Remote Control

"I don't think they're real cops; I think they're just dressed up like cops. They might be friends of the men who came to see Daddy." It didn't take long for that to register.

Finally we were standing in the shadow of the neighbor's garage. I put the bag down and watched and listened. The engine of the cruiser was idling. They were less than twenty yards away on the other side of the target. I could hear a little of their radio traffic, but I couldn't make out what was being said. Now and again a car drove past, braked for the speed bumps, rattled over them, and accelerated away.

Lights were on in some of the houses, so I could see into the rooms. It had always given me a strange sort of kick doing this, like my own private viewing of a nature documentary:

human beings in their natural habitat. As young soldiers in the late seventies in Northern Ireland, part of our job was to "lurk" hang around in the shadows, watching and listening, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone with a weapon. It was amazing what you'd see people doing in their cars or living rooms, and slightly less amazing what they'd be up to in their bedrooms. Sometimes we'd watch for hours on end, all in the line of duty. I really enjoyed it. Here, people were just doing dishes or watching TV, probably worrying about the effect of multiple murders on real estate prices.

There were no motion-detector lights at the back of the house, just standard ones with an on/ off switch by the patio doors. I remembered switching them on for a barbecue.

I stroked Kelly's hair and looked down and smiled. Then, really slowly, I started to unzip the bag and get out what I needed. I put my mouth right to her ear and whispered, "I want you to stay here. It's really important that you look after this kit. You'll see me over there, OK?"

She nodded. Off I went.

I reached the patio doors. First things first: make sure they're locked. They were. I got my Maglite and checked to see if there were any bolts at the top and bottom of the frame.

It's no good defeating a lock if there are also bolts across;

that's one of the reasons why you try to attack a building at the point of last exit, because you know they can't be bolted again from the outside.

Normally the next thing to do would be to look for the spare key why spend an hour with the lock-picking kit if there's one hidden only a few feet away? Some people still leave theirs dangling on a string on the other side of the mailbox, or on the inside of a pet door. Others leave it under a trash can or just behind a little pile of rocks by the door. If a key is going to be left, it will nearly always be somewhere on the normal approach to the door. But this was Kev's house: I wouldn't find spare keys lying around. I put the photographer's blanket over my head and shoulders and, with the Maglite in my mouth, got to work with the lock-pick gun.

I opened the doors gently, moved the curtain aside, and looked inside the living room. The first thing I noticed was that all the curtains and shutters were closed, which was good for me because, once inside, we'd have cover. The second thing that hit me was an overpowering smell of chemicals. I tiptoed back to Kelly and whispered, "Come on, then!"

Our shoes were caked with mud, so we took them off on the concrete step and put them in the bag. Then we went inside and I pulled the doors closed.

I held the Maglite with my middle finger and forefinger over the lens to block most of the light and kept it close to the floor so we could see our way through the living room. The carpet and underlay had been taken up, and all the furniture was pushed to one side. All that was left were the particle board sheets that the builders had used instead of floorboards.

Someone had done a good job of scrubbing the brown stains under where Kev had been lying, which explained the chemical smell. The Murder Mop people had been in; once forensics finished, it was up to the commercial companies to clear away the mess.

We reached the door that led into the front hall. Kelly stood still, an old hand at all this stuff now. I got on my knees, eased the door ajar, and looked through. The front door was closed but light from the streetlamps shone through the stained-glass flower set into the window above it. I switched off the flashlight and stationed Kelly by the bag in the hallway.

I stopped and listened, and generally tuned in. The engine was still idling.

I felt Kelly pulling my jacket.

"Nick?"

"Shhh!"

"What happened to the rug--and what's that horrible smell?"

I turned around and half-crouched down. I put my finger to her lips and said, "We'll talk about it later."

There was a beep beep beep from the police car's radio.

The guys inside were probably drinking coffee, pissed off to be on duty all night. Some radio traffic came on the net. Who ever was Control sounded like Hitler with a dress on.

Indicating that Kelly should stay where she was, I moved across to the study and gently opened the door. I went back, picked up the bag, and guided Kelly into the room, propping the door open with the bag to let the light come through from the hall. Everything looked very much the same as before except that the things that had been strewn all over the place had now been arranged in a neat line along one wall. The PC was still on its side on the desk, the printer and scanner in position on the floor. They had all been dusted for prints.

I took the photographer's material and a box of tacks from the bag and lifted the chair near to the window. Taking my time, I climbed up and pinned the fabric along the top and down the sides of the entire wooden window frame. I could now close the door and put the flashlight on.

I went over to Kelly. Even above the reek of solvents and cleaners I got a waft of greasy hair, Coca-Cola, bubblegum, and chocolate. I whispered into her ear, "Where is it? Just point."

I shone the flashlight all around the walls, and she pointed at the baseboard behind the door. This was good; nothing there seemed to have been disturbed.

I immediately started prying the wooden strip away from the wall with a screwdriver. A vehicle passed the house, and I heard laughter from the police car probably at Control's expense. They'd be there solely to deter people from coming around and being nosy. Chances were, the place would be knocked down soon; who'd want to buy a house in which a family had been murdered? Maybe it would be turned into a memorial park or something.

I kept Kelly right next to me; I wanted to keep her reassured. She was interested in what was happening, so I smiled at her now and again to show that everything was fine.

With a small creak the section of board started to give way.

I pulled it right off and put it to one side. Then I bent down again and shone the flashlight inside. The beam glinted on metal. What looked like a gun safety box, about eighteen inches square, was recessed into the wall. It was going to need decoding. It could take hours.

I got out the black wallet and set to work, trying to re member to grin at Kelly and let her know it wouldn't be long, but I could see she was getting restless. Ten minutes went by.

Fifteen. Twenty. Finally it was all too much for her. In a loud whisper she said crossly, "What about my teddies?"

"Shhh!" I put my finger to her lips again. What I meant was Fuck the teddies we'll get them later on. I continued decoding.

There was a pause; then, no longer a whisper: "But you said!"

It had to be stopped right there and then. Obviously, being Mr. Smiley wasn't working. I turned to Kelly and hissed, "We'll do it in a minute. Now shut up!"

She was taken aback, but it worked.

I was luckier than I might have been with the decoding. I'd just finished, had put the tools away, and was opening the box when I heard a low moan from her.

"I don't like it here, Nick.

It's all changed."

I turned around, grabbed her, and covered her mouth with my hand.

"For Christ's sake shut up!" It wasn't what she expected but I didn't have time to explain.

With my hand still clamped hard over her mouth, I picked her up and slowly walked to the window. I listened, waited, but there was nothing. Just a bit of banter and laughing, and the crackle of the radio.

As I turned back, however, I heard a short, sharp metallic dragging sound.

Then, for a split second, nothing.

Then, as Kev's pewter tankard of pens and pencils fell from the desk and hit the bare floor, there was a resounding crash.

The noise went on as bits and pieces scattered in all directions. As I'd turned, Kelly's coat must have caught on the sharp points of the pencils and dragged the tankard off the table.

I knew the noise was magnified twenty times in my head, but I also knew they would have heard it.

Kelly chose that moment to start to lose it, but there was no time to worry about that. I just left her where she was, went to the doorway, and listened to the sound of car doors opening.

Pulling the pistol from my jeans and checking chamber, I moved out of the study. Three strides got me across the hall and into the kitchen. I closed the door behind me, took a couple of deep breaths, and waited.

The front door opened; I could hear both of them in the hallway. There was a click, and light spilled under the kitchen door.

Then footsteps, and I could hear nervous breathing on the other side, and the jangle of keys on a belt.

I heard the study door opening. Then a half-shouted, half-whispered, "Melvin, Melvin--in here!"

"Yo!"

I knew it was my time. I brought the pistol up into the fire position, put my hand on the doorknob and gently twisted. I moved into the hallway.

Melvin was in the study doorway, his back toward me. He was young and of medium build. I took a couple of big strides, grabbed him across the forehead with my left hand, yanked his head back, and rammed the pistol muzzle into his neck. In a very controlled voice that had nothing to do with the way I was feeling, I said, "Drop your weapon, Melvin.

Don't fuck around with me. Drop it now."

Melvin's arm came down to his side and he let the gun fall to the floor.

I couldn't see if the other one had his pistol out or not. It was still dark in the study. Their flashlight was no help.

Melvin and I blocked out most of the hallway light. I was hoping that he'd already reholstered, because part of their training would be not to scare kids. As far as he was concerned, Kelly had been just a kid there on her own.

Melvin and I were in the doorway. I shouted, "Put the lights on, Kelly--do it now!"

Nothing happened.

"Kelly, turn the lights on." I heard small footsteps coming toward us.

There was a click, and the lights came on.

"Now wait there." I could see her eyes were swollen and red.

Inside the room stood Michelin Man. He must have weighed around 250 pounds, and by the looks of him, he had only a couple of years to go before retirement. He was holstered, but his hand was down by his pistol.

I said, "Don't do it! Tell him, Melvin." I prodded his neck.

Melvin went, "I'm fucked, Ron."

"Ron, don't start messing around. This is not the one to do it for. It's not worth it, not just for this."

I could see that Ron was on top of it. He was thinking about his wife, his mortgage, and the chances of ever seeing another bag of doughnuts.

Melvin's radio sparked up. Control snapped, "Unit Sixty-two, Unit Sixty-two. Do you copy?" It sounded like a demand, not a request. It must have been great to be married to her.

"That's you, isn't it, Melvin?" I said.

"Yes, sir, that's us."

"Melvin, tell them you're OK." I jabbed the pistol a little harder into his neck to underline the point.

"The safety catch is off, Melvin. I've got my finger on the trigger. Just tell them everything's OK.. It ain't worth it, mate."

Ron blurted, "I'll do it."

Another demand: "Unit Sixty-two, respond."

I said, "Put your right hand up and answer with your left.

Kelly, be very quiet, OK?"

She nodded. Ron pressed his radio.

"Hello, Control. We've checked. Everything's fine."

"Roger, Unit Sixty-two, your report timed at twenty-two thirteen."

Ron clicked off.

Kelly immediately went back into crying mode and sank to the floor. I was stuck in the doorway with a pistol to Melvin's neck, and Ron, who still had a weapon in his holster, was facing me from the middle of the room.

"When all's said and done, Ron, if you don't play the game, Melvin's going to die--and then you're going to die.

Do you understand me?"

Ron nodded.

"OK, Ron, let's see you turn around."

He did.

"Get on your knees."

He did. He was about four feet from Kelly, but as long as she stayed still she wasn't in the line of fire.

Melvin was sweating big-time. My hand was slipping on his forehead. There were even droplets running down the top-slide. His shirt was so wet I could make out the shape of his body armor underneath.

I said, "With your left hand, Ron, I want you to lift out your pistol. Very slow, and use just your thumb and forefinger.

Then I want you to move it to your left-hand side and drop it.

Do you understand me, Ron?"

Ron nodded.

I said, "Tell him, Melvin, tell him not to fuck around."

"Listen to the man, Ron."

Ron gently removed his pistol from its holster and dropped it on the floor.

"What I want you to do now, with your left hand, is get hold of your handcuffs, and I want you to drop them just behind you. Understand?"

Ron complied. I turned my attention to Melvin, who was starting to tremble. I spoke quietly in his ear.

"Don't worry about it, you're going to live. You'll be talking to your grandchildren about this. Just do exactly what I say. Understand?"

He nodded.

I turned to Ron and said, "Now lie down, Ron. Facedown on the floor."

Ron spreadeagled himself and was now under control. I said, "What I'm going to do next, Melvin, is take one step back, and this pistol is going to leave your neck--but it's still going to be pointing at your head, so don't get any ideas.

Once I've stepped back, I'm then going to tell you to kneel down--do you understand me?"

He nodded, and I took a swift step backward. I wanted to be out of arm's reach from him right away; I didn't want him doing some kind of heroic pirouette to grab the gun or knock it out of the way.

"OK, kneel down, then lie down. Just like Ron. Now put your hand next to Ron's."

I now had both of them lying facedown, forearms together.

I moved behind them, picked up the handcuffs, and with the pistol stuck in Melvin's ear, I locked his left wrist to Ron's right. I then took Melvin's handcuffs from their holster, stepped back, and said, "I want you to arch your bodies and move your free hands around so they're together as well. Both understand me? Believe me, boys, I want to get this over and done with; I just want out of here."

I finished the job. They weren't going anywhere. I took their wallets and threw them into the bag. I took Melvin's radio and kept it with me, and took the battery out of Ron's and threw it into the bag. At the same time, I grabbed the roll of gaffer tape. I started with their legs, then used the tape to bind their heads together as well. I put a final strip around their necks, and another around their mouths. I checked that both were breathing through their noses, then dragged them into the hallway--no small job, but I didn't want them to see what I was going to do next.

I looked at Kelly, pressed against the study wall. She looked pathetic. This must have been terrible for her. She'd been looking forward so much to coming home, only to find it wasn't the place she'd been expecting. It wasn't only that her family was missing; everything that was familiar to her was drenched in chemicals, shoved to one side, or simply not there.

I heard myself saying, "Why don't you go and see if your teddies are there."

She turned and ran. I heard her rattling up the now uncarpeted stairs.

I went into the study, crouched down by the baseboard, and, at last, was able to open the gun box. There was nothing inside but a lone floppy disk.

I put the chair back by the desk and lifted up the PC. I soon had it working. There was no password protection, probably deliberately. If anything happened to Kev, he'd want the whole world to read what was on the disk.

I clicked open various files but found nothing interesting.

Then I found one called Flavius; I knew I'd hit pay dirt. It was the code name of the Gibraltar operation.

I started reading. Kev had found out pretty much what Big Al had told me--that PIRA's connection with the cartels originated when it started running drugs for the Colombians up through North Africa and into Gibraltar for distribution in Spain and the rest of Europe. PIRA was good at the job, and the cartels paid well.

After a while, PIRA had also begun to use the drug trade to raise some of its own money, funds collected by Noraid in the USA. Big sums were involved; Kev's figures showed that Sinn Fein had been netting more than $ 1,000,000 a year.

These donations had been invested in narcotics, transported to Europe, and then bartered for arms and explosives in the old Eastern-bloc countries. It was a business marriage made in heaven; PIRA had the drugs, the East Europeans had the weapons. The downfall of the USSR and the rise of the Russian mafia couldn't have been better timed.

I had to get back into work mode. I couldn't just sit there reading. I was in a house with two policemen and one pissed-off little girl. I ejected the floppy disk and put it in my coat pocket.

The controller from hell came back on the net.

"Unit Sixty-two, do you copy?"

Shit.

I went into the hall.

"Ron, time to speak up."

Ron looked at me, and I knew he was going to fuck with me. His face was a picture of defiance. I moved over to them and pulled the tape off their mouths. Ron was the first to talk:

"You answer it, because we can't. You won't kill us, not for that."

Control went up an octave.

"Unit Sixty-two!"

Ron had a point.

"Kelly! Kelly! Where are you?"

"Coming--I just found Ricky."

I stepped back over my two new friends toward Kelly, who was coming down the stairs. There was no time to be sympathetic or nice.

"Get your coat and shoes on quick!"

I got all the stuff together, put my running shoes on, and checked that Ron and Melvin weren't choking to death on the gaffer tape. Both looked quite happy with themselves but were still thinking of a good excuse for why they were in this state in the first place.

We left the same way we'd come. I was gripping Kelly's hand, more or less dragging her along, keeping an eagle eye on Jenny and Ricky. I didn't want the neighbors hearing screams for lost teddies.

As we drove, bursts of light from the streetlamps strobed into the back of the car, and I could see Kelly in the rearview mirror. She was looking miserable, her eyes puffy and wet.

She had every right to be sad. She was bright enough to realize that this was probably the last time she'd ever be here.

This wasn't her home anymore. Now she was the same as me.

Neither of us had one. I hit the Dulles Airport access road and headed for economy parking. I allowed myself a wry smile; if this kept up, it would soon be full of my stolen cars. I could hear the light patter of rain on the roof as we parked.

Ron and Melvin might have made a connection between me and the car because of the drive-by. If they were back in circulation by now, they might be able to track us down.

There was not a lot I could do about it but just sit tight and hope that the mass of cars and the rain would conceal us, because it was far too early for a child to be moving around an airport with an adult man with scabs on his face.

I turned around in the seat and said, "Are you all right, Kelly? I'm sorry I had to shout, but it was really important to get out quick."

