FireWall

Firewall

Andy McNab

Also by Andy McNab

Nonfiction

Bravo Two Zero

Immediate Action

Fiction

Remote Control

Crisis Four

Firewall

by Andy McNab

1

HELSINKI, FINLAND

Monday, December G, 1999 The Russians were serious players. If things didn't go as planned, Sergei said, I'd be lucky to be shot dead in the hotel lobby. If they captured me, I'd be taken to a remote bit of wasteland and have my stomach slit open. They'd pull my intestines out and leave me to watch them squirm around on my chest like a bucket of freshly caught eels for the thirty minutes it would take me to die. These things happen, he had explained, when you mess with the main men in ROC (Russian Organized Crime). But I didn't have a choice; I desperately needed the cash.

"What's it called again, Sergei?" I mimed the disembowelment Eyes staring straight ahead, he gave a brief, somber smile and muttered, "Viking's revenge."

It was just before seven p.m. and it had already been dark for three and a half hours. The air temperature had been well below freezing all day; it hadn't snowed for a while, but there was still a lot of the stuff about, plowed to the sides of the roads.

The two of us had been sitting very still for the best part of an hour.

Until I'd just spoken, our breathing was the only sign of movement. We were parked two blocks away from the Intercontinental Hotel, using the shadows between the streetlights to conceal our presence in the dirty black Nissan 4x4. The rear seats were down flat to make it easier to hide the target inside, complete with me wrapped round him like a wrestler to keep him there. The 4x4 was sterile: no prints and completely empty apart from the trauma pack lying on the folded seats. Our boy had to be delivered across the border alive, and a couple of liters of Ringer's solution might come in handy if this job turned into a gang fuck Right now, it certainly had all the ingredients of one. I found myself hoping it wouldn't be me needing the infusion.

It had been a while since I'd felt the need to pre canulate making it quicker for me to replace any fluid from gunshot wounds, but today had just that feel about it. I'd brought a catheter from the U.K. and it was already inserted into a vein under my left forearm, secured by tape and protected by an Ace bandage. Anticoagulant was preloaded inside the catheter's needle and chamber to stop the blood that filled it from clotting. Ringer's solution isn't as good as plasma to replace blood loss-it's only a saline mix-but I didn't want anything plasma-based.

Russian quality control was a contradiction in terms, and money was what I wanted to return to the U.K. with, not HIV. I'd spent enough time in Africa not treating anyone's gunshot wounds because of the risk of infection, and I wasn't about to let it happen now.

We sat facing Mannerheimintie, 600 feet down the hill from our position. The boulevard was the main drag into the city center, just a fifteen minute walk away to the right. It carried a constant stream of slow, obedient traffic each side of the streetcar lines. Up here it was like a different world. Low-level apartment buildings hugged each side of the quiet street and an inverted V of white Christmas lights sparkled in almost every window.

People walked past, straining under the weight of their purchases, crammed into large shopping bags with pictures of holly and Santa. They didn't notice us as they headed home to their smart apartments; they were too busy keeping their footing on the icy sidewalks and their heads down against the wind that howled and buffeted the 4x4.

The engine had been off all the time we'd been here, and it was like sitting in a fridge. Our breath billowed like low cloud as we waited.

I kept visualizing how, when, and where I was going to do my stuff, and more importantly, what I was going to do if things got fucked up. Once the target has been selected the basic sequence of a kidnapping is nearly always the same. First comes reconnaissance; second, abduction; third, detention; fourth, negotiation; fifth, ransom payment; and finally, release-though sometimes that doesn't happen. My job was to plan and implement the first three phases; the rest of the task was out of my hands.

Three members of the loud-tie-and-suspenders brigade from a private bank had approached me in London. They'd been given my name by an ex-Regiment SAS) mate who now worked for one of the big security companies, and who'd been nice enough to recommend me when this particular commission had been declined.

"Britain," they said to me as we sat at a window table in the roof bar of the Hilton, looking down on to the gardens of Buckingham Palace, "is facing an explosion in Russian mafia-organized crime. London is a money-laundering haven. The ROC are moving as much as 20 billion through the City each year, and up to two hundred of their senior players either live in Britain or visit regularly."

The executives went on to say they'd discovered that millions had been channeled through Valentin Lebed's accounts at their bank in just three years. They didn't like that, and were none too keen on the thought of the boys with the blue flashing lights paying him a visit and seeing the name on all his paying-in slips. Their solution was to have Val lifted and taken to St. Petersburg, where, I presumed, they had either made arrangements to persuade him to move his account to a different bank, or to channel even more through them to make the risk more acceptable. Whichever, I didn't give a fuck so long as I got paid.

I looked over at Sergei. His eyes glinted as he stared at the traffic below us and his Adam's apple moved as he swallowed. There wasn't anything left to say; we'd done enough talking during the two-week buildup. It was now time to do.

The conference of European Council members was due to start in Helsinki in two days. Blue EU flags already lined the main roads, and large black convoys of Eurocrats drove around with motorcycle outriders, heading from premeeting to premeeting. The police had set up diversions to control the flow of traffic around the city, and orange reflective cones and barriers were springing up everywhere. I'd already had to change our escape route twice because of it.

Like all the high-class hotels, the Intercontinental was housing the exodus from Brussels. All the suits had been in the city since last week, wheeling and dealing so that when the heads of state hit town, all they'd have to do was politely refuse Tony Blair's invitation to eat British beef at some dinner for the media, then leave. All very good, but for me security around here was tighter than a duck's ass-everything from sealed manholes to prevent bombs being planted to a heavy police presence on the streets. They would certainly have contingency plans for every possible event, especially armed attack.

Sergei had a folding-stock AK-a Russian automatic, 7.62mm short assault rifle-under his feet. His cropped, thinning brown hair was covered by a dark-blue woolen hat, and the old Soviet Army body armor he wore under his down jacket made him look like the Michelin man. If Hollywood was looking for a Russian hardhead, Sergei would win the screen test every time. Late forties, square jaw, high cheekbones, and blue eyes that didn't just pierce, they chopped you into tiny pieces.

The only reason he would never be a leading man was his badly pockmarked skin. Either he'd steered away from the Clearasil in his youth or he'd been burned; I couldn't tell, and I didn't want to ask.

He was a hard, reliable man, and one I felt it was okay to do business with, but he wasn't going to be on my Christmas-card list.

I had read about Sergei Lysenkov's freelance activities in Intelligence Service reports. He had been a member of Spetznaz's Alpha Group, an elite of special-forces officers within the RGB, who used to be deployed wherever Moscow's power was under threat or there were wars of expansion. When hard line heads of the KGB led the 1991 coup in Moscow, they ordered Alpha Group to kill Yeltsin as he held out in the Russian White House, but Sergei and his mates decided that enough was enough and that the politicos were all as bad as each other. They disobeyed the order, the coup failed, and when Yeltsin learned what had nearly happened he took them under his direct command, cutting their power by turning them into his own bodyguards. Sergei decided to quit and make his experience and knowledge available to the highest bidder, and today that was me. It had been easy enough to make contact: I just went to Moscow and asked a few security companies where I could find him.

I needed Russians on the team because I needed to know how Russians think, how Russians do. And when I discovered that Valentin Lebed would be in Helsinki for twenty-four hours of R and R, and not in his fortress in St. Petersburg, Sergei was the only one who could organize vehicles, weapons, and the bribing of border guards in the time available.

The people who'd briefed me on the job had done their homework well.

Valentin Lebed, they were able to tell me, had been smart during the fall of communism. Unlike some of his gaucher colleagues, he didn't keep the designer labels on the sleeves of his new suit to show how much it had cost. His rise was brutal and meteoric; within two years he was one of the dozen heads of the "mafiocracy" who had made ROC so powerful around the world. Lebed's firm employed only ex-KGB agents overseas, using their skills and experience to run international crime like a military operation.

Coming from dirt-poor beginnings as a farmer's son in Chechnya, he'd fought against the Russians in the mid-nineties war. His fame was sealed after rallying his men by making them watch Braveheart time and time again as the Russians bombed them day after day. He even painted his face half blue when attacking. After the war he'd had other ideas, all of them involving U.S. dollars, and the place he'd chosen to realize them was St. Petersburg.

Much of his money came from arms dealing, extortion, and a string of nightclubs he owned in Moscow and elsewhere, which served as fronts for prostitution rackets. Jewelery businesses he had "acquired" in Eastern Europe were used as a front to fence icons stolen from churches and museums. He also had bases in the United States, and was said to have brokered a deal to dump hundreds of tons of American toxic waste on his motherland. In the Far East, he'd even bought an airline just so he could ship out heroin without administrative hassle. Within just a few years, according to the guys who'd briefed me, such activities were said to have netted him more than $200 million.

Three blocks on the other side of the hotel, parked in a car that would be abandoned once this lift kicked off, were two more of the six-man team. Carpenter and Nightmare were armed with 9mm mini-Uzi machine guns, a very small version of the Uzi 9mm, on harnesses under their overcoats, the same as the BGs (bodyguards) we were going up against.

They were good, reliable weapons, if a little heavy for their size. It was ironic, but Sergei had obtained the team's Uzis and old Spanish, semiautomatic suppressed 7mm pistols from one of Valentin's own dealers.

Carpenter and Nightmare weren't their real names, of course; Sergei-the only one who spoke English-had told me that was how they translated, and that was how he referred to them. Just as well, as I couldn't have pronounced them in Russian anyway.

Nightmare was living up to his name. He certainly wasn't the sharpest tool in Sergei's shed. Things needed to be demonstrated twenty or thirty times before he got the idea. There was a slight flatness to his face that, together with his constantly shifting eyes and the fact that he didn't seem too good at keeping food in his mouth, made him look a bit scary.

Carpenter had a heroin habit that Sergei assured me would not affect his performance, but it certainly had during the buildup. He had lips that were constantly at work, as though he'd swallowed something and was trying to recapture the taste. Sergei told him that if he screwed up on the ground he would personally kill him.

Nightmare was like a big brother to Carpenter and protected him when Sergei gave him a hard time for messing up, but it seemed to me that Nightmare would be lost without him, that they needed each other.

Sergei told me they'd been friends since they were teenagers.

Nightmare's family had looked after Carpenter when his mother went down for life for killing her husband. She'd discovered he'd raped his own seventeen-year-old daughter. As if that wasn't enough, Sergei was his uncle, his father's brother. It was As the World Turns, Russian style, and the only thing I liked about it was that it made my own family seem normal. Carpenter and Nightmare would be in the hotel with me for the lift; perhaps I could keep some control over them if I had them with me.

The last two on the team I'd christened the James brothers and they were in a green Toyota 4x4. I wasn't so worried about them; unlike the other two, they didn't have to be told what to do more than twice. They had the trigger on the target's three black Mercedes, which were about a mile and a half away from the hotel. They also had folding-stock AKs and AP (armor-piercing) rounds in their mags, and, like Sergei, they wore enough body armor to cripple a small horse.

The target was well protected in the hotel and his vehicles were securely parked underground so that no device-explosive from his enemies or listening or surveillance from law enforcement-could be placed. When they finally moved out to pick him up from the hotel with the rest of his BGs, the Jameses would follow. Carpenter and Nightmare would then take up their positions in the hotel, along with me. Sergei, Jesse, and Frank would take on the vehicles.

The Jameses were both ex-Alpha Group, too, but unlike Sergei they were far too good-looking to be straight. They'd been together since their time as young conscripts in Afghanistan, leaving after the previous Chechen war in the mid-nineties, disillusioned with the leadership that had let them lose against the rebels. Both were in their mid-thirties, with dyed blond hair, very clean shaven and well groomed. If they'd wanted a change of career they could have become catalog models. They had never been parted during their military career. As far as I could make out, all they wanted to do was kill Chechen rebels-and swap admiring glances.

I knew I could trust Sergei, but I still wondered about his selection procedure. He obviously wanted to keep most of the cash I'd promised him and had decided not to bring the A team.

It was the most unprofessional job I'd ever been on, and I'd been on a few. Things had got so bad that I'd even taken to sleeping with my door barred and my weapon ready. If the team wasn't complaining to him about my planning, Sergei said, they were moaning about who was earning what and how they might get ripped off when it came to payday.

Carpenter was so homophobic he made Hitler look like a wet liberal, and it had taken as much effort keeping the two pairs away from each other as it had preparing for the job. I did my best to keep out of their way and concentrated on dealing exclusively with Sergei; he was the one I had to keep happy, because he was the only one who could help me get the target into Russia. But they'd got me nervous; people were going to die today, and I didn't want to be one of them.

I was with a scary crew, against a scary target, with the whole of Western Europe's leadership due in town, bringing along enough security to take on China. This wasn't a good day out but, fuck it, desperation makes people do desperate things.

I blew out another cloud of breath. The digital display on the dashboard told me another twenty minutes had passed-time for a radio check. Reaching into my inside jacket pocket, I felt for the send button of my very yellow Motorola handset, the sort that parents use to keep tabs on their kids on the ski slopes or in the shopping mall. All six of us had one, each connected to an earpiece which was hooked in place. With so many people using headphones on their mobile phones, we wouldn't be conspicuous wandering around with them in.

I pressed twice, the squelch sounding off in my ear, then checked with Sergei. He nodded; I was sending. Jesse and Frank replied with two squelches, then Carpenter and Nightmare followed with three. If I'd hit the send button and there was nothing from the Jameses, Carpenter and Nightmare would have waited thirty seconds and replied anyway. We would have no option then but to close in on the target and wait for the Meres to arrive not good, as it exposed us three in the hotel and messed up coordination. There was radio silence for two reasons. One, I couldn't speak the language, and two, EU land security would be listening in. With any luck, a few clicks here and there wouldn't mean a thing. There were many other standby com ms I could have used, mobile phones for instance, but everything had to be kept pretty basic for Nightmare and Carpenter. Anything else to remember and they would have blown up. The old principle of planning keep it simple, stupid rang true yet again.

While Sergei had gone for the Michelin man look, I was very much the businessman: single-breasted suit, jacket one size up, dark-gray overcoat, black woolen scarf and thin leather gloves, and the stress to match. Nightmare and Carpenter were dressed in the same style. All three of us were clean shaven, hair washed, and well groomed. Detail counts; we had to move about the hotel without anyone giving us a second glance, looking as if we were part of the all-expenses-paid, outrageously salaried Brussels freeloaders. Across my lap I even had today's edition of the Herald Tribune.

My overcoat was doing a good job of concealing the body armor under my shirt. Sergei's might be as thick as the paving slabs outside the Kremlin, but mine consisted of just twelve paper-thin sheets of Kevlar not enough to stop one of Sergei's AP rounds, but enough to see off the mini-Uzis that might soon be trying to hose me down. There was a pocket in the body armor for a ceramic plate to cover my chest area, but unlike Sergei I couldn't wear one as it was far too bulky.

Carpenter had refused to wear any at all because it wasn't manly, and Nightmare had followed suit. Fucking mad; if I could have, I'd have covered myself from head to toe in the stuff. My feet were in all sorts of shit; with nothing on but thin socks and a pair of lace-up shoes, they were as cold as bags of frozen peas. I could no longer feel anything below my ankles, and had given up moving them around to generate heat.

I was carrying a South African Z88, which looked like a 9mm Berreta, the sort of pistol Mel Gibson uses in the Lethal Weapon films. When the world banned weapons exports to South Africa during apartheid, the boys just set about making their own gear and were now exporting more assault weapons and helicopters than the U.K.

I had three twenty-round extended mags, which meant an extra two inches hanging out of the pistol grip, looking as if it had partially fallen out. The two spares went into my left-hand overcoat pocket. If things went to plan I wouldn't even be drawing down. The lift should be-would be-silent and take less than a minute.

The body armor was the lightest I dared wear, but even so it made it impossible to draw or sit down with a pistol placed where I would normally have had it: center front, tucked down the front of my jeans or pants in an internal holster. I wasn't feeling happy about my new weapon position. Now it had to be on the right-hand side on my pants belt. I'd had to spend the last two weeks practicing and consciously reminding myself that the position had changed, otherwise I might go to draw down on someone and find my hand hitting Kevlar instead of a pistol grip. That was if I could get to it through all the layers of clothing. To be able to flick back the top layers quickly, I'd taped together some outlets from the set in the car and carried them in the right-hand pockets of both my coat and jacket. It was just one more thing making me feel uneasy. My only consolation was that this time tomorrow it would all be over: I'd get my money and never see these lunatics again.

There was rustling as Sergei unwrapped a chocolate bar and started to throw it down his throat without offering me any. Not that I wanted it; I wasn't hungry, just worried. I sat there waiting, with the sound of Sergei's teeth mashing and jaws clicking as the wind whistled around the wagon.

I sat and thought as he sucked his teeth clean. So far, Valentin had evaded the authorities, mainly because he had learned early on that it was good to have friends in powerful places and officials on the payroll. Key witnesses were routinely murdered before they could testify against him. Just a few months earlier, Sergei said, an American journalist who'd delved a bit too deeply into Val's business affairs was forced into hiding, with his family, after a phone call was intercepted in which Val was heard putting out a contract of $100,000, not just on the reporter's life, but also on those of his wife and child.

It was for those who betrayed his trust, however, that the worst fate was reserved. Two senior managers who oversaw his prostitution empire had been caught skimming a bit off the top at his Moscow brothels. Even though they'd fought alongside him in the Braveheart days and had been faithful lieutenants ever since, Val had had them taken out and staked to the earth on waste ground not far from Red Square, where he'd personally slit their bellies, pulled out their intestines, and waited patiently for them to die. The "Viking's revenge" appeared to have done the trick: Ever since then, not a single ruble had gone astray from any of his tills.

I heard six quick squelches in my earpiece. The three pickup Meres were mobile toward the hotel.

I replied with two squelches, then heard another two from Nightmare and Carpenter, who should now be getting out of their car and heading for the hotel. All six of us knew it was time to start performing.

Sergei didn't say a word, just nodded. He might speak English, but it had to be squeezed out of him. I nodded back, checking my weapon was still in position.

