Remote Control

I went to the bag and I got out the portable backup drive and cables and a handful of high-capacity backup disks.

I went around to the back of the machine and had a good look. I connected the drive cable and plugged it into the socket. I was going to copy everything: operating system, applications, data files, the lot.

I now had to move the mouse. I took a Polaroid but still studied it before moving it.

I selected Full System Backup, and the computer whirred into action, loading information onto the backup disks. I went back to the filing cabinets and had another mooch around, not really knowing what I was looking at, just trying to see if there was anything I recognized.

Wup! The prompt came up, telling me the sniffer software needed another instruction. It had had to work out another password and wanted to know whether to proceed.

I hit they key.

The machines whirred again. I looked at Kelly. She was sitting by the photos but playing a game with an imaginary companion. Just like her dad; give her a job to do and she'd forget it.

"Kelly, I want you to come with me. If that machine asks me a question again, I might not see it--will you look out for it?"

"OK." It wasn't as exciting a job as she'd been hoping for.

As she sat on the floor with her back against the wall, she looked up at me and said, "I have to go to the bathroom."

"Yeah, in a minute, we'll be finished soon." It was exactly as I remembered, as a kid, sitting in the car, adults not taking me seriously: "We'll be there soon. Nick, just around the corner."

She'd be all right. I said, "I'll take you in a minute."

Wup! I pressed the Fkey.

Kelly said again, "I really, really have to go."

I couldn't think of the right words for a seven-year-old. In the end I said, "Do you want to go big toilet or little toilet?"

She looked at me blankly. What could I do? Using the rest room in a place like this is always a big no-no because of the compromise factor from noise and visible remains. What you enter with must come out with you, which was why I'd brought an orange juice bottle to piss into and Saran Wrap for anything else. I couldn't imagine getting Kelly to piss in the bottle while I held the film under her bum. That was one thing her dad could do that she couldn't.

She said, "I wanna go, I wanna go," and started crossing and uncrossing her legs. Then she stood up and was bouncing up and down on the balls other feet.

I said, "OK, we'll go. Come on, come with me."

I didn't need this, but I had to do it. I couldn't have her shitting all over the carpet.

I took hold of her hand. I retrieved the door stops from the outer office door, gently opened it, and checked the corridor.

We moved across the open office, through the glass door, and into the fire-escape corridor. We went into the rest room and turned the light on. Poor girl, she was pulling down her trousers in such a hurry she was fumbling with her buttons. I helped her, but even so, she nearly missed the pot altogether in her rush.

I was wasting time. I had to return to the machine, and she might be there for five minutes or more. Backing away, I said, "Don't move, and don't flush the toilet afterward; I'll do all that for you. I just have to go back one minute and get the computer working. I'll be right back. Remember shhh, be quiet!"

At that particular moment she didn't really care where I went or what I did. She was in her own heaven.

Wup! I left her and quietly ran toward the office. Once I'd got the disk copying again, I'd come back to Kelly, fish the shit out with my hand, and put it in the Saran Wrap. Then I'd keep pushing the toilet brush down the bowl to lower the level of the water by pushing it through the U bend and get some fresh water from the drinking fountain to bring the level back up again.

I got back to the office and pressed the Vkey. Then I went to the bag to fetch the Saran Wrap.

And it was then that I heard her scream.

Fuck!

Instinctively, I pulled out my pistol and stood against the wall. I checked chamber and took the safety catch off with my thumb.

I could feel my heart beating faster as the familiar sensation of cold sweat broke out over my body. My body was getting ready for fight or flight. The screaming was from the area of the fire escape, my only way out. It looked as if I would have to fight. My heart was pumping so hard it was nearly in my mouth. I'd learned long ago that fear is a good thing. If you aren't scared, you're lying or you're mentally unstable. Everyone has fear, but as a professional you use training, experience, and knowledge to block out the emotion and help you overcome the problem.

I was still thinking it out when I heard a longer, more pitiful scream of "Nick! Help me!" The sound went through me like a knife. Images flashed through my mind of her curled up in a fetal position in the hidey-hole, of brushing her hair and playing that stupid video-watching game.

I was by the office door leading out into the corridor.

I heard a man's voice shout: "I've got her! I'll fucking kill her! Think about it. Don't make me do it!"

It was not an American voice. Or Hispanic. Or anything else I might have expected. But I knew it right off: West Belfast.

It sounded as if they were now in the main office. He started to shout more threats at me above Kelly's screams. I couldn't make out every word, and I didn't have to. I got the message.

"OK, OK! I'm going to come into your view in a minute."

My voice echoed in the semidarkness.

"Fuck you! Throw your weapon into the corridor. Do it!"

Then I could hear him shouting at Kelly, "Shut the fuck up!

Shut up!"

I came out of the office and stopped just short of the corridor intersection. I slid my pistol out into the main corridor.

"Put your hands on your head, walk out to the middle of the corridor. If you do anything else, I'll fucking kill her--do you understand?"

The voice was controlled; he didn't sound like a madman.

"Yes, I'm coming out, my hands are on my head," I said.

"Tell me when to move."

"Now, you fucker!"

Kelly's screams were deafening, even through the glass door. I started to walk and, in four paces, came to the intersection.

I knew that if I looked left I'd be able to see them through the door, but that wasn't the game just now. I didn't want eye-to-eye; he might overreact.

"Stop where you are, you fucker!"

I stopped. I could still hear the whimpering. I didn't say a word or turn my head.

In the movies you always hear the good guy give encouragement to the hostage. In real life it doesn't work like that;

you just shut up and do what you're told.

He said, "Turn left."

I could now see them both in the shadows. Kelly had her back to me as he dragged her toward me with a weapon stuck in her shoulder area. He pushed the glass door open with his foot and came out into the light of the corridor.

As I saw him my heart dropped from beating in quick time to a slow thud. I felt as if a ten-ton weight had just been dropped on my head. It was Morgan McGear.

He was dressed very smartly in a dark-blue two-piece suit and a crisp, clean white shirt; even his shoes looked expensive. It was a far cry from the Falls Road uniform of jeans, bomber jacket, and running shoes. I couldn't see what sort of weapon he was carrying; it looked like some sort of semiautomatic.

He was watching me, checking me out. What was I doing here with a small child? He knew he had control, knew there wasn't shit I was going to do. He now had his left hand wrapped around her hair--what a pity I hadn't cut more off in the motel room--and he had the weapon stuck into her neck. This was not a meaningless gesture; he was capable of killing her.

She looked hysterical, poor kid; she was panicking big-time.

He called out, "Walk toward me slowly. Walk now.

C'mon, don't fuck with me, you shite."

Every noise in the corridor seemed to be amplified ten fold; McGear shouting with spit flying out of his mouth, Kelly screaming. It seemed to reverberate around the whole building. I did as he said. As I got nearer I looked at her and tried to get eye-to-eye; I wanted to comfort her, but it didn't work.

Her eyes were swollen with tears, her face was soaking wet and red. Her jeans weren't even zipped up yet.

He had me within about ten feet of him, and now I looked into his eyes and I could see that he knew he was in a position of power, but sweating a bit. His voice might have sounded confident, but his eyes gave it away. If his job was to kill us, now was his moment. With my eyes I said to him. Just get it over and done with. There are times when after using plans A, B, and C you must accept you're in deep shit or shite, as this boy would say.

He snapped, "Stop!" and the echo seemed to reinforce the threat.

I looked at Kelly, still trying to get that eye-to-eye contact to say: Everything's all right, everything's OK, you asked me to help you and I'm here.

McGear told me to turn around. Now I knew it was really time to sweat.

He said, "On your knees, you fucker."

Facing away from him, I went down so I was sitting back on my heels; if I had the chance to react, at least from here I had some sort of springboard.

"Up!" he shouted.

"Get up, get your ass up!" He knew what I was doing; this boy was good.

"Kneel upright. More, more. Stay there, fuck you, think you're some fucking hard guy.. " He moved behind me, dragging Kelly with him. I could still hear her cries, but there was another noise now. Some thing else was moving; it wasn't just Kelly's moans. I didn't know what it was. I just knew that something unhealthy was going to happen. All I could do was close my eyes, grit my teeth, and wait for it.

He took a couple of labored steps toward me. I could hear Kelly getting nearer, obviously still in tow.

"Keep looking straight ahead," he said, "or I will be hurting the wee one. Do what I say or " Either he didn't finish his sentence or I didn't hear it. The bang on the top of my shoulders and head sent me straight down like a bag of shit.

I went into a semiconscious state. I was awake, but I knew I was fucked, like a boxer who goes down and is trying to get up to show the referee that he's all right, but he's not, he's all over the place.

I felt nailed to the floor; I looked up, but couldn't see what had done the damage. It hadn't been a pistol. It takes a decent weight to knock a person over. Whatever it was, it took me down but good.

The strange thing about the next bit was that I knew what was happening but couldn't do anything about it. I was aware ofMcGear pulling me over onto my back and jumping astride me, and I felt cold metal being pushed into my face and finally into my mouth. Slowly, slowly, it dawned on me that it was the pistol, and the jumble of words he was screaming be came clearer and clearer: "Don't fuck with me! Don't fuck with me! Don't fuck with me!" He sounded out of control.

I could smell the nicker. He'd been drinking; there was alcohol on his breath. He reeked of aftershave and cigarettes.

He was sitting astride me with his knees on my shoulders and the pistol stuck in my mouth. He still had his left hand around Kelly's hair and had pulled her onto the floor; he was tugging her from side to side like a rag doll, either for the sheer hell of it or perhaps just to keep her screaming and make me more compliant.

All I could hear was scream, scream, scream; "Don't fuck with me!"; scream, scream, scream; "Don't fuck with me!

Don't fuck with me! Think you're a fucking hard guy, do you, think you're a fucking tough guy, huh?"

Not good. I knew what they did to "hard guys." McGear once got an informer into a room for questioning; his kneecaps were drilled with a Black & Decker; he was burned by an electric fire and electrocuted in the bath. He managed to jump out a window naked but broke his back. They then dragged him into the elevator and shot him.

I felt as if I were drunk. I was aware of what was happening but it was taking too long for the message to reach my brain.

Then the software started to kick in. I tried to see if the hammer was back on the pistol, but all I could still see were bubbles of red light in front of my eyes, and star bursts of white. All I could make out was all this screaming and ranting from him.

"You bastard! I'm gonna fuck you up!

Who are you?" and the screaming from Kelly. It was total confusion.

I tried again to focus my eyes, and this time it worked I could see the position of the hammer.

The hammer was back. It was a 9mm. But what about the safety catch? It was off.

There was nothing I could do. He'd got his finger on the trigger; if I struggled, I was dead, whether he intended it or not.

He said, "You think you're fucking hard? Do you? Do you?

We'll soon see who is the hard man." Then he jumped his weight up and down to crush my chest, forcing the pistol harder into my mouth.

To add to the confusion, Kelly was still screaming with terror and pain. I didn't have a clue what was expected of me;

all I knew was that I had a pistol stuck in my mouth and this guy was in charge.

He started to regain his composure. The pistol was still shoved hard into my mouth, but he was beginning to ease himself to his feet. He did it by putting weight on the pistol and then against my face; as the pistol turned in my mouth, it twisted painfully up against my cheek and teeth, scraping them with the sight. And all the time he kept a grip on Kelly's hair, pulling her around all over the place.

He moved back, the pistol now aimed at my chest.

"Get back up on your knees!"

"All right, mate, OK. You got me, OK."

As I moved I saw what had taken me down. The fire extinguisher had split open the skin at the back of my head. There was blood oozing out everywhere and matting down my hair.

There was nothing I could do; you just can't stop capillary bleeding.

I got back on my knees, my ass up in the air again so I wasn't resting on the heels of my feet, and I was looking at him, trying to sort myself out. He started to walk backward toward the office, keeping the weapon pointed at me.

"Come on, hard man, on your knees."

I got the hint, he wanted me to follow him.

By now Kelly was a mess. There was a small trail of my blood being wiped along the floor. Kelly must have been kneeling in it before she was moved. She had her hands on his wrist, trying to support herself. She kept on tripping up, walking on her knees, trying to pick herself up, as if she were getting dragged behind a horse. All he was interested in was moving backward with the weapon pointing at me.

He said, "Stay where the fuck you are!" and then shuffled backward past the door to the large office.

I was trying to compose myself; I knew I didn't have long to live unless I took some action.

"In there!"

I started to shuffle in.

"Walk!"

I got up and walked into the room, my back still toward him. I walked slowly toward the coffee table. I was just about to move off to the side to go around it when he said, "Stop!

Turn around!"

I did as I was told. It was an unusual command because normally you want the person you're holding facing away from you so they don't know what's going on. If you can't see, it's difficult to react.

As I turned, I saw Kelly sitting on the leather swivel chair that now had been dragged to the left of the desk. McGear was standing behind her. He still had his left hand wrapped around her hair and was pulling her back onto the seat and pointing the 9mm at me.

The top half of a semiautomatic, the part of the weapon on which the fore and rear sights are mounted, is called the top-slide. It moves back when you've fired to eject the empty case, then picks up a round on its return. If it's moved back by as little as an eighth of an inch, the weapon can't fire--so if you're quick enough, you can shove your hand hard onto the front of the muzzle, push the top slide back, and the trigger won't work as long as you can keep it there. It's got to be really quick, really aggressive, but I had nothing to lose.

There was a lull--was he trying to make a decision about what to do? It was less than twenty seconds, but it seemed like forever.

Kelly kept crying and whimpering; there must have been friction burns on her knees where she had been dragged earlier.

With his left hand McGear yanked her upright and said, "Shut the fuck up!" And just as he did that, we stopped having eye-to-eye contact; I knew that it was time.

I leaped forward, shouting at the top of my voice to disorient him, got my right hand and pushed it as hard as I could against the muzzle, pushing down on the top slide so I moved it back maybe half an inch.

He shouted a loud, drawn-out "Fuck!" half in anger, half in pain.

I got hold of his wrist, pulled it toward me, and pushed away with my right hand against the top slide He tried, but it was too late for him; it didn't fire. I needed to grip my hand around the muzzle now to keep the top slide back.

As this was happening, I was pushing toward the wall-just push, push, push; he still had hold of Kelly, and she was being dragged around, screaming at the top of her voice. I shut her out of my mind, keeping my eyes on the pistol, my body bent down, pushing and pushing. I felt the air leave his body as he hit the wall. Kelly was getting in the way; I was stepping on her, he was stepping on her, and she was screaming out in pain. He must have decided he needed two hands to sort me out because, the next thing I knew, Kelly was running.

I started to head-butt in earnest. I was hitting him with my head, I was hitting him with my nose, with the side of my face. My nose was hurting and bleeding as much as his must have been, but I just kept on butting, butting, and butting,

trying to do as much damage to him as possible, and, at the same time, keeping him against the wall.

He was screaming, "You fucker! You fucker! You fucker!

You're dead!"

And I was doing exactly the same back, screaming, "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck! Fuck!"

I still had him pushed right against the wall. As I butted him, his teeth cut into my face, opening up my forehead and just below my eye. You don't notice the pain when the adrenaline is pumping. I head-butted him again and again; it wasn't going to do him much lasting damage, but that was all I could do at the moment. My hands were on the weapon and I was shouting all sorts of shit at the top of my voice to scare him and, even more, to keep me psyched.

As his head came down, I bit the first thing that came into range. I felt my teeth on the taut skin of his cheek. There was that initial resistance, and then my teeth broke into what felt like warm squid and I was ripping his face open. He screamed out even louder, but I was focused totally on what I was doing; all other thoughts went out the window and I bit, gouged, did whatever damage I could.

My teeth sank in and in. He squealed like a pig. I had a mouthful of his cheek and was ripping and tearing. I saw terror in his eyes.

By now there was blood all over the two of us; I could taste the iron tang of it, and my whole face was drenched from the cuts on my face and his, all getting mixed in with our sweat.

Trying to clear my mouth, I choked some of it up into the back of my nose.

All the time, I was twisting the weapon away from me and trying to keep the top slide back. He was still pretty switched on and was squeezing the trigger, but nothing was happening--for now. His other hand was pulling at my fingers, trying to pry them off the weapon. As long as I kept my hand gripped around that top slide I'd be all right. I kept on pushing and pushing, keeping him up against something firm so I could lean against him, because all I wanted to do was move that pistol around.

I was still biting and gnawing. I'd gone through the first part of his cheek and kept on going. By now I was biting the top of his eyelid, I was biting his nose, everywhere I was ripping through the skin onto the bone of his jaw and skull.

