Crisis Four

"Thanks, I'll try not to call you out of hours. I can't imagine there'll be any need. It can all wait until Monday."

It always pays to be nice to people, because you never know when you might need to use them. And besides, Metal Mickey was harmless. As he started to walk back toward the elevator, I poked my head around the doorframe and called out, "Thanks a lot, Michael." He just waved his right hand in the air and said, "Byeee, and remember, anything else you need, just call."

I closed the door and remained standing on the threshold while I keyed Metal Mickey's numbers into my 3C cards always get lost. Once done, I looked around at nothing in particular, just tuning in to the place rather than charging in and not noticing anything. I knew there wouldn't be any letters under the door, because they all went via the central mailbox. I also knew that there'd be nothing tangible, like a notebook with a detailed plan of what she was up to, but if you don't take your time you can go straight for the sixpence and miss the five-pound note.

I went to lock myself in so no one could enter; it was a natural reaction to being in someone else's house when I shouldn't, but on this occasion there was no need. I wanted her to come in; it would certainly make my job a lot easier, and if Wayne kept his eyes open I'd get a warning.

A strange thought struck me. I'd seen Sarah so many times in shortterm accommodation, when we'd stayed in hotels or flats, but this was the first time I'd seen where and how she lived for real. I felt like a voyeur, as if I were watching her undress through her bedroom keyhole.

Basically it was just a large one-bedroom apartment, furnished, I could see at once, by the "accommodation pack"--the standard furniture provided on the diplomatic circuit. Very plush, very expensive, very sophisticated, but not much of it, which the FCO (Foreign and Commonwealth Office) probably called minimalist because that way it sounded fashionable.

The rest of it you bought yourself with an allowance. She obviously hadn't got around to that yet.

In the main room there was a slightly lighter blue carpet than in the hallway outside, and a matching blue sofa and chairs. In the far left-hand corner was a long sideboard with three drawers, facing a large window that looked out on to the rear of the building and one of the creeks that ran into the Potomac. Next to the window was a bookcase, its four shelves filled with hardbacks. I went over and scanned the spines. Quite a few titles seemed to be concerned with the Middle East and terrorism, and there was a complete set of the 1997 Economist world reports. One shelf started with biographies--Mandela, Thatcher (of course, she would have that), JFK, Churchill--and ended with a couple of Gore Vidal's books, plus a few heavy-going ones on American history and a collection of Oscar Wilde's plays. The bottom shelf held what looked like large-format, coffee table-type books. They were lying flat because of their size and I had to twist my head to see the titles. I recognized The Times World Atlas because it was the free offer of that which had enticed me into one of the book clubs I'd used when becoming Nick Davidson, and then there were several pictorial ones on different countries in the Middle East, and one about the U.S.

Both the sideboard and bookcase were made from a light wood veneer, and the walls were emulsioned off-white. There had been no effort whatsoever to personalize this flat. It was as anonymous as my house in Norfolk, though at least she had a sofa and a bookcase.

There were a few society, news and what's-on-in-Washington magazines beside the sofa on the floor, piled on top of each other. A phone was lying on top of the mags, its digital display telling me there were no messages.

The walls were bare apart from some bland views of D.C. that were probably taken when JFK- was boss. There were two lamps: a normal table lamp on the floor just in front of the sofa, its wire snaking away across the carpet, and a standard lamp over by the bookcase, both with matching white shades. That was her all over; she might be highly professional in her job, but when it came to her personal admin she was a bag of shit. But what did I expect from someone who wouldn't even know her way around Tesco?

There wasn't a television set, which didn't surprise me. She'd never watched it. If you asked her about Seinfeld and Frasier, she'd probably say it was a New York law firm. My eyes moved back to the bookcase. On the bottom shelf sat a large glass vase, but there were no flowers in it, instead it was filled with coins and pens and all the rest of the shit that people pull out of their pockets at the end of the day. Near it was her social calendar:

thick, gilded invitations for drinks at eight at British Embassy or American Congress functions. I counted seven for the last month. It must be a terrible life, having to scoff all those free vol-au-vents and knock back glasses of champagne.

On the sideboard was a standard, all-in-one, solid-state CD player, probably quite inexpensive, but serving its purpose. About a dozen CDs were stacked on top of each other, and as I walked over I could see that three of them were still in their cellophane. She hadn't had enough time to play them yet maybe next week. There was also a boxed set of five classical operas. I turned the cases to read the spines. Cosi Fan Tutte was there, of course one of the few things I did know about her was that it was her favorite.

I looked at the rest of the music: a couple of 1970s Genesis albums, remastered on CD, and what looked like a bootleg cover of a group called Sperm Bank. I'd have to have a listen to that one, it was so out of place.

She and I had never really talked that much about music, but I knew she loved opera while I'd hear things on the radio and think. That's good, I'll buy that, but then lose the tape before I'd even played it.

The standby light was still on. I pressed "open," put in the Sperm Bank CD and hit "play." It was some kind of weird Tahitian rap/jazz/funk, whatever they call it very noisy but very rhythmic. I turned the volume up a bit so I could hear it big time, and felt very fashionable. Fuck it, the chances of her coming back here were ziff.

I'd had my first cursory look in the living room, now I'd try the kitchen.

It was about fifteen feet square, with units completely filling up both sides of the wall, so that it ended up being more like a passageway. The stove, oven and sink were all built-in.

I had a mooch in the cupboards above the work surfaces, trying to get some idea of how this woman lived. It was nothing to do with the job now.

I was just curious to see this other side of her. There was hardly any food, and probably never had been. There were cans of convenience items, like rice and packet noodles, which could just be opened and boiled, and a couple of packs of gourmet coffee, but no spices or herbs or anything else you'd need if you cooked at home. On the few occasions when she wasn't at embassy dos, or being dined in restaurants, she probably got by with the microwave.

I opened another cupboard and found six of everything the accommodation pack again plain white crockery, six cups, six glasses. Over 60 percent of the cupboard space was empty. In the fridge was half a carton of milk, which wasn't looking too healthy it smelled and looked as if it held the cure for HIV Next to that were some bagels, still in their plastic bag, and half a jar of peanut butter, and that was it. Not exactly Martha Stewart, our Sarah. At least I had some cheese and yogurt in mine.

The bathroom was between the kitchen and the bedroom. There was no bath, just a shower, sink and toilet. The room had been left as if she'd got up normally, done her stuff and dashed off to work. A dry but used towel lay on the floor next to a laundry bin that was half full of jeans, underwear and tights. No sign of a washing machine, but I wasn't really expecting one. Sarah's clothes would go to a dry cleaners, or to a laundry for a fluff and fold.

The bedroom was about fifteen by twenty feet, with a walk-in wardrobe, but no other furniture apart from a double bed and a single bedside lamp sitting on the floor. The duvet was thrown to one side where she'd just woken up and tossed it off. All the bedding was plain white, the same as the walls. There were pillows for two people, but only one of them looked slept on. Again, there were no pictures on the walls, and the Venetian blinds on both windows were closed. Either she'd just got up and gone to work, or this was simply how it always was.

The walk-in closet had mirrored sliding doors. I pulled them open, expecting the scent of a woman's wardrobe, that slight waft of stale perfume lingering on jackets that have been worn once and are back on their hangers before they find their way to the cleaners. In fact, there was almost no smell at all, which wasn't surprising. The rows and rows of expensive-looking clothes were all in dry cleaner's plastic wrapping, and even her blouses and T-shirts were on hangers. Out of curiosity I checked a few labels, and found Armani, Joseph and Donna Karan. She was obviously still slumming it. On a shelf above the dresses was the just as expensive luggage to match. Nothing seemed to be missing or out of place.

In front of me was a small stand-alone chest, just a white Formica thing with about five or six drawers. One of the drawers was open; I looked inside and found panties and bras, again all very expensive.

All her footwear was arranged on the floor on the right-hand side of the wardrobe, and looking very orderly: formal, summer, winter and a pair of trainers. To the left of the wardrobe, and also on the floor, was a shoe box.

I bent down and lifted the lid. A Picasso dove greeted me, on top of more old Christmas and birthday cards. Flicking through them, I found a picture of her arm-in-arm with a tall, good-looking man. They were in woodland, looking extremely happy, both dressed the part in waterproofs and boots. Maybe this was Jonathan, and presumably in happier times. Sarah looked a little older than when I'd seen her on the Syria job; the bob had had two years to grow out and her hair was about shoulder length, still very straight and with a fringe that was just above those big eyes. She hadn't put on weight, and still looked fantastic as she smiled that almost innocent, childlike grin toward me. I realized I was looking at the man beside her and wishing it was me as I dropped the photo back in the box and lay down on the bed. There was no smell of her, just that of dry cleaned cotton.

We had been in and out of Afghanistan those first two months, with no result.

The rebels had managed to get a major offensive off the ground in between their internal feuds and were kicking the ass out of the Russians.

No one would be talking to us for a while, so we got out of the way, taking time off and generally having fun. We could only hope that one of the rebel groups with an entrepreneurial flair would attack a heliport and see us all right with a couple of Hinds.

Both of us could have gone back to the U.K. with the other three and done our own thing, but she wanted to go trekking in Nepal and I knew the country well. It seemed a simple swap: she showed me the historical and religious sites, and I showed her the bars and dives where, as a young infantry soldier on an exchange with the Gurkhas, I'd been separated from my money. It was an education for both of us.

It was during the first week off, staying in Katmandu before moving to Pukara for our week's trek, that things changed. By now she would take the piss out of my accent: I called Hackney 'ackney, and she called it Hackemey. We'd just finished a run one day, and were both getting our key cards from our socks, when she leaned into my ear and said, in her bad cockney accent, "Awright darling', you wanna fuck or what?"

Three weeks later, and back with the rest of the team in Pakistan, the cover story of being a couple was now played out for real. I even had fantasies of maybe seeing her later on once the job had ended. I'd been married for four years and things hadn't been going well. Now they were in shit state. With Sarah I enjoyed the intimate talks and learning about things I'd never bothered to find out about, or even knew existed. Up until then, I'd thought Cosi Fan Tutte was an Italian ice cream. This was it.

