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much like the parasitic insects that burrowed under a man’s skin. But then he did not greatly care for winter nights concealed in a culvert observing a Republican farm building in the freezing bogs of South Armagh. Join the army and see the world. But do so uncomfortably.
    Baxter slid a satellite photograph across the desk. Dense forestation was a black blur covering the whole of the print. Rivers and streams were silvery snakes gleaming, uncoiled. A route through the forest was just the faintest of lines, given away by its straightness. Geometrical precision was alien to this wilderness. There should have been no straight lines. Yet there it was. A route, ruler straight, headed north. Mark followed the trail with his finger. It was too faint to record the rampaging progress of loggers, altogether too neat. And it was too delicate to represent a metalled road. Effort had been made to minimise the path, to keep it as narrow and well concealed as its existence allowed.
    ‘Either they’re environmentally sensitive, or they’re hiding something,’ Mark said.
    Colonel Baxter did not answer him.
    Faintly, from one of the sets of wooden buildings in the sunshine beyond the hut, Mark heard the cagey, staccato
rhythms of a live-fire exercise. They would be rehearsing an ambush in one of the blinds built by the base carpenters, or rescuing hostages from a confusing warren of wooden rooms. His hands were moist in the heat and his tracing forefinger smudged the point where the road ended, the smudge giving more substance to a settlement there than the picture had originally possessed. But it was a settlement, man-made before an attempt at camouflaging it. Again, the geometry gave it away. The small cluster of buildings formed a pattern of rectangles.
    ‘It doesn’t look much, Sir.’
    ‘That picture is almost two weeks old. The place could be twice the size by now, heavily fortified and fully operational. You won’t know until you get there.’
    ‘I’m assuming a Stealth aircraft took this picture. I’m assuming this is an American initiative.’
    ‘That’s essentially correct.’
    ‘They’ve got some pretty good special forces operatives of their own. I’ve done joint exercises with them in Germany. You must have done the same in the past, Sir. They’re more than capable of dealing with a jungle stockade full of marching powder and a dozen armed thugs from the cartel guarding it. This is a milk-run for their covert chaps.’
    Baxter frowned and stood up. He went over to his window. Mark did not think the view especially compelling. Baxter was concealing something. But that was his prerogative, given his rank. ‘The special relationship has taken a few hits of late, Mark. There are some bruising personality clashes at a level too high for anyone to be comfortable with them. This mission is seen by the PM as one more symbolic means of cementing our long-standing position with our longest-standing allies.’
    ‘Technically, Sir, our longest-standing allies are the Portuguese.’
    ‘Your co-leader on this mission is of Portuguese origin,
actually. He’s a Major Rodriguez. Rodriguez serves of course in the army and under the flag of the United States. I believe he’s a linguistic specialist.’
    ‘You mean, a man trained in interrogation techniques.’
    Baxter shrugged. ‘I don’t think Major Rodriguez could be described as a common torturer. He’s fluent in seven languages and one of those is Ancient Greek.’
    Hunter nodded. He did not think classical scholastic skills likely to be of any use against cartel members. But Rodriguez would have other, deadlier proficiencies. He was confident of that.
    ‘You will join the Americans and a Canadian when you hit the ground. We need to do this, Mark.’
    ‘We need the business.’
    ‘Oh, we always need the business.’ Baxter turned. ‘And on this occasion we need to get the right business outcome.’
     
    They were there, waiting for him in the darkness as Hunter