Zero Hour

12

The bags lay ripped and trampled on by the front door. I shoved whatever I could into the ones that were still intact, and scooped the rest of the gear into my arms. I headed back up and dumped the lot on the brown carpet. The electric shower hummed away on the other side of the stud wall as Angeles went through the horror of watching someone else’s blood drain away by her feet.

I almost fell down the stairs in the rush to get back to the loading bay and start the clean-up. First into the rear footwell went the jeans with the stab punctures. I bundled up my vomit clothes and shoved them on top.

Next was my neo. I hauled him by his feet and pushed and heaved him on top of his would-be competitor. I’d never been a great one for poetic justice, but this came close.

Both neos were fucking idiots as far as I was concerned, but I needed to give myself a good kicking as well. They’d probably pinged us at the market, when I was paying more attention to cheering Angeles up than thinking about who might be looking over our shoulders.

They should have reported back to Flynn once they’d IDed the safe-house instead of taking things into their own heavily tattooed hands. Whatever, the fact was that in the next couple of hours whoever was back at the silo was going to be flapping and making some calls. But I had no control over that; all I could do was crack on with the plan.

I had to wedge Angeles’s neo as far down the rear passenger footwell as I could. The boot was already full. I’d cover him with her sleeping bag before leaving.

The effort left me wet with sweat and gagging for breath. I leant against the vehicle and felt the top of my head. The wound was crescent-shaped where his top set had been able to rip into the skin. It would scab up soon enough. The sweat down my back started to cool and I felt myself shiver. My arse was hurting again, and so was my hand.

I had to grip the situation and make sure Angeles and I got out of here in one piece, simple as that. She’d only just started her life and I wanted mine to end with Anna. That was pretty simple as well.

I forced myself off the vehicle and carried on collecting together all the device-making paraphernalia and tucking it around the bodies. There was no easy way to erase my prints from the wagon, let alone the DNA. I could burn it, but even thirty years after an event, blood can still be identified. The only way I could to deal with this was to get all the evidence together and make sure it was never found. Not while I was alive, anyway.

I didn’t touch the neos’ wallets or ID. If I did my job correctly, the wagon would never be found, and all my problems, and some of Angeles’s, would be packed away inside.

I lugged the battery back into the Passat and connected it up. Thank fuck it still worked. I didn’t have jump leads.

I turned my attention to the devices. First into the Bergen was the water container with about four litres of fuel. Then I carefully curled the gaffer-tape fuse into a couple of loops and laid it on top. I took the roll of gaffer tape over to the alarm clock, gave the bulb a generous protective coating, made sure the batteries were still in the wrong way round, then it went in as well.

Next was the picric acid. The yellow mush had crystallized on the plastic, and was ready for bagging. I placed it carefully in two new freezer bags, which I tucked into the left-hand pouch of the Bergen. The two bags of cartridge propellant went in the other side.

I put the Bergen into the front passenger’s footwell of the Passat and climbed behind the wheel. I sat there, working through exactly what I was going to have to do tonight. I visualized my actions as if I were a camera lens, watching my hands assembling the devices, going through everything step by step. I didn’t want to forget any detail that would stop the device detonating once I’d left.

The fire door opened. Angeles appeared in her new jeans. She had the brush in one hand but hadn’t even tried to get through the knots in her hair. She looked about her. All that remained of the drama was a pool of dark red, almost brown, blood that had been smeared along the concrete as I’d dragged the body of her neo towards the Passat.

I climbed out. ‘I need to clean that up before we leave.’

She wasn’t listening. ‘We will tell the police?’

‘No, we won’t tell the police anything. We just leave, and we never say anything to anyone at any time about anything. Is that OK with you?’

Her head juddered, maybe out of fear. ‘I wanted to kill him.’ She pointed at the blood on the ground. ‘I wanted to make him pay. Make them all pay.’

I was expecting her to start crying again as I walked over to her, but she didn’t. The tears had gone. She was pleased with what she had done. Fair one, I would have felt the same.

‘Angeles?’

She kept her eyes on the blood.

‘Angeles, look at me.’ I went over to her and bent down so I could get eye-to-eye again. ‘I’ve got to leave for a while tonight, but I’ll be back.’

Her eyes widened.

‘Just for a while. I have to get rid of the car. When I come back, we will leave here and go to my friend who is going to help you - help both of us.’

She gave a brisk nod. It was as if what had been left of the child in her had gone, which I supposed it did pretty quickly once you’d stabbed a man to death.

‘Nick, why are you here? What are you doing for - what do you call it? - your job?’

‘Remember what we said before? You ask no questions, because I’m not going to answer, OK?’

She looked at me for a couple of seconds, and nodded.

13

I stopped the Passat, jumped out and went back to hit the shutter button. A few moments later I was heading down the road towards the roundabout and then on to Distelweg, shoving the contents of Bradley’s briefing folder into the glove compartment as I drove.

I was going to the silo sterile. My passport was still in the mailroom. The heating felt good around my body as the Passat glided towards the canal. It stank of bodies and vomit, but that didn’t matter. I crossed into the world of darkness the other side of the water and was soon approaching the tile warehouse. I pulled into the car bays and killed the lights and engine. I sat, watched and listened. The sky was clear tonight; at least there would be no rain.

There were no lights, no voices, no traffic.

I waited another five minutes, then fired up the wagon and carried on down Distelweg. Not too fast; not too slow. I didn’t want to be noticed for doing either. I couldn’t see much, but I checked for anything that might have changed since I was last here.

The target was in darkness.

As I passed the two-level warehouse or factory immediately before the wasteground, an external door opened and there was a burst of light. It was closed again quickly. No drama. It was three hundred metres from the target. If somebody was working late, and staying inside, they wouldn’t get hurt. There was nothing happening on the outside, for sure. There were no lights. What was about to happen would be something to tell the kids, but not much more.

I drove down to the sharp left-hand turn by the ferry point, and the city lights glowed at me from across the water. I followed the road, looking down the steep drop from the reclaimed land of the dock into the bay, for about two hundred metres. On my left, the land side, there was a clutch of small industrial units. A small brick path and a thin strip of grass ran away to the right, stopping at the water about three metres below. I found a gap between the wire-mesh fences of two units and reversed into it. I closed down once more but left the ignition on. This time I sank into the seat, nice and low, letting my arse slide down the leather. I kept my weight on the left cheek. As long as I didn’t move, nobody walking past would see me.

I powered down the window to listen for vehicles or footfall and checked the luminous hands on my watch. It was nearly 20.40.

I switched the internal light to off, so that it wasn’t triggered by the opening door, and stepped out of the car. I went round to the passenger side, took out the Bergen and put it down against the fencing. Then I got back behind the wheel.

I turned the ignition key and leant over and pressed the button to tilt the back of the passenger seat as far as possible to wedge Angeles’s neo in place, then did the same with the driver’s. I opened the door and took a quick final look outside.

I positioned my right foot on the sill, which made my stab wound throb as I strained to keep myself upright. My left hand gripped the edge of the roof. I changed it to my right, and then pushed myself in against the door hinges for support. I needed my left hand and left foot free.

I leant in, pressed my foot on the brake pedal, and selected drive. I let go of the brake as the engine started to take the Passat gently forward. I held on, leaning back into the hinges, and once it had travelled about halfway across the road I pushed my left foot down on the gas and we lurched forward. I held it there a bit longer, but no more than two seconds because it was really starting to roll.

Hanging half out of the car, I pushed off with my feet and the Passat lurched on towards the water. As my feet hit the tarmac I curled up to accept the landing. I was only moving at about twenty m.p.h. but it felt like fifty.

I rolled a couple of times as the wagon disappeared from view, then heard a loud splash.

14

My arse had taken some of the hit on my right hip and I was in agony. I staggered to my feet and headed for the water’s edge. I didn’t bother looking left or right. The deed was done. If I’d been seen, there was fuck-all I could do about it.

I got to the edge just as the tailgate disappeared under the water. It looked like the last throes of a torpedoed ship. I’d only left one window open. I wanted the vehicle to fill with water to make sure it sank, but I also wanted it to keep the bodies entombed.

After three days, under normal conditions, the intestinal bacteria in a corpse produce huge amounts of gas that flows into the blood vessels and tissues. Large blisters form on the skin, and then the whole body begins to bloat and swell. The gas turns the skin from green to purple to black, makes the tongue and eyes protrude, and often pushes the intestines out through the nearest orifice. This process is speeded up if the victim is in a hot environment, or in water.

As a young soldier, I used to be on the beach patrols in Hong Kong, looking out for what was left of Chinese illegal immigrants. The illegals travelled in overloaded boats and many of them drowned. They’d make it to Hong Kong, but after floating there for three or four days they looked like aliens from Star Trek.

When this happened to Angeles’s neo, I didn’t want him to escape as he bloated and floated. With luck, the seats were going to restrain him, and if not, at least he was unlikely to come out through one window and bob to the surface. I just hoped my door had slammed shut when it hit the water and hadn’t been forced open.

I looked down. The water was dark and solid. Fuck knew what was down there. Hundreds of years of bodies and secrets. The Passat was already becoming part of history. Or so I hoped.

I pulled out the BlackBerry and flung it as far as I could into the bay. I didn’t want that thing banging in my ear when Tresillian went ballistic - which he was sure to do when I got those girls out.

As long as Anna was safe, I wasn’t worried about reprisals. What was he going to do? Kill me? If so, he’d better get his finger out or the monster in my head would get there first and do the job for him. That would really piss him off.

I hobbled back to the Bergen. The pain subsided in my hip, though not so much in my arse. I remembered the last time I’d tried to dump a car in a reservoir. I was a young soldier, years before I was sent to Hong Kong. My old Renault 5 was a wreck. I’d have had to pay to have it scrapped, so a mate and I came up with a great idea in the pub one night. We’d drive to the Talybont reservoir in Wales and not stop when we got to the water. We’d go down in two cars on a Saturday night, and Sunday I’d report it nicked from the town centre.

We drove down to Talybont, and things were looking good. I revved the engine, jumped out, and watched the Renault going into what we assumed would be at least sixty feet of water. Instead it settled in what looked like about four feet, visible for all to see. It turned out there were so many cars dumped in that same spot that mine had landed on top of a pile of others. We had to make our way down, climb over the other rust buckets, and rock the thing until it toppled off into deeper water.

All this reminiscing was probably par for the course when you were running out of road ahead. Or maybe there was a little voice telling me that though I’d thought some of these things were pretty shit at the time, perhaps they hadn’t been.

I shouldered the Bergen and kept in the shadow of the buildings that lined this side of the road. No more thinking about the old days. I had to concentrate on the job. That was what I was here for - and this was the part I really wanted to do. It wasn’t about the killing, however much that was for the greater good, or however Tresillian would justify it. At the bottom of this pile of shit, I was never going to save the world. But it would be nice to think that getting Angeles and Lilian and the other girls out would make it - for them at least - a better place.

As I headed towards the ferry point, the only sound came from the four litres of fuel sloshing about in the container between my shoulder blades.

I slowed down as I neared the ferry point and then stopped. I rested my hands on my thighs, listening and looking. The weight of the fuel made me wobble a bit as I leant down and it levelled off in the top of the container. Apart from my breathing, the only noises came from the other side of the bay and the shipping in between. There was nothing going on over here. I turned the corner, crossed the road and headed along the fence line towards the gap.

The factory beyond the target, where the light had come from, was as dark as everything else now.

I stopped at the rat run between the railings to check for signs of movement. Then I dropped the safe-house keys in the weeds to the right of the gap. I was on foot now, so I wanted them near to me. Sweat gathered where the Bergen rubbed against my back. I leant forward and bounced on the balls of my feet so the Bergen bounced too. At the moment the pressure on the shoulder straps was released, I pulled down and adjusted them so they were nice and tight.

I looked out for the glow of a campfire in the hollow. The junkies must have been having a quiet night in.

Bending low to ease the Bergen through the gap without having to take it off my shoulders, I wormed my way through into the wasteground.

Still there were no lights, no signs of life, just the forbidding outline of the silo in the darkness ahead.

15

I was about twenty metres short of the target. The tower dominated the night sky. I still couldn’t see any lights. There were no obvious changes since I’d last been here two nights ago.

This time, I leant against a slab of concrete instead of sitting down and cocked an ear towards the target. I heard nothing but the distant honk of a ship getting pissed off with another ship in the bay.

I tried to swallow. My throat was dry from humping all the kit. My boots were heavy with mud. I moved off. There’d be no cutting corners. I had to carry out the recce. I might be doing a lot of work for nothing.

I moved along the gable end until I reached the waterside corner. There was nothing new on the hard standing. No boats tied up alongside.

Bergen on my back, I moved slowly along the bay side of the building. I got to the metal doors. They hadn’t been tampered with. The grass and weeds were standing to attention.

There was still no light.

I reached the far gable end, passing the window to the office where I hoped the girls were being held. I turned right, and followed the wall to the door. It was still locked. I put my ear to the frame and could hear a faint noise. It was impossible to tell what was making it. I put my nose to the keyhole. It still smelt of cake shop.

I walked round to the back of the building, and carried on to do a complete 360 back to the conveyor-belt. Did anyone have eyes on me? Unlikely. Where would they be? Fuck it, so what? If it was happening, it wasn’t going to change anything I was going to do.

I climbed the Meccano as close to the silo as I could. It made for a longer climb, but I didn’t want to be struggling along the conveyor-belt with all this gear on my back. I wasn’t exactly Spiderman, but even he would have had his work cut out with pains in his arse, hip, head and hand, and the unstable weight of the Bergen with a couple of gallons of liquid moving about inside it.

I took the rusty, flaky struts one at a time, maintaining three points of contact: both feet and hands firmly gripping, then one hand up to the next strut, and then a foot. I stopped and listened every two or three bounds. I was sweating, but it certainly wasn’t from fear. I was doing what I wanted to be doing. I was having my one final kick.

And, anyway, this time I knew I was dead. I had an inkling of what it must feel like to be a suicide bomber. Like me, they had fuck-all to lose. It almost felt liberating.

I got to the last strut and hauled myself over the top. I lay flat on the rubber belt. The fuel sloshed as it levelled out. The hatch was slightly ajar, exactly as I’d found it and how I’d left it. I crawled forward. A jet took off from Schiphol in the distance and climbed quietly overhead.

The conveyor-belt creaked under my weight. To me, it felt like I was making enough noise to wake up the whole of Noord 5. It couldn’t be helped. All I could do was take my time and not fuck up by dropping anything or falling off.

I slowly pushed the hatch open, just enough to get my head through. As before, my nose filled with the smell of flour. As before, there was the faintest glimmer of light through the gap at the bottom.

I loosened the Bergen straps and lay on my side to wriggle out of them. I had to work my way through the hatch and onto the ladder feet first. It would have been a nightmare with a Bergen on my back. I wrapped a hand around one of the straps in case the thing decided to fall.

I lowered my feet and found a rung. Once I had a firm footing, I dragged the Bergen towards me and hauled it back over my shoulders. No worries about muddy boots this time.