I got out of the 4x4 and left Sergei staring downhill. Pulling up my coat collar to protect me from the wind, I headed in the opposite direction, away from the main street. My route took me up the hill for one hundred feet, then a right turn to the next intersection. That put me on the road adjacent to the hotel and down to the main drag again.

I could see the large gray concrete hotel in front of me on the left-hand side of the road. Just short of it was roadwork surrounded by steel fencing; the cobblestones were up and the pipes were being repaired. I didn't envy the poor bastards who had to finish the job in this weather.

The noise from the main street grew louder as I walked downhill. The James brothers would be on it now, following the Meres. Nightmare and Carpenter should be walking into the hotel from the opposite side and Sergei would be positioning himself so that he'd be able to move in on the Meres at the front of the hotel.

I crossed the road, passing the hotel's rear service and parking lot entrance. Two white Hilux delivery vans were parked up on the red asphalt. There was a glass door giving access to the hotel beyond the delivery bays, but you could only get through it by buzzing reception, and I didn't want to make myself any more conspicuous than I had to.

Neither of the two loading bays was open; it was far too cold. I continued downhill, the hotel now obscured by a line of high conifers.

Valentin Lebed's weakest point would be tonight, in Finland, in this hotel, before he left for the theater. He was on his way to see Romeo and Juliet. The theater was only across the road, a few hundred feet away to the left, but it was cold, he had always been a target for attack and he was incredibly rich, so why walk?

About one hundred feet short of the main road I hit the driveway from the Intercontinental's front entrance. It was a semicircle and one way. I turned left; in front of me, halfway down the concrete and glass building, was a large blue canopy to protect guests from the elements as they got in and out of their cars. The ground floor walls were glass, through which I could see the warm and cosy looking interior. Small trees lined the driveway; they had lost their leaves and were now covered in white Christmas lights. The snow made them look as if they'd been sprinkled with icing sugar. I carried on past the illuminated reindeer that stood on the lawn between the driveway and main drag, which was about one hundred feet down a gentle slope.

The plan was simple. Nightmare and Carpenter were to kill the close BGs that were protecting the target as he came from the elevator, then cover me as I took the target toward the main doors. While this was happening, the Jameses would have blocked off the rear of the Meres with their 4x4, Sergei would block the front with the Nissan and all three would be controlling the other BGs and drivers with their AKs.

Once outside, I'd head for the back of the Nissan, dragging the target with me. We'd both lie under a blanket, with my pistol rammed down his throat while Sergei drove to the DOP (vehicle drop-off point), where the target would be switched to the trunk of a changeover vehicle enroute to the border. Meanwhile, Jesse and Frank would be giving the area the good news with CS gas before leaving in the Toyota, along with the other two, to their DOP and changing vehicles. We'd all RV (rendezvous) near the border and get into a truck that was rigged up with hidden compartments while Sergei drove us into Mother Russia. Then it was just a few hours to St.

Petersburg and payday. Nice work if you can get it.

I walked under the canopy and through the first set of automatic tinted-glass and brass-effect doors. Once past the second set I was in, my face flushed from the downward blast of the heaters above the doorway.

I knew the foyer area well. It had the air of an expensive, comfortable club. I hadn't seen any of the rooms, but they must have been stunning.

In front of me, about one hundred feet away and behind a group of very noisy and confused Japanese tourists surrounding a mountain of matching suitcases, was the reception desk. In the far right-hand corner was a hallway that led to the restaurant, rest rooms, and the all-important elevators.

By now Nightmare and Carpenter should be at the far end of the hall, sitting by the restaurant entrance. From there they could keep trigger on the three elevator doors.

Immediately to my right, behind a dark wood-paneled wall, was the Baltic Bar. To my left, efficient-looking bellboys were buzzing around a sprinkling of sofas, chairs, and coffee tables. The lighting was subdued. I wished I'd just dropped in for a drink.

I headed for one of the sofas, sitting down so that I was facing the Japanese confusion at reception to my half right, with the hallway to the right of that, and the brass-effect elevator doors in view. Like me, Nightmare and Carpenter had placed themselves out of sight of the video cameras that were covering the reception desk. I sat, spread out the Trib on the coffee table, unbuttoned my overcoat and waited for the convoy of Meres to arrive.

It was pointless worrying about anything now. There is only so much training and planning that can be done. I used to get worried when this feeling came over me, but now I understood it. Basically, I accepted that I was going to die, and anything beyond that was a bonus.

2

The Japanese weren't at all happy, and they didn't care who knew it.

There must have been about twenty of them, all with video cameras round their necks.

Three minutes later the headlights of the three Meres raked the ground-floor windows. Jesse and Frank should have pulled up just short of the semicircular driveway where they'd be standing by. Sergei would be waiting to block their front.

I waited for the inside set of sliding doors to open, keeping my head down, concentrating hard on my newspaper.

In came the BGs. Two pairs of shiny Italian shoes and expensive black cashmere overcoats over black pants.

You always avoid eye contact, because they'll be looking for it. If your eyes lock you're fucked; they'll know you aren't there to talk about the beef ban.

I watched the two sets of heels make their way over to the far right of the foyer. They paused by the brass elevator doors, now and again shielded by the Japanese as they went in pursuit of one very hassled hotel rep.

The middle door slid open with a gentle ping. The shoes went in, and two more sets of shoes were refused entry. The doors closed and the indicator light stopped at the Ambassador Suite. They were going to meet up with the other two BGs who were already with Valentin, their principal, my target. My money.

I got up, folding the Trib into my coat pocket, and started to walk toward the main doors. As I moved past them, toward the leather-boothed, dark-wood Baltic Bar, I could see three very clean black Meres on the other side of the glass, exhaust fumes condensing in the cold air, each with a driver waiting patiently at the wheel.

The bar was half full and not very smoky, considering the number of cigarettes I could see on the go. There were quite a few laptops open, and there was a general hubbub as suits talked shop over a beer or into their cell phones.

Unbuttoning my suit jacket as I walked, but keeping my overcoat on to conceal the body armor, I made my way around tables and leather chesterfields toward the far door.

I seated myself where I could see down the corridor to the three elevator doors, set back slightly in the right-hand wall. Beyond them, and just out of sight, were the reception and foyer. At the other end of the hallway, Carpenter and Nightmare should be in position in the coffee area of the restaurant, with a clear view all the way down to the foyer. Under the table I pulled at my right glove and eased my index finger through the cut in the leather.

Five long minutes went by as elevators came and went, but Val still hadn't made an appearance. Two middle-aged couples emerged from the center lift, dressed in furs and dinner jackets, looking as if they, too, were going to the theater. It was now that I started to worry.

The calm was over and the storm was about to begin. My heart was pumping big time. My body armor was wet with sweat and my shirt collar was soaking it up from the back of my neck. Any minute now someone was going to ask me if I was ill, I was sure of it. Mentally I was still the same, but my body was telling me something different.

About twenty seconds later there was another pmg. The two pairs of expensive Italian shoes emerged from the right-hand elevator and stopped in the corridor for a second or two, each pair facing in a different direction. The overcoat of the BG facing toward me swirled open as he turned, then both moved toward the foyer, disappearing from view as quickly as they'd arrived. I knew their jackets and overcoats would be like mine, open to access their weapons.

I moved my hand into my inside jacket pocket and gave the Motorola six clicks on the send button, hearing the squelch in my earpiece each time. Val would be down any minute now.

Sergei, Jesse, and Frank would now know that the target and BGs were heading toward them. The two pairs of shoes were going to secure the foyer, probably by the main doors. It wouldn't be long now before everything kicked off and the Japanese would really have something to complain about.

Whatever these two BGs did, we had them covered. If they stayed inside, it was Nightmare's and Carpenter's job to take them on once they'd sorted out the BGs immediately around Val. Outside, it was down to the other three.

We all waited, and I sweated as people around me laughed, hit keyboards, and talked between mouthfuls of alcohol.

There was a ping from the far-right elevator. Another two pairs of black patent-leather shoes, dress-suit trousers complete with silk stripe under black overcoats. They stepped out on either side of a light-gray cashmere coat and the smartest pants of all, followed by a pair of very long, slim, well-toned, black-stockinged calves topped off with the world's most luxurious mink. Val's woman, keeping him warm on those long lonely nights away from his family.

I had to be careful. There was always the possibility of someone you overlook during surveillance-the one who looks like the brother-in-law or secretary. Then, when you hit the target, they can prove very dangerous indeed. But not this one; she was definitely not part of the BG setup.

They had turned right out of the elevator without hesitating. I stood up slowly, waiting for my cue.

I caught Carpenter's scary, dancing eye as he and Nightmare crossed the doorway, moving right to left, matching the purposeful strides of the BGs.

We'd rehearsed what was supposed to happen next so many times. It had to work; there was no stopping this now.

I turned left out of the door and fell in behind them as they drew their suppressed weapons.

About fifteen feet ahead of us, the backs and very wide shoulders of the BG pair flanked Val and the woman as they moved toward the Japanese-filled foyer. We needed to close in on them fast, while they were still in the confines of the hallway. Once out in the foyer the rest of Val's team would be able to see what was about to happen before the 4x4s could get into position.

Ten more feet before we were on top of them. There was another pmg, then a bright light from an elevator interior as the doors opened and a middle-aged couple began to step out between us and the target.

I moved to push them back. This was a contingency I had rehearsed with them many times. As I did so, Carpenter's right hand came up.

Without taking his eyes off Val, he fired three or four suppressed rounds into the couple as he passed. I could hear the top slide on his weapon working back and forth inches from my face and the dull thud of the rounds exiting the barrel. Shit, her scream had turned the job noisy and we hadn't even taken out the BGs.

The couple fell back into the elevator, the woman taking all the rounds, her white silk blouse red with blood. Fuck this guy; slotting players was one thing, but real people meant big trouble.

The two BGs turned and started to draw down their weapons, but Carpenter and Nightmare had closed the gap and gave them both two rounds in the head from less than a foot away. They dropped without a sound.

Nobody in the vicinity had noticed anything yet-they were too busy doing their own stuff-but they soon would.

As the BGs dropped, Carpenter should have moved on, but he continued firing down at the bodies. The BGs were dead. He was wasting time.

Behind me, the man in the elevator cried out as he cradled his dying wife.

I saw Carpenter's glazed eyes. He was high on whatever it was that he used to get through the long winters. Sergei would be busy tonight if we stayed alive and he stuck to his promise. Fuck it, I'd kill this maniac myself before this got out of control.

Keeping my eyes fixed on Carpenter's head as he fired yet another round into the BG, I shoved my right hand between my jacket and shirt, toward my 88, my left palm pointing toward him, arm bent and ready to receive the weapon that would soon be in my grip The screams from the elevator were now muffled. I wasn't aware of anything else as I concentrated solely on Carpenter's head as he turned to fire into the other body on the floor.

My fingers scraped against the body armor as I leaned forward slightly from the hip and pushed my coat and jacket back as aggressively as I could. The weight of the metal outlets helped me to expose my weapon for the second I needed. Pushing the web of my right hand firmly down into the 88's pistol grip, I closed my lower three fingers and thumb around it as firmly as possible.

Drawing the weapon, I started to insert my glove-free index finger into the trigger guard, making sure I could feel the steel of the trigger on the first pad. I pulled down on the safety catch with my thumb just before Carpenter fired his next round.

There was the glint of brass as the working parts ejected the spent casing between us. As he tried to fire again, I could see the top slide being held back by the locking lever. He had run out of rounds.

Jamming the 88 into my left hand, I punched forward and raised the weapon up, in between my focus on his head, waiting for that nanosecond before the 88 came into view and I acquired the sight picture.

Real life burst into my eardrums once again. It was Nightmare, shouting into his Motorola at the 4x4s to move in on the Meres as he gripped Carpenter's arm, dragging him toward the foyer.

I was now no more than two steps from Val. He was still looking at the bodies on the floor, taking in what he had just seen over the last ten seconds.

He went into survival mode, spinning round and looking back toward the restaurant, thinking that he could make his escape. We had eye-to-eye.

He knew I was coming for him, and he knew it was too late to do much about it.

Everything went into slow motion as I focused completely on his neck.

It was pointless paying attention to anything else around me. There was fuck-all I could do about it.

I was now only one step away. He was expecting to get shot and stood there waiting, accepting. There was nothing he could do. He must have known this would happen one day. I put the crook of my left arm around his neck, still moving forward so it jammed tight against his throat.

He staggered backward as I took another step, forcing his face upward.

I heard him gag. He was only five foot seven, so quite easy to get a grip of. If it had been his companion, I might have had to get on the balls of my feet. The woman in the mink didn't react at all. I expected her to scream, but she just stood off to one side, back to the wall, and watched.

With the pistol in my right hand and still moving, I pushed my right arm behind his neck to complete the head lock, like a wrestler trying to get a better hold of his opponent. At once he started fighting for oxygen; there was no way he wasn't coming with me. There was no need to check him for weapons. He didn't need one tonight; he was a businessman on his way to the theater.

I continued on toward the foyer. Val didn't like what I was doing to him, his back arched to try to take the weight of his body off his neck.

I was in a semi crouched position, so I could carry his weight. I could feel the body armor he was wearing, disguised as an undershirt.

I concentrated on looking where we were going, toward the Russians shouting in the foyer and the suddenly silent Japanese. Nothing else mattered.

Four or five more seconds had elapsed and the people inside the hotel could not only see what had happened, but had had time for it to sink in. It takes a while for a brain not used to processing this sort of information to say, Yep, that's right, there are two dead men on the floor and others with submachine guns shouting and running around the foyer. Then, once one person starts becoming hysterical, they all do.

I turned into the foyer, heading for the exit. Nightmare came into view by the main doors, doing his stuff to one of the BGs, shouting and screaming in Russian and kicking his hands away from his body.

I was sixty-odd feet away from them.

The Japanese followed everyone else's example, running for cover and hiding behind the sofas, dragging their loved ones with them. That was great: The more they panicked the less they saw.

A two-tone alarm started to drown out the screams and I moved as fast as I could.

Nightmare was there, checking my back as he covered the BG. Gripping tight, I pulled Val along. He snorted like a horse, fighting for breath.

Through the windows, the blaze of headlights from the three Meres lit Sergei's 4x4, which had the tailgate open, waiting for me and Val.

Beyond the Meres' roofs, I could see Jesse and Frank, AK butts unfolded and in the shoulder, muzzles pointing at the ground. Val's three drivers had already been dragged out of their seats and were face down on the pavement.

Carpenter was to the left of the convoy. He, too, had his weapon pointing down. He must have been covering the other BG. All three were blowing out steam like kettles.

Sergei would be in the wagon, waiting for me to get out of this lunatic asylum.

With thirty feet to go, World War Three broke out. I heard a series of short bursts from a 9mm, the muzzle flashes bouncing off the windows like flashbulbs. It was Carpenter, giving the BG the best part of a mag. Then the shots were drowned out by the screaming in the foyer. It was like the sinking of the Titanic.

I couldn't believe it. More muzzle flashes lit up the darkness outside, the heavier 7.62 reports from Jesse and Frank echoing through the building. The drivers must have gone for their weapons, thinking they were next. Nightmare was frozen to the spot, shaking with fear as he stood over the last BG. He stared at me, waiting for direction.

I flicked a look at the BG. His eyes were switched on and waiting for a chance to get away from this gang fuck There was nothing I could do for Nightmare, who was starting to stress big time. He would have to sort it out himself.

There was no way I was going out the front door with a firefight in progress, especially as I didn't know the result. Turning back toward the hallway, I moved Val as quickly as I could, nearly falling over the doorman and a bellboy, who were down on the floor in the open, too paralyzed with fear to move.

I got back to the corner of the hallway. The man was still sobbing over his wife in the elevator. Her legs, in flesh-colored stockings and sensible shoes, protruded into the hallway as the doors opened and closed against them.

The woman was still there, well in control of herself. She just stood, watching, not even bothering to wipe the dropped BG's blood and membrane off her face.

There was more hysteria as rounds starred the safety glass around the entrance. The BG had obviously seized his chance and got to his feet, firing as he went for freedom. Nightmare took the burst into his unprotected trunk and crumpled on top of two Japanese tourists, who stayed where they were, too shocked to move.

The BG started toward me, mini-Uzi in his right hand, its strap over his shoulder.

What was he going to do? He couldn't open up on me without hitting his boss.

Turning Val round to face his BG and protect me, I lifted my 88. I wasn't going to do much against his body armor, even if I could hit a moving target at fifty feet one-handed with a pistol. I had to wait until he was nearer.

I fired at him from about thirty feet, and kept on firing, aiming below center mass. It was pointless aiming at his head at that range.

I'd emptied at least half of the twenty-round mag, not knowing whether it was going to drop him or not, when I heard him scream and he went down, his legs buckling. I didn't care where I'd hit him, just that I had.

Dragging Val, I passed the reception, trying to avoid the video camera, and headed toward the store. I was going it alone now, leaving the contact outside to sort itself out.

The Money was wrapped in my arms and I wasn't about to give it up. I turned right down a wide hallway, heading for the rear parking lot door. I knew where I needed to go; time in reconnaissance is seldom wasted.

Passing the conference rooms and business center, I pulled Val along the thick pile carpet, both of us finding it difficult to breathe. Me from fear and physical exertion, him from strangulation.

It wasn't worth checking behind me. I'd soon know if there was a drama: I'd get shot at.

People cowered in doorways as they saw us coming. That suited me fine.

Reaching the end of the hall, I climbed four steps, then turned left and climbed ten more. The inner parking lot door was held open by a fire extinguisher. I hit the crossbar of the second and burst out onto the red asphalt at the rear of the building. The cold took my breath away.

I could hear the odd shout from one or two locals crazy enough to come out of their apartments to see what all the fuss was about.

My breath was like a racehorse's on a winter gallop. I could hear Val moan. His nostrils were working overtime.