Love. I didn't understand what was happening to me. For the first time in my life I had deep, loving feelings for someone. Even better, I got the impression she felt the same. I couldn't bring myself to ask her, though; the fear of rejection was just too great.

When the Afghanistan job finished, we were on the flight home from Delhi and well into our descent to Heathrow before I plucked up enough courage to ask her the big question. I still didn't know that much about her, but it didn't matter, I didn't think she knew that much about me either.

I just really needed to be with her. I felt like a child being dropped off by a parent and not knowing if they will ever come back. Courage or desperation, I wasn't sure which, but I kept my eyes on the in-flight magazine and said, very throwaway, "We're still going to see each other, aren't we?"

The dread of rejection lifted as she said, "Of course." Then she added, "We've got to debrief."

I thought she'd misunderstood me.

"No, no ... I hoped, later on, we might be able to see each other ... you know, out of work."

Sarah looked at me, and I saw her jaw drop a fraction in disbelief. She said, "I don't think so, do you?"

She must have seen the confusion on my face.

"Come on, Nick, it's not as if we're in love with each other or anything like that. We spent a lot of time together and it was great."

I couldn't bear to look at her, so I just kept my eyes fixed on the page.

Fuck, I'd never felt so crushed. It was like going to the doctor for a routine checkup and being told I was going to have a slow, painful death.

"Look, Nick" there wasn't a hint of regret in her voice "we had a job to do and it was a success. That means it was a success for both of us.

You got what you wanted out of it, and so did I." She paused.

"Look, the more intimate we were, the more you would protect me, right? Am I right?"

I nodded. She was right. I would probably have died for her.

Before she could say another word I did what had always worked in the past, ever since childhood: I just cut away. I looked at her as if I'd just been asking her out for a drink, and said, "Oh, OK, just thought I'd ask."

I'd never been fucked off with such casual finesse. I kicked myself for even having considered that she would want to be with me. Just who the fuck did I think I was? I was definitely suffering from the dreamer's disease.

It was only a month after we'd landed at Heathrow that I left my wife.

We were just existing together, and it didn't seem right to be sleeping with her and thinking of Sarah.

When the Syria job came along I didn't know she was going to be on it.

We met for orders in London, this time in better offices Vauxhall Cross, the new home of SIS overlooking the Thames. She acted as if nothing had ever happened between us. Maybe it hadn't for her, but it had for me. I made a plan. Never again would she, or any other woman, fuck me over.

I sat up on the bed and put the lid on the shoe box. That could wait. I needed to tune in to this place and try to get a feel of it.

I went back into the kitchen, filled the coffee percolator with water and ground beans and got it going. Then I went back into the living room.

Sperm Bank--or the Sperm, as I now liked to call them--were still rattling along big time.

I slumped sideways in one of the chairs, with my back against one arm, my legs over the other. I'd found nothing at all on the first sweep. I would have to give each room a thorough going over, digging everything out. Somewhere, somehow, there could be a slight clue, a tiny hint.

Maybe. The only thing I knew for sure was that if I rushed it I wouldn't find anything.

As I looked around me my thoughts drifted. Sarah wasn't that different from me really. Everything in my life was disposable, from a toothbrush to a car. I didn't have a single possession that was more than two years old. I bought clothes for a job and threw them away once they were dirty, leaving hundreds of pounds' worth of whatever behind me because I didn't need it anymore. At least she had a photo; I didn't have any mementos of family, schooldays or the Army, not even of Kelly and me. It was something I was always going to get around to, but hadn't.

I went back to the kitchen, realizing I was thinking more about myself than her. And I wasn't looking for me. I was starting to feel quite depressed.

This was going to be a long, long job, but I had to do it by the book if it was going to work.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and went to the fridge, then remembered that the milk was only good for medical research. I couldn't find powdered creamer, so I'd have to have it black. I took the pot with me, and was walking back into the living room just as the Sperm decided to sign off. I threw myself back in one of the chairs and put my feet up again on the coffee table, sipping the hot coffee and thinking, I've got to make a start; it'll be like most things, once you get stuck in, everything's fine.

I finished the first coffee, poured another, got up and wandered over to the sideboard. I plonked the cup next to the CDs, then started to take off my Timberlands. I'd worn boots like this for years; they always seemed the thing to wear with jeans, and I always wore jeans. It felt like I hadn't taken them off for days, and it was time to let my feet and socks add to the apartment's atmosphere.

To work, then. Starting from the top, I opened the first drawer and took out a sheaf of dry-cleaning receipts, theater stubs and folded-up back copies of Time. I studied each item in turn, opening each page of every magazine to check nothing had been ripped out, scored or ringed. Had I found anything missing, I'd have had to go to a reference library and get hold of the issue to find out what was so interesting that it had been removed.

But there was nothing like that.

The second drawer was much the same, just as full of shit. The other drawers were completely empty, apart from one solitary safety pin, still stuck into yet another dry-cleaning ticket.

I was becoming bored, pissed off and very hungry. It was nearing time for my first Mickey D's of the trip. I'd just heard on the radio that McDonald's mission statement for the U.S.A. was something like that no American was ever more than six minutes away from a Big Mac. In the U.K. that would make most heroin addicts jump for joy: scales were old hat for measuring out deals; McDonald's 100-milligram spoons were absolutely perfect.

Before I went to fill my face, however, I decided to give the bookshelves the once over. I took out each book in turn, doing exactly the same as with the magazines. I got quite excited at one stage because a book on political terrorism had passages that had been underlined in pencil and notes in the margin, until I looked inside the cover and discovered it was a textbook from her university days.

It took about an hour, but I eventually got to the bottom shelf. Turning the pages of a photo-history of North Carolina, I admired the tree-covered mountains, lakes and wildlife, with bullshit blurb in the accompanying captions, "Deer drink contentedly from the pool, next to families enjoying the wonders of the great outdoors." I could almost hear Kelly groaning a "Yeah, right!"

I took a look at her other books, about Algeria, Syria and Lebanon, but they contained nothing but photograph upon photograph of mosques, cypress trees, sand and camels.

I threw them on the floor to check through later and started flicking through the atlas. Then I had second thoughts, deciding to go back to the chair with the atlas and the other three books and do the lot now. As I started a careful, page-by-page check, I found my attention drifting to the traffic in the street below, which I could just about hear through the double-glazing. But it wasn't just my hearing that was wandering. For some reason my mind kept going back to the book about North Carolina.

It usually pays to listen to that inner voice. I stopped looking at the books and just stared at the wall, trying to work out what it was that I was trying to say to myself. When I thought I understood it, I got up and went into her bedroom.

I picked up the shoe box and tipped the contents out onto the bed.

When I'd found what I was looking for it was back to the living room.

Turning the pages of the North Carolina book, I tried to match the photograph with the terrain the type of trees, the background hills, the lakeside. Nothing. The spark was soon put out. It might not necessarily have meant anything, but it might have been a start. My head was starting to hurt. It was time for that burger. I'd be back in an hour to start again. I went to my boots and pushed my feet in, tucking the laces inside, too idle to do them up.

Two minutes later I was standing waiting for the elevator, staring at my boots, when it hit me.

I ran back to the apartment door, opened up and headed for her dressing room.

Sarah must have been the Imelda Marcos of the Washington section.

She must have had about thirty pairs of shoes in all, but there were no hiking boots. All the times I'd been with her, she had always worn them when out on the ground. Like me, when it came to footwear, she was a creature of habit.

I was starting to get sparked up again. I turned and checked the rails.

Where was the Gore-Tex jacket? Where was the fleece liner? She had always worn that sort of clothing, and she had it on in the photograph.

It wasn't so much what I saw as what I didn't. Her outdoor clothing; it wasn't here.

I couldn't go to McDonald's. I had to keep thinking about this. I went into the kitchen and threw some noodles into a pan, filled it up with water and got it boiling on the stove.

I realized that was what had been bugging me. I'd known it all along but hadn't switched on, and the ironic thing was that it was Sarah who'd taught me.

She was in the middle of one of her very heated, noisy meetings. We'd been stuck in a cave for hours, the smoke from a large fire stinging my eyes and casting dark shadows in the background, just where I wanted to see the most. Two mujahedin were sitting cross-legged on the floor, wrapped in blankets and cradling their AKs. I'd never seen them at other meetings before, and they seemed out of place amongst the other three members of their group who were by the fire.

Sarah was also sitting on the floor, draped in blankets beside the fire with the other three muj. They were all drinking coffee as Sarah got more sparked up with them. The two men in the shadows started muttering between themselves and looking agitated, and eventually they pushed off their blankets and grasped their weapons. In a situation like that there are only seconds in which to make a decision to go for it or not. I did; I put my AK into the aim as I stood over Sarah.

The result was a Mexican standoff, like something out of a spaghetti western. For two or three seconds all that could be heard was the crackling of the fire. Sarah cut the silence.

"Nick, sit down. You're embarrassing me."

I was very confused as she talked to all the mujahedin. She sounded like a parent apologizing for her toddler's behavior in the playground.

Everyone looked at me and started to laugh, as if I were some sort of schoolboy who'd got it all wrong. All weapons were dropped and the talking continued. Even the two boys sitting at the back looked on me as some sort of mascot. I was expecting them to come over and ruffle my hair at any moment.

It was only when we were on our way back to Pakistan that she explained.

"There was no danger, Nick. The old guy the one we saw last month?" She smiled as she thought about the event.

"He is the only one with the power to have me killed, and he wasn't there. Those guys at the back were just showing face. Nothing was going to happen." She sounded like a teacher as she added, "It's not only what you see, Nick. Sometimes what isn't there is just as important as what is."

She might have been right that time, but in a similar situation I would still have done the same. Shame on her that she hadn't remembered her own lesson.