Slowly but surely I made my descent. By the time my boots were on the concrete and adding to the prints in the flour, my hands were caked with mud. I wiped them on my jeans. It was warm down here. I took off the Bergen and rested it against the wall. I eased my head beneath the steel shutters and into the main part of the building.

At first, everything looked exactly the same as before. The top right-hand window was the only one that had a light on. The two windows to the left of it were dark, as were the two either side of the door below into the office block. A TV flickered, but I couldn’t hear any sound or movement. A haze of cigarette smoke filled the room.

I bent down and grabbed the mallet from under the top flap of the Bergen. The mush of TV waffle reached my ears and got louder the closer I got to the door into the main entrance hallway.

16

I knelt down and checked for light the other side of it. There was a soft glow. I put my ear to the door. The TV was still going strong; I couldn’t hear anything else.

I tried the handle. It opened into a gloomy hallway

There were two doors on the left and two on the right. Ten fire extinguishers were lined up between them like sentries. At the far end of the corridor was the outside entrance. Light spilled onto it from up the stairs.

Light also seeped from under the second door on the left. I leant as close as I could to the top panel. There was a faint murmur of childlike voices. Someone was crying and being comforted. The Chubb-style key was still in the lock and a bolt - thrown back - had been newly fixed just above it.

I turned the key just enough to confirm that it was locked, then removed it to keep them contained. I could still hear nothing above the TV upstairs. I knew the voice. Horatio Caine was being uber-smooth in CSI: Miami.

The external door hadn’t been bolted. The deadlocks were on. No one was getting out unless they had the keys. There were three to undo so it would take them a while. I eased the bolts into place. Now it would also take a while for anyone to get in.

I turned left towards the stairwell. I only had one chance to make this work quickly and quietly. The light on the landing above me came from two naked fluorescent tubes. The steps were solid concrete. Their coating of red paint had faded over the years and the concrete had worn. There had once been a handrail but now only the fixing holes remained.

I clenched the mallet in my right hand. I swung my arms as I took each step, head up, sucking in deep breaths to prepare for my attack. Two neos were now at the bottom of the bay. I had no idea how many of the four I’d introduced myself to at the tile factory were up and about. But I assumed that Flynn and Bitch Tits would be looking after the shop. By the time I was halfway up I could smell cigarette smoke. The kind that makes your eyes water and takes the skin off the back of your throat. Whoever was up there wasn’t paying much attention to the government health warning.

I reached the top landing. I was in auto-mode. I felt blood surge into my hands and legs, preparing me for fight or flight.

Then, just when I needed him most, Horatio stopped waffling.

The door to my half-left was open. I had maybe one second’s advantage on whoever was in the room, no more. I could hear everyone in Miami loud and clear.

There were other doors: two to the right, three to the left. All closed. Notice boards peppered with rusty drawing pins but no paper lined the walls, punctuated by steel spikes that had once supported fire extinguishers. Faded hazard warning signs still hung above them.

I took three steps across the corridor and over the threshold. Arm raised, I was ready to take on the first part of any body that came within reach.

There was nobody in there apart from Horatio, but the last inch or so of an untipped cancer-stick still glowed in the ashtray.

A cistern flushed and the door opened at the far end of the room. Robot came out, still doing up his flies. He was dressed in the same brown overcoat he’d been wearing in Christiania.

He patted the zip into place and raised his head. There was no surprise on his face when he saw me, no shock, no fear, no hesitation. He launched himself straight at me.

I brought up the mallet. His arm chopped up and blocked it easily. His other fist punched into the side of my head and his leg kicked out. It connected with my thigh and I buckled with pain.

My head hit the floor. Stars burst in front of my eyes. Pain coursed through my body. More kicks landed. I could feel myself starting to lose it. I couldn’t let that happen. I worked hard to keep my eyes open, curling up as a knee went down onto my chest.

His face displayed the same lack of emotion as it had when he’d talked about Mr Big’s fringe benefits in the kitchen of the green house. Calmly and efficiently, he was just getting on with the job of killing me.

17

I had to pull myself together or I was dead.

I tried to twist my head out of the way as the fists came down. I felt one brush my ear as it missed and carried on into the concrete. He didn’t flinch.

I bucked like a madman to present a moving target. All I could hear was a voice in my head telling me to keep him close.

I grabbed him with my arms around the back of his coat and pulled him in to me in a big bear hug. I tucked my head into his neck so he couldn’t butt me. If I kept hugging him I might be able to control him for long enough to work out what the fuck to do.

I wriggled as much as I could. I wanted to roll on top of him. I was heavier than him. Maybe that would work. But he wasn’t having any of it. He tried to expand his arms so he could break out of my grasp. His head jerked down the side of mine, right onto my ear. It popped and burnt with pain. I rolled over, but not in the direction I’d wanted. We were both side on to the ground.

He got his mouth to my ear. ‘Give up. You’re just going to die fucked.’ The Scouse was as precise and unhurried as it had been at the negotiating table.

I writhed again to try to get on top of him, but we rolled together and hit the wall.

My hands were pinned behind his back. All I had left was my head. I butted him in the temple.

His arms flailed. My hands broke free. I was going to have to be quicker than him. Or just better.

I kicked and he let me go. It was pointless running. I had to stay here. He was the target. I had to carry on.

Somehow I got to my feet, my body side-on to him, crouching, legs nice and stable, arms up.

He stood up too. Dusted off his coat. I half expected him to shoot his cuffs. We were about three metres apart. Our eyes locked.

I mirrored his pose, knees bent to protect my bollocks, arms up, head pushed down so my chin hit my chest. I stared at him, ready to grab or punch or otherwise react to whatever he did. I hated this. I’d rather a short, sharp frenzy without any controls.

Robot bounced on his boots a little, as if he was looking for an angle of attack. He was almost enjoying it. Maybe he was rehearsing his attack in his head. A lot of martial-arts lads visualize what they’re going to do before they actually do it. That’s why they stand there squaring up to each other for two minutes before there’s three seconds of action and it’s all over and done with. It’s all about pre-work. I knew that and appreciated it. I just didn’t want him to do it on me.

I kept my feet planted firmly on the ground, muscles gripped, everything tightened, ready to take the hits. I wanted him nearer. He was still out of range. But I knew he’d close in when he was ready.

In he came. A high kick flew towards my ribcage. I kept my arms up and tried to block it. It hit my left bicep. The force of it made me punch myself in the forehead.

I rocked back. Another kick to my other side. I took it on the wrist and opened up my arms. I knew another kick was coming. He launched it and I grabbed his leg with both hands. His calf was almost on my shoulder. I had hold of his thigh and could feel the kneecap through the fabric of his jeans. I pushed down, trying to control it, gripping hard with both hands. I moved into him, my hips between his legs like the foreplay was over and we were going to have sex.

With my right hand on his kneecap, I grabbed him round the top of his leg with my left, pulling him closer, trying to lift him. I kept the forward movement and almost bounced him towards the wall. He crashed against it and arched his back as he felt the fire extinguisher spike. His eyes opened wide. His muscles tensed, desperate to resist the impact of the steel rod. He tried to push me back. Flecks of spit landed on the side of my neck.

I leant into him, my legs almost at forty-five degrees as I pushed and pushed, my body weight hammering him into the spike.

His coat gave way first, then all seven layers of skin. He didn’t scream. He took it, breathing heavily but not panicking, trying to work out what the fuck he was going to do. A rib cracked under the pressure and the spike gave him its full six inches. His hands flew back against the wall like he was breaking a fall. He pushed himself off it, grunting with pain, and sank down onto his knees. He kept his eyes on me. He was going to get up. He was going to fight on.

I pivoted on the ball of my left foot and swung round, volleying a kick into his face that pushed his head back into the wall. There wasn’t much noise, just a sound like splitting wood as his skull made contact. He jerked, and then he was very still.

I felt his carotid. There was nothing. He’d gone. I collapsed beside him, my back against the wall. Next door, Horatio and his CSI mates cracked yet another case and the music blared.

A mobile rang in the TV room. I jumped up and headed towards it. A fist pounding on the main entrance stopped me in my tracks.

18

Chest still heaving, I staggered down the stairs. I bounced from wall to wall, almost falling, then somehow staying on my feet.

‘Open the door! For fuck’s sake!’

The mobile rang again upstairs. I stumbled to the door and pressed my ear to it. A vehicle was ticking over. Then I heard the clank of keys in locks.

There were more bangs, exactly where my head was.

‘Fucking - open - up!’

The accent was the same as Robot’s.

The door shifted under his weight until the bolts took hold. He knew someone had to be inside. He yelled behind him. ‘Call him again! What a bunch of cunts!’

I could make out another voice, cooler, more measured.

I got my eye to the centre keyhole. Bright headlights, then a body blocked the view. The lights had been above knee height. An MPV maybe, or truck to take the girls away.

The guy was apoplectic. ‘Call him again, Dad. Where the fuck is he?’

I finally recognized the first voice. It was Bitch Tits. Whoever he was with, I couldn’t let them leave. I’d lose control of what they did next. I turned and focused on the fire extinguishers. I picked up two and positioned them on the second stair. I plunged the hall into darkness and used the chinks of light spilling from the keyholes to find my way to the doors. I put on my best Van der Valk accent. ‘Ja, ja, komm.’

Bitch Tits threw a terminal wobbler as I pulled the first bolt. ‘What the fuck are yous up to in there?’

I freed the last bolt and ran towards the stairs. I picked up the first fire extinguisher as the door burst open and light flooded the hallway. Shadows danced across the concrete as Bitch Tits stormed in. The man behind him was big enough to block out the headlamp beams.

‘Get the fucking lights on, then!’

I heaved the fire extinguisher above my head and hurled it at Bitch Tits. I didn’t see where it made contact, just that it hit him with a thud and he went down in the direction of the girls’ cell. I was already heading to the main door with the second extinguisher.

Flynn was three steps into the hallway. I’d burnt his image into my memory: a well-fed body with a shaven head. I knew from my BlackBerry video that the crow’s feet around his eyes gave away his age, but he was in good nick.

I slipped behind him. He was still taking a second to react to what had happened to his son. I pushed against the door with my shoulder and it was dark once more.

The second extinguisher came down hard on the back of Flynn’s head. He grunted and buckled. This time I kept my grip on the top of the cylinder but let go of the bottom and brought it down on the blurred shape below me like a pile-driver, again and again. I didn’t care where it made contact, as long as it did. One time it hit bone. There was a crunch but no screams, just subdued groans, then heavy slobbering as he tried to breathe through the mess I’d made of his head.

I moved up the hallway and repeated the process a couple of times on Bitch Tits. I was tempted to finish him then and there, but I had something else in mind.

My face was covered with sweat by the time I dropped the extinguisher and headed outside. The Lexus was ticking over smoothly. I turned off the ignition and lights and pocketed the keys. Back in the hallway, I slammed the door behind me and bolted up before hitting the light switch.

Flynn and Bitch Tits lay prone on the concrete. They’d taken a battering but their chests still pulsated.

I gave them both another slam into the back to keep them immobilized before checking for weapons. They were clean.

Legging it as best I could, I went through the door into the silo to retrieve the Bergen. I lifted it on one shoulder. My feet were heavy. I was fucked. I gulped huge mouthfuls of air. Adrenalin was going to keep me going here. Adrenalin and blind fucking rage. I had to get back to them before they had time to recover. I needed to control them.

Dutch voices had taken over the TV above me now. I dropped to my knees beside the bodies and took off the Bergen. I unpacked the gaffer tape. The one eye that Flynn could still open was fixed on me.

They gave no resistance as I grabbed their hands. I taped them behind their backs, and then I did their ankles. I wrapped a strip over their mouths. I kept it as tight as possible. I wanted them to have to fight for every molecule of oxygen.

I taped open two out of the four eyes that weren’t broken or swollen. I didn’t want them to miss a thing.

19

I slid down the wall and sat there, totally fucked, fighting for breath. The two of them were starting to recover a little. They tried to beg and reason with me via muffled, gaffer-taped moans.

I didn’t want to get up. But I had to.

I staggered to my feet and opened the windows and doors of the two ground-floor offices that faced the silo, then did the same in the three upstairs. The news was still on. A female anchor with sculpted blonde hair was getting highly excited about the football results. Robot hadn’t moved an inch.

I stumbled downstairs. Grabbing Flynn’s bound feet under my arm, I dragged him into the silo. He kicked out as best he could, but his weight was more of a problem. I dropped his feet just past the door and kicked into both of them. It wasn’t about control: every time I looked at these guys I kept thinking about the green house.

Picking up his feet once more, I finished dragging him into the centre of the main building. I left him with his back against a heavy desk, then went back and fetched Bitch Tits.

I put my ear to the girls’ door. They’d heard the fight. Their voices were high and agitated. Some of them cried. I heard one of them speaking only centimetres from my head. She was probably doing the same as me, ear to the door, trying to work things out.

I hit the light switch by the main entrance and checked the Facebook picture, then unlocked the door and pushed it open.

‘Lilian Edinet?’

The girls were all wearing jeans and sweatshirts. They had nothing on their feet or above their eyes. They cowered by their mattresses, some holding hands, expecting the worst.

‘Lilian?’

I looked at each face, the blonde ones first.

‘Yes, I am Lilian.’

The girl who stepped forward had been standing in the far left-hand corner, by the slop bucket and piles of grease-stained pizza boxes and plastic sandwich wrappers. Her hair was longer than in the picture, and matted. Her expression was defiant.

I moved towards her, my hand outstretched.

‘Come on. Move!’ I knew I should be treating her to the full Mother Teresa number, but I didn’t have the time. None of us did.

I had to grab her arm and pull her all the way out of the room. I slammed the door shut and threw the bolt.

Under the lights in the hallway, her resolve crumbled. Tears cascaded down her cheeks. She was trembling. She tried to hide it, but wasn’t having much success.

‘Please, please …’

I took her face in my hands and moved it up towards the light.

It was her all right. The Goth vampire look had faded, but you couldn’t mistake the fire in her eyes. Whatever they’d done to her, they hadn’t yet broken her spirit.

I let go of her and pressed the picture into her hand. ‘Who is that? What is his name?’

The paper shook in her hands. Teardrops hit the page. ‘Viku.’

I grabbed her by the arm once more. ‘I’m taking you home.’

I dragged her to the office opposite and pushed her inside.

‘Turn the light on. Stay here. I’ll come back soon. Do not leave this room, OK?’

She nodded.

I closed the door. This one also had a key in it. They probably all did if this place was being rented out. I gave it a turn. It would put the frighteners on her again, but I didn’t want her to see what I was getting up to next.

Everything I needed was squared away. All the girls, and the two fucks next door, were contained, and I had Lilian. Now I could sort out the device.

I hoisted the Bergen onto one shoulder and headed back into the silo. Flynn and Bitch Tits thrashed their legs about, their heads jerking in unison as they tried to shout out at me through the gaffer tape. The pleading had stopped. They were just pissed off big-time.

