Crisis Four Part 13

"Hi, how can I help you today?"

It was bad accent time again.

"Can I have a look at your Tazers on the bottom shelf there?"

"Sure, no problem." The a.s.sistant was black, in his mid-twenties, and dressed in the house green s.h.i.+rt. He was also "carrying." It was a Sig 9mm, held in the same sort of nylon pancake holster the woman had been interested in. He bent down and pulled out the tray of Tazers.

They were selling all different types, from little handheld ones, to the sort that fire out p.r.o.ngs on a wire that you can use to attack someone from a five-meter range, right up to big ones that resembled police truncheons.

I was tempted by a handheld one called "Zap-Ziller the monster of stun guns!" mainly because of the slogan. There was even a picture of a dinosaur on the box that told me it packed 100,000 volts of stopping power.

I read the packaging to make sure it suited my needs: "A short blast of a quarter-second duration will startle an attacker, cause minor muscle contractions and have a repelling effect. A moderate length blast of one to four seconds can cause an attacker to fall to the ground and result in some mental confusion. It may make an a.s.sailant unwilling to continue an attack, but he will be able to get up almost immediately.

"A full charge of five seconds can immobilize an attacker, cause disorientation, loss of balance, falling to the ground and leave them weak and dazed for some minutes afterward. Note: Any blast lasting over one second is likely to cause your a.s.sailant to fall. If you do not help them down, gravity may injure them." I hoped so. They'd certainly done the business in Syria.

In the clothing area I picked out a set of woodland camo Gore-Tex, choosing one two sizes too big so it was nice and baggy. Gore-Tex had changed a lot since it was first invented by G.o.d in answer to every infantryman's prayers. In the early days it had made a rustling noise as you moved, which wasn't good if you were moving on target, and as a result we'd had to wear it under our combat clothing. But nowadays it was much more like textile than plastic.

I cruised around the aisles and filled my trolley with a few other bits and pieces I thought I'd be needing. I didn't think I'd need a weapon, but seeing them all made me feel strange about being on a job without one. It would take too long to apply for a gun legally. The U.S. laws aren't as crazy as people in Europe imagine, and I didn't want to take the risk of stealing or buying one illegally. Normally, if I knew I was going to need one, I would plan to obtain it in-country, because that meant I wouldn't have to worry when traveling on commercial flights.

If that wasn't possible, I'd put one in the diplomatic bag, along with any other special kit I needed, and then pick it up at the emba.s.sy. This wasn't happening on this job, however; the timings hadn't allowed it.

Besides, I was carrying out a PV review; what would I need a weapon for?

The hunting-bow section at the rear of the store caught my eye. Three customers in their early fifties, baseball caps on their heads and beer bellies hanging over their belts, were trying to outdo each other with their war stories. I overheard, "When I was in Da Nang there was a whole week I thought the good Lord was going to take me away ..."

I saw some crossbows that took my fancy. They were small, but I knew they were powerful. Since the U.K. government had banned handguns, the pistol clubs had had to find another sport, and many now used their ranges to fire crossbow bolts instead of pistol rounds. The club where I'd been shown how to use one was in Vauxhall, just across from the Firm's HQ.

I picked up one model and examined the optic sight and the attachment to keep spare bolts. The price tag said $340, which was all right, but the other side was disappointing: a label told me it needed a North Carolina weapons license.

The only option left to me was an ordinary bow, and I wasn't short on choice. There were racks of them to choose from, with names like Beast 4x4, Black Max and Conquest Pro. Made of carbon fiber, aluminium or composite resin, with cams that worked like gears at the end of the bow to give the bow cable more power, these modern versions of the longbow would have had Robin Hood creaming his Lincoln green.

I found one I liked the look of, the Spyder Synergy 4, proudly boasting thirty-two inches of throbbing manhood end to end, cammed and cabled up, ready to go as long as I had some arrows. I wanted the smallest ones I could find, just like the bow. Looking along the racks I worked out it was the two-footers I was after, and picked up a box of six. But that wasn't the end of it. I then had to choose the arrowhead. I went for the Rocky Mountain a.s.sa.s.sin; it looked like Thunderbird Three with its tail fins, which were in fact razors. It also seemed to be the only one that came with ready-a.s.sembled fins.

I was quite enjoying myself at the bow mix 'n' match counter, and the next item I needed was a quiver. These, too, were cammed up and fixed onto the bow, so that everything was secure and close to hand.

I carried on and got the rest of the stuff on my mental shopping list, and with enough kit to bow-hunt until Christmas I went to the checkout. The woman with the baby was examining a necklace in the jewelry department.

