Tango One

Tango One

by Stephen Leather

Acknowledgements

I am indebted to John C. Cummings, retired USAF Combat Controller, and James Clanton, USAF Major (Retired), for their help on aviation matters, and to Sam Jenner for the inside track on the Caribbean drugs trade.

Denis O'Donoghue was once again invaluable when casting his professional eye over the manuscript, and I'm especially grateful to my fellow Dublin-based thriller-writer Glenn Meade for getting me through a particularly nerve-wracking case of writer's block.

Sarah Binnersley has line-edited many of my books over the years and as always my work is the better for her keen eye for detail and her no-punches-pulled opinions. And I'm especially grateful to Carolyn Mays at Hodder & Stoughton for overseeing Tango One from beginning to end.

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The Home Office Consolidated Circular to the Police on Crime and Kindred Matters (Home Office Circular 35/1986, Paragraph 1.92).

a. No member of a police force, and no public informant, should counsel, incite or procure the commission of a crime.

b. Where an informant gives the police information about the intention of others to commit a crime in which they intend that he shall play a part, his participation should be allowed to continue only where i. he does not actively engage in planning and committing the crime;

2. he is intended to play only a minor role; and 3. his participation is essential to enable the police to frustrate the principal criminals and to arrest them (albeit for lesser of fences such as attempt or conspiracy to commit the crime, or carrying offensive weapons) before injury is done to any person or serious damage to property.

The informant should always be instructed that he must on no account act as agent provocateur, whether by suggesting to others that they should commit of fences or encouraging them to do so.

The man had been tied to the chair for so long that he'd lost all feeling in his hands and feet. His captors had used thick strips of insulation tape to bind him to the wooden chair and slapped another piece across his mouth, even though he was in a basement and there was no one within earshot who cared whether he lived or died.

The three men who'd brought him to the villa hadn't said a word as they'd dragged him out of the back of the Mercedes and hustled him across the flagstones into the pink-walled villa. He'd lost a shoe somewhere and his big toe poked through a hole in his blue woollen sock.

The tape across his mouth pulsed in and out with each ragged breath as he looked around the room where he was being kept prisoner. No windows. A single door that had been bolted when the three men left. Bare walls, stone with a thick covering of yellowing plaster. A concrete floor. A single fluorescent strip light above his head. One wall had been shelved with slabs of rough local timber and there was a scattering of tinned goods at eye level Heinz baked beans, Batchelor's peas, bottles of HP sauce and boxes of Kellogg's cornflakes and PG Tips. The cravings of an Englishman abroad.

The man fought to steady his breathing. Panic wasn't going to get him anywhere. He had to stay calm. He had to think.

In front of him a Sony digital video camera stood on a tripod, its single lens staring at him full on. The man stared back. He had a bad feeling about the camera. A very bad feeling.

He strained to hear where the three men were, but no sound penetrated the depths of the basement. He hadn't heard them leave the villa or the Mercedes being driven away, but that meant nothing. The soundproofing of the basement worked both ways.

The man tested his bonds. The tape was grey and metallic looking, the type used by plumbers, and while it was only an inch wide, it had been wound around his limbs so many times that they might as well have been made of steel. He tried to rock the chair backwards and forwards, but it was big and heavy and he could barely move it.

He swallowed. His throat felt raw and every breath was painful, but at least the pain proved that he was alive.

He racked his brains, trying to think where he'd gone wrong. He must have made a mistake somewhere along the line, and if he could just work out what it was, maybe he'd be able to put it right. Had someone recognised him, had he said something to give himself away, some stupid slip that he hadn't noticed but which they'd picked up on? He replayed all the recent conversations he'd had but nothing came to mind. He was too professional to make mistakes. Too careful. Too scared.

He knew two of the men who'd brought him down to the basement. One was Scottish, the other Brazilian. He'd known them both for almost two years. He'd drunk with them, who red with them, on occasions almost felt that they were friends. However, when they'd picked him up on the pavement outside the hotel their eyes had been hard and their faces set like stone, and he'd known even before they'd grabbed him that he was in trouble.

The third man, the one who'd driven, was a stranger. Hispanic, jet-black hair that had been swept back, and high cheekbones pockmarked with old acne scars. The driver had kept turning around and grinning at him, but like the other two hadn't said a word during the drive to the villa.

Initially the man had tried to bluff it out, to make a joke of it, then he'd faked anger, saying that they had no right to treat him that way, then he'd threatened them. They'd said nothing. The Scotsman had jabbed the barrel of a large automatic into the man's ribs and kept his finger tight on the trigger. Eventually the man had fallen silent and just sat between his captors, his hands in his lap.

He heard footsteps on the stone steps that led down to the basement and he tensed. The door opened. He recognised the man who stood in the doorway. He was a shade over six feet tall with chestnut-brown hair that was unfashionably long, pale green eyes and a sprinkling of freckles over a nose that had been broken at least twice. Dennis Donovan.

"Don't get up, Andy," said Donovan, and laughed harshly.

The Brazilian appeared at Donovan's shoulder and grinned, showing yellowish, smoker's teeth.

Donovan and the Brazilian walked into the basement and closed the door. Donovan was wearing a red short-sleeved polo shirt and khaki chinos, a Rolex submariner on his left wrist. In his hand was a long kitchen knife. The Brazilian was holding a large plastic bag.

The man said nothing. There was nothing he could say. Donovan had used his real name, which meant that Donovan knew everything.

"You've been a naughty boy, Andy," said Donovan, stretching out the man's name as if relishing the sound of it.

"A very naughty boy." From the back pocket of his chinos he took a black ski mask and slipped it on his head. He walked past the man, so close that he could smell Donovan's aftershave, and bent over the video camera. He pressed a button and then cursed.

"Fucking new technology," he said.

"Ever tried programming a video recorder, Andy? Bloody nightmare. You need a PhD in astrophysics just to set the timer. Ah, there we go."

Donovan straightened up. A small red light glowed at the top of the video recorder as the glass lens glared balefully at the man in the chair.

Donovan nodded at the Brazilian, who had also put on a black ski mask. Donovan tossed the knife to him in a gentle arc and the Brazilian caught it deftly with his free hand.

The Brazilian advanced towards the man in the chair, flicking the knife from side to side, humming quietly. The man struggled, even though he knew there was no point in struggling. His conscious brain knew that his life was forfeit, but his animal instincts refused to accept the inevitable and he strained against his bonds and tried to scream through the tape gag as the Brazilian went to work with the knife.

Peter Latham stabbed at the lift button and glared at the floor indicator as if he could speed up its progress by sheer willpower. He shrugged his shoulders inside his grey suit jacket and adjusted his blue and yellow striped tie. It had been a long time since Latham had worn plainclothes during the day and he was surprised at how much he missed his uniform.

The briefcase he carried was the same one he carried into work every day at New Scotland Yard, a present from his wife of going on twenty-five years. Black leather, scuffed at the edges, the gilt weathered on the two combination locks, the handle virtually moulded to the shape of his hand, it was something of a lucky talisman and he planned to keep it until the day he retired.

The lift doors opened and Latham stepped inside. He pressed the button for the fifth floor but the doors remained resolutely open. The hotel was advertised as four-star, but the carpets were stained and threadbare and there was a tired look to the place, like a faded actress who'd long given up on her agent ringing with an offer of work. It was in an area that Latham rarely frequented, just east of the City, London's sprawling financial district, and he'd travelled by black cab instead of using his regular driver. Strictly speaking, as an Assistant Commissioner with the Metropolitan Police, Latham was higher in rank than the man he was coming to see, but the man was an old friend and the manner and urgency of the request for the meeting was such that Latham was prepared to put rank aside.

The doors closed and there was a sharp jolt as the lift started its upward journey. Latham could hear gears grinding somewhere above his head and he resolved to take the stairs on the way down.

The room was at the end of a long corridor punctuated with cheap watercolours of seascapes in fake antique frames. Latham knocked and the door was opened by a man in his early fifties, a few inches shorter than Latham's six feet and several stone heavier.

"Peter, thanks for coming," said the man, offering his hand.

They shook. Both men had strong, firm grips. A handshake between equals.

"We're getting a bit old for cloak and dagger, aren't we, Ray?" said Latham. Raymond Mackie pulled an apologetic face and stepped aside to allow Latham into the room. Two single beds, a pine-laminated dressing table and wardrobe, and a small circular table with two grey armchairs. There was a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, two glasses and an ice bucket on the table. Mackie waddled over to it, poured two large measures and handed one to Latham. They clinked glasses and drank. Mackie's official title was Head of Drugs Operations, HODO, generally referred to as Ho Dough, although because of Mackie's expansive waistline, this was frequently corrupted behind his back to the Doughboy.

A combined television and video recorder stood on the dressing table. Mackie saw Latham looking at the television and he picked up a video cassette.

"This arrived at Custom House yesterday," he said.

"I hope you haven't brought me all this way to watch a blue movie," said Latham. He dropped down into one of the armchairs and put his briefcase on the floor.

"I warn you, it's not pretty," said Mackie, slotting the cassette into the recorder and pressing the 'play' button. He shuffled over to a sofa and eased himself down on to it as if he feared it might break, then took a long slug of his whisky as the screen flickered into life.

Latham steepled his fingers under his chin. It took several seconds before he realised that what he was seeing wasn't a movie, but the brutal torture of a fellow human being.

"Sweet Jesus," he whispered.

"Andy Middleton," said Mackie.

"One of our best undercover agents."

On the screen, the man in the ski mask was slicing deep cuts across the chest of the bound man, who was rocking back and forth in agony.

"He went missing on Anguilla two weeks ago. This came via Miami."

Latham tried not to look at the man being tortured and instead forced himself to look for details that might help identify the assailant or the location. The torturer had no watch or jewellery, and was wearing surgical gloves. There was no way of knowing if he was black or white, or even if he was male or female, though Latham doubted that a woman would be capable of such savagery. The walls were bare except for a few shelves to the left. A fluorescent light fitting. Concrete floor. It could have been anywhere.

"Middleton was trying to get close to Dennis Donovan," said Mackie.

"Donovan's been active in the Caribbean for the past six months, meeting with Colombians and a Dutch shipper by the name of Akveld. Middleton's in was through one of Akveld's associates. He's gone missing, too."

A second masked figure stepped into the frame holding a plastic bag. He stood for a second or two looking directly at the camera.

"We think this is Donovan," said Mackie.

"Same build. There's no way of knowing for sure, though."

The man walked behind Middleton and pulled the plastic bag down over his head, twisting it around his neck. The undercover Customs agent shuddered in the chair, his eyes wide and staring. It was more than a minute before his head slumped down against his chest, but the man behind him kept the bag tight around his neck for a further minute to make sure that he was dead.

The recording ended and Mackie switched off the television.

"Middleton is the third agent we've lost in the Caribbean. Like Middleton, the bodies of the first two haven't been found. They were hoping to bring Donovan down as part of Operation Liberator, but it didn't work out that way."

Latham nodded. Operation Liberator had been trumpeted as a major victory in the war against drugs almost three thousand drugs traffickers arrested, twenty tons of cocaine and almost thirty tons of marijuana seized along with thirty million dollars of assets confiscated as part of a massive operation conducted by the United States Drug Enforcement Administration and British Customs. Latham knew that most of the arrests were low-level dealers and traffickers, however, men and women who would have been replaced before they'd even been strip-searched. And thirty million dollars was a drop in the ocean of a business estimated to be worth more than five hundred billion dollars a year.

"Were they killed on tape?" asked Latham.

Mackie shook his head.

"So why this time? What was special about Middleton?"

"It's a warning," said Mackie, sitting down in the armchair opposite Latham and refilling their glasses.

"He's telling us what he'll do to anyone we send against him."

Latham sipped his whisky.

"It's unusual, isn't it, killing a Customs officer?"

"Not in the league Donovan's in. If it was just a case of a couple of kilos, maybe, but the last consignment of Donovan's that went belly up had a street value of thirty million dollars. If the DEA catch him with the goods, he'll go down for life without parole."

"Even so, he could just give them a kicking and send them packing, couldn't he?"

"I guess we've become a thorn in his side and this is his way of saying enough is enough."

"And is it? From your perspective?"

Mackie looked at the Assistant Commissioner with unblinking grey eyes.

"I knew all three of them, Peter. I worked with Andy way back when. Checking cars at Dover, believe it or not. I'm not going to send any more men into the lion's den."

"So he's won?"

"Not exactly." Mackie fell silent and stared at a painting of a vase of flowers above one of the beds.

"Spit it out, Ray," said Latham eventually.

"We've had an idea," said Mackie, still studying the painting.

"Well, I guessed that much."

"The problem is, no matter how good our agents are, and Andy Middleton was one of the best, an operator like Donovan can still spot them. They don't have his background, his instincts. No matter how good they are, they're still playing a role. One slip, one wrong move, and their cover's blown."

Latham nodded but didn't say anything.

Mackie put his glass on the table and stood up, his knees cracking like snapping twigs. He walked around the room, his left shoe squeaking each time it touched the floor.

"We put our guys through the most intense training imaginable, same as you do with your SO10 people. We teach them about surveillance and counter-surveillance, we teach them how to act, how to think like a criminal. And up against low-level operators they pass muster. You see, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, then the bad guys assume that it's probably a duck. But probably isn't good enough for a man like Donovan. First, he only does business with people he's known personally for a long time. He treats all strangers with suspicion. And he has an instinct for undercover agents. It's as if he can smell them. Apart from the three who've died, I've had half a dozen bail out of their own accord, convinced that Donovan was on to them."

"I get the picture, Ray. I even get the duck analogy. But what do you want from me? From the Met?"

Mackie took a deep breath and turned to look at the Assistant Commissioner.

"Virgins," he said, quietly.

"We need virgins."

Jamie Fullerton gritted his teeth as he pounded along the pavement on the last leg of his two-mile run. He was barely sweating and knew that he had the stamina to run for at least another hour, but he had nothing to prove. If it had been the weekend he might have pushed himself harder, but it was Monday, the start of a new week. The start of a new life. He looked left and right and dashed across the King's Road, heading for his basement flat in Oakley Street. London wasn't the most convenient place in the world for an early-morning run, but Fullerton couldn't abide the clinical efficiency and mechanical contraptions of a health club. Fitness was a way of life to him; it had nothing to do with spending an hour on an exercise bike reading the FT and listening to the latest Simply Red CD.

He increased the pace as he turned into Oakley Street and sprinted the last hundred yards, then stood stretching as he held on to the black railings at the top of the stairs that led down to his flat. A blonde in a smart pale green suit carrying a Louis Vuitton briefcase flashed him a dazzlingly white smile and he grinned back.

"Looking good," she said, then she was gone, heading for South Kensington Tube station.

Fullerton had seen her three times during the past week and had the feeling that she was deliberately timing her journey to coincide with his return from his run. He'd noticed the wedding ring on her finger the first time he'd seen her, but her smiles were getting wider and there was a definite swing to her hips as she walked away. She was pretty enough, but she was in her early thirties, probably a decade his senior, and Fullerton had long since passed through the stage of being attracted to older women.

He went down the metal steps to his front door and let himself in. The flat had a minimum of furniture: two simple grey sofas facing each other either side of a coal-effect gas fire, a low coffee table made from some dark veneer that hadn't been within a mile of a genuine tree, and a sideboard which was bare except for an inoffensive African wood carving that he would have thrown out if it hadn't been high up on the list of the landlord's inventory that he'd had to sign when he'd taken on the lease.

Fullerton stripped off his tracksuit top and tossed it on to the sofa by the window before dropping on to the beige carpet and doing his daily one hundred and twenty sit-ups. He was sweating by the time he finished, but his breathing was still regular and though his abdominal muscles ached he knew that he was nowhere near his limit.

He walked through to the bathroom, which was as utilitarian as the sitting room, and showered before going into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. On the back of the bedroom door a dark blue uniform with silver buttons hung on a wooden hanger. He picked up the hanger and grinned at the uniform.

"A fucking cop," he chuckled to himself.

"Who'd've believed it?"

He tossed the uniform on to the bed. The helmet with its gleaming silver emblem of the Metropolitan Police was on the dressing table and Fullerton picked it up. He placed it on his head and adjusted the chin strip. It was heavy but it sat firmly on his head. He turned to look at his reflection in the mirrored door of the wardrobe. He stopped grinning and snapped to attention, then slowly saluted.

"Evening all," he said. He flexed his biceps, then stepped into a bodybuilder's pose. His towel slid to the floor and he grinned at his naked reflection.

He jumped as his doorbell rang, and his face flushed involuntarily as he realised how ridiculous he looked, naked except for a policeman's helmet.

He put the helmet on the bed next to the uniform, wrapped the towel around his waist and rushed down the hallway to the front door. He opened it, expecting to see the postman, but instead was faced with a man in his thirties wearing a dark blue blazer and grey slacks, like a holiday rep preparing to greet a planeload of holiday makers.

"James Fullerton?" asked the man, his face a blank mask as if he didn't care either way whether or not he was.

"Yes?" said Fullerton hesitantly.

"There's been a change of venue," said the man.

"And you are?"

"The man who's been sent to take you to the new venue," he said without a trace of humour. He was holding a set of car keys in his right hand. His shoes were as highly polished as the pair that Fullerton kept in the bottom of his wardrobe. Policeman's shoes.

"Look, I'm supposed to be at Hendon at eight thirty," said Fullerton.

"The police college."

"I know what Hendon is, sir," said the man in the blazer.

"You're to come with me instead."

"Do you have a letter or something?"

"No," said the man coldly.

"No letter."

Fullerton looked at the man. The man returned his look with total impassivity as he clasped his hands together over his groin and waited patiently. It was clear that he wasn't going to divulge any further information.

"Right," said Fullerton.

"Let me get dressed." He started to close the door.

"The uniform won't be necessary, sir." Fullerton stopped closing the door.

"Excuse me?"

"The uniform. It won't be necessary." Fullerton frowned.

"What do I wear, then?" The man in the blazer leaned forward as if about to whisper conspiratorially.

"Frankly, sir," he said, "I couldn't give a fuck." Fullerton closed the door and stood in the hallway with his head in the hands wondering what the hell was going on. His application to join the Metropolitan Police had been accepted three months earlier, and the letter telling him when to report to Hendon had arrived shortly afterwards. The sudden change of plan could only be bad news.

Cliff "Bunny' Warren poured a slug of milk over his Shredded Wheat, dumped on two heaped spoonfuls of brown sugar and carried the bowl over to the Formica table in the corner of his kitchen. He wrapped his dressing gown around himself, propped up a textbook against the wall and read as he ate. Reforming Social Services. The content of the book was as dry as the cereal straight from the packet, but Warren knew that it was required reading. He was already behind in his Open University reading and had a stack of videos next to the television that he still had to watch.

The doorbell rang, three sharp blasts as if whoever was ringing was in a hurry. Warren put down his spoon and walked slowly down the hallway. He put the chain on the door before opening it. The part of Harlesden he lived in was home to an assortment of drug addicts and petty thieves who wouldn't think twice about kicking down a door, beating him senseless and taking what few possessions he had. His upstairs neighbour, a widower in his seventies, had been broken into six times in the past two years.

A white man in a dark blue blazer smiled through the gap.

"Clifford Warren?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I've a car waiting for you, sir."

Warren's brow furrowed as he opened the door further. Parked in the street a few doors away was a brand new Vauxhall Vectra that was already attracting the attention of two West Indian teenagers.

