulled them  open,
expecting the scent of a woman's wardrobe, that slight waft of stale perfume
lingering on jackets that have been worn once and  are back on their hangers
before they find  their  way to the cleaners. In fact, there  was almost  no
smell  at   all,   which   wasn't  surprising.   The   rows  and   rows   of
expensive-looking clothes  were  all in dry  cleaner's plastic wrapping, and
even her blouses and  T-shirts were on hangers. Out of curiosity I checked a
few labels, and found  Armani, Joseph  and  Donna  Karan. She was  obviously
still slumming it. On  a shelf above the dresses was  the  just as expensive
luggage to match. Nothing seemed to be missing or out of place.
     In  front of  me  was a small stand-alone  chest, just a  white Formica
thing with about five or six drawers.  One of the drawers was open; I looked
inside and found panties and bras, again all very expensive.
     All her footwear  was arranged  on the floor on the right-hand  side of
the wardrobe, and looking very orderly: formal, summer, winter and a pair of
trainers.  To the left of the  wardrobe, and also  on the  floor, was a shoe
box.
     I  bent down and lifted the lid. A  Picasso dove greeted me, on top  of
more  old Christmas and  birthday cards. Flicking through  them, I  found  a
picture  of  her arm-in-arm  with  a  tall,  good-looking man.  They were in
woodland, looking extremely happy, both dressed the part in waterproofs  and
boots.  Maybe  this  was  Jonathan,  and presumably in happier times.  Sarah
looked a little older than when I'd seen  her on  the Syria job; the bob had
had two years to grow out and her hair was about shoulder length, still very
straight and  with a  fringe that was  just above those big eyes. She hadn't
put  on  weight,  and  still  looked fantastic  as  she smiled  that  almost
innocent, childlike grin toward me.  I realized  I was  looking  at the  man
beside  her and wishing it was me as I dropped the photo back in the box and
lay  down on the bed. There  was no smell  of her,  just that of dry cleaned
cotton.
     We had been in and out of Afghanistan  those first two months, with  no
result.
     The  rebels  had managed  to  get a major  offensive off the ground  in
between their internal feuds and were kicking the ass out of the Russians.
     No one  would be talking to  us for a while, so  we got out of the way,
taking time off and generally having fun. We could only hope that one of the
rebel groups with an  entrepreneurial flair would attack a heliport and  see
us all right with a couple of Hinds.
     Both of us could have gone back to  the  U.K.  with the other three and
done our own thing, but  she  wanted to  go trekking in Nepal and I knew the
country well. It  seemed  a simple  swap:  she showed me the  historical and
religious sites,  and  I showed her  the  bars and  dives  where, as a young
infantry soldier on an exchange with the Gurkhas, I'd been separated from my
money. It was an education for both of us.
     It was during  the first week off, staying in Katmandu before moving to
Pukara  for our week's  trek, that things changed. By now she would take the
piss out of my accent: I called Hackney 'ackney, and she called it Hackemey.
We'd just finished a  run one day, and  were both getting our key cards from
our socks, when  she leaned into my ear and said, in her bad cockney accent,
"Awright darling', you wanna fuck or what?"
     Three weeks later, and back with  the rest of the team in Pakistan, the
cover  story of being  a couple  was now  played out for real.  I  even  had
fantasies of maybe  seeing her later  on  once the job had  ended.  I'd been
married  for four years and things hadn't been going well. Now they were  in
shit  state. With Sarah  I enjoyed  the  intimate  talks  and learning about
things I'd never bothered to find out about, or  even knew existed. Up until
then, I'd thought Cosi Fan Tutte was an Italian ice cream. This was it.
     Love.  I didn't understand what was happening to me. For the first time
in  my  life I had deep, loving feelings for someone. Even better, I got the
impression  she felt the same.  I couldn't bring myself to ask her,  though;
the fear of rejection was just too great.
     When the  Afghanistan  job finished, we  were on  the flight home  from
Delhi  and well  into our  descent to  Heathrow before I  plucked up  enough
courage to  ask her the big question. I  still didn't  know that much  about
her,  but it  didn't matter,  I didn't think she  knew  that  much about  me
either.
     I just really needed  to be with her. I felt like a child being dropped
off  by  a parent and not knowing  if they  will ever come back. Courage  or
desperation, I  wasn't  sure  which,  but  I kept my eyes on  the  in-flight
magazine and said, very throwaway,  "We're  still going  to see each  other,
aren't we?"
     The dread of rejection lifted as she said, "Of course." Then she added,
"We've got to debrief."
     I thought she'd misunderstood me.
     "No, no ... I hoped,  later on, we might be able to  see each other ...
you know, out of work."
     Sarah looked at me, and I saw her jaw drop a fraction in disbelief. She
said, "I don't think so, do you?"
     She must have seen the confusion on my face.
     "Come  on,  Nick,  it's  not as if we're in  love  with  each other  or
anything like that. We spent a lot of time together and it was great."
     I couldn't bear  to look at  her, so  I just kept my eyes fixed  on the
page.
     Fuck, I'd  never felt so crushed. It was like going to the doctor for a
routine checkup and being told I was going to have a slow, painful death.
     "Look, Nick" there  wasn't a hint of regret in  her voice "we had a job
to do and it was a success. That means it was a success for both of us.
     You got what you wanted out of it, and so did I." She paused.
     "Look, the more intimate we were, the more you would protect me, right?
Am I right?"
     I nodded. She was right. I would probably have died for her.
     Before she could say  another word I did what had always worked in  the
past, ever since childhood: I just cut away. I looked at her as if I'd  just
been asking her out for a drink, and said, "Oh, OK, just thought I'd ask."
     I'd never been fucked off with such casual finesse. I kicked myself for
even having considered that she would want to  be with me. Just who the fuck
did I think I was? I was definitely suffering from the dreamer's disease.
     It was only a month after we'd landed at Heathrow that I left my wife.
     We were just existing together, and it didn't seem right to be sleeping
with her and thinking of Sarah.
     When the Syria job came along I didn't know she was going to be on it.
     We met for orders in  London,  this  time  in  better  offices Vauxhall
Cross,  the new home of SIS overlooking the Thames. She acted as if  nothing
had ever happened between us. Maybe it hadn't for her,  but it had for me. I
made a plan. Never again would she, or any other woman, fuck me over.
     I sat up on the bed and put the lid on the shoe box. That could wait. I
needed to tune in to this place and try to get a feel of it.
     I went back  into the kitchen, filled the coffee percolator  with water
and ground beans and got it going. Then I went back into the living room.
     Sperm Bank--or  the  Sperm, as  I now  liked to  call them--were  still
rattling along big time.
     I slumped sideways in one of the chairs, with my back against one  arm,
my legs over the other. I'd found nothing at all on the first sweep. I would
have  to  give each  room  a  thorough going over, digging  everything  out.
Somewhere, somehow, there could be a slight clue, a tiny hint.
     Maybe.  The  only thing I knew  for sure was that  if  I  rushed  it  I
wouldn't find anything.
     As I looked around me my thoughts  drifted. Sarah wasn't that different
from me really. Everything in my life was disposable, from a toothbrush to a
car. I didn't have a single possession that was  more than two years  old. I
bought  clothes for a job and threw them  away once they were dirty, leaving
hundreds of pounds'  worth of  whatever  behind me because I didn't need  it
anymore. At  least she had a photo; I didn't  have any  mementos of  family,
schooldays  or  the Army, not  even of Kelly and me. It  was something I was
always going to get around to, but hadn't.
     I went back  to the kitchen, realizing I was thinking more about myself
than her. And  I  wasn't  looking  for me.  I  was  starting  to  feel quite
depressed.
     This was going to be  a long, long job, but I had to do it  by the book
if it was going to work.
     I poured myself a cup of coffee and went to the fridge, then remembered
that the  milk was only good for medical research. I couldn't find  powdered
creamer, so I'd  have to  have it black.  I  took  the pot with me,  and was
walking back  into the living room just  as the Sperm decided to sign off. I
threw  myself  back in one of the  chairs  and  put my feet up  again on the
coffee table, sipping the hot coffee and thinking, I've got to make a start;
it'll be like most things, once you get stuck in, everything's fine.
     I finished the first coffee, poured another,  got up and  wandered over
to  the sideboard. I plonked the cup next  to the CDs, then  started to take
off my Timberlands. I'd worn boots like  this for  years; they always seemed
the thing to wear with jeans, and I always wore jeans. It felt like I hadn't
taken them off for days, and it was time to let my feet and socks add to the
apartment's atmosphere.
     To work,  then. Starting from the  top, I opened the  first  drawer and
took out a sheaf  of dry-cleaning receipts, theater stubs and folded-up back
copies  of Time. I  studied each  item  in turn, opening each page  of every
magazine to check nothing had been ripped out, scored or ringed. Had I found
anything missing, I'd have had to go to a reference library and get  hold of
the issue to find out what was so interesting that it had been removed.
     But there was nothing like that.
     The second  drawer was much the same, just as full  of shit. The  other
drawers were  completely  empty,  apart from one  solitary safety pin, still
stuck into yet another dry-cleaning ticket.
     I  was becoming bored, pissed off and  very hungry. It was nearing time
for my first Mickey  D's  of  the  trip.  I'd just heard on  the  radio that
McDonald's mission  statement  for the U.S.A.  was  something  like that  no
American  was ever more than  six minutes away  from a Big Mac. In  the U.K.
that would make most heroin addicts jump for joy: scales  were  old hat  for
measuring  out  deals;  McDonald's  100-milligram   spoons  were  absolutely
perfect.
     Before I  went  to  fill  my face,  however,  I  decided  to  give  the
bookshelves the  once  over. I took out each book in turn, doing exactly the
same as with the magazines. I got quite excited at one stage because  a book
on  political  terrorism had passages that had been underlined in pencil and
notes in the margin, until I looked inside the cover and discovered it was a
textbook from her university days.
     It  took  about an  hour,  but I eventually got  to the  bottom  shelf.
Turning  the pages  of a  photo-history  of  North  Carolina,  I admired the
tree-covered mountains,  lakes and  wildlife,  with  bullshit  blurb  in the
accompanying  captions, "Deer  drink  contentedly  from  the  pool,  next to
families enjoying the wonders of  the great outdoors." I could  almost  hear
Kelly groaning a "Yeah, right!"
