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  Smith pulled the computer screen around to face himself with something like a flourish. “But now, Doctor, we come to the absolute clincher. As you probably know, our tactical computer network incorporates the most sophisticated biometric software on the planet. I can isolate a screenshot of a terrorist’s face, and the database will instantly generate a pop-up display showing me not only that terrorist’s true identity but also their place of residence, personal history, family ties, medical records, known contacts—everything. Now, let’s have a look at the girl and the midget here.” He tapped at the keyboard, then turned the computer around to Driscoll, who hunched forward to study it.

  “I’d like to you to note these names. As you can see, the midget terrorist and the female are—guess what?—brother and sister! Now, what kind of terrorist brings his sister along on an operation? She has clearly been planted there for dramatic effect, playing the part of an innocent bystander. And by whom?”

  The captain whipped the computer around, tapped it again, then turned it back to Driscoll. “By this man—Joseph West, 24/7’s cameraman in the Embargoed Zone. Who also happens to be—ta-dah!—their uncle!”

  Driscoll slumped back in his seat, slapped his notebook on his knee, and gave a loud guffaw. “Oh, man,” he gasped. “Hitchcock could not have done better himself.”

  “You’re quite right, Doctor. Hitchcock could not have done better. But I can. Look!” He proffered the screen again. “How are these siblings related to West? Through their mother, his sister, who was killed two years ago, along with their elder brother, in a surgical counterterror strike on the vehicle in which they were traveling. And who was their older brother? Hey presto! None other than a senior leader of Cobra Force, a deadly Hilltown-based terror group.”

  Driscoll scribbled some information from the screen, then slapped his pen on the desk with an air of finality. “I have to hand it to you, Captain; you do know how to tell a story, saving the best for last. Of course, we journalists have to write it the other way around: put the best stuff at the top, in the shop window, as it were. Can you give me a couple of quotes just for polish?”

  The captain blew his cheeks out regretfully. “Alas, no, Doctor. As I told you this morning, I’m not allowed to speak to you with any attribution—not even as a ‘military spokesman’ or a ‘security source.’” He tapped his desk a few times, frowning, and then his face brightened. “You know, it just occurred to me, Doctor. It might be best in this case, in the interests of discretion, if you let it be understood that you uncovered this plot by yourself. And of course you have, really. You asked all the right questions.”

  Driscoll pursed his lips. “Yes. That might be best. But while I’m still here, Captain, can you tell me any more about this family? Who is the children’s father, for example? Is he an active terrorist too?”

  The captain tapped the computer again, frowning as he read. “No, strangely enough. He’s a physics professor, or at least he used to be, it says here. He fixes old appliances now.” A smile appeared on the captain’s face as he stared at his laptop, then he snapped its lid decisively shut. “The professor is nobody,” he said. “Forget about him, Doctor. I suspect you already have quite enough villains for one piece.”

  Driscoll stood, checking his watch. “A physicist, eh? Well, I guess you’re right: too many characters muddle the plot. Anyway, I must be off now. Colonel White is giving me a lift back to my quarters; they’ve put me right beside him in the VIP compound. He should be waiting outside.”

  “Then please give the colonel my warm regards. Tell him that I’m still working on the toploader project. Tell him I’ve got my very best field agents on the job. We’ll soon retrieve it.”

  Smith showed his guest to the door and then walked back to his desk and sat down again. He picked up the land phone and pressed a button.

