didn’t go find Nuhanovic, he’d kill Chloe.’
He crumpled, his face in his hands, sobbing into the rag, his shoulders heaving.
I pulled out the blue disc and put it on the van bumper. The technology had come on apace since the Paveway days. This wasn’t just a tracking device. It was much more than that: it was a location device for time- critical targets. Once they’re marked, they’re hit. No need for man-in-the-loop technology. Now they had the Predator UAV [unmanned aerial vehicle], a remote-controlled aircraft about the size of a single-engined Cessna. They’d been around when I was here last, cruising at anything up to twenty-five thousand feet, but only used for what they were designed for, battlefield surveillance. They had real-time feed from infrared, thermal and normal cameras mounted in the nose; commanders could view the battlefield as easily as if they’d switched on the TV to watch a live traffic report on the Beltway.
Then, in around 2000, some boffin had had the bright idea of strapping an LTD to its nose alongside its surveillance package, and giving it a couple of hundred-pound Hellfire missiles to play with. So these days the operator just sat and watched a screen in the comfort of an operations room, until one of the sensors in the nose located the target – a tank, perhaps, or a carload of terrorists. All the operator had to do was splash it with the LTD then zap off the Hellfires, which would strike with an accuracy of plus or minus two metres. The only hard bit was identifying the target, especially if it was a single person. That had to be why George needed us here. It was back to the old man-in-loop technology again. Jerry would kick off the target indicator, which would start to transmit. The Predator would pick up the signal; the operator would home in the LTD and kick off the Hellfires.
I turned to Jerry and leaned against the front of the van. ‘You’ve fucked up big-time. That’s not just a tracking device. You’re at the arsehole end of the detect, decide, destroy gang now.’ I held up the blue disc in the light. ‘This thing brings in missiles. George wants Nuhanovic dead . . . you and me are just collateral damage.
‘We’re in the shit, Jerry. He won’t care that the camera’s fucked. To him, the mission is everything. Believe me, I know the man.’
I clenched the device hard in my fist. The White House could have wanted Nuhanovic dead for any of about a dozen reasons that I could think of, from plunging Coke sales to Islam getting a bit more friendly with itself. But right now that didn’t matter. What did was the bit about collateral damage.
Jerry pulled the rag away from his mouth. ‘What we going to do, Nick? Call George? Maybe tell him what’s happening?’
Jerry still hadn’t quite got the hang of this. I paused. ‘What was Salkic talking about back there, outside the cave? He say anything about Nuhanovic?’
He looked up, his face still creased with pain. ‘No, just weird stuff, really. He wanted to thank me for killing the son of an aggressor whore. He said Nuhanovic would be happy – they were animals and not good for business, they messed up business . . . something like that . . .’
‘What the fuck did he mean by that?’
‘Dunno . . . he was pretty spaced out . . .’
I looked down at Jerry as he tried to clear enough blood from his nose to breathe. Why hadn’t Salkic just said Goatee was the son of an aggressor whore, and leave it at that? ‘You sure he said “business”?’
He didn’t bother looking up. ‘Yep, for sure.’
‘Shit.’ I took a couple of very deep breaths and threw the locator to the ground. ‘You’re not the only one round here who’s fucked up . . .’
I dragged him to his feet. ‘Come on, in the van. We’re going.’
90
Frost glazed the fields and road and sparkled under a clear sky.
The heater was on full blast, but wasn’t up to spec. It couldn’t even demist the windscreen, let alone keep us warm. The back windows, though, were fine. The sacks and diesel cans were probably snug as fuck.
Jerry’s breath billowed round his head as he leaned forward, teeth rattling, to wipe the glass with his sleeve.
I followed suit with my side of the screen. ‘That Kevin Carter photo? The way no one looked past the vulture and the girl to the real story? I reckon I’ve fucked up and not seen the real picture of Nuhanovic.’
‘The real Nuhanovic?’
‘What if Nasir wasn’t in Baghdad looking after Nuhanovic, but there doing business for him? What if he was doing exactly the same as that arsehole Goatee? The competition.’
‘Nuhanovic? Come on . . .’
‘Why not?’
‘Even if you’re right about Nasir, it doesn’t mean Nuhanovic is involved.’
‘Doesn’t it? Remember what Salkic said? They don’t work for him, they serve him. They do jack shit off their own back, they follow his orders. So just what the fuck was he doing in “Chetnik Mama”?’
‘Fuck.’ He slumped back in his seat.
‘You got it. So what was I really seeing at the cement factory? Was he saving the girls, or trading them?’
‘So . . . Zina . . .’
I nodded. ‘Got it again. Tell you what, if I’m right I’ll kill the fucker for you.’
The van lurched into a pot-hole; Jerry groaned and grabbed his abdomen. I didn’t feel too bad about it. The pain would soon disappear. The damage to his face would take a lot longer.
Jerry pulled the rag away from his nose. ‘Not seeing the whole picture . . .’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘That wasn’t my family you met in DC. I don’t know who the fuck the woman was.’
‘So that was all bullshit too?’
He nodded. ‘I am married to Renee. I have got a daughter. They just weren’t the ones you met.’
He leaned back, trying to ease the tension in his neck.
‘She knows nothing about this. She thinks I’m in Brazil covering the elections . . . What if I fuck up, man?’
‘Listen, the only chance of Chloe surviving is if you just do exactly what I tell you and George never finds out that I know. Once we’re back in DC, you stick to the story – whatever that’s going to be.’
I didn’t add that for the rest of his life he must never tell anyone, not even his wife. Whoever she was.
For myself, I felt strangely OK about George stitching me up. I’d always known he wasn’t one for loose ends. I’d become one the moment I wanted a bike instead of him. At least I knew where I stood.
What a set-up. I bet George had enjoyed rigging up the exhibition and the false family as much as any operation he’d ever prepared.
We carried on down the road and I couldn’t help smiling as he told me about his made-up family. ‘The woman didn’t know how to change a diaper. I had to show her. Even then she wouldn’t do it.’
Unless they knew George’s previous, most people would find it hard to imagine that a man representing a western democratic government could act this way. But Jerry had seen a bit of shot and shell in his time, as well as the bullshit that surrounded it. He knew better. But it wasn’t helping him. He just stared out at the frost glinting back at us, hands in his armpits, maybe trying to conjure up comforting images of his little girl. I looked across at him. ‘Listen, just do exactly what I say, OK? Nothing’s going to happen to anyone.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Would he really kill a child, Nick? How’s he get it done? He have some sick fuck on call or what?’
There was no way he was getting any of that kind of information from me. ‘You don’t need to know, because it won’t happen.’
‘Why? Why do it when I’ve fucked you over, man?’
I kept my eyes on the road. ‘I used to work for George. That’s why Kelly’s dead.’
I could feel his stare drilling into the side of my head. ‘George killed Kelly? Fuck.’
I turned. His eyes were glazed, as if he was elsewhere. I knew that look very well: I’d seen it in the mirror
