Last Light

Last Light

Andy McNab

LAST LIGHT

Sunday, 3 September 2000 I didn't know who we were going to kill just that he or she would be amongst the crowd munching canapes and sipping champagne on the terrace of the Houses of Parliament at 3 p.m." and that the Yes Man would identify the target by placing his hand on their left shoulder when he greeted them.

I'd done some weird stuff over the years, but this job was scaring me. In less than ninety minutes, I was going to be shitting on my own doorstep big-time. I only hoped the Firm knew what it was doing, because I wasn't too sure that I did.

As I looked down yet again at the clear plastic lunch-box on the desk in front of me, three torch bulbs sticking out of holes I'd burnt in the lid stared back up. None of them was illuminated;

the three snipers were still not in position.

Everything about this job was wrong. We'd been given the wrong weapons. We were in the wrong place. And there just hadn't been enough time to plan and prepare.

I stared through the net curtains across the boat-filled river. The Houses of Parliament were some 350 metres away to my half left.

The office I'd broken into was on the top floor of County Hall, the former Greater London Council building. Now redeveloped into offices, hotels and tourist attractions, it overlooked the Thames from the south side. I was feeling rather grand sitting behind a highly polished, dark wood desk, as I looked out at the killing ground.

Parliament's terrace spanned the whole of its river frontage. Two prefabricated pavilions with candy-striped roofs had been erected at the far left end, for use throughout the summer months. Part of the terrace, I'd learnt from their website, was for Members of the House of Lords, and part for the House of Commons. The public were not admitted unless they were with an MP or peer, so this was probably the nearest I was ever going to get.

The Department of Trade and Industry's guests today were a group of about thirty businessmen, plus staff and some family, from Central and South America. Maybe the DTI was trying to curry a bit of favour and sell them a power station or two. Who cared? All I knew was that one of them would be getting dropped somewhere between the vol-au-vents and the profiteroles.

Directly below me, and five storeys down, Albert Embankment was thronged with hot-dog vendors and stalls selling plastic policeman's helmets and postcards of Big Ben to people queuing for the London Eye, or just enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon. A sightseeing boat packed with tourists passed under Westminster Bridge. I could hear a bored voice telling the story of Guy Fawkes over a crackly PA system.

It was holiday season and another news-starved week, so Mr. Murdoch and his mates were going to be ever so pleased with what I was about to do: the biggest explosion in London this year, and right in the heart of Westminster. With the added bonus of a major shooting incident, it would probably take their ratings right off the scale. Unfortunately, good news for them was bad for me. SB (Special Branch) were going to be working their arses off to find out who'd pressed the button, and they were the best in the world at this sort of thing.

They'd been formed to stop the IRA carrying out exactly the kind of stunt I was about to pull.

Three torch bulbs were still unlit. I wasn't flapping, just concerned.

At either end of the row of lights was a white, rectangular bell-push from a door chime set, glued in position with Evostik, the wires curling into the box. The one on the left was covered with the top from a can of shaving cream. It was the detonation press el for the device that I'd set up as a diversion. The device was basically a black powder charge, designed to give off a big enough bang to grab London's attention but not to kill anyone.

There would be some damage, there'd be the odd cut or bruise, but there shouldn't be any fatalities. The shaving cream top was there because I didn't want to detonate it by accident. The press el on the right was exposed. This was the one that would initiate the shoot.

Next to the box I had a set of binos mounted on a mini-tripod and trained on the killing ground. I was going to need them to if watch the Yes Man as he moved about the crowd and ID'd the target.

The lunch-box contained a big, green, square lithium battery, and a mess of wires and circuit boards. I'd never tried to make things look neat; I just wanted them to work. Two purple plastic coated wire antennas stuck out of the rear of the box, trailed along the desk, over the window-sill I'd pushed it up against, then dangled down the outside wall. I had the window closed down on them to cut out as much noise as possible.

The loudest sound in the room was my breathing, which started to quicken as the witching hour got closer. It was only outdone by the occasional scream of delight from a tourist at ground level or a particularly loud PA system from the river.

All I could do was wait. I crossed my arms on the desk, rested my head on them, and stared at the bulbs that were now level with my eyes, willing them to start flashing.

I was shaken out of my trance as Big Ben struck two. I knew the snipers wouldn't move into their fire positions until the last moment so that they didn't expose themselves longer than necessary, but I really wanted those lights to start flashing at me.

For about the millionth time in the past twenty minutes I pushed down on the uncovered press el resting the side of my head on my forearm to look inside the box, like a kid wondering what his mum had made him for lunch. A small bulb, nestled amongst the mass of wires, lit up with the current generated by my send press el I wished now that I'd burnt another hole in the lid for the bulb inside to join the others but at the time I couldn't be arsed. I released it and pressed again. The same thing happened. The device was working. But what about the other three that I'd built for the snipers? I'd just have to wait and see.

The other thing I did for the millionth time was wonder why I couldn't just say no to this stuff. Apart from the fact that I was soft in the head, the answer was the same as always: it was the only thing I knew. I knew it, the Firm knew it. They also knew that, as always, I was desperate for cash again.

If I was truthful with myself, which I found pretty hard, there was another, much deeper reason. I got my eyes level with the bulbs once more and took a deep breath. I'd learnt a few things since attending the clinic with Kelly.

Even at school there was desperation in me to be part of something whether it was joining a woodwork group, or a gang that used to rob the Jewish kids of the dinner money they'd wrapped in hankies so we couldn't hear it rattle in their pockets as they walked past. But it never worked. That feeling of belonging only happened once I joined the army. And now? I just couldn't seem to shake it off.

At last. The middle bulb, Sniper Two's, gave five deliberate, one-second pulses.

I put my thumb on the send press el and, after a nanosecond to check I wasn't about to blow up London in my excitement, I depressed it three times in exactly the same rhythm, to say that I had received the signal, checking each time that the white circuit-test bulb inside the box lit up.

I got three flashes back immediately from the middle bulb. Good news. Sniper Two was in position, ready to fire, and we had com ms All I needed now was One and Three, and I'd be cooking with gas.

I'd put everything these snipers needed to know where to be, how to get there, what to do once in position, and, more importantly for them, how to get away afterwards with the weapons and equipment in their individual DLBs (dead letter boxes). All they had to do was read the orders, check the kit, and get on with the shoot. The three had different fire positions, each unknown to the others. None of them had met or even seen each other, and they hadn't met me. That's how these things are done: OP SEC (operational security). You only know what you need to.

I'd had an extremely busy ten nights of CTRs (close target recces) to find suitable fire positions in the hospital grounds this side of the river and directly opposite the killing ground. Then, by day, I'd made the keys for the snipers to gain access to their positions, prepared the equipment they would need, then loaded the DLBs. Tandy, B&Q and a remote-control model shop in Camden Town had made a fortune out of me once I'd hit ATMs with my new Royal Bank of Scotland Visa card under my new cover for this job, Nick Somerhurst.

The only aspect of the business I was totally happy about was OP SEC It was so tight that the Yes Man had briefed me personally.

Tucked in a very smart leather attache case, he had a buff folder with black boxes stamped on the outside for people to sign and date as they authorized its contents. No one had signed any of them, and there was no yellow card attached to signify it was an accountable document. Things like that always worried me: I knew it meant a shitload of trouble.

As we drove along Chelsea Embankment towards Parliament in the back of a Previa MPV with darkened windows, the Yes Man had pulled two pages of printed A4 from the folder and started to brief me. Annoyingly, I couldn't quite read his notes from where I was sitting.

I didn't like the condescending wanker one bit as he put on his best I-have been-to-university-but-F m-still-working-class voice to tell me I was 'special' and 'the only one capable'. Things didn't improve when he stressed that no one in government knew of this job, and only two in the Firm: "C', the boss of SIS, and the Director of Security and Public Affairs, effectively his number two.

"And, of course," he said, with a smile, 'the three of us."

The driver, whose thick blond side-parted hair made him look like Robert Redford when he was young enough to be the

Sundance Kid, glanced in the rearview mirror and I caught his eye for a second before he concentrated once more on the traffic, fighting for position around Parliament Square. Both of them must have sensed I wasn't the happiest teddy in town. The nicer people were to me, the more suspicious of their motives became.

But, the Yes Man said, I wasn't to worry. SIS could carry out assassinations at the express request of the Foreign Secretary.

"But you just said only five of us know about this. And this is the UK. It's not a Foreign Office matter."

His smile confirmed what I already knew.

"Ah, Nick, we don't want to bother anyone with minor details. After all, they may not really want to know."

With an even bigger smile he added that should any part of the operation go wrong, no one would be held ultimately responsible. The Service would, as always, hide behind the Official Secrets Act or, if things got difficult, a Public Interest Immunity Certificate. So everything was quite all right, and I'd be protected. I mustn't forget, he said, that I was part of the team. And that was when I really started to worry.

It was blindingly obvious to me that the reason no one knew about this operation was because no one in their right mind would sanction it, and no one in their right mind would take the job on. Maybe that was why I'd been picked. Then, as now, I comforted myself with the thought that at least the money was good. Well, sort of. But I was desperate for the eighty grand on offer, forty now in two very large brown Jiffy-bags, and the rest afterwards. That was how I justified saying yes to something I just knew was going to be a nightmare.

We were now on the approach road to Westminster Bridge with Big Ben and Parliament to my right. On the other side of the river I could see the County Hall building and to the left of that, the London Eye, the wheel turning so slowly it looked as if it wasn't moving at all.

"You should get out here, Stone. Have a look around."

With that, the Sundance Kid kerbed the Previa, and irate motorists behind hit their horns as they tried to manoeuvre around us. I slid the door back and stepped out to the deafening sounds of road drills and revving engines. The Yes Man leant forward in his seat and took the door handle.

"Call in for what you need, and where you want the other three to collect their furnishings."

With that, the door slid shut and Sundance cut up a bus to get back in the traffic stream heading south across the river. A van driver gave me the finger as he put his foot down to make up that forty seconds he'd been delayed.

As I sat at the desk waiting for the other two bulbs to illuminate, I concentrated hard on that eighty grand. I didn't think I'd ever needed it so badly. The snipers were probably getting at least three times as much as I was but, then, I wasn't as good as they were at what they did. These people were as committed to their craft as Olympic athletes. I'd met one or two in the past when I, too, thought of going that route, but decided against it; professional snipers struck me as weird. They lived on a planet where everything was taken seriously, from politics to buying ice cream. They worshipped at the church of one round, one kill. No, sniping might pay well, but I didn't think I belonged there. And, besides, I now found bullet trajectory and the finer points of wind adjustment pretty boring after talking about them for half an hour, let alone my entire life.

From the moment the Yes Man dropped me off with my two Jiffy-bags, I'd started protecting myself far more than I normally would. I knew that if I got caught by Special Branch the Firm would deny me, and that was part and parcel of being a K. But there was more to it this time. The stuff I did normally didn't happen in the UK, and no way would anyone in their right mind give this the go. Everything felt wrong, and the Yes Man would never want to be on the losing side. He'd knife his own grandmother if it meant promotion; in fact, since he took over the Ks Desk from Colonel Lynn, he was so far up C's arse he could have flossed his teeth. If things didn't go to plan, and even if I did evade SB, he wouldn't hesitate to fuck me over if it meant he could take any credit and pass on any blame.

I needed a safety blanket, so I started by noting down the serial numbers of all three snipers' weapons before grinding them out. Then I took Polaroids of all the equipment, plus the three firing positions during the CTRs. I'd given the snipers photographs in their orders, and I kept a set myself. I had a full pictorial story of the job, together with photocopies of each set of sniper's orders. It all went into a bag in Left Luggage at Waterloo station, along with everything else I owned: a pair of jeans, socks, pants, washing kit and two fleece jackets.

After loading the three snipers' DLBs, I should have left them alone but I didn't. Instead I put in an OP (observation post) on Sniper Two's dead letter box, which was just outside the market town of Thetford in Norfolk. There was no particular reason for picking Sniper Two's to OP, except that it was the nearest of the three to London.

The other two were in the Peak District and on Bodmin Moor. All three had been chosen in uninhabited areas so that once they'd got the weapons, they could zero them to make sure that the optic sight was correctly aligned to the barrel so that a round hit the target precisely at a given distance. The rest -judging the wind, taking leads (aiming ahead of moving targets) and working out distance is part of the sniper's art, but first the weapon sight and rounds need to be as one. How they did that, and where they did that within the area, was up to them.

They were getting more than enough cash to make those decisions themselves.

Inside the DLB, a 45-gallon oil drum, was a large black Puma tennis bag that held everything needed for the shoot and was totally sterile of me: no fingerprints, certainly no DNA. Nothing from my body had made contact with this kit. Dressed like a technician in a chemical warfare lab, I had prepared, cleaned and wiped everything down so many times it was a wonder there was any Parkerization (protective paint) left on the barrels.

Jammed into a Gore-Tex bivi bag and dug in amongst the ferns in miserable drizzling rain, I waited for Sniper Two to arrive. I knew that all three would be extremely cautious when they made their approach to lift the DLBs, carrying out their tradecraft to the letter to ensure they weren't followed or walking into a trap. That was why I had to keep my distance: sixty-nine metres to be exact, which in turn had meant choosing a telephoto lens on my Nikon for more photographic evidence of this job, wrapped in a sweatshirt to dampen the rewind noise, and shoved into a bin liner so that just the lens and viewfinder were exposed to the drizzle.

I waited, throwing Mars bars and water down my neck and just hoping Sniper Two didn't choose to unload it at night.

In the end it was just over thirty boring and very wet hours before Sniper Two started to move in on the DLB. At least it was daylight. I watched the hooded figure check the immediate area around a collection of old, rusty farm machinery and oil drums.

It edged forward like a wet and cautious cat. I brought up the telephoto lens.

Tapered blue jeans, brown cross-trainers, three-quarter-length beige waterproof jacket. The hood had a sewn-in peak, and I could see the label on the left breast pocket: LL Bean I'd never seen one of their shops outside the US.

What I'd also never seen outside the US was a woman sniper. She was maybe early thirties, slim, average height, with brown hair poking out of the sides of the hood. She was neither attractive nor unattractive, just normal-looking, more like a young mother than a professional killer. She reached the oil drums, and carefully checked inside hers to make sure it wasn't booby-trapped. I couldn't help wondering why a woman would take up this line of work. What did her kids think she did for a living? Work at the cosmetics counter in Sears, and get dragged away a couple of times a year for week-long eyeliner seminars?

She'd been happy with what she saw inside the drum. Her arms went inside very quickly and lifted out the bag. She turned in my direction, taking the weight of it in both hands, and threw it over her right shoulder. I hit the shutter release and the camera whirred. Within seconds she'd melted once more into the trees and tall ferns; like a cat, she'd probably find a place to hide now and check out the spoils.

Sniping does not simply mean being a fantastic marksman. Just as important are the field craft skills stalking, judging distance, observation, camouflage and concealment and judging by the way she lifted the DLB and got back into cover, I bet she'd won gold stars in all of those disciplines.

While in the Army I had spent two years as a sniper, in a Royal

Green Jacket rifle company. I was as keen as anything: it had something to do with being left alone just to get on with it with your sniper partner. I learnt a lot and was a good shot, but I didn't have the passion required to make it a life's vocation.

I was still staring at the three bulbs, waiting for One and Three to sign in. A helicopter clattered overhead, following the river-bank on the north side, and I had to look up to satisfy myself that it wasn't looking for me. My paranoia was working overtime. For a moment I thought that it had found the explosive device I'd placed on the roof of the Royal Horseguards Hotel in Whitehall the night before. The hotel was just out of sight, behind the MoD (Ministry of Defence) main building across the river to my half right. Seeing the three service flags fluttering on the roof of the massive light-coloured stone cube prompted me to check something else for the millionth time.

Keeping the row of torch bulbs in my peripheral vision, I looked down at the river to check the wind indicators.

In urban areas the wind can move in different directions, at different levels, and in different strengths, depending on the buildings it has to get around.

Sometimes streets become wind tunnels, redirecting and momentarily strengthening the gusts. Indicators were therefore needed at different levels round the killing area, so the snipers could compensate by adjusting their sights. The wind can make an immense difference to where a round hits because it simply blows it off course.

Flags are really useful, and there were more around here than at a UN summit. On the water there were plenty of boats moored with pennants at the stern. Higher up, on both ends of Westminster Bridge, there were the tourist stalls, selling plastic Union Jacks and Man United streamers. The snipers would use all of these, and they would know where to look because I'd keyed them on to the maps supplied in the DLB. The wind condition at river level was good, just a hint of a breeze.

My eyes caught movement in the killing ground. I felt my face flush and my heart rate quicken. Shit, this shouldn't be kicking off yet.

I had a grandstand view of the terrace, and the times-twelve magnification of the binos made me feel as if I was almost standing on it. I checked it out with one eye on the binos, the other ready to pick up any flashes from the torch bulbs.

A feeling of relief flooded through me. Catering staff. They were streaming in and out of the covered pavilions to the left of the killing ground, busy in their black and white uniforms, laying out ashtrays and placing bowls of nuts and nibbles on square wooden tables. A stressed-looking older guy in a grey, double-breasted suit stalked around behind them, waving his arms like a conductor at the Last Night of the Proms.

I followed the line of the terrace and spotted a photographer on one of the wooden benches. He had two cameras by his side and smoked contentedly as he watched the commotion, a big smile on his face.

I went back to the conductor. He looked up at Big Ben, checked his watch, then clapped his hands. He was as worried about the deadline as I was. At least the weather was on our side. Taking the shot through one of the pavilion windows would have made things even more difficult than they already were.

The three sniper positions were all on my side of the river; three Portakabins in the grounds of St. Thomas's Hospital, directly opposite the killing ground.

Three different positions gave three different angles of fire, and therefore three different chances of getting a round into the target.

The distance between the first and third sniper was about ninety metres, and they'd be shooting over a distance of between 330 and 380 metres, depending on their position in the line-up. Being one floor up, the killing ground was below them, at an angle of about forty-five degrees. It would be just good enough to see the target from the stomach up if it was sitting down, and from about thigh up when standing, since a stone wall about a metre high ran the length of the terrace to stop MPs and peers falling into the Thames when they'd had a drink or two.

The riverbank in front of their positions was tree-lined, which provided some cover, but also obstructed their line of sight into the killing ground. These things are nearly always a matter of compromise; there is rarely a perfect option.

This would be the first time the snipers had ever been to the fire position, and it would also be the last. Soon after the shoot they'd be heading for Paris, Lille or Brussels on Eurostar trains, which left from Waterloo Station just ten minutes' walk away. They'd be knocking back a celebratory glass of wine in the Channel tunnel well before the full extent of what they'd done had dawned on Special Branch and the news networks.

TWO

Once I'd satisfied myself that the only activity in the killing ground came from harassed catering staff, I got back to watching the three bulbs. Snipers One and Three should have signed on by now. I was well past concerned, and not too far short of worried.