She was looking down at one of the teddies, picking its fur, pouting.

I said, "You're not a bad girl and I'm sorry that I told you off. I didn't really mean it, I was just getting excited."

She nodded slowly, still playing with her furry friend.

"Do you want to come to England?"

She looked up. She didn't say anything, but I took it as a yes.

"That's good, because I would like you to come, too.

You've been a really good girl, you always do what I say. Do you want to help me again?"

She shrugged. I leaned over and picked up the other teddy and rubbed its face against her cheek.

"We'll get Jenny and Ricky to help me as well. How about that?"

She gave a reluctant nod.

"First of all, we've got to sort out the bag."

I got into the backseat and put the duffel between us, opening it up.

"What do you think we should take out then?"

I knew exactly what we were going to take out: the blanket and washing kit, because they were the only things I needed now. I said, "What do you reckon? Is that all?" She nodded and agreed as if she'd packed it herself.

I put everything else into the trunk. The rain was coming down more heavily. I sat with her again and pulled out the blanket.

"We have to wait here for the next couple of hours.

It's too early to go to the airport yet. You can take a nap if you like."

I folded up the bag and made a pillow.

"There, that's better--cuddle Jenny and Ricky."

She looked at me and smiled. We were mates again.

"Are you going away again. Nick?"

For once I was staying put.

"No, I'm going to do some work. You just go to sleep. I'm not going anywhere." I got out and sat in the front again. I rested the laptop on my knees and lifted the screen. I checked that the keys were in the ignition and I could easily grab the steering wheel. I had to be ready to move at once if we got spotted.

I pressed the On switch, and as the screen lit up it cast a glow through the inside of the car. I inserted Kev's floppy disk. I was desperate to read the rest of his report, but first I downloaded everything onto the laptop. As I waited, I said quietly, "Kelly?" There was no reply. The gentle rhythm of the rain had done its job.

I began reading where I'd left off. Gibraltar had always been a center for international drug trafficking, money laundering, and smuggling, but it seemed that in 1987, Spain not only still wanted Gib back, it also wanted the Brits to clean it up. Thatcher's government told the Gibraltarians to sort it out, but the high-powered speedboats still ran drugs from North Africa. The Brits threatened direct control of the colony if the trafficking didn't stop and, at the same time, ordered a highly illegal operation against police and government officials they suspected of involvement. The boys taking the hush money got the hint and suddenly ceased doing business with PIRA and everyone else.

My eyes were racing ahead of my brain.

The closure of the Gibraltar route was all well and good for the war against corruption, but the Colombians were very pissed off. A major trade artery had been clamped, and they wanted it reopened. According to Kev's findings, they'd decided a show of strength was required. They wanted Gibraltar bombed as a warning that the local officials should start co operating again, and they ordered PIRA to carry it out.

PIRA had a problem with this. It wanted the route re opened as much as the Colombians did, but, after the debacle of Enniskillen, it couldn't run the risk of killing non-UK civilians and invoking even greater international condemnation. PIRA had refused to do it.

From evidence that Kev had gathered, the cartels' reply to PIRA was blunt: either you bomb Gibraltar or we shift our drug business to the other side the Protestant UVF. For PIRA, not a good day out.

PIRA's head honchos came up with a solution, and as I read on, I couldn't help but admire it.

"Mad Danny" McCann had already been kicked out of PIRA and was rein stated against Gerry Adams's wishes. Mairead Farrell, after the death of her boyfriend, had become too fanatical for her own good "a bit of a social hand grenade," Simmonds had said other. PIRA's plan was to send to Gibraltar two players they'd be happy to see the back of, together with Sean Savage, who had the misfortune to be part of the same Active Service Unit.

The team had the technology and Semtex for the bomb but were told that the explosives were to stay behind in Spain until it had finished its recons and rehearsals. The team was told to take it in once the blocking car was in position, to guarantee the correct placement of the bomb. PIRA then gave the three players bad passports and leaked information to London. They wanted the Brits to react and stop the bombing so that when the three were arrested they could claim to the cartels that they'd given it their best shot.

We'd been duly told about the ASU, but we'd also been briefed that there would be no blocking car and that the bomb would be detonated by a handheld device. These last two pieces of intelligence meant that McCann, Farrell, and Savage had never stood a chance. They were dead from the moment we thought the bomb was in position and armed, because at some stage one of them was bound to make a hand movement that would be construed as an attempt to detonate the device.

I certainly wouldn't have taken the chance that Savage was only going for his packet of mints, and Euan obviously didn't when he initiated the contact with McCann and Farrell. In Pat's immortal words: Better to be tried by twelve than carried by six.

A dialogue box came up on the screen telling me that I was running short of power and needed to plug into another power source. Fuck! I wanted to read more. I got back to the screen and read as fast as I could to get the general idea.

Even though there hadn't been a bomb, the cartels had accepted that their Irish lackies were playing ball. After all, three of their people had been killed in the process. PIRA kept the trade with the Colombians, even though, as Big Al had said, it was thereafter routed through South Africa, then Spain.

PIRA was in seventh heaven. It had gotten rid of two trouble makers, not quite in the way that it had intended, but three martyrs had been created, with the result that PIRA's cause at home was strengthened, and even more dollars rolled into the coffers.

It was only the Brits who appeared to have been left with egg on their faces, but even so, no matter how much the inter national community publicly condemned the shootings, in secret most heads of state admired Thatcher's muscular stand against terrorism.

Fuck it. Another box came up and told me to plug into an external power source. I switched off the laptop and packed it away, full of frustration. I wanted to know more. At the same time I was on a high. If we made it back to the UK with this stuff, I'd have cracked it with Simmonds.

It was 3:30 a.m. There was nothing to do but wait for three hours or so until the first wave of aircraft started to arrive and depart, creating enough activity for us to blend in.

I let the backrest down a bit and tried to get my neck into a comfortable position, but I couldn't relax. My mind was racing. The whole operation in Gibraltar had been a setup so that PIRA and the Colombians could keep making money.

That was one thing, but where did Kev and I fit into the scheme of things? I lay there and listened to the patter of rain.

For Euan and me it had all started on March 3, less than a week before the shootings. We were both on different jobs and had got lifted off and sent to Lisbum, HQ of the British army in Northern Ireland. From there it was a quick move by Puma to Stirling Lines in Hereford, England, the home of the Special Air Service.

We were taken straight to regimental headquarters, and the moment I saw the china cups and cookies outside the briefing room I knew that something big was in the offing. Last time that had happened, the prime minister had been here.

The room was in semidarkness and packed. There was a large screen at the back of a stage and tiered seats so that everyone got a good view.

We were looking for somewhere to sit when I heard, "Hey, over here, dick spot Kev and Slack Pat were sitting drinking tea. With them were the other two members of their four-man team, Geoff and Steve. All were from A Squadron, doing their six months on the counterterrorist team.

Euan turned to Kev and said, "Know what this job is about?"

"We're off to Gib, mate. PIRA's planning a bomb."

The commanding officer got up on the stage and the room fell silent.

"Two problems," he said.

"Number one, a shortage of time. You leave immediately after this briefing. Number two, shortage of solid intelligence. However, Joint Operations Committee wants the Regiment to deploy. You will get as much information as we know now, and as it comes in during your flight and once on the ground."

I thought. What the fuck are Euan and I doing here? Surely it would be illegal for us to work outside Northern Ireland? I kept my mouth shut; if I started querying the decision, they might send me back and I'd miss out.

I looked around and saw members of RHQ, the operations officer, and the world's supply of intelligence corps. The final member of the team was an ammunitions technical officer, a bomb disposal expert on attachment to the counter-terrorism team.

Someone I had never seen before moved toward the stage, a tea cup in one hand, a cookie in the other. He stood to the right-hand side of the stage by the lectern. There was an overnight bag by his feet.

"My name is Simmonds, and I run the Northern Ireland desk for the intelligence service from London. The people behind you are a mix of service and military intelligence officers.

First, a very brief outline of the events that have brought us all here today."

Judging by the bag, it looked as if he would be coming with us. The lights were dimmed, and a slide projector lit the screen behind him.

"Last year," he said, "we learned that a PIRA team had based itself in southern Spain. We intercepted mail going to the homes of known players from Spain and found a postcard from Sean Savage in the Costa del Sol."

A slide came up on the screen.

"Our Sean," Simmonds said with a half smile, "told Mummy and Daddy he was working abroad. It rang a few alarm bells when we read it, because the work young Savage is best at is bomb making."

Was he making a joke? No, he didn't look the sort.

"Then in November two men went through Madrid airport on their way from Malaga to Dublin. They carried Irish passports, and in a routine check the Spanish sent the details to Madrid, who, in turn, passed them with photographs to London. It turned out that both passports were false."

I thought to myself. Stupid timing by them, really. Terrorist incidents in Northern Ireland tended to decrease in the summer months when PIRA members took their wives and kids to the Mediterranean for a fortnight of sun and sand. The funny thing was that the RUC--Royal Ulster Constabulary-also took their vacations in the same places, and they'd all bump into each other in the bars. These two characters had drawn attention to themselves; if they'd passed through Malaga airport during the tourist season, they might have gotten away with it.

It turned out that one of the passport holders was Sean Savage, but it was the identity of the second man that had made everybody concerned.

Simmonds showed his next slide.

"Daniel Martin McCann.

I'm sure you know more about him than I do." He gave a no-fucking-way sort of smile.

"Mad Danny" had really earned his name. Linked to twenty-six killings, he had been lifted often, but had been put away for only two years.

To British intelligence, Simmonds said, the combination of McCann and Savage on the Costa del Sol could mean only one of two things: either PIRA was going to attack a British target on the Spanish mainland, or there was going to be an attack on Gibraltar.

"One thing's for sure," he said.

"They weren't there to top off their suntans."

At last there was a round of laughter. I could see Simmonds liked that, as if he'd practiced his one-liners so the timing was just right. Despite that, I was warming to the man.

It wasn't that often you got people making jokes at a briefing as important as this one.

The slide changed again to a street map of Gibraltar. I was listening to Simmonds but at the same time thinking of my infantry posting there in the 1970s. I'd had a whale of a time.

"Gibraltar is a soft target," Simmonds said.

"There are several potential locations for a bomb, such as the Governor's residence or the law courts, but our threat assessment is that the most likely target will be the garrison regiment, the Royal Anglians. Every Tuesday morning the band of the First Battalion parades for the changing of the guard ceremony. We think the most likely site for a bomb is a square that the band marches into after the parade. A bomb could easily be concealed in a car there."

He might have added that from a bomber's point of view it would be a near-perfect location. Because of the confined area, the blast would be tamped and therefore more effective.

"Following this assessment we stopped the ceremony on December 11. The local media reported that the Governor's guardhouse needed urgent redecoration" slight smile "In fact, we needed time while we gathered more intelligence to stop it needing rebuilding."

Not as good as his last one, but there were still a few subdued laughs.

"The local police were then reinforced by plainclothes officers from the UK, and their surveillance paid off. When the ceremony resumed on February 23, a woman, ostensibly taking a vacation on the Costa del Sol, made a trip to the Rock and photographed the parade. She was covertly checked and was found to be traveling on a stolen Irish passport.

"The following week she was there again, only this time she tagged along behind the bandsmen as they marched to the square. Even my shortsighted mother-in-law could have worked out that she was doing recon for the arrival of an Active Service Unit."

There was loud laughter. He'd done it again. I wasn't too sure if we were all laughing at his jokes or at the fact that he kept on telling them. Who the fuck was this man? This should have been one of the most serious briefings ever. Either he just didn't give a fuck or he was so powerful no one was going to say a word against him. Whatever, I could already tell his presence in Gibraltar would be a real bonus.

Simmonds stopped smiling.

"Our intelligence tells us that the bombing is to take place sometime this week. However, there is no sign that either McCann or Savage is getting ready to leave Belfast." He wasn't wrong. I had seen both of them, stinking drunk, outside a bar on the Falls Road just the night before. They didn't look that ready to me. It should take them quite a while to prepare for this one or maybe this was part of the preparation, having their last night out before work started.

"This is where we have a few problems," he went on. He was working now without his notes. Did that mean no more one-liners? Certainly, there was more of an edge to his voice.

"What are we to do with these people? If we try to move in on them too early, that would only leave other PIRA teams free to go ahead with the bombing. In any case, if the ASU travels through Malaga airport and remains on Spanish territory until the last minute, there is no guarantee that the Spanish courts will hand them over, not only because of the dispute with the UK on the question of whom Gibraltar belongs to but because the case against them could only be based on conspiracy, which is pretty flimsy.

"So, gentlemen, we must arrest them in Gibraltar." The screen went blank; there was only the light from the lectern shining on his face.

"And this throws up three options. The first is to arrest them as they cross the border from Spain.

Easier said than done; there's no guarantee we'll know what kind of vehicle they're in. There would be only about ten to fifteen seconds in which to make a positive identification and effect an arrest not an easy thing to do, especially if they are sitting in a car and probably armed.

"The second option is to arrest the team members once they're in the area of the square, but again this depends on advance warning and positive identification, and their all being together with the device. At the present time, therefore, we are going for the third option, and that's why we are all here."

He took a sip of his tea and asked for the lights to come back on.

He looked around for each group as he talked.

"The Security Service will place surveillance teams to trigger the PIRA team into Gibraltar. The two soldiers who have just arrived from Northern Ireland" Euan caught my eye that was him and me "must give positive IDs on the terrorists before the civil authorities will hand over the operation to the military. You two will not, repeat, not, conduct any arrest or contact action. You understand the reasons why?

The four men from your counterterrorist team will make a hard arrest only after they have planted the device.

"Once arrested," Simmonds went on, "they are to be handed over to the civil authorities. Of course, the normal protection will be given to the team from any court appearance."

He managed a smile.

"I think that's enough, gentlemen."

He looked at the commanding officer.

"Francis, I understand we fly to R.A.F Lyneham in ten minutes to link up with the Hercules?"

Just over three hours later I was sitting in a C-130 with Euan, who was busy worrying about a black mark on his new sneakers. Kev was checking the weapon bundles and ammunition and, more important as far as I was concerned, the medical packs. If I got dropped, I wanted fluid put into me as soon as possible.

We landed at about 11:30 p.m. on Thursday, March 3.

Gibraltar was still awake; lights were on everywhere. We moved off to the military area, where trucks were waiting with our advance party to get us away quickly and without fuss.

Our FOB--Field Operations Base--was in HMS Rooke, the Royal Navy shore base. We had requisitioned half a dozen rooms in the accommodation block and turned them into living space, with our own cooking area and ops room. Wires trailed everywhere, telephones were ringing, signalers ran around in track suits or jeans, testing radios and satellite communications links.

Over the din Simmonds said, "Intelligence suggests there could be a third member of the team, probably its commander.

Her name is Mairead Farrell. We'll have pictures within the hour, but here's some background for you. She's a particularly nasty piece of work: middle class, thirty-one, ex-convent schoolgirl."

He grinned, then told us more about her. She'd served ten years in prison for planting a bomb in the Conway Hotel, Belfast, in 1976, but as soon as she was released she reported straight back to PIRA for duty. There was a slight smile on his face as he explained that her lover, unbelievably named Brendan Burns, had blown himself up recently.

The meeting broke up, and a signaler came over and started handing out street maps.

"They've already been spotted up by Intelligence," he said.

As we started to look at their handiwork he went on.

"The main routes from the border to the square are marked in detail, the rest of the town fairly well, and of the outlying areas, just major points."

I looked at it. Fucking hell! There were about a hundred coordinates to learn before the ASU came over the border.

I didn't know what was tougher--the PIRA team or the homework.

"Any questions, lads?"

Kev said, "Yeah, three. Where do we sleep, where's the toilet, and has somebody got some coffee on?"

In the morning, we picked up our weapons and ammunition and went onto the range. The four on the counterterrorism team had their own pistols. The ones Euan and I had were borrowed--our own were still in Derry. Not that it mattered much; people think that blokes in the SAS are very particular about their weapons, but we aren't. So long as you know that when you pull the trigger it will fire the first time and the rounds will hit the target you're aiming at, you're happy.