Three thick, cast-iron heating pipes ran from beneath the concrete, through evenly spaced brackets up the wall, all the way to the floor above us. I gave them an exploratory tug. They didn’t give an inch.

My body ached, my feet were getting heavier and I was gagging for water, but nothing could detract from the glow of knowing these two were going to watch my every move and then work out exactly what was going to happen to them. And to make sure that happened unimpeded, I dragged each of them across the floor and ran the gaffer tape around their heads and the pipes, and then did the same with their chests and waists. Their legs stretched out in front of them. They were going nowhere. The show was about to begin, and I wanted them to have ringside seats.

The offices above me spilt enough light for me to see what I needed to see and do what I needed to do. Whatever was on the TV, it was now in Dutch.

I removed the freezer bags: two with the yellow picric acid crystals, and two with the shotgun propellant. The fuel container came out next. I laid them all in a line. I had to do this methodically or I might fuck up and forget something.

The pair of them had stopped moving about. They had one good eye each and they were fixed on me like laser beams. They were trying to work out what the fuck was happening. They’d know soon enough.

First I had to assemble the two explosive charges. I unsealed a bag of picric, inserted an open pack of dark grey propellant into the middle of the yellow crystals, and put them to one side. I exposed one end of my home-made fuse with my teeth and shoved it into the second pack of propellant, then gaffer-taped the two securely together before repeating the process. I taped the second picric bag too.

I moved across to where the remnants of the flour had drifted like snow against the wall that joined the silo to the admin building. Dropping onto my hands and knees, I scooped as much as I could of it to one side so the twenty-litre fuel container could sit directly on the concrete. My nose and mouth were soon full of fine white powder, and so were my eyes.

I placed the container in the space I’d cleared, and taped the second IED on top of it. The fuse snaked off to my right.

The flour began to mix with the sweat running down my cheeks and gathering at the back of my neck. I must have looked like a cross between the world’s most enthusiastic coke head and the Pillsbury Doughboy.

I grabbed the components of the first IED, which was to be the kicker charge. I dug deep into the flour that I’d just helped bank against the wall. I had to make sure of two things: first, that I placed the kicker charge higher than the firebomb; and second, that it went as deep into the flour as I could manage. These bags still weren’t sealed. It wasn’t their time yet.

I checked the fuse leading from the petrol bomb to make sure it was within easy reach of the kicker charge, and that it didn’t touch the fuel at any point. That was why the kicker had to be higher - so the fuse flowed easily into the picric.

I picked up the Bergen and moved away from the two devices. The TV news was still blaring away. They’d have something right on their doorstep to talk about in a couple of hours.

I took out the mosque alarm and the bulb, lifted the batteries out of the back of the clock and reinserted them the right way round.

20

I unwrapped the gaffer tape protecting the bulb and gave it a quick test. Perfect. I closed it down before the filament got hot. I set the alarm for two hours. That would be enough for me to get back and shower all this shit off me before I went anywhere near the airport.

I moved back to the device and gently pushed the bulb into the open propellant bag of the kicker charge. I bit away the free end of the fuse and shoved that alongside. I made sure both were sunk deep into the propellant before sealing them in place. I wrapped some more tape around both the wire and the fuse and made sure it was all nice and tight.

The timer gave a gentle green glow as I started scooping flour on top of the kicker charge. The clock would spark up the bulb. That, in turn, would set off the propellant in the bag, and at the same time ignite the fuse. The fuse would start burning towards the firebomb. The propellant inside the kicker charge would generate a fuck of a lot of heat. The picric acid would explode. And since it was against the wall, the force of it would push up, down and forwards into the building.

The pressure wave would force out the flour in a fine mist at supersonic speed. There’d be a massive amount of pressure, because this place was so enclosed. There were no windows, and the building itself was sealed. The pressure wave would have nowhere to exit. So as it bounced and rattled around the building, it would take the cloud of flour and dust with it. The cloud would fill the building.

All the while, the fuse to the kicker charge would be burning down to the propellant inside the main charge. It would also explode, and detonate that lot of picric, creating another massive pressure wave. That was why there had to be an air gap between the fuel and the explosive. You need to give the wave a little time before it hits the fuel. If it’s physically touching, it can sometimes just explode and kick out fluid at supersonic speed instead of flame.

What I wanted was flame. It would ignite all the particles of flour, and that would create even more pressure. The wave would burst its way round the entire building in a couple of seconds.

Flynn and Bitch Tits looked like they were going to explode all by themselves.

I finished burying the kicker charge and laid the Bergen next to the fuel but kept the remaining gaffer tape in my hand. I’d almost done it. The last bit was the hardest of all, and that was the wait. But it had benefits, I supposed. Flynn and Bitch Tits also had to wait.

They’d gone noisy again. I wasn’t sure if they were begging, trying to cut a deal, or just giving me their final thoughts on my mother’s sexual history.

I knelt down beside them and rolled all the remaining gaffer tape around both sets of legs.

I fished around in Flynn’s smart leather coat for the main door keys. Flynn fixed his eyes on mine. He knew what I was thinking and accepted he was going to die. Bitch Tits wasn’t following his dad’s example. He continued to flap. That was good for me.

I turned and went out, leaving the door to the hallway wide open.

21

She was standing in the far corner of the empty office, her back firmly against the wall. If she could have burrowed her way into it, she would have done.

‘Come on, hurry!’

She didn’t budge.

I ran across the room. Her arms came up to protect herself.

‘For fuck’s sake, calm down. I’m not here to hurt you.’

She wasn’t responding.

I touched her on the shoulder as gently as I could. She recoiled like I’d hit her with a Taser. I lowered my voice, kept it as calm as possible. ‘Listen, Lily. I’m here to help you. But you must help me, OK?’

I took her arm and headed for the main door.

‘Mister - my friends … ?’

I turned to see her pointing at the only remaining closed door.

‘Mister … ?’

I opened the front door just enough to check outside, then closed it again.

I turned to face her. ‘Listen in. You tell them that they are going to be free, OK?’

She nodded, concentrating hard to make sure she understood every single word.

‘Tell them that I will show them a way out. And they must not come back here. Do you understand?’ You didn’t need even two brain cells to know that this was the last place on earth they should be, but the big wide world might have seemed an even more frightening prospect.

‘Yes - but where do they go?’

‘They are in Amsterdam. I will show them, once we get out of here.’

She wasn’t with me.

‘Fuck it, just get in there and tell them to follow me.’

I opened the cell door and almost threw her back in. ‘For fuck’s sake, hurry up.’

They gathered by the main entrance.

I moved outside and held them there while I locked up. I still had Flynn’s fob. But I wasn’t touching the car. We couldn’t all fit inside, and it was another bit of kit to connect me with the job. I didn’t want any last-minute complications. We were all better off on foot.

I turned right, and switched into Pied Piper mode. I started across the wasteground towards the rat run. I had to stop every now and then to give the girls time to catch up. Their bare feet weren’t making life any easier. I took them around the edge of the crater so they didn’t fall foul of the junkie pick-up sticks.

About ten minutes later I shepherded them, one by one, through the gap in the railing. I held them on the other side until everyone was through, then headed along the fence line. I passed the ferry point and followed the road towards the canal, throwing both sets of keys into the bay to join the Passat.

I pointed in the direction of the lights across the water. ‘Amsterdam.’

Lily passed on the message and there was a murmur of understanding, dread and excitement.

22

jog, pulling Lily behind me. The rest followed like a gaggle of refugees.

There was no time to talk - no reason to either. When the silo exploded, they’d throw up cordons. I needed to be away from here and on my way to Russia. That was the only thing on my mind now. I brushed my clothes as I went. The Doughboy look was not what I was aiming for.

I slowed to a walk as we approached the bridge. I gathered up the girls and told them to be quiet. Lily translated.

We were soon in the land of the white prefabs. The girls were out of breath. Lily pulled at my arm. ‘Please, slower …’

I gripped her hand and pulled a little harder. We had to make distance.

The housing estate was alive. TV screens glowed behind net curtains. Kids played football under street-lamps. All the shops were open, their bright lights flooding the pavements.

I was gagging for water but it was going to have to wait. I checked my watch. Thirty minutes had gone. I had to get a move on here. With luck I could have the wheels turning by about 22.15. The device would kick off just after 22.30. By then we’d be on the A10 to Schiphol.

I stopped short of the roundabout and waited for my ragtag band to join me. We got stares from passing drivers, but I was past caring. There were more important things to think about.

I pointed down the road towards the taxi rank. ‘Lily, tell the girls to cross the road and keep walking. Tell them to go to the Islamic cultural centre, the mosque - you get that?’

She nodded, then gobbed off at the frightened faces.

‘Tell them the people there will help them.’

She did as she was told and I started to move them on.

‘Tell them not to say where they’ve come from. They don’t know - it was near the motorway.’

She gobbed off again and I had to physically turn them in the right direction.

‘Go on, fuck off, go!’

Lily started to move with them.

‘Not you.’

I hooked her arm and guided her across the roundabout towards Papaverhoek.

That was me fucked with Tresillian yet again, but so what? I was fucked anyway. He’d have to find me to grip me. As for the target building, fuck it. It was going to be a while before they found out where the girls had come from, even if they told the truth straight away.

I couldn’t get Lena’s friend involved. It was too complicated, and there wasn’t time. But at least the girls were safe. They’d be fed and watered and given warm shoes and a place to rest before someone remembered to ask the police if they might like to find out where they’d been held, or about the man who’d saved them. By then it would be too late.

Lily was hobbling now, but she’d live. FilmNoord XXX was doing a brisk trade. Four cars were parked up, their drivers browsing the shelves. A woman in her late forties and not exactly box fresh smoked a cigarette and scoped for business. She didn’t give us a second glance. She was more interested in the lads with back seats than a guy who’d already found what he was looking for.

I approached the safe-house from the opposite side of the road. Everything looked OK. I checked the telltales, unlocked and closed the door quickly behind me. I hit the lights and locked back up.

I stood there for a while, composing myself - allowing myself a moment or two of satisfaction for a job well done.

‘You will be taken home, Lily. Soon.’

As I opened the fire door and we moved into the office corridor, I could see that the door to the mailroom was open. But it wasn’t Angeles who emerged from it to greet us, and the dull light was clear enough for me to see he had a shotgun at his shoulder. The barrels were pointing at me. Bradley had both eyes open. His finger was inside the guard, and its pad was resting on the trigger.

23

‘For fuck’s sake …’ My shoulders slumped. I shook my head slowly as Lily jumped behind me for protection.

At that moment I realized that if it wasn’t for Anna and the two girls, if Angeles was still alive, I’d just let him get on with it - and feel happy that it would be over and done with.

Bradley looked at me, weapon still up. ‘What have you been doing, Nick? Starting a collection? This other young lady should still be in that building.’

The barrel moved left to right. ‘Follow me.’

He walked slowly backwards, barrel facing us, until he reached the door to the back room.

‘Both of you - inside.’

Angeles was sitting by the opening to the shower, blood pouring from her nose. Her hands were red with the stuff. She’d been packing. Most of the gear was gone, but now the mugs lay on the carpet and tea bags from the box were strewn by her feet. She recognized Lily at once and started to beg Bradley in Russian. Tears rolled down her bloodstained cheeks. Was it a bluff? Had she gone straight into her native language so she didn’t give away she understood English? Or was she so shit scared she couldn’t force any English out?

Bradley tried to appear calm, but I could tell he was flapping. The plan had probably been to enter the building, wait for me and Lily, and simply drop me. Now he was going to have to think on his feet, with another body to sort out.

He looked behind me.

‘Lilian?’

‘Yes.’

He immediately looked a lot more cheerful. ‘Then who on earth is this one, Nick?’

‘Just a whore. From the porn shop. She knows fuck-all.’ I moved sideways and leant against the wall. My arse was killing me. ‘Well, she knew fuck-all until you decided to come in here like Wyatt fucking Earp.’

‘Stand fucking still.’ Bradley was in command mode now he had Lily.

‘Why? What are you going to do if I don’t? You going to shoot me?’ I nodded at Angeles. ‘Look at the fucking mess you’ve made of her.’

‘Who else knows about you being here?’

He moved the weapon up a couple of inches, as if that was going to make me flap. Fuck him.

‘You had anyone else here?’

‘Why the fuck should I tell you? You’re going to drop me anyway, aren’t you?’

Angeles was quiet now, her eyes flicking between us. The weapon was still in his shoulder. I couldn’t see if the safety was on or off. It was on top of the weapon, just in front of the stock.

I looked at his eyes. They were flickering. They weren’t cool and steady. Maybe it was OK killing men, but young girls …

I knew the feeling.

His finger was still curled inside the trigger-guard. I watched his eyes. Whether by action or default, he could still drop me. The end result would be the same. He blinked. Then again. He had the tools to do it, but had he the intent? Execution without reason or emotion is for psychos, and unfortunately for him, he wasn’t one. I knew; it was easy to tell. It was probably why I’d fallen for this whole stitch-up in the first place.

‘Bradley, you don’t have to do this. You do this, mate, you’re going to have nightmares for the rest of your life. It fucks you up for ever, believe me. You can’t sleep. Your head will fill with my face and hers every time you close your eyes. Don’t do it. We can sort something out. We can make it work for both of us …’

He was weirding out. The fingers of his left hand started to jump about on the barrel like he was playing the trumpet. He adjusted his grip on the weapon and squeezed it more firmly, as if it was going to run away.

‘Once you do me, they’re going to do you - you understand that, don’t you? Someone will be coming for you. They won’t leave loose ends, mate. You’ve seen how they work. We’re all tools here. We’re all used and abused.’

I had to get on with this shit one way or another. There was less than an hour to go. If we were still here at that point, we were all in the shit.

I noticed beads of sweat forming on his forehead. I kept eye-to-eye. ‘Mate, you’ll be next. It’s what they do. I can help you make that not happen. I’ve been doing this shit for years. They don’t like people like you and me, mate. They—’

A mug flew left to right and made contact with Bradley’s head. I dropped beneath his line of sight.

‘Fucking bitch!’

Angeles hurled another mug-shaped missile and ran towards him in a frenzy. I focused on the barrel. I lunged and grabbed it with my left hand, moved it straight down towards the carpet, trying to keep the muzzle out of harm’s way. Angeles lashed out at him as he slumped to his knees. Arms windmilling, screaming like a banshee, she rained blows on his head, eyes closed, then leapt on him.

They both fell, the barrel between them. The weapon kicked off, the lead shot peppering the wall beneath the sink and blowing a hole the size of a fist through Angeles’s tiny chest.

I pulled the shotgun away from him as I dragged him free of her, then jumped on him. I wanted to keep him on the ground. I wanted him alive. I wanted to find out who, where and when.

He kicked out like a madman. ‘Leave me alone! Leave me alone!’

I shoved my left arm onto his chest, punched into his face and shouted down at him: ‘Stop, Bradley. For fuck’s sake, stop!’

