The Long shot

The Colonel put his pen down on the desk. “Where?” he asked.

“A house near Chesapeake Bay, not far from Baltimore,” said the voice. “Cramer followed a man there and was apprehended outside the house. We believe the man he was following was Matthew Bailey.”

The Colonel smiled. “Excellent,” he said.

“There was also a woman with Bailey. We don’t have a positive identification yet, but it could be Hennessy.”

“Even better,” said the Colonel. The operation was proving to be every bit as successful as he’d hoped. “How many men do you have on the ground there?”

“Two at the moment, but more on the way. I don’t want to move before we have sufficient manpower on site.”

“That is understood,” answered the Colonel.

“You realise there could well be some delay, and that Cramer has been compromised? I wouldn’t want any misunderstanding on this point.”

“That is also understood,” said the Colonel. That had been the position from the start. Mike Cramer was on his own. And he was expendable.

Joker coughed and spluttered awake, as water dripped down his face and splattered onto the concrete floor of the basement. He shook his head but immediately regretted it as the pain was acute, as if his brain was being squeezed by giant pincers. His eyelids were heavy and it required an effort of will to force them open. Mary Hennessy was standing in front of him, a red plastic tumbler in her hand. Satisfied that he had regained consciousness, she dropped the tumbler into a bucket of water which stood on the floor next to the workshop table. “Don’t fall asleep on me, Cramer,” she said. “I’d hate you to miss any of this.”

The bright fluorescent lights burned into Joker’s eyes and he screwed up his face as he tried to focus. His hands felt as if they’d swollen up like blood-filled balloons and that the slightest tear would cause them to burst. He tried moving his fingers. He could flex them, but the movement brought with it an agonising pain. He licked his cracked lips, trying to get some of the moisture from his face.

“Can’t talk, huh?” said Hennessy. “Perhaps you’d like a drink?” She bent down and refilled the tumbler. She held it to his lips but as his mouth opened gratefully she took it away. “Maybe later,” she said softly. “When you’ve told me what I want to know.” She let the tumbler fall back into the water.

He and Hennessy were alone in the basement. He didn’t remember the men going back up the stairs and closing the door, and he didn’t remember passing out. He was sure that the bucket of water wasn’t there the last time he was conscious. He looked down at it longingly. The surface rippled and Joker licked his lips again. This time, he tasted blood.

“Normally I give a little speech at this point,” said Hennessy, standing in front of him with her hands on her hips. She took an elastic band and used it to tie back her hair in a ponytail. “I explain that you’ll tell me everything eventually and that you might as well save yourself the pain. I usually lie, too. I explain that once you’ve told me everything, I’ll let you go.” She smiled. A few strands of hair were loose across her forehead and she brushed them away. “But you’ve been through this before, so we don’t have to bother with the preliminaries.” Slowly, her eyes never leaving his, she started to roll up the sleeves of her white linen shirt. It was hot in the basement and she was sweating, the moisture glistening on her tanned skin as she moved. “Do you have anything to tell me, Sergeant Cramer?”

Joker shook his head, the movement making him wince. The tendons in his legs felt as if they were on fire and his toes ached from the effort of maintaining his balance. His shirt was ripped open at the front and she’d unzipped his jeans so that his stomach was hanging out, the white scar lying against the flesh like a snake burrowing down into his groin. “Not Sergeant Cramer,” he said, the words coming out slowly. “Not any more.”

“That’s right,” she said, smiling brightly. “You left the SAS, didn’t you?”

She finished rolling up her shirt-sleeves and wiped her hands on her cotton shorts. She breathed deeply, her chest rising and falling, droplets of sweat dripping down her cleavage. She undid the top button of her shirt and waved the material to and fro, trying to create a breeze that would cool her skin.

“So what was the problem, Mr Cramer?” She put the emphasis on the civilian title. “Couldn’t hack it any more?” She picked up a large pair of scissors and tested the point with her fingertips. Satisfied with their sharpness, she stood by Joker’s side, so close that he could smell her sweat. She grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and pushed the blades of the scissors up his arm, catching the material. “Was that it? Couldn’t take the pressure?” She began to cut the shirt, along the top of the sleeve to the neck, taking care not to catch his flesh. The scissors made small tearing sounds like an animal feeding.

The tips of the scissors grazed Joker’s neck and he tried to twist his head away. The movement caused him to lose his balance and his full weight pulled down on the chains which bit into his swollen wrists. Hennessy waited until he’d hauled himself back on to the balls of his feet before continuing to cut away the shirt, this time from the sleeve down to the shirt tail. She reached the bottom of the shirt and it fell loose around Joker’s waist. She walked behind him, stroking his back with the handle of the scissors. Joker’s skin crawled. He wondered if he could kick her hard enough to do damage, but he dismissed the thought. Even if he killed her, the men were still upstairs and he could see no way of freeing himself from the chain around his wrists. “You’re not so fit any more, are you, Mr Cramer?” She cut the opposite side of his shirt away and threw the scraps of material onto the floor. She walked slowly back to the workbench and put down the scissors before turning back and scrutinising the man hanging before her. “I remember last time what a hard body you had, Mr Cramer. Flat stomach, strong thighs, muscular arms. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on you then. Have you taken a look at yourself recently?” She slowly walked up to stand in front of him and placed a soft hand on his stomach.

“Do you have a girlfriend? What does she think about the mark I left on you?” She drew one red-painted nail along the thick scar. “Or are you too embarrassed to show it to anyone?”

She forced down the zipper of his jeans and pulled them down around his knees. She left them there, killing any idea he had of trying to kick her. In one swift movement she yanked down his boxer shorts, leaving him totally exposed. Joker felt his manhood shrink and his scrotum contract, sensing danger and trying to beat a retreat. Hennessy smiled at his reaction. “Can’t talk? Is that it?” She bent down and refilled the tumbler. “Perhaps a drink might help.” She threw the water into his face, hard. This time Joker managed to open his mouth and drink some of the water. He swallowed gratefully.

“So, why were you following Bailey?” she asked.