I was running out of breath because the adrenaline was draining away, and pushing him against the wall had taken a lot of physical strength out of me. Then I started to choke, and I realized I had some of his skin at the back of my throat.

I could hear air being sucked into the hole in his cheek as he was breathing; I could hear my own throat rattling, blocked by chunks of his skin.

I was fighting him by feel, not sight. Our blood was burning into my eyes. Everything was blurred. I didn't know where Kelly was and at this stage I didn't care. I couldn't help her until I'd helped myself.

I was still trying to get the pistol into him somewhere. I didn't give a fuck where it went it could go into his leg, into his stomach, I didn't give a fuck, as long as I could start shooting him.

His screams increased as my finger wrapped around his on the trigger.

I turned it around, let go of the top slide and squeezed.

The first two shots missed, but I kept on shooting. I moved it around again and got him in the hip and then the thigh. He went down.

Everything stopped. The lack of noise was absolutely deafening.

After two or three seconds I could hear Kelly's screams rebounding off the walls. At least she was still somewhere in the building. She sounded as though she was throwing a fit.

All I could hear was a high-pitched continuous scream. I was too fucked up to do anything about it. I was too busy trying to cough up McGear's skin.

I'd find her later. I pulled myself up. I was in pain. The back of my neck felt as if it could no longer hold my head.

He writhed on the ground, bleeding and begging, "Don't kill me, man! Don't kill me! Don't kill me!"

I got hold of the pistol and did to him as he had done to me, jumping astride him, ramming it deep into his mouth.

For several seconds I just sat there trying to catch my breath. McGear's body might be dying, but his eyes were alive.

"Why did you kill the family?" I said, pulling the pistol from his mouth so he could speak.

"Tell me and you'll live." i He was looking at me as if he wanted to say something but didn't know what. I "Just tell me why. I need to know."

"I don't know what the fuck you mean."

I looked into his eyes and I knew he was telling the truth.

"What is on that computer?"

There was no slow reaction this time. His lip curled and he said, "Fuck you."

I jammed the weapon back into his mouth and said quietly, firmly, almost sort of fatherly, "Look at me! Look at me!"

I looked back into his eyes. No point carrying this on. He wouldn't say anything. He was too good for that.

Fuck it. I pulled the trigger. I took a deep breath and wiped away the blood that had splattered onto my face when he took the round. I tried to regain some form of composure. Stop, just take that couple of seconds take another deep breath, and try to work out what the fuck to do next.

The shots would have been heard and reported. At least, I had to plan as if they were. I could still hear Kelly screaming in the distance somewhere.

First priority was the equipment. I pushed myself up off McGear's chest and staggered back into the small office. I ripped the cable and electric cord from the PC, took the sniffer software out of the floppy drive, and put it in my top pocket. I packed everything in the bag and returned to the large office.

I went over to McGear. He looked like Kelly when she was sleeping, except this starfish had a face like a pizza and a large exit wound in the back of his head oozing gray stuff onto the plush carpet.

I picked up the bag, slung it over my left shoulder, and moved into the corridor to pick up my pistol. I had to find Kelly. Easy I just had to follow the screams.

She was fighting with the fire-escape door, the back other coat splattered with blood. She was right up against the door trying to manipulate the handle, but she was in such a state that her fingers couldn't do it. She was jumping from foot to foot, screaming and beating her fists against the door in frustration and fright. I came up behind her, got hold other arm, and shook her.

"Stop it! Stop it!"

It wasn't the right thing to do. She was hysterical.

I looked into her eyes under the tears and said, "Look, people are trying to kill you. Do you understand that? Do you want to die?"

She tried to shake me off. I put my hand over her mouth and listened to her blocked-up nose fighting for oxygen. I got her face right up against mine.

"These people are trying to kill you. Stop crying, do you understand me? Stop crying."

She went quiet and limp and I let go of her.

"Give me your hand, Kelly."

It was like holding lettuce. I said, "Be quiet and just listen to me. You've got to listen to me, OK?" I was looking at her eyes and nodding away.

She just stared through me, tears still running down her cheeks, but she was trying to hold them back.

I pushed the fire-exit bar and cold, damp air hit my face. I couldn't see anything because my night vision was fucked. I dragged Kelly by the hand, and the clunks of our footsteps echoed down the metal stairs. I didn't give a fuck about the noise; we'd made enough already.

Running toward the fence, I slipped in the mud. Seeing me fall, Kelly let out a cry and burst into tears again. I shook her and told her to shut up.

As we got to the fence I could already hear sirens on the highway. I had to assume they were coming for us. After a moment I could hear more noise coming from the parking lot area.

"Wait here!"

I climbed up the chain-link fence with the equipment, dropped it over the other side, and jumped. They were getting closer, but I couldn't see them yet. Kelly was looking at me from the other side of the fence, bobbing up and down, hands on the wire.

"Nick--Nick... Don't leave me here."

I didn't even look where I was digging. My eyes were fixed on the gap between the two buildings. Coming from my right to left, flashing blue lights on the highway lit up the sky.

Kelly's whimpers turned to sobs.

I said, "We'll be all right, we'll be all right. Just stay where you are. Look at me! Look at me!" I got eye-to-eye.

"Stay where you are!"

The lights and noise were now on Ball Street. I got hold of my documents and put them in my pocket.

All the vehicles had stopped, their sirens dying. The blue lights were still flashing, reflecting on Kelly's face, wet with tears.

I looked at her through the fence and whispered, "Kelly!

Kelly!"

She was in a daze of fear.

"Kelly, follow me now. Do you understand? Come on!"

I started moving along the fence. She was whining and wanting her mommy. She sounded more and more desperate.

As her feet slapped the ground it made her pleas sound like somebody talking in a helicopter. I said, "You've got to keep up, Kelly, you've got to keep up. Come on!"

I was moving fast. She slipped and fell into the mud. I wasn't there to pick her up this time. She lay there sobbing.

"I

want to go home, I want to go home so bad. Please take me home."

By now there were three police cars on the scene. We weren't even two hundred yards away yet. Very soon they would use their searchlights and spot us.

"Get up, Kelly, get up!"

The target now seemed surrounded by a haze of blue and red lights. Flashlights were already jerking in the darkness at the rear.

We carried on until we got level with the alley. The sound of sirens again filled the night.

I climbed over the fence, the bag nearly landing on top of Kelly as I let it fall. I grabbed her right hand with my left and started toward the alley.

I needed to find a car that was parked in the shadows and old enough to have no alarms.

We emerged from the alley and turned left, following a line of parked cars. I found an early nineties Chevy. I put the bag down and ordered Kelly, "Sit by this."

I opened the bag and got out the picks. Minutes later I was in. I wired up the ignition and the engine fired. The digital clock said 3:33.

I let the engine run and put the windshield wipers and heater on full blast to clear the morning dew. I got hold of Kelly and the bag and threw them both in the back.

"Lie down, Kelly, go to sleep." No argument from her on the lying down. She might have trouble sleeping, though. Perhaps for the rest of her life.

I drove to the road and turned left, nice and slow. After just a quarter of a mile I spotted flashing lights coming toward me. I got my pistol out and put it under my right thigh. If these boys stopped me, I'd have to take them on. There was no way I was going to let the fuckers take us.

I shouted back at Kelly, "Stay down, do not get up, do you understand?"

There was no reply.

"Kelly?"

I got a weak "Yes."

If I had to kill these policemen, it would be unfortunate, but when all was said and done this was the sort of thing they got paid for. I made my plan. If they stopped me, I'd wait until one or both came within range. The pistol was where my hand would naturally go, and I'd draw down on them.

The flashing blue and red came closer. I just drove on toward them. My mind-set was that I was a shift worker, on my way to earn my living. Now their lights were making me screw up my eyes so I could see beyond.

I wasn't worried. I felt very calm. Just wait and see. They sped past at more than sixty.

I looked in the rearview mirror. They hit the brakes; now I was sweating. I watched and made distance at the same time.

The brake lights went off. Either they'd just been slowing down or they'd changed their minds.

I needed to dump this car before first light, which was probably the earliest the owner would discover it missing. I also had to get both Kelly and me a change of clothes, and we had to get into another hotel.

Kelly started yelling, "I want to go home! I want to go home! I want my " "Kelly, we are going home! But not yet!" I had to shout to cut in.

I couldn't see her, so I tilted the mirror. She was curled up with her thumb in her mouth. My mind flashed back to the times I'd found her like that and I said, quietly, "We will, don't worry."

We were following a road that seemed to parallel the Potomac, on its west side. After about half an hour I found an all-night supermarket. I parked. There were maybe twenty or thirty vehicles outside; at that time of the morning most of them probably belonged to employees.

Kelly didn't ask why we were stopping. I turned around and said, "I'm going to get us some more clothes. Do you want anything? Shall I see if they've got a deli and we'll get some sandwiches?"

She whimpered, "Don't go, don't leave me!" She looked as if she'd been slapped. Her face was bright red, with puflfy eyes and wet hair stuck to her face. You don't take a beaten-up seven-year-old with blood on her clothes into a store after four in the morning.

I leaned over into the back, unzipped the bag, and took out the coveralls. I said, "I've got to leave you here. I need somebody to look after everything." I pointed to the bag.

"Can you do that for me? You're a big girl now, a great spy."

She nodded reluctantly.

I started to get the coveralls on while still sitting in the car seat.

"Nick?"

"What?" I was busy fighting with a leg.

"I heard shooting. Is that man dead?"

"Which man is that?" I didn't want to turn around, didn't want to face her.

"No, he's not. I think he made a mistake and thought we were someone else. He'll be OK."

I was now arching my back to get the top half on.

"The police will take him to the hospital."

That was enough of that. I quickly got out of the car and poked my head back in. Before I even started to outline the routine she said, "You're coming back, aren't you? I want to go home and see Mommy."

"Definitely, I will come back, no problems, and you will see Mommy soon."

I turned the interior light on and moved the rearview mirror so I could see my face. The deep cuts on my forehead and under my eye were still wet, the plasma trying hard to get a scab going. I spat on my hand and used the cuff of the coveralls to wipe the rest of the blood off, but there wasn't much more I could do. Industrial accident.

I signaled Kelly to lock the door and lie down. She nodded and complied.

I grabbed a cart and went through the electric door. I got money from the ATM, then two sets of everything for Kelly and me, plus a washing and shaving kit and a box of baby wipes, and some painkillers for my neck. It was hurting bad now. I could look left or right only by turning my whole body.

I must have looked like a robot. I threw in some Coke, chips, and cookies.

There weren't many shoppers. My cuts drew the odd glance but no stares.

I got back to the car and tapped on the window. I didn't say anything. Kelly stared up; the windows were now covered in condensation, so she had to wipe it with her sleeve. I could see she'd been crying. I pointed at the lock, and she opened it.

I was all big smiles.

"Hiya, how's it going?"

There wasn't much of a reply. As I dumped all the purchases onto the passenger seat, I said, "Look, I've got a present for you." I showed her a Snickers bar. There was a reluctant smile. She took it and opened it.

I looked at the car clock. It was nearly 5 a.m. We started driving toward the Beltway, then headed west.

I saw the sign for Dulles International and slowed down for the exit. We had to dump the car soon; I had to assume that the driver was an early riser.

Kelly was lying in the back, staring at the door. Either she was in a dream world, or she had been damaged mentally by what she had seen. At the moment I didn't really care which.

We were about eight miles from Dulles. I started to keep a lookout for hotels. I saw the sign for an Economy Inn.

Absolutely perfect but first, we had to get ourselves cleaned up.

As we continued on toward the airport I could see the wing lights of an aircraft making its approach about four miles away. I followed the signs to the economy parking, having stopped just short to check for cameras at the entrance. There weren't any; they must register on the way out. I took my ticket and parked among thousands of other cars.

"Kelly, we're going to get you dressed in some new clothes," I said.

I showed her what I'd bought, and as she was getting un dressed, I got out the baby wipes and cleaned her face.

"Here, let's get rid of all those tears, let's clean you all up, here you are, here's a brush." I brushed her hair too quickly; it hurt her.

"OK, let's get this sweatshirt on you. Here you go. There, you're looking good. Here's another wipe blow your nose."

While she was doing that, I got myself changed as well, then dumped all the clothes in the passenger foot well Kelly was still looking miserable as the shuttle took us to the terminal. We walked into the departures area. The terminal was busier than I'd been expecting at this time of the morning. People were checking in all along the lines of desks, hanging around in the shops, or sitting in the cafes, reading newspapers.

I wasn't saying much to Kelly, just holding her hand as I moved along, bag on my left shoulder, looking for the Ar rivals sign, then to the taxi stand. An escalator showed me the way down. We were nearly at the bottom when Kelly announced, "I need to go to the bathroom."

"You sure?" I just wanted to get out of there.

"I'm really sure."

"OK." After the last time I'd learned my lesson.

I followed signs to the rest rooms. They were to the left, near the large exit doors from international arrivals. You went in through one of two large openings in the wall and immedi lately came across a row of seven or eight disabled toilets, all unisex, and on either side of this were the entrances to the men's and women's rooms. I stayed outside in the main concourse, watching all the people who were waiting for the automatic doors to open and their loved ones to be disgorged.

You always know when you're being stared at. I'd been standing there a minute or two when I became aware. I looked up. It was an old woman, standing against the rail facing me on the opposite side of the channel made by the barriers, Obviously waiting for somebody to come through. There was a silver-haired man with her, but her eyes were fixed on my face.

She looked away, turning her back to the exit doors, even though people were streaming out with their carts. Every few seconds I heard a scream of joy as people were reunited.

What had she been looking at? The cuts on my face? I hoped it was just that. There was nothing I could do about it anyway. I would just shake it off, but keep an eye on her all the same.

Then I saw her start talking to her husband. She wasn't passing the time of day. Her body language looked urgent and agitated. He looked over in my direction, then back at her; he gave her a shrug that said, "What the hell are you talking about, woman? " She must have seen Kelly and me going into the rest rooms and said to herself, "Where do I know those two from? " I wasn't going to move. I wanted to see what she was doing. The moment she started to walk away, I'd have to take action.

I could tell she was still trying to figure it out. I felt my heart pumping. I avoided eye contact, but I knew she was staring. Any moment now she'd remember the news report where she'd seen Kelly's face.

The seconds ticked by. At last Kelly came out and stood by me, a big smile on her face.

"Shall we go now?" I said, grabbing her hand before she could answer.

As I turned with her for the exit, I could clearly see the woman tugging her husband's arm. She recognized us. How ever, the husband had now seen whoever it was they were meeting and was looking the other way.

She pulled his arm more urgently.

I wanted to run, but that would confirm it for her. We walked, and I talked crap to Kelly with the actions of a happy dad.

"Look at those lights, aren't they nice? This is the air port I fly into every time I come here, have you been here before?" Kelly didn't have time to answer any of my stupid questions.

I had to fight the urge to turn around and look. I started to think, what if? If I got the police on me here, I was fucked.

There was nowhere to go, just more of the airport, with more security than you could shake a nightstick at. My eyes were darting around. We had about thirty or forty yards to go to the exit sign. With each step I expected to hear a cop shouting for me to freeze. All I could hear was the general hubbub and the occasional squeal of greeting.

We reached the exit, turned left, and started walking downhill on a wide ramp that led down to the pickup points and the taxis. The moment we'd made that angle I started to move faster and chanced a look behind.

There was a fine drizzle in the air as we exited and looked for the stand.

Kelly said, "What's up?"

I said, "There's the taxis, let's go."

We had to wait for three other people in the line before it was our turn. I felt like a child who desperately wants a toy and cannot wait any longer. Come on, come on!

At last we jumped into a cab and drove off. I turned and looked behind me. Nothing. I still couldn't relax. Kelly could obviously sense the drama but didn't say another word.

I tried to block it out of my mind. Look hard enough and you'll find a positive in even the worst situation--that was what I'd always told myself. But I couldn't get a silver lining out of what had just happened. If the old woman did make the connection and told the police she had seen us heading for the taxis, it was negatives all the way.

I looked at Kelly and yawned.

"I'm sleepy," I said.

"What about you?"

She nodded and put her head in my lap.

I gave the driver directions. Once off the freeway we drove a few blocks, then I got him to pull in. I watched him drive away as we stood in the parking lot of the Marriott. We would walk to the Economy Inn from there.

"We're going to a hotel now," I said.

"Usual story. I'll be saying a lot of things that aren't true, and all you've got to do is be quiet and look really tired, OK? If you do what you're told and it works out, we can go home." We walked toward the reception.

There was a young guy on the desk, his head buried in a textbook. We went through all the same routine, only this time I'd been beaten up during the robbery. He looked embarrassed. "All of America's not like this, you know. It's beautiful." He started talking about the Grand Canyon; after making a promise that I'd make a point of visiting it this trip, I turned and walked out.