There was a stretch of fifty feet or so to the road. All around me steam escaped from pipes and ventilation shafts, and generators hummed like ships' engines. If I got one of the service vehicles, I'd turn left, downhill to the main street, where the drone of traffic was coming from.

After about thirty feet I could see the parking lot and loading bays. The only vehicle in sight was a small Hilux van. Fuck it, that would have to do.

With the security lights exposing me to the spectators at their windows in the apartments across the street, I tried the door. It was locked.

There were no passing vehicles to lift; the construction just up the hill had seen to that. There was no choice but to drag Val up the concrete stairs and onto the loading bay.

Inside was what looked like a rental car office, with a desk, phone, and paperwork in piles. A woman in her mid-twenties was standing talking hysterically in Finnish on the phone, her left hand waving in the air as if beating off a swarm of wasps. At first she didn't recognize what was in front of her, until I shouted and pointed the 88.

"The keys! Give me the vehicle keys. Now!"

She knew what I was saying. She dropped the phone, the other end still talking, and pointed at the desk. I grabbed them and ran back down the stairs to the van, Val clenching his teeth as he took the pain in his neck.

I still didn't bother checking around me. I knew I was being watched, and worrying about it wasn't going to make it stop. By now the woman in the rental car office would be back on the phone telling the world anyway.

I ripped off the cardboard that was keeping the windshield ice-free and opened the passenger door using my left hand. My right was on the weapon, and I needed to keep the exposed trigger finger from making any contact. I might need to move my ass, but not at the expense of leaving prints.

"Get in, get in!"

He might not speak English, but with my pistol stuck into his neck, Val got the drift.

Once I'd finished kicking him in, I climbed over on top of him, keeping the barrel of the pistol into his neck as I moved into the driver's seat and put the key in the ignition. Firing the engine, I threw it into gear.

The tires pounded the cobblestones as I drove downhill to the main street, the defroster on full.

I could see the streetlights ahead, with the traffic cutting across from both directions. I got level with the hotel drive. The Nissan was missing. Maybe Sergei had got away. All the other vehicles were still there.

Christmas lights had fallen off the trees and lay across the pavement, among the scattering of empty brass cases. Bodies were strewn all over the ground. I couldn't tell who was who from this distance, though one of them had to be Jesse or Frank because the whole area was covered by a thin blanket of mist: one of their CS canisters must have got hit and was still spewing its contents into the wind.

One of the drivers had nearly got away. His suited body was slumped by one of the small decorative trees just before the exit. Steam rose from the blood oozing from his gunshot wounds. It looked as if their armor wasn't designed to take AP rounds either.

I passed by, suddenly thinking about the couple in the elevator. Then, stopping at the junction with the main drag, I focused on what to do next. I turned right and merged with the traffic.

3

Flashing blue lights raced toward me as I headed in the direction of the city center, nearly blinding me as they screamed past.

At the second option I turned right, up the road where Sergei and I had waited in the Nissan. The 88 was in my right hand, still rammed into Val's neck, forcing me to change gear with my left and hold the wheel in position with my knees.

The target was amazingly compliant; in fact, unless I was reading it wrong, his body language seemed to be saying, No sweat, I'll just wait and see what happens next.

The DOP was about ten minutes away and should have marked the end of Phase One and the beginning of Phase Two-the change of vehicles and move to the truck service station, from where we would all RV before moving over the border into Russia.

Plan B was in action now. In the event of a gang fuck we'd each make our own way back to the lakeside house where we'd been based for the last two weeks, and wait for twenty-four hours.

I was feeling very vulnerable and exposed without Sergei. I might have the Money curled up in the foot well but without help there was no way I was going to get it over the border. Sergei was the only one squared away with the world's most corrupt border guards, and he had been too switched on to tell anyone else how it was organized. I just knew that we were going in a truck adapted to conceal us all under the floor like Us (illegal immigrants), which Sergei would drive. That was his insurance policy, and the reason I'd given him the least dangerous job on the operation.

The road started to bend right, heading out of the city. I had traveled this route to the DOP, both physically and in my head, dozens of times. It went through residential areas with snow piled neatly at the sides of the wet roads, street lighting and Christmas decorations reflecting off the gleaming cobblestones. From all around me came the sound of sirens, jolting me out of my pissed off-with-all-Russians mode. Blue lights flashed across a junction ahead of me. I took the next right; anything to get off the road and out of sight.

I'd turned into a driveway leading to the rear of an apartment block.

There was no lighting back there as I drove over to the far side and stopped under a covered parking space. Keeping the engine running, I sat with the weapon stuck in Val's neck as sirens screamed from all sides. Now what? No way was I going on foot. If spotted, the only way to escape would be to leave him. That wasn't an option; the Money stayed with me.

Fuck it, there was nothing I could do but tough it out. The longer I stayed there the more police would be in the area looking for the van.

What was more, they'd have time to cordon off the city before we got out.

I needed to get to the DOP as soon as possible and detach myself from the hotel road show. Back on the road I put my foot down. It was risky, but sometimes it's best not to think too much.

Four more minutes and I was level with the chain-link fence of the parking lot. Over to my right, toward the hotel, a low-flying helicopter lit up the sky with its Nightsun. The beam bounced around, searching the park and frozen lake on the other side of the main drag from the Intercontinental. Their reaction time had been excellent, which pissed me off even more. If it wasn't for them being on heightened alert because of the EU conference, they'd have taken a lot longer to get their act together.

I moved toward the parking lot entrance. The streetlights illuminated the edge of the compound, so I could peer through the fence into the semidarkness beyond, looking for anything unusual. Parking lots are always the best place to lose a car; the downsides are that they're often monitored by video cameras and there's a strong chance of finding some attendent at the gate to take your cash. This one was free-no cameras, no staff, and not lit up-which was why Sergei and I had decided to use it. The other four were using a park firewall 25 and ride about seven minutes away. At the moment, however, the slightest suspicious sign, like cars with no lights but engines running, would be enough to keep me driving past.

Carrying on to the intersection, I turned left, crossing streetcar lines, and drove toward the entrance. People had stopped on the street and store owners were standing in their doorways, looking up at the heli with its light and noise, talking excitedly to each other.

I kept my eyes on the parking lot. It looked less than half full; shoppers would have quit for the day, any vehicles that were left were probably there to stay.

I indicated left, relieving Val's neck of my 88 as I needed both hands to maneuver the Hilux across the road and into a parking space. I felt exposed, waiting for a gap in the traffic, yet resisted the temptation to jump across and risk hitting an oncoming car.

A gap appeared, after a while, and as I drove under a height bar it was as if I'd entered a new world, dark and safe.

Driving a circuit to check the area, I ensured that the passenger side of the Hilux would face the row of vehicles where the Volvo sedan was parked. Valentin had all but disappeared into the shadow of the foot well The heli was quartering the night sky, raking the ground with its Nightsun.

The dark-blue Volvo sedan was parked with the trunk sticking out. I stopped, making a T of the car and the Hilux. The only sounds were the van's engine ticking over and the heater on full blast. Val's shoes scraped across the ribbing of the rubber matting as he shifted position. It was almost peaceful until more sirens erupted.

Way over on the other side of the parking lot, an interior light came on as somebody got into his car. The engine didn't start up; he was probably sitting in the driver's seat, watching the heli. I waited.

Now that my ears had adjusted to the new, safer environment, I could make out the metallic rumble of a streetcar fading toward the city center. Police sirens wailed in the distance as the Nightsun continued to scour the lake and park.

The sirens got nearer. I sat, waited, and watched, trying to work out where they were. Three or four police cars were following the streetcar lines along the fence, their flashing lights throwing bursts of color across the roofs of the parked cars.

Seconds later, two more appeared.

I looked down at Val. I could make out his face in the glow of the dashboard. His eyes showed no fear. He was switched on enough to accept that overreaction at this stage could result in him being killed, or perhaps worse, seriously injured. He couldn't take that chance. From the moment he'd realized he wasn't going to die and that capture was inevitable, he hadn't panicked. He had to assume that I would be stressing, and that any unexpected move on his part might provoke a reaction from me, and the chances were it would be a bad one.

The less he resisted, the less punishment he was going to get, and the more time he'd have to watch and wait for an opportunity to escape.

I pressed the release catch on the pistol grip with my right thumb and caught the magazine in my left hand as it slid from the grip. Inserting a full twenty-round mag in its place, I heard the click as it locked home, and pulled on the bottom to check it was going to stay put. I put the half-empty mag in my right pocket, along with the taped outlets. I didn't want to risk slapping a half-empty one back in if I was in the shit and had to change mags in a hurry.

Another three or four police cars crossed the entrance, lights flashing and sirens blasting. The Nightsun was now roaming around in quick, jerky movements. The heli-watcher in the parking lot had seen enough and drove out toward the road.

The warning buzzer sounded as I took the keys out of the ignition. My lights were still on. I looked down at Val. "Stay." I sounded as if I was talking to a dog.

I got out of the Hilux and could hear the thud thud thud of the helo's rotor blades as it hovered in the distance. All their attention was still in the immediate vicinity of the hotel, but I knew it wouldn't last.

The cold air scoured my face as I walked around the front of the van, cutting through the headlights, keeping my eyes on the cab, the weapon down by my side.

More flashing lights and sirens headed up the street. This time some of the police cars started to peel off. One came down the road I'd made my approach on, brilliant blue strobes bouncing off me and the vehicles around me for a few seconds as it passed.

My attention was focused on the main entrance. Would the next set of lights come into the parking lot? I knew there was nothing I could do about it but watch and wait, but that didn't stop my heart rate shifting up a gear or two.

Seconds later the darkness returned. Only the sirens were left, dying in the distance. The heli noise throbbed back into earshot.

I felt under the rear right-hand wheel arch of the Volvo with my fingers and retrieved the magnetic box that held the key. I hit the alarm and there was a comforting whoop as the doors unlocked. I inserted the key in the trunk lock and pulled it open.

Jesse and Frank had glued thick sponge all round the framework of the luggage area, mainly so the target didn't injure himself, but also to subdue any noise if he felt like having a kick and scream while we were in transit. As an extra precaution, the light units had been taped down on the inside. The last thing we needed was for Val to pull one off, stick his hand through as we waited at a set of lights and wave to a family on their way to give granny her Christmas presents.

They'd also lined the floor with a thick four-seasons comforter, with another on top, ready to stop him from dying of hypothermia. Sitting on top was an orange plastic ball about the size of an egg, a roll of black duct tape and several sets of plasticuffs.

I opened the passenger door and Val looked up at me, then across at the trunk and its contents. I didn't have a clue what would happen to him once we hit St. Petersburg, and I didn't care. All I was concerned about was the $500,000 on offer, or what was left of it after Sergei got his $200,000.

Scanning the area once more, I brought the 88 up, angled my wrist at ninety degrees and rammed the weapon into the space above his bulletproof vest, then yanked it back into its normal position so the muzzle was twisted in his shirt. I didn't need to force his head downward: He wanted to see what was happening as I placed my right index finger back on the trigger. Tilting the weapon up so the grip was near his face, I made sure he saw me remove the safety catch with my thumb and heard the click.

I didn't need to explain the facts of life to him. After all, he hadn't got where he was today by helping old ladies across the road.

As far as Val was concerned, this was just another day in paradise. He wasn't about to fuck about now.

With my free hand I reached under his vest. "Up, up, up."

There was no argument. His knees came out of the foot well and he staggered onto the pavement.

I turned him round so the backs of his thighs were against the trunk of the Volvo and leaned forward onto him as more sirens wailed in the distance and the heli fought to keep position against the wind. He got the idea and maneuvered himself in, keeping his eyes fixed on mine.

Still no fear in them, though; the look was more analytical now, as if he was conducting some sort of character assessment, trying to figure me out. He was in total control of himself. It was not the reaction you'd expect from the victim of a lift, and I found it unnerving.

He ended up on his back in the trunk, knees up and hands across his stomach. Swapping over hands on the 88, I got hold of the orange plastic ball and stuffed it into his mouth. Still there was no resistance, just some snorting through his nose as I rammed the ball home.

Jesse and Frank had folded over the last four inches of the roll on the electrical tape so I could do the next bit with just one hand. I taped round his mouth and chin, then carried on up around his ears and eyes, leaving just his nose uncovered.

More sirens and lights, this time moving along the side road, the same way I had come. It wouldn't be long now before they started to check the parking lots.

I heard the helo's engine change pitch. It was moving again, its Nightsun now at forty-five degrees, illuminating everything in its path, working its way toward me.

Slamming the trunk shut on Val, I jumped back into the Hilux as the noise increased and the beam got brighter. There is no hiding place from those beams once they spot you. If they did, I'd change my mind about the $500,000 and just make a run for it on foot. I had my escape route worked out: straight over the fence and into the maze of apartment buildings opposite.

I sat and waited; there was nothing else I could do. The car and van took a direct hit and it felt like a scene from Close Encounters as both vehicles were flooded with light. A second or two later the engine note changed and the heli lurched in the direction of the main route out of town. The shadows returned as it moved away across the sky.

I drove the van into an empty space, got out and went to check on Val.

He was breathing heavily. I watched him and waited. He might have sinus problems, a blocked nose, the flu. I didn't want him to die; I only got paid for meat on the hoof. He snorted loudly to clear his nose.

Headlights veered toward me, but I hadn't heard a car door slam. It wasn't somebody from the parking lot. I leaned over Val to make it look as if I was sorting out my packages. Our faces were close to one another and I felt his breathing against my cheek. It was the first time I'd actually smelled him. After my little stay with Carpenter and Nightmare, I was expecting a combination of strong cigarettes, homemade alcohol, and armpit. What I got was duct tape with a hint of cologne.

The problem had gone. Either the vehicle had found a parking space or left the area, I didn't give a shit which. I stood up slowly and had a look around, then rammed the pistol into his neck. With my other hand I got hold of his shoulder and started to pull.

He got the drift. I wanted him on his front. The car rocked slightly with his exertions, but it didn't matter, there was nobody around to notice.

Once he was on his stomach, I got hold of one of the plasticuffs, looped it round his wrists and pulled it tight.

Then I wrapped the second comforter around him, still making sure he had room to breathe.

The Volvo started on the first time. I headed left, out onto the road, away from the hotel. I only hoped that Sergei was doing the same.

I headed east out of Helsinki, toward the highway. The RV was at Vaalimaa, over one hundred miles away.

I hit the seek button on the radio and turned up the volume to drown out the noise of the heater. I drove, thinking about everything and nothing. Twice I saw the flashing lights of a heli.

Eventually I passed the Vaalimaa service station. This was truckers' heaven, the final stop before Russia. They used it as a meeting point so that they could move on in convoy. Hijacking was rife in the Motherland. In among them, somewhere, was our vehicle, with welded compartments for us all to play Us.

Vaalimaa was just a few miles from Sergei's tame checkpoint. Six miles north of the town was the lakeside house.

I turned off the radio and reached into the glove compartment for the digital scanner, which Sergei had tuned into the police channel. It was about the size of a cell phone. The plan had been to use it from the time we exited Helsinki. That was another reason I needed Sergei: He spoke Finnish.

I tried to make sense of the squelchy radio traffic, but didn't have a clue what I was listening to. What I was hoping not to hear was, "Volvo, Volvo, Volvo," because then it would be odds on that I had a one-way ticket to havoc.

I checked every turnout and minor gravel road for any hint of activity.

There was nothing.

My lights hit the marker I was looking for, Mailbox 183, a red plastic pedal bin on a white pole. I turned right, onto a deeply rutted track that led into the forest.

It was only a few hours since we'd last driven up it. About thirty feet in, a white-painted chain, suspended between two poles, barred the way. Attached to it was a wooden sign saying, in Finnish, Fuck Off, Private Property.

I left the engine running and got out of the car, checking in the headlights for recent sign of another vehicle. The compacted ice was giving very little away.

I looked carefully at the point where the last link of the chain was looped over a hook screwed into the right-hand pole, but could see nothing in the shadow cast by the Volvo's headlights. I took the weight of the chain so the first links came loose and pulled gently. I could feel the pressure of the cotton that still fastened it to the hook, and then the sudden pressure release as it broke. No one had been through here who shouldn't have.

I drove over the chain, then jumped out and replaced it. To the side, under a pile of stones, the reel of cotton thread was just where I'd left it. I tied the first link to the hook again, replaced the reel and got back in the car.

The pines were so tall and close to the track it was like driving through a tunnel. After a thousand feet the trees retreated, leaving a stretch of open ground about the size of four football fields. I knew that in the summer it was all grass and tree stumps because there were framed pictures of it in the house, but now everything was covered by a three-foot-deep blanket of snow.

The driveway dipped slightly and the two-story house was caught in the beam of my headlights. There were no lights on inside, no vehicles outside.

The driveway led to a wooden garage with enough room for three cars.

Both buildings were made of timber and painted dark red with white window frames, and wouldn't have looked out of place in the Yukon during the Gold Rush.

I drove into the garage. A huge stack of firewood filled the whole of the back wall. A door on the far left led to the other side of the house and the lake.

I killed the engine, and for the first time in hours there was almost total silence. No gunfire, shouts, sirens, helos, or car heaters, just low-volume hiss and mush as Finnish police talked Finnish police stuff on the scanner. I didn't really want to move.

The entrance was in the gable end of the main building, and the key was hidden in the log pile-very original. I went inside and was hit by wonderful warmth. The heaters worked off the electrical supply and we'd left them all on. The labor-intensive wood fire was for vacationers; besides, chimney smoke would have advertised our presence.

I threw the light switch and went back to the car for Valentin.

The ComfortEr had kept him alive. but only just. After two hours in the trunk he was shaking with the cold.

"Right, come on, up, up." I moved his legs over the ledge and pulled him out by his body armor. He couldn't do much with his hands behind his back, but he seemed to be concentrating most on not having the ball fall to the back of his mouth and choke him. Fair one; that was why I'd used it.

I guided him inside as his legs started to come back to life and sat him on an old green velour sofa next to a radiator. The decor was functional, just bare wooden floors and walls, and the downstairs was one very large open space. A stone fireplace stood opposite the door, and three wooden pillars, each about a foot in diameter and evenly spaced, helped to support the floor above. Most of the furniture, apart from the sofa, was chunky pine, and the place smelled like a timber yard.