His face was red with fear or rage. He wouldn’t stop moving. ‘No! No!’

I felt the gun barrel cold against the side of my head. It made contact with Bradley’s cheek. The loose flesh creased and folded around the muzzle.

‘No, Lily! No!’

I jerked back, but felt the pressure wave of the blast against my face. A fine, liquid mist coated my skin, and I didn’t need a mirror to tell me what it was.

There was a massive oval-shaped hole just below Bradley’s eye. Through it, I could see a patch of red and glossy carpet.

She showed no emotion as she stared down at him. I got up and took the weapon off her. She looked at me. ‘He tried to kill you.’

There was no time for waffle. We had to get out of there.

I dropped the shotgun on the floor. I didn’t need it. And the rounds I hadn’t used for the IED were at the bottom of the bay.

I pulled off Angeles’s trainers and handed them to Lily. Then I took the cash from the back pocket of her jeans. I couldn’t bear to look at her face.

I had the notes in my hand when someone gave the front door a good pounding and a megaphone sparked up outside.

24

‘Wait here!’

Crouching low, I scuttled into the middle office and took up position at my Bradley-spotting vantage-point. I wasn’t about to stand there and wave. Blue lights flashed all over our bit of Noord 5; uniforms, police cars, guys taking cover behind ballistic shields. A four-man team with an enforcer were hammering away at the door.

I ran back into the mailroom, grabbed my docs from behind the pigeonhole and climbed the ladder to the roof hatch.

I wrestled with the bolts. She appeared at my feet.

‘Get up here, quick.’

I jiggled the bolts up and down and tried to pull them back at the same time. The more I struggled, the less purchase I had with my sweat-covered fingers. I pulled my sleeve as far down as I could, and used it as a glove.

The front door caved in. Shouts surged up the stairs.

The bolts shifted and I pushed open the hatch into the night sky. Cold air hit me as I climbed out. I pulled Lily up behind me before dropping it back.

Keeping low on the roof, we scrambled towards the rear of the building. Blue flashing lights were piling in front and back. Headlamps bounced across the wasteground. The air was full of radio squawks and shouts.

‘Just stay with me, OK?’ I gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. I didn’t want her to flap any more than she already was and fuck up.

We aimed for the three-metre wall that would take us across the top of the next-door office block. There’d be no second attempt.

My throat was parched and I couldn’t get enough oxygen. Adrenalin took over. I sprang up and my hands gripped the edge of the parapet. My legs scrabbled against the brickwork. I repeated the elbow trick. I heaved and kicked until my stomach reached tar and gravel. I clawed my way a couple of feet further, then swivelled round and stretched my hands over the edge.

‘Come on.’

She jumped and I grabbed her hands. She slipped from my grasp.

‘Again!’

This time I gripped her with my right hand and flailed around with my left, hoping for something to grab. I got a fistful of sweatshirt and heaved her up onto the lip. She swung her legs sideways and came the rest of the way.

More shouts drifted up from the street. More loudspeakers barked either side of the building. Blue lights sped down from Distelweg.

I didn’t bother checking the entrance to the central stairwell. Even if we could get in, we couldn’t stay there. We had to make distance. We needed one big straight line out of the immediate danger area.

We ran past it to the far edge of the roof. FilmNoord XXX shone like a beacon. I knew Lily was behind me; she coughed and I felt her breath on my sweat-soaked neck. I edged along the parapet until I was directly above the galvanized-steel platform I’d seen the last time I was up there, slid my legs over and dropped. I landed with a clang like a bass gong, but noise wasn’t a problem. They were making enough of their own.

Her feet dangled above my head. I cupped my hands beneath them to give her some support.

More sirens and blue lights swept down Papaverhoek and screamed to a halt. They were throwing up a road-block. Why else would they stop so close to the main?

We hit the ground and headed right. I wanted us to be able to lose ourselves among the maze of brick walls and wooden fences that surrounded those back gardens. We found a muddy track that ran between them and crossed a strip of rough land. Brick walls reared up in front of us, but there was always a way round. I didn’t have a clue what lay the other side of them. I just wanted to get within reach of the roundabout and then the estate.

I caught a glimpse of the main at the far end of a narrow alleyway. I moved swiftly along it and glanced left. I couldn’t see the police cars but I knew where the road-block was. Blue lights strobed all around the incident area, bouncing off the low cloud, but up here it was as dark as any other night.

‘We slow down now, Lily.’

Her shoulders were heaving, her eyes wide. She leant forward and rested her elbows on her thighs.

‘Deep breaths - come on now, calm down, sort yourself out.’

I wanted her looking as normal as possible. I put my hand on her shoulder. ‘You OK? We’ve got to go.’

She was still gulping air, but she nodded. I hooked out my arm for her to take. ‘Girlfriend and boyfriend?’

She raised the skin where there had once been an eyebrow.

‘OK, daughter and dad …’

That earned me my first smile. It gave me a bit of a lump in my throat. I pictured another little girl who’d trusted me and died. I was fucked if I was going to let it happen this time around.

We stepped out and followed the pedestrian crossing to the right of the market into the warren of streets behind the parade of shops. We hadn’t gone more than a hundred metres when I had to pull her into a doorway as yet another blue-and-white zoomed towards the incident.

And in that moment, from about a K and a half behind us, came a loud, dull bang. A jet of flame shot into the sky like the gas flare above an oilrig. It only burnt briefly. After that, the raging inferno would be contained by the silo walls.

25

I looked at the glow in the sky above Noord 5.

Lily tugged at my arm. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know. Let’s keep going.’

The less she knew about everything the better. But Lily stayed still, watching the flames, then turned back to me. I knew she wanted an explanation. She wasn’t getting one. That job was done. I was already thinking about my next one.

We passed the Islamic centre. Checking left at the junction, I could see the girls standing in a huddle with two police cars holding them together. They, too, were staring towards the site of the explosion. The police must have been all over them as quickly as they had been with me. They were the victims; it didn’t matter. The reason the police had come calling at the safe-house also didn’t matter right now. Thinking about it didn’t achieve anything. The only thing that did was making distance from them.

In the meantime, I’d put that whole side of things on the back burner. It was getting more crowded by the moment.

We walked for another thirty minutes. We crossed wider waterways and parks, and under elevated dual carriageways. Our surroundings became increasingly residential. Trendy apartment blocks sprang up, with cycle lanes and neatly parked cars. We were back in civilization but there was no way I was taking trams, buses or taxis. Municipal transport had CCTV. Taxi drivers might remember something. The police operation that had almost netted us was not going to shut up shop for weeks.

A shiny green phone booth materialized in front of us. At last I could make the call.

Anna answered immediately. I could hear the tension in her voice. ‘When will you be here? I—’

‘Stop, stop! I need you to come and pick us up. Can you do that? There’s been a drama. Can you get a car?’

‘Yes.’

‘Get a car with sat nav, and meet me.’

‘Do you still have her?’

‘No, it was a fuck-up. But I have Lily. You got a pen?’

I waited a few seconds as the information sank in but she stayed completely switched on. She knew now wasn’t the time to go wobbly.

‘Go.’

‘I’m at the junction, and I’ll spell it, of H-e-t new word D-ok and K-o-p-e-r-s-l-a-g-e-r-i-j. The street names have one zero two one on them - that must be the area code. It’s on the north side of the bay. You got that? It’s full of smart flats, grassy open spaces and a smart green telephone box.’

‘Got it.’

I listened as she read everything back. I checked the road sign again, making sure the spelling was correct. ‘Quick as you can, Anna, without speeding.’

‘Is she OK?’

‘She’s fine. The other girls are safe. But you need to call off Lena’s friends. No need to meet up. Angeles won’t be needing them.’

The silence hung between us as she realized what I’d just said.

‘OK, sure. I’ll call.’ I could hear her moving now, the door to her room closing behind her and her voice beginning to echo in the hotel hallway.

‘It’s probably going to take you about thirty minutes this time of night. I’ll call you to check how you’re doing. OK?’

‘See you soon.’

‘Anna …’

‘Yes?’

I hesitated. ‘I can’t wait to see you.’

She thought about it for a second. ‘So get off the phone.’

26

For almost the whole hour and a half that we waited under the dual carriageway sirens wailed along the tarmac above us. The park was deserted.

I’d called Anna from a phone box when I said I would. She was on her way.

We sat shivering against a tree and I had to hold Lily in my arms to keep her warm. Her head was on my chest.

‘Lily, what happened? Why did you leave home?’

She didn’t move. Maybe she felt safe where she was.

‘I had to get away.’

‘Had to?’

She shrugged. ‘It seems so stupid after what has happened. My father betrayed me. And he betrayed the protest movement.’

‘After the election?’

Her head moved on my chest. ‘You have to realize how wonderful it was for us to finally know democracy. For one day, for one bright shining day, it seemed as though the power was in the people’s hands. We, the students, were going to be part of the solution. Not part of the problem, like my father.’

‘He liked it just the way it was?’

I felt her head nod slowly.

‘The Communists rigged the election. They bought everyone off - using money from people like my father. He just thinks of himself and his business. I wanted to leave - I wanted to hurt him just as he hurt me.’

‘Why Christiania?’

‘I read about it for a sociology class last year. Communal life. Utopia. It sounded like a good place to escape to.’

She dug into her jeans and brought out the Facebook picture. She opened it up as if I’d never seen it before. ‘But he changed that.’

‘Was he your boyfriend?’

‘Sort of.’ She paused. ‘He wanted sex but I wanted to wait until I married.’

Her hand dropped and let go of the paper. I had to grab it before it blew away.

‘He said he knew someone in Copenhagen, a friend of his father’s. He said he would talk to him and he would help me there.’

I folded the picture and shoved it into my jeans.

‘Viku sold me … How could I have been so stupid?’ She craned her neck to get eye-to-eye. ‘I met the old man. He was kind to me. He bought me something to eat and we talked of how wonderful Christiania was and how happy I was going to be there. But then he took me to a house where he said I could stay.’

She didn’t cry, just stared down at the ground, trying to close her mind to what had happened next.

‘It’s OK, Lily, I know the rest. But you are safe now.’

She replaced her head on my chest. I felt her jaw clench. Safety was something that belonged to another life.

‘My father, did he send you?’

‘Your dad knows nothing about it. One of his friends did.’

She scoffed. ‘One of his murderer friends?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘He and all the others who make weapons, they are killers.’

‘I thought your father was in electronics?’

It was worth confirming what I thought I had worked out.

‘I don’t just mean missiles and tanks. Computers and radar are weapons too, any equipment that helps to kill and maim.’ She sat up. She was getting quite animated. ‘A military computer is as lethal as a bomb. Making military computers is a trade in misery.’

‘The people your father sell his computers to - isn’t he just meeting a demand?’

Her eyes blazed. ‘A pimp meets a demand. A drug-dealer meets a demand. What is the difference between trafficking heroin or women and exporting weapons, except that weapons are more dangerous? They’re all merchants of death. My eyes were opened to these things at university. I do not want to profit from his trade any more. That is why I left. Look where it got me.’

I thought she was going to cry.

‘Please do not tell him what has happened to me.’

I gave her a hug. ‘He’ll get nothing from me.’

‘Thank you. What is your name?’

‘Nick.’

‘Thank you, Nick.’

We lapsed into silence. Lily was either asleep or almost there. Her breathing was slow and stable.

Another couple of sirens buzzed along the dual carriageway at warp speed. I consulted Mr G-Shock. ‘We’ve got to go.’ I stroked the top of her head.

She stirred. ‘She is here?’

‘Should be by now.’

We walked back out across the park, the traffic still zooming backwards and forwards overhead but now behind us. What I was looking for was a silver Opel estate. The start of the reg was 62-LH.

I spotted it parked just past the junction, and then the silhouette of Anna’s head. There was no time for casual contact drills. I wanted to get in the car and go.

As we got nearer, I heard the clunk of the central locking. I opened the back door for Lily and I got into the front. Anna backed out and moved off without saying a word. The sat nav gave her a string of English instructions. I caught a hint of Bulgari that made me feel a whole lot better.

Anna checked her rear-view. She didn’t want to talk yet. She wanted to get out of the area. I looked at her face and gave her a smile. It wasn’t returned. She wasn’t impressed with life right now.

It was only when we hit the dual carriageway that Anna broke the silence. ‘Lily … Can I call you Lily?’ She didn’t wait for a response. ‘My name is Anna.’ She gobbed off in Russian.

Lily gasped, and then almost choked with emotion. Her hands whirred like she was signing for the deaf. She leant in towards the front seat, her lips on overload. The only word I could understand was ‘Angeles’.

‘Stop, Lily. Stop.’ I turned to Anna. ‘All she knows is that Angeles is dead. I’ll tell you everything as soon as we get to the hotel. But not now, yeah?’

27

We parked in a multi-storey at Schiphol. Lily had crashed out on the back seat. I felt like doing the same. The heater had been working overtime.

Anna showed me her Radisson door card. The room number was scrawled on its folder. ‘Fifth floor.’

‘Which way are the lifts when you walk into Reception - left, right, straight?’

‘Turn right as soon as you go in, past the reception desk.’

‘I’ll give you and Lily fifteen minutes, yeah?’

Lily yawned, stretched and sat up. She must have sensed that we were no longer moving.

I looked over my shoulder. ‘We can’t all go in together. Anna and you go first. I’ll come after.’

Her hand was already on the passenger-door handle.

‘Lily, it’s OK.’ I reached over and gripped the leg of her jeans. ‘You stay with me. We’ll go together.’

Anna cut in: ‘You two go in first, and I will follow. Is that all right with you, Lily?’ She passed me the door card.

We climbed out of the Opel and headed down the stairs of the multi-storey, arm in arm again. The stairwell didn’t stink of last week’s piss like it would have done back home. ‘Walk normally, Lily. Smile at me if I smile at you. It’s just like we’re staying here and we’re heading back to the room for the night. Is that OK?’

She knew as well as I did that the desk staff would think she was a whore I’d picked up for the night. I was banking on the night shift not expecting to recognize any faces, and not wanting to embarrass me by checking. This was Amsterdam, after all.

We walked into the empty foyer. In case there were eyes, I fiddled conspicuously with Anna’s door card and turned immediately right, as if I knew where I was going. I strode towards the lifts and pressed the up button. I studied the card again for good measure.

It was after midnight and a few people still propped up the bar. Flat-screen TVs above the optics showed pictures of fire fighters at the silo. The roof had collapsed. Two fireboats pumped water over the smouldering ruin. It was drenched in spotlights from police boats alongside. People in high-vis clothing swarmed all over the area.

I held Lily close as we waited. She’d seen the screens. A tear finally did roll down her cheek.

‘It’s OK, Lily. You’re safe. Everyone is safe.’

The lift pinged open and we shot up to the fifth floor.

With its twin beds, walnut veneers, TV and mini-bar, the room could have been in any chain hotel anywhere in the world. I threw her chocolate and a carton of orange juice. She ripped the wrapper off the Milka bar and got stuck in. ‘Thank you, Nick.’

