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  There was another crash of metal. Flora turned the handle of her bedroom door as quietly as she could. She had a foot inside the room when the stranger spoke once more.

  “Not this one of mine: this one of yours,” he said menacingly.

  “You’ve just bought it.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You’re buying it from me for fifteen hundred euros.”

  “I’m not. I haven’t got fifteen hundred euros.”

  Flora heard the stranger chuckle again. She stepped into her room, leaving the door open so she could still eavesdrop. Moving as quickly and quietly as she could, straining her ears so as not to lose track of the conversation, she stripped off her stained clothes and kicked them under her bed.

  “He was a brave lad, your son Jake,” mused the stranger. “I felt terrible when that drone killed him. Him and your poor wife, too, as I recall. Martyrs, the pair of them . . . . But you’ve got a couple more kids, don’t you? I remember once, a little boy followed Jake all the way to training one night, and there was a sister who had to come and drag the little fella home again.”

  Flora’s father didn’t answer. Dim light filtered into Flora’s bedroom through her orange nylon curtains. She eased open her wardrobe to pull out clean jeans and a sweatshirt. Glancing down, she saw that Adam’s blood had seeped through her clothes as she had cradled him. It lingered now like a dark rash on her forearms and stomach. There was no time to wash it off.

  “I’ve seen the girl around since, mind you,” continued the stranger. “I’ve been keeping an eye on her. Pretty thing. She’ll make some lucky man very happy some day. Let’s hope that day doesn’t come too soon, eh?”

  Still her father said nothing, and the stranger went on. “There are some pretty nasty types around these days. No respect for common decency. And they’ve all got guns, mind. Even for a strong leader like me, it’s getting harder and harder to keep my boys on a leash. Especially when I’ve got no money to pay them.”

  Pulling the sweatshirt over her head, Flora heard her father speak again.

  “I could maybe get one thousand,” he said.

  There was a loud rattle from the workshop as the metal door slid open. Flora sat on her bed to pull on her jeans.

  “One thousand euros,” the stranger mused, and from his tone Flora understood that he would have settled for much less. “Okay, it’s a deal; I’ll let you off on the other five hundred on account of poor Jake. One of my men will call around tomorrow to pick up the cash. See that you have it or he might look for payment in kind.”

  Flora was rushing barefoot down the hall when she heard the metal door slide down again. She caught another glimpse of her father as she dashed past the workshop. Skidding on the tiles, she slammed into the front door, fumbled it open, and ran through the vestibule, her bare feet cold on the rough concrete.

  Out on the stoop, blinking in the daylight, she recognized a small bearded head gliding off toward the park. There was a sound of hooves, and as the head passed a gap in the crushed cars, she saw that its owner was perched on a wooden cart mounted on old car axles. He wore a camouflage jacket that was pulled back just far enough to reveal the butt of an automatic pistol protruding from the waist of his combat trousers. From the way his mouth worked, he seemed to be singing to himself. Something made him glance back at the building, and he saw Flora, glaring from the stoop. Cobra raised a hand and grinned at her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After his most recent demotion Captain Smith had been posted to the Slob as a ground intelligence liaison officer. His predecessor’s office had been situated in the main command bunker, but soon after his arrival Smith moved his operation to a disused billet far out in the dunes on the edge of the compound. The hut in question was part of an isolated group of billets and storerooms that had become the haunt of the Easy Division’s fringe elements: the shirkers, dopers, prostitutes, black marketeers, and internal deserters. Justifying his move, the captain explained that his work needed privacy.

  Shortly afterward his new neighbors, roused before dawn by a one-minute rocket warning, found that an expensive padlock had appeared on the door of their bomb shelter. It was a particularly large bomb shelter, designed for storing fuel and ammunition, and its metal doors were wide enough to admit a two-and-a-half-ton truck. Captain Smith hinted that he and his personal orderly, Daddy Jesus, needed the space for interviewing the clients they extracted unwillingly from the Embargoed Zone. Why they also needed their own forklift truck was never explained. The most popular theory was that it played some unspeakable role in their interrogation method: a theory that caused several of the more squeamish local residents to relocate to other parts of the base. Before long, the remaining holdouts were also gone, having been forcibly evicted by the Easy Division’s commanding general. Captain Smith had sadly informed the general’s office that contrary to standing regulations, personnel in this area no longer had access to a bomb shelter.