     I took a look at her other books, about Algeria, Syria and Lebanon, but
they contained nothing but photograph upon  photograph  of  mosques, cypress
trees, sand and camels.
     I threw  them  on the floor to check through later and started flicking
through  the atlas.  Then I had second thoughts,  deciding to go back to the
chair  with  the atlas and the other  three  books  and do the lot now. As I
started a careful, page-by-page check,  I found my attention drifting to the
traffic in  the  street below, which  I could  just  about hear through  the
double-glazing.  But it wasn't just my  hearing that was wandering. For some
reason my mind kept going back to the book about North Carolina.
     It usually pays to listen to that inner voice. I stopped looking at the
books and just stared at the wall, trying to work out what it was that I was
trying  to  say to myself. When I thought I understood it, I got up and went
into her bedroom.
     I picked up the shoe box and tipped the contents out onto the bed.
     When I'd found what I was looking for it was back to the living room.
     Turning the pages  of the North  Carolina book,  I  tried to  match the
photograph  with  the terrain  the type of trees, the background  hills, the
lakeside. Nothing. The spark was soon put out. It might not necessarily have
meant anything,  but  it  might have been a start. My head  was  starting to
hurt. It was time  for that burger. I'd be back in an hour to start again. I
went  to my boots and pushed my feet in,  tucking the laces inside, too idle
to do them up.
     Two minutes later I was standing waiting  for  the elevator, staring at
my boots, when it hit me.
     I ran back to the apartment door, opened up and headed for her dressing
room.
     Sarah must have been the Imelda Marcos of the Washington section.
     She must have had about thirty pairs of shoes in all, but there were no
hiking boots. All the times I'd been with her, she had always worn them when
out on  the ground. Like me, when it came to footwear, she was a creature of
habit.
     I was starting to get sparked up again. I turned and checked the rails.
     Where was the  Gore-Tex  jacket?  Where  was the fleece liner? She  had
always worn that sort of clothing, and she had it on in the photograph.
     It wasn't so much what I saw as what I didn't. Her outdoor clothing; it
wasn't here.
     I couldn't go to McDonald's.  I had to keep thinking about this. I went
into the kitchen  and threw some noodles into a pan, filled it up with water
and got it boiling on the stove.
     I realized that was  what had been bugging me. I'd known  it all  along
but  hadn't switched on, and the ironic thing was that  it  was  Sarah who'd
taught me.
     She was in the middle of one  of  her very heated, noisy meetings. We'd
been stuck in a cave for hours, the smoke from a large fire stinging my eyes
and casting dark shadows  in the background, just where I wanted to  see the
most. Two mujahedin  were sitting  cross-legged  on  the  floor, wrapped  in
blankets  and  cradling  their AKs. I'd  never  seen them at  other meetings
before, and  they seemed out  of  place amongst the other  three  members of
their group who were by the fire.
     Sarah was also sitting on the floor, draped in blankets beside the fire
with the other three  muj. They were all drinking  coffee as  Sarah got more
sparked  up with them. The two  men in the shadows started muttering between
themselves and  looking  agitated,  and  eventually  they pushed  off  their
blankets and grasped their weapons. In a situation like  that there are only
seconds in which  to make a decision to go for it or not. I did; I put my AK
into the aim as I stood over Sarah.
     The result was a Mexican  standoff,  like something  out of a spaghetti
western. For  two or three seconds all that could be heard was the crackling
of the fire. Sarah cut the silence.
     "Nick, sit down. You're embarrassing me."
     I was very  confused as  she talked to  all the  mujahedin. She sounded
like a parent apologizing for her toddler's behavior in the playground.
     Everyone looked  at  me and started to laugh, as if I were some sort of
schoolboy who'd  got  it all wrong. All weapons were dropped and the talking
continued. Even the two boys sitting at the  back looked on  me as some sort
of mascot.  I  was expecting them  to come over  and ruffle my hair  at  any
moment.
     It  was  only  when we were  on  our  way  back to  Pakistan  that  she
explained.
     "There was no danger, Nick. The old guy the one we saw last month?" She
smiled as she thought about the event.
     "He  is the only one with the  power  to have me killed, and he  wasn't
there. Those guys at  the  back were just showing face. Nothing was going to
happen." She sounded like a  teacher  as  she added, "It's not only what you
see, Nick. Sometimes what isn't there is just as important as what is."
     She might have been right that time, but in a similar situation I would
still  have done the same. Shame on  her that she  hadn't remembered her own
lesson.
     I  sat down to work out what I wanted  to say to Mickey, and the way to
say it. I'd already forgotten where I'd  put his card,  so I got out the 3C,
tapped in his name and rang his number.
     "Hellooo." He was eating by the sound of it.
     "Hello, mate, it's Nick."
     "Oh,  so soon." He  sounded quite surprised. I could hear  soft rock in
the background and an American voice, just as camp as his, inquiring who was
on the phone. His voice became distant.
     "Gary, go and do something useful in the kitchen. It's the office."
     Gary, it seemed, took the hint.
     "Sorry about that, he  is sooo nosey."  I could hear drink being poured
and a sip being taken.
     "Michael, remember what  you were saying about Sarah and Jonathan going
to the middle of nowhere?"
     "Uh-huh."
     "Can you remember exactly where it was? I need it for the report."
     He took a quick swallow.
     "Yes. Falls Lake." He broke into a terrible Southern accent.
     "North Carolina, y'all."
     "Do you have an address, or the  contact number? You  did  say that you
had a number, remember? You used it to call her."
     He laughed.
     "Sarah took it off file when old Jonny boy got his comeuppance."
     I had reached another dead end.
     Then  he added, "But I  think I can remember most of the number; it was
almost the same as my mother's old one. Tell you what, give me five and I'll
ring you back, OK?"
     "Give it three  rings, put down,  then ring  again. I  wouldn't want to
pick it up and find I'm talking to her mother or anything like that.
        OK?"
     "Ooh, just like James Bond." He giggled.
     "No problem, Nick. Talk soon, byeee."
     I flicked through  the book again. Falls Lake did exist, but it covered
a vast area. What a dickhead! Why hadn't I asked him for more detail when he
told me the story? Just as well I wasn't in the security cell.
     Something was smelling  bad. I jumped up and  ran into the kitchen. The
water had boiled away  and  I  pulled a  pan  of  very hot and  smelly black
noodles from the stove.
     I couldn't  be assed to clean it up,  just put the pot to one side  and
turned  the  cooker  off.  The phone  rang.  I  walked back into  the  room,
counting. It  stopped  after  three. Good news, I hoped. I let the new  call
ring twice before picking it up.
     "Hellooo, Michael here." I  could hear Gary singing to himself  in  the
background.
     "Hello, mate, any luck?"
     "The last four digits are exactly the same as my mother's old number in
Mill Hill. Isn't that freaky?"
     I really didn't have an answer for that. I contained my eagerness.
     "Oh, and what was it?"
     "Double four six eight."
     "Thanks, mate. You sure that's all you know?"
        "
     "Fraid so, Nick. I was just given the contact number. Sorry."
     "No problem. I'll let you get on with your evening."
     "OK. I'm here if you need me. Byeee."
     I looked at my watch. It was about half-past nine--according to my body
clock, 2:30 a.m.--and  I was starting to  feel knackered. In the absence  of
any noodles, it  was soon going to be time  to RV with Ronald McDonald,  but
first I had a phone call to make.
     I rang a London number. A very clear female voice answered immediately.
     "PIN  number, please?" The  tone was  so  precise she  sounded like the
speaking clock.
     "Two four four two, Charlie Charlie
     "Please  wait." The line went  dead; five seconds  later the  voice was
back.
     "Charlie-Charlie. Details, please."
     I gave her the same details as Metal Mickey had given me and  asked for
the address. I could hear the clinking of keys as she entered the details.
     She  checked with  me: "To  confirm.  North Carolina, address that ends
with call number 4468, perhaps in the vicinity of Falls Lake. It should take
approximately thirty minutes. Reference fifty-six, fifty-six. Goodbye."
     Charlie-Charlie stands  for "casual contact." The  people in London can
work from even the smallest amount of information, and  you can inquire  via
the  phone for speed, or ask  for a  written  report,  which would give more
detail but take longer.
     A phone  number or car license plate can lead to you finding out almost
everything there is on record about the contact, from the name of his doctor
to  the last time  and  place  he used his  credit card, and what it was  he
bought. A Charlie-Charlie was about the only perk of the  job; I'd used it a
few times when trying to find out about  women I wanted  to take out. No one
ever asks what you want the information for, and it makes life easier if you
know in advance what sort of social life they have, whether they're married,
divorced with kids, or have a monthly champagne bill the size of  an average
mortgage.
     All  I needed this time was an  address.  These  sorts of requests were
routine, and wouldn't mean I had gone against Lynn's need-to-know policy.
     I walked downstairs.  I  couldn't see Wayne anywhere. I got to the car,
took the parking ticket  off the windshield and threw it in the  back. I was
committed  west, toward Georgetown on the one-way system. That was fine, and
in fact McDonald's  was  right.  Within five minutes I passed the big yellow
arches; the only problem was that I couldn't park up anywhere.
     I decided to cruise on M until I found an easier place to stop.
     Dead on thirty minutes later  I called London.  The  speaking clock was
back.
     "Reference please."
     "Reference thirty-two, fourteen."
     There was  a gap as the line went dead. She was checking  the reference
number I'd just given her. All I had to do was  subtract  my  PIN  from  her
reference number. It's  a quick  and easy confirmation system  for low-level
inquiries.
     She came back on line.
     "I have three addresses. One .. ."
     The  first two  locations  were  nowhere near Falls Lake.  One  was  in
Charlotte, another in Columbia. The next one sounded warmer.
     "The Lodge,  Little Lick Creek, Falls Lake. This is now a  disconnected
line. Do you want the zip codes and user names on any of these?"
     "No, no that's fine.  Thank you, that's all." I hung up.  I didn't care
who the disconnected line used to belong to. It wouldn't help me one bit.
     As I drove, I couldn't get Falls Lake out of my head. I passed a Barnes
&  Noble bookshop, its neon window  sign telling  me it was open and selling
coffee until 11 p.m. I drove on.
     A  7-Eleven came to my rescue with a sandwich  and coffee. I turned the
car  around  and passed the  Barnes & Noble again while filling  my  face. I
couldn't resist it; I  parked up, ditched the  coffee and  finished  off the
chicken sandwich as I fed another meter.
