COLD GHOST

Prologue February, Democratic Republic of Congo. The year after next. Of the three men grouped in the shade of the porch, the only one not visibly shuddering was the colonel. Sweat poured from the faces and necks of Sylvester and Carl, who shared the second of the four concrete steps, and the cords in Carl's neck stood out as though he was suffering cold-turkey, coming down with a tremendous crash from some terrible hallucinogenic experience. His arms were crossed over his belly, but that didn't seem to stifle the shaking very much. Sweat stains from his arms had joined with those from his chest, turning his khaki shirt a yellow the colour of English mustard. He was a large man, but at that moment he resembled nothing more than a lost and regretful teenager, back several hours early from his first alcohol binge at the older kid's all-nighter. Sylvester was coping surprisingly better, for he was a much smaller man - all wiry and packed close - a package wrapped too tightly, straining at the seams. He too was drenched and shivering, but appeared to be in a lot less pain, at least as far as the man with the rifle could ascertain, and he intended to get no closer. He could feel his hands trembling on the stock of the rifle, and he had to will himself to hold it level. Will himself unafraid. The colonel's shirt was dry. There was no trace of sweat on him whatsoever, which should have been impossible in the suffocating heat. They had all suffered in the heat of the last five months - the sun never letting up - bullying the moisture from their bodies. It had made them tense and irritable at times, but none of them had succumbed to sunstroke, or been driven crazy with the heat. No, that had been something else. Something else entirely. 'Stay still, Andrew.' It had been the rifleman's voice, though he himself hardly recognised it as such. The colonel did as he was told, after standing and making himself more comfortable by leaning against the doorframe. The rifleman didn't know whether he was simply fidgeting or planning something a little more desperate. He suspected the latter, because he believed the colonel could have stayed in one position for hours on end, perhaps days - the man had the patience of a rock. They'd been there for a little under two hours. The rifleman had the advantage of the shade from the acacia tree that looked as though it had erupted from the patchy scrub of ground that made up the front yard, and to which Carl had hooked one end of his hammock in those optimistic early days. The hammock was still there, its other end tied to the back of one of the Landrovers. It swayed softly over his head, though there was barely a breath of wind. He was sitting, pondering and simultaneously fighting down his growing dread, his back against solid, stone-like roots. He knew he was going to run. He was going to run because he couldn't kill them. He suspected that they knew this. No, he was certain that they did. At least the colonel must - the rifle belonged to him, and he was looking too relaxed. Relaxed was not the man's usual demeanour. Quite the opposite, in fact. He couldn't kill them for any number of reasons. First, and most practically, there was only one bullet in the rifle. He supposed he could have asked them to stand in a neat row for him, allowing him to pass the bullet through each of their yielding skulls in turn, but even if they took his request seriously, which he doubted, how could he rely on the bullet travelling cleanly through, without being deflected by bone or gristle. He could hardly rely on his compatriots' co-operation, and he wouldn't have blamed them. He'd have hardly co-operated with something so outlandish either. He'd never killed anyone before, and really didn't think he had it in him: that was reason number two. Lastly, these people were his friends, even now. They'd been together for too long. So he was going to run. But if he couldn't kill them, then at the very least he could slow them down a little. The rifleman eyed the colonel. There was no malice in his stare, not as such. It was a look made more from a questioning fear. The look asked too many unanswerable questions at once. Why did you do it? Why did you deceive us all? What were you thinking? Who did you think you were trying to help? Why did you have to fuck up everything? Why did you need to fuck up the whole world? And, moreover, how in hell am I supposed to stop you? He was sweating too much - it wasn't just the heat. The stock of the rifle felt slippery in his grip as he raised himself to his feet. The time for action had arrived. Any action. His head was swimming. He shook it and his vision blurred momentarily before clearing. There was sudden movement in the doorway, and he swung the rifle up once more, his nausea forgotten. Just Carl, leaning over, looking ready to vomit. The rifleman moved