Joker dragged up what saliva he could and spat at her. He missed, and Hennessy smiled and shook her head sorrowfully. She refilled the tumbler with fresh water and put it on the workbench. “I thought you’d say that,” she said as she ripped open the box of salt. She poured a handful into the tumbler and stirred it with the blades of the scissors. “You know the routine, Mr Cramer. Any time you want me to stop, just start talking.” She picked up one of the kitchen knives and held it up to the light as she scrutinised the stainless-steel blade. She seemed unhappy with her selection and chose another. She walked over to Joker and held the tip of the blade under his nose, close to his left nostril. It was a short-handled knife with a sharp point, the type used to cut vegetables. She flicked the nostril with the blade, but not hard enough to draw blood. Joker stared at the knife. Hennessy rested the point against his left nipple and gently circled it with the blade, the way a lover might tease with her finger. She walked around Joker slowly, her eyes on his, drawing the knife along his skin but not cutting the flesh.

“I’m not alone,” said Joker.

Hennessy licked her lips. “If the cavalry was waiting outside, I rather think they’d be in here by now, don’t you? Face it, Mr Cramer. It’s just you and me. Oh, I forgot to tell you — our nearest neighbours are a mile away and we’re in the basement. The previous owner used it as a playroom for his three young children, so it’s well soundproofed. Feel free to scream your heart out.” She paused to allow her words to sink in. When she spoke again her voice sounded almost friendly. “Why were you following Matthew Bailey?” she asked.

“You,” hissed Joker.

“You were after me?” she said, testing the point of the knife with her thumb. “And when you found me? What then?”

Joker remained silent.

“There was a gun in your car,” she said.

“Not mine,” he croaked.

He bit down on his lip in anticipation of the pain to come. He heard her take a breath, then she pushed the point of her knife against his shoulder and twisted it so that it screwed into his flesh like a drill, gouging into the muscle so deeply that he was sure she’d go through to the bone. Joker screamed and twisted away, trying to escape the blade but his momentum swung him back, driving it even deeper. His scream became a roar, the pain so intense that it swamped the agony of his wrists.

Hennessy took the tumbler of salt water and, with a smile that was almost canine, threw it onto the new wound. Joker screamed and passed out.

Cole Howard was reading through the file on Carlos the Jackal when his phone rang. It was Kelly Armstrong.

“Hiya, Kelly, how’s LA?” he asked.

“Actually, Cole, I’m calling from Dulles Airport. The credit card was a dead end, so Jake Sheldon said I should give you a hand in Washington. That seems to be the focus of the investigation, right?” Howard closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He’d hoped that he’d seen the last of Kelly Armstrong for a while. At least until he’d wrapped up the investigation. “Hasn’t he spoken to you yet?” she asked.

“No, he hasn’t,” said Howard, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Well, never mind,” said Kelly. “He filled me in on the investigation so far and agrees that I’d be of more use working with you. Could you arrange clearance for me at the White House? I should be there within the hour.”

“Okay,” said Howard. “You know that we’ve identified the people in the desert?”

“Sheldon’s already briefed me,” she said, with maddening cheerfulness. “Ilich Ramirez Sanchez and the IRA. It’s a strange combination. How’s the computer simulation going?”

“Slowly,” admitted Howard. “And now we know of the IRA involvement, we’re going to have to widen our search. I’ll explain when you get here.”

“I’m on my way,” she said brightly and hung up, leaving Howard with a dead phone pressed against his ear. Helen came up to his desk and handed him a handwritten note. While he was on the line, Jake Sheldon had phoned and he wanted Howard to return his call. Howard went over to the office coffee machine and poured himself a black coffee. What he wanted more than anything was a real drink.

Joker knew it was a dream, he knew that Mick Newmarch was dead and buried in the graveyard in Hereford, but that didn’t stop the horror of what he saw. He was handcuffed to a radiator, his wrists sore from pulling against them, his arms aching from the wrenching. He was throwing himself from side to side, trying to slip out his bleeding wrists, trying to pull the hot pipe away from the wall, trying anything so that he could help Newmarch and stop the gut-wrenching screams. He kept trying to avert his eyes from what was happening in the centre of the room but the cries and the screams kept pulling him back.

His head slowly turned as if it was being forced around against his will. The lights were on in the farmhouse kitchen, the drapes drawn and shutters closed. Mick Newmarch was sprawled naked on a heavy oak table, his wrists shackled to the table legs at one end, his feet bound with hemp ropes at the other. His white skin was flecked with blood. Newmarch’s head was thrashing from side to side and he kept trying to raise his shoulders off the table like a wrestler resisting being held down for the count. Standing over him, wearing a bloodstained apron like some demented butcher, was Mary Hennessy, her blonde hair tied back with a piece of black ribbon. That was wrong, Joker knew, her hair back then wasn’t blonde, she was a brunette.

Hennessy had a pitcher in her hands and she poured water over Newmarch’s face as he struggled. The water slopped off the table, carrying with it the blood from his wounds, and they pooled together on the tiled floor in pink rivers. The procedure had been the same for more than four hours. The verbal threats, the torture, the wounding, and then, once her victim had slid into unconsciousness, the water. “Come on Sass-man, look at your friend,” she said to Joker. “Look at him. You’re next.”

She carried the empty jug back to the sink and refilled it from the cold tap. On the table, Newmarch sobbed like a baby, the cries wracking his whole body like spasms. Joker wanted to help with all his heart, but there was nothing he could do. After the first three hours she hadn’t been interrogating Newmarch: there had been no need for that because he’d told her everything. The two SAS men had been undercover, working as labourers on a farm close to the border during the day and hanging around the local pubs at night, trying to pick up any intelligence which would help the Army in its fight against the IRA. Newmarch had slipped up, his room had been searched and he’d been caught with a Smith amp; Wesson automatic under his mattress. They’d come for them at night, put black hoods over their heads and thrown them in the back of a Land-Rover. When the hoods had been removed they’d found themselves handcuffed in the farmhouse with Mary Hennessy.