  “Daddy Jesus? Yes, he’s gone, thank God. Sycophantic jerk; you’re lucky you haven’t had to meet him. Now listen: get on the computer and see if you can fix Cobra’s present position from his cell phone signal.” The captain waited for a few moments and then smiled. “Great! That confirms it: he’s right outside the place where I think he left the washing machine. It’s a kind of amateur repair shop in Hilltown: he must be keeping an eye on the machine now that he knows it’s worth something to us. Poor old Cobra: he should have closed the deal with us earlier; now that we know where it is, we can nip in and pick it up for free under cover of the next up-tit operation. It’s right on the edge of Hilltown, only a dash from the wall. It isn’t going anywhere in the meantime. Not in the Embargoed Zone.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Flora sat on the third stair of the steps that led to the roof of the media center, her raincoat folded beneath her to protect her from the grime. The steps were made of bare metal, and the wooden handrails had long since been wrenched from the wall and chopped up for firewood. The walls of the landing—dressed with oddly cheap-looking slabs of green marble—were decorated with images, most of them rather gruesome, grabbed from 24/7’s own video footage. Flora had to will herself not to look at them; she wished she had brought a book. Finally, she took pen and paper from her bag and scribbled a short note:

  Dear Uncle Joseph, I am sorry to bother you, but I need your help with a very urgent matter. Somebody is trying to extort money from my father, and I am afraid that he will give in to them. He does not listen to me, but you might be able to talk to him. I know it is short notice, but if you receive this note today could you please come and see us at home?

  Best wishes, Flora.

  She dated the note and slid it under the door, then made her way to the street again, down six flights of greasy unlit stairs.

  The street murmured with the sounds of early evening: lucky people walking home from their aid jobs; mothers with trophies of rice or cooking oil; donkeys stamping, heads down at the curb, their drivers hoping for one last fare before the curfew. Down here the sun had already set, yet high above the street dozens of kites wavered red and white and gold in the last rays of sunshine, each the focus of a child’s tethered dream. Flora checked the alley beside the building to see if Joseph’s Land Rover had reappeared in its usual space: it had not. Wearily she turned her steps homeward again: perhaps, she consoled herself, Uncle Joseph would soon read her plea and follow after her. If he saw her on the road, she wouldn’t have to walk all the way home. And then she remembered what she had forgotten to put in her note: that she wasn’t taking the direct route home, that she would be going via the hospital to check on Gabriel. The hope of a lift, however fond, must have meant more to Flora than she had realized, because she found herself abruptly on the edge of tears. What could she do? She stood there for a few moments, head bowed, oblivious to the glares of those forced to step around her, and then she came to a brisk resolution. She was thirsty and hungry and tired. She would buy a glass of lemonade and a piece of cake from the stall across the road, and then she would pay for a seat on a donkey cart and travel to the hospital in style. The donkey cart would cost even more than usual so close to the curfew, and the money would have to come from the housekeeping, which was already short for the month. But this was an emergency, another emergency. And of course everything, everything, depended on her.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  There was no moon that night and no electricity, so Cobra was almost invisible in the alley where he lurked. Only the occasional scuffle of his donkey’s hoof or the quick flash of a match betrayed him to the blackened street. Cobra smoked furtively, with the tip of his cigarette cupped in his palm, not so much to hide the glow from snipers as to disguise the fact that unlike most people in the Easy, he still somehow had access to factory-made cigarettes. For the same reason, he always kept his cell phone concealed in an inner pocket, its ringtone muted. But he did not know how to mute the phone’s low battery alarm, and he heard it again now: a loud telltale beep that broke the silence and lit up the phone’s dormant screen. Fishing it out from his shirt pocket, he saw that the batte
ry was down to the last flashing bar. There was a new text message too, from the civilian service provider on the other side of the wall, warning him that last month’s bill was now overdue: Smith had clearly failed to pay it again. How long, Cobra wondered, did his handlers think he could carry on like this? It was almost as if Smith no longer cared what Cobra thought of him or did for him. He put the phone away again, shivering for a moment even though he did not feel cold. And then, as his eyes readjusted to the dark, he became aware of a figure standing in the rectangle of gray light at the mouth of the alley, staring straight at him.

  The back of Cobra’s head struck the cart as he hurled himself backward, reaching at the same time for his pistol. But the donkey was startled by Cobra’s yelp, and as he fell backward, it leaped forward, jerking the cart out from under him. Cobra spun onto the alley’s filthy floor, his pistol flying off into the blackness, as the donkey and cart clattered off down the hill. Stifling his breath, Cobra flattened himself against the darkest part of the wall and tried to make himself smaller. Then his phone beeped again, and looking down, he saw with sick horror that his jacket had come open in the fall and that a bright rectangle of light shone through the cotton of his shirt over his frail, fluttering heart. He moaned and bowed his head, waiting for the assassin’s bullet.

