Devil’s Harvest Read Online Free PDF Page B

aberrations as two bruised-looking grapes pulsating at the entrance to his anus, but he had never had the inclination to squat over a mirror to examine them. He knew that his retention only made matters worse, but he couldn’t seem to take control of his bowel movements. It was a source of endless frustration. He took enough Senokot to flush a mammoth’s intestine clean, but on a good day only managed to squeeze out a few kernels, like pushing out dried nuts. For the rest, he was left with a bloated stomach and waves of urgency that produced only flatulence. He attributed it to the prostate surgery he had had a year before, but in truth he had started suffering from constipation long before Maurice had first delved into his nether regions and let out a telling ‘oh-oh’ as his index finger slithered around inside.
    Bartholomew squeezed again, and the muscles across his hips and inner thighs pulled uncomfortably. A fart reverberated in the metal stall. He pushed again but nothing further was forthcoming. He waited for a few moments, listening for any noise that might indicate that someone had heard his flatus. Then he stood up, rebuckling his neatly pressed trousers. He washed his hands with soap and warm water, despite the lack of success, keeping his eyes focused on the running water in an effort not to look at himself in the mirror. The photographs on his mantelpiece at home remembered a stern and solid-looking officer, perhaps not of the physical stature of Frank Richards, but fit and reasonably trim. After devoting nearly four decades of his life to the military, he hardly recognised himself any more – the loosening jowls and sagging skin around his chest, the liver spots on his legs. His libido had left him since the operation, not that Lilly had complained, or even mentioned it. It was almost as if they had accepted, without speaking, that physicality was beyond them. Poor old girl, he thought, not much of a life he had given her in the end. He hoped his discussions with the Saudis would change that, at least to afford them some comfort in retirement.
    Nothing had changed in the operations room on his return. He wondered whether Richards had so much as blinked in the interim. The man seemed to be made of steel, or certainly portrayed himself in that way. He had seen combat as a young pilot in Afghanistan and then Syria and he was the embodiment of the RAF officer, with a square, clean-shaven jaw and unsmiling eyes. He gave the impression that weighty decisions rested on his shoulders eternally, even when his mind may have been quite blank. There was something annoying in his demeanour, a self-assured haughtiness suggesting that he regarded himself as a superior breed of soldier. In fact, Bartholomew viewed him as a useful but rather limited guard dog, a man he hoped he could rely on to fulfil his duties without too many questions. He was a physical presence rather than a participating strategist.
    The room was surrounded with screens, green and red lights flicking on and off as the main server monitored a series of events around the world. Bartholomew was at his happiest in the operations room, although he seldom got here now. It provided confirmation that he still had a career, despite no longer being in the cockpit or toting an M16. Here, he could command an operation, isolated from the political boardrooms, the hushed conversations at the Club, the guarded interactions with the deputy minister. Here, he could be a soldier again. He had that same feeling of heightened seclusion on the bridge of HMS
Illustrious
during Operation Southern Watch monitoring the no-fly zone imposed on Iraq in 1991. It was a strangely contented feeling, surrounded by weaponry and super-technology, as if one’s mind was cleared of clutter, focused only on the simplicity of the task at hand. The hum of the machines was soothing, and decision-making was reduced to a series of numbers on a screen and the implementation of a higher