She’d started on Newmarch first, for no other reason than that he’d sworn at her when she asked them for their names and rank. She’d told him in minute detail what she planned to do, and her words had chilled Joker. Not what she’d said, but the way she’d said it, as if she was relishing the experience. She’d used the bolt-cutters first, removing Newmarch’s fingers one at a time, waiting between amputations for him to regain consciousness and using a poker heated on the farmhouse range to cauterise the wounds so that he wouldn’t die from loss of blood. Newmarch had told her everything as he begged her to stop. He told her what he and Joker were doing, where they were based, previous operations they’d worked on, and the names of six other SAS men who were working undercover in the border country.

Hennessy took a large, shiny knife and held it up so that Joker could see it. “Watch, Sass-man,” she said. She held his gaze almost hypnotically, and try as he might he couldn’t look away. She reached down to Newmarch’s groin and with her left hand she cupped the man’s scrotum like a greengrocer weighing plums. She edged the blade under the testicles, keeping it horizontal. Newmarch screamed, a blood-chilling yell that echoed around the white-walled kitchen, and then slowly, almost sensually, Hennessy sliced the knife upwards, severing the scrotum. Newmarch passed out, but the silence was worse than the screaming. Joker had never seen so much blood, it poured like a waterfall over the table and splashed onto the tiles. Hennessy walked over to Joker, the ruptured tissue in her hand, and slapped him across his face, left then right. That was wrong, thought Joker, she hadn’t slapped him until later, until he was shackled to the table. He knew that he was dreaming, but the slaps kept coming, burning his cheeks. It was only a nightmare, one he’d had many times before, but the pain in his wrists was excruciating.

Slap, slap, slap. Joker opened his eyes. It was no dream, he was still hanging from the pipe and Mary Hennessy, blonde and three years older than when she’d tortured and killed Mick Newmarch, stood before him. “Wake up, Cramer,” she said. She drew back her hand and slapped him again. He blinked and felt tears sting his eyes. “Are you crying, Sass-man?” she asked.

Joker shook his head. “No,” he said. The inside of his mouth felt red raw as if the lining had been stripped away.

“How did you know Bailey was here?” she asked.

“Followed him,” said Joker. He had to keep her talking, he knew, because when he stopped talking she’d hurt him again. It was almost a game. If he kept silent, she’d hurt him. If he told her everything, she’d kill him. His only chance of survival was to extend the middle period as long as possible.

Hennessy smiled and ran her finger down the scar on his stomach. “From where?” she asked.

Joker coughed and tasted blood. Her nails scratched the thatch of hair around his stomach and slowly travelled down to his groin. “From where?” she repeated.

“The airfield,” he said.

Her hand burrowed between his legs and he felt her nails tighten around his scrotum. The movement would have been almost sexual if Joker hadn’t been so terrified and if Hennessy hadn’t had such a murderous gleam in her eyes. “How did you know he’d be there?” she said. The fingers tightened.

Joker’s mind whirled. He had to work out what she knew and what she didn’t, give her only the information she already had and spin the rest out until he could find some way of escaping. She knew he was in the SAS, she knew his real name, there was a reasonable chance that the men in New York had told her that he’d been asking questions about Bailey in Filbin’s. All of this she probably knew, so what secrets was she after? What did she want to know? The fingers squeezed, suddenly and viciously, and he screamed. His testicles felt like eggs being clamped in a vice and he was sure that one more turn and the shells would crack and splinter. Hennessy’s hands relaxed but the pain didn’t decrease, it seemed to spread up his spine and into his stomach. He drew one of his legs up as far as he could and that seemed to ease it somewhat, but it was still excruciating. Hennessy’s hand slid back to his groin and hovered inches from his aching reproductive organs. “Don’t play dumb with me, Cramer. I haven’t even started with you yet. Remember Newmarch? That’s nothing compared with what I have in store for you if you don’t talk.”

“New York,” said Joker slowly. “I heard Bailey was in New York.”

“Heard?” she repeated. “How did you hear that?”

“Pete Manyon,” replied Joker.

“Ah, yes,” said Hennessy, removing her hand. She picked up something from the workbench and held it in front of his face. It was his wallet. “Damien O’Brien,” she said. “Good Irish name, that, Cramer.” She took out the UK driving licence. “Looks genuine,” she said, and dropped it on the floor. She held out the Visa card. “This is definitely the real thing,” she said, throwing it down. “In fact, all your paperwork seems first class, Cramer. I suppose that makes it an official operation, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. He closed his eyes. Hennessy threw the wallet at his face.

“So how come you look like shit, Cramer? How come the SAS sends a wreck like you after Bailey?”

Joker said nothing, because it wasn’t a question he could answer. Hennessy went back to the workbench and picked up the pruning shears. Joker’s hands clenched as he recalled what she’d done to Newmarch’s fingers. His wrists rubbed against the chain and he felt blood run down his arms.

“It doesn’t make sense, Cramer. There are plenty of Sass-men they could have sent, guys like Pete Manyon. Young, fit, smart. Why would they send you?”

Joker swallowed and felt the metallic taste of blood at the back of his throat. He tried to talk but no words came. He swallowed again. “Water,” he managed to croak.

Hennessy smiled. “You want water?” she said. She picked up the beaker and held it to his lips. He felt the liquid against his cracked and bleeding lips and he swallowed greedily, realising too late that it was salty. He coughed and choked and spat it out, his throat on fire.

Hennessy laughed and dropped the tumbler back into the bucket. “Let me give you the questions first,” she said. “I want to know what you were told Bailey was doing here. And I want to know why they sent you.” She held up the pruning shears. Joker moaned and raised his head, the movement sending stabs of pain through his neck and shoulders, and focused on his wrists. The chains had rubbed deep into the flesh and there was fresh wet blood on the shiny metal.

Hennessy grabbed his hair and wrenched his head back. “So, are you ready to tell me why you were following Bailey?” she hissed.

