o more than five seconds, and it would be a pisser to miss it. I had to be switched on and fight the boredom. I looked at my watch. It was just after five thirty. I started to think about her again. If she were here, what was she up to? I didn't really understand what was going on, but then again, at a time like this I didn't want to know. Just as I had that thought, another took over and said I was lying. I was dying to know. I could see the house quite clearly now. It was white weather boarded and could have done with a lick of paint. Each of the three floors had two or three windows on this side; no shutters, just two window frames that opened from the middle. I also saw security lights with motion detectors that I had to assume would be covering all approaches. If they were powered and had covered my location, last night would have been a very bright one indeed. Building my OP would have been piss easy. On the first floor some French windows led out onto a small verandah overhanging the garage and facing the lake. Below it, the garage doors were still ajar, with another light and motion detector covering the entrance. The boat, a dirty-cream four-seater with the driver's seat in the middle, looked as if it hadn't been moved since I'd bino'd it yesterday. The engine was still facing the doors and the nose of the trailer was still down on the ground at the water's edge. The garage walls were made from white trellis work fixed against the stilts, with hardboard backing. Facing me and set into the wall was the side door that seemed to go into the garage. A rotary washing line stood to its left, but there was no washing on it, which wasn't particularly strange, given the weather. There was no condensation on the windows from people asleep inside. There weren't even any visible rubbish bins I could take a look at later tonight to see if she was here. A person's eyes may be the windows to their soul, but their dustbins are the windows to a fuck of a lot else. It never ceased to amaze me that even the most switched-on people seem to think that once stuff they have discarded is out of their house, it's safe. Reporters find vast amounts of information by sifting through people's bins. In some Southeast Asian countries, all the rubbish from hotels with international guests is routinely picked through by the intelligence services. Sarah wouldn't be that careless, but I knew, for example, that she didn't eat any processed food unless she had to: if there were organic food wrappers in the refuse, it might be a significant indicator. The birds were well into their morning chorus. There was a slight wind, causing a bit of rustling in the trees, but that was welcome only if you were hiding in an OP because it hid noise. The main problem was that, where there was wind, rain would surely follow. In the meantime, as long as the rain kept off it would be almost idyllic. An hour or so later I heard the first man-made noise of the day, the gentle chug of a small outboard. The big-game fishermen were on the lake, chasing the early fish. I couldn't see anything, but I could just hear it behind me somewhere near the entrance to the creek. In the background the putt-putt got louder then stopped, and I heard the splash of an anchor. The fishermen were close by. I could even hear mumbles now and again on the breeze. A curtain twitched on the first floor. I guessed they were checking out the fishermen, but if you were up and about and you could hear it, why not just throw them back and have a proper look? This was significant; maybe no trip back to D.C. after all. My finger tensed on the cable release in case a door opened. There were shouts from across the lake. Maybe someone had had a bite. But still no one moved the curtains to see what it was all about. At about eight o'clock the front door opened and two men came out. I had just four or five seconds in which to act. I couldn't wait for perfect poses because they mustn't be allowed time to get acclimatized to the outside environment. In the first few seconds after leaving the house they'd still be tuned in to whatever was going on indoors, maybe the sound of a washing machine or the television, mixed with their own walking and talking. Once they'd been outside for anything more than four or five seconds they would be listening to the noise of the trees rustling and the movement of water on the lake. Before that happened, I had to act, then keep very still again, so the only things that were moving would be my eyes. I squeezed the cable release, taking about five or six pictures. Thanks to the digital camera, I didn't have to worry about the noise of the rewind and shutter. That done, I had time to study the two men with my own eyes. It was obvious they hadn't been awake that long. One of them had a pair of leather boots on, laces undone and a rumpled blue sweatshirt that hung out over creased, faded blue denim jeans. It looked as if they were the clothes he'd been sleeping in. His jet-black hair was sticking up, and he had a few days' growth on his face. He was in his thirties and didn't look too much of a threat: he was only about five feet five inches, and very slim. As Josh would have said, he was too slight to fight, too thin to win. The most striking thing about him was that his features were distinctly Middle Eastern. The other guy had the same skin tone, but was just over six feet and broader in the shoulders. He was wearing trainers, a Men In Black T-shirt under a dark-green fleece jacket and a pair of black tracksuit bottoms. He, too, seemed the worse for wear, with a cigarette in his mouth which flopped down the left-hand side of his face. He had a string of prayer beads, which looked very much like a Catholic rosary, looped over the middle and index fingers of his right hand. He was flicking them so that they closed around his fingers, then flicking them again to unwind them. They stood by the door looking out at the lake, and there was mumbling between them as the taller one put his right hand down the front of his tracksuit and started to scratch. The inflection and cadence of the mumbling sounded Arabic to me. They sauntered outside, closing the door and walking past the washing line toward me. I froze, allowing myself just short, shallow breaths. Their footsteps sounded like Godzilla's. They gazed out at the lake as they walked, probably watching the fishermen. They weren't aware, but I had to accept that I could be in the shit. I was sure the fuckers would see me; I looked to my right, where the bow was lying no more than four inches away from my hand. No movement; calm down and wait. My body was tensed, ready to react. But how would I get myself out of this? Fight--that was the only answer. I could hardly just smile and claim to be lost. If I was quick enough, and didn't get entangled in the cam net, I could threaten them with the bow. No, that wouldn't work. I would just make a run for it and hope they weren't carrying. I mentally checked that all the important stuff was in my pockets. They stopped. They exchanged a few more words, then Men In Black took a last drag on his cigarette, dropped it on the ground near his feet and stubbed it out with the toe of his trainer. He obviously hadn't read the signs asking him to leave only footprints. They turned right about ten meters short of my position, moving uphill toward the track. They were taking the easy route as the ground right next to the house was steeper. Too Thin To Win led the way. They walked up onto the track, and I realized that they were checking the ground. They were looking to see if there was any sign left by anyone during the night. They moved off the track and downhill, but stopped short of the house and didn't move any closer to it. I wondered why, and then I realized: there must be proximity alarms. As well as the motion detectors, which would trigger the lights, there must be sensors that informed them of movement outside. Judging by the route the two of them took, I worked out that the proximity alarms were probably covering an area about twelve to fifteen meters out from the house. MIB lit up again as they went back onto the track, then disappeared behind the house, still playing with his beads. I used the time to check the cam, the bung behind me and that my pockets were done up. After four minutes I watched them emerge from the opposite side of the house, the lake side, and walk toward the boat on the trailer. They clambered aboard and started up the engine, revving it until I could see the blue two-stroke smoke pumping out of the exhaust. Then, just as suddenly, they killed it, and jumped out with lots of talking as they disappeared through the gap between the garage doors. I heard the wagon start up. It wasn't going anywhere because the boat was in the way. It meant these boys were good: they were checking everything, including their getaways, in the event of a drama. The vehicle engine cut and there was silence. They didn't reemerge. I now knew there were at least two in the house, and I also knew that there must be access to the house from the garage. That was it for another couple of hours. I just lay there, watching, resting one eye at a time. Now and again I could hear a putt-putt on the lake, and a couple of times the sound of a toilet flushing. Occasionally there was the far-off screaming of kids, possibly in a boat or playing in the water, but otherwise nothing unusual. At ten fifteen I watched as Mom, Dad and kids from the other house started to push another boat toward the lake; that was probably them out of it for the day. Well, until it rained anyway. After that, nothing at all happened. It was pizza and Mars bar time. At about eleven thirty I started to get movement from the garage doors. Still nibbling at the last bit of my third Mars bar, I moved my thumb over the cable release. MIB came out. I watched him and slowly swirled the camera to the right, wishing I had a wider lens. He walked to the front of the trailer and stopped near the hook-up point. He seemed to be waiting; sure enough the wagon sparked up. Sarah walked out. Gotcha! She was wearing blue jeans and a blue sweatshirt with the Quiksilver logo on the back. I knew her gait, I even recognized her walking boots. She stopped to look at the sky. Yes, it was going to rain. I hit the cable release and hoped I'd got her. If so, the job was just about over. It felt so strange, seeing her after so long, and in this way. She still looked just like the picture in her apartment, but without the smile. It gave me a strange sense of power over her by being hidden, watching. As the boat was in the way, the garage doors couldn't open fully. She and MIB twisted the boat so that it was parallel to the water, then they opened the garage doors fully and out came a black Ford Explorer. One up. It was Too Thin To Win, and going by what I could see of his top half, he'd smartened himself up probably had a shit, shower and shave. The engine revved as he came screaming toward me then uphill toward the track. I craned my head in an attempt to catch the registration. I couldn't get any detail, but it definitely had a North Carolina plate with the "First In Flight" slogan and a picture of the Wright Brothers' aircraft on a white background. My eyes jumped back to Sarah. She was helping to turn the boat around so that it faced the water again, ready to go. This was an escape route, for sure. Once they had done that, they went inside and the garage doors were closed fully behind them. Very weird shit. It seemed that London was right to worry about her after all. slowly got out the 3C and slid open one of the ports, inserted a flash card from my jeans pocket and turned it on. A flash card stores information in much the same way as a floppy disk does for a PC. What came up on the screen from this one was a selection of about 200 words or phrases, each with a five-figure sequence of numbers beside it. The letters of the alphabet were also encoded, so that uncommon words could be spelled out. To compose my message, all I had to do was scroll through to the word or phrase I wanted and write down the