I twisted myself to inspect the rash on my lower back, which was now incredibly sore. It was livid and lumpy, and about the size of my outspread hand. I'd probably got the good news from a family of chiggers while lying in the leaf litter. The tiny mites would have burrowed into my skin as I lay there watching the house, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it except play host for the next few days until they got bored with me and died. I scratched gently around the edge of the rash, knowing I shouldn't but I couldn't stop myself.

The bruising on the left side of my chest had come on nicely since Sunday afternoon, and my ribs burned even when I reached out to undo the hose sprinkler.

I soaked the sweatshirt material with lukewarm water to try to soften up the clotting, then, holding the hose over my head, I counted off my sixty seconds.

Closing off the flow, I lathered myself down with the flowery-smelling soap and rubbed shampoo into my hair. When the water had had enough time to do its stuff with the dressing, I bent down and untied the sweatshirt, trying to peel it away gently.

My vision blurred. I was feeling dizzy again. What the f.u.c.k was happening to me?

I sat down on the rough concrete and rested my back against the cool metal. I'd been making excuses by telling myself that all this s.h.i.t was because I was knackered. But I had been knackered all my life. No, this was going on in my head. I'd been so busy feeling sorry for myself, I hadn't even given serious thought to how I was going to get the job done yet, and had lost a whole day of preparation. I could have been on the ground by now.

I gave myself a good talking to: Get a grip ... The mission, the mission, nothing matters except the mission, I must get mission-orientated, nothing else matters.

TWENTY-ONE.

The flesh refused point blank to unstick itself from the material. They'd been mates for too many hours now and just didn't want to be parted. I ripped it away like a sticking plaster, and immediately wished that I hadn't: the pain was outrageous, and that was before the soapy lather started running into the raw, red, messy wound.

"f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k!" I couldn't help myself.

As I gritted my teeth and rubbed soap into the gash to clear out the c.r.a.p, there was a noise from the sink area. I poked my newly switched-on head out to say thanks '<49' to="" carrie="" for="" the="" clothes="" and="" towel,="" but="" it="" wasn't="" her,="" it="" was="" luz="" at="" least,="" i="" presumed="" it="" was.="" she="" was="" dressed="" in="" a="" blue,="" rather="" worn-looking="" long="" tshirt="" style="" nightgown,="" and="" had="" the="" wildest="" black="" curly="" hair="" i'd="" ever="" seen,="" like="" scary="" spice="" plugged="" into="" the="" mains.="" near="" her="" on="" the="" drainer="" was="" a="" pile="" of="" khaki="" coloured="" clothes="" and="" a="" blue="" striped="" towel.="" she="" stood="" there,="" staring="" at="" me="" with="" big="" dark="" eyes="" above="" high,="" p.r.o.nounced="" latin="" cheekbones="" and="" not="" a="" teenage="" zit="" in="" sight.="" she="" was="" going="" to="" be="" a="" very="" beautiful="" woman="" one="" day,="" but="" not="" just="">

Sticking out of her nightgown was a pair of lanky legs, skinny as shaved pencils, the shins covered with tomboy bruises.

She looked at me, not scared or embarra.s.sed, just interested at the sight of a soapy version of Darth Maul sticking out from behind the shower curtain.

"Hold."

That sort of Spanish I understood.

"Oh, hola. You're Luz?"

She nodded, trying to work me out, or maybe she just found the accent strange.

"My mom told me to bring you these." She spoke American, tinged with a hint of Spanish.

Thank you very much. I'm Nick nice to meet you, Luz."

She nodded "See you' and left, going the long way round so as not to pa.s.s the shower.

I got back to business. The wound was about four inches long and maybe an inch deep, but at least it was a clean cut.

The soap and shampoo were starting to cake on me now as I stood and got to grips with the mission, and myself. Letting loose with the hose, I rinsed off for my allotted sixty seconds, having a p.i.s.s at the same time, and the smell was bad.

My urine was a horrible dark yellow, which meant I was very dehydrated. I supposed that might account for the dizziness.