I sat down to work out what I wanted to say to Mickey, and the way to say it. I'd already forgotten where I'd put his card, so I got out the 3C, tapped in his name and rang his number.

"Hellooo." He was eating by the sound of it.

"Hello, mate, it's Nick."

"Oh, so soon." He sounded quite surprised. I could hear soft rock in the background and an American voice, just as camp as his, inquiring who was on the phone. His voice became distant.

"Gary, go and do something useful in the kitchen. It's the office."

Gary, it seemed, took the hint.

"Sorry about that, he is sooo nosey." I could hear drink being poured and a sip being taken.

"Michael, remember what you were saying about Sarah and Jonathan going to the middle of nowhere?"

"Uh-huh."

"Can you remember exactly where it was? I need it for the report."

He took a quick swallow.

"Yes. Falls Lake." He broke into a terrible Southern accent.

"North Carolina, y'all."

"Do you have an address, or the contact number? You did say that you had a number, remember? You used it to call her."

He laughed.

"Sarah took it off file when old Jonny boy got his comeuppance."

I had reached another dead end.

Then he added, "But I think I can remember most of the number; it was almost the same as my mother's old one. Tell you what, give me five and I'll ring you back, OK?"

"Give it three rings, put down, then ring again. I wouldn't want to pick it up and find I'm talking to her mother or anything like that.

OK?"

"Ooh, just like James Bond." He giggled.

"No problem, Nick. Talk soon, byeee."

I flicked through the book again. Falls Lake did exist, but it covered a vast area. What a dickhead! Why hadn't I asked him for more detail when he told me the story? Just as well I wasn't in the security cell.

Something was smelling bad. I jumped up and ran into the kitchen. The water had boiled away and I pulled a pan of very hot and smelly black noodles from the stove.

I couldn't be assed to clean it up, just put the pot to one side and turned the cooker off. The phone rang. I walked back into the room, counting. It stopped after three. Good news, I hoped. I let the new call ring twice before picking it up.

"Hellooo, Michael here." I could hear Gary singing to himself in the background.

"Hello, mate, any luck?"

"The last four digits are exactly the same as my mother's old number in Mill Hill. Isn't that freaky?"

I really didn't have an answer for that. I contained my eagerness.

"Oh, and what was it?"

"Double four six eight."

"Thanks, mate. You sure that's all you know?"

"

"Fraid so, Nick. I was just given the contact number. Sorry."

"No problem. I'll let you get on with your evening."

"OK. I'm here if you need me. Byeee."

I looked at my watch. It was about half-past nine--according to my body clock, 2:30 a.m.--and I was starting to feel knackered. In the absence of any noodles, it was soon going to be time to RV with Ronald McDonald, but first I had a phone call to make.

I rang a London number. A very clear female voice answered immediately.

"PIN number, please?" The tone was so precise she sounded like the speaking clock.

"Two four four two, Charlie Charlie

"Please wait." The line went dead; five seconds later the voice was back.

"Charlie-Charlie. Details, please."

I gave her the same details as Metal Mickey had given me and asked for the address. I could hear the clinking of keys as she entered the details.

She checked with me: "To confirm. North Carolina, address that ends with call number 4468, perhaps in the vicinity of Falls Lake. It should take approximately thirty minutes. Reference fifty-six, fifty-six. Goodbye."

Charlie-Charlie stands for "casual contact." The people in London can work from even the smallest amount of information, and you can inquire via the phone for speed, or ask for a written report, which would give more detail but take longer.

A phone number or car license plate can lead to you finding out almost everything there is on record about the contact, from the name of his doctor to the last time and place he used his credit card, and what it was he bought. A Charlie-Charlie was about the only perk of the job; I'd used it a few times when trying to find out about women I wanted to take out. No one ever asks what you want the information for, and it makes life easier if you know in advance what sort of social life they have, whether they're married, divorced with kids, or have a monthly champagne bill the size of an average mortgage.

All I needed this time was an address. These sorts of requests were routine, and wouldn't mean I had gone against Lynn's need-to-know policy.

I walked downstairs. I couldn't see Wayne anywhere. I got to the car, took the parking ticket off the windshield and threw it in the back. I was committed west, toward Georgetown on the one-way system. That was fine, and in fact McDonald's was right. Within five minutes I passed the big yellow arches; the only problem was that I couldn't park up anywhere.

I decided to cruise on M until I found an easier place to stop.

Dead on thirty minutes later I called London. The speaking clock was back.

"Reference please."

"Reference thirty-two, fourteen."

There was a gap as the line went dead. She was checking the reference number I'd just given her. All I had to do was subtract my PIN from her reference number. It's a quick and easy confirmation system for low-level inquiries.

She came back on line.

"I have three addresses. One .. ."

The first two locations were nowhere near Falls Lake. One was in Charlotte, another in Columbia. The next one sounded warmer.

"The Lodge, Little Lick Creek, Falls Lake. This is now a disconnected line. Do you want the zip codes and user names on any of these?"

"No, no that's fine. Thank you, that's all." I hung up. I didn't care who the disconnected line used to belong to. It wouldn't help me one bit.

As I drove, I couldn't get Falls Lake out of my head. I passed a Barnes & Noble bookshop, its neon window sign telling me it was open and selling coffee until 11 p.m. I drove on.

A 7-Eleven came to my rescue with a sandwich and coffee. I turned the car around and passed the Barnes & Noble again while filling my face. I couldn't resist it; I parked up, ditched the coffee and finished off the chicken sandwich as I fed another meter.

I went straight to the reference section and pulled out a small-scale atlas of North Carolina. I found Falls Lake and Little Lick Creek. It sounded like a commune for oral-sex fans.

North Carolina was only a short flight away. I could get down there maybe tonight, and if it turned out to be a fuckup I'd be back by tomorrow night. I got out my phone and started to make some inquiries.

I drove back to the apartment with a ticket for the 0700 from Dulles. I would still check out her bedroom and kitchen, though, just in case.

I took the exit off Airport Boulevard, following the signs for Interstate 40.

According to the map, if I kept on this highway heading east I would hit the Cliff Benson Beltline, which would take me north through Raleigh and on to the lake.

The weather was a lot warmer here than in D.C. and the clouds were dark and brooding, almost tropical. It had been raining quite heavily by the look of the large puddles that lined the road, and the sandy soil was dark with moisture.

The whole area was going through a massive rebuild. The airport itself had been having a makeover, and a new highway, not yet on the map, was under construction. On each side of me as I drove east, yellow bulldozers were going ape shit flattening everything in sight to make way for the steel skeletons of yet more buildings. From reading the local information magazine on the flight, I knew that the area was fast becoming "science city U.S.A.," with the largest concentration of biochemical, computer and technical research establishments, and PhDs per capita, in the entire U.S.A. It's amazing the stuff you'll read when you're bored shitless on a plane.

Rows of pristine, glistening, black or silver glass-fronted buildings sat on acres of manicured gardens with lakes and fountains--not at all what I had in mind for the American South after all the redneck jokes I'd heard over the years.

It took about fifteen minutes to get onto the belt line I drove clockwise heading north around the city, keeping my eyes peeled for signs for exit ten toward Falls Lake. The new money that this transformation had sucked

in was impossible to miss, with grand houses and new businesses fighting hand-to-hand with the old, and demonstrably winning. Smart new office blocks looked down on decrepit trailer parks strewn with abandoned cars and kids, both black and white, whose asses hung out of their dirty jeans, their parents fucked without the skills needed to take advantage of the new opportunity.

I got to exit ten in another ten minutes or so and headed north on Forest Road. From the map, I knew that the Falls Lake area covered about 200 square miles. It was a very long and winding waterway, with hundreds of inlets, like the coastline of Norway, just the kind of place you could disappear into.

After seven miles the road became a single carriage way Tall firs interspersed with smaller seasonal trees looming on either side. Four more miles and I reached the Falls ofNeuse and entered forest proper. The Falls was a small collection of neat little homes made of natural wood or painted white on the eastern side of the lake area. Even here, the new was winning out over the old and rubbing its nose in it. Tracts of land were being carved out of the woods to make way for "communities" of enormous mansions to house the middle classes who were streaming in for the new Gold Rush of high-tech jobs. At the entry point into each community was a small, shiny sign announcing "Carriageways" or "Fairways," and at each junction a barrage of real estate agents' signs directed buyers to even more land which was up for grabs.

I headed west on Raven Ridge, driving deeper into the forest. The new was gradually less and less evident, until it was the old that prevailed once more: dilapidated shacks with car wrecks for garden furniture, and rundown stores built of bare breeze-block, with peeling signs advertising bait and beer. I passed trailer homes that looked as if they'd just been dumped twenty or thirty meters off the road, with no paved access, just trampled ground, and no fences to mark their territory, just corrugated iron leaning around the bottom of the trailers to make them look as if they belonged.

Outside, washing hung on lines getting even wetter. Inside, probably, were the stars of the Ricki Lake or Jerry Springer shows. Fuck knows what the future held for them, but one thing was for sure: new carriage ways would be scything through here within a year or two.

The only buildings that weren't falling down or apart were the churches, of which there seemed to be one every mile along the roadside, standing very clean, bright and white. Each projected a different recruiting message on the sort of signboard that cinemas use to advertise their movies.

"You can't even write Christmas without Christ," one said, which was true but strange to see in April. Maybe they liked to think ahead.

I drove for another twenty minutes past trailers and churches, and now and then the occasional neatly tended graveyard right on the side of the road. I came across a small green sign to Little Lick Creek. It wasn't the creek itself I was after, but the point at which it entered the lake, and where one of the spurs had the same name. Going by the waterproof hunting map I'd bought, there were two buildings in that area that weren't accounted for by a symbol on the map legend, so they were probably private houses.

I turned off the tarmac and headed down a gravel road that was just wide enough for two cars to pass. There was a steep gradient on each side, and the forest seemed to be closing in, the trees here even higher and more densely packed.