corresponding five-figure group on my notepad with a pencil. I preferred pencils to pens because you can write with them in the rain. I always used one that was sharpened at both ends, so that if one lead broke I could still use the other. The first parts of the message I was going to send were standard and didn't need the codes. My PIN was 2442, but since the numbers had to be in groups of five for the code to work, I made it 02442.1 followed this with the time/ date groups: 02604 (April 26th). I had a look at Baby-G and wrote down 01156 (1156 hrs; times are always local). It was then just a matter of scrolling through the codes to make up the message. The first I looked for was "tgt loc. 6 fig grid." I gave the map sheet details, plus the six-figure grid reference of the target. Just to make it clear, I told them that it was the eastern most building of the two. My message continued: "echo one (Sarah) located with two bravos (males) middle eastern. are aware. no weapons. mac down. waiting FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS." I ended the message with my pin again 02442 and that was it. It worked out that I had twenty-one groups of numbers. I put the second flash card into Port B, took out A and put it back in my jeans pocket. I could run the Psion with both cards in, but I didn't like doing it; if there was a drama and I was caught, it meant the whole system would be accessible all at once. At least with them separated I had the chance to hide or destroy a key part of it. The second card held a series of numbers, also in groups of five, called the "one-time pad." Devised by the German diplomatic service during the 1920s, the OTP is a simple encoding method consisting of a random key used only once. There are a few variations on the OTP theme. The Brits first started using it in 1943. Still widely used by the intelligence services of all countries, it is the only code system that is unbreakable, both in theory and in practice. I started by writing down in my notebook the first group from the OTP under the first group of the message, my PIN. I carried on until all twenty-one groups had another set of numbers from the one-time pad under them. What I had to do then was subtract 14735, the first group of the OTP, from 02442, my identification code, and came up with 98717 not because my math was shit, but because in spy land sums, you don't carry the ten over, you lose it. Bloody typical. At the London end, they knew the message would start with my PIN, and groups are always used in the order they are laid out in. It would be easy for them to add the groups on their corresponding OTP from the groups that I'd transmitted, and they'd come up with the original set of numbers again, because they would also do spy land sums. Referring these back to the code book, they'd produce my intended word or phrase. Once used, those groups would never be issued again. I did my spy-type sums one more time to confirm my arithmetic, and was ready to send. I turned on the phone, tapped in the PIN code and waited for a signal. I tapped out "Kay's" on the Psion to retrieve Elizabeth's number; I hadn't got around to learning it after all. After two rings a recorded message from a synthesized but happy-sounding female voice said, "Please leave your message after the tone." Two seconds later, there was a beep. I tapped out the message of twenty-one groups on the number pad, then pressed Pound and listened for the auto-acknowledgment. "Thank you for your" there was a pause, then a different electronic voice "twenty-one group" then the original voice "message." It cut off and so did I. I put the flash cards back in their separate jeans pockets. I wrapped the piece of paper up in a sheet of plastic wrap and tucked it under a branch in the mud. I didn't want to get rid of it yet, because I didn't know if I was going to need it. If London came back and told me they couldn't work out my message, it might be because I'd fucked up the encoding or spy sums. The system can be time-consuming, but used properly it works. The next part of the job was to "Mac down" the pictures. I plugged the lead into the phone, clipped it into the receiver end of the camera and clicked on its internal modem. I dialed the same London number and got the same recorded message. I pressed Send on the camera; the telephone was taking the information from the digital camera and bouncing it off a satellite up there somewhere. Pictures would come up on an Apple Mac screen at the other end and hard copies would be made. Within minutes Elizabeth and Lynn would have my nice holiday snaps of Sarah and her two playmates on their desks. After transmission, I switched off the phone to save the battery. It was pointless leaving it on; they weren't going to get back to me straightaway. If they did, the phone's message service would intercept the call anyway, so no problems. I was in no rush; even if they said, "End-ex," I couldn't come out of here until nightfall. Events had moved on since my briefing. I tried to imagine what would be going on in London. Elizabeth would probably be at home, as it was the weekend. A car would be sent to her country seat to bring her to the operations room in Northolt, North London. The opening scene of James Bond's Tomorrow Never Dies, with large screens and computer projections on VDUs, wasn't that far from the truth. The people receiving my int wouldn't have a clue what it was about, or whom it was from. Elizabeth would lock herself away with Lynn somewhere and look at it, probably complaining that it had taken me so long, and then drink some more tea. From what I could remember, it seemed very fashionable to drink a herbal blend at the moment. But not her, she'd be throwing Earl Gray down her neck. Meanwhile, I waited out in this hole. Elizabeth, not Lynn, would make the decision on what I was to do next. I wished again that I knew who she was; I hated it when people had so much power over me, and I didn't know who had given it to them or why. I had my fingers crossed that they wouldn't want a technical device put in to find out who these people were and what they were up to, because that would entail me doing a CTR (close target reconnaissance) to help whoever was being sent to do the job. That would mean getting into the house and working out the best way to bring the technical device in, as well as describing the makeup of the general area, the size of the house, how many stories, the kind of doors, the kind of locks. A locks recce is a task in itself; it means going right up to the door or window to study them in detail. Sometimes you put a little bit of talcum powder on the lock, then press Plasticine into the keyway, pull it out and put it in a secure container so you can take imprints later. Then, of course, you have to remember to remove all the dust from the lock. A CTR has to answer every conceivable question that might be asked by a third party who's been tasked with making entry. Are the windows locked? What is the area of clear glass? Of frosted glass? What are the main access routes to and from the target? Is the target overlooked by any buildings? Are there any garages or outbuildings or car parking spaces? How many doors are secured, how many are loose? Do they make a noise when they open? They would need to know to take in some oil, to stop any creaking. Are there any good approach routes? Any major obstacles? Is there lighting? What are the weather conditions like? What are the routes to the target? What's the general condition of those routes? What would you need to get to the target? What type of ground ploughed, pasture, boggy? What sort of natural obstacles are there? What is the time and distance from the DOP (drop off point)? Where is the DOP? Are there any animals about? Dogs, horses, geese? And that was assuming I could get onto the target at all, past the proximity lights. The list of questions can seem endless, especially when you're two hours into a CTR, first light is approaching and you seem to be only a third of the way down the list. Where are the best places to put OPsin? In this particular case, that was easy: I was in it. Where would be the best place to put long-range technical devices in for a video soak? That would be somewhere over on the other side of the lake. Could we have a helicopter trigger? Could we have a helicopter that just flies around maybe three or four Ks out? Once I'd gathered all that information on the exterior, I would have to CTR inside the house. For that I'd need to take in an infrared camera, or buy commercially available infrared niters to fit my camera, so that I could take pictures without disturbing the people in residence. They'd want to know the full real estate agent's monty. What are the dimensions and layouts of every room? Where is the electrical supply? If you're putting listening or picture devices in, batteries last only so long, so you might have to tap into the mains. Where is the best place to put a listening device? And that might entail looking at the direction of the floorboards, because if you're trying to hide an antenna, you'd put it in the gaps between them; but that also means taking a compass bearing of the floorboards, so the scaleys (communications personnel) can work out their antenna theory. Stuff like this takes days and days to organize, and it would be my job to stay and wait with eyes on target while everything was prepared. If my stores ran out I would have to be resupplied via a dead letterbox and outside help and even that would be a pain in the ass to sort out. As far as I was concerned, my job was now finished. I'd found Sarah and confirmed it with photography. I didn't want to be a part of anything that happened next. I cut away from it by thinking about a job I'd done in the jungle once. We'd got to our report line, it was pouring down with rain and we were gagging for a hot brew, which we couldn't sort out because we were on hard routine. We transmitted our sit rep, something to the effect of "We are at the river head, what now?" We were told, "Wait out." About four hours later they came back to us and said, "OP any track." What the fuck did they mean, OP any track? What good would that do us? We asked, "What track?" They came back, "OP any track that runs west to east." They had to be mad. We sent back: "We can't find one running west to east. However, we've found one running east to west and we're going to OP that one." All we got back was, "East-west is good, out." Either they were taking the piss, or the world's most useless officer was manning the desk that night. We never found out which. You never do. Nothing was happening. Even the fishermen had gone back to their tents for lunch. I'd just decided it was pizza time, and was about to reach for one of my wraps when I heard movement on the ground, and soon afterward, rapid, heavy breathing. The distinctive, metallic tinkle of a name tag on a collar became louder as the dog got nearer. I hadn't seen anything around the target that identified it as having a dog, so it probably wasn't from the house. But the name tag meant the animal was domestic, and that meant there would probably be people with it. I began to hear aggressive sniffing; seconds later, a wet, dirty nose was nudging the hide. Maybe he was a fan ofWal-Mart's Four Seasons. I moved my hand slowly to my pocket, easing out the Tazer and the pepper spray. I didn't know if the pepper would work on dogs; they can be immune to some of this shit. One thing I knew for sure: he wouldn't enjoy the Tazer. But then again, the yelping would alert everybody and what if the shock killed him stone dead? I would have to drag him in with me and have a smelly, wet and very dead dog as my new best mate. The sniffing seemed just inches from my ear. This dog was excited; it knew it could be din-dins time. A young woman called, "Bob! Where are you? Here, Bob!" I recognized the voice. Bob carried on sniffing around the OP. Straightaway I thought, I'm a British journalist working for a tabloid newspaper. I'm doing a story on the famous people hiding in the house, and I want to get pictures