She obviously hadn't liked the holster, because the stainless steel45 CQB still gleamed from her open bag on the counter.

Behind the checkout a woman in her early twenties sat bored out of her skull, apparently not that interested in the latest style of handgun or waterproofs.

Her hair was gelled to her forehead, and she didn't even look at me as she said, "Card or cash?" I couldn't keep my eyes off her fingernails.

They were two inches long and nearly curling, like Fu Manchu's, and were painted with an intricate, black and white checkerboard pattern.

I couldn't wait to describe them to Kelly.

I replied, "Cash," did the transaction, lifted my bags, put my twenty cents change into the "Candy for Kids" box and left. While I was loading the trunk of my car, the woman with the baby came out and got into a people carrier. I couldn't help but smile as I saw the stickers plastered across the back: "This vehicle insured by Smith and Wesson."

"A proud parent of a terrific kid, sponsored by Burger King."

And, best of all: "The driver carries only $50 ... OF AMMO!"

In amongst all of these was a large silver Born-Again Christian fish sign with the word Jesus in the middle. It was just like old times, part of the crazy kaleidoscope of contradictions that made me love America so much. It was a good job I hadn't made a mistake the last time I was looking for a wagon with a fish sign on it, and climbed into this woman's vehicle.

No doubt the vehicle's insurers would have given me a greeting to remember.

There were still a few other odds and ends I needed, so I drove away from Yadkin and toward the city center--or what I thought was the center.

After ten minutes I had to stop, open the trunk and get the maps out, hoping that on one of them there might be a town plan. I worked out where I was and where I was going to: a shopping mall, the nearest one I could see. It was about a mile away.

It turned out not to be the single, contained area I'd been expecting. The main mall building looked more like the Pentagon, but clad in something like York stone, and the remaining outside shopping areas and car parks must have straddled an area of more than eight square kilometers, with traffic jams to match. The big blue sign for Wal-Mart was exactly what I wanted, and the store was part of the outer shopping area. I waited at the lights, peeled off right, and went into the car park. There was the usual lineup of stores--Hallmark Cards, post office, shoe super stores, a Lone Star steak house, then my mate, Wal-Mart.

As I got a trolley I was greeted by an elderly male welcomer with his happy face on.

"Hi, how are you today?"

I smiled back at him. He had a Wal-Mart baseball cap on that was a size too big for his head, and a T-s.h.i.+rt over his long-sleeved s.h.i.+rt that told me how happy Wal-Mart was to see me. There was an ATM machine just past the turnstile. I took the opportunity to get some more cash out on my card and off I went. The place was full of Airborne soldiers, screaming kids and stressed-out mothers.

I selected food that was both ready, and quiet, to eat. No chips or cans of fizzy drink; instead, I picked up four big tins of Spam, four large bottles of still mineral water and a b.u.mper pack of Mars bars. Then a couple of laps around the gardening section, and I was done.

There was a little self-service cafe that I'd missed as I entered, maybe in the excitement of my welcome to Wal-Mart. After paying, I left my trolley with my new friend--it was also his job to keep an eye on them when people went to the cafe. I picked up a tray and got myself two large slices of pizza and a c.o.ke.

As I ate I ran through my mental checklist, because I didn't have that much time left to mince around. Deciding I had everything I'd need, I finished the pizza and c.o.ke and headed for the exit. I felt a stirring in my bowels; I couldn't find the toilet, but no matter, I'd go to a coffee shop.

However, the pangs made me think about something I'd forgotten: I went back to the pharmacy section and picked up a couple of party-size packs of Amodium.

Thinking about it, the pizza hadn't been too bad, so I went back in and bought two full-sized Four Seasons.

As always, I'd chosen the trolley with one dodgy wheel, so as soon as I was outside on the concrete I was all over the place, pus.h.i.+ng it at a crazy angle in order to go forward. When it came to supermarket trolleys, my lucky number was zero.

I threw everything into the trunk; I'd sort it all out later. As I got behind the wheel, I got the phone out, turned it on and checked the battery level.

It was fine. All the same, I fished out the spare battery, swapped it for the one I'd just checked and then plugged it into the recharger. I was going to need both batteries full up and ready to go.

One last check of the map and I nosed out into the solid traffic.

drove out of town and back toward the lake. It had started to rain a little and I had to put the wipers on intermittent, turning them off again just before Raleigh when they started to rub on the dry winds.h.i.+eld. Soon afterward I spotted a rest area, pulled in and got sorting.