"You don't want to leave it there," warned Warren.

"Not if you want to see your radio again."

The man took a quick look over his shoulder.

"Thanks for the tip, sir," he said.

"I'll wait with the vehicle."

"Does every new recruit get this treatment?" asked Warren.

"You're a bit of a special case, I'm told, sir," said the man, adjusting his red and blue tie.

"I've been told to tell you that the uniform won't be necessary."

"Am I in some sort of trouble?" asked Warren, suddenly concerned.

The man shrugged.

"Not that I'm aware of, sir, but then they don't tell me much, me being a driver and all." He looked at his watch.

"Best not to be late, sir."

Warren nodded.

"Okay, okay," he said and closed the door as the man went back to guard his car.

He walked slowly into his bedroom and took off his dressing gown. His police uniform was hanging from the key that locked the wardrobe door. He reached out and stroked the blue serge. Warren had thought long and hard before applying to join the Metropolitan Police. He'd had a few minor convictions when he was a teenager, mainly joy riding and stealing from cars, and he'd been up front about his past during the many interviews they'd put him through. However, in the wake of a slump in recruitment, the Met had been forced to drop its requirement that applicants had a completely trouble-free past. They were especially keen on Warren as he was West Indian, and were currently bending over backwards to increase their intake of ethnic minorities. It was racism, albeit acting in reverse, and Warren figured that he might as well take advantage of it. However, the presence of the man in the blazer waiting in the car outside suggested that his entry into the ranks of the Metropolitan Police wasn't going to go as smoothly as he'd hoped.

Christina Leigh lit her first cigarette of the morning, inhaled deeply, then spent a good thirty seconds coughing as she walked slowly towards the kitchen, wrapping her robe around her.

"Tomorrow I'm giving up," she promised herself for the thousandth time.

She switched on the kettle and heaped two spoonfuls of Nescafe Gold Blend into a white mug. As she took a second pull on her Silk Cut she frowned at the clock above the ten-year-old refrigerator.

"Eight o'clock?" she muttered.

"How the hell can it be eight o'clock already?" She hurried back into the bedroom and took her blue uniform out of the wardrobe and laid it carefully on the bed. Her regulation shoes sat on her dressing table, gleaming under the fluorescent strip light above her mirror, and her hat hung on a hook on the back of the door. She picked up the hat and sat it carefully on her head, then adjusted the angle. Try as she might, it didn't look right and she wondered whether day one at Hendon would involve teaching recruits how to wear the bloody things. At least she didn't have to wear the same silly pointed helmets as the men. The doorbell rang and she jumped.

She rushed to the door of her flat and flung it open. A grey-haired man in his early fifties smiled down at her. He was wearing a dark blue blazer and grey trousers and must have been almost seven feet tall, because Tina had to crane her neck to look at his face.

"Whatever you're selling, I really don't have the time," she said. She took a quick pull on her cigarette.

"Or the money. And how did you get in? The front door's supposed to be locked."

"Didn't anyone tell you that smoking in uniform is grounds for dismissal?" said the man in a soft Northumbrian accent.

"What?" said Tina, but as soon as the word had left her mouth she realised that she was still wearing the police hat. She grabbed it and held it behind her back.

"I'm not a cop," she said.

"Not yet. A police officer, I mean. I'm not actually a police officer." She leaned over and stabbed the cigarette into an ashtray on the hall table.

"What do you want?"

The man smiled at her, the skin at the side of his eyes creasing into deep crow's feet.

"Christina Leigh?"

"Yes?" said Tina hesitantly.

"Your chariot awaits."

"My what?"

"Your car."

"I don't have a bleedin' car. I barely have enough for a bus ticket."

"I'm here to drive you, Miss Leigh."

"To Hendon?"

"To an alternative venue."

"I'm supposed to report to Hendon half past eight." She took a quick look at the watch on her wrist.

"And I'm running late."

"Your itinerary has been changed, Miss Leigh, and I'm here to drive you. You won't be needing the uniform, either. Plainclothes."

"Plainclothes?"

"The sort of thing you'd wear to the shops." He smiled.

"I wouldn't recommend anything outrageous."

Tina narrowed her eyes.

"Am I in trouble?" she asked, suddenly serious.

The man shrugged.

"They treat me like a mushroom, miss. Keep me in the dark and ' "I know, I know," Tina interrupted.

"It's just that I had the course work, I've read all the stuff, and I was up all night polishing those bloody shoes. Now you're telling me it's off."

"Just a change in your itinerary, miss. That's all. If you were in any sort of trouble, I doubt that they'd send me."

Tina pounced.

"They?"

"The powers that be, miss. The people who pay my wages."

"And they would be who?"

"I guess the taxpayer at the end of the day." He looked at his watch.

"We'd best be going, miss."

Tina stared at the man for a few seconds, then nodded slowly.

"Okay. Give me a minute." She smiled mischievously.

"Make-up?"

"A touch of mascara wouldn't hurt, miss," said the man, straight faced.

"Perhaps a hint of lipstick. Nothing too pink. I'll be waiting in the car."

Tina bit down on her lower lip, suppressing the urge to laugh out loud. She waited until she'd closed the door before chuckling to herself.

By the time she was opening the wardrobe door she'd stopped laughing. The arrival of the grey-haired stranger on her doorstep could only be bad news. The day she'd learned that the Metropolitan Police had accepted her as a probationary constable had been one of the happiest in her life. Now she had a horrible feeling that her dreams of a new life were all going to come crashing down around her.

The driver said not one word during the forty-minute drive from Chelsea to the Isle of Dogs. Jamie Fullerton knew that there was no point in asking any of the dozen or so questions that were buzzing around his brain like angry wasps. He'd find out soon enough, of that much he was sure. He stared out of the window of the Vectra and took long, slow breaths, trying to calm his thumping heart.

When he saw the towering edifice of Canary Wharf in the distance, Fullerton frowned. So far as he knew, none of the Metropolitan Police bureaucracy was based out in the city it was a financial centre, pure and simple. Big American banks and Japanese broking houses and what was left of the British financial services sector.

The Vectra slowed in front of a nondescript glass and steel block, then turned into an underground car park, bucking over a yellow and black striped hump in the tarmac. The driver showed a laminated ID card to a uniformed security guard and whistled softly through his teeth as the barrier was slowly raised. They parked close to a lift, and Fullerton waited for the driver to walk around and open the door for him. It was a silly, pointless victory, but the man's sullen insolence had annoyed Fullerton.

The driver slammed Fullerton's door shut and walked stiffly over to the lift. To the right of the grey metal door was a keypad and he tapped out a four-digit code. A digital read-out showed that the lift was coming down from the tenth floor.

The driver studiously ignored Fullerton until the lift reached the car park and the door rattled open.

"Tenth floor, sir," said the driver, almost spitting out the honorific.

"You'll be met." He turned and headed back to the car.

Fullerton walked into the lift and stabbed at the button for the tenth floor.

"You drive carefully, yeah?" Fullerton shouted as the door clattered shut. It was another pointless victory, but Fullerton had a feeling that he was going to have to take his victories where he could.

He watched as the floor indicator lights flicked slowly to ten. The lift whispered to a halt and the door opened. There was nobody waiting for him. Fullerton hesitated, then stepped out of the lift and stood in the grey-carpeted lobby, looking left and right. At one end of the corridor was a pair of frosted glass doors. Fullerton frowned. The lift door closed behind him. He adjusted the cuffs of his white shirt and shrugged the shoulders of his dark blue silk and wool Lanvin suit. Fullerton had decided that if his uniform had been declared surplus to requirements, he might as well go into battle dressed stylishly. Plus it had been another way of annoying the tight-lipped driver the suit probably cost as much as the man earned in a month.

Fullerton took a deep breath and headed towards the glass doors. He had just raised his right hand to push his way through when a blurry figure on the other side beat him to it and pulled the door open.

Fullerton flinched and almost took a step back, but he recovered quickly when he saw that the man holding the door open was wearing the uniform and peaked cap of a senior officer of the Metropolitan Police.

"Didn't mean to startle you, Fullerton," said the man.

"I wasn't startled, sir," said Fullerton, recognising the man from his frequent television appearances. Assistant Commissioner Peter Latham. The articulate face of British policing university educated, quick witted and about the only senior police officer able to hold his own against the aggressive interrogators of Newsnight. Latham was the officer most likely to be wheeled out to defend the policies and actions of the Metropolitan Police, while the Commissioner stayed in his spacious wood-panelled office on the eighth floor of New Scotland Yard, drinking Earl Grey tea from a delicate porcelain cup and planning his retirement, only two years and a knighthood away.

"This way," said Latham, letting the door swing back. Fullerton caught it and followed the Assistant Commissioner through a lobby area and down a white-walled corridor bare of any decoration to a teak veneer door where four screw holes marked where a plaque had once been.

Latham pushed the door open. The office was about the size of a badminton court, with floor-to-ceiling windows at one end. Like the corridor outside, the walls were completely bare, except for a large clock with big roman numerals and a red second hand. There were brighter patches of clean paint where paintings or pictures had once hung, and screw holes where things had been removed. The only furnishings were a cheap pine desk and two plastic chairs. Latham sat down on one of the chairs so that his back was to the window. There were no blinds or curtains, and through the glass Fullerton could see hundreds of office workers slaving away like worker ants in the tower opposite.

Latham took off his peaked cap and placed it carefully on the table in front of him. His hair seemed unnaturally black, though the grey areas around his temples suggested he wasn't dyeing it. He motioned for Fullerton to sit down. Fullerton did so, adjusting the creases of his trousers.

"You know who I am, Fullerton?" said the Assistant Commissioner.

Fullerton nodded.

"Sir," he said.

"No need for introductions, then," said the senior police officer. He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the desktop.

The fingernails were immaculately groomed, Fullerton noticed, the nails neatly clipped, the cuticles trimmed back.

"Tell me why you wanted to join the force, Fullerton."

Fullerton's brow creased into a frown. His application to join the Metropolitan Police had been accepted after more than twenty hours of interviews, a battery of psychological and physical tests, and a thorough background check. He'd been asked his reasons for wanting to join more than a dozen times and he doubted that Latham expected to hear anything new or original. So why ask the question, unless he was being set up for something? Fullerton's initial reaction was to go on the offensive, to ask the Assistant Commissioner why he was being asked the question at such a late stage and by such a senior officer, but he knew that there'd be nothing to be gained. He forced himself to smile.

"It's the career I've always wanted, sir," he said.

"A chance to do something for the community. To help. To make a difference."

Latham studied Fullerton with unsmiling brown eyes, his face giving nothing away. Fullerton found the face impossible to read. He widened his smile a little and sat back in his chair, trying to look as relaxed as possible.

"I'm not totally altruistic, obviously," said Fullerton, lifting his hands and showing his palms, doing everything he could to show the body language of someone who was open and honest, with nothing to hide.

"I don't want an office job, I don't want to sell people life insurance they don't want or spend my life with a phone stuck to my ear. I want to be out and about, dealing with people, solving problems."

Still no reaction from Latham. No understanding nods, no smiles of acceptance. Just a blank stare that seemed to look right through Fullerton.

"Frankly, sir, I'm not sure what else I can say. Everyone knows what a police officer does. And it's a job that I want to do."

Fullerton smiled and nodded, but there was no reciprocal gesture from Latham. His neatly manicured fingers continued to drum softly on the desktop.

"How did you feel when you weren't accepted on to the accelerated promotion scheme?"

"A little disappointed, but I figured that if I joined as an ordinary entrant, my talents would soon be realised. It might take me a year or so longer to reach the top, but I'll still get there." Fullerton deliberately tried to sound as optimistic as possible, but he was already beginning to accept that something had gone wrong and that Latham had no intention of allowing him to join the Metropolitan Police. Why the clandestine meeting, though, why hadn't they just written to him with the bad news? None of this was making any sense at all, and until it did, Fullerton had no choice but to go along for the ride.

"Those talents being?"

Fullerton was starting to tire of Latham's game-playing. He leaned forward and looked Latham in the eyes, meeting his cold stare and not flinching from it.

"The talents that were recognised by the interview board, for one," he said.

"The talents that got me in the top five per cent of my university year. At Oxford." He used the name like a lance, prodding it at Latham, knowing that the Assistant Commissioner had only managed a second-class degree from Leeds.

For the first time Latham allowed a smile to flicker across his face. He stopped tapping his fingers and gently smoothed the peak of his cap.

"What about your other talents?" said Latham quietly, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

"Lying? Cheating? Blackmail?"

The three words hit Fullerton like short, sharp punches to his solar plexus. He sat back in his chair, stunned.

"What?" he gasped.

Latham stared at Fullerton for several seconds before he spoke again.

"Did you think we wouldn't find out about your drug use, Fullerton? Do you think we're stupid? Was that your intention, to join the Met and show us all how much smarter you are? To rub our noses in our own stupidity?"

Fullerton put his hands on his knees, forcing himself to keep them from clenching.

"I don't know what it is you think that I've done, sir, but I can assure you .. ." He tailed off, lost for words.

"You can assure me of what?" asked Latham.

"Someone has been lying to you, sir."

"Oh, I'm quite sure of that, Fullerton," said Latham.

"Whatever they've told you, it's lies. Someone is trying to set me up."

"Why would anyone do that?" asked Latham.

Fullerton shook his head. His mind whirled. What the hell had happened? What did Latham know? And what did he want?

"Are you denying that you are a regular user of cocaine?" asked Latham.

"Emphatically," said Fullerton.

"And that you smoke cannabis?"

"I don't even smoke cigarettes, sir. Look, I gave a urine sample as part of the medical, didn't I? Presumably that was tested for drugs use."

"Indeed it was."

"And?"

"And the sample you gave was as pure as the driven snow."

"So there you are. That proves something, doesn't it?"

Latham smiled thinly.

"All it proves is how smart you are, Fullerton. Or how smart you'd like to think you are."

Fulleiton leaned forward again, trying to seize back the initiative.

"My background was checked, sir. No criminal record, not even a speeding ticket."

"Are you denying that you take drugs on a regular basis?"

"Yes."

"And that you were caught dealing cannabis while at university?"

Fullerton's eyes widened and his mouth went dry.

"Caught with three ounces of cannabis resin in the toilets at an end-of-term concert?" Latham continued, his eyes boring into Fullerton's.

Fullerton fought to stop his hands from shaking.

"If that had been the case, sir, I'd have been sent down."

"Unless your tutor also happened to be a customer. Unless you threatened to expose him if he didn't pull strings to get the matter swept under the metaphorical carpet. Might also explain how you managed to graduate with a first."

"I got my degree on merit," said Fullerton, quickly. Too quickly, he realised.

"There's no proof of any of this," he said.

"It's all hearsay."

"Hearsay's all we need," said Latham.

"This isn't a court, there's no jury to convince."

"Is that what this is all about? A conviction for possession that wouldn't even merit a caution?"

"Do you think I'd be here if that was all that was involved, Fullerton? Don't you think I'd have better things to do than interview someone who thinks it's clever to get high now and again?"

Fullerton swallowed. His nose was itching and he badly wanted to scratch it, but he knew that if he took his hands off his knees they'd start trembling.

"I'm not interested in slapping the wrist of a recreational drug-user, Fullerton, but I am very interested in knowing if you're serious about wanting to be a police officer. A real police officer."

"Yes, sir. I am."

Latham looked at Fullerton, his mouth a tight line. He nodded slowly.

"Very well. From this moment on I want absolute truth from you. Do you understand?"

Fullerton licked his lips. His mouth was bone dry.

"Agreed, sir."

"Thank you," said Latham.

"Exactly what drugs do you use?"

"Cocaine, sir. Occasionally. Cannabis. Ecstasy on occasions."

"Heroin?"

"In the past, sir. Only inhaling. Never injecting."

"LSD?"

"Not since university, sir. I didn't like the loss of control."

"Would you consider yourself an addict?"

Fullerton shook his head emphatically.

"I don't have an addictive personality, sir. I use because I enjoy it, not because I need it."

"That's what all addicts say."

"I've gone without for weeks at a time, sir. It's not a problem."

"And you switched urine samples?"

"I gave a friend fifty quid for a bottle of his piss."

"And your tutor at Oxford? You pressurised him?"

Fullerton nodded.

"But only for the cannabis thing, I swear. I got the first on merit."

"Do you still deal?"

Fullerton grimaced.

"That depends, sir."

"On what?"

"On your definition of dealing."

"Selling for profit."

Fullerton grimaced again.

"I sell to friends, and it'd be stupid to make a loss on the deal, wouldn't it? I mean, you wouldn't expect me to sell at a loss."

"That would make you a dealer," said Latham.

Fullerton could feel sweat beading on his forehead, but he didn't want to wipe it away, didn't want Latham to see his discomfort.

"What's this about, sir?" he asked.

"I assume there's no way I'm going to be allowed to join the force. Not in view of ... this."

For the first time, Latham smiled with something approaching warmth.

"Actually, Fullerton, you'd be surprised."

"Don't think you think it's going to be tough for you in the Met, being a nigger?" said Assistant Commissioner Latham.

At first Cliff Warren thought he'd misheard, and he sat with a blank look on his face.

Latham folded his arms across his chest, tilted his head back slightly and looked down his nose at Warren.

"What's wrong, Warren? Cat got your tongue?"

Still Warren thought he'd misunderstood the senior police officer.

"I'm not sure I understand the question, sir."

"The question, Warren, is don't you think that being black is going to hold you back? The Met doesn't like spooks. Spades. Sooties. Whatever the latest generic is. Haven't you heard? We're institutionally racist. We don't like niggers."

Warren frowned. He looked away from Latham's piercing gaze and stared out of the window at the tower block opposite. It was like a bad dream and he half expected to wake up at any moment and find himself looking at his brand new uniform hanging from the wardrobe door. This didn't make any sense. The drive to the Isle of Dogs. The lift with a security code. The empty office, empty except for a desk and two chairs and a senior police officer whom Warren recognised from his many television appearances, who was using racist language which could lose him his job if it was ever made public.

"I'm not sure of your point, sir," said Warren.

"My point is that it's not going to be much fun for you, is it? Pictures of monkeys pinned up on your locker. Bananas on the backseat of your patrol car. Memos asking you to call Mr. K.K. Clan."

"I thought the Met wanted to widen its minority base," said Warren.

Latham raised an eyebrow.

"Did you now?" he said.

"And you were eager to take up the challenge, were you?"

"I wanted the job, yes."

Latham steepled his fingers under his chin like a child saying his prayers and studied Warren with unblinking eyes.

"You're not angered by what I've just said?" he said eventually.

"I've heard worse, sir."

"And you're always so relaxed about it?"

"What makes you think I'm relaxed, sir?"

Latham nodded slowly, accepting Warren's point.

"That was a test, was it, sir?"

"In a way, Warren."

Warren smiled without warmth.

"Because it wasn't really a fair test, not if you think about it. You're in uniform, I'm hoping to become an officer in the force that you command, I'm hardly likely to lose control, am I?"

"I suppose not."

"See, if you weren't an Assistant Commissioner, and you'd said what you'd said outside, in a pub or on the street, my reaction might have been a little less .. . reticent." Warren leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Latham's face.

"In fact," he said in a low whisper, "I'd be kicking your lily-white arse to within an inch of your lily-white life. Sir." Warren smiled showing perfect slab-like white teeth.

"No offence intended."