of their illicit affair. I'll jump straight in with questions before they can ask any. Do you know anything about them? Do you live around here? You could make a lot of money if you tell us what you know about them ... The brain has two orbs. One side processes numbers and analyzes information, the other is the creative bit, where we visualize things and if you visualize situations, you can usually work out in advance how to deal with them. The more you visualize, the better you will deal with them. It might sound like something from a tree buggers' workshop, but it does the business. My eyes were glued to the target, but my ears were with the dog. It's nearly always this sort of third-party shit that compromises you, and dogs can be the worst of all. They can detect your every breath and movement from as much as a mile away under favorable conditions which it seemed I had given him. Dogs have very poor eyesight, only half as good as man's, but their hearing is twice as good. The wind was blowing from the lake toward the dog. He might have heard me, but I was sure it was an odor that was attracting him. It's not just food smells that provide a target; so does body odor, or clothing, especially if it's wet. Soap, deodorant, leather, tobacco, polish, gas and many others are all a giveaway you name it. Who knows what it was in this case. The more Bob sniffed, the more I came to the conclusion that he was after the pizza. No matter how much I'd wrapped it up, his nose wasn't fooled. Cannabis smugglers wrap eucalyptus leaves around their stuff to put off sniffer dogs, but it doesn't work: the mutts can smell both at the same time and know they're going to get a nice chocolate drop as a reward. I heard a man's voice no more than twenty meters behind me, but I hoped he was in one of the dips. "Bob! Where are you? Come ..." I recognized his voice as well. I'd tripped over these guys last night, and now they were going to return the favor. The girl said, "Where is he. Jimmy?" Jimmy was angry. "I told you we should keep the dog on a fucking leash, man, or back in the car." She sounded as if she'd started to cry a little. "My parents will kill me." He started to backtrack. "It's OK, Bob will be OK. I'm sorry." I hoped they were more interested in making up than they were in following Bob into my bush. But I was ready, I'd just stick with my tabloid story; they'd be able to see the camera. Besides, if I were a reporter I wouldn't have told him last night. I'd just have to keep the bow hidden. They obviously had no idea that I was there yet, but Bob did, the nosey little fucker. The girl was still fretting. "I gotta go back. My parents will freak if I'm late with the car and I've lost Bob." He wasn't impressed. "OK, OK, I told you I'd get you home on time." He sounded pissed off; he could see all hope of a midday knee-trembler in the woods evaporating. I heard giggling; he was giving it one last try. "Jimbo, not here! I gotta get home. Bob, come on, boy, let's go!" Bob was having none of it. He was sniffing big time at the OP. Next thing I knew, the dog's face was straight in front of me, demanding his share of the pizza. I gently scooped up a handful of earth and nicked it at his eyes. Bob now thought the pizza man was putting up a fight. He backed off, but not as much as I'd hoped, and started barking. I had fucked up but I'd had no choice. As soon as he barked, they knew where he was. The girl must have come over the brow. Her voice was much clearer. "Bob! Oh, look, Jimmy, he's found something. What have you found, Bob?" I got myself ready. "What have you found, boy?" The moment she saw me, I would launch into my reporter's spiel. "What's going on, Bob?" Bob's ass was in the air, his shoulders more or less on the ground with his front legs splayed, and he was jumping back and then coming forward and barking. I kept my eyes on target and now my ears on her as she started to walk directly toward the hide. I heard the guy shout from somewhere behind me, very pissed off: "Come on, let's go. Bob ... come!" I saw the first-floor curtains twitch. Bob was still leaping around with excitement, and on top of that I heard a vehicle. The tires rumbled along on the dirt track. As Bob's nose once again came up to the cam net I decided to give him the good news with the pepper spray. He jumped back, yelped and ran to Mommy. I heard the girl: "Bob, see, serves you right! Stop messing around!" She probably thought he'd got his nose bitten by something. I listened as they shuffled through the sand. Jimmy was still behind somewhere, complaining. Next time they slipped into the woods he'd lock Bob in the car again to steam up the windows, like last night. I got my head back on the ground, watching and listening, just waiting for shit to happen. The Explorer had come back. Two up. I looked up just before it turned left off the track and downhill toward the garage. It came down the hill and headed away from me, toward the garage. Too Thin To Win was still in the driver's seat. I couldn't make out his new playmate in the passenger seat. The wagon stopped just short of the garage and the side door of the house opened. Sarah again. She was looking at the woods behind me, keeping a wary eye out for Bob and his friends. I watched her and tried to keep contact with her eyes. I would know if she suspected anything. I watched her scan the tree line, uphill and then back down again, toward me. As her eyes approached my OP I moved mine out of contact. I couldn't look at her. A sixth sense can sometimes let you know when you're being looked at, and I didn't want to take the chance. I knew I was doing the wrong thing. Even if her plan was not to react to anything she saw, but to go back into the house, then return with an automatic weapon to hose down the area, I knew her well enough to see it in her eyes. I could feel sweat running around the back of my legs and neck. I waited three or four seconds more, then moved my eyes up again. She was finishing off her scan, past me and down to the lake. Once there, she quickly turned her head to the wagon and walked up to the passenger door. A white guy clambered out. By his style of dress I would say he was American. He was wearing a black nylon bomber jacket, tight blue jeans and white trainers. He was above-average height and build, about midthirties with black, fairly long, curly hair, and a mustache like the sheriff's in the Bugs Bunny cartoons. He looked good enough to be the hunky lumberjack in any soap. The meeting with Sarah was intimate: they hugged, kissed each other on the mouth, then held the embrace. They spoke in low voices as Sarah ran her hand across his back. There was something odd going on, though. They looked pleased to see each other, but the talking wasn't loud and they weren't going overboard. I got two pictures of them during the thirty or so seconds that they were together. Too Thin To Win had the tailgate down on the Explorer. He was looking quite smart in jeans and a dark checkered jacket. He pulled out a brown suit carrier with an airline tag on the handle. Sarah had disappeared inside the garage with the white guy, followed by Too Thin To Win, who closed the door behind them. It was time to send another sit rep. had just started to prepare my message when Too Thin To Win emerged from the side door with MIB. He, too, had had a shit, shower and shave, and was dressed a lot smarter in brown trousers and jacket. They both got into the Explorer, Too Thin To Win in the driver's seat. The wagon backed around to point uphill. They weren't talking to each other, smiling, or looking at all happy. Something was happening. The 4x4 bumped along the track and disappeared from sight. I looked back at the house. All the windows and doors were closed, and so were the curtains. That was strange; if someone was arriving at such a nice spot, surely you would show him the view? Maybe she had better things to do with him. Maybe he was just another sucker that she was using. But for what exactly? It was nearly two hours before the Explorer returned. There were bodies in the back, but I couldn't work out how many as it turned downhill, my eyes nicking between the wagon and the side door of the house, waiting for it to open. When it did, it was the American who appeared. Sarah was nowhere to be seen. He was looking aware, checking the lake and, as MIB had done, playing with worry beads. I watched him, listening to the slow rumble of tires past my OP. His denim shirttails were hanging out of his jeans and showing below his bomber jacket. I was right, he and Sarah did have better things to do than look at the scenery. The wagon stopped and I counted an additional two heads in the rear seats. All four got out and I pressed the cable release. The two newcomers were both dark-skinned. They hugged and kissed the American on both cheeks. It looked as if they knew him pretty well. All the same, there were no loud shouts of welcome or smiles, and everyone spoke in a murmur I couldn't understand. The meeting also seemed to have an air of relief about it. Too Thin To Win and MIB had opened the tailgate and were pulling out two square aluminium boxes that were plastered with what looked like old and torn "Fragile" stickers and airline security tape. They started to move the boxes inside the garage via the side door. The luggage area of the 4x4 was still full of sports bags, another suit carrier and a black plastic cylinder that stretched from the back seat to the gear shift at the front. It was about two meters long and covered at each end. Either it was the world's biggest poster tube or they had some serious fishing rods with them I didn't think. One of the new guys motioned to the other one and the American to give him a hand. I snapped some more. This guy looked much older than the others. He was short and bald, with a very neat, black mustache, and he was a bit overweight, mostly around the stomach. He looked like he should be in a film as the gangster boss, the Bossman. The other newcomer was more nondescript, of medium build and height, and looked about twenty years old. He could have done with a few plates of what the bald guy had been eating. After a couple of trips, with the boys lifting what seemed to be heavy kit, the 4x4 was empty and everything was stowed inside the garage. The side door closed and the area once more looked as if nothing had happened all day. What was going on here? Ever since we'd first met, it had seemed to me that Sarah was sympathetic to the Arabs. She'd been involved with them in one way or another for most of her life. Come to think of it, we'd even had a row once about Yasser Arafat. I said that I thought he'd done a good job; she thought he was selling out to the West. "It's all about homeland, both spiritual and cultural, Nick," she'd say every time the subject arose, and nobody who'd been within sight of a Palestinian refugee camp could argue, but I wondered whether there was more to it than that. A faint drizzle was starting. It hadn't penetrated my hide yet but could clearly be seen falling on the open ground in front of me. I could hear outboard motors in the distance as the intrepid fishermen set out in pursuit of a six-ounce carp. Lunchtime must be over. There's more to surveillance than just the mechanics. A report that says, "Four men get out of vehicle, two men pick up bags and go inside," is all very well, but it's the interpretation of those events that matters. Were they looking aware? Did they seem to know each other well? Were they, perhaps, master and servant? These people were meeting up, in hiding, and with kit. I had seen this before with ASUs (active service units). The boxes looked as if they'd seen a lot of air time during their life, but not on this trip. There were no airline tags on the handles or on the bags. Maybe they'd driven to an RV point and then transferred the kit. If so, why? Whatever was happening here, it wasn't about the turtles. Things were starting to spark up and Lynn and Elizabeth needed to know that there were now four Arabs, one American and Sarah. Maybe London could make sense of what was