FireWall

12

I sat and watched as the Golf, with a dark-haired male at the wheel, came back round the one-way circuit and pulled in to pick up a short, brown-haired woman. They were off again before her door was even closed. They'd done all they could; now it was a question of waiting to see if the target returned to his bike.

It wouldn't have been a big deal to them when I became temporarily unsighted. This always happens for short periods. But the fact that it had happened at the subway station was a big problem for them. Once they'd failed to pick me up again, their next move would be to stake out the bike. Then some of the team would have checked out known target locations. There were only two: one was the apartment block, and they would be checking with the porter which apartment I'd gone to, for sure. The other was the address where the bike was registered-a PO box just a few shops down from where it was parked. It was an office suppliers, and instead of having a box number I had a suite number, because I wanted to make it sound like an expensive apartment block. No doubt that was what the woman was checking out.

Nick Davidson was the registered owner of the bike and Suite 26 was where he supposedly lived. The real Davidson was going to be incredibly pissed if he ever came back from Australia, because I'd taken over his life in the U.K. He was going to get a hard time from customs, immigration, and Special Branch (serious crime and antiterrorist division) if he ever stepped off a plane now that this had happened. He'd be listed.

It also meant that having Nick Davidson as my safety-blanket cover ID was now history, and that pissed me off. It had taken painstaking months to get a social security number, passport, bank account, all the things that bring a character to life, and now I had to lose him. Worse still, I'd have to lose the bike. There'd certainly be a trigger on it for the next few hours, depending on how important they thought I was.

An electronic device might even be attached to it. The only thing that cheered me up was the thought of what would happen to the person who'd eventually steal it after seeing it standing there for a few days.

They wouldn't know what had hit them when the E4 team closed in.

I'd nursed a Coke while keeping watch through the large Victorian windows. My glass was nearly empty, and if I didn't want to look out of place I'd need to get a refill. Fighting my way to the bar, I ordered a pint of orange juice and lemonade, and went and sat in the corner. No need to look outside now. I knew a team was on me. I just had to sit it out, keeping my eyes on the doors in case they started to check out the pubs. In an hour's time it would be the end of the working day. I'd wait until then and lose myself in the darkness and commuter traffic.

As I sipped my drink, I thought about Tom Mancini. His name was certainly familiar. One of my first jobs as a K in '93 had been to drive him from North Yorkshire, where he worked, down to a Royal Navy facility near Gosport, Hampshire. I was told to scare him so much that he'd beg to be handed over to the Firm's people, who I was delivering him to. It didn't take that much, just a few slaps, a stern face and me telling him that if he fucked me about the only thing left ticking on his body would be his watch.

Once we'd got him down in one of the "forts" built along the coast, he wasn't even given time to clean himself up before the Firm's interrogation team explained the facts of life.

A technician at Menwith Hill listening station, he'd been detected trying to obtain classified information. I wasn't allowed in on the interrogation, but I knew they told him Special Branch would be arresting him the next day for offenses against the Official Secrets Act. They couldn't stop that. However, if he didn't get smart, that would be just the start of his problems.

He would shut up in court about what he'd really been tampering with.

Whatever that was, it seemed the Firm didn't want anyone to know about it, even Special Branch, for the charge would be for a lesser offence. He would tell them who he was getting the information for, and, of course, he'd have no recollection of this "meeting" ever taking place. He'd serve a short sentence and that would be the end of it. If he ever uttered a word to anyone about the deal, however, someone like me would come and pay him a visit.

Tom had been fucking about with the big boys. I knew that R.A.F Menwith Hill, on the moors near Harrogate in Yorkshire, was one of the largest intelligence-gathering stations on earth. Its massive golf ball-shaped "radomes" monitored Europe's and Russia's airwaves. It might be a British base, but in reality it was a little piece of the U.S.A. on British soil, run by their all-powerful NSA (National Security Agency). It was manned by about 1,400 American engineers, physicists, mathematicians, linguists, and computer scientists. The staff was complemented by 300 Brits, which meant that there were as many people working at Menwith Hill as there were for the Firm.

Menwith Hill operated in close tandem with GCHQ (Government Communications Headquarters) at Cheltenham, gathering electronic information from as far afield as eastern Russia. GCHQ did not, however, have automatic access to the intelligence gathered at Menwith Hill. All information went directly to the NSA at Fort Meade in Maryland. From there, information collected on terrorism that might, for example, affect the U.K." was redistributed to the security service, Special Branch or Scotland Yard. Britain's contract with the U.S. is that we can only buy American nuclear weapons on the condition that bases like Menwith are allowed to operate on British soil, and that the U.S. has access to all British intelligence operations. Sad but true: They are big brother. Britain is just one of the little runt siblings.

From what I could remember, Tom was full of shit. He came on all brash and confident like a Jack the Lad cockney trader, which was rather strange, because he came from Milton Keynes and was about as boring as his zip code. By the end of the drive south, however, he had been like a small child, curled up on the back seat.

It worried me yhat Val knew I had met Tom, that he had access to details about a twenty-four-hour period of my life that I'd all but forgotten about, but I was in it for the money, nothing else, and so I cut that thought away, just in case it made me change my mind.

I finished my drink, picked up my helmet and headed for the rest room.

Placing the helmet on the tank in a stall, I sat down on the lid, unzipped my jacket, and pulled out the envelope.

After an afternoon of people missing the bowl and flicking cigarette butts in the urinals, the place stank. I inspected the nylon-fiber type, bubble-wrap envelope. Then, resting it on my knees and using both hands, I pressed down and started to run my palms over it, fingertips moving up and down the contours of the contents. I turned it over and checked the other side.

I couldn't feel any sort of wiring, or anything more solid than what I hoped was the cash, but then again, that didn't mean a thing. A wafer-thin battery from a Polaroid film tucked between the bundles would kick out enough power to initiate a letter bomb. It might be Val's special little way of saying thank you.

I picked it up and put the fold to my nose. If it was a device, and they'd used any exotic or older-style explosives, I might be able to smell them. Sometimes it's marzipan, sometimes linseed oil. I was expecting something more sophisticated, but these things have to be tested for.

All I could smell was the urinals. The bar noise rose and fell as the outer door opened and closed. I carried on inspecting the envelope.

I decided to go ahead and open it. It felt like money, weighed like money. If I was wrong, the whole pub would know about it soon and a pissed off insurance company would be shelling out for a refit.

I opened the knife blade of my Leatherman and gently cut down the center of the envelope, checking inside every inch or so for wires. It was looking promising. I started to see green U.S. bank notes. Each bundle of used hundred-dollar bills that I carefully pulled out was banded and told me the bundle contained $10,000; there were ten of them. I was a very happy camper indeed. Val had put his money where his mouth was. I didn't just respect him now, I liked the man. Not enough to introduce him to my sister yet, but then again, I didn't have a sister.

Someone else entered and tried the toilet door. I grunted, making it sound like I was having a big-boy dump. He checked the next one, and I heard the sound of jeans coming down and him getting on with the business.

I smiled as I started to stuff the money into my leathers, feeling quite pleased with myself as my next-door neighbor farted for England.

Staying in the pub for another half-hour, drinking more orange juice and lemonade and reading the newspaper for the third time, I wondered if the team had been called off yet. Nine out of ten times it boils down to money. They were probably hoping to earn a little Christmas bonus out of me. E4 operators get treated as badly as nurses; they work their butts off and are expected to carry on regardless.

By now they'd know the address was a PO box arrangement, and that would have set their alarm bells ringing. They'd probably plan to go into the office tomorrow, open up my box and see what was in there. They'd even put me on their own special mailing list; as mail addressed to Suite 26 came through the Royal Mail's sorting system, it would be sidetracked for a while so that prying eyes could have a little look-see. All they would find was my Visa bill. Well, Davidson's bill. Perhaps they'd be nice enough to pay it. I certainly wouldn't bother anymore.

By tomorrow, if they decided to dig deeper, they'd also know that Mr.

Davidson had been to Norway recently, returning by the same route he'd traveled all those weeks ago. What would they make of that? I doubted that their conclusion would be a skiing trip after Davidson had been seen coming out of the targeted apartment block where one of the owners was a Russian who'd got hit just days ago, in a country a mere day trip away from where Davidson had disembarked. Fuck it, it was too late to worry about all that now. As long as they didn't have a photograph of me, I'd be okay.

I sat there with another Coke and a packet of peanuts. Thirty five minutes on, I finally decided to make a move. The rush-hour traffic on all sides of the triangle was moving at about three feet a minute, a confusion of headlights and exhaust fumes. Every fourth car had its indicator lights flashing, thinking the other lane was quicker. The pedestrian traffic, too, was much heavier, and moved quicker than the vehicles. Everybody was huddled over, fighting the cold and just wanting to get home.

Leaving the helmet under the table, I exited through a door that led out onto a different road. The motorbike helmet was a VDM. So were my leathers, but I could hardly discard them. All I could do was cut down on the things that would trigger me.

The priority was to get a hotel for the night, before I contacted Tom in the morning. I also needed clothing: Without a bike, there was no way I could walk around looking like Judge Dredd.

If you want late-night shops, it has to be the West End. I grabbed a taxi to Piccadilly Circus, and changed $1,000 at various currency exchanges, throwing in a couple of hundred at a time.

The shopping frenzy was another short cab ride away, in Selfridges, where I bought clothes, washing and shaving kit, and a nice little duffle bag for my new-found wealth.

Then I booked myself into the Selfridges Hotel using my Nick Stone credit card. To have used Davidson's would have invited a knock on the door within hours.

After a bath and a change of clothes all very predictable, jeans, Timberland boots, blue sweatshirt, and a dark-blue nylon down jacket I called room service for a club sandwich and coffee.

13

Saturday, December II, 1999 I woke up and looked at Baby G. It was just after eight, time for a quick couple of laps round the bath before getting dressed.

Looking like a kid in his shiny new Christmas Day clothes, I left the jacket with my leathers and went down to breakfast, taking the money bag with me. There was $25,000 left after a very grateful clinic had received not only what was owing to them, but also a huge stash on account. It's strange how finance directors will come in of an evening to collect a payment, even brew coffee and pour it.

The newspapers were full of doom and gloom, and as I downed my breakfast, listening to the Americans or Israelis talking about the shopping they were going to be doing before they went back home, I felt good about fulfilling my responsibilities to Kelly, even though I knew I should be doing a lot more than just paying out money.

Back in my room, I settled on the bed and called the number on the paper that Liv had given me.

A young woman answered. Her "hello" sounded as friendly as if I was the fourth wrong number in a row.

"Oh, hi. Is Tom there?"

"No, he's not," she snapped. "He'll be in Coins. Who are you?"

It sounded as if all was not well in the Mancini household.

"Just a friend. Coins, did you say?"

"Yes."

"What is that, a shop or-"

"It's the cafe, off Ledbury Road."

I was obviously stupid for not knowing. "Thanks a-"

The phone slammed down.

Information told me that Coins was on Talbot Road, Netting Hill. I put my squeakily clean blue down jacket on, picked up my bag and jumped into a taxi to join Tom for a coffee, borrowing the cabbie's map on the way to work out exactly where he lived. The sky might be full of dark clouds, but I was still feeling good.

I didn't know Notting Hill at all, just that it had a carnival each year and that there'd been a bit of a frenzy about Julia Roberts coming to stay. During the film's hype, I'd read all this stuff in the papers about the village atmosphere and how wonderful it was to live there. I didn't see much evidence of a village, just expensive clothes stores, the sort with one pair of shoes in the window surrounded by spotlights, and a few antique shops.

We turned corners and drove past stucco-fronted houses, mostly cut up into apartments and very run-down, with chunks of plaster falling off the brickwork.

The cab stopped at an intersection and the dividing window opened.

"It's a one way, mate. I'll drop you off here if that's all right.

It's just down there on the left."

I could see the large awning sticking out over the sidewalk, with plastic side panels keeping the elements off the brave ones who wanted to sip their cappuccinos outside.

I paid him and took a walk. Coins turned out to be double fronted, with a few empty tables outside. The large windows on each side of the door were steamed up from cooking and people. As I went in, it was obvious from the rough wooden floors and plain laminated plywood that the cafe was trying to look down to earth and no nonsense. The kitchen was open plan and the smells were very tempting, even with half a pound of bacon and eggs still weighing me down.

There was no sign of Tom, so I took a seat in the far corner. There were magazines lying around on the table tops designer pictures on the walls, and fliers for a shit load of artistic events. The menu was a sheet of legal paper in a plastic folder, offering everything from neat cholesterol to vegetarian sausages and salads. The prices certainly didn't match the decor; someone was making a down-to-earth, no-nonsense fortune.

The clientele seemed to average late twenties, early thirties, trying so hard to look individual that they all looked like clones. Everyone was in baggy cargo pants and sleeveless down vests, and must have taken ages to get their hair looking like they'd just got out of bed. Quite a few were wearing thick-framed rectangular glasses, more to be seen in than to see through.

"Hi, sweetie, what can I get you?" An American female voice floated down to me as I studied the menu.

Glancing up, I asked for a latte and toast.

"Sure, sweetie." She turned and presented the world's second most perfect rear, covered in tight black nylon flares. As she walked away I couldn't help staring at it, and was pleased to catch others doing the same. She must bring in a lot of custom; no wonder Tom came here.

There was nothing else to do but sit and listen to other people's conversations. It seemed that everybody was either just about to get a movie on just about to be in a play, but it just hadn't quite happened yet and everybody had a fantastic script that was being read by a marvelous man who used to share an apartment with Anthony Minghella.

The only time people stopped talking was when their cell phones rang, only to talk even louder than before. "Jambo, dude! How's it going, man?"

Rear of the Year came back. "Here you are, sweetie." She gave me my glass of latte, which burned my fingers as I watched her walk back to the kitchen.

I picked up a newspaper, which a girl sitting on the table next to mine handed over as she left. We smiled at each other, knowing we were both thinking the same thing about our American friend.

Looking down at the front page, I waited for my toast, and Tom.

Half an hour later the toast was finished and I was on my second latte.

Clones came and went, air-kissing as they met and being very important with each other. Then, at last, Tom entered. At least I thought he was Tom. His greasy hair was now ponytailed just past his shoulders, making him look like a member of a Los Angeles garage band. His cheeks were more hamster like than I remembered; maybe the extra pounds he'd put on had changed the contours of his face.

The clothes looked as if they'd come from the same store as everyone else's here-canvas daps, brown cargos, and a faded green sweatshirt with a T-shirt that had started off white, then gone a few rounds with something blue. He must have been freezing.

Settling his chubby ass on a tall stool along the breakfast bar facing the window, he pulled a magazine out from under his arm some kind of palm-top computer and games monthly. At least he looked the part.

A small Puerto Rican-looking woman took his order. I decided to wait until he'd finished eating, then do my, "Hello, Tom. Well well, fancy seeing you here" bit, but my plan got cut short as he suddenly stood up and turned toward the door. Along with a very pissed-off waitress, I watched him cross the road and run up a side street, losing him in the moisture on the windows and the shadow of the awning.

He must have seen me.

I got up and paid my money to Rear of the Year, getting an extra big and friendly, "Bye, sweetie," when she saw the size of the tip I'd left on my saucer.

Tom had run toward home, so I headed in the direction of All Saints Road, past reggae-music stores and plumbers' shops. His address was an apartment in a yellow-painted, stucco-fronted building just off All Saints. Going by the array of bell pushes at the front door, it looked like there were eight apartments in the building, which meant each one must have been the size of a broom closet. Most houses in the street had been converted into flats and were painted black, green, or yellow, with grimy windows covered by dirty old netting, which drooped in the middle. I bet this road wasn't in the movie.

I went to press the button for his apartment number four but the wiring hanging out of the intercom was rusted and frayed. Some names were slotted into the recesses on torn pieces of paper, but half of them, like apartment four, didn't even have that.

As I rang the bell, I could hear the slight buzz of an electric current. Chances were the thing did work. I waited, stamping my feet and digging my hands into my jacket, but there was no answer. I wasn't expecting one from the intercom, but thought there might have been a shout, or a face at a window. Eventually a curtain twitched on the third floor.

I rang again. Nothing.

It was turning out to be more amusing than frustrating. Tom just wasn't cut out for this sort of thing. If you want to do a runner, you don't head straight home. E4 would have had no trouble pinning him down. I found myself smiling as I thought of him up there, hoping I'd just go away and that everything would be all right.

Looking up again at the dirty window, I made sure that whoever was watching would hear me clunking down the steps, really tearing the ass out of it so they'd know I'd given up.

Walking back the way I'd come, I hung around at the junction with All Saints, knowing that he'd leave sooner or later. It was the wrong thing to do, so he was bound to do it. He might have the skill to hack into and download whatever it was in this Finnish house, but when it came to common sense, he had trouble inserting the disk, let alone playing the game.

Loitering in the doorway of a run-down shop, I was facing a massive pop art mural that covered the whole gable end of a building. Reggae music blared from a shop as two teenagers came out and danced their way along the road, sharing a cigarette. My own breath was doing a good imitation of smoke in the cold air.

I wasn't too sure that I'd be able to see Tom if he tried to give me the slip over the back of the house, but he was on the third floor, so it would be quite difficult for him. From what I'd seen of him, even if he'd been on the first floor it would have been a bit of a challenge.

I must have looked like the local loony to the kids, grinning broadly as I thought about him trying to get himself over a six-foot wall. I wouldn't want Mancini as a wing man.

Sure enough, twenty cold boring minutes later, out he came. Still with no coat on, hands tucked under his armpits, not exactly running but moving quickly. I didn't even have to follow him. He was coming toward me, probably on his way to screw up even more by going straight back to the cafe.

I stepped out in front of him and his look of horror said it all.

"Hello, Tom."

At first he didn't move, he just stood there, rooted to the spot, then he half turned away, screwing up his face and looking down at the sidewalk, like a dog that thinks it's going to get hit. "Please don't hurt me. I didn't say nothing to no one. On my life. Promise."

"It's all right, Tom," I said. "I have nothing to do with those people now. That's not why I'm here."

14

"Tell you what, I said, "let's go back to your apartment, get the kettle on and have a chat." I was trying to sound nice, but he knew I wasn't offering him a choice.

I put an arm around his shoulder and he stiffened. "Come on, mate, let's have some tea and I'll tell you what this is all about. It's too cold out here."

Being only about five foot five, he was easy to get my arm around. I could feel the softness of his body. He hadn't shaved for a few days and the result wasn't bristle but the sort of thing you could fill a comforter with.

I started to make small talk as we walked, trying to make him feel at ease. Also, this meeting needed to look a bit more normal to any third party nosing out of their window. "How long have you been living round here then, Tom?"

He kept his head down, studying the concrete slabs. As we passed the multicolored houses, I noticed he was shaking.

"About a year, I suppose." "Hey, I called your apartment earlier on, and a woman answered. She your girlfriend?"

"Janice? Yeah." There was a gap of a second or two before he stopped walking and looked up at me. "Look, man, I have never, ever said nothing to no one about any of that stuff. Not a word, I swear on my mother's life. I haven't even told them I-"

"Tom, all I want to do is talk. I've got a proposition for you. Let's just sit down, have cup of tea and a chat."

He nodded as I got us both walking again.

"I think you'll like what you hear. Come on, get the kettle on."