Joker swallowed. What could he tell her? That he was tracking Bailey to find her. And why was he looking for her? To kill her. Joker didn’t want to think what she’d do to him if he told her that. “Orders,” he said.

Hennessy let go of his hair and tapped the blades of the shears against her cheek. “When did you leave the SAS, Cramer?” she asked.

“Three years ago,” he said.

Hennessy nodded. “Why?”

Joker closed his eyes. “Medical discharge,” he said.

Hennessy waited until he opened his eyes again. “Because of that?” She nodded at the scar on his stomach and groin.

“Yes,” said Joker.

“So now whose orders are you acting on?” she asked.

“They brought me back,” he said, each word grating on his tongue.

“Why you?” she said.

Joker closed his eyes again. It didn’t hurt quite as much in the dark, as if the fluorescent lights were keeping the nerves to his brain on constant overload. In the darkness he could concentrate on the pain in his wrists and chest and try to will it away.

“Don’t pass out on me again,” said Hennessy softly. Joker felt the tip of the shears press against his left breast, circling. He opened his eyes. She held a paper cup of water to his lips. He tested it with the tip of his tongue and to his surprise it wasn’t salty. He drank, deeply, but after the third swallow she took it away. Joker licked his lips, not wanting to waste a drop.

“Why did they bring you back?” she asked.

Joker shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.

Hennessy narrowed her eyes as realisation dawned. “It was me, wasn’t it? You were after me?” She threw the paper cup away, her eyes blazing. She placed her left hand against his breast and stroked the nipple with her thumb. It stiffened involuntarily as she circled it, rubbing it slowly. Joker tried to back away, his feet shuffling along the floor, tangled in his jeans and boxer shorts, but she gripped his nipple between her thumb and first finger, a look of contempt in her eyes. “Don’t,” he said, hating himself for begging and knowing that it wouldn’t do any good. She slipped the blades of the shears either side of the nipple and grunted as she forced the handles together. Joker felt the blades bite through his flesh and click together somewhere deep inside the muscle behind the breast and then the pain lanced through his chest as if he’d been impaled on a metal spike. Joker screamed and he felt himself start to black out. He grabbed for the oblivion, welcoming it because it would put an end to the pain, but it was elusive, and the more he tried to pass out the clearer his thoughts became. Hennessy knew exactly what she was doing and she stood by his side, waiting for his breathing to steady so that she could continue.

Mary walked into the kitchen and closed the door to the basement behind her. Carlos and Bailey were sitting at the table, drinking tea and talking in low voices. They both looked up as she walked over to the fridge and took out a can of Diet Coke.

“Did he say anything?” asked Carlos. His hand was buried in a bag of chocolate chip cookies and he put one in his mouth, whole.

Mary smiled thinly. “He’s talking,” she said, popping the tab on the can. She sipped it. Bailey was looking at her with horror in his eyes and she realised there was blood on the front of her shirt, a thin dribble of red that ran down her left breast. “He’s unconscious now. I’ll leave him for a while. It’s always more effective if they have a chance to think about their options.”

She pulled out a chair and sat down at the pine table. “He says he followed you from the airfield, Matthew. And he says he heard about the airfield in New York.”

Bailey nodded, his hands tight around a white mug. “That’s what Pat Farrell said,” agreed Bailey. “Did he admit to killing the two guys?”

“We haven’t got to that yet,” said Mary.

“Who sent him here?” asked Carlos, tossing another cookie into his mouth. He chewed noisily and with relish.

“He says the SAS, and I believe him,” answered Mary. “His ID looks genuine, which means that it’s Government sanctioned.”

The two men nodded. “Where’s everyone else?” asked Mary.

Carlos gestured upwards. “Stripping their rifles,” he said.

“Do you think we should stay here?” Bailey said.

Mary shrugged. “I don’t see why not. He seems to be acting alone.”

Carlos frowned. “You think the British Government would send one man?”

“It’s possible,” replied Mary. “And this man is unusual. He left the SAS some time ago, and I think a large part of that is because of what I did to him in Ireland three years ago. I killed a friend of his, and I nearly killed him.”

Carlos nodded. “So you think it’s a personal vendetta?”

“I think there’s a strong possibility,” she answered.

“I think we should m-m-move,” stammered Bailey. “Now.”

“I think you’re over-reacting,” said Mary. “Let me have another few hours with him. I should know everything when I’ve finished.”

“But if he’s not alone, we c-c-could have the SAS swarming all over the house by then,” said Bailey. His stutter had returned, Mary noticed.

“Matthew, if the SAS were here, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” she said. He nodded, but Mary could see that he wasn’t convinced. “Look, first things first. He saw you out at the airfield, so I think we should move the plane. Could you fly it over to Bay Bridge airfield?”

“Now? Sure, no p-p-problem,” replied Bailey. He was clearly still worried.

“It’s going to be all right,” Mary said reassuringly. “It’ll all be over soon. We’ll be in Florida and then Cuba and we’ll have done something they’ll talk about in Ireland for ever more. We’ll be heroes, you and I.”

Bailey sighed and ran a hand through his red hair. “I’m f-f-frightened that it’s all going to f-f-fall apart,” he admitted.

Mary narrowed her eyes. It wasn’t the operation that was in danger of falling apart, she realised. It was him.

“He’s just one man,” she said. “And soon he won’t even be much of a man.” She reached up behind her hair and set it loose, shaking it from side to side. She’d undone the top three buttons of her shirt because of the stifling heat down in the basement and she could feel Bailey’s eyes on her breasts. “I’m going to take a shower,” she said. “Then I’ll get back to work on Cramer.”

She went out of the kitchen, and was halfway up the stairs when she realised that Carlos had followed her into the hall. He obviously had something on his mind. “What is it?” she asked.

“This Armstrong woman. Are you sure we can trust her?”

Mary sat down on the stairs and looked down at Carlos. “Her father was Irish,” she said.

“But she’s an FBI agent,” said Carlos. “How do we know she’s not setting you up?”

Mary smiled. “In the first place, there’s no need. It’s not as if the FBI need to gather evidence against either of us, is it?” She brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face and eased it behind her ear.