A sign chiselled into a slab of gray-painted wood warned, "Firearms Strictly Prohibited." Fifty meters farther on, another said, "No Alcoholic Beverages." Soon more friendly signs welcomed me to Falls Lake, and directed me to the car parks and recreational areas and hoped I enjoyed myself but only if I kept my speed to 25 mph.

Up ahead, a motor home as big as a juggernaut was bearing down on me. I noticed a small track that obviously took wheeled traffic, because there were tire grooves worn down on each side of a wet grassy central strip, but I didn't have time to get in there. I slowed and pulled over to the side of the road, my car leaning drunkenly to the right. The Winnebago was a massive vehicle, with enough canoes and mountain bikes strapped onto its exterior to equip the U.S. Olympic team, and the family hatchback towed along behind. A wall of spray splashed onto my windshield as it passed. I didn't even get a wave of acknowledgment.

I drove for another kilometer or so through the forest before I came to a large car park. Crunching and squelching across a mixture of gravel and mud, I pulled up next to a big map in a wooden frame. Pictures around the edge displayed various indigenous birds, turtles, trees and plants, as well as the tariff for the campsite and the inevitable: "Enjoy your stay take only pictures, leave only footprints." It was possible that I would be taking pictures, but I hoped I would leave no footprints whatsoever.

Driving on for another hundred meters or so, I caught my first glimpse of Little Lick Creek. It wasn't quite the picture postcard scene I'd been expecting.

Tall ranks of firs seemed to have marched right to the lake's edge.

The water was smooth and as dark as the clouds it mirrored, like the smoked glass of a Raleigh office block. Maybe when the sun was out the area was idyllic, but just now, especially with the trees so claustrophobically close to the water, the atmosphere was more like the brooding menace of a penitentiary.

Over on the other side, 500 meters away and on higher, more undulating ground, sat two houses. They were the ones I wanted to have a look at.

A dozen or so vehicles were already in the car park, mostly clustered around a wooden boat shed on the lake's edge that had been designed to look like a fort. Canoes and rowing boats were lined up near it in the water, plus the statutory Coke machine and another selling chocolate bars.

I'd watched a documentary once that claimed that the Coca-Cola company was so powerful in the U.S. that it had even got a president into power in the 1960s. I wondered how their mission statement compared with Ronald McDonald's. It certainly seems that no matter where you are in the world you will always be able to get a Coke; I'd even been offered one by a six-year-old on a mountainside in Nepal. Out trekking with Sarah in the middle of nowhere, a kid no older than eight came along the track with a tin bucket filled with water and about six battered cans of Coke inside, trying to sell them to the walkers as they made their way up the mountain. Sarah gave him some money but refused the Coke. She had this hang-up about cultures being contaminated by the West and spent the next hour bumping her gums about it. Me? I was thirsty and just wished he'd had Diet instead of regular.

As I drove past the fort I could see that it was manned by two young lads lounging in the shadows, who didn't look as if they were coming out unless they had to.

At the far end of the car park was a picnic area with built-in grills and a wooden canopy covering the seating. A family barbecue was under way; a bit early in the season, but they were having fun anyway. Granny and Grandad, sons, daughters and grandchildren all filling their faces.

Beyond it I could see the tops of brightly colored, family-sized tents. It looked as if each pitch was surrounded by its own individual little coppice.

I turned the car through a 180, so I was facing back the way I'd come, and drove toward the toilet block. I nosey-parked between two other cars, front against the toilet block wall, back to the lake.

Picking up the binos and bird book I'd bought at the tourist shop along with my maps, I got out of the car and locked up. Straightaway I was hit by the humidity; having air conditioning in a car almost makes you forget the reason you turned it on in the first place.

Everyone seemed to be having a giggle in the barbecue area. A boom box was playing some Latino rap, and even Granny was dancing rapper style with the kids. In the car to my right were a couple of senior citizens who'd no doubt driven for hours to get here, parked up at the lake and stayed in the car to eat sandwiches with the air conditioning going full blast and their hats still on.

I wandered down toward the boat shed, keeping an eye on the spur at the other side of the creek. The larger house of the two was on the left, with a gap of maybe 100 to 120 meters between them. There was no movement around either.

I went to the Coke machine and threw in a handful of coins. I didn't really want a drink, certainly not at a dollar a go, but it gave me a chance to look around.

The two teenage lads were probably doing a school vacation job. I didn't know whether they were stoned or just bored shitless. Both were barefoot but wearing the company uniform: blue shorts and red polo shirt.

I nodded at them through the small swing doors; they'd obviously been told to be pleasant and said they hoped I had a nice day. I wasn't sure that I would.

I sat down on the wooden jetty and immediately felt the dampness soak into my jeans. To my right were a father and son, with dad trying to get his boy sparked up about fishing: "We'll only catch something if you sit very still and watch the float." The kid, in his Disney poncho, was as uninterested as the two in the boat shed--as you would be if you'd much rather be eating ice cream and playing computer games.

I was very overtly carrying the binoculars and bird book; today I was the dickhead tourist with his feet dangling over the side of the jetty, taking in the magnificent view over the water.

Half a dozen boats were moored at various points around the lake.

Through the binoculars I could see that each one held two or three very fat, middle-aged men who were dressed for trapping bears in the Yukon, their hunting vests festooned with fishing flies, their pockets bulging with all sorts of kit, and fearsome knives hanging in sheaths from their belts.

I panned with the binos along the opposite side of the spur, starting from the far right-hand side. I made out a track cutting through the trees just short of the lake on the higher ground, the one I'd stopped by to let the motor home past. It looked as if it should lead to the houses. I followed it along and, sure enough, it passed the smaller of the two. I couldn't see anything about the building that gave me any information; it was just a square, two-story, flat-roofed structure, built into the hill and with stilts holding the forward two thirds. There was a boat and a 4x4 vehicle underneath the stilted area, but no movement. Then two kids came running around from the front of the house followed by a man. They were laughing and throwing a football at each other. Happy families; I'd give that one a miss.

I put the binos down for a while, and had a look at the book. This part is all about third-party awareness, because you never know who is looking at you; they might not be saying, "Is he doing a recce of those houses over there?" but if all I did was bino at the house and didn't move or do other things, it would look pretty strange. The trick is to give the impression that whatever reason you have for being there is so straightforward no one gives you a second glance. I just hoped a fellow anorak didn't come up to me and start on some serious bird talk.

I put the book down, much more intimately acquainted with the lesser spotted something or other, and started to look at the other target. By now enough humidity had condensed on my head for droplets to run down my face, and I was starting to feel sticky and damp all over.

The second house was very much like the first, but about a third bigger and with an extra floor. It, too, was wooden and had a flat, felted roof, but its stilted area had been enclosed with plywood sheeting. Two large doors opened onto a concrete slipway that led down to the water's edge. A boat, a four-seater fiberglass job, ideal for fishing, was parked on the land, still on its trailer, nose facing down toward the water, the outboard engine toward the house.

All the curtains seemed to be closed. I couldn't see any rubbish bags outside, or towels or anything else that might indicate that the house was occupied. However, the garage doors were only three-quarters closed and the rear of a black 4x4 was protruding, which made me think that maybe there was another one inside.

I heard a groan from the two boys in red polo shirts. A man was coming toward the fort with three kids, all highly excited about hiring a canoe and already fighting about who was going to have the paddle.

I put the binos down and had a swig of Coke, which was now warm and horrible, like the weather. I binned it and got another one, then I took a walk back to the car.

The rave at the picnic area was still going strong; the kids were dancing, and the adults, beer cans in hand around the barbecue, despite the signs forbidding alcohol, were putting the world to rights. Even from this distance I could hear the loud sizzle as steaks the size of dustbin lids were dropped onto the smoking griddles.

The old couple were still in their car, her struggling to drink a can of Dr. Pepper through her false teeth, him reading the inside pages of a newspaper. Nice day out.

I could read the headline, even through the windshield. It looked as though I'd been right: the black convoy that had held me up in D.C. must have been carrying either Netanyahu or Arafat, because both boys were being welcomed to America.

I got back to the car and slowly rolled out along the gravel road to the main drag, turning left, back toward the Falls ofNeuse and the belt line I didn't follow the signs back to Raleigh, though. This time, I wanted the road to Fayetteville.

Fayette Nam, as some people in the States call it, due to its high casualty rate, is the home of the 82nd Airborne and U.S. Special Forces.

They were stationed at Fort Bragg, the only place I knew in North Carolina. About an hour south of Raleigh--or so they told me at the gas station--I'd first gone there in the mid-1980s for a joint exercise training with Delta Force, the Regiment's American counterpart.

"Deltex" was designed to further an atmosphere of cooperation between the two units, but all it did for me was induce huge amounts of envy. I could still remember being bowled over by the sheer size of the place; you could have fitted the entire town of Hereford twice over into what they called a "fort." The quantity and quality of equipment on show was beyond belief. Delta had indoor 7.62 and 5.56 shooting ranges; at Stirling Lines we had only the 9mm equivalent. We also had only one gym, while they had dozens of them, including Jacuzzis, saunas and a massive climbing wall for their Mountain Troop. No wonder we renamed the place Fort Brass. They had more helicopters in one unit than we had in the whole of the British army; come to that, there were more personnel in just that one base than in all of the British armed services put together.

Fayetteville is effectively a garrison city, with every business geared up for the military. The troops are the ones with the money and the desire to burn it. Like them, in all the times I'd been there I'd never felt the need to venture out of the city limits.

The 401 was a wide single carriage way I drove through a few small towns that would have made great locations for 1950s films or, better still,

could have done with a couple of thousand-pounders to put them out of their misery, before the area started to open up into cornfields and grassland.

Houses and small industrial units dotted the route, alongside open barns filled with tractors and other agricultural gear, and every few miles, in case people needed reminding that they were in the boonies, I came across a road kill, a mess of blood and fur as flat as a pancake in the middle of the blacktop.