Once at the range, people did their own thing. The other four just wanted to know that their mags were working OK and that the pistols had no defects after being bundled up. We wanted to do the same, but also to find out the behavior of our new weapons at different ranges. After firing off all the mags in quick succession to make sure everything worked, we then fired at five, ten, fifteen, twenty, and twenty-five yards. Good, slow, aimed shots, always aiming at the same point and checking where the rounds fell at each range. That way we knew where to aim at fifteen yards, for example, and that was at the top of the target's torso. Because of the distance, quite a lot for a pistol, the rounds would fall lower into the bottom of his chest and take him down. Every weapon is different, so it took an hour to be confident.

Once finished we didn't strip the weapons to clean them.

Why do that when we knew they worked perfectly? We just got a brush into the area that feeds the round into the barrel and got the carbon off.

Next job was getting on the ground to learn the spots system, at the same time checking our radios and finding out if there were any dead areas. We were still running around doing that when, at 2 p.m." Alpha came up on the net.

"Hello, all stations, return to this location immediately."

Simmonds was already in the briefing area when we arrived, looking like a man under pressure. Like the rest of us, he'd probably had very little sleep. There was two days' growth on his chin, and he was having a bad hair day. Something was definitely going on; there was a lot more noise and bustle from the machines and men in the background. He had about twenty bits of paper in his hand. The intelligence boys were giving him more as he talked, and they distributed copies of the rules of engagement to us. The operation, I saw, was now called Flavius.

"Just about an hour and a half ago," he said, "Savage and McCann passed through Immigration at Malaga airport.

They were on a flight from Paris. Farrell met them. We have no idea how she got there. The team is complete. There is just one little problem--the Spanish lost them as they got into a taxi. Triggers are now being placed on the border crossing as a precaution. I have no reason to believe that the attack will not take place as planned."

He paused and looked at each of us in turn.

"I've just become aware of two very critical pieces of information. First, the players will not be using a blocking car to reserve a parking space in the target area. A blocking car would mean making two trips across the border, and the intelligence is that they're not prepared to take the risk. The PIRA vehicle, when it arrives, should therefore be perceived as the real thing.

"Second, the detonation of the bomb will be by a handheld remote control initiation device: they want to be sure that the bomb goes off at exactly the right moment. Remember, gentlemen, any one of the team, or all of them, could be in possession of that device. That bomb must not detonate.

There could be hundreds of lives at risk."

I was awoken by the noise of engines in reverse and wheels on the tarmac. It was just after 6 a.m. I had been asleep for three hours. It was still dark; the rain had eased quite a bit. I leaned over to the back.

"Kelly, Kelly, time to wake up." As I shook her there was a gentle moan. She sat up, rubbing her eyes.

With the cuff of my coat I started to tidy her up. I didn't want her walking into the airport looking wrecked. I wanted us as spruce and happy as Donny and Marie Osmond on Prozac.

We got out of the car with the bag and I locked up, after checking inside to make sure that there wasn't anything attractive to see. The last thing I needed now was a parking lot attendant taking an interest in my lock-picking kit. We walked over to the bus stop and waited for the shuttle to take us to departures.

The terminal looked just like any airport at that time of the morning. The check-in desks were already quite busy with business fliers. A handful of people, mostly student types, looked as though they were waiting for flights that they'd gotten there much too early for. Cleaners with floor waxers trudged across the tiled floors like zombies.

I picked up a free airport magazine from the rack at the top of the escalator. Looking at the flight guide, I saw that the first possible departure to the UK. was at just after five o'clock in the afternoon. It was going to be a long wait.

I looked at Kelly; we both could do with a decent wash. We went down the escalator to the international arrivals area on the lower level. I put some money in a machine and got a couple of travel kits to supplement our washing kit and went into one of the handicap-accessible toilets.

I shaved as Kelly washed her face. I scraped the dirt off her boots with toilet paper and generally cleaned her up, combed her hair, and put it in an elastic band at the back so it didn't look so greasy. After half an hour we were looking fairly respectable The scabs on my face were healing. No Prozac, but we'd pass muster.

I picked up the bag.

"You ready?"

"Are we going to England now?"

"Just one thing left to do. Follow me." I pulled at the stubby ponytail that made her look like a four-foot-tall cheerleader.

She acted annoyed, but I could tell she liked the attention.

We went back up the escalator and walked around the edge of the terminal. I pretended to be studying the aircraft out on the tarmac. In fact, there were two quite different things I was looking for.

"I need to mail something," I said, spotting the FedEx box.

I used the credit card details on the car rental agreement to fill out the mailing label. Fuck it--Big Al could pay for a few things now that he was rich.

Kelly was watching every movement.

"Who are you writing?"

"I'm sending something to England in case we are stopped." I showed her the floppy disk and backup disk.

"Who are you sending it to?" She got more like her dad every day.

"Don't be so nosy."

I put them in the envelope, sealed it, and entered the delivery details. In the past we'd used the FedEx system to send the Firm photos from abroad that we'd taken of a target and developed in a hotel room, or other highly sensitive material.

It saved getting caught with them in our possession. Nowadays, however, the system was obsolete; with digital cameras you can take pictures, plug in your cellular mobile, dial up the UK, and transmit.

We continued walking around the edge of the terminal. I found the power outlet I was looking for at the end of a row of black plastic seats where two students were snoring. I pointed to the last two spaces.

"Let's sit down here. I want to look at the laptop."

I got it plugged in. Kelly decided she wanted something to eat.

"Give me five minutes," I said.

From what I'd read earlier, I understood Gibraltar was a setup, but it still didn't explain what Kev had to do with it. It soon became clearer.

In the late 1980s the Bush administration had been under pressure from Thatcher to do something about Noraid fundraising for PIRA. With so many millions of Irish American votes on the line, however, it was a tricky call. A deal was struck: if the Brits could expose the fact that Noraid money was being used to buy drugs, it would help discredit PIRA in the USA and Bush could then take action. After all, who would complain about a US administration fighting the spread of dangerous narcotics?

When the British intelligence service started to gather data about PIRA's drug connections with Gibraltar, it seemed to present a window of opportunity. After the events of March 6, however, the window was slammed shut. Those votes were too important.

By the early 1990s the US had a new administration and the UK a new prime minister. In Northern Ireland, the peace process began. The US was told and the message was delivered at the highest level that unless it put pressure on PIRA to come to the peace table, the UK would ex pose what was happening to Noraid funds raised in America.

The failure to fight the drug war in its own backyard, by a power that preached so readily to others, would be a serious embarrassment.

Another deal was sorted out. Clinton allowed Gerry Adams into the USA in 1995, a move that was not only good for the Irish American vote but which made Clinton look like the prince of peacemakers. He also appeared to be snubbing John Major's stand against PIRA, but the British didn't mind; they knew the agenda. Behind closed doors, Gerry Adams was told that if PIRA didn't let the peace process happen, the US would come down on them like a ton of steaming shit.

A cease fire was indeed declared. It seemed that the years of covert talks that had gone nowhere were finally at an end; it was now time to talk for real. Clinton and the British government would be seen as peace brokers, and PIRA would have a say in the way the deal was shaped.

On February 12, 1996, however, a massive bomb exploded at London's newest business center, Canary Wharf, killing two and causing hundreds of millions of dollars of damage.

The cease fire was broken. It was back to business as usual.

But it didn't end there. Kev had also discovered that PIRA had been trying to blackmail certain Gibraltarian officials, with some success. It seemed Gibraltar was still the key to Europe. Spain was far too much of a risk. They had also targeted some important personalities in the US so they could continue to operate their drug business with impunity. One of the victims was high up in the DEA. Kev's problem was, he didn't know who.

I did; I had the photograph of his boss.

And now I knew why McGear, Fernahan, and Macauley had been in Gibraltar. Whoever the official was, they'd been there to give him a final warning and to try to blackmail him with the shipment documents and photographs to get the routes open again.

I had to get back to the UK. I had to see Simmonds.

At ten o'clock we went back down the escalator to international arrivals. I needed passports--British or American, I didn't care. I scanned the international flights on the monitor.

Chances were we were going to end up with American documents rather than British, purely because of the number of families streaming back from spring vacation.

Just like before, there were people on both sides of the railings, waiting with their cameras and flowers. Kelly and I sat on the PVC seats near the domestic carousels on the other side of the international gates. I had my arm around her as if I were cuddling her and chatting away. In fact, I was talking her through some of the finer points of theft.

"Do you think you can do it?"

We sat and watched the first wave of domestic arrivals come, stand around, then leave when they collected their luggage.

I spotted a potential family.

"That's the sort of thing we're looking for, but they're two boys." I smiled.

"You want to be a boy for the day?"

"No way--boys stink!"

I put my nose into my sweatshirt. I agreed.

"OK, we'll wait."

A flight arrived from Frankfurt; this time we struck gold.

The parents were late thirties, the kids were about ten or eleven, a girl and a boy; the mother was carrying a clear plastic handbag with white mesh so you could check everything was where it should be. I couldn't believe our luck.

"See them?

That's what we want. Let's go, shall we?"

There was a slightly hesitant "Yeahhh." She didn't sound too keen now. Should I let her do this? I could stop it right now. As they walked toward the rest rooms I had to make a decision. Fuck it. Let's carry on and get this done.

"She's going in with her daughter," I said.

"Make sure no body's behind you. Remember, I'll be waiting." We followed casually. The husband had left with the boy, perhaps to visit one of the vending machines or to wait for their bags.

Mother and daughter went in via the ladies' entrance, chatting and giggling. The mother had the bag over her shoulder.

We entered via the men's on the right of the handicap toilets, and immediately went into one of the large stalls.

"I'll be in this one here, OK, Kelly?"

"OK."

"Remember what you have to do?"

I got a big, positive nod.

"Off you go then." I closed the door and held it in place.

The stalls were large enough for a wheelchair to maneuver in.

The slightest sound seemed to echo. The floors were wet and smelled of bleach. The time sheet on the back of the door showed the place had been cleaned only fifteen minutes ago.

My heart was pumping so hard I could feel it underneath my shirt; I was even starting to hyperventilate. My whole future pivoted on the actions of a seven-year-old girl. She had to slip her hand under the stall, grab the handbag, put it under her coat, and walk away without looking back. Not difficult just majorly flawed. But without passports we couldn't get out of the country; it was as simple as that. I had decided there was no way I could go back to Big Al's. Besides the risk of the journey, I couldn't trust him, because I had no idea what he'd been doing since I left him. It was just too fucking complicated. We needed to get out of this country, and now.

I was shaken from my thoughts by a sudden knock, knock, knock and a nervous "Nickkk!"

I opened the door quickly, didn't even look, and in she ran.

I closed and locked it, picked her up, and carried her over to the toilet.

I put the lid down and we sat together. I smiled and whispered, "Well done!" She looked both excited and scared. I was just scared, because I knew that at any minute all hell would break loose.

And then it came. The mother was running out of the rest room, shouting, "My bag! My bag's been stolen! Where's Louise? Louise!"

Louise came out and started to cry.

"Oh, Mom, what's happened?"

I could hear both of them running off, yelling. Now was not the time to get out. People would be looking; attention would be focused. Let's just sit tight and look at the passports.

We'd just robbed Mrs. Sarah Glazar and family. Fine, except that Mr. Glazar didn't look at all like Mr. Stone. Never mind, I could do something about that later on. But the names of both kids were entered on each of their parents' passports, and that was a problem.

I pulled out the cash and her reading glasses. The toilet tank was a sealed unit behind the wall. There was nowhere to hide the bag. I got up, told Kelly to stand, and listened at the door.

The woman had found a policeman. I imagined the scene outside. A little crowd would have gathered around. The cop would be making notes, radioing Control, maybe checking the other stalls. I broke into a sweat.

I stood at the door and waited for what seemed like an hour. Kelly tiptoed exaggeratedly toward me; I bent down and she whispered in my ear, "Is it all right yet?"

"Almost."

Then I heard a banging noise, and knocking. Somebody was pushing back the doors in the vacant stalls and knocking on the doors of the others. They were looking for the thief or, more likely, to see if the bag had been dumped once the money had been taken. They'd be at our stall any second.

I didn't have time to think.

"Kelly, you must talk if they knock. I want you to " Knock, knock, knock.

It sounded like the slam of a cell door.

A male voice shouted, "Hello, police anyone in there?"

He tried to turn the handle.

I quickly moved Kelly back to the toilet and whispered in her ear.

"Say you will be out soon." She shouted, "I'll be out in a minute."

There was no reply, just the same thing happening at the next stall. The danger had passed, or so I hoped.

All that was left to do was dump my pistol and mags. That was easy. I slipped them into Sarah's bag and crushed it into a package that would fit in a trash can.

It was an hour before I decided it was safe to leave. I turned to Kelly.

"Your name is Louise now, OK? Louise Glazar."

"OK."

She didn't seem fussed at all.

"Louise, when we leave here in a minute I want you to be really happy and I want you to hold my hand." With that I picked up the bag.

"OK, we're off!"

"To England?"

"Of course! But first of all we've got to get on the plane. By the way, you were great--well done!"

We got into the departures area at 11:30 a.m. Still several hours to go before the first possible flight, British Airways flight 216 to Heathrow at 5:10.

I went to a phone and, using the numbers in the airport magazine, called each airline in turn to check seat availability.

The British Airways flight was fully booked. So was United Airways 918 at 6:10, the BA at 6:10, and the United at 6:40. I eventually managed to find two spare seats on a flight with Virgin at 6:45, and gave all the details of Mr. Glazar, who was on his way to the airport right now. Payment was courtesy of the details for Big Al's plastic on the car rental form.

I wandered past the Virgin desk and found it didn't open until 1:30 p.m. One and a half hours to sit and sweat.

Christian Glazar was a little older than me, and his shoulder-length hair was starting to go gray. My hair was just below the ear, and brown. Thankfully, his passport was four years old.

To the delight of Kelly and the terminal's barbershop owner, I underwent a number one crew cut, coming out looking like a US Marine.

We then went into the travel store and bought a pack of painkillers that claimed to be the answer to female pains.

Judging by the list of ingredients, they were certainly the answer for me.

All the time, I kept hoping that the police had assumed the motive for the theft was money and had left it to the Glazars to report the cards and passports missing rather than pursuing the matter further. I didn't want to turn up at the ticket sales desk and be jumped on by several hundred pounds of cop.

Still thirty minutes to go before we could check in. One more thing to do.

"Kelly, we have to go to the bathroom up here for a while."

"I don't need to go."

"It's for me to get into my disguise. Come and see."

We went to the handicap toilet in departures and closed the door. I took out Sarah's glasses. They were gold-framed and had lenses as thick as the bottom of Coke bottles. I tried them on. The frames weren't big enough but they looked OK.. I turned to Kelly and crossed my eyes. Then I had to stop her laughing.

I took the painkillers out of the duffel.

"I'm going to swallow these and they're going to make me ill. But it's for a reason, OK?"

She wasn't quite sure.

I took six capsules and waited. The hot flashes started, then the cold sweats. I put my hands up to show it was OK as the contents of my stomach flew out of my mouth into the toilet bowl.

Kelly watched in amazement as I rinsed out my mouth in the basin. I looked at myself in the mirror. Just as I'd hoped, I looked as pale and clammy as I felt. I took two more.

There were few customers at the long line of check-in desks and only one woman on duty at Virgin Atlantic ticket sales.

She was writing something so her head was down as we approached.

She was in her mid-twenties and beautiful, with relaxed hair pulled back in a bun.

"Hello, the name's Glazar." Because of the vomiting my voice was lower and coarse.

"There should be two tickets for me." I tried to look disorganized and flustered.

"Hopefully, my brother-in-law has booked them?" My eyes looked to the sky in hope.

"Sure, do you have a reference number?"

"Sorry, he didn't give me one. Just Glazar, Christian Glazar" She tapped that out and said, "That's fine, Mr. Glazar, two tickets for you and Louise. How many bags are you checking in?"

I had the laptop on my shoulder and the duffel in my hand.

I dithered, as if working out if I'd need the laptop on the flight.

"Just this one." I put the bag on the scale. It didn't weigh much, but it was bulked up respectably with the blanket.

"Could I see your passport, please?"

I looked in all my pockets without apparent success. I didn't want to produce Glazar's documents right away.

"Look, I know we were lucky to get seats at all, but is it possible to make sure we're sitting together?" I leaned a little closer and half-whispered, "Louise hates flying."

Kelly and I exchanged glances.

"Everything's going to be OK.," I told her. My voice dropped again.

"We're on a bit of a mercy mission."

I looked down at Kelly and back at the woman, my face pained.