‘Go and have a bath. Anna will give you some clothes for tomorrow. I’m not going anywhere. Leave the door open if you want.’

She padded into the bathroom. I dug out the folder and threw it onto the bed.

‘Lily?’

I heard the sound of running water. She came to the door.

‘Anna will look after you, I promise. She won’t let anything happen to you - you understand that, don’t you?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you.’ She closed the door behind her.

I sat on the end of the bed and shoved cashews down my neck. According to the price list they cost the best part of a euro per nut. I washed them down with the world’s most expensive can of Pepsi and channel-hopped with the remote. The silo fire was on all the local stations, as well as CNN and BBC News 24. Kate Singleton was showing the world her gravitas.

There was a knock on the door. I checked through the peephole and opened up.

‘No problem with the desk, Nicholas?’ She nodded past me, towards the sound of running water.

‘Everything’s fine.’

I led her into the room. She sat next to me, pointing at the screen. ‘Why?’

‘Fuck knows, but it’s just the tip of the iceberg.’

28

I told Anna everything about the Flynns and the neo-Nazis, the Moldovan competition and Tresillian changing the plan and wanting all the girls dead. Then I told her about going back to the safe-house to find Bradley waiting for me, Angeles getting killed, and the police bursting in.

‘The police? How did they—’

‘Bradley maybe - fuck knows what else he got up to in that house. Or the neos - who must have followed us from the market? Who gave a fuck? What pissed me off more was what happened to Angeles. She wanted to protect me.’ I pictured that shy smile again, and the endless steaming, super-sweet brews. ‘She got fucked up by doing it and that’s down to Tresillian - and, of course, Jules.’

She wouldn’t believe it. ‘But he is a friend.’

‘You reckon? I want to think so, but I don’t know what the fuck is going on.’

Then I told her what had been clawing away at me ever since Bradley pulled the shotgun. ‘Everything and everyone connected with Lily is being taken out. This can’t just be about a favour to a friend. It’s something bigger, and Tresillian is tying up all the loose ends …’

She looked at me. She knew where this was leading. She was too smart not to.

I nodded. ‘If he doesn’t know already, he’ll find out soon enough that you were in on it too.’

She didn’t answer. She just let everything sink in.

Lily emerged from the bathroom, freshly scrubbed and fragrant, wet hair scraped back from her face. She curled up on the bed, in her own private world, eyes glued to the flickering TV screen.

I couldn’t wait around. We had things to do.

‘The Panda is going to flag up Nick Smith. The flight to Russia is history. Lily is the key, and I’m starting to think I might know why. As long as we’ve got her, they won’t get us. You must take her somewhere safe. I need both of you out of harm’s way.’

She sparked up. ‘I know people in—’

I put a hand over her mouth. ‘Stop. I don’t want to know.’

It was safer for both of them. If I fucked up and Tresillian didn’t see things my way, he’d want to know where Lily was. Whatever he did to me, I couldn’t tell him what I didn’t know.

Anna understood. ‘What about you?’

‘I’m going back to the UK. That’s where all this shit started.’

The TV rolled the same mobile clip of the explosion, over and over again. At least it was somebody’s lucky day.

‘All three of us could leave, right now.’

I shook my head. ‘I’ve got to go back. If Lily is safe, Tresillian won’t touch us. He needs her. I have to sort a few things out.’ I gave her a slightly crooked smile. ‘Then we can spend whatever time I’ve got left watching the geese fly over the Moskva River.’

We stood only a few centimetres apart.

She took my hands in hers, unable to speak. She looked like she was going to break down at any moment. She held my hands to her face and kissed them. She gazed into my eyes.

I’m not sure what she saw there, but she wasn’t smiling back.

29

I headed up a pathway that ran along the left side of the triangle. The sea lapped against the rock wall. A cargo ship cast off its mooring ropes and pulled away from the docks. The glow of arc lamps and vehicle lights at the ferry port filtered across the water and cast weak shadows on the concrete below me.

At last I found what I was looking for. The Coast Guard here had two RIBs, monsters, well over thirty feet, both with twin 115 h.p. Yamaha outboards. At least, I assumed they were the Coast Guard. They had the word Kustwacht plastered every-where, which sounded about right. Whatever it meant, it looked official, which in turn meant it belonged to an organization that would have demanded full tanks before binning it for the day.

The Kustwacht’s land base was a boring-looking cube of a Portakabin with loads of little signs and notice boards outside. I ignored it for now. There was no blaze of lights to suggest anyone was home.

I jumped on the first RIB and pulled up the wooden flooring planks by the engines to expose the fuel-tank cap. It was locked, just like on a car. The two 115s had motorcycle-type locks securing them to the boat.

I checked the centre console, which was basically a steering wheel with a Perspex shield in front to protect you from the wind and water. There were no keys tucked away inside, and no compass or sat nav either - just an empty cradle.

I climbed out and walked towards the Portakabin. The windows were covered with something that looked like chicken wire. It was screwed in from the outside, so was probably intended to protect the glass from passing yachties rather than stopping people like me gaining access. No one in their right mind would rob a police station or a coast guard’s - unless they were deep in the shit to start with.

A couple of minutes of ripping and tugging was all it took. I left it hanging from the frame and slid the window to one side.

I pulled myself up until my stomach was on the sill and wriggled inside. The smell of cigarettes and rubber hit me first - the place smelt like a garage. There was just enough ambient light to make sure I didn’t crash into anything.

I moved to the rack of orange dry-bags hanging neatly by the door. These Gore-Tex overall things had integral rubber boots and hoods, and gloves that you zipped on and off from the cuffs. I riffled through them until I found a suit my size and zipped it up as far as my stomach.

I looked around for the RIB keys. They wouldn’t be lying in a designer bowl. There would be a log book with them, noting who’d been on board, how much fuel was used, how long they were out, all that sort of stuff. You sign in and sign out each time you use them.

Two thick plastic folders with serial numbers stencilled on the front lay at the top right-hand corner of the desk. I flicked one open. Of course the RIBs had been filled up. Both were done at 19.00 tonight. Bean counting is the same anywhere; it doesn’t matter what language it’s in. The admin god decrees it. They’d each been out for two hours during the day. One had been topped up with sixty-eight litres, the other fifty-two. The tanks had to hold more than a hundred. They’d want to get five operational hours out of them.

The keys were in the folders too. Both had rubber covers, like jam-pot lids, to protect them from the weather when the RIBs were up and running. A yellow spiral cord clipped them to the driver, acting as a kill switch if you crashed or fell. I took both. I couldn’t find a compass, but still left the sat navs. The last thing I needed was a great big electronic arrow pointing at my exact location.

I left via the door. I bounced over the side of the first RIB I came to, slid down to the console and inserted a key. No luck. I tried the second and both Yamahas fired up. The pointer on the fuel gauge immediately showed full. A cloud of smoke belched from the exhausts. The propellers were still low in the water so, for now at least, I didn’t have to work out how to sort the hydraulics. I untied the mooring rope, hit the power lever to the right of the steering-wheel, and eased the nose gently out towards the sea.

As I emerged from the apex of the triangle a ship’s navigation lights glided past me into the canal. I left the protection of the sea wall. Wind buffeted my face. I zipped up the rest of the dry-bag and donned the hood and gloves as well.

When I’d put a bit of distance between me and the shore, I slipped the lever into neutral. I kept the engine running, but powered right down. The boat bobbed in the swell as I moved back to check the fuel lines. One 115 h.p. engine was more than enough for me to piss it to the UK. Two engines would burn twice as much.

I twisted the cut-out on what I thought was the left-hand fuel line but the right-hand one cut out instead. I found the button for the hydraulic ram and lifted it out of the water. I didn’t want any unnecessary drag.

Next priority was navigation. There was no ball compass. This boat’s direction-finding devices were all Gucci. As I came out into the sea, I was more or less heading west, so north had to be to my right. But before I went much further I was going to need Polaris.

The Pole Star is the most accurate natural guide there is in the northern hemisphere. As all the other stars appear to move from east to west as the earth rotates, this one stays stock still, directly above the Pole.

First I had to find the Plough, seven stars grouped in the shape of a long-handled saucepan. Draw a line between the two stars that form the side furthest from the handle, extend it upwards by about five times its length, and the star you get to, all on its own, is Polaris.

Once I’d found it, all I needed to do was make sure I kept it to my right until I bumped into the UK. Exactly where, I couldn’t predict.

I looked west and picked another star to aim for. I opened the throttle again and the bow lifted. The wind tugged at my hood. I sat on the cox’s seat behind the screen, glancing back and forth between my star and Polaris. I’d waver left and right; the wind and the single engine would make it impossible not to. But that didn’t matter, as long as I was going west.

I powered down until the bow dropped and I was bouncing over the surface of the water.

I thought about Robot - my mate from the battalion, not the one I’d hung on the extinguisher hook. We were posted in Gibraltar, so it wasn’t easy for him to get to Millwall on a Saturday. He came up with a plan. One Friday night, he stole a speedboat from the harbour; he reckoned that as long as he turned right and followed the coast, he’d soon reach France. Once there, he’d chuck a left to the Den. Being Robot, he had no idea how far he had to go. The boat ran out of fuel in the Bay of Biscay. He never made the game.

Shit, I was doing it again …

PART SEVEN

1

Spray blasted my face. My arse wound was sore from four hours of constant sitting and standing. My arms ached from gripping the wheel. I was exhausted and hungry. But soon none of that mattered. Lights twinkled three or four K ahead, some high, some low. I focused on the low ones, near the water. I didn’t want to end up steering towards a cliff. The biggest concentration was south-west of me. I turned the wheel and headed for the darkness about a K to the left of it.

The more I thought about this shit and the closer I’d got to the coast, the more worked up I’d become. I needed to control myself.

It was nearing first light. For some reason, that always made me feel even colder. But apart from my injuries I was feeling all right. Even the acid burn wasn’t that bad. The lack of Smarties hadn’t had any effect at all.

Half a K out I powered down, keeping the bow pointed towards the land. The tide was out. I’d have about three hundred metres of beach to cover.

About five short of the water’s edge I heard the Yamaha scrape along the bottom. I gave it a quick burst of reverse and then swung the wheel so it faced out to sea again. I unclipped the kill cord from my dry-bag. Making sure the engine was facing dead ahead, in line with the bow, I tied the wheel to the console with the wires from both keys.

I sat on the edge of the RIB with my legs spread and my right hand gripping the grab loop. I leant out towards the console, slapped the throttle lever and jumped. The engine revved and the bow came up. The boat roared off, back the way I’d come.

I was waist deep in water. Some had made it down the neck of the Gore-Tex but otherwise the suit had done its stuff. Daylight was breaking behind me as I waded onto the deserted sand. I moved across it as quickly as I could, heading for the cover of the dunes. I needed to wriggle out of the dry-bag before the place was crawling with early-morning dog-walkers.

As I approached the edge of the town a van came past, and then a milk float. They drove on the left and had British plates. Thank fuck they weren’t Belgian or French. Or, worse still, Norwegian. I’d read about a guy in Kent who’d bought himself a little boat. With only a road map for directions, he’d set off from a town on the river Medway, en route for Southampton. He ran out of fuel, then drifted onto a sandbank. He told the rescue team he’d been careful to keep the coast to his right. He’d ended up going round and round the Isle of Sheppey.

I passed a boatyard. A sign said, ‘Welcome to Aldeburgh’. The road became the high street. It was a typical east-coast town, with old houses painted in pastel colours and local shops trying to compete with the big chains.

A Budgens was open. I picked up a litre of milk, some crisps and Mars bars, and a couple of packs of egg-mayonnaise sandwiches. A woman was sorting the morning papers at the counter. I added a copy of the Sun and had a quick chat with her about the weather.

Back on the street with my carrier bag, I passed an old butcher sorting out his shop front. At last I found what I was after. The bus stop near the tourist information centre told me I could get a 165 to Ipswich railway station, or I could get the 164 to Saxmundham. The first to arrive would be the 6.59 to Ipswich.

I only had about ten minutes to wait. I sat on the bench in the bus shelter and munched and drank over the morning paper, as you do on your way to work. The early edition carried nothing about an exploding silo in Amsterdam.

2

Chelmsford Saturday, 20 March

11.16 hrs

Liverpool Street wouldn’t be too far now. I was at a table seat with my back to the engine. My head rested against the window. My eyes were closed and the motion of the train made it harder not to sleep.

A bunch of squaddies had got on at Colchester and taken the table across the aisle. All four were in jeans and trainers, and 2 Para sweatshirts so we knew who they were. Four regulation-issue black day sacks sat on the racks above them.

I caught snatches of banter between dozes. It sounded like they had a weekend off and were looking forward to a night on the town and a cheap room at the Victory Services Club at Marble Arch. I’d stayed there once as a Green Jacket, off to Buckingham Palace to get a medal from the Queen.

I would have been about the same age as these guys, but not half as excited. They’d got discounted tickets to the Chelsea game on Sunday from a new website just for squaddies.

I jogged myself awake. ”Scuse me, lads - Chelsea are at home, aren’t they?’

The one nearest to me answered. ‘Yeah, against Blackburn.’

‘What time’s kick-off?’

‘Four.’ He pointed at my head. ‘But you’d better leave that at home, know what I mean?’ He didn’t actually tell me I was a wanker, but I could see he was tempted.

I smiled. I had a Man U baseball cap on. It wouldn’t be the cleverest thing to wear anywhere near Stamford Bridge, but it went very nicely with the baggy brown raincoat and geeky reading glasses I’d kitted myself out with at the British Heart Foundation shop in Ipswich. They rattled against the window as I watched the scenery become more built up. The baby Paras got more excited with every passing minute. They planned to drink the city dry tonight and then shag it senseless before watching the Blues hammer Blackburn.

Until I got back to Anna, I was going to change my appearance at every bound. I’d ditched my Timberlands in favour of a pair of plastic-soled shoes that were already half dead when I’d handed over the two pounds for them.

I had to shed my skin twice a day. This country has more CCTV than the rest of the world put together. That was why I was wearing the glasses and the cap with a big brim. They’ve got facial recognition and software that can analyse the way you walk.

Once I’d got to London, I’d take on another look. And this was the last time I’d be using buses and trains. They all had cameras. I’d pay cash for everything and stay away from my flat, my car, my London life. They must know by now that I’d dropped out of sight, and that Bradley wasn’t delivering Lily on a plate. The voice-recognition gear and all the Tefalheads’ other toys at GCHQ would be whirring away looking for the shape, sound or PIN of Nick Stone.

I watched rows and rows of thirties bay-windowed houses flash by as we hit the suburbs. My head started to hurt, but only where the bite on top of it vibrated against the window.

I closed my eyes again as the Paras got even more lairy about the weekend ahead. Another four cans of Carling came out of a day sack.

3

London

13.23 hrs

I legged it the fifteen minutes or so to Brick Lane. I’d never understood why people liked Ye Olde East End, the area rubbing up against the financial centre. I’d spent my whole childhood in a shit hole like that, trying to dig my way out. But today I was glad it was so close to Liverpool Street. It had loads of charity and corner shops.