Bending into the trunk I started to pull off the sticky-back price tags from the Gore-Tex and my other purchases, stuck two on my hand, then packed all the stuff into the hunting bergen. I made a point of putting the pruning shears in one of the little pouches on the outside, together with the string and gardening gloves, as I'd be needing them first. The gloves were a bit embarra.s.sing as they were like dishwas.h.i.+ng gloves with lots of little lumps on the fingers for grip, and worst of all they were yellow. I should have opened them up and checked the color. It was too late now to do anything about it; I needed to get back to the lake. All the other items, including the plastic gas container, went in the main compartment of the bergen.

All I had to do now was prepare the food. I folded the big sections of pizza in on each other and wrapped them in plastic wrap. I ripped the Mars bars out of their wrappers and wrapped them together in pairs. Then I opened the tins of Spam and also plastic wrapped the contents, and the whole lot went into the bergen. Peeling the labels from my hand, I stuck one on top of the other and then both over the small battery light on my phone. Then I went into the menu and turned off all the sound facilities.

It was then down to a good smearing of insect repellent. I didn't know if I'd need it or not, but better safe than scratching. I got back into the car and headed for the lake. The rain had died down, at least for the moment.

Flicking through the radio channels, I found myself listening to a woman who was talking about Southern females spending more time and money on their hair than those from any other area of the U.S.A.

"That's why we should buy this magical mousse that " I hit the seek b.u.t.ton.

There was someone else explaining the reason why the weather was all screwed up: El Nino.

"We're lucky here in North Carolina, unlike the main areas. .h.i.t, like Alabama; they had twisters." I hit the switch and landed on a Christian station. This one was telling me that it was G.o.d, not El Nino, who was responsible for climate changes. Apparently the good Lord was not best pleased with all our sinning and was sending us a warning.

However, the first step toward salvation might be to buy one of the channel's leather bound Holy Bibles, available for only $98.99. All major credit cards accepted.

I was back in the woods. It was just past seven o'clock and nearing last light, especially under the canopy of high trees. That was absolutely fine by me; I wanted the maximum amount of dark to get on target and sort myself out before first light, then find out whether or not she was in the house. I hoped she was, otherwise it was back to D.C. and a great big empty drawing board.

I hadn't had time to think about a good drop-off point for the car, but maybe the lake attracted families in the evenings, and the car park had looked a very likely lovers' lane. Either way it meant other vehicles and my car would blend in.

I was about half a K. short of the car park when I finally had to turn my lights on. I had a quick spin around; there were a few lights in the tent area, but only one other car, which presumably belonged to the young couple I could see having a romantic interlude under the canopy. Well, they were until my headlights. .h.i.t them and they had to hold their hands up to s.h.i.+eld their eyes.

I parked as near as possible to the barbecue area, but not so close to the young couple that I was going to have to go "Hi" when I got out. Not that they would have noticed me; from what I could see he seemed totally engrossed in trying to get his hand up her skirt, though unfortunately for him she appeared to be more interested in the food they were cooking.

Looking across the lake, I could see lights on in both houses. I was still gagging for a s.h.i.+t, so I decided to walk over to the toilets with my new boots and ring-lace them while I relieved myself. The weather was still warmish, and the crickets were really going for it, drowning the noise of my footsteps on the mud and wet gravel. The stars were trying to break though the clouds, and the surface of the lake was as flat as a mirror. I I' hoped it stayed that way and didn't rain.

^ The toilets were molded, all-in-one, stainless steel units, with just a handle sticking out of the wall, so nothing could be vandalized. It was hot, dark and muggy in the cubicle, the only light coming from outside the main door. Swarms of buzzing things had been waiting on the ceiling for some poor unsuspecting a.s.s to show up on the radar. As the first two or three dived in I heard a laugh from the girl by the barbecue. Maybe he'd found his target as well.

I pulled out a few sheets of toilet paper from the container and its hard texture gave me a flashback to twenty-odd years ago, and the juvenile detention center: "Three squares only," the staff had barked.

"One up, one down, one s.h.i.+ne."

That reminded me, I needed to bung myself up; I'd better take some Imodium. With my Timberlands in my hand and my s.h.i.+ny new boots on my feet, I trogged back to the car. The lovers were nowhere to be seen, but their car was still there and the barbecue was glowing. He must have scored and they'd moved somewhere more secluded; it's amazing what you can get away with if you make a woman laugh.

I opened the trunk and got out the bergen and bow, checking that I hadn't left anything I'd be needing for the job or that would compromise what was going on if the car got nicked. In went the Timberlands; I wasn't going to f.u.c.k them up, I'd only just broken them in. I opened a foil pack of Imodium and swallowed four capsules. The instructions said two, but that was a problem I'd had all my life: I never listened to advice.

