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  The pilot was loitering in the corridor when she came out, her hair still damp. “Come on,” she said. “We have to move.”

  “Let me get that jacket and I’ll follow you out.”

  Flora took a clean raincoat and a fresh scarf from the hallway, opened the door, and stepped out into the vestibule. There was a movement in the shadows behind her, and a hand reached out and grabbed her arm. Flora screamed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Captain Smith sat back in his chair and read the text message aloud: “I have something you are looking for. I will exchange it in return for safe passage overseas for myself and my brother. I want foreign media to witness the exchange to guarantee that all promises are kept. I will contact you again when I am ready.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Colonel White. “What the hell is it supposed to mean?”

  Captain Smith tapped his fingers on the edge of the drone console, frowning. “The text itself is clear enough. The girl either has the washing machine or knows where it is and wants to trade. It’s the picture she’s attached to the message that’s confusing me. I have no idea who this guy is.” He puzzled over the picture displayed on his phone. It showed a stooped and slightly stocky young man in jeans and an old sweater hugging himself against a background of burned wreckage. Smith zoomed in on the image, peered closer, then turned to the colonel. “That mess in the background would seem to be the press Land Rover that you took out last night. So even if we don’t know who this man is, we know where he was when this picture was taken. Do you recognize him, Colonel?”

  White studied the face for several seconds. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

  “Okay, then let’s run his picture through the biometric database.” Smith forwarded the text message to his own e-mail account, opened the biometric application on his laptop and fed the photograph into it.

  “Ah,” he said after a few seconds. “Now this really is interesting. The face in this picture is not registered in our database of Easy residents. Nor does it belong to any of the journalists and aid workers we’ve previously admitted to any of our terrorist enclaves—we take their DNA and full biometrics on their way back out, when we do the full body scan and cavity checks. Which means that whoever this man is, he’s not from the Embargoed Zone, nor has he gone there with our permission.”

  “But that can only mean? . . . ”

  “That’s right, Colonel: this man is a foreign infiltrator. And in light of what we’ve learned elsewhere in the past day or two, there can only be one conclusion: this is the face of an Iranian agent!”

  “Dear God!” The colonel leaned forward to stare at the screen. “After all these years talking about it, we’ve actually found one! How do you think he got into the Embargoed Zone, past all our layers of security? Frogman suit? HALO jump? Miniature submarine? I know for a fact that the smugglers would never let him in: they’re under strict instructions about what they can and can’t bring into the Embargoed Zone—no proper antitank weapons, no antiaircraft missiles, no outside activists, and above all, no foreign agents.”

  “I don’t know how he got there,” pondered Smith. “He’s a clever one, your Johnny Farsee. But all we need to know right now is that he did get in there, and that having done so he can probably get out again. And he’s clearly on the trail of that washing machine.”

  “Oh, God!” The colonel covered his face with his hands.

  “Now now, sir. There’s no need for panic. The girl is offering to sell him to us. All we have to do is agree to whatever terms she asks and then go and fetch him. After Daddy Jesus has had a chat with him, I’m sure he’ll be happy to give up the washing machine if he has it already.”

  The colonel looked aghast. “But we can’t give her what she wants! Safe passage, yes; asylum, just maybe; but media witnesses to guarantee the handover? That would blow the whole thing wide open! Even if we got the washing machine back, we’d still be court-martialed for running a rogue operation. And for screwing it up, which is even worse!”

  Smith glanced heavenward. “You really aren’t cut out for this sort of work, are you, Colonel? Listen: we can agree any terms we like with the girl, because we don’t have to honor them. All we have to do is string her along until she shows her full hand, and then we’ll know how to cheat her.”

  An idea blundered across the colonel’s face, unfamiliar terrain. “Perhaps you could offer to put them in the program.”

  “Exactly, sir—now you’re getting it! I could put them in the program . . . . Though not unless I really have to: I prefer to throw back the little ones whenever I can. Perhaps I’m a little too sentimental. Now let’s get a bite to eat. There’s nothing for us to do now but wait for her next move.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Flora screamed and jumped away from her assailant, but his grasping arm dragged both of them off balance. She fell, sliding on the wet floor. There was a dull thud against the wall of the vestibule, and Flora saw her attacker stagger, clutching his head in both hands.

  “Oww!” the man grunted through clenched teeth. He took one hand away from his head to steady himself against the wall, and Flora, scrambling to her feet, saw that he was quite bald. He was also positioned between her and the apartment door. Flattening herself against the wall, she inched away from him, working to improve her angle for a dash across the vestibule to the safety of the street.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, hearing her voice waver. “What are you doing here?”

  The intruder swore again, rubbing his head, then turned to squint at her. “I was just about to knock! And then you frightened me by opening the door all of a sudden, and I tripped over my armor.” He pointed to a heavy bag that sat on the floor.

  He took a step toward her. The angles had changed again. Flora slid back along the wall the way she had come, toward the door of her apartment. It was, she saw, still slightly ajar. “Who are you?” she demanded again. “What do you want from me?”