Latham smiled back. This time there was an amused glint in his eyes and Warren knew that he'd passed the test. Maybe not with flying colours, but he'd passed.

"None taken," said the Assistant Commissioner.

"Tell me about your criminal record."

"Minor of fences said Warren without hesitation.

"Taking and driving away when I was fourteen. Driving without due care and attention. Driving without insurance. Without a licence. Criminal damage." Warren's criminal past had been discussed at length prior to his being accepted as a probationary constable.

"And there's nothing else that we should know about you, nothing that might have influenced our decision to allow you to join the force?"

"The interviews and tests were wide-ranging, sir," said Warren.

"You didn't reveal your homosexuality," said Latham.

"I wasn't asked," said Warren without hesitation.

"You didn't think it relevant?"

"Clearly the interviewers didn't."

"Your home situation would have been enquired about. Your domestic arrangements."

"I live alone."

"So you have random sexual partners?"

Warren's lips tightened. It appeared that Latham was determined to keep testing him, but Warren couldn't fathom what was going on. The time for such questions had long passed: all the Met had to do was to say that his services weren't required. There was no need for such taunting, especially from a senior officer like Latham.

"I'm not sure that my sexual history is relevant, sir," said Warren.

"With respect."

"It might be if it left you open to blackmail," said Latham.

"Homosexuality isn't illegal, sir."

"I'm aware of that, Warren, but any deviation from the norm makes an officer vulnerable."

"Again, sir, I don't think that homosexuality is regarded as a deviation any more. These days it's seen as a lifestyle choice."

Latham nodded slowly.

"One that you're not ashamed of?"

"I'm not ashamed of being black and I'm not ashamed of being gay, sir. So far as revealing my sexuality, I wasn't asked and I didn't tell. I certainly didn't lie."

"And your criminal record? How do you feel about that?"

"Do you mean am I ashamed of what I did?"

Latham didn't react to the question, clearly regarding it as rhetorical, and continued looking at Warren.

Warren shrugged.

"Of course I'm ashamed. I was stupid. I was undisciplined, I was running wild, I was just an angry teenager out looking for kicks who didn't know how close he was coming to ruining his whole life. I was lucky not to be sent down, and if it wasn't for the fact that I was assigned one of the few social workers who actually appeared to care about her work, I'd probably be behind bars right now and not sitting here in your office." Warren looked around the bare office.

"This office," he corrected himself.

"Wherever we are, I assume this isn't where you normally conduct your business. What's this about, sir? My criminal record's an open book, and I don't see that my being gay is a bar to me joining the Met."

Latham tapped his manicured nails silently on the desktop. The windows were double-glazed and sealed so no sound penetrated from the outside. It was so quiet that Warren could hear his own breathing, slow and regular.

"What sort of criminal do you think you would have made, Warren?" Latham said eventually.

"Back then? A very bad one. If I'd been any good at it, I wouldn't have been caught so often."

"And now?"

Warren raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Now?" he repeated.

"Suppose you hadn't been turned around by the altruistic social worker assigned to you. Suppose you'd continued along the road you'd started on. Petty crime. Stealing. Where do you think it would have led to?"

"Difficult to say, sir."

"Try."

Warren shrugged.

"Drugs, I guess. Dealing. That's what most crime comes down to these days. Everything from car break-ins to guns to prostitution, it's all drugs."

"And what sort of drug dealer do you think you'd make?"

Warren frowned. It wasn't a question he'd ever considered.

"Probably quite a good one."

"Because?"

"Because I'm not stupid any more. Because now I'm better educated than the average villain. I've a knowledge of criminal law and police procedure that most villains don't have. And to be quite honest, I consider I'm a hell of a lot smarter than most of the police officers I've come across."

"I don't suppose you were that blunt at your interviews," said Latham.

"I think we've moved beyond my being interviewed, sir. Whatever it is you want from me, it's not dependent on my being politically correct. I'm not going to Hendon, am I?"

"Not today, no," said Latham, 'but this isn't about stopping you becoming a police officer, Warren, I can promise you that. You scored highly on all counts during the selection procedure, you're exactly the sort of material we want." Latham pulled on his right ear, then scratched the lobe.

"The question is, exactly how would you be able to serve us best?"

Warren's forehead creased into a frown, but he didn't say anything.

"You see, Warren, putting you in a uniform and having you walk a beat might make for good public relations, but realistically it's going to make precious little difference to the crime figures." Latham took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly.

"What we'd like, Warren, is for you to consider becoming an undercover agent for us. Deep undercover. So deep, in fact, that hardly anyone will know that you work for the Met."

Warren's eyes narrowed.

"You're asking me to pretend to be a criminal?"

Latham shook his head.

"No, I'm asking you to become a criminal. To cross the line."

"To be a grass?"

"No, you'll still be a police officer. A grass is a criminal who provides information on other criminals. You'll be a fully functioning police officer who will be keeping us informed of the activities of the criminals you come across."

"But I won't wear a uniform, I won't go to Hendon? No probationary period?"

"You'll never pound a beat. And the only time you'll go anywhere near a police station is if you get arrested. The number of people who'll know that you are a serving police officer will be counted on the fingers of one hand."

"For how long?"

"For as long as you can take it. Hopefully years. Ideally, you'll spend your whole career undercover."

Warren ran his hand over his black hair, closely cropped only two days earlier in anticipation of his new career.

"So I'd be a police officer, but undercover? I'd never be in uniform?"

"That would be the intention, yes."

"If I'm not going to Hendon, how would I be trained?"

"You wouldn't," said Latham.

"That's the whole point. We don't want you tainted."

Tainted?"

"At present undercover operatives are drawn from the ranks," said Latham.

"We spend years training them to be policemen, then we send them undercover and expect them to act like criminals. It's no wonder it doesn't work. Doesn't matter how long they grow their hair or how they try to blend, they're still policemen acting as criminals. We don't want you to put on an act, Warren. We want you to become a criminal. You already have the perfect cover you have a criminal record. We want you to build on that."

"I can break the law? Is that what you're saying?"

For the first time Latham looked uncomfortable.

"That's not a conversation we should be having," he said, adjusting his cuffs.

"That'll come later with your handler. I'm here to ask you to take on this assignment. I have a high profile: you know that if you have my word that the Met is behind you one hundred per cent, then you're not going to be left hanging in the wind down the line, if that's not mixing too many metaphors."

"And if I refuse?"

Latham grimaced.

"As I've already said, you'll be an asset to the force. You can start at Hendon tomorrow, just one day late. I'm sure you'll have an exemplary career, but what I'm offering you is a chance to make a real difference."

Warren nodded.

"How much time do I have to think about it?"

Latham looked at the large clock on the wall.

"I'd like your decision now," said the Assistant Commissioner.

"If you have to talk yourself into the job, you're not the person that we're looking for."

"Can I just get one thing straight?" asked Tina, fidgeting with the small gold stud earring in her left ear.

"Am I joining the Met or not?"

"Not as a uniformed constable, no," said Assistant Commissioner Latham softly.

Tears pricked Tina's eyes, but she refused to allow herself to cry, "It's not fair," she said, her lower lip trembling.

"You shouldn't have lied, Tina. Did you seriously believe we wouldn't find out?"

"It was a long time ago," said Tina, looking over the senior policeman's shoulder at the tower block opposite.

"A lifetime ago."

"And you didn't think that being a prostitute would preclude you from becoming a police officer?"

"I was fifteen!" she protested.

Latham sat back in his chair.

"Which doesn't actually make it any better, Tina. Does it?"

A lone tear trickled down Tina's cheek. She shook her head, angry with herself for the way she was behaving, but she'd been so looking forward to joining the Met. It was going to be a new start. A new life. Now it had been snatched away from her at the last minute. She groped for her handbag on the floor and fumbled for her cigarettes and disposable lighter.

"I think this is a non-smoking office," said Latham as she tapped out a cigarette and slipped it between her lips.

"Fuck you," she hissed, clicking the lighter.

"I need a fag." She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, then blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling.

"You knew that if your criminal record came to light, you'd be in trouble," said Latham quietly.

Tina glared at him.

"I don't have a criminal record," she spat.

"I was cautioned for soliciting. Twice. Under a different name. I wasn't even charged."

"You were a prostitute for more than a year, Tina," said Latham.

"You were known to Vice. You were known on the streets."

"I did what I did to survive. I did what I had to do."

"I understand that."

"Do you?" said Tina.

"I doubt it. Do you know what it's like to have to fend for yourself when you're still a kid? To have to leave home because your stepfather spends all his time trying to get into your knickers and your mum's so drunk she can't stop him even if she wants to? Do you know what's it like to arrive in London with nowhere to stay and a couple of quid in your pocket? Do you? I don't fucking think so. So don't sit there in your made-to-measure uniform with your shiny silver buttons and your pimp's fingernails and your pension and your little wife with her Volvo and her flower-arranging classes and tell me that you understand, because you don't."

Tina leaned forward.

"Don't think I haven't met your sort before, because I have. Squeaky clean on the outside, pillar of the fucking community, but what you really want is a blow job from an underage girl in the front seat of your car because your little wife hasn't had her mouth near your dick since England won the World Cup."

She took another long pull on her cigarette. Her hand was shaking and she blew smoke straight at Latham. He didn't react, just kept looking at her through the cloud of smoke.

Tina closed her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I'd expect you to lash out, Tina," said Latham.

Tina opened her eyes again. She took another drag on her cigarette, this time taking care to blow the smoke away from the Assistant Commissioner.

"If I could turn the clock back, I would. But back then, I didn't have a choice," she said. Tina looked around the office, her eyes settling on the large clock on the wall, the red hand ticking away the seconds of her life.

"You had to bring me here to tell me this, yeah?" she said.

"You couldn't have written? Or phoned?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

She turned to look at him and fixed him with her dark green eyes.

"You wanted to see me squirm?"

Latham shook his head.

"It's not that, Tina."

"So what is it, then?"

"I've a proposition for you."

"I knew it!" Tina hissed.

"You're all the bloody same. I do it for you, you turn a blind eye to my past. Quid pro fucking quo."

Latham smiled sadly and shook his head.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm probably the most happily married man you've ever met. Just listen to what I have to say. Okay?"

Tina nodded. She looked around for an ashtray, but there wasn't one so she stubbed the cigarette out on the underside of the desk, grimacing apologetically.

"Okay," she said.

"Your past precludes you from joining the Metropolitan Police as a normal entrant," Latham continued.

"You can understand why. Suppose you had to arrest someone who knew you from your previous life? Suppose your past became public knowledge? Every case you'd ever worked on would be compromised. It wouldn't matter how good a police officer you were. All that would matter is that you used to be a prostitute. It would also leave you open to blackmail."

"I know," sighed Tina.

"I just hoped .. ." She left the sentence hanging.

"That it would remain a secret for ever?"

Tina nodded.

"Pretty naive, yeah?"

Latham smiled thinly.

"Why did you apply to join the police, Tina? Of all the jobs that you could have done."

"Like what? Serving in a shop? Waitressing?"

"There's nothing wrong with either of those jobs. You can't be afraid of hard work or you wouldn't have applied to join the Met. I've seen your CV, Tina. I've seen the jobs you've done to make a living and the courses you've taken to get the qualifications you never got at school."

Tina shrugged.

"Why the police?" Latham asked again.

"Why not the army? The civil service? Nursing?"

"Because I want to help people like me. People who were shat on when they were kids."

"So why didn't you become a social worker?"

"I want to make a difference. I want to help put away the bastards who break the rules. Who think it's okay to molest kids or steal from old ladies." Tina rubbed the back of her neck with both hands.

"Why all these questions? You've already said that I can't join the police."

"That's not what I said," said Latham.

"I said you couldn't join as a uniformed constable, but there are other opportunities available to you within the force."

"Washing up in the staff canteen?"

Latham gave her a frosty look.

"It's been obvious to us for some time that our undercover operations are being compromised more often than not. The reason for that is quite simple villains, the good ones, can always spot a police officer, no matter how good their cover. Police officers all undergo the same training, and pretty much have the same experiences on the job. It's that shared experience that binds them together, but it also shapes them, it gives them a standard way of behaving, common mannerisms. They become a type."

Tina nodded.

"We could always spot Vice on the streets," she said.

"Stuck out like sore thumbs." She grinned.

"Thumbs weren't the only things sticking out."

For a moment Tina thought that the Assistant Commissioner was going to accuse her of flippancy again, but he smiled and nodded.

"Exactly," he said.

"So what we want to do is to set up a unit of police officers who haven't been through the standard Hendon training. We need a special sort of undercover officer," said Latham.

"We need people who have enough strength of character to work virtually alone, people who have enough, how shall I describe it ... life experience ... to cope with whatever gets thrown at them, and we need them with a background that isn't manufactured. A background that will stand up to any scrutiny."

"Like a former prostitute?"

"While your background precludes you from serving as a regular officer, it's perfect for an undercover operative," said Latham.

"The very same contacts that would damage you as a regular officer will be a major advantage in your role under cover."

"Because no one would ever believe that the Met would hire a former prostitute?"

Latham nodded.

"I have to tell you, Tina, it won't be easy. Hardly anyone will know what you're doing; you won't be able to tell anyone, family or friends. So far as anyone will know, you'll be on the wrong side of the tracks."

"What if anything went wrong?"

"You'd have back-up," said Latham, 'but that's down the line. What I need now is your commitment to join the unit. Then your handler will take over."

"Handler? You make me sound like a dog." Trisha grinned.

"How much does the job pay?"

"You'll be on the same rate of pay as an ordinary entrant. There'll be regular increases based on length of service and promotion, and overtime. But again, these are details to be worked out with your handler. My role is to demonstrate that your recruitment is desired at a very high level. The highest."

"Does the Commissioner know?"

Latham frowned slightly.

"If you're asking officially, I'd have to say that you'd need to put a question of that nature to the Commissioner's office. Unofficially, I'd say that I wouldn't be here if I didn't have his approval. I'm certainly not a maverick."

Tina reached over and picked up her pack of cigarettes. She toyed with it, running her fingers down the pack, standing it on each side in turn. She took a deep breath.

"Okay," she said.

"I'm in."

Latham beamed.

"Good. That's very good, Tina."

"What happens now?" she asked.

"You go home. Someone will be in touch." He pushed back his chair and held out his hand.

"I doubt that we'll meet again, but I will be watching your progress with great interest, Tina."

Tina shook his hand. It was smooth and dry with an inner strength that suggested he could crush her if he wanted.

It was a familiar sensation, and Tina struggled to remember what it reminded her of.

It was only when she was in the lift heading back to the car park that she remembered. One of her first customers had been an obese man with horned-rimmed spectacles with thick lenses who wheezed at the slightest exertion. He'd wanted to take her home, and at first Tina had refused because all the girls on the street where she worked had told her that she was safer staying in the punter's car, but he'd offered her more money and eventually she'd given up and gone with him, only after insisting that he paid up front.

Home was a two-up, two-down house in East London with stained carpets and bare light bulbs in the light fittings. He'd shown Tina into his front room and stood at the doorway, wheezing as he watched her reaction to the dozens of glass tanks that lined the walls. In the tanks were snakes. All sorts of snakes. Big ones coiled up like lengths of hose pipe small ones that dangled from bare twigs, some asleep, others watching her intently with cold black unfeeling eyes, their tongues flicking in and out.

The man made Tina give him a blow job in the middle of the room, and he stood there wheezing as she went down on her knees in front of him, her eyes shut tight as she tried to blot out the image of the watching snakes.

Afterwards, after she'd wrapped the used condom in a tissue and tossed it under one of the tanks, he'd taken out a large python and made her stroke it. At first she'd refused, but then he promised to give her an extra twenty quid so she touched it, gingerly at first. When she realised it wasn't going to hurt her she became more confident and ran her hands down its back. She'd thought it might be wet and slimy but it was cool and dry and she could feel how strong it was, how easily it could crush the life out of her if it should ever coil itself around her. The punter had got all excited at the sight of Tina caressing the snake and had offered her money for some really weird stuff, stuff that Tina didn't like to think about, and she'd rushed out of the house without the twenty pounds he'd promised. Tina shivered at the memory and groped for her cigarettes.

Assistant Commissioner Latham paced up and down in front of the window.

"I'm still not convinced that we're doing the right thing here," he said.

Gregg Hathaway unhooked the clock from the wall and placed it on the table.

"Morally, you mean?" Hathaway was wearing a dark brown leather jacket, blue jeans and scuffed brown Timberland boots. He had a slight limp, favouring his left leg when he walked.

Latham gave Hathaway a cold look.

"I was referring to their training and handling," he said.

Hathaway shrugged carelessly.

"It's not really my place to query operational decisions," he said.

"I leave that up to my masters." He was a short man, thought Latham: even if he didn't have the limp, he wouldn't have been allowed to join the Met. He was well below the Met's height requirements, even though they'd been drastically lowered so as not to exclude Asians. The intelligence services clearly had different criteria when it came to recruiting, and there was no doubting Hathaway's intelligence.

"They applied to join the police, not MI6," said Latham.

Hathaway went back to the wall and pulled out a length of wire that had been connected to the small camera in the centre of the clock. The wire led through the wall and up into the ceiling to the video monitor on the floor above, from where Hathaway had watched all three interviews. Latham had been upstairs to check that there was no video recording equipment. Under no circumstances was there to be any record of what had gone on in the office, either on tape or on paper. Officially, the three interviews hadn't taken place. Latham's diary would show that he was in a private meeting with the Commissioner.

"I suppose you do get a different sort of applicant than we do at Six," said Hathaway, coiling up the wire and placing it on top of the clock.

"They've been trying to widen the intake, but it's still mainly Oxbridge graduates that get in. Wouldn't get the likes of Cliff Warren applying. Fullerton maybe."

"I suppose so. How do you think they'll do?"

Hathaway ran a hand through his thinning sandy hair.

"You can never tell. Not until they go undercover. Fullerton's a bit cocky, but that's no bad thing. Warren's probably the most stable of the three, but he's not been put under pressure yet. The girl's interesting."

"Interesting?"

"She worked hard to get away from the life she had. Now we're going to send her back. I'm not sure how she'll cope with that. I was surprised that she agreed."

"I'm not sure that she had much choice." Latham looked at his watch. His driver was already waiting in the car park downstairs and there was no reason for the Assistant Commissioner still to be in the office. No reason other than the fact that he still had misgivings about what he was doing.

Hathaway put the clock and the wire into an aluminum briefcase and snapped shut the lid.

"Right, that's me, then." He swung the briefcase off the table.

"Take care of them," said Latham.

"I haven't lost an agent yet," said Hathaway.

"I mean it," said Latham.

"I know they're not my responsibility, but that doesn't mean I'm washing my hands of them."

Hathaway looked as if he might say something, but then he nodded curtly and limped out of the room.

Latham turned and looked out of the window. He had a nagging feeling that he'd done something wrong, that in some way he'd betrayed the three individuals who'd been brought to see him. He'd lied to them, there was no doubt about that, but had he betrayed them? And if he had, did it matter in the grand scheme of things? Or did the ends justify the means? He looked at his watch again. It was time to go.

Tina wound down the window and flicked ash out. Some of it blew back into the car and she brushed it off the seat.

"Sorry," she said to the driver.

He flashed her a grin in the rear-view mirror.

"Doesn't matter to me, miss," he said.

"First of all, I'm a forty-a-day man myself. Second of all, it's not my car."

"You work for the police, right?"

"Contract," said the driver.