     I went straight to the reference section and  pulled out a  small-scale
atlas of  North Carolina.  I  found Falls  Lake and  Little  Lick Creek.  It
sounded like a commune for oral-sex fans.
     North Carolina was  only  a  short flight away. I could get down  there
maybe tonight, and if it turned  out to be a fuckup I'd be  back by tomorrow
night. I got out my phone and started to make some inquiries.
     I drove back to the apartment with a ticket for the 0700 from Dulles. I
would still check out her bedroom and kitchen, though, just in case.
     I  took the  exit  off  Airport  Boulevard,  following  the  signs  for
Interstate 40.
     According  to the  map, if I kept on this highway heading  east I would
hit the Cliff Benson Beltline, which would take me north through Raleigh and
on to the lake.
     The weather was a lot warmer here than in D.C. and the clouds were dark
and brooding, almost tropical. It had been raining quite heavily by the look
of the  large puddles that lined the  road, and the sandy soil was dark with
moisture.
     The whole area was going through a massive rebuild. The  airport itself
had been having a makeover, and a new highway, not yet on the map, was under
construction. On each side of  me  as I drove east, yellow  bulldozers  were
going ape shit flattening  everything in  sight to  make  way for the  steel
skeletons of yet more buildings. From reading the local information magazine
on the flight, I knew that the area was fast becoming "science city U.S.A.,"
with  the largest  concentration  of  biochemical,  computer  and  technical
research  establishments,  and PhDs per  capita, in the  entire U.S.A.  It's
amazing the stuff you'll read when you're bored shitless on a plane.
     Rows  of pristine, glistening,  black or silver glass-fronted buildings
sat on  acres of manicured gardens with lakes and fountains--not at all what
I  had in  mind for the American South after all the redneck jokes I'd heard
over the years.
     It  took  about  fifteen minutes  to get onto  the  belt  line  I drove
clockwise heading north  around  the city, keeping my eyes  peeled for signs
for exit ten  toward  Falls Lake. The new money that this transformation had
sucked
     in  was  impossible  to  miss,  with  grand  houses and new  businesses
fighting  hand-to-hand  with  the  old, and demonstrably winning.  Smart new
office blocks looked down  on decrepit  trailer parks strewn  with abandoned
cars and kids, both black and white,  whose asses  hung out  of their  dirty
jeans, their parents fucked  without the skills needed  to take advantage of
the new opportunity.
     I got  to exit  ten in another ten minutes or so  and  headed  north on
Forest Road. From the map, I knew that the Falls Lake area covered about 200
square  miles. It  was a  very long and winding waterway,  with  hundreds of
inlets,  like  the  coastline of Norway, just the kind  of place  you  could
disappear into.
     After  seven miles  the road  became  a single carriage  way Tall  firs
interspersed  with smaller seasonal  trees looming on either side. Four more
miles  and I  reached the Falls ofNeuse and entered forest proper. The Falls
was a small collection of neat little homes made of natural wood  or painted
white on  the eastern side  of the lake area. Even here, the new was winning
out  over the old and  rubbing  its nose  in  it.  Tracts of land were being
carved out of the  woods to make way for "communities" of  enormous mansions
to house the middle classes who  were streaming in for the  new Gold Rush of
high-tech jobs. At  the entry point into  each  community was a small, shiny
sign announcing "Carriageways" or "Fairways," and at each junction a barrage
of real estate agents' signs  directed buyers to even more land which was up
for grabs.
     I headed west on Raven Ridge, driving  deeper into  the forest. The new
was  gradually  less and less evident, until it was the  old  that prevailed
once  more:  dilapidated  shacks  with car wrecks for garden furniture,  and
rundown stores built  of bare breeze-block,  with peeling signs  advertising
bait  and beer.  I passed trailer  homes that looked as if  they'd just been
dumped  twenty or thirty meters off  the  road, with  no  paved access, just
trampled ground, and no fences to mark their territory, just corrugated iron
leaning around the bottom of  the  trailers  to  make  them look  as if they
belonged.
     Outside, washing hung on  lines getting even wetter. Inside,  probably,
were the stars  of the Ricki Lake or  Jerry Springer shows. Fuck  knows what
the future held  for  them, but one thing  was  for sure:  new carriage ways
would be scything through here within a year or two.
     The  only  buildings  that  weren't falling  down  or  apart  were  the
churches, of  which there seemed to  be  one every mile along the  roadside,
standing very clean, bright and white. Each projected a different recruiting
message on the sort of signboard that cinemas use to advertise their movies.
     "You can't  even write Christmas without Christ,"  one said, which  was
true but strange to see in April. Maybe they liked to think ahead.
     I drove for  another twenty minutes past trailers and churches, and now
and then  the occasional neatly  tended  graveyard  right on the side of the
road. I came across a  small green sign to Little Lick  Creek. It wasn't the
creek itself I was after, but  the  point at which it  entered the lake, and
where  one of the spurs had the  same name. Going  by the waterproof hunting
map I'd bought, there were two buildings in that area that weren't accounted
for by a symbol on the map legend, so they were probably private houses.
     I turned off  the tarmac and headed down  a  gravel road  that was just
wide enough for two cars to pass. There was  a steep  gradient on each side,
and the forest seemed to be closing in, the trees here even  higher and more
densely packed.
     A  sign  chiselled into a  slab  of gray-painted wood warned, "Firearms
Strictly Prohibited." Fifty meters farther  on, another said, "No  Alcoholic
Beverages." Soon more friendly signs welcomed me to Falls Lake, and directed
me to the  car  parks and recreational areas and hoped I enjoyed myself  but
only if I kept my speed to 25 mph.
     Up ahead, a motor home as big as a juggernaut was bearing down on me. I
noticed a  small  track that  obviously  took wheeled traffic, because there
were tire grooves worn down on  each side of a wet grassy central strip, but
I didn't have time to get in there. I  slowed and pulled over to the side of
the road, my car leaning drunkenly to the right. The Winnebago was a massive
vehicle, with enough canoes and mountain bikes strapped onto its exterior to
equip  the U.S. Olympic team, and the family hatchback towed along behind. A
wall of spray splashed onto my windshield as it passed. I didn't even get  a
wave of acknowledgment.
     I drove for another kilometer or so through the forest before I came to
a large  car park. Crunching and squelching across a  mixture of  gravel and
mud, I pulled up next to  a  big map in a  wooden frame. Pictures around the
edge displayed various indigenous birds, turtles, trees and plants,  as well
as the tariff for the campsite and  the inevitable:  "Enjoy  your stay  take
only  pictures, leave  only footprints." It  was  possible  that I  would be
taking pictures, but I hoped I would leave no footprints whatsoever.
     Driving on for another hundred meters or so, I caught  my first glimpse
of  Little Lick Creek. It  wasn't  quite the picture postcard scene I'd been
expecting.
     Tall ranks of firs seemed to have marched right to the lake's edge.
     The  water was smooth  and as dark  as the clouds it mirrored, like the
smoked glass of a Raleigh office block. Maybe when the  sun was out the area
was  idyllic, but just  now, especially with the trees so claustrophobically
close  to the water, the atmosphere was more like  the brooding  menace of a
penitentiary.
     Over  on the other side, 500 meters away and on higher, more undulating
ground, sat two houses. They were the ones I wanted to have a look at.
     A dozen  or so  vehicles were already in the car park, mostly clustered
around a wooden boat shed on  the lake's edge that had been designed to look
like  a  fort. Canoes and rowing  boats were lined up near it  in the water,
plus the statutory Coke machine and another selling chocolate bars.
     I'd watched a documentary once that claimed that the  Coca-Cola company
was so powerful in  the  U.S. that it had even got a president into power in
the  1960s. I  wondered  how  their  mission statement  compared with Ronald
McDonald's. It certainly seems that no matter where you are in the world you
will  always  be  able  to  get  a  Coke;  I'd even  been offered  one  by a
six-year-old  on  a mountainside in  Nepal.  Out trekking with Sarah in  the
middle of nowhere, a kid no older than eight came along the track with a tin
bucket filled with water and  about six battered cans of Coke inside, trying
to sell  them to the walkers as they made their  way up the mountain.  Sarah
gave  him  some  money but  refused  the Coke.  She  had  this hang-up about
cultures being contaminated  by the West and spent the next hour bumping her
gums about  it. Me? I was thirsty and just wished he'd had  Diet instead  of
regular.
     As  I drove past the fort I could see that it  was manned by two  young
lads  lounging in the  shadows, who didn't look  as if they  were coming out
unless they had to.
     At  the far end of the car  park was a picnic area with built-in grills
and a wooden canopy covering the seating. A family barbecue was under way; a
bit  early  in  the season,  but  they  were having  fun anyway. Granny  and
Grandad, sons, daughters and grandchildren all filling their faces.
     Beyond it I could see the tops of brightly colored, family-sized tents.
It looked as  if  each  pitch  was surrounded by  its own individual  little
coppice.
     I turned the car through a 180, so I  was facing back the way I'd come,
and  drove toward the toilet block. I nosey-parked between  two other  cars,
front against the toilet block wall, back to the lake.
     Picking up the binos and bird book I'd bought at the tourist shop along
with my maps, I got out of the car  and locked up. Straightaway I was hit by
the  humidity; having  air conditioning in a car almost makes you forget the
reason you turned it on in the first place.
     Everyone seemed to be having a  giggle in the barbecue area. A boom box
was playing some Latino rap, and even Granny was dancing  rapper style  with
the kids. In the car to my  right were a  couple of senior citizens who'd no
doubt driven for hours to get here, parked up at the lake and  stayed in the
car to eat sandwiches with the air conditioning  going  full blast and their
hats still on.
     I wandered down toward the boat shed, keeping an eye on the spur at the
other side of the creek. The larger house of the two was on the left, with a
gap of maybe  100 to  120 meters between them.  There was no movement around
either.
     I went  to the Coke machine and threw in  a handful of  coins. I didn't
really want a drink, certainly not at a dollar a go, but it gave me a chance
to look around.
     The two teenage  lads  were probably doing  a  school  vacation  job. I
didn't  know whether they were  stoned or  just bored  shitless.  Both  were
barefoot but wearing the company uniform: blue shorts and red polo shirt.