I knew I was getting near when I hit the Cape Fear river. The water was about 300 meters across at this point, getting wider as it got closer to the sea, and sure enough I passed the "City of Fayetteville" sign before long and kept my eyes peeled for anything directing me to Fort Bragg.

Bragg Boulevard was a wide dual carriage way with a grass central reservation, but as I passed rows of car showrooms with new 4x4s and sports cars under miles of red, white and blue bunting, it changed back to two lanes. The buildings on either side were mainly one-story cinder block warehouses behind a shop front. Korean pawnshops and tailors jostled with Vietnamese restaurants and takeaways, representing a weird chronicle of all the conflicts the U.S.A. had ever been involved in. They just needed an Iraqi kebab stall to complete the set.

I was beginning to see the kind of outlet I'd come here to find. Neon signs and posters announced boot-shining specialists, tattoo artists and gun shops--"Test fire before you buy--we have our own range." On every sidewalk, young men and women strode around in smartly pressed BDUs (combat uniform) and very short haircuts--the men usually had a "whitewall" with a little lump on top. It felt very strange to see uniformed soldiers on the streets without a weapon and not on patrol; the terrorist situation in Europe meant that off-duty soldiers were forbidden to walk around in uniform; they'd just be ready-made targets.

I drove on base and got my bearings. American military installations aren't like European ones, which resemble World War Two prisoner-of war camps, again because of the terrorist threat. This place was open and sprawling, with vehicle pools and groups of men and women on route marches, singing cadence, their unit flag carried proudly at the head of the column.

I couldn't remember the name of the road I wanted, but I followed my nose, driving along roads with buildings on each side that looked more like smart apartments than barrack rooms. I found it--Yadkin, a long road that came out of the base and moved into the city area. There had been quite a bit of building since my last visit in the late Eighties. Roads coming off the main drag had names like Desert Storm Boulevard, or Just Cause Road. I wondered if the Firm would ever get around to naming thoroughfares after its operations--if so, they'd have to be called things like Blackmail Lane, or Stitch Them Up Big Time Street.

I carried on along Yadkin until it took me off base, past Kim's No. I Sewing, Susie J's (I wasn't too sure what service she was offering) and whole blocks of military supply shops. There was one I remembered, called U.S. Cavalry. It had been a complete department store for the start your-own-war nut, glass counters displaying sharp, pointy things, racks of BDUs, military T-shirts and combat helmets, rows and rows of boots, and shelves of posters and books with such politically correct titles as Ragnar s Big Book of Homemade Weapons and The Advanced Anarchist Arsenal: Recipes for Improvised Incendiaries and Explosives--always good for that last-minute Christmas present.

I drove past shop fronts displaying murals of airborne assaults. One had a giant poster of John Wayne in uniform in the window. After another mile I saw the store I wanted and drove into the car park. Jim's was the same size as a small super store; the front had a wooden ranch look about it, but the rest was whitewashed cinder block. The front windows looked almost cottagey from a distance, with lots of little square panes, but as you got nearer you could see the panes were just white painted bars behind the thick plate glass. And the anti-ram barriers one third of the way up the windows weren't there to tie your horse up to either. Through the foyer I could see keyboards, VCRs and rows of TV screens all showing Jerry Springer. It was to the left of all that, however, a place where there were no windows at all, that they kept what I'd come here for.

I walked onto a small verandah where a large red sign warned me, "Before entry weapons will be unloaded, actions opened and thank you for not smoking."

The inside of Jim's Gunnery was L-shaped. To my right was a pawnshop;

the rest disappeared around the corner to my left, past a counter selling magazines and sweets. Opposite was a small shop within a shop, selling jewelry. The place smelled more like a department store than a pawnshop.

It was very clean, with a polished, tiled floor.

I turned left toward a series of glass display cases, all containing pistols hundreds of them and behind them, in wall racks, rifles, with something to suit every taste, from bolt action to assault. After I picked up a wire basket, I was greeted by a very well-fed white guy in his mid-thirties, wearing a green polo shirt with Jim's logo on it, a Glock .45 in a pancake holster on his belt and a big smile.

"Hi, how are you today?"

In my bad American I replied, "I'm good, how are you?"

I wasn't worried; the transient military population made it a lot easier to get away with a dodgy accent. Besides, they'd only think I was Australian Americans always do.

"I'm good, sir. Is there anything I can do for you today?"

"Just having a look around, thanks."

He beamed.

"If you need anything, just holler."

Heading toward the weapons counter, I passed shelves stacked supermarket fashion with boxes of ammunition and everything for the hunting man, even down to Barbour jackets and shooting sticks, which surprisingly didn't look out of place.

Antimugging sprays hung from racks. I couldn't decide whether to have the CS gas or the pepper spray, so in the end I put both in my basket.

The footwear section sold camouflaged Gore-Tex boots and an assortment of Wellingtons and leather footgear. What I wanted, and eventually found, was a normal pair of high-leg assault boots, a mixture of cross trainer and boot. The Gore-Tex and go-faster boots were all well and good, but I could never really be bothered with trying to keep my feet dry. Once they were wet, which they would be tonight, that was it, I just got on with it. I didn't bother to try the boots on; it wasn't as if I were going to be tabbing for six days across the Appalachians. I got them in a size ten; I was size nine, but remembered from a very painful few days in a pair of new U.S. trainers that their sizes are one up from those in the U.K.

I went over and had a look in the weapon cabinets. There were hundreds of revolvers and semiautomatics to choose from. I could see what I wanted and waited my turn to be served.

Next to me, a woman in her early thirties had a two-year-old in a carry-rig on her back. She was being helped by one of the assistants to choose a new nylon holster for her Smith & Wesson .45 CQB, and they were also chattily discussing the pros and cons of various models. The one she was carrying was the stainless-steel version. As she was saying to the assistant, the matte-black, alloy version was lighter, but the steel one was more noticeable and therefore a better deterrent. It was a fantastic weapon, and would always have been my weapon of choice were it not for the fact that I preferred 9mm because the magazines carried more rounds. Mind you, if she needed more than the seven in the mag plus one in the chamber, she was in the shit anyway. The conversation moved back to the new holster as opposed to keeping it in her handbag.

A bit farther along, a young black guy in a blue tracksuit was being briefed on the merits of a .38 revolver over a semiautomatic.

"With this baby y'all don't even have to aim," the sales pitch went.

"Especially at the range y'all be using it at. Just point it like your finger at the center mass and it will take them down." The customer liked that; he was going to take it.

The woman had gone and the assistant came over to me.

"Hi, how can I help you today?"

It was bad accent time again.

"Can I have a look at your Tazers on the bottom shelf there?"

"Sure, no problem." The assistant was black, in his mid-twenties, and dressed in the house green shirt. He was also "carrying." It was a Sig 9mm, held in the same sort of nylon pancake holster the woman had been interested in. He bent down and pulled out the tray of Tazers.

They were selling all different types, from little handheld ones, to the sort that fire out prongs on a wire that you can use to attack someone from a five-meter range, right up to big ones that resembled police truncheons.

I was tempted by a handheld one called "Zap-Ziller the monster of stun guns!" mainly because of the slogan. There was even a picture of a dinosaur on the box that told me it packed 100,000 volts of stopping power.

I read the packaging to make sure it suited my needs: "A short blast of a quarter-second duration will startle an attacker, cause minor muscle contractions and have a repelling effect. A moderate length blast of one to four seconds can cause an attacker to fall to the ground and result in some mental confusion. It may make an assailant unwilling to continue an attack, but he will be able to get up almost immediately.

"A full charge of five seconds can immobilize an attacker, cause disorientation, loss of balance, falling to the ground and leave them weak and dazed for some minutes afterward. Note: Any blast lasting over one second is likely to cause your assailant to fall. If you do not help them down, gravity may injure them." I hoped so. They'd certainly done the business in Syria.

In the clothing area I picked out a set of woodland camo Gore-Tex, choosing one two sizes too big so it was nice and baggy. Gore-Tex had changed a lot since it was first invented by God in answer to every infantryman's prayers. In the early days it had made a rustling noise as you moved, which wasn't good if you were moving on target, and as a result we'd had to wear it under our combat clothing. But nowadays it was much more like textile than plastic.

I cruised around the aisles and filled my trolley with a few other bits and pieces I thought I'd be needing. I didn't think I'd need a weapon, but seeing them all made me feel strange about being on a job without one. It would take too long to apply for a gun legally. The U.S. laws aren't as crazy as people in Europe imagine, and I didn't want to take the risk of stealing or buying one illegally. Normally, if I knew I was going to need one, I would plan to obtain it in-country, because that meant I wouldn't have to worry when traveling on commercial flights.

If that wasn't possible, I'd put one in the diplomatic bag, along with any other special kit I needed, and then pick it up at the embassy. This wasn't happening on this job, however; the timings hadn't allowed it.

Besides, I was carrying out a PV review; what would I need a weapon for?

The hunting-bow section at the rear of the store caught my eye. Three customers in their early fifties, baseball caps on their heads and beer bellies hanging over their belts, were trying to outdo each other with their war stories. I overheard, "When I was in Da Nang there was a whole week I thought the good Lord was going to take me away ..."

I saw some crossbows that took my fancy. They were small, but I knew they were powerful. Since the U.K. government had banned handguns, the pistol clubs had had to find another sport, and many now used their ranges to fire crossbow bolts instead of pistol rounds. The club where I'd been shown how to use one was in Vauxhall, just across from the Firm's HQ.

I picked up one model and examined the optic sight and the attachment to keep spare bolts. The price tag said $340, which was all right, but the other side was disappointing: a label told me it needed a North Carolina weapons license.

The only option left to me was an ordinary bow, and I wasn't short on choice. There were racks of them to choose from, with names like Beast 4x4, Black Max and Conquest Pro. Made of carbon fiber, aluminium or composite resin, with cams that worked like gears at the end of the bow to give the bow cable more power, these modern versions of the longbow would have had Robin Hood creaming his Lincoln green.