Walking back from Brick Lane towards Shoreditch, I kept my eyes open for somewhere to change into my new clothes. I found the Hoxton Hotel, a monument to glass and steel. I looked like Tracey Emin’s unmade bed, but so did many of the uber-trendy lads round here. This was jeans-hanging-round-your-thighs territory.

I went into the toilets, quickly washed my face and splashed my hair to smooth it down. I emerged wearing a green parka, brown cords, blue baseball cap, and cheap Timberland rip-offs that were so scuffed and knackered they looked the height of Hoxton chic.

I made sure the blue cap shadowed my face, dumped my train clothes in a bin and turned towards the City again. A cafe selling salt-beef sandwiches took another few quid off me. I munched as I walked and tried to work out my plan of action.

The later editions were already showing colour pictures of the burnt-out silo and blaming Muslim fundamentalists. ‘Reliable sources’ said the local Muslim population had had its fill of Amsterdam’s decadence, and Iranian-funded extremists had stepped in to take direct action. The papers said that, in response, the Brits, along with the rest of Europe and the US, had taken their own threat matrix up a level as the UK waited to see if it would be next on the attack list.

I got my salt beef down me and felt better than I had at any time since the Vietnamese with Jules.

I passed a pound shop and picked up a shrink-wrapped pack of steak knives with plastic handles pretending to be wood and the world’s biggest fuck-off pair of pliers. Back out on the main I hailed a cab.

‘Regent’s Park tube, mate.’

He was happy. It was a good fare. And I was happy because the cab had no cameras. I got my head down and pretended to sleep. We moved slowly towards the West End. We were caught in stop-start traffic on Marylebone Road.

I leant forward. ‘I tell you what, mate, quick change of plan. Can you go down Harley Street and drop me off near John Lewis?’

‘No drama.’ He looked around, both hands off the wheel, as we ground to a halt yet again. ‘I blame Ken Livingstone. Them fucking bendy buses fucking everything up.’

We turned left into Harley Street and followed the one-way system south towards Cavendish Square, Mercs and Rolls-Royces parked up every few metres with their four-ways on.

‘Some fucking money down here and no mistake.’

I looked from side to side and nodded. But I wasn’t admiring the cars or the shiny brass plates: I was scanning the street for a stakeout on the clinic. It was a known location. Being paranoid pays dividends in this business.

I wasn’t expecting to see anything as obvious as a two-up in a smoked-glass MPV or guys hanging around in Ray-Bans. If anything, it would be somebody in the building, or camera surveillance. The Firm could have requisitioned a CCTV camera a kilometre away and zoomed in on the entrance on twenty-four-hour soak.

The clinic was on the first floor of the building to my left as we carried on south. I looked up at it through my new thicker-rimmed glasses. The chandelier burnt away in the consulting room. The lights were on; I hoped somebody was at home.

We got to the bottom of Harley Street and turned left into the square.

‘Just here will be fine, mate.’

The fare was twenty-six pounds. I gave him three tens and told him to keep the change.

It looked like I’d made his day. ‘Hang about … here you go, mate. For you.’ He passed me a couple of clean receipts.

I smiled to myself as he drove away. Maybe I’d fill them in and present them to Jules as expenses.

I brought up my hood as I crossed the bottom of Harley Street and headed back the way we’d come. I must have looked like the guys at the Bender checkpoint. The clinic was now across the road, to my right. I’d done the drive-past, and now I was going to do the walk-past.

I hoped he was there. I hadn’t called ahead. The only time you ever make contact with the target is when you either grip him or drop him.

The sky had been threatening rain, and it finally started as I drew level with the clinic. I kept my hands in the chest-height pockets of the parka, head down but eyes up, trying to catch a glimpse of Kleinmann thrusting a fistful of leaflets at a new victim. There was no one in sight.

Unless there was an exit at the rear, he could only go left or right. There were cars parked outside, but mostly with uniformed drivers. Chances were, he’d turn left and head for Oxford Street.

Scaffolding shrouded a building in the process of renovation about sixty metres further on. A working platform had been constructed halfway up the basement well, skirted by plywood sheets to stop debris falling onto the pavement. Stacked against it were a neatly folded furry blanket and some flattened cardboard boxes. Its occupant was currently not in residence.

I jumped the railings, ducked beneath the window sill and got comfortable under the blanket. I had eyes on the target door. Sleeping rough was part of the city landscape. Passers-by wouldn’t give me a second glance. These bundles only came to life at last light; heads appeared, wary of muggers, the protection racketeers who charged them for good cover, out of the wind and the neos’ British wing who’d just fill them in for the fun of it.

It was just after half three. I kept my eyes on the target and tried hard not to fall asleep.

4

I lay there for about an hour and a half. I was getting ready to bin it and start staking out the Vietnamese when the unmistakable haircut of Max Kleinmann emerged from the doorway. He walked down the three marble steps and chucked a left towards the square. I pulled off the blanket and refolded it exactly as I’d found it.

Hood up and hands in the lower, bigger pockets of my parka, I started south again. I fingered the blister-pack, bending it over the sharp ends of the knives until they pierced the plastic. I hadn’t opened them before now, in case I got stopped and searched. An open knife is an offensive weapon. One still in its packaging is a birthday present for your mum.

He was walking quickly but he wasn’t aware: he was too busy waffling away on his mobile. His head was down, his shoulders hunched against the drizzle. Rain glistened on the pavements as the street-lights flickered into life.

He dodged the traffic on his way to the green area at the centre of the square. He was either going to carry on towards Oxford Street, or head for the entrance to the underground car park.

He passed a red phone box and disappeared. I followed him into the stairwell, no more than five seconds behind. I slowed down almost immediately and heard a door bang.

I ran down the first flight of concrete steps, turned on the landing, then down another. The smell of stale piss made my eyes water. I didn’t know if there were cameras down here, but I had to assume there were. I pulled one of the knives out of my pocket and held the pretend wood in my palm with the blade against my wrist. I went through the door into the basement.

The smell of exhaust fumes took over. Cars lined the concrete walls. There was movement to my left. Kleinmann was in a black jacket and matching jeans. Ahead of him, lights flashing, was a new red Volvo two-door hatchback.

‘Hey, Doc! Am I pleased to see you!’

I waved. Big smile, big surprise. I still couldn’t see any cameras

His eyes narrowed, trying to make out who I was.

‘Fancy seeing you here, Doc!’

I got nearer, looking down so my face was covered by the baseball cap.

He cocked his head to the side, trying to get a better look at me. ‘Do we—’

‘Know each other? Yeah, course we do.’ I grabbed his hand with my right one, making sure he felt the weapon dig into him, and embraced him with my left. ‘Fuck me about and I’ll cut you.’

His body shuddered as he tried to step back. I gripped him and dug deeper.

‘Please, take what you want. I won’t say a word to anyone, I promise.’

‘Shut up! Get into the car!’

He nodded, wild-eyed.

I pulled away from him, my right hand still gripping him and my left hand on his shoulder, controlling him.

He was flapping big-time.

‘Don’t look at me. Look at the floor.’

A car mounted the ramp to my half-left, its tail lights glowing red as it made its way to the exit.

‘Just stay calm, all right? Don’t do anything. You got kids? Think of them.’

He shook his head, which made him more of a dickhead. I would have said yes, to make my assailant think he had the leverage.

‘Then think of your wife. Got one of those?’

I let go as another car swung towards us. ‘Go to the driver’s side.’ I made sure I stayed level with him, the far side of his Volvo as a Prius glided past us. We got in together. I jabbed the knife against his crotch as he went to put his seatbelt on. ‘Not yet. Don’t look at me. Face the front.’

We were inches from a bare concrete wall, with his reserved parking sign drilled into it at head height. His nostrils flared as he breathed. I knew what was going through his head. He was working hard at not fucking up here. He wanted to get this nightmare over and done with.

By the look of him, he hadn’t shaved since I last saw him.

‘Give me your phone.’

I could hear a couple talking behind us. I saw them in the wing mirror. They didn’t notice us. Even if they did, they’d probably do the city avoidance thing and not want to get involved. They’d rather walk past and see if their suspicions were right when they watched the ten o’clock news.

He passed over an iPhone. I took it with my left hand, and kept the other holding the knife to his bollocks. ‘Lean forward. Head on the wheel.’

I tapped the calendar icon. He had loads of appointments today until three forty-five, and then it went blank. On Sunday evening he had a chess game. I assumed that was what it was - it just said, ‘Chess’. Maybe it was the musical. I didn’t care. There was still no indication of what or with whom. No dinner parties booked, nothing else going on.

‘Please, just take everything. I won’t say anything.’

‘Fucking shut up!’

I hit the number list. ‘Who’s Gillian? You made a call to her at ten oh eight this morning.’

‘She’s my receptionist. I was a little late and …’

The only other call was the one he had just made. ‘Who’s M?’ I pressed a +1 310 number, Los Angeles.

‘My mother, she doesn’t sleep so well and—’

‘Give me your wallet.’

‘Now you’ve got to let me go. I have nothing else. Take the car!’

I opened the slim brown leather folder. Besides cards, there was about PS150 in crisp twenties and tens, straight from the ATM. There were no family snaps. He should at least have had a baby picture in there, even if it wasn’t his. It gives you far more chance of having your wallet returned.

His driver’s licence gave an address in Stanmore Hill in North London. The house number was followed by a B. He lived in a flat.

‘Get the keys, left hand. Turn on the engine.’

‘Just take everything.’

I pressed the knife harder into his crotch. ‘Turn on the engine.’

His left hand fished for the key and the diesel was soon ticking over. I powered down the window and smashed the phone onto the concrete. I kept his wallet. It joined the other steak knives in my pocket.

‘Now sit up, and belt up.’

Breathing heavily, he did as he was told. Sweat ran from the back of his head down the front of his face and nose, and was now trying to make its way onto his chin. He glanced across and got his first view of me as I pulled down my hood. When he saw who it was under the glasses and cap it was like the opening of a floodgate.

‘Oh, my God! They made me do it! I’m so sorry, I—’

‘Who? Who made you do it? Tresillian? Julian?’

‘Who - what? Look, I don’t know. Two guys visited with me. Heavies. They said this was your scan, and they gave me the drugs. I swear. I had no choice. Please—’

He lost it. His hands came up, pleading with me. ‘They made me! Please believe me! I don’t know anything …’

I pressed the knife down further. ‘Calm down.’ I pointed at his face. ‘You got no wife or kids over here? You on your own?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, whatever - you don’t know it yet, but you’re in deep shit. I can’t lose control of you until I’ve finished what I’m here to do. That means either killing you …’

‘No! Please!’ He was almost hyperventilating.

‘Calm down, for fuck’s sake. Or it means keeping you with me all the time, making sure you can’t tell anyone what’s just happened.’

If I was right about him, he was in as much shit as I was. He just didn’t know it.

‘Take deep breaths. Come on, that’s better.’ I took the knife away and held it up between us. ‘But don’t go mistaking kindness for weakness, all right? You tell me what you know and do what I say and you’ll get out of this car alive.’ I pointed the blade at his face. ‘OK, a couple more deep breaths and then you’re going to drive us both to Fulham.’

5

Kleinmann was a good prisoner.

We sat at a window table in TGI Friday’s. A far too cheerful waitress bounced over and announced she’d be looking after us tonight. Kleinmann was happy for me to do the ordering, as long as it was chicken.

My eyes never left the restaurant front on the other side of Fulham Broadway. Getting something to eat and keeping out of the rain were secondary. We were here for the stakeout on the Vietnamese.

Passing buses obscured the target for a couple of seconds now and again. The junction was busy. High-sided vans sometimes got stuck at the lights. Most of the footfall had their heads down, collars or brollies up, orange Sainsbury carrier bags alongside them, en route to a ready-meal for one and a bottle of wine in front of the telly.

Our food turned up, with another round of Diet Cokes. I knew Kleinmann was scared, but he probably felt secure. If people have control, you feel safer. You’re being held for a reason, and they’re not going to do anything rash.

So far he’d done exactly what I’d told him to do. He’d shut up, driven us here, parked up, and even offered to buy dinner, which was good of him considering I had his wallet.

‘The shadow on the scan, the big red Smarties … It’s all bullshit, isn’t it?’

He nodded miserably.

I dunked a chip in the dish of tomato sauce. ‘Why are you mixed up with all this shit? What have you been doing to get so fucked up?’

He wiped his forehead with the paper napkin. His liquid brown eyes glistened with anguish. ‘These guys came in. They made me do it. I had no choice. I don’t know who they were. I don’t know why they wanted me to do what I did, and I don’t know why I’m sitting here. I just know I’m scared …’

He stared at his untouched food. I picked up another chip and poked it at him.

‘What is it they’ve got on you? Or did they simply come in and say they were going to kill you?’

His hands came up. ‘Please, I’m doing everything you say. Please don’t use those words.’ He rubbed his beard and took a shuddering breath. ‘Well, it’s kind of—’

I dropped my chip on the plate. ‘Look over there. See that restaurant - the Vietnamese? Do you know him? The black guy at the door, going in? Was he one of them? The guy now inside, taking his coat off, waiting for a seat. You see him? ‘

Kleinmann adjusted his glasses. ‘Who?’

‘The black guy. Talking with the waiter now. You see him?’

‘No …’

‘The suit. The smart guy.’

‘Yes, I see him - but it wasn’t him. They were both white. Sounded like you - that London thing.’

Jules was shown to a table and sat with his back to the door. A waiter appeared. He didn’t bother with a menu. He was a regular. He knew what he wanted.

Kleinmann fidgeted. ‘Can I go now? I promise I won’t—’

I picked up my burger and nodded at his. ‘Better start getting that down you. We’ll be leaving soon.’

He sat there and played with a couple of chips as I cleared my plate. I asked for the bill and watched the top of Jules’s head tilt back as he helped himself to a beer.

I paid with cash from Kleinmann’s wallet, then stood up and pulled on my parka. ‘Remember, don’t mistake kindness for friendship or weakness. Just do what I say, when I say, and all will be well. OK?’

He nodded and stood up.

We turned left towards the tube station, walked about thirty metres and ducked into the doorway of a boarded-up bookshop. It was near a bus stop and a natural place to wait, especially in this weather.

I got hold of Kleinmann. I needed his full attention. ‘When he comes out, he’s going to head for the tube. We’re going to follow him. Then I’m going to make sure he comes with us to your car.’

‘Then what?’

‘Don’t worry about that. All you have to remember is that if you fuck me about I’m going to have to do you. You know that, yeah?’

He nodded.

We waited twenty or so minutes. People got on and off buses. Others huddled in doorways like us. My eyes never left the restaurant door.

I nudged Kleinmann. ‘Here we go, stand by.’

I reached into my parka pocket and grabbed the pliers. Julian was going to come with me whether he liked it or not. And then he was going to tell me what the fuck was going on.