     I nodded at them through the small swing doors;  they'd obviously  been
told to be pleasant and said they hoped I had a nice day. I wasn't sure that
I would.
     I sat down on the wooden jetty and immediately felt  the dampness  soak
into my jeans. To my right were a father and son, with dad trying to get his
boy  sparked up about fishing: "We'll only catch something if you  sit  very
still  and  watch  the  float."  The kid,  in  his  Disney  poncho,  was  as
uninterested as  the  two in the boat  shed--as you  would be if  you'd much
rather be eating ice cream and playing computer games.
     I was very  overtly carrying the binoculars and bird  book; today I was
the  dickhead  tourist with  his feet dangling over the  side of  the jetty,
taking in the magnificent view over the water.
     Half a dozen boats were moored at various points around the lake.
     Through the binoculars I could see that each one held two or three very
fat, middle-aged men who were dressed for trapping bears in the Yukon, their
hunting vests festooned  with fishing flies, their pockets  bulging with all
sorts of kit, and fearsome knives hanging in sheaths from their belts.
     I panned with the  binos along the opposite side of the spur,  starting
from  the far right-hand side. I made out a track  cutting through the trees
just short of the lake on  the higher ground, the one I'd  stopped by to let
the  motor  home  past.  It  looked as  if it should  lead to the houses.  I
followed  it along  and,  sure enough, it  passed the smaller  of the two. I
couldn't see anything about the building  that  gave me any  information; it
was just a square, two-story, flat-roofed structure, built into the hill and
with  stilts  holding the forward  two thirds. There  was a  boat and a  4x4
vehicle underneath the  stilted  area, but no movement. Then two  kids  came
running around from the front  of the house followed  by  a  man.  They were
laughing and throwing  a  football at each other.  Happy  families; I'd give
that one a miss.
     I put the binos down for a while, and had a look at the book. This part
is all about third-party awareness, because you never know who is looking at
you;  they might  not be saying, "Is he doing  a  recce of those houses over
there?" but if all I  did was bino at the house  and didn't move or do other
things, it would  look pretty strange. The  trick is  to give the impression
that whatever reason you have  for being  there is so straightforward no one
gives you a second glance. I just hoped a fellow anorak didn't come up to me
and start on some serious bird talk.
     I put the  book down, much more intimately  acquainted with the  lesser
spotted something or other, and started to look at the other  target. By now
enough  humidity had condensed on my head for droplets to  run down my face,
and I was starting to feel sticky and damp all over.
     The second house was very much like the first, but about a third bigger
and  with an extra floor. It, too, was wooden  and had a  flat, felted roof,
but  its  stilted area  had been enclosed  with plywood sheeting. Two  large
doors  opened onto a concrete slipway that led down  to  the water's edge. A
boat,  a  four-seater fiberglass  job, ideal for fishing, was parked  on the
land, still on its trailer, nose facing down toward the water, the  outboard
engine toward the house.
     All  the curtains seemed to  be closed. I couldn't see any rubbish bags
outside, or towels or  anything  else that might indicate that the house was
occupied. However, the garage doors were  only three-quarters closed and the
rear of a black 4x4 was protruding, which made me think that maybe there was
another one inside.
     I heard a groan from the two boys  in red polo shirts. A man was coming
toward the fort with three kids, all highly excited about hiring a canoe and
already fighting about who was going to have the paddle.
     I  put the binos down  and had a swig of  Coke,  which was now warm and
horrible, like  the weather. I binned  it and got another one, then I took a
walk back to the car.
     The rave  at the  picnic  area  was  still going strong; the  kids were
dancing, and the adults, beer cans in hand around the  barbecue, despite the
signs forbidding  alcohol, were putting  the world to rights. Even from this
distance I  could  hear  the loud sizzle as steaks the  size of dustbin lids
were dropped onto the smoking griddles.
     The old couple were still  in  their car, her struggling to drink a can
of Dr.  Pepper through her false  teeth, him  reading the inside pages of  a
newspaper. Nice day out.
     I could read the headline,  even through the  windshield. It  looked as
though I'd been right:  the black  convoy that had  held me  up in D.C. must
have been carrying either  Netanyahu or Arafat, because both boys were being
welcomed to America.
     I  got back  to the car and slowly rolled out along  the gravel road to
the main drag, turning left, back toward the Falls ofNeuse and the belt line
I didn't  follow the signs back to  Raleigh, though. This time, I wanted the
road to Fayetteville.
     Fayette Nam, as  some people in the  States  call it,  due to its  high
casualty rate, is the home of the 82nd Airborne and U.S. Special Forces.
     They were  stationed  at  Fort  Bragg, the  only place I knew  in North
Carolina. About an hour  south of  Raleigh--or  so they told me  at  the gas
station--I'd first gone there in the mid-1980s for a joint exercise training
with Delta Force, the Regiment's American counterpart.
     "Deltex"  was designed to further  an atmosphere of cooperation between
the two units,  but all it did  for me was  induce huge amounts  of  envy. I
could still remember  being bowled over  by the sheer size of the place; you
could  have fitted the entire  town of Hereford  twice over  into what  they
called a "fort." The  quantity and quality of equipment  on show was  beyond
belief. Delta had indoor 7.62 and 5.56 shooting ranges; at Stirling Lines we
had only the 9mm equivalent. We also had only one gym, while they had dozens
of  them,  including Jacuzzis, saunas and a massive climbing wall  for their
Mountain Troop.  No  wonder we renamed the  place Fort  Brass. They had more
helicopters  in one unit than we had in the  whole of the British army; come
to that, there were more personnel in just that one base than in all  of the
British armed services put together.
     Fayetteville is effectively a garrison city, with every business geared
up for the military. The troops are  the ones with the  money and the desire
to  burn  it. Like them, in all the times I'd been there I'd never  felt the
need to venture out of the city limits.
     The 401  was a wide single  carriage way  I drove through  a few  small
towns that would have made great locations for 1950s films or, better still,
     could  have done with  a couple of thousand-pounders to put them out of
their  misery,  before  the  area  started to open  up into  cornfields  and
grassland.
     Houses  and small industrial  units dotted  the  route,  alongside open
barns filled with tractors and other agricultural gear, and every few miles,
in case people needed reminding that they were in the boonies, I came across
a  road kill, a mess of blood and fur as flat as  a pancake in the middle of
the blacktop.
     I knew I was getting near when I hit the Cape Fear river. The water was
about 300 meters across at this point, getting wider as it got closer to the
sea, and sure enough I  passed the  "City of Fayetteville" sign  before long
and kept my eyes peeled for anything directing me to Fort Bragg.
     Bragg Boulevard  was a  wide  dual carriage way  with  a grass  central
reservation, but as I passed rows of  car showrooms with new 4x4s and sports
cars under miles  of red,  white  and blue  bunting, it changed back  to two
lanes.  The buildings  on  either  side were mainly one-story  cinder  block
warehouses  behind a  shop front. Korean pawnshops and  tailors jostled with
Vietnamese restaurants  and takeaways, representing a weird chronicle of all
the  conflicts the U.S.A.  had ever been  involved in.  They just  needed an
Iraqi kebab stall to complete the set.
     I was beginning to see the kind of outlet I'd come  here  to find. Neon
signs and posters announced boot-shining specialists, tattoo artists and gun
shops--"Test fire before you buy--we have our own range." On every sidewalk,
young  men and women strode  around in smartly pressed BDUs (combat uniform)
and very short  haircuts--the men  usually  had a "whitewall" with  a little
lump  on top. It felt very strange to  see uniformed soldiers on the streets
without a weapon and not on patrol; the terrorist  situation in Europe meant
that off-duty soldiers were forbidden to walk around in uniform; they'd just
be ready-made targets.
     I  drove  on base and got my bearings.  American military installations
aren't  like European  ones, which resemble World  War  Two  prisoner-of war
camps,  again  because  of  the terrorist  threat. This place  was  open and
sprawling,  with vehicle pools and groups of men and women on route marches,
singing cadence, their unit flag carried proudly at the head of the column.
     I  couldn't  remember the name of the road I wanted,  but I followed my
nose, driving along  roads with buildings on each side that looked more like
smart apartments  than barrack rooms. I found it--Yadkin, a  long road  that
came out of the base and  moved  into  the city area. There had been quite a
bit of building since my  last visit in  the late Eighties. Roads coming off
the  main drag had names  like Desert Storm Boulevard, or Just Cause Road. I
wondered if the Firm would ever get around to naming thoroughfares after its
operations--if so, they'd have to be called things like  Blackmail  Lane, or
Stitch Them Up Big Time Street.
     I carried on along  Yadkin until it took me off  base, past Kim's No. I
Sewing,  Susie J's (I wasn't  too sure what service she  was  offering)  and
whole  blocks of  military  supply shops. There was one I remembered, called
U.S. Cavalry.  It had  been  a  complete  department  store  for  the  start
your-own-war nut,  glass counters  displaying sharp, pointy things, racks of
BDUs, military  T-shirts and combat  helmets,  rows and rows of  boots,  and
shelves of  posters and books with such politically correct titles as Ragnar
s Big Book  of Homemade Weapons and The Advanced Anarchist  Arsenal: Recipes
for Improvised Incendiaries and Explosives--always good for that last-minute
Christmas present.
     I  drove past shop fronts displaying  murals of  airborne assaults. One
had a giant  poster of John  Wayne  in uniform in the  window. After another
mile I saw the store I wanted  and drove into  the car park.  Jim's  was the
same size  as  a small super store; the front had  a wooden ranch look about
it, but the rest  was whitewashed  cinder  block. The  front windows  looked
almost  cottagey from  a distance, with lots of little  square panes, but as
you got nearer  you could see  the panes were just white painted bars behind
the thick plate glass. And the anti-ram barriers one third of the way up the
windows weren't there to tie  your horse  up to either. Through  the foyer I
could see keyboards, VCRs and rows of TV screens all showing Jerry Springer.
It was to the left of all that, however, a place where there were no windows
at all, that they kept what I'd come here for.
     I walked  onto a small  verandah  where a large  red  sign  warned  me,
"Before entry weapons will be unloaded, actions opened and thank you for not
smoking."
     The inside of Jim's Gunnery was L-shaped. To my right was a pawnshop;
     the  rest disappeared  around the corner  to my  left, past  a  counter
selling  magazines  and sweets.  Opposite was a small  shop  within a  shop,
selling  jewelry. The place  smelled more like a  department  store  than  a
pawnshop.