happening; after all, they would know far more than they had told me. With any luck, Elizabeth would now be at Northolt, poring over my previous message and images, with her tea so strong you could stand the spoon in it. It was 15:48, time to switch on the phone. It had been a couple of hours since my last transmission, and they should be calling me back with an acknowledgment and maybe even a reply. I took it out of my pocket and switched it on, placing it in the shell scrape so I could see when I had a signal while I got out the codes from my jeans and encoded my sit rep. As I retrieved the 3C, I started to feel like I needed a shit. So much for the Imodium: it should have bunged me up, but maybe the combination of pizza, Mars bars and Spam weren't the most binding of materials. I knew from bitter experience that fighting the urge never works; if you've got the time, however inconvenient that might be, you never wait until the last minute: if you do, sure as anything, a drama will occur at the target the moment you get your trousers down. I got the roll of plastic wrap from the bergen and pulled off the best part of a meter. Leaning over to my left, still trying to keep my eyes on the target, I undid the buttons of both sets of trousers with my right hand, and pulled them down, along with my pants. I then got the plastic in my left hand and tucked it under, ready to receive. I started to want to piss; I wasn't going to rummage for the gas can at this stage of the proceedings, so I just had to restrain myself while I got the main event out of the way. I wrapped the first handful in the plastic and put it to one side, pulled off another length, put it underneath, and carried on. Having to do this in the field is never an easy procedure, especially when you're lying on your side and in fits and starts, because it's got to be controlled. It's unpleasant, but there's no way around it. The drizzle was now trying hard to become something more grownup. I could hear the first raindrops hitting the leaves above me. I was about halfway through the second lot of plastic wrap when the LED on the phone told me I had a message waiting. At the same moment, I heard a voice--male and American. I switched off the phone and thrust it and the 3C in my pockets. I looked out of the hide at the movement of the trees, trying to gauge the direction of the wind. It was still coming in from the lake. The American was on his own, coming out of the garage doors and heading toward the boat. Trying desperately to control my sphincter and bladder, I watched as he moved the boat out of the way of the garage doors. I guessed he was going to park up the Explorer. He climbed into the driver's seat and revved the engine. All the curtains in the house were still closed and there was no other sign of movement. There are quite a few times on tasks when you really have no alternative but to shit yourself, especially on urban OPs where you're in a loft space and there are people downstairs. You try not to do it, because you might have to go out into the street straight afterward and operate like a civilian, but sometimes, if there's no room to move, it's just got to be done. The only precautions you can take are to not eat before the op, drink as little as you can, and pop some Imodium--then hope for the best. It's a bit like the KitKat commercial, with the photographer outside the panda house at the zoo: you could have been lying in an OP for four weeks, but the moment you get the plastic wrap out, the panda emerges and does a quick impersonation of Fred Astaire. I'd guessed correctly. By now the 4x4 was in the garage, the boat was back in position and he'd gone back into the house. I finished off the job with the plastic wrap and gas container and pulled up my trouser bottoms. I was feeling quite sorry for myself; the only consolation I could think of was that plastic probably did the job better than the shiny stuff in the car park toilets would have done. I tore off another big length of it, wrapped up all my offerings and popped them straight into the bergen. It would help to hide the smell, which in turn meant it wouldn't attract flies and animals. I then tucked the fuel canister back into the bergen as well, doing my bit for eco-tourism. I'd learned my lesson. I dug around in the day sack for the Imodium and took another six capsules, probably enough to constipate an elephant. I lay down again with my hands resting under my chin, looking at the target, but after a couple of sniffs I decided to rub them with soil and keep them away from my face for a while. On target, nothing else had changed. The curtains were still closed. In the hide, it was now wet and miserable. The rain was starting to fall more heavily; the noise of it hitting the trees increased and it was dripping from the foliage, through the cam net, and running down my face and neck. I brushed away a small twig that had stuck to my cheek. Sod's law of OPs was at it again; I knew it would only be a matter of time before it percolated down onto me in a steady stream. I got out the phone again. Sheltering it under my chest, I switched on the power, tapped in my PIN and dialed Kay's sweetshop then *2442. They would be transmitting one-time pad number groups to me, exactly as I'd done to them, except that the groups would have been recorded on a continuous tape, which would keep running until I acknowledged that I had received it. I cradled the phone to my ear and listened as I switched the Psion to word-processing mode. As the woman's voice recited groups of five digit numbers, I tapped them into the keyboard. It was easier than writing them down. "Group six: 14732. Group seven: 97641. Group ..." I knew it had got to the end of the message when she said, "Last group: 69821. End of message. Press the star key if you require the message repeated." I did. I then had to wait a few moments for the message to repeat itself so I could receive the first five groups. Up it came again: "You have a" pause, different voice "sixteen" back to normal voice "group message. Group one: 61476. Group two ..." When the taped message had come full circle, I switched off the phone, put it away and transferred the groups onto paper. I'd never been up to doing the math on the Psion, and by the time I'd got the hang of it I would have been up for retirement. The rain was coming down in earnest. Keeping my eyes on the house, I pulled the hood up around my neck to cut out what was pouring through the cam net. I couldn't cover my head, however, because that would degrade my hearing. Armed with the number groups, I was now going to do the reverse of what I'd done earlier: look for the recognition group on the one-time pad, then subtract each group from the ones that I had on my OTP. Once I'd done that, I put the flash card back in my jeans pocket and got out the one that held the codes. They came up on the screen and I worked out the message. The first lot of groups were the introduction-date, time groups, all that sort of stuff. Then I got to the meat of the message: 61476 EXTRACT 97641 TARGET 02345 BY ANY MEANS 98562 CUT OFF TIME 47624 DTG (date time group, times local) 82624 APRIL 27 47382 0500HRS (times local) 42399 FOR 42682 T104 15662 ACKNOWLEDGE 88765 02442 "Extract target" was easy enough to understand: they wanted me to remove Sarah from the house by 5 a.m. tomorrow morning. Fair enough. It was the next bit I couldn't believe: "T104." "T" plus a numeral is a code within a code, for brevity. There are quite a few T commands, and they have to be learned parrot fashion, as nothing about them is ever written down by anyone, anywhere. They don't officially exist, and the reason is simple. T is a command to kill. They wanted me to kill Sarah. Not only that, but 104 meant without trace: the body must never be discovered. Elizabeth must have been more pissed off at being summoned to Northolt on a Sunday than I'd thought. Either that, or they'd told me even less about the operation than I suspected they had. The wind gusted and the heavens opened, as if to confirm my feeling about the T104. redialed. The recorded voice said, "You have no new messages." There was a pause, then she started to give out the introduction for the groups already sent. I checked them against the ones I'd written down, and went through all the codes again. As I protected the 3C from the rain I knew there was no mistake. I took a deep breath and let it go slowly, wiping away some water that had splashed down my cheek. I'd been a young infantryman when I'd killed my first man, an IRA terrorist. I'd felt good about it. I thought that was how you were supposed to feel. After all, it was what the Army did for a living. Later, I got more satisfaction from stopping death than causing it. However, if the task was to kill, it didn't particularly worry me. I didn't celebrate the fact, but neither did I complain. I understood that they had sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, but they were players like everybody else, including me. And at its most basic level, if somebody had to die, I'd rather it was them than me. My only concern was to try to make it as quick as possible--not so much for their benefit, but to make it safer for me. This T104 was different. This was the second time I'd had to kill someone I'd been close to. Considering there was only Josh left who resembled anything like a friend, I couldn't help wondering what the fuck was going on in my life. Euan had been my best mate for as long as I could remember, but he'd used me--worse than that, he'd used Kelly. Now the only woman I'd ever felt really involved with had got herself into a world of shit that I had to wipe clean. I was starting to feel sorry for myself, and realized it. I had to cut out of this; I needed to get real. I deleted from the flash card the groups that had been used for the two messages, and ate the small piece of paper I had used. No one would ever be using that combination again--that was why it was called a onetime pad--and no evidence of any T104 would ever be seen, since all details are destroyed once used. I put the two flash cards back into separate pockets in my jeans and turned off the 3C, getting it out of the rain. Everything that Elizabeth and Lynn had said was making sense to me here on the ground. They knew the big picture, I was sure of it; maybe the imagery I'd Mac'd down to them had confirmed their fears. Was there a connection with what she'd got up to in Syria? I didn't even bother to think that much about it. I didn't really give a fuck. Even if, say, this group was planning to hit Netanyahu, Arafat, Clinton or even the whole job lot--so what? I remembered the footage after Rabin had been assassinated, and sure, I saw his niece, or whoever it was, speaking at his funeral. I understood that it must be sad, but I wasn't personally affected. To me, it was just one more dead person amongst the thousands on both sides in Israel who'd been bombed and shot over the years. I didn't get worked up about political murders, even when they were closer to home, which usually meant Northern Ireland. Fuck 'em, we all have to die sometime. Live by the sword, and all that. They were all as bad as each other. For all I knew, there could be massive ramifications to whatever Sarah was involved in. This crew could be plotting the murder of thousands of people. Maybe the U.S.A."s fear of chemical or biological weapons being used in their backyard was becoming a reality here and now, in a holiday home in North Carolina. It would be quite easy to contaminate, say, the entire water supply of D.C. Even if it were partial contamination, the right sort of disease would quickly spread itself around. Making one person history can often mean saving many others; it was simplistic, but I always saw such Ts in terms of putting a round into Hitler's skull in 1939. I knew I was trying to keep emotions out by looking at it logically. Maybe the Americans had now been told what was going on, and would be hitting the target as soon as they got sorted? In which case, it stood to reason that Elizabeth wouldn't want Sarah to