When we got to the room, I started helping her off with her coat. As she turned so that her other arm came out of the sleeve, she asked without warning: "Are we going to see Mommy and Daddy now?"

"Not yet, we've still got things to do."

"I want my mommy. Nick. I want to go home. You promised."

"We will go soon, don't worry."

"Are you sure Mommy and Daddy and Aida will be there?"

"Of course they will be."

She didn't look convinced and sat on the edge of the bed. It was crunch time. I couldn't carry this on anymore. If we got out of this mess, I couldn't bring myself to let her be dumped on her grandparents or whoever and find out what a lying bastard I'd been all this time.

"Kelly.. ;' I sat next to her and started stroking her hair as she laid her head on my lap.

"Kelly, when you get home, Mommy, Daddy, and Aida will not be there. They've gone to heaven. Do you know what that means?"

I said it as almost a throwaway, not really wanting to get into it any deeper. I wanted her to say, "Oh, I see," and then ask me if we could have Mickey D's.

There was a pause while she thought about it. All I could hear was the hum of the air-conditioning.

Her face creased into a frown.

"Is it because I didn't help Daddy?"

I felt as if somebody were stabbing me. But it wasn't too hard a question; I felt OK. answering that one.

"Kelly, even if you had tried to help Daddy, they still would have died."

She was crying quietly into my leg. I rubbed her back and tried to think of something to say.

I heard: "I don't want them to be dead. I want to be with them."

"But you are." I was fumbling for words.

She lifted her face and looked at me.

"You are with them. Every time you do something that you did with them means they are with you."

She was trying to work this one out. So was I. "Every time I eat a pizza with mushrooms I think of your mommy and daddy, because I know your mommy liked them.

That's why they are never far away from me--and why Mommy, Daddy, and Aida will be with you all the time."

She looked at me, waiting for more.

"What do you mean?"

I had to think quickly.

"I mean, every time you put plates on a table Mommy will be with you because she showed you how. Every time you catch a ball, Daddy is with you because he taught you. Every time you show someone how to do something, Aida is with you--that's because you used to show her how to do things. You see, they are always with you!"

I didn't know how good it was, but it was the best I could come up with. She was back on my leg; I could feel the heat of her tears and breath.

"But I want to see them. When will I see them. Nick?"

I hadn't gotten through. I didn't know who was more upset, me or Kelly. A large lump was swelling in my throat. I had gotten into something I couldn't get out of.

"They aren't coming back, Kelly. They are dead. It's not because of anything you did or didn't do. They didn't want to leave you. Sometimes things happen that even grownups can't fix."

She lay there listening. I looked down. Her eyes were open, staring at the wall. I stopped stroking her and put my arm around her.

People need to show sadness and loss. Maybe this was the time for Kelly to do that. If so, I wanted to reach out, not cross the street. I just didn't know if this was how you did it.

"You will be with them one day, but not for a long time. You will have children first, just like Mommy. Then your children will be sad when you die, just like you are now. They all loved you very much, Kelly. I knew your mommy and daddy for only a few years. Just think--you knew them all your life!"

I saw a small smile moving across her face. She pressed her body closer into my legs.

"I want to stay with you. Nick."

"That would be nice but it wouldn't work. I travel a lot. You have to go to school and learn how to be a grownup."

"You can help me do that."

If only she knew. I hadn't even a garage to keep a bike in, let alone somewhere to look after a child.

Your weapon, your kit, and only then yourself--that's the order of things. I wanted to ease my magazine springs; it wasn't strictly necessary, but I felt that I needed to do it to mark the end of one phase and the beginning of a new one.

By now Kelly was sound asleep.

I plugged in the telephone to recharge it. It was my lifeline.

Then I tipped all the supplies out of the bag and sorted them out. The new clothes were put to one side, and I packed the CTR stuff back into the duffel. I was pissed off about having to leave the video camera on the roof; it would be found and a connection inevitably made between us and the shooting.

Plus, the videotape was lost, and that might have been of use to Simmonds--it might even have been enough to guarantee me a future.

I repacked the kit and lay back on the bed, hands behind my head. Listening to the low drone of the air-conditioning, I started to think about this whole fucking game and how people like me and McGear were the ones that got used time and time again. I was starting to feel sorry for myself. I cut it. McGear and I both had a choice; this was what we chose to do.

There were a few good things that had come out of last night's drama. At least I didn't have to worry about dumping all the blood-and piss-stained clothes that were in the blue duffel. The cops would no doubt match the blood to the Browns', but that was nothing compared with the trouble I was already in. And best of all, I had confirmed a definite connection between Kev, PIRA, the building, and whatever it was that I'd copied from that computer.

I wasn't going to attempt to get the laptop out and start messing around with it now. I was too tired; I'd make mistakes and miss things. Besides, the adrenaline had gone, and the pain across my back and neck was even more intense.

I had a hot shower and tried to shave. McGear's bite marks on my face were scabbing nicely. I left them to sort themselves out.

I dressed in jeans, sweatshirt, and running shoes and reloaded my mags. I needed rest, but I had to be ready for a quick move. The plan was to have a couple hours' sleep and something to eat, then sit down and see what was on the laptop, but it didn't work out. I tossed and turned, snatched a bit of sleep, woke up.

I turned the TV on and flicked through the channels to see ifMcGear was news yet. He was.

The cameras panned the front of the PIRA building, with the obligatory backdrop of police and ambulance crews, then a man faced the camera and started rattling on. I didn't bother turning the volume up; I knew the gist of what he'd be saying.

I was half-expecting to see my piss-covered homeless friend describing what he had heard or seen.

Kelly was starting to toss and turn, probably with pictures ofMcGear in her head.

I lay there looking at her. The girl had done well, without a doubt. The last few days had been chaos for her, and I had really started to worry about it. Seven-year-old kids shouldn't be exposed to this sort of shit. Nobody should. What would happen to her? It suddenly occurred to me that I was worrying more about her than I was about myself.

I woke with the TV still on. I looked at my watch: 9:35. At noon Pat would be calling me. I hit the Off button. I wanted to start working on the laptop. I started to get up and found I could hardly move. I felt like a very senior citizen as I lifted myself off the bed, my neck as stiff as a board.

I made a racket getting the laptop out of the duffel and plugging everything in. Kelly started to wriggle around. By the time I'd got it up and running and connected to the backup drive, she was propped up on one elbow watching me. Her hair looked like an explosion. She listened for a while as I cursed the laptop for not accessing the backup drive, then said, "Why don't you just reboot and then look at the program?" I looked at her as if to say. You fucking smartass! Instead, I said, "Mmm, maybe." I rebooted, and it worked. I turned around and smiled at her and got one in return.

I started to scroll through the files. Instead of the business like file names I'd been expecting, the documents had code words like Weasel, Boy, Bruce. A lot of them turned out to be spreadsheets or invoices I could see what they were, but I didn't know what they meant. To me, the whole forty or so pages could just as well have been in Japanese.

I then opened up the file called Guru. It was just dots and numbers across the screen. I turned to Kelly.

"What's that then, smart guy?"

She looked.

"I'm only seven, I don't know everything."

It was five minutes to noon. I turned the phone on and carried on flicking through the files, trying to make sense of them.

Twelve o'clock came and went.

By a quarter past, the call still hadn't come in. I was sweating. Come on. Pat, I need to get out of the US and back to Simmonds. I have enough information maybe. The longer I stay now, the higher the risk. Pat, I need you!

For Slack to miss an RV there must be a major drama; even when he was high, he'd managed it before. I tried to block dark thoughts by telling myself that he'd call at the next arranged window. But as I carried on halfheartedly on the laptop, I started to feel almost physically sick. My only way out had been lost. I had that awful, sinking feeling that everything was going to go horribly wrong. I needed to do something.

I closed down the laptop and put the backup disk in my pocket. Kelly was half-buried under the covers, watching TV.

I joked, "Well, you know what I'm going to have to do in a minute, don't you?"

She jumped out of bed and threw her arms around me.

"Don't go! Don't go! Stay and watch TV with me. Maybe I can come with you?"

"You can't do that, I want you to stay here."

"Please!"

What could I do? I felt her pain at being scared and alone.

"OK, come with me but you've got to do what I say."

"I will, I will!" She jumped up and went to get her coat.

"No, not yet!" I pointed to the bathroom.

"First things first.

Get in that bath, wash your hair, come out and I'll dry it, then you'll get changed into your new clothes, and then we'll go out. OK?"

She was trembling like a dog about to go for walkies.

"Yeah, OK!" She skipped to the bathroom.

I sat down on the bed and shouted into the bathroom as I flicked through the news channels.

"Kelly, make sure you brush your teeth or they'll all fall out and you won't be able to eat when you're older."

I heard, "Yeah, yeah, OK."

I found nothing more about McGear. After a while I walked into the bathroom. The toothpaste tube hadn't been squeezed.

"Have you brushed your teeth?"

She nodded, looking guilty.

I said, "Well, let's have a smell." I bent down and put my nose near her mouth.

"You haven't. Come on, do you know how to brush your teeth?"

"Of course I know how to brush my teeth."

"Show me then."

She picked up the toothbrush. It was way too big for her mouth, and she was brushing from side to side.

I said, "That's not the way you've been taught, is it?"

She said, "It is, too."

I slowly shook my head. I knew that she would have been taught properly. I said, "All right, we'll do it together." I put some toothpaste on the brush and made her stand in front of the mirror. I stood beside her, and she watched as I pretended to brush. Looking after kids was easy after all. It all came down to EDI: explanation, demonstration, imitation. Just that instead of doing it with a weapon to a room full of recruits, I was doing it with a seven-year-old girl.

"Now with me, like this, then brush around in little circles. And let's make sure we do the backs."

And then it got silly. She started to laugh at the sight of me pretending to brush my teeth, and as she laughed, all the toothpaste sprayed from her mouth and onto the mirror. I laughed with her.

She got on with her bath and changed into her new jeans and sweatshirt. I'd also bought us matching baseball hats at the supermarket, black denim with the words Washington,

D.C.

I wet my hair and washed, and we both looked sparkly clean. She put on her new blue coat and sneakers and we were all ready to go. My plan was to get to the vicinity of Pat's apartment. When he rang at six o'clock, we'd be able to meet right away.

What was I going to do with the backup disk? I decided to hide it in the room, because I was going to split my gold; if the backup stayed here and Kelly came with me and we were lifted, at least they wouldn't have the whole enchilada. The long, dark wood sideboard with the TV on top covered a third of the room; it was about two feet high and rested on little half-inch legs. I lifted one corner, gaffer-taped the disk to the underside, and positioned a couple of telltales. One last look around the room and we left.

It was drizzling and slightly colder than earlier in the morning. Kelly was on cloud nine; I gave her the same smiles and happy noises back but underneath I was sweating about Pat. As we crossed the grass to avoid the lobby, I wondered about phoning Euan. I decided not to. Not yet, anyway. I might need him later. He was a card to keep up my sleeve.

The whole area was dotted with hotels. We walked across the road to one about four hundred yards away, and I went into the lobby and ordered a taxi. Kelly waited outside under the awning.

As I came out again I said, "When we get into this taxi I'm going to put your hood up and I want you to rest against me as if you're sleepy. Remember, you promised me you'd do exactly what I said."

The taxi turned up and took us to Georgetown. Kelly leaned against me, and I got her nuzzled in on my lap with her hood up so it hid her.

We got out on Wisconsin. It was four o'clock, and every body around us looked so normal as they chatted, strolled, enjoyed their shopping. Two hours to go before Pat rang. By five-thirty the Georgetown mall where we were sitting was quite warm and we were both feeling sleepy.

I was having a coffee, Kelly was having a milk shake, which she wasn't touching because by now she was full of burger. I looked at the display of my watch every half minute until it was five to six. Then I switched the phone on. Good battery level, good signal strength.

Six o'clock came.

Nothing.

A minute past.

Two minutes past.

I sat there almost paralyzed with disbelief. Kelly was absorbed in a comic she'd picked out for herself.

Four minutes past. This was desperate. Pat wouldn't let me down unless he couldn't help it. He knew as well as I did that on operations, if you're a minute late, you might as well be an hour or a day late, because people's lives might depend on it. The attack might have gone in, unsupported by your covering fire.

There must be a problem. A major problem.

I kept the phone switched on. Finally, at six-twenty, I said, "Come on, Kelly, we're going to visit Pat."

Now the normality stopped. There was serious shit coming down. All hope had evaporated. As we came out of the mall, I flagged down a cab.

Riverwood turned out to be a well-established, upscale area, rows of weatherboarded houses with neat lawns and two European cars in the drive, and smart apartment buildings with underground parking. The shops reflected its wealth, with good bookstores, expensive-looking boutiques, and small art galleries.

I stopped the cab a block past Pat's street. I paid the driver, and he left us in the light rain. It was getting dark, a bit earlier than it should have, but the cloud cover made everything gloomy. Some cars already had their headlights on.

"Let's hope Pat's in," I said.

"Otherwise we'll have to go all the way back to the hotel without saying hello!"

She looked excited about meeting him. After all, this was the man I'd said would help her go back home. I couldn't be sure if what I had said about her family had sunk in. I didn't even know if kids her age understood that death was irreversible.

Looking up the hill, I could see that Pat's street was pure Riverwood, broad and elegant, with houses and shops that had been there for years. Above the skyline one or two new apartment buildings seemed to be taking over, but even they looked very ordered, clean, and wealthy. I wasn't entirely sure which one Pat lived in, but it was easy enough to count the numbers and figure it out. We walked past, and I had a clear view into the secure rear parking lot. I saw the red Mustang, redder than Satan's balls. It was a quarter past seven. If he was there, why the fuck hadn't he phoned?

We went into a coffee shop across the way. The waft of newly ground beans and the blare of rumba music inside La Colombina took me straight back to Bogota; maybe that was why Pat had chosen to live here. We wanted a window seat, which wasn't a problem. The glass was misted up; I cleared a circle with a paper napkin and sat and watched.

Kelly was doing what she had been told, keeping quiet until I told her not to be. Anyway, Girl! magazine seemed the thing to shut kids up with. I checked the phone. Good signal, plenty of power.

A waitress came over to take our order. I was going to ask for food even though I didn't really want any because it would take time to prepare it, and then it would take time to eat it, and that way we could spend more time here without it looking unnatural.

"I'll take a club sandwich and a double cappuccino," I said. "And what do you want, Josie?"

Kelly beamed at the waitress.

"Do you do Shirley Temples?"

"Sure we do, honey!"

It sounded like a cocktail to me, but the waitress went away quite happily to order it. Kelly returned to her magazine, and I just kept looking out the window.

The drinks arrived. When we were alone again, I said, "What is that?"

"Cherries and strawberries, mixed with Sprite."

"Sounds disgusting. Can I have a sip?"

It tasted to me like bubblegum, but it was obviously what kids liked. She was guzzling it down almost frantically.

The sandwich mountain arrived. I didn't need it, but I ate it anyway. In my days in the SAS and since, I'd learned to think of food the way an infantryman thinks of sleep: Get it down you whenever you get the chance.

Things were running their natural course in the coffee shop; it was now coming up to three-quarters of an hour that we'd been sitting there, and you can stay in a place only for so long without arousing suspicion or drowning in coffee.

Kelly made the decision for me as she spoke.

"So now what are we going to do?"

I put some cash on the table.

"Let's zip you up and see if Pat is home."

We went out and walked past Pat's apartment once again.

The car was still there. I was desperate to know one way or another what was going on. If it was just that he didn't want to play anymore, that was fine. But I couldn't really see that; I knew that he wanted to help. There was a problem, without a doubt. But I needed it confirmed; then I could reassess and make a plan without him in it.

As we walked back down the hill, Kelly asked, "Do you actually know where Pat lives?"

"Yes I do, but I know he's not there yet. We've just walked past his place and I couldn't see him."

"Can't you phone him?"

I couldn't contact him directly; if the phone was tapped, I didn't want anyone to make the connection between us. I'd promised not to compromise him. But she'd just given me an idea all the same.

"Kelly, do you want to help me play a trick on Pat?"

"Sure!"

"OK, this is what I want you to do."

We kept on walking and started to do a circuit around the area. We practiced and practiced until she said she was ready to go. We got to a phone booth about three blocks away, an open booth attached to the wall. I brought the receiver down to Kelly's level.

"Ready?"

She gave me a thumbs-up. She was excited; she thought this was great.

I dialed 911, and about three seconds later Kelly was shouting, "Yes, I've just seen a man! I've just seen a man on the second floor, eleven twenty-one Twenty-seventh Street and and he's got a gun and the man's shot, and and and he's got a gun please help!"