“But why are you so willing to trust her?” pressed Carlos.

“Her father was in the IRA,” she said quietly.

Carlos was stunned. “Oh come on,” he said. “Are you telling me that the FBI recruited a woman whose father was a terrorist? Even the Americans aren’t that stupid.”

“Colm O’Malley was her natural father. Her mother was American and they divorced when Kelly was only a few years old. The woman moved back to the States and remarried. As far as the FBI are concerned, Kelly Armstrong is the original all-American girl.”

“And this O’Malley, this Colm O’Malley, what happened to him?”

Mary studied Carlos thoughtfully. “He was killed,” she said quietly. Carlos said nothing, waiting for her to continue. Mary took a deep breath, as if preparing herself. “Colm was a good friend of my husband’s and a member of the IRA High Command. His brother, Fergus, still lives in Phoenix. He has a business there and he’s a fund-raiser for NORAID. The O’Malleys were good people, and committed to the Cause.” She fell silent as her mind was flooded with images from the past. “Colm was a victim of the British Government’s shoot-to-kill policy,” she continued. “The police blamed Protestant extremists, but it was an SAS operation.”

“The same operation that ended in the death of your husband?”

Mary nodded. Her eyes were damp. “And others,” she said.

“How much does she know about what we plan to do?”

“Most of it. She’s going to talk to her office in Phoenix and then get herself transferred to the main investigation in Washington.”

“And you’re sure she doesn’t know of my involvement?”

“I didn’t tell her, and she didn’t mention it.”

“But you said the FBI know that Lovell and Schoelen are involved?”

Mary nodded. “They’ve identified them from computer-enhanced photographs.”

“Then it’s only a matter of time before they identify me.”

“That’s probably true, Ilich,” Mary admitted.

“Does the FBI know that you’re involved?”

“According to Kelly, the last time she spoke to her boss they’d identified only the Americans. That could have changed by now, of course. If the photographs are as good as she says and if they run them through Interpol. .” She left the sentence unfinished.

“And despite that, despite the fact they’re on to us, and despite the nature of the target, she still wants to help?”

“She hates the British, Carlos. Hates them with a vengeance.” Her eyes blazed. “She hates them as much as I do.” She turned her back on him and went upstairs. The door to Schoelen’s room was closed. She knocked and pushed it open. The sniper was sitting on the edge of his bed, polishing the barrel of his rifle.

“Hiya, Mary. What’s up?” he said.

Mary closed the door behind her and leant against it. Schoelen saw from the look on her face that something was wrong. He put down the weapon, frowning. “You phoned home,” she said flatly. “You put the whole operation at risk because of a bloody dog.”

Schoelen was stunned. “How. .”

“It doesn’t matter how I know, I just know,” she said quietly. “You’re a lucky man, Schoelen. If we had more time I’d kill you now, myself. But we don’t, so I need you. But you put one foot wrong again and it’s all over. I’ll put a bullet in your skull myself. Do I make myself clear?”

Schoelen closed his mouth and nodded slowly. His eyes were on the trickle of blood on her shirt.

Mary smiled. “Good.”

“Does Carlos. .”

“No,” interrupted Mary. “He doesn’t. And if I were you I’d pray that he doesn’t find out.”

She left the room, leaving Schoelen holding his head in his hands.

Ed Mulholland’s television producer friend had agreed to run the story on Mary Hennessy and Matthew Bailey at the end of the regular programme. He had also agreed to issue a separate 1-800 number so that calls would be routed directly to the FBI’s temporary office in the White House. Mulholland called a meeting of the FBI agents after lunch, and they sat and listened as the anti-terrorist chief briefed them on how they were to handle the calls. He leant against his desk, his legs crossed at the ankles and his large forearms folded as if he was hugging his barrel chest. Helen sat to one side, taking notes and occasionally looking at him like an adoring wife.

“The programme starts at eight o’clock, and our segment will be broadcast at eight-fifty,” he said. “Their photographs will be on screen, and the announcer will say that we’re looking for them in connection with a drug-smuggling ring in Florida. The reason we’re saying Florida is because we have no evidence that they’ve actually been there, which means any calls from that part of the country can be ignored, at least at this stage. Millions of people will be watching, and most of them are really keen to get involved, some of them too keen. We’ll get malicious hoax calls, we’ll get well-meaning citizens who have just made a mistake, and we’ll have the crazies who’ll say they’ve seen Elvis if they think it’ll get them on prime-time television. For every genuine sighting we’ll have a hundred red herrings.”

Cole Howard looked around the room, which was crammed with desks and filing cabinets. Two dozen FBI agents had been assigned from the main Washington office to work with the New York team, and the air-conditioning was finding it difficult to cope. Helen had arranged for several free-standing fans to be brought in and most of the agents tried to stand where they could feel some sort of breeze. Don Clutesi was standing next to Howard, sweat trickling down his face. He grinned at Howard and made a wafting motion with his hand. “Hot,” he mouthed, and Howard nodded in sympathy. The one person missing was Kelly Armstrong. Howard had suggested that she compile a list of alternative targets; the IRA involvement opened up the possibility of British targets and Howard had shown her the list of visiting VIPs which he’d obtained from the State Department, including British Members of Parliament and chief executives of leading UK companies. Two names which had immediately set alarm bells ringing were the British Prime Minister, who was visiting the East Coast, and the Prince of Wales, who was due in New York in the summer. Howard had asked Kelly to speak to the Secret Service and the State Department to come up with a more comprehensive list of potential targets and venues which could then be cross-checked with Andy Kim’s computer simulation. Kelly had been surprisingly enthusiastic about the task and had been out of the office all afternoon. Howard was pleased at her absence. He had high hopes for the television broadcast, and wanted Kelly as far away as possible. He hadn’t even told her what Mulholland had planned, and took a sly pleasure in having manoeuvred her away from the action.