"Former army, me. Did my twenty years and then they said my services were no longer required."

Tina took another long pull on her cigarette.

"Do you want one?" she asked, proffering the pack.

The driver shook his head.

"Not while I'm driving, miss. You know what the cops are like. They did that sales rep a while back for driving with a sandwich on his seat."

"Yeah. It was in all the papers, wasn't it? You'd think they'd have better things to do with their time, right?"

The driver nodded.

"You'd think so. Mind you, army's pretty much the same. It'd all go a lot more smoothly if there was no bloody officers, pardon my language."

Tina smiled and settled back in the seat.

"You know what that was about, back there?" she asked.

"No, miss. We're mushrooms. Keep us in the dark .. ."

"And feed you bullshit. Yeah, you said."

"It's got to be important if they're using us, that much I can tell you. Our company isn't cheap."

Tina closed her eyes and let the breeze from the open window play over her face. She wondered who would contact her. Her handler, Assistant Commissioner Latham had said. No name. No description. Her handler. It had the same echoes as pimp, and Tina had always refused to have anything to do with pimps. When she'd worked the streets, she'd worked them alone, even though a pimp offered protection. So far as Tina was concerned, pimps were leeches, and she'd despised the girls she'd seen handing over their hard-earned money to smooth black guys in big cars with deafening stereo systems. Now Tina was getting her own handler. The more she thought about it, the less comfortable she was with the idea, but when doubts did threaten to overwhelm her, she thought back to Assistant Commissioner Latham, with his ramrod straight back and his firm handshake and his immaculate uniform. He was a man she could trust, of that much she was sure. And he was right: there was no way she could have expected to serve as a regular police officer, not with her past. Try as she might to conceal what she'd once been, it was bound to come back to haunt her one day. At least this way she was being up front about her past, using it as an asset rather than fearing it as the dirty secret that would one day destroy her career. But could she really do what Latham had asked? Go back into the world she'd escaped from and work against it? She shivered and opened her eyes. Maybe that was exactly what she had been working towards her whole life. Maybe that was the way of vindicating herself. If she could use her past, use it constructively, then maybe it had all been worth it. Her cigarette had burned down to the filter and she flicked it out of the open window.

The Vectra turned into the road where Tina lived and the driver pulled up in front of the three-storey terraced house.

"Here we are, miss," he said, twisting around in his seat.

Tina jerked out of her reverie.

"Oh, right. Cheers, thanks." She put her hand into her handbag.

"I suppose I should .. ."

He waved her offer of a tip away with a shovel-sized hand.

"It's all taken care of, miss. You take care, hear?"

Tina nodded and got out of the car. She stared up at the house as the Vectra drove away. The paint on the door and windows was weathered and peeling and the roof was missing several slates. One of the windows on the top floor was covered with yellowing newspapers. An old woman lived there, so Tina had been told, but she'd never seen anyone going in or out.

She unlocked the front door and pushed it closed behind her. The door was warped and the lock didn't click shut unless it was given a hard push. The area had more than its fair share of opportunistic thieves wandering around looking for an opportunity to pay for their next fix. The hallway smelt of damp and the flowery wallpaper was peeling away from the corner over the door. Tina's flat was on the ground floor, tucked away at the back. It had originally been the kitchen and scullery of the house, but the developer had managed to cram a small bedroom, a poky sitting room and a kitchenette and bathroom into the space. There was barely enough room to swing a cat, but as Tina would joke with the few friends she'd had around, she was allergic to cats anyway.

She let herself into her flat and kicked off her clunky black shoes, tossing her handbag on to the sagging sofa by the window. Latham hadn't told her when her handler would get in touch, or how. Did that mean she was to wait in until he called? They had her mobile number so maybe he'd phone. Tina realised that she was already thinking of her handler as a 'he', but it could just as easily be a woman.

She went through to her cramped bathroom and ran herself a bath as she wiped off her make-up. She poured in a good slug of bath salts, lit a perfumed candle, and soaked for the best part of half an hour. After she'd towelled herself dry she dressed carelessly, throwing on an old pair of jeans and a baggy sweater, and tied her hair back with an elastic band.

She padded into the kitchenette and switched on the electric kettle, then swore out loud as she remembered that she'd intended to buy milk on the way home. She opened the fridge in the vain hope that there might be a splash of milk left in the carton, then jumped as her doorbell rang.

She rushed out into the hallway and opened the front door. A short man in a brown leather jacket was standing on the doorstep. He ran a hand across his thinning hair. In his other hand was a black laptop computer case.

"Christina Leigh," he said, a statement of fact rather than a question.

"Yes?" she said, frowning.

"Gregg Hathaway. You're expecting me, right?" he asked.

Warren heard the wail of an ambulance siren as he got out of the Vectra and headed down Craven Park Road towards his house. He didn't want his neighbours to see the car or the driver. The noise barely registered with Warren as he walked through the crowds of shoppers. Sirens be they police, ambulance or fire engines were an all too regular occurrence in Harlesden. He turned left and saw that his street had been closed off midway with lines of blue and white tape. Three police cars had been parked haphazardly, their doors open and blue lights flashing.

In the middle of the road a man and a woman dressed in white overalls were studying a red smear and what looked like a pool of vomit, and a man in a sheepskin jacket was drawing chalk circles around several cartridge cases.

There was a gap in the police tape along the pavement, so Warren went over to the overweight uniformed constable who was guarding it. He nodded down the road.

"Okay if I go on through?" he asked.

"I live in number sixty-eight."

"Sorry, sir, this is a crime scene. You'll have to go back to the main road and cut through Charlton Road." The officer was in his forties with chubby face and a drinker's nose.

Warren pointed down the road.

"But that's my house there."

"Nothing I can do, sir. This is a crime scene."

Warren nodded at the two SOCO officers.

"No, that's the crime scene over there. This is the pavement, and that's my house. All I'm asking is that you let me walk along the pavement to my house."

The constable folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head back.

"I'm not arguing with you, sir," he said, stretching out the 'sir' to leave Warren in no doubt that civility was the last thing on the officer's mind.

"You'll have to go back the way you came. You must be used to shootings by now, living here. You should know the procedure."

Warren stared at the officer, who slowly reached for the radio receiver that was clipped to his jacket.

"Not going to give me a problem are you, sir?" he said, the officer, his eyes hardening.

"Obstructing a police officer, disorderly conduct, threatening behaviour, there's a million and one reasons why I could have you taken back to the station right now. So why don't you be a good lad and head off back to the main road like I said."

Warren exhaled slowly. Two uniformed officers were walking towards one of the cars, deep in conversation. One was an inspector. Warren looked at the inspector and then back to the constable. He considered registering a complaint but dismissed the idea. There was no point. The constable continued to stare at Warren contemptuously. Warren forced a grin and winked.

"You have a nice day, yeah?" he said and walked away.

Warren's heart was pounding, but the only visible sign of his anger was the clenching and unclenching of his hands. He would have liked to have confronted the officer, at the very least to have hit back verbally, but he'd long ago learned that such confrontations with authority were pointless. There was nothing he could say or do that would change the way the man behaved. It was best just to smile and walk away, although knowing that didn't make it any easier to swallow.

Three Jamaican teenagers were huddled outside a news agent wrapped up in gunmetal-grey Puffa jackets with gleaming new Nikes on their feet. Warren nodded at the tallest of the youths.

"What's the story, PM?"

PM shrugged carelessly and scratched the end of his nose. His real name was Tony Blair and he'd been given the nickname the day that his namesake was elected to Number 10. A scar stretched from his left ear to halfway across his cheek, a souvenir of a run-in with a group of white football supporters a few years earlier.

"Jimmy T. took a couple of slugs in the back. Should have seen him run, Bunny. Like the fucking wind. Almost made it."

Warren shook his head sadly. Jimmy T. was a fifteen-year-old runner for one of the area's crack cocaine gangs.

"He okay?"

"He look dead as dead can be."

"Shit."

"Shit happens," said PM.

"Specially to short-changers."

That what he did?"

"Word is."

Warren gestured with his chin over at the police investigators.

"You told the Feds?"

PM guffawed and slapped his thigh.

"Sure, man. Told 'em who killed Stephen Lawrence while I was at it."

All three youths laughed and Warren nodded glumly. Shootings were a regular occurrence in Harlesden, but witnesses were rarer than Conservative Party canvassers at election time.

"You saw who did it?"

"Got eyes."

Warren looked expectantly at PM. The teenager laughed out loud but his eyes were unsmiling.

"Shit, man, I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you."

Warren smiled despite himself. He wondered how much PM would have told him if he'd been standing there in a police constable's uniform.

"You look wound up, Bunny-man. You want some puff?"

"Nah, I'm sorted. Gotta get back to the house."

"You got a chauffeur, Bunny?"

Warren kept smiling but he could feel his heart start to race.

PM couldn't have seen him getting out of the Vectra, so someone must have seen the car picking him up from his house that morning.

"Minicab," he said.

"Anywhere interesting?"

Warren chuckled at the question.

"Yeah, PM. I could tell you ..." He left the sentence unfinished.

PM guffawed.

"Yeah, but you'd have to kill me," he said, nodding his head as if to emphasise each word.

Warren made a gun from his right hand and mimed shooting PM in the chest.

"You take care, PM."

"Back at you, Bunny-man," laughed PM.

Warren headed back to the main road, his head down, deep in thought. He was still annoyed at the attitude of the uniformed constable, and he wondered if the man would have treated him any differently if he knew that Warren was also a policeman. Maybe he would have been more civil, thought Warren, cracked a joke perhaps, but it wouldn't have changed the way the man thought about him. The constable's contempt might have been hidden but it would have still been there. He would see the uniform, but it was Warren's colour that would determine the way he behaved.

PM would react to the uniform, not to Warren's race. If he'd known that Warren was a police officer, there would have been no chat, no banter, just hostile stares and a tight face. His type closed ranks against authority, the authority of the white man.

Warren lost out either way.

Warren sighed. He'd wanted to join the Met because he believed that he could make a difference, but Latham had been right: he'd do more good by playing to his strengths, rather than trying to fit into the established system. On the street, undercover, his colour would be a strength. Trapped inside the uniform, it would be a weakness. Could he spend his career hanging around the likes of PM and his posse, though, pretending to be one of them so that he could betray them?

Warren felt confused, and the more he tried to work out how he felt, the more confused he became. While he'd been sitting opposite Latham in the office, it had all seemed so simple; but on the streets of Harlesden, what the senior police officer had proposed looked less attractive. It meant living a lie. It meant betrayal. Being a police officer was about being a part of a team; working with colleagues you could rely on, working towards a common aim, Us against Them. Latham wanted Warren to be one of Them.

Warren shook his head as he walked. No, Latham didn't want him to be one of Them. He wanted Warren to be in a no-man's land; part of the police force but separate from it, part of the criminal community but there to betray it. A lone wolf.

Jamie Fullerton tossed his suit on to the bed, ripped off his shirt and tie and started doing vigorous press-ups. He breathed deeply and evenly as he pumped up and down, pausing every tenth dip and holding himself an inch above the bedroom carpet before resuming his rhythm.

The doorbell rang and Fullerton froze, his torso parallel to the floor, his arms trembling under the strain. Fullerton frowned. He wasn't expecting anyone. He pushed himself to his feet and pulled on his trousers and buckled the belt. He hurriedly put on his shirt and fastened the buttons as he walked to the front door.

The man who'd rung his bell was almost a head shorter than Fullerton with thinning brown hair, a squarish chin and thin, unsmiling lips. He was carrying a laptop computer in a black shoulder bag.

"Jamie Fullerton?" he said.

"Maybe," said Fullerton.

The man extended his right hand.

"Gregg Hathaway. You're expecting me."

Fullerton shook Hathaway's hand. The man had a weak handshake and his fingers barely touched Fullerton's skin, as if he were uneasy with physical contact. Fullerton squeezed the hand hard and felt a tingle of satisfaction when he felt Hathaway try to pull away. He gave the hand a final squeeze before releasing his grip.

"Come on in," said Fullerton.

He stepped to the side and smiled as Hathaway walked by, rubbing his right hand against his jeans. There was something awkward about his right leg, as if it were an effort for Hathaway to move it.

"You don't mind showing me some form of ID, do you?" asked Fullerton as he closed the front door and followed Hathaway into the sitting room.

Hathaway had put his laptop case on the coffee table and was examining the books that filled the shelves on one wall of the room. He turned to look at Fullerton.

"Your name is James Robert Fullerton, you were born on April fifteenth twenty-six years ago, your parents are Eric and Sylvia, your father committed suicide after he lost the bulk of your family's assets in a series of badly advised stock market investments and your mother is confined to a mental hospital outside Edinburgh."

Fullerton swallowed but his throat had gone so dry that his tongue felt twice its normal size and he started to cough.

"Is that enough, or shall I go on?"

Fullerton nodded.

"You don't look like you're in the job."

"Neither do you. That's the point. Black with two sugars."

Fullerton frowned.

"Sorry?"

"You were going to offer me a coffee, right? Black with two sugars."

"Right. Okay," said Fullerton. It was only when he was in the kitchen filling the kettle that he realised how quickly Hathaway had taken control of the situation. The man was physically smaller than Fullerton, maybe a decade older, but with none of the bearing or presence that Latham had shown. Underneath the softer exterior, however, there was a toughness that suggested he was used to being obeyed.

By the time he returned to the sitting room with two mugs of coffee on a tray, Hathaway had powered up his laptop and was sitting on the sofa, tapping on the keyboard. He'd extended his right leg under the coffee table, as if it troubled him less when it was straight. He'd run a phone line from the back of the computer to the phone socket by the window.

"You computer literate, Jamie?" said Hathaway, slipping off his leather jacket and draping it over the back of the sofa.

"I guess so," said Fullerton. He held the tray out, and Hathaway helped himself to the black coffee.

"You're the handler, right?"

"Handler suggests physical contact," said Hathaway.

"Ideally we won't ever meet again after today." He gestured at the laptop.

"This is a safer way of keeping in touch."

Fullerton sat down in an easy chair and put his coffee on the table by the laptop.

"And you'll be handling the others?"

"The others?" said Hathaway, frowning.

"The other members of the team."

Hathaway's frown deepened.

"Team? What team?"

"I just thought .. ." Fullerton left the sentence hanging.

Hathaway pushed the computer away and sat back, looking at Fullerton through slightly narrowed eyes.

"You do understand what's being asked of you, Jamie?"

"Undercover work," said Fullerton.

"Deep undercover. Longterm penetration of criminal gangs."

Hathaway nodded slowly.

"That's right, but not as part of a team. You'll be working alone. You'll have on line access to me, and an emergency number to call if you're in trouble. If necessary we'll send a shed load of people to pull you out, but while you're undercover you're on your own."

"Okay. Got it." Fullerton ran his hand through his fringe, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

"But what I don't get is Latham's insistence that we don't get any training. What about firearms? Anti-surveillance techniques? Things like that?"

"You watch gangster movies, Jamie?"

Fullerton was nonplussed by the apparent change of subject, but he nodded.

"See how the bad guys hold their guns? One handed, waving them around, grips parallel to the ground? Half the gang-bangers in Brixton hold them that way now. Couldn't hit a barn door, but they see it in the movies so that's what they do. Okay, so I put you through a police firearms course. We'd teach you to shoot with both hands, feet shoulder width apart, sighting with your stronger eye, exhaling before pulling the trigger, blah, blah, blah. You'd hit the target every time at twenty-five yards, but first time you ever use a weapon in anger you might as well have a flashing neon sign over your head saying "COP". Any techniques we give you will identify you as a. police officer."

"Okay, but what about anti-surveillance? What's the harm in teaching me how to shake a tail?"

Hathaway grinned.

"You've been reading too many cheap spy novels, Jamie."

Fullerton felt his cheeks flush red and he sat back in his chair, crossing his arms defensively.

"If anyone follows you, it's best you deal with them in whatever way you come up with yourself," continued Hathaway.

"Use your instincts."

Fullerton nodded. What Hathaway was saying made sense, but there was an obvious flaw to his argument.

"What if I'm on my way to see you? If I can't shake them, that puts you at risk."

Hathaway tapped the laptop screen.

"Like I said, that's what this is for," he said.

"We won't be meeting face to face. All contact will be online."

"But my cover," said Fullerton.

"You'll be giving me my cover, right?"

"I'm going to help you with that, of course, but basically we'll be sticking to your true background."

Fullerton grinned.

"And that includes the drugs, yeah?"

"Sure," said Hathaway.

"One of the things that trips up a lot of undercover agents is that they can't touch drugs. No court is going to convict if one of the investigating officers turns out to have smoked a joint or snorted a line. You're in a different league. You do whatever comes naturally, and if that involves getting high, then that's up to you."

"Okay if I do a line now?" Fullerton asked.

Hathaway flashed him a humourless smile.

"I'd rather you didn't."

"I was joking," said Fullerton. He could see from the look on Hathaway's face that they didn't share the same sense of humour.

"But won't my drug-taking affect the cases I'll be working on?"

"In what way?"

"Won't my evidence be tainted?"

"No, for a very simple reason. You won't ever be required to give evidence in court. You'll be supplying us with information and leads which will be passed on to the appropriate investigating teams, but it will be up to them to supply the evidence to convict."

Fullerton picked up his mug of coffee and sipped it slowly.

"So I'm getting official permission to snort coke? Funny old world, isn't it?"

"There's nothing official about this briefing, Jamie," said Hathaway.

"From the moment you agreed to Assistant Commissioner Latham's proposal, everything has been off the record."

Fullerton's lips tightened and he put the mug back on the coffee table.

"That's what I figured," he said.

"Nothing in writing, nothing on file."

"It's for your own protection, Jamie," said Hathaway.

"The Met still has more than its fair share of bad apples."

"Is that going to be part of my brief, too? Corrupt cops?"

"Absolutely," said Hathaway.

"And will you be giving me specific targets?"

Hathaway smiled.

"You're getting ahead of me, Jamie, but yes, we will be asking for you to look at specific targets. Tangos, as we call them." There was a document pouch on the side of the laptop case, sealed with Velcro. It made a ripping sound as Hathaway opened it. He took out a large glossy colour photograph and slid it across the coffee table to Fullerton.

"Meet Dennis Donovan. Tango One."

Cliff Warren picked up the photograph and studied it. It was a man in his mid to late thirties. He had a square face with a strong chin, pale green eyes and a sprinkling of freckles across a broken nose. The man's chestnut-brown hair was windswept, brushed carelessly across his forehead.

"Tango?" he said.

"Tango is how we designate our targets," explained Hathaway.

"Dennis Donovan is Tango One. Our most wanted target."

"Drugs?" said Warren.

"One of the country's biggest importers of marijuana and cocaine. Virtually untouchable by conventional methods. He's so big that we can't get near him. Den Donovan never goes near a shipment and never handles the money. He never deals with anyone he doesn't know."

"And you expect me to get close to him?" said Warren, bemused. He passed the photograph back to Hathaway.

"Unless you haven't noticed, I'm black. Donovan's white. It's not like we went to the same school, is it? Why's he gonna let me get close to him?"

"We don't expect it to happen overnight," said Hathaway.

"Donovan is a longterm project. He's not even in the country at the moment. Most of the time he's in the Caribbean. I'll supply you with details of his known associates, and as you go deeper all you have to do is keep an eye out for them. It's going to take time, Cliff. Years. You build up contacts with his associates, and use them to put you next to Donovan."