  A funny look came over the stranger’s face, an ugly combination of nervousness and excitement. He recognizes me, thought Flora. She slid closer to the door, and the stranger took another step toward her. He was very big.

  “I’ve come to have a little talk with you,” he said, showing her his teeth. “Let’s go inside, shall we, for some privacy.”

  “Get out!” she screamed, and darted back through her door. Turning fast, she tried to slam it, but a huge foot clad in some kind of nylon and leather hiking boot shot between the door and the frame. The stranger swore, and the door heaved, hurling Flora back into the hallway. She fled toward the kitchen; if she could only make it into the backyard, she might find some neighbors there to rescue her.

  She reached the angle of the corridor, skidding into the wall, and tried to accelerate away again. But her old sneakers, worn smooth, slipped on the tiles, and pain seared the sore half of her body as she crashed to the floor again. There was the clump of boots, and she screamed again as she felt the stranger’s hands on her.

  “Now you hold it right there!” he shouted, pulling her back toward him. “I know what you’ve been up to!”

  “Let me go!” She struggled, feeling his grip tighten, his breath hot on the back of her neck, his feet shuffling behind her, gaining leverage, and then there was another flurry of movement and the stranger screamed and jerked away from her. She tore free of his grasp and escaped down the hallway.

  “You hit me!” she heard him shout as she skidded into the kitchen. There was a thud. “Ow! You hit me again! Ow! Stop doing that, please! For the love of God, that thing might go off!”

  Flora’s feet faltered. She came to a stop in the yard, just outside the back door. “Oh,” she said, and turned and went slowly back through the kitchen.

  Her attacker was on his knees in the dimly lit hallway, cringing sideways against the wall, his arms raised to protect his head. The pilot was standing over him, grunting strangely and jabbing the stranger’s ribs with the muzzle of his rifle. The s
tranger saw Flora and raised a hand imploringly. There was blood trickling from his shaved scalp.

  “For God’s sake, tell him to stop!” he pleaded. “Ow! Please, tell me what you want me to do, anything at all, but don’t kill me! Ow!”

  Flora closed her eyes wearily. “Oh . . . yeah, right. Look, my brother doesn’t say much—he’s simple. But he does everything I tell him. And if you don’t go away right now, I’m going to tell him to shoot you. In fact, I’m now giving you thirty seconds to start running, and after that we’re coming after you.”

  The stranger scrambled to his feet and fled down the corridor. The pilot stood back and whooped in triumph. The front door slammed behind the fleeing man, and Flora hurled herself at the pilot and ripped the rifle from his hands.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she shrieked, punching him in the chest. “You could have ruined everything if he’d worked out who you are! And where did you find that gun? There’s a good reason why I hid it, you know. Or are you really mentally defective?” Her rage was shaking her.

  “Hey! I saved your life, or something. And it’s your fault that I found the gun. Or did you really think that the last place anyone would look for it was under the bed? I dropped my jacket on the floor, and when I went to pick it up, there was the gun, looking back at me. And lucky for you, too!”

  “I’d have talked my way out of this.”

  “Bullshit! Did you see that guy? He had evil and stupid written all over him. I think your wit would have been wasted on him.”

  They stood there, glaring at each other. Flora was suddenly aware that she was still holding the little carbine by its muzzle. With a jerk of her arm, she tossed it into her father’s workshop. It clattered against the wall and slid down behind a refrigerator.

  “We have to go right now. Out the back. That thug might have some friends with him.”

  The pilot followed her down the hallway. “Who was he?”

  “He must have been one of Cobra’s goons. Cobra threatened to get me.”

  “Who’s Cobra?” They passed through the kitchen and into the yard.

  Flora felt the cold returning to her. “You don’t need to know.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The donkey was tired and fractious from its escapade the night before, and no amount of beating could persuade it to cross the carpet of wet acid soot around the dead Land Rover. Cobra was forced to dismount and lead it through a gap in the rampart of mangled cars. Once off the road, the donkey dug its heels in and refused to move any farther. Cobra gripped its bridle close in case it tried to bite him again and pulled its eyes level with his own.

  “Listen, you big-eared fuck, I’ve had enough of your ass dragging. So guess what—you’ve just volunteered for my next little mission to the wall!”

  The donkey twitched its ears contemptuously.

  Cobra’s whip had just completed its backswing when there was a scuffle of running boots. A man came hurtling out of Flora’s apartment building and made blindly for the gap where Cobra’s cart was stranded. His flying knees caught the rim of its frame, and he tumbled facedown onto its wooden bed, screaming with pain, then spun off to lie in the road. Cobra watched as the stranger rolled from one side to the other, clutching both knees and moaning in agony. He was, Cobra noted with interest, expensively dressed. He was also bleeding from a small cut on his bald head.

  Cobra touched the stranger on the shoulder. “Hey, mister,” he said, putting on a smile, “are you all right?”

  The stranger squinted up at him. “Please,” he begged, “get me out of here! I’ll pay whatever you like!”

  “Pay? What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

  The stranger tried to struggle upright, but his feet slipped in the dirt. “Please, help me get away from here. They’re going to kill me! They have a gun!”