I put my hand on the hook.

"Good one! Now, shall we go and see what happens next?"

I picked a different route back. This time we were going to approach from the top of the hill and walk down toward the apartment building. By now it was properly dark, and still very wet. Heads bent in the rain, we made it to Twenty-seventh Street, turned right, and started walking slowly down the hill.

I heard its siren first, louder and louder, then the flash of its emergency lights as a police cruiser sped past us. Then I saw other blue and red lights, all flashing in the darkness in the area of the apartment.

As we got closer I made out three police cars. An unmarked car turned up, a portable light flashing on the roof, just above the driver.

We walked farther down and came to a bus stop. All I was doing was watching and waiting--much like everybody else--as a small crowd had gathered.

"Are they all coming for Pat?" Kelly asked.

I was too busy feeling depressed to answer; the sight of an ambulance arriving had pole axed me. I stroked her head over her coat hood.

"I'll tell you about it in a minute. Just let me watch what's happening."

A quarter of an hour went by. Local TV news crews were in sight. I then saw them come out: two guys with a gurney, and on top was a corpse in a body bag. I didn't have to see the face to know who was inside. I only hoped it had been quick for him, but judging by the condition of the Browns I had a terrible feeling that it hadn't.

I said quietly, "We're going to go now, Kelly. Pat's not there tonight."

I felt as if my most treasured possession had been stolen from under my nose, and I knew that I'd never get it back. Our friendship had been rekindled after all these years, and this was the price Pat had paid for it. I felt lost and desperate, as if I'd got detached from the rest of my patrol in hostile territory, without a map, or a weapon, and no hint of which way to go.

He was a true friend. I would miss the man with no ass.

As Pat was being loaded into the ambulance, I forced myself to cut away from the emotion. I turned and started to walk back down the way we'd come, to avoid the police. One of the cars had now left with its siren going and the ambulance was just about to. I imagined the crime scene people inside the apartment, putting on their coveralls and unpacking their gear. Again I tried to make myself look at the situation logically. Pat was gone; now all I had left was Euan.

We took the first left to get off the main drag, and I listened as the ambulance siren twice went off to maneuver through traffic.

We kept going along the road. It wasn't a main thoroughfare;

it was residential on both sides, large houses with wide stone staircases leading up to the front doors.

I had Kelly's hand. We were walking without talking.

Feelings about Pat had no place in my mind at the moment.

What mattered was what information about us he could have given to whoever had zapped him. PIRA or Luther and Co." who could tell? It had to be one or the other. If it was connected with me, of course. Fuck knows what else he could have been up to. However, I had to work on the basis that whoever killed him wanted to know where we were. All Pat knew was the phone number, and that I was going into the PIRA office. OP SEC operational security might have saved our lives.

I was thinking so hard that at first the voice didn't really register. Then I thought it was Kelly, so I was going to give her hand a bit of a squeeze and tell her to be quiet and let me think. But then it spoke again, a man's voice, low, resolute, and this time there was no mistaking the words.

"Freeze. If you move, I'll kill you. Stay exactly where you are. Do not move."

It wasn't a druggy voice, it wasn't a young nervous voice;

it was a voice that was in total control. I kept my hands where they were.

Kelly flung her arms around my waist.

"It's OK, it's all right. They aren't going to hurt you," I lied like a cheap watch.

His footsteps moved from behind me and to the left. He must have come from the service alley that ran behind the houses we'd just passed.

He said, "You have two choices. Get smart by keeping still.

Get dead by moving." The voice was late twenties, early thirties, precise, well drilled.

It was pointless trying to draw on him. He would kill me the instant I made a move.

I decided to take choice one.

More footsteps came from the other side, and somebody was tugging Kelly away. She cried out, "Nick! Nick!" but I couldn't help. Her grip was no match for theirs. She was dragged behind me and out of sight. I still couldn't see anything of the guys who'd caught us. I made myself calm down and accept what was happening.

The voice started to give me commands in the same no-nonsense, almost pleasant voice. He said, "I want you to raise your hands slowly, and put them on top of your head. Do that now."

When I'd complied, he said, "Now turn around."

I turned and saw a short, dark-haired man aiming a pistol at me in a very professional manner. He was standing about ten yards away at the entrance to the alley. He was breathing heavily, probably after running around the streets to find us both. He was wearing a suit, and I saw Velcro. I now knew who had gotten to Pat.

"Walk toward me. Do it now."

I couldn't see Kelly. She must have already been taken down the alley. They had got her at last. I pictured Aida's savaged little body as I came toward him.

"Stop. Turn left." Very low, very calm and confident. As he said it, I heard a car pull up to my right, and out of the corner of my eye I could see it was the blue Caprice from the first motel.

"Walk." I moved into the alley. Still no sign of Kelly.

I heard, "Get on your knees."

I knelt down. I'd never been particularly worried about dying; we've all got to check out sometime. When it did happen I just wanted it to be nice and quick. I'd always hoped there was an afterlife, but not as reincarnation back on Earth.

I'd hate to find myself back here as something low down the food chain. But I wouldn't mind a spiritual thing where you just become aware of everything from the truth about the creation of humankind to the recipe for Coca-Cola. I'd always known I was going to die early, but this was just a bit too early.

Nothing was happening and nothing was said. Then what must have been that Caprice drove into the alley behind me, its headlights illuminating the rears of the houses. Each had facing garages and three or four cars parked along the sides of the alley. I could see my kneeling shadow against the wet asphalt.

The engine was still running, and I heard the doors being opened. There was radio traffic from a different voice;

this one had an accent that should have been selling hot dogs in New York. He was giving a location.

"Affirmative, we're in the service road for Dent and Avon. We are on the south side. You'll see our lights. Affirmative, we have both of them."

I stayed on my knees with my hands on my head in the rain while we waited for the others to arrive. I heard footsteps coming toward me from the car. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes, expecting to be given the good news. They walked slightly past me to my right and stopped.

I didn't hear the second one come up behind me. I just felt a heavy hand grip my own firmly on my head as the other felt for my weapon. The hand pulled out the Sig, and in front of my face I watched him check the safety catch as he released his grip on my hands and, in the same movement, produced a clear plastic bag. I could smell coffee on his slightly labored breath.

Nothing happened for a moment or two, apart from the rustling of the bag behind me. Into view on my right came a man who looked a bit like a fashion seeker, dressed in a black suit with a mandarin jacket. Fuck me, it was Mr. Armani. He was maybe late twenties, very clean-cut, and dark and smooth. He probably glided over the ground so his shoes never got wet. He was covering me.

I heard Kelly crying in the background. She must have been in the car. Fuck knows how she got there, but at least I knew where she was. The man behind me continued with the search and placed my stuff in the bag.

The hot-dog seller was being quite good with her; he didn't sound too aggressive or rough. Maybe he had kids of his own.

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

"What's your name?"

I couldn't hear her reply, but I heard him say, "No, little lady, I don't think your name's Josie, I think your name is Kelly."

Good one, mate, at least you tried!

Car lights stopped on the main road about 150 yards farther down, at the end of the alley. Then the red lights of a car in reverse were coming toward me.

By now all my stuff was in the plastic bag and being held by whoever was behind me. I was still on my knees, hands on head, with Mr. Armani hovering to my right.

There were noises of more people behind me. Hopefully they were passersby who would report us. But to whom? My hopes collapsed as I heard the driver get out of the Caprice and start to speak.

"That's OK, folks, everything's under control. There's nothing to see here."

I was confused. How could they just move people on unless they were law enforcement? Maybe there was a glimmer of hope; maybe I'd be able to talk my way out of this one. I still had the backup disk hidden. Maybe I could bargain with it.

The reversing car stopped about five yards away and three people got out the driver from the left-hand side, and two out of the back. At first they were in shadow and I couldn't see their faces, but then one walked into the glare of the other car's headlights. And then I knew I was really in for it.

Luther was looking a little the worse for wear, and he wasn't blowing me kisses. He looked like a pissed-off devil with a large gauze dressing. He was still in a suit, but he wouldn't be wearing a tie for a while. I could tell by the smile on his face that he had a few tricks saved up for me. I guess I'd earned them. He walked toward me. I thought he was going to make a point. I closed my eyes and got ready to take the hit, but he walked straight past. That scared me even more.

Luther started to talk as he got to the car.

"Hi, Kelly, re member me? My name's Luther."

There were some mumblings in reply. I was straining to hear the conversation, but only the adult voice was audible.

"Don't you remember me? I came to pick your daddy up for work a couple of times. You have to come with me now, because I have been sent to look after you."

I could hear protests from the car.

"No, he's not dead. He wants me to collect you. Now come on, move it, you little bitch!"

Kelly screamed, "Nick, help! I don't want to go!" She sounded terrified.

Luther walked back to his car with her. He had his arm around her tight to stop her from bucking and kicking. It was all over in a few seconds. Once Kelly was secure in the back of the car, all three drove off. I felt as if I'd been taken down by the fire extinguisher again.

"Get up." My hands were still on my head, and I felt someone's hand grip onto my right triceps and lift me up. I heard the car behind me move.

I looked to my right. The short guy had hold of me with his left hand; in his right he had the plastic bag with Kev's mobile, my weapon, wallet, passport, ATM card, and loose change. He turned me around to face the car, which had just finished parallel parking in the road, pointing toward the right. Mr. Annani had me covered.

I'd stayed calm so far. But I had to get out of this shit now. I was going to be killed, it was as easy as that. The engine was running, and I had about ten yards in which to do something.

Whatever I did, there would have to be a lot of speed, aggression, and surprise. And it must work the first time; if not, I was dead.

The guy who was holding me was right-handed or he wouldn't be dragging me along with his left, and therefore, if I started fucking around, he would have to drop the bag and draw his pistol. If I was wrong about that, I would soon be dying. But I was dead anyway, so fuck it why not go for it?

There were about three yards left between me and the car. By now Mr. Armani had glided to the rear door to open it and, as his eyes glanced down for the door handle, I knew it was time.

YAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

Screaming at the top of my lungs, I brought my right hand down hard, half-turned my hips, and hit his left shoulder as hard as I could.

I had surprise on my side. All three now had to take in what was going on and make an assessment. It would take them little more than a second to turn that assessment into reaction.

As I hit him, I started to push in an attempt to spin him to his left so that his right side would come toward me. We were both screaming now. He'd already made his assessment. He dropped the bag and was going for his weapon.

I knew that for him also it was happening in slow motion. I could see the saliva spray out of his mouth as he shouted a warning to the others. There was nothing to worry about with the other two at the moment; if they were quicker than me, knowing about it wouldn't make it any better.

Looking down on his belt, I could see the pistol moving slowly toward me as he spun around. Nothing else mattered. I kept my eyes on it. I heard the other two screaming. We were all at it.

The Colt .45 is a single-action weapon, which means that all the trigger does is release the hammer. To cock the hammer in the first place and chamber the first round, you must first rack back the top slide by pinching in with the fingers and thumb of the left hand against its serrations, pulling it back firmly to the rear, and releasing. The pistol can be carried "cocked and locked" hammer back and safety on, with a round in the breech. The Colt has both a manual safety and a grip safety. Even if the manual safety is off, your hand must be firm enough on the grip to keep the grip safety depressed or the weapon won't fire.

I grabbed the pistol with my left hand, I didn't care where.

At the same time I brought my right hand down, with four fingers together and my thumb stretched out to present a big re cess for the weapon. I pushed onto it with the web of my hand, taking the manual safety catch off with my thumb and using the web of my hand to release the grip safety by holding the weapon correctly. I couldn't see if the hammer was back. And I had no way of knowing if the weapon had a round in the chamber. With my left hand, I racked the top slide back to cock it. It had already been cocked. A brass round spun out of the ejection port, glinting as it tumbled in the street lights. It didn't matter losing one round; at least I wouldn't get a dead man's click.

I knew the first threat was Mr. Armani. He had a weapon in his hand.

I kept turning in the direction the shoulder hit had taken me, and as I did I came up into the aim, firing low because these fuckers wore armor. Armani went down. I didn't know if he was dead.

I kept on spinning and dropped the short guy, moved for ward, and looked at the driver. He was still in his seat, but in a crouched position, screaming and writhing.

I ran to his side of the car, pointing the pistol.

"Move over!

Move over! Move over!"

I pulled the door open and, keeping the pistol on him, kicked him with my right foot. I wasn't going to start dragging him out; it would take too long. I just wanted to get in the car and go. I shoved the muzzle into his cheek and pulled out his weapon, kept it, and threw mine out--I didn't know how many rounds were left.

The injury was to his upper right arm. There was a small entry hole in the material, but not much blood around the site.

He must have taken one of the rounds aimed at Armani as I spun around. His hand, however, was red and dripping from where blood was coursing down his arm. The .45 round is big and heavy and doesn't fuck about. The massive exit wound would have blown away most of the underside of his arm. I would be having no problems from this guy.

As I drove off I screamed at him, "Where are they going?

Where are they going?"

His answer was half a cry, half a shout.

"Fuck you! Fuck you!" His dark-gray suit was turning brown with blood.

I jabbed his leg hard with the pistol.

"Where are they going?"

We were on a narrow residential road. I tore off both side mirrors in the process of turning to question him. He told me to fuck off again, so I fired. I could feel the air pressure change as the gases left the barrel, and then the smell of cordite filled the air. There was an explosion of material and flesh as the round plowed a twelve-inch furrow along and down into his leg. He howled like a stuck pig.

I didn't know where I was heading. The driver's screams quickly subsided, but he kept thrashing about. His convulsions left him on his knees in the foot well with his head on the seat. He was starting to go into shock. He was probably wishing he did sell hot dogs in New York.

"Where are they going?" I demanded again. I didn't want him to pass out before I got the information.

"They're heading south," he moaned.

"Route ninety-five south."

We were speeding on the elevated section of the highway that led to the interstate.

I looked across.

"Who are you?"

His face screwed up in pain as he fought for breath. He didn't reply. I hit him on the temple with the pistol. He gave a low moan and moved his fingers sluggishly from his leg to his head. We passed the Pentagon, then I saw the sign for the Calypso Hotel. It seemed like a bad dream.

"Who are you? Tell me why you're after me!"

I could barely hear his reply. His mouth was dribbling blood, and he was finding it hard to breathe.

"Let me go, man. Just leave me here and I'll tell you."

No way was I falling for that one.

"You're going to die soon. Tell me and I'll help you. Why are you trying to kill us? Who are you?"

His head lolled. He didn't reply because he couldn't.

I found them just short of the Beltway, in the middle of the three lanes. It was easy to pick them out in my headlights. I could see they were still three up; one in the front, two in the back. No sign of Kelly but there was enough space between the two in the back to have another body between them. She was only a little fucker; her head wouldn't be showing.

I couldn't do anything on the freeway, so now was the time to calm down and get my head around the next plan. What was I going to do? Whatever it was, it had to be soon, because I didn't know their destination, and 1-95 goes all the way to Florida. Much nearer, however, about thirty minutes away, was Quantico, the FBI and DEA academy. It was starting to make sense. Luther and the other guy coming to the house, both knowing Kev; they were all the same group. But why would they kill Kev? And if they were the killers, what connection then did "bad DEA" have with my "friends over the water"? Was there something happening here between these two groups that Kev had discovered and got fucked over for?

I thought again of Florida and it gave me an idea. I tucked it away for later.

I looked down at the driver. He was in shitty shape, still losing blood. He was sitting in a pool of it because the rubber mat in the foot well stopped the carpet from soaking it up. I could see his face as the lights from the opposite side of the freeway hit us now and again; all the agitation had drained from it and he looked ashen, like an old fish; life was slowly going out of his eyes, which were staring into space. He was going to die soon. Tough shit.

I reached over, flipped open his jacket, and took the two magazines that were in a holder on his shoulder holster. He was oblivious to what I was doing; he was in his own place now, perhaps reflecting on his life before he died.

I had surveillance on the target car. My wipers were on high-speed as the trucks and cars splashed more water onto the windshield than the rain itself. I put the defroster on full blast. The driver's leaking blood and my own sweating body were misting the car up big-time.

A freeway was perfect for my purposes; I could just drive along and even allow a bit of distance to develop to the point of letting another car get in between me and the target. As an exit came up I'd just get a little bit closer; if he was going to turn off, I could then fall in naturally and come up behind him.

After about another five minutes I saw a sign saying lorton 1 mile. They started to indicate that they were getting into the right lane to make the exit. They weren't going to Quantico after all. This would be the time to hit them. I glanced down, changed mags, and checked chamber. As I came across to get into the right lane, I realized for the first time that we were driving through heavily wooded terrain.