"You make it sound easy," said Warren.

A police car sped down the road outside the house, siren wailing.

"Not easy, but possible. Donovan is a major supplier, you'll be a dealer."

"You said he didn't go near the gear."

"He doesn't, but if you can get into his inner circle we can get him on conspiracy. He's also been shipping drugs into the States. If we can tie up to a US delivery, the Americans will put him away for life."

Warren raised his eyebrows.

"I'm working for the Met, right? How does that involve Yanks?"

"There's no national barriers when it comes to drugs, Cliff. It's way too big a business for that. They reckon that every year some three hundred billion dollars of illegal money gets laundered through the world banking system, and almost all of it is from drugs. Three hundred billion dollars, Warren. Think about that. No one agency can fight that sort of money. In the States the market for illegal drugs is worth sixty billion dollars a year. In the UK about five billion pounds is spent on heroin, cocaine, marijuana, amphetamines and ecstasy. The drug suppliers are working together, so the anti-drug agencies are having to share their resources."

"So I might end up working for the DEA?"

"With rather than for," said Hathaway.

"It'll be more a question of sharing intelligence."

"So they won't know who I am?"

"No one will know you're undercover, except me. And Latham."

Warren frowned.

"But what if I come across other undercover agents? Won't they report back on me?"

"Sure, but all they'll report on is your criminal activity. That's just going to add to your cover."

"Do I report on them?"

"You report on everything." He patted the laptop computer in front of him.

"That's what this is for. Everyone you meet, everything you hear, everything you do, you e-mail to me. You supply the intelligence, I process it and, if necessary, act on it."

Warren gestured at the photograph.

"This Donovan, why's he so important?"

"Because he's big. Responsible for maybe a third of all the cocaine that comes into this country. If we take him out, we reduce the amount on the streets."

"You reckon?" said Warren.

"All you'll do is push up the street price for a while. Take out Donovan and someone else will move in to fill the gap. That's how it works. Supply and demand."

"So we take out Donovan, then there'll be a new Tango One and we'll take him out, too. And we keep on going."

Warren sighed.

"It's not a war we can win."

"Putting murderers in prison doesn't mean that murders won't continue to happen," said Hathaway, 'but murderers still belong behind bars. Same goes for men like Donovan. Not having second thoughts, are you?"

Warren shook his head fiercely.

"I only have to look out of the window to see the damage drugs do. But I know how it works in the real world, Gregg. You put a dealer behind bars, there's half a dozen want to take over his customers. Clamp down on the supply and the price goes up, so there's more crime as the addicts raise the extra cash they need. More break-ins, more muggings."

"We're not interested in the guys on the street," said Hathaway.

"We're after the big fish. Guys like Dennis Donovan. Put Donovan behind bars and it will make a difference, I can promise you that."

Warren reached over and picked up the photograph of Donovan again. He looked more like a foot baller reaching the end of his career than a hardened criminal.

"He's thirty-four years old, married with a six-year-old son. Wife is Vicky. She's twenty-seven. They've got a house in Kensington, but Donovan spends most of his time in the Caribbean."

"Are they separated?" asked Warren.

"No, it's just easier for him to operate out there. He was under round-the-clock surveillance here Customs, police, the taxman. Couldn't take a leak without someone recording the fact. His kid's settled in school and his wife likes shopping, so they've resisted moving out there. Donovan's over here every month or so and they spend all their holidays in the sun, so it seems to be working out okay."

"Is he still under the microscope?"

"Sure, but it's more to keep the pressure on him than it is to catch him in the act."

Warren wrinkled his nose.

"Why do you think I'm going to do any better than the teams who've already been targeting him?"

"Because you won't be watching him, Cliff. You'll be working for him, ideally."

"And just how do I get to him?"

"You start dealing." Hathaway nodded at the window.

"Most of the crack cocaine sold in the streets out there can be traced to Donovan if you go back for enough."

"If you know that, why don't you arrest him?"

"Knowing and proving are two very different things, Cliff."

"So the idea is for me to work my way up the supply chain until I get to Donovan?"

"That's the plan."

"That's not a plan," said Warren.

"That's a wish. A hope. It's what you do when you get the biggest piece of turkey wishbone, that's what that is."

Hathaway leaned forward.

"It's what'll happen in an ideal world. But even if you don't get close to Donovan, you'll still be supplying us with useful intelligence. Whatever you do, wherever you end up, you keep your eyes and ears open for news about this man. Tango One."

Tina Leigh ran both hands through her hair, brushing the strands behind her ears.

"I'm not a criminal. Why's Donovan going to be interested in me?"

Hathaway looked away, awkwardly.

"I'm his type, is that it?"

"You're a very sexy girl, Tina."

Tina glared at him, "Go screw yourself "Give me a chance to explain, Tina. Please."

"You don't need to explain. I used to be a hooker, so now I'll just lie back and spread my legs for a gangster. Well, fuck you, Hathaway. I worked my balls off to put that behind me. I ain't going back for you or anyone."

She stood up and Hathaway put his hands up in front of his face as if he feared she might attack him.

"That's not what I said. And that's not what I meant."

"I know exactly what you meant. I can't join the Met because I worked the streets, but I'm being given official approval to sleep with a gangster. How fucking hypocritical is that?"

"I didn't say you had to sleep with him, Tina." He waved at her chair.

"Please sit down and hear me out."

Tina raised her right hand to her mouth and bit down on the knuckle of her first finger, hard enough to feel the bone beneath the skin. She wanted to throw Hathaway out of her flat, she wanted to yell and scream and call him every name under the sun, but she brought her anger under control.

"Okay," she said. She sat down and crossed her legs, lit a cigarette, the third since Hathaway had arrived, and waited for him to continue.

"Donovan's out of the country most of the time, but he comes back regularly on flying visits. When he does come back, we know of several clubs that he frequents. We'd like you to apply for a job, whatever job you think you'd be suitable for. Once you're employed, we'd want you to keep your ears open. You pass on anything you hear. And if you can get near Donovan, that'll be the icing on the cake."

"These clubs? What sort of clubs are they?"

Hathaway pulled a pained face again.

"They're sort of executive entertainment bars .. ." He tailed off as Tina's face hardened.

"Lap-dancing clubs?" she hissed.

"You want me to be a fucking lap-dancer?"

"Lap-dancing isn't prostitution," said Hathaway.

"Students do it to work their way through college, single mothers do it, it's totally legal and above board."

Tina took a long pull on her cigarette and blew smoke at Hathaway. He looked uncomfortable but didn't say anything.

"I don't believe this. I don't fucking believe this."

Still Hathaway said nothing.

"It's not much of a plan, is it? Putting me undercover in a lap-dancing bar in the hope that Donovan wanders in and spills his guts."

"Give us some credit, Tina."

"Why should I give you any credit at all? You say you know who this guy is and what he's doing. Why can't you put him away yourself?"

"Knowing and proving are two different things, Tina."

"I thought with new technology and stuff there was no way anyone could hide any more."

Hathaway nodded.

"You're right. We can tap his phones, we can watch him from CCTV, from satellites even. We have his DNA and fingerprints on file, we know almost everything there is to know about Dennis Donovan, but we can't catch him in the act. And if we stick to using traditional methods, we probably won't."

"See, that doesn't make sense to me. How can he operate if you've got him under surveillance?" She flicked ash into an ashtray shaped like a four-leafed clover.

"Because at the level Donovan operates, it's all about contacts. It's not as if he hands over a briefcase of cash and picks up a bag of drugs. He has a conversation with a Colombian. Face to face. On a beach maybe. Or walking down a street. Somewhere he can't be overheard. Then he talks to a shipping guy. Probably a guy he's used a dozen times before. Then money gets transferred from a bank in the Cayman Islands to a bank in Switzerland and the Colombian puts the drugs on a ship and the ship sets sail. Donovan flies to Amsterdam and has another meeting with a couple of guys from Dublin and money is transferred between two other bank accounts and the drugs are unloaded on the south coast of Ireland and driven up to Belfast and on to a ferry to the UK. We put him under the microscope and what do we have? Donovan chatting to his friends, that's what we have. And even if we could hear what he was saying, he'd be talking in code. It wouldn't mean a thing to a court."

"So the plan is he's going to open his heart to me when he sees me dancing around a silver pole? Just as a matter of interest, Gregg, is there a Plan B?"

Hathaway chuckled and leaned back, putting his hands behind his neck and stretching out.

"You're right to be suspicious, Tina, but we have thought this through. This is long term. Years rather than months. If we put you undercover now, you might not get to meet Donovan for two years. Three. But the pool he swims in isn't that big and I have no doubt at all that you'll come across his associates if not the man himself. And they're going to open up to you because you're a pretty girl." He held up a hand heading off her attempt to interrupt him.

"I'm stating that as a fact, Tina, I'm not trying to soft soap you. Put guys together with booze and pretty girls and tongues start to loosen. These guys work under such secrecy that often they're bursting to tell someone. To boast. To show what big men they are."

Tina had smoked the cigarette down to the filter and she stubbed it out in the ashtray. She took another and lit it. She offered the pack to Hathaway but he shook his head.

"Let's suppose I agree to do this," she said.

"What happens to the money?"

Hathaway looked confused.

"What money?"

"I'll be a police officer, right? On standard pay and conditions?"

Hathaway nodded.

"But if I'm working in a what was it you called it an executive entertainment bar? If I'm working there, I'll get wages. And tips."

"Yours to keep."

Tina blew smoke up at the ceiling, a slight smile on her lips.

"Do you how much those girls earn?" she asked.

"Sixty, seventy grand. Sometimes more."

"Yeah," said Tina.

"That sounds about right. And I get to keep it, yeah?"

"Every penny."

Jamie Fullerton's jaw dropped.

"Let me get this straight," he said.

"Any money I make from illegal activities is mine to keep?"

"It has to be that way," said Hathaway.

"Believe me, the powers that be aren't happy with the idea, but we don't have any choice."

"And I won't ever be asked to pay the money back?"

"I don't see how that could ever happen."

Fullerton stood up and paced around the sitting room.

"And you're going to set me up in this new life? Make me look like a criminal?"

"Initially. Hopefully you'll become self-funding quite quickly." Hathaway waved at the section of bookshelves devoted to art.

"You studied art history at university. Got a First, right?"

Fullerton nodded.

"So we'll build on that. Set you up in a gallery. Give you some works of art to get you started. And we'll put some stolen works your way. To add authenticity."

Fullerton's eyes widened in astonishment.

"You're going to give me stolen paintings? To sell? And I get to keep the money?"

Hathaway wiped his forehead with his hand. He looked uncomfortable and when he spoke he chose his words carefully.

"What we will be doing is establishing your cover, Jamie. This isn't a game. If Donovan, or anyone else for that matter, discovers who you are or what you're doing, your life will be on the line."

Fullerton nodded.

"I understand, but how does me being an art dealer get me close to Donovan?"

"He's an art freak. A bit of a collector, but he appears to be more interested in visiting galleries. He also uses galleries and museums as meeting points. What we're suggesting is that you establish a small gallery, then start moving into the drugs business. You presumably have your own suppliers?"

"Sure."

"So start with them. Start increasing the quantities you buy from them, then move up the chain."

"And then you bust them?"

Hathaway shrugged.

"That depends. We're after the big fish, Jamie, not street dealers. Not everyone you tell us about is going to be brought in, but all the information you give us will go on file. You just keep working towards Donovan."

Fullerton sat down.

"How do you know this will work?"

"We don't. It's a new strategy."

"It's a gamble, that's what it is."

"Maybe," Hathaway conceded.

"You're gambling with our lives."

Hathaway frowned.

"Our? What do you mean?"

"I'm assuming I'm not the only agent you're sending undercover. You don't strike me as the type who'd put all his eggs in one basket."

Eventually Hathaway nodded slowly.

"Don't assume anything, Jamie. Don't go into this thinking that there'll be other undercover agents who'll pull your nuts out of the fire if anything goes wrong. You can't trust anyone. Is it a risk? Of course. But the uniformed bobby walking the beat puts his life at risk every day. He never knows when a drunk's going to try to hit him with a bottle or a drug addict's going to stick him with an HIV-infected needle. In a way, you'll be in a better position, because you'll know the dangers you're facing."

Fullerton exhaled deeply.

"Have you ever done it?" he asked.

"Gone undercover?"

Hathaway nodded.

"Several times, but never long term. A few months at most."

"What's it like?"

"It means living a lie. It means developing a second personality that has to become more real than your own. Everything you say and do has to be filtered through the person you're pretending to be. It means never being able to relax, never being able to let your guard down."

"That's what I thought."

"But you'll be in a slightly different position. When I was working undercover, I was pretending to be a villain. You'll be the real thing."

Cliff Warren stood up and walked through to his kitchen.

"Do you want a beer?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Thanks," said Hathaway.

Warren opened his fridge door and took out two bottles of Sol. They clinked bottles and Warren sat down again.

"What happens if I get arrested?" he asked.

"It's up to you, but once you've revealed to anybody that you're undercover, you're of no further use."

"But if I get pulled in on drugs charges, I could be facing a long prison sentence."

Hathaway nodded.

"You could indeed." He drank from the bottle but his eyes never left Warren's face.

"So what do I do?"

"You could go through the system and serve your time. If that's what you were prepared to do. It would do wonders for your cover, Cliff."

Warren sat stunned as the ramifications of what Hathaway was proposing sank in.

"You'd expect me to serve time?"

"It'd be your call, Cliff. No one would force you. At any point you can ask to be pulled out." Hathaway reached over to his jacket and took out a brown leather wallet. From it he removed a pristine white business card which he handed to Warren. Printed in the middle was a single London telephone number.

"You can call this number at any time of the day and night. You'll either speak to me direct, or you'll speak to someone who will immediately transfer you to me, no matter where in the world I am. No matter what trouble you're in, we'll have you out of it within minutes."

Warren ran the card between his fingers.

"It's a get-out-of-jail-free card," he said quietly.

"Sort of," said Hathaway, 'but it can only be used once. The moment you reveal you're undercover, it's over. There's no having a quiet word with the investigating officers, no smoothing things over behind closed doors. You're either in or you're out." He pointed at the card.

"Memorise the number. Then destroy the card."

He turned around the laptop so that Warren could see the screen.

"The same goes for what I'm going to show you on the computer. You're going to have to memo rise the procedures and passwords. You must never write anything down."

Tina watched as Hathaway tapped away at the keyboard.

"So I'll be e-mailing you reports, is that it?" she asked.

"It's the safest way," he said.

"No meeting that can be watched, no phone conversations that can be tapped. You just find yourself an internet cafe and Robert's your mother's brother."

"My mother didn't have a brother, but I get your drift." She pointed at the laptop, a grey Toshiba.

"Do I get to use this?"

Hathaway shook his head.

"Absolutely not," he said.

"Under no circumstances must you ever use your own machine. Everything you do will be stored somewhere on your hard disc. Someone who knows what they're doing will be able to find it. I'll use this to show you what to do, but once you're up and running you should use public machines. There are internet cafes all over the place these days."

He sat back from the laptop. On screen was a web page and he tapped it with his forefinger.

"This is Safe Web," he said.

"It's a state-of-the-art privacy site. You can use it to move around the web without being traced. No one knows who you are or what you're doing. That goes for sites you visit or any e-mail you send or receive. It's so secure that the CIA use it."

"Okay," said Tina hesitantly, 'but does that mean you think someone will be watching me?"

"If you get close to Donovan, or to any of his associates, there'll be all sorts of agencies crawling over you, Tina. The Drugs Squad, Customs and Excise, Europol, the DEA, law enforcement agencies right across the world will put you under the microscope. And every one of them will have the capacity to open your mail, listen in on your phone calls and intercept your e-mail. If any one of them were to discover that you were an undercover agent, your life would be on the line."

"Even though they're the good guys?"

"Someone at Donovan's level can't operate without help from the inside."

"Bent cops?"

"Bent cops, bent DEA agents, bent politicians," said Hathaway.

"There is so much money involved in the drugs trade that they can buy almost anyone. Everyone has their price, Tina. And Donovan has the money to meet it."

Tina tilted her head on one side.

"What about you, Gregg? What's your price?"

Hathaway flashed her a tight smile.

"I prefer to be on the side of law and order."

"White hat and sheriffs badge?"

"I don't do this for the money, Tina."

"You're on some sort of crusade, are you?"

"My motivation isn't the issue." He turned the laptop towards her.

"Once you've logged on to Safe Web, type in this URL." His fingers played across the keyboard. The new web page loaded then the screen turned pale blue.

She looked at the graphics and wording on the screen. It appeared to be an online store selling toiletries. There was a "Feedback' section where e-mails could be sent to the company.

"That's where I send my stuff?" she asked.

"That's it. But first you have to log on. For that you'll need a password. Something you'll never forget so that you won't have to write it down. It can be a number, or a word. Anything up to eight characters."

Tina gave him a password and watched as he tapped it in. His fingernails were bitten to the quick and there were nicotine stains on the first and second fingers of his right hand. He was a smoker, yet he'd turned down her offer of a cigarette when he'd first arrived at her flat. She wondered how much she should read into the nicotine stains and the bitten nails.

"Sure you don't want a cigarette?" she asked, offering her pack.

He shook his head, his eyes still on the screen.

"Gave up, six weeks ago."

"Wish I could."

"Anyone can. Just a matter of willpower."

Tina blew smoke but was careful to keep it away from Hathaway.

"Is that when you started biting your nails?"

Hathaway flashed her a sideways look.

"Not much gets by you, does it, Tina?" He gestured at the screen.

"Right, this is you logged on. If there's a message for you, there'll be an envelope signal here. If you want to send me a message, you click here." Hathaway clicked on a letter icon.

"Then it's just like any word processing or e-mail programme. When you've finished, click on "send" and you're done. If you want to attach any photographs or documents, use the paper-clip icon here."

"What sort of photographs?"

"Anything you think might be of use to us."

"And am I supposed to be in contact with you every day?"

Hathaway ran his hand down his face and rubbed his chin.

"I'd advise against that. Once a week would be enough, but you want to avoid making it a routine. If you sit down at a computer every Saturday morning, it's going to be noticed. Vary it."

"What if you need to get in touch with me? Say there's a problem and you need to warn me."

"That's not going to happen. We're not going to be watching you, Tina. You will be one hundred per cent on your own. From time to time I might need to brief you on operations, perhaps point you in the direction of possible targets, but I won't be expecting instant results. Weekly contact will be fine."

Tina stubbed out her cigarette.

"Will you be running other agents, Gregg?"

Hathaway's face hardened.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because you're going to a lot of trouble over little old me," she said with a smile. She nodded at the laptop.

"The website, you, Latham. I can't believe this is all being done just for my benefit."

Hathaway nodded slowly, a slight frown on his face as if assessing what she'd said.

"Suppose I was having this conversation with someone else. You wouldn't want me to tell them about you, would you?"

"That sort of answers my question, doesn't it?"

Hathaway smiled thinly and folded his arms.

"There's nothing I can say. Other than lying to you outright, and I'm not prepared to do that."

"And are they all being sent against Tango One?"

"That I can't tell you, Tina."

"But suppose one of your people gets close to Donovan and I see them. If I send you details of what they were doing, doesn't that put them in the spotlight?"

"All your reports will come through me and I won't pass on anything that would put another operative in danger." He smiled again.

"Assuming that there are other operatives."