I pulled hard on the duct tape around Valentin's face. He winced as the adhesive took neck and eyebrow hair with it. His skin was cold, the color of a dead cod.

He spat out the ball, coughing and spluttering. I was the typical Brit abroad: When in doubt, just keep to your own language and shout. "Stay there." I pointed at the radiator, not that he would be going anywhere plasticuffed up. "You'll be warm in a minute."

He looked up and nodded. A gust of wind whistled under the eaves. I expected Vincent Price to turn up any minute.

I went back to the car and retrieved the scanner, putting it on the kitchen table. Every fifteen seconds or so there was some traffic on the net, but no detectable note of urgency, as there would be if they were sending in the helicopters. There wasn't any slow, deliberate whispering, either, so hopefully they weren't trying to sneak up on me. Maybe, who knew?

Next priority was to make coffee. The kitchen counter stretched along the wall behind me. I went over and checked the kettle for water.

Standing waiting for it to boil, I watched Val shivering. He was sitting close enough to the heater to make it pregnant. He'd had a hard life, judging by the lines on his face. But he still had his Slavic good looks: wide cheekbones, green eyes and dark-brown hair, the gray at the temples making him look pretty dignified for a hood.

I had to hand it to him, the boy had done well: Meres, BGs, the best hotels, and a great-looking mistress. I was jealous: My future was looking the same as my past.

The water boiled as I opened a package of crackers that was on the counter. I munched on one and emptied the kettle onto ground beans in a coffeemaker.

Val had his knees up and was trying to use his body to flick his overcoat around him. His face was starting to regain its color and his eyes followed my every move.

The team's kit had been piled into bags to the left of the main door.

Sergei and I had planned to return here after delivering the Money to St. Petersburg-me to drive to Sweden and then, via ferry, to Germany; him to clean up this place. I picked up a canvas duffel bag and threw it on the table. Holstering the pistol, I fished inside for more plasticuffs, putting three interlocking strips together to make one long one. Moving around the table, I gripped Val's shoulders, then dragged him over toward the central pillar and pushed him down on his ass against it. I plasticuffed his upper right arm to the support, then, with the Leatherman, I cut the original plasticuffs so that his left arm was free. He wasn't going anywhere unless he did a Samson and took the pillar with him.

Returning to the other side of the table, I pushed the plunger down on the coffeemaker and filled two big mugs with steaming coffee. I threw a handful of sugar lumps into each and gave them a stir with my knife.

I didn't know how he took his, but I doubted he was going to complain.

I didn't normally take sugar myself, but today was an exception.

I walked over to him and put his mug on the floor. He gave me a brisk nod of thanks. I couldn't tell him, but I knew what it felt like to entertain all three of Mr. and Mrs. Death's little boys-wet, cold, and hunger-and wouldn't wish them on anyone. Anyway, it was my job to keep him alive, not add to his misery.

The scanner was still giving the odd burst as I settled down at the table facing Val. I took a couple of sips and then it was time to get out of my costume. I felt uncomfortable in it, and if I had to start performing, the last thing I wanted to be wearing was a suit and a pair of lace-up shoes. Lugging my duffel bag over to the table, I dug out jeans, Timberland boots, T-shirt, sweatshirt, and a green Helly Hansen fleece.

The Chechen watched me intently as he drank coffee and I got changed. I got the sense he was enjoying my failure to interpret the scanner traffic.

I felt much more my old self as I tucked my weapon into the front of my jeans.

I went back to my coffee. Valentin had finished his and the empty mug was at his feet. I brought him the coffee pot and package of crackers.

He nodded as I poured new cups for both of us.

I sat at the table and ate the last of the bananas Jesse and Frank had left behind. The scanner continued to crackle away, and in the silences between bursts from the operating stations, all I could hear was the crunching of crackers.

I couldn't stop thinking about Sergei. What if he didn't turn up? I hadn't worked that one out yet. I hadn't even wanted him to come on the lift. It would have been better if he'd just stayed with the truck; we'd all have RV'd with him, then been chauffeured across the border, but he insisted on being there in case there was any shady dealing. I would probably have done the same myself. But now what?

I had another thought. What would happen if one of Sergei's boys was still alive? It probably wouldn't take too long for the police to get him to talk. I stopped munching and put down my mug. Shit, we had to get out of here.

Getting to my feet, I grabbed Carpenter's and Nightmare's bags and took a red ski jacket and bottoms from mine. I put the 88 and the mags in the front pockets and threw Carpenter's cold-weather gear to Val.

Carpenter was a big boy, so the fit wasn't going to be a problem.

Leaving him to figure out how he was going to put it on with his arm still secured, I ran upstairs to get two double comforters. Once back downstairs I pulled my weapon, cut him free, and stepped back. "Get dressed!" I shouted, miming putting on a jacket.

He got the hint and started removing his overcoat and tuxedo. I watched him, ready to react to any wrong move. Everything he was wearing stank of money. His shoes were so smart I looked at the label.

English, Patrick Cox. A few pairs of those would have paid for my roof repair.

I let him keep his wallet, having checked through it and seen old pictures of children dressed in snowsuits. I'd always avoided getting lumbered with stuff like that myself, but understood that these things were important to people.

Val was soon dressed in a pair of yellow snow pants a green ski jacket, an orange ski hat with big dangling pom-poms, gloves, a scarf, and a pair of cold-weather boots-all of which must have been at least three sizes too big. He looked ready for a stint as a children's entertainer.

I pointed the pistol up and back toward the pillar. He went over obediently. I showed him that I wanted him to hug it, an arm either side. Then it was just a matter of making up another set of extra long plasticuffs, doing up two ratchets so it was like a lasso, looping it over his wrists and pulling tight.

I left him to adjust himself as I took my flashlight and went outside into the garage for a couple of shovels, one a big trough-type one, used for clearing pathways of snow, the other a normal building-site job. I dumped them on the table and the flashlight went into my snow pants pocket.

Val was trying to work out what I was up to. He was looking at me in the same way as his woman had done in the hotel, as if there was no danger and nothing was happening that might affect him. He appeared to think he was just a neutral observer.

I started ransacking the cupboards, looking for thermoses and food. I was out of luck. It looked as if we'd both had our last hot drink and cracker for a while.

I picked up my mug and downed the last of the coffee as I walked over to him. I put his mug in his hand and indicated that he should do the same. He was soon busy maneuvering his head around the post to meet his hands while I took candles and matches from the cupboard under the sink and threw them into one of the bags.

Once I'd stuffed the comforters on top and done up the zip, I cut him free, motioning him to put the bag on his back. He knew what I meant and used the two handles as if they were straps on a knapsack.

I put on my black woolen hat and ski gloves, then picked up the shovels from the table and used them to guide him out of the door. I walked behind, hitting the light switch. I left the scanner on the table. It would give our position away to use it out there.

I held him as I got the keys from the Volvo. It was my only transport out of here and I wanted to make sure it stayed that way. Once through the garage door we followed the well-worn track in the snow toward the lakeshore. It was pitch-black out here and bitterly cold. The wind was much stronger now, swirling snow stung my cheeks as we moved forward. The helis wouldn't be up around here in this wind.

5

A small Wooden hut housing the wood-burning sauna stood about one hundred feet away along the frozen lakeshore. Beyond it was a wooden jetty, which stood about three feet above the ice.

The Chechen was still ahead of me, leaning into the wind and half turning from the waist to protect his face from the driving snow. He stopped when he got to the sauna, perhaps expecting me to motion him inside. Instead, I sent him round to the right. He obediently stepped out a few feet or so along the jetty.

"Whoa. Stop there," I shouted. "Stop, stop, stop."

He turned round, and I pointed with my pistol down at the frozen lake.

He looked at me quizzically.

"Down there. On the ice, on the ice."

Very slowly, he got down and sat in the snow, then rolled over, tentatively prodding the ice to make sure it would take his weight. I knew it would. I'd been messing about on it for the last two weeks.

Once he was standing I got him to move out of reach while I clambered down, in case he decided he'd had enough of this game and wanted to play stealing cars and driving home.

Prodding him along the ice with the shovels I paralleled the lakeshore.

By taking this route we wouldn't leave any sign from the house, but it meant we were more exposed to the wind. It was just a matter of leaning into it until we'd covered the five hundred feet to the treeline. Once there, we carried on for a bit before I gave him another shout.

He turned again, awaiting new instructions, his head tilted against the wind screaming across the lake. I could hear his labored breathing and just make out the shape of his face as I pointed at the trees to our right. He turned toward them and started to move as the wind buffeted the backs of our jackets.

The snow was no problem at first, no more than about two feet deep, but soon it was up to our waists. He did all the work plowing through it; I just followed in his wake as his boots crunched down until they met compacted surface, lifted up and did the same thing all over again.

We moved another hundred and fifty feet about thirty feet inside the treeline and that was enough. We were in direct line of sight of the house.

Having spent my childhood in South London projects, to me the countryside had always been just a green place full of animals that hadn't yet been frozen or cooked. I hadn't been into all the trapping stuff I was taught while in the Regiment. In fact, I'd forgotten most of it. I'd never felt the need to run around in a hat made out of freshly skinned rabbit. Building shelters, however, was a skill I did keep tucked away somewhere in the back of my head. I vaguely remembered that there would be spaces beneath the spreading boughs of the evergreens at snow level.

Finding what seemed the biggest tree in the forest, I rammed the large shovel into the snow just short of where the lowest branches disappeared. Moving back out of the way so he couldn't hit me with it, I motioned for Val to take off the bag. No problem from him on that one. Then I gave him the other spade.

Val didn't need any further encouragement. The wind was blowing hard, flattening my jacket against my body, and if we were to stay alive out here we had to get out of it soon. The ambient temperature was low enough as it was, but the effect of wind chill took it well below freezing. He might have been wearing a dinner jacket earlier on and heading for a night at the theater, but he was obviously no stranger to physical labor. You can always tell whether someone's used to a shovel.

He worked efficiently, not tearing the ass out of it, obviously knowing better than to let himself break out in a sweat and have it freeze on him later. After a while he stopped digging, got on his knees and started to scoop out snow with his gloved hands; then he disappeared into the cave. A few minutes later, he turned and stuck his head out. I thought I could just about make out the hint of a proud smile from under his hat.

I waved him back inside, throwing the bag in with him. Before I joined him I pulled back the index Finger of my right-hand glove, pushing my trigger finger through the slit. I'd prepared this one just like the leather pair for the buildup.

I followed him head first, with the 88 up, hitting the flashlight button once in cover. The shelter could have taken three people kneeling; once in, I slid round and landed up on my ass with the pistol in the aim. I put the flashlight in my mouth.

For him, it was bondage time again. Pulling a set of plasticuffs from my pocket, I stuck the pistol into his neck, twisting it into his skin this time. I plasticuffed his left hand to the branch above him. Snow fell on us as I ratcheted the plastic tight We both shook our heads, trying to get it off our faces. With his arm now strapped above his head, Val sat there looking like a gibbon as I got out a candle and matches. The candle provided more light than it would normally have, thanks to the reflection from the brilliant white walls. I crawled back to the entry point, pulled in the shovels and used one to pile snow across the gap. It would keep out the wind.

It was time to get everything else sorted. I emptied the contents of the bag and started to spread out the comforters on the ground.

Contact with the snow would conduct heat away from our bodies about twenty times faster than if we sat on the bedding.

Next, I smoothed out the sides of our hole with a gloved hand so that, as heat rose, the melting snow didn't form drip points and fall on us like rain. That done, I dug a small channel around the edge so that whatever did start to melt would run down the sides and refreeze there.

In situations like this, five percent extra effort always leads to fifty percent more comfort.

The wind was no longer the prominent noise. The rustling of nylon clothing and both of us sniffing or coughing had taken over.

The cave was beginning to look like a steam room as our breath hung in clouds in the confined space. Using the grip end of a shovel, I dug a small tunnel. I needed to be able to see out toward the house, and we needed ventilation. The candlelight wouldn't be seen directly from the house as it was low down and in an alcove; I just had to hope the ambient glow wasn't bright enough to be seen either, because there was no way we could do without it. Even the small amount of heat from a candle flame can help bring the temperature up to freezing point.

On my knees, I looked toward the house-well, it was out there in the darkness somewhere. Even with this amount of clothing on and some insulation beneath me, my body was still cold because we weren't moving. I readjusted my position so that I was comfortable and could still see outside. Val continued to study me.

At least two very cold, boring hours must have passed with me listening to the wind and Val constantly fidgeting to get feeling back into his arm, when all of a sudden he said, "The Maliskia must have offered you quite a sizable amount of money to keep me alive. I am obviously more of a threat to them than I thought."

I spun round in amazement.

It was a very confident, clear voice. He was smiling. He obviously liked my reaction. "Now that you are alone, I should imagine it will be quite difficult to get me out of the country, to wherever it is the Maliskia want you to take me." He paused. "St. Petersburg, perhaps?"

I stayed silent. He was right: I was in the shit.

"You have a name, I presume?"

I shrugged. "It's Nick."

"Ah, Nicholas. You're British?"

"Yeah, that's right." I turned back to the house.

"Tell me, Nicholas, what did the Maliskia offer you? One million U.S.?

Let me tell you, I am worth considerably more than that to them. What is one million? It wouldn't even buy a decent apartment in London. I know, I have three."

I carried on looking out of the hole. "I don't know who or what the Maliskia are; they sound Russian, but I was employed in London."

He laughed. "London, New York, it doesn't matter. It was them. They would very much like to have a meeting with me."

"Who are they?"

"The same as me, but infinitely more dangerous, I can assure you." He got up onto his knees and a small shower of ice fell as the branch moved.

I couldn't imagine anyone being more dangerous. Russian Organizatsiya (ROC) were spreading their operations around the world, growing faster than any crime organization in the history of mankind. From prostitution to blackmail, bombing hotels to buying Russian Navy submarines to smuggle drugs, all the different gangs and splinter groups were infiltrating nearly every country to the tune of billions of dollars. These people were making so much money it made Gates and Turner look like welfare cases. With that much money and power at stake, I was sure there would be the odd disagreement between different groups.

There was silence for a while as I kept a trigger on the house, then Val spoke again. "Nick, I have a proposition that I think will appeal to you."

6

I didn't respond, just kept my eyes on the house.

"It's a very simple proposition: Release me, and I will reward you handsomely. I have no idea what your plan is now. Mine, however, is to stay alive and at liberty. I am willing to pay you for that."

I turned to look at him. "How? There's nothing in your wallet but photographs."

He tutted, a father addressing a wayward son. "Nick, correct me if I'm wrong, but now that your plan has failed, I imagine you would like to get away from this country as quickly as you can. Release me, return to London and then I will get you the money. One of my apartments is in the name of Mr. P. P. Smith." He smiled; the name seemed to amuse him. "The address is 3A Palace Gardens, Kensington. Would you like me to repeat that?"

"No, I've got it."

I knew the area. It fitted the bill. It was full of Russians and Arabs, people with so much money they owned apartments worth millions and only used them once in a blue moon.

"Let's say that in two days' time, and for the next seven days after that, from noon till four p.m." there will be somebody at that address. Go there and you will receive one hundred thousand dollars U.S."

A drop of melted ice hit me on the cheek. I took a handful of snow from the tunnel and ran it over the drip point, my mood as black as the night I was staring into. What the fuck was I doing freezing in this snow hole? I had half a million dollars sitting here with me, from doing something the Firm (Secret Intelligence Service/ SIS would have paid me a couple of hundred a day for. But I couldn't get at it. My only hope of ever seeing it was Sergei, and fuck knew where he was.

Val knew when to talk and when to shut up and let people think, I went back to watching the house for another hour or so, getting even more cold and miserable.

I was slowly convincing myself that, if Sergei didn't make an appearance, I should take my chances with Val in London. Why not? It wasn't as if I had anything to lose, and I was desperate for the paycheck.

I could only hear the faint noise of the engine at first. It was tucked into the trees somewhere on the track and fighting to be heard above the wind. Then headlights appeared out of the treeline, heading toward the house. The noise got louder as it moved along the track. It was a 4x4 in low ratio. Sergei? It was impossible to tell if it was the Nissan from this distance.

Val had also heard it, and was keeping still so his jacket didn't rustle and drown out the noise.

I watched the headlights briefly illuminate the front of the house before turning into the garage and cutting out.

I heard just one door slam and my eyes moved to the windows. I saw nothing.

I slid over to Val. Passively, he let me check his plasticuffs. They were secure; he wasn't going anywhere unless he happened to have a chainsaw hidden inside his coat. All the same, I wished I'd brought some tape to cover his mouth in case he decided to shout for help. It wasn't until I blew out the candle, so he couldn't use it to burn the cuffs off, and started to push my way out of the snow, that he sparked up. "Nick?"

I stopped but didn't turn. "What?"

"Think about what I have said as you go to meet your friends. My offer is infinitely more profitable for you, and, may I say, safer."

"We'll see." I pushed myself out into the wind and was very much thinking about it, glad that Val wasn't going to scream and shout out.

He knew what was happening. If it was Sergei at the house, Val could forget his offer. By the morning we would be in St. Petersburg and I'd have my money and be on my way back to London.

As I retraced my route the wind was blowing head on, making my eyes stream. I could feel my tears turn to ice. I listened to the trees creak in the gale. Snow, whipped into a frenzy, attacked the exposed skin around my neck and face as I tried to focus on the house and surrounding area.

Kicking on about sixty feet, I checked the house again. The upstairs lights were on now, but there was still no movement inside. Moving off once more, I tried not to get too euphoric about the prospect of Sergei being there, but the feeling that this job could soon be over made the wind seem marginally less powerful.

Once below the sauna, on the lake, I pulled my trigger finger from its glove and pulled out the 88. It was far too dark to see with the naked eye, so I checked chamber with my exposed finger and ensured the mag was on tight, then climbed up onto the bank and moved forward in a semi crouch until I got to the garage entrance.