  Sand blew into the abandoned huts through broken windows and ill-fitting doors. Plywood shutters worked their nails loose and drummed in the wind. New drafts of soldiers and airmen rotated in and out of the base, until there was no one left who remembered seeing lights in those windows, or footprints in that sand. Senior officers never visited these crumbling huts, so it was with some surprise that Captain Smith, alerted by a blast of cold wind, looked up from his desk to see Colonel White glowering from the door of his office. Raindrops had spotted the colonel’s tan uniform, and his shoes and trouser cuffs were red with wet sand. Seized by a fit of coughing, the captain beckoned his visitor inside with jerks of his right hand while his left eased a sheaf of freshly signed receipts into an open drawer. The drawer slid closed when, in standing up to greet his visitor, the captain’s knee deftly nudged it.

  “Hello, sir!” said Smith, pulling a chair over for the colonel. “How nice of you to come all the way out here to visit us! Please forgive my appearance; I’m just back from a ground op inside the Easy.”

  The colonel’s lip curled as he looked around the office. It had been formed by knocking two sleeping rooms together. A plywood partition pierced by a shut wooden door isolated it from the rest of the long wooden prefab, and the walls were decorated with yellowed printouts showing the faces of wanted terrorists, most of them long dead. The captain’s desk was scattered with ash and chewed pens and gray military paperwork, amid which the glossy, supersaturated colors of a used-car magazine shone like the gold in a panful of mud. A tactical computer terminal had been pushed aside to make room for a fancy new scanner and printer from which sheets of paper—invoices, order forms, and direct debit authorizations—spilled across the linoleum floor. The colonel sat down, frowning.

  “Inside the Easy?” he growled. “Are you trying to impress me, Smith? I’ve flown more combat missions than you’ve had hot dinners.” He tapped the row of ribbons on his chest.

  “I don’t doubt you’re right,” Smith answered smoothly. “I’ve missed a lot of hot dinners, being a humble ground soldier. Our missions, unlike yours, frequently last longer than half an hour. And our clients, unlike the air force’s, are still able to shoot back at us. It can play havoc with one’s meal arrangements.”

  “Don’t forget who you’re talking to, Smith. I’m your commanding officer, now. And I haven’t forgotten how things were when the boot was on the other foot.”

  Smith seemed not to hear him. “Only this morning, for instance, I was on the ground in the Embargoed Zone. Terrorists everywhere. And what was my commanding officer doing at that time? He was sitting in a concrete bunker ten miles back from the wall, using a robot to kill children. Are they giving out medals for that yet, Colonel?”

  White smiled. “Those were terrorists, Smith, not children. And you of all people should be very careful what you say about that. The computer logs will show that the air strike you refer to was carried out in support of your operation and with your authorization, following a request by a tank crew seconded to your contr
ol. So when the investigators ask about it, I suggest that you don’t say anything more about children.”

  Captain Smith took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one without offering one to his boss. “I get investigated all the time,” he said, exhaling with precision. “Some twenty-one-year-old military police sergeant knocks on my office door so timidly I can barely hear it, and I let her come in and tell her to stand where you’re sitting now. She asks me in a very little voice if I did anything wrong, and when I tell her no, she gives me a big smile of relief and makes a tick in her notebook, and then I let her sit down and I give her a cup of tea and a cookie and then she goes away again. It’s all rather sweet.”

