distance. The downpour had eased a little, now only bouncing an inch or two off the tarmac, but it was still enough to mean that a vehicle wouldn't see me until it was right on top of me.
As I started to walk up the road I checked the ball compass. I was heading uphill and west, as we had been all the way from Clayton in the Mazda. I kept to one side so I could make a quick entry into cover, and didn't move too fast so I'd be able to hear any approaching vehicles above the rasping of my soaked jeans.
I still had no idea how I was going to do this job, but at least I was in an environment I understood. I wished Dr. Hughes could see me now: then she'd know there was something I was good at.
I stopped and scratched the skin at the base of my spine to discourage whatever was munching at it, then moved on up the road.
THIRTEEN
For the best part of a mile of uphill slog I was deluged with rain and drenched in my own sweat, hair plastered to my face and clothes clinging to my body like long-lost friends.
At last, the rain subsided, and the sun emerged between the gaps in the clouds, burning on to my face and making me squint as it reflected off the mirror of wet tarmac. The Jackie Os went back on. I looked at the compass I was heading west with a touch of north in it and also checked my plastic bags. They'd done their job well: at least I had dry documents.
Humidity oozed from the jungle. Birds began to call once more from high up in the canopy. One in particular stood out, sounding like a slowed-down heart-rate monitor. Other forms of wildlife rustled in the foliage as I walked past and, as ever, there was the blanket noise of crickets, cicadas, whatever they were called. They seemed to be everywhere, in every jungle, though I'd never seen one.
I wasn't fooled by the sunshine or the animals rustling in the foliage. I knew there was more rain to come. The dark clouds hadn't completely dispersed, and thunder still rumbled in the distance.
I rounded a gentle bend and a pair of iron gates came into view, blocking the road about four hundred metres ahead. They were set into a high, whitewashed wall that disappeared into the jungle on each side. Once I'd confirmed that I was still heading westish, it was time to get back into cover. I eased my way in, moving branches and fronds aside carefully rather than just crashing through. I didn't want to mark my entry point with top sign sign that is made above ground level and which in this case might be seen from the road. A large rubber leaf or a fern, for example, doesn't naturally expose its lighter underside; that only happens if it's disturbed by someone or something brushing past. The leaf will eventually turn back to its darker side so it can gather light, but to the trained eye in the meantime it's as good as dropping your business card. I had no idea if these people would be switched-on enough to notice such things as they drove past, but I wasn't going to leave that to chance.
Once under the canopy, I felt like I was in a pressure cooker; the humidity has nowhere to go, and it gives your lungs a serious work-out. Rainwater still fell in bursts as unseen birds took flight from the branches above.
Having moved maybe thirty metres in a direct line away from the road, I stopped to check the compass. My aim now was to head west again and see if I hit the perimeter wall. If I encountered nothing after an hour I'd stop, move back, and try again. It would be very easy to become 'geographically embarrassed', as officers call it: in the jungle the golden rule is to trust your compass, no matter what your instincts are telling you. The wall of green was maybe seven metres away, and that was where I would focus my attention as I moved, to detect any hostiles and find the house.
As I moved off, I felt a tug on my sleeve and realized I'd encountered my first batch of wait-a-while. It's a thin, twine-like vine, studded with tiny barbs that dig into clothing and skin, much like a bramble. Every jungle I'd been in was infested with the stuff. Once it's caught you, the only way to get clear is to tear yourself free. If you try to extricate yourself barb by barb, you'll be there for ever.
I pushed on. I had to get to the house before last light so I could carry out a decent recce with some degree of visibility. Besides, I didn't want to be stuck in here once it was dark: I'd never make the morning RVs, and would then waste time waiting for midday, instead of preparing for the job I was here to do.
For the next half an hour or so I headed uphill and west, frequently untangling myself from batches of wait- a-while. At last I stopped and leant against a tree to catch my breath and check the compass. I didn't know what sort of tree it was; for some strange reason I could recognize a mahogany, and this wasn't one.
My hands were covered with small cuts and scratches now, which hurt like wasp stings.
I moved off once more, thinking about the CTR. Under ideal conditions, I'd take time to find out the target's routine, so that I could take him on in a killing ground of my choosing; that way, I had the advantage. But I didn't have time, and the only thing I'd learnt from Aaron about Michael's movements was that he would be going in to college at some point this week.
It's easy enough to kill someone; the hard bit is getting away with it. I needed to find the easiest way of dropping him so there was as little risk to me as possible. I could get all Rambo'd up and storm the place, but that wasn't part of my plan, not yet anyway.
I saw open space about six or seven metres ahead, just beyond the wall of green, flooded with brilliant sunlight and awash with mud. I moved slowly back into the jungle until it disappeared from sight, and stood against a tree.
Standing still and doing nothing but take deep breaths and wipe the sweat from my face, I started to hear the world above me once more.
I was hot, sticky, out of breath, and gagging for a drink, but I found myself captivated by the amazing sound of a howler monkey in the treetops, busy living up to its name. Then I slapped my face yet again to zap whatever it was that had landed to say hello.
Moisture seeped out of my leather belt as I squeezed it open, tucked in my sweatshirt and generally sorted myself out. I knew that my jeans would soon be hanging off my arse again, but it didn't matter, this just made me feel better.
I felt the first of what I knew was going to be a whole colony of itchy bumps on my neck, and quite a big one coming up on my left eyelid.
My basic plan for the recce was to simulate one of those electric toys that motor around the floor until they bump into a wall, then rebound, turn round, move off, turn round again and bounce back on to the wall somewhere else.
A lot of questions needed answering. Was there physical security, and if so, were they young or old? Did they look switched on and/or armed? If so, what with? If there was technical security, where were the devices, and were they powered up?
The best way of finding answers was just to observe the target for as long as possible. Some questions can be answered on site, but many only pop up once you're tucked up with a cup of cocoa and trying to come up with a plan. The longer I stayed there, the more information would sink into my unconscious for me to drag out later if I needed it.
The big question would I have to do a Rambo? remained, but I'd answer that on target. My mind drifted back to the Yes Man and Sundance, and I knew I might have to if there was no other way. But then I cut away from that stuff; what I needed to do now was get my arse up to that mud a few metres away and have a look at what was out there before I got lost inside my head.
Concentrating on the green wall, I moved carefully forward.
I saw the sunlight reflecting off the puddles maybe six metres in front of me and dropped slowly on to my stomach in the mud and rotting leaves. Stretching out my arms, I put pressure on my elbows and pushed myself forward on the tips of my toes, lifting my body just clear of the jungle floor, sliding about six inches at a time, trying to avoid crushing dead, pale yellow palm leaves as I moved. They always make a brittle, crunching noise, even when they're wet.
It felt like I was back in Colombia, closing in on the DMP to carry out a CTR so an attack could be planned with the information we brought back. I never thought that I'd still be doing this shit nearly ten years later.
I stopped every couple of bounds, lifted my head from the dirt, looked and listened, while slowly pulling out thorns from my hands and neck as the mozzies got busy again. I was starting to have second thoughts about my little love affair with the jungle. I realized I only liked it when I was standing up.
My alligator impression was hard work in this humidity, and I was starting to pant, with every sound magnified tenfold so close to the ground; even the leaves seemed to crackle more than they normally would. The sharp pain in my ribs didn't help much, but I knew all the discomfort would disappear once I was on top of the