The tires throbbed rhythmically as they hit the joints in the concrete freeway.

By now the driver had slumped completely into the foot well with his back against the door. It was only the body armor under his shirt that gave him posture. He was dead.

I was now in the exit lane, just twenty yards behind them, close enough to be on top of them, but far enough away so that if they looked behind, they'd just see headlights. Nobody turned their head; they didn't seem to be aware of me. I started to take deep breaths and spark myself up.

The Lorton exit ramp went slightly uphill with a gentle curve to the right. The tall trees on each side gave the impression of a tunnel. I planned to do it at the first intersection. My brain was in overdrive, getting me into a mind-set, trying to take the fear away.

I could see traffic lights in the middle distance and put my foot on the gas to close up even more. Their brake lights came on, then their right turn signal. A truck thundered past from left to right. It looked like it was a wide major road ahead.

The car started its right turn. Pushing myself back into the seat, I put my foot down hard on the accelerator and braced my arms on the steering wheel.

I must have been doing about forty-five and still accelerating as I drew level and yanked the wheel hard to the right.

My right fender hit the front of theirs. There was a massive jolt. My air bag exploded as the car slewed around into the main drag. The other car spun sideways. I heard glass shattering and the screech of tortured rubber.

The moment the vehicle came to a halt I jabbed at the seatbelt release and opened the door. The air felt freezing. At first all I could hear was the hiss of the radiator and the ping ping ping warning that the door was open and the lights on; then came the sound of muffled shouts from inside the other vehicle.

The first priority was the driver. The car had to be immobilized.

He was still fighting his seat belt. I fired through the windshield. I didn't know where I hit him, but he was down.

As I looked into the back I could see Kelly, or at least her shape. She was low down in the foot well hands over her ears.

Luther was getting his first rounds off at me. His door was half open, and he was starting to roll out. I'd have been doing the same because a car draws fire--so you need to get out of the way. As he rolled I kept on firing, just below the level of the door. He screamed. I'd got him. I couldn't tell whether it was a direct hit or the splash of the round off the asphalt, but it didn't matter, the effect was the same.

I moved from behind the hood of my car to take on the third guy. He was out now but had had a change of heart. He put his hands up and yelled, "Don't do it, don't do it!" His eyes were like saucers. I double-tapped him in the head.

Kelly was still curled up in a ball in the foot well She wasn't going anywhere.

I searched the two bodies for wallets and magazines. I left Luther for last.

He was on the ground behind his car, hands clutched to his chest.

"Help me... help me... please..."

He'd taken a round in the armpit as he rolled on the ground, and it must have continued on into his chest cavity. I thought of Kev, Marsha, and Aida and kicked. He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a gurgle. He was on his way out. Good. Let it happen slowly.

I ran back for Kelly and lifted her out other hiding place. I had to shout at her above her screams.

"It's OK, Kelly. I'm here, it's OK."

I held her tight in my arms. She was nearly deafening me.

"It's all over now! It's OK!"

It wasn't.

The police would be here soon. I looked around. The inter section was with a main road, two lanes in each direction. To my left and downhill was 1-95, crossing the road by a bridge, with a Texaco gas station about four hundred yards away on the other side of it on the right. Uphill and about the same distance away a Best Western hotel cut the skyline.

Lights were coming from the exit road toward us. Luther was lying there softly moaning to himself. He wasn't dead, but it wouldn't be long. The lights came closer.

Kelly was still hysterical. Grabbing her to conceal my pistol, I went behind the two cars. The lights were nearly level with us. I moved out and waved the vehicle down.

The good Samaritans were in a Toyota Previa, man and woman in the front, two kids in the back. I played the traumatized victim for all I was worth, shouting, "Help! Help!" as I rushed to the driver's side. The woman was at the wheel; she opened her door.

"Oh my God, oh my God!" Her husband already had his cell phone out to call for an ambulance.

I put the safety catch on and held the gun against her face.

"Everybody out now! Get out, get out now!" My other arm was windmilling like a madman's. Hopefully they'd think I was one.

"Get out! I'll fucking kill you! Get out!"

The one thing I did know about families is that no one will risk theirs. The husband started to lose it.

"Please don't, please don't!" Then he started to cry.

Kelly had quietened down, listening to my act.

It was the mother who kept her cool.

"OK, we are getting out. Dean, get the kids out. Out!"

Dean got his act together. I yelled at him, "Throw your wallet back inside!"

I pushed Kelly through the sliding door, slammed it shut, ran around to the driver's side, climbed up, and we were off.

I wanted to get away from the initial danger area, then sort myself out. The freeway was out because it would be too easy for the police to pick me up. I drove up onto the intersection and turned left under the bridge, past the garage. The road became a normal two-lane highway, and I put my foot down.

This was no time to be explaining stuff to Kelly. She was curled up in the backseat, sobbing. My adrenaline rush was slowing down, but my face was soaked with sweat and I was lathering up. I took deep breaths, trying to get more oxygen into my body and calm everything down. I felt unbelievably angry with myself for losing control back there. I should have killed Luther right off the bat, not fucked around.

I realized we were heading south, away from the airport.

I'd have to stop and get my shit together instead of just running in a blind panic. I pulled over and checked the road atlas.

Kelly didn't look good, but I didn't have too much of a clue what to say to comfort her.

"It's OK now," I tried.

"I told you I was going to look after you, didn't I?"

She looked up at me and nodded, her bottom lip quivering.

I made a decision. Fuck it, let's just go straight to the hotel, get the backup disk, and clear out. I swung the Previa around in a U-turn, heading for the freeway. We stayed on it until we hit the Beltway.

Blue lights flickered toward us. There must have been ten of them. I wasn't worried. Even if they did ID me, they'd have to get across the median.

It took us just under an hour to get to the Economy Inn. We drove straight into the parking lot, and I told Kelly to wait where she was. If she did hear me, there was no reaction. I tried again and got a nod.

I went upstairs, got out my pistol, and went inside. I pulled the bureau onto its side, the TV crashing onto the floor, and ripped the disk away from the tape. If Luther and company were connected with PIRA, they must know I had a disk they had to assume it, anyway. Retrieving the black bag, I went into the bathroom and threw two hand towels into the bath and ran the water. While that was happening I got the plastic laundry bag from the drawer. I put in the wet towels and some soap. I walked out of the room, keeping the do not disturb sign on the handle.

Kelly was still curled up in the backseat. We drove straight down the road to the Marriott. I parked up alongside a line of cars and pickup trucks and grabbed the towels. The moment I opened the door, Kelly ambushed me, throwing her arms around my neck and clinging hard. Her whole body was shaking.

I lifted her head off my shoulder. Blood from the guy I'd head-jobbed had gone all over my jacket, and now some of it was on her face, too, mixing with her tears. I whispered in her ear, "It's OK now, Kelly, really it is it's all over."

She held on even harder. Her tears were warm and wet on my neck.

I said, "I've got to go and get another car, so I want you to stay here. I won't be long."

I started to lift her away from me to put her back on the seat but she resisted, burying her face into my shoulder. I could feel the heat of her breath through the material of my jacket.

I put my hand on the back of her head and rocked gently.

For a moment I didn't know who was clinging to whom. The idea of what was happening and who might be behind it scared me shitless. I had to confirm what Luther had said, and now was as bad a time as any.

"Kelly, do you know Luther?

Was it true what he said about him coming to pick up Daddy?"

I could feel her head nod slowly against my shoulder.

"I'll never leave you alone again, Kelly. Let's just clean ourselves up a bit, shall we?"

I tried to sound happy as I used one of the wet hand towels to wipe her face.

"If you're going to come with me, I'd better give you a really important job. I want you to look after the bag while I go and get a car, OK?"

"OK."

As she dried herself I checked the wallets. Just over two hundred dollars in all.

The parking lot surrounded the whole hotel and was lit only by borrowed light from the street. The area dividers that made it easier for people to find their cars were waist-high bushes and shrubs, with small trees around the main perimeter. There was plenty of shadow. I positioned Kelly in a clump of shrubbery with the bag.

"Don't come out until I stop the car and get out to fetch the bag,

OK?"

"Will I be able to see you?" she whispered as she put her hood up. Her coat was already wet from the leaves.

"I want to see you."

I had my eye on a family-size Dodge among the long lines of cars. I said, "See that big blue car over there? That's the one I'm going to pick up." I didn't actually want to tell her I was going to steal it, which seemed crazy after what had just happened.

It took about five minutes to break in. The vehicle started immediately. I put the windshield wipers and defroster on high, rubbing the inside of the screen with my sleeve. I backed up to the bushes, stopped, and got out. Kelly climbed into the front with a big smile, and we started off. I stopped.

"Seat belt!"

She put it on.

We headed south on 1-95. About twenty miles before the Lorton exit we came across temporary traffic signs warning us that the junction was closed off. As we crossed the bridge, I looked down to my right and got a bird's-eye view of the shooting. Police cars dotted the area, red and blue lights flashing. I didn't slow down with the rest of the traffic to take a closer look.

The gas gauge showed three-quarters full, so we could gain a decent distance before refueling. I turned on the radio, surfing the channels to find some news.

There was quite a lot of traffic, which was good because it made us just one of many, but the highway itself was mesmerizingly boring. The only variant was that sometimes it was two lanes, then three, then back to two. At least it had stopped raining.

After a hundred miles or so I was exhausted and my eyes were starting to sting. I stopped for gas just over the Virginia-North Carolina border and continued on south.

Kelly was asleep in the back.

By 1 a.m. we had traveled about 170 miles, but at least the speed limit was higher now, up from sixty miles an hour to seventy. I kept seeing large billboards featuring a cartoon of a Mexican, advertising a place called South of the Border. That would be our next stop in two hundred miles' time.

We crossed into South Carolina at about 5 a.m. South of the Border, just a mile or two farther down the road, turned out to be a mixture of service area and amusement park. It was probably a great hit with families going to and from the beaches of North and South Carolina. It covered a huge area and included beachwear shops, grocery stores, drugstores, even a bar with dancing. It looked as if it was still open, judging by the number of cars parked outside.

I started to fill up with gas. The weather was only a little bit warmer than in D.C." but I could hear the crickets; it definitely felt like I was going south. I was still standing there watching the numbers spin on the pump when a brand-new four-wheel-drive Cherokee rolled up. Rap music blared out as the doors opened. Inside were four white college-age kids, two boys and two girls.

Kelly had already been awoken by the strong white light under the filling station's canopy and now took an interest in the mobile disco. I motioned with my hand through the window to ask her if she wanted a drink. She nodded, rubbing her eyes.

I went inside, picked up some drinks and sandwiches, and went up to the counter. The cashier, a guy in his late fifties, started totaling up my stuff.

The two girls came in, followed by one of the boys. Both girls had dyed-blond shoulder-length hair. The lad was skinny, pimply, and had an unsuccessful attempt at a goatee.

The cashier winked and said quietly, "Love is blind." I smiled in agreement.

The girls were talking to each other, making more noise than the music system. Maybe they'd blown their eardrums. I looked outside at the other boy filling up. All were in the same uniform: baggy T-shirts and shorts. They looked as if they'd been to the beach. You could tell they had money-Daddy's money.

They lined up behind me. One of the girls was going to pay.

"That was a totally cool day," she shouted. I was meeting a real-life member of the cast of Clueless. By the sound of the conversation their parents were total assholes who never gave them enough money, even though they were loaded and could easily afford it.

The cashier gave me my change and leaned over to me. "Maybe getting a job would help!" His eyes twinkled.

I grinned back and started to pick up my stuff from the counter. The girl came up to pay and opened her purse. Clueless Two, still behind me with the boy, was pissed off by the cashier's comment, and at me for agreeing.

"Look at that face, guys!" she stage-whispered behind my back.

"What's bitten you, mister?" The lad guffawed.

Daddy was very generous by the look of it, no matter what she said. I saw a wad of cash and enough cards for a bridge tournament. The other two were holding the beers they'd gotten from the fridge and were giggling. I left.

Our vehicles were facing each other at the pumps. Sitting in the front of the Cherokee was the fourth member of the group, who'd finished filling up and was now air-drumming along to whatever shit was on the

CD.

Kelly was stretched out across the backseat. I went over to her window and tapped. Kelly sat up, startled, and I held out her Coke.

The other three were now coming out of the shop. Clueless Two was still pissed off. As they got in their car I heard one of the girls shriek, "Fucking asshole," and they closed the doors to gales of laughter.

I got into the Dodge and drove over to the air pump. The story was now being told to the driver, and I could see them all getting worked up about it. The boys had to show how hard they were, and the girls didn't like being shown up in front of their beaus. There was a lot of chemistry driving out of the garage.

As the Cherokee rolled away from the pumps, it caught me in its headlights, chatting away with Kelly as I checked the tires. They slowed right down and looked at us. Clueless One must have made a crack about my appearance, because they all laughed and the driver gave me the finger to make him look good, then zoomed off into the night.

I gave it about a minute, backed out, and followed.

I didn't want to do it on the highway unless I had to. Sooner or later I knew they'd turn off the main drag so they could drink those beers out of sight of highway cops and maybe spread a couple of blankets on the ground.

After just five miles we followed the big Jeep onto a potholed road that seemed to go through the middle of nowhere.

"Kelly, see that car ahead? I have to stop and ask them something. I want you to stay in the car, OK?"

"OK." She was more interested in the Coke.

I didn't want to force them off the road or do anything drastic. It had to look natural in case another car drove past.

We passed a roadside store that was closed, then a large truck stop, then a trailer park and a big stretch of dark nothingness, then an isolated house. I was beginning to think I'd fucked up when at last it happened. I saw a stop sign four hundred yards ahead; accelerating, I got a bit closer and checked for other car lights.

I drove up on their left-hand side. Beeping my horn, I waved at them with the road map and gave a big smile. They all looked over, and as I turned the interior light on they saw first me, then Kelly in the back half-asleep. They looked worried, then recognized me as the asshole from the gas station, Jokes were exchanged, and their beer cans came back up to their mouths from their hiding places.

I got out. The crickets were louder out here than at the filling station. I kept looking at them, smiling. The map was for Washington, D.C." but they couldn't see that, and by the time they did, it would be too late.

The driver was making a comment to the rest, probably proposing driving off as soon as I got to the door.

I said, "Hiya! Can you help me? I'm trying to get to Raleigh"--which was a place I'd seen signs for on the freeway, way back in North Carolina.

As the electric window rolled down farther, I could hear whispered giggles from the backseat ordering the driver to tell me to fuck off. I could see he had other ideas, maybe to send me anywhere but Raleigh.

"Sure, man, I'll show you."

I offered the map through the open window.

"I don't know how I got lost. I must have taken the wrong exit after I got gas.

He didn't need the map. He started to give directions, pointing down the road.

"Hey, man, just turn left and go for about twenty miles until you see ..." The girls were liking this one, working hard to stifle their sniggers.

I got hold of his head with my left hand, pulled my pistol up, and stuck it into the young flesh of his cheek.

"Oh shit, he's got a gun, he's got a gun!"

The other three went silent, but the driver's mouth went into free wheel

"I'm sorry, man, it was a joke, just a joke.

We're drunk, man. It's the bitch in the back who started it.

I've got nothing against you, man."

I couldn't even be bothered to answer him. I shouted into the back, "Throw your purses out! Now!"

My Southern drawl was quite good, I thought. I just hoped I was looking scary enough. The girls passed over their handbags.

By now the driver was trembling, and quiet tears rolled down his cheeks. The girls huddled together.

I looked at the front passenger.

"You."

He looked at me as if he were one of a hundred I could be talking to.

"Yes, you. Give me your money, out this window." It took all of two seconds for him to comply.

It was the driver's turn. He beat his pal's record. I reached in, took the keys, and put them in my pocket. He didn't seem too clever now. I had another look around for lights. All clear.

The pistol was still against the driver's skin. I said quietly into his ear, "I'm going to kill you now."

Everyone else heard it and wanted nothing to do with him.

I said, "Say whatever prayer you need to say, and be quick."

He didn't pray, he begged.

"Please don't kill me, man, please don't."

I looked down and saw that his shorts, made of gray sweatshirt material, were rather darker now. Daddy would not be impressed with the stains on his nice beige leather.

I was quite enjoying it, but knew I had to get going. I stepped back and picked everything off the road. I glanced at Clueless Two. She looked like she'd swallowed a wasp.

"What's bitten you?" I said.

I got in the car, did a one-eighty, and drove off.

Kelly said, "How come you made those people give you their money?" She sounded confused.

"Because we need loads of money, and we're much nicer than they are, so they wanted us to have it."