  A cat mewed, wind fussed in the garbage, and a girl’s voice said loudly: “Leave us alone! We don’t have any money!”

  Cobra opened one eye and then the other. He pushed himself away from the wall, brushed himself off, and sauntered to the alley’s mouth. “Oh, it’s you, is it?”

  He was trying to sound casual, but his breath came with a lingering shudder. He took a couple more steps until he was close enough to see her face dimly. She was as tall as he was; he had hoped to be able to leer down at her.

  “Why are you sneaking around like that in the dark?” he demanded. “I could easily have shot you.”

  He took another step toward her, but she stood her ground. “I heard what you did to my father earlier on. We haven’t got any money, and we don’t want your machine. Take it away again.”

  Cobra took another step forward until he was close enough to touch her if he wished. “Why, that’s just why I’m here: to take it away again. I’ve found a buyer for it. But there’s a problem: it’s not here anymore.”

  “Of course it’s still here. Where else could it be?”

  “Don’t play games with me. It was carted off in a jeep earlier by one of those cameramen from 24/7. The younger one. I saw it go with my own two eyes. Where has he taken it?”

  She seemed confused. “I really don’t know. I thought it was worthless.”

  “Oh, no, not at all. In fact, I’ve found a buyer who’s willing to pay you five hundred euros for it. So here’s what we’ll do: I’ll pass the machine on to the buyer for you, the buyer will give me the five hundred, which I’ll keep, and then your father will only owe me another five hundred to make up the thousand euros we agreed on when I sold it to him. Everyone’s a winner.”

  Flora took a step forward, and Cobra found himself backpedaling. “We owe you nothing!” she hissed in his face.

  He made a show of lighting his cigarette. “Look, dear, if you overheard me talking to your father earlier, then you’ll know how our deal is structured.” He shook the match out and held the tailor-made cigarette openly where she could see it. “I’d have thought that you of all people would be keen to see the deal, well, honored. Besides, the money isn’t for me. It all goes to the cause.”

  “Our family has already paid enough for what you say is your cause!”

  Cobra pulled on his cigarette. “Not quite enough—you’re still five hundred euros short. And one washing machine. Get them for me by tomorrow or there’ll have to be payment in kind. From you.Or your brother.”

  Flora turned and walked away. Cobra watched her go, puffing on his cigarette. And then he remembered his errant donkey, swore, and set off down the hill to search for it. He had gone fifty yards when he remembered the even more pressing matter of his missing pistol. Wearily he retraced his steps and entered again the dark mouth of the alley. No glimmer of light reached its rubbish-strewn floor. He stood there, despairing, until he remembered the cell phone in his pocket. Taking it out, he unlocked the keyguard, and a faint but useful cone of light sprang from its screen. Congratulating himself, he bent low to start sifting through the rubbish. Then the phone beeped at him again, three times in quick succession, and its screen went dead.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The stolen tents had been lying in the back of Daddy Jesus’s jeep all afternoon, compacted together by their dead crushing weight. Captain Smith and Daddy Jesus had to use all their strength to unload them, tugging them free one by one, puffing and sweating in the darkness, their feet slipping in the loose oily sand at the entrance to their bomb shelter. They did not notice Colonel White’s jeep until its headlights swept across their tableau and stopped on the contraband.

  “Oh, dear,” said Captain Smith softly.

  The jeep’s door exploded open, and Colonel White came flying toward him, the sand spurting from his heels. He grabbed Smith by the shirtfront and slammed him hard against the side of Daddy Jesus’s jeep. Stars flared in Smith’s head, but he had the presence of mind to lift both hands and wave frantically behind the colonel’s back. As the stars faded, Smith could just make out the sinister bulk of Daddy Jesus only a foot behind the colonel but backing silently away again. The colonel’s face was inches from his own.