Tina walked over and sat on the arm of the sofa.

"The reports I send. What will you do with them?"

"I'll go through them and pass on whatever intelligence there is to the appropriate authorities."

"But isn't there a danger that it could be traced back to me?"

"I'll make sure that doesn't happen," he said.

"When you do file, by all means highlight anything you think might be linked to you, but frankly it's the big players I'm interested in. Donovan and the like. I'm not going to risk blowing your cover for anything less."

"Blowing my cover!"

Hathaway closed his eyes and put his hand to his temple as if he had a headache.

"That came out wrong," he said. He opened his eyes again.

"What I mean is that the important thing is that you stay in place. That is my primary concern, keeping you undercover as long as possible. The only reason I'd want to pull you out is if it meant putting Donovan behind bars."

Tina stared at Hathaway. She knew next to nothing about the man who was about to become her handler, who would have her life in his hands.

"You realise that you can't ever tell anyone what you're doing?" said Hathaway.

"No matter how much you want to. No matter how much you think you can trust the person. There'll be times when you'll want to talk to someone. To confide."

"I don't think so."

"What about your family?"

"I haven't seen them for six years. Don't want to see them again. Ever."

"Friends?"

"Not the sort I'd confide in. About anything."

"It's going to be lonely, Tina."

"I'm used to being on my own."

"And how do you feel about betraying people who might well become your friends? Your only friends?"

Cliff Warren took a long pull on his bottle of Sol while he considered Hathaway's question. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Thing is, they won't really be friends, will they? They'll be criminals and I'll be a cop."

"Easy to say now, Cliff, but you might feel differently three years down the line."

"If they're criminals, they deserve to go down. Are you playing devil's advocate, is that what's going on here?"

"I just want you to face the reality of your situation, that's all."

Warren pursed his lips and tapped his bottle against his knee.

"I know what I'm letting myself in for." He leaned back in his chair, looked at the ceiling and sighed mournfully.

"Funny how things work out, in nit

"In what way?"

"By rights I should be square bashing at Hendon. Left, right, left, right, back straight, amis out. And instead I'm gearing up to hit the streets as a drug dealer." He lowered his chin and looked over at Hathaway.

"That's a point, where do I get my cash from?"

"I'll be supplying funds. At least in the early stages. And drugs."

At first Warren thought he'd misheard, then the implications of what Hathaway had said sank in and he sat upright.

"Say what? You'll be giving me drugs?"

"You'll be operating as a dealer. You can't be out there selling caster sugar."

"The police are going to be giving me heroin?"

Hathaway winced.

"I was thinking cannabis," he said.

"Just to get you started. You ever taken drugs, Cliff?"

Warren shook his head.

"Never. Saw what they did to my folks." Warren's mother had died of a heroin overdose when he was twelve. His father was also an addict and had ended up in prison for killing a dealer in North London. Warren had been passed from relative to relative until he'd been old enough to take care of himself, and it seemed that every household he stayed in was tainted in some way by drugs. He had steadfastly refused to touch so much as a joint.

"I don't see that's a problem, though. Plenty of dealers don't use."

"Absolutely, but you're going to have to know good gear when you see it."

"I've got people can show me. The stuff you're going to give me. Where's it coming from?"

"Drugs we've seized in previous operations," said Hathaway.

"They're destroyed if they're no longer needed as evidence. We'll just divert some of it your way."

Warren took another drink. His heart was pounding and he felt a little light headed. It wasn't the alcohol he'd barely drunk half of his beer it was an adrenalin rush, his body gearing for fight, fright or flight in anticipation of what lay ahead. He felt his hand begin to shake and he pressed the bottle against his knee to steady it. This was no time to have the shakes.

"There's one word I haven't heard you mention," he said.

Hathaway raised an eyebrow.

"What's that?"

"Entrapment."

"It's no defence in an English court," said Hathaway.

"Cases have gone as high as the House of Lords and the end result has always been the same entrapment evidence can't be excluded from a trial, because there is no substantive defence of entrapment in English law."

"I thought there'd been cases where undercover officers had obtained confessions and the confessions weren't admissible because they hadn't administered the caution?"

Hathaway smiled.

"It's a grey area," he said.

"You're right, a confession without a caution required under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act of 1984 would be technically inadmissible. But that wouldn't apply if you weren't questioning them as a police officer. Anything they tell you would be admissible if it was a conversation between equals. Or at least as if they perceived it as a conversation between equals."

"But if I'm encouraging the commission of a crime, doesn't give them a way out?" asked Warren.

"They could say that I was leading them on, that I was waving money around saying that I want to buy drugs. They could claim that if I hadn't approached them they wouldn't have committed the crime in the first place. How are you going to get a conviction on that?"

"We won't. We'll note the transaction and the people involved, but we won't be moving in to arrest them. A couple of busts like that and your cover would be well and truly blown. It's information we want, Cliff. Good quality intelligence that will help us mount effective operations. The last thing we're going to do is to put you in court holding a Bible and swearing to tell the truth." Hathaway drank from his bottle of Sol, then leaned back and studied Warren for almost a minute.

"Entrapment isn't covered by PACE or by the codes of practice issued under PACE," he said, eventually. And it is one hundred per cent true that claiming entrapment isn't a defence under English law. But there were Home Office guidelines issued in 1986 which do refer to entrapment. Basically the Home Office said that no informant must act as an agent provocateur, that is he or she mustn't suggest to others that they commit an offence or encourage them to do so."

"But that means .. ." Warren began.

Hathaway held up a hand to silence him.

"That's what the Home Office says, but between you, me and that cheese plant in the corner, the likes of Dennis Donovan don't pay a blind bit of notice to the Home Office, so why should we?"

"That's a dangerous route to start along," said Warren.

"You're saying the rules aren't fair so you're going to break them?"

"What I'm saying is that established procedures aren't going to catch Dennis Donovan. We're going to have to be more .. ." He searched for the word.

"Creative," he said eventually.

"But if it ever gets out that I've been acting as an agent provocateur, all bets are off," said Warren.

"He'd be able to take you to the European Court of Human Rights, any conviction would be quashed, and he'd sue you for millions."

"But he won't ever find out," said Hathaway.

"No one will. You are going to be so far undercover they'll need a submarine to find you. That's why we've gone to all this trouble, Cliff. Only a handful of people will know what you are doing, and they'll never tell. From now on your only contact with the police will be me, and we'll only be communicating via a secure website."

"So I really will be on my own?"

"It's the only way, Cliff. Are you up for it?"

"I guess so." He saw from the look on Hathaway's face that the answer wasn't emphatic enough.

"Yes," he said, more determinedly.

"Yes, I am."

"Good man," said Hathaway. His fingers started to play across the keyboard. Warren moved over to sit next to him.

Tina rolled over and hugged her pillow. She'd been in bed for almost three hours and was no closer getting to sleep. Her mind was in a whirl. Her meeting with Latham. Her briefing from Hathaway. It had all been such a shock. One minute she'd been all geared up for joining the Metropolitan Police, wearing a uniform and pounding a beat. The next, she was preparing to become a lap-dancer, which, no matter how Hathaway had portrayed it, was in her eyes only one step up from being a street-walking prostitute. She'd worked hard for her qualifications. Bloody hard. She'd set her heart on a career, a real career, and that had been taken away from her. By men.

She felt tears well up, but screwed her eyes tightly closed, refusing to cry. It always seemed to be men who were screwing up her life. Her stepfather, crawling into her bed late at night, whispering drunkenly and licking her ear. The punters, always trying to get her to do it for free or without a condom. Her neighbours, sneering and leering as she left to walk the streets in short skirt, low-cut top and knee-length boots. The police, patronizing and condescending. And now Latham and Hathaway. They were worse than pimps. Worse than her punters.

She opened her eyes and sat up, still clutching the pillow to her stomach. A sudden wave of nausea swept over her and she rushed to the bathroom. She barely managed to get her head above the toilet bowl before throwing up. She flushed the toilet and drank from the cold tap, then wiped her mouth with a towel. She stared at her reflection in the mirror above the sink.

"Bastards," she said.

"Bastards, bastards, bastards."

She went back into the sitting room and dropped down on to the sofa. Could she trust them? And was she even capable of doing what they wanted? She felt nauseous again and took deep breaths to steady herself. What if it went wrong? What if she wasn't up to the job, what if she slipped up and someone found out that she was an undercover cop? Hathaway had given her a phone number to memorize. Her way out. Her once in a lifetime 'get out of jail free' card. Two years down the line, three years, would there still be someone at the end of the lifeline? She stared at the phone on the coffee table. A voice on the end of the phone and a website were to be her only points of contact, Hathaway had said. She drew her legs up underneath her and rested her head on the pillow. One of the reasons she'd been so keen to join the Met was because she wanted to be a member of a team, to be surrounded by colleagues who could support her if she was in trouble, to be part of a group. The police she'd come across when she'd worked the streets had always been the enemy, but she'd envied them their camaraderie. She knew the girls on the streets with her, but they were the competition. They might help each other out with loans or cigarettes and even offer advice on which punters to avoid, but there was never the familiarity and intimacy that the police had. Tina wasn't sure if she had what it took to work on her own. Undercover. Living a lie.

Tina reached over and picked up the phone. She placed it on the pillow and ran her fingers along the smooth, white plastic.

Twenty-four seven, Hathaway had said. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, there'd be a voice at the end of the phone. One call and she'd be pulled out.

She picked up the receiver and listened to the dialling tone, then put it back. She ran her hands through her hair and then rubbed the knotted muscles at the back of her neck. She stared at the phone. What if he'd been lying? What if there was no lifeline? She snatched at the receiver and tapped out the number on the keypad as quickly as she could, not wanting to give herself time to change her mind. It started to ring. Tina closed her eyes. It was answered on the third ring.

"Yes?" It was a man's voice. It might have been Hathaway, but Tina couldn't tell, not from the single word.

There was a faint buzzing on the line, like static.

"What do you need?" said the voice after a long pause. It was flat and emotionless, almost mechanical, but Tina was sure now it was Hathaway.

"Nothing. Wrong number," she said and replaced the receiver.

She replaced the phone on the coffee table and carried the pillow back to her bed. She lay down and curled up into a foetal ball and within five minutes she was fast asleep.

Three Years Later Marty Clare took a long draw on his joint and held the smoke deep in his lungs as he watched the two girls on the bed. The blonde was on top, the redhead underneath, their legs and arms entwined as they kissed. Clare scratched his backside, then exhaled slowly, blowing blue smoke over the two girls.

"Come on, girls, let the dog see the rabbit," said Clare in his gravelly Irish accent. The two girls moved apart. The redhead reached up for the joint and Clare handed it to her as he slid down next to the blonde. Sylvia, her name was. Or Sandra. Clare hadn't been paying attention to their names. All he'd been interested in was how much they'd charge for a threesome, and the price had been reasonable considering their pneumatic breasts and model-pretty faces. They were Slovakians, the blonde twenty-one and the redhead barely out of her teens. From the way they were going at each other on the bed, Clare figured they were probably genuinely bisexual. Not that he cared over-much either way: the evening was about satisfying Clare's urges, not theirs.

Clare kissed the blonde and she moaned softly and opened her mouth, allowing his exploring tongue deep inside. She reached down between his legs and stroked him. Clare felt the redhead's tongue on his back, gently licking between his shoulder blades.

The redhead reached and gave the joint to the blonde, then pressed her lips against Clare's mouth, practically sucking the breath from him. She rolled on top of him and began to move downwards, kissing and gently nipping at his flesh with her teeth. Clare ran his fingers through her hair and groaned in anticipation of the pleasures to come. The blonde sat up with her back against the headboard and blew smoke up at the ceiling. Clare held out his hand for the joint. As she passed it to him there was the sound of cracking wood and shouts from the room next door, then booted footsteps and shouts. The bedroom door crashed open and half a dozen uniformed policemen burst into the room with a series of rapid flashes that temporarily blinded Clare.

Clare dropped the joint on to the redhead's back and she screamed. The blonde made a run for it and Clare grinned despite himself: she was totally naked and the apartment was on the top floor of a sixteen-storey building. The only way out was blocked by two very large men in black raincoats. They were grinning, too, because the redhead was screaming and cursing and trying to get off the bed. The glowing joint had rolled against her leg and burned her thigh. She fell to the floor and then scrabbled on her hands and knees towards the bathroom door. The blonde had changed direction and decided that she was going to make a run for the bathroom, too, but she collided with the redhead and they both fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs. There were more flashes as a man in a grey anorak and jeans photographed the two women.

Clare burst out laughing and so did the uniformed policemen. They grabbed the girls and a female officer picked up their clothes. The two men in raincoats moved to the side and the girls were hustled down the hallway. The redhead started to cry but the blonde was more vociferous, screaming that she wanted to call her lawyer. The man with the camera followed them out of the room.

Clare picked up the still-burning joint and took a long pull on it. He held it up and offered it to the two detectives. They shook their heads.

"So what's the charge, guys?" asked Clare nonchalantly.

"Is it the sex, the drugs or the rock and roll?"

The taller of the two detectives picked up an ashtray and carried it over to the bed.

Clare was naked but he made no move to cover himself up. His well-muscled torso was still glistening with sweat. He stubbed out the joint.

"Martin Clare, you are under arrest for conspiring to export four tons of cannabis resin," said the detective.

Clare's face tightened but he continued to smile brightly.

"Cannabis that we currently have in our possession at Rotterdam docks," the detective continued.

"What is it they say in your country, Mr. Clare? You are nicked?"

"That'll do it," said Clare.

"What the fuck. Let me get my pants on, yeah?"

Robbie picked up his sports bag as soon as the bell started to ring, but dropped it by the side of his desk after Mr. Inverdale gave him a baleful look. Mr. Inverdale finished outlining the essay he wanted writing for homework, then turned his back on the class. There was a mad scramble for the door. Robbie pulled his Nokia mobile from his sports bag and switched it on. He'd sent Elaine Meade a text message before the start of class and was keen to see if she'd replied.

"Outside with that, Donovan," said Mr. Inverdale, without turning around.

"You know the rules."

Robbie hurried out into the corridor. He had one text message waiting. Robbie's heart began to pound. Elaine was the prettiest girl in his year, bar none. Blonde with big blue eyes like the pretty one in Steps and a really cute way of wrinkling up her nose when she laughed. He pressed the button to collect the message and tried to ignore the growing tightness in his stomach. The text message flashed up.

"I'M BACK. COME HOME NOW DAD."

Robbie grinned and pumped his fist in the air.

"Yes!" he said. It had been more than two months since Robbie had seen his father.

He stuffed the phone back into the sports bag and headed for the school gates. He looked around nervously but there were no teachers in the playground. It was lunch break and everyone was rushing towards the refectory. Robbie walked purposefully through the gates and broke into a run, his sports bag banging against his leg.

He was sweating and out of breath by the time he reached his house. His mother's silver-grey Range Rover was parked in front of the house. Next to it was a dark green Jaguar, its engine still clicking under the bonnet. Robbie ran his finger along the paintwork. His dad didn't like British cars: he said they were always breaking down and that you couldn't beat the Germans for quality engineering. Robbie walked down the side of the house and through the kitchen door. There were two bulging Marks and Spencer carrier bags on the counter top next to the sink and two mugs by the kettle.

"Dad!" There was no answer.

Robbie put his sports bag on the kitchen table and ran through to the sitting room. Empty. He went back into the hall.

"Dad?" His voice echoed around the hallway.

Robbie went up the stairs, one hand on the banister. He could hear voices coming from his parents' bedroom. Robbie broke into a run and pushed open the bedroom door, grinning excitedly. He froze when he saw the two figures on the bed. Two naked figures. His mother on top, sitting down, her spine arched and her head back. She turned to look at him, a look of horror on her face.

"Robbie?" she gasped.

Time seemed to stop for Robbie. He could see the beads of sweat on her back, a stray wisp of blonde hair across her face, a smear of lipstick on the side of her mouth.

The man on the bed was lying on his back, trying to sit up.

"Oh shit," he said. He put a hand up to his forehead.

"Shit a fucking brick."

Robbie recognised the man. It was Uncle Stewart, but he wasn't really an uncle, he was a friend of his father's. Stewart Sharkey. His father always looked serious when Uncle Stewart came around to the house, and they'd lock themselves in the study while they talked. The only time Dad wasn't serious with him was when it was Christmas and Uncle Stewart came around with presents for Robbie and his parents. He always brought really good presents. Expensive ones.

"That's my mum!" Robbie shouted.

"That's my fucking mum!"

"Robbie .. ." said his mother, pleadingly.

"Shit, shit, shit!" said Sharkey, holding his hands over his eyes and banging the back of his head against the pillow.

Robbie's mother wrapped the duvet around herself and twisted around to face him.

"Robbie, this isn't ' "It is!" he screamed.

"I know what it is! I can see what you're doing! I'm not stupid."

Robbie's mother stood up, and the man grabbed a pillow and held it over his groin.

"What are we going to do?" he asked.

Robbie's mother ignored him. She took a step towards Robbie, but he moved backwards, holding his hands up as if trying to ward her off.

"Don't come near me!" he yelled.

"Robbie. I'm sorry."

"Dad's going to kill you. He's going to kill both of you!"

"Robbie, it was an accident."

Robbie pointed at her.

"I'm not stupid, Mum. I know what you're doing. I'm going to tell Dad."

"Vicky, for God's sake, do something!" hissed Sharkey.

Vicky turned to him.

"Stay out of this, Stewart."

"Just handle it, will you?"

Robbie backed out of the bedroom and rushed down the hallway. His mother hurried after him.

"Robbie! Robbie, come back here!"

Robbie stumbled at the top of the stairs and his hands flailed out for balance. His sports bag swung between his legs and he fell forward, his mouth working soundlessly, panic overwhelming him.

Vicky ran into the hallway just in time to see her son pitch headlong down the stairs. She screamed and let the duvet slip from her fingers.

Robbie banged down the stairs in a series of sickening thumps.

"Robbie, no!" yelled Vicky, as she rushed towards the top of the stairs. Behind her, Sharkey called out, wanting to know what was wrong.

The hallway seemed as if it were telescoping away from Vicky as she ran. She couldn't see Robbie, but she could hear the thuds as he tumbled down. Thump. Thump. Thump. What horrified Vicky was Robbie's silence as he fell. No groans, or shouts or curses. Just the gut-wrenching thumps. Then silence. The silence was a million times worse than the sound of the fall.

Vicky reached the top of the stairs. Robbie was lying at the bottom, face down, his head turned to the side. There was blood on his mouth. Vicky felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach and she put a hand against the wall to steady herself.

"Please, God, don't let this be happening," she whispered.

She hurried down the stairs two at a time and crouched next to him. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently.

"Robbie, love? Robbie?" His chest moved as he took a breath, and Vicky said a silent prayer of thanks.

Robbie's eyes flickered open.

"Robbie, love, are you all right?" Vicky asked.

His face screwed up into a snarl.

"Don't touch me!"

"Robbie, love "Get off me," he said.

"I saw you. I saw what you were doing."

"Robbie .. ."

He pushed her away and got to his feet. He wiped his mouth and stared at the blood on his hand.

"You look ridiculous," he said.

Vicky realised that she was naked and she moved her hands to cover her crotch.

"I hate you," said Robbie.

Sharkey appeared at the top of the stairs, buttoning his shirt.

"Has he calmed down?"

Robbie pointed up at Sharkey.