"Her grandmother^ ..." I let it hang, as if the rest of the sentence would be too terrible for a little girl's ears.

"I'll see what I can do, sir."

She was hitting the keys other PC at such a speed it looked as if she were bluffing. I put the passport on top of the counter. She looked up and smiled. "No problem, Mr.

Glazar;' "That's marvelous" But I still wanted to keep the conversation going.

"I wonder, would it be possible for us to use one of your lounges? It's just that, after my chemotherapy, I tire very easily. We've been rushing around today and I don't feel too good. I only have to knock myself and I start bleeding " She looked at my scabs and pale complexion and under stood. There was a pause, then she said, "My mother went through chemo for cancer of the liver. The therapy worked;

after all that pain she came through "

I thanked her for her concern and her message of support.

Now just get me into the lounge, out of the fucking way!

"Let me find out." Smiling at Kelly, she picked up the phone and spoke. After several seconds of weird airline vocabulary she looked at me and nodded.

"That's fine, sir. We share facilities with United. I'll fill out an invitation."

I thanked her as she reached for the passport. I hoped that by now she knew me so well it was just a formality. She flicked it open; I turned away and talked to Kelly, telling her how exciting it was going to be, flying to see Grandma.

I heard, "You'll be boarding at about five-thirty." I looked up, all smiles.

"Go to Gate C. A shuttle will take you to the lounge. You both have a pleasant flight."

"Thank you so much. Come on then, Louise, we've got a plane to catch!" I let Kelly walk on a few steps, then turned and said, "I just hope Grandma can wait for us." She nodded knowingly.

All I wanted to do now was get through Customs. First hurdle was security. Kelly went through first, and I followed.

No alarms. I had to open up the laptop and switch it on to prove it worked, but I'd been expecting that. All the Flavius files were now in a folder called Games.

We went straight to Gate C, walked through, and got on the shuttle bus. There was a five-minute wait while the bus filled up, then the doors closed, the hydraulics lowered, and we drove about half a mile across the tarmac to the departures lounge proper.

The area was plush and busy. I heard a lot of British accents, mixed in with snatches of German and French. Kelly and I headed for the United lounge, via a detour to the candy stall.

We sat quietly with a large cappuccino and a Coke. Unfortunately, the downtime just gave me a while to think about whether I'd made any mistakes.

A security man walked into the reception area and talked to the people at the desk. My heart beat faster. We were so close to the aircraft on the other side of the glass that I felt I could reach out and touch them. I could almost smell the aviation fuel.

I told myself to calm down. If they'd wanted us, they would have found us by now.

But, in truth, so many things could still go wrong that one of them almost certainly would. I was still sweating away. My head was glistening. And I didn't know if it was the capsules or my worrying, but I was starting to feel weak.

"Nick, am I Louise all day today or just for now?"

I pretended to think about it.

"The whole day. You're Louise Glazar all day."

"Why?"

"Because they won't let us go to England unless we use another name."

I got a smiling, thoughtful nod.

I said, "Do you want to know something else?"

"What?"

"If I call you Louise, you have to call me Daddy. But just for today."

I wasn't sure what kind of reaction that would get, but she just shrugged.

"Whatever." Maybe that was what she wanted now.

The next three hours were grim, but at least we were out of the way. If I'd had any heart problems, I would probably have died, the blood was coursing through me so fast and hard. I could hear it pumping in my ears.

I kept saying to myself: You're here now, there's nothing you can do about it; accept it. Just get on that fucking aircraft!

I looked at Kelly.

"You all right, Louise?"

"Yeah, I'm all right. Daddy." She had a big smile now. I just hoped she kept it.

I watched the receptionist move to the microphone. She announced our flight and told us that she had really enjoyed having us stay in the lounge.

There were about a dozen others who stood up and started to sort themselves out, folding papers and zipping up bags.

I got to my feet and stretched.

"Louise?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's go to England!"

We walked toward the gate, father and daughter, hand in hand, chatting about nothing. My theory went: if I talked with her, they wouldn't talk to us.

Four or five people were ahead of us in line--like us, families with young children. Passports were being checked by a young Latino; he had an ID card on a chain around his neck, but we were too far way yet for me to make out what it said.

Was he airline security or airport security?

Two uniformed security men came up and stood behind him, talking to each other. It was the kind of chat that looked so casual it probably wasn't. I used my sleeve to mop sweat from the side of my face.

Both of the uniformed men were armed. The black one cracked a joke as the white one laughed and looked around.

Kelly and I shuffled forward.

I held her beside me, the protective parent anxious in a crowd. The laptop was over my shoulder. Kelly held a teddy bear under each arm.

We moved three steps forward; another wait, then it was our turn with the Latino.

I wanted to make it all very easy for him. Smiling, I handed him the boarding passes and the passport. I was convinced the uniformed guys were looking at me. I went into boxer mode: everything was focused on the Latino; everything else was in the distance, muffled, distorted, peripheral. A bead of sweat fell down my cheek, and I knew he'd noticed it. I knew he could see my chest heaving up and down.

Kelly was just behind and to the right of me. I looked at her and smiled.

"Sir?"

I silently exhaled in preparation and looked back at him.

"Just the passport, sir." He handed me back the boarding passes. I grinned, the inexperienced dickhead traveler.

He flicked through the pages of the passport, stopping at Glazar's photograph. He glanced at me, then back at the passport.

I'm in deep shit.

I let him see I was reading his thoughts.

"Male menopause," I grinned, rubbing my hand over what was left of my hair. My scalp was drenched.

"The Bruce Willis look!"

The fucker didn't laugh. He was making up his mind. He closed the passport and tapped it in his hand.

"Have a pleasant flight, sir."

I went to give him a nod, but he was already paying attention to the people behind me.

We moved two paces toward the women from Virgin and handed them our boarding passes. The two security men didn't budge.

We started to walk onto the air bridge I felt as if I'd been trying to run through waist-high water and was suddenly on the shoreline.

The Latino still worried me. I thought about him all the way onto the aircraft. It was only when I'd found our seats, put the laptop in the overhead locker, settled down, and picked up the in-flight magazine that I took a deep breath and let it out very, very slowly. It wasn't a sigh of relief; I was boosting the oxygen levels in my blood. No, the fucker wasn't happy. His suspicions had been aroused, but he hadn't asked any questions, hadn't even asked my name. We might be on the shoreline, but it was far from being dry land.

The aircraft was still filling up. I kept taking deep breaths to try to control my pulse rate.

Officials were moving in and out of the aircraft with manifests. Every time it happened I was expecting to see the two security guys in tow. There was only one entrance, only one exit. There was nowhere to run. As I worked through the scenarios in my mind, I just had to accept that the die was cast. I was a passenger now, and for a fleeting second I had the same feeling that I'd always had on any aircraft, military or civilian I was in the hands of others and powerless to decide my own destiny. I hated it.

People were still filing on. I nearly burst out in nervous laughter as the speakers played Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive " I looked at Kelly and winked. She thought it was great, sitting there trying to strap in her teddy bears.

One of the male flight attendants came down our aisle, still wearing his Virgin uniform, not yet in shirtsleeves. He came down to our row of seats and stopped. Judging by his line of sight, he seemed to be checking our seat belts. It was too early for that, surely? I nodded and smiled. He turned back and disappeared into the galley.

I watched the entrance, expecting the worst. One of the female flight attendants poked her head out and looked directly at me. Kelly's teddy bears were suddenly very interesting.

I could feel tingling in my feet. My stomach tightened. I looked up again. She was gone.

The male attendant came out again, carrying a garbage bag. He approached us again, stopped, and squatted down in the aisle next to Kelly. He said, "Hiya!"

"Hello!"

He put his hand into the bag; I waited for him to bring out the .45. Good ploy, letting me think he's a member of the crew doing something for the kid.

He pulled out a little nylon day sack Splattered all over the back was the Virgin logo and the words kids with altitude.

"We forgot to give you one of these," he said. I nearly hugged him.

"Thank you very much!" I grinned like an asylum inmate, my eyes one hundred percent larger through the lenses of Sarah's glasses.

"Thank you so much!"

He did his best not to look at me, as if I were indeed some sort of weirdo, then offered us a drink before takeoff. I was dying for a beer, but I might have to start performing on the other side and, anyway, I just wanted to lean back and rest.

We each ordered an orange juice instead.

Sharing the in-flight guide with Kelly, I said, "What film are you going to watch, Louise?"

"Clueless," she grinned.

"Whatever," I said.

Twenty minutes later, right on schedule, the aircraft finally lifted off from the runway. Suddenly I didn't mind being in a pilot's hands after all. We went through all the nonsense of the introduction by the captain, how wonderful it was to have us on board, and when we were going to be fed. My body heat was starting to dry out my sweat-drenched shirt. Even my socks had been wet. I looked over at Kelly. She had a sad face on. I nudged her with my arm.

"You OK?"

"I guess. I couldn't even tell Melissa I'm going to England."

I knew how to get out of this type of thing now.

"Well, all you have to do is think good things about Melissa and that will make you feel happy." I was waiting for her reply. I knew the sort of thing it was going to be.

"Do you think about David? What do you remember about David?"

Easy; I was prepared.

"Well, nearly twelve years ago, we were rebuilding his house together and it needed a new wooden floor."

She was enjoying this, stories at bedtime. She certainly looked as if she would go to sleep soon, cuddling up to me.

I continued telling her how we'd both swiped a squash court floor from one of the HQ Security Forces bases in Northern Ireland. We were there at three o'clock in the morning with spades, hammers, and chisels. We put the boards in a van and brought them over to his Welsh cottage. After all, HM Government spent all that time and money training us to break in and steal things. Why not use it for ourselves?

The next three days had been spent laying the hallway and kitchen of the house near Brecon with his nice new flooring.

I grinned down at her for a reaction, but she was already sound asleep.

I started to watch the video but knew I was going to fall asleep any minute--as long as the capsules wore off and I could stop my mind going back to the same question over and over again.

There was an unholy alliance between PIRA and corrupt elements of the DEA, of that there was no doubt--and it very much looked as though Kev's boss was at the center of it. Kev had found out about the corruption, but not who was involved.

He wanted to talk to somebody about it. Was it his boss whom he'd unwittingly phoned for an opinion the day I arrived in Washington? Very unlikely, because Kev would have had to include him on his list of suspects. Much more probable was that he'd spoken to someone unconnected with the DEA, someone who'd know what he was talking about and whose opinion he valued. Could it have been Luther? He knew Kev; would Kev have trusted him? Who knows? Whoever he had called, he was dead within an hour of putting down the phone.

The cabin lights came on a couple of hours before landing, and we were served breakfast. I tried to wake Kelly, but she groaned and buried herself under her blanket. I didn't bother with the food. From feeling almost elated at having gotten past security, I awoke profoundly depressed. My mood was as black as the coffee in front of me. I'd been crazy to let myself feel relieved. We weren't out of the woods by a long shot;

if they knew we were on the aircraft, of course they wouldn't do anything about it until we landed. It was at the point that I walked off and stepped onto the ramp that they'd lift me.

Even if that didn't happen, there was Immigration. The officials trying to keep out undesirables are much tougher and a lot more on the ball than those in charge of waving you off.

They vet your documents much more closely, scrutinize your body language, read your eyes. Kelly and I were on a stolen passport. We'd gotten through at Dulles, but that didn't mean we could pull it off again.

I took four capsules and finished my coffee. I remembered that I was an American citizen now. When the attendant came past I asked her for an immigration card. Kelly was still asleep.

Filling in the card, I decided that the Glazars had just moved and now lived next door to Mr. and Mrs. Brown.

Hunting Bear Path was the only address I could talk about convincingly.

If I was lifted at Immigration, it wouldn't be the first time.

I'd come into Gatwick airport once from a job. I gave my passport to the Immigration officer, and while he was inspecting it a boy came up on either side, gripped my arms and took the passport from the official.

"Mr. Stamford? Special Branch. Come with us." I wasn't going to argue; my cover was good, I was in the UK now, everything was going to be fine.

They strip-searched me in an interview room, firing questions left, right, and center. I went through the whole routine of my cover story: where I'd been, what I'd been doing, why I'd been doing it. They telephoned my cover, and James supported my story. Everything was going swimmingly.

Then I got put in the airport detention cells, and three policemen came in. They wasted no time; two held my arms, one threw punches; they then took turns. They beat the shit out of me. No word of explanation.

Next I got taken for an interview and was accused of being a pedophile and procuring kids in Thailand which was strange, considering I'd been on a deniable op in Russia.

There was nothing I could say; it was just down to denying, and waiting for the system to get me out.

After about four hours of interviews I was sitting in my cell. In came people from the intelligence service, to debrief me on my performance. It had been a fucking exercise.

They'd been testing all the operators as we came back into the UK; the only trouble was, they'd picked the wrong charge to pull us up on. The police don't wait for niceties like court rooms when it comes to dealing with child molesters, so everyone who was lifted got taken to one side and given the good news. One bloke got such a severe kicking he ended up in the hospital.

* * * Kelly looked as if she'd been sleeping in a hedge. She yawned and made an attempt to stretch. As she opened her eyes and looked around, completely bewildered, I grinned and offered her the carton of orange juice.

"How are you today, Louise?"

She still seemed lost for a second or two, then got back with the program.

"I'm all right." She paused, grinned, and added, "Daddy." She closed her eyes and turned over, trying to sort herself out with the pillow and blanket. I didn't have the heart to tell her we were landing soon.

At least I got to drink her orange juice as a Welcome to London video came on the screens: loads of pomp, circumstance, and pageantry, the Household Cavalry astride their horses. Guardsmen marching up and down, the Queen riding down the Mall in her carriage. To me, London had never looked so good.

Then the aircraft landed and we became actors again.

We taxied and stopped at our ramp. Everybody jumped out of their seat as if they were going to miss out on something. I leaned over to Kelly.

"Wait here. We're in no rush." I wanted to get into the middle of the crowd.

We eventually got all the bits and pieces back into Kelly's day sack organized the teddies, and joined the line. I was trying to look ahead but I couldn't see much.

We got to the galley area, turned left, and shuffled toward the door. On the ramp were three men--normal British Airports Authority reception staff in fluorescent jackets, who were manning the air bridge helping a woman into a wheelchair.

Things were looking good; freedom felt so close.

We walked up the ramp and joined the spur that led to the main terminal. Kelly didn't have a care in the world, which was good. I didn't want her to understand what was happening.

There was heavy foot traffic in both directions, people running with hand luggage, drifting in and out of shops, milling around at gates. I had the day sack and the laptop over my shoulder and held Kelly's hand. We reached the walkway.

Heathrow airport is the most monitored, most camera'd, most visually and physically secure airport in the world.

Untold pairs of eyes would already be on us; this was no time for looking furtive or guilty. The moving walkway stopped by Gates 43-47, then a new one started about ten yards later. As we trundled along I waited until there was a gap on each side of us and bent down to Kelly.

"You mustn't forget I am your daddy today OK, Louise Glazar?"

"As if!" she said with a big smile.

I just hoped we were both smiling in thirty minutes' time.

We came to the end of the walkway and took a down escalator, following signs for Passport Control and Baggage Re claim. From halfway down the escalator I could see the Immigration hall straight ahead. This was where we'd stand or fall.

There were about four or five people waiting to go through the desks. I started joking with Kelly, trying to give myself something to do instead of just looking nervous. I'd entered countries illegally hundreds of times, but never so unprepared or under such pressure.

"All set, Louise?"

"I'm ready, Daddy."

I passed her the day sack so I could get the passport and immigration card out of my pocket. We ambled up to Passport Control and joined the end of a line. I kept reminding myself about an American friend who'd traveled from Boston to Canada, and then from Canada back to the UK. He'd picked up his friend's passport while they were sharing a hotel room;

he couldn't get back to exchange it so he had to fake it. No one had even batted an eyelid.

We waited in line. Still with the laptop on my right shoulder, I was holding Kelly's hand with my left. I kept looking down at her and smiling, but not excessively so; that was suspicious behavior, and I knew that people would be watching on monitors and from behind two-way mirrors. The business type in front of us went through with a wave and a smile to the official. It was our turn. We approached the desk.

I handed my passport and visa waiver to the woman. She ran her eyes down the details on the card. She looked down at Kelly from her high desk.

"Hello, welcome to England."

Kelly came back with a very American, "Hi!"

I guessed the woman was in her late thirties. Her hair was permed, but the perm had gone slightly wrong.