I thought about Sniper Two. She would have moved cautiously into the fire position after clearing her route, employing the same tradecraft as at the DLB, and probably in a simple disguise. A wig, coat and sunglasses do more than people think, even if SB racked up hundreds of man hours poring over footage from hospital security, traffic and urban CCTV cameras.

Having first put on her surgical gloves, she would have made entry to her Portakabin with the key provided, closed the door, locked up, and shoved two grey rubber wedges a third of the way down and a third up the frame to prevent anyone entering, even with a key. Then, before moving anywhere, she'd have opened the sports bag and begun to put on her work clothes, a set of light blue, hooded and footed coveralls for paint spraying from B&Q. It was imperative that she didn't contaminate the area or the weapon and equipment that were going to be left behind with fibres of her clothing or other personal sign. Her mouth would now be covered by a protective mask to prevent leaving even a pinprick of saliva on the weapon as she took aim. I was pleased with the masks: they'd been on special offer.

The coveralls and gloves were also there to protect clothes and skin. If she was apprehended immediately after the shoot, residue from the round that she'd fired would be detectable on her skin and clothes. That's why suspects' hands are bagged in plastic. I was also wearing surgical gloves, but just as a normal precaution. I was determined to leave nothing, and disturb nothing too.

Once she'd got covered up, with just her eyes exposed, she'd be looking like a forensic scientist at a crime scene. It would then have been time to prepare the fire position. Unlike me, she needed to be away from the window, so she'd have dragged the desk about three metres clear. Then she'd have pinned a net curtain into the plasterboard ceiling, letting it fall in front of the desk before pinning it tight to the legs.

Next, she'd have pinned up the sheet of opaque black material behind her, letting it hang to the floor. As with the netting, I had cut it to size for each fire position after the CTR. The combination of a net curtain in front and a dark backdrop behind creates the illusion of a room in shadow. It meant that anyone looking through the window wouldn't see a fat rifle muzzle being pointed at them by a scarily dressed woman. Both sets of optics that she'd be using, the binos and the weapon sight, could easily penetrate the netting, so it wouldn't affect her ability to make the shot.

Some fifteen minutes after arriving, she'd be sitting in the green, nylon-padded swivel chair behind the desk. Her takedown weapon would be assembled and supported on the desk by the bipod attached to the forward stock. Her binos, mounted on a mini-tripod, would also be on the desk, and in front of her would be her plastic lunch-box. With the weapon butt in her shoulder, she would have confirmed the arcs of fire, making sure she could move the weapon on its bipod to cover all of the killing ground without being obstructed by the window-frame or trees. She'd generally sort herself out and tune into her environment, maybe even dry practise on one of the catering staff as they rushed around the terrace.

One of the most important things she would have done before signing on with me was check her muzzle clearance. A sniper's optic sight is mounted on top of the weapon. At very short ranges the muzzle may be three or four inches below the image the sniper can actually see through the sight. It would be a total fuck-up if she fired a round after getting a good sight picture and it didn't even clear the room, hitting the wall or the bottom of the window-frame instead.

To deaden the sound of the shot, each weapon was fitted with a suppressor. This had the drawback of making the front third of the barrel nearly twice the size of the rest of it, altering its natural balance by making it top heavy. The suppressor wouldn't stop the bullet's supersonic crack, but that didn't matter because the noise would be down-range and well away from the fire position, and covered anyway by the device going off; what it would stop was the weapon's signature being heard by hospital staff or Italian tourists eating their overpriced ice cream on the embankment just a few feet below.

The Portakabin's windows had to be slid open. Firing through glass would not only alert the tourists, but would also affect the bullet's accuracy. There was a risk that someone might think it unusual for the window to be open on a Sunday, but we had no choice. As it was, the suppressor alone would degrade the round's accuracy and power, which was why we needed supersonic rounds to make the distance. Subsonic ammunition, which would eliminate the crack, just wouldn't make it.

It would only be once she was happy with her fire position, and had checked that her commercial hearing-aid was still in place under her hood, that she would sign on. Her box of tricks didn't have lights, just a green wire antenna that would probably be laid along the desk then run along the floor. A copper coil inside the box emitted three low touch tones; when I hit my send press el they picked that up through the hearing-aid.

There was one other wire coming out of the box, leading to a flat, black plastic button; this would now be taped on to the weapon wherever she had her support hand in position to fire.

Hitting the press el five times, once she was ready to go, was what lit up my number-two bulb five times.

There was nothing left for her to do now but sit perfectly still,

weapon rested, naturally aligned towards the killing area, observe, wait, and maybe listen to the comings and goings just below her. With luck the other two were going to be doing the same very soon. If anyone from hospital security attempted to be the good guy and close her window, a woman dressed like an extra from the X-Files would be the last thing they ever saw as she dragged them inside.

It was only now that she was in position that her problems really began. Once she'd zeroed the weapon in Thetford Forest, it would have been carried as if it was fine china. The slightest knock could upset the optic sight and wreck the weapon's zero. Even a tiny misalignment could affect the round by nearly an inch, and that would be bad news.

And it wasn't just the possibility of the optic being knocked, or the suppressor affecting the round's trajectory. The weapon itself, issued to me by the Yes Man, was 'take down'. So, once she had zeroed it for that one, all-important shot, it had to be taken apart for concealment, before being reassembled at the firing point.

Thankfully this bolt-action model only had to be split in two at the barrel, and because they were brand new, they wouldn't have suffered that much wear and tear on the bearing surfaces. But there only had to be a slight difference in the assembly from when it was zeroed, a knock to the optic sight in transit, for the weapon to be inches off where she was aiming.

This isn't a problem when an ordinary rifleman is firing at a body mass at close range, but these boys and girls were going for a catastrophic brain shot, one single round into the brain stem or neural motor strips. The target drops like liquid and there is no chance of survival. And that meant they had to aim at either of two specific spots the tip of an earlobe, or the skin between the nostrils.

She and the other two would need to be the most boring and religious snipers on earth to do that with these weapons. The Yes Man hadn't listened. It annoyed me severely that he knew jack shit about how things worked on the ground, and yet had been the one who decided which kit to use.

I tried to calm down by making myself remember it wasn't entirely his fault.

There had to be a trade-off between concealment and accuracy, because you can't just wander the streets with a fishing-rod case or the world's longest flowerbox. But fuck it, I'd despised him when he was running the support cell, and now it was worse.

I looked through the window at the distant black and white figures moving around the killing ground, and wondered if the Brit who'd first played about with a telescopic sight on a musket in the seventeenth century ever realized what drama he was bringing to the world.

I checked out the area with my binos, using just one eye so I didn't miss One or Three signing in. The binos were tripodded because twelve-times magnification at this distance was so strong that the slightest judder would make it seem like I was watching The Blair Witch Project.

Things had moved on. The staff were still being hassled by the grey-suited catering bully. As guests came through the grand arched door on to the terrace, they'd now be greeted by trestle tables covered by brilliant white tablecloths.

Silver trays of fluted glasses waited to be filled as corks were pulled from bottles of champagne.

Things would be kicking off soon, and all I had was one sniper. Not good; not good at all.

I refocused the binos on the arched doorway, then went back to watching the lights, willing them to spark up. There was nothing else I could do.

I tried and failed to reassure myself that the co-ordination plan for the shoot was so beautifully simple, it would work with only one sniper.

The snipers had the same binos as mine and would also have them focused on the door. They'd want to ID the Yes Man the moment he walked into the killing area, and they'd use binos first because they give a field of view of about ten metres, which would make it easier to follow him through the crowd until he made the target ID. Once that was done, they would switch to their weapon's optic sight, and I would concentrate on the lights.

The method I was going to use to control the snipers and tell them when to fire had been inspired by a wildlife documentary I'd seen on TV. Four Indian game wardens, working as a team in total silence, had managed to stalk and fire sedative darts into an albino tiger from very close range.

Whenever any of the snipers had a sight picture of the target and felt confident about taking the shot, they'd hit their press el and keep it pressed. The corresponding bulb in front of me would stay lit for as long as they could take the shot. If they lost their sight picture, they released their press el and the bulb would go out until they acquired it again.

Once I'd made the decision when to fire, I'd push my send press el three times in a one-second rhythm.

The first press would tell the firer or firers to stop breathing so their body movement didn't affect the aim.

The second would tell them to take up the first pressure on the trigger, so as not to jerk the weapon when they fired.

As I hit the press el the second time, I'd also trigger the detonation. The third time, the snipers would fire as the device exploded on the roof of the hotel. If all three were up and the target was sitting, that would be perfect but it rarely happens that way.

The device would not only disguise the sonic cracks, but create a diversion on the north side of the river while we extracted. I just wished the MoD building wasn't closed for the weekend: I'd have loved to see their faces as the blast took out a few of their windows. Never mind, with luck it would make the Life Guards' horses on Whitehall throw off their mounts.

None of the snipers would know if the others had the target. The first time they'd know the option was going ahead was when they heard the three tones in their ear. If they didn't have a sight picture themselves, they wouldn't take a shot.

After the explosion, whether they'd fired a round or not, they would all exit from their positions, stripping off their outer layer of coveralls and leaving the area casually and professionally with the protective clothing in their bag.

The rest of the kit, and the weapons, would be discovered at some point by the police, but that wouldn't matter to me as I'd handed it over sterile. It shouldn't matter to these people either, as they ought to be professional enough to leave it in the same condition as they'd received it. If they didn't, that was their problem.

I rubbed my eyes.

Another light flashed.

Sniper One was in position, ready to go.

I hit the send press el three times, and after a short pause Sniper One's bulb flashed three times in return.

I was feeling a little better now, with two snipers sitting perfectly still, watching and waiting as they continued to tune into the killing ground. I could only hope that Sniper Three was close behind.

THREE

Big Ben struck half past the hour. Thirty minutes to go.

I continued to stare at the box, trying to transmit positive thoughts. The job was going to happen with or without Sniper Three, but what with the weapon problems, three chances of a hit were better than two.

My positive transmissions weren't working at all, and after ten minutes or so my eyes were drawn to the killing ground again. Things were happening. Different colours of clothing were moving amongst the black and white of the catering staff like fragments in a kaleidoscope. Shit, they were early.

I put one eye to the binos and checked them out, just as One and Two would be doing. The new arrivals seemed to be the advance party, maybe ten suited men, all of them white. I checked that the Yes Man wasn't amongst them and had fucked up his own plan. He wasn't. He would have fitted in nicely, though: they didn't really seem to know what to do with themselves, so decided to mill around the door like sheep, drinking champagne and mumbling to each other, probably about how pissed off they were to be working on a Sunday. Dark, double-breasted suits with a polyester mix seemed to be the order of the day. I could see the well worn shine and lard-arse creases up the backs of the jackets even from here. The jackets were mostly undone because of the weather or pot bellies, revealing ties that hung either too high or too low.

They had to be Brit politicians and civil servants.

The only exception was a woman in her early thirties with blonde hair and rectangular glasses, who came into view alongside the catering bully. Dressed in an immaculate black trouser suit, she seemed to be the only one of the new arrivals who knew what was what. With a mobile phone in her left hand and a pen in her right, she seemed to be pointing out that everything his staff had done needed redoing.

The cameraman also wandered into my field of view, taking light readings, and clearly enjoying the last-minute flap. There was a flash as he took a test shot.

Then there was another in my peripheral vision, and I looked down.

The third bulb. I nearly cheered.

I left the blonde-haired PR guru to get on with it, and concentrated on the box as I replied to the flashes. Sniper Three duly acknowledged.

Big Ben chimed three times.

Relief washed over me. I'd known all along that these people would only get into position at the very last moment, but that didn't stop me worrying about it while I was waiting. Now I just wanted this thing over and done with, and to slip away on Eurostar to the Gare du Nord, then on to Charles de Gaulle. I should make the check-in nicely for my 9 p.m. American Airlines flight to Baltimore, to see Kelly and finish my business with Josh.

I got back on the binos and watched the PR guru tell the Brits, ever so nicely and with a great big smile, to get the fuck away from the door and prepare to mingle. They cradled their champagne glasses and headed for the nibbles, drifting from my field of view. I kept my focus on the doorway.

Now that it was clear of bodies, I could just about penetrate the shadows inside. It looked like a canteen, the sort where you drag your tray along the counter and pay at the end. What a let-down: I'd been expecting something a bit more regal.

The door-frame was soon filled again, by another woman with a mobile phone stuck to her ear. This one had a clipboard in her free hand; she stepped on to the terrace, closed down her mobile, and looked around.

The blonde PR guru came into view. There was lots of nodding, talking, and pointing around the killing area, then they both went back where they'd come from. I felt a wave of apprehension. I wanted to get on with it and get aboard that Eurostar.

"One of the team," the Yes Man had said.

One of the team, my arse. The only things that would help me if this went wrong were my security blanket and a quick exit to the States.

Seconds later, human shapes began filling the area behind the door, and were soon pouring out into the killing area. The woman with the clipboard appeared behind them, shepherding them with a fixed, professional smile. She guided them to the glasses on the table by the door as if they could have missed them.

Then the catering staff were on top of them like flies on shit, with nibbles on trays, and a whole lot more champagne.

The South American contingent was easy to identify, not by brown or black skin but because they were far better dressed, in well-cut suits and expertly knotted ties. Even their body language had more style. The group was predominantly male, but none of the women with them would have looked out of place in a fashion magazine.

Obligingly, Clipboard coaxed the guests away from the doorway and into the killing area. They spread out and mingled with the advance party. It became clear that everybody was going to continue standing up rather than move over to the benches. I'd have preferred them to sit down like a line of ducks at a fairground, but it wasn't going to happen. We were going to have to settle for a moving target.

The Yes Man was due to arrive ten minutes after the main party. The plan was that he'd spend five minutes by the door, making a call, which would give all four of us time to ping him. From there he would move off and ID the target.

All three would now be taking slow, deep breaths so they were fully oxygenated.

They would also be constantly checking the wind indicators until the last minute, in case they had to readjust their optics.

My heart pumped harder now. The snipers' hearts, however, would be unaffected.

In fact, if they'd been linked to an ECG

machine they'd probably have registered as clinically dead. When they were in their zone, all they could think about was taking that single, telling shot.

More people cut across my field of view, then the Yes Man appeared in the doorway. He was five foot six tall, and not letting me down by wearing the same sort of dark, badly fitting business suit as the rest of the Brits. Under it he had a white shirt and a scarlet tie that made him look like a candidate for Old Labour. The tie was important because it was his main VDM (visual distinguishing mark). The rest of his kit and his physical description had also been given to the snipers, but he was easy enough to identify from his permanently blushing complexion, and a neck that always seemed to have a big boil on the go. On any other forty-year-old it would have been unfortunate, but as far as I was concerned it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.

On his left hand he wore a wedding ring. I'd never seen a picture of his wife in his office, and I didn't know if he had children. In fact, I really hoped he didn't or if he did, that they looked like their mother.

Producing his mobile, the Yes Man came off the threshold and moved to the right of the doorway as he finished dialling. He looked up and nodded hello to somebody out of my field of view, then gave a wave to them and pointed at the mobile to show his intentions.

I watched him listen to the ringing tone, keeping his back against the wall so that we could check the tie. His hair was greying, or it would have been if he'd left it alone but he'd been at the Grecian 2000, and I was catching more than a hint of copper. It complemented his complexion very well indeed. I felt myself grinning.

A young waiter came up to him with a tray of full glasses, but was waved away as he continued with his call. The Yes Man didn't drink or smoke. He was a bornagain Christian, Scientologist, something like that, or one of the happy-clappy bands. I'd never really bothered to find out, in case he tried to recruit me and I found myself saying yes. And I didn't set much store by it. If the Yes Man discovered C was a Sikh, he'd turn up at work in a turban.

His conversation over, the phone got shut down, and he walked towards the river.

As he wove and sidestepped through the crowd he bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, as if trying to give himself extra height. Watching his progress, I gently undid the tripod restraining clips so I could swivel the binos and continue to follow him if I needed to.

He passed the two PR women, who looked pretty pleased with themselves. Each had a phone and a cigarette in one hand and a glass of self-congratulatory champagne in the other. He passed the cameraman, who was now busy taking group shots with Big Ben in the background for the Latin folks back home. Little did he know that he was a couple of chimes short of a world exclusive.

The Yes Man side-stepped the photo session and continued to go left, still towards the river. He stopped eventually by a group of maybe ten men, gathered in a wide, informal circle. I could see some of their faces, but not all, as they talked, drank or waited for refills from the staff buzzing around them. Two were white-eyes, and I could see four or five Latino faces turned towards the river.

The older of the two white-eyes smiled at the Yes Man and shook his hand warmly.

He then began to introduce his new Latin friends.

This had to be it. One of these was the target. I looked at their well-fed faces as they smiled politely and shook the Yes Man's hand.

I could feel my forehead leaking sweat as I concentrated on who he was shaking hands with, knowing that I couldn't afford to miss the target ID, and at the same time not too sure if the Yes Man was up to the job.

I'd assumed they were all South Americans, but as one of their number turned I saw, in profile, that he was Chinese. He was talk-show-host neat, in his fifties, taller than the Yes Man, and with more hair. Why he was part of a South American delegation was a mystery to me, but I wasn't going to lose any sleep over it. I concentrated on how he was greeted. It was a non-event, just a normal handshake. The Chinaman, who obviously spoke English, then introduced a smaller guy to his right, who had his back to me. The Yes Man moved towards him, and then, as they shook, he placed his left hand on the small guy's shoulder.

I hated to admit it, but he was doing an excellent job. He even started to swing the target round so he faced the river, pointing out the London Eye and the bridges either side of Parliament.

The target was also part Chinese and I had to double-take because he couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen years old. He was wearing a smart blazer with a white shirt and blue tie, the sort of boy any parent would want their daughter to date. He looked happy, exuberant even, grinning at everyone and joining in the conversation as he turned back into the circle with the Yes Man.

I got a feeling that I was in worse trouble than I'd thought.

FOUR

I forced myself to cut away. Fuck it, I'd worry about all that on the flight to the States.

The conversation on the terrace carried on as the Yes Man said his goodbyes to the group, waved at another, and moved out of my field of view. He wouldn't be leaving yet that would be suspicious he just didn't want to be near the boy when we dropped him.

Seconds later, I had three bulbs burning below me. The snipers were waiting for those three command tones to buzz gently in their ear.

It didn't feel right but reflexes took over. I flicked the shaving cream top from the box and positioned my thumbs over the two press els

I was about to press when all three lights went out within a split second of each other.

I got back on to the binos, just with my right eye, thumbs ready over the press els The group was moving en masse from left to right. I should have been concentrating on the bulbs but I wanted to see. The Chinaman's arm was around the boy's shoulders it must have been his son as they approached a smaller group of Latinos who were attacking a table laden with food.

A bulb lit up: Sniper Three was confident of taking the shot,

aiming slightly ahead of his point of aim so that when he fired the boy would walk into the path of the round.

The bulb stayed lit as they stopped at the table with the other group of Latinos, getting stuck into the vol-au-vents. The boy was at the rear of the group and I could just ping glimpses of his navy blazer through the crowd.

Bulb three died.