We got to the house and walked up the four or five stone steps to the door. Tom fumbled for his key which was tied to an old bit of nylon string, his hand shaking as he tried to get it into the keyhole. He still thought he was going to get hammered. I decided to let him think it; maybe it would lighten him up when he finally realized I wasn't here to put him in hospital.

It was just as cold in the hallway as it was outside. The threadbare, dirty carpet matched the damp, peeling walls. An old-fashioned stroller blocked the hall, and I could hear what sounded like its passenger screaming in the flat to the left, trying to make more noise than the TV talk show sharing his room. Breathing in to pass the stroller and get to the stairs, I felt quite cheerful. Even my house smelled better than this.

Heat rises, but not in this place. Number 4 had its own small landing, with paint peeling off the door and banisters. He managed to get the key straight in the lock and the door opened into what I supposed was the living room. Dirty-gray net curtains made the dirty-gray light from outside even gloomier.

Ikea's flat pack division had done well out of Tom. Shiny waxed pine shone everywhere in the small room; even the two-seater sofa had wooden arms. The rest of the place was in a bad way-more damp walls, worn carpet, and cold. The fireplace was boarded up and a gas fire was stuck in its place, just dying to be turned on. I could still see my breath.

A ten-year-old wood-veneer TV stood on a waxed pine stand in the corner, with a VCR underneath, the timer flashing all the zeros, and a dozen or so videos stacked next to it on the floor. To the right of that was a Sorry Play Station with a stack of games scattered around it, and the world's oldest PC. The buff-colored plastic was dark and dirty and the vents at the back were so black it looked like it ran on diesel. Its keyboard was really worn; I could only just make out the instructions on the keys. Not the best of equipment for such a high-tech guy, but very good news for me. It would have been harder to get him to come along if he was making a fortune and living in a penthouse. The need for money makes people do things they would never normally dream of. I was a bit of an expert on that front.

We both stood there and I could feel his embarrassment. I broke the silence. "Put the kettle on, mate, and I'll get the fire going, eh?"

He walked into a tiny kitchen off the main room and I heard coins getting fed into a meter and the knob turning to give us some gas. I heard the tap filling up the kettle as I threw my money on the sofa and tried to light the fire, clicking the pilot light several times before the gas ignited with a whoomph.

Opposite was another door that was open about six inches. Ikea hadn't got round to the bedroom. A mattress lay on the floor, the comforter pulled aside, dangerously close to a portable kerosene heater. The only other furniture seemed to be a digital alarm clock lying on the floor. It felt just like home.

There was no telling where the bathroom was, but I reckoned it would be on the other side of the kitchen somewhere; in fact, it was probably part of the kitchen. I stayed down with the fire for a while to warm up.

"So what are you doing with yourself now, Tom? Still in the computer business?"

At last there was a spark of life from him. He hadn't been filled in, and I was taking an interest in his subject. He stuck his chubby head into the living room; I'd forgotten how it jutted backward and forward like a cockerel's.

"Yeah, I've got a few irons in the fire, know what I mean? Games, that's where the money is, mate. I've got a few movers and shakers in the business desperate for my ideas. Know what I mean, desperate."

I was still kneeling down, rubbing my hands by the flames. "That's really good to hear, Tom."

"Yeah, things are sweet. This is just temporary, while I decide who to sell my idea to. Then it's party time. Look for a house to buy cash, of course then start my own show. Know what I mean?"

I nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. He had no money, no job, and was still full of bullshit. He was going to like what I was about to tell him.

His head disappeared back into the kitchen and things started to be washed up. Standing up to go over to the sofa, I saw a pile of plain white cards on the mantel. The top two had lipstick kisses and a handwritten message on it: "I hope you like my dirty panties. Love, Juicy Lucy xx." I picked one up. At least the lipstick was genuine.

I raised my voice as I walked over to the sofa. "How long have you been with Janice?"

"She sort of moved in a couple of months ago."

"What does she do?"

"Just part-time at the supermarket; bits and pieces, you know." He stuck his head around the door again. "Sugar?"

"No, just some milk will be fine."

He came in with two mugs and put them on the not-so-new carpet.

Sitting on the floor by the fire, facing toward me on the sofa, he passed mine over. His, I noticed, was without milk.

I saw him clock the open bedroom door and worry whether I'd seen what lay beyond it. We both picked up our tea at the same time.

"Don't worry about it, mate. I spent my childhood living in places like this. Maybe I can help you find somewhere better. Until the game thing kicks in."

He tried to sip his tea as his eyes flicked toward the Mickey Mouse alarm on top of the fire.

Time to get down to business. "By the looks of it, things ain't that good, are they? You on the dole?"

Jack the Lad came back with a grin. "Yeah, who ain't? I mean, free money, madness not to. Am I right or what?"

He went back to concentrating on his tea.

"Tom, I think I can help. I've been offered a job that would earn you enough to buy an apartment and pay any debts outright."

He didn't trust me: understandable, it wasn't as if he knew me as Mr.

Nice Guy. His eyes were still checking Mickey Mouse now and again.

"How much?" He tried to make it sound casual, but didn't quite pull it off.

I avoided burning my lips on my tea and took a sip. It was horrible.

It should have been in a scent bottle, not a mug. "I don't exactly know yet, but I reckon your share would be at least one hundred and thirty thousand cash. That's the minimum. All I need is a week of your time; two weeks at the most."

I didn't have a clue how long the job was going to take, but once I got him to Finland, what could he do if it took longer? Getting him there was priority number one at the moment.

"Is it legal? I ain't doing anything shady, mate. I don't want any more trouble. I'm not getting locked up again, know what I mean?"

My tea went back on the carpet. It was shit anyway. "Look, first of all, my name is Nick. And no, it's not illegal. I don't want to go to prison, either. It's just that I've been given this opportunity and I need someone brilliant with computers. I thought of you. Why not?

I'd rather you had the money than anyone else. You even get a free trip to Finland out of it."

"Finland?" Jack the Lad was returning once again, head jutting. "Hey, everyone is online up there. It's the cold, know what I mean, Nick.

Too cold, like. Nothing else to do." He laughed.

I laughed along with him as his eyes moved over to Mickey again. "Tom, do you need to be somewhere else?"

"Nah, it's just that Janice is home soon and the fact is, well, she don't know nothing-you know, my old work, getting put behind bars, all that stuff. I haven't really got round to telling her. I'm just a bit worried that, you know, if she came in and you said something"

"Hey, no problems. I'll keep quiet. Tell you what, when she comes in I'll just say that I've got a small computer firm and I'm offering you a couple of weeks' work up in Scotland, testing systems. How's that sound?" "Nice one, but what's the form, you know, what are you after in Finland?"

"It's very, very simple. All we need is to access a system and then download some stuff. Until we get there I don't know what, how, and when."

He immediately looked worried. I had to get in there straight away. I needed some lies. "It's not what you're thinking. It is legitimate.

All we're going to do is find out about some new photocopier technology. And we've got to do it in a totally legal way, otherwise the money men don't want to know." I couldn't think of anything more boring and nonthreatening than a photocopier and I waited for a bolt of something to come at me through the window.

God must have been asleep or had all his lightning still in the freezer. I carried on before Tom had a chance to think about it and ask questions.

"I can get us into the place," I went on, "but I need someone who knows what the fuck they're looking at once we're in front of one of those things." I pointed at the heap of crap in the corner that was trying to look like a computer. He didn't say anything but looked at his greasy monitor screen, maybe thinking of the candy colored Power Mac and matching iMac laptop he could buy with his cut.

"Everything will be laid on when we get there, Tom. They know where the place is, all you've got to do is access and download it. Not steal, mind, just copy. Easy money."

I braced myself in case God had stirred in time to hear that last bit.

Tom fidgeted on the carpet, so I kept going for it before God woke up or Janice got home. "You know as much as me now, mate. I am going half on the money with you. One hundred and thirty grand, maybe more if we get the job done quickly. That's a shit load of cash, Tom." I paused to let him visualize a wheelbarrow full of banknotes.

Fifteen seconds was enough. "Chance of a lifetime, Tom." I sounded like a double-glazing salesman. "If you don't take it, someone else will."

I settled back on the sofa to signal that the pitch was over. The next stage would be a shedful of intimidation to make him come with me if the soft-soaping failed.

"You absolutely sure it's safe, Nick? I mean, locked up. I don't want that again. Things are sweet here, know what I mean? I'm gonna be earning big bucks soon."

Explaining to him that I knew he was bullshitting would have to wait until I read him his horoscope. "Look, mate, even if it was illegal, there's no such thing as prison when it comes to these jobs. Think about it, if they discover that you've found out about their dinky photocopier, are they really going to go to the police? Are they fuck.

Think about the shareholders, think about the bad publicity. It doesn't work like that, mate. Trust me. What happened to you before was different. That was government business." I couldn't help my curiosity. "By the way, what was it they caught you doing up at Menwith?"

He started to get edgy. "No, mate, I ain't saying nothing. I've done my time and don't say nothing to nobody. I never want to go back." He was starting to sound like an old record.

He was in a dilemma. I knew he wanted the money, but he was struggling to make a decision. Time for a new tack. "I tell you what, why don't you just come with me anyway, have a look, and if you don't like it, you can come back. I'm not trying to fuck up your life, mate.

I'm just trying to do us both a favor."

He was shifting from one buttock to another. "I dunno. Janice wouldn't like it,"

I moved forward once again on the sofa so my ass was on the edge, and went conspiratorial. "Janice doesn't need to know. Just say you're going to Scotland. Easy." The hiss of the gas fire could be heard clearly above my whisper. I decided I'd give him a bit more incentive.

"Where's your toilet, Tom?"

"Through the kitchen; you'll see the door."

I stood up and took my bag with me. "Nothing personal," I said. "Work stuff, you know."

He nodded and I didn't really know if he understood or not, because I didn't.

I went into the toilet. I'd been right, the bathroom was part of the kitchen, partitioned off by a bit of plasterboard so the landlord could claim more rooms and charge more for people to live here. I sat on the pot and counted out six grand from the dollars. I was about to shove it in my pocket when I decided to calm down a bit and put two grand back in the bag. Pulling the flush, I came out talking.

"All I know is that it's an easy job. But I need you, Tom, and if you're honest, you need the money as much as I do. Look, this is what I want to do for you."

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the four grand, making sure I rolled it with my other hand to make it look and sound extra attractive.

He tried hard to stop himself looking at it. Even this amount could probably change his life.

"This is how I'm getting paid, U.S. dollars. Here's four grand. Take it; it's a gift. Pay your bills, whatever you want. What more can I say? I'm going to go and do the job anyway. If you're coming with me, though, I need to know today. I can't fuck about."

If he didn't give me a yes by this evening it would be horoscope time.

He'd still get paid; he just wouldn't enjoy the work so much.

He fingered the money and had to split it in half to get it into his jean pockets. He tried to put a serious business expression on his face. It wasn't working. "Nice one. Thanks, Nick, thanks a lot."

Whatever happened he could have the money. It made me feel good, and with everything else going down the tubes in my life, I needed that.

But I needed to make sure he didn't fuck up with it and let it be traced back to me. "Don't go to the bank to change it or make a deposit, they'll think you're a drug dealer. Especially with an address round here."

His smile broadened.

"Take it to a few currency exchanges. The rates will be shit, but there you go. Have a nice day out. Hire a taxi; you can afford it.

Just don't change any more than three hundred dollars at a time. Oh, and for fuck's sake buy yourself a warm coat."

He looked up and the grin turned into a laugh as he did his cockerel impression. It stopped just as quickly at the sound of a key going into the door lock.

"Shit, it's Janice. Don't say jack. Promise me, Nick."

He stood up and made sure his sweatshirt was covering the two bulges in his cargos. I joined him and we waited in front of the fire as if the Queen was about to visit.

She opened the door, felt the heat and looked straight at Tom, ignoring me completely. "Have you picked up the laundry?" Heading towards the kitchen, she started throwing off her brown coat.

Tom grimaced an apology at me as he replied, "Oh, er nah, it wasn't ready, the driers were broken. I'm going to pick it up in a minute.

This is Nick. He's the one that called, you know, this morning."

She threw her coat onto the arm of the sofa, looking at me. I gave a smile and said, "Hello, nice to meet you."

"Hello," she grunted, "you found him then?" and disappeared into the kitchen.

Janice was mid-twenties, not unattractive, not attractive, just sort of ordinary. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, slightly longer than Tom's. It wasn't exactly greasy, but had that not-washed-today look.

She was also wearing just a bit too much makeup, and there was a line around her chin where it stopped.

I sat back down, but Tom stayed standing by the fire, not really knowing what to say to me about his obnoxious girlfriend. In the kitchen, cupboard doors were banged as she made her presence felt.

She came back into the living room with a candy bar and a can of Coke.

Pushing the coat onto the floor she plonked herself on the sofa next to me, pulled the foil off the chocolate, opened the can and started attacking both. The noise of her drinking would have made a thirsty bricklayer proud. Between gulps she pointed at the mantel. "Tom, pass me the cards."

He did as he was told. We both watched as she pulled out a lipstick from her coat pocket and threw it on her lips. Then, while she slurped and munched, she kissed the remaining blank cards.

She looked up, and stared at me for a few moments, then turned to Tom.

"Pass me the rest."

He picked up a large envelope near the fire and passed it over, red with embarrassment.

Pouring the white cards onto the floor she started to reapply the red stuff and kiss away. The signing was obviously done later, during a gentler moment.

We weren't going to get any more talking done. It was time for me to leave.

"Thanks for the tea, Tom, I think I'll be off now. Nice to meet you'

Janice She nodded, not bothering to look up.

Tom looked nervously at me, then at Janice's head. As I got to my feet and picked up the bag, he blurted, "Tell you what, I'll walk down with you, I've got to collect the laundry anyway."

We didn't speak as we walked down the stairs. I knew what I wanted to say, but what was the point? Someone calling your girlfriend an obnoxious dog wouldn't exactly induce you to go away with him.

As we walked back toward All Saints Road, he stammered, "It's not her, you know, Juicy Lucy. She gets a tenner for every two hundred. This week it's Lucy, I think next week it's Gina again. I help her out." He rubbed his chin. "I have to shave though, otherwise I leave stubble marks in the lipstick. "We have piles of dirty underwear in the bedroom. A guy drops them off on a Thursday."

I couldn't help but laugh at the picture of him in front of the fire, kissing cards and packing underwear for the country's crotch sniffers.

His head went back into cockerel mode. "Yeah, well, like I said, it's only until the money comes in. They're really keen Activision, the Tomb Raiderlot, all the big boys-I'm just about to hit it big time, know what I mean?"

"Yes I do, Tom." I knew exactly.

I gave it one more try once we'd turned the corner into All Saints and Janice couldn't see us if she looked out. I stopped and faced him outside a window full of faucets, waste pipes, and assorted plumber's shit.

"Tom, think about this seriously. I'm not going to do anything that's not kosher. I'm too old for that sort of stuff. All I want to do is make some money, the same as you. I need you with me, but I must know by tonight if you're up for it."

He was looking at the sidewalk, shoulders slumped. "Yeah. But you know…" The cold was starting to get to him. I didn't know whether he didn't have a coat because they hadn't kissed enough cards or if he was just too stupid to remember to put one on.

We got to Westbourne Park Road, a main drag. I wanted a taxi so I stood on the corner. He stood next to me, shifting from one foot to the other. I put a hand on his shoulder. "Listen, mate, go and change some money and think about it, and we'll meet up tonight, all right?"

I started looking for cabs as he nodded at the sidewalk again. "I'll call you about sevenish and we'll have a drink, okay?"

A yellow light appeared in the gloom and I stuck out my hand. The cab stopped and the diesel engine chugged away, but not as fast as the meter.

Tom was still stooped, hands dug deep in his pockets, shivering. I talked to the top of his head. "Tom, this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. Think hard about it."

The top of his head moved in what I took to be another nod.

I couldn't stand his shivering any more and unzipped my jacket. "For fuck's sake, put this thing on, will you?" He protested feebly, then returned my grin as he took the coat. At least I could see his face now.

"Once-in-a-lifetime, mate." I got into the taxi, asked for Marble Arch and turned to close the door and pull down the window.

Tom was just finishing zipping up. "Hey, Nick, fuck it. Why not, I'm up for it." The cockerel had returned.

I didn't want to show how pleased I was. "That's good. I'll call you tonight with the details. We have to leave tomorrow. Is that okay?

You got a passport?"

"No probs."

"Excellent. Remember," I pointed to his wad, "there's plenty more where that came from. One week, maybe two, who knows?"

I put my thumb to my ear and little finger to my mouth to mime a call.

"Tonight at seven."

He did the same. "Nice one."

"Tom, one last thing. You have a credit card?"

"Er, yeah. Why's that?"

"I haven't got mine. You might have to pay for the tickets, but don't worry, I'll give you the cash before we go."

I didn't give him time to think too much about that one. As the taxi pulled away I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, and I had a sneaking suspicion that Tom wouldn't be sharing his newfound wealth with Janice. I knew I wouldn't if I was him.

After giving the cab driver a new drop-off point, I bought myself a blue ski jacket on Oxford Street, and went to a drugstore for some bits and pieces I'd need for the DLB (dead letter box), so I could leave our details with Liv. Before E4 spotted me at the apartment, I'd thought Liv wanting to use a DLB just to hand over some flight details was a bit paranoid. But now I knew it was essential. If E4 were on to her, I didn't want any more contact with her in the U.K. The last thing I needed was for Lynn to have a picture of that on his desk. The shit would be so high I'd never be able to dig myself out.

I booked the flights from a phone box, and they held them in Tom's name. I'd get him to pay for them with his credit card at the airport tomorrow; now that Davidson was history, I had no choice. No one needed to know that Nick Stone was leaving the country. I wondered if Tom was still being monitored, now that he was a known subversive, but decided I'd have to take that risk. There wasn't time to do anything about it.

With my new coat to keep me warm I decided I'd walk it to the DLB she'd given me. It wasn't that far away.

Fighting my way through the Saturday shopping frenzy I eventually made the 200 yards or so to Oxford Circus. The BBC studios in Portland Place were in front of me on the right. I stayed on the opposite sidewalk and headed for the Langham Hilton.

About hundred and fifty feet short of the hotel I walked under some scaffolding. Beneath it were two old-style red telephone booths.

In the windows of each were maybe twenty calling cards, held in position by fun tac. The authorities would be around at some point today to clean them out, but they'd be restocked an hour later.

I went into the left-hand booth and saw Susie Gee's card three quarters of the way up, facing Oxford Circus. She looked very sultry, on all fours and kissing the air. At the same time as I peeled her off the glass I got out a large black marker pen and scored a line down the window.

Folding Susie into my pocket I moved on toward the hotel. It was a bit premature to leave the DLB loaded sign, but I wasn't expecting any problems.

With my bag in hand I walked through the hotel's revolving doors, which had been started for me by a guy dressed in a green three-quarter length tunic and something that looked like a cross between a turban and a beret on his head. He looked a right nerd.

The interior of the Langham was very plush, and very full of businessmen and wealthy-looking tourists. It was Indian the med with the Chukka Bar to my left as I walked into the marble reception area.

