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plan.
    ‘Approaching target zone, sir,’ the young lieutenant said. ‘Reducing altitude to tactical. Weather is clear, sir.’
    ‘Leave off the aperture radar. Give me combined infrared and monochrome optical streams.’ Bartholomew moved closer to the screen, becoming aware of the flight lieutenant’s flashy aftershave. The screen flickered and then displayed a blurred black-and-white image. The flight lieutenant tapped the buttons in front of him and the image zoomed in. A series of dark shadows and brighter squares passed by, occasionally small structures and the strips of roads, like a child’s jigsaw puzzle, the pieces still scattered across the board. In monochrome, the landscape looked bleak and uninviting. Still, Bartholomew preferred working without colour. He had watched the colour feed from a Nimrod R1 over Bosnia during the Sarajevo strikes and had found the greenness of the fields distracting.
    They watched the screen in silence. They were tracking a road of sorts, but there was little moving on it. Occasionally, a patch of body heat generated by cattle clustered in enclosures, but otherwise there were few disturbances to the procession of muted greys. Then a few round shadows, a crisscrossing of paths like spiderwebs. A message started flashing across the bottom.
    ‘Target coming into range, sir,’ the flight lieutenant said unnecessarily. It was as if he was forcing his superiors to take responsibility at every step.
    ‘We can see that, Lieutenant,’ said Richards.
    Bartholomew clenched the muscles in his jaw. ‘Acquire and engage.’
    It was military speak for ‘do your job and don’t bother me’. Bartholomew felt a tickle across the inside of his rectum. His stomach made a low gurgle; the lieutenant’s right ear was almost exactly in line and he must have heard. Again the tickle, and a sudden urge to push. Bartholomew considered leaving, but he knew he wouldn’t make it back in time. He clenched his buttocks and rocked back on his heels.
    ‘Target vehicle has stopped, sir.’ The rectangular shape of a car moved across the screen and stopped next to a simple square shape, a residence of sorts. A dotted cross-hair had appeared directly in the middle of the grey outline of the vehicle. Perfectly in view. But before Bartholomew could give the authorisation, a small shape emerged from the residence and moved up to the side of the targeted object. The infrared depicted body heat. Someone had joined the target.
    The flight lieutenant hesitated, unsure about how to proceed.
    ‘Engagement authorised, Flight Lieutenant.’ Frank Richards’s voice was deep and authoritative, filled also with some measure of disdain, whether for the pilot or the target, or both.
    The centre of the screen flashed and then filled with a surging ring of shadow. The infrared cut out automatically at the point of detonation in order to spare itself from the spike of light that followed the explosion. The target and square structure were engulfed by the rushing darkness and, for a moment, the entire screen seemed opaque. Then the fringes appeared once more, the centre replaced by a paler plume of dust and smoke. Bartholomew did not need to see anything more. The client would be satisfied.
    ‘Thank you, shut it down.’ Bartholomew nodded to Richards, who remained stony-faced. Perhaps the same toilet stall would be available, he thought as he hurried from the operations room.

Chapter 3
    BRISTOL, SOUTH-WEST ENGLAND
    Gabriel sat at his desk, immobilised by the neat pile of unopened correspondence and internal memoranda that Mrs Thebes had – no doubt with some relish – placed in front of his roller chair. He inserted a letter knife into the first envelope and slit it open like some delicate fish. He caught the flash of a photograph and groaned as he turned over the envelope. It was addressed to ‘The Pest Expert, Botany Department’ with a return address in Chipping Sodbury. Damn Mrs Thebes, he thought gloomily, pulling