I was having doubts, I didn't know why, and tried to get a grip. What did I care? If it was a straight choice between his life and mine there'd be no question. What was happening in my head was totally unprofessional, and totally ridiculous.

I gave myself a good mental slapping. Any more of this shit and I'd end up hugging trees and doing voluntary work for Oxfam.

The only thing I should be doing was focusing on the box. What was happening on the terrace shouldn't matter to me any more but I couldn't seem to stop myself looking at the boy through the binos.

Number Two's bulb came up. She must have found his earlobe to aim at.

Then the boy moved towards the table, breaking through the crowd. He started to help himself to some food, looking back at his dad to check if he wanted anything.

All three lights now burned. How could they not?

I watched him pick at the stuff on the silver trays, sniffing one canape and deciding to give it a miss. I studied his shiny young face as he wondered what would best complement his half-drunk glass of Coke.

All bulbs were still lit as I looked through the binos. He was exposed, bunging peanuts down his neck.

Come on! Get on with the fucking thing!

I couldn't believe it. My thumbs just wouldn't move.

In that instant, my plan switched to screwing up the shoot and finding something to blame it on. I couldn't stop myself.

The snipers wouldn't know who else had a sight picture, and it wasn't as if we were all going to get together and have a debrief over coffee the next morning.

I'd take my chances with the Yes Man.

The boy moved back into the crowd, towards his dad. I could just about make out his shoulder through the crowd.

The three lights went out simultaneously. Then Two's came back on. This woman wasn't giving up on her target. I guessed she wasn't a mother after all.

Three seconds later it went out. Wrong or right, now was my time to act.

I pushed the send press el once with my thumb, keeping my eyes glued on the boy.

Then I pressed it again, and at the same time hit the detonation button. The third time, I pushed just on the send press el

The explosion the other side of the Thames was like a massive, prolonged clap of thunder. I watched the boy and everyone around him react to the detonation instead of doing what I'd planned for him.

The shock-wave crossed the river and rattled my window. As I listened to its last rumblings reverberate around the streets of Whitehall, the screams of the tourists below me took over. I concentrated on the boy as his father bustled him towards the door.

As panic broke out on the terrace, the photographer was in a frenzy to get the shots that would pay off his mortgage. Then the Yes Man came into view and stood beside the PR women, who were helping people back inside. He had a concerned look on his face, which had nothing to do with the explosion and everything to do with seeing the target alive and being dragged to safety. The boy disappeared though the door and others followed, but the Yes Man still didn't help. Instead he looked up and across the river at me. It was weird. He didn't know exactly where I was in the building, but I felt as if he was looking straight into my eyes.

I was going to be in a world of shit about this, and knew I had to have a really good story for him. But not today: it was time to head for Waterloo. My Eurostar left in an hour and five. The snipers would now be standing at their crossover point their exit door from a contaminated area to a decontaminated area peeling off their outer layers of clothing, throwing them into their sports bags, but leaving their gloves on until totally clear of the Portakabin. The weapons, binos and lunch-boxes remained in place, as did the hide.

With speed but not haste, I leant over to the window and opened it a fraction to retrieve the antennas. The clamour from people outside was now much louder than the explosion had been. There were shouts of fear and confusion from men, women and children at embankment level. Vehicles on the bridge had braked to a halt and pedestrians were rooted to the spot as the cloud of black smoke billowed over the rooftop of the MoD building.

I closed the window and left them to it, taking down the tripod for the binos and packing away all my gear as quickly as I could. I needed to get that train.

Once all the kit was back in the bag, including the shaving-foam cap, I put the dirty coffee mug, Wayne's World coaster and telephone back exactly where they'd been before I'd cleared the desktop to make room for the binos and lunch-box, using the Polaroid I'd taken as a reference. I checked the general area pictures I'd taken as soon as I broke in. Maybe the net curtain wasn't exactly as it should have been, or a chair had been moved a foot or so to the right. It wasn't superstition. Details like that are important. I'd known something as simple as a mouse mat out of place leading to an operator being compromised.

My brain started to bang against my skull. There was something strange about what I had seen outside. I hadn't been clever enough to notice, but my unconscious had. I had learnt the hard way that these feelings should never be ignored.

I looked back out of the window and it hit me in an instant. Instead of looking at the column of smoke to my right, the crowd's attention was on the hospital to my left. They were looking towards the sniper positions, listening to the dull thud of six or seven short, sharp, single shots ... There were more screams below the window, mixed with the wail of fast approaching police sirens.

I opened my window as far as it would go and pushed the net curtain aside, sticking out my head and looking left, towards the hospital. A fleet of police cars and vans with flashing lights had been abandoned along the embankment, just short of the sniper positions, their doors left open. At the same time I saw uniforms hastily organizing a cordon.

This was wrong. This was very, very wrong. The event I was witnessing had been planned and prepared for. The frenzy of police activity down there was far too organized to be a spur-of-the-moment reaction to an explosion a few minutes earlier.

We had been stitched up.

Three more shots were fired, followed by a short pause, then another two. Then, from further along the riverbank, I heard the heavy thuds of a flash bang going off inside a building. They were hitting Number Three's position.

Adrenaline jolted through my body. It'd be my turn soon.

I slammed the window down. My mind raced. Apart from me, the only person who knew the exact sniper positions was the Yes Man, because he needed to position the target well enough for it to be identified. But he didn't know precisely where I was going to be, because I hadn't known myself. Technically, I didn't even have to have eyes on target, I just needed to have com ms with the snipers.

But he knew enough. Messing up the shoot was the least of my worries now.

FIVE

Helicopters were now rattling overhead and police sirens were going ape shit in the street as I closed the door gently behind me and moved out into the wide, brightly lit corridor.

My Timberlands squeaked on the highly polished stone floor as I headed towards the fire-exit door at the far end, maybe sixty metres away, forcing myself not to quicken my pace. I had to stay in control. I couldn't afford to make any more mistakes. There might be a time to run, but it wasn't yet.

There was a turning to the right about twenty metres further down, which led to the stairwell that would take me to the ground floor. I reached it, turned and froze. Between me and the stairwell was a wall of two-metre-high black ballistic shields. Behind them were maybe a dozen police in full black assault gear, weapon barrels pointing out at me through the gaps in the shields, blue assault helmets and visors glinting in the strip-lighting.

"STAND STILL! STAND STILL!"

It was time to run like the wind. I squeaked on my heels and lunged the couple of paces back into the main corridor, heading for the fire exit, just willing myself to hit that crossbar to freedom.

As I zeroed in on the exit door, the corridor ahead filled with more black shields and the noise of boots on stone. They held the line like Roman centurions. The last couple emerged from the offices on either side, their weapons pointing at me at far too close a range for my liking.

"STAND STILL! STAND STILL NOW!"

Coming to a halt, I dropped the bag to the floor and put my hands in the air.

"Not armed!" I yelled. 'I'm weapons free! Weapons free!"

There are times when it's an advantage just to admit to yourself that you're in the shit, and this was one of them. I just hoped these were real police. If I wasn't a threat, then in theory they shouldn't drop me.

I hoped, too, that my black cotton bomber jacket had ridden up enough to show them there wasn't a pistol attached to my belt or tucked into my jeans.

"Not armed," I yelled.

"Weapons free!"

Orders were screamed at me. I wasn't too sure what it was all too loud and too close, a confusion of echoes along the hallway.

I pivoted slowly so they could see my back and check for themselves that I wasn't lying. As I faced the corridor junction, I heard more boots thundering towards me from the stairwell corridor, closing the trap.

A shield moved out of the corner then slammed into position on the floor at the corridor junction. A muzzle of an MP5 came round the side of it, and I could see a sliver of the user's face as he took aim on me.

"Weapons free!" My voice was almost a scream.

"I'm weapons free!"

Keeping my hands in the air I stared at the single, unblinking eye behind the weapon. He was a left-handed firer, taking advantage of the left side of the shield for cover, and the eye didn't move from my chest.

I looked down as a red laser spot the size of a shirt button splashed on it dead centre. It wasn't moving either. Fuck knew how many splashes there were on my back from the fire-exit crew.

Frenzied shouts finished bouncing off the walls as a loud, estuary-English voice took command and shouted orders that I could now understand.

"Stand still! Stand still! Keep your -hands up ... keep them up!"

No more turning, I did what he wanted.

"Down on your knees! Get down on your knees. Now!"

Keeping my hands up, I lowered myself slowly, no longer trying for any eye contact, just looking down. The left-handed firer in front of me followed my every move with the laser splash.

The voice shouted more orders from behind.

"Lie down, with your arms spread out to your side. Do it now."

I did as I was told. There was total, scary silence. The cold of the stone floor seeped through my clothes. Minute pinpricks of grit pressed into my right cheek as I snorted up a lungful of freshly laid wax.

I found myself staring at the bottom of one of the stairwell group's ballistic shields. It was dirty with age and chipped on the corners, so that the layers of Kevlar that gave protection from even heavy-calibre ammunition were peeling back like the pages of a well-thumbed book.

The silence was broken by the shuffle and squeak of rubber-soled boots approaching me from behind. My only thought was how lucky I was to be arrested.

The boots arrived at their destination, and heavy breathing from their owners filled the air around me. One old black creased-leather size ten landed by my face and my hands were gripped and pulled up in front of me. I felt the cold, hard metal bite into my wrists as the handcuffs were ratcheted tight. I just let them get on with it; the more I struggled the more pain I would have to put up with. The handcuffs were the newer style, police issue: instead of a chain between them they had a solid metal spacer. Once these things are on, just one tap against the spacer with a baton is enough to have you screaming in agony as the metal gives the good news to your wrist bones.

I was in enough pain already as one man pulled at the cuffs to keep my arms straight, and someone else's knee was forced down between my shoulder blades. My nose got banged against the floor, making my eyes water, and all the oxygen was forced out of my lungs.

A pair of hands, their owner's boots each side of me now that he'd removed his knee from my back, were making their way over my body. My wallet, containing my Eurostar ticket and my

Nick Somerhurst passport, was taken from the inside pocket of my bomber jacket.

I felt suddenly naked.

I turned my head, trying to get as comfortable as possible during the once-over, and rested my face on the cold stone. Through blurred vision I made out three pairs of jeans emerging from behind the shield at the junction and heading my way. One pair of jeans moved out of vision as they passed me by, but the other two moved in close: a set of trainers and a pair of light tan boots, their Caterpillar label now just inches from my nose.

I started to feel more depressed than worried about what was coming next. Men in jeans just don't ponce about during an armed arrest.

Behind me I heard the zip of my holdall being pulled back and the contents given a quick once-over. At the same time I felt my Leatherman being pulled out from its pouch.

There was still no talking as hands ran down my legs to check for concealed weapons. My face acted like a cushion for my cheekbone as I was hauled around like a sack of spuds.

Hands forced themselves around the front of my stomach and into my waistband, then extracted the three or four pounds' worth of change in my jeans.

The same set of hands went under each armpit and hauled me up on to my knees, to the accompaniment of laboured grunts and the squeak of leather belt-kit. My cuff-holder let go and my hands dropped down by my knees as if I was begging.

The cold stone floor was hurting my knees, but I forgot about them instantly when I saw the face of the man wearing the Cats.

His hair wasn't looking so neat today: the Sundance Kid had been running about a bit. Above his jeans he was wearing a green bomber jacket and heavy blue body armour with a protective ceramic plate tucked into the pouch over his chest. He was taking no chances with me today.

There wasn't the slightest trace of emotion in his face as he stared down at me, probably trying to hide from the others that his part of the job hadn't gone too well. I was still alive; he hadn't been able to make entry into the office with the help of his new mates here and claim self-defence as he shot me.

My documents were handed to him and they went into his back pocket. He played with the coins in his cupped palms, chinking as they poured from one to the other. Sundance and his mate, Trainers, were joined by the third pair of jeans, who had my bag over his right shoulder. I kept my eyes down at calf level now, not wishing to provoke him. It was pointless appealing to the uniforms for help. They'd have heard it all before from drunks claiming to be Jesus and people like me ranting that they'd been stitched.

Sundance spoke for the first time.

"Good result, Sarge." His thick Glasgow accent was directed to someone behind me, before he turned away with the other two. I watched them walk towards the stairwell, to the sound of Velcro being ripped apart as they started to peel off their body armour.

As they disappeared past the corridor junction I was dragged up on to my feet by two policemen. With their strong grip under each of my armpits, I followed them towards the stairs. We passed the shields at the corridor junction, as the armed teams started to break ranks, and made our way down the stone stairs. Sundance and the boys were about two floors below. I kept catching glimpses of them as they turned on the stone and iron-railed landings, and wondered why I hadn't been blindfolded. Maybe it was to make sure I didn't trip on the stairs. No, it would be because they didn't care if I saw their faces. I wasn't going to live long enough to see them again.

We exited the building via the glass and metal-framed doors I'd made entry through earlier. At once the noise of boots on the stairs and the policemen's laboured breathing from the effort of hauling me about was drowned out by the confusion on the street. Sweat-stained, white-shirted police officers were running about, their radios crackling, yelling at pedestrians to follow their directions and clear the area. Sirens blared. A helicopter chopped the air loudly overhead.

We were on the private entry road to the Marriott Hotel, part of the County Hall building. To my left was its turning circle, bordered by a smart decorative hedge. Police were preventing guests from coming out of the main entrance as they tried to see what was happening or to run away, I wasn't sure which.

In front of me, at the kerb side was a white Mercedes estate,

engine running, all doors open. One of the pairs of jeans was in the driver's seat ready to go. As a hand pushed down on top of my head and I was quickly bundled into the back, my feet connected with something in the foot well It was my holdall, still unzipped.

The guy with the trainers sat on my left and attached one end of a pair of handcuffs to the D ring of the centre set of seat-belts. He then flicked the free end around the pair that gripped my wrists. I wasn't going anywhere until these boys were good and ready.

Sundance appeared on the pavement and said his goodbyes to the uniforms. Thanks again, lads."

I kept trying to make eye contact with the guys who had dragged me down here, who were now standing by the entrance to the office block. Sundance got into the front passenger seat and closed his door, obviously aware of what I was doing.

He bent down into his foot well That isn't going to help you, boy." Retrieving a blue light from the floor and slapping it on to the dashboard, he plugged the lead into the cigarette-lighter socket. The light started flashing as the car moved off.

We came out of the hotel's approach road and on to the main drag at the south end of the bridge, directly opposite the hospital buildings. The road was cordoned off and surrounded by every police vehicle in the Greater London area.

The windows of the hospital were crammed with patients and nurses trying to get a grandstand view of the commotion.

We wove around the obstacles in the road and through the cordon. Once over the large roundabout, we passed under the Eurostar track a hundred metres further down. I could see the slick, aerodynamic trains waiting in the glass terminal above me, and felt sick that one of them should be leaving soon without me on it.

Sundance removed the flashing light from the dashboard. We were heading south towards the Elephant and Castle and, no doubt, into a world of shit.

I looked at Sundance's face in the wing mirror. He didn't return eye contact or acknowledge me in any way. Behind the stony face he was probably working out what he had to do next.

So was I, and started to work on him straight away. This isn't going to work.

I've got on tape the orders you drove for and I-' There was an explosion of pain as Trainers put all his force behind his elbow and rammed it into my thigh, dead legging me.

Sundance turned in his seat.

"Don't wind me up, boy."

I took a deep, deep breath and kept going for it.

"I've got proof of everything that's happened. Everything."

He didn't even bother to look round this time.

"Shut it."

Trainers' hand chopped down on the spacer bar between the cuffs. The metal jarred agonizingly on my wrists, but I knew it was nothing compared with what would happen if I didn't buy myself some time.

"Look!" I gasped, 'it's me stitched today, it could be you lot next. No one gives a fuck about people like us. That's why I keep records. For my own security."

We were approaching the Elephant and Castle roundabout, passing the pink shopping centre. I nodded to give Trainers the message that I was going to shut up. I wasn't a fool, I knew when to shut up or talk. I wanted to make the little I knew go a long way. I wanted them to feel I was confident and secure, and that they would be making a big mistake if they didn't pay attention. I just hoped it wasn't me making the mistake.

I looked in the mirror again. It was impossible to tell whether this was having any effect on Sundance. I was just feeling that maybe I should get in another instalment when he sparked up.

"What do you know, then, boy?"

I shrugged.

"Everything, including those three hits just now." Fuck it, I might as well go right to the top of the bullshit stakes.

Trainers' brown, bloodshot eyes and broken nose faced me without emotion. It was impossible to tell whether he was going to hurt me or not. I decided to try to save my skin big-time before he made up his mind.

"I taped the briefing that you drove for." Which was a lie.

"I've got pictures of the locations." Which was true.

"And pictures and serial numbers of the weapons. I've got all the dates, all diaried, even pictures of the snipers."

We turned down towards the Old Kent Road, and as I shifted position slightly I glimpsed Sundance's face in the wing mirror.

He was looking dead ahead, his expression giving nothing away.

"Show me."

That was easy enough.

"Sniper Two is a woman, she's in her early thirties and she has brown hair." I resisted the temptation to say more. I needed to show him I knew a lot, but without running out of information too early.

There was silence. I got the impression that Sundance had started to listen carefully, which I took as my chance to carry on. 'You need to tell him," I said.

"Just think about the shit you'll be in if you don't. Frampton won't be first in the queue for taking the blame. It'll be you lot who get that for sure." The message had at least got through to Trainers. He was swapping glances with Sundance in the mirror: my cue not even to look up now, but let them get on with it.

We stopped at a set of lights, level with carloads of families swigging from cans of Coke and doing the bored-in-the-back-seat stuff. The four of us just sat there as if we were on our way to a funeral. It was pointless me trying to raise the alarm with any of these people as they smoked or picked their noses waiting for the green. I just had to depend on Sundance to make a decision soon. If he didn't, I'd try again, and keep on until they silenced me. I'd been trying hard not to think about that too much.

We approached a large retail park, with signs for B&Q, Halford's and McDonald's.

Sundance pointed at the entrance sign.

"In there for five." The indicator immediately started clicking and we cut across the traffic.

I tried not to show my elation, and let my eyes concentrate hard on the lunchbox of tricks at the top of the sports bag as I felt the Merc lurch over a speed bump.

We stopped near a bacon roll and stewy tea van, and Sundance immediately got out. Trolleys filled with pot plants, paint and planks of wood trundled past on the tarmac as he walked out of sight somewhere behind us, dialling into a StarT ac that he'd pulled from his jacket.

The rest of us sat in silence. The driver just looked ahead through his sunglasses and Trainers turned round in his seat to try to see what Sundance was up to, taking care to cover my handcuffs so the DIYers couldn't see that we weren't there for the kitchen sale.

I wasn't really thinking or worrying about anything, just idly watching a young shell-suited couple load up their ancient XRi with boxes of wall tiles and grout. Maybe I was trying to avoid the fact that the call he was making meant life or death for me.

Sundance shook me out of my dreamlike state as he slumped back into the Merc and slammed the door. The other two looked at him expectantly probably hoping to be told to drive me down to Beachy Head and give me a helping hand in my tragic suicide.