Liv's instructions were perfect. To the right and up a few steps was the reception desk, and ahead of me was a restaurant-cum tea room. My destination, however, was the basement.

Down below was every bit as plush as above. Temperature controlled and soft-carpeted, it housed the conference rooms and business center.

Standing on an easel outside the George Room, a black felt board with white press-on letters announced, "Management 2000 welcomes our conference guests." Passing it and two wall phones that I would be coming back to, I headed for the rest rooms.

Opposite the rest room doors were more phones, a cloakroom and a table rigged up with tea, coffee, and cookies. Sitting ready to serve was a black guy and a white woman talking in that shifty tone that you just know means they're dissing the management. As soon as they saw me, they gave me their corporate smiles; I smiled back and headed for the men's room.

Sitting down in one of the stalls, I took out a little plastic pillbox from my drugstore bag, the sort that people use to hold their day's supply of vitamins, along with a pack of adhesive-backed Velcro patches. I stuck both a female and a male patch onto the pillbox just in case she'd fucked up on what side to use; it would be embarrassing if it didn't stick.

Inside the pillbox went a small scrap of paper with my message: "Arriving 1515 12th." That was all that she needed to know.

Putting the drugstore bag back in my pocket and checking that the two little squares of Velcro were secure, I came out of the toilet, smiled again at the two people in the cloakroom, turned right and went back to the first two telephones I'd passed.

They were positioned quite low down the wall, for the convenience of users in wheelchairs. I put the bag between my legs and shuffled a chair up closer to the phone. Liv had chosen well: not too busy, no video cameras about, and a reason to be there.

As I sat down, I got out a coin and Susie's card, picked up the phone, and dialed, wondering if Janice and Tom had done any lipstick cards for her lately. I wanted the display to show money being used up; otherwise it would look suspicious if anyone passed and saw that I'd been there a few minutes and was only pretending to make a call. It was a small detail, but they count.

I used my right hand to keep the phone to my ear, waiting for Susie, and felt under the wooden veneer shelf below it with my left. In the far corner, there should be a large patch of Velcro that Liv had put there.

As I fumbled about, the doors to the George Room opened behind me and out surged a stream of Management 2000 delegates.

As I listened to the ringing tone, I watched the herd move to their grazing area by the cloakroom. A young woman in her twenties sat on the chair next to me and put a coin in the box.

An aggressive Chinese woman answered me. "Hello?"

I could hear my fellow caller tap out her number as I replied.

"Susie?"

"No, you wait."

I waited. The woman next to me started talking about her child, who needed picking up from nursery school since she was going to be late.

The person at the other end was obviously annoyed. "That's not fair, Mum, it's not always the same excuse and yes, of course she remembers what her own mother looks like. Kirk is home early tonight. He'll pick her up."

A man came from behind and placed his hand on her shoulder.

She kissed it. His Management 2000 badge said David. Not quite the conference making her late home, then.

The noise level doubled as people talked management over coffee.

I found what I was looking for as I heard footsteps approaching the receiver at the other end: It was female Velcro, the soft bit, just as Liv had said.

A very husky, middle-aged voice picked up the phone. "Hello, can I help you, my love? Would you like me to run through the services?"

I ummed and aahed as the woman named the price for spending half an hour in France, Greece, and various other countries of the world with Susie. To spin out the call I asked where Susie was based, and then for directions to the address near Paddington.

"That's great," I said. "I'll think about it."

I put the phone down, picked up the bag, moved the chair back, stood up, and headed back the way I'd come, leaving the woman telling her mother it absolutely would be the last time she'd have to do this.

I turned before going through the doors, checked the box couldn't be seen from that level and went upstairs. Sinbad did his trick with the revolving doors and I was back on the street. Turning right, I headed back the way I'd come. Last light was soon; by four thirty it would be dark.

All I had to do now was call Tom at seven and tell him the timings for tomorrow morning's flight, then go and dump my leathers in the trash and my weapon in London's biggest armory, the River Thames.

15

Sunday, December 12.1333 Tarn stood in a different line for immigration. I'd told him in the nicest way that he must keep away from me until we were in the arrivals lounge-security and all that. He talked too much and too loudly to sit next to in an aircraft. We'd even checked in separately. He'd agreed with his usual, "No drama, mate. Gotcha."

On the subway to Heathrow, he'd told me that Janice was fine about him going away. "I told her I had some work with my old friend Nick in Scotland," he said. "I told her straight."

That version was about as straight as Elton John. Janice was probably severely pissed off that he was enjoying himself north of the border for two weeks while she slaved away kissing cards for Lucy. I wondered if he'd said anything to her about the money, but didn't ask. I didn't want him sounding off about his plans for world domination in the world of IT.

At least he hadn't wanted to drown himself in free alcohol on the way over. It seemed he didn't drink-a by-product, maybe, of serving a jail sentence. Just as well, because there would be none of that until we were back in the U.K.

He'd made an effort and smartened himself up a bit for the journey, which was good. I wanted him to resemble an average citizen, not look like food for customs to pull to one side for a slow once-over. He was still wearing my jacket, but had swapped the flared jeans for a new, normal pair, and he was also wearing a new red sweatshirt. However, he still had the same canvas daps on, and though he'd finished off by washing and combing his hair, he hadn't shaved.

I watched him slap his jacket as if he was doing some sort of dance.

This was the third time since leaving London that I'd seen him think he'd mislaid his passport.

We got through immigration and customs and there was no need to wait for suitcases. I'd told him that all he needed was a bit of soap and a toothbrush, and he could wash his underwear in the bath with him at night.

The sliding doors opened to admit us separately into the arrivals hall.

Tom didn't know it, but no one would be there to meet us yet. We weren't on the flight that arrived at 3:15, as I'd told Liv; we were on the 1:45. I always liked to be early in order to watch who might be waiting for me. Walking into an arrivals lounge to meet people I didn't know gave me the same feeling as knocking on a strange door, not knowing who or what was on the other side.

We met up in the hall. Tom seemed to be feeling very macho today, eyeing the women as they moved around the terminal.

"What now, mate? Where we going?"

"We're a bit early for our pickup. Let's get a coffee."

We followed the signs to the coffee shop. The glass-and-steel terminal building wasn't packed, but busy enough for a Sunday, more with tourists than business traffic. I could see a dull, gray sky beyond the glass walls, with snow piled up at the roadside and ice hanging from parked vehicles.

As we neared the cafe, Tom bouncing along at my shoulder like some younger brother, we passed two tall, blond and beautiful women at a phone booth. "Cor, check out the ass on that. I love these Nordic chicks."

The two of them caught his drift and laughed to each other as they looked at us. I just walked on, embarrassed. They would have had him for breakfast.

Tom seemed not to notice. "Hey, Nick, do you know there's more people up here who are on the Internet and have cell phones than anywhere else. You know, per capita."

"That's interesting, Tom." For once he had said something that was.

He liked that. "That's right, mate. Must be all that darkness up here. Fuck all else to do, I s'pose."

I looked at him and smiled, even though the joke had been better first time round.

His face beamed and his hamster cheeks nearly covered his eyes. "These people are at the cutting edge, know what I mean?" He caught up the step that separated us and whispered in my ear, his head jutting in time. "That's why the photocopier know-how is here. I'm right, aren't I?"

I was bored but managed a reply. "It's probably the long hours of darkness. There's nothing else to do but Xerox, I suppose. Coffee, Tom?"

"Nah, tea. Herbal or fruit if they have it."

We were soon at a table, me with coffee, Tom with a pot of hot water and an apple-flavored tea bag wrapped in foil. Opposite was a bank of screens, obviously Internet stations. It was only a matter of time before Tom saw them, too, and I would be sitting alone, which wouldn't be a bad thing.

His eyes lit up and sure enough he was getting to his feet. "I'm gonna have to go and check that out. You coming?"

He did, taking his tea with him. I didn't.

He was back very quickly, before I'd even tasted my coffee. "You haven't got any coins, have you, mate? I've got no money, well, Finnish money. Only dollars, know what I mean?"

I fished out the change from the drinks as he grinned at his own joke.

I decided to have a walk around to see if I could spot anything threatening. I'd shaken off E4, but Val obviously had enemies, and while I was working for him that made them my enemies, too.

My documents always stayed with me, but there was something else I wanted from my duffel before I wandered off. Digging around for the leather zip-up organizer, I dropped both our bags at Tom's feet and headed for the departures lounge upstairs. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nobody waffling into their lapels or facing into the crowd while pretending to read a newspaper.

I took a walk outside, but not for long, the cold biting into my face and hands. I hadn't seen anything that looked as if it was bad and intended for me.

Back inside Arrivals and in the warm, there were a couple of boys in suits with legal-size, clear plastic folders showing the names of people they were there to collect.

Tom was still in Internet heaven. "Look at this, Nick. Fucking cool or what? Look, virtual Helsinki."

I was looking at a screen that displayed everything you needed to know about Helsinki, from street maps to images of hotels and booking facilities for travel or theater tickets. There was even a route plan where you actually walked down a road as if you were in a game. Still leaving the bags with him, I went and got myself another coffee, sat at the same table and watched and waited, thinking how lucky I'd been not to have had a kid brother that I'd had to drag around with me when I was growing up.

Fifteen minutes later he was back with the bags. He must have run out of money. "I just e-mailed Janice and told her I definitely can't get in touch for a while-up in the hills testing kit and all that."

I put the organizer back in my bag and finished my coffee. "We might as well make a move. They should be here by now."

Our ride was easy to spot, smartly dressed in a gray suit and overcoat, with spiky light-brown hair and a red complexion, presenting himself to the people pushing their trolleys through the automatic doors of the customs hall. He was holding up a card with felt-tipped lettering on: "Nick and another."

We went up and introduced ourselves. As we shook hands he virtually stood to attention and clicked his heels together, then he offered to take both our bags. Tom refused after I did.

The short-term parking lot was opposite Arrivals. An aircraft roared overhead as we approached a silver Mere. Tom was impressed. "Nice one."

We put the bags into the trunk and got in the back. Spike turned the engine on and the radio blared. I assumed the two presenters were running at the mouth in Finnish, but Tom looked at me. "They're speaking Latin. They're mad for it up here, mate. Dunno why, just are."

Spike turned it off.

I said, "How come you know so much about Finland?"

The Mere started moving.

"Got on the net last night and had a look, didn't I?"

"Are you going to play the walking encyclopedia the whole week?"

He looked at me, not knowing if it was an insult, then made up his mind and smiled. "Nah, mate, just thought you'd like to know."

He sat back into his seat. He was wrong, I wasn't joking.

We followed the road signs. They were in Swedish as well as Finnish, the Swedes having ruled here in the past as well as the Russians. The pavement on the road was immaculately clear of snow and ice.

The airport was quite close to Helsinki and we were soon on the city ring road. On both sides of us were low-level industrial units and large piles of cleared snow. I had to smile as I thought of the U.K., where a couple of snowflakes bring the entire nation to a halt; here they had snow for months and the country didn't miss a beat.

I saw a sign that said, "St. Petersburg 381km." Within three or four hours we could be out of one of the wealthiest and most advanced places on earth and entering a city of chaos and anarchy. But I didn't have to worry; we followed the exit and moved onto another highway, the E75, and started to head away from the built up area, such as it was.

The small floating ball compass that was stuck on the dashboard told me we were generally heading north. Every vehicle on the highway had its lights on; it was the law.

We cruised comfortably along the highway, passing through pine forests, snow, and impressive cuts into massive granite outcrops. I looked over at Tom, who was resting his head on the seat, his eyes closed and his Walkman earphones in. I decided to take his cue and sit back and relax, though I kept my eyes on the road signs. Lahti and Mikkeli seemed to be likely targets, and after just under an hour it was quite clear where we were heading. We took the Lahti exit.

The town was dominated by two very tall Eiffel Tower-like structures, both painted red and white, their spires obscured by the cloud cover, and with aircraft warning lights flashing away on all sides. The place was heaving with both traffic and people. It was a winter sports town; a ski jump towered over the houses, and as we started to rumble down the cobblestones of the main shopping area, I saw that even senior citizens were using cross-country poles instead of walking sticks.

The inhabitants of Lahti were obviously in love with concrete and steel. Instead of traditional wooden dwellings with maybe a reindeer or two parked up outside, they went for new model Saabs, 4x4s, and a blaze of Christmas decorations. We turned left by the town square and passed a brightly lit market, steam rising above the mass of canvas and nylon stall covers. Bundled up to stand in the cold all day, the traders looked more like astronauts.

We slowed down almost immediately at a sign telling us we were at the Alexi Hotel. Cutting left, over the sidewalk, we stopped by a garage door that instantly started to open. A group of mothers with running strollers walked around the back of the Mere before bumping back up onto the walkway.

We drove quite fast down a steep concrete ramp into a large, badly lit underground parking area. Puddles of water covered the floor where snow and ice had melted off the vehicles already here, and just about every car had skis strapped to its roof rack.

We cruised about looking for a space. Tom was sitting up now, earphones out and eyes wide. "It's like one of them spy films, Nick, know what I mean?" His tone changed as he thought about what he'd just said. "It's all right, isn't it? I mean, you know what's happening, don't yer?"

I nodded, not really feeling too sure.

Parking with the nose pointing out in a vacant space, Spike turned off the engine and swiveled round in his seat. "Please, your phones, your pagers, and your e-mail devices," he said in heavily accented English.

"You must leave them here. No worry, you get them back." He smiled, showing a not-so-good set of teeth.

I explained that, as instructed, neither of us had brought any.

He smiled again. "Good. Thank you, thank you."

The trunk clicked open behind us as Spike pulled on the lever next to his seat. I got out of the car, and Tom followed just as a black 4x4 Mercedes, the old square shape, moved slowly toward us. The glare of its headlights prevented me seeing who was inside.

I looked at Spike, who didn't seem remotely concerned. The 4x4 stopped, its engine running. It had blacked-out rear windows and the only occupant I could see was the driver.

She looked very different from the last time I'd seen her. Then, she'd resembled an off-duty Italian; now she was wearing a chunky gray Norwegian-style turtleneck which came right up to her chin, decorated with weird and wonderful patterns. A Tibetan hat with earflaps covered most of the rest of her face, but I could just make out some wisps of blond hair.

As the front window slid down, I was treated to a very pleasant but businesslike smile. "Get in the back of the vehicle quickly, please."

She added something in Finnish to Spike, and he shook his head back to her as we climbed into the rear seats with our bags. The vehicle was cold; she must have been waiting for us without the engine running or the heater on.

"Please sit well down in your seats and keep away from the windows."

Tom looked at me for an explanation. I shrugged. "Later, mate."

I turned back to face the windshield and saw Liv watching me in the rearview mirror. She smiled. "Welcome to Finland."

She then tilted her head to look at Tom. "My name is Liv. I'm very pleased to meet you."

Tom nodded, looking almost shy. She clearly had the same effect on him as she did on me. He turned to glance at his reflection in the blacked-out window, probably wishing he'd combed his hair.

We drove back out onto the road, turning left. The lights burned even brighter in the marketplace; it was getting quite dark.

"We don't have a lot of time," Liv said. "Events have moved on from our last conversation. You must carry out the task this Tuesday."

Another of their minor complications. I didn't believe her; I bet that this had always been the timing Val wanted, but instead of telling me in case it put me off, she'd just bullshit ted "I need to see the target," I said. "Two nights isn't a lot of time for preparation. You'll have to tell me all you know tonight, and I'll recce the place tomorrow."

"Yes, of course. I am also concerned that Tom should have enough time to break through the firewall so he can access the system."

Tom sat up, like a well-behaved child trying to please an adult.

"It'll be okay. Just show me what you've got."

"I will, Tom. Very soon."

There was a long pause as Tom sank back into the seat.

I looked at the road. "Where are we going now?"

"It's not far, by the lakes."

That wasn't much of a clue. The whole country was covered with the things.

The black and yellow florescent sign of a town's silhouette with a red line through it told me I was now out of Lahti. We hit a good quality single-lane road, lined at first with houses, their Christmas decorations glowing in the darkness, then giving way to trees and cuts through granite once again. Another sign told me that Mikkeli was now sixty-six miles away. We must still be heading north.

I kept my eyes on the odometer as we passed a succession of plastic mailboxes on posts, all neatly aligned by the roadside, the only sign that, somewhere deep in these forests, lay habitation.

The cloud cover and closeness of the trees made darkness fall on us completely, the reflection from the clean white snow almost doubling the effectiveness of the headlights.

The 4x4 Mere soon warmed up and Tom had his headphones on and eyes closed. I found myself trying to think of things to say to Liv, but small talk wasn't on her agenda.

There was far more checking of mirrors than was required for normal driving; she was carrying out anti surveillance That was why we'd met in the parking lot and come straight out before any connection could be made between the two vehicles. If anybody had been following us from the airport, they would naturally have assumed we were going into the hotel.

I could see her face illuminated by the dashboard as I sat up. "Liv?

Why all the fuss about telephones and pagers? And why the dead letter box?"

"The old ways are the best." She smiled. "A Sicilian once told me that to be sure there's a future, you must learn the lessons of the past. For centuries his organization had used messengers who would exchange information person to person. That way there was control of anything sensitive. But then they started operating in America and they got lazy. In the late fifties they started to use the telephone, and it was their downfall. If information is important and you want to keep it safe, you must communicate in person. That way you keep control."

I started to see signs for the E75 and Mikkeli, then the treeline disappeared and the highway came into view about 400 yards below me on the right. Lines of headlights moved in both directions, but we stayed on the old road and the trees returned to cut out the view. It would be easier to see if anyone was behind us.

Liv continued. "As to the rest of your question, we take all necessary precautions. Not only with our information, but with our people. That's the reason why all contact from now on will be exclusively with me."

I decided not to tell her what had happened after leaving the flat. She and Val knew far too much about me already.

Streetlights sprang up at the roadside and signs told me we were approaching a place called Heinola.

Tom sparked up, taking off his headphones. A low-toned, tinny dance beat filled the air. "Are we there yet?"

Liv helped out. "Another thirty minutes, Tom."

He became a bashful schoolboy again. "Oh… thanks."

Liv turned the heating down a notch and pulled off her hat. Her hair bounced around her shoulders.

Tom was looking out at the town and daydreaming as he pulled a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose, then examined his effort in the streetlight, as if it held some sort of prophecy.

We finished moving around the town, another anti surveillance maneuver, and left on a much smaller road. The houses and lights quickly dwindled and trees and darkness soon took over, with just the occasional driveway leading into the woods.

Liv was still checking behind us for lights, and Tom, having found the meaning of life in his Kleenex, went back to listening to his music.

Eventually we turned onto a blacktop road, tree lined and cleared of snow, then carried on for another two to three miles, down a slight hill, until the trees gave way to a house that was suddenly illuminated by ground lights as the vehicle approached. We must have passed a sensor.

The place looked like something out of a James Bond film. Blofeld was probably looking down on us from inside, stroking his cat.

It was maybe sixty or seventy yards long and looked just as if someone had taken an enormous slice out of an apartment building and perched it twenty feet off the ground on two massive concrete supports. Val certainly did things in style.

The driveway took us under the house, where glass panels sealed the area around the pillars to make an internal parking lot. Two large patio type doors opened automatically as we approached, then closed behind us.