He stood on the pavement, pulling up his collar and looking up at the rain. He turned towards the Underground, and then double-checked behind him, further down the road, away from us. As I followed his eye line, I could see a cab approaching, its bright yellow sign a beacon in the gloom.

He stuck his hand out. Minutes later he was gone.

Kleinmann took it all in but didn’t say a word. He was waiting for my reaction.

‘Back to the car. You should have eaten that burger. Like I said, it’s going to be a long night.’

6

Rain pounded on the Volvo roof. The windows were steamed up and the car stank of my farts. The burger was taking its toll. We were parked in a sixties housing estate somewhere near Baron’s Court. I didn’t know exactly where it was, but I’d seen the name on road signs. All that mattered was that it was near Fulham, and it was out of the way of mainstream roads.

I’d tied Kleinmann’s right hand to the steering-wheel with his belt. He couldn’t get his seat to recline because his arm wasn’t long enough. He’d assumed the position he had in the Cavendish Square car park, head on the wheel, but this time because he was knackered.

I was stretched out on the fully extended passenger seat. There was a slight risk in using the car. It was a known location if someone phoned the police to say Kleinmann hadn’t turned up somewhere tonight, but it was a chance I had to take. It was better for me to control him here. It was better for both of us than having a night out in this shit. He’d probably never slept rough. He’d be more of a drama out there than he was in here, and we wouldn’t look like vagrants when I moved in on Jules tomorrow.

I turned the electrics on to lower my window A couple of inches. Kleinmann was in a world of his own. Sometimes he mumbled.

I wouldn’t sleep with him moaning to himself and the rain hammering on the roof, but I turned my back to him, trying to get comfortable.

He stirred. ‘Can’t we just go back to my apartment? I’ve got food - a shower.’

‘No.’

‘Who are you guys? Drug-dealers? Mafia? What is it?’

He waited for an answer. He didn’t get one.

‘It’s drugs, isn’t it? You guys fighting over drugs?’

I shook my head. ‘Tell you what, you tell me how they got you to work and I’ll tell you what’s happening.’

He looked out of the window and rubbed his hair. ‘I had a practice. Cosmetic surgery. Fat asses, droopy chins. Marlene was cool. Ten years younger than me, but I had everything she wanted.

‘Then three years ago, when she was about to turn thirty-five, she had an affair with a twenty-year-old cowboy.’ He shook his head like he still couldn’t believe it. ‘She went to an all-woman, arm-and-a-leg fancy dude-ranch retreat - on my dime. I say all women - except the young cowboys who were there to run the place. She spreads them for this kid and decides he’s her soul-mate.

‘The affair went on for a few months. Marlene started “volunteering” at this ranch and then she told me, immediately after our tenth wedding anniversary, she wanted out. Know why the tenth anniversary is significant? Because in fucking sunny California, without a pre-nup, a spouse gets half of everything for life if the couple are married ten years.

‘I fought long and hard for two years to get us in therapy. I promised to change all the things she blamed me for. I was “controlling”, she said, and kept too tight a fist on the money. She couldn’t do all the decorating projects she wanted, for example, because I thought they were too expensive. Hello … I was the only fucking one working to pay for this shit. But she said she was out the door. I think she was even screwing the therapist - on my dime again. She even said, “I have to get out now so I can snag a great guy while I’m still hot.”

‘So I said, “OK, I get it, I understand. We tried and it didn’t work out. No hard feelings. Let me help. A couple of nips and tucks and you’ll be ready for the world.” So I carried out a procedure on her and that was the end of her …’

I sat up. ‘You killed her?’

‘No - I just fucked up her face a bit. Now she looks like she’s sitting in a fucking wind tunnel.’ He pulled back the loose skin on his face to show me. ‘So the bitch divorced me and sued me for malpractice on the same fucking day. How fucking cool is that?’

Big fat tears were rolling down his cheeks. ‘I came here. Used my original family name. Over there I was Klein. This country is great for locum work with hardly any checks. I worked hard to make a few dollars - I’m trying to tuck it all away before her lawyers find me. But I know they will. It’s going to be a nightmare.’

‘So that’s what they’ve got on you?’

‘Yeah. They came into my office one day. They told me my life story and that was it. Two white guys, nice suits.’

‘They gave you the scans?’

‘Yes. And the drugs.’

‘What were they?’

‘I haven’t a clue. Nothing I’d ever come across before.’

‘They might have been specially made?’

‘Why not?’

‘What did they say was going to happen next?’

‘Nothing. They said they’d be in touch. Who gives a fuck? How could it be worse?’

I lay back down and took a breath. ‘Actually, mate, it’s a lot worse. You’re mixed up with the intelligence service. You’ve seen the movies?’

He nodded slowly, taking the hit.

‘That’s what I’m trying to sort out. Help me tomorrow, and then you fuck off out of the UK as fast as you can. Even take your chances back in the States. These guys are a lot uglier than Marlene.’

‘What about you? Why are they after you?’

‘It doesn’t matter. But they’re never going to leave us alone unless I sort this shit out.’

7

Sunday, 21 March

17.55 hrs

A roar went up and the clapping and cheering started - but it wasn’t as loud as I was used to when Chelsea won. The crowd began to surge out of the West Stand and past the merchandise van I was leaning against. I’d intended waiting further down Fulham Broadway, until I’d noticed the hundred metres or so of steel barrier that bisected the road from the tube station to the ground. It was to stop queue-barging and congestion in the station itself. Fans wanting the tube were channelled into it by mounted police more or less as soon as they exited the ground. I had no alternative but to wait further up.

Everyone in blue had a not-so-happy face on. ‘Mate, fucking one-all against Blackburn? Nightmare,’ somebody yelled into his mobile. ‘Who’da fucking believed it?’

I scanned the crowd and pinged him almost immediately. He came level and passed me, looking like something off the cover of a menswear catalogue in his blue wool coat and pressed blue cords. He looked straight ahead, trying, like everyone else, to avoid banging into people or getting knocked over himself. The crowd was shoulder to shoulder.

I let him pass and get five or six paces ahead before I edged my way into the flow with a big smile on my face, like I was making my way over to a mate. Nine out of ten times, if you’re friendly when you tell them you’re coming through, people will move aside.

As they did, I reached into my right pocket and gripped the pliers, making sure the jaws were nice and open. Jules’s hands were down at his side. He couldn’t have swung them even if he’d wanted to. I focused on his left hand. He probably had a watch under that coat sleeve but that didn’t bother me. It would just add to the pain.

My right hand was at the same level as his left and centimetres away. I pulled the pliers from my coat, jammed them against his sleeve and squeezed hard. I grabbed his arm with my left hand so I could steer him. He reacted like he’d been stung by a bee, but he still hadn’t worked out exactly what had happened. It could have been a burn from somebody’s cigarette. Then his eyes widened as he saw who it was and the pain really started to register. He tried to pull away but I squeezed the pliers into his wrist and manoeuvred him with my right shoulder.

‘Don’t fuck about or I’ll drop you here and now.’

We stayed in the flow as the crowd spilled onto Fulham Broadway and the majority turned right. Jules almost hugged me in his effort to keep the pressure off his pinched wrist. He looked like a walking heart-attack victim.

‘Not the tube. Left of the barriers.’

The street was still packed but we were no longer shoulder to shoulder. There were no words from him yet, but I wasn’t expecting any. If he was able to talk, his one and only concern had to be the pain.

I steered him left at the junction with Harwood Road. The crowd started to thin and most of the noise was behind us. I scanned for the Volvo down on the left. I knew it was going to be there, but I wanted to see if the driver still was.

As we approached, he opened the passenger door and pushed the seat forward for me. Still gripping Jules, I jumped into the back. I pushed the passenger seat upright again and dragged him inside with the pliers. Kleinmann’s trouser belt was beside me. The loose end was already threaded into the buckle to make a loop.

No one said a word as I threw the keys to Kleinmann. Jules fought the pain through clenched teeth. Kleinmann did up Jules’s seat belt like I’d told him to. I didn’t want the police making a routine traffic stop just because the passenger was unbelted. Jules’s face was screwed up with pain. I looped the belt over his head and around his neck and the head restraint, and pulled.

Jules’s left hand dangled between the door and the seat. I’d swapped the pliers into my left hand so I could keep control directly behind him. He pushed back against the head restraint and took several deep breaths, fighting the belt that was trying to stop him. It looked like he was going to start talking.

I pulled the belt tight to keep him in place. ‘Not now. You’ll have plenty of chance to waffle.’

I gave Kleinmann a nod. ‘Let’s go.’

The Cavendish Square car park was as good a place as any to head for. The car had a reason to be there because it had a designated space. It was also Sunday, so many of the business spaces around his were going to be empty.

It took us half an hour just to get away from the area of the ground, and another thirty minutes to get up behind John Lewis. He nosy-parked in his space.

Kleinmann unfastened his seat belt and opened his door. He was more than ready to get out. He left the keys in the ignition. He knew he had to return in thirty minutes. If he did, he did. I was beyond worrying about that at the moment.

As soon as the door closed I pulled tighter on the belt. Julian gagged and writhed his hips, as if that was going to help.

‘If you think that hurt, you’re not going to believe what’s coming next.’

I released the pliers and swapped them back into my right hand. Then, with my arse in the air, I reached over the back of his seat and clamped them onto the bridge of his nose. I squeezed until I could feel bone against the steel. He jerked his head and I squeezed harder. ‘Any more pressure and it’s going to burst. You know that.’

I wanted him scared. But I also wanted him to talk.

8

Jules’s breathing was fast and laboured. He tried to adjust his head to give his throat some respite. I felt the steel grind against bone. His hands gripped the sides of the seat to take the pain.

‘Kleinmann, Anna and me -‘ I gave the pliers a squeeze ‘- we’re trying to find a way out of this shit, and you’re going to help us.’

I pulled some more on the belt. He arched his back and his legs jerked straight, his feet pushing into the footwell. His mouth opened to spray saliva onto the windscreen. My left forearm rested on the top of his head with the pliers still gripping the bridge of his nose.

‘Why did you fuck me over, Jules?’

He didn’t react. He’d probably thought about it and knew the best thing was to stop moving and start thinking.

I released the belt a fraction so he could speak.

‘Nick, why didn’t you stand down and come back when I told you?’

‘What the fuck are you on about?’

I looked at him in the rear-view. His eyes were fixed on mine. Saliva ran down his chin. His eyes were wide, but fighting to keep control. He knew he was in the shit, and had to talk.

‘The police. The Dutch. They were watching the silo. A drugs operation.’

I loosened the belt a bit more.

‘We didn’t know about it, Nick. They saw you when you did your recce. They pinged the car, got the plate, and started to follow you out - but they lost you when you left the building. We only got on to it when Nicholas Smith was flagged. That’s when I told Bradley to stand you down. It was categorical, Nick. Come back, cut away. Why didn’t you?’

I jolted the belt to let him know I’d heard enough.

His eyes had already done most of the talking by the time he answered.

I released the pressure on his nose.

He took deep breaths and raised a hand to the wound.

I stuck the pliers against his neck, clamped down, and twisted. He screamed as I pulled tighter on the belt. The windows were completely steamed up.

‘Why send me on a job when you knew Bradley was going to drop me afterwards?’ I twisted again.

Now he was really worried. He knew how dead he might be soon.

I loosened the belt.

‘Please, Nick. You asked for the job. It got compromised on the first night and I told Tresillian to stand you down. Next thing I know, the silo’s hit, and Bradley and a girl are dead.’

‘What about Kleinmann? The drugs? The scan?’

His eyes flickered around, trying to process all this information.

‘You kept telling me you were fine. I know nothing about the drugs. I know nothing about any illness.’

He twisted his head left and upwards. As our eyes made contact I told him what had happened.

He didn’t move. The pliers had pinched into the skin and drops of blood coated the steel jaws.

‘It all started after our meal, Jules. What am I supposed to think?’

He fell silent. Neither of us spoke for a while.

‘You can do what you want with me, I know that. But I had nothing to do with what is happening to you or Kleinmann. Maybe I’m next. Have you thought about that? Maybe we need to sort this out together.’

Could he be telling the truth? Only one blue-and-white during the raid, and no back-up … Maybe I’d been followed, and they’d been sent just to break up the rape so they could keep me moving. They must have lost me. Then picked me up again when I planted the device …

The door opening on the factory next to the silo … maybe that was their OP. They didn’t know what the fuck I was doing with those girls. They wanted to follow the trail to get more int. They’d obviously react as soon as the shotgun rounds went off in the building. Maybe I’d been the target of the eye in the sky. I didn’t know. Maybe it didn’t really matter what they knew.

I wanted to believe Jules. And I knew he was right about one thing: there was a much bigger picture.

And it was hanging on Tresillian’s wall.

9

23.28 hrs

Jules drove us up the M5 to junction eleven, and then the A40 towards Cheltenham. Just before the town he turned off at the roundabout and got onto Hubble Road. We were in a company Prius from Thames House. Jules didn’t have a car of his own and we weren’t going back to get mine.

We’d been quiet all the way. It was only a little over a week since we’d last made this journey. A lot had happened since then. We were both taking stock.

Jules had called Tresillian and explained that I had Lilian and wanted to meet him.

I knew that Tresillian would take the meeting. What choice did he have?

Jules had some nice scabs forming on his neck. His nose was much the same and some bruising was just starting to show around his eyes. It would be weeks before he was box fresh again and back to catwalk perfection.

I thought back to the al-Kibar raid. I guess I’d always known that was the key. The rumours had run riot since the day of the attack. There were no hard facts out there at all. Nobody agreed about who knew what, or what people in the city had or hadn’t seen.

The following day, after I’d spent the most boring few hours of my life admiring ancient water wells, Damascus-based Syrian news, the voice of the government, reported that Israeli fighter jets had violated Syrian air space in the early hours of the morning, but Syria’s courageous defenders had triumphed. Two aircraft, they said, had been shot down. The others had been forced to leave, shedding their payloads in the desert without causing any damage whatsoever.

Nothing else was ever said. The Israelis denied the incident had occurred. The US State Department said they had only heard second-hand reports, contradictory at best. To this day, both Syria and Israel, two countries that had technically been at war with each other since the founding of the Jewish state in 1948, played down the raid, even though it had been an act of war.

The reality was much more interesting. Immediately Cody Zero One reported the target destroyed, I’d closed down the gear, sorted myself out, and gone down for a nightcap with Diane.

While I was doing that, the Israeli prime minister called the Turkish prime minister and explained the facts of life. He told him about the ten Israeli F-15s they must have tracked going out into the Med, and asked him to give President Assad of Syria a call. ‘Fuck you, Assad,’ was the message. ‘We will not tolerate a nuclear plant. But no other hostile action is planned.’

Olmert said he was going to play down the incident, and was still interested in making peace with Damascus. If Assad didn’t draw attention to the Israeli strike either, those talks could go ahead. The Americans wouldn’t say a word - apart from relaying the message that they didn’t want them cosying up to the North Koreans, or the Iranians. ‘So, basically, Assad, wind your neck in. No one will say anything, and let’s leave it at that.’