  The colonel grinned. “It might not be so sweet this time, Smith. There are complicating factors.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the fact that live footage of the attack has already gone viral thanks to 24/7 News. And that’s not the worst of it. Flint Driscoll from blow-back.net was with me in the drone room when it happened. He watched the drone strike live on the video feed, and he immediately put out an eyewitness report describing it as a pinpoint strike against heavily armed terrorists. Because that’s what I told him he saw. But then less than an hour later 24/7’s footage went out across the globe, so now Driscoll looks like a fool or a liar or both. He is very, very unhappy about that. And if he turns sour on us, then the general is going to make someone pay for it. And don’t kid yourself, Smith: that someone is going to be you.”

  Smith blew out another plume of smoke. “Why me, Colonel? Why not you? I’ll bet you ordered that drone strike just to show off to your new best pal Driscoll.”

  The colonel smiled again. “That’s an interesting allegation, Smith, but I doubt if you’ll find any evidence to support it. If anyone is going to take the fall for this, it’s going to be you. Unless, that is . . . ”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you make the whole thing go away.”

  Smith studied the colonel along the length of his cigarette. The colonel leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “I want you to talk to Driscoll as soon as you can,” he went on, gazing at the ceiling. “The usual sort of thing: explain to him why 24/7’s footage doesn’t actually show what everyone thinks it shows. It shouldn’t be too hard to persuade him of that—he’ll want to believe you. And if we can get Driscoll back onside, he’ll trash 24/7’s story for us.”

  “I don’t know,” said Smith, “24/7’s footage is pretty good. You can see the expressions on their faces when the first rocket hits. We’d be better off punting on this one—announce an internal inquiry and all of the other standard evasive procedures.”

  The colonel shook his head. “Not this time. The main problem right now is keeping Driscoll sweet on us. As for the rest of it, if the worst comes to the worst, we can always say the air strike was an honest mistake.”

  “You’ll blame it on the tactical computer?”

  The colonel was standing, preparing to go. “Hell, no! The computer system has to be infallible: it’s already cost us a billion to develop, and we’re on the verge of selling it to both India and Pakistan. No, if I have to, I’ll pin it on those drone jockeys who were there. They’re the most expendable component.”

  The colonel, having reached the doorway, halted, one hand raised to his forehead. “Oh! Yes! Silly me: I almost forgot. There’s something missing from the strong room in the bunker. I wondered if you’d know anything about it.”

  “Missing, sir?” Smith’s eyebrows migrated northward. “What would that be?”

  “A washing machine. I put it there myself yesterday, and it wasn’t there today. I assumed you’d know something about it, since you have the only other key to that room.”

  Bewilderment and innocence skirmished for possession of the captain’s face, then sensibly called it a draw.

  “Oh, no, sir. I’ve seen nothing like that.”

  A muscle twitched in the colonel’s jet-pilot jaw. “You don’t know anything about it?”

  “No, sir. But I can ask around if you like. Perhaps I left the door open and one of the quartermasters took it away. They’re probably using it already; washing machines wear out very quickly here on account of all the grit.” A thought seemed to strike him. “Come to think of it, sir, it has probably been stolen. Why don’t we ask for another one? If you’ll sign a requisition for me, I’ll send it off right away to the supply corps.”

  The colonel had trouble speaking. “I don’t want another washing machine,” he said finally. “I want that one. It’s special.”

  “Surely a washing machine is just a washing machine.”

  The colonel’s cheek squirmed like a freshly sliced worm. “This one is American. A toploader. They don’t import them here.”

  “I’m sure we can get you a frontloader that will wash just as clean.”

  The colonel exploded. “Listen to me, Smith! That machine was left in a secure room for which you are jointly responsible! I want it back at all costs or by God there’ll be trouble!” Mastering himself, he continued: “You’re already on thin ice over this air strike business, and don’t think I’ve forgotten our personal history. So get that machine back or by God I’ll let them crucify you!”

  The wind caught the door and slammed it shut behind him. A few seconds later the interior door creaked open and Daddy Jesus’s hideous face appeared around it. The wreckage of a hamburger oozed through his huge, discolored fingers.