It was surprisingly warm as I stepped out of the Mere. The lights shining through the windows and the reflection of the snow made me screw up my face until my eyes adjusted.

Liv hit a key chain and a brown door opened in the left-hand pillar.

Tom and I grabbed our bags and followed her into a hot stairwell. I noticed that light-brown walking boots had replaced the cowboy look.

We entered a vast, high-ceilinged space, maybe thirty yards long and twenty wide, and, just like the London flat, it was clinically white and sparsely furnished. There was a door to my immediate right which led into the kitchen, through which I could see white veneer cupboards and steel countertops.

The living area, where we were standing, was straight out of an Architectural Digest. Two white leather sofas faced each other across a glass-and-chrome coffee table, and that was it. No TV, music center, magazines, flowers, pictures on the wall, nothing. White vertical blinds stretched from floor to ceiling where I expected windows to be.

The lighting was low and supplied by wall lamps white of course. There were no fixtures in the ceiling.

Tom and I stood with our bags in our hands, taking it all in.

"I'll show you your rooms." Liv was already walking toward the far right-hand door. I wondered if she ever waited for anyone, or if Armani insisted she always went in front.

We followed into a hallway, our shoes squeaking on the polished wooden floor.

My room was through the first door on the left. Again, it was a world of white, with a low, Japanese-style bed, shower, white marble tiling, and stacks of brand-new white towels. There was no wardrobe, just small canvas storage spaces suspended from a chrome rail. Surprisingly, because the view must have been fantastic, there were no windows.

Liv said, "No need. It's always too dark."

I put my bag on the floor; there was nowhere else to put it.

She turned away. "Tom, your room is next door."

They disappeared, but I could hear the mumble of voices through the wall as I took my jacket off and listened to the constant hum of the heating. Her rubber-soled boots soon came squeaking past and she paused in the doorway. "Would you like some coffee, Nick, and maybe something to eat? Then we must get to work. We don't have much time."

"Yeah, thanks."

She nodded and made her way back toward the living area.

I repositioned my bag in the corner of the room it seemed out of place anywhere else as Tom stuck his head round the door. "Nice one, mate.

She worth price of admission or what? You coming for a snack?"

A couple of minutes later, Tom and I sat facing each other on the white leather. The sofa made creaking sounds as we got comfortable, and the clink of china came from the kitchen. It seemed I wouldn't get anything out of him while Liv was about, which wasn't a bad thing really. At least it shut him up. We sat and waited with only the low hum of the heating for company.

She reappeared with a full coffepot, milk, and mugs on a tray, and a plate of crackers and sliced cheese. Placing it on the glass table, she sat down next to Tom. I wasn't sure whether he was wriggling with pleasure or embarrassment.

"Let me explain the setup," she said. "I will be staying here with you both. My room is over on the other side." She pointed to the opposite door.

"The room across from your bedrooms is where the laptop is, for you, Tom, to decrypt the firewall. I'll tell you more about that in a moment." She turned to me. "Nick, also in there are maps of the house you'll be visiting."

She started to pour. "By Tuesday morning you must have discovered the access sequence, entered the house, and copied the files. If not, my instructions are that the deal is off."

I sat and listened, knowing that even if I had to make a pact with the devil it would all be completed in time. I wanted this money. I needed this money.

Liv and I took a sip of black coffee. Tom didn't touch his, obviously not wanting to be a nuisance and ask for anything herbal. We lapsed back into a strained silence.

She sat and watched our discomfort, almost enjoying it. It made me feel as if she knew more about Tom and me than we did about her.

At length I said, "It will happen."

Tom nodded. "No drama."

"I'm sure it will. We will discuss the minor details of money, information exchange, and so on later." She stood up. "Come, bring your drinks. Let's start work."

We followed her down the hall. The room on the right was just as white as the rest of the house, and very large and rectangular. There were two pine desks and chairs. One had an aluminum briefcase on it, the other, a small black sleek-looking IBM laptop a bit smaller than a sheet of Xerox paper, together with the box it had come in, with spare wires draped over the top and a thin black nylon carry bag with a shoulder strap.

Liv pointed at the briefcase. "Tom, that Think Pad is for you. Nick, come." She continued to the other desk.

As she and Tom started to talk firewall stuff, I undipped the case and lifted the lid. I found several marked maps, all of different scales.

It looked as if we were aiming for a town called Lappeenranta, about seventy-five miles to the east of us and close to the Russian border.

The largest scale map showed that the whole area was a massive system of lakes, maybe more than eighty miles square, with hundreds of small islands and inlets dotted with villages and small towns. The target was just over fifteen miles north of Lappeenranta, along a road linking some of the islands to an area called Kuhala. The house wasn't lakeside, but set back about under a mile from the water and surrounded by forest.

Liv left us to it, and I watched her go. She was unbelievably cool. I realized that I was beginning to like her a lot.

"Hey, Tom?" I turned to face him. He was hunched over the small screen, his back to me.

He turned in his chair and looked up. "What's the matter, mate?"

"I think it would be better if you didn't mention anything to Liv about the money. It's just that she may be getting less than us and will get a bit pissed off. If she asks, just say you don't know, okay?"

"Isn't this her place, then?"

"I doubt it. She's just working on the job, like us. I think it would be best if we kept our cards close to our chests, okay?"

He turned back to the desk. "If you say so, mate. Whatever." The keys started to clink away once more under his dancing fingers. "Means jack to me."

I returned to the material spread out in front of me. Maps are useful things, but they only go so far. I needed to get my ass on target and do a proper recce. I listened to Tom messing about behind me as I sat and memorized the maps.

The best way I had learned to do this was by visualizing the route I'd take. It was far easier than trying to remember place names and road numbers. I sat there, staring at the blank wall, making my way from Heinola to the target house, when I noticed a piece of plasterboard missing around a double-pronged plug.

I got on my knees and had a look, pulling back the edge of the board to reveal lead sheeting behind, covered with a plastic, saran wrap-type lining. I glanced back at Tom. He was still hammering on the keyboard like a man possessed.

I pushed the plasterboard back in place and walked around the room, looking for any more holes. Then I realized there weren't any phone jacks. Even in a modern house that was taking minimalism a bit far.

Was it to make this place impossible to communicate with electronically? If so, Val took his work very seriously indeed, and it unnerved me a bit. I didn't like discovering things that I should know already.

I walked across to Tom's desk and stood over him, looking at a screen full of numbers and letters. Some of the vertical lines would change every time he hit a key.

"Do you understand what you've got there?"

"No problem; it's all about algorithms and protocols, hardened proxies, stuff like that. What it boils down to is that I need to find the access sequence among a million or so different sets of characters.

That's the firewall between me and the rest of the system." He pointed at the screen, never letting his eyes wander from it. "This is quite a sophisticated crypto, as it has a learning program that detects unusual events, like me trying to hack in, and interprets them as an attack. If we were trying to do this on site I wouldn't be able to do it in time.

But this setup is perfect: I have time to play."

His attention was drawn away from talking to me as he leaned forward slightly and studied the screen. We were both silent for a few seconds as he mumbled crypto stuff to himself, then he came back to planet earth. "Anyway, once I've hacked into it here, all I have to do is configure the Think Pad bring it with me and then I can download all the files she wants. Easy life."

I watched him as he did his stuff. He'd turned into the master of his universe, hands gliding over the keys, quick, confident and in command.

Even his tone had changed as he explained what he was up to.

"Tom, will you be able to get past this thing?" The screen full of moving numbers, letters, and symbols looked like total confusion to me.

"No drama, mate. No drama."

I looked over at the broken plasterboard. "One more question."

His eyes still didn't leave the screen. "What's that?"

I changed my mind. "I'm going for a coffee. You coming?"

"Nah, mate, I'm gonna stay here. Things to do, know what I mean?"

I left him to it. I wanted to know why the lead was there, and maybe he could help, but why risk him stressing? The less he knew the better.

16

I walked into the living area after having no luck finding a phone jack in my bedroom. The light was still on, but the room was empty and the coffee things had been cleared away. There was only a thick paperback book on the glass table. I wandered around the room, checking for jacks, but didn't find any. There were none in the kitchen, either.

I couldn't see any gaps in the wall covering to check for lead, so I decided to go a different route. Walking over to the ceiling-to-floor blinds I gave one of them a poke. It didn't move, and was extremely hard and heavy.

There was a switch on the wall near by, and you didn't need to be a brain surgeon to work out what it did. When I flicked it, a motor whirred above me in the ceiling. I watched as they began to open from the center. It was dark outside, but the living-room lights exposed a long narrow balcony beyond triple-glazed sliding doors. Virgin snow lay three feet deep all along it, resting against the glass. A little further out, the tops of a few snow-covered pine trees were also visible, but beyond that was inky blackness.

I turned, hearing bare feet moving toward me. Liv was six or seven steps away, wearing a blue silk bathrobe which finished just above her knees, exposing each thigh in turn as she moved.

Two more steps and she reached past me and hit the switch. She smelled as if she'd just stepped out of the shower.

The motor whirred and the blinds began to close again. She took a step back. "Nick, the blinds must remain closed at all times when Tom is working on the computer." She waved a palm in the direction of the sofa. "Shall we sit?"

As she crossed the room, I followed. She saw my eyes flick to the blinds and guessed what I was about to say. "Yes, Nick, before you ask, they are lined with lead. The whole house is. Valentin doesn't like his competitors learning what he's doing. Millions of dollars are spent accessing information about rivals in this business. He ensures that it's money wasted as far as spying on him is concerned. Valentin knows the true value of information-not money, but power."

"So that's why no phones?"

The blinds finished closing as we sat facing each other on the sofa. As she tucked her legs underneath her, the silk followed the contours of her body.

"Please, Nick, will you tell Tom? House rule."

"No problem. But will you do me a favor in return? It would make things a lot easier for us if you didn't tell Tom anything about the Maliskia, or about the deal we have. He's a worrier and I want him to concentrate on the job." The last thing I needed was her telling him how much money was really involved.

"Of course," she smiled. "I never have a problem with keeping information to a minimum. On the other hand, I also find it better to tell the truth about important matters. Maybe Tom would be better off knowing about the Maliskia, and the money, rather than possibly finding out at a later date? Lies can be so confusing and counterproductive; but then, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that, do you?"

I wasn't too sure if it was a rhetorical question; whatever, I wasn't going to give her a full answer. I shrugged.

She leaned forward to pick up the book on the coffee table, and as she settled back, her silk bathrobe fell down on either side of her legs. I tried not to look, but couldn't help myself. Liv was one of the most beautiful, attractive, and intelligent women I'd ever seen. It was a pity I had champagne tastes and a lemonade budget. I would never have what it took to attract somebody like her, and, sadly, she didn't strike me as the sort to dispense charity shags to the poor.

She pulled the gown together as she caught my eye. "Does this bother you? You English are so strange; you're so repressed."

"What about you lot?" I grinned. "You seem to be so reserved with strangers, yet think nothing of sitting naked with them in saunas, chatting about the weather. Then you charge out and roll naked in the snow, beating yourselves with birch twigs. So who's playing with a full deck?"

She smiled. "We're all prisoners of our past, and maybe we Finns more than most."

That one got me knitting my brow. It was a bit too deep for me.

"I don't expect you to understand this, Nick, but Nordic myth is more deeply ingrained in our psyche than in any of the other Scandinavian cultures. Probably a legacy of all those centuries of Swedish and Russian domination." She tapped the book. "A collection of Finnish folklore. See, we're captivated."

"I'm more of a Harry Potter man myself," I said. I didn't know what the fuck she was talking about.

It was her turn to look puzzled. She probably thought he wrote spy thrillers, or whatever crap I read.

"Nick, I need to finalize some drop off' she corrected herself "dead letter box details with you for the information and money exchange. We shall all go to Helsinki in the morning, even if Tom hasn't got through the firewall by then. It's important that he isn't kept in the dark."

I opened my mouth to speak, but she seemed to have accessed my own firewall. I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or alarmed by the fact that she seemed to know exactly what I was thinking.

"Nick, I've already told you there is nothing to be concerned about. No one is looking for you there. Otherwise it would be pointless going, wouldn't it? We all want you to be successful, so why would we be taking such a risk?"

That made sense, but it was less than a week since Carpenter had turned Helsinki into Dodge City, and I didn't want to find myself next door to anyone who mistook me for one of his close personal friends.

"Once you and Tom have left tomorrow night, you must never return here, whatever happens. That way this place remains secure. In any event, no one will be here, as I am leaving soon after you. I will take anything you want to leave behind, and return it at the exchange. You are to make your way to the DLB on Wednesday morning and leave details for a meeting between just the two of us.

"The details of the exchange are totally your concern. Valentin wants to give you control of the arrangements, as a gesture of good faith and to give you confidence that nothing uncomfortable will occur during the transaction. To help ensure this, you will still be in contact exclusively with me." She gave me the full benefit of those wonderful eyes. "Do not worry, Nick, this business is not being conducted in a way that jeopardizes any of us."

I tried not to laugh. Maybe she hadn't noticed how people like Val conducted business. If he didn't have control of an apartment building he'd blow it up, no matter who was still inside. I wasn't quite ready to assume he was my new best friend. In the meantime, I would pick the time and place, and they would come to me. It made sense.

I nodded. "What if I don't make the dead letter box?"

"If you don't, Tom will. That is why he needs to be with us tomorrow.

If there's no message for me by Wednesday evening, I'll know that something is seriously wrong and the deal is off. Sometimes you win, other times…" She shrugged.

There was silence for a moment or two. "How did you come to meet Valentin?"

"Like you, he asked me to work for him." She smiled, crossing her legs. "And no, Nick, I'm not his mistress."

She'd read my mind again. Three hundred years ago she would have been burned at the stake.

"The only thing he wants from me is my doctorate in Russian political science. You see, Nick, this is where the money is for now. And the fact is, I enjoy that money. I work hard and I'm well rewarded."

She sat back, and when she spoke again her voice was low. "My parents were Swedish. They are both dead now. I was born here, in Finland. I am a Finn. There, that is all you need to know about me. But what about you, Nick? Why did you become a kidnapper? Did you not work for the British government?"

I coughed, trying unsuccessfully to hide my embarrassment. It made sense that she would know: If she knew about the connection between Tom and me, then there was a whole lot more she probably knew, too. So much for being a deniable operator. I suddenly wasn't enjoying this as much as I thought I was going to. "Money," I said. "Just like you.

Maybe we're the same."

She gave me her most inscrutable Mr. Spock look. "Of course. That is why you are here." Her face broke into a smile. "Are you married?"

"Divorced."

"What happened, Nick? Did she not like to live with lies and half-truths?"

"I think she just didn't like living with me." I paused. "I used to be in the military and-"

"Yes, Valentin knows about your military past, Nick. That is one of the reasons you are here."

What else did he know? I didn't like the postman knowing what I looked like, let alone the head of a major organized crime group. It made me feel very uncomfortable.

I said, "What about you? Are you married?"

"I'm not so sure it would be a good idea. And being a mother? It does not interest me. Do you have children?"

"No." I made light of it. "I can just about manage to look after myself. It would be such a responsibility. What would I do if they became ill?"

She gave me a level look. "I think we have both done the right thing, Nick, don't you?"

I tried to read her expression and failed again. I didn't reply for a while, and when I did I answered one question with another. "Are you staying with us all the time, Liv?"

"I'll come and go. But essentially I'm here to make sure things run smoothly." She adjusted herself on the sofa. I got another glimpse of thigh as she tapped the book by her side. "There is a story in here about Vainamoinen, the creator of the Universe. One day he has an encounter with Joukahainen, a much younger god. The two meet riding on a narrow path and neither wants to give way. Joukahainen challenges Vainamoinen, with all the eagerness of youth and limitless self-confidence. The battle is waged by chanting magical songs, and ends with Joukahainen finding himself in a bog. You see, Nick, he simply didn't know who he was dealing with."

I took the point. Knowing who you're dealing with had always been a big thing with me. And right now the message seemed to be, they did and I didn't.

"What time are we leaving in the morning?"

"Eight. Will you tell Tom?" She yawned. "Time for bed, I think.

Good night, Nick."

I watched her walk toward the door. "Night, Liv."

She disappeared into the other half of the house. I couldn't help a smile of regret when I realized that her leaning across me to flick a wall switch was the closest we were ever likely to get. Will of the gods and all that.

17

Monday, December 13,1999 We headed south along the highway toward Helsinki, all dressed exactly the same as yesterday. Tom had headed straight for the back seat and crashed out, which left me with the option of joining him or sitting next to Liv in the front. I knew what I wanted to do, but I felt I should give her some space.

It was nearly 8:45, and after thirty minutes of staring at headlights it had begun to get light. It was going to be a sunny day; there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the unfolding view of pine trees and glittering snow was straight out of a ski brochure.

I looked across at Tom, headphones on and eyes closed. The scenery was lost on him. He was fast asleep, his head bouncing gently in time with the 4x4's movement. He'd been up late at his screen.

I'd got him to bring all his documents, even on this shopping trip. I told him it was just in case we needed to leave in a hurry-"Be prepared, Tom, know what I mean?"

He hadn't been too keen on coming, because after working much of the night, he was close to breaking the firewall. But I agreed with Liv; he needed to be aware of the game plan. We were both acting for our own selfish reasons. If there was a problem on target and Tom was the only one to get away, she had to know there was still a chance she could get the data to Val. And I wanted him along because, if I broke a leg, or wasn't able to make the DLB to collect, my money for any other reason, I wanted Tom to be able to do it for me.

Another forty minutes and we hit Helsinki city limits. Liv gave me a guided tour as we came in, pointing out some landmarks and proudly telling about how her tiny nation had routed the Red Army in the 1940 winter war. All the while, Tom's head bounced about beside me.

It was quite strange seeing the place during the day. I'd never come in until last light during the recces for Val's lift; there was no reason to expose myself and the team to CCTV and the security setup for the EU conference. No matter what the environment, it's always better to recce in the dark, and in this place there was plenty of it.

The city looked older than I'd been expecting; the airport and Intercontinental were both modern buildings, and Tom's ranting about how cutting edge the place was had led me to expect a city full of buildings out of Blade Runner.

As we weaved toward the center, the heavy morning traffic jockeyed with the streetcar to gain ground, but was generally well behaved.

"I think it's time for Tom to pay attention now, Nick."

I gave him a shake.

"What? What?" His eyes opened and he stretched as if he was coming out of hibernation.

I pointed at my mouth, indicating to him that he'd do well to wipe the dribble from his chin.

"Cheers, mate." He looked outside at the traffic. "This Helsinki, then? Looks just like the virtual tour."

Liv smiled. "I think you will find the real thing a bit chillier."

We turned a corner, passing a large illuminated sign telling us that this department store was called Stockmann. She pointed at the large window displays as we drove past. "We'll meet in the coffee shop on the sixth floor. The station is just a couple of minutes' walk away."

We drove on a couple of blocks before stopping. As I got out, I felt the bitter cold for the first time that day. With the garage being a sealed, heated part of the house, the open air hadn't had a chance to get at us. She looked back at me through the rear doors as I put my hat and gloves on. "I'll see you both in Stockmann in two hours.

You'll need about half an hour to check out the station."

I nodded and turned to Tom. "We'll use the rest of the time to get our stuff."