I looked at her in the rearview mirror. She knew damned well I was lying.

I said, "You want a job?"

"Like what?"

"Count this money."

She opened up the bags and wallets and piled all the bills in her lap.

"At least a million dollars," she said at length.

"Maybe count it once more to check."

Five minutes later I got the more realistic figure of $336.

The clueless girls were wrong. Daddy was a diamond.

We started seeing signs for Florence. That would do me fine.

The town was about sixty miles away, and it was about five-twenty in the morning. It would be getting light by sevenish, and if possible I wanted to be in a town before dawn. I'd dump the Dodge, and we'd have to find some other form of transport. We had to get to Florida if I was to get the help I needed.

About ten miles short, I saw a sign for a tourist information area. I pulled in and took a free map of the town and surrounding area. Kelly was half-awake as we parked. I opened the door and got out. The birds were singing, and I could just make out first light. There was a little nip in the air, but you could tell it was going to be a nice warm day. It felt great to have a stretch. I stank of sweat and had a layer of grease on my skin; my eyes were stinging and no doubt bloodshot and swollen from lack of sleep. The pain in my neck still made me walk as if I had a plank of wood strapped to my back.

The map showed a train station in the town; not necessarily helpful, but it was a start. I got back into the car and started to get the bags and wallets together to dump. All were expensive leather. A couple were even monogrammed. Inside one of them I found coke and a lump of pot in a plastic bag. The spoiled brats had obviously been on spring break, college kids using up all their hormones before the end of the semester. Mom and Dad worked their asses off and provided for these kids and they thought the world owed them a living.

Fuck 'em, I was glad I'd robbed them. I laughed; they were probably still sitting there blaming each other, trying to think of a way of getting piss stains off leather upholstery. There was a good chance they'd be too embarrassed to even report it. I dumped everything in the trash cans.

We drove toward the train station. It looked as if the town center were terminally ill, but big efforts had been made to keep the patient alive; the old historical part had been rejuvenated, but it seemed that every store sold candles, perfumed soap, and potpourri. There was nothing there for real people, no life in it at all.

We got to the station, which could have been any station in any town, mil of the homeless who stay there because it's warm. It reeked of bodies and decay. Drunks were sprawled on benches that nobody in their right mind would go near for fear of getting their head bitten off.

I looked at the departure signs. It seemed we could get to De Land by train, with a bus transfer to Daytona Beach. It was just before six; the train would be arriving at seven.

The ticket office was already open and looked as if it had been modeled on an urban 7-Eleven, wire mesh everywhere, painted white but chipped. I could just about see the large face behind it that was demanding to know where I wanted to go.

An hour later we got on the train, found our seats, and collapsed. Our car was no more than half full. Kelly cuddled into me, dog-tired.

"Nick?"

"What?"

I was busy looking at the other passengers. They all looked like me, frazzled grown-ups looking after kids.

"Where are we going?"

"To see a friend."

"Who's that?" She sounded happy at the idea. Probably she was fed up with my company.

"He lives near the beach. His name is Frankie."

"Are we going on vacation with him?"

"No, Frankie's not that kind of friend."

I decided to keep the conversation going, as she would be asleep in no time at all. The rhythmic sounds and motion of the train would soon send her off.

"Who is your best friend? Is it Melissa?"

"Yes."

"How come she's your best friend?"

"Uh we ride bikes together, and go to each other's houses a lot. We have secrets."

"What kind of secrets do you have?"

"Silly, that would be telling! Who's your best friend?"

That was easy, but I wasn't going to say his name. If we were lifted again, I would hate it if he was mentioned and put in danger. The sun was starting to burn through the windows;

I leaned across her and pulled down the blind.

"My best friend is called ... David." It was about as far away from Euan as I could think of.

"Just like you and Melissa, we tell each other things that no one else knows. In fact, he has a daughter who's just a little bit older than you.

No one else knows about her apart from David and me and now you!"

There was no reply. It seemed she was starting to doze off. I continued anyway, I didn't know why.

"We've known each other since we were seventeen, and we've been friends ever since." I started to stroke her hair. I was going to talk more but found it really hard to tell her. I couldn't put it into words. Euan and I were just there for each other and always had been. That was it, really. I just didn't have the tools to describe it. Frank de Sabatino had been crossed off the Christmas-card list of LCN La Cosa Nostra in Miami and for his own protection had been sent over to the UK as part of the federal witness protection program. I had been one of the team charged with looking after him for the three months he spent in Wales before returning to the US. I remembered Frankie as about five-foot-five and seedy; he had very black, tight, curly hair that looked as if it had been permed in the style of a 1970s pop star.

The FBI had been investigating LCN in South Florida they don't use the word "Mafia" and had discovered that de Sabatino, a thirty-four-year-old computer nerd who worked for one of the major players, had been skimming off hundreds of thousands of dollars from their drug operations. The government agents coerced de Sabatino into gathering evidence for the prosecution. He had no choice if he were arrested, LCN would be told what he'd been up to. LCN members in prison would have done the rest. Pat had had a good relation ship with him during the job, and we'd later joked that maybe that was why he'd got out right afterward. I now knew that Pat had liked to sample the goods a bit too much.

Frankie's clothing had been anything but low profile; to him, "subdued" meant a pale orange shirt with purple pants and alligator skin cowboy boots. Whatever he was wearing, his fat would push up against his shirt. The last I'd heard of him, he'd been given a new identity after the trial and, very surprisingly, had opted to stay in the States and, even more weird, in Florida. Maybe the shirt selection wasn't so good elsewhere.

I'd thought again about calling Euan, but what could he do for me at the moment? I decided against it; better not use up all my resources at once. Frankie would help decrypt the PIRA stuff, then Euan could help me once I was back in the UK.

We got to De Land station just before 2 p.m. The bus was waiting to take us to the coast. After so many hours of air-conditioning on the train, the Florida afternoon hit me as if I'd opened the door of a blast furnace. Both of us were blinking like bats under the clear, oppressive sky. We were surrounded by people wearing tans and summer clothes. The electronic information scroll at the station told us it was ninety-one degrees.

We boarded the hot bus, sat down, and waited for the PVC to stick to our backs as we chugged along the highway to the Daytona Beach bus depot.

It was an uneventful trip. Occasionally from behind us would come the sound of rolling thunder, and a blur of chrome, leather, and sawed-off denim would flash past with the distinctive, explosive bubbling gurgle of a Harley-Davidson. I'd forgotten Daytona Beach was a mecca for bikers. From the bus window, the roadside diners looked black with them.

Two hours later we trundled across the bridge over the inland waterway into downtown Daytona Beach. We peeled ourselves off the seats, and I reclaimed our bag. The first thing I did was buy us two fresh-squeezed orange juices, and as we walked from the shelter of the bus depot I could feel the sunlight burning through my shirt.

At the taxi stand I asked the driver to take us to an ordinary hotel.

"What kind of ordinary?" he asked.

"Cheap" The driver was Latino. Gloria Estefan blasted out of the cassette player; he had a little statue of the Virgin Mary on the dashboard, a picture of his kids hanging off the mirror, and he was wearing a big, loud, flowery shirt de Sabatino would have died for. I rolled my window down and let the breeze hit my face. We turned onto Atlantic Avenue, and I found myself staring at a massive white ribbon of hard-packed sand that stretched to infinity. We drove past diners, beachwear and biker stores, Chinese restaurants, oyster houses, 7-Elevens, parking lots, tacky hotels, then more diners and beachwear stores.

The whole place was built for vacations. Everywhere I turned I saw hotels with brightly colored murals. Nearly all had signs saying spring breakers welcome. There was even a cheerleaders convention going on; I could see scores of girls in skimpy outfits strutting their stuff on a ball field outside the convention center. Maybe Frankie was there, sitting in a corner, ogling.

"Are we there yet?" Kelly asked.

The driver said, "Two more blocks on the left."

I saw all the usual chain hotels, and then ours--the Castaway Hotel.

Standing on the sidewalk outside, listening to Gloria's singing disappearing into the distance, I looked at Kelly and said, "Yeah, I know--crap."

She grinned.

"Triple-decker crap with cheese."

Maybe, but it looked perfect for us. What was more, it was only twenty-four dollars a night, though I could already tell from the outside that we'd get only twenty-four bucks' worth.

I came out with the same old story, plus us being determined still to have our Disney vacation. I didn't think the woman at the desk believed a word I was saying, but she just didn't care, as long as I gave her the cash that went into the front pocket other dirty black jeans.

Our room was a small box with a pane of glass in one wall.

The floor had a layer of dust that it would have been a shame to clean, and the heat bouncing off the cinder block made it feel like the black hole of Calcutta.

"Once the air-conditioning is on it'll be OK.," I said.

"What air-conditioning?" Kelly asked, looking at the bare walls.

She flopped onto the bed. I could swear I heard a thousand bedbugs scream.

"Can we go to the beach?"

I was thinking the same, but the first priority, as ever, was the kit.

"We'll go out soon. Do you want to help me sort every thing out first?"

She seemed happy at the suggestion. I gave her the .45 magazines from the Lorton exit shooting.

"Can you take the bullets out and put them in there?" I pointed to the side pocket of the bag. The mags didn't fit into my Sig, but the rounds were the same.

"Sure" She looked really pleased.

I didn't show her how to do it because I wanted to keep her busy. I hid the backup disk inside the bed, using one of the screwdrivers to rip the mattress lining. I got the washing kit out, had a shower and a shave. The scabs were a dark color now and hard. I got dressed in my new jeans and gray T-shirt.

Then I got Kelly cleaned up too.

It was 4:45. She was still getting dressed in black pants and a green pullover as I leaned over to the cabinet between the two beds and pulled out the telephone book.

"What's this?" I pointed a thumb at the TV " The Big Bad Beetleborgs." "The who?"

She started to explain but I wasn't really listening; I just nodded and agreed and read the phone book.

I was looking for the surname DeNiro. It was a crazy name for him to have chosen, but I remembered that was what he'd renamed himself: Al DeNiro. For somebody who was supposed to spend his life keeping a low profile it wasn't exactly the most secure, but he was Al and Bob's biggest fan. The only reason he'd got involved in the drug scene in the first place was that he'd seen Al Pacino in Scarface. His whole life had been a fantasy. He knew all the dialogue from their films;

he'd even entertained us in Wales with passable impressions.

Sad, but true.

There was no listing under De Niro, A. I tried directory assistance They couldn't help, either. The next step would be to start phoning all around the state or to get a private eye on it with some story, but that was going to take a lot of time and money.

Scratching my butt until I realized Kelly was watching, I walked over to the curtains, and pulled them back. We were two bats in the bat cave again, exposed to the deadly sunlight.

Craning my neck around to the left, I could just about see the ocean view I'd paid an extra five dollars for. People were strewn all over the beach; there was a young couple who couldn't keep their hands off each other, and families, some with tans and others like us, the lily-white ones, who looked like uncooked trench fries. Maybe they'd come on the same train.

I turned to Kelly. She was happy enough that the Beetle-borgs had saved the world again, but looked bored.

"What are we going to do now?" she said.

"I've got to find my friend, but I'm not sure where he lives.

I'm just wondering how to go about it."

"The computer geek you told me about?"

I nodded.

All very nonchalant, she said, "Why don't you try the Net?" She wasn't even looking at me; she was now back to watching the shit on the TV Of course--the bloke is a computer freak, there's no way he's not going to be on the Internet, probably surfing the porn pages for pictures of naked teenagers. It was as good a starting point as any. Better than my private eye idea, anyway.

I walked over to the bag.

"You can use the Net, can you?"

"Sure. We do it at school."

I started to get the laptop out, feeling quite excited about this girl's genius.

I suddenly realized that even if there was an internal modem and Internet software on the laptop, it would be no good to me. I didn't have any credit cards I could use to register with, and I couldn't use the stolen ones because they'd need a billing address. I put the laptop on the bed.

"Good idea," I said, "but I can't do it on this machine."

Still looking at the TV, she was now drinking a warm Minute Maid that had been in the bag, using both hands on the carton so she didn't have to tilt her head and miss anything.

She said, "We'll just have to go to a cyber cafe--when Melissa's phone was out of order, her mommy used to go to the cyber cafe for her email."

"Oh, did she?"

* * * Cybercino was a coffee shop with croissants, doughnuts, and sandwiches, with the addition of office dividers to create small cubicles. In each was a PC, with a little table for food and drink. Pinned on the dividers were notices about session times, how to log on, and little business cards advertising various sites.

I bought coffee, doughnuts, and a Coke and tried to log on.

In the end I handed the controls to a more skilled pilot. Kelly zoomed off into cyberspace as if it were her own backyard.

"Is he on AOL, MSN, CompuServe, or what?" she demanded.

I didn't have a clue.

She shrugged.

"We'll use a search engine."

Less than a minute later we were visiting a site called Info-Space. Kelly hit the e-mail icon and a dialogue box appeared.

"Last name?"

I spelled out De Niro.

"First name?"

"Al."

"City?"

"Better leave that blank. Just put Florida. He might have moved."

She hit Search, and moments later, up came his e-mail address.

I couldn't believe it. There was even a Send Mail icon, which she hit.

I sent a message saying I wanted to contact Al De Niro-or anyone who was a Pacino/De Niro fan and knew "Nicky Two" from the UK.. That was the nickname de Sabatino had given me. There were three Nicks on the team. I was the second one he'd come in contact with. When we met he would do his Godfather thing, holding out his arms, saying, "Heyyy, Nicky Two" as he gave me a kiss and a hug. Thankfully, he did that to everyone.

The cafe would open the next day at 10 a.m. Our session fee included the use of the Cybercino address, so I signed off by saying that I would log on at 10:15 tomorrow morning to retrieve any messages. The risk that his e-mail was being monitored and somebody could make a connection with "Nicky Two" was minimal.

By now I was hungry for more than doughnuts, and so was Kelly. We walked back toward the main strip and stopped at our favorite restaurant. We ordered to go and ate our Big Macs on the walk back. The temperature was still in the seventies, even at this time of the evening.

"Can't we play miniature golf?" Kelly said. She pointed to what looked like a cross between Disneyland and St. Andrews with trees, waterfalls, a pirate ship, all made to look like a floodlit Treasure Island.

I actually enjoyed it. There was no danger, and the pressure release was tremendous, even though Kelly was cheating.

She started to putt on the eleventh hole. A dragon behind us was blowing out water rather than fire from its cave.

"Nick?"

"What?" I was busy working out how to negotiate the ninety-degree angle I needed to hole the ball.

"Can we see your friend, what's his name David?"

"Maybe some day." I swung, and it didn't work. I was stuck on the water obstacle.

"Do you have any sisters or brothers?"

Where was this going?

"Yes, I have."

"How many?"

I marked my card after six attempts on a par three hole.

"Three brothers." I decided to cut the interrogation.

"They are called... John, Joe, and Jim."

"Oh. How old are they?"

She got me on that one. I didn't even know where they lived, let alone how old they were.

"I don't know really."

"Why not?"

I found it hard to explain because I really didn't know the answer.

"Because." I positioned the ball for her to putt.

"Come on or we'll hold everyone up."

On the way back I felt strangely close to her, and that worried me. She seemed to have latched on to me as a stand-in parent and we'd been together only six days. I couldn't take the place of Kev and Marsha, even if I wanted to. The prospect was too scary.

Next day. It was ice cream for breakfast, then we logged on at ten-fifteen. There was a message waiting for us, telling us to visit a certain chat room. Kelly hit a few keys and there we were. De Sabatino was waiting for us, or at least someone called Big Al was. A dialogue box invited us to a private room for a one-on-one; thank goodness Kelly was there to do the navigating.

I got right down to it. Kelly typed with two fingers: I need your help.

What do you want?

I've got something here that I need you to decode or translate--I'm not entirely sure what it is, but I know you'll be able to do it, What is it? Work?

I needed to get him hooked. For him, half the point of stealing all that money had been the sheer kick of doing it-"the juice." Thinking about it now, Pat had probably got the term from Big Al in the first place. This guy enjoyed putting one over on the big boys; he needed to be involved, to be part of something, and I knew that if I used the right bait, he'd come and see me.

I spoke and she typed: I'm not going to tell you! Believe me, it's good. If you want to look, you'll have to see me. I'm in Daytona. And then I started to lie. Other people say it's impossible.

I thought of you.

He came back at once: What format? I'd got him.

I told him all the details.

He said. Can't see you until 9 tonight. Outside Boot Hill Saloon, Main Street.

I'll be there.

Big Al came back: Yeehaa! Yeehaa!