I was eager to make contact with Sergei, but had to take things slowly.

Only when I actually saw him would I feel safe.

I stood and listened at the garage door, not hearing anything apart from the sound of the wind bouncing it backward against the lock.

Keeping to the right of the frame, I pulled the metal handle down and the wind did the rest, forcing it inward. Fortunately, the bottom scraped along the ground, preventing it from crashing into the woodpile.

On my hands and knees in the snow, I eased my head round the bottom of the door frame.

The Nissan was parked the other side of the Volvo, the light from the ground-floor window reflecting off its roof. Things were looking up, but I'd have to wait a while before jumping with joy.

I moved into the garage and checked that no one was still in the Nissan. Then I pushed the door to, feeling warmer out of the wind.

The entrance to the house was closed, but the warm glow from the window was enough for me to be seen if anyone came out of it.

I moved to the right of the frame, pushing my ear against the door. I couldn't hear a thing. I moved to the other side of the Nissan and looked in through the window. There was no need to get right up to the glass to see in; it's always best to stay back and use the available cover.

My heart sank. Carpenter. Still dressed in his suit, but now without a tie or overcoat, he was taking pills from a small tin and swallowing them, shaking his head violently to force them down. His mini-Uzi was exposed, rigged up over his jacket and dangling under his right arm, with the harness strap bunching up the material where it crossed his back.

He moved about the room with no apparent purpose, sometimes out of view. Then I saw he had Val's duct tape and ball gag wrapped in his massive hand. He brought them up to his face for a moment, and, realizing their significance, hurled them to the ground. Then he started lifting chairs and smashing them against the walls, kicking our overcoats about the room like a two-year-old in a tantrum.

It wasn't hard to work out what was going through his mind. He'd decided that I had left with Val for the border, leaving him in the lurch. Fair one; I'd think the same. No wonder he was chucking his toys out of the stroller.

The table followed the chairs as the combination of narcotics and rage started to fuck with his head. There was no reason to consider my options; he had just made up my mind for me. Moving back to the outer door, I left him to it.

Checking back every thirty feet as I crossed the frozen lake, after several minutes I saw headlights in the darkness, heading away from the house and back toward the treeline. What the fuck was Carpenter up to?

He probably didn't even know himself.

With legs apart and slightly bent to keep myself stable in the gusts, I stood and watched until the lights disappeared into the night. It was very tempting to go back and wait in the house, but Carpenter might return and complicate matters, and anyway, there was still the police to worry about.

Turning parallel to the shore, I carried on toward the snow hole.

Once in the treeline I could see the whole of the side of the house.

Carpenter had left the lights on, but through the downstairs windows things didn't look right. It took me a second or two to work out what was happening.

Not bothering about leaving sign, I moved as fast as I could in a direct line toward the building, stumbling over in snow that sometimes came up to my chest. I was trying so hard to get there quickly that it didn't feel as if I was making any progress. It felt like one of the recurring dreams I'd had as a kid-running to someone, but never as fast as I needed to.

As I got closer I could see flames flickering in the room and smoke spewing out through a broken pane. A thick layer was gathering two or three feet deep on the ceiling and looking for more places to escape from. Fuck the house, it was the Volvo I was worried about.

By the time I reached the garage I could already hear the crackling of badly seasoned wood and the screams from the smoke alarms going ape shit The door to the house was open. Smoke was pouring out from the top of the frame. Either Carpenter had been switched on enough to know that he had to feed the fire with oxygen, or he just didn't give a shit. It didn't matter which, the fact was that it had taken hold big time.

I reached the car, the heat searing my back even through my ski jacket.

The inside of the house was a furnace.

As I put the key in the lock there was a sound like shotgun rounds being fired. Spray cans of something were exploding in the heat.

I reversed slowly out of the garage. It would have been pointless screaming out like a loony, only to get stuck in the snow. I just wanted to get clear enough so the Volvo wasn't incinerated. After a three-point turn I drove 150 feet up the track and killed the engine.

Jumping out with the keys, I stumbled back into the cover of the treeline, feeling as if I was back in that dream again.

By the time I neared the hide I could make out my shadow quite clearly against the snow. The flames were well and truly taking over from the smoke.

Sliding into the snow hole, I pulled out my Leatherman, felt for the plasticuffs and started to cut Val free, letting him sort himself out as I scrambled out again into the wind. He soon followed and we both stared at the burning building. Bizarrely, he started to try and comfort me. "It's all right, I knew you weren't abandoning me. I am worth too much to you, no? Particularly now. May I suggest that we leave here, and as soon as possible. Like you, I do not want to encounter the authorities. It would be most inconvenient." What was it with this guy? Did his pulse rate ever go above ten beats per minute?

He knew that whatever had happened out here it had stopped me from meeting up with any of the team; he didn't have to convince me any more to let him go. He knew it was my only sensible option now.

The Volvo could easily be seen in the flames. They hadn't penetrated the walls yet, but they were licking out hungrily from the windows.

I stopped him short of the car, handed him my Leatherman and carried on to open the trunk, shouting at him to cut the cord in his jacket.

Even at this distance, I felt the heat on my face.

He looked about him, found the nylon cord that could be adjusted to tighten around his waist, and began cutting. There were loud cracks as the frame of the house was attacked by the flames.

Val looked at the fire as he heard the trunk open. "Please, Nick, this time inside the car. It's very cold in there." It was a request rather than a demand. "And, of course, I'd prefer your company to that of the spare tire."

Responding to my nod, he settled in the Volvo's rear foot well giving me back the Leatherman and offering his hands. I tied them around the base of the emergency brake with the cord, where I could see them.

We drove out, leaving the fire to do what it had to do. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing; at least there wouldn't be any evidence of me ever having been there.

There was no sign of Carpenter or anyone else as we bumped our way up to the chain gate. I left it on the ground where I found it, as a warning to Sergei. There was still a chance that he'd got away.

There'd been two Hiluxes in the hotel parking lot; maybe he'd swiped the other one. It was too late now to hope that he might get us over the border, but I still didn't want him to get caught. He was a good guy, but fuck it, I was on a new phase now, and one that had nothing to do with any of them.

I had lost, I had to accept it. Now I had to take my chances with Val.

"I'll drop you off at a train station," I said as we headed toward Vaalimaa. "You can deal from there."

"Of course. My people will extricate me quite swiftly." There was no emotion in his voice. He sounded like a Russian version of Jeeves.

"May I give you some advice?"

"Why not?"

My eyes were fixed on the road, heading for the highway past the town, seeing nothing but piled-up snow on either side of me. The wind buffeted the side of the car enough for me to have to keep adjusting the steering. It was like having a heavy arctic drive past on a highway.

"You will obviously want to leave the country quickly, Nick. May I suggest Estonia? From there you can get a flight to Europe fairly easily, or even a ferry to Germany. After what has happened at the hotel, only a fool would try to leave Helsinki by air, or cross into Sweden." I didn't reply, just stared at the snow in the headlights.

Just over two hours later we were approaching Puistola, one of the Helsinki suburbs. Not that I could see any of it: first light wasn't for another four hours. People would soon be waking up to their cheese and meatballs and listening to the radio accounts of last night's gunfight at the O.K. Corral.

I looked for signs to the train station. The morning rush hour, if there was one, would start in an hour or two.

Pulling into the parking lot, I cut Val free of the emergency brake. He knew to stay still and wait for me to tell him when to move. He was so close to freedom, why jeopardize things now?

I got out and stood away from the car, my pistol in the pocket of my down jacket. He crawled out and we both stood in a line of frozen-over cars, in the dark, as he sorted himself out, tucking in his clothes and running his hands through his hair. Still looking ridiculous in Carpenter's snow pants and ski jacket, he clapped his gloved hands together to get some circulation going, eventually extending one of them to me. The only shaking I did was with my head; he understood why and nodded. "Nick, thank you. You will receive your reward for releasing me. P. P. Smith. Remember the rest?"

Of course I did. My eyes were fixed on his. I considered telling him that if he was lying to me, I'd find him and kill him, but it would have been a bit like telling Genghis Khan to watch himself.

He smiled. He'd read my mind again. "Don't worry, you will see that I am a man of my word." He turned and walked toward the station.

I watched him crunch along in the snow, breath trailing behind him.

After about a dozen or so paces he stopped and turned. "Nick, a request. Please do not bring a cell phone or pager with you to Kensington, or any other electronic device. It's not the way we conduct business. Again, I thank you. I promise that you won't regret any of this."

I made sure that he was out of the way, then got back into the car.

7

Norfolk ENGLAND Friday, December 10,1999 The bedside clock burst into wake-up mode dead on seven, sounding more like a burglar alarm. As I rolled over it took me three attempts before I managed to hit the off button with my hand still inside the sleeping bag.

The instant I poked my head out I could tell the boiler had stopped working again. My house was a bit warmer than a Finnish snow hole, but not much. It was yet another thing I needed to straighten out, along with some bedding and a bed frame to go with the mattress I was lying on.

I slept in a pair of Ronhill running bottoms and sweatshirt. This wasn't the first time the boiler had broken down. I wrapped the unzipped bag around me and pushed my feet into my sneakers with the heels squashed down.

I headed downstairs, the bag dragging along the floor. I'd spent most of my life being wet, cold, and hungry for a living, so I hated doing it on my own time. This was the first place I'd ever owned, and in winter the mornings felt much the same to me as waking up in the brush in South Armagh. It wasn't supposed to work like that.

The place was in the same state as I'd left it before I went away just over two weeks ago, to RV with Sergei at the lake house, except that the tarp had blown off the hole in the roof, and the "For Sale" sign had been flattened by the wind. If it had stayed there any longer it would have taken root anyway. There wasn't enough time to sort any of that out today. I had three vitally important meetings in London in a few hours' time, and they wouldn't wait for the boiler man.

The trip back to the U.K. had taken three days. I'd decided to find my own way rather than take Val's advice to get out of Finland via Estonia. It wasn't as if we were sharing toothbrushes or anything, so I wasn't in the mood to trust everything he had to say. I drove to Kristians and in southern Norway, and from there I took the ferry to Newcastle. It was full of Norwegian students. While they got loaded I watched Sky News on the snowy screens. There was footage of the Intercontinental, with police apparently doing a search for forensic evidence, then came pictures of the dead, among them Sergei. A Finnish government spokeswoman gave a news conference, declaring that it was the worst incident of its type their country had witnessed since the 1950s, but declining to confirm whether it was a ROC shooting, and stressing there was no connection with, or risk to, the EU conference.

As far as they were concerned, this was an unrelated matter. I made my way down the bare wooden staircase, trying not to snag the sleeping bag on the gripper tack strip that had been left behind when I'd ripped up the carpet.

The house was a disaster zone. It had been ever since I'd bought it after bringing Kelly back from the States in '97. In theory it was idyllic, up on the Norfolk coast in the middle of nowhere. There was a small corner store, and three fishing boats worked out of the tiny harbor. The highlight of the day was when the local senior citizens took the free bus to the super store eight miles away to do their big shop.

The real estate agent must have rubbed his hands when he saw me coming.

A 1930s, three-bed roomed mess of stone, just six hundred feet from the windy beach, it had been empty for several years after the previous owners had died, probably of hypothermia. The details said, "Some renovation required, but with magnificent potential." In other words, a shit load of work was needed. My plan was to gut the place and rebuild it. The ripping out was okay; in fact, I'd enjoyed it. But after a succession of builders had sucked through their teeth when giving me their quotes, and I'd gotten pissed off with them and decided to do it myself, I'd lost interest. So now the house was all bare boards, studwork, and entrails of wiring that I didn't understand sticking out of the walls.

Now that I was responsible for Kelly, it had seemed the right time to fulfill the fantasy of having a real home. But no sooner had I exchanged contracts than it had started to make me feel confined.

I'd called the place in Hampstead, where she was being looked after, as soon as I'd got back last night. They said she was much the same as when I'd last seen her. I was glad she was sleeping; it meant I didn't have to speak to her. I did want to, but just never knew what the fuck to say. I'd gone to see her the day before leaving for Finland. She'd seemed all right, not crying or anything, just quiet and strangely helpless.

The kitchen was in just as bad a state as the rest of the place. I'd kept the old, yellow Formica counter, circa 1962. They'd do for now.

I put the kettle on the burner, readjusting the sleeping bag around my shoulders, and went out into the porch to check for mail. It hadn't been stacked up on the kitchen counter as I'd expected. I also wondered why the tarp hadn't been replaced in my absence.

I hadn't got a mailbox yet, but a blue trash can did just as well.

Very Finnish, I thought. There were four envelopes-three bills and a card. The handwriting told me who the card was from, and I knew before I read it that I was about to get fucked off.

Caroline had started coming here to look in on things now and again, to collect the mail and check the walls hadn't collapsed while I was away working as a traveling salesman. She was in her thirties and lived in the village. Her husband no longer lived with her-it seemed he took too much whiskey with his soda. Things were going great between us; she was kind and attractive, and whenever I was here we would link up for an afternoon or two. But a couple of months earlier she had started to want more of a relationship than I felt able to offer.

I opened the card. I was right: no more visits or mail collection. It was a shame; I liked her a lot, but it was probably for the best.

Things were getting complicated. A gunshot wound in the stomach, a reconstructed earlobe, and dog-tooth scars along a forearm are hard to explain, whatever you're trying to sell.

Making a lumpy coffee with powdered milk, I went upstairs to Kelly's room. I hesitated before I opened the door, and it wasn't because of the hole in the roof tiles. There were things in there that I'd done for her-not as much as I'd have liked, but they had a habit of reminding me how our lives should have been.

I turned the handle. There had probably been more wind than rain in my absence, as the stain on the ceiling wasn't wet. The blue two-man tent in the middle of the floor was still holding out. I'd put nails in the floorboards instead of tent pegs and they were rusty now, but I still couldn't bring myself to take it down.

On the mantel were two photos in cheap wooden picture frames, which I'd promised to bring down to her on my next visit. One was of her with her family-her parents Kev, Marsha; and her sister Aida-all smiles around a smoking barbecue. It was taken about a month before I'd found them hosed down in their home in the spring of '97. I bet she missed this picture; it was the only decent one she had.

The other was of Josh and his kids. This was a recent one, as Josh was carrying a face scar that any neo-Nazi would be proud of. It was of the family standing outside the Special Operations Training Section of the American Secret Service at Laurel, Maryland. Josh's dark-pink gunshot wound ran all the way up the right-hand side of his cheek to his ear, like a clown's smile. I hadn't had any contact with him since my stupidity got his face rearranged in June '98.

He and I still administered what was left of Kelly's trust fund, though as her legal guardian, I'd found myself shouldering more and more of the financial responsibility. Josh was aware of her problem, but it was just done via letters now. He was the last real friend I had, and I hoped that maybe one day he would forgive me for nearly getting him and his kids killed. It was too early to go in and apologize-at least that was what I told myself. But I had woken up late at night more than once, knowing the real reason: I just couldn't face all that sorrow and guilt stuff at the same time. I wanted to, I just wasn't any good at it.

As I picked up Kelly's photos, I realized why I didn't have any myself.

They just made me think about the people in them.

I cut away from all that, promising myself that reestablishing contact with Josh would be one of the first things I got done next year.

I went into the bathroom opposite, and ran the buttercup-colored bath.

I had a bit of a soft spot for the foam tiles, now light brown with age, that lined the ceiling. I remembered my stepdad putting some up when I was a kid. "These'll keep the heat in," he'd said, then his hand slipped and his thumb left a dent. Every Sunday night, when I had a bath, I threw the soap at the ceiling to add to the pattern.

Returning to my bedroom, I put Kelly's photos on the mattress to make sure I didn't forget them. I finished my coffee, then dug into one of the cardboard boxes, looking for my leather pants.

I checked the bath and it was time to jump in, after hitting the small radio on the floor, which was permanently tuned to Radio 4. The shooting was still high on the agenda. An "expert" on ROC declared to listeners of the morning program that it had all the hallmarks of an inter faction shooting. He went on to say that he had known this was going to happen and, of course, he knew the group responsible. He could not, however, name them. He had their trust. The interviewer sounded as unimpressed as I was.

I lay in the bath and glanced at Baby G. Another ten minutes and I had to get moving.

The order of the day was first, the doctor's office at 11:30 to talk about Kelly's progress, then lie to the clinic's accounts department about why I couldn't pay the new invoice just yet. I didn't think they would completely understand if I told them everything would have been fine if a mad Russian called Carpenter hadn't fucked up my cash flow.

My next visit would be to Colonel Lynn at the Firm. I wasn't looking forward to that conversation, either. I hated having to plead.

The third stop on my agenda was Apartment 3A Palace Gardens in Kensington. What the hell, I was desperate. I didn't see the Maliskia solving my financial problems.

My foray into the freelance market had only reinforced my reluctant dependence on the Firm. I had been weapons-free from the Firm since the fuckup in Washington with Josh eighteen months before. Lynn was right, of course, when he'd said I should feel lucky that I wasn't locked up in some American jail. As for the Brits, I reckoned they were still trying to decide what to do with me give me a knighthood or make me disappear. At least I was getting paid two grand a month in cash while they scratched their heads. It was enough to cover Kelly's treatment for about seventy-two hours.

Lynn made it clear that in no way did the retainer mean any change in my status; he didn't say it in so many words, but I knew from the look in his eyes that I was still lowlife, a K spy, a deniable operator carrying out shit jobs that no one else wanted to do. Nothing would change unless I could get Lynn to put my name forward for permanent cadre, and time was running out. He was taking early retirement to his mushroom farm in Wales when he finished running the desk in February. I didn't have a clue who was taking over. Contacting the message service last night, I'd heard Lynn would see me at 1:30.

If I ever got back into the boys' club, pay would be increased to 290 pounds a day for ops, 190 pounds for training, but in the meantime I was in the shit. The chances of selling this house were zero; it was in a worse state than when I'd moved in. I'd bought it for cash, but I couldn't get a loan against it because I couldn't prove my income.