There was nothing from him for twenty seconds or so while he put his seat-belt on. It was like waiting for the doctor to tell me if I had cancer or not. He sat for a while and looked disturbed; I didn't know what to think but took it as a good sign, without really knowing why.

Eventually, after putting the StarT ac away, he looked at the driver.

"Kennington."

I knew where Kennington was, but didn't know what it meant to them. Not that it really mattered: I just felt a surge of relief about the change of plan.

Whatever had been going to happen to me had been postponed.

At length Sundance muttered, "If you're fucking with me, things will get hurtful."

I nodded into the rear-view mirror as he gave me the thousand-metre stare. There was no need for further conversation as we drove back up the Old Kent Road. I was going to save all that for later, for the Yes Man. Leaning against the window to rest my arms and ease the tension of the handcuffs on my wrists, I gazed like a child at the world passing by, the glass steaming around my face.

Somebody turned on the radio and the soothing sound of violins filled the Merc.

It struck me as strange; I wouldn't have expected these boys to be into classical music any more than I was.

I knew the area we were driving through like the back of my hand. As a ten-year old I had played there while bunking school. In those days the place was one big mass of minging council estates, dodgy secondhand-car dealers and old men in pubs drinking bottles of light ale. But now it looked as if every available square metre was being gentrified. The place was crawling with luxury developments and 911 Caireras, and all the pubs had been converted into wine bars. I wondered where all the old men went now to keep out of the cold.

We were approaching Elephant and Castle again. The music finished and a female voice came on with an update on the incident that had shaken London. There were unconfirmed reports, she said, that three people had been killed in a gun battle with police, and that the bomb blast in Whitehall had produced between ten and sixteen minor casualties, who were being treated in hospital. Tony Blair had expressed his absolute outrage from his villa in Italy, and the emergency services were on full alert as further explosions could not be ruled out. No one as yet had claimed responsibility for the blast.

We rounded the Elephant and Castle and headed towards Kennington, pulling over as two police vans sirened their way past.

Sundance turned to me and shook his head in mock disapproval. Tut-tut-rut. See you you're a menace to society, you are."

As the news finished and the music returned I continued to look out of the window. I was a menace to myself, not society. Why couldn't I steer clear of shit for a change, instead of heading straight for it like a light-drunk moth?

We passed Kennington tube station, then took a right into a quiet residential street. The street name had been ripped from its post and the wooden backing was covered in graffiti. We turned again and the driver had to brake as he came across six or seven kids in the middle of the road, kicking a ball against the gable end of a turn-of-the-century terrace. They stopped and let us through, then immediately got back to trying to demolish the wall.

We drove about forty metres further, then stopped. Sundance hit his key fob and a graffiti-covered double garage shutter started to roll up. Left and right of it was a pitted brown brick wall; above was a rusty metal frame that had probably once held a neon sign. Empty drinks cans littered the ground. Inside was completely empty. As we drove in, I saw that all around the old brick walls were tool boards with faded, red-painted shapes of what was supposed to be hanging there. Years ago it had probably been a one-man garage set-up. A faded Chelsea FC team poster was pinned to a door. Judging by the long haircuts, sideburns and very tight shorts, it was seventies vintage.

The shutter door rattled and squeaked its way down behind me, gradually cutting off the noise of the kids kicking the ball. The engine was cut and the three of them started to get out.

Sundance disappeared through the football poster door, leaving it open behind him, with luck for me to get dragged through. Anything to be out of the car and have the pressure off my wrists. Maybe I'd even get given a brew. I hadn't eaten or drunk anything since the night before: there'd been too much to do and I'd simply forgotten. Just placing the bomb on the hotel roof had taken the best part of four hours, and an Egg McMuffin had been the last thing on my mind.

While I was watching the door swing back slowly to reveal the Chelsea mop heads again, Trainers leant down and undid the cuffs pinning me to the seat. Then he and the driver got hold of me and dragged me out. We headed towards the door; I was beginning to feel that maybe I'd get away with this after all. Then I gave myself a good mental slapping: every time I had this feeling I came unstuck.

What was happening here meant nothing until I saw the Yes Man and told him my piece. I decided to do my best not to annoy these boys while we waited. They were doing their best to intimidate me; things are always more worrying when there is no verbal contact and no information, and it was working a little, that was for sure. Not a lot, but enough.

They dragged me through the door and into a windowless, rectangular space with pitted, dirty whitewashed brick walls. The room was airless, hot and humid, and to add to the mix somebody had been smoking roll-ups. A harsh, double fluorescent unit in the ceiling gave the impression there was nowhere to hide.

On the floor in the left-hand corner was a steam-powered TV with a shiny new swordfish aerial hanging from a nail on the wall. It was the only thing in the room that looked as if it hadn't been purchased from a junk shop. Facing it was a worn-out brown velour three-piece suite. The arms were threadbare, and the seats sagged and were dotted with cigarette burns. Plugged into adaptors in the same socket as the TV were a green upright plastic kettle, a toaster, and battery chargers for three mobiles. The place reminded me of a minicab office, with old newspapers and Burger King drinks cups providing the finishing touches.

Sundance was standing by the TV, finishing another call on his mobile. He looked at me and gestured towards the corner.

"Keep it shut, boy."

The other two gave me a shove to help me on my way. As I slid down the wall I tried my hardest not to push against the cuffs and ratchet them up even tighter than they already were. I finally slumped on to the floor and ended up facing the TV.

SIX

I guessed this place had been just a temporary set-up for the duration of the job and the job, of course, was planning and preparing to kill me. No doubt there was a similar set-up somewhere else in London where a whole lot of the boys and girls had prepared themselves for the hit on the snipers.

Trainers went over to the TV as the other two headed back into the garage. I watched as he crouched down by the brew kit, opening the kettle to check for water. His light brown nylon jacket had ridden up to expose part of a black leather pancake holster sitting on a leather belt, just behind his right hip, and a green T-shirt dark with sweat. Even the back of his belt was soaking, and had turned a much darker brown than the rest.

I could still hear the kids in the background, kicking their ball and yelling at each other. The pitch of their voices changed as one probably mis-kicked and was treated to squeals of derision. My hands, still stuck in the surgical gloves, were pruning up in the heat.

Trainers lined up three not-too-healthy-looking Simpsons mugs, Bart, Marge and Homer, which pissed me off. Maggie was missing. There obviously wasn't going to be any brew for me. He threw a tea bag into each, splashed milk on top, then dug a spoon into a crumpled, half-empty bag of sugar, tipping heaps of it into two of the mugs.

A toilet flushed in the garage area, and the sound got louder then softer as a door opened and closed. I could hear Sundance and the driver mumbling to each other but couldn't make out what was said.

The Merc door slammed, the engine turned over, and there was more squeaking and grinding as the shutter lifted. Thirty seconds later the car backed out into the road and drove away. Maybe one K of the mugs was for me after all.

| Sundance appeared at the office door, his back to us, checking |that the shutter had fully closed. As the steel banged on to the I floor, he walked to the settee and threw his green cotton bomber jacket on to the armrest of the nearest chair, revealing a wet maroon polo shirt and a chunky Sig 9mm, holstered just behind his right hip. On his left hip sat a light brown leather mag-carrier, with three thick pieces of elastic holding a magazine apiece. The first brass round of each glinted in the ceiling's white light. I almost laughed: three full mags, and just for little old me. I'd heard of overkill but this was something out of the last five minutes of Butch Cassidy. It was obvious where this boy had got his best ideas.

He stripped off his polo shirt and used it to wipe the sweat from his face, exposing a badly scarred back. Two indentations were clearly gunshot wounds: I recognized them because I had one myself. Someone had also given him the good news with a knife, some of the slashes running the whole length of his back, with stitch marks either side. All in all, it looked quite a lot like an aerial photo of Clapham Junction. I Trainers, who'd just finished squeezing and fishing out the tea bags lifted up a brew for Sundance.

"Still want one?" His accent was 100 per cent Belfast. If the driver turned out to be Welsh we'd be able to put together a joke book.

"Right enough." Wiping his neck and shoulders, Sundance sat down in the chair nearest the TV, avoiding resting his wet, bare back against the velour by sitting upright on the edge. He took a tentative sip from Bart, the mug without sugar.

He had been hitting the weights, but didn't have the chiselled look of a bodybuilder. He had the physique of a con who'd been pumping iron: the diet in prisons is so bad that when the lads take to the weights they end up barrel-chested and bulked up, rather than well honed.

He glanced at me for the first time and caught me studying his back.

"Belfast when you was just a wee soldier-boy." He treated himself to a little giggle, then nodded at the third Simpsons mug still on the floor by Trainers.

"D'you want a tea, then, boy?"

Trainers held up Marge.

I nodded. Teah, I would, thanks."

There was a pause for a couple of seconds while they exchanged a look, then both roared with laughter as Trainers did a bad Cockney accent.

"Gor blimey, guy, I would, fan ks

Trainers sat himself down on the settee with Homer, still laughing as he took the piss.

"Strike a light, guvnor, yeah, I would, cheers. Luv a duck." At least someone was having fun.

Trainers put his own brew on the cracked tiled floor and took off his jacket.

He'd obviously had a tattoo removed by laser recently; there was the faintest red scar just visible on his forearm, but the outstretched Red Hand of Ulster was still plain to see. He had been, maybe still was, a member of the UDA (Ulster Defence Association). Maybe they'd both pumped their iron in one of the H blocks.

Trainers' triceps rippled under his tanned, freckled skin as he felt behind the cushions and pulled out a packet of Drum. Resting it on his knees, he took out some Rizlas and started to make himself a roll-up.

Sundance didn't like what he saw.

"You know he hates that -just wait."

"Right enough." The Drum packet was folded and returned beneath the cushions.

It made me very happy indeed to hear that: the Yes Man must be on his way. Even though I'd never smoked I'd never been a tobacco Nazi, but Frampton certainly was.

My arse was getting numb on the hard floor so I shifted very slowly into another position, trying not to draw attention to myself. Sundance got up, mug in hand, walked the three paces to the TV, and hit the power button then each of the station buttons till he got a decent picture.

Trainers sparked up, 'I like this one. It's a laugh." Sundance shuffled backwards to his chair, eyes glued to the box. Both were now ignoring me as they watched a woman, whose voice was straight off the Radio Four news, talk to the show's china expert about her collection of Pekinese dog teacups.

I couldn't hear the kids any more over the TV as I waited for the Merc to return. On the screen, the woman tried not to show how pissed off she was when the expert told her the china was only worth fifty quid.

Whoever had christened Frampton the Yes Man was a genius: it was the only word he said to any of his superiors. In the past this had never worried me because I had nothing to do with him directly, but all that changed when he was promoted to run the UK Ks Desk in SIS (Secret Intelligence Service). The Firm used some ex-SAS people like me, in fact anyone, probably even my new friends here, as deniable operators. The Ks Desk had traditionally been run by an IB (member of Intelligence Branch), the senior branch of the service. In fact the whole service is run by IBs for IBs; these are the boys and girls we read about in the papers, recruited from university, working from embassies and using mundane Foreign Office appointments as cover. Their real work, however, starts at six in the evening when the conventional diplomats begin their round of cocktail parties, and the IBs start gathering intelligence, spreading disinformation and recruiting sources.

That's when the low-life like me come into the picture, carrying out, or in some cases cleaning up, the dirty work that they create while throwing the odd crab paste sandwich and After Eight down their necks. I envied them that, at times like this.

The Yes Man did, too. He had been to university, but not one of the right two.

He had never been one of the elite, an IB, yet had probably always wanted to be.

But he just wasn't made of the right stuff. His background was the Directorate of Special Support, a branch of wild-haired technicians and scientists working on electronics, signals, electronic surveillance and explosive devices. He'd run the signals department of the UK Ks, but had never been in the field.

I didn't know why the Firm had suddenly changed the system and let a non-IB take command. Maybe with the change of government they thought they should look a bit more meritocratic, give a tweak or two to the system to make them look good and keep the politicians happy as they skipped back to Whitehall, instead of interfering too much with what really goes on. So, who better to run the Desk than someone who wasn't an IB, arse licked his way from breakfast to dinnertime, and would do whatever he was told?

Whatever, I didn't like him and never would. He certainly wasn't on my speed dial, that was for sure. On the one occasion that I'd had direct contact with him, the job had fouled up because he'd supplied insufficient com ms kit.

He'd only been in the job since Colonel Lynn had 'taken early retirement' about seven months ago, but he'd already proved his incompetence more than once. The only thing he was good at was issuing threats; he had neither the personality nor the management skills to do it any other way. Lynn might have been just as much of an arse hole but at least you knew where you stood with him.

I was adjusting my position some more when the shutter rattled and I heard an engine rev outside.

They both stood up and put their wet shirts back on. Sundance walked over to turn off the TV. Neither of them bothered to look at me. It was still as if I wasn't there.

The engine noise got louder. Doors slammed and the shutter came down again.

The Yes Man appeared at the door, still in his suit and looking severely pissed off. Trainers slipped dutifully out of the room, like the family Labrador.

I wouldn't have thought it possible but the Yes Man's face was an even brighter red than usual. He was under pressure. Yet again, C and his mates weren't too pleased with their non-IB experiment.

He stopped just three or four feet away from me, looking like an irate schoolteacher, legs apart, hands on hips.

"What happened, Stone?" he shouted.

"Can't you get anything right?"

What was he on about? Only two hours ago he'd wanted me killed, and now he was telling me off like a naughty schoolboy. But it wasn't the moment to point this out. It was the moment to creep big-time.

"I just don't know, Mr. Frampton. As soon as I had three lights up I sent the fire commands. I don't know what happened after that. It should have worked, all four of us had com ms up until then but-' "But nothing!" he exploded.

"The task was a complete failure." His voice jumped an octave.

"I'm holding you personally responsible, you do know that, don't you?"

I did now. But what was new?

He took a deep breath.

"You don't understand the importance of this operation that you have completely scuppered, do you?"

Scuppered? I tried not to smile but couldn't help it.

"Fucked up' was how Lynn would have put it.

The Yes Man was still playing the school-teacher. There's nothing to smile about, Stone. Who, in heaven's name, do you think you are?"

It was time for a bit of damage limitation.

"Just someone trying to keep alive," I said. That's why I taped our conversation, Mr. Frampton."

He was silent for a few seconds while that sank in, breathing heavily, eyes bulging. Ah, yes, the tape and pictures. He must have just remembered why I was still alive and he was here. But not for long; his brain switch was set to Transmit rather than Receive. 'You've no idea of the damage you've done. The Americans were adamant that this had to be done today. I gave my word to them, and others, that it would." He was starting to feel sorry for himself.

"I can't believe I had so much confidence in you."

So it was an American job. No wonder he was flapping. The senior Brits had been trying to heal a number of rifts in their relationship with the USA for quite a while now especially as some of the US agencies just saw the UK as a route to extend its reach into Europe, and not as any sort of partner. The 'special relationship' was, in effect, history.

But the big picture wasn't exactly top of my agenda right now. I didn't care what had been scuppered. I didn't even care who had sponsored the job and why it had had to happen. I just wanted to get out of this room in one piece.

"As I said, Mr. Frampton, the lights were up and I ordered the shoot. Maybe if the three snipers were debriefed they could ..."

He looked at my lips but my words seemed not to register.

"You have let a serious problem develop in Central America, Stone. Do you not realize the implications?"

"No, sir' he always liked that.

"I don't, sir."

His right hand came off his hip and he stared at the face of his watch.

"No, sir, that's right, you don't, sir. Because of you, we, the Service, are not influencing events in a direction favourable to Britain."

He was starting to sound like a party political broadcast. I couldn't have cared less what was happening in Central America. All I was worried about was now, here.

The Yes Man sighed as he loosened his scarlet tie and opened his collar. Some beads of sweat dribbled down the side of his flushed face. He thumbed behind him in the direction of Sundance.

"Now, go with this man to collect the tape and all the other material that you claim to have on this operation, and I'll see about trying to save your backside."

"I can't do that, sir!"

He stiffened. He was starting to lose it.

"Can't do that, sir?"

I'd have thought it was perfectly obvious, but I didn't want to sound disrespectful.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Frampton, but I need to make sure you don't have a change of heart about me." I chanced a smile.

"I like being alive. I understand the reasons why the snipers were killed. I just don't want to join them."

The Yes Man crouched down so that his eyes were level with mine. He was struggling to control a rage that was threatening to burst out of his face.

"Let me tell you something, Stone. Things are changing in my department. A new permanent cadre is being installed, and very soon all the dead wood will be cleared away. People like you will cease to exist." He was nearly shaking with anger. He knew I had him by the bollocks, for now. Fighting his rage, he kept his voice very low.

"You've always been nothing but trouble, haven't you?"

I was averting my gaze, trying to look frightened and I was a bit. But unfortunately I caught sight of a large, freshly squeezed zit below his collar line. He didn't like that. He stood up abruptly, and stormed from the room.

Sundance shot me a threatening glare and followed him.

I tried to listen to the mumbling going on between the four of them in the garage, but with no luck. A few seconds later car doors slammed, the shutter went up, and the car reversed out. The shutter hit the floor once more, and then everything went quiet.

Except in my head. One half was telling me everything was OK. No way would he chance the job being exposed. The other was telling me that maybe he really didn't care what I was saying. I tried to make myself feel better by running through what had happened, convincing myself that I'd said the right things in the right way at the right time. Then I threw my hand in. It was too late now to worry about it. I'd just have to wait and see.

Trainers and Sundance reappeared. I looked up, trying to read their expressions.

They didn't look good.

The first kick was aimed at my chest. My body re flexed into a ball but Sundance's boot connected hard with my thigh. By now my chin was down, my teeth were clenched, and I'd closed my eyes. There was nothing I could do but accept the inevitable, curled up like a hedgehog, my hands still cuffed, trying to protect my face. I started to take it and just hoped that it wouldn't carry on for long.

They grabbed my feet and dragged me towards the centre of the room. One of the mugs rattled over on the tiles. I kept my legs as bent as I could, fighting against them being stretched out to expose my stomach and bollocks. I opened one eye just in time to watch a Caterpillar boot connect with my ribs. I brought my || head down further, in an attempt to cover my chest. It must have worked, because another boot swung right into my arse this time, and it felt as if the inside of my sphincter had exploded. The pain was off the scale and to counteract it I tried to clench my cheek muscles together but to do that I had to straighten my legs a little.

The inevitable boot flew into the pit of my stomach. Bile exploded from me. The acid taste in my mouth and nose was almost worse than the kicking.

It was past midnight and I was curled up back in my corner. At least they'd taken the cuffs off now. The lights were off and the

TV flickered away with a Channel 5 soft-porn film. They'd had pie and chips earlier and made me crawl over to wipe up my bile from the floor with the used paper as they drank more tea.

There was no more filling in, not even an acknowledgement of me being there. I had just been left to stew as Sundance lay half asleep on the settee. Trainers was wide awake and on stag, smoking his roll-up, draped across the two armchairs, making sure I didn't have any stupid ideas.