  “Smith!” it hissed wetly. “What the fuck did you just say to Driscoll about that washing machine?”

  The captain blinked the spit out of his eyes. “Driscoll? I just thought you’d like to know how that business was going, that’s all. It seemed so important to you earlier on.”

  “Really? So to keep me informed you decided to entrust a blogger with top-secret military intelligence?”

  “Intelligence? It’s a washing machine. It’s for cleaning clothes with.”

  The colonel wasn’t listening. “And what in the name of holy fuck did you mean when you said you have ‘your best field agents’ looking for it? Where the hell are you looking for this thing, Smith? Because it doesn’t sound to me like you think it’s on this base anymore.”

  Captain Smith became aware of a pain in his lower back, dull now but throbbing, where the colonel had bashed his spine against the jeep’s door handle. The pilot’s face loomed over him, eyes flashing arrogance and contempt. Usually a man of quiet passions, the captain felt a hard, hot knot forming just behind his eyes.

  “Oh, no, sir,” he said, his voice quite calm. “You’re quite right, sir—your washing machine is not on the base anymore. I’d been meaning to tell you, sir. It’s in the Embargoed Zone. Sorry about that.”

  He braced himself for a blow. The colonel was a combat pilot, and therefore both quick and stupid enough to get one punch in before Daddy Jesus could maim him.

  Instead, the colonel spun on his heel, brushed past the lurking Daddy Jesus, and marched off into the night beyond the cones of the headlights. Baffled, Smith watched him go. There was a long silence, and then the colonel spoke again.

  “I see. It’s in the Embargoed Zone.” His voice was strangely quiet. “How did it get out of the storeroom and then through the wall?”

  Smith rolled his eyes in the darkness. “Oh, gypsies, I should think. You know what they’re like, sir; they can get in anywhere.”

  The colonel gave a little laugh. “Gypsies? Is that really what you think? Oh, dear God.”

  And to his great surprise the captain heard a sob. Followed by Daddy Jesus, he sprang away from the jeep. They found the colonel slumped to his knees in the sand, staring into the encircling darkness. An uneasy feeling began to trouble Smith: cowards, thieves, bigots, perverts, addicts, liars, sadists—even heroes and idealists: these he knew how to handle. But madmen were another matter.

  “Oh, don’t be like that,” he said soothingly. “I’m sure we�
��ll get the washing machine back for you if it means so much to you. It just might cost us a little bit extra, that’s all.”

  Daddy Jesus laid about ten pounds of fingers on the colonel’s shoulder and raised and lowered them a couple of times, murmuring “There, there” as gently as his nature allowed.

  The colonel’s voice seemed to come to them from the bottom of a very deep and narrow well; they had to lean forward to hear him. “You don’t understand. That was no ordinary washing machine. And now we’ve lost it. And not only have we lost it, but we’ve lost it in one of the very last places on earth that we would want it to be. That is, if it’s not already on its way to somewhere even worse.”

  Behind his back, Smith and Daddy Jesus exchanged baffled glances. “I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Smith ventured.

  The colonel got to his feet. His face, caught by the diffused rays from the headlights, wore a ghastly grin.

  “Tehran, Smith! Tehran! There are Iranian agents in the Embargoed Zone right now—it was confirmed by top-secret sources today. Now we know what they’re doing there: they must be after the washing machine if they haven’t got it already. When the brass finds out about this, they’ll cut our balls off!”

  The colonel lurched away, dragging his feet through the sand with the shambling gait of a newly broken man. His subordinates exchanged another glance, then Smith went after him while Daddy Jesus darted back to the bomb shelter. The colonel was fumbling at the door of his jeep when Smith caught up with him.

  “Now, now, sir,” he wheedled. “Perhaps we’re all being a little bit overemotional tonight. It’s been a long and trying day. Tell you what: let’s all have a little drink and talk it over. See if we can’t find out what the problem is and how to sort it out.”