  “Trouble, boss?”

  Captain Smith stood. Sliding open the window behind his desk, he stuck his head out and peered down at the weedy, butt-strewn ground six feet below.

  “Daddy Jesus,” he called over his shoulder. “Can you guess who I’m imitating?”

  Daddy Jesus looked back at him, stony-faced.

  “Well?” demanded Smith. “Who am I being? Go on, have a guess.” He turned away and stared theatrically down at the ground again, raising one hand to shade his eyes like a storybook explorer.

  “Sorry, boss.”

  “I’m being an air force intelligence officer. This is how they gather air force intelligence.” Smith closed the window and slumped behind his desk again, waving Daddy Jesus to the chair that was still warm from the colonel. He sat back and sighed, his eyes wandering over the dead yellow faces staring down from the walls.

  “Remember the old days, Daddy Jesus? Remember when you had to look a man in the eye before you stabbed him in the back? We’re the last of an old breed.” He shook his head sadly. “Tell me, Daddy Jesus, were you listening to me and the colonel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. So what do you think?”

  Deep in thought, Daddy Jesus eased the last gloopy scraps of his burger into his mouth, then wiped his fingers on one sleeve and his lips on the other.

  “We could have a fire in a quartermaster’s storeroom, then say the washing machine was in it.”

  Smith shook his head. “No good. That scam goes back to the time of the legions. Besides, I’ve already used it once this year.”

  “Then we should get that washing machine back from Cobra.”

  The captain picked up his pen and drummed pensively on the desktop. “Yes, I was afraid you’d say that. But Cobra’s going to want something in return if we take the washing machine back from him. He’s being a real pain in the ass about money lately.”

  “We could give him his money.”

  The captain laid his pen down, sighed, and stood up again, turning his back to Daddy Jesus. Isolated raindrops were spattering against the window.

  “My wife had a surprise for me last night,” he told the rain. “Not only are we paying for my eldest daughter’s wedding in the spring, which I already knew, but now it seems that she and my wife have decided that they need to shop for the wedding in Paris. And they’re taking my youngest girl with them just so she won’t feel left out. And I have to pay for it all.”

  Daddy Jesus thought again. “So we pay him only some of his money. Five hu
ndred should do.”

  The captain turned back to him, grimacing. “Five hundred euros? Dear me. I suppose we could lowball him on two hundred and go up to four or five if we really had to.” He patted his pockets. “But dear me, I haven’t got any cash on me.” For a few moments he stared hopefully into Daddy Jesus’s expressionless eyes, then gave up.

  “Oh, all right,” he said, and reached inside his sweater. “Here, take my card down to the highway service station. See if the machine there will give you five hundred; I’m close to my limit. On the way back, stop by the tent depot and see if you can lift a few of those canvas eight-man tents. There’s an open-air trance festival up north next weekend: hippies pay big money for anything army surplus.”

  Daddy Jesus took the card but stopped just short of the door, apparently deep in thought again. “I’m still hungry, boss,” he decided. “Do you want another McDonald’s?”

  The captain had retrieved his receipt book from the drawer and was preparing to start signing again, his pen held awkwardly in his left hand.

  “Dear me, no. I couldn’t eat another thing. I don’t have your appetite, my friend.” He put the pen down again. “Oh, go on. But I don’t want a hamburger. Get me a coffee and something to go with it.”

  “How about an apple pie, boss?”

  “Yes! Just the thing! I love those apple pies. So lovely and hot on the inside . . . ” A fond smile spread over Smith’s face. “You remember that time, Daddy Jesus, when you accidentally squirted some of your pie filling on that terrorist, and he thought it was part of your technique?”

  A strange, heaving gurgle filled the room, like the sound of a gut-shot sow. Daddy Jesus was laughing.

  “We’re the last of a breed,” the captain said again, shaking his head ruefully. He reached for his cell phone. “Hang on; I’d best give Cobra a call before you go. We should agree on a price before you take out the cash.”