A little tremor, as there always was when he indulged himself. No need for a retired has-been, some never-was, to be called in to sift the files of Henry Carter's operations… He recalled the days when he had controlled a man sent across the inner German border to Magdeburg. He remembered the night long interrogation when he had reduced a desk head, one of their own, to a weeping and shamed creature. Decent files he had left behind him. He… They were watching from behind their silly screens. It would have been a good day to have been up on the former railway line at Tregaron, mid-Wales, because it was just the right time of year for the rare red kites, Milvus milvus, to be feeding. Glorious birds.. He dropped his head. He began to read. The file was, indeed, a mess, no order and no shape. He turned the pages fast. Fifteen typed sheets, four faxes, nine Foreign and Commonwealth Office signals, thirteen foolscap sheets covered by three different sets of handwriting, and a buff envelope of photographs. The old desk warrior gutted the pages, his training taking over. Henry Carter would have said if he was asked, and he never was, that there was a narcotic addiction from a file that was fresh to him. He was hooked, caught. Almost without looking up he called to the supervisor. "I'd like a map, please." "Of what?" Because of what he had read, because of the images already in his mind, a scratch of irritation clawed him. It was not a joke, nor was it mischief. "Hardly the sea front at Bognor Regis, no thank you… Large scale, 1:1000, if that's possible. Former Yugoslavia, what they call Croatia. The area that the United Nations Protection Force designates as Sector North…" He turned back the sheets of paper spread now haphazardly across the table.