I towelled myself dry in the open air, then got dressed in Aaron's clothes, khaki cotton trousers with two map pockets either side, and a very old, full sleeved faded grey T-shirt, telling the world, "Just do it." The trousers were a few inches too big around the waist, but a couple of twists of the waistband tightened them up. The trouser pockets had good Velcro seals, so I put my wallet, pa.s.sport and air ticket, still in their plastic bags, in the right-hand one.

After slicking back my hair I attacked the D hose, sucking at the bitter-tasting water, then stopped for a while to catch my breath as I felt my stomach swell with the much-needed warm fluid.

The next thing I did was take my Leatherman out of its case to wash off Diego's blood, then put it into my pocket. After another big water-sucking session, I hung the wet towel on the line like a good boy. With my old clothes rolled in a ball in my left hand and my Timberlands in the right, I walked back round to the storeroom, picked up the medical kit and satellite picture, then, after crawling about under the cot, Diego's wallet, and sat outside on the foundations again.

Looking at the sat image I could clearly see the road from Charlie's house down to the gate, wagons parked, diesel fumes belching from a JCB as it dragged a tree stump out of the ground, bodies lazing by the pool. This was good stuff, but told me nothing I didn't already know. I'd been hoping for maybe a covered approach route from the rear or something that would spark off an idea.

I found antibiotic powder in a little puff bottle and gave my wound a good dousing, then applied a gauze dressing and secured it with a crepe bandage, realizing, as I saw the dihy-drocodeine bottle, that my headache had gone.

Carrie hadn't provided any socks or underpants, so I just had to let my boys hang free and put my own socks back on. They were the consistency of cardboard, but at least they were dry now. I pulled on my boots, rubbed antihistamine cream over the small of my back and the lumps on my face, then packed everything back into the case. I found two safety-pins to secure the map pocket, and took the suitcase back to the storeroom. I dumped all my old kit under the cot and rummaged about for matches, then gouged a hole in the earth with the heel of my Timberland, and emptied the contents of Diego's wallet into it, less the $38.1 watched his picture ID and family photo curl and turn black as I thought about what I was going to do with Michael.

I didn't have that many options to consider. It was going to have to be a shoot.

Nothing else would work with such little time, information and kit: at three hundred-ish metres, and with even a half-decent weapon, I should be able to drop him. No fancy tip-of-an-ear stuff, just going for the centre ma.s.s of his trunk.

Once he was down and static I could get another few rounds into him to make sure. If my only chance at dropping him presented itself as he got into a vehicle leaving for or returning from college, then I was going to have to take the shot pretty sharpish.

Afterwards, I'd stay in the jungle until Sunday, keeping out of the way before popping out and getting myself to the airport. Even if I didn't find an opportunity until last light tomorrow, I could still be at Josh's by Tuesday. As for the possibility of not seeing the target at all, I didn't want to go there.

After pushing mud over the little pile of ash, I headed for the kitchen, keeping the antihistamine with me. I threw the wallet on to the back of a shelf as I pa.s.sed through the storeroom.

The fans in the living area were turning noisily, whipping up a bit of a breeze.

Carrie was at the cooker with her back turned; Luz was sitting at the table, eating porridge and peeling an orange. She was dressed like her mother now, in green cargos and T-shirt.

I put on my cheerful voice again and gave a general, "h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo."

Carrie turned and smiled.

"Oh, h.e.l.lo." She didn't look at all embarra.s.sed about last night as she pointed at me with a porridge-covered spoon, but said to Luz, This is Nick."

Luz's voice was confident and polite: "Hi, Nick."

Thanks again for bringing me the clothes' was answered with a routine 'You're welcome."

Carrie ladled porridge into a white bowl and I hoped it was for me.

"Sit down.

Coffee?"

I did as I was told.

"Please." By the time I'd pulled up my chair, the porridge and a spoon were on the table in front of me. A bunch of four bananas was next, and she tapped the top of a green jug in the centre of the table. Milk.

Powdered, but you get used to it."

Carrie turned her back to me and made coffee. Luz and I sat facing each other, eating.

"Luz, why don't you tell Nick how we do things? After all, that's what he's here to find out. Tell him about the new power system."

Her face lit up with a smile that revealed a row of crooked white teeth in a brace.