"Did you have a nice flight?" she asked.

Kelly had Jenny or Ricky in one hand, hanging by its ear, and the other one's head was sticking out from the top flap of the day sack on her back. She said, "Yes, it was fine, thank you."

The woman kept the conversation going.

"And what's your name?" she asked, still checking the form.

Could I trust her to get it right, or should I butt in?

Kelly smiled and said, "Kelly!"

What a farce. We'd come so far, we'd come through so much, only to be caught by a line straight out ofaB movie.

Right away I smiled down at Kelly.

"No, it's not!" I didn't want to look at the woman; I could feel the smile drain from her face, could feel her eyes burning into the side of my head.

There was a pause that felt like an hour as I tried to think of what to do or say next. I pictured the woman's finger hovering over a concealed button.

Kelly got there before me.

"I know, I'm joking." She giggled, holding out a teddy.

"This is Kelly! My name is Louise. What's yours?"

"My name's Margaret." The smile was back. If only she'd known how close she'd been to a kill.

She opened the passport. Her eyes flicked up and down as she studied first the picture, then my face. She put the pass port down below the level of the desk, and I saw the telltale glow of ultraviolet light. Then she looked back into my eyes and said, "When was this picture taken?"

"About four years ago, I guess." I gave a weak smile and said in a low voice that Kelly wasn't meant to overhear, "I've been having chemotherapy. The hair's just starting to grow back." I rubbed my head. My skin felt damp and cold. Hope fully I still looked like shit. The capsules certainly made me feel it.

"I'm bringing Louise over to see my parents because it's been quite a traumatic time. My wife's staying with our other child because he's ill at the moment. When it rains, it pours!"

"Oh," she said, and it sounded genuinely sympathetic. But she didn't hand back the passport.

There was a big lull, as if she were waiting for me to fill the silence with a confession. Or maybe she was just trying to think of something helpful and human to say. Finally she said, "Have a good stay," and put the documents back on the desktop.

There was that urge just to grab them and run.

"Thank you very much," I said, picking them up and putting them back into my pocket, then carefully doing up the button, because that was what a normal dad would do. Only then did I turn to Kelly.

"C'mon, Louise, let's go!"

I started to walk, but Kelly stood her ground. Oh fuck, now what?

"

"Bye, Margaret." She beamed.

"Have a nice day!"

That was it. We were nearly there. I knew there wasn't going to be a problem with the luggage, because I wasn't going to collect it.

I checked the carousels. There was a flight from Brussels that was also unloading, so I headed for the blue channel.

Even if they were watching and stopped us because Kelly had a Virgin Atlantic bag, I would play the stupid person routine.

But there weren't any Customs officers on duty in the blue channel. We were free. The large sliding doors opened up into the arrivals hall. We walked through into a throng of chauffeurs holding up cards and people waiting for their loved ones. Nobody gave us a second look.

I went straight to the currency exchange. I found I'd done well last night with Ron, Melvin, and the Glazars, ending up with more than three hundred pounds in cash. Like a dickhead, I forgot to ask for a smaller bill for the subway ticket machine, so we had to stand in line for ages to get to the kiosk. It didn't seem to matter; even the hour-long ride to Bank station was enjoyable. I was a free man. I was among ordinary people, none of whom knew who we were or was going to pull a gun on us.

The central London district known as the City is a strange mixture of architecture. As we left the subway station, we passed grand buildings made up of columns and puritanically straight lines--the old Establishment. Turn a corner and we were confronted by monstrosities that were built in the sixties and early seventies by architects who must have taken a "Let's go fuck up the City" pill. One of these buildings was the one I was heading for, the NatWest bank on Lombard Street, a road so narrow that just one car could squeeze down it.

We went through the revolving steel and glass doors into the banking hall, where rows of cashiers sat behind protective screens. But I wasn't there for money.

The reception desk was staffed by a man and a woman, both in their early twenties, both wearing NatWest suits; they even had little corporate logos sewn into the material of their breast pockets, probably so staff wouldn't wear them after hours. As Kelly would have said, "As if!"

I saw both of them give Kelly and me an instant appraisal and could feel them turning up their noses. I gave them a cheery, "Hi, how are you?" and asked to speak with Guy Bexley.

The woman said, "Can I have your name, please?" as she picked up the phone.

"Nick Stevenson."

The girl called an extension. The man went back to being efficient on the other side of the reception desk.

I bent down and whispered to Kelly, "I'll explain later."

"He'll be along in a minute. Would you like to sit down?"

We waited on a couch that was very long, very deep, very plastic. I could sense Kelly's cogs turning.

Sure enough.

"Nick, am I Louise Stevenson now, or Louise Glazar?"

I screwed up my face and scratched my head.

"Umm ... Kelly!"

Guy Bexley came down. Guy was my "relationship man ager," whatever that was. All I knew was that he was the man I asked for when I wanted to get my security blanket out. He was in his late twenties, and you could see by his hairstyle and goatee that he felt uncomfortable in the issued suit and would be far happier wearing PVC pants, holding a bottle of water, and partying all night bare-chested.

We shook hands.

"Hello, Mr. Stevenson, haven't seen you for a long time."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Work. This is Kelly."

He bent down and said, "Hello there, Kelly," in his best "I've been trained how to introduce myself to kids" manner.

"I just need my locked box for five minutes, mate."

I followed him toward the row of partitioned offices on the other side of the hall. I'd been in them many times before.

They were all identical; each contained just a round table, four chairs, and a telephone. It was where people went to count money or beg for a loan. He started to leave.

"Could I also have a statement on my savings account, please?"

Guy nodded and left. Kelly said, "What are we doing here?"

I should have known by now that she hated to be left out of things. Just like her dad.

"Wait and see." I winked.

A few minutes later Guy reappeared, put the box on the table, and gave me a folded printout of my account. I felt nervous as I opened up the paper. My eyes went straight for the bottom right-hand corner.

It read four hundred twenty-six thousand, five hundred seventy dollars, converted at a rate of 1.58 dollars to the pound.

Big Al had done it. I had to control myself, as I remembered Bexley was still standing there.

"I'll just be about five minutes," I said.

"Tell reception when you're ready. They'll put it back in the vault for you." He left with a shake of my hand and a "

"Bye, Kelly!" and closed the door behind him.

The box was eighteen inches by twelve, a metal file container I'd bought for ten pounds in Woolworth's, with a very cheap lock on the top that opened under pressure. It meant that I didn't have to turn up with a key every time--I couldn't always guarantee I was going to have that with me. The only problem was that if I had to make a run out of the country, it could only be during banking hours.

I flipped the lock and pulled out a couple of old soccer fanzines I'd put on top in case it accidentally opened. I threw them over to Kelly.

"See if you can make any sense of those."

She picked one up and started to flip through the pages.

The first thing I took out was the mobile phone and recharger. I switched it on. The battery was still working, but I put it in the recharger anyway and plugged it into the wall.

Next I pulled out a clear plastic freezer bag that contained bundles of US dollar bills and pounds sterling, five South African Krugerrands, and ten half-sovereigns that I'd stolen after the Persian Gulf War. All troops who were behind enemy lines in Iraq were issued twenty of the things as bribes for the locals in case we got in heavy shit. In my patrol we'd managed to keep ten of them each; we said we'd lost the rest in a contact. To begin with I'd kept them only as souvenirs, but they'd soon increased in value. I left them in the bag; I was interested only in the sterling.

I dug out a French leather porte-monnaie with a strap, in which I had a complete set of ID: passport, credit cards, driver's license, all the stuff I needed to become Nicholas Duncan Stevenson. It had taken years to get cover in such depth, all originating from a social security number I'd bought in a pub in Brixton for fifty pounds.

I then got out an electronic notebook. It was great; it meant that I could fax, send memos, word process, and maintain a database anywhere in the world. The problem was I didn't have a clue how to use it. I used only the phone number and address section facility because it could be accessed only with a password.

I had a quick look over at Kelly. She was thumbing through the magazines, not understanding a word. I pushed my hand to the bottom of the box and extracted the 9mm semiautomatic Browning I'd liberated from Africa in the late eighties.

Loading the mags with rounds from a small Tupperware box, I made ready and checked chamber. Kelly looked up but didn't give it a second glance.

I powered up the notebook, tapped in 2422, and found the number I wanted. I picked up the telephone on the table.

Kelly looked up again.

"Who are you calling?"

"Euan."

"Who is he?"

I could see the confusion on her face.

"He's my best friend." I carried on pressing the phone number.

"But..."

I put my finger to my lips.

"Shhh."

He wasn't in. I left a message on the answering machine in veiled speech. I then put the laptop into the box, together with everything that I wasn't taking with me including the printout.

Kelly was bored with the fanzines now, so I put them back in the box. I knew there was a question on its way.

"Nick?"

I just carried on packing.

"Yes?"

"I thought David was your best friend."

"Ah yes. Well, Euan is my best friend. It's just that sometimes I have to call him David because--" I started to think of a lie, but why?

"I told you to make sure you wouldn't know his real name if we got caught. That way you couldn't tell anyone. It's something that is done all the time. It's called OP SEC--operational security." I finished packing and closed the box. She thought about it.

"Oh, OK. His name's Euan then."

"When you see him he might even show you the floor I told you about."

I poked my head around the corner and waved at the receptionist.

She came in, picked up the box, and left.

I turned to Kelly.

"Right, then, time for a shopping frenzy.

Let me see; we'd better buy some nice new clothes for us both, and then we'll go and stay in a hotel and wait for Euan to call. Sound good to you?"

Her face brightened.

"OK.!"

Once this was all over I would have to set up a different named account and move the money, and I'd stop being Stevenson. A pain in the ass to organize, but I could live with that for $426,072.

The cab ride to Trafalgar Square became a tour given by me to Kelly. I was more into it than she was, and I could tell by the taxi driver's expression in his rearview mirror that I was getting most of the details wrong.

We were going down the Strand when I spotted clothes stores on both sides of the road. We paid off the taxi and shopped for jeans, T-shirts, and a washing kit. Once that was done, we took another cab to Brown's Hotel.

I said to Kelly, "You'll like this place. It's got two entrances, so you can enter from Dover Street and come out the other side, on Albermarle Street. Very important for spies like us."

I switched on the phone, got hold of information, and called the hotel to make a reservation. Less than half an hour later we were in our room, but only after discovering that the Dover Street exit was no longer open. Finger on the pulse.

The room was a world removed from the ones we had been used to. It was plush, comfortable, and, best of all, had a minibar with Toblerones. I could have killed for a beer, but not yet; there was work to do.

Jet lag was starting to kick in. Kelly looked exhausted. She flopped onto the bed and I helped undress her, then threw her between the sheets.

"You can take a bath tomorrow," I said.

She was a starfish in about two minutes flat.

I checked that the phone had a good signal and that the charger was working. Euan knew my voice, so the "It's John the plumber, when do you want me to come and fix that tap?

Give me a ring on..." would have done the trick.

I decided to have a quick nap for ten minutes, maybe shower, have something to eat, then go to bed. After all, it was only 5 p.m.

At a quarter to six in the morning, the phone rang. I pressed Receive. I heard "Hello?" in that very low, very controlled voice I knew so well.

"I need a hand, mate," I said. I didn't want to give him time to talk.

"I need you to help me. Can you get to London?"

"When do you want me?"

"Now."

"I'm in Wales. It'll take a bit of time."

"I'll wait out on this number."

"No problem. I'll get a train; it'll be quicker."

"Thanks, mate. Give me a call about an hour before you get into Paddington."

"Yep. OK."

The phone went dead.

I had never felt so relieved. It was like putting the phone down after a doctor's just told you the cancer test was negative.

The train journey alone would take more than three hours, so there wasn't much to do apart from enjoy the lull in the battle. Kelly awoke as I caught up with some international news in the copy of the Times that had been slipped under the door--no walk to the street corner with a couple of quarters at Brown's Hotel. I phoned room service and tried out the hotel TV channels. No Power Rangers. Great.

Lazily, we both eventually got up, showered, changed, and were looking good. We took a leisurely stroll through Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square. I delivered another tour lecture that Kelly didn't listen to. I kept on looking at my watch, waiting for Euan to call. While Kelly was being overrun by pigeons having a feeding frenzy in Trafalgar Square, the phone rang. It was 9:50 a.m. I put my finger in my other ear to block out the traffic and the screams of delight from Kelly and the other kids as birds tried to peck their eyes out.

"I'm an hour from Paddington."

"That's great. I'll meet you at Platform Three, Charing Cross station, OK, mate?"

"See you there."

The Charing Cross hotel was part of the station complex, just two minutes' walk from Trafalgar Square. I'd picked it because I knew that from the foyer you could see the taxis pull into the station and drop off their fares.

We waited and watched. The place was full of package-tour Americans and Italians. The Americans were at the tour-guide desk, reserving every show in town, and the Italians just moved from the elevator to the exit door in one loud, arm-waving mob, shouting at each other and all trying to get through the glass doors at the same time.

It was about half an hour later when I saw a cab with a familiar figure in the back. I pointed him out to Kelly.

"Aren't we going to go and meet him?"

"No, we're going to stay here and look, because we're going to surprise him. Just like we did with Frankie in Daytona, remember?"

"Oh, yes. We have to stand off."

I watched him get out. It was so wonderful to see him that I wanted to jump up and run outside. He was dressed in jeans and wearing the kind of shoes you see advertised in a Sunday supplement. Hush Puppies were positively cutting-edge fashion compared to these. He was also wearing a black nylon bomber jacket, so he'd be easy enough to pick out in the station. I said to Kelly, "We'll give him a couple of minutes, then we'll go and surprise him, shall we?"

"Yeah!" She sounded quite excited. She had two lumps of bird shit on the back of her coat. I was waiting for them to dry before picking them off.

I waited for five minutes, watching his back for him. Then we walked toward the station and through a couple of arches to the ticket offices. We looked for Platform 3 and there he was, leaning against the wall, reading a paper. The same feeling: I wanted to run over there and hug him. We walked slowly.

He looked up and saw me. We both smiled and said, "Hi, how's it going!" He looked at me, then at Kelly, but he didn't say anything; he knew that I'd tell him at some stage. We went off to the side of the station to steps that led down toward the river. As we walked he looked at my head and tried to hide a grin.

"Good haircut!"

Outside Embankment station we got into a taxi. Drills are drills--they're there for a reason, and that is to protect you:

the moment you start falling down on drills, you start fucking up. We took the driver on a roundabout route, covering our tracks, taking twenty minutes to Brown's instead of the straight-line ten. As soon as we got back to the room I turned the TV on for Kelly and phoned room service. Everyone was hungry.

Euan was already chatting away with Kelly. She looked pleased to have somebody else to talk to, even if it was only another grown-up and a man. That was good--they were getting a relationship going; she was feeling comfortable with him.

The food came; there was a hamburger and fries for Kelly, and two club sandwiches for us. I said to Kelly, "We'll let you eat in peace. We're going into the bathroom because you're watching TV, and I want to talk to Euan about some stuff. Is that all right?"

She nodded, mouth already full.

Euan smiled.

"See you in a minute, Kelly. Save us some fries." We went into the bathroom with our coffees and sandwiches the noise of the TV dying the moment I closed the door.

I started to tell him the story. Euan listened intently. He was visibly upset about Kev and Marsha. I'd got as far as the lift by Luther and Co. when he cut in. By now he was sitting on the edge of the bath.

"Bastards! Who were they? Do you think it was the same group that zapped Kev?"

"Must be." I sat next to him.

"Kev knew the three who killed him. Kelly confirmed that Luther worked with Kev.

Then there's the question of that phone call to 'get the ball rolling."

" "You reckon it was Luther?"

I nodded.

"Who the fuck knows where he fits into the picture, but my guess is he's DEA, and also corrupt. It looks like some of the DEA are bent and working for drug money." I told him about the McGear killing and what I had found on the backup disk once de Sabatino had loaded the GIFs.

Euan understood so far.

"So it all has to do with PIRA running drugs into Europe? To keep the route open it needs bribes, blackmail, and threats. But what about McGear--did he say anything?"

"Not a word. He knew he was going to die anyway."

"This guy de Sabatino? Does he have any copies of the intelligence?"

I laughed.

"You know I'm not going to tell you that.

OP SEC mate, OP SEC

"Fair one." He shrugged.

"Just being nosy."