be found on target. So extract her, drop her, make sure she's never found. Who knows? I forced myself to cut away from conjecture; it had no bearing on the order I'd received, and I'd probably come to the wrong conclusion anyway. Either way, I just didn't want the job. I was watching the house through the misty rain in a sort of daydream. I gripped myself again. Fuck it! If I carried on thinking like this, I'd end up howling at the moon and dancing around the maypole or whatever tree huggers do. Maybe I'd been reading too many books about kids and their emotions; maybe all the touchy-feely crap was getting to me. I decided to bin it; get the tree-hugging cassette out of my head and put the work one back in. Sarah might have lots of plans, but as far as I was concerned long life wasn't going to be one of them. The rain was bucketing down. I pulled on the hood string, trying to stop the water running down my neck. I was getting very cold. I forced myself to focus on a mission analysis, and to look at the factors that could affect it; only then could I carry out the task and have a chance of getting away with it. If I wanted to kill the president of the United States, nobody could stop me, but getting away with it would be the hard bit. The first thing I had to do was understand my mission. What was required of me? It broke down into just two parts: first, I had to get her out of the target area by 0500 hours tomorrow morning; the second part, the T104, wasn't important at the moment. Besides, I already knew how I was going to do it. I broke down the first part of the job into five phases: one, approach the house; two, make entry; three, locate Sarah; four, lift and exfil from the house; five, exfil the area. Next I had to look at what might stop me carrying out those five phases. The first obstacle was obviously the men with her. There were far too many of them for comfort, and for all I knew there could be even more inside who hadn't poked their heads out yet. What were their intentions? Fuck knows. It was a safe bet, though, that they weren't there for the canoeing. It looked as if the place was an RV point. At some stage, therefore, they were going to leave, and maybe that was the reason she had to be lifted before five o'clock in the morning, because they wouldn't all be staying together in one place for long. The next question: What were their tactics, training, leadership and morale? I could only guess. Certainly their leadership would be good; either Sarah would be in charge herself, or if she wasn't, then whoever was would have to cut the mustard, or she wouldn't be working with them. As for their morale, that looked just fine. They seemed confident about what they were doing, whatever that was. Ninety percent of people's confidence can come from total stupidity and no understanding of what's going on, and only 10 percent because they are well trained and well prepared. Sarah would only be in a group where confidence was backed up with ability. What were their capabilities? And did they have weapons? I had no idea. All I knew about was Sarah as a person and an operator, so I knew that she was professional, ruthless, focused and capable of killing. If I got into the house and she saw me first, she'd kill me if she had to. She would fight rather than be taken. Strangely enough, that meant that I wasn't so worried about her, because she was quantifiable; but the other guys I didn't know if they would fight, and what with. I had to assume the worst; it always pays to assume that the other players are better than you are, and plan accordingly. I didn't have a lot of information to go on, but what was new about that? It wouldn't be the first time that I'd had to go into a situation blind. It just pissed me off that I'd positively ID'd her. Maybe it would have been better if I hadn't. Maybe. I found myself half hoping that everyone in the house would clear off in the next few hours. Then there would be nothing I could do but start on the trail again. I began to run through everything I'd seen so far, trying to think of something I'd forgotten. The subconscious is wonderful, because it never forgets what it has seen or heard. Every sight, sound and fragment of perception is tucked away in there somewhere all you've got to do is drag it out. Maybe, for example, I'd seen a weapon without actually realizing it? Nothing came to me. Now I had to look at the ground where I was going to carry out the mission. First of all the general terrain, and that was of no concern because I was sitting on it. I could almost spit at the target; it wasn't as if I was heading into an area I'd never seen before. The one factor that did worry me was the "vital ground," which in this case was the fifteen meters this side of the house that I reckoned to be within range of the proximity sensors and lights. How was I going to approach the target, let alone penetrate it? I scanned all the doors and windows for any information that would help me make entry. I had seen through the binoculars that the lock on the garage side door was just an ordinary pin tumbler inside a large knob handle, much like those on motel doors very common, and not difficult to defeat. The far bigger problem would be whether I could get near the lock in the first place without the detectors going ape shit I had a clear picture of what my mission was. I knew all that I could about the enemy at this stage, and I knew all that I could know about the target or as much as I could for the time being. Now what I needed to work out was "time and space" how much time I had to do what I had to do. As I lay looking at the target, pushing my hair from my forehead as it was starting to act as a channel for the rain, I thought about the five phases and tried to work out plans for each one. I looked at the approach. I visualized all the different routes, as if I were sitting in comfort, looking at a monitor connected to a live-feed camera with someone who was moving along each possible approach in turn. I next considered different ways of making entry. I visualized working on the locks, and what to do if I couldn't get in that way. Not that it would necessarily work, but at least I'd have an alternative. Deniable operations are not ascience. People might have an image gleaned from spy movies of precision and perfection, and assume it all runs like clockwork. In reality it doesn't, for the simple reason that we're all human beings, and human beings are liable to fuck up I knew I did about 40 percent of the time. James Bond? More like James Bone. Add to that the fact that the people we are working against are also fallible, and it isn't a formula for guaranteed success. The only true measure of human intelligence is the speed and versatility with which people can adapt to new situations. Certainly once you are on the ground, you have to be as flexible as a rubber band, and what helps you be flexible is planning and preparation. With luck, when the inevitable fuckup did occur, I wouldn't be a rabbit frozen in the headlights. As Napoleon, or somebody like that, said, "If your opponent has only two possible options, you can be sure that he will take the third." Eventually I came up with a workable plan well, I thought I had. I'd soon find out. I checked my watch just gone 5:32 p.m. That gave me just over eleven hours to get into the house and get her away. But that was merely the physical timing; the factors that mattered even more were light and dark. I couldn't move in daylight; all my movements had to be under cover of darkness. London wanted her lifted by 5 a.m. I knew that first light was at about five thirty, but it would take a little longer to arrive in the forest. I needed to get hold of her and be away from here by 3 a.m.; that would give me about two hours of darkness to get clear of the area. Last light was at just after seven o'clock, but I wouldn't get full cover of darkness until about an hour later. On the face of it, that effectively gave me seven hours of working time. But I couldn't go in there while they were still awake, so what would I do if they were still up and about at two o'clock in the morning? By now, I'd dehumanized the people I was up against. To me they were targets, the same as the house. From now on I wouldn't refer to them, or even think of them, as people. I couldn't, otherwise I wouldn't be able to do the job. Ironically, Sarah had once asked me about that. I told her I didn't like to analyze myself too much because I wasn't sure I'd like what I found. I knew I'd done some really terrible things, but I didn't think I was too bad a person. The question that always bugged me more was, Why was I doing this shit in the first place? My whole life had been spent sitting in wet holes. Even when I was in the Army I would ask myself the same thing: Why? I couldn't answer fully then, and I couldn't now. Queen and country? Nah. I didn't know anyone who'd even considered that. Pride? I was proud, not necessarily of what I did, but certainly of the way I did it. Being a soldier, and later a K, was the only thing I was good at. Even as a kid I was just odd socks and scabs; my mother was always telling me I'd never amount to anything. Maybe she was right, but I liked to think that, in my own little world, I was among the best. It made me feel good about myself, and I got paid for it. The only downside was that I'd have a little bit of explaining to do when I was standing at the Pearly Gates. But who doesn't? The wind had died down, and the rain wasn't falling quite so hard. Lights came on in the house, which was natural enough; it was nearly seven o'clock, it would be dark inside. The lights were showing on the first floor, the same as last night. I strained to listen, but couldn't hear anything, not even a radio or TV What I wouldn't have given to know what was going on in there. I hoped they were packing their bags and fucking off. You can always improve on a plan, so I kept on visualizing. What if I got to the door just as they were coming out with their bags? What would I do? Where would I go? Would I just barge in there and kill her, or would I try and get her out? Amie and Bruce go in and take on a dozen bad guys at a time, but it doesn't work like that for the rest of us: against a dozen people, you die. A job like this was going to call for speed, aggression and surprise. I'd have to get in there, and get out quickly, but all with minimum risk to me. It wasn't going to be a good day out at all. Eyes and ears glued to the house, I went through the whole lot again. And again, wondering if there was anything I'd missed. For sure there would be, but that was what I got paid for: to improvise. Nothing else mattered now but the task. To achieve the aim is to have a chance of staying alive. This was not the time to think about skipping through meadows or getting in touch with my feminine side. Sarah was now a target. To think any other way could put me in danger, and that wasn't the way I wanted it. Kelly and I still had a Bloody Tower to visit. The lights on the first floor went off. It was just before eleven thirty, and another forty gallons of rain had fallen on the OP since I'd last looked at Baby-G thirty minutes before. I packed the camera. I pushed the bung with my foot and eased myself out of the hide backward on my arms and knees, dragging the bergen and bow with me. The rain hadn't stopped, but at least the wind that brought it had died. I stayed on my knees and retrieved the two flash cards from my jeans, and with the pliers part of my Leatherman I cracked and bent them into unusable shapes. I put them in two separate pockets of the bergen, along with the 3C. slowly got to my feet and stretched, stiff as an old man, a wet old man at that, and then listened carefully. Nothing from the house, just the noise of the rain hitting Gore-Tex and leaf. Unfortunately, the next part of the plan entailed me taking my jacket off. Shivering as the cold air got at my skin, I spread the jacket on the ground, then pulled off my Gore-Tex trousers and put them to one side. Finally, everything else I was wearing came off, apart