There was nothing changed about him, then. Kelly logged off, and we paid the twelve dollars. About a hundredth of what a private eye would have cost me.

Now we had hours to kill. We bought sunglasses, and I also got Kelly a fashionable pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and sandals. I had to stay as I was, wearing my shirt over my pants to cover my pistol. The only addition was a bandanna to cover the cut on my forehead. Chrome aviators covered the lower one.

With the wind on our faces, we sauntered along the beach.

It was that time of day when the restaurants were starting to fill up with people wanting early lunches.

Back at the hotel I made some calls to check flights out of the country. If the stuff Big Al decrypted for me seemed to be what Simmonds needed, Kelly and I were out of here. I knew Big Al would have the contacts and resources to get passports for our exit, even money.

We had lunch, followed by eighteen holes with the pirates I let her win and then it was time to start getting ready for the meet.

At about 7:30 the sun started to go down and the street neon came on. Suddenly it was another world, with music pumping out of the stores and the kids now driving up and down the strip faster than the legal ten miles an hour.

I didn't know what it was, the weather maybe, but I felt detached from the situation I was in. It was just the two of us, we were having fun, eating ice cream and walking around looking in shops. Kelly was doing usual kid things, even to the point of spotting something in a store window and doing the "Look at that!" act as in. Hint, hint, are you going to buy it for me? I found myself acting the parent, saying, "No, I think we've had enough for today."

I did worry about her. I felt she should be more upset, shouldn't really be taking it so well. Maybe she hadn't under stood what I'd said to her about her family; maybe her sub conscious was putting a lid on it. At the moment, however, that was exactly what I needed: a child looking and behaving normally.

We stopped outside a toy store. She asked for a ring in the window that glowed in the dark. I lied and said I had no money left.

"Couldn't you steal it for me?" she said.

She was getting into this on-the-run thing too much. We had a serious talk about right and wrong.

It was about a quarter of nine by now; we'd had a pizza, and at that time of night on vacation, the next thing you should always have is a Haagen Dazs. Afterward, we started to wander to the RV with Big Al. We squeezed past ranks of parked motorcycles and jostling crowds, most wearing T-shirts with bike slogans.

I got us into a position from which I could see both approaches to the Boot Hill Saloon from the old graveyard on the other side of the street. It was all that remained of the original town, the only thing that couldn't be ripped apart and have a hotel built on it. As bikers parked and opened the doors, loud rock and roll thundered from the bar. It collided head-on with the Latin and rap that were blaring from the vehicles cruising up and down; it was that body-fluid time of night, and groups of breakers were hanging out of Jeeps and pickups with banks of six or seven speakers in the back.

Some even had electric blue lights fitted under the car; as they drove past, they looked like hovering spaceships playing music from Mars. I thought about our friends in the Cherokee. I wondered if they'd gotten home yet.

Kelly and I just waited, eating our ice cream and sitting on a bank next to Mrs. J. Mostyn, who went to Our Savior on July 16, 1924, God rest her soul. Main Street wasn't in fact the main drag but a road that led from the sea to a bridge over the inland waterway. Daytona has a bike week each year, and this was the street on which the thousands of bikers descended. It was a one-theme street, and that theme was Harleys. If it wasn't a bike bar, it was a store selling spare parts, helmets, or leather goods. And even when the convention wasn't on, bikes with helmets on the seats were lined up by the dozen outside bars with names like Dirty Harry's or Froggie's, where there was even a bike made of dusty bones in the window.

I could spot Big Al a mile away as he shambled toward us from the direction of the bridge. He was wearing a blue, white, and yellow Hawaiian shirt and pale pink pants, both straining against a body that was even fatter than I remembered;

his outfit was set off by white shoes and the same shaggy hairstyle. He looked like an out-of-work extra from Miami Vice. In his left hand he carried a briefcase, which was a good sign; he'd brought the tools of his trade with him. He ducked into the Main Street Cigar Store and emerged chomping on a huge corona.

He stopped outside the Boot Hill Saloon, Harleys all around him. He put his briefcase down between his feet and stood there sucking his cigar as if he owned the place. Behind him was an enormous mural of a biker on the beach, covering an entire wall of the saloon. A board announced no colors,

CLUB PATCHES, OR LNSIGNIAS.

I nudged Kelly: "See that man over there?"

"Which one?"

"The one with that really big flowery shirt on, the big fat man."

"You mean the geekazoid?"

"What?"

"It's like a double geek."

"Whatever." I grinned.

"He's the man we're going to see."

She said, "Why didn't we wait over there for him?"

"No, no--what you do is 'stand off' and watch. See what I'm doing? I'm looking up and down the road, just to make sure there's no bad guys following him. Then I know we're safe. What do you think? Think it's

OK?"

All of a sudden she'd become very important. She looked up and down and said, "All clear." She didn't have a clue what she was looking for.

"Come on then, give me your hand. We've got to be careful with these cars driving so fast."

We left Mrs. Mostyn and stopped at the curb. I said, "When we go and meet him, I might have to do something that looks funny, but actually it's not--we do it all the time.

He understands it."

As we dodged through the traffic she said, "OK." After what she had seen lately this would be kindergarten stuff.

We got closer; he was certainly looking older. He recognized me from twenty yards away and was suddenly starring in The Godfather again. Cigar in his right hand, arms thrown out wide, head cocked to one side, he growled, "Aaaggghh!

It's Nicky Two!" He had a smile on his face the size of half a watermelon. It was probably shit living in hiding; at last he had somebody from the past he could talk freely with.

He jammed the cigar back into his mouth, picked up his briefcase in his right hand, and walked toward us, his fat thighs rubbing together.

"Hey! Nicky! How's it going!" He beamed and started pumping my hand, at the same time studying Kelly. He stank of flowery aftershave.

"And who's this pretty little lady, then?" He bent down to greet her and I felt a slight twinge of wariness. Maybe the charm was genuine, but for some reason it made me feel a bit revolted.

I said, "This is Kelly, one of my friend's daughters. I'm looking after her for a while."

I very much doubted he knew what had been going on up north. He certainly didn't know Kev.

Still bending down and shaking her hand for a bit too long, he said, "Welcome to the Sunshine State! It's great here we've got Seaworld, Disney World, everything to make a little lady happy!"

He stood up and said, slightly out of breath, "Where are we going?" He pointed hopefully and said, "Main Street Pier?

Shrimp?"

I shook my head.

"No, we'll go back to our hotel. I've got all the gear there I want you to have a look at. Follow me."

I held Kelly's hand in my left and got him on the right. As we walked we made small talk about how wonderful it was to see each other again, but he knew very well that this meeting wasn't casual and he liked it. He got off on this sort of stuff, just like Al and Bob.

We turned right and then took the first left, which was into a parking area behind the shops. I looked at Kelly and nodded to show everything was fine, then let go other hand. Big Al was still jabbering away. I grabbed his left arm with both hands and used his own momentum to turn him against the wall. He hit it with quite a bounce. I pushed him into the doorway of a restaurant's fire exit.

"It's cool, I'm cool." Big Al was keeping a low voice. He knew the score.

Just looking at him, it was obvious he couldn't conceal as much as a playing card under his clothes, let alone a weapon, the material was stretched so tight against his skin. However, I ran my hand down the back of his spine in case he had some thing concealed in the lumbar region; the natural curve makes it a wonderful place to hide odds and ends, and Big Al's was curvier than most. I continued frisking him.

He looked down at Kelly, who was watching everything.

He winked.

"I suppose you've seen him do this all the time?"

"My daddy does it, too, in heaven."

His answer was quick.

"Ah, OK, yeah, smart kid, smart kid." He looked at her and tried to work that one out.

Then came the bit that he probably enjoyed most, me running my hand up his pant legs. I checked thoroughly at the top. I said, "You know I need to look in your briefcase now, don't you?"

"Yeah, sure." He opened it up; I found two cigars in tubes, and all his work tools floppy disks, a backup drive and disks, cables, wires, all sorts of shit. I had a quick feel around to make sure there wasn't a secret panel.

I was happy. He was also. In fact, he probably had a hard-on.

I said, "Right, let's go."

"Let's get some ice cream on the way," he suggested.

We waved down a cab. Kelly and I got in the back and he squeezed in the front, resting a pint of Ben & Jerry's on his briefcase.

We got to the hotel and went to the room. His body language was excited, probably because he thought it was like the old days, all spies and shit, and the cheapness of the room only made it all the more exhilarating for him. He put his briefcase on one of the beds, opened it up, and started taking out all his gizmos. He fished, "So what are you up to these days?"

I didn't reply.

Kelly and I were sitting on the bed, not really doing much except watching what was going on. Kelly started to take quite an interest.

"You got any games?" she said.

I thought de Sabatino would look at her in disgust: I'm a technician, I don't have games. But he went, "Yeah, loads!

Maybe, if we get time, we can sit down and play a few. What ones do you like?"

They went off on a tangent about Quake and Third Dimension. I cut in and said, "So what do you do with yourself nowadays?"

"I just teach people how to work these things." He pointed at the laptop.

"Also, I do a bit of work for a couple of private eyes down here, getting into bank accounts, that sort of thing.

It's pretty low-key but it suits me I have to keep my head down."

Almost choking on Kouros cologne and looking at his choice of clothes, I wondered what his idea of high profile would be.

Without a reply to his original question, he seemed to feel compelled to fill the silence. He started sniggering and said, "Still managed to tuck away a few hundred thou! So, plus the resettlement, things ain't too bad."

He was fiddling about, attaching more cables to the laptop;

God knows what he was doing, so I let him get on with it. He tried again.

"What about you? Same old thing?"

"Yeah, same sort of stuff. Bit of this, bit of that."

Now sitting at the table with his back to me, he was concentrating on the laptop.

"You still being a--what did you call it--a baby spy?"

"I do that a bit."

"You working now, are you?"

"Yeah, I'm working."

He laughed.

"You lying sonofabitch!" He looked at Kelly and said, "Oops! Do you learn French at school?" He turned back to me and said, "You wouldn't need me if you were, you'd be getting somebody else to do it. You can't bullshit Big All" He looked at Kelly and said, "Franfais!" Then he looked back at me and said, "You still married?"

The Microsoft sound chimed as Windows 95 opened on his machine.

"Divorced about three years ago," I said.

"I haven't heard from her for about two years. I think she's living up in Scotland or somewhere, I don't know."

I suddenly realized that Kelly was hanging on my every word.

He winked at her.

"Just like me--young, free, and single! Yeah!" Big Al was one of life's really sad fucks; I was probably the nearest thing he had to a friend.

I handed him the backup disk, and it was soon humming in the drive. It wouldn't be long before I got a few answers.

By now there was a pall of cigar smoke filling the top quarter of the room. Between that, the Kouros, and the lack of air-conditioning, the room was close to unbearable. It was just as well we'd be moving from here the moment Big Al left. I checked outside by moving the curtain, then opened the window.

The first batch of documents came up on the screen, and I looked over his shoulder as he tapped away in the semidarkness.

I pointed at one of the spreadsheets.

"This is where I've got a problem. I haven't got a clue what that means. Any idea?"

"I'll tell you what we have here, Nicky." His eyes never left the screen.

"These are shipment and payment records-of what, I don't know." As he pointed to the screen, his finger touched it and squidged the liquid underneath.

"Never touch the screen!" he scolded himself as if he were telling off one of his students. He was really getting into this.

"See these here?" His voice had changed from that of a no-hoper to someone who knew his stuff.

I looked at columns headed by groups of initials like MON, JC, IN. He said, "They refer to shipments. They're telling you what's going where, and to who."

He started to scroll down the pages, confirming it to himself.

As he was looking through he nodded emphatically.

"These are definitely shipments and payments. How did you get into this, anyway? You're not exactly the world's greatest hacker, and there's no way these files weren't password-protected."

"I had a sniffer program."

"Wow! Which one do you have?" The computer nerd was coming back.

"Mexy twenty-one," I lied.

"That's shit! Oops, garbage! There are sniffers now that do it at three times the speed." He looked down at Kelly.

"That's the problem with the Brits. They're still in the Steam Age."

He was now out of the spreadsheets and looking at more file names.

I said, "This is another group of files I was having problems with. Can you decrypt them?"

"I don't understand," he said.

"Which files are you having trouble with?"

"Well, they're in code or something--just a lot of random letters and numbers. Any chance of you figuring it out?" He made me feel like a six-year-old child having to ask to have his shoelaces tied.

He scrolled down the file names.

"You mean these GIFs?"

he said.

"They're graphics files, that's all. You just need a graphics program to read them."

He tapped a few keys, found what he was looking for, and selected one of the files.

"They're scans of photographs," he said.

He leaned over and pulled open the pint of ice cream, reached for one of the plastic spoons, and started to dig in. He threw a spoon to Kelly and said, "You'd better get in here before Uncle Al finishes it all."

The first picture was now on the screen. It was a grainy black and white of two people standing at the top of a flight of steps that led to a grand old building. I knew both men very well. Seamus Macauley and Liam Femahan were "businessmen" who fronted a lot of fund-raising and other operations for PIRA. They were good at the game, once even getting a project backed by the British government to finance revitalization in Northern Ireland's cities. The whole scheme was designed to provide local employment. They convinced Westminster that if a community was responsible for its own rebuilding, there would be less chance of them then wanting to go and blow it up. But what the government didn't know was that the contractors could only employ people that PIRA wanted to work; those people were still claiming unemployment and social benefits, and PIRA was getting a kick back from letting them work on the sites illegally, so it was costing the government twice as much and, of course, the businessmen got their cut as well. And if the government's paying, why not blow more up and rebuild?

Without a doubt, PIRA had come a long way from the days of rattling its tin cups in West Belfast, Liverpool, and Boston. So much so that the Northern Ireland Office had established a Terrorist Finance Unit as a countermeasure in 1988, staffed by specialists in accounting, law, taxes, and computing. Euan and I had done a lot of work with them.

Big Al now opened and viewed a series of shots of Macauley and Femahan shaking hands with two other men, then walking down the steps and getting into a Mercedes.

One of them was the late Mr. Morgan McGear, looking very smart in a suit I was familiar with. The fourth man I had no idea about.

The photography was covert: I could see the darkness around the edge of the frames where they hadn't gotten the aperture right, but it was good enough for me to tell, by the cars parked in the background, that they were on the Continent.

I said, "Let's see the next one."

De Sabatino could tell that I recognized something or someone; he was looking at me, dying to know what, wanting to get in on the act. He'd had five years on the back burner, and now was his chance for a comeback.

I wasn't going to tell him jack shit.

"Let's push on."

There was another group of pictures that he opened and viewed, but these meant nothing at all to me.

Big Al looked at them. The big half watermelon was back on his face.

"Now I know what all those spreadsheets refer to."

"What's that?"

"fEstd es la coca, senorl Hey, I know this guy. He works for the cartels."

I was looking at a really smart-looking Latino in his early forties getting out of a car. I could tell by the surroundings that it was in the United States.

"That's Raoul Martinez," he said.

"He's part of the Colombian trade delegation."

This was getting more interesting by the minute. PIRA al ways claimed no association with drug trafficking, but the profits were too great for it to ignore. What I had in front of me now was close to admissible evidence of its direct involvement with the cartels. But that still didn't help me with my problem.

He looked through the pictures.

"You'll see Raoul with somebody else in a minute, I guarantee it." He flicked through a couple more.

"There you are: big bad Sal."

This other character was about the same age but much taller; he'd probably been a weight lifter at some stage, then ballooned out to maybe three hundred pounds. Sal was a big old boy, and very bald.

De Sabatino said, "Martinez is never without him. We used to do a lot of business with them in the old days. A nice man, a family man. We used to run cocaine up the East Coast, all the way to the Canadian border. We needed things evened out to ease the route--these guys did the necessary, and everybody was making money. Yeah, these fellas, they're all right. As we went through more picture files, I saw both men eating in a restaurant with another bloke, a Caucasian.

Big Al said, "I haven't got a clue who he is."

I was looking over de Sabatino's shoulder, concentrating hard on the screen.

Kelly perked up.

"Nick?"

"In a minute." I turned my head to Big Al.

"Absolutely no idea?"

"Not a clue."

"Nick?"

I cut in.

"Not now, Kelly."

Kelly butted in again.

"Nick, Nick!"

"Go back to the--" "Nick, Nick! I know who that man is."

I looked at her.

"Which man?"

"The one that was in the picture." She grinned.

"You don't know who he is--but I do."

"This one?" I pointed at Martinez.

"No, the one before."

Big Al scrolled back.

"Him! That one there!"

It was the white guy who was sitting with Raoul and big bad Sal.

I said, "You're sure?"

"I'm totally sure."