"My dad's going to kill you!" he shouted venomously.

"Robbie," said Vicky, 'please don't say that."

She reached out to touch him but Robbie hit her hand away.

"And you!" he shouted.

Sharkey started downstairs.

"There's no need to be stupid, Robbie," he said.

Robbie backed away.

Vicky looked over her shoulder.

"Stewart, leave this to me. Please."

"If he says anything to Den .. ."

"Shut the hell up!" she shouted.

"I'm just saying .. ."

"Don't say," she yelled.

"Don't say anything. You've caused enough .. ." Before she finished the sentence she heard Robbie fumbling with the lock on the front door.

"Robbie!" she shouted.

"Robbie, come back."

She dashed towards the door but Robbie was too quick for her. He pulled the door open, slipped out and slammed it behind him. Vicky scrabbled at the lock, but by the time she got the door open Robbie was already sprinting along the pavement. The strength drained from Vicky's legs and she slumped to the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Sharkey walked slowly down the stairs, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt.

"Shit," he said quietly.

"What are we going to do now?"

The wind blowing off the Caribbean Sea tugged at Den Donovan's hair and flicked it across his eyes. He brushed it away and shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand. The waves of the turquoise sea were flecked with white and Donovan could taste the salt on his lips.

"Thought I might get a boat, Carlos," he mused, staring out across the water.

"What do you think?"

Carlos Rodriguez shrugged.

"I always get seasick," he said.

"I was thinking a big boat. Stabilisers and that. Save me flying between the islands. I could travel with style."

"I still get sick," said Rodriguez.

Donovan started walking down the beach, his sandals digging into the sand. In the distance a line of loungers were shaded by pink and green striped umbrellas. Rodriguez hurried after him.

Donovan looked across at the road to his right. Barry Doyle was leaning against Donovan's silver-grey Mercedes, his arms folded across his massive chest. Doyle gave Donovan the merest hint of a nod, letting him know that everything was clear on the road. Donovan looked over his shoulder. The nearest person was a hundred yards away, and that was an obese woman in a too-small bikini, who was paddling with her toddler son and yelling at him in German every time he went out too far into the sea.

A small jet banked overhead and turned towards Bradshaw Airport. More well-heeled tourists, thought Donovan, probably booked into a suite at the Jack Tar Village Beach Resort or the Four Seasons Resort on the neighbouring island of Nevis, where a quarter of the island's workforce slaved away to make sure that the everyday inconveniences of life on a Third World island didn't intrude into their five-star compound. St. Kitts wasn't one of Donovan's favourite places, but it was an ideal setting for a meeting with one of Colombia's biggest cocaine suppliers.

"How's everything?" Donovan said, keeping his voice low.

"The freighter is leaving Mexico this evening," said Rodriguez.

"And the consignment?"

"The fuel tanks of the yellow ones."

"The yellow ones?"

"We thought they'd be easier to spot."

"Every yellow one?" asked Donovan.

Rodriguez nodded.

"Every one."

"Isn't that a bit ... predictable?"

Rodriguez grinned.

"Less risk of confusion. You'd prefer we used engine or chassis numbers? You want to go down on your hands and knees with a flashlight?"

Donovan chuckled. The cocaine Rodriguez was supplying had been transported from Colombia into Mexico, where there was a factory manufacturing Volkswagen Beetles, the cult car that was still in demand around the world. Up to four hundred Beetles a day rolled off the production line in Puebla, and many went overseas. Rodriguez had bought up a consignment of sixty of the cars and had arranged to ship them to the United Kingdom.

"Don't worry, Den," said Rodriguez.

"Palms have been well greased at both ends. Yellow, green or rainbow coloured, no one is going to be going near those cars."

"Sweet," said Donovan.

"And my money?"

"I'll put the first tranche in this afternoon."

"And the rest on arrival?" said Rodriguez.

"Soon as we've got the gear out." Donovan slapped the Colombian on the back.

"Come on, Carlos, have I ever let you down?"

"Not yet, my friend, but a little bird tells me that you have been talking to Russians."

"Carlos, I talk to a lot of people."

"Russian pilots. With transport planes. Staying at a hotel in Anguilla. Not far from your villa, in fact."

Donovan raised an eyebrow.

"I'm impressed, Carlos."

"Knowledge is power," said the Colombian.

"I thought money was power."

The two men stopped and faced each other, the warm sea breeze rustling their clothes.

"Knowledge. Money. Power. They are all connected," said the Colombian.

"These Russians, they have been flying Soviet weapons into Colombia for FARC, you know that?"

Donovan nodded. FARC was the initials of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, the country's biggest rebel group.

"Not these guys. But they're friends of the guys you're talking about."

"Guns in, cocaine out. It's a dangerous game, my friend. We wouldn't want the rebels becoming too strong. We have friends in the Government, you know that."

Donovan nodded. It was one of the reasons that the Rodriguez cartel had been so successful.

"I've no interest in their cocaine, Carlos. You have my word. I'm talking to them about some business on the other side of the world. Poppy business."

Rodriguez smiled.

"Be careful, Den. The Russians are not to be trusted. They are vicious thugs who will kill you at the drop of a hat."

Donovan laughed and patted the Colombian's shoulder.

"Carlos, they say exactly the same thing about the Colombians."

The Colombian laughed along with him.

"And maybe they're right, my friend. Maybe they are right."

Donovan heard his name being called from the road. It was Doyle, waving Donovan's mobile phone in the air. He never carried it himself, and he never discussed business on it. He was all too well aware of how easily the authorities could listen in to cell phones, which was why he'd arranged to meet Rodriguez on the beach. Anyone trying to eavesdrop would be easy to spot, and the wind and the crashing surf would make long-distance electronic surveillance difficult if not impossible.

"I think your associate is trying to attract your attention," said Carlos dryly.

Donovan glared over at Doyle who was now walking across the sand in their direction, still waving the mobile phone like a conductor trying to energise an orchestra.

"You'd better push off, Carlos," said Donovan.

"I'm going to have a quiet word with Mr. Doyle."

"It's always difficult to get good people," said the Colombian.

"I could tell you stories. Another time, though." He walked away down the beach, the cream linen trousers of his suit cracking in the wind like the sails of a racing yacht.

Donovan strode towards Doyle.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" he yelled.

"I told you to stay on the road. And if that fucking phone is switched on I'll shove it so far up your arse that your teeth'll vibrate when it rings."

"It's Robbie," said Doyle, so quietly that his Scottish burr was almost lost in the wind.

"He sounds hysterical. Something about Vicky."

"Oh Christ," said Donovan. He grabbed the phone out of Doyle's hand and slammed it to his ear.

"Robbie, what's wrong?"

As Robbie explained what had happened, the colour drained from Donovan's face. He walked to the water's edge as he listened to his son, occasionally whispering quietly into the phone, barely noticing the waves that lapped over his Bally loafers.

When Robbie had finished, Donovan told him not to worry, that everything would be all right, that he'd take care of it.

"Dad, you have to come home. Now."

"I will, Robbie. I promise."

"Now," Robbie repeated.

"A day or two, Robbie. I've got to get a flight and stuff. Where are you?"

Robbie sniffed.

"I don't know," he said.

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"I'm near school. I ran away. But I don't know where to go."

"Call your Auntie Laura. Right now. She'll pick you up."

"I don't want to go home, Dad."

"You don't have to. You can stay with your aunt until I get there."

Robbie said nothing and for a moment Donovan thought that he'd lost the connection.

"Robbie, are you there?"

"Yeah, I can hear you," said Robbie. There was another long silence, with Donovan listening to nothing but the crackle of static.

"Dad?" said Robbie eventually.

"Yes?"

"Are you going to kill them?"

"Don't be silly, Robbie," said Donovan.

"Look, hang up and call Aunty Laura. Tell her what's happened and that I'll call her."

"Okay, Dad."

"I love you, Robbie."

"I love you too, Dad."

The line went dead. Donovan threw back his head and screamed obscenities into the wind.

"Kill them?" he yelled.

"I'll rip them limb from fucking limb when I get my hands on them!"

Stewart Sharkey put his hand on Vicky's shoulders.

"It'll be okay," he said.

Vicky shook her head fiercely.

"How the fuck's it going to be okay?

Tears trickled down her cheeks. Sharkey tried to brush them away, but Vicky threw up her hands and forced him back.

"Leave me alone!" she shouted.

"This is all your fault."

Sharkey looked hurt by her outburst.

"That's not fair, Vicky," he said.

"Fair! Den's not going to care what's fucking fair!" she hissed.

Sharkey reached out a hand to hold her arm but Vicky took a step back.

"Look, maybe Robbie won't say anything," he said.

"He's got a mobile. He'll call Den."

"We can say he's confused."

"Oh, grow up, will you, Stewart? He saw us in bed. Where the fuck's the confusion?" She slammed her hand against the wall.

"You shouldn't have come around. I always said never here, didn't I? Your place or hotels, that's what we agreed. I said never here, didn't I? But you had to do it in the bed. Den's bed. Like a dog pissing on another's territory."

Sharkey sat down on the stairs.

"It takes two, Vicky," he said quietly.

She whirled around and raised her hand as if to slap him, but then she shuddered and began to cry, great heaving sobs that wracked her slim body. Sharkey stood up and held her and this time she didn't try to push him away. He stroked her hair.

"I'm sorry, love," he said.

"He'll kill us," she sobbed.

"Stewart, you know what he's like. Oh God, how could I have been so stupid?"

"We want to be together, you know we do. He was going to have to know some time."

"But not like this. Not with Robbie .. ." She started to cry again.

Sharkey rested his cheek against the top of her head and closed his eyes. He knew that she was right. He more than anyone knew what Den Donovan was capable of.

"We've got time," he said.

"Time?"

"To move. To make plans. For a new life."

"What about Robbie? We have to take Robbie with us."

"Later," said Stewart.

"He's my son," protested Vicky.

"Of course he is," said Sharkey.

"But he's Den's son, too. He'll lead Den to us."

Vicky looked up at him, her cheeks wet with tears.

"I can't leave him," she said.

"He hurt himself when he fell down stairs."

"He was fine, Vicky. He ran out of here like a bat out of hell."

"But I don't even know where he is."

"He'll go around to a friend's house," said Sharkey.

"Or he'll call Den's sister. And he'll be on the phone to his father. Don't worry about Robbie, Vicky. Worry about yourself

"I want to be sure that he's okay."

"We don't have time, love," said Sharkey.

"We're going to have to go now."

"Go where?"

"I've got an idea," said Sharkey, smoothing her hair with the flat of his hand.

"Just trust me."

Vicky began to sob again and Sharkey held her tightly.

Donovan called his sister from a call box close to a beachfront cafe. Barry Doyle stood by the car looking uncomfortable. Laura answered on the fifth ring.

"Den, thank God. I can't believe this," she said.

"Have you got Robbie there?"

"He's watching TV with my kids," she said.

"He's in a right state, Den."

"Let me talk to him, yeah?"

Laura called Robbie to the phone and handed the receiver to him.

"You okay, Robbie?"

"When are you coming home, Dad?"

"Soon, Robbie. Don't worry. You can stay with Aunty Laura until I get there, okay?"

"I guess. What about school? Do I still have to go?"

"Of course you do."

"But it's miles away."

"Aunty Laura'll drive you. Just be a good boy for her, yeah, until I get things sorted."

"What are you going to do, Dad?"

"I'm gonna get a ticket and then I'll come and see you."

"I meant about Mum. And him."

"I'll get it sorted, Robbie, don't you worry. You can stay with me, I'll take care of you. Chin up, yeah?"

"Okay, Dad."

"Put your aunty on, will you?"

Robbie handed the phone to Laura.

"Thanks, Laura."

"Anything I can do, Den, you know that. Can't believe what the stupid cow's gone and done."

"Yeah, you and me both. I need a favour, Laura."

"Anything."

"Can you go around to the house? Robbie's passport's in the safe in the study. You got a pen?" Donovan gave her the combination of the safe.

"Get the passport, and there's cash there, too. And a manila envelope, a biggish one. In fact, clear everything out, will you?"

"What if she's there, Den?"

"It's my house, and Robbie's my son. I don't want her doing a runner with him. I said Robbie could go to school but I'm having second thoughts."

"You can't keep him off school Den. There's laws about that."

Donovan rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, you're right. Can you run him there and pick him up? Make sure he gets inside. And have a word with the headmistress. Vicky's not to go near him."

"She's his mother, Den, they won't .. ."

"Just do as you're fucking told, will you!" Donovan shouted, and immediately regretted the outburst.

"I'm sorry, Laura. I didn't mean that."

"It's okay, Den. I'll talk to the school, explain the situation to them. But you're going to have to come back and talk to them yourself. You're his dad, I'm just his aunt."

"I'll be back, don't worry about that. Are you okay looking after him for a while?"

"You don't have to ask, Den. You know that."

Donovan cut the connection and dialled again. A man answered. Donovan didn't identify himself, but told the man to get to a clean phone and call him back. Donovan gave him the St. Kitts number. The man began to complain that he didn't have enough coins to make an international call from a phone box.

"Buy a fucking phone card, you cheap bastard," said Donovan, and hung up.

Donovan paced up and down as he waited for the man to ring back.

Laura's husband, Mark, drove her over to Donovan's house. She'd asked a neighbour to sit in with the children, who were so engrossed in the Cartoon Channel that they didn't even ask where Laura and Mark were going.

"We've met this Sharkey guy, haven't we?" asked Mark, accelerating through the evening traffic.

"Yeah. That barbecue last time Den was over. He's an accountant or something."

"And she was in bed with him?"

That's what Robbie said."

"Stupid bitch."

"Yeah."

"Fancy doing it in her own bed."

Laura flashed him a withering look.

He grimaced.

"I meant she was a stupid bitch for doing it in the first place. But if you're going to have an affair, you don't shit on your own doorstep, do you?"

"Well, I'll bear that in mind, honey," she said, frostily.

"You know what I mean. How did Den sound?"

"Angry."

"He'll kill her."

"I hope not."

"You know what your brother's like. What he's capable of."

"Yeah. And so does Vicky."

"Christ, what a mess."

They drove the rest of the way to Kensington in silence. Mark pulled up outside Donovan's house. Vicky's Range Rover was parked outside.

"Shit," said Laura.

"She's still home."

"Maybe not," said Mark.

"She might have left in his car."

"Leave behind a Range Rover? Come on. Vicky's not the sort to say goodbye to a thirty-thousand-pound car."

"She can't take it overseas. And even if she could, it'd make her a sitting duck."

Laura realised that her husband was probably right and she relaxed a little. Despite her brother's assertion that the house belonged to him, Laura wasn't sure how well she'd be able to cope with a confrontation with Vicky. She took the house keys from her bag and climbed out of the car.

Laura opened the front door. She had the combination of the burglar alarm, but there was no bleeping from the console so she figured that Vicky hadn't set it. She was about to step inside when Mark put a hand on her shoulder.

"Best let me go in first, kid," he said.

"Just to be on the safe side."

Laura smiled at him gratefully and moved to let him go inside.

Mark quickly walked down the hall, checked the two reception rooms and the kitchen, then came back into the hallway, shaking his head.

"No one here," he said. He looked up the stairs.

"Vicky?" he shouted.

"She'll be well gone," said Laura.

They went upstairs to the master bedroom. The duvet was thrown over a chair by the window and two pillows were on the floor at the foot of the bed. Laura opened the doors to the fitted wardrobes. Among the clothes still hanging there were more than two dozen empty hangers. Laura walked into the en suite bathroom. She opened the medicine cabinet over the sink and ran a hand over the medicines and toiletries.

"She's left him," she said.

Mark came up behind her.

"How do you know?"

"No contraceptive pills. No razor. No toothbrush."

"You should have been a detective," said her husband.

"She'll have to run a long bloody way to escape from Den."

"Can you get some clothes from Robbie's room?" asked Laura.

"There's something Den wants me to do."

As Mark went along the hallway to Robbie's bedroom, Laura headed downstairs. She opened the door to the study and walked over to a large oil painting hanging behind an oak desk. It was of two old-fashioned yachts sailing into the wind, and a similar one hung on the wall opposite. Laura reached for the ornate gilt frame and pulled the right-hand side away from the wall. Behind was a gunmetal-grey safe with a circular numbered dial in the centre. She'd written the combination on the back of a Marks and Spencer receipt, but it took her several goes before she could get the door open. The safe was empty. Laura swore under her breath. She wasn't looking forward to giving her brother the bad news.

Chief Superintendent Richard Underwood buttoned up his coat and pushed open the door. He walked out of Paddington Green police station and nodded at two Vice Squad detectives before walking down Harrow Road. He turned up his collar against the wind that always seemed to whip around the station, no matter what the season.

He walked past the first two phone boxes, the old-fashioned red types, the insides littered with prostitutes' calling cards. The third was about half a mile from the station, on Warwick Avenue, close to the canal. Underwood tapped in the pin number of his phone card, then the number in St. Kitts. It rang out for so long that he thought maybe he'd taken down the wrong number, but then Donovan answered.

"You'd better be quick, Den, there's only twenty quid on this card."

"Yeah, put it on the tab, you tight bastard," said Donovan.

"Look, I need to know what my position is back in the UK."

"Fucking precarious, as usual."

"I'm serious, Dicko. I'm going to have to come back." He told Underwood what had happened.

"Hell, Den, I'm sorry." Underwood had known Donovan for almost twenty years and Vicky Donovan was the last person he'd have expected to betray her husband.

"Yeah, well, I need to know where I stand."

"You're Tango One. So far as I know, that's not changed."

"It's been four bloody years since I left."

"Memories like elephants. They'll be all over you like a rash if you come back."

"Check it out, will you?"

"If that's what you want, Den, sure. I'll call you tomorrow. This number, yeah?"

"Nah. I'm getting a flight back this afternoon."

"Bloody hell, Den. Don't get manic about this. Softly, softly, yeah?"

"Don't worry, Dicko. I'll stop off in Europe. Germany maybe. I'll call you from there."

"Just remember Europol, that's all. You're Most Wanted all over Europe."

"I'll be okay. One more thing. I want you to get Vicky and that bastard Sharkey red-flagged. They leave the country, I want to know."

"You're not asking much, are you?"

"I'm serious, Dicko. If they run, I want to know where they run to."

"Don't do anything stupid, Den."

"You can do it, yeah?"

Underwood sighed.

"Yeah, I can do it."

"Cheers, mate. Let's talk again tomorrow."

The line went dead in Underwood's ear. He felt his stomach churn and he popped a Rennie indigestion tablet into his mouth.

Donovan walked over to the convertible Mercedes. Doyle had the door open for him.

"You okay, boss?" he asked.

Donovan didn't reply. He tapped on the dashboard with the palms of his hands as Doyle climbed into the driving seat.

"Where to, boss?" asked Doyle.

Donovan's hands beat even faster on the dashboard as he tried to collect his thoughts. He'd flown to St. Kitts purely to meet the Colombian, but his return flight was to Anguilla, and that didn't get him any closer to London. He needed a ticket, he needed to speak to his sister, and he needed to confirm the collection of the several hundred kilos of Colombian heroin that was on its way to Felixstowe.

Doyle watched him nervously. Donovan hadn't explained what the problem was, but he'd overheard enough of the conversation with Robbie to realise that it was personal and that he had better tread carefully. He started the car and blipped the engine.

Donovan stopped beating a tattoo and his forehead creased into a deep frown.