I closed the door of the 4x4 and she drove off. Our breath hung in clouds in front of our faces and every inch of exposed skin prickled with the cold. Tom didn't like it one bit. "Arctic or what, Nick?

For fuck's sake, can we get inside fast?"

The station was in front of us. It looked like an East German prison, very square and imposing, faced with what looked like dirty brown concrete. It could have been used as a backdrop for 1984. I checked the clock tower with Baby G and they agreed to the minute: 10:22.

As we joined the rest of the pedestrian traffic waiting obediently for the little green man, Tom frowned and said, "Nick?"

"What?" I was concentrating more on looking for a gap between the streetcars that I could dash through. I had no intention of freezing to death, waiting for little green men.

"Do you trust her you know, Liv? You sure everything's sweet?"

Liv's advice about being truthful flashed through my head, thankfully not powerfully enough for me to take it. I tried never to trust anyone, and after what had happened in Washington, I certainly wasn't going to now. There might not be too much time to do this job correctly, and I might be desperate for the cash, but I wouldn't be doing anything until I'd put my own and Tom's safety net in place today.

The lights changed and we started walking. "Don't worry, mate, everything is fine. In fact, having a meeting point like this is one of the things that makes me feel better about her. It means these people are switched on and want the job done with no hassle. Don't worry about it."

He shrugged. "Yeah, but what can you do to guarantee we ain't getting screwed, know what I mean? Are you going to do what she wants? You know, come back here and give her the Think Pad with the download and take the money? Or are you gonna ask for more? I bet it's worth a fortune."

Even if the thought had crossed my mind, I wasn't going to admit it to him. "No, mate, I just want to do this right. Just exchange that little machine of yours for the money and get back to the U.K. That way everything stays safe and easy. Whichever way you look at it, it's still good money." All the time I had my smiley face on. I felt like I was trying to encourage a small child to eat his sprouts.

I was expecting more questions, but he just shrugged his shoulders again. "Only asking, mate. If it's good enough for you, it's good enough for me. Tell you what, she's tasty, ain't she?"

I grinned. "Yes, she's very beautiful. Out of our league though, son." I somehow couldn't picture Liv kissing Juicy Lucy cards in Netting Hill, or spending her day sorting out my boiler.

The main doors to the station were heavy and wooden, with porthole windows protected by metal grills. We pushed through and immediately came face to face with Santa, who was ringing his bell and demanding money. We sidestepped him.

The interior looked more like a well-kept museum than a railway station, with clean, stone-paved floors, thick granite supporting pillars and unbelievably high ceilings. Little snowmen hung from chandeliers, and the place echoed with public announcements, people talking, cell phones going off all over the place and, in one corner, a performer who was having a crack at the Finnish version of "Good King Wenceslas" on his accordion. The smell of cigarette smoke and fast food was strong and everywhere.

A group of people with Santa hats on and sets of skis over their shoulders tried to squeeze past stressed-out businessmen in overcoats, furry Cossack hats, and cell phones glued to their ears. The strange thing was that you couldn't see or hear a single train-this was a cold-weather station and the platforms were outside.

Tom rubbed his hands together. He liked it in here. "Christ, I almost feel human again. What now then, Nick?"

Father Christmas carried on doing his stuff as we stood and got our bearings, and I thought "almost" was as close as Tom was ever going to get.

Liv's DLB was very easy to find and, like the one at the Langham, sited well. We were standing with our backs to the main entrance. In front of us was a wide stairway and escalators that led down into the metro.

The three sides of the stairway surrounded an open square of continuous wooden benches. The DLB was by a trash can on the left-hand side.

Tom followed as I walked between the DLB and the large ticketing hall to our left, heading for a newsstand. A teenaged girl was sitting reading a magazine, ears full of Walkman, mouth full of gum. She was wearing navy-blue down snow pants under a matching jacket which was open to stop her sweating.

I nodded at Tom just before we got level with her. "There it is, mate. See the girl in blue?"

He nodded back and we carried on past.

"Okay, if you put your hand underneath the bench, exactly where she's sitting, you're going to feel a plastic container attached by Velcro.

All you do is make sure no one's looking and pull it off, go away and write a note telling them where they can find you, and they'll come."

"Isn't this all a bit James Bond, Nick? I don't like it."

"It's just basic routine. You need to know what to do if it goes wrong. You know, suppose I break a leg and can't get back here? Then it'll be down to you to hand over the goods and get us our money."

"So long as there ain't no funny business. You know, fucking her about or anything? I don't want that, mate. I just want the money."

We stopped by the wall next to the newsstand.

"Tom, it's going to go like clockwork. You just need to know this stuff in case I get injured, that's all. You're my insurance policy, and I'll be yours."

He liked that. The girl got up and walked toward us, nodding her head in time to the music stuck in her ears.

"Go on, see if there's anything there yet."

"What, now?" He looked absolutely terrified. "While everyone's here?"

"It's never going to be empty, Tom. It's a station, for fuck's sake.

All you've got to do is take a stroll over there, sit down, put your hand under the bench and have a feel around. While you're doing that I'll go and change some money for you, all right?"

I didn't wait for his answer. I wanted him to go through the motions.

If he had to get here on his own, he'd at least know what to do.

I walked further into the station. Signs in front of me pointed to the platforms and the long-term luggage lockers. I'd be checking that out soon enough.

As busy-looking people passed through the large wooden doors, I saw snow-covered cars standing at each platform. To my right were stores and rest rooms, and, about fifty feet away, the exit to the bus station. To the left were more shops and the short-term luggage lockers, then another set of doors the same distance away that led out to the taxis. Behind me were the metro stairs and a very nervous Tom.

I went left, to the currency exchange, exchanged $500, then wandered back. As I neared the DLB I could see him sitting on the bench, looking very pleased with himself. I sat next to him, squeezing into the small gap between him and a rather large woman peeling an orange.

"Piece of cake, mate. Found it first time, look."

He started to bend down.

"No, no, not now, Tom. Leave it where it is and I'll show you how to tell Liv that you've put a message in there for her."

I stood up and he followed. The woman was delighted and spread herself out more. We went toward the platform doors and turned right, passing the rest rooms.

"Tom, go in there to write your message, okay?"

He nodded, his eyes fixed on the English edition computer magazines as we passed another newsstand, with yet more people wrestling with their luggage and skis.

I explained where to leave his DLB-loaded marker. "Just beyond this coffee shop, on the right, is a row of telephones. When the time comes, get yourself a marker pen from one of these shops and draw a line down the booth of the right-hand one, okay?"

It wasn't. "Why?"

"So Liv doesn't have to sit down and feel under the bench every time to check it. If the loaded sign the marker-pen line isn't there, she knows that a message isn't, either. Otherwise she'll look just a bit suspicious on Wednesday, won't she, sitting in the same place every hour on the hour?"

He nodded thoughtfully. "Tell you what, she could sit next to me every hour on the hour, know what I mean?"

I smiled. If the two women at the airport would have had him for breakfast, Liv would probably chew him up and spit him out without looking up from her newspaper.

We were closing the gap toward the bus station doors when they all opened at once and a busload of people surged toward us, dragging their skis and luggage behind them.

Thirty feet short of the doors was a bank of four phones fixed to the wall, divided by polished-wood booths. We stood against the nearest one, letting the bus party pass with a rumble of suitcase wheels and excited conversation.

"See here?" I said.

"Yeah, you want me to mark…" He started to wave his finger.

"Hey, Tom, in spy land nobody points." I pushed his hand down and tried not to laugh. "But yes, that's right, mate, a mark. But a line, a nice thick line. Make sure you pretend to be on the phone and make sure they" I nodded toward the flower shop opposite "don't see you."

Tom's eyes followed mine. "I get it, but you'll tell me what to say in the letter, yeah?"

"Of course. Now let's go and get cold."

We walked out through the bus station, a large square concourse littered with sheltered stops.

Once onto the pavement we cut half right in the direction of Stockmann.

I handed Tom 2,000 Finnish marks from the wad I'd got from the money changer. It worked out at about six marks a dollar. He thought he was rich; his eyes shone or maybe they were starting to be affected by the cold as we walked along cobblestoned streets. The rumble of tires and metallic rhythm of the streetcar wheels meant we had to speak louder than normal.

"Tom, I want you to give me your passport and wallet for safekeeping.

I've got an idea for a little extra insurance, but listen, this is between you and me. It's not that I don't trust her, but better safe than sorry, eh?"

"Nice one, Nick. Makes me feel better."

He handed them over without questioning. It made me feel suddenly more responsible for him.

"Besides, we want to travel light tomorrow night."

You could tell Stockmann was Finland's top people's store by the line of large black or dark-blue cars outside with their engines running, waiting for their V.I.P passengers to come out and load up their Christmas shopping. When we got closer, it was clear who the cars belonged to. Large men with no necks and square heads were waiting beside them. It looked as though the hit on Val last week, was making Mr. and Mrs. Mafia a bit nervous.

A group of heavies came out just as we approached the main entrance, surrounding a very young, beautiful blonde, who was wearing more fur than a grizzly. For a moment I thought it was Liv.

A limo door opened for her, and the three-car convoy zoomed off up the street.

Tom and I walked through large double doors straight into the perfume department. A little further on, in the luggage department, I picked up two small weekend bags, one dark green and one black, from a display, and two heavy car blankets.

Tom had his big wad of money clasped firmly in his hand and was looking happy. It was time to say my goodbyes.

"I've got things to do, Tom. Insurance." I tapped the side of my nose and winked. His big hamster cheeks beamed back. "I'll see you in the coffee shop in about forty-five minutes. Just get yourself some good warm clothes, the sort of stuff I told you about, all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, no drama. Hey Nick, when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping." He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

I clapped his shoulder. "Remember, get a decent coat and boots. And by the way, if Liv turns up before I get there, just tell her I'm shopping, too."

I could see he couldn't be bothered to ask why, he just wanted to get spending.

"No drama. See yer."

Back in the cold, I took out my new bags and bulked them out with the blankets. Then I headed for the bus station again. I went past the telephones into Europe's most expensive rest rooms. It cost me over a buck to sit down in one of the stalls so I could get out the money from my organizer wallet what was left of the twenty-five grand in $100 bills which I'd brought with me. I removed four grand and then placed the wallet, plus my own documents and Davidson's, into the dark-green bag. You never know when even a burned ID can come in useful. Tom's documents and $3,000 went into the black bag, and I slipped the remaining grand into my pocket. I then dumped both at the luggage lockers and looked for a decent hiding place for the two tickets our own little DLB some-where that Tom would find easy enough to remember.

I went into one of the shops and picked up a computer magazine with a plastic sleeve holding a free CD-Rom. I was in line at the checkout when I saw her.

Liv was standing by the doors to the trains. The man she was with was very smartly dressed in a long camel-hair coat, shirt and tie. She was looking quite dolled up herself, in a black overcoat she hadn't been wearing earlier. It must have been in the back of the Mere 4x4.

I ducked out of the line as if I'd had second thoughts about the magazine, and went back to browsing the racks, watching Liv and her man out of the corner of my eye. They were in each other's arms, their faces just inches apart and talking away. They were doing their best to look like two lovers saying their goodbyes but it wasn't quite working. There were times when they cuddled, but they weren't talking to each other, they were talking at each other. I'd done this enough times myself to know what was going on.

They held each other and talked for a little while longer, then he pulled slightly away from her. He was in his early thirties, with short brown hair, and looked quite the young trendy businessman.

She turned away, heading for the bus station exit. There had been no final kiss, no last touch or stroke of the hair.

I let her go past me, then moved quickly to the platform doors, spotting him on Platform 6 as he looked at his ticket and checked the buses. It was now time to hurry back the other way and see what Liv was up to.

Barging through the bus station doors I looked out onto the square. She was walking away from me, putting her Tibetan hat on, heading across the pedestrian crossing. I could see the 4x4 on the other side, parked in a line of other vehicles on meters.

Turning, I ran back into the station. The destination board said the Platform 6 train was leaving for St. Petersburg in two minutes.

I walked swiftly back to the newsstand and bought the magazine, together with a reel of Scotch tape. Taking off the plastic sleeve, I ripped it into two strips and wrapped the tickets individually. Now all I had to do was find a place to hide them that Tom would remember.

It wasn't hard. The long banks of luggage lockers by the taxi exit were on legs, with a four-inch gap between them and the floor.

Pretending to clean the slush off my shoes, I taped Tom's under Number 10 and mine under Number 11. If things went wrong, both of us had a ticket out of Finland.

As I made my way back to Stockmann, Liv's meeting with the man in the camel-hair coat mulled round in my head.

I took the elevator to the sixth floor. Once I'd passed the cold weather gear a sign told me that on the floor above was "cold storage for furs." I passed a restaurant, a juice bar, and found Tom in Cafe Avec, overlooking the shoppers below on the fifth floor. His half-cup of herbal whatever looked sad and cold on the table in front of him. The light-wood furniture had come straight out of an Ikea warehouse and the place was packed with people snacking on soup or little fish dishes. The noise was deafening people talking and cell phones going off with a million and one different tunes.

"Wotcha, mate." He was all smiles, pointing at his bags, then opening one for me to look inside. I was pleased to see he'd bought himself a decent pair of boots, and the dark-blue, thick, woolen check lumberjack coat was just the sort of thing I'd told him to get.

"Great, Tom. Now listen."

I explained to him where his ticket was hidden. We'd pick them up on Wednesday, but if the shit hit the fan tomorrow night, he should head straight for the station, grab his bag, and catch the first flight home.

He started to look a bit more cheerful. "I just want to get this job done and get back to London with some cash. I don't really like it here. Thought I would, but I don't. It must be the cold. That's why I got these for tomorrow." He bent down and brought out a set of silk leggings and a top.

I tried not to laugh. They were the sort of thing you might buy for your very first ski trip, but never wear.

He looked rather proud of them. "What do you think? Keep me warm or what? You should get some, Nick. The girl behind the counter said they're great."

I bet she did; they probably cost three times as much as a set of proper thermals. "I've got some," I lied. "Actually, there's one more thing."

He packed them proudly back into the bag. "What's that?"

"I know you said you're nearly there, but can you really break through the firewall by tomorrow?"

He looked at me as if I was mad. "No problem. But you will look after me, won't you? You know, when we're in there…"

I could sense that his bravado was fading slightly as the witching hour approached. I smiled, nodded and then saw him look anxiously over my shoulder.

"Liv's here."

I turned in my seat and watched her looking out for us both, hat in hand and the black coat still on. She saw my raised hand and came straight over.

She sat down. "Everything all right at the station?"

I nodded.

"Good. Here are the keys for your car, Nick." She passed over two keys on a Saab key chain. "There are maps inside the glove compartment to get you there, and a detailed one of the area. None of the maps are marked. It will take you more than three hours to get there."

"There'll probably be a list of things I'll need once I've seen the house."

"No problem, so long as it's nothing exotic." Talking of which, she looked at her Carder watch. 1 got the hint and started getting to my feet. "I think I need to get going. I want to spend as much time as I can on target."

She stood up. "I'll show you where the car is, then go back to the house with Tom."

As we came out of Stockmann, Tom took out his new check coat and put it over the one he was wearing. He looked the perfect tourist.

We walked back toward the station and I could see the Mere 4x4 still parked in the same position, with a shiny new blue Saab next to it.

I said my goodbyes. Tom got in the front with her and they drove off.

18

The journey to the target seemed to be taking longer than she'd told me to expect. Maybe it just felt that way because there'd been nothing to look at but thousands of trees and lumps of granite. I needed to adjust my boredom threshold.

It was just after three o'clock and it was already last light. The reflection from the Saab's headlights twinkled in the snow piled high at the roadside as I stayed obediently in the line of traffic, which all traveled within the speed limit. I hit the seek button on the radio a few times, but there wasn't much to listen to. I hated Europop, and didn't have a clue what was being said on any of the speaking stations.

I used the time to think about Liv's station RV, but didn't come up with any answers. I decided I just had to get on with it. "It" was simple: I'd do the job, control the exchange with Liv, then get Tom and me back to the U.K." leaving Val to do whatever he wanted with the stuff. At least after tomorrow night, once on the ground, I was in control of my own destiny.

After taking the exit for Lappeenranta, signs for Kuhala began to appear. Pulling into the side of the road, I checked the smaller scale, more detailed map. I had another eight miles to go until turning off the two-lane road and onto what looked like a minor gravel one. Then I'd need to find the private turning to the target building.

I pushed on, driving through dense forest on a paved firebreak. Tall trees on either side of me cut down the headlights' capacity as if I was in a tunnel. Then I was suddenly out of it and rumbling across a wooden bridge, my lights blazing across the white ice of the frozen lake beneath me. Twenty seconds later I was back inside the tunnel, with just the occasional mailbox to let me know I wasn't the only person around.

Passing a yellow triangle sign showing a silhouetted elk, I knew I'd well and truly hit the countryside. Stopping at the intersection, I checked the odometer and map. Five more miles and the third option right.

I drove on, counting off the miles, crossing two more bridges and only a handful of mailboxes until I found the intersection I was looking for. The tire noise changed as I hit the two-lane gravel road. Like the one leading to Liv's, it was still iced over but had been snow plowed and sanded.

With a few miles still to go, I wanted to make sure I had the right track to target first time. It wouldn't be a good idea to cruise around with headlights on and the engine revving up and down the road.

The map showed a scattering of houses in the area, and I was passing a mailbox every quarter mile or so. I shifted down to first gear. There wasn't a light to be seen as I checked off each track into the woods on the map.

I found the target track, but kept going, looking for somewhere off the road to leave the Saab so it looked parked rather than abandoned.

About another 300 yards on I found a small cut in the woodline which seemed to be a firebreak. Once tucked in, I switched off the engine.

It was freezer time again. Putting on the nylon padded gloves and black woolen hat I'd bought myself at Stockmann, I got out and hit the key chain. The four ways flashed as the central locking did its stuff, but I couldn't help that.

Setting off down the gravel road, I made sure the hat didn't cover my ears; I was on a recce, I needed them to be able to work, without fighting to hear through half a lamb's coat.

It was bitterly cold after the snug warmth of the Saab, and there was no noise or light. All I could hear was my own breathing and the snow crunching an inch under my feet before it compressed onto the hard ice beneath. My whole world was trees, snow, and a very cold nose and ears.

Once at the top of the track, I stopped, looked, and listened.

Nothing. It would take another fifteen minutes for my eyes to adapt to the lack of light. Then, with any luck, I'd be able to see a little more of the treeline than just a wall of black.

I turned into the track and started slowly down it. A lot of vehicles had obviously been up and down; there was no snow in the ruts on either side of the small central mound, just compacted ice. The trees were hard up against the edge of the track.

Three feet in front of me was pitch-black, but I knew it wouldn't be like that for long once my night vision kicked in. I moved like a tightrope walker along the rut, to cut down ground sign. The last thing I wanted was to slip and fall in the snow at the side of the track, leaving evidence that even a five-year-old would pick up.

After about five minutes I began to see weak, intermittent light ahead in the direction of the target. The beams flashed up into the sky or straight at me, disappeared for a while, then bounced toward me again.

I knew exactly what they were: vehicle lights, and they were coming my way.

I couldn't even hear the engine yet, so it would be impossible for them to see me. The lights continued to flash against the trees. There was nothing I could do without leaving sign but dive out of the way.