I slowly stretched out flat on my stomach to lessen the pain from the kicking, and rested my face on my hands, closing my eyes to try to get some sleep. It was never going to work: I could feel the blood pumping in my neck and couldn't stop thinking about what might happen to me next. My Beachy Head trip could still be on the cards with these two; it all depended on what the Yes Man had to say yes to, I supposed.

In the past, I'd always managed to get out of even the deepest shit with just the thinnest layer still stuck to me. I thought of my gunshot wound, sewn-back on earlobe, and dog-bite scars, and knew how lucky I'd been on those jobs in the last few years. I thought of other jobs, of being blindfolded and lined up against the wall of an aircraft hangar, listening to the noise of weapons being cocked. I remembered hearing the men each side of me, either quietly praying or openly crying and begging. I hadn't seen any reason to do either. It wasn't that I wanted to die; just that I'd always known that death was part of the deal.

But this did feel different. I thought of Kelly. I hadn't spoken to her since this job started. Not because there had been no opportunity1 had agreed timings with Josh last month it was just that I was too busy with preparations, or sometimes I just forgot.

Josh was right to fuck me off when I did get through: she did need a routine and stability. I could see his half-Mexican, half-black shaved head, scowling at me on the phone like a divorced wife. The skin on his jaw and cheekbone was a patchwork of pink, like a torn sponge that had been badly sewn back together.

The scarring was down to me, which didn't help the situation much. He wouldn't be getting too many modelling offers from Old Spice, that was for sure. I tried to break the ice with him once by telling him. He didn't exactly fall about with laughter.

I turned my head and rested my cheek on my hands, watching Trainers suck on the last of his roll-up. I supposed I'd always known the day would come, sooner or later, but I didn't want this to be it. Stuff flashed through my mind as if I was a split second away from a massive car crash, all the sorts of things that must hit any parent when they know they're about to die. The stupid argument with the kids before leaving for work. Not building that tree-house. Not getting round to filling out a will. The holidays not taken, the promises broken.

Josh was the only person apart from Kelly I cared for and who was still alive.

Would he miss me? He'd just be pissed off that we had unfinished business. And what about Kelly herself? She had a new start now would she just forget all about her useless, incompetent guardian in a few years?

SEVEN

Monday 4 September Sundance's StarT ac short, sharp tones cut the air after a long, painful night.

It was just after eight. I didn't bother to move from the prone position because of my kicking, but tried instead to convince myself that the pain was just weakness leaving the body, something like that.

Trainers jumped up to turn off the BBC breakfast news, showing the embankment, as Sundance opened up his phone. He knew who it was. There was no preliminary waffle, just nods and grunts.

Trainers hit the kettle button as the StarT ac was closed down and Sundance rolled himself off the settee. He gave me a big grin as he brushed back his hair with spread fingers.

"You have a visitor, and dye know what? He doesn't sound too pleased."

It was the witching hour.

I sat up and leant into the corner of the brick walls as they pulled the armchairs apart and put their shirts on while waiting for the kettle to boil.

It wasn't long before I heard a vehicle and Trainers went out to open the shutter. Sundance just stood there staring at me, trying to get me flapping.

The kettle cut out with a click just before the shutter opened; it looked like their brew was on hold for a while. I pulled myself up against the wall.

The slamming of car doors drowned out the sound of Kennington's morning commute.

Before the shutter had come down, the Yes Man was striding into the room.

Throwing a glance at Sundance, he walked towards me, screwing up his nose at the smell of roll-ups, chips and early-morning farts.

He was dressed today in a light grey suit, and still in enraged-teacher mode. He stopped a couple of paces short of me, put his hands on his hips, and looked down at me in disgust.

"You, Stone, are going to be given one chance, just one, to rectify matters. You don't know how very lucky you are." He checked his watch. The target has just left the UK. You will follow him tonight, to Panama, and you will kill this target by last light Friday."

I kept my head down and let my legs flop out straight, just inches from his highly polished black brogues, and raised my eyes to him.

Sundance made a move towards me. Should I be saying something? The Yes Man held up a hand to stop him, without taking his eyes off me.

"PARC are waiting for the delivery of a missile launch control system a computer guidance console to you."

I looked down again, concentrating on the pattern of his shoes.

"Are you listening?"

Nodding slowly, I rubbed my sore eyes.

"One anti-aircraft missile is already in their possession. It will be the first of many. The launch system has to be stopped if PARC have a complete weapons system in their hands the implications for Plan Colombia will be catastrophic.

There are six hundred million dollars' worth of US helicopters in Colombia, along with their crews and support. PARC must not get the capability to shoot them down. They must not get that launch control system. You don't need to know why, but the young man's death will stop that happening. Period."

He hunched down and thrust his face so close to mine I could smell menthol aftershave, probably for sensitive skin. There was a whiff of halitosis, too, as we had eye-to-eye just inches apart. He breathed in slowly, to help me understand that what he was about to say was more in sorrow than in anger.

"You will carry out this task in the time specified, with due diligence. If not? No matter when next week, next month, or even next year when the time is right, we will kill her. You know who I'm talking about, that Little Orphan Annie of yours. She will simply cease to exist and it will be your doing. Only you can stop that happening."

He burned with the kind of evangelical zeal I supposed he'd copied from whoever he'd heard in the pulpit last week, while Sundance smirked and moved back towards the settee.

The Yes Man hadn't finished with me yet. His tone shifted.

"She must be about eleven now, eh? I've been told that she's settled in very well back in the States. It seems that Joshua is doing an absolutely sterling job. It must be hard for you now she lives there, eh? Missing her growing up, turning into a fine young woman..."

I kept my eyes down, concentrating on a minute crack in one of the tiles as he carried on with his sermon.

That's the same age as my daughter. They're so funny at that age, don't you think? One minute wanting to be all grown up, the next needing to cuddle their teddies. I read her a story last night when I'd tucked her in. They look so wonderful, yet so vulnerable like that... Did you read to Kelly, isn't it?"

I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of an acknowledgement, just concentrated hard on my tile, trying to show no reaction. He was really making a meal of this. He took another deep breath, his knees cracking as he straightened up and hovered above me once more.

"This is about power, Stone, who has it and who does not. You do not.

Personally, I am not in favour of you being given a second chance, but there is the broader matter of policy to consider."

I didn't exactly understand what that meant, but it was a fair guess he'd been told to sort out this situation or he'd be severely in the shit.

"Why kill the boy?" I said.

"Why not the father? I presume he's the one moving this system."

He kicked my thigh with his shiny toecap. It was pure frustration. I was sure he'd meant it to be harder, but just didn't have it in him.

"Clean yourself up look at the state of you. Now go. These gentlemen will collect you from your residence at three."

He gave 'residence' the full three syllables, enjoying every one. Sundance smiled like the village idiot as I hauled myself to my feet, the muscles in my stomach protesting badly.

"I need money." I looked down like a scolded schoolboy as I leant against the wall, and that was exactly how I felt.

The Yes Man sighed with impatience and nodded at Sundance. The Jock dug out his wallet from the back of his jeans, and counted out eighty-five pounds.

'You owe me, boy."

I just took it, not bothering to mention the six hundred US dollars he'd liberated from my pocket, and which had already been split between the two of them.

Jamming it into my jeans, I started to walk, not looking at either of them as I reached the door. Trainers saw me in the doorframe and hit the shutter, but not before the Yes Man had the last word: "You'd better make good use of that money, Stone. There is no more. In fact, think yourself lucky you're keeping what you already have. After all, Orphan Annie will need new shoes from time to time, and her treatment in the States will cost a great deal more than it did at the Moorings."

Fifteen minutes later I was on the tube from Kennington, heading north towards Camden Town. The dilapidated old train was packed tight with morning commuters, nearly every one radiating soap, toothpaste and designer smells. I was the exception, which was bad luck for the people I was sandwiched between: a massive black guy who'd turned his crisply laundered, white-shirted back on me, and a young white woman who didn't dare look up from the floor in case our eyes met and she sparked off the madman reeking of bile and roll-ups.

The front pages of the morning papers were covered with dramatic colour pictures of the police attacking the sniper positions and the promise of a lot more to come inside. I just held on to the handrail and stared at the dot-com holiday adverts, not wanting to read them, instead letting my head jolt from side to side as we trundled north. I was in a daze, trying to get my head round what had happened, and getting nowhere.

What could I do with Kelly? Nip over to Maryland, pick her up, run away and hide in the woods? Taking her away from Josh was pure fantasy: it would only screw her up even more than she was already. It would only be short-term, in any event: if the Firm wanted her dead, they'd make it happen eventually. What about telling Josh? No need: the Firm wouldn't do anything unless I failed. Besides, why stir him up any more than I had already?

I let my head drop and stared at my feet as we got to a station and people fought each other to get on and off all at the same time. I got shoved and jostled and gave an involuntary gasp of pain.

As the carriage repacked itself for the journey under the Thames, a pissed-off voice on the PA system told everybody to move right down inside the cars, and the doors eventually closed.

I didn't know if the Yes Man was bluffing any more, probably, than he knew if I was. But it made no difference. Even if I did expose the job, that wouldn't stop Sundance and Trainers taking their trip to Maryland. There were enough Serb families short of a kid or two because Dad hadn't gone along with the Firm's demands during the latest Balkan wars, and I knew it hadn't stopped there.

Try as I might, I couldn't stop myself picturing Kelly tucked up in bed, her hair spread in a mess over the pillow as she dreamt of being a pop star. The Yes Man was right, they did look both wonderful and vulnerable like that. My blood ran cold as I realized that the end of this job wouldn't put an end to the threats. She would be used against me time and again.

We stopped at another station and the crowd ebbed and flowed once more. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I was starting to get pins and needles in my legs. No matter which way I looked at it, my only option was to kill the boy.

No, not a boy, let's get this right, just as the Yes Man said, he was a young man some of those weapons being cocked in the aircraft hangar all those years ago had been held by people younger than him.

I had fucked up big-time. I should have killed him yesterday when I had the chance. If I didn't do this job Kelly would die, simple as that and I couldn't let that happen. I wouldn't fuck up again. I'd do what the Yes Man wanted, and I'd do it by last light Friday.

The train stopped again and most of the passengers left for their jobs in the City. I was knackered and fell into a seat before my legs gave out. As I wiped the beads of sweat off my brow, my mind kept going back to Kelly, and the thought that I was going to Panama to kill someone just so that Josh could have her to look after. It was madness, but what was new about that?

Josh might not exactly be my mate, these days, but he was still the closest thing I had to one. He'd talk through gritted teeth, but at least he'd talk to me about Kelly. She'd been living with Josh and his kids since mid-August, just a couple of weeks after her therapy sessions had ended prematurely in London when the Yes Man handed me the sniper job.

She hadn't fully recovered from her PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), and I didn't know whether she ever would. Seeing your whole family head-jobbed took some recovering from. She was a fighter, just like her dad had been, and had made dramatic strides this summer. She'd moved from being a curled-up bundle of nothing to being able to function outside the private care home in Hampstead where she'd spent the best part of the last ten months. She wasn't in mainstream schooling yet with Josh's kids, but that would happen soon. Or at least I hoped it would: she needed private tuition and that didn't come cheap -and now the Yes Man had cancelled the second half of the money... Since March I'd had to commit myself to being with her during the therapy sessions three times a week in Chelsea, and on all the other days had visited her at the place in Hampstead where she was being looked after. Kelly and I would tube it down to the plush clinic, the Moorings. Sometimes we'd talk on the journey, mostly about kids' TV; sometimes we'd sit in silence. On occasion, she'd just cuddle into me and sleep.

Dr. Hughes was in her mid-fifties and looked more like an American news reader than a shrink in her leather armchair. I didn't particularly like it when Kelly said something that Hughes considered meaningful. She would tilt her elegant head and look at me over the top of her gold half-moons.

"How do you feel about that, Nick?"

My answer was always the same: "We're here for Kelly, not me." That was because I was an emotional dwarf. I must be Josh told me so.

The train shuddered and squeaked to a halt at Camden Town. I joined a green haired punk, a bunch of suits and some early-start tourists as we all rode the up escalator. Camden High Street was teeming with traffic and pedestrians. We were greeted by a white Rastafarian guy juggling three bean-bags for spare change and an old drunk with his can of Tennants waiting for Pizza Express to open so that he could go and shout at its windows. The din of pneumatic drills on the building site opposite echoed all around us, making even people passing in their cars wince.

I diced with death as I crossed the road to get into Superdrug and pick up some washing and shaving kit, then walked along the high street to get something to eat, hands in my pockets and eyes down at the pavement like a dejected teenager.

I waded through KFC boxes, kebab wrappers and smashed Bacardi Breezer bottles that hadn't been cleaned up from the night before. As I'd discovered when I moved in, there was a disproportionate number of pubs and clubs around here.

Camden High Street and its markets seemed quite a tourist attraction. It was just before ten o'clock but most of the clothes shops already had an amazing array of gear hanging outside their shop fronts, from psychedelic flares to leather bondage trousers and multicoloured Doc Martens. Shop workers tried ceaselessly to lure Norwegians or Americans, with day sacks on their backs and maps in their hands, inside with loud music and a smile.

I passed under the scaffold that covered the pavement on the corner of Inverness Street and got a nod from the Bosnian refugee who sold smuggled cigarettes out of a sports bag. He was holding out a couple of cartons to passers-by and in his leather-look PVC bomber jacket and tracksuit bottoms he looked just like I felt, tired of life. We knew each other by sight and I nodded back before turning left into the market. My stomach was so empty it ached, adding to the pain from the kicking. I was really looking forward to breakfast.

The caff was full of construction workers taking a break from building the new Gap and Starbucks. Their dirty yellow hardhats were lined up against the wall like helmets at a fire station, whilst they filled their faces with the three quid all-day breakfast. The room was a noisy haze of fried food and cigarette smoke, probably courtesy of the Bosnian. I put in my order and listened to the radio behind the counter while I picked up my mug of instant coffee. The news on Capital gave only bullet-point headlines about yesterday's terrorist incident.

It was already taking second place to Posh Spice's new hairdo.

I settled down at a four-seater wrought-iron-and-marble-effect garden table, moved the overflowing ashtray out of the way, and stared at the sugar bowl. The pins and needles had returned and I found that my elbows were on the table and my face was stuck in my hands. For some reason I was remembering being seven years old, tears running down my face, trying to explain to my stepfather that I was scared of the dark. Instead of a comforting cuddle and the bedroom light left on, I got a slapped face and told not to be such a wimp or the night monster would come out from under the bed and eat me. He used to make me flap big-time, and I'd spend the whole night curled up under the blanket, petrified, thinking that as long as I didn't look out the night monster wouldn't get me.

The same feeling of terror and helplessness was with me again after all these years.

I was jolted from my trance.

"Set breakfast, extra egg?"

That7 s me!"

I sat back down and threw bacon, sausage and egg down my neck and started to think about my shopping list. At least I wouldn't need much clothing for my Central American trip. There now, maybe things weren't that bad: at least I was going somewhere warm.

I'd never been to Panama, but had operated on its border with Colombia against PARC (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia) while in the Regiment. We were part of the UK's first-strike policy in the eighties, an American-funded operation to hit drug manufacture at source, which meant getting into the jungle for weeks on end, finding the DMPs (drug-manufacturing plants) and destroying them to slow the trafficking to the UK and US. We might as well not have bothered. Over 70 per cent of the cocaine entering the States still originated from Colombia, and up to 75 per cent of the heroin seized on the east coast of the US was Colombian.

PARC had their fingers in a substantial amount of that pie, and those kinds of numbers were also heading this way, to the UK.

Having operated in the region for over a year, I still took an interest especially as most of the Colombians I'd cared anything about had been killed in the war. To keep the peace with PARC, the Colombian government had given them control of an area the size of Switzerland, and they ran all their operations from there. It was hoped that things would change now that Plan Colombia was getting into full swing. Clinton had given the Colombian government a $1.3 billion military aid package to combat drug trafficking, including over sixty of the Yes Man's precious Huey and Black Hawk helicopters, along with other military assistance. But I wasn't holding my breath. It was going to be a long and dirty war.

I also knew that, for most of the twentieth century, the USA had paid for, run and protected the Panama Canal and stationed SOUTH COM (the US Army's Southern Command) in-country. It was SOUTH COM that had directed all military and intelligence operations from Mexico's southern border to Cape Horn during my time in Colombia. Thousands of US troops and aircraft stationed in Panama had been responsible for all the anti-drug operations in Central and South America, but that had stopped at midnight on 31 December 1999 when the US handed back control of the canal to the locals, and SOUTH COM and all American presence was withdrawn. It was now fragmented, spread around bases all over Central America and the Caribbean, and nowhere near as effective at fighting any kind of war as it once had been.

From what I'd read, the hand-over of the canal had sort of sneaked up on the American public. And when they discovered that a Chinese company, not American, had been awarded the contract to operate the ports at each end of the canal and take over some of the old US military facilities, the right wing went ape shit I couldn't see the problem myself:

Chinese-owned companies ran ports all around the world, including Dover and others in this country. I hadn't thought of it at the time, but maybe that was why the Chinaman had been in the delegation, as part of the new order in Central America.

I felt a little better after some death-by-cholesterol, and left the caff wiping egg yolk off my fingers and on to my jeans, where a fair amount of it had dribbled anyway.

A fifteen-minute shopping frenzy in the market bought me a new pair of rip-off Levi's for sixteen quid, a blue sweatshirt for seven, a pair of boxers and a pack of three pairs of socks for another five.

I carried on walking past fruit and veg stalls until I came to Arlington Road, and turned right by the Good Mixer pub, a 1960s monstrosity in need of a lick of paint. The usual suspects were sitting against the pub wall, three old men, unshaven and unwashed, throwing cans of Strongbow Super down their necks obviously this week's special offer at Oddbins. All three held out their grime ingrained palms for money without even looking up at the people they were begging from.

I was just a few minutes away from a hot shower. Maybe a hundred metres ahead, outside my impressive Victorian redbrick residence, I could see someone being troll eyed into the back of an | ambulance. This was nothing unusual around here, and no one r passing gave it a second look.

( Walking past the graffiti-filled walls of the decaying, pollution-stained buildings, I approached the front entrance as the ambulance moved off. There was a white Transit behind it.

Gathered around its open rear doors were a group of Eastern Europeans, all carrying sports bags or day sacks Of course it was Monday: the boys from Manchester were dishing out smuggled cigarettes and rolling tobacco for them to sell in the market and pubs.

Two worn stone steps took me to a set of large, glazed wooden doors which I pushed my way through. I buzzed to be let through the second lot of security doors, and pressed my head against the glass so whoever was on duty could check me out.

The door buzzed and I pushed through. I got a smile off Maureen at reception, a huge, fifty-year-old woman who had a liking for tent-sized flowery dresses, and a face like a bulldog with constipation. She took no nonsense from anybody. She looked me up and down with an arched eyebrow.

"Hello, darling, what you doing here?"

I put on my happy face.

"I missed you."

She rolled her eyes and gave her usual loud bass laugh.

"Yeah, right."