     It was very clean, with a polished, tiled floor.
     I turned left  toward a  series of glass display cases,  all containing
pistols  hundreds  of  them and behind  them,  in  wall racks,  rifles, with
something to  suit every taste, from bolt action to assault. After I  picked
up a wire basket,  I  was greeted  by  a  very  well-fed white  guy  in  his
mid-thirties, wearing a green polo shirt with Jim's  logo on it, a Glock .45
in a pancake holster on his belt and a big smile.
     "Hi, how are you today?"
     In my bad American I replied, "I'm good, how are you?"
     I  wasn't  worried; the  transient  military population made  it a  lot
easier to  get  away with a dodgy  accent. Besides, they'd only think I  was
Australian Americans always do.
     "I'm good, sir. Is there anything I can do for you today?"
     "Just having a look around, thanks."
     He beamed.
     "If you need anything, just holler."
     Heading  toward   the   weapons  counter,   I  passed  shelves  stacked
supermarket fashion with boxes of ammunition and  everything for the hunting
man,  even down to Barbour jackets and  shooting  sticks, which surprisingly
didn't look out of place.
     Antimugging sprays hung from racks. I couldn't  decide  whether to have
the CS gas or the pepper spray, so in the end I put both in my basket.
     The footwear section  sold camouflaged Gore-Tex boots and an assortment
of Wellingtons and  leather  footgear. What I wanted, and  eventually found,
was a normal  pair of high-leg assault boots, a mixture of cross trainer and
boot.  The Gore-Tex and  go-faster boots were all well and good, but I could
never really be  bothered with trying to keep my  feet dry.  Once  they were
wet, which  they would be  tonight,  that was it, I just got on  with  it. I
didn't  bother to try the boots on; it  wasn't  as  if I  were going  to  be
tabbing for six days across the Appalachians. I  got them  in a size ten;  I
was size nine, but remembered from  a very painful few days in a pair of new
U.S. trainers that their sizes are one up from those in the U.K.
     I went over and  had a look in the weapon cabinets. There were hundreds
of revolvers and  semiautomatics  to choose from.  I could see what I wanted
and waited my turn to be served.
     Next  to  me,  a woman  in her early thirties  had a two-year-old in  a
carry-rig on her back.  She  was being helped by  one of  the assistants  to
choose a  new nylon holster  for  her Smith & Wesson  .45 CQB, and they were
also chattily discussing the  pros  and cons of various models. The  one she
was carrying was the  stainless-steel  version.  As she  was saying  to  the
assistant, the matte-black, alloy version was lighter, but the steel one was
more noticeable and therefore a better deterrent. It was a fantastic weapon,
and would always have been my weapon of choice were it not for the fact that
I  preferred 9mm because the magazines carried more rounds. Mind you, if she
needed  more than the seven in the mag plus one  in the  chamber, she was in
the shit anyway. The conversation moved back to  the new  holster as opposed
to keeping it in her handbag.
     A bit farther along,  a young black  guy  in a blue tracksuit was being
briefed on the merits of a .38 revolver over a semiautomatic.
     "With this baby y'all don't even have to aim," the sales pitch went.
     "Especially at the range y'all be using  it at. Just point it like your
finger at  the center mass and it will take them down."  The  customer liked
that; he was going to take it.
     The woman had gone and the assistant came over to me.
     "Hi, how can I help you today?"
     It was bad accent time again.
     "Can I have a look at your Tazers on the bottom shelf there?"
     "Sure, no problem."  The assistant was black, in his mid-twenties,  and
dressed in the house green shirt. He was also "carrying." It was  a Sig 9mm,
held in the same sort of nylon pancake holster the woman had been interested
in. He bent down and pulled out the tray of Tazers.
     They were  selling all  different types, from little  handheld ones, to
the sort that fire out  prongs on  a wire that you can use to attack someone
from  a  five-meter range,  right  up  to  big  ones that  resembled  police
truncheons.
     I was tempted by a handheld one called "Zap-Ziller  the monster of stun
guns!" mainly because of the slogan. There  was even a picture of a dinosaur
on the box that told me it packed 100,000 volts of stopping power.
     I read the packaging to make sure it suited my needs: "A short blast of
a  quarter-second  duration  will startle  an attacker, cause  minor  muscle
contractions and have a repelling effect. A moderate length blast of one  to
four seconds can cause an attacker to  fall to the ground and result in some
mental confusion. It may make an assailant unwilling  to continue an attack,
but he will be able to get up almost immediately.
     "A  full  charge  of  five seconds can  immobilize  an attacker,  cause
disorientation, loss of  balance, falling to the ground  and leave them weak
and dazed for  some  minutes afterward. Note:  Any  blast  lasting  over one
second is likely  to cause your assailant to fall. If you do not  help  them
down,  gravity  may  injure  them."  I  hoped so. They'd certainly done  the
business in Syria.
     In the clothing  area I picked  out a  set  of woodland camo  Gore-Tex,
choosing  one  two  sizes  too  big so it was  nice and  baggy. Gore-Tex had
changed  a  lot  since it  was first invented  by  God in  answer  to  every
infantryman's prayers. In the early days it had made a rustling noise as you
moved, which wasn't good if you were moving on target, and  as a result we'd
had to wear it under our combat clothing. But nowadays it was much more like
textile than plastic.
     I cruised around the aisles and filled my trolley with a few other bits
and pieces I thought I'd be needing. I didn't think  I'd need a  weapon, but
seeing them all made  me feel strange  about being  on a job without one. It
would  take  too long  to apply for a gun legally.  The U.S. laws  aren't as
crazy as  people in Europe imagine,  and I  didn't want to take the  risk of
stealing or buying  one illegally.  Normally,  if I knew I was going to need
one, I would plan  to obtain it in-country,  because that meant  I  wouldn't
have to worry when traveling on commercial flights.
     If that wasn't possible, I'd put one in the diplomatic bag, along  with
any other special  kit  I needed, and then pick it  up at the  embassy. This
wasn't happening on this job, however; the timings hadn't allowed it.
     Besides, I  was carrying out a PV review;  what  would  I need a weapon
for?
     The hunting-bow section at the rear of the store caught  my  eye. Three
customers in  their early  fifties, baseball caps on  their  heads and  beer
bellies hanging over their belts, were trying to outdo each other with their
war stories. I  overheard, "When I was in Da Nang there was  a whole week  I
thought the good Lord was going to take me away ..."
     I saw some crossbows that took my fancy.  They  were small,  but I knew
they  were  powerful. Since the U.K.  government had  banned  handguns,  the
pistol clubs had had to find another  sport, and many now  used their ranges
to fire crossbow  bolts  instead of pistol rounds. The  club  where I'd been
shown how to use one was in Vauxhall, just across from the Firm's HQ.
     I  picked up one model and examined the  optic sight and the attachment
to keep spare bolts. The price tag said $340, which was all right,  but  the
other side  was disappointing: a label  told me  it needed  a North Carolina
weapons license.
     The only option left to me was an  ordinary bow, and I  wasn't short on
choice. There were racks of them to  choose from, with names like Beast 4x4,
Black  Max and  Conquest Pro.  Made of carbon fiber, aluminium or  composite
resin, with cams  that worked like gears at the end of the bow to  give  the
bow cable more power, these  modern versions  of the longbow would  have had
Robin Hood creaming his Lincoln green.
     I found one I liked the look of, the Spyder Synergy 4, proudly boasting
thirty-two inches  of throbbing manhood  end to end, cammed  and  cabled up,
ready to go as long as I had some arrows. I wanted the smallest ones I could
find, just like  the bow.  Looking along the  racks I worked  out it was the
two-footers I was after, and picked up a box of six. But that wasn't the end
of it.  I  then had to choose the  arrowhead.  I went for the Rocky Mountain
Assassin; it looked like Thunderbird Three with its tail fins, which were in
fact   razors.   It  also  seemed  to  be  the  only  one  that   came  with
ready-assembled fins.
     I was quite enjoying  myself at the bow mix 'n' match counter, and  the
next  item I needed was a quiver. These, too, were cammed up  and fixed onto
the bow, so that everything was secure and close to hand.
     I carried on  and got the rest of the stuff on my mental shopping list,
and with enough kit to bow-hunt until Christmas  I went to the checkout. The
woman with the baby was examining a necklace in the jewelry department.
     She obviously hadn't liked  the holster, because the stainless  steel45
CQB still gleamed from her open bag on the counter.
     Behind the checkout a woman in her early twenties sat  bored out of her
skull,  apparently  not  that interested  in the  latest style of handgun or
waterproofs.
     Her hair was gelled to her forehead, and she didn't even  look at me as
she said, "Card or cash?" I couldn't keep my eyes off her fingernails.
     They were  two inches long and nearly  curling, like Fu  Manchu's,  and
were painted with an intricate, black and white checkerboard pattern.
     I couldn't wait to describe them to Kelly.
     I replied, "Cash,"  did  the transaction, lifted my bags, put my twenty
cents change into the "Candy for Kids" box and left. While I was loading the
trunk  of my  car,  the woman with the  baby came out and  got into a people
carrier. I couldn't  help  but smile as I saw the stickers plastered  across
the back:
     "This vehicle insured by Smith and Wesson."
     "A proud parent of a terrific kid, sponsored by Burger King."
     And, best of all: "The driver carries only $50 ... OF AMMO!"
     In amongst  all of these was a  large silver  Born-Again Christian fish
sign  with the word Jesus in the middle. It was just like old times, part of
the crazy kaleidoscope of contradictions that  made me love America so much.
It was a good job I hadn't made a mistake the  last time I was looking for a
wagon with a fish sign on it, and climbed into this woman's vehicle.
     No doubt the  vehicle's  insurers  would have given  me  a  greeting to
remember.
     There were still a few other odds  and ends I needed, so I  drove  away
from Yadkin and toward the city center--or what I thought was the center.
     After ten  minutes I had  to stop, open the trunk and get the maps out,
hoping that on one of them there might be a town plan. I worked  out where I
was and where I was going to: a shopping mall, the nearest one I could  see.
It was about a mile away.
     It turned out not to  be the single, contained area I'd been expecting.