The rumble of the engine reached me and brighter beams of light swept the area around. I faced the drift at the trackside, hopefully aiming between two trees, rocked back to try to get some sort of momentum, then leaped. I managed to clear the first few feet of snow, rolling like a high jumper, and landed like a bag of shit. The snow lay over solid granite and I hit it hard, knocking the wind out of my lungs.

I started to crawl like an animal, trying to burrow under the branches.

The vehicle was getting closer.

Still facing away from the road, I dug myself in and waited in the freezing snow, listening as it closed in on me. The transmission was in low ratio, suggesting a 4x4.

It finally drew parallel with me, its wheels crunching into fresh snow on the side of the track as it was steered off line. Without hesitation, it kept on going.

I raised myself slowly onto my knees, keeping my right eye closed: At least that way I would save 50 percent of what night vision I had. The smell of diesel hung in the air. The driveway was about fifteen or twenty feet away from me and it was a 4x4 for sure, but I couldn't make out what type or how many were inside. All I could see was a massive ball of white light in the front, and a red one at the rear, moving slowly along the tree tunnel, followed by a cloud of diesel fumes.

I watched and listened as the light died. They must have reached the top of the track, because I heard revving and the transmission ratios change, then the noise disappeared completely.

Crawling on my hands and knees to avoid the branches, I made my way back to my impact site, stood up, put one foot forward and launched myself over the bank again. My right shin connected painfully with the central mound, and the combination of stones and hard ice did its work on me big time. I lay on my back in one of the ruts, holding my shin, rocking, taking the pain and thinking of the money.

After a minute of feeling sorry for myself, I got up and checked that the snow on the side of the track was still untouched. My dive had been Olympic, but the pain had been worth it. I was covered from head to toe in snow, like a bad skier. Brushing as much of it off me as I could, I readjusted my hat and carried on down the track, walking the tightrope with a bit of a hobble now.

After about a half a mile, my night vision fully returned. I also started to hear the low, continuous rumble of what sounded like a generator.

What had been concerning me most all along was, How many bayonets? How many were going to fight if I was compromised and couldn't run away? If there were, say, four people in the house, two of them might be Tom-type characters who'd played Quake for years but had never held a gun, but the other two could be hoods who had, and who'd go for it.

They were the bayonets, male or female. The term went back to the First World War, when it wasn't the whole of an enemy battalion of 1,200 that you had to worry about, it was the 800 fighting men. The remaining 400 cooks and bottle-washers didn't matter. I didn't know how many I'd be up against, and Liv couldn't tell me. It was quite worrying. Getting to the house to discover there was a Hoods '% Us convention going on in the front room would not make for a good day out.

The track went gently downhill and I got closer to the noise. It began to sound quite substantial; if they were running lots of machinery they would need more juice than the trickle the local substation would give them. To check if they were on the electrical supply I tried to look above me for power lines, but it was too dark to see anything.

The track began to curve. As I rounded a gentle right-hand bend the ground started to open up on either side of me. The treeline here wasn't so close to the track. I could see two dim lights directly ahead, maybe one hundred yards away.

Now that I was in line with the house the rumble of the generator was louder still, channeled toward me by the trees. Cupping my hand round my wrist, I pressed the backlight on Baby G. It was just after 4:45.

Edging forward, still in the rut, I kept looking for places to dive if the vehicle came back or there was some other kind of drama-such as coming across the Maliskia on the same sort of outing. I was a bit pissed this was the only approach route available to me, but any other would leave sign.

Every five or six paces I stopped, looked, and listened.

The trees stopped about fifteen feet from a fence that I could now clearly see in front of me, leaving an empty area running left and right of the track, about two or three feet deep in snow. A large set of double gates was directly ahead. Keeping in the rut, I moved up close. It was made of the same material as the fencing: diamond shaped latticework pressed out of quarter-inch steel sheeting; the sort you'd see in the windows of liquor stores or the protected kiosks of twenty-four-hour shops.

A large chain fed through both gates and was secured with a heavy steel high-security padlock-a pain in the ass to decode and do up again; it wasn't the type that just snapped into position.

As I lay along the rut, I could feel the hardness of the ice beneath me and knew the cold would start attacking me long before the Maliskia did. I wasn't worried about them at the moment, or the players in the house. Fuck 'em. At such short notice there was no other way to recce this place.

The fence looked about forty-five feet high, and was made up of maybe three sections of latticework, bolted together and supported by spaced steel poles about a foot in diameter. The house was beyond the fence, about forty yards away. There were no Christmas decorations in this one, just the two lights. One came from a stained-glass panel that I thought was the top half of a door, set back on a deck. The other was coming from a window further to the left.

I couldn't see that much detail, but the house seemed quite large and old. It had a chateau-style tower on the far right-hand side, with a Russian onion-shaped dome that I could just see silhouetted against the night sky. I remembered Liv on the way to Helsinki saying that the Russians controlled Finland until Lenin gave it independence in 1920.

The old clashed dramatically with the modern: To the left of the house were five satellite dishes, massive things at least ten feet across and set into the ground, looking like something an American would have had in his yard in the early eighties, the sort that picked up 500 channels telling him what the weather was like in Mongolia but still couldn't give him the local news. This was a proper little Microsoft HQ. I could clearly see their dark mesh dishes looking upward, each in a different direction or elevation, and they all looked as if the snow had been dug away from the base and scraped off the dish.

As I lay there, chin on forearms, taking in as much information about the target as I could, I saw why the bases were dug out: All of a sudden there was a high-pitched whine that drowned out the noise of the generator, and one of the dishes started to swivel. Maybe they were trying to catch the Japanese repeats of Friends. Or maybe they were up and running already?

It seemed a strange location for a setup like this. Maybe these people were as illegal as Val? I started to wonder, but soon gave myself a good mental slapping. Who cared? I was here for Kelly, to get this job done and paid for before the dollar exchange rate took another tumble.

Getting back to the real world, it seemed that concealment was their biggest weapon. The lattice fence was as high tech as they got on the security front, apart from the sterile area between it and the treeline. That not only stopped anyone climbing a tree to get in, but also meant they could look out of their windows in the morning while cleaning their teeth and see at once if people like me had been lurking about.

I lay in the rut, working out how to get in based on the little information I had. The numbing cold ate through my clothes and the snow that had found its way down my neck when I fell started to attack my back. My toes were beginning to freeze and my nose was running. I couldn't make any noise by clearing it into the snow, so had to be content with wiping it on my icy-cold glove.

There was a sound behind me. I cocked my head so my right ear was pointing back toward the track. The vehicle was returning. No time to think about it, I just got up and ran back to the nearest of my dive points. To clear the bank and the trees, which were slightly off the track, before the headlights rounded the bend, I had to throw myself about three feet up and five feet over, just to get near the treeline's branches. I went for it, not quite making the five feet and hitting rock again. It probably hurt, but I wouldn't feel it until later; adrenalin was doing its job, fighting the pain.

Plowing through the snow, trying to get under the branches once more, I listened as the wagon got closer. The vehicle noise suddenly increased as it rounded the bend.

I swiveled round on my hands and knees, slowly lifting my head, and tried to get into a position from where I could see the track. I didn't bother to wipe the snow off my face in case the movement was detected.

A moment later the 4x4 passed, its headlights sweeping across the gates, the rear lights turning the snow behind them bright red.

My face was stinging, but now wasn't the time to deal with it. I needed to take in anything from what the occupants of the 4x4 were going to do to what the front and rear lights revealed to me about the surroundings. Fuck the night vision now.

The vehicle stopped just short of the gate and the red glow brightened as the brakes engaged and the engine idled.

Pulling two branches apart with my hands, I saw the right-hand passenger door open and the interior light come on. It was two up two people aboard and a very padded body climbed out and started to move toward the gates.

The clatter of the chain was momentarily louder than the engine noise.

It was left dangling as both gates were pushed inward, creaking and rattling, just enough to let the vehicle pass.

The wagon inched forward, its headlights revealing that the snow beyond the gates and inside the target was full of ground sign, feet and tires. Just as importantly, no alarms or trips appeared to have been turned off before entry.

The headlights splashed across the house, and without the fence in my way I had a clear view. The building was faced with faded red or brown painted wooden slats and closed shutters on all the windows. The dim light on the left that I'd noticed earlier was escaping from a few missing slats in one of the shutters.

The chain rattled again, but I wasn't paying much attention to the gate-closer any longer. It was more important that I saw what was being lit up, looking rather than thinking: My brain would absorb all the information and I'd work out later what I had seen.

I kept my eyes on the 4x4's headlights as they swung to the right. A covered deck ran along the right half of the house.

The gate loser came back into view as the 4x4 rolled to a stop parallel with the deck railings. I could hear the rustling of a nylon jacket and the crunch of snow boots as the brake lights went off and the engine and headlights died. I heard a man's voice as the passenger shouted something I couldn't understand to the driver as he was pushing open his vehicle door.

My nose was stinging and dripping but I couldn't risk missing a thing as the interior light came on and the driver barked a reply. The gate man carried on past the 4x4 and onto the deck as the driver leaned into the passenger foot well and lifted out some flat boxes and a small bag.

The pair moved together, stamping their feet on the wooden floor of the deck to clear them of snow.

The driver opened the front door of the house with a key. Light spilled out and I caught a brief glimpse of a hallway that looked invitingly warm and bright before they disappeared into the house.

I stayed still, smearing the contents of my nose slowly into my gloves before wiping them on a tree branch, visualizing my entry first getting to the house, then into it. After that I'd have to play it by ear. I didn't even know which room the computers were in. So what was new? I seemed to have spent my life breaking into houses, offices, and homes, stealing, bugging, and planting stuff to incriminate people, all with hardly any information, no backup if it went wrong and no recognition for a job well done. The best I ever got was a "What took you so long?"

I had to assume that the fifteen-foot sterile area from treeline to fence ran all round the house; even if I could fight my way through the trees and cover up any tracks, there simply wasn't enough time to check. Fuck it, it was too cold anyway.

Moving forward to my splash point, I dived out again, this time taking the hit on my knees. I recovered on my back in the wheel rut for a while, just long enough for my shoulder to start reminding me that I'd taken a fall on some rocks on the way in. So adrenalin wasn't entirely effective as a means of pain relief. When I'd got my breath back, I rolled over and got up, keeping my eyes on target for that last look about.

There was one more thing to be done. Going back to the gate, I took my glove off and very quickly touched the metal lattice, then leaned over to the left and did the same to the fence. Only then did I turn round and start hobbling back up the driveway, waiting for my knees to warm up so I could stop walking like an old man.

Once I'd rounded the bend, I pushed my left nostril closed and cleared my right, then changed sides. It felt a lot better.

Twenty minutes later I was scraping ice off the Saab's windshield.

Moments after that I was heading back toward Helsinki, the heater blasting away ready to bust on hot hot hot.

The driveway to the lead house came into sight after just under four and a half hours. I'd stopped at an unmanned gas station on the way, just two pumps and a pay machine between them. It was in the middle of nowhere and the bright white light burning down from the canopy made it look like a UFO landing site. You just placed your cash or credit card in the slot, selected fuel type and off you went. I wondered how quickly it would have been trashed and robbed if this was the U.K. I took the rest of the drive slowly, thinking things through, compiling a mental checklist of all the kit I'd need to make entry.

Pulling up outside the big glass shutters, gagging for a coffee and something to eat, I realized I didn't have a key. There was nothing to do but hit the horn. A few seconds later a light came on and Liv appeared at the door. Thunderbird 3's hangar door opened and I drove in. Before I'd even switched the engine off she was making a drinking sign. I nodded and gave her a thumbs up, and she went back upstairs.

By the time I joined her she was in the kitchen and I could smell coffee.

"So, Nick," she called out as I closed the stairway door, "will you be able to get in?"

"No problem. Where's Tom?"

"He's working." She came round the kitchen door, indicating the other side of the house with a tilt of her head. "He's broken through the firewall, as I hoped." She said it without any excitement, and noticed my surprise. "You still have to get Tom into the house, Nick. Sit, I'll get the coffee."

I did, taking off my jacket and checking Baby G. It was just before midnight. I'd see Tom later; there were more important things to be dealt with first. I called out, "You'll need a pen and some paper."

She came back in with the coffee tray and writing materials, still dressed in jeans and a sweater. She sat on the sofa opposite mine and poured two mugs.

I picked one up. Black would do fine; what I needed was an instant wakeup after hours of car heating. "I'll run through a list of equipment with you," I said between sips. "I'm going to need quite a lot of stuff."

She picked up the pen and pad and wrote as I dictated. She was surprised by my request for six-inch nails 150mm once she had converted them plus a three-foot length of 2x4 wood, which became a one-meter length of 100 x 50mm.

"Why do you need this, Nick? Aren't lock picks and electronic gadgetry more the sort of thing?"

"Can you get me some?"

She smiled and shook her head.

"That's why I want the electric toothbrush. Don't worry, I'll show you what it's for tomorrow. I'll also need the weather forecast, by the way, for a twenty-four-hour period starting at 9 A.M."

I liked not telling her what these things were for. At last she was entering my world, things I knew about. There was one last item. "I'd also like a weapon a pistol, preferably silenced or suppressed."

She looked genuinely taken aback. "Why?"

I thought it was obvious. "Better to have it and not need it than the other way round."

"Have you any idea of the weapons laws in this country?"

I reminded her what my Russian friends and I had been doing to her Russian friends only a week earlier at the Intercontinental.

It didn't work. "I'm sorry, Nick, I wouldn't get you one even if I could. I have nothing to do with that sort of thing. Besides, you were employed precisely because Valentin wanted finesse."

The last time I'd gone on a job unarmed I'd ended up shot.

After that I promised myself I'd always carry, even if I thought I didn't need to. I wanted to tell her it wasn't just finesse that got Val into the trunk of the Volvo, but I could see by the look on her face that it was pointless. It was strange, ROC probably had more weapons than the British Army. I thought about asking if her guy from St. Petersburg could get me one, but decided against it: It's always best to keep an ace or two up your sleeve.

She stood up. "I'm going to bed now, Nick. Please, help yourself to food. I should be back by ten thirty tomorrow with your list."

I was beginning to feel hungry and headed for the kitchen. Digging out cans of tuna and sweet corn from a cupboard, I emptied them into a bowl and went in search of Tom as I mixed it up with a fork and got it down my throat.

He was sitting at the Think Pad his head in his hands.

He didn't look up as I came in.

"All right?"

"Yeah, all right." There was a blocked-up nasal sound to his reply.

All was not well at Camp Tom.

"Seriously, you okay?"

I wanted to sound surprised at finding him so down, but I could guess at the reason. Being so near the witching hour, reality was grabbing him by the throat.

"I'm really worried, Nick. You know, I… I…" There was a big sigh from him, and I knew he was trying to get out what he really wanted to say. "I want to get home, Nick. I don't wanna do it, mate. No way am I going back inside…"

He didn't want to go back home; he just wanted reassurance that everything would be fine. I'd seen it plenty of times, men on jobs asking for one thing but really needing another, especially when they're scared. It's not a bad thing; fear is natural, and the secret is understanding that it's normal. Only then can you do the abnormal.

"Tom, I told you, this won't get you put away. No way would I be doing anything that would get me within a thousand miles of a prison. I've done some, too, you know."

He looked up at me with tears in his eyes. "I don't wanna go back, Nick. There were some hard boys in there, know what I mean?" His mouth quivered. "I couldn't hack it, mate."

I knew then exactly what he was crying about. Tom might play at being Jack the Lad, but behind bars he'd been fair game for the boys locked up for a long stretch.

I thought about my time in reform school and how much I'd hated it. If the wing daddies weren't fighting each other, they were keeping a grip on their little empires and just generally fucking up the lives of those who were within reach. The only way I'd survived, being, like Tom, one of the youngest, had been to act mad. That way the older ones, being locked up and confused about their sexuality, thought I was just a weirdo and left me to it. Because, who knew, I might try and kill them if they touched me.

I didn't see Tom being able to act that weird and get away with not being made someone's special friend. I nodded and felt genuinely sorry for him. "Don't worry, mate. All that's finished with, I guarantee it, Tom."

He sniffed and wiped his nose, embarrassed at his display of vulnerability.

"Best bet is to go take a shower and get some shut-eye. We have a busy night tomorrow."

I tapped his shoulder playfully, leaving him to sort himself out. He didn't need me there to embarrass him even more by seeing him like this. Besides, he was coming with me tomorrow night whether he liked it or not. As I headed back to my room I thought that, in addition to nails and lumps of 2x4, Liv had better get Tom a brave or stupid pill, depending on which way you looked at it.

I started to undress and listened as Tom walked past my door, going in the direction of the living area, probably in search of a glass of water to replace all the liquid leaking down his face.

In the shower I checked out the nice knee, shin, and back bruises I'd got from my snow jumping and went to bed. I was beat, but thoughts about the job kept me awake, going over making entry and actions-on if there was a fuckup.

I must have been lying there for an hour, listening to the hum of the air-conditioning, when Tom shuffled past once more toward the living area. He would probably be like this all night now, but he'd live. If he was still wobbly in the morning I'd remind him again about how much money he'd soon have in his pocket. More than enough to get away from that scrubby flat and Janice. I'd already decided that I would give him the full $300,000. Why not? I wouldn't have got this far without him.

Another half-hour hummed by. I was still thinking about tomorrow night, mentally checking that Liv's shopping list was complete, when I realized that Torn hadn't come back.

Yawning, I put on my jeans and shirt and wandered off to have a coffee with him, maybe talk him round a bit more.

The lights were still on in the living area, but there was no sign of Tom. I checked the kitchen. He must have gone back and I hadn't heard him. As I turned, I noticed that the door leading to Liv's side of the house was open, and I knew that she'd closed it behind her.

Crossing the living area, I started to saunter down her hallway. The door layout was the same as our side, so she'd be in one of the two bedrooms. It wasn't hard to tell which. There was noise coming from the first door on the left. I didn't know who was doing what to whom, but the grunts and moans were unmistakably theirs.

I turned back up the hall, leaving them to it, realizing, yet again, that I didn't have a clue when it came to women.

19

Tuesday. December 14,1999 By the time I got up Tom was showered and dressed, hair still wet, sitting on the sofa drinking milk. He was certainly cheerful enough.

"Morning, Nick. Coffee's in the pot. Liv has gone to get your stuff.

Said she'll be back about tenish."

I went into the kitchen, poured some coffee and checked out the food. I was dying to ask him about last night, but decided to wait and see if he said anything first. I didn't want to sound like a dickhead, and things were getting very weird. First Liv and her friend at the station, and now this. I wondered if she'd been fucking Tom for years, but immediately dismissed the thought. Once you'd had a taste of Liv, you wouldn't decide to settle down with Janice, and why bother to get me to do the job of recruiting him in the first place?

Fixing myself a plate of crackers, cheese, and cherry jam, I dumped it all on a tray and went and sat opposite him. I put on my concerned face and asked, "How do you feel this morning, mate? Still want to quit?" I concentrated hard on spreading my jam "I'm sorry about last night, Nick. I was just worried, you know." I nodded. "These things happen to everyone at some time or other.

Anyway, you look a lot better this morning." I gave him a grin.

"There's nothing like a good night's sleep."