  Cobra backed away from the stranger, looking worriedly around. “A gun? Who?”

  The stranger grabbed Cobra’s hand. “That terrorist bitch back there and her retarded brother! They assaulted me! I’ve got to get out of here before they come after me! Help me escape and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Cobra knew of no one on that street who matched the stranger’s description, and he knew all the operators in Hilltown. He also knew an opportunity when he saw it. “How much worth my while?”

  “Two hundred euros.”

  “Five hundred.”

  “Fine. But for the love of God, let’s go!”

  Cobra studied the stranger’s boots. They looked rather like army boots, only much more upmarket. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Tell you what. If you don’t want them to see you, why don’t you hide under that tarpaulin on the back of my cart.”

  The stranger hurled himself onto the cart and pulled the blue plastic tarpaulin over himself. Cobra tugged and kicked his donkey around until it was facing back down the hill. There was no hurry; he needed time to think. Should he merely rob this idiot and let him go, or would it be better to shoot him first? He took up his whip and climbed back onto the driver’s seat. All things considered, he decided, a bullet would be best: the stranger was very much bigger than him and clearly insane.

  Axles squealing, the cart started back down the hill, the donkey propelled despite itself by the weight of the cart behind it. Cobra heard the tarpaulin rustle.

  “Are they coming after us?” whispered the stranger. “Can you see them yet?”

  Cobra, who was lighting a cigarette, glanced back up the street. It was quite clear. “Er, yeah. They’re back there, all right, looking around the place. They have a gun, like you said. You’d best stay hidden under there until I say it’s okay for you to come out. Don’t worry: I’ll take care of you.”

  He heard a shuddering sigh under the tarpaulin. “Thank you,” whispered the stranger.

  “Believe me, you’re welcome.”

  They turned a corner and drove on northward for a spell until they reached the disused repair shop where Cobra had his place of business. It was deserted, the metal doors open on the black space within. Cobra wheeled the cart smartly inside and reined in the donkey. “Just make sure you stay hidden,” he told the tarpaulin urgently. “They’re not far behind us!”

  “Oh, God!” There was a crackle of agitated plastic. They had stopped in a dark corner of the loading bay, beside the heap of old fertilizer bags. The donkey snuffled and stamped its hooves, the echoes dancing on the concrete.

  “Hey,” whispered the stranger. “It sounds like we’re inside now. What’s going on?”

  “It’s a ruse—I’m trying to shake them off,” whispered Cobra, dismounting. He took the pistol from the waistband of his trousers and glanced around. A couple of metal pipes, future mortar tubes, leaned against a nearby wall. Cobra reached with his right foot and kicked the lower ends of the pipes away from the wall so that they fell, clattering and clanging, onto the bare concrete floor. As they did so, he worked the noisy slide on his pistol, coughing loudly for good measure, then gently slipped the hammer forward with his thumb.

  The tarpaulin twitched and yelped when the pipes fell, but the stranger said nothing. Cobra took a step closer. “Hey,” he whispered, “they’re almost here. You need to roll yourself up tight in that tarpaulin like a carpet so that none of you sticks out.”

  He waited while the stranger rearranged himself into an easily disposable, drip-free package, then raised his pistol to take aim. And then it occurred to him that he didn’t know at which end of the package the stranger’s head was to be found.

  “Hey,” Cobra whispered again. “Just lie totally still. So, uh—I didn’t catch your name—why do you think these terrorists are after you?”

  The tarpaulin trembled. “Oh, God . . . I can’t tell you my name.” Cobra shrugged, raised his pistol, and took aim at the talking end of the tarpaulin. There was a gentle click as he thumbed back the hammer. The voice continued: “The terrorists must know who I am, and that’s why they turned on me. It’s because of the toploader and
the Iranian connection. And now they’re going to murder me to cover it all up. Oh, God . . . ”

  Cobra’s thumb gently eased the hammer back to the safe position.

  “What did you just say?” he asked politely.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Moon was unused to walking long distances, and his feet were already blistered from his odyssey the night before. The road’s remaining patches of tarmac burned his soles, and the soft sand between them made his heels work back and forth against his sneakers, bursting the blisters and chafing the sores. There was no way to shut out the pain. Each step required his conscious attention as they scrambled over heaps of rubble, threaded their way through piles of rubbish, skipped across rivulets of sewage.

  Hilltown was busy with carts and pedestrians passing to and from the UN food depot. People brushed past him, showing him the hems of their cheap skirts and trousers, their filthy plastic shoes. Sometimes a child would look up into his face, and Moon, playing the part assigned to him, would stare dully back. Perhaps he ought to add some tics to his performance; perhaps every adult here behaved like this. The girl ignored him unless he lagged too far behind.

  “You have to keep up,” she whispered. “What if somebody tries to talk to you?”

  “You could always slow down a bit.”

  “Time’s not on our side.”

  “Then why can’t we hire a donkey cart? I’ll pay if you like. I still have some money.”

  “No! I don’t need your money. Look, if we get on a cart, the driver is bound to try and talk to us. I should have thought that was obvious.”