Since leaving the army it had been cash in envelopes, rather than a regular paycheck.

Getting out of the warm bath into the cold bathroom, I dried myself quickly and got into my leathers.

From inside the paneling that contained the cistern I retrieved my 9mm HK Universal Self-Loading Pistol (Heckler & Koch universal self-loading pistol), a chunky, square-edged semiautomatic 9mm, and two thirteen-round mags. Its holster was my usual one, which could be shoved down the front of my jeans or leathers.

Sitting on the toilet lid, I bit open the plastic bag protecting it and loaded the loose rounds. I always eased the mag's springs when the weapon wasn't needed. Most stoppages occur because of a misfeed from the magazine, either because the mag's not fully home in the pistol grip or because the mag spring has been under tension for so long that it doesn't do its job when required. When the first round is fired it might not push the next up into the breech.

I loaded the weapon, inserting a mag into the pistol grip and ensured it was fully home. To make the weapon ready, I pulled back on the top slide with my forefinger and thumb and let go. The working parts moved forward under their own steam and rammed the top round of the mag into the chamber. I had three Universal Self Loading Pistols in the house, two hidden downstairs when I was here, and one under my bed-a little trick I'd learned from Kelly's dad years ago.

I checked chamber by pushing back slightly on the top slide and put the weapon and spare mag in my pocket, slung the backpack over my shoulder and locked up the house.

Waiting for me outside was the bike of my dreams, a red Ducati 966 that I'd treated myself to at the same time as the house. It lived in the garage, another stone marvel of 1930s architecture, and there were times when I reckoned the sound of its engine bursting into life was the only thing that kept me from total despair.

8

The London traffic was chaos. There were plenty of shopping days left till Christmas, but you wouldn't have thought so from the number of cars.

As I rode down from Norfolk it had been cold, overcast, and dull, but at least it was dry. Compared with Finland it was almost tropical. I got to Marble Arch in just under three hours, but progress was going to be slow going from now on. Weaving my way around stationary vehicles, I looked down Oxford Street, where the decorations blazed and twinkled.

The season of goodwill was everywhere, it seemed, except behind the steering wheels of gridlocked vehicles and inside my head.

I was dreading this. The house I called in Hampstead last night was staffed by two nurses who, under the psychiatrist's supervision, were looking after Kelly twenty-four hours a day. They took her to a clinic in Chelsea several times a week, where Dr. Hughes had her consulting rooms. Kelly's round-the-clock attention was costing me just over four grand a week. Most of the 300,000 I'd stolen from the drug cartels in '97, together with her trust fund, had been spent on her education, the house, and now her treatment. There was nothing left.

It had all started about nine months ago. Her grades since coming to England had been poor; she was an intelligent nine-year-old, but she was like a big bucket with holes in it-everything was going in, but then it just dripped out again. Apart from that, she'd shown no visible aftereffects from the trauma. She was slightly nervous around adults, but okay with her own age group. Then, at boarding school, she'd started to complain about pains, but could never be more specific or explain exactly where they were. After several false alarms, including the school nurse wondering if she was starting her periods early, her teachers concluded that she was just attention seeking. Then it slowly got worse; Kelly gradually withdrew from her friends, her teachers, her grandparents, and me. She wouldn't talk or play any more; she just watched TV, sat in a sulk, or sobbed. I didn't pay that much attention at first; I was worried about the future and was too busy feeling pissed at not having worked since the previous summer while I waited for Lynn to make up his mind.

My usual response to her sobbing bouts had been to go and get ice cream. I knew this wasn't the answer, but I didn't know what was. It got to the point where I even started to get annoyed with her for not appreciating my efforts. What an asshole I felt now.

About five months ago she'd been with me in Norfolk for the weekend.

She was distant and detached, and nothing I did seemed to engage her. I felt like a school kid jumping around a fight in the playground, not really knowing what to do: join in, stop it, or just run away. I tried playing at camping with her, putting up the tent in her bedroom. That night she woke with terrible nightmares. Her screaming lasted all night. I tried to calm her, but she just lashed out at me as if she was having a fit. The next morning, I made a few phone calls and found out there was a six-month waiting list for a public hospital appointment, and even then I'd be lucky if it helped. I made more calls and later the same day took her to see Dr. Hughes, a London psychiatrist who specialized in child trauma and who accepted private patients.

Kelly was admitted to the clinic at once for a temporary assessment, and I'd had to leave her there to go on my first St. Petersburg recce, and to recruit Sergei. I wanted to believe that everything would be fine soon, but knew deep down that it wouldn't, not for a long time. My worst fears were confirmed when the doctor told me that besides regular treatment at the clinic, she'd need the sort of constant care that only the unit in Hampstead could provide.

I'd been to visit her there a total of four times now. We usually just sat together and watched TV for the afternoon. I wanted to cuddle her, but didn't know how. All my attempts at displaying affection seemed awkward and forced, and in the end I left feeling more fucked up than she was.

I swung right into Hyde Park. The mounted soldiers were out exercising their horses before perching on them for hours outside some building or other for the tourists. I rode past the memorial stone to the ones who were blown up by PIRA in 1982 while doing the same thing.

I had some understanding of Kelly's condition, but only some. I'd known men who'd suffered with PTSD (posttraumatic stress disorder) but they were big boys who'd been to war. I wanted to know more about its effects on children. Hughes told me it was natural for a child to go through a grieving process after a loss; but sometimes, after a sudden traumatic event, the feelings can surface weeks, months, or even years later. This delayed reaction is PTSD, and the symptoms are similar to those associated with depression and anxiety: emotional numbness; feelings of helplessness, hopelessness and despair; and reliving the traumatic experience in nightmares. It rang so true; I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen Kelly smile, let alone heard her laugh.

"The symptoms vary in intensity from case to case," Hughes had explained, "but can last for years if untreated. They certainly won't just go away on their own."

I'd felt almost physically sick when I realized that if only I'd acted sooner, Kelly might have been on the mend by now. It must be how real fathers feel, and it was probably the first time in my life that I'd experienced such emotions.

The road through the park ended and I was forced back onto the main drag. Traffic was virtually at a standstill. Delivery vans were stopping exactly where they wanted and hitting their flashers.

Motorcycle messengers screamed through impossible gaps, taking bigger chances than I was prepared to. I slowly worked my way in and out of it all, heading down toward Chelsea.

Things were just as bad on the sidewalk. Shoppers loaded with shopping bags collided with each other and caused jams at store entrances. And as if things weren't bad enough, I didn't have a clue what I was going to get Kelly for Christmas. I passed a phone shop and thought of getting her a cell, but fuck it, I wasn't even any good at talking to her face to face. At a clothes shop I thought of getting her a couple of new outfits, but maybe she'd think I didn't think she was capable of choosing her own. In the end I gave up. Whatever she said she wanted, she could have. That was if the clinic left me any money to pay for it with.

I eventually got to where I wanted to be and parked. "The Moorings" was a large town house in a leafy square, with clean bricks, recent re pointing and lots of gleaming fresh paint. Everything about it said it specialized in the disorders of the rich.

The receptionist pointed me to the waiting room, a place I was very familiar with by now, and I settled down with a magazine about the sort of wonderful country houses that mine would never be. I was reading about the pros and cons of conventional compared with under floor heating, and thinking that it must be rather nice to have any sort at all, when the receptionist appeared and ushered me into the consulting room.

Dr. Hughes looked as striking as ever. She was in her mid to late fifties, and looked like she and her consulting rooms could have featured in Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. She had the kind of big gray hair that made her look more like an American anchorwoman than a shrink. My overriding impression was that she appeared incredibly pleased with herself most of the time, especially when explaining to me, over the top of her gold-rimmed, half-moon glasses that no, sorry, Mr. Stone, it was impossible to be more definite about timetables.

I declined the coffee she offered. There was always too much time lost sitting around while waiting for it, and in this place time was money.

Sitting down on the chair facing her desk, I placed the backpack at my feet. "She hasn't got worse, has she?"

The doctor shook her unusually large head, but didn't answer immediately.

"If it's about the money, I-"

She lifted her hand and gave me a patient, patronizing look. "Not my department, Mr. Stone. I'm sure the people downstairs have everything under control."

They certainly did. And my problem was that supermodels and football players might be able to afford four grand a week, but soon I wouldn't be able to.

The doctor looked at me over the top of her glasses. "I wanted to see you, Mr. Stone, because I need to discuss Kelly's prognosis.

She is still really quite subdued, and we aren't achieving any sort of progress toward her cure. You will remember I spoke to you a while ago about a spectrum of behavior, with complete inertia at one extreme and manic activity at the other?"

"You said that both ends of the spectrum were equally bad, because either way the person is unreachable. The good ground is anywhere in the middle."

The doctor gave a brief smile, pleased and perhaps surprised that I'd been paving attention all those weeks ago. "It was our aim, you will also remember, to achieve at least some movement away from the inertia! state. Our best hope was to get her into the central area of the spectrum, not too low or too high, able to interact and make relationships, adapt and change." She picked up a pen and scribbled a note to herself on a yellow Post-it pad. "I'm afraid to say, however, that Kelly is still very passive and preoccupied. Stuck, if you like, or cocooned; either unable or unwilling to relate."

She peered over her glasses again, as if to underline the seriousness of what she was saying. "Young children are deeply affected by witnessing violence, Mr. Stone, particularly when the victims of that violence are family members. Kelly's grandmother has been describing to me her previous cheerfulness and energy."

"She used to be such fun to be with," I said. "She never laughs at my jokes now." I paused. "Maybe they're just not very good."

The doctor looked a little disappointed at my remark. "I'm afraid her current behavior is such a contrast to how she was previously that it indicates to me that the road to recovery is going to be even longer than I at first thought."

Which meant even more expensive. I was ashamed at even having the thought, but there was no getting away from it.

"What sort of time scale are we looking at?"

She pursed her lips and shook her head slowly. "It's still impossible to answer that question, Mr. Stone. What we're trying to repair here is not something as simple as a fractured limb. I appreciate that you would like me to give you some sort of schedule, but I can't. The course of the disorder is quite variable. With adequate treatment, about a third of people with PTSD will recover within a few months.

Some of these have no further problems. Many take longer, sometimes a year or more. Others, despite treatment, continue to have mild to moderate symptoms for a more prolonged period of time. I'm afraid that you really must prepare yourself for a long haul."

"Is there nothing I can do to help?"

For the second time, Dr. Hughes smiled briefly. It was fleetingly triumphant rather than warm, and I got the feeling I'd fallen into some kind of trap.

"Well," she said, "I did ask you here today for a specific reason.

Kelly is here, in one of the rooms."

I started getting up. "Can I see her?"

She, too, stood up. "Yes, of course. That is the object. But I have to say, Mr. Stone, that I'd rather she didn't see you."

"I'm sorry? I "

The doctor cut in. "There's something I'd like you to see first." She opened a drawer in her desk, pulled out several sheets of paper and pushed them across the desk. I wasn't prepared for the shock they gave me. The pictures Kelly had drawn of her dead family looked very different from the happy smiling photograph I had in my backpack.

The one of her mother showed her kneeling by the bed, her top half spreadeagled on the mattress, the bedcover colored in red.

In another, her five-year-old sister, Aida, was lying on the floor between the bath and the toilet, her head nearly severed from her shoulders. The nice blue dress she'd been wearing that day was spattered chaotically with red crayon.

Kev, her father and my best friend, was lying on his side on the floor of the den, his head pulped by the baseball bat that lay next to him.

I looked at the doctor. "They're the positions I found them in that day exactly… I hadn't realized…"

I'd found her in her "hidey-hole," the place where Kev wanted the kids to run to if there was ever a drama. She'd never said a word to me about it, and I'd never thought that she might have witnessed the carnage. It was as though the events were recorded in her memory with the clarity of a camera.

Hughes looked over her glasses. "Kelly has even remembered the color of the comforter on her bed that day, and what was playing on the radio as she helped set the table in the kitchen. She has talked to me about how the sun was shining through the window and reflecting on the silverware. She recalls that Aida had lost a hair band just before the men came. She's now just replaying the events immediately preceding the killings, in an effort, I suggest, to achieve another outcome."

I was relieved that her flashbacks didn't go any further, but if the treatment worked she would surely begin to recount what had occurred afterward. When it did, I would have to involve the Firm to sort out any "security implications" that might arise; but for now, they didn't need to know that she was ill.

The psychiatrist interrupted my thoughts. "Come with me, if you will, Mr. Stone. I'd like you to see her and explain a little more about what I hope we can achieve."

She led me a short way down the hall. I couldn't make sense of any of this. Why wasn't Kelly allowed to see me? We turned left and walked on a while, stopping outside a door that had a curtain across a small pane of glass. She poked it very slightly aside with a finger and looked through, then moved back and motioned for me to do the same.

I looked through the glass and wished I hadn't. The images of Kelly I kept in my memory were carefully selected shots from before she got sick, of a little girl quivering with excitement at her birthday party on the replica of the Golden Hind, or shrieking with delight when I finally kept my promise to take her to the Tower of London and she got to see the Crown Jewels. The real-life Kelly, however, was sitting on a chair next to a nurse. The nurse seemed to be chatting away, all smiles. Kelly, however, wasn't replying, wasn't moving. Hands folded politely in her lap, she was staring at the window opposite her, her head cocked to one side, as if she was trying to work something out.

There was something deeply scary about how still she was. The nurse wasn't moving much, either, but Kelly's was an unnatural kind of stillness. It was like looking at a frozen image, an oil painting of a young girl in an armchair, next to a film of a nurse who happened to be sitting still, but who would move again in a second or two.

I'd seen it before. It was four years ago, but it could have been four minutes.

I was on my hands and knees in her family's garage, talking gently as I moved boxes and squeezed through the gap, inching toward the back wall, trying to push the images of the carnage next door behind me.

Then there she was, facing me, eyes wide with terror, sitting curled up in a fetal position, rocking her body backward and forward, holding her hands over her ears.

"Hello, Kelly," I'd said very softly.

She must have recognized me-she'd known me for years-but she hadn't replied. She'd just carried on rocking, staring at me with wide, scared, dark eyes. I'd crawled right into the cave until I was curled up beside her. Her eyes were red and swollen. She'd been crying and strands of light brown hair were stuck to her face. I tried to move it away from her mouth.

I got hold of her rigid hand and guided her gently out into the garage.

Then I picked her up in my arms and held her tight as I carried her into the kitchen. She was trembling so much I couldn't tell if her head was nodding or shaking. A few minutes later, when we drove away from the house, she was almost rigid with shock. And that was it, that was the stillness I saw now.

The doctor's mouth came up close to my ear. "Kelly has been forced to learn early lessons about loss and death, Mr. Stone. How does a seven-year-old, as she was then, understand murder? A child who witnesses violence has been shown that the world is a dangerous and unpredictable place. She has told me that she doesn't think she'll ever feel safe outside again. It's nobody's fault, but her experience has made her think the adults in her life are unable to protect her.

She believes she must take on the responsibility herself-a prospect that causes her great anxiety."

I looked at the frozen girl once more. "Is there nothing I can do?"

The doctor nodded slowly as she replaced the curtain and turned to head back up the hallway. As we walked she said, "In time, we need to help her gently examine and review the traumatic events that happened to her, and learn to conquer her feelings of anxiety. Her treatment will eventually involve what are best described as "talking therapies," by herself or in groups, but she's not really ready for that yet. I will need to keep her on antidepressant medication and mild tranquilizers for a while yet, to help lessen some of the more painful symptoms.

"The aim eventually will be to help Kelly remember the traumatic events safely, and to address her family life, peer relationships, and school performance. Generally we need to help her deal with all the emotions she's having trouble making sense of at the moment: grief, guilt, anger, depression, anxiety. You notice, Mr. Stone, I'm saying 'we'."

We had reached her room and went back inside. I sat down again and she went to the other side of her desk.

"Parents are usually the most important emotional protectors for their children, Mr. Stone. They can do a much better job of psychologically reassuring their children than professionals can. They can help them talk about their fears, reassure them that Mummy and Daddy will do whatever is possible to protect them, and stay close. Sadly that's not a possibility for Kelly, of course, but she still needs a responsible adult whom she can depend upon."

I was beginning to understand. "Her grandmother, you mean?"

I could have sworn I saw her shudder.

"Not quite what I had in mind. You see, a major factor in any child's recovery from PTSD is that the prime caregiver must communicate a willingness to talk about the violence and be a nonjudgmental listener.

Children need to know that it's permissible to talk about violence.

Kelly needs permission, if you like, to talk about what happened to her. Sometimes caregivers may subtly discourage children from talking about violence in their lives for whatever reason, and this, I sense, is the case with Kelly's grandparents.

"I think her grandmother feels hurt and discouraged that Kelly has lost interest in family activities and is easily angered and so detached.

She finds it very upsetting to hear the details-maybe because she believes it will be less upsetting for Kelly if she doesn't talk about it. On the contrary, children often feel relieved and unburdened by sharing information with trusted adults. It also may be useful therapeutically for children to review events and air their fears by retelling the story. I don't mean that we should coerce Kelly into talking about what happened, but reassurance and validation once she has volunteered it will be immensely helpful to her recovery."

She was beginning to lose me in all her psychobabble. I couldn't see what I had to do with all this.

As if she'd read my mind, Dr. Hughes pursed her lips again and did her trick with the half-moon glasses. "What it all boils down to, Mr.

Stone, is that Kelly is going to need a trusted adult alongside her during the recovery process, and in my view the ideal person to do that is you."

She paused to let the implications of what she was saying sink in.

"You see, she trusts you; she speaks of you with the utmost affection, seeing you as the nearest thing she has now to a father. What she needs, far more than just the attention and therapy we professionals can provide, is your acceptance of, and commitment to, that fact." She added pointedly, "Would you have difficulties with that, Mr. Stone?"