from my skivvies, and was quickly placed on top of the jacket. There was one last thing I remembered to do before carrying on. I retrieved my shirt and, with the knife of the Leatherman, cut off both sleeves at the shoulder. I tucked them into a pocket of my jeans, then started to wrap up the bundle of clothes in the jacket, shivering big time after being cocooned in so many layers. Next I cut four or five lengths of string and used a couple of them to secure the bottoms of the trouser legs by twisting. I shoved the jacket and bundle of clothes down one of the trouser legs, then tied up the waist. Finally I twisted and folded over the trousers and tied the complete bundle. Once done, it went into my bergen. I rwasn't concerned about any of the kit that I'd left in the OP as none of it was traceable to me, apart from my plastic-wrapped shit, which I'd removed from my bergen. If the extraction of Sarah did turn into a gang fuck and the hide was discovered by the police or whoever, then by the time anyone got a DNA analysis done I should be well out of the country. Besides, unless I got caught and the U.K. denied me, the Firm would ensure that any DNA records or follow-up became history. My passport, phone and credit cards had been in my jacket, plastic wrapped, since the beginning. I made the decision to take them with me instead of going into the house sterile. If I got caught now, chances were I'd be dead anyway. And besides, Sarah knew who I was. It wouldn't exactly take a Mastermind contestant to work out what I was there for. The bow was wedged into the frame of the bergen with the six arrows inserted in the quiver. I took the fifth length of string and tied one end to the bergen, attaching myself to the other by looping it around my wrist a couple of times. At the first hint of trouble, I could let go and part company with it. Once done, I checked that the bergen straps were done up as tightly as possible, then looked at the house yet again. Still no lights. I treplaced the bung and smoothed away any sign. Maybe archaeologists in the next millennium would unearth my little time capsule and scratch their heads at the cache of Four Seasons pizza, a gas can full of piss and a couple of handfuls of shit in plastic wrap. I moved down to the water's edge, watched, listened, then slowly waded in. The bottom sloped gently to start with, but by the time I'd done four or five paces I was in up to my knees, and freezing. It was just a matter of fighting it and persuading myself that I'd be warm again soon. I lowered the bergen into the water in front of me, and it floated with the bow just above the water. Even when fully laden, there's always enough air trapped in a bergen to make it buoyant. It had been years since I'd done anything like this. In the jungle, it always used to rain heavily. It would often take us an entire day to cross a main river, and the Regiment had lost more people doing this sort of thing during training than by any other drill. I kept wading farther in, until the water came up to my waist, then my neck. The rain was jumping off the lake's surface and hitting my face; being so close, the splashes sounded louder than they really were. The shock of the cold took my breath away, but I knew I'd get used to it in a minute or two. I took one of the mangled flash cards from a bergen pocket, dropped it in the lake and checked that it sank. Then, pushing the bergen in front of me and keeping parallel to the shore line, I walked toward the house, taking my time so I didn't create a visible bow wave or make any noise. At night, and at that distance, even if they were looking at the lake, the bergen would pass as a floating log. In any event, it was the only way I could get on target without triggering the alarms. After a dozen or so steps I stopped, checked the house again, and dumped the remaining flash card as the rain pelted the taut nylon of the bergen. I kept moving slowly toward the target, at the same time wanting to get there as quickly as possible. My balls were so cold I thought they might make a dash for my armpits. Underfoot it was rocky and a couple of times I hit an obstruction and got entangled in weed. It was time to discard the 3C. I wouldn't be needing it anymore, because if everything worked to plan, the next time I contacted Elizabeth I'd be back in the U.K. and if it didn't and I was in the shit, Sarah would know how to extract information from it and the flash cards. I got level with the house and turned to face it. The curtains were closed and there were still no lights on. Placing my wrist behind the bergen to shield it from the target, I pressed the backlit display on Baby-G. It was just after midnight. I started to shiver even more now that I'd stopped. I needed to get out of the water and back into some clothes. I moved forward in a direct line toward the slipway, pushing the bergen in front of me. The boat was now dead ahead, and all I could see of it was the bow tilted down toward me. I inched my way, eyes glued on the target; the only sound was the rain as it hit my bergen and the water. As I got closer and the floor started to rise, I forced my body lower by bending my knees and hunching down. A few meters from the end of the slipway I had to get right down on my stomach to keep as much of me in the water as possible to make a smaller profile. I had to use my hands and knees to work myself forward. A meter from the edge the bergen hit bottom. I stopped, looked and listened. The echoey sound of the rain hitting the fiberglass of the boat took over from the splash of it hitting the water. Now came the wriggly bit. I had to cross open ground to get to the boat and shelter under the hull. Ideally I would have taken maybe as long as an hour to cover the five meters, but I didn't have that time to spare. I unraveled the string attached to my wrist and, lifting myself up on my elbows and toes, I kitten-crawled forward, four inches at a time, trying to hold and control my breath and stop my teeth from chattering. I could feel stones and water moss pushing against my legs and stomach, moving with me as my trunk touched the bottom. The fact that it was cold no longer mattered; I knew I was doing it correctly from the pain in my elbows as they took my weight on the gravel. I was more interested in trying to make sure my trunk didn't scrape along the ground and make a noise. I was now at the slipway. Lifting the bergen a fraction, I edged it forward another few inches, lowered it onto the concrete and eased myself up behind it. Then I stopped, listened and repeated the move. Inch by inch I neared the boat, in a direct line with the point where the tow bar touched the concrete slip. As long as I moved slowly enough and kept flat, the motion detector shouldn't pick me up, and once I was in the lee of the boat I'd be completely safe. Fifteen minutes later, I was there, where I wanted to be, under the boat. The rain hammered the fiberglass. It was like being in a greenhouse in a thunderstorm. The garage doors were still only semi closed I could see the back of the Explorer and the pitch-dark beyond. I was staring into the darkness and contemplating my next move when a light came on to my right, spilling through the gap in the doors. It came from the rear of the garage. My heart skipped a beat, then started to pump at warp speed. If I'd been discovered, there wasn't much I could do. I gripped myself: Stop, calm down, watch. Almost immediately another light came on, this time on the other side of the garage. Through the gap, I could see what was happening. Someone had opened the lid of a chest freezer; the glow from the interior light showed the face of a man, as if he were shining a flashlight under his chin, like we used to at Halloween. I wasn't sure which of the targets it belonged to, just that it wasn't Sarah. He rooted around for a moment, then pulled out three or four small boxes of food, stood up and seemed about to close the lid again, but instead, he looked back inside and picked out some more stuff. With his arms full, he walked away. I could make out the lower part of his body; he was wearing trainers and checkered, knee-length shorts. I tried to count how many cartons he had. There seemed to be five. Did that mean that five people were still awake and about to have a meal, or was it just a big snack for one very hungry man? I heard a door close, and the light went out. I waited a few minutes for everything, including me, to calm down, then crawled the length of the boat until I reached the stern. I looked up. As I'd hoped, I was well hidden from the sensor and directly under the first-floor landing. The sensor might not even be linked to an alarm, it might just have been a helpful detector to switch on lights as people neared the garage. Whatever, I was this side of it and that was what mattered. The garage doors were less than a foot away from me. I moved to the right of them, still under the landing and out of the way of the sensor and the rain. The priority was to get some clothes on and get warm, but if you're moving, you're making noise. The more slowly and deliberately I did it, the less noise I was going to generate. At least the downpour gave me some cover. Gently unclipping the bergen, I lifted the flap, got hold of the toggle that held the drawstrings together, pressed the button in and opened it up, all the time looking and listening, and checking to see if anything was happening in the house next door. I lifted the Gore-Tex bundle from inside the bergen. It was soaking wet on the outside, but my knots had worked. Wet clothes would make noise and leave sign, so I took off my underpants and slowly put on my dry stuff. It had been worth getting so cold just to feel the sensation of dry socks. I checked that the Tazer was still in the right-hand pocket of the jacket, and that everything else was where it should be. Then I dug out the gardening gloves and put them on. I might get lifted when I tried to get out of the country, and I didn't want the police to be able to make a connection with something as stupid and basic as fingerprints at a crime scene. I couldn't guard against every shred of forensic evidence, but I could do my best to minimize the damage. Last of all, I ruffled my hair with my fingers, trying to get off as much water as possible so that a stray drop didn't blur my vision at a vital moment. I was ready to go. I picked up the bergen and weapon, and edged my way around to the doors. I had a quick look at the gap in case they'd rigged a trip. It was totally dark inside. The space between the rear of the Explorer and the garage door was going to be a bit of a tight squeeze. I pushed the bergen and bow through and placed them on the floor to the right, then got myself side on, breathed out and squirmed through. he sound of the rain was immediately muffled, as if a switch had been thrown. I became aware of a different ambient noise, coming from above me. I stopped by the 4x4, opened my mouth, looked up and listened; there was a vague mumbling, which at first I took to be talking, then I heard a shout, gunfire and a burst of music. They were watching TV I stayed where I was, just past the tailgate of the Explorer, and continued to tune in. The mumbling went on, then there was a metallic rattling within the garage as the freezer motor kicked in, followed by a low buzz. A floorboard creaked above me, over to the right. Maybe someone getting up from their chair. The noise didn't move anywhere; he must have sat down again. Baby-G told me it was one thirty-one. This wasn't good; I had just one and a half hours left in which to do what I needed to. I got the miniMaglite out of my jacket, held it in my left hand and twisted the head to turn it on. The beam shone through my fingers. I could now see that the Explorer was the only vehicle in the garage; it was jutting out only because there wasn't enough room to drive it all the way in. I stepped over the bergen and checked along the wagon. All its windows were closed and there wasn't a key in the ignition. I slowly tried the driver's door; it was locked. No chance