‘Oh, here we go.’ He turned away from her in the narrow confines of the car. Outside his window, the wind whipped along the embankment, flattening the long grass. ‘Here we fucking go again.’

‘Chris, listen to me.’ A hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off angrily.

‘You’ve got to stand outside it for a moment. That’s what I did while I was in Tromso. You’ve got to see it from the outside to understand. You’re a paid killer, Chris. A paid killer, a dictator in all but name.’

‘Oh, for—‘

‘Echevarria, right? You told me about Echevarria.’

‘What about him?’

‘You talk as if you hated him. As if he was a monster.’

‘He pretty much is, Carla.’

‘And what’s the difference between the two of you? Every atrocity he commits, you underwrite. You told me about the torture, the people in those police cells and the bodies on the rubbish dumps. You put those people there, Chris. You may as well have been there with the electrodes.’

‘That’s not fair. Echevarria isn’t mine.’

‘Isn’t yours?’

‘It isn’t my account, Carla. I don’t get to make the decisions on that one. In fact—‘

‘Oh, and Cambodia’s different? You get to make the decisions on that one, because you told me you do, and I read the reports while I was away, Chris. The independent press for a change. They say this Khieu Sary is going to be as bad as the original Khmer Rouge.’

‘That’s bullshit. Khieu’s a pragmatist. He’s a good bet, and even if he gets out of hand we can—‘

‘Out of hand? What does that mean, out of hand? You mean if the body count gets into the tens of thousands? If they run out of places to bury them secretly? Chris, for fuck’s sake listen to yourself.’

He turned back. ‘I didn’t make the world the way it is, Carla. I’m just trying to live in it.’

‘We don’t have to live in it this way.’

‘No? You want to live in the fucking zones, do you?’ He reached across and grabbed at the leather jacket she was wearing. ‘You think they wear this kind of stuff in the zones? You think you get to jet off to Scandinavia when you fucking feel like it if you live in the zones?’

‘I’m not—‘

‘You want to be an old woman at forty?’ She flinched at the lash in his voice. He was losing control now, tears stinging in his eyes. ‘Is that what you want, Carla? Obese from the shit they stuff the food with, diabetic from the fucking sugar content, allergies from the additives, no money for decent medical treatment. Is that what you want? You want to die poor, die because you’re poor? Is that what you fucking want, Carla, because—‘

The slap turned his head. Jarred loose the tears from his eyelids. He blinked and tasted blood.

‘Now you listen to me,’ she said evenly. ‘You shut up and hear what I have to say, or this is over. I mean it, Chris.’

‘You have no idea,’ he muttered.

‘Don’t try to pull rank on me, Chris. My father lives in the zones—‘

‘Your father?’ Derisively. Voice rising again. ‘Your father doesn’t—‘

‘I’m warning you, Chris.’

He looked away. Cranked down the anger. ‘Your father,’ he said quietly, ‘is a tourist. He has no children. No dependents. Nothing that ties him where he is, nothing to force him. He isn’t like the people he surrounds himself with, and he never will be. He could be gone tomorrow if he chose to, and that’s what makes the difference.’

‘He thinks he can make a difference.’

‘And can he?’

Silence. Finally, he looked back at her.

‘Can he, Carla?’ He reached out and took her hand. ‘Yesterday I was on the other side of the world, talking to a man who might be able to kick Echevarria out of the ME. If I get my way, it’ll happen. Isn’t that worth something? Isn’t that something better than the articles your father hammers out for readers who’ll shake their heads and act shocked and never lift a fucking finger to change anything?’

‘If it matters to you so much to change things all of a sudden, why can’t you—‘

The heavy throb of rotors overhead. The car rocked on its suspension. The radio crackled to life.

‘Driver Control. This is Driver Control.’

The rotor noise grew, even through the Saab’s soundproofing. The helicopter’s belly dropped into view, black and luminous green, showing landing skids, underslung cameras and gatlings. It skittered back a few metres, as if nervous of the stopped car. The voice splashed out of the radio again.

‘Owner of Saab Custom registration s810576, please identify yourself.’

What the fuck for, dickhead? The thought was a random jag of anger. Match me from the footage you’ve just shot through my windscreen, why don’t you? Instead of wasting my motherfucking time.

‘This is a security requirement,’ admonished the voice.

‘This is Chris Faulkner,’ he said heavily. ‘Driver clearance 260B354R. I work for Shorn Associates. Now fuck off, will you. My wife’s not feeling well, and you’re not helping.’

There was a brief silence while the numbers ran. The voice came back, diffident.

‘Sorry to trouble you, sir. It’s just, stopping like that on the carriageway. If your wife needs hospitalisation, we can—‘

‘I said, fuck off.’

The helicopter dithered for a moment longer then spun about and lifted out of view. They sat for a while, listening to its departing chunter.

‘Nice to know they’re watching,’ said Carla bitterly.

‘Yeah.’ He closed his eyes.

She touched his arm. ‘Chris.’

‘Alright.’ He nodded. Opened his eyes. ‘Alright. I’ll talk to them.’

File #3: Foreign Aid

Chapter Twenty-Five

Two weeks.

For Chris, marooned on the fringes of the preparations, it passed like a waking dream. He lived a distorted copy of his real life, tinged in equal portions by nightmarish tension and an odd, unlooked-for romantic nostalgia.

Work was as he’d expected. He acted normal and watched his back. Troop movements in Assam, hostage-taking in Parana, and in Cambodia a handful of executions no one had foreseen. He handled it all with eerie calm.

At home, he dared not talk openly to Carla so they took up a bizarre dual existence, life in the house as if nothing had changed, set against hushed exchanges snatched in the secure confines of the Saab. Carla, somehow, had persuaded Erik and Kirsti to act together as the link with the ombudsmen, and she went regularly to the Brundtland to gather details from her father. Some kind of code was in use over Erik’s netlink, a fake reconciliation underway between the parents to serve as cover for the information Chris and Carla agreed in their hasty conferences in the car.

And here came the nostalgia, the bittersweet taste of something almost used up. The moments grabbed in the Saab had the tang of illicit sexual encounters, and once or twice even ended that way. And the rest of the time, acting out normality for any possible listeners, they treated each other with an abnormal tenderness and consideration. In both aspects of their new existence, they were getting on better than they had in months.

It was weird.

Two weeks, and the ombudsman came.

He disliked Truls Vasvik on sight.

Partly, it was the Norwegian thing - the same irritating aura of easy outdoor competence that he’d noticed in most of Carla’s friends on the few occasions they’d been up to Tromso together. But more than that, it was the clothes. Here was a trained professional who, Carla claimed, earned at least the same as he did, and Chris could have bought the man’s entire outfit for less than he usually spent on a haircut. The grey wool of the jersey was stretched and pilled, the nondescript trousers were bagged in the knees and the walking boots had shaped themselves to Vasvik’s feet with constant use. The coat looked as if he’d slept in it. It only needed the carelessly-tied-back greying hair to complete the image of a teen antiglobalist who’d never grown up.