The main mall building looked more like the Pentagon, but clad  in something
like York stone, and the remaining outside shopping areas and car parks must
have straddled  an  area of more than eight square kilometers,  with traffic
jams to match. The big blue sign for Wal-Mart was exactly what I wanted, and
the store was part of the outer  shopping  area. I  waited  at  the  lights,
peeled off right, and went into the car park.  There was the usual lineup of
stores--Hallmark  Cards, post office, shoe super stores,  a Lone Star  steak
house, then my mate, Wal-Mart.
     As I got a trolley I was  greeted  by an elderly male welcomer with his
happy face on.
     "Hi, how are you today?"
     I smiled back at him. He had a Wal-Mart baseball cap on that was a size
too big for his head, and a T-shirt over his long-sleeved shirt that told me
how happy Wal-Mart was to  see me. There was  an ATM  machine just past  the
turnstile. I took the opportunity  to get some more cash  out on my card and
off I went. The place  was  full of  Airborne soldiers,  screaming kids  and
stressed-out mothers.
     I  selected food that  was both ready,  and quiet, to  eat. No chips or
cans of fizzy drink; instead, I picked up four big tins of  Spam, four large
bottles of still mineral water and a bumper pack of Mars bars. Then a couple
of laps around the gardening section, and I was done.
     There  was a  little self-service cafe that I'd missed  as  I  entered,
maybe in  the excitement of my welcome to Wal-Mart.  After paying, I left my
trolley with my new friend--it was also his job  to keep an eye on them when
people went to the cafe. I  picked up a tray and got myself two large slices
of pizza and a Coke.
     As I ate I ran through  my mental checklist, because I didn't have that
much  time left  to  mince around.  Deciding  I had  everything I'd  need, I
finished the pizza and Coke and headed for the exit. I felt a stirring in my
bowels; I couldn't find the toilet, but no matter, I'd go to a coffee shop.
     However, the pangs made me think  about something I'd forgotten: I went
back to the pharmacy section  and picked up a couple of  party-size packs of
Amodium.
     Thinking about it, the pizza hadn't been too bad, so I went back in and
bought two full-sized Four Seasons.
     As always, I'd chosen the trolley with one dodgy wheel, so as soon as I
was outside on the concrete I was all over the place,  pushing it at a crazy
angle in order to go forward. When it came to supermarket trolleys, my lucky
number was zero.
     I threw everything into the trunk; I'd sort it all  out later. As I got
behind  the wheel, I got the phone out, turned it on and checked the battery
level.
     It was  fine. All the same, I fished  out the spare battery, swapped it
for the one I'd just checked  and then plugged it  into the recharger. I was
going to need both batteries full up and ready to go.
     One last check of the map and I nosed out into the solid traffic.
     drove  out of  town and back toward the lake. It had started  to rain a
little  and  I had to put the wipers on intermittent, turning them off again
just before  Raleigh  when they  started to rub on the dry windshield.  Soon
afterward I spotted a rest area, pulled in and got sorting.
     Bending into the trunk I started to pull off the sticky-back price tags
from the Gore-Tex and  my other purchases, stuck two on my hand, then packed
all the stuff into the hunting bergen. I made a point of putting the pruning
shears in one of the little pouches on the outside, together with the string
and gardening gloves,  as I'd be needing them  first. The gloves  were a bit
embarrassing  as they were like dishwashing gloves with lots of little lumps
on  the fingers for grip, and worst of all they were yellow.  I  should have
opened  them up and checked the  color. It was  too late now to do  anything
about  it; I needed to get back to the lake. All the other items,  including
the plastic gas container, went in the main compartment of the bergen.
     All I had to do now was prepare the food.  I folded the big sections of
pizza in  on each other and wrapped them in plastic wrap. I ripped the  Mars
bars out of their wrappers and wrapped them together in pairs. Then I opened
the tins of Spam and  also  plastic wrapped the  contents, and the whole lot
went into the bergen. Peeling the labels from my hand, I stuck one on top of
the other and then both  over the  small battery light  on  my phone. Then I
went into the menu and turned off all the sound facilities.
     It was then down to a good smearing of insect repellent. I didn't  know
if  I'd need it or not, but better safe than scratching. I got back into the
car and  headed for  the lake. The rain  had  died  down, at  least  for the
moment.
     Flicking  through the  radio channels, I found  myself  listening  to a
woman who was talking about Southern females spending more time and money on
their hair than those from any other area of the U.S.A.
     "That's  why  we should  buy this magical mousse that " I  hit the seek
button.
     There was someone else explaining the reason why  the weather  was  all
screwed up: El Nino.
     "We're lucky here in  North Carolina, unlike  the  main areas hit, like
Alabama; they had twisters." I  hit  the  switch and landed  on  a Christian
station.  This  one  was telling  me that it was  God, not El Nino,  who was
responsible  for climate changes.  Apparently  the  good Lord  was not  best
pleased with all our sinning and was sending us a warning.
     However, the  first step toward salvation might be  to buy  one of  the
channel's  leather bound Holy  Bibles, available for only $98.99.  All major
credit cards accepted.
     I was back in the woods. It was  just past  seven o'clock  and  nearing
last light, especially  under the canopy of high trees.  That was absolutely
fine  by me;  I wanted the maximum amount of  dark to get on target and sort
myself out before first light, then find out whether  or not she was  in the
house. I hoped she was, otherwise it was back to  D.C. and a great big empty
drawing board.
     I hadn't had time to think about a good drop-off point for the car, but
maybe  the  lake attracted families in the evenings,  and  the  car park had
looked a very likely lovers' lane. Either way it meant other vehicles and my
car would blend in.
     I was about half a K.  short of the car park when I finally had to turn
my lights on. I had a quick spin around; there were a few lights in the tent
area, but only one  other car, which presumably belonged to the young couple
I could see having a romantic interlude  under the  canopy. Well, they  were
until my headlights hit  them and they had to hold their hands up  to shield
their eyes.
     I parked as near as possible to the barbecue area, but  not so close to
the young couple that I was  going  to have to go  "Hi"  when I got out. Not
that  they would have noticed  me; from  what I could see he  seemed totally
engrossed in  trying to get his hand up her skirt,  though unfortunately for
him she appeared to be more interested in the food they were cooking.
     Looking across  the  lake, I could see lights on in both houses. I  was
still gagging for a shit,  so I  decided to walk over to the toilets with my
new boots and ring-lace them  while I relieved myself. The weather was still
warmish, and the crickets were really going for it, drowning the noise of my
footsteps on the mud and  wet gravel. The stars were  trying to break though
the clouds,  and the surface of the lake was as flat as a mirror. I I' hoped
it stayed that way and didn't rain.
     ^ The toilets were molded, all-in-one, stainless steel units, with just
a  handle sticking out of the wall,  so nothing  could be vandalized. It was
hot, dark and muggy in the  cubicle, the only  light coming from outside the
main door. Swarms of buzzing things had been waiting on the ceiling for some
poor unsuspecting ass to  show up on the  radar. As the  first two  or three
dived in I heard a laugh from the girl by the barbecue. Maybe he'd found his
target as well.
     I pulled out a few  sheets of toilet  paper from the container and  its
hard texture gave me a flashback  to twenty-odd years ago, and  the juvenile
detention center: "Three squares only," the staff had barked.
     "One up, one down, one shine."
     That reminded me, I  needed  to bung myself up;  I'd better  take  some
Imodium. With my Timberlands in my hand and my shiny new boots on my feet, I
trogged back to the car. The lovers were  nowhere to be  seen, but their car
was still there and the barbecue was glowing. He must have scored and they'd
moved somewhere  more secluded; it's  amazing what you can get  away with if
you make a woman laugh.
     I opened  the trunk and  got out the bergen  and bow,  checking  that I
hadn't  left  anything I'd be  needing for the job  or that would compromise
what was going on  if the car got nicked. In went  the Timberlands; I wasn't
going to fuck them up, I'd only just broken them in. I opened a foil pack of
Imodium and swallowed four capsules. The instructions said two, but that was
a problem I'd had all my life: I never listened to advice.
     Slinging the  bergen, which now had the bow strapped  onto it, over  my
right shoulder, I had a last study of  the lake and the target houses to get
my bearings, and set off.  My plan was to follow the shore, cross the creek,
then follow the shoreline again to the target that way I avoided the track.
     There was too much risk of transport going up and down it, and I didn't
know how aware  anyone in  the buildings would be. I might compromise myself
before I'd even reached the  target. Do it properly and  then you don't have
to worry about those sorts of things.
     I passed the lovers' car. The windows were very steamed up, but I could
see some strange movement going on inside.
     A few paces farther on, nailed to the barbecue canopy, was a large sign
with  "warning"  stamped  on  the  top.  I  stopped  to  read it;  the  more
information, the better.
     "Caution  Hikers,"  it  said, "Hunting activities involving the  use of
firearms and other  legal weapons  may take place on the  Wildlife Resources
Commission  Gamelands  immediately  adjacent  to  the  park  during  hunting
season." It further warned, "Please stay on  the marked trail during hunting
season to avoid the danger of  possible serious injury or  death. Wearing an
item of bright-orange clothing is strongly suggested."
     That was all well and good, but when was the hunting season?
     I  carried on  and got level with  the tented area, encountering a  two
meter-high  wooden  fence that seemed to  surround  the site. I followed  it
until I got to the grandly named Recycling Center, which, in fact, was three
galvanized  dustbins  for plastic  bottles, glass and  aluminium  cans,  and
clambered over. A  swathe about ten yards wide had been  cut into the forest
from the water's edge. Tree stumps an inch or two high jutted from the sandy
ground, and I kept stubbing the toe of my boots as I took the beach route.
     After five minutes or so, when my night vision kicked in, the going got
easier. It takes a  long time to adjust to darkness. The  cones in your eyes
enable you  to see in the daytime, giving color and perception,  but they're
no good at night. What takes over then are  the  rods on the  edge  of  your
irises.  They are angled at forty-five degrees, because of the convex  shape
of the eye,  so if you look  straight at something at night you don't really
see it, it's a haze. You have to look above  it or around it so you can line
up the rods,  which  will then give you a picture. It takes forty minutes or
so for them to become fully effective, but you can start to see better after
five.
     Every now and then I could hear the clinking and clanking of people  in
tents doing their evening stuff; I couldn't really  make out what they  were
saying, but I was sure it would  be something along the lines of "Whose idea
was it to come camping anyway?" I also heard  a portable TV  being tuned in,
and the sound of jingles.