"My employers might. I need "

She held up her hand. "You have seen the cocoon in which Kelly has placed herself. There is no formula that guarantees breaking through when someone is out of reach. But whatever the cause is, a form of loving has to be there in the solution. What Kelly needs is a prince on a white horse to come and free her from the dragon. It is my view that she's decided not to come out until you are an integral part of her life again. I'm sorry to burden you with this responsibility, Mr.

Stone, but Kelly is my patient, and it's her best interests that I must have at heart. For that reason, I didn't want her to see you today; I don't want her to build up hopes only to have them dashed. Please go away and think about it, but believe me, the sooner you are able to commit, the sooner Kelly's condition will start to improve. Until then, any sort of cure is on hold."

I reached into my backpack and pulled out the framed photographs. It was the only thing I could think of. "I brought these for her. They're pictures of her family. Maybe they'll be some help."

The doctor took them from me, still waiting for an answer. When she saw she wasn't going to get one not today, anyway she nodded quietly to herself and ushered me gently, but firmly, toward the door. "I'll be seeing her this afternoon. I'll telephone you later; I have the number. And now, I believe, you have an appointment with the people downstairs?"

10

I was feeling pretty depressed as I headed east along the northern side of the Thames, toward the city center. Not just for Kelly, but for me.

I forced myself to admit it: I hated the responsibility. And yet I had those promises to Kevin to live up to.

I had enough problems looking after myself, without doctors telling me what I should be doing for other people. Being in charge of others in the field was fine. Having a man down in a contact was straightforward compared to this. You just got in there, dragged him out of the shit and plugged up his holes. Sometimes he lived, sometimes not. It was something I didn't have to think about. The man down always knew that someone would be coming for him; it helped him stay alive. But this was different. Kelly was my man down, but it wasn't just a question of plugging up holes; she didn't know whether help was on the way or not.

Nor did I. I knew there was one thing I could do: make money to pay for her treatment. I'd be there for her, but later. Right now, I needed to keep busy and produce money. It had always been "later" for Kelly, whether it was a phone call or a birthday treat, but that was going to change. It had to.

Working my way through the traffic, I eventually got onto the approach road to Vauxhall Bridge. As I crossed to the southern side, I looked up at Vauxhall Cross, home of SIS. A beige-and-black pyramid with the top cut off, flanked by large towers on either side, it needed just a few swirls of neon to look totally at home in Las Vegas.

Directly opposite Vauxhall Cross, over the road and about one hundred yards away, was an elevated section of railway that led off to Waterloo Station. Most of the arches beneath had been converted into shops or warehouses. Passing the SIS building, I negotiated the five-way intersection and bumped the sidewalk, parking by two arches which had been knocked through to make a massive motorcycle shop-the one I'd bought my Ducati from. I wasn't going in today; it was just an easy place to park. Checking my saddle was secure so that no one could steal my Universal Self-Loading Pistol, I put my helmet in the backpack, crossed a couple of feeder roads and took the metal footbridge over the intersection, eventually entering the building via a single metal door that funneled me toward reception.

The interior of the Firm looked much the same as any hightech office block: clean, sleek, and with an efficient corporate feel about it, with people swiping their identity cards through electronic readers to get access. I headed for the main reception desk, where two women sat behind thick bulletproof glass.

"I'm here to see Mr. Lynn."

"Can you fill this in please?" The older one passed a ledger through a slot under the glass.

As I signed my name in two boxes she picked up a telephone. "Who shall I say is here?"

"My name is Nick." I hadn't even had any cover documentation from them since my fuckup in Washington, just my own cover which I hoped they'd never know about. I'd organized it in case it was time to disappear, a feeling I had at least once a month.

The ledger held tear-off labels. One half was torn away and put in a plastic sleeve, which I would have to pin on. Mine was blue and said, "Escorted Everywhere."

The woman got off the phone and pointed to a row of soft chairs.

"Someone will be with you soon."

I sat and waited with my nice new badge on, watching suited men and women come and go. Dress-down Friday hadn't reached this far upriver yet. It wasn't often that people like me got to come here; my last visit had been in '97. I'd hated it that time, too. They managed to make you feel that, as a K, you weren't very welcome, turning up and spoiling the smart corporate image of the place.

After about ten minutes of feeling as if I was waiting outside the headmaster's study, an old Asian guy in a natty blue pinstripe suit pushed his way through the barrier.

"Nick?"

I nodded and got to my feet.

He half-smiled. "If you'd like to follow me." A swipe of the card that hung round his neck got him back through the barrier; I had to pass the metal detector before we met on the other side and walked to the elevators.

"We're going to the fifth floor."

I nodded and let the silence hang as we rode the elevator, not wanting to let him know that I knew. It saved on small talk.

Once on the fifth I followed him. There was little noise coming from any of the offices along the hallway, just the hum of air conditioning and the creak of my feathers.

At the far end we turned left, passing Lynn's old office. Someone called Turnbull had it now. Two doors down I saw Lynn's name on the door plate. My escort knocked and was met by the characteristically crisp and immediate call of "Come!" He ushered me past and I heard the door close gently behind me. Lynn's bald crown faced me as he wrote at his desk.

He might have a new office, but it was quite clear he was a creature of habit. The interior was exactly the same as his last; exactly the same furniture and plain, functional, impersonal ambience. The only thing that showed he wasn't a mannequin planted here for decoration was the framed photograph of a group, which I presumed were his much younger wife and two children, sitting on a stretch of grass with the family Labrador. Two rolls of Christmas wrapping paper leaning against the wall behind him showed that he did have a life.

Mounted on a wall bracket above me to the right was a TV, the screen showing CNN world news headlines. The only thing I couldn't see was the obligatory officer's squash racket and winter coat on a stand. They were probably behind me.

I stood and waited for him to finish. Normally I would just have sat down and made myself at home, but today was different. There was what people like him tend to call an atmosphere, and I didn't want to annoy him any more than I needed to. We'd parted on less than good terms the last time we'd met.

His fountain pen sounded unnaturally loud on the paper. My eyes moved to the window behind him, and I gazed over the Thames at the new apartment building being finished off on the north side of the bridge.

"Take a seat. I'll be with you very soon."

I did, on the same wooden chair I'd sat on three years ago, my leathers drowning the scratch of his writing as I bent down and placed my backpack on the floor. It was becoming increasingly obvious that this was going to be a short meeting, an interview without coffee, otherwise the Asian guy would have asked me if I took milk or cream before I'd gone in.

I hadn't seen Lynn since the debrief after Washington in '98. Like his furniture, he hadn't changed. Nor had his clothes: the same mustard-colored corduroy trousers, sports jacket with well worn leather elbows, and flannel shirt. With his shiny dome still facing me, I could see that he hadn't lost any more hair, which I was sure Mrs. Lynn was very happy about. He really didn't have the ears to be a complete baldilocks.

He finished writing and put aside what I could now see was a typed page of legal paper that looked as if a teacher had marked it. Looking up with a half-amused smile at my outfit, he brought his hands together, thumbs touching as he rested them on top of the desk. Since Washington, he'd treated me as if he was a bank manager and I was asking for a bigger overdraft, trying hard to be nice, but at the same time looking down on me with disdain. That, I didn't mind, as long as he didn't expect me to look up to him with reverence.

"Wot can I do fer yer, Nick?" He was ribbing my accent, but in a sarcastic, not jovial way. He really didn't like me. My Washington fuckup had put the seal on that.

I bit my lip. I had to be nice to him. He was the ticket to the money Kelly needed, and even though I had the sinking feeling that my be-nice routine wasn't going to work, I had to give it my best shot.

"I really would like to know if I am ever going to get PC," I said.

He settled back into his leather swivel chair and produced the other half of his smile. "You know, you are very lucky still to be at liberty, Nick. You already have a lot to be thankful for, and do bear in mind, your freedom is still not guaranteed."

He was right, of course. I owed the Firm for the fact that I wasn't in some U.S. state penitentiary with a cellmate called Big Bubba who wanted to be my special friend. Even if it was more to do with saving themselves even more embarrassment than protecting me.

"I do understand that, and I'm really grateful for all that you've done for me, Mr. Lynn. But I really need to know."

Leaning forward, he studied the expression on my face. It must have been the "Mr. Lynn" bit that made him suspicious. He could smell my desperation.

"After your total lack of judgment, do you really think you'd ever be considered for permanent cadre?" His face flushed. He was angry.

"Think yourself lucky you're still on a retainer. Do you really think that you would be considered for work after you" his right index finger started to endorse the facts as he poked it at me, his voice getting louder "one, disobey my direct order to kill that damned woman; two, actually believe her preposterous story and assist her assassination attempt in the White House. God, man, your judgment was no better than a love struck schoolboy's. Do you really think a woman like that would be interested in you?" He couldn't contain himself. It was as if I'd touched a raw nerve. "And to cap it all, you used a member of the American Secret Service to get you in there… who then gets shot! Do you realize the havoc you've caused, not only in the U.S. but here?

Careers have been ruined because of you. The answer is no. Not now, not ever."

Then I realized. This wasn't just about me, and it wasn't early retirement at the end of his tour next year to spend more time with his mushrooms; he had been canned. He'd been running the Ks at the time of the Sarah debacle, and someone had had to pay. People like Lynn could be replaced; people like me were more difficult to blow out, if only for financial reasons. The government had invested several million in my training as a Special Air Service soldier. They wanted to get their money's worth out of me. It must have killed him to know that I was the one who'd fucked up, but he was the one to carry the blame probably as part of the deal to appease the Americans. He sat back into his chair, realizing he had lost his usual control.

"If not PC, when will I work?"

He had gained a little more composure. "Nothing is going to happen until the new department head takes over. He will decide what to do with you."

It was time for me to lose all pride. "Look, Mr. Lynn, I really need the money. Any shit job will do. Send me anywhere. Anything you've got."

"That child you look after. Is she still in care?"

Shit, I hated it when they knew these things. It was pointless lying; he probably even knew down to the last penny how much money I needed.

I nodded. "It's the clinic costs. She'll be there for a long time."

I looked at his family portrait, then back at him. He had kids; he'd understand.

He didn't even pause. "No. Now go. Remember, you are still being paid and you will conduct yourself accordingly."

He pressed his buzzer and the Asian guy came to collect me so fast he must have been listening through the keyhole. At least I got to see the squash racket on the way out. It was leaning against the wall by the door.

Taking a breath, I nearly turned back to tell him to ram his patronizing, hate-filled words up his ass. I had nothing to lose; what could he do to me now? Then I thought better of letting my mouth react to what I was thinking. This would be the last time I ever saw him, and I was sure it was the last time he ever wanted to see me. Once he'd gone it would be a new department head and maybe a new chance.

Why burn my bridges? I'd get my own back later. I'd jump all over his mushrooms.

I was still feeling philosophical about the meeting at 3A. If Val had been feeding me a crock of shit, well, there you go, at least I was on my turf rather than his. That was the way I wanted it to stay, so I'd tucked my Universal Self-Loading Pistol into my leathers before I left the bike shop, just in case.

All the same, I knew I'd be really pissed if no one was at the flat with a little something for me, as long as it was wrapped in a big envelope and not a full metal jacket. I'd soon be finding out.

The traffic in Kensington was at a standstill. At one set of lights the bike got wedged between a black cab and a woman in a Mere with very dyed, long blond hair, held off her face by Chanel sunglasses, even though it was the middle of winter. She tried to look casual as she chatted on her cell phone. The cabbie looked over at me and couldn't help himself from laughing.

Palace Gardens stretches the whole length of Hyde Park's west side, from Kensington in the south to Netting Hill Gate in the north. I rode up to the iron gates and the wooden gatehouse positioned between them.

Sitting inside was a bald man in his fifties, wearing a white shirt, black tie, and blue nylon jacket.

Beyond him lay a wide tree-lined road and pavements of clean beige gravel. The large mansion houses were mostly embassies and their residences. Flags fluttered and brass plates gleamed. The sale price of even one of the staff apartments would probably clear my debts at the clinic, pay Kelly's education right through to doctorate level, and still leave enough to put a new roof over most of Norfolk.

The gate man looked me up and down as if I was something one of the posh embassy dogs had left coiled on the curb. He didn't get up, just stuck his head out of the window. "Yes?"

"Number 3A, mate. Pickup." I pointed to the now empty backpack on my back. I really hadn't planned to be a messenger today, but it seemed the easiest thing to do. At least I looked the part, with the leathers and my South London accent turned up a notch or two.

He pointed up the road. "Hundred yards up on the left. Don't park in front of the building. Put your machine over there." He indicated to the opposite side of the road.

I let in the clutch and waited for the steel barriers blocking my way to disappear into the road. The Israeli embassy loomed up on my left.

A dark-skinned guard in plain clothes stood outside on the pavement. He must have been feeling quite cold, as his coat and suit jacket were unbuttoned. If anyone attacked the place he had to be able to reach his weapon and gun them down before the uniformed British policeman on the opposite side of the road got a chance to step in and make a simple arrest instead.

About two hundred feet past them both I parked in the line of cars opposite the apartment building. Walking across the road toward its grand gates, I started removing my gloves and unbuckling my helmet, then I hit the bell and explained to a voice where I wanted to go. The side gate opened with a whirr and a click and I walked through and down the drive.

The building was bigger than most of those around it and set back from the road. It was made of red brick and concrete and was decades younger than its neighbors, with manicured gardens on each side of the drive that led downhill to a turning circle with an ornate fountain at its center.

Pulling off the ski mask that kept the cold off my face, I walked through the main doors into a glittering dark marble and glass reception area. The doorman, another king sitting on his throne, seemed to view me the same way as his mate down the road. "Delivery, is it?"

Nobody calls you sir when you're in bike leathers.

It was time to play messenger boy again. "Nah, pick-up P. P. Smith, mate."

He picked up the internal telephone and dialed, his voice changing into Mr. Nice Guy the moment he got a reply. "Hello, reception here, you have a messenger for a collection. Do you want me to send him up? Certainly. Goodbye." The phone went down and he turned surly again as he pointed to the elevator. "Third floor, fourth door on the left."

As the elevator doors closed behind me I had a quick check round for closed-circuit cameras, then pulled out my Universal Self Loading Pistol. Checking chamber, I hit the button for the third floor. I never knew why I checked chamber so much. Maybe it just made me feel more in control.

As the elevator kicked in with a slight jerk and took me upward, I folded the ski mask over the Universal Self-Loading Pistol and placed it, and my right hand, in the helmet. If there was a drama, I could just drop the helmet and react.

The elevator slowed. Placing my thumb on the safety catch, I was ready.

The door slid open with an up market ding, but I stood my ground for a few seconds, listening, helmet still in my left hand so I could draw with my right.

The temperature changed as I stepped into the hallway and the doors closed behind me. It was hot, but the decor was cold: white walls, cream carpet, and very brightly lit.

I followed the carpet, looking for the fourth door on the left. It was so quiet that all I could hear as I moved was the creaking of my leathers.

The door didn't have a bell, knocker, or even a number. Using my knuckles against the heavy wood, I stood off to the side, my right hand back on the pistol grip, thumb easing off the safety catch.

I hated this bit. It wasn't as if I was expecting trouble; it was highly unlikely to happen here, given all the security I'd had to pass.

But still, I hated knocking on doors and not knowing who or what was on the other side.

Footsteps echoed on a hard floor and locks were undone. The door started to open, only to be stopped by a security chain. A face, or rather half a face, moved into the three- or four-inch gap. It was enough for me to recognize its owner at once. I was pleasantly surprised. It would be much friendlier dealing with her than some square head Looking almost innocent, Val's woman from Helsinki was showing me just one very light-blue eye and some dark-blond hair. It probably got lighter in the summer, when the sun got to work on it.

The only other thing I could see through the gap was her dark-blue woolen turtleneck.

She looked at me without any expression, waiting for me to speak.

"My name is Nick. You have something for me."

"Yes, I've been expecting you." She didn't bat an eye. "Have you a cell phone or pager with you?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I've got a phone." Fuck what Valentin had said. I needed one with me for when the clinic called later.

"Could I ask you to turn it off, please?"

"It is." It was pointless wasting the battery while sitting on a bike.

Tilting the helmet slightly so the pistol wouldn't fall out, I reached into my right-hand pocket and pulled out the phone, showing her the display.

She gave a very courteous "Thank you," then the door closed and I heard the chain being undone. The door reopened fully, but instead of standing there and ushering me in, she turned and started to walk back into the flat. "Close the door behind you, would you please, Nick?"

As I stepped over the threshold I smelled floor wax. I followed her down the hallway, taking in the apartment's layout. A couple of doors led off either side, and one at the far end was partly open. The floor was plain, light wood, the walls and doors gleaming white. There was no furniture or pictures, not even a coat hook.

I switched my attention to Val's woman. I'd thought it was her high heels that had made her look so tall in Finland, but I could see now that her legs did that all on their own. She was maybe just over six feet tall in her square-toed cowboy boots, which made a slow rhythmic clack as her heels hit the floor. She walked like a super model on a catwalk. Her legs were sheathed in a pair of Armani jeans, the logo on the back pocket moving up and down in time with her heels. I couldn't keep my eyes off it.

Slipping the pistol into my right-hand pocket, I moved the phone into my left, all the time looking at her and thinking that Armani should be paving her for this. I was almost tempted to buy myself a pair.

One door to the right was partly open, and I glanced through. The kitchen was just as sterile as the hallway: stark white stools at a breakfast bar, no kettle, no letters on the side. Nobody lived here.

I walked into the living room where she now stood, a large white space with three unmatching dining-room chairs at its center. Muslin curtains covered the windows, making the light dull and hazy.

The only other objects in the room were four very large Harrods bags, which looked as if they were about to split at the seams, and a Borders bag, the telltale shapes of books pushing at its sides.

I moved to the far corner of the room and leaned against the wall.

Through the double glazing of the large picture windows I could hear the faint murmur of traffic.

She bent over one of the shopping bags and pulled out a buff envelope.

"My name is Liv. Valentin sends his regards," she said as she brought it over to me. "And, of course, his gratitude. This is for you. One hundred thousand U.S. dollars."

Wonderful. That was the slate clean at the clinic, and another four months' treatment in the bank.