Slinging the bergen, which now had the bow strapped onto it, over my right shoulder, I had a last study of the lake and the target houses to get my bearings, and set off. My plan was to follow the sh.o.r.e, cross the creek, then follow the sh.o.r.eline again to the target that way I avoided the track.

There was too much risk of transport going up and down it, and I didn't know how aware anyone in the buildings would be. I might compromise myself before I'd even reached the target. Do it properly and then you don't have to worry about those sorts of things.

I pa.s.sed the lovers' car. The windows were very steamed up, but I could see some strange movement going on inside.

A few paces farther on, nailed to the barbecue canopy, was a large sign with "warning" stamped on the top. I stopped to read it; the more information, the better.

"Caution Hikers," it said, "Hunting activities involving the use of firearms and other legal weapons may take place on the Wildlife Resources Commission Gamelands immediately adjacent to the park during hunting season." It further warned, "Please stay on the marked trail during hunting season to avoid the danger of possible serious injury or death. Wearing an item of bright-orange clothing is strongly suggested."

That was all well and good, but when was the hunting season?

I carried on and got level with the tented area, encountering a two meter-high wooden fence that seemed to surround the site. I followed it until I got to the grandly named Recycling Center, which, in fact, was three galvanized dustbins for plastic bottles, gla.s.s and aluminium cans, and clambered over. A swathe about ten yards wide had been cut into the forest from the water's edge. Tree stumps an inch or two high jutted from the sandy ground, and I kept stubbing the toe of my boots as I took the beach route.

After five minutes or so, when my night vision kicked in, the going got easier. It takes a long time to adjust to darkness. The cones in your eyes enable you to see in the daytime, giving color and perception, but they're no good at night. What takes over then are the rods on the edge of your irises. They are angled at forty-five degrees, because of the convex shape of the eye, so if you look straight at something at night you don't really see it, it's a haze. You have to look above it or around it so you can line up the rods, which will then give you a picture. It takes forty minutes or so for them to become fully effective, but you can start to see better after five.

Every now and then I could hear the clinking and clanking of people in tents doing their evening stuff; I couldn't really make out what they were saying, but I was sure it would be something along the lines of "Whose idea was it to come camping anyway?" I also heard a portable TV being tuned in, and the sound of jingles.

I was hardly behind enemy lines here, but all the time I was thinking, What if? What if I b.u.mp into someone? Answer, I'm on holiday, I'm hiking. I'd play the d.i.c.khead Brit abroad on holiday thinking he's having fun, and try to turn it to my advantage and learn as much as possible about the houses. You've always got to have a reason for being somewhere, so that if you're challenged, you won't be fumbling around trying to come up with boneheaded excuses. It also gives you a mind-set, and you can then do whatever you're doing with more confidence.

I moved off the lake sh.o.r.e as it petered out, and into the wood between the water and the fence. It was hardly secondary jungle; the larger trees were five or six feet apart, with smaller saplings scattered in between. It was wet and muddy, but being flat it was easy enough to negotiate.

I was just coming level with the end of the tented area when, from very close quarters, I heard a young woman's voice.

"Jimmy! Jimmy!" Before I knew it I'd stumbled on the couple from the barbecue, and from the way their clothing was rearranged, she'd forgotten what was on the barbecue entirely. It confused me; I'd thought they were in the car.

This sort of thing can go one of two ways--either they're embarra.s.sed, so they make their excuses and move on, or if you're unlucky, the guy decides he's got to demonstrate what a big man he is.

I checked my stride and moved to the right to go around them. I tried to make it look as if I was concentrating on my footing as I pa.s.sed, but without losing him from vision. He shouted, "Who the f.u.c.k are you, man?"

and it was obvious which way this one was going to go. He stopped me in my tracks with his hand on my shoulder and held me there. I had my head down in order to look confused and unthreatening, but also to protect my face in case this kicked off.

I stuttered, "I'm sorry to disturb you."

He went, "What? You some kind of sicko stalker, or what?"

"Jimmy!" The girl was trying to look as if she were brus.h.i.+ng sand off her skirt. I couldn't see her face in the darkness, but it was obvious from her tone that she was embarra.s.sed and wanted to get away. He had managed to pull up his Levis and fasten the top b.u.t.ton, but there was a big gaping hole where the rest of his fly was still undone. The white of his underwear glowed in the dark and I had to try hard not to laugh.

My voice was my normal really bad American one, but at the same time trying to sound scared and submissive. I said, "Nothing like that, I'm just going to see some of the turtles." Hopefully that would be enough to make him satisfied that he was the tough guy around here, so I could move on. It would hardly square with having a bow, but I was hoping he couldn't see that, wedged between my back and the bergen.

"Turtles? Who are you, Mr. Nature from the f.u.c.king Discovery Channel?"

