time it is?’
‘To be honest, I don’t give a damn,’ Nathan said, surprised at how much he was enjoying saying it.
‘We can’t act without hard evidence. You know that.’
‘That was hard evidence. Anyway, I knew I should’ve done things differently.’
‘Waded in and blasted them all to bits? Come on.’
‘Give me the right team and I could take out the leaders of the Front.’
‘That’s the squaddie talking, not the Soca officer.’
Nathan looked at the letter from the LSE on his bedside table. A lectureship sounded like a nice idea. Flexible hours. Time to study what he wanted. Intellectual debates at international conferences rather than getting shot at in the middle of the jungle.
‘I’m out,’ he said.
‘You’re resigning?’
‘Thinking about it.’
‘And then what? Live in your ivory tower?’
Nathan hung up.
‘Sure told him there, bro,’ Caitlin said in a sleepy voice from the other room. ‘Although I thought you said last night you were going to stick with them after all.’
Nathan reached for the pack of painkillers and the glass of water on his bedside table. ‘I dunno. I need time.’
He tried going back to sleep, but his mind was churning over the events of the past few days. How was Manuel doing? He’d been semi-delirious when Nathan had left him in the hands of other campesinos, although he’d gripped Nathan’s hand and promised him he’d do anything for him for saving his life. His thoughts turned to George, and he felt like punching the wall. Why was George being so obstructive? Did he have a hidden agenda?
There was no point trying to sleep. He switched on the bedside lamp and picked up a book he’d been reading for his PhD: Drug War Zone: Frontline Dispatches from the Streets of El Paso and Juárez, by a sociology professor at the University of Texas. Caitlin thought Nathan was insane doing a PhD, let alone on the same topic he worked on every day. Yet he needed the intellectual stimulation. And he wanted a way out of this job.
The author was discussing the ritualised use of violence by drug gangs: traitors shot in the neck, philanderers castrated, spies shot in the ear, people who talk too much shot in the mouth. Sometimes, if the victim was a police informer, the cartels would cut off the fingers or the tongue and place them in the victim’s mouth as a warning to others. ‘The construction of dread,’ the author called it. Its aim was to generate a climate of fear and reinforce the power of the cartels. Nathan hadn’t seen that behaviour yet from the Front, but he knew it would come soon.
He got up and went to the kitchen to prepare a strong cup of coffee. Caitlin followed him from her bedroom, wearing her purple gown.
‘What’s up?’ she said.
‘Sometimes I wonder why I ever took this job. I’m sick of the politics. George spends his time blocking everything. The directors are his cronies.’
‘Cedric isn’t.’
‘You should have seen him yesterday. Like a puppet.’
‘He helped you with the Camplones case.’
‘Took a lot of convincing.’
‘You need to do the same again.’
‘It’s different now.’ Nathan put coffee beans into the machine. ‘George is here.’
‘Not everyone’s like you.’ Caitlin smiled gently. ‘Cedric’s just a bit more subtle, that’s all. Anyway, it’s about the job, not the organisation.’
Nathan nodded. Those were Dad’s words originally when Nathan had been fed up with being a squaddie. He poured a coffee for Caitlin.
‘Maybe resigning would be a good move,’ Nathan said. ‘I could apply for that lectureship.’
‘Now that’s a good idea.’
‘Not sure they’d consider me without a finished PhD, though. I wish I could find time to complete it.’
‘Take a holiday. You haven’t had one for nearly a year.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
Nathan took his mug
‘To be honest, I don’t give a damn,’ Nathan said, surprised at how much he was enjoying saying it.
‘We can’t act without hard evidence. You know that.’
‘That was hard evidence. Anyway, I knew I should’ve done things differently.’
‘Waded in and blasted them all to bits? Come on.’
‘Give me the right team and I could take out the leaders of the Front.’
‘That’s the squaddie talking, not the Soca officer.’
Nathan looked at the letter from the LSE on his bedside table. A lectureship sounded like a nice idea. Flexible hours. Time to study what he wanted. Intellectual debates at international conferences rather than getting shot at in the middle of the jungle.
‘I’m out,’ he said.
‘You’re resigning?’
‘Thinking about it.’
‘And then what? Live in your ivory tower?’
Nathan hung up.
‘Sure told him there, bro,’ Caitlin said in a sleepy voice from the other room. ‘Although I thought you said last night you were going to stick with them after all.’
Nathan reached for the pack of painkillers and the glass of water on his bedside table. ‘I dunno. I need time.’
He tried going back to sleep, but his mind was churning over the events of the past few days. How was Manuel doing? He’d been semi-delirious when Nathan had left him in the hands of other campesinos, although he’d gripped Nathan’s hand and promised him he’d do anything for him for saving his life. His thoughts turned to George, and he felt like punching the wall. Why was George being so obstructive? Did he have a hidden agenda?
There was no point trying to sleep. He switched on the bedside lamp and picked up a book he’d been reading for his PhD: Drug War Zone: Frontline Dispatches from the Streets of El Paso and Juárez, by a sociology professor at the University of Texas. Caitlin thought Nathan was insane doing a PhD, let alone on the same topic he worked on every day. Yet he needed the intellectual stimulation. And he wanted a way out of this job.
The author was discussing the ritualised use of violence by drug gangs: traitors shot in the neck, philanderers castrated, spies shot in the ear, people who talk too much shot in the mouth. Sometimes, if the victim was a police informer, the cartels would cut off the fingers or the tongue and place them in the victim’s mouth as a warning to others. ‘The construction of dread,’ the author called it. Its aim was to generate a climate of fear and reinforce the power of the cartels. Nathan hadn’t seen that behaviour yet from the Front, but he knew it would come soon.
He got up and went to the kitchen to prepare a strong cup of coffee. Caitlin followed him from her bedroom, wearing her purple gown.
‘What’s up?’ she said.
‘Sometimes I wonder why I ever took this job. I’m sick of the politics. George spends his time blocking everything. The directors are his cronies.’
‘Cedric isn’t.’
‘You should have seen him yesterday. Like a puppet.’
‘He helped you with the Camplones case.’
‘Took a lot of convincing.’
‘You need to do the same again.’
‘It’s different now.’ Nathan put coffee beans into the machine. ‘George is here.’
‘Not everyone’s like you.’ Caitlin smiled gently. ‘Cedric’s just a bit more subtle, that’s all. Anyway, it’s about the job, not the organisation.’
Nathan nodded. Those were Dad’s words originally when Nathan had been fed up with being a squaddie. He poured a coffee for Caitlin.
‘Maybe resigning would be a good move,’ Nathan said. ‘I could apply for that lectureship.’
‘Now that’s a good idea.’
‘Not sure they’d consider me without a finished PhD, though. I wish I could find time to complete it.’
‘Take a holiday. You haven’t had one for nearly a year.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
Nathan took his mug
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