"Who is he?" After our experience with the video I expected her to nominate anyone from Clint Eastwood to Brad Pitt.

"It's Daddy's boss."

There was a long, palpable silence as I let it sink in. Big Al was sucking air through his teeth.

"What do you mean, Daddy's boss?" I said.

"He came to our house once for dinner."

"Do you remember his name?"

"No. I just came down for some water and he and a lady were eating with Mommy and Daddy in the dining room.

Daddy let me say hello and he said, "Big smile, Kelly, this is my boss!"

" It was a good imitation ofKev, and I saw a flicker of sadness in her eyes.

Big Al joined the conversation in nerd mode.

"Whoa!

There you go! So who's your daddy?"

I swung around.

"Shut up!" And so she couldn't hear it, I muttered angrily, "I turned up at her parents' house a week ago. Everybody was dead. He was in the DEA, killed by people he knew."

I pushed him off his seat and sat down with Kelly on my knee so she had a better view of the screen.

"Are you definitely sure he's Daddy's boss?"

"I'm sure Daddy told me. The next day Mommy and me made jokes about his mustache because he looked like a cowboy."

He did; he looked like a Marlboro man. As she pointed, her finger touched the screen, and Daddy's boss was distorted.

Having Kelly in my arms and seeing someone who might have been responsible for her father's death made me want to do the same to him in person.

I looked at Big Al.

"Let's go back through all the photos."

Big Al sat down and scrolled back through the files to the pictures of Macauley and Femahan with McGear.

"Do you know these people?" Kelly answered with a no, but I wasn't really listening to her now. I was in my own world. I'd noticed two other cars parked on the other side of the road. I looked hard at the license plates, and then I knew where the pictures had been taken.

"Gibraltar." I couldn't help mouthing it aloud.

Big Al pointed to Macauley and his mates.

"Are these terrorists from Ireland?"

"Sort of."

There was a gap while I tried to work this one out.

Big Al spoke up.

"It's obvious to me what's going on."

"What's that?"

"Well, these Irish guys were buying cocaine from the Colombians. It came by the normal route to the Florida Keys, then the Caribbean and North Africa. They then used Gibraltar as the jump-off point for the rest of Europe. They made fortunes, and at the same time we took our cut for letting them move it through South Florida. All of a sudden, though, at the end of' eighty-seven, it stopped going through Gibraltar."

"Why was that?" I was finding it hard to stay calm.

Big Al shrugged.

"Some big hullaballoo with the locals. I think they now run it from South Africa instead, into the west coast of Spain, something like that. They're linked with some other terrorists up there."

"ETA?"

"Search me. Some bunch of terrorists or freedom fighters.

Call them what you like, to me they're all just dealers.

Anyway, they help the Irish now. No doubt old Raoul organized things Stateside with Daddy's boss to ensure that the route stayed open for the Irish, because otherwise the Colombians would have given it to someone else."

"You make it sound like allocating air routes or something."

Big Al shrugged again.

"Of course. It's business." He spoke as if all this stuff was common knowledge. It was news tome.

So who the fuck was PIRA talking to in Gibraltar? Was the PIRA there in an attempt to keep the drug trafficking going?

It came back to me that in September 1988, Sir Peter Terry, who'd been instrumental in pressing for a crackdown on drug smuggling and who'd been governor of Gibraltar until earlier that year, had narrowly survived an assassination attempt at his home in Staffordshire. A gunman who'd never been caught had given him the good news with twenty rounds from an AK-47 something, as it happened, that Mr. McGear was not unaccustomed to doing. Maybe the fourth man in the photograph was getting a similar warning? And was there some sort of connection between the ending of the drug runs and the shooting of PIRA players in Gibraltar just a few months later?

Whatever, it confirmed that there were some strange things going on with some members of the DEA, including Kev's boss. Maybe they were getting a cut of the action from PIRA and Kev found out?

Big Al sucked through his teeth once more.

"You've got a brilliant package here, man. So which one are you going to blackmail?"

"Blackmail?"

"Micky, you've got a senior figure in the DEA talking with big-cheese cartel members, your terrorist fellas, and Gibraltar government, law enforcement, whoever. You're not trying to tell me these pictures aren't for the purpose of blackmail? Get real. If it's not you who's going to use them, whoever took these photographs is certainly intending to." We went through all the pictures one more time. Kelly didn't recognize any more of the people.

I asked de Sabatino if there was any way we could enhance the photography.

"What's the point? You seem to know everybody." He was right. I just wanted Kelly to look at "Daddy's boss" more closely.

There was silence for about three minutes as we just kept on flicking through.

"What else do you know about Gibraltar?" I asked.

"Not much. What more do you want?" His second cigar was well on its way, and Kelly was waving away the smoke.

"It's common sense if you've got enough money, do a deal with the Colombians and get the goods into Europe. Every other bunch of bad asses is doing it, so why not your Irish guys?"

Big Al was looking at me as if what we'd stumbled across was very mundane. And I had to admit, it didn't seem enough for Kev and his family to have been murdered for.

There was too much silence; Big Al had to inject some thing.

"Whatever, someone is definitely in the blackmail biz."

I wasn't so sure. Maybe it was some kind of insurance for PIRA. If Kev's boss or the Gibraltarians decided not to play anymore, maybe this was what would keep them in the game.

I looked at Kelly.

"Can you do us a favor? Will you go and get some cans of soda?"

She looked happy to get out of the smoke. I followed her to the door, gave her a handful of coins, and pulled the curtain so I could see the machines. The landing was clear; I watched Kelly until she reached the dispenser, then I sat down on the bed. Big Al was still playing with the laptop.

I pointed at the screen.

"First Kev is killed. Now we've got Daddy's boss mixing with the cartels. It's reasonable to assume that what we've got here is corruption within the DEA, involving drug shipments via Florida to Irish terrorists who've been getting it into Europe via Gibraltar. Only now it seems there were some problems for them in late 'eighty-seven."

Big Al wasn't really listening. The thought of a corrupt DEA officer had taken him to another planet.

"Way to go!

You gonna nail the bastard?"

"I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Fucking nail him, Nicky! I hate cops! I hate the DEAf I have to live like a fucking hermit federal witness protection program, kiss my ass!"

I was worried that five years of frustration were about to explode out of him. I had no time for that.

"Frankie, I need a car."

He wasn't listening.

"They used me, then they just fucked me over..."

"I need a car."

He looked at Kelly as she returned with a selection of soda cans, then slowly came back to earth.

"Sure, OK, for how long?"

"Two days, maybe three. And I need some money."

"When do you want it by?"

"Now."

Big Al was weird and a sad fuck, too soft and stupid to be in this sort of world, but I felt sorry for him. Me turning up must have been the best thing that had happened to him in years. Life must be shit with no friends, and always worrying about being hit. But that was how mine was going to be if I didn't get this stuff back to Simmonds.

Big Al used the room phone to call a car rental agency. It would take about an hour to deliver a vehicle, so the three of us strolled to an ATM. He drew out twelve hundred dollars from four different accounts.

"You never know when you're going to need mucho dinero in a hurry!" He grinned. Maybe he wasn't so stupid after all.

Back in the room, waiting for the car, I could sense there was more to come from him. He'd definitely been brooding on something for the last half hour.

"Would you like to make some money, Nicky real money?"

I was checking my bag to make sure I hadn't left anything.

"Why's that? Are you going to give me some?"

"In a way." He came and stood by me as I zipped the bag closed.

"On those files there are some account numbers stuffed with narco-dollars. Give me two minutes to access what I need and then I can hack in. I could do it in my sleep." He put an arm around me.

"Nicky, two minutes on my laptop and we could be talking serious enrichment. What do you say?"

His head was nodding at a thousand rpm, his eyes never leaving mine.

I let him sweat a bit.

"How do I know that you'll pay me my half?" I thought I'd let him know how much I wanted.

"I can transfer it anywhere you want. And don't worry, once I've moved it they'll never know where it's gone."

I had to smile. The one thing Frank de Sabatino was good at was hiding money.

"C'mon, Nicky Two, let's do it!" He had his arms wide open and was looking at me like a child who'd done wrong.

I gave him the time he needed with the laptop and wrote down the account number for him to transfer my share to.

Fuck it, Kelly was going to need money for school and stuff, and I wanted a payback for working against these people for so many years. It felt good and anyway it was just business.

He finished. There was a serious, down-to-work look on his face.

"Where are you going now?" he asked.

"I'm not going to tell you; you know the score. People I've been in contact with are now dead, and I don't want that to happen to you." "Bullshit!" He looked at Kelly and shrugged his shoulders.

"You just don't want me to know in case I go blurting off to somebody."

"That's not the case," I said, though in fact it was.

"If you did that, or didn't send the money, you know what I'd do."

He raised an eyebrow.

I looked at him and smiled.

"I'd make sure the right people know where you are."

The color drained from his face for a while, then back came the watermelon. He shook his head.

"I may have been out of the loop for a while, but I see nothing has changed."

The telephone rang. A blue Nissan was waiting outside the lobby. Big Al signed for it and gave me a copy of the agreement for when I dropped it off. Kelly and I got in; Big Al stayed on the sidewalk with his briefcase. I pressed the switch to open the windows.

"Listen, Frankie, I'll e-mail you to let you know where the car's been dropped off, OK?"

He nodded. It was sinking in that he was about to lose us.

"Do you want a lift anywhere?"

"No, I've got work to do. By the morning we could be seriously rich."

We shook hands through the open window. Al smiled at Kelly and said, "Make sure you come and visit Uncle Al in about ten years' time, little lady. I'll buy the ice cream!"

We set off slowly down the strip. It was still packed. There was so much neon the street lighting was superfluous.

Kelly was in the back, staring out the window, then gazing into space, lost in her own little world. I didn't tell her that ahead of us lay a seven-hundred-mile drive.

Soon Daytona Beach was behind us and we were back on the long, open road. As I drove, I mulled over Kev's words again: You won't believe the stuff I've got here. Your friends over the water are busy! And he'd also said: I've just got the ball rolling on something, but I'd be interested to know what you think. Did that mean he'd spoken to his boss? Had his boss then got him zapped? But there was no way Kev would have been talking to anyone in the DEA if he suspected corruption. So who the fuck did he call?

I now had some valuable material from the PIRA office, a lot of which I didn't understand, but maybe Kev had had more. The more information I got hold of, the better it was going to be for me when I got it to Simmonds, and that was why we were going back to Washington, D.C.

Once on the interstate I put the car into cruise control and my mind into neutral.

We drove through the night, stopping only to refuel. I bought cans of Coke to keep the caffeine levels up as we drove and in case Kelly woke up.

At first light I could begin to make out changes in the terrain, proof that we were moving north into a more temperate climate. Then the sun came up, a big burning ball to my right, and my eyes started to sting.

We stopped at another gas station. This time Kelly stirred.

"Where are we?" she yawned.

"I don't know."

"Well, where are we going?"

"It's a surprise."

"Were you really married?" she asked.

"It seems so long ago I can hardly remember."

I looked in the mirror. She'd slumped back down, too tired to pursue it.

I wanted to have one last look at Kev's place to see what he had, and I wanted to do it at last light tonight. I knew there'd be a secure area somewhere in the house--exactly where, we'd have to find out. Then I wanted to be out of the D.C. area again before first light. Big Al didn't know it yet, but he was going to get his ass into gear and help us get out of the US. If he didn't do it voluntarily, I'd be giving him a jump-start.

By midmorning Kelly was wide awake, reading a comic book I'd gotten her at the last stop. She was lying in the back, shoes off, totally absorbed. We hadn't talked. We were in a world of empty candy wrappers, Styrofoam coffee cups, potato chip bags, and cans of Coke with bits of chip floating in them.

"Kelly?"

"Mm?"

"You know in your house, Daddy had the hidey-holes for you and Aida?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, do you know if Daddy had any hidey-holes for important things like money, or where Mommy would keep her rings? Did he have a special place where they'd put stuff?"

"Sure."

Busying myself with the cruise control, I said, "Oh, and where is that then?"

"In his study."

Which made sense. But that was the room that had been torn apart already.

"Where is it exactly?"

"In the wall."

"Whereabouts?"

"In the wall! I just saw Daddy doing it once. We're not allowed in there, but the door was open and we'd just come in from school and we saw Daddy putting something in there.

We were standing right by the door and he didn't know."

"Is it behind the picture?" I asked, though there was no way he'd be that obvious.

"No, it's behind the wood."

"The wood?"

"Yeah."

"Would you be able to show me?"

"Is that where we're going?" She suddenly sat bolt upright.

"I want Jenny and Ricky!"

"We can't see them when we get there because they'll be busy."

She looked at me as if I was nuts.

"They're my teddies, I told you! They're in my bedroom. Can I get them? They need me."

I felt like a right dickhead.

"Of course you can. As long as you're quiet." I knew there was more to come.

"Can I tell Melissa I'm sorry I missed the sleepover?"

"We won't have time" She sat back in her seat, brooding.

"But you're going to phone her mother?"

I nodded.

I started to see signs for Washington, D.C. We'd been on the road for nearly eighteen hours. My eyes were smarting worse than ever, despite the air conditioner being on full blast. We'd get there in two hours, but we'd still have most of the afternoon to kill before last light. I pulled in at a rest area and tried to sleep. It could be a busy night.

It was about six in the evening as we approached the Lorton exit. For once it wasn't raining, just overcast. Only about forty-five minutes to go.

I couldn't see Kelly in the mirror. She was hunkered down in the seat again.

"Are you awake?"

"I'm tired, Nick. Are we there yet?"

"I'm not going to tell you. It's going to be a surprise. Just keep down; I don't want you to sit up."

I drove onto Hunting Bear Path, negotiating the speed bumps ultra cautiously so I could have a good look around.

Everything seemed quite normal. I could see the back of Kev's garage, but I couldn't see the front of the house yet. When I got up level, the driveway was finally exposed.

Parked outside the front door was a cop car. No problem; just look ahead, act normal.

I drove on, checking in the rearview mirror. The car's sidelights were on and there were two cops inside. The house hadn't been boarded up yet, but it was cordoned off with yellow tape.

I drove straight on; I couldn't tell if they were looking at me. Even if they did a plate check as I drove past, it wouldn't matter. They'd come up with only Big Al. If I was compromised, I'd run for it and leave Kelly here. Maybe the police would be good guys and look after her. At least that would be the logical thing to do, but there was a conflict. I'd promised that I wouldn't leave her; that promise shouldn't mean much, but it did.

I went down to the bottom of the road and turned right to get out of sight as quickly as possible, then drove a big square to get back in behind them. I reached the small parade of shops. The parking lot was about a quarter full, so we could pull in without attracting attention.

Kelly shrieked, "We're at the stores!"

"That's right, but we can't buy anything because I haven't much money left. But we can go to the house."

"Yesss! Can I get my Pollypockets and Yak-backs from my bedroom, too?"

"Of course you can." I didn't have any idea what she was going on about.

I went around to the back, opened up the trunk and got out the bag, then opened her door. I threw the bag beside her and leaned in.

"Are we going to my house now?"

I started to sort out the kit I'd be needing.

"Yes. I want you to help me because I want you to show me Daddy's hidey-hole. Can you do that? It's important; he wanted me to check something. We've got to sneak in because the cops are outside. Are you going to do everything that I say?"

"Yeah, I'll do that! Can I get Pocahontas, too?"

"Yep."

I didn't give a fuck; I'd have nodded and agreed to anything as long as she showed me the cache.

"You ready? Let's put your hood up." It was dark and cloudy, and thankfully the road wasn't exactly built for pedestrians. We shouldn't encounter any Melissas enroute.

With the bag slung over my shoulder, I held her hand and we set off toward the house. It was nearly seven o'clock, and the street lights were on. My plan was to work our way to the back of the house so I could have a look at it and prepare to go in.

We started to walk over the vacant lot to the rear of the house, past trailers and stockpiles of girders and building materials. The mud was so treacherous in places I thought we'd lose our shoes.

Kelly was almost beside herself with excitement but fighting it hard.

"That's where my friend Candice lives!" She pointed to a house.

"I helped her with their yard sale. We got twenty whole dollars!"

"Shhh!" Smiling, I said slowly, "We've got to be very, very quiet or the policemen will get us."

There was a look of confusion on her face.

"Nick?"

What now?

"Yes, Kelly." "Why are we hiding from the police? Aren't they good guys?"

I suppose I should have anticipated that one. What could I say? She wouldn't have understood any of the 101 reasons why we'd be up to our necks in shit if the police caught us.

Even if I did have a spare couple of hours to explain them to her. Nor did I want to undermine forever her confidence in the authorities at this early stage in her life. So I lied.