     I was hardly behind enemy lines here, but all the time I  was thinking,
What if? What if I bump into  someone? Answer, I'm  on holiday, I'm  hiking.
I'd play the  dickhead  Brit abroad on holiday thinking he's having fun, and
try  to turn it to my  advantage and learn  as  much as possible  about  the
houses. You've always  got  to have a reason for being somewhere, so that if
you're  challenged,  you won't  be fumbling around trying  to  come up  with
boneheaded  excuses.  It  also  gives you a  mind-set,  and you  can then do
whatever you're doing with more confidence.
     I moved off the lake shore as it petered out, and into the wood between
the water and the  fence.  It was hardly secondary jungle; the larger  trees
were five or six feet apart, with smaller saplings scattered  in between. It
was wet and muddy, but being flat it was easy enough to negotiate.
     I was just coming level with the end of the tented area when, from very
close quarters, I heard a young woman's voice.
     "Jimmy! Jimmy!" Before  I  knew it I'd stumbled  on the couple from the
barbecue, and from the  way  their clothing was  rearranged, she'd forgotten
what was on the barbecue entirely. It  confused me; I'd thought they were in
the car.
     This sort of thing can go one of two ways--either  they're embarrassed,
so  they make their  excuses  and  move  on,  or if you're  unlucky, the guy
decides he's got to demonstrate what a big man he is.
     I checked my stride and moved to the  right to go around  them. I tried
to  make it look as if I was concentrating  on my  footing as I passed,  but
without losing him from vision. He shouted, "Who the fuck are you, man?"
     and it was obvious which way this one was going to go. He stopped me in
my tracks with his hand on my shoulder and held me there. I had my head down
in order to look confused and unthreatening,  but also to protect my face in
case this kicked off.
     I stuttered, "I'm sorry to disturb you."
     He went, "What? You some kind of sicko stalker, or what?"
     "Jimmy!"  The girl  was trying to look as if she were brushing sand off
her skirt. I couldn't see her face in the darkness,  but it was obvious from
her tone that she was embarrassed  and wanted to get away. He had managed to
pull up his Levis and fasten the top button, but there was a big gaping hole
where the rest  of  his fly  was still undone.  The white of  his  underwear
glowed in the dark and I had to try hard not to laugh.
     My voice was my normal really  bad American one, but at the  same  time
trying to sound scared and submissive. I said,  "Nothing like that, I'm just
going to see some of  the turtles." Hopefully that  would  be enough to make
him satisfied that he was the tough guy  around here, so I could move on. It
would hardly  square  with  having a  bow,  but I was hoping he couldn't see
that, wedged between my back and the bergen.
     "Turtles? Who are you, Mr. Nature from the fucking Discovery Channel?"
     He  liked that  one; he  guffawed and  turned  to  his  girlfriend  for
approval.
     I  said,  "On the other  side of the lake, they're making their  nests.
This is the only time of year they do it." Unlike your good selves,  I added
to  myself. I  carried  on waffling about  turtles coming onto the beach and
digging  and laying  their eggs--something  that, ironically, I  had in fact
learned from the Discovery  Channel. Plus, my  bird guidebook told  me  they
were here.
     Lover Boy laughed; honor had been satisfied. I wasn't a weirdo, just an
anorak. Now he didn't really know what to do, so he laughed again.
     "Turtles,  man, turtles."  And with that he put his arm around the girl
and they walked off toward the beach.
     I'd got away with it, but it was annoying that it had happened, because
two people might now be able to identify  me. It didn't mean anything at the
moment, but if there was a drama  at  a  later date they might  remember the
encounter. It  could have  been worse:  at  least he  wasn't  a  nature  fan
himself.
     It  was nine  twenty-seven and  it had  taken two hours  and getting my
trousers wet up to  my ass  crossing the  creek, but  I'd eventually  got to
within  maybe sixty meters of the target.  I was right  on  the  lake shore,
which was  the  only way  I'd  been able  to get a decent view  of the house
because the  ground was so  undulating. The terrain was  different here; the
National Parks people  hadn't cleared a swathe, and the  tree  line extended
almost to the water's edge.
     Some  lights were  still on on the first floor,  but the curtains  were
drawn and I couldn't see  any movement. It was  a question now of finding  a
position that would give  me cover, but  with a  good aperture with which to
view the  target.  That  could be achieved only by carrying out  a 360degree
recce of the area around the house.
     I  took my time, picking my feet up  carefully to avoid making noise by
hitting any rocks, stones or fallen  branches, then slowly placing the  edge
of  my  boot down on the ground first, followed by the rest of the sole. The
technique puts quite a strain  on your legs, but it's  the only  way to have
any sort of control over the noise you make.
     When  I reached the water's edge, I stopped after about ten meters  and
listened, pointing my ear toward the target and slightly opening my mouth to
overcome  any body-cavity noises,  such as  jaw  movement. I  couldn't  hear
anything  apart  from  the lake lapping against the shore; certainly nothing
from  the  target  house. I had a look at where I wanted  to go  on my  next
bound, and started picking my way carefully over the rocks. There were still
lights on in  the  other house as well, but  I couldn't make out much detail
because it was too far away. At least the rain was holding off.
     I did my next move and got to within about forty meters of the house. I
realized that, because the ground was up and down like a yo-yo, it was going
to be  very difficult to  be  stood  off from the  target and watch from any
distance. Yet if I went right up on  the higher ground behind, all  I'd  see
was the roof. I couldn't site the OP (observation point) between the houses.
     Kids are very inquisitive and by mid-day tomorrow they'd probably be in
the OP  with me, sharing my  Mars bars and pizza. My options were so limited
that there was no point doing a 360; it wouldn't achieve anything.
     I went back down to the shore, took off the bergen and left it by a big
overhanging tree. That way, even if there was a major drama, I knew I'd find
it again; all I'd have to do was run down  to the lake, keeping to this side
of the house, turn right and  I couldn't miss it. What was more, the lighter
and less bulky  I  was,  the less noise I made while  I found  a  good  hide
position. For  all I knew at this  stage, although  I hadn't  seen  or heard
anything,  there  could  be dogs,  or  even worse, geese--they're  food  for
virtually everything that moves,  so they spark up at  the  slightest noise;
the ancient Egyptians used  them  as an  alarm system. I  learned  this from
living in my new house in Norfolk  because the guy who lived nearest me kept
geese,  and  the fucking  things never failed to wake me up in the middle of
the night. I'd had two in  my  oven so far. Kelly thought that I  bought her
favorite Sunday roast from the coop.
     I went  back toward the house, taking my time, moving slowly; stopping,
looking at the target,  looking  at the area, listening, working out my next
bound  and then moving  off again. With  any  OP, the closer  you are to the
target,  the  better  you'll be  able to observe  what's going on,  but  the
greater the chance of  compromise. The farther away you are, the less chance
of compromise,  but you might see fuck-all. The  ideal with this  particular
target  was probably  to be stood  off miles away, maybe placing  a  remote,
high-powered camera on the  house and viewing it from  the other side of the
lake--but  I didn't have the necessary optics. You have to make do with what
you've got.
     The sky had cleared  and a few more stars were out.  I could still hear
the  lake  lapping  on the shore, but there  was now also a splashing as the
turtles came to the surface and dived down again.
     I got to within about twenty-five  meters of  the house. The tree  line
stopped and the "garden" began, an area of rough grass with tree stumps that
hadn't been pulled out after  creating the clearing for the house. From this
position I could see the whole of one side of the target, plus  the boat and
the lake.
     There  were three  floors, and  beneath them a  garage,  with its doors
still slightly open to fit the wagon. There was a light shining on the first
floor, toward the lakeside, but only small cracks  of light from  behind the
heavy curtains.  I  couldn't see  any movement. A door  was facing me on the
ground floor that looked as if it went to the garage.
     A light came on on the second floor. No visible movement.
     A  few  seconds  later  a  toilet flushed.  At least there was movement
inside, unless the  flush was electronic and  on some sort of security timer
to operate  every hour  with the lights. I  hardly  thought  so; in  another
place, yes, but not here.
     I  started  to cast around to  find somewhere to  dig in  before  first
light.  I found one  possible site--a bush set  back a  little from the tree
line. It came up  to  about chest height  and was four feet or so wide, with
other, smaller bushes around  it. It  looked  ideal, but first  I'd have  to
check I  could see the target while I  was lying down in it.  Anyone who has
ever done OPs has horror stories of digging in under cover of darkness, only
to find at first light that  all  they  can see is mud.  I got  to the bush,
taking care not to disturb any of the foliage, then  lay down right in front
and checked. I could see only the top floor, and that was no good to me.
     I moved farther up the hill. The tree line curved right, bringing me no
more than twenty  meters from the target, which I didn't really want. I'd be
Aable  to hear snoring at that  distance, but I  also stood a good chance of
being heard myself. I moved back down the hill, toward the lake.
     There was  one other bush, about thirty meters from the house, but this
one  was only about waist height. Again it was about four feet wide, but the
foliage didn't seem as dense as the other one. I was running out of choices.
I lay  down level to where the aperture  would be, and found I could see the
whole  shebang all three floors, the garage, the side door  from  the garage
and  the lake. I  could also see the distant lights  from the campsite, so I
knew that in daylight I'd be able to see movement in the car park. It looked
like this was going to be the one.
     I got behind  the bush, out of sight  from the house. So far,  so good.
The next thing was to check that there was a mobile-phone signal. If  I  saw
her, London  would need to  know. Without the  mobile phone I'd have to  lie
concealed all day, leave at last light, and either get to a  location with a
decent  signal  or  find a  public  call  box, which would  not only  mean a
possible compromise, but also loss of eyes on target.
     I switched  on  the  Bosch, put  my  hand over  the backlit display and
waited. I gave it a  minute, keeping my  eyes on the house. The toilet light
had gone out now, but the first-floor one was still on. I made a tunnel over
the display with my hand, pressed one of the buttons and the  backlight came
on  again. The display showed that I had  three signal bars out of a maximum
four, and that was good enough for me. I turned it off again.
     I  sat there  for another  five  minutes,  tuning in.  Somebody crossed
behind the gap in the curtain. I couldn't tell if they were male or female.