I explained what I had found in Kev's house. Euan didn't speak. He just sat there, letting it all soak in. I felt exhausted, as if by somehow passing on the baton to Euan everything that had happened in the last ten days could now catch up with me and take its toll.

I looked at him. He seemed pretty drained himself.

"I can see only one thing wrong with what you're saying."

"What's that, mate?"

"Wouldn't the Colombians have anticipated that a bomb would heighten security in Gibraltar, making it harder to get the drugs in?"

"It was a warning. They were sending it out to anyone who might not want to keep business going. I tell you, mate, this is far too big for me to be messing around with. I just want to get it to Simmonds and wash my hands of it."

"I'll help any way I can." He opened a pack of Benson & Hedges; he'd obviously taken up smoking again. I stood up, out of the way.

"I don't want to get you directly involved. Kev, Pat, me, we've all been fucked over but I'm going to need you to back me if things go wrong."

"You just have to name it."

I could smell the sulfur from his match. He smiled as I started to wave the smoke from my face. He knew I hated that. Even under extreme pressure some things never changed.

I said, "Tomorrow afternoon, you should receive copies of the files by FedEx. If anything happens to me or Simmonds, it's basically down to you." By now we were in a cloud of smoke. The alarm was going to go off any minute.

"No problems with that, mate," he said in his very slow, very calm, very calculating way. If you told Euan he'd won the lottery he'd say, "That's nice," then go back to stacking his coins or folding his socks.

"How many copies of the disk are there besides the ones you're sending me?"

"I'm not going to tell you, mate. Need-to-know!"

He smiled. He knew I was protecting him.

"One more thing," I said.

"I don't want to take Kelly with me to the Simmonds meet. He wasn't too pleased with me the last time we spoke. If this turns into a gang fuck, I don't want her caught in the crossfire. You're the only person I can trust her with. It's going to be for only one night, maybe two. Can you do that for me?"

I expected an immediate answer and I got one.

"No problem." He smiled. He knew I'd let him talk freely with Kelly so they'd get to know each other.

"Will you take her back to Brecon?"

"Yeah. Have you told her I live in Wales?"

"I've told her you live in a sheep pen."

He threw the butt into the toilet because he knew I hated that smell, too.

I put both my hands on his shoulders.

"This has been a fucking shit week, mate."

"Don't worry about it. Let's just go back in the room and finish the coffee. Then you just go and sort your shit out with Simmonds and get it over and done with."

"How was the burger?"

"Fine. I saved Euan some fries."

I sat on the bed next to her.

"Listen, Kelly, me and Euan have been talking, and because I've got to do some stuff in London, we reckon it's a good idea if you go to the countryside with him and stay at his house. It's only for one night; I'll be back tomorrow. What do you think? Hey, you can even see the floor we laid--remember I talked about it?"

She suspected she wasn't being offered any option, and her face said so.

I said, "I won't be long, and Euan's house has sheep all around it."

She looked down at her fingers and mumbled, "I want to stay with you."

I said with mock surprise, "What, don't you want to go?

You'll see all the sheep!"

She was embarrassed. She was too polite to say no in front of Euan.

I said, "It won't be for long." Then, like a bastard, I closed the trap.

"You like Euan, don't you?"

She nodded, never losing eye contact with me in case she made it with Euan.

"It's just going to be for one night. I'll be calling you anyway; I'll be able to talk to you."

She looked very unhappy about it. After all, I'd promised not to leave her again. I caught sight of my mobile and had an idea.

"How about I give you my mobile phone. I'll show you how to use it." I started playing with the buttons.

"Here you are, you have a go. If I show you how to use it, you can put that under your pillow tonight, all right?"

I looked up at Euan, trying to bring him in.

"Because she'll have her own bedroom, won't she?"

"That's right. She'll have her own bedroom, the one that overlooks the sheep pen."

I said, "And I believe there's a TV in her bedroom, isn't there?"

"Yes, there's a TV in there." He nodded and agreed, wondering where he was going to get one from.

There was an acceptance; she wasn't wild about it, but that was good enough. I switched on the phone, tapped in my PIN number, and handed it over.

"Just plug the charger into the wall when you get there and it'll work,

OK?"

"OK."

"Then put it underneath your pillow so when it rings you'll be sure to hear it. All right?"

"Whatever." By now she understood that she definitely had no choice.

Euan said, "I'll tell you what. We'd better get your teddies organized if we're going to the country. What are their names? Have they ever been on a train before?"

She warmed to him. We went downstairs and got into a taxi to Paddington station. We bought Kelly ice cream, candy, soda, anything to keep her mind off what was happening. She was still deciding what comic to buy as Euan looked at his watch and said, "Wheels turning soon, mate."

I went with them along the platform and gave her a big hug at the door of the train car.

"I'll call you tonight, Kelly. I promise."

As she climbed up. Jenny and Ricky were looking at me from the Virgin Atlantic day sack on her back.

"OK."

The guard was walking the length of the train, closing the doors. Euan lowered the window so Kelly could wave.

"Nick?" She leaned toward me through the open window and beckoned as if she wanted to whisper something.

"What?" I put my face near hers.

"This." She threw her arms around my neck, squeezed, and planted a big kiss on my cheek. I was so taken aback I just stood there.

The train started moving.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Euan called.

"Don't worry about us. We'll be OK."

As the train slowly disappeared from the platform, I felt the same wrench as I had at the moment I'd seen Pat's body being loaded into the ambulance. But this time I couldn't figure out why. After all, it was for the best and she was in safe hands. Forcing myself to see it as one more problem out of the way, I headed for the pay phones.

I got a very businesslike reply from Vauxhall: "Extension please?"

"Two-six one-two."

There was a pause, then a voice I recognized at once.

"Hello, two-six one-two?"

"It's Stone. I've got what you needed."

"Nick! Where are you?"

I put my finger in my ear as a departure was announced.

"I'm in England." Not that he needed me to say that when he could hear that the Exeter train was leaving in five minutes.

"Excellent."

"I'm pretty desperate to see you."

"Likewise. But I'm tied up here until the early hours." He paused to think.

"Perhaps we can go for a walk and a talk.

Let's say three-thirty tomorrow morning?"

"Where?"

"I'll walk toward the station. I presume you'll find me."

"I'll do that."

I put the phone down with a feeling that at long last the dice were rolling for me. Kelly was safe, Simmonds sounded amenable. With luck I was only hours from sorting out this mess.

Back at the hotel I rented a car so I could pick up Kelly from Brecon after the meeting, and had something to eat. In my head I ran through exactly what I was going to say to Simmonds, and the way I was going to say it. Without a doubt, I had in my possession precisely the sort of evidence Simmonds had asked for. It was a shame I didn't have the videotape to back up some of it, but, even so, the stuff I had was probably more than he could have hoped for. The worst-case scenario now was that I'd get the slate wiped clean and be let loose. At least I had a few quid to start a new life with.

I thought about Kelly. What would become other? Where would she go? Would she have been affected by everything she'd seen and all that had happened to her and her family? I tried to cut away from that, telling myself that it would all get sorted out--somehow. Simmonds could help there. Perhaps he could orchestrate the reunion with her grandparents, or at least point me in the direction of the right kind of expert help.

I tried to get some sleep but failed. At 2 a.m. I retrieved the rental car and headed for Vauxhall Bridge.

I went a long way around, going all the way down the King's Road to World's End, then turning for the river and heading east again, mainly because I wanted to organize my thoughts one last time, but also because to me, the drive along the deserted Embankment and past all the historic, floodlit bridges offered one of the most beautiful sights in the world.

This particular night the lights seemed to shine a bit brighter, and the bridges seemed more sharply in focus; I found myself wishing Kelly was there to see it with me.

I got to Vauxhall Bridge early. I drove east along the road that follows the river toward the next bridge, Lambeth.

Nothing looked suspicious at the RV point on the drive-by.

The gas station on the opposite side of the road, about halfway toward Lambeth bridge, had about four cars by the pumps, groups of kids buying fuel and Mars bars, and some early-morning office cleaning vans filling up before their shift.

Farther along the river, and on the other side, I could see the Houses of Parliament. I smiled to myself. If only the MPs really knew what the intelligence services got up to.

I did a full circle and headed back on the same road toward Vauxhall for one more drive-by. I still had time to kill, so I stopped at the station and bought a drink and a sandwich.

The RV point still looked fine. My plan was to pick up Simmonds, make distance and angles as we walked to my car, and go for a drive. That way I controlled the environment. I could protect myself as well as him.

I parked about four hundred yards west of the RV While eating my sandwich I checked my route back to the car. I got out and walked down the road, arriving at five minutes to three. There was still nothing to do but wait, so I window-shopped at the motorcycle shop, resolving that I really would buy one as a gift to myself. No, more than a gift--a reward.

At twenty after three I moved into the shadows of the railway arches opposite the exit point I knew Simmonds would use. There were one or two people wandering about, clubbers on their way home, or to another club. Their drunken laughs shattered the still morning air, then there was silence again.

I could tell it was him right off, leaning slightly forward as he bounced along on the balls of his feet. I watched him branch right from the exit and stand at the pedestrian crossing, intending to head for the metal footbridge over the five-way road intersection to the railway station. I waited.

There was no rush; I'd let him come to me.

As he crossed the road I came out of the shadows at the bottom of the footbridge steps.

He smiled.

"Nick, how are you?" He kept walking, nodding left toward Lambeth bridge.

"Shall we walk?" It wasn't a question.

I nodded the opposite way, toward my car.

"I've arranged a pickup."

Simmonds stopped and looked at me with the expression of a disappointed schoolteacher.

"No, I think we'll walk."

I was sponsoring the RV; he should have known that I'd organize for our safety. He stared at me a few more moments and then, as if he knew I was going to follow, continued on walking. I fell into step beside him.

Simmonds looked the same as ever, his tie about half an inch loose, the shirt and suit looking as if his wardrobe were a carrier bag.

"So, Nick, what have you got?" He smiled but didn't look at me, and as I told him the story he didn't interrupt, just kept his eyes on the ground, nodding. I felt like a son unloading his problems onto his dad, and it felt good.

We'd been walking for about fifteen minutes when I'd come to the end of my presentation. It was his turn to talk. I somehow expected him to stop, or at least find a bench where we could sit, but he kept on walking.

He turned his head toward me and smiled again.

"Nick, I had no idea you'd be so thorough. Who else have you spoken to about this?"

"No one else, only de Sabatino and Euan."

"And has Euan or this de Sabatino also got copies of the disks?"

I lied.

"No, no one apart from me." Even when you come to someone for help, you never play your full hand. You never know when you might need an edge.

He remained incredibly calm.

"What we have to ensure is that no one else finds out not for the moment, anyway.

This is more than low-level corruption. The links with PIRA, Gibraltar, and, it seems, the DEA mean this is very grave indeed. You seem to have a pretty good grasp of this so far, so let me ask you something." He paused as if he were a judge about to hand down his decision.

"Do you think it goes further?"

"Who the fuck knows," I said.

"But you can't be too careful. It's why I wanted to talk to you on your own."

"And where is the Brown child now?"

"In a hotel, fast asleep. I'll be needing some help to pass her on to her grandparents."

"Of course. Nick. All in good time."

We walked on a while in silence. We got to a bar on the corner of a car tunnel under the railway line. Simmonds turned to the right, taking us under the arches. Then he spoke again, and it was as if there was no question of me not com plying with his demand.

"Before I can do anything to help you, what I need from you, of course, is the evidence." He was still not looking at me, making sure he avoided the puddles of water stained with engine oil.

"I haven't brought the disks with me, if that's what you mean."

"Nick, I shall do my best to see that you both have protection. But I do need the proof and all copies of it. Can you get them for me now?"

"Not possible. Not for a few hours."

"Nick, I cannot do anything without them. I need all copies. Even ones you'd normally leave in that security blanket of yours."

I shrugged. "You must understand that it's for my own protection" We turned right again and were now heading back toward the train station, paralleling the railway. For a couple of minutes we moved along narrow, warehoused streets in silence.

Simmonds was deep in thought. He wasn't happy about the disks. A freight train rumbled above us on its way to waking up the residents of southwest London. Why the fuck was it so important for him to know how many copies there were and get his hands on all of them?

"Believe me," I shouted above the noise, "I've got that side all under control. I've been fucked over enough. You know as well as I do that I've got to protect everyone, including you."

"Yes, of course, but I need to control all the information. Not even you should have it. There is too much risk involved."

This was getting stupid.

"I understand that. But what if you get zapped? There would be nothing to back up what I'm saying. It's not only the DEA corruption, don't you see?

Gibraltar was a setup. It includes us."

Simmonds slowly nodded at a puddle in the gutter.

"A few things puzzle me," I said.

"Why were we briefed that the bomb would be initiated by remote control? How come the intelligence was so good about the ASU, but so wrong about there being no bomb?"

Still he gave no reply.

Things weren't adding up here.

Ohfrick.

I felt as if I'd been hit on the back of the head by a fire extinguisher again. Why hadn't I thought of it? The freight train's rumbling was now in the distance. The early-morning silence had returned.

"But you know all this, don't you?"

No reply. He didn't even break his stride.

Who had briefed us that the Gibraltar bomb was going to be initiated by remote control? Simmonds, who was there at Alpha to oversee it. Why the fuck hadn't I thought of it before?

I stopped. Simmonds kept walking.

"This isn't just an American-PIRA thing, is it? It's much bigger. You are part of it, aren't you?"

The rear arches were more light industrial than retail auto repair shops, sheetmetal works, and storage units, most with company vans that had been parked outside for the night.

He turned to face me and took the six steps back to where I stood. For the first time, we had eye-to-eye.

"Nick, I think you need to be aware of something. You will give me all the information and I mean all of it. We cannot take the risk of other copies being in circulation."

The look on his face was of a chess grand master about to make the decisive move. The shock in mine must have been plain to see.

"We didn't necessarily go along with the Americans' determination to kill you, but you should be in no doubt that we will do so now if we have to."

"We?"

"It's much bigger than you think. Nick. You're intelligent.

You must realize the commercial and political implications of a cease fire Exposing what is on the disks would mess up much more than just what you know. It's unfortunate about Kevin and his family, I grant you. When he told me what he'd discovered, I did try to talk my American colleagues into a subtler course of action."

So that was why I'd been ordered back to the UK so abruptly. Once Simmonds had talked with Kev, he wanted me out of the US and quick. He didn't want me speaking to Kev or interrupting his murder.

I thought of Kelly At least she was safe.

It was almost as if he were reading my mind.

"If you decide not to give me all the information, we will kill the child. And then we will kill you after extracting what we need. Don't be naive. Nick. You and I, we're the same. This isn't about emotion; this is business. Nick, business. You really have no choice."

I tried to fight it. He had to be bluffing. "Euan sends his regards, by the way, and says that he managed to get a television set for her bedroom. Believe me, Nick, Euan will kill her. He rather likes the financial benefits."

I shook my head slowly from side to side.

"Think back. Who initiated the contact?"

He was right, it was Euan. Simmonds was there to direct it, Euan was there to pull the trigger. But I still fought against the idea.

He opened his jacket and pulled a mobile phone from his inside pocket.

"Let Euan explain; he was expecting a call later anyway."

He turned on the power and waited to put in his PIN number. He smiled as he looked down at the phone's display.

"This is how the Americans found you, you know. People think that detection can take place only when the phone is in use. Not so. As long as they're switched on, these things are miniature tracking devices, even if no calls are made or received. It's actually a form of electronic tagging. We find it terribly useful."

He tapped in his PIN number, the tones blaring out of his hand.

"However, once you'd given them the slip at Lorton, our only option was to let you make entry back into the UK. I needed to know what you'd found out. I have to say, I'm so glad your cancer treatment was successful."

Fuck! He hadn't even mentioned my lack of hair. That was because he already knew. But Euan. He'd been aware enough to mention it. I felt sick knowing he was using his skills against me.

Simmonds smiled. He knew he had me by the balls.

"Nick, I'll say this again. I really do need all the disks. You know the child would suffer greatly; it's not something that we would enjoy, but there are important matters at stake."

I wanted so much for him to get through to Euan. I wanted to speak to him, wanted him to confirm that it was a bluff. But in my heart of hearts I knew that it wasn't.

Simmonds had nearly finished tapping in the number.

I had no choice. I couldn't risk Kelly. He wasn't going to make this call.