"Oh shit," he whispered.

"Boss?"

"Shit, shit, shit." Donovan turned to stare at Doyle, but there was a faraway look in his eyes as if he was having trouble focusing.

"I need a computer. Now."

"The resort, yeah?"

Donovan nodded. The Jack Tar Resort Hotel was supposedly for movers and shakers who wanted to escape from the trials and tribulations of the world of commerce, but it had a fully equipped business centre that was often better attended than the pool. Donovan leaned back in the cream leather seat and massaged his temples with his fingertips.

The mobile phone rang. Doyle had put it on the console by the gear stick and he grabbed at it with his free hand.

"Yeah?" He handed it to Donovan.

"It's Laura."

Donovan listened in silence as his sister told him what had happened at the house. And how the safe had been emptied. Donovan cursed.

"Everything, yeah? No passport? No envelope?"

"The cupboard was bare, Den. Sorry."

"Okay, look, Laura, I think you'd best keep Robbie away from school until I get back. If she's got his passport she might try to get him out of the country. Just tell the school he's sick or something."

"Will do, Den."

"And you know what to do if she turns up at your house?"

"She'll get a piece of my mind if she does, I can tell you."

Donovan smiled to himself. He'd seen his sister in full flow, and it wasn't an experience to be relished.

"Do me another favour, Laura. Call Banhams in Kensington. Get them to change all the locks and reset the alarm with a new code. Any of the paintings missing?"

"Bloody hell, Den, how would I know?"

"Gaps on the wall would probably be a clue, Laura. Hooks with nothing hanging from them."

"I'm so pleased that you haven't lost your sense of humour, brother-of-mine. I didn't see any missing, no."

Donovan considered asking his sister to arrange to put the paintings into storage, but figured they'd probably be safe enough once the house was secured. The last time he'd had them valued was five years ago, and they'd been worth close to a million pounds in total. The art market had been buoyant recently and Donovan figured they'd probably doubled in value since then. Vicky didn't share his love of art and he hadn't told her how much the paintings were worth.

"I'll call you later, Laura. And thanks. Tell Robbie I love him, yeah?"

Donovan cut the connection and tapped the phone against his chin. Changing the locks and resetting the alarm was all well and good, but Donovan knew that he was shutting the stable door after the horses had well and truly bolted.

Doyle drove into the hotel resort, giving the uniformed security guard a cheery wave, and pulled up in front of Reception.

"Wait here," said Donovan. He walked quickly through the huge reception area, his heels clicking on the marble floor. He jogged up a sweeping set of stairs and pushed open the door to the hotel's business centre.

A pretty black girl with waist-length braided hair flashed him a beaming smile and asked him for his room number. Donovan slipped her a hundred-dollar bill without breaking his stride.

"I'll just be a couple of minutes," he said. He sat down at a computer terminal in the corner of the room and said a silent prayer before launching Internet Explorer and keying in the URL of a small bank in Switzerland. He was asked for an account number and an eight-digit personal identification number.

Donovan took a deep breath and prepared himself for the worst as he waited for his account to be accessed. The screen went blank for a second and then a spreadsheet appeared, listing all transactions for the account over the past quarter. Donovan sagged in the leather armchair. There was just two thousand dollars left in the account.

He left the bank's site and tapped in another URL, this one for a bank in the Cayman Islands. Ten minutes later and Donovan had visited half a dozen financial institutions in areas renowned for their secrecy and security. His total deposits amounted to a little over eighty thousand dollars. In total sixty million dollars was missing.

Mark Gardner flicked through the channels but couldn't find anything to hold his attention. Reruns of old comedy shows that he half-remembered watching, films that he'd already seen on video, and shows about cooking or decorating. He looked up as Laura came into the room holding two mugs of hot chocolate.

"He's asleep," she said, handing him a mug and sitting down on the sofa next to him. She swung her legs on to his lap and lay back, resting the mug on her stomach.

"What do you think he's going to do?"

"Robbie?"

"Your brother."

Laura ran a finger around the lip of her mug.

"He'll look after Robbie. You know how much his son means to him."

"I thought he wasn't allowed in the UK. I thought the cops were after him."

"He was under surveillance."

"He was Britain's most wanted," said Gardner.

"Tango One, they called him."

"Tango just means target. It means they were looking at him, it doesn't mean he's done anything wrong."

"There's no smoke without fire."

"Yeah, and an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Are we going to swap cliches all night? Den's Den and that's the end of it."

"I know, love, and I think the world of him. And Robbie. But I don't want us to get caught up in the middle of something."

Laura took her legs off her husband's lap and sat up.

"Like what?"

"I don't know what. But Vicky's got a temper and you know what Den's like."

"What, you think they're going to come in here with guns blazing?"

"You know that's not what I mean, but there's going to be one hell of a court battle over Robbie. They'll both want custody."

"She got caught sleeping around, Mark. It'll be open and shut."

"It's never open and shut in British courts. It'll be a dirty fight, thousand-pound-an-hour lawyers at thirty paces."

"That's not our problem."

There was a scuffling at the doorway and they both jumped. Laura's hot chocolate slopped over her knees.

It was Robbie, rubbing his eyes.

"I can't sleep," he said.

Laura put her mug on the coffee table, and went over and hugged him.

"What's wrong, Robbie?" she asked.

"I had a bad dream," he said.

She led him over to the sofa. Mark shuffled over to make room for them. He put a hand around Robbie's shoulder.

"You'll be okay, Robbie."

"Where's Dad?"

"He's coming," said Laura.

"I want my dad," said Robbie, and the tears started to flow again.

"I know you do," said Laura. She looked across at Mark and he shrugged. There was nothing either of them could say or do to make things any easier for Robbie. All they could do was to wait for Den Donovan.

Laura put her cheek against the top of Robbie's head and whispered softly to him. After a while the tears stopped and a few minutes later he was snoring softly. Laura smiled at her husband.

"I'll put him in Jenny's room. I don't want him sleeping on his own tonight."

"Good idea," said Mark.

"Shall I take him up?"

Laura shook her head.

"He's not heavy." She carried him upstairs. Seven-year-old Jenny was fast asleep on top of her bunk bed. Jenny had shared a room with her sister until Julie had declared that she was too old to be sharing and had insisted on a room of her own. At the time Julie had been all of four years old and Jenny had been three. Jenny had insisted on her own list of demands including keeping the bunk bed for herself, and a change of wallpaper.

Laura eased Robbie into the lower bunk and pulled the quilt up around him. She bent down and kissed him on the forehead.

"Sleep well, Robbie," she whispered.

As she straightened up, the phone rang. There was an extension in the master bedroom, but Laura headed downstairs, knowing that Mark would pick it up. As she walked into the sitting room, he had the receiver to his ear.

"Is it Den?" she mouthed.

Mark shook his head.

"You'd better speak to Laura," he said into the receiver, then held it out to her.

"It's Vicky, he said.

Laura took the phone.

"You've got a damn cheek, calling here," she said coldly.

"Is Robbie there, Laura? I've been trying his mobile but it's switched off."

"He's asleep."

"For Christ's sake, Laura, I just want to talk to him."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"I'm his mother, for God's sake!"

"He's had a bad day. He needs to sleep. He's in a state, Victoria. I don't think you talking to him is going to help. Where are you anyway?"

There was a brief pause.

"I can't tell you. I'm sorry."

"You're in London, right? I went around to the house but you weren't there."

"What were you doing at my house?" Vicky asked quickly.

"First of all it's Den's house. Second of all, it's none of your business. Whatever rights you had you forfeited when you screwed Sharkey in Den's bed."

"Will you stop saying that!" shouted Vicky.

"You make it sound so bloody sordid."

"Victoria, it was sordid. Sordid and stupid."

"You've spoken to Den, haven't you?"

"What if I have?"

"What did he say?"

"What do you think he said?" asked Laura.

"He's coming back, isn't he?"

"No, Victoria, he's going to stay out in Anguilla for a few months. Of course he's coming back. Like a bat out of hell."

"What am I going to do? This is a nightmare."

"Why did you empty the safe?" asked Laura.

"I didn't steal anything. The money was for me, for running the house."

"And Robbie's passport? Why did you take that?"

"What the hell's going on, Laura?" shouted Vicky.

"Why were you in my house?"

"Den wanted Robbie's passport. And the money. He knows you cleared the safe, and he told me to change the locks. He doesn't want you back in the house, Victoria."

"He's planning to take Robbie back with him to Anguilla, isn't he?"

"I'm going to hang up now," said Laura. Mark stood in front of her, trying to listen in, but Laura twisted away from him. She hated her sister-in-law for what she'd done, but she didn't want Mark to hear how upset she was.

"Please, Laura, let me speak to him. I just want him to know that I love him."

"No. Not tonight. Call again tomorrow."

"Laura .. ." sobbed Vicky.

Laura replaced the receiver. Her hand was shaking and her knuckles had gone white. She hadn't realised how tightly she'd been gripping the phone. Mark put a comforting arm around her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, love," he said.

She rubbed her head against his.

"If I ever catch you in bed with your accountant, I'll disembowel you with my bare hands," she whispered.

"And that's a promise."

Donovan chartered a small twin-engined plane to fly him and Doyle back to Anguilla. Donovan went into the charter firm's offices and made arrangements for another flight later that day. He booked a private jet and left a deposit in cash and then walked over to the terminal building where he made three calls from a payphone while Doyle went to pick up the car.

The first call was to a German who had access to passports and travel documents from around the world. Not forgeries or copies, but the genuine article. He wasn't cheap but the goods he supplied were faultless. The German gave Donovan a name and Donovan repeated it to himself several times to make sure he'd memorised it. The second call was to the agent who made most of Donovan's travel arrangements. He was far from the cheapest on Anguilla, but he was the most secure. Donovan explained what he wanted and gave him the name that he'd memorised. The third call was to Spain, but it wasn't answered. An answer machine kicked in and Donovan said just ten words in Spanish and hung up.

Doyle arrived in the Mercedes, and Donovan climbed in the back and sat in silence during the drive to his villa. It wasn't just that he had a lot on his mind. The DEA and British Customs, and whatever other agencies were operating in the millionaires' paradise, weren't above planting any manner of surveillance device in the vehicle while it had been parked at the airport. Until it had been swept, the Mercedes was as insecure as a mobile phone conversation.

Doyle stayed in the car while Donovan went into the villa and packed a Samsonite suitcase and a black leather holdall. He wasn't over-concerned with what went into the luggage: it was merely part of the camouflage. A man in his thirties flying alone into the UK from the Caribbean without any luggage would be guaranteed a pull by Customs. From the wall safe in the study of the villa, Donovan took a bundle of US dollar bills and stuffed them into the holdall. On the way out he picked up a Panama hat and shoved it into the holdall.

He threw the bags into the back of the car, then got into the front with Doyle.

"I'd better see the Russians first," he said.

"Then we'll go and see the German."

Doyle drove to a five-star hotel about a mile from Donovan's villa. They found the Russians sitting by the pool. Gregov was the bigger of the two, broad shouldered and well muscled with a tattoo of a leaping panther on one forearm and the Virgin Mary on the other. His grey hair was close cropped, thick and dry, and his weathered face was flecked with broken blood vessels. He looked in his early fifties, but Donovan knew that he was only thirty-five.

Gregov stood up and pumped Donovan's hand.

"Champagne, huh?" he asked, gesturing at a bottle of Dom Perignon in a chrome ice bucket beaded with droplets of water. The two Russians had been on the island for five days and Donovan had never seen them without an opened bottle of champagne within arm's length.

"No can do," said Donovan.

"I've got to get back to the UK."

"Who are we going to party with?" said Gregov's partner, Peter, who stayed sprawled on his lounger. Peter was the younger of the two men, a six-footer with a wiry frame. Like Gregov, his hair was cut close to his skull, but his was a fiery red and there was a sprinkle of freckles across his snub nose. His face was red-from sunburn and his legs and arms tanned, but his chest remained a pasty white. Below his left nipple two bullet wounds were visible, star-shaped rips in his chest that had healed badly leaving uneven ridges of scar tissue.

"From what I've seen, you don't need me to help you two party," laughed Donovan.

"You really have to go?" asked Gregov.

"I'm afraid so."

"But we can do business, yes?" asked Peter, swinging his legs off the lounger and putting his bare feet on to the tiles.

"Definitely," said Donovan.

"Because we can go elsewhere," said Peter.

"Not that we want to," said Gregov, flashing his partner a warning look.

"Den, we want to do business with you."

"And I with you, Gregov. I've got a personal matter to take care of back in London, but then I'll get back to you and we'll do a deal."

"This personal matter. Can we help? We have connections in London."

Donovan shook his head.

"Nah, that's okay. I'm on top of it." He clapped Gregov on the back.

"Look, your bill's taken care of. Anything you want, it's on me. I've got your UK office number and the number of your office in Belgrade. They'll be able to get in touch with you?"

Gregov nodded.

"We are backwards and forwards between the UK and Turkey three times a week but we check in every day. The earthquake relief charities are paying us thirty thousand dollars a flight to take in their people and equipment. Good money, huh? Famine and earthquakes are good money makers for us, Den. Not quite as profitable as your business, but a good living, yes."

"You've done well, you and Peter. The Russian Army's loss, yeah?"

Gregov nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes, their loss, our gain. Fuck Communism, yes?"

"Definitely," said Donovan. He made a clenched fist and pumped it in the air.

"Capitalism rules."

The two Russians laughed then took it in turns to hug Donovan and Doyle.

After they'd said their goodbyes to the Russians, Doyle drove Donovan to the far east of the island, where the German lived in a villa three times the size of Donovan's. It was surrounded by a twelve-foot-high wall topped with razor-sharp anti-personnel wire first developed for the Russian gulags. The two men were checked out by closed-circuit television cameras and then the twin metal gates clunked open. Doyle edged the Mercedes slowly up the curving gravel led driveway. They passed two more cameras before pulling up in front of the German's palatial villa. Doyle waited in the car while Donovan got out and went to find the German.

Helmut Zimmerman greeted Donovan at the front door, grasping him in a brutal bear hug and then slapping him on the back.

"Next time I could do with more notice, Dennis," he said. He was a big man, almost six inches taller than Donovan's six feet, with broad shoulders that strained at his beach shirt and muscular thighs that were almost as wide as Donovan's waist. Everything was in proportion except for Zimmerman's hands, which were as small and delicate as a young girl's, almost as if they'd stopped developing at puberty.

"This isn't by choice, Helmut."

"You have time for a drink?"

"I haven't even had time to take a piss," laughed Donovan.

"I've got to be back at the airport by six."

Zimmerman took Donovan along a marble-floored hallway, either side of which stood alabaster statues of Greek warriors. Above their heads electric candles flickered in a line of ornate crystal chandeliers.

At the far end of the hallway hung a massive gilded mirror, twice the height of a man. Donovan grinned at their reflection.

"Helmut, you live like a Roman fucking emperor," he said.

"You like it, huh? I'll send my interior designer around to see you. Your place is so ... stark. Is that the word? Stark?"

"Yeah, stark's how I like it."

To the left of the mirror was a white door with a gilt handle. Zimmerman opened it with a child-like hand and led them down another corridor to a windowless room with white walls, a huge Louis XIV desk and decorative chairs. A tapestry of a goat herder playing pipes to his flock hung on one of the walls, and a collection of antique urns was displayed on glass shelves on another. Behind the desk a bank of colour monitors was linked to CCTV cameras inside and outside the villa. On one of the monitors Donovan could see Doyle sitting in the Mercedes, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

"He is not going with you?" asked Zimmerman, sitting down at the desk. It was at least ten feet wide but the German's bulk dwarfed it.

"Not this trip," said Donovan.

Zimmerman pulled open one of the desk drawers and took out three passports. All were European Union burgundy. He handed them to Donovan one at a time.

"One United Kingdom, one Irish and one Spanish. As requested."

Donovan checked all three carefully, even though he knew Zimmerman never made a mistake. Donovan's picture was in all three passports, though each had a different name and date of birth. The passports were genuine and would pass any border checks. Zimmerman had a network of aides across Europe who made a living approaching homeless people and paying for them to apply for passports they'd never use. The passports were then sent to Anguilla, where Zimmerman replaced the photographs with pictures of his paying customers.

"Excellent, Helmut, as always." Donovan took an envelope from his jacket pocket and slid it across the desk. Thirty-six thousand dollars.

Zimmerman put the envelope, unopened, into the drawer and shut it. Donovan smiled at the open demonstration of trust, well aware, however, that if he ever tried to cheat the German, it would take just one phone call to Europol to render the passports useless.

"So," said Zimmerman, placing his hands flat on the desk and pushing himself up, 'until next time, Dennis."

Donovan put the passports into his jacket pocket, and the two men shook hands before Zimmerman showed Donovan out of the villa.

Doyle already had the door of the Mercedes open. They drove in silence to the airport. Doyle parked in the short-term car park and they walked together to the terminal.

"I should come with you, boss."

"Double the chance of us being flagged, Barry. Better you take care of business here."

They walked into the terminal building, the air conditioning hitting them like a cold shower. A brown envelope was waiting for Donovan at the information desk. Inside was the return segment of a charter flight ticket from Jamaica to Stansted Airport in the name he'd given the travel agent, the name that was in the UK passport, and a Ryanair ticket from Stansted to Dublin, Ireland. It too was in the UK passport name.

As they walked back to the general aviation terminal, Donovan ran through a mental checklist of everything that needed to be done. He didn't appear to have forgotten anything, but he knew that the devil was always in the details.

"Okay, boss?" asked Doyle.

"Sure," said Donovan.

"You know how I hate small planes." It wasn't flying that was worrying Donovan, it was what Carlos Rodriguez would do when he discovered that his money hadn't been paid into his account. Doyle would bear the brunt of Rodriguez's fury, but if Donovan told Doyle to make himself scarce it would be a sure sign of guilt. Doyle would have to stay and face the music.

The pilot and co-pilot were already warming up the engines by the time they reached the sleek white Cessna Citation. Doyle took Donovan's luggage from the boot of the Mercedes and the owner of the charter company came out to help load it into the plane. Donovan shook hands with Doyle, then hugged the man and patted him on the back.

"You take care, you hear," said Donovan.

"Sure, boss," said Doyle, momentarily confused by the sudden show of affection.

Donovan shook hands with the owner of the charter company, and then climbed into the back of the plane. The co-pilot closed the door and two minutes later they were in the air, climbing steeply over the beach and banking to the west. Donovan peered out of the window. Far below he could see the Mercedes heading back to the villa. Donovan flashed the car a thumbs-up.

"Be lucky, Barry," he whispered. He settled back in the plush leather seat. It was a two-hour flight to Jamaica.

Marty Clare strained to lift the bar, breathing through gritted teeth, sweat beading on his brow. A large Nigerian stood behind him, spotting for him, his hands only inches from the bar: this was Clare's third set, and he was lifting his personal best plus a kilo.

"Come on, man, one more," the Nigerian urged.

Clare roared like an animal in pain, his face contorted into a snarl, his arms shaking, his knuckles white on the bar, then with a final explosion of air from his chest the bar was up and on its rests.

The Nigerian patted Clare on the back as he sat up.

"Good job."

Clare grinned and took a swig from his water bottle.

A young, blond guard walked over to them. He was barely out of his teens, his pale blue uniform several sizes too big for him.

"Mr. Clare? Visitor for you."

Clare nodded, amused as always at the politeness of the Dutch guards.