of using the vehicle for a quick exit. In a drama, the boat would have to get me to my car. As well as a washing machine and the freezer, the garage was packed with gardening tools, canoes standing on end, bikes on racks, and rusty old bits and pieces that had accumulated over the years, and it had a smell to match. At least it was dry and quite warm. Moving farther along the side of the 4x4,1 shone the flashlight over its hood. In the far-left corner I saw the side door I'd been watching from the OP. At right angles to it was another door; the staircase behind it was boxed in, and the shape of it went up to the next floor. There were more piles of clutter underneath. I could still hear the vague mumble of the TV above me and the creaking of floorboards as people upstairs shifted in their chairs. That was fine by me; the only thing I didn't want to hear was excited shouts or rapid movement to signal they knew I was there. I picked up the bergen with both hands to control the noise, and with the flashlight in my mouth I made my way over to the staircase doors. The beam shone on plastic bags under the staircase containing the world's largest collection of empty Kraft ready-made dinner containers. They weren't putting the rubbish out; they were hiding it. They were taking no chances. Nor was I; I took the bow from the bergen and laid it down so that as I picked it up with my left hand the cable would be facing me, and the arrows were ready to access. There wasn't any light shining through the gaps around the staircase door. I put my ear to the wood and listened. The voices on the TV were louder, but still indistinct. There was more shooting and police sirens, and a fairly constant murmuring, which I could distinguish from the TV; it 1seemed as if the household was having a long night of telly, munchies and chat. An inspection of the lock told me it was an ordinary lever type. I gently pushed on the area of the door by the lock, then pulled it forward, to see if there was any give. There was about half an inch. Then, with my hands down at the bottom of the door and still on the same side as the lock, I pushed hard and slow to see if it had been bolted. It gave way an inch, then moved back into position. I did the same to the top of the door. That also gave way, this time just over half an inch, and I gently eased it back into position. It seemed that there were no bolts on the other side, just the one lever lock to deal with. Holding my breath, I slowly twisted the handle to check that the door was locked. You could spend hours picking the lock only to find the thing was already open; best to take your time and check the obvious. I'd always found that holding my breath gave me more control over slow movements, and it made it easier to hear if there was any reaction to what I was doing. As I'd assumed, the door was locked. The next move was to check all the likely places where a spare key might be hidden. Why spend time attacking a lock if a key is hidden only feet away? Some people leave theirs dangling on a string on the other side of the letterbox, or on the inside of a cat flap. Others leave it under a dustbin or just behind a little pile of rocks by the door. If a key is going to be left, it will nearly always be somewhere on the normal approach to the door. I checked the shelving above the washing machine, under the old rusting paint tins by the door, and along the top of the door frame and all the obvious places. Nothing. I would have to work on the lock. I got down on my knees, listening all the time to the TV show, and looked through the keyhole. I could still see nothing but darkness. I shone the flashlight through and had another look. There was a glint of metal. I smiled; piece of piss. They'd left the key in the lock. The glow from Baby-G in this darkness was outrageous, but it told me it was now nearly 2 a.m. I'd give it just another thirty minutes, and maybe by then these fuckers would be in bed. Meanwhile, if they came downstairs for more munchies, I'd need to know, so I sat on the floor with my ear to the door listening to the rain and the TV The police cars were still screaming and the shooting had become more intense. A floorboard creaked above me, then another. I looked up and followed the sound, trying to picture where he was. The movement continued across the floor to more or less directly over my head. Picking up the bow, I turned and looked through the keyhole to see if he was going to turn the light on and come downstairs. The key obscured most of my vision, but I'd be able to see light, as the teeth were still up in the wards of the lock. There was a faint glimmer, but it was ambient light from quite a distance away, maybe way up at the top of the stairs. No one was coming down. The light disappeared. There were more creaks above me, then the muffled talking started again. The commercials must be coming on. There was nothing to do but wait while the minutes ticked away. All I knew was that I had to get in there and do it at two thirty, no matter what. How, I didn't know; I'd just play it by ear. I sat down again and got back to listening to the TV and the rain. I was quite thirsty after the exertions of the night. The chest freezer started to rattle again; I tiptoed over and lifted the lid very slowly. The light came on. I had a quick look at all the goodies. There were boxes of Kraft dinners, macaroni and microwave fries. It was obvious that nobody had been giving a lot of thought to the culinary side of this trip, which I bet Sarah didn't like, and none of it was any good to me. Then I found something I could munch: a Magnum bar. I closed the freezer, took off the wrapper and put it in my pocket, sat back down by the door, put my ear against it and started eating as I joined in the film. It was now two twenty. This was cutting it really close to the bone. I finished the ice cream, and the stick joined the wrapper in my pocket. I looked at my watch yet again. Two twenty-five. I couldn't afford to wait any longer. With the Maglite in my mouth, I opened the screwdriver part of the Leatherman and worked it into the keyhole. When it had a firm purchase I started to turn the key along its natural line to unlock the door, at the same time pulling the door toward me to release the pressure on the bolt as it lay in the door frame. The key turned until it hit the lock; it would need a lot more pressure now to open it, but that would make noise. I waited. Whoever was pissing off the cops would be doing it again, really soon. Thirty seconds later, it happened: shouting, gunfire and sirens. I gave the key the final necessary twists and switched off the flashlight. With the door ajar a couple of inches I could hear the TV much more clearly. Going by the intensity of the shooting, screaming and shouting, the whole state police force was out trying to get the bad guys. There was no distinct light shining down from above, just a faint glow. I picked up the bow and prepared an arrow. Keeping it in place with my left hand, I got my right hand on the door handle, ready to go. I was going to have a rolling start line: remain covert for as long as possible, and only go noisy if they did. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was enough. If you worry too much about these things, you never get down to starting the job; just get on with it and half the battle is won. Then hope that experience, knowledge and training will get you through the rest. I checked that nothing was about to fall out of my pockets, then gently pulled the door open toward me, ready to stop at the slightest creak, holding my breath so I could hear it happen. There wasn't a sound from the people upstairs. It must be a good show. I was facing a flight of worn, bare wooden stairs that climbed directly to the first floor. There was a wall on either side; on the left it was the external wall of the house, and on the right it was plasterboard, which sealed the stairs from the garage, then became a bannister on the right-hand side where the first floor began. Anyone standing up there could easily look down and see me. Beyond the top of the staircase, and facing me, was another wall, and just off to the right-hand side was a door that was closed. Apart from that, all I could see were flickering images, composed of different tones of light from the TV screen as they flashed on the wall and the closed door facing me. I was happy about that; if the TV was facing the top of the stairs, it meant that the fuckers would have their backs to me as I went up. The smell had changed. The mustiness of the garage had given way to a more domestic odor: spray polish and cigarettes, the smell of good housekeeping, heavily overlain with nicotine. They must be having a Camel-fest up there; I'd have to be quick about this or I'd be going down with lung cancer. Drawing the cable half back, focusing my eyes and the weapon on the top of the stairs, I placed my left foot very carefully on the bottom step, then my right. I stopped and listened. I lifted my left foot again and put it down on the second step, easing my weight down gently, hoping there wasn't going to be a creak. I had both eyes open, cable half drawn and ready to fire. My ears had cut away from the sound of the rain; they were totally focused, on the alert for signs of movement upstairs. I pulled the bow cable back a little bit more and took another step. I1E The music and the police chase suddenly stopped. So did I, foot raised, bow at the ready. I must have looked like the statue of Cupid. A very macho American voice boomed out, "Back soon, with TNT's movies for guys who like guy movies." There was a long burst of machinegun fire, no doubt as bullet holes sprayed over the titles. Then it went into a commercial for a fitness plan that could change all our lives in just fourteen days. couldn't tell how many people were in the room, but the one thing I knew for sure was that Sarah was unlikely to be one of them. She wasn't a guy who liked guy movies. There was some mumbling coming from the room. I couldn't understand what was being said, but something was agreed on. Floorboards creaked again. I hoped he wasn't coming back down to the freezer; if he was after the last Magnum he wasn't going to be a happy teddy. The shadow of a moving body hit the wall at the top of the stairs, blocking the dancing reflections from the TV screen. It got bigger and higher. I slowly brought the bow up the last two inches, into the aim. The cams at each end of the bow started to strain as I tensed the cable almost to full draw, stopping about three inches from my face. I wasn't too sure if I needed as much power for the arrow to do its job at this range. But fuck it, I wasn't taking any chances. I could smell the rubber gardening gloves as I waited, motionless. The shadow became the body's back and I saw it was MIB. He now had the TV flickering on his shirt. He didn't turn and come down toward me. Instead he went straight ahead and through the door to the right of the top of the stairs. Fluorescent lights came on to reveal kitchen cabinets and brightly colored mugs hanging from hooks. There was the sound of crockery and cutlery being moved about. The others were talking amongst themselves, maybe about the film, and there was a little laugh as someone made a funny. Still no sound of Sarah, though, which tended to confirm what I'd thought. A bit more clanging came from the kitchen. I kept the bow in the full draw position. The strain on my arms was starting to take its toll; sweat was pouring down the sides of my face and I knew it wouldn't be long before it got into my eyes. I heard thejfsshhht! of a ring-pull being opened in the TV room, then another. Maybe this meant there were three of them in all. With any luck the cans they were opening held beer: if they'd been soaking up alcohol while watching the film that should slow down their reaction times rather nicely. Mr. Macho Voiceover was with us again: "We're back with movies for guys who like guy movies." He was greeted by ajfsshhht! from the kitchen. MIB emerged, can in hand, muttering away. The others immediately