With my right arm in a hooked position, I swung around hard and connected with his nose. There was a dull crunch of fracturing bone as he went down with a muffled moan. While he writhed on the ground I kicked his case under one of the vans and, in the same motion, picked up the phone in my left hand, got behind him, and positioned it at the front of his throat. Grabbing the other side with my right hand, I jammed it firmly under his Adam's apple.

I looked to the right and left. We were too exposed where we were; what I had in mind would take several minutes to complete. I shuffled backward, dragging him in between two of the trucks. I got down onto my knees, all the time pulling back on the phone. He was kicking out, his arms flailing, trying to rip my face apart.

His whimpers and chokes filled the air. I responded by leaning forward, using the weight of my upper body to bend his head down so that his chin was more or less on his chest.

At the same time I pulled even harder. Just another two minutes and I'd be done.

After thirty seconds he started to struggle furiously, with all the frenzied strength that a man draws on when he knows he is dying. But no matter what he did now, he wouldn't be getting up.

His hands still scratched at my face. I bobbed and weaved to avoid them but maintained the pressure on his throat.

Already the scabs from the fight with McGear had been pulled off, but I couldn't feel much blood. Then Simmonds managed to get his fingernails into the cut just below my eye. I stifled a scream as his three nails started into the already damaged soft skin. I made the injury worse by pulling my face away; as I did, Simmonds's nails took my skin with them.

I didn't bother now to see if anyone was watching. I was beyond caring. I was fighting for breath myself with the effort, as sweat stung the injuries on my face.

Gradually at first, his movements subsided to no more than a spasmodic twitching in his legs. His hands stopped grasping. Seconds later he was unconscious. It crossed my mind just to get up and walk away, to leave him to suffer the effects of hypoxia and be brain-damaged for life. I decided against that. I wanted this fucker dead.

I gave it another thirty seconds. His chest stopped moving.

I put my fingers on the carotid pulse and felt nothing.

I dragged him to the wall and sat him up against the doors of a unit. Then I got to my feet and started dusting myself off.

Keeping to the shadows, I tucked my shirt in and wiped away the sweat and blood with my sleeve. I checked the phone. It had been turned off in the fight. I wiped my prints off it, then just left everything where it was and casually walked away. If anybody had seen me, so what? It didn't really matter. I had more important things to worry about.

I drove west, holding my coat cuff against my eye to stop the bleeding.

The whole situation was still spinning around inside my head, slowly beginning to make sense.

I now knew how Luther and his lot had found me--they must have beaten the number out of Pat and traced the signal while I had it switched on waiting for his call.

If I'd let on to Euan or Simmonds that there was just one more set of backups in my laptop and had handed it over, I'd have been dead. They were covering their asses by retrieving the information.

Had Simmonds arranged to phone Euan some time after our meeting? Euan was more than three hours away, and Simmonds's body would be discovered soon. If Euan found out, he wouldn't take any chances. He would change location, maybe even kill Kelly right away. Either way, I'd have lost her. This time there was no question of just leaving her. I could call her on the mobile and tell her to run, but what would that achieve? She was in the middle of nowhere; even if she ran for half an hour, it would make no difference.

Euan's cottage was in the middle of acres of mountains, grass, rocks, and sheep shit. He would find her.

I could call the police, but would they believe me? I could waste hours trying to convince them, by which time it would be too late. Or they might take it on themselves to raid Euan's house, and the result would be the same.

For a fleeting second I thought about Big Al. I hoped he'd be well out of it by now. He didn't have getaway accounts for nothing. If he'd transferred four hundred grand into mine, for sure he'd have taken eight hundred for himself. Old Watermelon would be OK. I cut him from my mind.

The highway services just before Heathrow were just coming up. I had a thought.

I pulled off and drove into the parking lot. Now all I had to do was get to a phone and make a call. The service station was busy. I'd had to park a hundred yards from the main entrance. I got out of the car just as the heavens opened. By the time I reached the bank of four telephones outside Burger King, I was soaked. The first two I tried accepted only cards. I had about three pounds in change in my pocket--not enough. I ran into the shop, wiping my face to get some of the blood off. I bought a newspaper with a river, walked out, the woman looking worried at the state of my face. I men went back in and got a packet of M&Ms with a tenner. The woman looked even more scared. She was just happy for me to take my change and get out.

As I dialed the number I felt a knot in my stomach, as if I were a teenager phoning to arrange his very first date. Would she have charged it and left it switched on? Why wouldn't she? She had never let me down before.

It started to ring.

For a moment I felt like a child in a candy store with his dad, hardly able to contain my excitement. Then I had new things to worry about. What ifEuan had the phone now?

Did I hang up or did I try to bluff it and maybe find out where she was?

It was too late to think. The ringing stopped; there was a pause, then I heard a quiet, hesitant, "Hello, who is it?"

"Hi, Kelly, it's me. Nick," I said, trying for all the world to sound like Mr. Casual.

"Are you on your own?"

"Yes, you woke me up. Are you coming back now?" She sounded tired and confused. I was trying hard to think of an answer; thankfully she went on.

"Euan said that I might be staying with him longer, because you have to go away. It isn't true, is it. Nick? You said you wouldn't leave me."

It was a bad connection. I had to put a finger in my other ear to hear her above the noise of the rain on the glass of the phone booth. A truck driver in the next one along was shouting loudly and angrily, arguing with his boss that he couldn't go any farther because of his odometer, and he wasn't going to lose his license just to get a few boxes of bloody anoraks up to Carlisle. On top of that was the steady boom of traffic on the highway, and the noises of people coming in and out of the station. I had to block all that out and concentrate on the phone call, because there was no way I could ask Kelly to speak up.

I said, "Yes, of course, you're right, I will never leave you.

Euan is lying to you. I have found out some bad things about him, Kelly. Are you still in the house?"

"Yes, I'm in bed."

"Is Euan in his bed?"

"Yes. Do you want to speak with him?"

"No, no. Let me think for a minute."

My mind was racing now, trying to think of the best way to say what I wanted.

"Of course I'm coming to get you. In fact, I'll be there very soon. Now listen. I need you to do something very difficult and very dangerous. You only have to do this one last thing for me and everything will be over." The moment I said it I felt like a lowlife.

"I don't have to run away again, do I?"

"No, no, no it's not like that this time. But it's the most special job a spy ever does." I didn't want to give her time to think, so I just went on.

"But I want to check something first, OK? You're in bed, aren't you? Get under the covers and talk to me only in a whisper, OK?"

I could hear the rustling, then she said, "What are we going to do. Nick?"

"First, I want you to press a number and look at the front of the telephone. Can you see it light up? Tell me if there's a picture of a battery. How many blocks are there where the battery sign is? Can you see it?"

I heard some scuffling.

"I can see that."

"How many blocks are there in the picture?"

"Three. There's three blocks. One of them is flashing."

"That's good." It wasn't really. I was sweating: two blocks meant she hadn't recharged it and the battery was down to less than half-power, and I was going to need a lot of air time to talk her through the whole process.

"What's that noise?" she said.

The truck driver was now really pissed off and hollering into the phone, the cigarette in his hand making the phone booth look like a steam room.

"Nothing to worry about. Kelly, I'm going to tell you what to do, but you need to keep listening to me on the telephone.

Can you do that?"

"Why is Euan bad, Nick? What.. " "Listen, Kelly, Euan wants to hurt me. If he finds you doing this thing for me, he will hurt you, too. Do you understand that?"

I could hear lots of rustling; she was obviously still under the bed covers. Then there was a very quiet "Yes."

She wasn't sounding like a happy bunny. I was sure there was a better way I could be going about all this, I just didn't have time to think what it might be.

"If Euan wakes up," I said, "or if the telephone stops working, I want you to leave the house very, very quietly. I want you to go down the track to the road and hide behind the trees, just by the big gate that Euan drove through to get to his cottage. Know where I mean?"

"Yeah."

"You must hide there until you hear a car come and stop, but don't get out from your hiding place unless it toots its horn two times. Then come out. Do you understand that? I'll be in the car. It's a blue Astra, OK?"

There was a pause.

"What's an As--Astra, Nick?"

Shit, she was seven years old and American. What was I expecting?

"OK. I'll stop in a blue car and come and get you."

I got her to repeat it, and for good measure I said, "So if Euan wakes up and sees you, I want you to run to the trees as fast as you can and hide. Because if Euan catches you doing what I want you to do, we will never see each other again.

Don't let me down, OK? And remember, don't you come out from behind those trees, even if Euan calls for you, OK?"

"OK. You will come and get me, won't you?"

There was a bit of doubt in her mind.

"Of course I will. Now, first of all, what I want you to do is get out of bed, then put the phone on the bed and get dressed, very quietly. Put on a nice thick coat. And you know those sneakers we bought? Make sure you take those as well, but don't put them on yet."

I heard her put the phone down and start rummaging around the room.

For God's sake, hurry up!

I forced myself to calm down.

It was almost two minutes before I heard: "I'm ready, Nick."

"Now listen to me very carefully. Euan is not a friend; he has tried to kill me. Do you understand, Kelly? He has tried to kill me."

There was a pause.

"Why? I--I don't understand. Nick. I thought he was your best friend."

"I know, I know, but things change. Do you want to help me?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then you must do exactly what I tell you. I want you to put your sneakers in your coat pockets. OK, now it's time to go downstairs. I want you to keep the telephone with you. All right?"

"Yeah."

Time was running short, and so was my money.

"Just remember, you must be very, very quiet, because otherwise you will wake Euan. If that happens, you run out of the house toward the hidey hole--promise?"

"Cross my heart."

"OK, I want you to creep very, very gently down the stairs. Don't talk to me again until you're in the kitchen; and re member, from now on, what we must do is whisper all the time. OK?"

"OK."

I heard the door open. As she came out of the room I imagined her passing the bathroom on her left. Ahead of her, up a half-landing and about twelve feet away, would be the door to Euan's room. Was it open or closed? Too late to ask her. A few steps now and she'd be at the top of the main stairs and next to the old grandfather clock. On cue, I heard its slow, ponderous tick-tock; it was like something out of a Hitchcock movie.

The sound receded very slowly: good girl, she must be going down the stairs very carefully. Only once did I hear the creak of a board and I wondered again about Euan's door. Did he usually sleep with it open? I couldn't remember.

At the bottom of the stairs she'd be turning back to the right, heading toward the kitchen.

I tried to imagine where she was but lost her in the silence.

At last I heard the barely perceptible sound of a protesting hinge; that was the kitchen door. I felt a stab of guilt for using the girl like this, but she knew the score well, sort of. Fuck it, the decision was made; I just had to do it. If it worked, fine;

if it didn't, she was dead. But if I didn't try it, she was dead anyway, so let's get on with it.

"I'm in the kitchen, but I can't see very much. Am I allowed to turn the light on?"

It was the loudest whisper I'd ever heard.

"No, no, no, Kelly, you've got to speak very slowly and very quietly like this," I demonstrated.

"And don't put the light on; that would wake Euan up. Just go more slowly, and listen to me all the time. If you don't understand anything, just ask, and remember, if anything goes wrong or you hear a noise, stop and we will both listen. OK?"

"OK."

The problem with her being quieter on the phone was that it was harder to hear her. The truck driver had now finished, slamming the phone down and storming into the Burger King. A woman took his place and was yammering to a girlfriend.

The kitchen was two areas knocked into one, the old back room of the house and what had used to be an alley between the cottage and the old sheep-pen wall. The alley had been closed in by a sunroom, with all the kitchen units arranged galley-style in one long range beneath it. There were plants on pedestals and a large circular wooden table in the middle of the area; I hoped Kelly wouldn't knock anything over onto the squash-court floor. Thinking of the night we'd spent "rescuing" the wood made me shudder at all those years of friendship, trust, and even love. I felt let down, used, fucked over.

There couldn't be much battery time left.

"Everything OK?" I said. I tried hard not to convey any sense of panic, but I knew we would be in trouble soon. If the phone went dead, would she remember what I'd told her to do?

"I can't see a thing. Nick."

I thought for a few seconds, trying to remember more of the layout.

"OK, Kelly, go very slowly to where the sink is.

Go and stand by the hob."

"What's that?"

"It's the bit you cook on with saucepans. You see it?"

"Yeah."

"OK, there's a switch on the right-hand side. Can you see that?"

"I'll look."

A second or two later she said, "I can see now."

She must have switched on the small fluorescent light that illuminated the stove top; she sounded relieved.

"Good girl. Now I want you to go back and very gently close the kitchen door. Will you do that for me?"

"OK. You are coming for me. Nick?"

I wasn't feeling confident about this at all. Should I stop it now and just get her to open the door for me and wait? No, fuck it. He might be getting a phone call any minute about Simmonds's death.

"Of course I am, but I can't come unless you do what I say, OK? Keep the telephone to your ear and very gently close that door."

I heard the telltale click.

"What I want you to do now is go and have a look under the sink and put all the bottles and things on the table. Will you do that for me?"

"OK."

There was silence, then a soft clatter as she moved bottles and cans around.

"Everything's out now."

"Well done! Now, very quietly, read out the labels to me.

Can you do that?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"There's too many things and it's too dark. I can't do it."

She was sounding under pressure now; there was that wobble in her voice.

Fuck, this is taking too long.

"It's OK, Kelly, just walk over to the light switch by the door and turn the light on. Don't rush. Will you do that?"

"OK." It sounded as if her nose was stuffed up. I knew the sound so well by now. The next stage, if I wasn't very careful, would be tears and failure.

I heard her shuffling toward the light switch.

"I can see now, Nick."

"OK, go back and read to me what the labels say, OK?"

"OK." She moved back to the table. I could hear her pick up the cleaning products.

"Ajax."

"OK, Kelly, what's the next one?"

Fucking hell, this was outrageous. I held the phone hard against my ear, almost holding my breath as I silently willed her to succeed. I was really pumped; I could feel my heart going. I was writhing like a madman in a straitjacket, twisting and turning in the kiosk, miming Kelly's actions to myself. I looked across at the other booth; the woman who was talking to her friend had wiped the condensation from the glass to get a better view of me and now seemed to be relaying a running commentary. I must have looked like a mass murderer, with cuts and scratches on my face, and my hair and clothes soaking wet.

The loud noise of metal clattering onto wood made me jump.

Kelly? Kelly

Silence, then the phone was picked up.

"Sorry, Nick. I knocked a spoon off. I didn't see it. I'm scared. I don't want to do this. Please come and get me."

It wasn't long before the crying was going to start.

"Kelly, don't worry, it's OK, it's OK."

No, not now, for Christ's sake! I heard sniffing on the phone.

"It's OK, Kelly, it's OK. I can't get you unless you help me.

You must be brave. Euan is trying to kill me; only you can help me. Can you do that for me?"

"Please hurry. Nick. I want to be with you."

"It's all right, it's all right."

It wasn't all right. Nick, because Nick's fucking money was disappearing. I was down to my last few coins. They weren't going to last. I put another coin in and it rattled out into the coin return; I had to scramble for another one.

Kelly started to go through more of the labels. Most of the words she couldn't read. I asked her to spell them. As she got three letters out I worked out the rest.

"No, that one's no good. Read the next."

My mind was now racing, trying to remember ingredients and formulas. At last she read out something I could use.

"Kelly, you must listen very carefully. That's a green can, isn't it? Put it where you can find it again. Then I want you to creep out to the room next door, where the washing machine is. You know the one?"

"Yes."

Euan had a place for everything, and everything had its place. I even knew that his forks would be lined up beside each other in the drawer.

"Just by the door is a cabinet, and in it there's a blue bottle.

The label says antifreeze."

"What?"

"Antifreeze. A-N-T-I... I want you to bring it to the table,

OK?"

The phone clunked onto the stove. I started to sweat even more.

After what seemed like an eternity she came back on.

"I've got it" "Put it on the table and then open it."

I heard the phone go down again and lots of heavy breathing and sniffing as she struggled with the bottle top.

"I don't know how to do it."

"Just twist it. You know how to open a bottle."

"I can't. It won't move. I am trying. Nick, but my hands are shaking."

I then heard a soft, long moan. I was sure it was going to turn into crying.

Shit, I don't need this. It isn't going to work.

"Kelly? Kelly? Are you OK? Talk to me, come on, talk to me."

I was getting nothing.

Come on, Kelly, come on.

Nothing. All I could hear was her holding back tears and sniffing.

"Nick... I want you to get me. Please, Nick, please." She was sobbing now.