     The temperature had dropped a few degrees and it was starting to feel a
little bit nippy now that I'd stopped moving. Not freezing, but it felt cold
where sweat had trickled down my spine and where the hair on my head was wet
around the edges. My jeans were still damp and felt uncomfortable, but  they
would dry. I stood up slowly, feeling wet clothing make contact with skin. I
turned and  started to  move in a  line directly away from the house, and as
soon as I found  myself  in a decent dip of dead ground, I changed direction
and headed straight down to the lake.
     I retrieved the bergen  and  bow,  checked that everything was done up,
and  carefully ran my hand around on the  ground to make  sure I hadn't left
anything. Then I retraced my route to the OP. By now it was just before f 1^
U t 1TI 1; 1^ M U
     midnight, which left me plenty  of time. First light wasn't until about
five o'clock in the morning.
     I dropped  the bergen directly behind the bush. Nothing and no one goes
forward of an OP from this point on, because that's what the enemy can see.
     I opened the side  pocket and pulled out the pruning shears and string,
hunkered down at the rear of the bush and started to cut. I felt like  James
pruning his roses. What I  was trying to  do was make a hole in the bush, as
small as  possible, but through which  I  could crawl.  It's pointless  just
pushing a bush  apart  and  charging inside; you'll distort the shape,  make
noise getting in and, once inside, make yet more noise and movement, because
the bush is  pressing on  you. If you're going to  do it, do it properly. As
the first branches were  cut,  I  tied  them  together  with one  end of the
string,  like a bunch  of  flowers. I  ran out  a spare  couple of meters of
string, cut it and put the bundle to one side.
     There was no  need  for my  nice yellow  gloves  after all,  because it
wasn't  a prickly bush. But  I was still glad I'd  brought  them. I'd  never
believed in being macho about building hides with my bare hands. Why scratch
or cut yourself when even a minor injury can slow you down? If you've got  a
pair of gloves  and you need them, use them. The  object is to  get into the
bush, not to show how hard you are.
     I was still mincing away, making progress into the bush, cutting slowly
and deliberately so as to reduce  noise and not fuck  up. I didn't  need  to
create too big a space; all I  wanted was to be able to crawl inside, get up
to the  front of the  bush, make an aperture and  observe the target.  I was
edging my way in,  pruning  it piece by  piece.  Anything that could just be
moved out of the way  and not cut, I would  leave, sometimes using string to
hold it back; it all added to the density of foliage around me.
     It Utook the best part of an hour to tunnel my way in, and I  had about
six inches of movement area around me and about a foot of bush in front.
     Now it was a matter of rigging up the rest of the OP.
     I wriggled  back out, unloaded some  stuff from  the bergen and  pushed
them into the hide. First  out was the digital camera, with its small tripod
and cable release. I crawled inside and rigged it up.
     Next was the hunter's individual camouflage net that I'd got at  Wars R
Us. I got  on my  back,  put  the camouflage over the front of my chest, and
tthen started to shuffle into  the hide.  Once  in, I  pushed the net gently
against the bush so it snagged, tying it with string where necessary. By the
time I'd finished I had created a snug little tunnel. The aim of the cam net
was to give the  bush more density; without it, if direct sunlight came into
the bush the gap would be  glaringly evident. If I hadn't found a cam net, a
dark green blanket would have done just as well.
     The most annoying thing about building an OP at night is that you can't
check it, so  it's all down  to  practice and experience. After  my check at
first light, I wouldn't be able to move from the hide, and if it hadn't been
done right, there  wouldn't be a  second chance.  I'd  been  doing this shit
since  1976 when I first joined  the infantry, so I'd got it down  to a fine
art  by  now. All you've  got to do is have patience and know the techniques
and have the  aptitude to lie there  for days, sometimes weeks, on end, just
waiting for five seconds of exposure of a target. Some  people  defined this
aptitude  as self-discipline; me,  I saw  it  as  being just too idle to  do
anything else.
     lery slowly and deliberately,  trying not to take labored breaths and i
make noise, I started  to lift the rest  of the stuff  I'd be needing out of
the  bergen.  I would normally keep  everything there, but being so close to
the target, I wanted to cut down movement. I placed the  pizzas and the rest
of the  food into the side of  the bush and covered them with the sandy soil
to  try  and  hide the smell from  animals and  insects,  and to prevent the
plastic wrap from reflecting shine--not that there was likely to be too much
of that tomorrow  if this weather continued. The phone, the 3C, the passport
and any other essentials would go in my pockets if I had to run; it was just
like  being  a soldier  again and keeping belt kit on. Finally, I pushed the
bergen inside the OP.
     I carefully put  on the Gore-Tex, then got  on my knees and felt around
on the ground with  my  hands,  both to  check there  was nothing left lying
exposed, and to  smooth out any sign I had made. The final check was that my
pockets  were done  up  and the kit was secure  inside them. Only then did I
crawl into the hide, and start pulling  in behind me the bouquet of branches
that made up the bung. I was now sealed in.
     For two or three minutes I lay still, listening and tuning in to my new
surroundings. There was  no noise  from either  of the houses, and the light
was off in the target house; all I could hear was the lapping of water.  The
turtles  seemed to have gone to bed. I waited for another couple of minutes,
and then it was time  to sort  myself out, to  make sure everything  was  in
place, and  make minor adjustments.  Moving more stones  and damp  sand from
under me, I built it up around my sides, slowly digging a shallow  grave  to
conceal  myself even more. Once past the  first  couple of  wet inches,  the
ground was quite easy to move.
     I got my wrist in front  of my  face  and had a look at  Baby-G. It was
just after 2 a.m."  which meant I had  about  three hours until first light.
Whenever there's  a lull in the battle, you should eat or sleep, because you
never know when you'll next  have a  chance for either. I  decided to get my
head down; the light would wake me up, and so would any movement. After all,
I could  hear them flush  the toilet from here; if  I was any closer I'd  be
able to wipe their asses for them.
     I  lay on my front and closed my eyes,  but it wasn't working. The only
stone  I hadn't moved seemed to be against my hip. I  shifted  it,  only for
another  one to rise to the surface and  replace  it. I  got reasonably snug
inside  the Gore-Tex, which was  acting as a kind of  sleeping  bag, but the
ground  at  this time of the  morning  feels like ice  and you find yourself
thinking, What  the fuck am I doing here? And even if  the weather isn't bad
you  still  get cold. Total  inactivity means  your  body  isn't  generating
warmth, and you become a lizard who needs sunlight. You brood about the fact
that, as well as the cold, it's bound to rain soon, otherwise it wouldn't be
an OP.
     Sometimes the  wait pays off and  you forget  about all the discomfort,
but I had  lain in hides for  days  on end, wet  and  freezing, only to find
fuck-all.
     I started to laugh to myself, thinking about an operator called Lucas.
     We were tasked to OP a meeting point on the Polish border with Germany.
     It  was  a farm complex, where weapons-grade plutonium was being traded
for heroin by Russians. The plan was to fuck up the meet and get hold of the
plutonium. Lucas was a keen diver, and the scheme he came up with was to get
into dry bag (military slang for a waterproof diving suit)  and bury himself
in the mountain of  horse manure by the house. He lived there for four days.
The meet never  took  place and  it  took  a  week  to  get  the  smell  off
him--mainly  because,  instead of telling him to  lift  off straightaway, we
left him simmering in the heap for a bonus forty-eight hours.
     When I  woke up it must have been just  before 5 a.m."  as I could just
see first light coming up.  As soon as I could see  outside properly, it was
time for me to move out and check. Not that anyone finding anything was
     going  to  say, "Oh, look, there's  an  OP," but if it's an  attractive
item, someone could come  over  to  pick it up, then they're right on top of
you and the chance of compromise is big time.  I slowly pushed  the bung out
with my feet and, lifting myself on my elbows and toes, eased out backward.
     I could see a couple of footprints left from  my clean-up in  the dark,
so I pushed  myself out a little  bit more  and used  the bung to brush them
away.
     While I was doing that  I looked at the bush itself. It was looking all
right;
     I was quite proud of my handiwork.
     I started to  inch  myself very slowly  in again, feet first this time,
carefully pulling the bung into  the  entry point. I then rolled some of the
cam net around the base of  the bung and tucked it in as if I were tucking a
child in for the night. Then I got  into the center  of the little grave I'd
dug,  curled up  and turned myself  around,  being  careful  not  to  create
movement in  the bush. I didn't know what the targets were doing; they could
be up there, standing at  the  window, taking in the view  of  dawn over the
lake, only to see a bush mysteriously shaking .. .
     The next priority was  to check the camera, since the only reason I was
in this hole at all was  to see if  Sarah was here, and  then confirm  it to
London  photographically. Lynn and Elizabeth took nothing at face value, and
they certainly weren't going to trust me.
     It was now just light enough  to see through the viewfinder. I  made  a
small hole in  the cam  net facing the target. It didn't have to be the same
size as the lens;  as long as light was getting into the center  of the lens
it  could be  as small as a pencil prick. I  positioned the lens at the hole
this was  now the  aperture  and  focused it exactly  on the area around the
garage and the side door. It looked the natural way in and out. If there was
movement, I wouldn't have to fuck about positioning the camera, all I'd have
to do was press the cable release.  Not only would  it cut down on movement,
which would mean  less noise, but I could look at whoever was moving and  ID
them, instead of trying to focus a lens.
     Once done, I put sand and stones around the tripod to keep it stable. A
final check that the cam net wasn't obstructing  the lens, then I made  sure
that the cable release was on correctly.
     It was time to  have something to eat and drink before the fun started.
I opened one of the mineral-water bottles and took a few gulps even though I
wasn't really  thirsty. I wasn't  particularly hungry, either, but I munched
my way through  a slab of luncheon meat, all the time keeping my eyes on the
target.
     Once I'd  finished with the plastic from  the Spam, I  wrapped  it in a
ball  and covered  it with soil.  The last  thing I  wanted  was a swarm  of
insects hovering  over my  OP like a  big pointing  hand.  After eating  and
drinking, there were  other  bodily functions that might need  attending to,
but hopefully the Imodium was going to do its stuff.
     I was lying on my stomach with the camera just above my head and to the
left,  staring  at the target with  the cable release  in one hand. My hands
were crossed in front of me and my chin was on my forearms, and that was it:
there  was nothing  else to do except look  and listen. I'd always  found it
mind-numbingly boring, but I knew  that sod's law dictated that any exposure
of Sarah would last for n