"Is there any chance of using a shower? It's just that the plumbing in my new place has gone on the blink." I held up my bag of washing kit for her to see.

She rolled her eyes at my story and sucked her teeth, not believing a word of it.

"Ten minutes, don't tell."

"Maureen, you're the best."

Tell me something I don't know, darling. Remember, ten minutes, that's your lot."

I'd only said about a dozen words to her all the time I'd lived here. This was the closest we'd been to a conversation for months.

I walked up the steps to the second floor, where the decor was easy-clean, thick-gloss walls and a light grey industrial-lino staircase, then walked along the narrow corridor, heading for the showers at the end. To my left were rows of doors to bedrooms, and I could hear their occupants mumbling to themselves, coughing, snoring. The corridor smelt of beer and cigarettes, with stale bread slices and dog-ends trodden into the threadbare carpet.

There was a bit of a racket on the floor above as some old guy gob bed off, having an argument with himself, and profanities bounced off the walls. It was sometimes difficult to work out if it was alcohol, drugs or a mental condition with these guys. Either way, Care in the Community seemed to mean leaving them to look after themselves.

The showers were three stained cubicles and I got into the centre one, slowly peeling off my clothes as men wandered around the corridor and noises echoed.

Once undressed, I turned on the water. I was in a daze again, just wanting my day to end, i;?, forcing myself to check the bruising on my legs and chest, even though I didn't care if it hurt. I Somebody in the corridor called out my name, and I re cog- lr nized the voice. I didn't know his name, just that he was always s drunk. As with the rest of them, it was the only way that he could escape his miserable life. In a slurred northern accent he shouted the same old thing, over and over again, about how God had fucked him over. He used to have a wife, kids, a house, a job. It had all gone wrong, he'd lost everything, and it was all God's fault.

I got under the water, trying my hardest to block out the noise as the others started to join in, telling him to shut the fuck up.

The council-run 'hostel' was what we used to call a doss-house when we were kids. Nowadays it was filled not only with home less men of every age with uniformly sad lives, but also Bosnian, Serbian and Kosovan refugees, who seemed to have brought their ' war to London as they fought amongst themselves in the corridors and washrooms.

The noises outside the shower started to merge and magnify side my head. My heartbeat went into overdrive and my legs felt numb with pins and needles again. I slumped down in the shower tray and covered my ears with my hands.

I just sat there covering my ears, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to block out the noise, plagued by the same childlike terror that had overwhelmed me in the cafe.

The image that the Yes Man had planted in my head, of Kelly in bed asleep, in the dark, was still with me. She'd be there now, this minute, in Maryland. She would be in her bunk bed, below Josh's eldest daughter. I knew exactly how she would look. I had woken up and tucked her back in so many times when it was cold, or when a memory of her murdered family had returned to haunt her. She would be half in, half out of her duvet, stretched out on her back, arms and legs out like a starfish, sucking her bottom lip, her eyes flickering under their lids as she dreamed.

Then I thought of her dead. No sucking of the lip, no REM, just a stiff, dead starfish. I tried to imagine how I would feel if that happened, knowing that I had the responsibility to make sure that it didn't. It didn't bear thinking about. I wasn't sure if it was in my head, or I was yelling it out loud, but I heard my own voice shout, "How the fuck did you end up like this?"

EIGHT

I was turning into one of those nutters out there in the corridor. I'd never had much difficulty understanding why they turned to drink and drugs to escape the shit of the real world.

I sat there for a few minutes longer, just feeling sorry for myself, looking at the only things I had to show for my progress through the real world: a pink dent in my stomach from a 9mm round, and the neat row of puncture holes on my right forearm from a North Carolina police dog.

I lifted my head out of my hands and gave myself a strict talking-to.

"Sort yourself out, dickhead! Get a grip. Get yourself out of this ..."

I had to cut away, just like I'd learnt to do as a kid. No one was coming to help me deal with the night monster; I had to get on with it on my own.

I cleared my nostrils of mucus, and it was only then that I realized I must have been crying.

Hauling myself to my feet I pulled out the washing and shaving kit and got to work. After I'd cleaned myself up I stayed in the cubicle for another ten minutes, using my old clothes to dry myself. I threw on my new jeans and sweatshirt; the only old things I put back on were my Timberlands, bomber jacket and belt.

I left everything else in the shower they could have that as my leaving present and walked back along the corridor. Through his open door whatever-his-name-was had finished gob bing off about God and collapsed face down on his urine-stained bed. A bit further on, I passed the closed door to my old cell-like room. I'd only left the previous Saturday but it already had a new occupant; I could hear a radio being tuned in. He, too, probably had his carton of milk out on the sill of the narrow window. We all did well, the ones who had a kettle.

I made my way down the stairs, brushing my hair back with my fingers and regaining some composure.

Down in the reception area, I picked up the wall-mounted phone, shoved in six and a half quid's worth of coins, and started dialling Josh, trying desperately to think of an excuse for calling him so early. The east coast of the US was five hours behind.

The distinctive tone rang just twice before I heard a sleepy American grunt.

"Yeah?"

"Josh, it's me, Nick." I hoped he wouldn't notice the tremor in my voice.

"What do you want, Nick? It's just after six."

I covered the other ear to cut out some young guy who needed help up the stairs from an old drunk as he staggered about with glazed and drugged-out eyes. I'd seen them both before: the old guy was his father, who also lived in.

"I know, I'm sorry, mate. It's just that I can't make it until next Tuesday and

I-'

There was a loud sigh. He'd heard my I-can't-make-it routine so many times before. He knew nothing of my situation, he knew nothing of what had been going on this last few months. All he'd seen of me was the money I sent.

"Look, I know, mate, I'm sorry, I really can't make it."

The earpiece barked: "Why can't you get your life in good order? We arranged this Tuesday that's tomorrow, man. She's got her heart set on it. She loves you so much, man, so much -don't you get it? You can't just breeze in and-' I knew what he was going to say and cut in, almost begging, "I know, I know. I'm sorry .. ." I knew where the conversation was going and also knew that he was right in taking it there.

"Please, Josh can I talk with her?"

If He lost his cool for once and went ballistic.

"No!"

"I-.."

It was too late; he'd hung up.

I slumped down on a plastic stack able chair, staring at one of the notice boards telling people what and what not to do, and how to do it.

"You OK, darling?"

I looked across at Maureen, the other side of the reception. She waved me over, sounding like an older sister, I supposed.

"You look fed up. Come and have a chat, come on, darling."

My mind was elsewhere as I approached the hole in the wall that gave access of a kind to her desk. It was at head height. Anything bigger and lower and she wouldn't have had any protection from the drunks and the drugged-up who had a problem with the house rules.

"Been a bad call to that little girl of yours?"

"What?"

"You keep yourself to yourself, but I see things from this little cubbyhole, you know. I've heard you on the phone, coming off more depressed than when you went on. I don't just buzz the door open, you know!" She gave a loud roar as I smiled and acknowledged her attempt to cheer me up.

"Was it a bad one, darling? You

OK?"

It was all right."

"That's good, I'm glad. You know, I've watched you come in and out of here, looking so sad. I reckoned it was a divorce1 can normally tell. It must be hard not seeing your little 'un. I was just worried about you, that's all, darling."

"No need, Maureen, things are OK, really."

She tutted in agreement.

"Good ... good, but, you know, things normally-' Her attention was drawn momentarily to the staircase. Kosovans or whoever had started shouting angrily at each other on one of the upper landings. She shrugged at me and grinned.

"Well, let's just say things have a way of sorting themselves out. I've seen that look of yours in here before. And I tell them all the same, and I'm always right. Things can only get better, you'll see."

At that moment a fight erupted above us somewhere and a

Nike sports bag tumbled down the stairs, soon followed by its tobacco-selling owner in a brown V-neck jumper and white socks. Maureen reached for her two-way radio as a couple of guys jumped down after him and started giving the boy a good kicking. Maureen talked into her radio with a calm assurance that only comes from years of experience.

I leant against the wall as a couple more tobacco-sellers appeared and tried to stop the fight.

Within minutes, sirens were wailing in the distance, and getting louder. Maureen hit the door buzzer and tobacco-sellers bomb-burst back into the hostel, bags in hand, thinking they were getting raided, running to their rooms to hide their stashes and leaving the boys from Manchester outside to fend for themselves.

Close behind them, four police officers pushed their way in to sort out the fracas.

I checked Baby-G, a new black one with purple illumination. Over three hours to go before pick-up, and there was nothing I wanted to do. I didn't want to eat, didn't want to drink, didn't even want to just sit around, and I certainly didn't want Maureen gazing into my soul, no matter how helpful she was trying to be. She knew too much already. So I started heading out towards the street, nodding my thanks. Even in a time of crisis she gave me a second of her time.

"You need to stop worrying, Nick. Worrying too much affects this, you know." She tapped the side of her forehead with her index finger.

"I've seen enough of that in here to know, darling."

One of the phones rang behind her as the scuffle continued at the bottom of the stairs.

"Got to go, luv. I hope things work out for you they normally do, you know. Good luck, darling."

Once outside, the noise of the construction site drowned out the shouting. I slouched on the steps, staring at the paving slabs as the fighters were dragged away, their angry voices lost amongst the roar of pneumatic drills.

On the dot of 3 p.m. the Merc cruised past and found a space further down the road. Trainers was at the wheel and Sundance next to him. They left the engine running.

I unstuck my very numb arse from the steps and dragged myself towards them. They were dressed in the same clothes as this morning, and drinking coffee out of paper cups. I took my time not to make them wait, but because my body couldn't move any quicker, just like my mind.

They gave me no acknowledgement as I got into the back and they put their seatbelts back on.

Sundance threw a brown envelope over his shoulder at me as we drove off.

"I've already taken five hundred out of the account, so don't bother trying again today. That covers the eighty-five sub plus interest."

They grinned at each other. The job had its compensations.

My new passport and credit card were hot off the press but looking suitably aged, along with my new PIN number and open-return air ticket, leaving Miami to Panama City, 7.05 a.m. tomorrow. How I got to Miami by then didn't bother me I'd be told soon enough.

I flicked through my visas so I knew that I'd been on holiday for two weeks in Morocco in July. The stamps were all related to the truth I had been there, just not as recently. But at least it meant I could bluff my way through a routine check at Immigration and Customs. The rest of my cover story would be the same as ever, just travelling after a boring life selling insurance; I had done most of Europe, now I wanted to see the rest of the world.

I still wasn't impressed by my cover name, though. Hoff why Hoff? It didn't sound right. Nick Hoff, Nick Hoff. It didn't even start with the same letter as my real surname, so it was difficult not to get confused and hesitant when signing a signature. Hoff sounded unnatural: if you were called Hoff, you wouldn't christen your son Nicholas unless you wanted to give him a tough time at school: it sounded like someone with a speech impediment saying 'knickers off.

Sundance didn't ask for a signature, and that bothered me. I got pissed off with bullshit when it was official, but even more so when it wasn't.

"What about my CA?" I asked.

"Can I call them?"

Sundance didn't bother to look round as we bumped along in the traffic.

"It's already done." He dipped into his jeans and brought out a scrap of paper.

"The new mini roundabout has been built at last, but everyone is still waiting on the decision about the bypass. That comes through some time next month."

I nodded; it was an update on the local news from what the Yes Man had renamed the Cover Address. James and Rosemary had loved me like a son since I boarded with them years ago, or so the cover story went. I even had a bedroom there, and some clothes in the wardrobe.

These were the people who would both confirm my cover story and be part of it.

They'd never take any action on my behalf, but would back me up if I needed them to.

"That's where I live," I could tell whoever was questioning me.

"Phone them, ask them."

I visited James and Rosemary whenever I could, so my cover had got stronger as time passed. They knew nothing about the ops and didn't want to; we would just talk about what was going on at the social club, and a bit of other local and personal stuff. I needed to know these things because I would do if I lived there all the time. I hadn't wanted to use them for the sniper job, because that would have meant the Firm knowing the name I was travelling under, and where to.

As things had turned out, it looked as if I'd been right.

Sundance started to tell me how I was going to make it to Miami in time for my flight to Panama. The Yes Man hadn't hung about. Within four hours I was going to be lying in a sleeping bag on top of some crates of military kit stuffed into an R.A.F Tristar, leaving R.A.F Brize Norton, near Oxford, for Fort Campbell in Kentucky, where a Jock infantry battalion was having a joint exercise with the 101st Airborne Division "Screaming Eagles'. They had given up their parachutes years ago and now screamed around in more helicopters than nearly all of the European armies put together. There were no commercial flights this time of day that would get me where I needed to be by tomorrow morning; this was the only way. I was getting kicked off in Florida, and a US visa waiver would be stamped in my passport at the Marine base. I then had three hours in which to transfer to Miami airport and make the flight to Panama.

Sundance growled as he looked out at two women waiting for a bus.

"Once you get there you are being sponsored by two doctors." He glanced at his notes again.

"Carrie and Aaron Yanklewitz. Fucking stupid name."

He looked at Trainers, who nodded in agreement before getting back to the scrap of paper.

There will be no contact with Mr. Frampton or anyone here. Everything to, or from, is via their handler."

I wondered if there was just a faint chance the Yanklewitzes were Polish Americans. My head was pressed against the window as I gazed out at real life passing me by.

"Are you listening, fuckhead?"

I looked in the rear-view mirror and could see him, waiting for a reply. I nodded.

They'll be at the airport with a name card and a pass number of thirteen. You got that? Thirteen."

I nodded once more, this time not bothering to look at him.

They'll show you the wee boy's house, and should have all the imagery and stuff by the time you get there. They don't know what your job is. But we do, don't we, boy?" He swivelled round to face me as I continued to gaze at nothing in particular, not feeling anything, just numb.

"And that's to finish the job, isn't it?" He jabbed the air between us with his forefinger as he spoke.

"You're going to finish what you were paid to do. And it's going to be done by Friday, last light. Do you understand, Stone? Finish it."

I felt more depressed and pissed off each time the job was mentioned.

"I'd be lost without you."

Sundance's finger and thumb jabbed the air again as he made not too good a job of containing his rage.

"Kill the fucking boy." He spat the words and flecks of saliva showered on to my face.

I got the feeling everyone was under pressure in this car, and I bet that was because the Yes Man was himself. I wondered if C had been told about my security blanket or had the Yes Man decided to claim that the 'scuppering' was down to bad com ms After all, that was what I'd told him, wasn't it? I couldn't remember now.

The Yes Man had probably told C that good old Stone whom C wouldn't know if I fell out of the sky and landed on his head -was on the case, and everything was going to be just fine. But I had the sneaking suspicion I was only going to Panama instead of Beachy Head because I was the only one on the books soft enough in the head to try to pull it off.

As we joined the A40 out of London and headed for Brize, I tried to focus on the job. I needed to fill my head with work instead of woe. At least that was the theory. But it was easier said than done. I was penniless. I'd sold the Ducati, the house in Norfolk, even the furniture, everything apart from what I could shove into a sports bag, to pay for Kelly's treatment. Twenty-four-hour private care in leafy Hampstead and regular trips to the Moorings had cleaned me out.

Walking away from the Norfolk house for the last time, I'd felt the same trepidation I had as a sixteen-year-old walking away from the housing estate to join the Army. Back then, I hadn't had a sports bag, but a pair of holed socks, a still-wrapped bar of Wright's Coal Tar soap, and one very old toothbrush in a Co-op plastic carrier. I planned to buy the toothpaste on my first pay day, not knowing when exactly that was, or how much I was going to get. I hadn't really cared, because however bad the Army might be, it was getting me out of a life of correction centres and a stepfather who had graduated from slaps to punches.

Since March, the start of Kelly's therapy, I hadn't been able to work. And with no national insurance number, no record of employment not so much as a postcard to prove my existence after leaving the Regiment I couldn't even claim the dole or income support. The Firm wasn't going to help: I was deniable.

And no one at Vauxhall Cross wants to know you if you aren't able to work, or if there isn't any to give you.

For the first month or so of her sessions I'd done the bed sit shuffle around London if I was lucky, being able to do a runner whenever the landlord was stupid enough not to ask for money up front. Then, with the help of Nick Somerhurst's national insurance number bought in the Good Mixer, I was able to get a place in the hostel, lining up at mealtimes by the Hari Krishna van, just outside the Mecca bingo hall. It had also got me the Somerhurst passport and supporting documents. I didn't want to have the Yes Man tracking me with docs from the Firm.

I couldn't help smiling as I remembered one of the Krishna gang, Peter, a young guy who always had a grin on his face. He had a shaved head and skin so pale he looked as if he should have been dead, but I soon discovered he was very much alive. Dressed in his rusty red robes, hand knitted blue cardigan, and a multicoloured woolly hat, he used to run about inside the rusty white Mercedes van, pouring tea, dishing out great curries and bread, doing the Krishna rap.

"Yo, Nick! Krishnaaa, Krishnaaaa, Krishnaaaa. Yo!

Hari rammaaaaa." I never felt quite up to joining in, though some of the others did, especially the drunks. As he danced about inside the van the tea would spill and the odd slice of bread would fall off the paper plate, but it was still much appreciated.

I went on staring out of the window, cocooned in my own little rusty world while the other one passed me by on the street.

The A40 opened up into motorway and Sundance decided it was time for a bit of a performance.

"You know what?" He looked over at Trainers, making sure I could hear.

Trainers swung into the outside lane at the same time as passing his tobacco to Sundance.

"What's that, then?"

"I wouldn't mind a trip to Maryland ... We could go to Washington and do the sights first..."

I knew what they were trying to do to me and I continued to stare at the hard shoulder.

Trainers was sounding enthusiastic.

"It'd be good craze, I'm telling yer."

Sundance finished licking the Rizla before answering.

"Aye, it would. I hear Laurel..." He turned to face me.

"That's where she lives now, isn't it?"

I didn't answer. He knew very well it was. Sundance turned back to face the road.

"Well, I hear it's very picturesque there -you know, trees and grass and all that shite. Anyway, after we finished up there in Laurel, you could take me to see that half-sister of yours in New York .. ."

"No fucking way you're getting near her!"

I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach and had to breathe out quickly as I thought about what might happen if I didn't get the job done. But I was fucked if I was going to play their game. Besides, I was just too tired to react.

Just over an hour later the Merc pulled up outside the air movement centre at Brize, and Trainers got out to organize the next stage of my life.

Nothing was said in the car as I listened to the roar of R.A.F transport jets taking off and watched soldiers from the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders wander past in DPM camouflage, berg ens on their backs and Walkmans clamped to their ears. It was like going back in time. I felt I'd spent half my military life at this airfield, because as well as loading up for flights on a regular basis, just like the Highlanders, I had learnt to parachute here. I'd loved it:

after being stationed in a garrison town with only three pubs one of which was out of bounds to low-life like me and a chip shop, this place had been Butlins. They even had a bowling alley.

I watched as a captain herded the trogs through the doors, ticking them off on a clipboard as they passed into the large 1960s glass building.