"Just take your time, Kelly, just take your time. It's OK, everything's OK. I'm here, don't worry. OK, let's just stand and listen. If you can hear anything, you tell me on the phone, OK, and I'll try to listen at the same time."

I listened. I wanted to make sure Euan wasn't awake. I also wanted a break: there needs to be a cut in the action at a time like this, otherwise the errors snowball and people start tripping over themselves; so let's take our time, but at the same time be as fast as possible. I knew exactly what I needed to do, but the frustration lay in trying to interpret it to this child, under pressure, and to get her to work quietly and all the time I was running out of money and the mobile was running out of battery life.

The woman left her booth and gave me a grin of appeasement in case I was going to lunge at her with a meat cleaver.

"Are you OK now, Kelly?"

"Yes, do you want me to unscrew the bottle still?"

I couldn't understand why she couldn't do it. I started giving her more instructions. Then I remembered: the bottle had a childproof top. As I started to tell her how to undo it, there was a soft bleep.

Battery. Shit!

"Yes, remember to push the top down before you turn. We just have to be a bit quicker or the phone is going to stop before we finish."

"Now what?"

"Is it on the table with the top undone?"

Nothing.

"Kelly? Kelly? Are you there?"

Was the battery dead?

Then I heard, "What do I do now?"

"Thank goodness, I thought the battery had gone. Is there anything you can open that green can with? I know, use the spoon, Kelly. Very, very carefully now, pick it up, put the phone on the table, and then open the can. OK?"

I listened, running through all the different options there were left if this scheme fucked up. I came to the conclusion there were none.

"Now here comes the hard part. Do you think you can do this? You've got to be pretty special to do this bit."

"Yes, I'm OK now. I didn't mean to cry, it's just that I am--" "I know, I know, Kelly. I am, too, but we will do this together.

What I need you to do now is put the phone in your pocket with your sneakers. Then take one of those big bottles from the table and walk to the front door of the house and open it just a little bit. Not wide open, just a little bit. Then put the bottle behind the door, to stop it swinging shut. Now remember, it's a big heavy door, so I want you to do it really slowly, really, really gently so it doesn't make a noise. Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah, I can do that. Then what?"

"I'll tell you in a minute. Now don't forget, if the phone stops working and you can't hear me anymore, I want you to run to the trees and hide."

Chances were Euan would find her, but what else was there to do?

"OK."

This was going to be the tough part. Even if he was sound asleep, Euan's subconscious was likely to detect the change in air pressure and ambient noise when the front door was opened and make something of it in a dream, giving him a sort of sixth sense that something was wrong.

If so, at least she'd have a head start as long as she remembered what I'd told her.

"I'm back in the kitchen what do I do now?"

"Listen to me. This bit's very important. What number can you count up to?"

"I can count to ten thousand."

She was sounding a little happier now, sensing the end was in sight.

"I only want you to count up to three hundred. Can you do that?"

"Yeah."

"You've got to do it in your head."

"OK."

"First, I want you to go to the hob again. You know how to turn the gas on?"

"Of course! Sometimes I help Mommy with the cooking."

I had never felt so sad.

I made myself concentrate again. There was no room for distractions. She might be dead soon anyway. I felt enough of a shit for getting her to do my dirty work; while I was at it, I might as well make sure she did the job properly.

"That's good, so you know how to turn on the gas in the oven, and all the rings on the hob?"

"I told you, I can help cook."

A coach load of teenage kids returning from a school trip was streaming into the Burger King. A gang of six or seven of them hung back and headed for the phones, laughing and shouting in newly broken voices, all trying to cram into the one vacant booth. The noise was horrendous; I couldn't hear a thing Kelly was saying. I had to do something.

"Kelly, just wait a minute."

I put my hand over the mouthpiece, leaned out of the booth, and shouted, "You shut the fuck up! I've got my aunty here, her husband's just died and I'm trying to talk to her, OK? Give us some time!"

The kids went quiet, their cheeks red. They slunk off to join their friends, sniggering with mock bravado to disguise their embarrassment.

I got back on the phone.

"Kelly, this is very important. The phone might stop soon because the battery is running out. I want you to turn on all the gas jets on the stove. Take the phone with you so I can hear the gas. Go there now while I talk to you" I heard the hiss of the bottled propane that Euan used.

"It's very stinky, Nick."

"That's good. Now, just walk out of the kitchen and close the door. But be very quiet in the foyer. Remember, we don't want to wake Euan. Don't talk to me anymore, just listen.

Ready?"

"OK."

I heard the door close.

"Nick?"

I tried to keep calm.

"Yes, Kelly?"

"Can I get Jenny and Ricky to take with me, please?"

I tried hard to keep myself in check.

"No, Kelly, there is no time! Just listen to me. There isn't time for you to talk. I want you to count up to three hundred in your head. Then I want you to take a really, really deep breath and walk back into the kitchen. Don't run. You must walk. Go into the kitchen and pour all the antifreeze in the blue bottle into the green can.

Then I want you to walk out of the kitchen don't run! I don't want you to wake Euan."

If she tripped up and hurt herself, she could get engulfed by what was about to happen.

"Walk out very slowly, close the door behind you, then go out of the house and close the front door, really, really gently.

Do not go back for Jenny or Ricky."

"But I want them please. Nick?"

I ignored her.

"Then I want you to run as fast as you can up to the trees and hide. When you're running you will hear a big bang and there will be a fire. Don't stop and don't look back.

And don't come out until I get there, no matter what happens.

I promise I will be there soon."

It was at times like this that I was pleased I'd done all the laborious, rote learning of mixtures and formulas for making incendiaries. At the time, many years ago, it had been mind-bogglingly boring, but it had to be done because you can't take a notebook on the job with you. I learned, by heart, how to make bombs from everyday ingredients and how to make improvised electrical devices. As clearly as even atheists remember the Lord's Prayer from the time it was drummed into them at school, I remembered the formulas and step-by-step instructions for making everything from a simple incendiary like the one I was using to try to kill Euan--Mixture Number 5--to a bomb that I could initiate by using a pager from the other side of the world.

The phone started bleeping urgently, and then it just went dead. I visualized the glycerine in the antifreeze working on the mixture. In forty or fifty seconds it would ignite. If it was damp, maybe a little longer.

Kelly had less than a minute to get out of the house; the instant the gas was ignited there was going to be a massive explosion and then a fire. Hopefully, it would take Euan down, but would it take her with it?

Please, please, please don't go after those fucking teddy bears!

I ran back to the car and started driving west. First light was just trying to fight its way through the clouds. It was the worst journey of my life.

I saw a sign saying it was seventy miles to Wales. I raced along at warp speed for what I guessed was thirty miles, then another sign told me that Wales was sixty miles away. I felt as if I were running on a treadmill to nowhere and the treadmill was waist-deep in water.

My body had calmed down from all the excitement and was telling me I was hurt. My neck was in agony. The flow of blood had stopped, but the eye Simmonds had gouged was starting to swell up and affect my vision.

Euan, the fucker. The friend I had trusted for years. It was almost too painful to think about. I felt numb. I felt bereaved.

In time, maybe that numbness would turn to anger or grief or some other thing, but not yet. In my mind's eye all I could see was the look on Kelly's face as the train left the station and the smile on Euan's.

Where did I go from here? No fucker was going to move against me because they'd know that I still had the files. If the plan worked, Euan's package would sit in the post office now that there was no one to deliver it to. The killing of Simmonds would be covered up, no matter what. If some zealous policeman started getting too close to the truth, he'd be removed.

It all made sense to me, now, that every time peace talks began, PIRA, or someone claiming to be PIRA, had dropped a soldier or a policeman or bombed the mainland UK. And why? Because it was good business to keep the Troubles alive.

There were plenty on our side who profited from conflicts such as Northern Ireland and didn't want them to end. The Royal Ulster Constabulary is probably the highest-paid police force in Europe, if not the world. If you're its chief constable, it's your duty to say that you want an end to the war, but the reality is that you've got a massive police force under your command and limitless amounts of resources and power.

The British army doesn't want it to stop, either. The province is a fantastic testing ground for equipment and training ground for troops and, as with the RUC, it means the army gets a bigger slice of the cake. Every year the army has to justify its budget, and it's up against the navy, which is asking for more funds for Trident submarines, and the air force, which is banging on about needing to buy the Eurofighter 2000.

With Northern Ireland on the agenda, the army can talk about a "now" commitment, an operational imperative and no body's going to argue against the need for funds to fight terrorism.

British industry stood to lose substantially from a cease fire, too. Major defense manufacturers design equipment specifically for internal security and make fortunes out of the operational conditions. Equipment that was battle-proven in Northern Ireland was eagerly sought after by foreign buyers.

No wonder the conflict had made Britain one of the top three arms exporters in the world, with beneficial effects on the UK balance of payments.

I knew now why McCann, Farrell, and Savage had had to die. Enniskillen. The backlash against PIRA. People signing books of condolence. Irish Americans stopping their donations. Dialogue and reconciliation must have looked a real prospect. Simmonds and his mates couldn't have that. They had to create martyrs to keep the pot boiling.

Me? I was probably just a very small glitch in a well-oiled machine. Come to that. Northern Ireland was probably only one item among many in their company accounts. For all I knew, these guys also provoked killings and riots in Hebron, stirred up Croats against Serbs, and even got Kennedy killed because he wanted to stop the Vietnam War. As Simmonds had said, it was business. There was nothing I could do to stop them. But I wasn't worried about that. What was the point?

The only thing I had achieved--perhaps--was revenge for Kev's and Pat's deaths. That would have to be enough.

I got off the freeway and onto the secondary highway to Abergavenny. The rain had stopped, but it was a stretch of road notorious for repair works. Euan's house was about ten miles on the other side of the town, on the road toward Brecon.

I weaved in and out of traffic, the other drivers hooting and waving their fists. Then, in the distance, I saw the red of brake lights. The morning rush hour had started. I slowed with the volume of traffic heading into the town and eventually came to a complete standstill. The jam was caused by resurfacing work; it looked as though there was a mile-long backup.

I drove onto the shoulder. As I sped past them on the inside, stationary motorists honked angrily. The noise alerted the workers laying the asphalt up ahead. They ran and shouted, trying to wave me down, gesticulating at the roadwork sign. I didn't even acknowledge them. I only hoped I didn't get caught by the police. I dropped a gear, picked up speed, and shifted back up.

I got to Abergavenny and stayed on the ring road. The traffic slowed at a long set of stoplights so I had to bump up onto the curb and edge my way to the front of the line.

Once I was on the other side of the town I was in the sticks and the road narrowed to a single lane in each direction. I put my foot down and bombed along at seventy to eighty, using the whole road as if it were my own. Seeing a left-hand bend, I moved over to the far right-hand side. I could hear the hedgerow screech against the side of the car. From this position I could see more of the dead ground around the bend.

Not bothering with brakes, I banged down through the gears to second just before turning. Once on the bend I put my foot down and made use of rubber on asphalt. Out of the bend, I shifted into fourth and stayed there.

After a mile, a slow-moving truck was taking up most of the road. Its large trailer of sheep on two levels had a sticker asking me if I thought the driving was OK--if not, to call the head office. I had plenty of time to read it, laboring behind the fucker at twenty miles an hour.

The road twisted and turned; the trucker could see me in his mirrors, but there was no way he was going to pull over for me to pass. The speedo dropped to fifteen mph. and I looked at my watch. It was 9:05; I'd been on the road for just under three hours.

I kept pulling out, looking and tucking back in again. Even the sheep were staring at me now. The truck driver was enjoying himself; we had eye-to-eye in his side mirror, and I could see he was laughing. I knew this road, and I knew that unless he let me pass I was doomed to several miles of driving at his pace. By now the road had a two-foot mud bank on each side, then trees and hedges. It was wet and slippery, with small streams running along each side. I'd have to take a chance, just hope that nothing was coming. On this road, all corners were blind.

Preparing for the next bend, the truck driver shifted slowly down through the gears, and I accelerated past him on the wrong side of the road. If there was anything coming around the bend, we'd both be killed. He flashed his lights and honked, probably doing his best to distract me and force me off the road. For the first time today, I was in luck. The road was clear; I'd soon left the truck far behind.

Fifteen minutes later I was at the turnoff for Euan's valley. I hung a left, and within a hundred yards the road petered out into a single lane. If I came up behind a tractor or farm machinery, there would be few passing places, but luck stayed with me and there was nothing ahead. Another twenty minutes and I got to the valley.

As I approached the brow of the hill I could already see the spiral of smoke. The walls were still intact but most of the roof had collapsed, and there were smoke and scorch marks around the window frames. Two fire engines were there, and the firemen were still damping down. They looked wet, tired, and stressed. On the other side of the house was an ambulance.

A handful of people had gathered, locals in their slickers and boots, who'd driven from the other side of the valley to rubberneck.

I drove on and stopped by the gate. A couple of firemen turned around, but they didn't say anything; they were too busy doing their work.

I got out of the car and ran across the road to the small copse about fifty yards away, hollering and shouting like a madman.

"Kelly! Kelly!"

Nothing.

"It's me it's Nick! You can come out now!"

But she wasn't there. Deep down, I'd probably known all along that she wouldn't be. She'd been dead from the moment she'd picked up the phone.

I turned away and walked slowly up the track toward the throng of spectators. They gave me the once-over, obviously not liking the look of my damaged face, then turned back, more interested in the remains of the house.

"Was there anyone in there?" I asked nobody in particular.

A woman spoke.

"His lights were on last night. The ambulance crew has been inside already. Oh, it's such a shame. He was such a nice young man."

I walked beyond the group and a fireman came toward me, lifting a gloved hand.

"Excuse me, sir, if you could stay well back. We haven't made the area safe yet."

"Radio Wales," I said.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

I looked over his shoulder. Other firefighters were dragging out charred remains of Euan's house and placing them on a pile that was being damped down. I could now smell the burning.

I looked back at the fireman. He said, "It looks as if there was a fire and then the gas bottles blew up. If you could move back, sir."

"Was anyone killed or injured?"

As I asked, something one of them threw on the pile caught my eye. It was Jenny or Ricky, one or the other I never could tell which was which. Not that it mattered now.

Whichever one it was, it was now burned black with only half an arm left.

"It will take some time before we'll know for sure. But no one could have survived that blast."

He was right. In any other circumstances, it would have been an explosion to be proud of.

Kelly was dead. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad. It would be a bitch, but I'd get over it. What could I have offered her?

Kelly would have been in bad shape when she realized what had happened to her; she would probably need psychiatric treatment. Besides, she'd been starting to like the way we'd been living. Her death would tidy things up. I wouldn't have to protect or worry about her anymore.

I started back toward the car, deep in my thoughts. What was done was done; I couldn't change it, couldn't turn the clock back. I'd find out more from the news.

Behind me, in the distance, I heard the squawk of a bird, maybe a crow. It almost sounded like my name.

I stopped and turned.

And there she was, running toward me from beyond the trees.

I started to run toward her but checked myself. I wanted to make it look casual, even if my insides were shaking off the Richter scale.

She flew into my arms, burying her face in my neck. I pulled her back and held her at arm's length.

"Why weren't you at the trees?" I was half-angry, half-relieved, like a parent who thinks he's lost a child in a crowd and then finds her again and doesn't know whether to give her a good old chewing out or just a hug and a kiss. I didn't know what to do, but it felt good.

"Why weren't you by the trees where I said?"

She looked at me in disbelief.

"As if! Because you always make sure you stand off and watch. You taught me that!"

I got hold of her hand, grinned, and said, "Yeah, that's fair."

Still smiling, we walked toward the car. She was soaked, her hair matted to her head.

We reached the car and got in without exchanging another word.

I looked at her in the rearview mirror. We had eye-to-eye.

She smiled, and I snapped, "Put your seat belt on!"

I turned the ignition and we drove off.

The Author

A former member of the crack elite force the Special Air Service, Andy McNab has seen action on five continents. Now, in his explosive fiction debut, he has drawn on his seventeen years' experience of active service to create a thriller of high-stakes intrigue and unstoppable action.

In January 1991, McNab commanded the eight-man SAS squad that went behind Iraqi lines to destroy Saddam's scuds. He eventually became the British Army's most highly decorated serving soldier, and remains closely involved with the intelligence communities on both sides of the Atlantic.

Because of the highly sensitive and clandestine nature of his work with the SAS, McNab is wanted by a number of the world's terrorist groups. His whereabouts, therefore, cannot be disclosed.