It was a final warning. The Iranians’ reaction had been to entrench themselves. Literally. Since the attack, many of the centrifuges in which they enriched uranium were relocated deep underground. Not even one of the bunker-busting super bombs the Pentagon was trying to get hold of, but was being denied on the grounds of cost, was capable of fully destroying the facilities that the Iranians had at Natanz. And that wasn’t the only one. There were more than a dozen known nuclear facilities in Iran. The Americans and Israelis, and probably the UK too if we got dragged into a war with Iran, were going to be conducting air strikes for weeks.

Al-Kibar was protected by the same Russian-built Tor-M1 air defence system used to protect Iranian facilities. I’d often wondered if Israel’s strike had been a test run to find flaws in Iran’s air defences.

I leant over to check the dashboard clock.

Julian read my mind. ‘He said he’d be there. You know for sure that Lilian’s safe?’

‘Totally.’

There was a barrier across the road ahead. Jules flashed his pass and we were waved on towards the Doughnut.

We pulled in alongside the black BMW again. The driver was on his own this time, in a sweatshirt, still behind the wheel, engine running. He said fuck-all. He just looked over at us and turned back to his DVD, probably pissed off that he’d had to work two weekends running.

We went into the building. A different woman was at the desk, but she treated Julian to the same smile. He handed over his ID and she swiped it through a reader.

‘Good evening, Mr Drogba.’ She tried but couldn’t keep her eyes off Jules’s wounds. ‘A rough game this afternoon?’

She passed him a form to sign.

I was handed my red badge.

‘Could you hand it back in when you leave, Mr Lampard?’

We went through the electronic version of a body search and came out onto the Street. We passed the night shift of Tefalheads, doing whatever they did. They were probably still trying to find out what the fuck I’d been up to.

I followed Jules along the bright fluorescent-lit corridor and into the same room as before. This time there was no glow from the plasma screens on the walnut veneer above Tresillian’s head. It was dark and gloomy. The air-conditioning hummed as I closed the door behind us. We crossed the deep pile carpet towards the big oval table.

Tresillian was watching us. He wasn’t a happy bunny. But he soon cheered up when he saw the state of Jules.

‘Mr Stone, I now see why Julian was so eager for us to meet this evening.’ He sat back in his leather swivel chair, elbows on the arms, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He was in a scruffy jumper and trousers. Maybe he had his pyjamas on underneath. ‘Sit.’

Jules and I took the same chairs as last time.

Tresillian didn’t look worried or concerned. Not even angry or anxious. I liked that. I wanted to hate him, but couldn’t.

‘Let’s not fuck around, Mr Stone. How do I know that you really do have Lilian, and that she is still alive?’

‘When I’m ready, I’ll throw her up on Facebook. She’ll be called Lillian Vampire-Girl. I’ll make sure there’s proof of life up there at the same time. But that’s not going to happen until we have a deal, I get a pass, and you answer some questions.’

He leant back again. ‘Go on.’ He was almost smiling.

‘It was the Vietnamese food, wasn’t it? That was what fucked me up. The fake scan, the fake drugs?’

‘Of course.’ He was surprised I’d even had to ask.

‘Why go to all the fucking effort of getting me to believe I was dying? I took the job because of it, but you could have got someone else with far less effort.’

‘You were a test, Mr Stone. A simple exercise to find out how good our technology is. We collected your DNA, and we carried out a field trial. And it was a fucking good one, don’t you think? No one else who ate in that restaurant was contaminated. It was designed to target just your DNA. Now, if we’d wanted to kill you, we would simply have used a different compound.

‘At first you weren’t even being considered for the task. Since the Russians killed Litvinenko by garnishing his sushi with polonium-210, we thought we’d see how well our concoctions would work in the field.’

He was feeling very pleased with himself.

‘I think we can safely say our activities in that department put us among the leaders in the field.’

Jules wasn’t happy. ‘Why wasn’t I informed?’

Tresillian turned to face him. ‘Because you would have disagreed.’

‘The scan, the drugs?’

‘The scan was faked, and the drugs, very shiny red placebos. A chalk compound, I believe.’

‘So you decided to fuck me over with a plate of rice, then send me on a job and kill me afterwards?’

He raised his hands, palms upwards. ‘Why worry about being killed when you’re already dead?’

‘And you were pretty fucking sure you’d get two for the price of one.’

‘Julian kept telling me how shit-fucking-hot you were. But I think it’s safe to say that even you would never have found the girl in time if it hadn’t been for that incredibly intelligent Russian woman of yours.’

‘And you had to find Lily before Tarasov did. So maybe he’s not such a great mate after all. He must have been pretty pissed off when you rubbed out his two lads in Amsterdam. Rival traffickers? He just wanted his daughter back. I knew Bradley was talking shit.’

Tresillian was enjoying every minute of this. He was like a magician who couldn’t wait to explain his best conjuring trick.

‘You were never trying to find her so you could hand her over, were you? You were going to keep her. She’s leverage.’

He looked at me like I was the village idiot. ‘Just as you are now using her against me. Hector Tarasov is not yet a friend of ours - but he does have a rather important role in our immediate future. The deal we have in mind will take two more weeks to complete.’

‘Just before a certain shipment leaves his factory for Iran.’

His expression clouded, just for a moment - but long enough for me to know that I’d pulled off a conjuring trick of my own.

‘Our aircraft may well have to infiltrate Iranian air space to destroy their nuclear power plants. We might have to fight alongside the French in Algeria to defend our oil and gas interests. We might have to fight alongside the Americans in West Africa to safeguard our energy supply against Muslim fundamentalism in the Niger delta. We need those motherboards … adjusted. Very simply, Mr Tarasov needs to do as he is told if he ever wants to see that child again.’

‘But you don’t have Lily. I do.’

The light went out in his eyes. ‘You are welcome to keep her, Mr Stone - as long as she doesn’t go near her father. Can you guarantee that? If so, I may be able to accommodate you and your not only intelligent but very attractive Russian friend.’

‘And Kleinmann, of course. He gets a pass. This time tomorrow he’ll be back in LA with his mother, trying to dodge his ex-wife’s lawyers.’

He raised a hand and slapped it back on the table. ‘I imagine they’ll deal with him rather more brutally than I would have.’ He leant forward again, his forearms resting on the table. ‘But you should be in no doubt, Mr Stone, I have a lot more plates than Mr Tarasov’s to keep spinning, and I will do whatever the fuck it takes to meet my objectives.’

‘So you keep saying. But what about fucking up Amsterdam? You didn’t even know I was going to end up there.’

His eyes burnt into mine. ‘Read the papers, follow the informed debate. The attack on the silo was carried out by Iranian-backed Muslim extremists. A number of innocent young girls would have been killed - if you hadn’t suddenly turned into the Scarlet fucking Pimpernel - strengthening our country’s resolve to fight and defeat them.

‘The only truth that matters, Mr Stone, is the one that people want to believe. Am I right?’ He didn’t give me a chance to answer. ‘My job is to attack them from every angle, at all times, with all means. There is no quarter for courageous restraint, Mr Stone. We are at war, and you are - or were - a casualty. Finding the girl was the objective, but along the way I saw an opportunity target and I attacked it. If the trail had led you to the centre of fucking Cheltenham and the same opportunity arose, I would have taken exactly the same action. I will always use everything in my power to protect the UK, its territories and dependencies, wherever I can, and whenever I can.’

‘Which includes ramping up anti-Muslim rage?’

He wagged his finger like a headmaster. ‘No, no, no. Don’t be so naive. It’s there to ensure the pro-Iranian factions understand the dangers we face. It was an opportunity that you brought to me and it worked.’

The leather squeaked as he sat back into his chair.

‘Tell me, Mr Stone. Why did you save those young women? It served no purpose.’

I hesitated, but only because I’d just realized the answer to his question. ‘Your DNA experiment did me a favour. It put me through a moral carwash. I wanted to sleep at night, particularly since I didn’t have that many of them left.’

He didn’t miss a beat. ‘And having gone through this moral-fucking-carwash, I take it that you will not be serving your country again?’

‘Correct. I’ll leave it in your capable hands.’

‘Do not underestimate me. If my operation against her father doesn’t succeed because of you, I will retaliate.’

It was my turn to lean forward.

‘No, you won’t. I’ll keep my end of the deal, but I have everything documented, and it’s sitting on a cloud. Everything - and I mean everything - will be there for anyone to download should anything happen to me, Kleinmann or the girls. So get on with your Tarasov stunt, but be quick about it. Lilian is pretty angry with her dad right now, but she might want to go home on day fifteen. Who knows? And by then that fucking cloud will contain a few more goodies - including this meeting.

‘You’ll deny it, of course. But everyone in our world knows there’s no smoke without fire.’

If I had got to him, he didn’t show it.

‘Will that be all, Mr Stone? I need to get on with my life now. I want to go home - and I’m sure you want to do the same.’

Jules shook his head in disbelief. ‘And you just let me stumble around in the dark?’

Tresillian stood and brushed a loose thread off his sleeve. ‘There were certain things you simply did not need to know. If you ever get to sit in this chair, you can decide who knows what. Until that day, I will.’

It wasn’t the answer Jules was after. He controlled his anger, but only just. ‘You had me put my friend’s life at risk. You were going to have him killed, for Christ’s sake.’

Tresillian sat and stared. His voice was low and even. ‘Julian, man up. What do you think we do for a living?’

I stood as well, to relieve the pain in my arse wounds. ‘I know I’m pond life, on the shit side of the fence, but isn’t Jules supposed to be one of yours?’

Tresillian chuckled. ‘Well, Julian, what side of the fence are you on?’

Julian stayed put, his eyes fixed on the tabletop.

I turned and went outside. The smaller of the two heavies greeted me with a smile. ‘We’ll escort you to the station, sir. The first train to London on a Monday morning is in about six hours.’

EPILOGUE

Wednesday, 14 June

11.15 hrs

It wasn’t supposed to be this way, but this time I didn’t give a shit.

I leant against the triple-glazed floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse apartment and looked out over the river. But the view from the flat I’d rented was over the Moskva, not the Thames. To the right was the Borodinsky Bridge, and behind that the Russian Federation’s government buildings. It was a great place for me to do much the same as I’d done in London a few weeks ago - just sit and gaze out at the city, especially at night.

Anna had been right. Moscow had looked great in the spring, and looked even better now in early summer. I must have walked in every one of the city’s ninety-six parks. Of course, Gorky Park had been the first. It was the only one I’d heard of. Then I discovered there was more green stuff here than in New York, and New York had more of it than London. It almost made me glad I’d left.

As the days got longer and warmer, Anna and I had headed for Serebryany Bor, an island just a trolleybus ride away. It could be walked at any time of day, but it was especially great in the evening when the late-setting sun bathed the dachas, woods and river. I checked out the spring buds and flowers, kids on bikes with stabilizers, all the normal shit that now made sense to me. These were people who were getting on with their lives. I was getting on with mine too. It was all right. It wasn’t as if I jumped up every morning and ran outside to kiss the flowers and hug the trees, but I’d been taking the time to stand and stare. For a week or two, anyway. Then I’d started to get itchy feet.

The sound of a plate smashing echoed round the open space. I turned to see Lily steaming with frustration. ‘For fuck’s sake!’

I pointed at her, bollocking style. ‘Oi, less of that!’

It was just about the only new bit of English Lily had learnt, and it had become her catchphrase.

Anna had taken her to Dresden. They’d stayed with some Romanians she knew. I’d kept well out of the way, in case Tresillian reneged on his side of the deal.

When the two weeks were up, Lily decided not to go back to Moldova. She contacted her father and apologized. She couldn’t agree with his views but she understood them. She wanted to stay in Moscow and continue her degree at Moscow State when the new academic year started.

It was like a refugee camp in here sometimes, with Anna’s mates bringing her girls they’d rescued from the meat markets and Mafia nightclubs in the city. Anna then turned them over to the Lenas of this world.

It wasn’t all about saving the world and appreciating the green stuff. Anna and I had been hitting the galleries and museums. My favourite was the Tretyakov. I found myself getting well into Russian icons.

The doorbell rang. ‘For fuck’s sake!’

I walked towards her. ‘I’m warning you!’

Anna checked her watch as she came out of the bedroom. ‘He’s early. You said he’d be here at five.’

I flicked the kettle on.

She opened the door. Jules stood there with a black wheelie, his face once more a vision of perfection.

They kissed and she ushered him in.

I’d said no at first to a meeting. He’d made his choice. I’d made mine. Lesson learnt. But Anna was right. If he wanted to come over, fuck it, he could.

Jules stared at me from the hallway. He held out a hand. ‘Hello, Nick.’

He looked apprehensive, but he needn’t have. I didn’t care that he knew where we were, or even if Tresillian did. Anna had written up her version of what had happened, and together with mine and Lily’s, it was floating on the Apple MobileMe cloud, ready to be discovered as soon as any of us had a drama.

Anna took his wheelie and rested it against the cloakroom door. He wasn’t staying.

I went and shook his hand. ‘Tresillian sorted?’

He nodded. ‘It all worked.’ He glanced at Lily as she made the brews. ‘Our Moldovan friend came on board.’

Lily came out of the kitchen area. She walked up to him with a smile and an outstretched hand. ‘Hello, my name is Lilian. Nick says you’re staying in the city for a couple of days?’

Jules looked a bit uncomfortable. ‘Yes, I’ve got something I want to talk to Nick and Anna about.’

Lily got it. ‘I’ve made the tea. It’s British, not Russian.’ She turned to Anna. ‘OK if I go?’ She’d made some friends in the building.

The tea was weak and shit. I turned on the Nespresso machine. Julian and I sat at the black marble breakfast bar but Anna remained standing. She tapped Jules’s hand. ‘What is it you’ve come to talk to us about?’

I dropped a capsule into the machine and sparked it up.

‘I’ve resigned.’

Anna’s jaw dropped.

‘A month ago.’ Jules turned to me. ‘Remember what you said about a carwash?’

I pushed him a brew. Things went quiet for a while. I didn’t know what to say.

Anna tugged her cigarettes out of her jeans. I pointed to the balcony. There’s no smoke without fire.

Andy McNab joined the infantry as a boy soldier. In 1984 he was ‘badged’ as a member of 22 SAS Regiment and was involved in both covert and overt special operations worldwide. During the Gulf War he commanded Bravo Two Zero, a patrol that, in the words of his commanding officer, ‘will remain in regimental history for ever’. Awarded both the Distinguished Conduct Medal (DCM) and Military Medal (MM) during his military career, McNab was the British Army’s most highly decorated serving soldier when he finally left the SAS in February 1993. He wrote about his experiences in three phenomenal bestsellers: Bravo Two Zero, Immediate Action and Seven Troop.

He is the author of the bestselling Nick Stone thrillers. Besides his writing work, he lectures to security and intelligence agencies in both the USA and UK. He is a patron of the Help for Heroes campaign.