Anne murmurs, ‘Nice touch. One end he’s doing good for the country; the other end he’s fighting for it.’

Zeb has to agree. Hardinger with his sniper rifle, posing in various countries of the world, is made for marine recruitment posters.

‘So, Connor, how did your Africa trip go?’ asks the Senator.

‘It was good, got good background for the series I’m working on.’

‘The exposé of the mining industry there? Their working practices and their use of labor?’

‘You know very well what I’m working on. Doesn’t Alchemy have some mines in the Congo?’

‘Yes, and if you’re implying that Alchemy is perpetrating any wrongdoing, I’ll tell you now that I have no idea what their practices are. I’m no longer running it, but I ran a clean ship when I was there.’

‘Time will tell.’

The Senator stands in front of his marine sniper photographs. ‘You know, Connor, one of the reasons I loved being a sniper was that collateral damage is minimal. But there is always collateral damage in any profession, and a responsible person should take steps to minimize it.

‘Don’t you agree, Major?’ he adds, turning to Zeb.

‘I was just the bag handler back in the day, Senator. What do I know of these big terms?’ Zeb replies. He’s eyeing the Purple Heart, the Silver Star, and various sniper-award citations on display.

‘You any good with a long gun, Major?’ asks Hardinger.

‘Yup, at using them as a crutch.’

Hardinger gives a short bark of laughter. ‘I sense hidden depths in you, Major. I can easily find your service record if I want to.’

‘If you find anything of interest, let me know. Maybe we can swap secrets.’

Hardinger smiles. ‘Have a good time, folks. I have to get back to urging people to open their wallets.’ He walks away.

Connor watches him. ‘I would love to bring him down.’

‘What if you aren’t able to dig up any dirt on Hardinger? Will you can the story?’ Lauren asks.

‘Nope. The story goes ahead whatever happens. After all, it is about the mining practices of Western-owned mines.’

‘That’s good,’ says Lauren with relief. ‘I thought you were losing your objectivity on this story.’

‘Won’t happen. I’m after my Pulitzer.’ He chuckles. ‘Come on. Let’s see what’s in store for the rest of the evening.’

He shepherds all of them back to their seats. Anne glances back and sees Broker lost in thought in front of the Senator’s medals.

*   *   *

It was hot in Mogadishu, almost ninety degrees, the dry weather sucking all moisture from the body. Broker was attached to a Rangers patrol and had been in the city for a few months. They were there to capture General Aidid, who was becoming a major nuisance to peace and the UN-recognized government of Somalia. This was a war sanctioned by the UN, but had been severely hampered by the poor quality of intelligence generated by the US forces.

Broker had been deployed to the Rangers unit to change that. He had been there a couple of months, and they had already lost a couple of Rangers to Somalian snipers.

That day they were driving in an armored Jeep along the dusty lanes of Mogadishu. Broker had been the last to board the Jeep and was seated closest to the rear, five others in front of him. He had been ribbed a lot for that, the usual ribbing that intel guys got from field soldiers.

They rocketed down a dusty road, buildings alongside them. Broker had noticed a green and white hotel, a two-story basic building that they were just passing. The far end of the hotel opened into a crossroad. There weren’t any pedestrians in the heat. The burnt-out shell of a car in front of the hotel was the sole occupant.

In Mogadishu, dusty, slumbering streets were the battlefields.

A Somali attired in plain clothes, his face covered by a red towel, stepped from behind the car wreck, holding an RPG launcher in his hand. Broker gaped in disbelief. One second the street was empty, peaceful, the next second there’s this Somali standing there with dust motes swirling around him and death in his hands.

The Jeep braked suddenly, the Ranger Sergeant shouting, ‘Cover. Cover. Rocket.’

Broker scrambled off the back, stumbling, recovering himself, and ran toward the wall of the hotel, a recessed doorway, whatever cover he could find, even as he heard the distinctive thump of the launcher. A moment later the Jeep lifted off and was flung against the hotel walls. A blast of heat hit him, followed by the Jeep pinning him, its sidewall and roof lying across his waist and legs.

Broker blacked out for a minute, and when he came to, he saw that the Ranger driver of the Jeep had taken the blast full-on, his remains lying on the road. As soon as launcher guy had fired, he was joined by several Somalis who had laid down more fire on the Americans behind the burning Jeep.

His eyesight blurred and hazy with sweat, Broker scrambled for his rifle, which was lying a few feet away, but his body wouldn’t move an inch. He didn’t know how badly he was crushed; his body was pumping adrenaline in massive doses, keeping the pain at bay.

He turned his head slowly toward the Rangers and saw three of them still alive, the Sergeant barking furiously in his radio and the two others returning fire. All of them damaged but alive. Farther away lay the body of the fourth Ranger, who wouldn’t be returning fire, or anything else, anymore.

Broker stretched for his rifle, his fingers scraping in the dirt, blood roaring in his ears. Dimly he heard the Sergeant screaming, ‘Cover. Cover,’ and turned to see launcher guy raising the barrel of the launcher toward them as the other Somalis raised a heavy cover fire.

Launcher guy’s head disappeared in a pink mist. Broker thought one of the Rangers got him, and then he heard another flat crack, and another Somali head disappeared. Broker turned his head, thinking the cavalry had arrived, but couldn’t see anyone. The dusty street was empty save for heat waves.

Evenly spaced shots, no hurry, a professional, thought Broker dimly, as the flat cracks continued and the Somalis fell. The shooting stopped as the last Somali dropped. Silence filled the street, nothing moved, and then a tall silhouette emerged through the dust waves and stood over Broker.

Silently, he bent down and pushed at the carcass of the Jeep. The remaining Rangers rushed to help him, and they freed Broker.

‘Thanks, dude. We’d be at the Pearly Gates by now if you hadn’t showed up.’ The Sergeant looked at the stranger. ‘Which unit are you with?’

The stranger kept silent and walked away, his sniper rifle an extension of him.

Zeb.

Broker had gone back to the site later when he had recovered – he would have the slightest limp for the rest of his life – and retraced their movements and Zeb’s. Zeb had been walking on the roof of a building when he heard the ambush. Broker could see his footsteps paced evenly on the dust film covering the roof, and then the footsteps lengthened as Zeb began to run. He saw where Zeb had kneeled on the roof and taken his first shot, the one that took out launcher guy. Broker estimated the distance to be close to 1000 yards. Under pressure, kneeling, 1000 yards and the first shot had scored. Broker knew only a handful of men in the world who could make that shot. Broker remembered that each of the subsequent shots had been unhurried, Zeb taking his time despite the obvious pressure on him.

*   *   *

A tap on his shoulder rouses Broker from his reverie.

‘You were far away. Joining us?’ Anne asks.

Broker makes his way to their group, but Zeb is missing. He’s hugging the wall again and scanning the room ceaselessly. The event holds no interest for him.

Broker joins him after a while. ‘Recognize any of them?’

Zeb shakes his head.

‘Me neither,’ replies Broker, ‘but then I wasn’t really expecting any of them to be here. Holt might be a twisted son of a bitch, but he’s not a stupid twisted son of a bitch, and that’s assuming there is a link between Holt and Hardinger.’