I found one I liked the look of, the Spyder Synergy 4, proudly boasting thirty-two inches of throbbing manhood end to end, cammed and cabled up, ready to go as long as I had some arrows. I wanted the smallest ones I could find, just like the bow. Looking along the racks I worked out it was the two-footers I was after, and picked up a box of six. But that wasn't the end of it. I then had to choose the arrowhead. I went for the Rocky Mountain Assassin; it looked like Thunderbird Three with its tail fins, which were in fact razors. It also seemed to be the only one that came with ready-assembled fins.

I was quite enjoying myself at the bow mix 'n' match counter, and the next item I needed was a quiver. These, too, were cammed up and fixed onto the bow, so that everything was secure and close to hand.

I carried on and got the rest of the stuff on my mental shopping list, and with enough kit to bow-hunt until Christmas I went to the checkout. The woman with the baby was examining a necklace in the jewelry department.

She obviously hadn't liked the holster, because the stainless steel45 CQB still gleamed from her open bag on the counter.

Behind the checkout a woman in her early twenties sat bored out of her skull, apparently not that interested in the latest style of handgun or waterproofs.

Her hair was gelled to her forehead, and she didn't even look at me as she said, "Card or cash?" I couldn't keep my eyes off her fingernails.

They were two inches long and nearly curling, like Fu Manchu's, and were painted with an intricate, black and white checkerboard pattern.

I couldn't wait to describe them to Kelly.

I replied, "Cash," did the transaction, lifted my bags, put my twenty cents change into the "Candy for Kids" box and left. While I was loading the trunk of my car, the woman with the baby came out and got into a people carrier. I couldn't help but smile as I saw the stickers plastered across the back:

"This vehicle insured by Smith and Wesson."

"A proud parent of a terrific kid, sponsored by Burger King."

And, best of all: "The driver carries only $50 ... OF AMMO!"

In amongst all of these was a large silver Born-Again Christian fish sign with the word Jesus in the middle. It was just like old times, part of the crazy kaleidoscope of contradictions that made me love America so much. It was a good job I hadn't made a mistake the last time I was looking for a wagon with a fish sign on it, and climbed into this woman's vehicle.

No doubt the vehicle's insurers would have given me a greeting to remember.

There were still a few other odds and ends I needed, so I drove away from Yadkin and toward the city center--or what I thought was the center.

After ten minutes I had to stop, open the trunk and get the maps out, hoping that on one of them there might be a town plan. I worked out where I was and where I was going to: a shopping mall, the nearest one I could see. It was about a mile away.

It turned out not to be the single, contained area I'd been expecting. The main mall building looked more like the Pentagon, but clad in something like York stone, and the remaining outside shopping areas and car parks must have straddled an area of more than eight square kilometers, with traffic jams to match. The big blue sign for Wal-Mart was exactly what I wanted, and the store was part of the outer shopping area. I waited at the lights, peeled off right, and went into the car park. There was the usual lineup of stores--Hallmark Cards, post office, shoe super stores, a Lone Star steak house, then my mate, Wal-Mart.

As I got a trolley I was greeted by an elderly male welcomer with his happy face on.

"Hi, how are you today?"

I smiled back at him. He had a Wal-Mart baseball cap on that was a size too big for his head, and a T-shirt over his long-sleeved shirt that told me how happy Wal-Mart was to see me. There was an ATM machine just past the turnstile. I took the opportunity to get some more cash out on my card and off I went. The place was full of Airborne soldiers, screaming kids and stressed-out mothers.

I selected food that was both ready, and quiet, to eat. No chips or cans of fizzy drink; instead, I picked up four big tins of Spam, four large bottles of still mineral water and a bumper pack of Mars bars. Then a couple of laps around the gardening section, and I was done.

There was a little self-service cafe that I'd missed as I entered, maybe in the excitement of my welcome to Wal-Mart. After paying, I left my trolley with my new friend--it was also his job to keep an eye on them when people went to the cafe. I picked up a tray and got myself two large slices of pizza and a Coke.

As I ate I ran through my mental checklist, because I didn't have that much time left to mince around. Deciding I had everything I'd need, I finished the pizza and Coke and headed for the exit. I felt a stirring in my bowels; I couldn't find the toilet, but no matter, I'd go to a coffee shop.

However, the pangs made me think about something I'd forgotten: I went back to the pharmacy section and picked up a couple of party-size packs of Amodium.

Thinking about it, the pizza hadn't been too bad, so I went back in and bought two full-sized Four Seasons.

As always, I'd chosen the trolley with one dodgy wheel, so as soon as I was outside on the concrete I was all over the place, pushing it at a crazy angle in order to go forward. When it came to supermarket trolleys, my lucky number was zero.

I threw everything into the trunk; I'd sort it all out later. As I got behind the wheel, I got the phone out, turned it on and checked the battery level.

It was fine. All the same, I fished out the spare battery, swapped it for the one I'd just checked and then plugged it into the recharger. I was going to need both batteries full up and ready to go.

One last check of the map and I nosed out into the solid traffic.

drove out of town and back toward the lake. It had started to rain a little and I had to put the wipers on intermittent, turning them off again just before Raleigh when they started to rub on the dry windshield. Soon afterward I spotted a rest area, pulled in and got sorting.

Bending into the trunk I started to pull off the sticky-back price tags from the Gore-Tex and my other purchases, stuck two on my hand, then packed all the stuff into the hunting bergen. I made a point of putting the pruning shears in one of the little pouches on the outside, together with the string and gardening gloves, as I'd be needing them first. The gloves were a bit embarrassing as they were like dishwashing gloves with lots of little lumps on the fingers for grip, and worst of all they were yellow. I should have opened them up and checked the color. It was too late now to do anything about it; I needed to get back to the lake. All the other items, including the plastic gas container, went in the main compartment of the bergen.

All I had to do now was prepare the food. I folded the big sections of pizza in on each other and wrapped them in plastic wrap. I ripped the Mars bars out of their wrappers and wrapped them together in pairs. Then I opened the tins of Spam and also plastic wrapped the contents, and the whole lot went into the bergen. Peeling the labels from my hand, I stuck one on top of the other and then both over the small battery light on my phone. Then I went into the menu and turned off all the sound facilities.

It was then down to a good smearing of insect repellent. I didn't know if I'd need it or not, but better safe than scratching. I got back into the car and headed for the lake. The rain had died down, at least for the moment.

Flicking through the radio channels, I found myself listening to a woman who was talking about Southern females spending more time and money on their hair than those from any other area of the U.S.A.

"That's why we should buy this magical mousse that " I hit the seek button.

There was someone else explaining the reason why the weather was all screwed up: El Nino.

"We're lucky here in North Carolina, unlike the main areas hit, like Alabama; they had twisters." I hit the switch and landed on a Christian station. This one was telling me that it was God, not El Nino, who was responsible for climate changes. Apparently the good Lord was not best pleased with all our sinning and was sending us a warning.

However, the first step toward salvation might be to buy one of the channel's leather bound Holy Bibles, available for only $98.99. All major credit cards accepted.

I was back in the woods. It was just past seven o'clock and nearing last light, especially under the canopy of high trees. That was absolutely fine by me; I wanted the maximum amount of dark to get on target and sort myself out before first light, then find out whether or not she was in the house. I hoped she was, otherwise it was back to D.C. and a great big empty drawing board.

I hadn't had time to think about a good drop-off point for the car, but maybe the lake attracted families in the evenings, and the car park had looked a very likely lovers' lane. Either way it meant other vehicles and my car would blend in.

I was about half a K. short of the car park when I finally had to turn my lights on. I had a quick spin around; there were a few lights in the tent area, but only one other car, which presumably belonged to the young couple I could see having a romantic interlude under the canopy. Well, they were until my headlights hit them and they had to hold their hands up to shield their eyes.

I parked as near as possible to the barbecue area, but not so close to the young couple that I was going to have to go "Hi" when I got out. Not that they would have noticed me; from what I could see he seemed totally engrossed in trying to get his hand up her skirt, though unfortunately for him she appeared to be more interested in the food they were cooking.

Looking across the lake, I could see lights on in both houses. I was still gagging for a shit, so I decided to walk over to the toilets with my new boots and ring-lace them while I relieved myself. The weather was still warmish, and the crickets were really going for it, drowning the noise of my footsteps on the mud and wet gravel. The stars were trying to break though the clouds, and the surface of the lake was as flat as a mirror. I I' hoped it stayed that way and didn't rain.

^ The toilets were molded, all-in-one, stainless steel units, with just a handle sticking out of the wall, so nothing could be vandalized. It was hot, dark and muggy in the cubicle, the only light coming from outside the main door. Swarms of buzzing things had been waiting on the ceiling for some poor unsuspecting ass to show up on the radar. As the first two or three dived in I heard a laugh from the girl by the barbecue. Maybe he'd found his target as well.

I pulled out a few sheets of toilet paper from the container and its hard texture gave me a flashback to twenty-odd years ago, and the juvenile detention center: "Three squares only," the staff had barked.

"One up, one down, one shine."

That reminded me, I needed to bung myself up; I'd better take some Imodium. With my Timberlands in my hand and my shiny new boots on my feet, I trogged back to the car. The lovers were nowhere to be seen, but their car was still there and the barbecue was glowing. He must have scored and they'd moved somewhere more secluded; it's amazing what you can get away with if you make a woman laugh.

I opened the trunk and got out the bergen and bow, checking that I hadn't left anything I'd be needing for the job or that would compromise what was going on if the car got nicked. In went the Timberlands; I wasn't going to fuck them up, I'd only just broken them in. I opened a foil pack of Imodium and swallowed four capsules. The instructions said two, but that was a problem I'd had all my life: I never listened to advice.

Slinging the bergen, which now had the bow strapped onto it, over my right shoulder, I had a last study of the lake and the target houses to get my bearings, and set off. My plan was to follow the shore, cross the creek, then follow the shoreline again to the target that way I avoided the track.