Trainers came back with a nervous-looking Crab Air (R.A.F) movements corporal. He probably didn't have a clue what was going on, just that he had to escort some pissed-off looking civilian on to one of his nice aircraft. He was told to wait short of the car as Trainers came and opened the rear kerb side door. I could only see him from the chest down as his hand beckoned me out.

As I shuffled my arse across the seat, Sundance called out, "Oil"

I waited, looking at the foot well

"Don't fuck up, boy."

I nodded: after our little talk on the way here, and the Yes Man's lecture earlier, I'd got the message. I climbed out and nodded a greeting to the Crab corporal.

We'd only gone a few paces when Sundance called to me yet again. I went back and poked my head through the rear door, which Trainers had kept open. The roar of a transport jet made him shout and me move back into the car, my knees on the seat. 'I forgot to ask, how is that wain of yours? I hear you two were going to the fruit farm before she left. Little soft in the head as well, is she?"

I couldn't hold it any longer: my body started to tremble.

He grinned, having got from me at last what he'd been gunning for all trip.

"Maybe if you fuck up it'd be a good thing for the wee one you know, we'd be doing her a favour."

He was enjoying every moment of this. I tried to remain calm, but it wasn't working. He could see me boiling underneath.

"Hurts, eh?"

I did my best not to react.

"So, boy, just fuck off out of my face, and get it right this time."

Fuck it.

I launched myself forward off my knees and gripped his head with both hands. In one movement I put my head down and pulled his face hard towards the top of my crown. I made contact and it hurt, making me dizzy.

Once outside I threw both my arms up in surrender.

"It's OK, it's OK..."

I opened my eyes fully and looked in at Sundance. He was sunk into the seat, hands covering his nose, blood running between his fingers. I started towards the Crab, feeling a lot better as another bunch of Highlanders walked past, trying not to take too much notice of what was going on.

Trainers looked as if he was trying to decide whether to drop me or not. He still hadn't made up his mind as I virtually pushed the frightened Crab into the building with me.

Fuck 'em, what did I have to lose?

NINE

Tuesday 5 September I ease the pistol into my waistband, my wet palms sliding over the pistol grip.

If she's here I don't want her to see the weapon. Maybe she already knows what's happened ... I put my mouth against a little gap between the boxes.

"Kelly, you there? It's me, Nick. Don't be scared, I'm going to crawl towards you. You'll see my head in a minute and I want to see a big smile ..."

I move boxes and squeeze through the gap, inching towards the back wall.

"I'm going to put my head around the corner now, Kelly."

I take a deep breath and move my head around the back of the box, smiling away but ready for the worst as sweat pours down my face.

She is there, facing me, eyes wide with terror, sitting, curled up in a foetal position, rocking her body backwards and forwards, holding her hands over her ears, looking so vulnerable and helpless.

"Hello."

She recognizes me, but just carries on rocking, staring at me with wide, wet, scared eyes.

"Mummy and Daddy can't come and get you just now, but you can come with me.

Daddy told me it would be OK. Are you going to come with me, Kelly? Are you?"

"Sir, sir?" I opened my eyes to see a very concerned flight attendant.

"You

OK, sir? Can I get you some water or something?"

My sweaty palms slid on the armrests as I pushed myself upright in my seat. She poured from a litre bottle into a plastic glass.

"Could I take the bottle, please?"

It was handed to me with an anxious smile and I thanked her, taking it in a shaking, wet hand before getting it rapidly down my neck. I wiped my sweaty face with my spare hand. It had been part of the same bad dream I'd had on the Tristar. Shit, I must be really knackered. I peeled the sweatshirt from my skin and sorted myself out.

We had just hit cruising altitude on the four-and-a-bit-hour flight from Miami to Panama City, scheduled to land at about 11.40 a.m. local, which was the same time zone as the US east coast and five hours behind the UK. My window seat was next to Central America's most antisocial citizen, a mid-thirties Latino woman with big hair and lots of stiff lacquer to keep it that way. I doubted her skull could even touch the headrest, the stuff was on so thick. She was dressed in PVC, leather-look, spray-on jeans and a denim-style jacket patterned with black and silver tiger stripes, and stared at me in disgust, sucking her teeth, as I sorted myself out and downed the last of the water.

It was her turn to get her head down now as I read the tourist-guide pages in the inflight magazine. I always found them invaluable for getting an idea of wherever I was going on fast-balls like this. Besides, it got me away from the other stuff in my head, and into thinking about the job, the mission, what I was here for. I'd tried to buy a proper guide book to Panama in Miami airport, but it seemed there wasn't much call for that sort of thing.

The magazine showed wonderful pictures of exotic birds and smiling Indian children in canoes, and stuff I already knew but wouldn't have

been able to put so eloquently.

"Panama is the most southern of the Central American countries, making the long, narrow country the umbilical cord joining South and Central America. It is in the shape of an S bordered on the west by Costa Rica, on the east by Colombia, and has roughly the same land mass as Ireland."

It went on to say that most people, and that included myself until my days in Colombia, thought that Panama's land boundaries were north and south. That was wrong: the country runs west to east. Facts like that were important to me if I had to leave in a hurry. I wouldn't want to find myself heading for Colombia by mistake; out of the frying pan and into the fire. The only way to go was west, to Costa Rica, the land of cheap plastic surgery and diving holidays. I knew that, because I'd read it in the waiting room of the Moorings.

Tiger Lil had fallen asleep and was snoring big-time, twisting in her seat, and farting every minute or so. I unscrewed both the air-conditioning tubes above us and aimed them in her direction to try to divert the smell.

The three pages of bumf and pictures went on to tell me that Panama was best known internationally for its canal, joining the Caribbean and the Pacific, and its 'vibrant banking services'. Then just a few more pictures of colourful flowers, with captions reminding us what a wonderful place it was and how lucky we all were to be flying there today. Not surprisingly, they didn't say anything about Operation Just Cause the US invasion in '89 to oust General Noriega, or the drug trafficking that makes the banking system so vibrant.

All the wonderful places listed to visit were exclusively west of Panama City, which was called in here 'the interior'. There was no mention at all about what lay to the east, especially the Darien Gap, the jungle area bordering Colombia. I knew that Darien Province is like a low-intensity war zone. Narco traffickers and guerrillas usually one and the same thing move in big groups between the two countries, armed to the teeth. There are even a few DMPs as the locals try to cash in on the industry, and Panamanian border police buzz around the sky in helicopter gunships, locked in a conflict they will never win.

Some adventurous types travel down there to bird-watch or hunt for rare orchids, and become hostages or dead after stumbling across things the traffickers would have preferred they hadn't.

I also knew that the narcos, especially PARC, had been getting more adventurous now that the US had stood down from Panama. They were making incursions further west into the country, and with only about 150 miles between the Colombian border and Panama City, I bet everyone was flapping big-time.

After flicking though the rest of the mag and not finding anything of interest, just glossy ads, I used it to fan my face as Tiger Lil farted and grunted once more.

Looking down at the endless blue of the Caribbean sea, I thought about yesterday's call to Josh. He'd been right to fuck me off; it was maybe the eighth or ninth time I'd done it to him. Kelly did need stability and an as normal-as-possible upbringing. That was precisely why she was there with him, and the not-calling-when-I-should, calling-when-I-shouldn't thing wasn't helping her at all.

I should have been there today to sign over my guardianship of Kelly completely to him, to change the present arrangement of joint responsibility. In her father's will, Josh and I had both been named as guardians, but I was the one who'd landed up with her. I couldn't even remember how that had come about, it just sort of had.

Food was being served and I tried to extract my tray from the armrest. It was proving difficult as Tiger Lil had overflowed her own space. I shook her gently and she opened one blurry eye before turning over as if I was to blame.

My food turned up in its prepacked tray and made me think of Peter, getting all the doss-house boys rapping, "Krishna, yo! Krishna, yo! Krishna, yo! Hari rama."

I peeled back the foil to see a breakfast of pasta. Wielding a fork and moving my arms very carefully so as not to stir up my new friend, I decided to make a donation to those Krishna boys if ever I got back alive. The thought about Peter surprised me; it had popped up out of nowhere like a lot of other stuff lately. I wanted to get back in the comfort zone of work as quickly as possible, and cut away from that stuff before I found myself joining the Caravan Club.

As I threw pasta down my neck, I got thinking about the job and the little information Sundance had given me. The pass number for the meet with Aaron and Carrie Yanklewitz was thirteen. The system is easy and works well. Numbers are far better than confirmation statements because they're easier to remember. I once had a confirmation statement that went, The count is having kippers with your mother tonight and I was supposed to reply, "The kippers are restless." Who the fuck made that one up?

Pass numbers are also especially good for people who aren't trained in tradecraft or, like me, are crap at remembering confirmation statements. For all I knew these people could be either. I didn't know if they were experienced operators who knew how to conduct themselves on the ground, just contacts who were going to help me out with bed and breakfast, or big-timers who couldn't keep their mouths shut.

I didn't like anyone else being involved in anything I did, but this time I had no choice. I didn't know where the target lived or the target's routine, and I didn't have a whole lot of time to find out.

After eating I sat back and pushed myself against the seat to relax my sore stomach muscles. Pain shot across my ribcage to give me further reminders of the strength and endurance of Caterpillar boots.

Trying to relieve the pain in my chest as I moved, I faced slowly away from Tiger Lil and lowered the window blind. Below me green jungle now stretched as far as the horizon, looking from this altitude like the world's biggest broccoli patch.

I pulled the blanket over my head to cut out the smell.

TEN

The flight touched down ten minutes early, at eleven thirty local time. One of the first off, I followed the signs for baggage reclaim and Customs, past banks of chrome and brown leatherette seating.

After three hours of air-conditioning, the heat hit me like a wall. In my hand were the two forms we'd been given to fill in on the aircraft, one for Immigration, one for Customs. Mine said that Nick Hoff was staying at the Marriott there is always a Marriott.

Apart from the clothes I stood up in jeans, sweatshirt and bomber jacket the only items I had with me were my passport and wallet containing five hundred US dollars. It had come from an ATM in Miami departures, courtesy of my new Royal Bank of Scotland Visa card in my crap cover name.

Feeling like one of the Camden lot, I'd looked at myself in a toilet mirror:

sleep creases all over my face and hair sticking up like the lead singer in an in die band.

I needn't have worried. Passing through Immigration turned out to be a breeze, even without any luggage. I just handed over my declaration form to a bored, middle-aged man and he waved me through: I guessed they'd hardly be on the lookout for anyone trying to smuggle drugs into Central America.

I also shot through Customs, because all I had was nothing. I should really have bought a piece of hand luggage in Miami to look normal, but my head must have been elsewhere. Not that it mattered; the Panamanian Customs boys were obviously in the same place.

I headed towards the exit, fitting my new Leatherman on to my belt. I'd bought it in Miami to replace the one Sundance had nicked from me, and airport security had taken it off me and packed it into a Jiffy-bag in case I tried to use it to hijack the plane. I'd had to collect it from the luggage service desk when we landed.

The small arrivals area was hosting the noise-and-crush Olympics. Spanish voices hollered, Tannoys barked, babies cried, mobiles rang with every tune known to man. Steel barriers funnelled me deeper into the hall. I walked on, scanning the faces of waiting families and taxi drivers, some holding up name cards. Women outnumbered men, either very skinny or very overweight but not much in between.

Many held bunches of flowers, and screaming two-year-olds mountaineered all over them. Three or four deep against the barriers, they looked like fans at a Ricky Martin concert.

At last, amongst the surge of people, I spotted a square foot of white card with the name Tanklewitz' in capitals in marker pen. The long-haired man holding it looked different from the clean-cut CIA operator I'd been expecting. He was slim, about my height, maybe five ten, and probably in his mid- to late fifties.

He was dressed in khaki shorts and a matching photographer's waistcoat that looked as if it doubled as a han drag at the local garage. His salt-and-pepper hair was tied back in a ponytail, away from a tanned face that had a few days' silver growth. His face looked worn: life had obviously been chewing on it.

I walked straight past him to the end of the barrier, wanting to tune in to the place first, and watch this man for a while before I gave myself over to him. I carried on towards the glass wall and sliding exit doors about ten metres ahead.

Beyond them was a car park, where blinding sunlight bounced off scores of windscreens. The Flying Dogs hot dog and nacho stall to the left of the doors seemed as good a place as any to stop; I leant against the glass and watched my contact getting pushed and shoved in the melee.

Aaron1 presumed it was him was trying to check every new male arrival who emerged from Customs, whilst also checking every few seconds that the name card was the right way up before trying to thrust it above the crowd once more. The taxi drivers were old hands at this game and were able to stand their ground, but Aaron kept being buffeted by the surge of bodies. If this had been the January sales, he'd have come away with a pair of odd socks.

Now and again I caught sight of his tanned, hairless legs. They were muscular and scratched around the calves, and the soles of his feet were covered by old leather Jesus sandals, not the more usual sports ones. This wasn't holiday attire, that was for sure. He looked more like a farmhand or hippie throwback than any kind of doctor.

As I watched and tuned in, Tiger Lil burst into the hall, heaving an enormous squeaky-wheeled suitcase behind her. She screamed in unison with two equally large black women as they jumped all over each other, kissing and cuddling.

The arrivals area was packed with food and drink stalls, all producing their own smells that bounced off the low ceiling and had nowhere to escape to. Brightly dressed Latinos, blacks, whites and Chinese all clamoured to outdo each other in the loudest shout competition. My guess was that Aaron would lose that as well as the keep-your-place-in-the-crowd contest. He was still bobbing around like a cork on a stormy sea.

The air-conditioning might have been working, but not well enough to handle the heat of so many bodies. The stone floor was wet with condensation, as if it had just been mopped, and the bottom foot or so of the glass wall was fogged with moisture. The heat was already getting to me. I felt sweat leak from my greasy skin and my eyes were stinging. Taking off my jacket, I leant against the glass once more, my clammy arm sticking to my sweatshirt.

A group of five stony-faced policemen hovered about in severely pressed khaki trousers and badge-festooned, short-sleeved shirts. They looked very macho with their hands resting on their holstered pistols and feet tapping in black patent leather shoes. Apart from that, the only things moving were their peaked hats as they checked out three tight-jeaned and high heeled Latino women passing by

Sitting on a bench to the left of the policemen was the only person here who wasn't sweating and out of control. A thirty something white woman, she looked like GI Jane, with short hair, green fatigue cargos and a baggy grey vest that came high up her neck. She still had her sunglasses on and her hands were wrapped around a can of Pepsi.

Two things struck me as I looked around the hall. The first was that virtually everybody seemed to have a mobile on their belt or in their hand. The other was the men's shirts. Like the police uniforms, they were dramatically pressed and the arm crease went all the way over the shoulder and up to the collar. Maybe there was only one laundry in town.

After about a quarter of an hour the crowd was thinning as the last of the loved ones trickled through and the taxi fares got picked up. Calm descended, but probably only until the next flight arrived.

Aaron was now in my direct line of sight, standing with the remaining few still waiting at the barrier. Under his dirty waistcoat he had a faded blue T-shirt with some barely readable Spanish on the front. I watched as he held up his card to the last few passengers, even leaning over the barrier, straining to read the flight numbers on their luggage tags.

It was now time to cut away from everything else going on in my head except work, the mission. I hated that word, it sounded far too Army, but I was going to use it to keep my head where it should be.

I had one last check around the hall for anything unusual, then realized that everything I saw fell into that category: the whole arrivals area looked like a dodgy-characters convention. I started my approach.

I must have been about three steps away from his back as he thrust his card under the nose of an American business suit pulling his bag on wheels behind him.

"Mr. Yanklewitz?"

He spun round, holding the card against his chest like a schoolboy in show-and tell He had bloodshot but very blue eyes, sunk into deep crow's feet.

I was supposed to let him initiate conversation with a story that involved a number, something like, "Oh, I hear you have ten bags with you?" to which I would say, "No, I have three', that sort of thing. But I really couldn't be bothered: I was hot, tired, and I wanted to get on.

"Seven."

"Oh, that would make me six then, I guess." He sounded a little disappointed. He'd probably been working on his story all morning. |l I smiled. There was an expectant pause: I was waiting for him to tell me what to do next.

"Er, OK, shall we go, then?" His accent was soft, educated American.

"Unless of course you want to-' I don't want to do anything, apart from go with you."

"OK. Please, this way."

We started towards the exit and I fell into step on his left. He folded the card as he went, moving faster than I'd have liked. I didn't want us looking unnatural but, then, what was I worrying about in this madhouse?

On the other side of the automatic exit doors was the service road for drop-offs and pick-ups. Beyond that was the car park, and in the distance, under a brilliant blue sky, were lush green rugged mountains. Out there was virgin ground to me, and unless I had no choice, I never liked entering the unknown with out having a look first.

"Where are we going?"

I was still checking out the car park. I didn't know if he was looking at me or not as he answered, in a very low voice, "That kinda depends on, er ... my wife is-' That's Carrie, right?"

'Yes, Carrie."

I'd forgotten to introduce myself.

"Do you know my name?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his head turn towards me, so I turned as well. His blue eyes seemed jumpy, and focused slightly to one side of mine.

"No, but if you don't want to tell me, that's fine. Whatever you feel safe with, whatever is best for you."

He didn't look scared, but was definitely ill-at-ease. Maybe he could smell the fuck-up value on me.

I stopped and held out my hand.

"Nick." Better to be friendly to the help rather than alienate them: you get better results that way. It was a small lesson the Yes Man could have done with taking on board.

There was an embarrassed smile from him, displaying a not-too-good set of teeth, discoloured by too much coffee or tobacco. He held out his hand.

"Aaron. Pleased to meet you, Nick."

It was a very large hand with hard skin, but the handshake was gentle. Small scars covered its surface; he was no pen-pusher. His nails were dirty and jagged, and there was a dull gold wedding band and a multicoloured kids' Swatch on his left.

"Well, Aaron, as you can see, I haven't packed for a long stay. I'll just get my job done and be out of the way by Friday. I'll try not to be a pain in the arse while I'm here. How does that sound?"

His embarrassed grin gave me the feeling that it sounded good on both counts.

Still, he was generous in his reply.

"Hey, no problem. You did kinda throw me, you know. I wasn't expecting an English guy."

I smiled and leant forward to tell him a secret.

"Actually I'm American, it's a disguise."

There was a pause as he searched my eyes.

"Joke, right?"

I nodded, hoping it would break the ice a bit.

"I was expecting to see Carrie as well."

He pointed behind me.

"She's right here."

I turned to see GI Jane approaching us. She greeted me with a smile and an out thrust hand.

"Hi, I'm Carrie."

Her hair was dark, cut into the nape of her neck. She was maybe mid- to late thirties just a few years younger than me. There were a few lines coming from behind the lenses of her dark glasses, and small creases in the side of her mouth as she spoke.

I shook her firm hand.

"I'm Nick. Finished your Pepsi, then?" I didn't know if she'd seen me waiting, not that it really mattered.

"Sure, it was good." Her manner was brisk, sort of aggressive, and wouldn't have been out of place on Wall Street. Like Aaron's, her voice was educated but then, anyone who pronounced their aitches sounded educated to me.