“Calls will initially be routed through Helen,” Mulholland continued. Helen beamed and raised her pencil in acknowledgment. “Calls from the Baltimore-Washington area will be put through to either me, Cole, Don or Hank. If we’re lucky enough to get a flood of calls, we’ll switch some of you guys over. We’ll have a separate desk to handle calls from the Arizona area, because we know that they were there originally. But all other calls will be put through to you on a rotating basis, depending who’s free. Helen will be issuing you with questionnaires to fill in for each call.” He held one up to show them. “Basically, all we want is the name and number of the caller, who they saw and where, and any information they have which might be pertinent: description of their vehicle, names they were using, and so on.” He held up another sheet. “You’ll have this information in front of you, detailing the aliases we know they have used, car registration plates and details of credit cards. If you get a match, inform us on the Baltimore-Washington desk, otherwise file them according to the state they were seen in. Helen has a filing system rigged up over there.” He pointed to a set of filing cabinets. “Any questions?” He was faced with a wall of shaking heads. He clapped his hands. “Okay, let’s do it,” he said. The agents went back to their desks. Cole Howard decided to visit Andy Kim and the programmers. He found Andy crouched over his computer, a worried frown on his face. “What’s up, Andy?” Howard asked, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. On the screen was a complex line-drawing of what appeared to be a baseball stadium surrounded by urban sprawl.

Andy shook his head, then flicked his hair out of his eyes. “Nothing fits, Cole,” he said despondently. “Take a look at this.” Howard looked over his shoulder. “This is Oriole Park in Baltimore — the President’s due to be there tomorrow evening with the Prime Minister. This is one of the most obvious possibilities. He was going to be driven to the ball park but Sanger has cut out ground transportation wherever he can and now he’ll be arriving by Marine One, the helicopter. He’s vulnerable leaving the helicopter, but only for a few seconds, and he’s safe walking to his box because then he’s inside. Obviously he presents the best target while in the box watching the game. But I can only fit two of the snipers into office blocks or hotels which overlook the ball park. There’s nowhere for the third sniper, the one who is furthest away.”

“So you know it’s not going to be at the ball park?” said Howard.

“But Cole, it’s like that for every venue we try. We can find space for one sniper, occasionally two, but often it’s the third one that screws us up.” He tapped the screen. “It’s so high up, there aren’t many buildings that tall. In the desert, he was on the butte, remember?”

“I remember,” said Howard. “So he could be on a hill maybe?”

Andy nodded. “I ran the topography through the computer as well as the buildings. If he was on a hill we’d spot it. Camp David, for instance, where he is today with the Prime Minister. We ran the surrounding woods through the program, but no match.” He turned to look at the FBI agent, his eyes reddened from not enough sleep. “That third sniper is a real problem,” he said.

“Could it be something other than a building?” Howard asked. “A plane, maybe?”

Andy shook his head. “Planes move too fast for a sniper, and they’re too unstable.”

Howard frowned. “A helicopter?”

“Too much vibration.”

Howard shrugged. “Let me give it some thought, Andy,” he said. “In the meantime, why don’t you try ignoring the long shot? — concentrate on the two closest. That would give the Secret Service boys something to work on. I mean, better safe than sorry. They can check out all the venues where two out of three match, couldn’t they?”

Andy nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

“There’s something else that’s been worrying me,” said Howard. “The two men and the woman, the ones on the ground close to the target.”

Andy frowned. “What’s wrong?” He ran his hand through his hair, brushing it away from his eyes.

“We’ve been assuming that they’re organising the hit, right?”

“Right,” agreed Andy.

“Well, what if they’re not? What if they’re actually part of the hit? What if they’re carrying guns?”

“And if the snipers fail, they’ll finish the job?” said Andy, his eyes sparkling.

Howard nodded. They had all been assuming that Carlos, Hennessy and Bailey were helping the snipers calibrate their sights. But it was perfectly possible that they could actually be part of the assassination. “I’m going to speak to Bob Sanger about it,” he said.

“So even if we find the snipers, the President might still be at risk?”

“That’s what I’m frightened of,” said Howard. He saw that Andy had a direct line on his desk and he noted down the number. He looked around the office and saw a dozen programmers, including Rick Palmer, hard at work, but no sign of Bonnie.

“Bonnie’s at home, I told her to get some sleep,” said Andy, as if reading his mind.

Howard squeezed his shoulder. “That’s where you should be,” he said.

“There’ll be plenty of time for sleep when all this is over,” said Andy, turning back to the screen.

Howard patted Andy on the back and returned to his office. His desk faced the one being used by Don Clutesi, who was lounging back in his chair, his phone lodged between his chin and his shoulder. He winked at Howard as he sat down. Howard picked up his own phone and called home. He’d been ringing all day but no-one had answered and he’d assumed that Lisa had been out playing golf. This time she answered and she appeared no less lukewarm than the last time they’d spoken.

“Do you have any idea yet when you’ll be coming back?” she asked.

“Hopefully we’ll make some progress tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow, I should have a better idea then. How are the children?”

“Asleep,” she said. Howard wondered if she’d played golf with her father that day. The seconds ticked off with neither of them speaking. Lisa broke the silence. “Cole, why do you have Trivial Pursuit cards in your suit pockets?” she asked.

“Excuse me?” said Howard, bewildered by the change of subject.

“I was taking out some of your suits for cleaning and I found them in an inside pocket.”

“Ah,” said Howard.

“So what gives?”

“I was practising,” he said.

“You mean you were cheating,” she said.

Howard groaned inwardly. “Honey, I wasn’t cheating. I was just going over a few cards before we had dinner with your father, that’s all.”

“Cole, to me that sounds like cheating. I think it’s despicable. Are you so insecure that you have to resort to cheating to beat my father at a board game?”

Howard sighed. Sometimes there was no arguing with her. “Maybe we could talk about this when I get back,” he said.

He could picture her shaking her head, a look of contempt on her face. “The subject is closed,” she said. “But I just want you to know I think you’ve behaved really badly. Beating my father shouldn’t mean that much to you.”

“Can I say goodnight to the kids?” Howard asked.