There was too much risk of transport going up and down it, and I didn't know how aware anyone in the buildings would be. I might compromise myself before I'd even reached the target. Do it properly and then you don't have to worry about those sorts of things.

I passed the lovers' car. The windows were very steamed up, but I could see some strange movement going on inside.

A few paces farther on, nailed to the barbecue canopy, was a large sign with "warning" stamped on the top. I stopped to read it; the more information, the better.

"Caution Hikers," it said, "Hunting activities involving the use of firearms and other legal weapons may take place on the Wildlife Resources Commission Gamelands immediately adjacent to the park during hunting season." It further warned, "Please stay on the marked trail during hunting season to avoid the danger of possible serious injury or death. Wearing an item of bright-orange clothing is strongly suggested."

That was all well and good, but when was the hunting season?

I carried on and got level with the tented area, encountering a two meter-high wooden fence that seemed to surround the site. I followed it until I got to the grandly named Recycling Center, which, in fact, was three galvanized dustbins for plastic bottles, glass and aluminium cans, and clambered over. A swathe about ten yards wide had been cut into the forest from the water's edge. Tree stumps an inch or two high jutted from the sandy ground, and I kept stubbing the toe of my boots as I took the beach route.

After five minutes or so, when my night vision kicked in, the going got easier. It takes a long time to adjust to darkness. The cones in your eyes enable you to see in the daytime, giving color and perception, but they're no good at night. What takes over then are the rods on the edge of your irises. They are angled at forty-five degrees, because of the convex shape of the eye, so if you look straight at something at night you don't really see it, it's a haze. You have to look above it or around it so you can line up the rods, which will then give you a picture. It takes forty minutes or so for them to become fully effective, but you can start to see better after five.

Every now and then I could hear the clinking and clanking of people in tents doing their evening stuff; I couldn't really make out what they were saying, but I was sure it would be something along the lines of "Whose idea was it to come camping anyway?" I also heard a portable TV being tuned in, and the sound of jingles.

I was hardly behind enemy lines here, but all the time I was thinking, What if? What if I bump into someone? Answer, I'm on holiday, I'm hiking. I'd play the dickhead Brit abroad on holiday thinking he's having fun, and try to turn it to my advantage and learn as much as possible about the houses. You've always got to have a reason for being somewhere, so that if you're challenged, you won't be fumbling around trying to come up with boneheaded excuses. It also gives you a mind-set, and you can then do whatever you're doing with more confidence.

I moved off the lake shore as it petered out, and into the wood between the water and the fence. It was hardly secondary jungle; the larger trees were five or six feet apart, with smaller saplings scattered in between. It was wet and muddy, but being flat it was easy enough to negotiate.

I was just coming level with the end of the tented area when, from very close quarters, I heard a young woman's voice.

"Jimmy! Jimmy!" Before I knew it I'd stumbled on the couple from the barbecue, and from the way their clothing was rearranged, she'd forgotten what was on the barbecue entirely. It confused me; I'd thought they were in the car.

This sort of thing can go one of two ways--either they're embarrassed, so they make their excuses and move on, or if you're unlucky, the guy decides he's got to demonstrate what a big man he is.

I checked my stride and moved to the right to go around them. I tried to make it look as if I was concentrating on my footing as I passed, but without losing him from vision. He shouted, "Who the fuck are you, man?"

and it was obvious which way this one was going to go. He stopped me in my tracks with his hand on my shoulder and held me there. I had my head down in order to look confused and unthreatening, but also to protect my face in case this kicked off.

I stuttered, "I'm sorry to disturb you."

He went, "What? You some kind of sicko stalker, or what?"

"Jimmy!" The girl was trying to look as if she were brushing sand off her skirt. I couldn't see her face in the darkness, but it was obvious from her tone that she was embarrassed and wanted to get away. He had managed to pull up his Levis and fasten the top button, but there was a big gaping hole where the rest of his fly was still undone. The white of his underwear glowed in the dark and I had to try hard not to laugh.

My voice was my normal really bad American one, but at the same time trying to sound scared and submissive. I said, "Nothing like that, I'm just going to see some of the turtles." Hopefully that would be enough to make him satisfied that he was the tough guy around here, so I could move on. It would hardly square with having a bow, but I was hoping he couldn't see that, wedged between my back and the bergen.

"Turtles? Who are you, Mr. Nature from the fucking Discovery Channel?"

He liked that one; he guffawed and turned to his girlfriend for approval.

I said, "On the other side of the lake, they're making their nests. This is the only time of year they do it." Unlike your good selves, I added to myself. I carried on waffling about turtles coming onto the beach and digging and laying their eggs--something that, ironically, I had in fact learned from the Discovery Channel. Plus, my bird guidebook told me they were here.

Lover Boy laughed; honor had been satisfied. I wasn't a weirdo, just an anorak. Now he didn't really know what to do, so he laughed again.

"Turtles, man, turtles." And with that he put his arm around the girl and they walked off toward the beach.

I'd got away with it, but it was annoying that it had happened, because two people might now be able to identify me. It didn't mean anything at the moment, but if there was a drama at a later date they might remember the encounter. It could have been worse: at least he wasn't a nature fan himself.

It was nine twenty-seven and it had taken two hours and getting my trousers wet up to my ass crossing the creek, but I'd eventually got to within maybe sixty meters of the target. I was right on the lake shore, which was the only way I'd been able to get a decent view of the house because the ground was so undulating. The terrain was different here; the National Parks people hadn't cleared a swathe, and the tree line extended almost to the water's edge.

Some lights were still on on the first floor, but the curtains were drawn and I couldn't see any movement. It was a question now of finding a position that would give me cover, but with a good aperture with which to view the target. That could be achieved only by carrying out a 360degree recce of the area around the house.

I took my time, picking my feet up carefully to avoid making noise by hitting any rocks, stones or fallen branches, then slowly placing the edge of my boot down on the ground first, followed by the rest of the sole. The technique puts quite a strain on your legs, but it's the only way to have any sort of control over the noise you make.

When I reached the water's edge, I stopped after about ten meters and listened, pointing my ear toward the target and slightly opening my mouth to overcome any body-cavity noises, such as jaw movement. I couldn't hear anything apart from the lake lapping against the shore; certainly nothing from the target house. I had a look at where I wanted to go on my next bound, and started picking my way carefully over the rocks. There were still lights on in the other house as well, but I couldn't make out much detail because it was too far away. At least the rain was holding off.

I did my next move and got to within about forty meters of the house. I realized that, because the ground was up and down like a yo-yo, it was going to be very difficult to be stood off from the target and watch from any distance. Yet if I went right up on the higher ground behind, all I'd see was the roof. I couldn't site the OP (observation point) between the houses.

Kids are very inquisitive and by mid-day tomorrow they'd probably be in the OP with me, sharing my Mars bars and pizza. My options were so limited that there was no point doing a 360; it wouldn't achieve anything.

I went back down to the shore, took off the bergen and left it by a big overhanging tree. That way, even if there was a major drama, I knew I'd find it again; all I'd have to do was run down to the lake, keeping to this side of the house, turn right and I couldn't miss it. What was more, the lighter and less bulky I was, the less noise I made while I found a good hide position. For all I knew at this stage, although I hadn't seen or heard anything, there could be dogs, or even worse, geese--they're food for virtually everything that moves, so they spark up at the slightest noise; the ancient Egyptians used them as an alarm system. I learned this from living in my new house in Norfolk because the guy who lived nearest me kept geese, and the fucking things never failed to wake me up in the middle of the night. I'd had two in my oven so far. Kelly thought that I bought her favorite Sunday roast from the coop.

I went back toward the house, taking my time, moving slowly; stopping, looking at the target, looking at the area, listening, working out my next bound and then moving off again. With any OP, the closer you are to the target, the better you'll be able to observe what's going on, but the greater the chance of compromise. The farther away you are, the less chance of compromise, but you might see fuck-all. The ideal with this particular target was probably to be stood off miles away, maybe placing a remote, high-powered camera on the house and viewing it from the other side of the lake--but I didn't have the necessary optics. You have to make do with what you've got.

The sky had cleared and a few more stars were out. I could still hear the lake lapping on the shore, but there was now also a splashing as the turtles came to the surface and dived down again.

I got to within about twenty-five meters of the house. The tree line stopped and the "garden" began, an area of rough grass with tree stumps that hadn't been pulled out after creating the clearing for the house. From this position I could see the whole of one side of the target, plus the boat and the lake.

There were three floors, and beneath them a garage, with its doors still slightly open to fit the wagon. There was a light shining on the first floor, toward the lakeside, but only small cracks of light from behind the heavy curtains. I couldn't see any movement. A door was facing me on the ground floor that looked as if it went to the garage.

A light came on on the second floor. No visible movement.

A few seconds later a toilet flushed. At least there was movement inside, unless the flush was electronic and on some sort of security timer to operate every hour with the lights. I hardly thought so; in another place, yes, but not here.

I started to cast around to find somewhere to dig in before first light. I found one possible site--a bush set back a little from the tree line. It came up to about chest height and was four feet or so wide, with other, smaller bushes around it. It looked ideal, but first I'd have to check I could see the target while I was lying down in it. Anyone who has ever done OPs has horror stories of digging in under cover of darkness, only to find at first light that all they can see is mud. I got to the bush, taking care not to disturb any of the foliage, then lay down right in front and checked. I could see only the top floor, and that was no good to me.

I moved farther up the hill. The tree line curved right, bringing me no more than twenty meters from the target, which I didn't really want. I'd be Aable to hear snoring at that distance, but I also stood a good chance of being heard myself. I moved back down the hill, toward the lake.

There was one other bush, about thirty meters from the house, but this one was only about waist height. Again it was about four feet wide, but the foliage didn't seem as dense as the other one. I was running out of choices. I lay down level to where the aperture would be, and found I could see the whole shebang all three floors, the garage, the side door from the garage and the lake. I could also see the distant lights from the campsite, so I knew that in daylight I'd be able to see movement in the car park. It looked like this was going to be the one.