She stood by Aaron and they certainly made an unusual pair. Maybe I'd got this wrong. Maybe they were father and daughter. He had a slight pot belly and showed his age; she had a body that was well toned and looked after.

People poured in and out. The sound of aircraft and a gust of heat enveloped us each time the doors slid open.

Carrie shrugged.

"What happens now?"

They were waiting for instructions.

"You haven't done this before, have you?"

Aaron shook his head.

"First time. All we know is that we pick you up and you tell us the rest."

"OK do you have any imagery yet?"

She nodded.

"It's satellite, I pulled it off the web last night. It's at the house."

"How far away is that?"

"If the rain holds off, four hours maybe. If not, anything over five. We're talking boondocks."

"How far to the other guy's house?"

"An hour thirty from here, maybe two. It's the other side of the city it's in the boonies, too."

I'd like to see his place first, then back to yours. Will I be able to get close enough to have a good look?"

There wasn't enough time to spend maybe ten hours on the road, or even prepare myself for a day under the canopy. I'd have to get on and do the CTR of the house first, since it was so close, and then, on the way back to their place, get planning what I was going to do next, and how.

She nodded, confirming with Aaron at the same time.

"Sure, but like I said, it's in the forest." She turned to Aaron.

"You know what? I'll go pick up Luce from the dentist and meet you two at home."

There was a pause as if there was more to say, as if she expected me to pick up on what she'd said. But I didn't care that much who Luce was. It wasn't important at the moment, and I was sure to be told soon anyway.

"Ready when you are."

We headed outside and into the oppressive heat. I screwed up my eyes against the sun, which burned straight through the cheap acrylic of my sweatshirt on my shoulders and the back of my neck.

She walked the other side of Aaron. There was no wedding ring, no watch or any other jewellery on either of her hands. Her hair was beyond dark, it was jet black, and her skin was only lightly tanned, not dark and leathery like Aaron's.

Her armpits were shaved and, for some reason, I wouldn't have expected that.

Maybe I'd been harbouring images of New Age travellers from the moment I saw Aaron.

The service road was jammed with mini-buses, taxis and cars dropping off passengers, with porters hustling the drop-offs for business. The noise was just as loud out here as it had been in the hall, with vehicle horns sounding off and taxi drivers arguing over parking spaces.

The dazzling sunshine felt as if I had a searchlight pointed straight into my eyes. I squinted like a mole and looked down as they started to feel gritty.

Aaron pulled a pair of John Lennon sunglasses from a pocket of his waistcoat and put them on as he pointed to our half right.

"We're over here."

We crossed the road to what might have been a parking lot in any US shopping mall. Japanese and American SUVs were lined up alongside saloons and people carriers and none of them looked more than one or two years old. It surprised me: I'd been expecting worse.

Carrie broke away from us and headed towards the other side of the car park.

"See you both later."

I nodded goodbye. Aaron didn't say a word, just nodded with me.

The ground was wet with rain and sunlight glinted off the tarmac. My eyes were still half closed when we reached a blue, rusty, mud-covered Mazda pickup.

This is us."

This was more what I'd been expecting. It had a double cab, with an equally old fibreglass Bac Pac cover over the rear that turned it into a van. The sheen of the paintwork had been burned off long ago by tropical heat. Aaron was already inside, leaning over to open my door.

It was like climbing into an oven. The sun had been beating down on the windscreen and it was so hot inside it was hard to breathe. I was just pleased that there was an old blanket draped over the seats to protect us from the almost molten PVC upholstery, though the heat was still doing the business.

A floating ball compass was stuck to the windscreen, and fixed to the dash was a small open can half filled with green liquid. Judging by the picture of flowers on the label it had been air-freshener in a previous life.

"Will you excuse me, Nick? I need a moment. Won't be long."

I kept my door open, trying to let some air in as he closed his and disappeared behind the Mazda.

It had only been a hundred metres from the terminal building but I was already sweating. My jeans stuck to my thighs and a bead of sweat rolled down the bridge of my nose and added to the misery. At least the air-conditioning would kick in when he started the engine.

I caught four Aarons and Carries in the broken wing mirror, and standing next to her, four wagons. It was also a pickup, but a much older style than the Mazda, maybe an old Chevy, with a rounded bonnet and wings and a flatbed that had wooden slats up the sides, the sort of thing you'd transport livestock in. They were arguing as they stood by the opened driver's door. She waved her hands in the air and Aaron kept shaking his head at her.

I changed view and looked out at the green mountains in the distance and thought of the months I'd spent living in that stuff, and waited for them to finish as a jet-lagged headache started to brew.

A minute or two later he jumped into the cab as if nothing had happened.

"Sorry about that, Nick, just some things I needed from the store."

By the way she'd reacted they must have been pretty expensive. I nodded as if I hadn't seen a thing, we closed our doors and he started up.

Having kept my window closed to help the air-conditioner spark up, I saw Aaron frantically winding his down as he manoeuvred out of the parking space, using just his fingertips to steer as the wheel must have been hot enough to peel skin. He sounded almost apologetic.

"You need to belt up. They're pretty tough on that round here."

Glancing at my closed window he added, "Sorry, no air."

I wound it down and both of us gingerly fastened belt buckles as hot as a tumble-dried coin. There was no sign of Carrie as we drove out of the car park;

she must have driven away straight after being given her shopping list.

I lowered the sun visor as we passed a group of young black guys dressed in football shorts armed with large yellow buckets, sponges and bottles of washing up liquid. They seemed to be doing a roaring trade; their pools of soapy water on the tarmac just lay there, not evaporating in the high humidity. The Mazda could have done with their services, inside as well as out. Its worn rubber mats were covered in dried mud; sweet wrappers were scattered all over, some stuffed into my door pocket along with used tissues and a half-eaten tube of mints. On the back seat lay yellowing copies of the Miami Herald. Everything looked and smelt tired; even the PVC under the blanket was ripped.

He was still looking nervous as we drove out of the airport and along a dual carriage way The exhaust rattled under the wagon as we picked up speed, and the open windows made no difference to the heat. Billboards advertising everything from expensive perfumes to machined ball bearings and textile factories were banged into the ground at random, fighting to be seen above pampas grass nearly three metres tall each side of the road.

Less than two minutes later we had to stop at a toll booth and Aaron handed over a US dollar bill to the operator.

"It's the currency here," he told me.

"It's called a Balboa."

I nodded as if I cared and watched the road become a newly laid dual carriage way The sunlight rebounded off the light-grey concrete big time, making my headache get a happy on.

Aaron could see my problem and rummaged in his door pocket.

"Here, Nick, want these?"

The sunglasses must have been Carrie's, with large oval lenses that Jackie Onassis would have been proud of. They covered half my face. I probably looked a right nugget, but they worked.

The jungle was soon trying to reclaim the land back from the pampas grass either side of the carriage way at least on the areas that weren't covered with breeze block and tin shacks. King-size leaves and vines spread up telegraph poles and over fences like a green disease.

I decided to warm him up before I asked the important ones.

"How long have you lived here?"

"Always have. I'm a Zonian."

It must have been obvious that I didn't have a clue what he was on about.

"I was born here in the Zone, the US Canal Zone. It's a ten-mile-wide strip about sixteen K that used to bracket the whole length of the canal. The US controlled the Zone from the early nineteen hundreds, you know." There was pride in his voice.

"I didn't know that." I thought the US just used to have bases there, not jurisdiction over a whole chunk of the country "My father was a canal pilot. Before him, my grandfather started as a tug captain and made it to tonnage surveyor you know, assessing the ships' weights to determine their tolls. The Zone is home."

Now that we were moving at speed, the wind was hitting the right side of my face. It wasn't that cool, but at least it was a breeze. The downside was that we had to shout at each other over the wind rush and the flapping of newspaper and blanket corners against the PVC.

"But you're an American, right?"

He gave a small, gentle laugh at my ignorance. Ivly grandfather was born in Minneapolis, but my father was also born here, in the Zone. The US have always been here, working for the canal authority or in the military. This used to be the headquarters of Southern Command we've had up to sixty-five thousand troops stationed here. But now, of course, everything's gone."

The scenery was still very green, but now mostly grass. Much of the land had been cleared and the odd flea-bitten cow was grazing away. When the trees did come, they were the same size as European ones, not at all like the massive hundred-foot-tall buttress trees I'd seen in primary jungle further south in Colombia or South East Asia. This low canopy of leaf and palm created secondary jungle conditions because sunlight could penetrate so vegetation could grow between the tree-trunks. Tall grass, large palms and creeping vines of all descriptions were trying their best to catch the rays.

"I read about that. It must be quite a shock after all those years."

Aaron nodded slowly as he watched the road.

"Yes, sir, growing up here was just like small-town USA," he enthused, 'apart from no air in the house there wasn't enough juice on the grid in those days. But what the hell? It didn't matter. I'd come home from school and wham! I'm right into the forest. Building forts, fishing for tarpon. We'd play basketball, football, baseball, just like up north. It was Utopia, everything we needed was in the Zone. You know what? I didn't even venture into Panama City until I was fourteen, can you believe that?

For the Boy Scout jamboree." A smile of fondness for the good old days played across his face as his grey ponytail fluttered in the wind.

"Of course I went north, to California, for my university years, came back with my degree to lecture at the university. I still lecture, but not so much now. That's where I met Carrie."

So she was his wife. I was pleased to have my curiosity satisfied, and got a sudden burst of hope for the future if I ever reached old age.

What do you teach?"

As soon as he started to answer, I wished I hadn't bothered asking.

"Protecting the bio diversity of plants and wildlife. Forestry conservation and management, that sort of thing. We have a cathedral of nature here." He looked to his right, past me and up at the canopy and grass-covered mountains in the far distance.

"You know what? Panama is still one of the richest ecological regions on earth, a mother lode of bio diversity ..."

He gazed out again at the mountains and had a tree-hugging moment.

I could only see red and white communication masts the size of the Eiffel Tower that seemed to have been positioned on every fourth peak.

"But you know what, Nick, we're losing it..."

Buildings started to come into view on both sides of the road.

They ranged from tin shacks with rotting rubbish piled up outside and the odd mangy dog picking at the waste, to neat lines of not-quite-finished brand new houses. Each was about the size of a small garage, with a flat red tin roof over whitewashed breeze blocks. The construction workers were stretched out in the shade, hiding from the midday sun.

Ahead, in the far distance, I began to make out a high-rise skyline that looked like a mini Manhattan something else I hadn't been expecting.

I tried to get off the subject in case he turned into the Green version of Billy Graham. I didn't like the idea of losing trees to concrete, or anything else for that matter, but I didn't have enough commitment even to listen, let alone do anything about it. That was why people like him were needed, I supposed.

"Does Carrie lecture too?"

He shook his head slowly as he changed lanes to let a truck laden with bottled water scream past.

"No, we have a small research deal from the university. That's why I still have to lecture. We're not the Smithsonian Institute, you know. I wish we were, sure do wish we were."

He wanted to get off the subject.

"You heard of PARC? The Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias Colombianas?"

I nodded and didn't mind talking about anything that let him feel at ease, apart from tree-hugging.

"I hear they're crossing into Panama quite a lot now, with SOUTH COM gone."

"Sure are. These are worrying times. It's not just the ecological problems.

Panama couldn't handle PARC if they came in force. They're just too strong."

He told me that the bombings, murders, kidnappings, extortion and hijackings had always gone on. But lately, now that the US had withdrawn, they'd been getting more adventurous. A month before the last US military left Panama completely, they'd even struck in the city. They'd hijacked two helicopters from an air base in the Zone, and flown them back home. Three weeks later, six or seven hundred PARC attacked a Colombian naval base near the Panamanian border, using the helicopters as fire support platforms.

There was a pause and I could see his face screw up as he worked out what he wanted to say.

"Nick ..." He paused again. Something was bugging him.

"Nick, I want you to know, I'm not a spy, I'm not a revolutionary. I'm just a guy who wants to carry out his work and live here peacefully. That's all."

ELEVEN

I nodded.

"Like I said, I'll be out of here by Friday and try not to be a major pain in the arse." It was somehow good to know that someone else was unhappy with the situation.

He sort of smiled with me as we hit a causeway that cut across towards the city, about 150 metres from the land. It reminded me of one of the road links connecting the Florida Keys.

We passed a few rusty wriggly-tin shanty shacks built around concrete sewage outlets discharging into the sea. Directly ahead, the tall, slim tower blocks reared into the sky, their mirrored and coloured glass glinting confidently in the sun.

Paying another Balboa to exit the causeway, we hit a wide boulevard with a tree lined and manicured-grass meridian. Set into the kerbs were large storm drains to take the tropical weather. The road was packed with manic cars, trucks, buses and taxis. Everyone was driving as if they had just stolen the things. The air was filled with the smell of exhaust fumes and the sound of revving traffic and horns being leant on. A helicopter flew low and fast somewhere above us. Aaron still had to shout to make himself heard, even at this lower speed. He jerked his head at mini Manhattan.

"Where the money is."

It looked like it. A lot of well-known banks from Europe and the USA, as well as quite a few dodgy-sounding ones, had gleaming glass towers with their name stuck all over them. It was a dressy area: men walking the pavements were dressed smartly in trousers, pressed shirts with creases up to the collar, and ties. The women wore businesslike skirts and blouses.

Aaron waved his hand out of the window as he avoided a beer delivery truck who wanted to be exactly where we were.

"Panama is trying to be the new Singapore," he said, taking his eyes off the traffic, which worried me a bit.

"You know, offshore banking, that kind of stuff."

As we passed trendy bars, Japanese restaurants, designer clothes shops and a Porsche showroom, I smiled.

"I've read it's already pretty vibrant."

He tried to avoid a horn-blowing pickup full of swaying rubber plants.

"You could say that there's a lot of drug money being rinsed here. They say the whole drug thing is worth more than ninety billion US a year that's like twenty billion more than the revenues of Microsoft, Kellogg's and McDonald's put together."

He braked sharply as a scooter cut in front of us. I put out my arms to break the jolt and felt the hot plastic of the dashboard on my hands, as a woman with a small child on the pillion diced with death. They were both protected only by cycle helmets and swimming goggles as she squeezed between us and a black Merc so she could turn off the main drag. Obviously an everyday thing: Aaron just carried on talking.

"There's a big slice of that coming through here. Some of these banks, hey, they just say, "Bring it on." Real crooks wear pinstripe, right?" He smiled ruefully.

"Those traffickers are now the most influential special-interest group in the world. Did you know that?"

I shook my head. No, I didn't know that. When I was in the jungle fighting them, it was the last thing I needed to know. I also didn't know if I was going to get out of this Mazda alive. If there were any driving instructors in Panama, they obviously went hungry.

The traffic slowed a little then stopped completely, but the horns kept going.

Green-fatigued policemen stood outside a department store in high-leg boots and black body armour. The mirrored sunglasses under the peaks of their baseball caps made them look like Israeli soldiers, and all the more menacing for it.

Hanging round their necks were HK MP5s, and they wore low-slung leg holsters.

The Parkerization on the 9mm machine-guns had worn away with age, exposing the glinting steel underneath.

The traffic un choked and we started to move. The faces sticking out of the bus ahead of us got a grandstand view of my Jackie Os and a few started to smile at the dickhead in the Mazda.

"At least I've cheered some people up today."

"Especially as you're a rabiblanco," Aaron replied.

"That's what they call the ruling elite white asses."

The boulevard emerged from little Manhattan and hit the coastline, following the sweep of a few Ks of bay. On our left was a marina, its sea protection built from rocks the size of Ford Fiestas. Million-dollar motor boats were parked amongst million-dollar yachts, all being lovingly cleaned and polished by uniformed crews. In the bay, a fleet of old wooden fishing boats was anchored round a sunken cargo ship, its two rusty masts and bow jutting from the calm of the Pacific. Further out to sea, maybe three or four Ks, a dozen or so large ships stood in line, pointing towards land, their decks loaded with containers.

Aaron followed my gaze.

"They're waiting to enter the canal."

We swerved sharply to avoid a battered old Nissan saloon as it decided to change lanes without telling anyone. I instinctively pushed down with my braking foot.

This wasn't driving, this was a series of near-death experiences. There were a lot of brakes being hit in front of us and we followed suit, skidding slightly but coming to a halt without rear-ending the Nissan unlike someone a few vehicles behind us. There was the tinkle of breaking glass and the sound of buckling metal, followed by some irate Spanish.

Aaron looked like a small child.

"Sorry 'bout that."

The reason why we'd all stopped was now plain to see. A line of pre-teen schoolkids in pairs and holding hands was crossing the road, towards the promenade and the bay. The girls were all in white dresses, the boys in blue shorts and white shirts. One of the teachers was shouting at a taxi driver who complained at the delay, an old shaggy arm waving out of the window back at her.

Now everyone seemed to be hitting their horns, as if that would change anything.

The kids' faces were two distinct shapes, the same as in Colombia. Those of Spanish descent had wild, curly black hair and olive skin, while the straight black-haired Indians had more delicate features, slightly flatter faces, smaller eyes and a browner complexion. Aaron grinned as he watched the children cross, chattering to each other as if nothing was happening around them.

"You have kids, Nick?"

"No." I shook my head. I didn't want to start getting into that sort of conversation. The less he knew about me the better. A proper operator wouldn't have asked, and it was strange being with someone who didn't know the score.

Besides, after next week I wouldn't have my child anyway Josh would.

"Oh."

The kids were now being corralled by the teachers on the bay side of the road.

Two girls, still holding hands, were staring at him, or my sunglasses, I couldn't make out which. Aaron stuck his thumb to his nose and made a face. They cross-eyed and thumbed back, giggling together because they'd done it without the teachers seeing.

Aaron looked round at me.

"We have a girl, Luce. She'll be fifteen this November."

"Oh, nice." I just hoped he wasn't going to start getting photos out of his wallet then I'd have to say how pretty she was and all that stuff, even if she looked like she'd been given the good news with the flat of a shovel.

The traffic started moving once more. He waved at the kids as they stuck their thumbs in their ears and flapped their fingers.

We fought our way through the traffic along the boulevard. To the right was a run of large, Spanish colonial-type buildings that just had to be government property. Fronted by tall, decorative wrought-iron fencing, they were all immaculately painted, set back in acres of grass, waterfalls and flagpoles, all flying the red, white and blue squares and stars of the Panamanian flag. Laid out between the buildings were well-manicured public parks with neat bushes and paths, and larger-than-life statues of sixteenth-century Spanish guys in oval tin hats and pantaloons, pointing their swords heroically towards the sea.

Soon we were passing the equally impressive American and

British embassies. Inside each compound, the Stars and Stripes and Union Jack fluttered above the trees and high perimeter railings. The thickness of the window glass indicated it wasn't just for show.

As well as knowing what direction you needed to head out of a country when in the shit, it's also good to check on where your embassy is. I always liked to know there was somewhere to run to if the wheels fell off. Ambassadors don't take too kindly to deniable operators begging for help. I'd have to jump the fence; they didn't let people like me in through the front door. But once I was inside, it would take more than the security to get me back on to the street.