gave him a hard time and he stepped back a few paces and switched off the light, left the door open and went back to join them. I let the cable relax, brought my arms down and wiped away the sweat. There was more gunfire. It sounded as if the final big shootout was under way. People were screaming at each other as only actors in cop thrillers do. I'd probably seen it, and was trying to work out what movie it was, so I could guess when the noisy bits were and when they'd finish anything to help get Sarah out of there without us all getting involved in our own "movie for guys who like guy movies." But no luck. Someone in TV land was being really brave and shouting for covering fire as he took on the bad guys single-handed. Dickhead. I really couldn't delay any longer. I still didn't know where Sarah was in the house, and this stairway was my only entry point. I checked that the spare arrows were still fixed in the quiver, and that everything on me was secure. I didn't want the Maglite clattering to the floor the moment I moved. Keeping the bow in my left hand, arrow still in place, I took a deep breath and lifted my right foot. To reduce creaks, I used the very edge of the stair, then stopped to listen. The shooting had finished and there were murmurs from the audience again. I carried on. When my eyes got level with the top stair I lay down with my head against the end of the bannister. The cloud of tobacco smoke was thick enough to make me choke. I checked the bow to make sure it was out of my way, then eased myself up on my toes and the heels of my hands, tilted forward and looked around. I could see at once that the TV was in the far-right corner of the room, facing me. On the screen, someone was getting a doctor to patch his gunshot wound. Three men were watching; two on a sofa with their backs to me, one of them swigging back on his can; the other guy, MIB, was in an armchair, and at an angle, so that he half faced the kitchen wall. He still had the beads in his right hand, and was feeding each one individually through his fingers as he watched. The room was like a Turkish bath, except with smoke instead of steam. There was also a strong smell of pizza and beer. On the floor beside the sofa on the right-hand side was a twenty-four-pack of Bud, ripped open. I checked for access to the next floor. This wasn't going to be easy: the stairs were at the far side of the room, opposite me. I'd have to cross over twenty feet of open floor space. As I moved my head back into cover, I heard the cardboard of the twenty-four-pack being ripped farther open, then the hiss of a ring-pull. They were going to be here a while. Should I wait it out? No, they could be up all night. Besides, if they moved they would see me. I lay there and thought for a while, and felt the blood pumping in my neck. If I burst into the room and tried to hold them in position, it wouldn't take them long to work out that I could maybe take on one of them, but the other two would be climbing all over me before I could reload, restring, or whatever it's called. There was only one thing I could do, and that was to try to cross the room without being seen. If I got pinged, I'd just have to "deal with the situation as it develops on the ground"--the last thing the Firm always said when giving orders; it meant they could transfer any blame onto you if it went wrong, or take the credit for a success. I pushed myself away from the stairs with the heel of my hand and slowly stood up. I checked the arrow position for about the hundredth time and moved onto the final step. I edged out, and was in the room. With my back pressed against the wall, I started to move toward the next flight of stairs, moving one leg in front of the other very, very slowly, my eyes riveted on the three watching the TV, my left hand on the bow, my right on the arrow, holding the cable one quarter drawn. I got to the kitchen door and could hear the microwave working overtime. I moved on. They had eyes only for Robert De Niro. I silently thanked him for such a spellbinding performance. The light of the TV was projected onto the faces watching it. MIB was totally absorbed, as were the other two on the sofa, Too Thin To Win and the younger of the two who'd arrived today. I was maybe twenty feet away from them. MIB was squinting as he inhaled on a cigarette held between the index and middle fingers of his right hand, the glow illuminating his face even more as he played with his beads in the other hand. As he blew out the smoke, the screen went blank for a second, then a bright graphic appeared, accompanied by machine-gun fire. "Back soon with movies for guys who .. ." I had fucked up big time. I hadn't taken into account the commercial break. A pain hit me in the throat and shot down into the pit of my stomach. Too Thin To Win gob bed something off to the others and moved his head a bit to the right just a bit too much. He must have seen me, but these things take a while to sink in when you're not expecting them, and especially when you've been concentrating so intently on something else. But he had detected movement in his peripheral vision and I knew what was coming. It would take him maybe two seconds, no more, to register that something was wrong. Straightaway, the body reacts to that: fight or flight. Blood surges into your hands to fight and into your legs to flee, and you can feel it. I had just two seconds up on him. It was all going to be over soon, one way or another. To me it was all happening in slow motion. As I brought up the bow, Too Thin To Win jerked his head farther to the right, did a double take and stared straight at me. By the time his eyes were widening with shock the bow was in the aim and at full draw. He shouted something, but I didn't know what. Everything closes down in a situation like that. All I could hear was the voice in my own head, and as my knees started to bend automatically to make me a smaller target it was screaming, Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Too Thin To Win became a non-target as he threw himself to the left and jumped down below the settee. It was MIB that presented himself as the nearest threat, and at the same time the easiest target. He was up on his feet and had already turned and was facing me, trying to absorb and interpret this new stream of information. I kept my eyes fixed on his and brought the bow around. As soon as I had what I hoped was the correct sight picture, I released the cable and hoped these things were as good as the salesman had said. I was aiming at the center of the body mass, the center of what I could see in front of the blinding glare of the TV screen. He took the hit with a dull thwack and went down. I didn't know where the arrow had got him because I was too busy loading the next one and wishing I'd practiced archery as much as I'd practiced firing pistols over the years. I stretched out my left arm and, at i the same time, pulled back the cable with my right, quickly trying to feed j the head of the arrow into place above my left hand. Then it was straight | back up into the aim, the arrow being held in position on the cable by my fingers. I still couldn't see Too Thin To Win; I was aiming at the young one, who had now decided to run around the settee and try to get to me before I could release. In fact, he was so near that I didn't so much have time to aim as just vaguely point it at him. There was a whoosh and a twang as the cable released, then a thud as the arrow punched into him. He didn't make a sound. I didn't care whether or not he was dead; there was still one more to deal with. As I moved toward the settee I could see that Too Thin To Win had remained on the other side of it; I didn't know what he was doing, and I didn't care. I just had to get to him. There was no time to reload. I pulled an arrow out of the quiver and launched myself at him. He was leaning over one of the aluminium boxes I'd seen them unload from the wagon. I swapped the arrow from my left hand to right, gripping it firmly like a fighting knife, making use of that extra blood now pumping through my hands. As I fell on top of him, my weight pushed him down onto the box. We both grunted with the impact. While trying to cover his mouth with the crook of my left arm, I jammed the arrow into his neck with my right. Only one of these actions worked. I had managed to cover his mouth, but as I thrust with the arrow I felt it hit bone. Arrowheads are designed to zap into the target at warp speed, and I'd done no more than rip his skin. He was screaming big time beneath my arm. I increased the pressure to try and get better coverage over his mouth. I raised the arrow in the air again and rammed it down hard. It hit against the bone again, but this time slid off and lodged deeper into his neck. I felt him stiffen, his muscle tensing up to resist the penetration. The gardening glove gave a good grip as I pushed harder, twisting the arrow shaft to maximize the damage. I was hoping to cut into his carotid artery or spinal cord, or even find a gap to penetrate his cranium, but instead I ended up severing his windpipe. Now I just had to hold him as he asphyxiated. I put all my weight on him to press him against the edge of the box, trying to stop his body-jerking from getting out of hand and becoming noisy. Once I knew I was in control, I looked quickly around me to make sure that no one else had arrived on the scene as I waited for him to die. Finally, he was going down. His hands started to scrabble behind him, toward my face. I bobbed and weaved to avoid them, and his movements gradually subsided to no more than a spasmodic twitching in his legs. The last reserve of strength he'd found as he saw his life slowly get darker was now exhausted. By the flicker of the TV I could see dark blood oozing out of the wound; it followed along the shaft of the arrow to my glove and dripped onto the floor. When I moved my arm away from his mouth he made no sound. Still on top of him, I turned around, and could see that MIB had taken a poor shot but I'd been lucky: I'd been aiming at the center of body mass, but the arrow had entered his head above the left eye and there was about four inches of arrow protruding out the back. His beads lay at his feet. I didn't have a clue about the young one. He was slumped with his chest on the floor. Blood was coming out of him from somewhere and being soaked up by the rug. I started to shake. I'd never been so scared in my life, nor so relieved that something was over. Lesson learned: always get a pistol, whatever it takes. Young One was still alive; blood was gurgling in his throat as he tried to breathe. I lifted myself off Too Thin To Win, guiding his body as it slumped from the box onto the floorboards. I went over to Young One and checked him. His glazed eyes turned to follow mine as I moved my body around him, feeling him for any hint of metal. He wasn't carrying. His eyes were reflecting the TV screen as they pleaded with me for help. As I looked away, my eyes caught the aluminium box. When I saw what was inside, I felt much better about what I'd just done. Too Thin To Win must have been flapping big time trying to get to the contents; if he had managed it, I might not be here now. The TV bad die was dying from a gunshot wound given to him by the cop. It must have been near to the end of the film. I went over to the box. Stowed inside were three collapsible-stock Heckler & Koch 53s, virtually the same weapon as the MP5 used by the Regiment, but firing a larger 5.56mm round. With their thirty-round mags, Too Thin To Win could have taken my head off and still had change. I picked up one of the weapons and two of the mags. I could now see that on the bottom of the box there were also three silenced pistols, again with mags. I took one round out of the 53 mag and pushed down on the remainder to check the spring worked. Young One was still moaning as the film credits rolled. He was watching me. I thought for a while. Why take the 53? If I had to use it, I would alert the people in the house next door and maybe even the whole campsite. I picked up one of