“I already told you, they’re asleep,” she replied. Howard had the impression that she wasn’t telling the truth and that she was depriving him of the children as a punishment.

“Well, tell them I called, will you? Please.”

“Sure,” she said curtly and Howard knew that the message wouldn’t be passed on. “Goodbye.”

Howard was left with the buzzing of a disconnected line in his ear. As he replaced the receiver, Don Clutesi did the same. “Any luck?” Clutesi asked.

Howard smiled thinly. “Very little,” he said. “You?”

“According to Frank, the credit card Hennessy was using was applied for in New York two years ago. The driving licence is a valid New York State one and was taken out eighteen months ago.”

“That suggests that this has been a long time in the planning,” said Howard.

Clutesi shook his head. “Not necessarily. The Irish are always setting up fake identities and paperwork so that they have a steady supply. They probably wouldn’t know that Hennessy was going to use it.”

“What about the photograph on the driving licence?”

“Probably just a close match. Blonde woman in her late forties; who’s going to look any closer than that? No-one looks at the photograph anyway. Passports are a different matter, but the IRA have plenty of contacts within INS; they can get a genuine one within a few days.”

“What about getting records of her credit card?” Howard asked. “That way we can find out where she’s been.”

Clutesi mopped his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Already in hand,” he said. He looked at his wristwatch and nodded over at a large-screen television which Helen had positioned at the far end of the office. “Not long before the show starts,” he said.

Mary Hennessy wiped her hands with a white towel, leaving crimson streaks on the material. She threw it onto the workbench and studied the man hanging from the overhead pipe. Two rivers of dried blood ran down his chest like stigmata — one from the hole where his right nipple used to be, the other from a strip of flesh some six inches long which hung down over his stomach like some demonic tongue, red and glistening under the fluorescent lights.

Joker was unconscious, breathing heavily through his nose like a sleeping dog. Thick, clotting saliva bubbled from his lips and greenish yellow slime oozed from his nostrils. He was a disgusting mess, but most of the damage was superficial, Hennessy knew. Painful, excruciatingly so, but a long way from death. Over the coming hours she would take the SAS man closer and closer to extinction, narrowing the gap with exquisite skill and enjoying every moment of the journey. It wasn’t pain that people died from when under torture, or shock, it was loss of blood. The human body contained about five litres, and Hennessy knew from experience that a man could lose almost half of that before the body failed. The skill was to prolong the torture, allowing the body to manufacture more blood to replace that which was lost, and to give wounds a chance to stop bleeding. By stopping and starting, the procedure could be prolonged almost indefinitely. It was almost like sex, she thought, gradually taking a man to orgasm, holding him to almost the point of coming, and then stopping, letting him subside until he was ready to start again. As she could build the pleasure until it was almost unbearable, so it was with pain. When he’d suffered enough she’d push him over the edge, into the eternal abyss, and she’d be standing in front of him, watching him as he took the final plunge.

He’d pretty much told her everything she needed to know. He was working alone, recruited by his former masters because they knew he had a personal grudge against her, and because he was in such a bad state health-wise no-one would ever believe that the SAS would use him. He had the perfect cover.

He’d seen the plane but had no idea what part it, or Patrick Farrell, played in their plan. He hadn’t known about Carlos or the snipers, and he knew nothing of what had happened in Arizona. She’d taken him to such levels of pain that she was certain he wasn’t lying or holding anything back. In agony there was only truth.

She picked up the pruning shears, the blades crusted with dried blood. Joker’s chin was jammed against his chest, which rose and fell in time with his breathing. Hennessy went behind him and looked up at his bound wrists. The hands were clenched into tight fists, the wrists red raw and the fingers white as if drained of blood. He was a tall man, a little over six feet, and with his arms stretched up above his head his fingers were out of reach. She tapped the shears against her hand, her lower lip jutting forward as she frowned like a little girl. After a few seconds she knelt down in front of her victim like a nun praying for penance before a life-size crucifix. She looked up at him but he was still unconscious, his deep-set eyes like black circles in his ashen face. Slowly, almost sensually, she undid the laces of his training shoes and slipped them, and his socks, off his feet. Joker groaned and coughed, and Hennessy sat back on her heels, watching him. The coughing spasm opened up the wounds on his chest and fresh blood began to flow. Hennessy kept her eyes on his face as she removed his jeans and shorts. She threw them into a dark corner and then squatted down, pushing the blades of the shears around the little toe on his left foot. She pressed the handles together and felt the shears bite into the skin. They met resistance, and she knew she’d reached the bone, but there was no reaction from the man. She released the pressure and took the shears away, watching the blood blossom from the two deep cuts on the toe. She wanted him conscious and able to appreciate the full horror of what she was about to do. She stood in front of him and slapped him, the blows echoing around the basement like pistol shots. His eyelids fluttered open and she saw his eyes focus on her face. She grabbed his hair and yanked back his head. “Wake up, Sass-man,” she hissed. “It’ll soon be over.”

Joker snorted as if he was trying to laugh. Hennessy walked away. She leant against the workbench and studied the injured man. Joker lifted his head and squinted at her. “What do you want from me now?” he asked, his voice faltering.

Hennessy smiled and shook her head. “You’ve told me everything I need, Cramer. You know nothing. Nothing that can prevent me from succeeding, anyway.”

Joker swallowed. “So now you’re going to kill me, right? Why don’t you just get on with it, you bitch?”

Hennessy threw back her head and laughed as if someone had told a joke at a cocktail party. “Oh no, Cramer, we’re not going to rush this. But I wanted to talk to you first. You and Newmarch were both part of the Government’s shoot-to-kill operation, weren’t you?”

Joker licked his lips. “Water,” he said.

Hennessy could see that talking was an effort because his throat was so dry and she wanted him to speak, so she filled the tumbler from the bucket of water. As she walked towards him she saw his left leg tense as if preparing to try to kick her. She stopped and wagged a warning finger at him.