He avoided the subject. "It is going to be okay, Nick, isn't it?" "Of course. I had a really good look at the house last night. It's just a big old mansion in the woods, trying to look like Microsoft HQ.

No drama. Next stop, the bank-that's the beauty of it."

I got back to my cracker, relieved that I didn't have to deliver another mammoth pep talk.

He grinned back. "Nice one, mate. Nice one." His head had gone back into jerky chicken mode.

I took a mouthful of coffee. "Yep, it's good we both got some sleep.

We'll certainly be beat tomorrow morning."

He sipped his milk, trying to hide his face in his mug.

I couldn't resist any longer. "I heard you, you know."

He turned bright red. "What? What are you on about?"

"Hey, listen, good luck, mate, but keep the noise down in future, will you? Some of us old fuckers can't take too much excitement."

He laughed nervously, embarrassed, but at the same time rather proud. I couldn't blame him.

"What's the secret, Tom? I mean, no disrespect to Miss Nordic Myth, but warm and wonderful she isn't. Have you met in a past life?"

He shifted in his seat as embarrassment took over. "Nah, mate. Never met the girl before. But, you know, I was out here getting a drink when she came out. She saw I was worried, and we got talking and that… you know."

I didn't, that was the problem. One minute he's asking me if I trust her, a minute later he's making the earth move for her. Well, probably the other way round. I gave myself another mental slap. Fuck it, I didn't care what was going on. I realized, with a shock, that I was jealous. I needed to sort my shit out, concentrate on making money and leave anything else that was going on well alone.

I got up, leaned over and tapped him on the shoulder. "Just make sure you've got those daps of yours for tonight."

"Daps?"

"Gym shoes, whatever you call them. Make sure they're clean and dry.

Don't wear them today, just keep your new boots on, all right?"

With that I picked up my mug and left.

Freshly showered, I lay on my bed and visualized once again making entry on target. I always found it easy to run the film in my head, as if my eyes were the camera lens and my ears the recording equipment I listened to what the snow sounded like as we walked to the deck, then the creak of the wooden decking, working out how I would deal with it, attacking the lock on the door and then moving Tom around the house until we found what we were looking for. I replayed the footage three or four times, from leaving the car to returning to it; then I started to edit it with different versions: What if Tom and I were on the deck and the door opened? What if there were dogs in the compound? What if we were compromised in the house?

I played the different versions and stopped the film at the crisis points, thought about what I should do and then hit Replay, trying to come up with answers. It wouldn't go exactly to script, it never did.

On the ground, every situation would be different. But the film was a starting point; it meant I had a plan. From there, if the shit hit the fan, it would be a matter of adapting the plan in the one or two seconds available, so that I could react to whatever the threat was instead of standing there feeling sorry for myself.

I'd been in my room for about two hours when there was a knock on the door.

"Nick?"

Tom poked his head round the corner.

"Liv's back. You won't tell her you know, will you? It's just that… well, you know."

I got off my bed and walked out with him, using my forefinger and thumb to mime zipping up my lips.

She was in the living room, dropping her hat and black leather coat on the sofa. There was no exchange of eye contact between them and her whole manner announced there was no time for small talk.

"Good morning," she said briskly. "It's been confirmed: They're now online."

She must have been to meet her St. Petersburg friend as well this morning.

"Could you two give me assistance? There are quite a few bags."

We followed her downstairs, where the first thing she passed me was a sheet of paper with the weather forecast printed out in Finnish. "It says there is a possibility of snow showers in the early morning. That is good for you, no?"

Tom was busy opening the rear door of the Mere.

"What do they mean by early morning?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I asked the same question. I'm afraid no one could tell me exactly. Anything between two and ten."

I handed it back to her and walked to the rear of the 4x4, not letting Tom see my concern. This was bad. Snow is good for hiding sign, but bad for making it. We had to get in and out as quickly as possible, otherwise the only footprints left on the ground at first light would be our fresh ones, not mixed in with the others I'd seen in the compound last night. Unless, that was, the shower kept falling for long enough to cover our tracks once we had left. This wasn't good at all; you just don't take that sort of risk if a job has to remain covert. But a deadline is a deadline, and I had no choice but to go in regardless.

I was stressing and hoped that God hadn't really been listening to me in Tom's apartment, just waiting to get his own back by stopping the snow the moment we got into the house.

Tom picked up a set of eighteen-inch bolt cutters from the back seat and held them out with a quizzical expression on his face.

I had lifted the tailgate and was holding an armful of bags and boxes.

"Just a bit of standby kit we might need tonight, mate. Come on, let's give her a hand."

Tom followed me upstairs, the bolt cutters under his arm and his fists full of shopping-bag handles. He dumped it all next to the stuff I'd carried up on the wooden floor outside the kitchen and was soon sniffing around in the bags like a child on the hunt for sweets. Liv was close behind.

It was time to put the work disk into my hard drive again. "It's pointless you two hanging around," I said. "Give me a couple of hours to sort myself out here, and after that I'll explain why I needed all this stuff. Make sure those daps are clean, Tom. No mud that could flake off, or grit in the soles, okay?"

He nodded.

Liv looked at him, puzzled. "Daps?"

"The canvas shoes I've been wearing." He had already put his new boots on.

She nodded, mouthing the new word to herself as she logged it in her memory bank and left in the direction of her room. "I'll see you both later."

Tom was looking at me as she disappeared down the hall and the door closed. I knew what was going on in his head. "Don't worry, mate, not a word."

He smiled, relieved. "Thanks, 'cus, well, you know." He waved to me as he walked toward our side of the house.

"Tom, is there anything you need me to do for you?"

"No thanks, mate," he said with a sudden twinkle. "Liv's already done it."

He stopped, turned, and tapped his forehead with his index finger.

"Nah, seriously, everything I need is up here. Do you want me to run through it?"

"No point. I'll just concentrate on getting us in and out of there.

What are you looking for, anyway?"

He grinned. "I won't know until I see it."

He disappeared and I emptied the shopping bags and boxes onto the floor. I sorted the clothing first, as it was the easiest to check.

Shiny nylon down jackets were not what we needed at a time like this; all the stuff I'd asked Liv for was made of wool and thick cotton. We had to have clothes that weren't going to rustle, and they had to be dark and completely nonreflective no shiny buttons or safety tape. I cut out any Velcro holding pockets or flaps with my Leatherman: Velcro makes quite a noise when pulled apart, and I couldn't afford for that to happen on target. Anything dangling, like draw cords I also removed. Once in the house, I couldn't afford for something to get caught and be dragged onto the floor. All this might sound over the top, but people have been killed for less. I'd learned by others' mistakes, and I'd never forget seeing a mate of mine hanging from the top of a fence in Angola by the nylon cord in his combat smock. He didn't have anything to cut himself free with and had to watch as guards came, stopped to take aim just feet away, and put at least fifty rounds into him.

Liv had chosen some good woolen outer gloves for us, as well as a pair of thin cotton contact gloves, so I could manipulate the door lock or whatever without my bare hands freezing onto the metal. There was also a pair of sneakers for me to wear, from which I cut out the reflective heel piece. I hadn't ordered any for Tom; he had his daps. We would put them on just before entering the house. Heavy-soled boots make noise and drag in snow, leaving sign. The outside world needs to stay out there.

I found the bag of six-inch nails, some lengths of one-inch thick nylon webbing and a handful of metal washers. The length of wood was exactly as specified. I couldn't help laughing to myself at the thought of Liv in a hardware store. She probably hadn't even known these places existed.

There was a neat little hacksaw in a cardboard and plastic shrinkwrap.

I ripped it out of its packaging and used it to cut half a dozen six-inch lengths of wood.

Liv had done her work well; the washers went over the six-inch nails and were stopped by the nail head. I slipped two washers over each, since they would be taking quite a strain.

Fifteen minutes later, I had six fist-sized lumps of wood, each with a nail hammered through. The nail had then been bent into an acute angle about halfway along with pliers, so the whole thing looked a bit like a docker's hook. The exposed metal of the nail, apart from the bit at the bend and about half a centimeter either side of it, had then been covered with rubber bands to eliminate noise when they were used. Tom and I would use one hook in each hand and carry one each as a spare.

The dark-green two-inch webbing was meant for strapping skis to a roof rack. I cut four six-foot lengths of it, knotting together the ends of each so that I ended up with four loops. These I put to one side with the hooks, away from the chaos around me. The climbing kit was ready.

Liv had been right: The old ways sometimes are the best, and this method took a lot of beating. It was a little gem from the files of MI9, created during World War Two when they were asked to think up new ideas and design equipment so that POWs could escape from their camps and travel through occupied Europe to safety. They came up with silk maps, sandwiched between the thin layers of a playing card and sent in Red Cross parcels. They even changed the design of R.A.F uniforms to make them easily convertible into civilian clothes. This hook-and-loop device, easy to make and easy to use, was just one of the many ideas they'd come up with for scaling POW camp fences. It had worked for them; I hoped it was going to work for us.

Next I unwrapped the Polaroid camera and four packs of film. Once a film was inserted, I took a quick test shot of my foot. The camera was working fine. I stripped the other three films of their wrapping. Each cartridge of film contained its own battery power source, but batteries tend to get sluggish in cold weather, and I couldn't afford for that to happen. To keep them warm I'd make sure I kept them close to my body.

Once we'd put on our sneakers and I'd made entry, I would take pictures of wherever we were on target, camera noise and flash permitting. On a covert operation, everything has to be left exactly as you find it.

People notice straightaway when something is not precisely where it should be. It could be something obvious, like a folded rug that has suddenly been laid flat, but more often it's something almost indefinable that compromises the job; they just feel instinctively that something is wrong. Maybe their pen isn't in the position they always leave it, even by as little as half an inch; or the morning sunlight isn't shining through the blinds exactly how it normally does, lighting up half the desk; or some dust has been disturbed. We might not consciously notice these things, but our subconscious does; it takes in every detail and tries to tell us. We aren't always clever enough to understand, but we feel that something isn't right. A switched-on target will know that even an out-of-place paper clip constitutes a drama, and will take whatever action he feels is called for.

The fact that people would be on target gave this job a high chance of compromise, but I couldn't let it affect the way I thought about what I needed to do, just the way I planned it. I'd been successful on similar jobs in the past, so why should this one be any different?

Thinking about making entry reminded me to charge up the electric toothbrush. I went into my bathroom and plugged it into the outlet.

Back in the living room, I picked up the set of Alien keys. A large metal ring held about twenty of the things, in order of size. I chose the smallest one and eased it off the ring.

The room was beginning to look like Santa's workshop, with sawdust, ripped packaging, plastic bags, clothes tags, and me sitting in the middle of it all.

The Alien key had a right-angle bend about half an inch from the end.

With the pliers and hammer I straightened it out until the angle was more like forty-five degrees than ninety, being careful not to snap the soft steel. Then, having ripped the metal file from its shrinkwrap, I started to round off the end of the shorter section. It only took about ten minutes. Going downstairs to the main door, I slipped it into the cylinder lock to check. It fitted perfectly.

Back in Santa's workshop I opened the pack of Isopon and mixed equal amounts of resin and hardener from both tubes on a piece of cardboard.

I took it and the Alien key back to the bathroom. Not many minutes later the key was fixed firmly to the oscillating steel shaft of the toothbrush, the bit the brush head would normally fit onto. When I'd watched the door of the target house being kicked closed, no keys had been turned, it had just been shut and left, which suggested that the lock was a Yale-type cylinder. This gadget should do the trick.

Bringing back two white hand towels I sat on the floor and started to file another Alien key the same way. What I had made with the toothbrush and first Alien key was a makeshift Yale gun, a device that simulates a key by manipulating the pins inside a lock. The oscillation of the toothbrush shaft would move the Alien key tip up and down strongly onto the pins. With any luck it would displace them long enough for the lock to be opened. If not, it would be down to the old way. Still using the Alien key on the toothbrush, but with no oscillation this time, I would have to push up one pin at a time, then hold it there while I attacked the next one in line. For this a second Alien key was needed, and that was what I was busy filing down. Once I had attacked the second pin I would simply move the other Alien key along, so that it held both pins up, then keep on going until, in theory, I could open the door that was if it wasn't bolted on the inside, of course. Which it probably would be if they had even one brain cell allocated to security.

It took me another hour to finish preparing the kit and packing it into a medium-sized dark-blue backpack. Everything was wrapped in my nice white towels, so as not to make any noise, or get smashed by the bolt cutters, the handles of which were sticking out each side of the top flap.

Tom wouldn't be needing a backpack. The only kit he'd have with him was the Think Pad and cables in their carry bag.

Liv emerged from her hallway. By now the jumper was off, and she was in her tight jeans and a white T-shirt no bra. That would have been interesting a couple of nights ago, but now I was getting on with the job. The circumstances had changed.

She surveyed the mess as coolly as ever. "Having fun?"

I nodded. "Want to get Tom in to see what toys I've made for him?"

She walked past me to the main room and I got to my feet. I was still brushing off sawdust when they both reappeared.

Tom laughed. "Tell you what, mate. Lego would have been easier!"

I smiled my yes-very-funny smile. "Tom, I'm going to show you how to use this stuff." I pointed at the hooks and straps by the sofa.

Tom watched Liv disappear into the kitchen.

"There's your clothes, mate. You're going to need a bit more on than you bought yesterday."

He picked up the contact gloves and tried them on. "Hey, Nick, I'll wear my silk stuff underneath and be a bit kinky, eh?"

I smiled. As far as I was concerned silk thermals were about as much use as paper lifejackets. Mr. Helly Hansen's stuff was the one for me.

He pointed down at the hooks and straps. "Go on then, what are they for?"

When I explained, he looked a bit taken aback. "We'll be like fucking Spiderman, or what?" His head jutted, but not as confidently as normal.

"You sure you'll be all right doing this, Tom? Have you climbed before?"

"Sure I have." He thought about that for a second. "Can I have a practice?"

" "Fraid not, mate. There isn't anywhere."

He picked up one of the hooks and twanged a rubber band. "Is this the only way, Nick? I mean "

"Listen, this is the only thing you've got to do for yourself.

Everything else I'll do for you." I broke into a whisper, as if we were in a conspiracy that I didn't want Liv to join. "Remember, we're in for a lot of money here."

He seemed to spark up a bit and I felt quite proud of my little speech.

The coffee arrived well, for Liv and me. The string of one of Tom's newly purchased herbal tea bags was hanging over the rim of the third mug. We sat down, Tom at my side.

"Okay," I said, "what I want to do now is explain exactly how we're going to get into, and out of, this place with your" I looked at Liv as she pulled her feet up onto the sofa "box of tricks."

There was no need to set out the various phases military style, as if I was briefing an orders group, running through all the actions-on for each phase. It would be counterproductive: I didn't want Tom to have so much stuff floating around in his head that I ended up confusing him. If he got muddled he might get even more scared. He didn't have to know why, just how.

I unfolded the map and pointed at the key locations with a pen. "This is where we're going to park. Then we're going to walk down here." I ran my pen down the marked track as he took small, sharp sips of his tea. "Once we get to the area of the house, we climb the fence using the hooks and straps. Then I'll get us into the house and you can do your stuff. After that, it's out of there the same way. I'll tell you exactly what to do and when to do it. If you see or hear anything different, or there's a drama, stop doing whatever it is you're up to and stay exactly where you are. I'll be there to tell you what to do.

Okay?"

"Okay."

"I want to leave dead on nine, so you need to be ready fifteen minutes before. If the weather's good, we'll be in Helsinki before first light. Then we'll organize the exchange."

This time they both nodded.

"Okay, now I'm going to get something to eat and then crash out for a couple of hours, and I suggest you do the same."

I was going to treat him like an ET (escort to target), telling him only what he needed to know, and if there was a drama, all he had to do was stand still, I would be there to take action and tell him what to do. The less the person you're looking after has to think about, the better.

I stood up and nodded a see-you-later to them both as I went to the kitchen for some of the cheese and cold cuts in the fridge. Tom left for his room.

As well as not telling Tom too much to save confusing him, I also didn't want to scare him by suggesting anything about dramas, let alone the problems we were likely to have with the snow. Once people get negative thoughts into their heads their imaginations go into hyper drive and they start to panic. Every noise or shadow becomes a major event, which slows down the job and also increases the chance of a compromise. Tom already knew what to do if we got split up, without realizing it: get himself to Helsinki train station. He had enough money in that bag to charter a private jet home.

I started to pull the fridge to bits, throwing all sorts onto a plate.

I'd have loved to have left right away and be on target before it had a chance to snow, but what was the point, we couldn't get in until people were asleep. I knew better than to worry any more about the job; it only gets you all keyed up, too keen to get on with it, then you hit the target before the time is right and fuck up.

I headed for my bedroom with the food, picking at it as I went. Liv had gone. Once on my bed, I started visualizing again exactly what I was going to do, with some more what-ifs, except that now in my film it had started to snow.

There was a knock on the door. I looked at Baby G. I must have been asleep for three hours.

The door opened and Tom appeared, his long hair dangling over his shoulders. "Got a minute, mate?"

"Sure, come in." As if I was going anywhere.

He came and sat on the bed, looking down and chewing his bottom lip.

"I'm worried about this hook thing. Look, to tell you the truth, I ain't never done anything like that before, know what I mean? What happens if I can't do it? You know… if I get it all wrong?"

I sat up. His shoulders were hunched and his hair covered his face.

"Tom, no drama. Don't worry about it; it's all in the legs." I stood up. "This is how easy it is." Putting my hands above my head, I bent my knees and slowly lowered myself all my ass was level with the floor, then lifted up again. "Not exactly difficult, is it? Can you do that?"

He nodded. "S'pose so."

"Come on, let's see you, then."

As he lowered himself toward the floor, knees cracking and creaking, he looked and sounded very uncertain, but he managed to do it.

I gave an encouraging smile. "That's all you need to do. If your legs can do that later on, we're home free. But remember, small movements.

No more than a foot at a time, okay?"

"Small movements. Gotcha." He didn't look convinced.

"Just do what I do. Like I said, no drama."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

He bit his lip again. "I don't want to mess things up… you know, get caught or whatever. You know, what we talked about last night."

"You won't. Fucking hell, kids do this for fun. I used to do it when I was a kid, trying to skip school." The school I was talking about was reform school, and I only wished I'd known this little trick at the time. I would have been out of that shithole lickety-split. "Tom, relax. Have a bath, do anything you want. Try your clothes on. Just don't worry about it. The only time to worry is when I look worried, okay?"

He hesitated in the doorway. I waited for him to speak, but he changed his mind and turned to go.

"And hey, Tom?"

His body stayed facing out and he just turned his head. "Yep?"

"Don't have anything to eat when you get up, mate. I'll explain later."

He nodded, and left with a nervous laugh as he closed the door behind him.

I stretched out on the bed and went back to visualizing each phase of the job. I wasn't happy about the prospect of snow and I wasn't happy about not having a weapon. The vegetable knife I'd used to cut the cheese with wasn't much of a substitute.

20

I got up groggily just after eight and took a shower. I hadn't slept since Tom's visit, but because I'd been trying so hard I now wanted to.

Dragging myself to the kitchen for a coffee, I found Liv and Tom in bathrobes sitting on the sofa with mugs in hand. They both looked as tired as I felt, and we exchanged only mumbled greetings. I still had one more thing to do with the kit before I double-checked the lot, so I took my coffee with me to my room and got dressed properly.