"We have a generator, of course," she said earnestly, looking me in the one and a half eyes she could see.

"It gives power to the house, and also charges two new banks of batteries linked together in parallel. That's for emergencies and to keep the generator noise down at night." She giggled.

"Mom goes totally postal if the generator is left on late."

I laughed, though not as much as Luz as she tried to drink some milk. Carrie joined us with two steaming mugs of coffee.

"It's not that funny."

"Then why has milk come through my nose?"

"Luz! We have a guest!" As she poured milk into her mug and pa.s.sed the jug over to me, her eyes were fixed on Luz with a look of such love and indulgence that it made me feel uncomfortable.

I nodded at the cooker.

"So you have gas as well?"

"For sure." Luz carried on with her lecture.

"It's bottled. It comes by helicopter with the other stuff, every fifth Thursday." She looked at her mother for confirmation. Carrie nodded.

"The university hires a helicopter for deliveries to the six research stations in-country."

I looked as interested as I could, given that what I really wanted to discuss was how to get my hands on the rifle I'd seen on the wall, and to see if it was any good for what I had in mind. I peeled a banana, wishing that I'd had a resupply every fifth week during my stays in the jungle over the years.

Luz was just finishing her food as Carrie checked the clock by the sink.

"You know what? Just leave your plate on the side and go and log on. You don't want to keep Grandpa waiting." Luz nodded with delight, got up with her plate, and put it down next to the sink before disappearing into the computer room.

Carrie took another sip of coffee, then called out, Tell Grandpa I'll say h.e.l.lo in a minute."

A voice drifted back from inside the computer room.

"Sure."

Carrie pointed at the hug pictures on the fridge door and one in particular, the guy in a polo shirt with grey-sided black hair, holding hands with Luz on the veranda.

"My father, George he teaches her math."

"Who are the ones holding the babies?"

She turned back and looked at the fading picture.

"Oh, that's also my father, he's holding me we're on the far right. It's my favourite."

"Who are the ones with you?"

Luz stuck her head round the corner, looking and sounding worried.

"Mom, the locks picture has closed down."

That's OK, darling, I know."

"But, Mom, you said it must always be-' Carrie was sharp with her.

"I know, baby, I've just changed my mind, OK?"

"Oh, OK." Luz retreated, looking confused.

"We home-school everything else here. This keeps her in contact with her grandfather, they're real close."

I shrugged.

"Sounds good," I said, really not that fussed she hadn't answered my question. There were more important things on my mind. It was time to cut to the last page. Is that rifle in the bedroom in working order?"

'You don't miss much, do you, fever man? Of course ... why?"

"For protection. We can call your handler for one, it's not a problem. It's just that I haven't got much time and I want to get going as soon as I can."

She rested her arms on the table.

"Do you people never feel secure without a weapon?"

Those intense green eyes burnt into me, demanding an answer. Problem was, I reckoned her question was more complicated than it seemed.

"It's always better to be safe than sorry that's why you have it, isn't it?

Besides, Charlie's no Mr. Nice."

She stood up and walked towards her bedroom, "For sure, like death but if he catches you doing whatever it is you're going to do, you'll need more than an old rifle."

She disappeared behind the door. From this side of the room I could see the foot of the bed and the opposite wall. It was covered with photographs, both old and new, smiling adults and children doing more family love-fest stuff. I could hear working parts moving back and forth, and the c.h.i.n.k of bra.s.s rounds as they fell on to each other. I supposed you'd have it loaded and ready to go, otherwise why have it on the bedroom wall?

She reappeared with a bolt-action rifle in one hand, and a tin box with webbing handles in the other. It didn't have a lid, and I could see cardboard boxes of ammunition.

My eyes were drawn to the weapon. It was a very old-style piece of kit indeed, with the wooden furniture stretching from the b.u.t.t all the way along the quite lengthy barrel to just short of the muzzle.

She put it down on the table. It's a Mosin Nagant. My father took it from the body of a North Vietnamese sniper during the war."

I knew about this weapon: it was a cla.s.sic.

Before pa.s.sing it across, she turned it to present the opened bolt and show me that the chamber and magazine were clear. I was impressed, which must have been plain to see.