I got behind the bush, out of sight from the house. So far, so good. The next thing was to check that there was a mobile-phone signal. If I saw her, London would need to know. Without the mobile phone I'd have to lie concealed all day, leave at last light, and either get to a location with a decent signal or find a public call box, which would not only mean a possible compromise, but also loss of eyes on target.

I switched on the Bosch, put my hand over the backlit display and waited. I gave it a minute, keeping my eyes on the house. The toilet light had gone out now, but the first-floor one was still on. I made a tunnel over the display with my hand, pressed one of the buttons and the backlight came on again. The display showed that I had three signal bars out of a maximum four, and that was good enough for me. I turned it off again.

I sat there for another five minutes, tuning in. Somebody crossed behind the gap in the curtain. I couldn't tell if they were male or female.

The temperature had dropped a few degrees and it was starting to feel a little bit nippy now that I'd stopped moving. Not freezing, but it felt cold where sweat had trickled down my spine and where the hair on my head was wet around the edges. My jeans were still damp and felt uncomfortable, but they would dry. I stood up slowly, feeling wet clothing make contact with skin. I turned and started to move in a line directly away from the house, and as soon as I found myself in a decent dip of dead ground, I changed direction and headed straight down to the lake.

I retrieved the bergen and bow, checked that everything was done up, and carefully ran my hand around on the ground to make sure I hadn't left anything. Then I retraced my route to the OP. By now it was just before f 1^ U t 1TI 1; 1^ M U

midnight, which left me plenty of time. First light wasn't until about five o'clock in the morning.

I dropped the bergen directly behind the bush. Nothing and no one goes forward of an OP from this point on, because that's what the enemy can see.

I opened the side pocket and pulled out the pruning shears and string, hunkered down at the rear of the bush and started to cut. I felt like James pruning his roses. What I was trying to do was make a hole in the bush, as small as possible, but through which I could crawl. It's pointless just pushing a bush apart and charging inside; you'll distort the shape, make noise getting in and, once inside, make yet more noise and movement, because the bush is pressing on you. If you're going to do it, do it properly. As the first branches were cut, I tied them together with one end of the string, like a bunch of flowers. I ran out a spare couple of meters of string, cut it and put the bundle to one side.

There was no need for my nice yellow gloves after all, because it wasn't a prickly bush. But I was still glad I'd brought them. I'd never believed in being macho about building hides with my bare hands. Why scratch or cut yourself when even a minor injury can slow you down? If you've got a pair of gloves and you need them, use them. The object is to get into the bush, not to show how hard you are.

I was still mincing away, making progress into the bush, cutting slowly and deliberately so as to reduce noise and not fuck up. I didn't need to create too big a space; all I wanted was to be able to crawl inside, get up to the front of the bush, make an aperture and observe the target. I was edging my way in, pruning it piece by piece. Anything that could just be moved out of the way and not cut, I would leave, sometimes using string to hold it back; it all added to the density of foliage around me.

It Utook the best part of an hour to tunnel my way in, and I had about six inches of movement area around me and about a foot of bush in front.

Now it was a matter of rigging up the rest of the OP.

I wriggled back out, unloaded some stuff from the bergen and pushed them into the hide. First out was the digital camera, with its small tripod and cable release. I crawled inside and rigged it up.

Next was the hunter's individual camouflage net that I'd got at Wars R Us. I got on my back, put the camouflage over the front of my chest, and tthen started to shuffle into the hide. Once in, I pushed the net gently against the bush so it snagged, tying it with string where necessary. By the time I'd finished I had created a snug little tunnel. The aim of the cam net was to give the bush more density; without it, if direct sunlight came into the bush the gap would be glaringly evident. If I hadn't found a cam net, a dark green blanket would have done just as well.

The most annoying thing about building an OP at night is that you can't check it, so it's all down to practice and experience. After my check at first light, I wouldn't be able to move from the hide, and if it hadn't been done right, there wouldn't be a second chance. I'd been doing this shit since 1976 when I first joined the infantry, so I'd got it down to a fine art by now. All you've got to do is have patience and know the techniques and have the aptitude to lie there for days, sometimes weeks, on end, just waiting for five seconds of exposure of a target. Some people defined this aptitude as self-discipline; me, I saw it as being just too idle to do anything else.

lery slowly and deliberately, trying not to take labored breaths and i make noise, I started to lift the rest of the stuff I'd be needing out of the bergen. I would normally keep everything there, but being so close to the target, I wanted to cut down movement. I placed the pizzas and the rest of the food into the side of the bush and covered them with the sandy soil to try and hide the smell from animals and insects, and to prevent the plastic wrap from reflecting shine--not that there was likely to be too much of that tomorrow if this weather continued. The phone, the 3C, the passport and any other essentials would go in my pockets if I had to run; it was just like being a soldier again and keeping belt kit on. Finally, I pushed the bergen inside the OP.

I carefully put on the Gore-Tex, then got on my knees and felt around on the ground with my hands, both to check there was nothing left lying exposed, and to smooth out any sign I had made. The final check was that my pockets were done up and the kit was secure inside them. Only then did I crawl into the hide, and start pulling in behind me the bouquet of branches that made up the bung. I was now sealed in.

For two or three minutes I lay still, listening and tuning in to my new surroundings. There was no noise from either of the houses, and the light was off in the target house; all I could hear was the lapping of water. The turtles seemed to have gone to bed. I waited for another couple of minutes, and then it was time to sort myself out, to make sure everything was in place, and make minor adjustments. Moving more stones and damp sand from under me, I built it up around my sides, slowly digging a shallow grave to conceal myself even more. Once past the first couple of wet inches, the ground was quite easy to move.

I got my wrist in front of my face and had a look at Baby-G. It was just after 2 a.m." which meant I had about three hours until first light. Whenever there's a lull in the battle, you should eat or sleep, because you never know when you'll next have a chance for either. I decided to get my head down; the light would wake me up, and so would any movement. After all, I could hear them flush the toilet from here; if I was any closer I'd be able to wipe their asses for them.

I lay on my front and closed my eyes, but it wasn't working. The only stone I hadn't moved seemed to be against my hip. I shifted it, only for another one to rise to the surface and replace it. I got reasonably snug inside the Gore-Tex, which was acting as a kind of sleeping bag, but the ground at this time of the morning feels like ice and you find yourself thinking, What the fuck am I doing here? And even if the weather isn't bad you still get cold. Total inactivity means your body isn't generating warmth, and you become a lizard who needs sunlight. You brood about the fact that, as well as the cold, it's bound to rain soon, otherwise it wouldn't be an OP.

Sometimes the wait pays off and you forget about all the discomfort, but I had lain in hides for days on end, wet and freezing, only to find fuck-all.

I started to laugh to myself, thinking about an operator called Lucas.

We were tasked to OP a meeting point on the Polish border with Germany.

It was a farm complex, where weapons-grade plutonium was being traded for heroin by Russians. The plan was to fuck up the meet and get hold of the plutonium. Lucas was a keen diver, and the scheme he came up with was to get into dry bag (military slang for a waterproof diving suit) and bury himself in the mountain of horse manure by the house. He lived there for four days. The meet never took place and it took a week to get the smell off him--mainly because, instead of telling him to lift off straightaway, we left him simmering in the heap for a bonus forty-eight hours.

When I woke up it must have been just before 5 a.m." as I could just see first light coming up. As soon as I could see outside properly, it was time for me to move out and check. Not that anyone finding anything was

going to say, "Oh, look, there's an OP," but if it's an attractive item, someone could come over to pick it up, then they're right on top of you and the chance of compromise is big time. I slowly pushed the bung out with my feet and, lifting myself on my elbows and toes, eased out backward.

I could see a couple of footprints left from my clean-up in the dark, so I pushed myself out a little bit more and used the bung to brush them away.

While I was doing that I looked at the bush itself. It was looking all right;

I was quite proud of my handiwork.

I started to inch myself very slowly in again, feet first this time, carefully pulling the bung into the entry point. I then rolled some of the cam net around the base of the bung and tucked it in as if I were tucking a child in for the night. Then I got into the center of the little grave I'd dug, curled up and turned myself around, being careful not to create movement in the bush. I didn't know what the targets were doing; they could be up there, standing at the window, taking in the view of dawn over the lake, only to see a bush mysteriously shaking .. .

The next priority was to check the camera, since the only reason I was in this hole at all was to see if Sarah was here, and then confirm it to London photographically. Lynn and Elizabeth took nothing at face value, and they certainly weren't going to trust me.

It was now just light enough to see through the viewfinder. I made a small hole in the cam net facing the target. It didn't have to be the same size as the lens; as long as light was getting into the center of the lens it could be as small as a pencil prick. I positioned the lens at the hole this was now the aperture and focused it exactly on the area around the garage and the side door. It looked the natural way in and out. If there was movement, I wouldn't have to fuck about positioning the camera, all I'd have to do was press the cable release. Not only would it cut down on movement, which would mean less noise, but I could look at whoever was moving and ID them, instead of trying to focus a lens.

Once done, I put sand and stones around the tripod to keep it stable. A final check that the cam net wasn't obstructing the lens, then I made sure that the cable release was on correctly.

It was time to have something to eat and drink before the fun started. I opened one of the mineral-water bottles and took a few gulps even though I wasn't really thirsty. I wasn't particularly hungry, either, but I munched my way through a slab of luncheon meat, all the time keeping my eyes on the target.

Once I'd finished with the plastic from the Spam, I wrapped it in a ball and covered it with soil. The last thing I wanted was a swarm of insects hovering over my OP like a big pointing hand. After eating and drinking, there were other bodily functions that might need attending to, but hopefully the Imodium was going to do its stuff.

I was lying on my stomach with the camera just above my head and to the left, staring at the target with the cable release in one hand. My hands were crossed in front of me and my chin was on my forearms, and that was it: there was nothing else to do except look and listen. I'd always found it mind-numbingly boring, but I knew that sod's law dictated that any exposure of Sarah would last for no 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.