He liked that one; he guffawed and turned to his girlfriend for approval.

I said, "On the other side of the lake, they're making their nests. This is the only time of year they do it." Unlike your good selves, I added to myself. I carried on waffling about turtles coming onto the beach and digging and laying their eggs--something that, ironically, I had in fact learned from the Discovery Channel. Plus, my bird guidebook told me they were here.

Lover Boy laughed; honor had been satisfied. I wasn't a weirdo, just an anorak. Now he didn't really know what to do, so he laughed again.

"Turtles, man, turtles." And with that he put his arm around the girl and they walked off toward the beach.

I'd got away with it, but it was annoying that it had happened, because two people might now be able to identify me. It didn't mean anything at the moment, but if there was a drama at a later date they might remember the encounter. It could have been worse: at least he wasn't a nature fan himself.

It was nine twenty-seven and it had taken two hours and getting my trousers wet up to my a.s.s crossing the creek, but I'd eventually got to within maybe sixty meters of the target. I was right on the lake sh.o.r.e, which was the only way I'd been able to get a decent view of the house because the ground was so undulating. The terrain was different here; the National Parks people hadn't cleared a swathe, and the tree line extended almost to the water's edge.

Some lights were still on on the first floor, but the curtains were drawn and I couldn't see any movement. It was a question now of finding a position that would give me cover, but with a good aperture with which to view the target. That could be achieved only by carrying out a 360degree recce of the area around the house.

I took my time, picking my feet up carefully to avoid making noise by hitting any rocks, stones or fallen branches, then slowly placing the edge of my boot down on the ground first, followed by the rest of the sole. The technique puts quite a strain on your legs, but it's the only way to have any sort of control over the noise you make.

When I reached the water's edge, I stopped after about ten meters and listened, pointing my ear toward the target and slightly opening my mouth to overcome any body-cavity noises, such as jaw movement. I couldn't hear anything apart from the lake lapping against the sh.o.r.e; certainly nothing from the target house. I had a look at where I wanted to go on my next bound, and started picking my way carefully over the rocks. There were still lights on in the other house as well, but I couldn't make out much detail because it was too far away. At least the rain was holding off.

I did my next move and got to within about forty meters of the house. I realized that, because the ground was up and down like a yo-yo, it was going to be very difficult to be stood off from the target and watch from any distance. Yet if I went right up on the higher ground behind, all I'd see was the roof. I couldn't site the OP (observation point) between the houses.

Kids are very inquisitive and by mid-day tomorrow they'd probably be in the OP with me, sharing my Mars bars and pizza. My options were so limited that there was no point doing a 360; it wouldn't achieve anything.

I went back down to the sh.o.r.e, took off the bergen and left it by a big overhanging tree. That way, even if there was a major drama, I knew I'd find it again; all I'd have to do was run down to the lake, keeping to this side of the house, turn right and I couldn't miss it. What was more, the lighter and less bulky I was, the less noise I made while I found a good hide position. For all I knew at this stage, although I hadn't seen or heard anything, there could be dogs, or even worse, geese--they're food for virtually everything that moves, so they spark up at the slightest noise; the ancient Egyptians used them as an alarm system. I learned this from living in my new house in Norfolk because the guy who lived nearest me kept geese, and the f.u.c.king things never failed to wake me up in the middle of the night. I'd had two in my oven so far. Kelly thought that I bought her favorite Sunday roast from the coop.

I went back toward the house, taking my time, moving slowly; stopping, looking at the target, looking at the area, listening, working out my next bound and then moving off again. With any OP, the closer you are to the target, the better you'll be able to observe what's going on, but the greater the chance of compromise. The farther away you are, the less chance of compromise, but you might see f.u.c.k-all. The ideal with this particular target was probably to be stood off miles away, maybe placing a remote, high-powered camera on the house and viewing it from the other side of the lake--but I didn't have the necessary optics. You have to make do with what you've got.

The sky had cleared and a few more stars were out. I could still hear the lake lapping on the sh.o.r.e, but there was now also a splas.h.i.+ng as the turtles came to the surface and dived down again.

I got to within about twenty-five meters of the house. The tree line stopped and the "garden" began, an area of rough gra.s.s with tree stumps that hadn't been pulled out after creating the clearing for the house. From this position I could see the whole of one side of the target, plus the boat and the lake.

There were three floors, and beneath them a garage, with its doors still slightly open to fit the wagon. There was a light s.h.i.+ning on the first floor, toward the lakeside, but only small cracks of light from behind the heavy curtains. I couldn't see any movement. A door was facing me on the ground floor that looked as if it went to the garage.