At just before nine o'clock I took everything down to the car. Tom was on parade, showered, and dressed. Liv didn't follow us down; she would be emptying the house tonight and was probably already busy getting it sterile. She'd take our bags with her, handing them back with the money in them.

Tom and I faced each other as I checked him out, first his pockets to make sure the only stuff in them was the equipment he needed: daps, spare hook, nylon loop, and money. He didn't need 100 marks in change rattling around in his pockets, just the paper money in a plastic bag tucked into his boot to get food and transportation if he was in the shit. Most important was the Think Pad and cables, jammed into the nylon carry bag hanging over his shoulder but under his coat. I didn't want the battery getting too cold and slow on target. I then had to make sure that none of it fell out, especially his spare hook.

I got him to jump up and down. There were no noises and everything stayed in place in his large, padded blue-check coat. Finally I made sure he had his gloves and hat. "All right, mate?"

"No drama." He sounded convincing.

I put the backpack on over my coat. We looked like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. "Okay, you check me now."

"Why?"

"Because I might have fucked up. Go on."

He checked me over from the front first, then I turned so he could check the backpack was securely fastened. Everything was fine until I jumped up and down. There was a noise coming from the pocket my spare hook was in. Tom looked almost embarrassed as he reached in and brought out the two nails that had been raiding around.

"These things happen," I said. "That's why everyone needs to be checked. Thanks, mate."

He was very pleased with himself. It's amazing what a couple of well-placed nails can do to boost someone's confidence and make them feel they're contributing to things.

Tom and I got into the car and wheels turned just after nine o'clock.

Liv hadn't made an appearance to say goodbye.

He was pretty quiet for the first twenty minutes or so. As I drove, I talked him through each phase again, from stopping the car when we got there, to entering the house and finding what we were looking for, to me turning the ignition back on once I had the Think Pad securely in my possession. I concentrated on being relentlessly positive, not even beginning to suggest that things could go wrong.

We got to the drop-off point after three and a half hours, with me stressing every time I'd had to turn the wipers on to clear the windshield of shit thrown up by cars in front, thinking that the snowfall had started.

Once in the firebreak near the target I killed the lights, but I left th e engine running as I looked over at my passenger. "You all right, Tom?"

When we'd done the drive-past a couple of minutes earlier I'd pointed out the driveway we were going to go down. He took a deep breath.

"Ready to roll, mate. Ready to rock 'n' roll." I could sense his apprehension.

"Right then, let's do it." I got out of the car, closing the door gently onto the first click, just enough for the interior light to go out. Then I unzipped my fly.

Tom was on the other side of the car doing the same, exactly as I'd told him. I could only manage a little dribble as I checked the skies for even the slightest sign of snow. I couldn't see a thing in the darkness, of course, but somehow it made me feel better.

I got the backpack and my coat out of the car and rested them against one of the wheels. It was bitterly cold and the wind was getting up, each gust biting at the flesh of my face. At least we should be out of it as we moved down the driveway, protected by the forest, and the noise of the swaying treetops would help cover any sound we made. The bad news was that the same wind would be bringing the snow.

I put my coat on and watched Tom do the same as the backpack went on my back. So far so good. He even remembered to close his door slowly to keep the noise down.

After fully closing mine, I pressed the key chain. The lights flashed as I walked round to Tom and made sure he watched me as I placed the key behind the front wheel, covering it with snow. Getting back up, I went to his exposed ear and whispered, "Remember, no flaps." I wanted him to keep his ears exposed two sets were better than one, and I still wanted him to think I needed his help, though I wasn't holding my breath on that one.

He nodded as our vapor clouds billowed together in front of us.

"We're going to have to keep quiet now." I had to force myself to keep my mouth against his ear. This boy needed to do something about his earwax. "Remember, if you want me, don't call, just touch me, then whisper right in my ear. Okay on that?"

"Got it."

"Do you remember what to do if a vehicle comes?"

"Yeah, yeah, make like Superman." His shoulders heaved up and down as he tried to suppress a nervous laugh.

"Okay, mate, ready?"

He nodded and I clapped him on the shoulder. "Right, let's go then." I felt like an old sweat in the First World War trying to coax a young bayonet over the top.

I set off slowly, my ears exposed to the night, with Tom two or three paces behind. When we were about fifteen feet down the driveway I had a check of Baby G. It was just before a quarter to one; hopefully Friends was crap tonight and they'd gone to bed.

We were going down the gentle incline, coming toward the bend that would take us into line of sight of the house, when I stopped, and so did Tom, just as he'd been told to. If I stopped, he stopped; if I then lay down, so must he.

Moving back to him, I put my mouth to his ear. "Can you hear that?" I backed my head away so he could listen.

He nodded.

"Generator. We're nearly there, mate. Need another piss?"

He shook his head and I slapped him on the head in my best what-good-fun-this-is sort of way and started to walk on.

Keeping in the left-hand tire rut, the compacted snow solid beneath our feet, we slowly rounded the bend. All I could hear was the wind high above us, whipping the tops of the pines; the sound of Tom moving behind, and the generator, its throbbing getting louder as we closed in. I looked up at the sky. Fuck it, it didn't matter if it snowed now or not; I was totally focused on doing the job. Even my nose and ears didn't feel as cold as they had last night. There was nothing I could do about the weather and nothing I could do about the conditions of the contract: It was tonight or nothing, and I was desperate for the money.

Once we were virtually in direct line of sight of the house I stopped again, listened, had a good look around, then moved on another eight or nine steps. My night vision had fully kicked in. I'd explained to Tom how to look at things in the dark just above or below an object to ensure a good focus and how to protect his night vision. It was a waste of time explaining why he had to do these things, all he needed to know was how.

From what I could see at this distance there didn't appear to be any lights on in the house, nor anything else to indicate that anybody was up and about. That didn't mean, however, that I was just going to bowl up to the gate. Every few steps I stopped, turned and checked on Tom, giving him a thumbs-up and getting a nod back. It was more for his benefit than mine; I just wanted to make him feel a bit better, knowing that somebody was thinking about him.

We were a few feet short of the gap between the treeline and fence when I stopped again and listened. Tom did the same, one pace after mine.

If they had NVG (night viewing goggles) and were keeping watch, we would find out very soon. There was nothing I could do about it; this was our only approach.

Tilting my head so my ear pointed toward the house, I tried to listen just that little bit harder, my hearing trying to overcome the noise of the wind, while at the same time edging my eyes round in their sockets toward the house to check for movement. I must have looked like a mime artist to Tom.

There was a faint glimmer of light coming from the left-hand shutter on the ground floor; it was far weaker than last night. I could only just see it. Did that mean everyone was in bed, or crowded round the TV?

I put my hand up in front of his face and signaled Tom to wait where he was. Then my fingers did a little walking-sign motion.

He nodded as I moved off into the darkness, following the wheel rut toward the gate. I was exposed to the wind once I'd passed the treeline. It was now strong enough to push against my coat, but not enough to affect my walking. Nothing much had changed on the other side of the fence, even the 4x4 was parked in the same position.

On the recce there hadn't been any electrical current running through the fence; I would have known when I'd touched it. If there was some tonight I was just about to find out. Biting off my right outer glove, I pulled the touch glove down and quickly felt the gate, not even taking a breath in anticipation. Fuck it, just get on with it. If it was wired up, the shock wouldn't be any different because I'd hesitated. As I put the gloves back on I checked the padlocks. They hadn't been left undone, not that I'd expected them to be. That would be too much like good luck.

There was no way I could cut the gate chains or fence, because that would compromise the job. The bolt cutters weighing a ton in my backpack were only to get us out of the compound if we were compromised on target without them we'd be running around in there like rats in a barrel. Getting out of a place had always been more important to me than getting in,

21

I headed hack to Tom and out of the wind. He hadn't moved an inch since I'd left him; head down, arms by his side, a vapor cloud rising above him. Slowly easing the backpack off my shoulders, I knelt down in the wheel rut and tugged on his sleeve.

Tom lowered himself to join me.

You only take out one bit of kit at a time from a backpack, then deal with it, which means packing so the first item you want is the last bit you put in. Getting him to keep the backpack upright by holding the bolt-cutter handles sticking out on either side of the top, I undid the clips and lifted the flap. Then, moving some of the toweling that stopped everything from rattling around, I took out one webbing loop and a hook.

Twisting two turns of the strapping around the nail hook, where it emerged from the wood, I handed the device, now with a three-foot loop hanging from it, to Tom. He gripped the wood in his right hand, exactly as he'd been shown, with the hook angled down and protruding between his index and middle fingers. Attaching another webbing loop in exactly the same way to another hook, I handed it over, and he took that in his left hand. I then assembled the other two devices in the same way, and re clipped and replaced the backpack on my back, then took one in each hand.

Looking around at both the target and the sky, I noticed no discernible change in either. I just hoped it would stay that way.

Taking a step closer to Tom, I whispered into his ear, "Ready?"

I got a slow nod and a couple of short, sharp breaths in return. I started to move the last few feet toward the gate.

My eyes were fixed on the house, but my brain was already crossing the fence: It was going to be our most vulnerable time. If things went wrong in the house, fine, I could react. Up there on the fence, we'd be fatally exposed, just like my friend hanging from his jacket cord, watching helplessly as they walked up and shot him.

I stopped, my nose six inches from the gate, and turned.

Tom was two paces behind, head bent to the left, trying to keep the wind out of his face.

Turning back to the gate, I raised my right hand to just above shoulder height, the hook facing the diamond-shaped lattice, and gently eased the bent nail into a gap. The rubber bands around the nail were to eliminate noise, but I'd deliberately left the bend itself exposed: When I heard and felt metal on metal, I'd know it was correctly in position. Otherwise, if weight was applied with the hook badly positioned, there was a possibility of the nail straightening under the strain. That was why we both had a spare device. If there was a drama and one of these things started straightening while we climbed, the other loop and hook would have to hold our weight while the broken one was replaced.

The bend in the nail engaged the fencing with the gentlest of scrapes, the bottom of the strapping loop hanging about a foot above the wheel rut. I inserted the left hook about six inches higher, and a shoulder width apart.

It was pointless at this stage worrying about being so exposed to view from the house. All we could do was just get on with it, hoping they didn't see us. There was no other way. If I'd tried the previous night to find somewhere to cross on the side or rear of the building, I would have left tracks everywhere for someone to spot this morning, and my boot prints sure didn't look like reindeer hooves. Even if I'd been able to recce all the way around, I would still face the problem of sign inside the compound. At least the front of the house was crisscrossed by footprints and tire tracks.

Gripping both chunks of wood so the hooks took my body weight, I placed my right foot in the right loop and, using my right leg muscles to push my body upward and pulling up with my hands and arms, I slowly rose above the ground. As the loop began to take the strain I could hear the nylon creaking, stretching just a few millimeters as the fibers sorted themselves out.

The gate and chains rattled as the structure moved under my weight; I'd expected this to happen, but not so loudly. I froze for a few seconds and watched the house.

Satisfied that the right loop was supporting me, I lifted my left into the bottom of the one about six inches higher. I was now a foot off the ground, only about another forty-four to go.

I didn't bother looking at Tom again. From now on I was going to concentrate on what I was doing, knowing that he would be watching me closely and that he knew what was required of him.

I shifted my body weight again until all the pressure was on my left foot and hand; now it was this loop's turn to protest as it stretched that few millimeters for the first time. Lifting out the right hook, but keeping my foot in the loop, I reached up and put it back into the fence six inches above the level of the left one, again a shoulder width apart. Tom was right, it was like Spiderman climbing a wall, only instead of suction pads my hands had hooks and my feet had loops of nylon strapping.

I repeated the process twice more, trying to control my breathing through my nose as my body demanded more oxygen to feed the muscles. I checked below me. Tom was looking up, his head angled against the wind.

I wanted first to gain height and clear the snow drifts in the gap, then traverse left over them and continue climbing near a support post.

I didn't want us to climb directly above the wheel rut, not only because a vehicle or people might appear at the gate, but also because the higher we climbed, the more noise the fence would make as our weight moved it about. I was aiming for the first of the steel poles that the lattice sections were fixed to. If we climbed with our hooks each side of it, it would stop the fence from buckling and lessen the noise.

I now moved vertically to the left six inches at a time. After three more moves I was off the gate and onto the fence proper, and halfway up the first of the three sections that gave the fence its height. The smooth, unmarked snow was a couple of yards below me. There was still a few feet to go before I reached the support, but I didn't want to get too far away from Tom.

Stopping, I looked down at him and nodded. It was his turn to play now and follow my route. He took his time; there was a slight grunt as he took the weight on his right leg, and I hoped he remembered what I'd said, that it was all in the leg muscles, even though that was a lie. He'd need quite a bit of upper-body strength as well, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I didn't want to put him off before he'd even started.

The gate moved and the chains raided far too loudly for comfort.

Thankfully the wind was blowing from left to right, carrying some of our noise away from the building.

Tom hadn't quite got the hang of how to balance himself. As he went to insert his left foot in the loop he started to swivel to the right, forcing himself round to the left so he was flat against the fence once again. I could hear clown music playing in my head already. As I looked down at him under my right armpit, I thought of all the other times I'd had to climb over obstacles or move along roofs with people like Tom, experts in their field but simply unused to anything that demanded more physical coordination than boarding a bus or getting up from a chair. It nearly always ended up in a gang fuck He looked so ridiculous that I couldn't help smiling, even though his incompetence was the last thing I needed right now. For a moment I thought I'd have to go back down to him, but he eventually got his left foot into the loop and made his first ascent. Unfortunately he was so jittery that he started to swing over to the left as he released the right hook from the fence.

Tom worked hard at it, huffing and grunting as he struggled to sort himself out, then, strangely, he found the traverse a bit easier. He still looked a bag of shit, but he was making progress. I kept my eyes on target while he made his way toward me.

Moving up and across a few more times, my hooks were soon on each side of the first support. The massive steel pole was maybe a foot in diameter. I waited again for Tom, who was generating less noise now that he'd traversed onto the more rigid fence. The wind burned my exposed flesh as I forced myself to look around and check. The snot from my runny nose felt as if it was freezing on my top lip.

Ages later, Tom's head was less than a yard below my boots. Beneath us lay a deep drift of snow which extended back fifteen feet to the treeline.

Now that we both had a hook on each side of the support, the going was good and firm. All we had to do from here was climb vertically and get over the top. Pulling one hook away at a time I checked the nails.

They were standing up to the strain.

Tom was going at it like this was Everest, great clouds of vapor billowing round him as he panted for breath, his head moving up and down with the effort of sucking in more oxygen. He'd be sweating big time under his clothes, as much from the pressure he was under as from the huge amounts of physical energy he was needlessly exerting.

I moved another six inches, then another, edging my way upward, wishing we were going a bit quicker. About two-thirds of the way up, I looked down again to check on Tom.

He hadn't moved an inch since I'd last done so, his body shape flat against the fence, holding on for dear life. I couldn't tell what had happened and there was no silent way of attracting his attention. I willed him to look up at me.

He'd completely frozen, a common occurrence when people climb or rappel for the first time. It certainly has nothing to do with lack of strength-even a child has enough muscle to climb-but some people's legs just give out on them. It's a mental thing; they have the strength and know the technique, but they lack the confidence.

At last he looked up. I couldn't make out his expression, but his head was shaking from side to side. From this distance there was no way I could reason with him or offer assurance. Fuck it, I'd have to go down to him. Extracting the right hook, I began descending and traversing to the left. This was turning into a Ringling Brothers Circus act.

Getting level with him, I leaned across until my mouth was against his left ear. The wind picked up more and I had to whisper louder than I wanted. "What's the matter, mate?" I moved my head round to present an ear for his reply, watching the house as I waited.

"I can't do it, Nick. I'm fucked." It came out somewhere between a sob and a whimper. "I hate heights. I should have told you. I was going to say, but… you know."

It was pointless showing him how pissed off I was. That's just the way some people are; it's no good shaking them or telling them to get a grip. If he could, he would. I knew he wanted to get over the fence just as much as I did.

"Not a problem."

Moving his head away from mine, he looked at me, half nodding, half hoping I was going to call it a day.

I got my mouth into his ear again. "I'll stay alongside you all the time, just like I am now. Just watch what I do and follow, okay?"

As I checked the house I heard him sniffing. I looked back; it wasn't just snot; he was in tears.

No point rushing him; not only did we have to get over, but we had to do it again once we'd done the job. If it started snowing now this really would turn into Ringling Brothers' evening performance.

My feet were in the wrong position; his right foot was down, but mine was up. Moving to alter that, I put on my best bedside manner. "We'll just take it nice and easy. Lots of people are scared of heights. Me, I don't like spiders. That's why I like coming this far north, there's none of the fuckers here. Too cold, know what I mean?"

He gave a little nervous laugh.

"Just keep looking at the top of the fence, Tom, and you'll be okay."

He nodded and took a deep breath.

"All right, I'll go first. One step, then you follow, all right?" I slowly put my weight on the left strap, moved up one and waited for him.

He shakily raised himself up level with me.

We did the same again.

I leaned toward his ear. "What did I tell you, no drama." While I was close to him I quickly checked his hooks. They were fine.

I decided to let him have a rest, let him bask in his glory and gain some confidence. "We'll rest here a minute, all right?"

The wind gusted around us, picking up ground snow in flurries. Tom was staring straight ahead at the fence just inches from his face. I was watching the house, both of us sniffing snot.

When his breathing had calmed down I gave him a nod; he nodded back and I started climbing again, and he kept pace, stride for stride.

We reached the top of the second of the three sections. Tom was getting the hang of it; a dozen or so more pulls on each side would take us to the top. I leaned across. "I'll get up there first and help you over the top, okay?"

I needed to traverse again. I wanted to cross away from the top of the pole so we didn't kick off any of the snow that had collected on its top. Something like that would be too easy to notice in daylight.

Tom was getting worried again and started to slap my leg. I ignored it at first, then he grasped my trousers. I looked down. He was in a frenzy, his free hand waving toward the track as his body swung from side to side.

I looked down. A white-clad body was fighting its way through snow that was nearly waist deep in the gap on the other side of the driveway. Behind him were others, and yet more were emerging from the treeline and moving directly onto the track. There must have been at least a dozen.

I could tell by the position and swing of their arms that they were carrying weapons.

Shit, Mahskia.

"Nick! Whatdowedo?"

I'd already told him a few hours ago what to do if we had a drama on the fence: do what I did.

"Jump. Fuck it jump!"

22

Gripping the wood hard and lifting with my arms so the hooks took my body weight, I kicked my feet from the loops and let go with my hands.

I just hoped the snow was deep enough to cushion my thirty foot fall.

I plummeted past Tom, who was still stuck to the fence, and prepared myself for the jump instructor's command when the wind is too strong and the drop zone, which should have been a nice empty field, has suddenly become the beltway: accept the landing.

I plunged into the snow feet first and immediately started a parachute roll to my right, but crumpled as my ribs banged hard against a tree stump, immediately followed by one of the handles of the bolt cutters giving me the good news on the back of my head. It was starburst time in my eyes and brain. Pain spread outward from my chest, the snow that enveloped me muffling my involuntary cry.