She extended a perfectly manicured hand that showed she was no longer a teenager. The skin on her face was crystal clear and had no need of makeup. I reckoned she was in her early thirties. Her hair was shoulder length, parted over her left eye, and tucked back behind her ear.

If she was wearing nail polish today, it was clear. She wore no rings, no bracelets, earrings, or necklaces. The only jewelry I could see was a discreet gold tank watch with a black leather strap. But then, she needed adorning like the Venus de Milo needed a velvet choker and diamond tiara. I was beginning to see why Val might prefer Finland to Russia.

I wasn't going to open the envelope there and then. I didn't want to look desperate and untrusting. I was both, but I didn't want her to know that.

I hadn't had the time to take much notice of her before. The first time I was aware of her was the day that Val arrived in Finland, three days before the lift. are about planning, not admiring the view. But I did now. I'd never seen a woman with such a perfectly symmetrical face-a strong jaw, full lips, and eyes that felt as if they knew everything but revealed nothing. Her statuesque body looked like it had been shaped by canoeing or rock climbing rather than jumping up and down to music in a gym.

The feel of the bundles in the envelope, even through the bubble-wrap lining, brought me back to the real world. I put my helmet at my feet, unzipped my jacket and slipped the envelope inside.

She turned and went to sit on one of the chairs beside her purchases.

I took up my position against the wall. She invited me to take one of the seats with a wave of her hand, but I declined, preferring to stand and be able to react if Liv had a few of her squareheaded friends around and this encounter turned out to be not entirely friendly.

I was starting to get jealous of Val. Money and power always attract beautiful women. My mailbox full of late notices never had quite the same effect, Liv sat there looking at me in the way that Mr. Spock did on the bridge of the USS Enterprise when he thought things were illogical. It was the same look she'd given me at the hotel, penetrating and searching, as if she was staring right into my head, but somehow managing to give nothing back. It made me uncomfortable and I stooped to pick up my helmet before leaving.

She sat back and crossed her long legs.

"Nick, I have a proposition for you, from Valentin."

I left the helmet where it was, but said nothing. I'd learned the hard way that it's worth remembering we have two ears and just one mouth.

Her gaze remained cool. "Are you interested?"

I certainly was. "In principle." I didn't want to spend all day beating about the bush, and she didn't look or sound like the sort of person who'd do that anyway. So let's just get on with it. "What does he want from me?"

"It's a simple task, but one that needs to be handled delicately. He needs someone-and he wants it to be you-to assist another person to enter a house in Finland. The other person is a cryptographer-a highly skilled hacker, if you like. Inside the house are computers which this other person will use his skills to access and then download the contents onto a laptop for removal. The contents, before you ask, are merely some competitive intelligence which Valentin is keen to have in his possession."

She uncrossed her legs and pulled open one of her bags.

"You mean industrial espionage?"

"That's not entirely correct, Nick. More commercial than indus trial. Valentin is asking you to assist in the procurement of this data, but without the house owners knowing that you have done so. We want them to think they are the only ones with this information."

"It's as straightforward as that?"

"There are some minor complications which we will discuss if you are interested."

I was, but minor complications don't exist. They always turn out to be major. "How much?"

I had to wait for an answer while she fished a cream-colored cashmere sweater out of the Harrods bag with a rustle of tissue paper. Sitting back in the chair, she laid it across her thighs, tucked her hair behind her ear again and looked directly at me.

"Valentin is offering you one point seven million dollars-if you are successful, of course." She put up a hand. "Nonnegotiable. That is his offer, more than a million pounds. He wanted you to have a round figure in your own currency. You're a lucky man, Nick; he likes you."

So far it sounded like a dream come true. That alone made me feel suspicious, but fuck it, we were just at the talking stage. "Valentin is powerful enough just to take what he wants by force. Why does he need me?"

She expertly removed the tags from the sweater, dropping them back into the bag. "This is a job that requires finesse, not muscle. As I said, no one must know that Valentin has this material. In any event, he would prefer this was accomplished outside his normal channels. It's a delicate matter, and it was obvious in Helsinki that you have a certain skill in this area."

That was all very nice, but it was question time. "What exactly is it I'm trying to lay my hands on?"

She put on the sweater, her eyes not leaving mine, still measuring me up, I was sure of it. "That, Nick, you don't need to know. We just need to be there before the Maliskia."

I had to cut in. "You mean steal it before the Maliskia?"

She smiled. "Not 'steal," copy. Download it. Your task is to get our man in and out without anyone knowing it has happened. Those are the terms, if you wish me to continue."

"I get it," I said. "Maliskia must be Russian for 'minor complications." "

She smiled again, her lips parting slightly to show perfect white teeth. "The West call us the Russian Mafia, or simply ROC, as if we were one big group. We're not. We are many groups. The Maliskia are one faction, and Valentin's only real competitor. Whatever you may think about him, he is a man with vision. The Maliskia are not; they are just gangsters. It is very important that they never have access to this information. It would be a disaster for all of us, West as well as East. That is all I am prepared to say on the matter. Now, do you wish me to continue?"

Of course I did. It's always good to know something about who you're racing against. Not that she'd told me anything Val hadn't. I listened intently as she explained that the target house was still in the process of being prepared to use the "competitive intelligence" Val wanted. It wouldn't be online for another six or seven days, and only then would I be able to get their man in to copy whatever it was. The problem was that once it was online the Maliskia were likely to trace its location very quickly.

"That's the race, Nick. I emphasize again, we must get it first and no one must know that we've got it."

It sounded okay to me. I'd spent years doing this kind of thing for far less than $1.7 million. Maybe this was my chance to sort out my life and Kelly's once and for all. One big fuck-off finger to everyone, especially Lynn. The meeting with him had really pissed me off. He knew the reason I'd been spared and he hadn't was that I was more useful to the Firm as an operator on the ground, whereas Lynn was just another paper-pusher. And ever since Washington, the Firm knew they had me by the balls, and I hated it when people had me by the balls.

"I'm concerned about going back to Finland," I said. "I don't think I'm very popular there."

She smiled patiently. "They aren't looking for you, Nick. As far as the Finnish police are concerned it was a purely Russian event.

Valentin has already made a statement to that effect to the authorities. Don't worry, it's not an issue. If it was, Valentin wouldn't have risked offering you this task."

She gave me time to consider what she had said as she picked fluff off her new sweater. "They weren't your friends, I hope?" She looked up.

"Perhaps the choice of team was not one of your best decisions?"

I smiled and shrugged. I had no defense.

"I thought not." She twisted her forefinger and thumb to release the fluff onto the floor.

For the next few minutes I asked questions and she failed to give adequate answers. The objective, she said, was simple enough, but it didn't sound low risk to me. There were far too many questions left unanswered: How many people were in the house? What de fences did they have? Where the fuck was it? I wasn't even allowed to know who I was taking in. I would find out only when I signed on the dotted line. On the other hand, $1.7 million versus 290 pounds a day wasn't the kind of discrepancy I could afford to live with.

She held out a piece of folded paper. I walked the five paces and took it.

"These are the contact details of the man you will be taking with you, assuming you can persuade him. If you can, the fee goes up to two million dollars, to cover his cut. Now, one other minor complication: Neither Valentin nor I can risk being associated with this task, so you will be the contact point. It's up to you to convince him to do it."

I turned back to my helmet, reading an address and phone number in Netting Hill.

Liv said, "His name is Tom Mancini. I believe you know him."

I turned to face her. The name did ring a bell, but that didn't concern me. What did was that she knew about me, that she knew things about my past.

My concern must have been plain to see. She smiled again and shook her head very slightly. "Naturally Valentin has gone to the trouble of learning a lot about you these last few days. Do you think he would employ someone for such a task otherwise?"

"What does he know?"

"Enough, I'm sure. Also enough about Tom. Valentin is sure you are both the right people for this. Now, Nick, as you will appreciate, there is little time. You need to be in Helsinki by Sunday. All I will require are your travel details. Everything else will be looked after."

She gave me the contact details. They were very basic, if not a bit over the top, but easy to understand, which was good, because my head was spinning around with 1.7 million other things at the time.

She stood up. Our meeting was obviously over. "Thank you for coming, Nick."

I shook her hand, which felt warm and firm. I looked her in the eye, probably for a fraction of a second too long, then bent to pick up my helmet.

She followed me to the front door. As I reached for the handle she said, "One last thing, Nick."

I turned to face her; she was so close I could smell her perfume.

"Please do not turn your cell phone on until you are far away from here. Goodbye, Nick."

I nodded and the door closed. I heard the locks and chain being put back into position.

Going down in the elevator I resisted the urge to dance a jig or jump up and click my heels. I had never been one to embrace good fortune blindly I'd never had that much of it to embrace, really but Valentin's proposition sounded rather good, and what few doubts I had were dispelled by the envelope inside my jacket as long as it didn't go bang on the way home.

The elevator slowed and the doors opened on the ground floor. The doorman was frowning at me as he tried to work out why I'd been up there so long. I pulled the ski mask from under my helmet and nodded to him. "She was wonderful," I said. By the time the sliding doors opened and I was facing the security cameras, the mask was over my head again.

Walking up the driveway I started to pull out the chin strap on both sides of the helmet with my thumbs and forefingers. I'd just got past the gate and onto the sidewalk when I heard the noise of an approaching car. As I played with the straps I looked up and to the left to check it was okay to cross.

A Peugeot 206 was screaming toward me at the speed of sound. It was dark maroon and dirty from the last couple of weeks of slush and road salt. Behind the wheel was a white-knuckled woman in her early thirties with a chin-length bob. I waited for her to pass, but as soon as she was about thirty feet away she slowed to a more controlled pace.

I checked to my right. The Israeli security guy about two hundred feet away wasn't fussed about it, nor the uniformed officer, who was looking very bored and cold on the opposite side of road.

I watched her get down to the barrier, indicating left, then join the stream of traffic. I spotted the license plate. It was a '96 registration, but there was something else that was much more interesting no sticker on the back window telling me how wonderful the dealership was. I suddenly felt I knew what she was about. Just as quickly, I threw the idea aside. Shit, I was getting as paranoid about surveillance as Val and Liv were about cell phones.

Pulling my helmet on, I put the key into Ducati's ignition and was just starting to put my gloves on when I spotted another vehicle about forty or fifty yards further up the road a midnight-blue Golf GTi in a line of vehicles, two up, both sitting back in their seats with no conversation or movement. The side windows were steamed up but the windshield had a direct view of the gates to the apartment building. I took a mental note of their registration. Not that it mattered. Well, that was what I tried to tell myself, anyway. PI 16 something, that was all I needed to know.

I decided that if I didn't stop being paranoid I'd end up in the clinic with Kelly and began to give myself a mental slapping. Then I remembered: Paranoia keeps people like me alive.

I had one more look around, my helmet down as if I was checking over the machine. I couldn't see anything else that made me feel uneasy, so I straddled the bike and pushed it off its stand.

Turning the engine over, I pushed down the gear selector with my left foot, got into first, revved it up a little, turned left and made my way down toward the main gates. If the Golf was a trigger, the team that was about to follow me would have just received a point by-point, stage-by-stage description of exactly what I was doing over the net.

They needed a visual picture of what I looked like, what the bike looked like, its registration, and what I was doing. "That's helmet on, that's gloves on… not aware… now complete (on the bike).

Keys turned, engine on, stand by, stand by. Mobile toward Kensington exit… approaching. No intention (no indicators on to show which way the vehicle is going)…"

Everybody had to know exactly what I was doing and where I was to the nearest thirty feet so they could put good covert surveillance on me.

It's not like Miami Vice, where the good guys are sitting there with hand mikes at their mouths and a big antenna stuck on the roof. All the antennas on E4 vehicles are internal, and you never see any mikes.

All you've got to do is hit a press el a little switch placed wherever you want. My preference had always been to have it fixed internally in the gear shift. That way you can just talk, making it look as if you're having fun, or having an argument. It doesn't really matter as long as you're giving the details. Which, if I was getting triggered away from here, these two would now be doing.

What made me still feel edgy was that the two cars were ideal for city surveillance. Both were very common models in dark, nondescript colors and they were compact, so they could zip in and out of traffic and were easy to park, or even abandon, if the target went foxtrot (on foot).

Not all cars have the retailer's sticker in the back window; it's just that surveillance cars would tend not to have them because they could become a VDM (visual distinguishing mark).

If they were a surveillance team they would have to be E4, the government's surveillance group that keeps tabs on everybody in the U.K. from terrorists to shady politicians. No one else would be able to stake out anything along this road. There was more security here than at Alcatraz. But why me? It didn't make sense. All I'd done was go into an apartment building.

I got to the barrier and the guard looked out of his shed and into the cold, trying to work out if I was that guy who said he was the messenger half an hour ago.

I turned right and merged with the traffic, which was still a nightmare. I headed the opposite way from the Peugeot, and tried to be as casual as possible. I wasn't going to scoot away like a scalded cat and show that I was aware, but I'd check to see if I was a target.

It was starting to get dark now as I checked my mirror, expecting a surveillance bike to be up my ass in no time at all.

Either the Peugeot driver was a loony and couldn't drive the thing, or she was a new or very useless member of E4. Val would have fitted very nicely into their portfolio, as would quite a few of the residents in this area. I could just be a new face that needed a picture for the surveillance log and general buildup of intelligence on the building.

If I was right, she was trying to make a photo- or video-run on me and had fucked up the timing. It's very hard to make these runs as you only have one chance and the pressure is always on, but this one was especially incompetent.

The car could be rigged with both video and stills cameras, hidden behind the radiator grill or part of the headlight setup, or little bits of the body work cut out in the rear so there was just enough light for the lens. The cameras are activated electronically by the driver as they pass the target. The camera takes the whole reel of film at a very fast shutter speed. That's why the timing's so important: hit the button too soon and the film could be finished by the time you're on top of the target, or the target might have walked behind a parked car as you begin your run, producing nothing more for your efforts than a nice picture of a Ford Fiesta, and a hard time from your bosses at the debriefing.

The video camera is a much safer option, but all it takes on the move is a few bumpy seconds of the target walking. This time around, all they would have was a visual of a biker with a ski mask on. That made me feel a lot better. I had no idea where those pictures would turn up, but I knew Lynn wouldn't be in the best of moods if they found their way to him.

I looked down at my mirror. Right on cue I saw the reflection of a bike's headlight. It wasn't necessarily a surveillance operator, but I had ways of checking.

I was riding like one of those forty-something losers. The family are all grown up, the house is virtually paid for, so now they want the motorbike their mom would never let them have. It tends to be the biggest, fattest touring bike their platinum Amex card can handle, and they ride to and from work without ever getting within spitting distance of a speed limit. Except I wasn't scared to open up the throttle. I wanted to see if the single light behind me would do the same.

It didn't.

He shot past me at speed on an eight-year-old greasy Honda 500 with a battered old blue plastic box on the back held down by bun gees He was wearing well-used leathers and Wellington boots, and turned to look at me through his visor, all beard and disgust. I knew just how he felt.

There were other bikes behind me, weaving in and out of the traffic. I moved into the middle of the road and twisted the throttle to jump a couple of cars, then swung back into the stream, crawling along behind a rusting van. I let a few more bikes and mopeds pass me, and even a bicycle, and after a couple more sets of lights it was obvious I had another weekend rider behind me, about two cars back.

I turned left at the next intersection, and he followed me.

Looking for a natural stop, I pulled in at a newsstand. Resting the bike on its side stand, I went through the charade of undoing my helmet and gloves, as an Yamaha VFR came past, probably waffling on the net, telling everybody where I was. "Stop! Stop! Stop! Charlie one (the bike) static on the left. At the newsstand, Bravo one (me) still complete (on the bike)."

I took the helmet off but kept the mask on once he'd gone, then got off the bike and walked into the shop. I couldn't just ride straight off again, because that would show I was aware.

The young woman behind the counter looked alarmed because I hadn't taken my mask off. There was a sign politely asking me to do just that. If she'd asked I would have told her no-in my tear-the-ass out of it cockney accent-and to fuck off because I was cold. I didn't want the team to come and requisition the security video tape with yours truly on it. She wasn't going to argue; why should she care if I was there to steal the money? It could be dangerous for her.

I went back to the bike clutching a copy of the evening newspaper. If I was right, there'd probably be a bike at either end of the road by now. The net would be in chaos as cars hit their horns at the dickhead drivers who had suddenly decided to throw up (turn 180) in the traffic, all out of sight to me, trying to get in position for the stakeout. A static short-term target is always a dangerous time for a surveillance team. Everyone has to get in position, so that next time the target goes mobile they've covered every possible option. That way, the target moves to the team, instead of the team crowding the target. But where was the trigger? I couldn't be bothered to look; I'd find out soon enough.

I pushed the Ducati down into first gear and carried on in the same direction I'd been heading before, towards South Kensington subway station, about half a mile away. Parking up in the bike row on the north side, I walked into the packed station, looking as though I was unbuckling my helmet, though I didn't. Instead, I walked straight through and crossed the road, still with my helmet on. The south side of the station had a large, busy, and very confusing intersection, with a big triangular island housing a flower stall. Their propane gas heaters not only blasted out heat as I went by, but also a very comforting bright red light in the gathering darkness.

I moved with a crowd of pedestrians to the far side of the intersection, past a row of shops along the Old Brompton Road.

About fifty yards further along, I went into the pub on the corner, took off my helmet and mask, and settled on a bar stool just back from the window.

The pub was packed with shoppers wanting to get out of the cold and office workers having a drink with friends.

I saw the Golf within minutes, but without the passenger. He or she was probably foxtrot, scurrying around in the subway station looking for me.

Then I saw the VFR and its black-leather-clad rider. They would have found the Ducati now, and the whole team maybe four cars and two bikes would be bomb-bursting about, fighting the traffic, calling in the areas they'd covered so their control could try and direct them elsewhere in some kind of coherent pattern. I almost felt sorry for them. They'd lost their target and they were in the shit. I'd been there a thousand times myself.