cautiously around the front of the nearest Landrover, tethered to the trunk of the tree, as though it might have grown restless and wandered off to find more luscious grazing elsewhere. Both the Landrovers were old Series Three models, discontinued long since, yet common enough to pick up for next to nothing anywhere on this boiling continent. They were inconspicuous, reliable, and easy to maintain. Easy to disable, too. He unsnapped one of the bonnet catches and then, moving crab-like around the front of the vehicle, facing the door of the Nissen Hut all the while, he fumbled the second catch open. Holding the rifle with one hand was tricky enough, but there was worse to come. He raised the lid of the bonnet high enough for the stay to snap into position, and glanced inside, locating the distributor cap on the side of the engine easily enough. It was fastened in place by two metal clips, which he unsnapped, all the while watching the colonel's unmoving, unnerving features. He was working blind, but the work was simple enough. He twisted off the cap, dropped it, and then grasped hold of the rotor arm housed beneath, which fell into his hand after a little tugging and levering. He dropped it into his trouser pocket, where it jangled against his keys. He paced to the other Landrover, not hurrying for fear of overlooking anything in his haste, but not dawdling either. He shoved the large briefcase from the driving seat over to the passenger side, and climbed in. It was a moment of vulnerability, and he fully expected the colonel to launch whatever surprise he had been cooking up, so he was relieved when no such thing happened. He lowered the rifle into the passenger footwell. Still no movement from the three men. What were they waiting for? He felt sure that they knew he had no intention of shooting them. They must know that, surely? You don't spend eight intimate months with someone without getting to know them inside out. Perhaps the two on the steps were still coming through, but that needn't have stopped the colonel. If anyone could prevent him driving away right now, it would be him. But the colonel didn't move: simply regarded him coolly, a tiny smile threatening to crack the thin straight line marking his lips, although it did not manifest itself fully. The rifleman started the engine, dropped the Landrover into first, and swung the wheel hard around. As he began to move, so did they. He accelerated in a sweeping arc, first toward them and then pulling away, bouncing over the ruts and scrub of the courtyard and out onto what passed for a road. If he expected the group to move quickly, he was disappointed. The colonel turned slowly on his heels and disappeared into the relative cool of the Nissen hut. The remaining two followed equally slowly, though their movements were less sure and their eyes seemed fixed on something distant and unknowable. Watching their movements, the rifleman was reminded somehow of marionettes. He turned his eyes from the wing-mirror and concentrated on the road ahead. It was twilight when he stopped driving. He'd covered seventy miles in a little over three hours, which was exceptional going considering the terrain over which the majority of his journey had taken place had been far worse than any dirt-track he'd ever known. He didn't feel that seventy miles was nearly enough. However, it would have to suffice for now. His bladder was ready to burst, and he relieved himself in the open. When he'd finished, he heaved out the heavy briefcase from the passenger seat. He placed it reverently on the cooling bonnet, unsnapped the latches, and opened it up. From the briefcase he extracted and set up a satellite phone, unfurled the receiving dish, joined the two with a thick wire. He dialled in, punching in the requisite codes while adjusting the dish. After what seemed an age he could hear the line ringing at the other end, and then the answerphone cut in. He left a brief message, then opened his laptop and dialled into another number, a short wait before the "message sent" alert appeared on his screen, and then he unplugged and repacked the equipment carefully. Then he climbed back into the driver's seat and resumed his journey. Dusk was slowly shifting into dark, and fatigue was beginning to gnaw at him. He couldn't recall his last meal either, come to that. He'd gained a little time over the three men he'd left behind but not, of course, enough. There is never enough time, he thought. Never enough time for any of us. And there was the final reason he found himself incapable of murder: that even death would not have been an end, would not have been enough. Even dead, the threat lingered. It lingered in their blood. Their busy, roiling, cursed blood. He'd been back on the road for quite some time before he even noticed the tears he'd shed.

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