Joker grimaced. Hennessy kept her distance as she walked around behind him and as she held the beaker to his lips she kept a wary eye on his legs. She let him drink all of the water before taking it away. “After the airliner went down, the British Government initiated a shoot-to-kill operation, Cramer, and you were part of it,” she said, putting the tumbler back in the bucket. It gurgled as if filled with water and sank to the bottom. “Newmarch told me how he was involved, but I never got round to asking you,” she said. “Who did you assassinate, Cramer?” Joker said nothing. “Newmarch told me who he’d killed. But you know that, don’t you, because you were there? He murdered three members of the IRA High Command, remember? My husband was murdered in that shoot-to-kill operation, Cramer. Three men wearing ski-masks surrounded his car as it arrived home one night. They shot his driver first, then they pumped a total of twelve bullets into his body. Two of them were into his head at close range. I heard the shots, and I knew before I even opened the front door what had happened. I held him in my arms, even though he was already dead. There was so much blood, Cramer. So much blood.”

Her cheeks were reddening and she put up a hand to her face as if testing the temperature of her face. “It took the ambulance half an hour to get there, as if they knew that he was dead and they didn’t care. The police didn’t want to know, either. The RUC didn’t even send a forensic team around to survey the area. They just towed away the car and took a statement from me. Case closed. Like they didn’t care, either. Like they expected it. So, Cramer, were you one of the men in ski-masks?”

“I didn’t kill your husband,” said Joker, his voice little more than a whisper. “And I didn’t kill Sean Morrison, either.”

At the mention of Morrison’s name, Hennessy’s head jerked up. Her eyes narrowed. “How do you. .?”

“I read your file,” he said before she could finish.

“Do you know how they killed him?” she asked quietly.

Joker shook his head.

“He died here, in the States. In New York. Sean was found in his bath, with his throat cut. There was a razor blade in his hand and blood everywhere. The New York City Police Department said it was suicide.” She raised her eyebrows. “Sean always used an electric razor. I never saw him with a razor blade. Ever. They killed my husband. And they killed the man I loved. You and your cronies did that, Cramer.” She walked up closer to him, but kept her distance from his legs. “You want to know something, Cramer? Liam and Sean had nothing to do with the bombing of the airliner. They were trying to stop the bombings on the mainland, they were doing all they could to get the IRA to negotiate with the British Government. There was no need to kill them, no need at all.” Her eyes were blazing with anger and her small hands formed tight fists by her side. “You bastards killed them, and if it takes me forever I’ll have my revenge. On you and the rest of your kind.” She picked up the pruning shears and waved them under Joker’s nose. “I’ll make you bleed like they bled, until there’s not a drop left in your body.”

She knelt by his feet and grabbed at his left ankle, forcing the blades down towards his toe. As the metal touched his skin the door to the basement was flung open and Bailey came down the first few steps, shouting. “Mary! Mary!”

Hennessy’s head jerked up and the blades of the shears sliced together, narrowly missing Joker’s toe. He pulled his foot back and it slipped from Hennessy’s grasp. She stood up, alarmed. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“The television,” he shouted. “We’re on the bloody box.”

Hennessy frowned, totally confused. “What do you mean?”

Bailey leant against the rail and gripped it with both hands. His face was pale and his eyes were wide and manic. “Just come and look. They’re bloody well on to us.” He scrambled back up the stairs and Hennessy followed him.

Carlos was in the sitting room, sitting the wrong way on a wooden chair, his arms clasped around the back as if he was giving it a bear hug. Rashid was curled up on a green sofa, her legs tucked up under her chin. Both were facing the television screen on which were two colour photographs: Hennessy and Bailey. Underneath their pictures was a 1-800 number.

Carlos looked up as she came into the room. “We have a problem, Mary.”

“What did they say?” she asked. “Do they know what we’re planning?”

Carlos shook his head. “They said the FBI wants you in connection with a drug-smuggling operation in Florida.”

“What?” Hennessy was stunned. She looked at Bailey, who was equally astonished.

“Why didn’t that woman Armstrong tell you about this?” Carlos spat.

Hennessy ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t know. She’s only just made contact with the agents in Washington. Maybe they didn’t tell her.”

“Or maybe they don’t trust her. Maybe she’s blown?”

“I arranged to meet her tomorrow, I’ll be sure to ask her then,” said Hennessy, her voice loaded with sarcasm.

Carlos looked as if he was going to argue, but he calmed himself down. He stood up and swung the chair back so that it was against the wall. “Okay, okay, let’s sort out what we do next,” he said. “The FBI obviously don’t want to give the real reason that they’re looking for you. The drugs story doesn’t mean anything. What matters is that they know that you’re in the country and that they’re looking for you.”

“We have to call it off,” said Bailey, his voice trembling.

“No,” said Carlos.

“Definitely not,” said Hennessy.

“But they’re onto us. . they know we’re here, they. .”

“Matthew, they think we’re in Florida. Not Baltimore.” Hennessy could see that the younger man was starting to fall apart. He was physically shaking and his eyes were darting between her and Carlos.

“Maybe they followed me there, maybe they know where I am now. .”

Hennessy went over and put her hands on his shoulders. “Listen to me, Matthew, if they knew where we were they wouldn’t be putting our photographs on national television. They don’t know where we are, and they don’t know what we’re doing. There’s nothing they can do to stop us, not now.” She held his gaze, smiling reassuringly and squeezing his shoulders.

“B-b-but what about the Sass-man?” he said.

“He knows nothing either,” she said reassuringly. She turned to look over her shoulder at Carlos. “We’re going to have to leave the house,” she said quietly. “The woman who leased it to me might have been watching. And they’re sure to get a line on the credit cards we’ve been using.”

“I agree,” said Carlos. “We can book into a motel for tonight, there shouldn’t be a problem so long as you stay out of sight.”

Hennessy turned back to Bailey. “It’s going to be all right,” she said. She could feel him shaking and she stroked the back of his neck.

“What about Cramer?” asked Carlos.

Hennessy kept her eyes on Bailey. She didn’t want to leave him alone, he seemed ready to run off in a blind panic. She had to calm him down. “Can you handle it, Ilich?” she asked quietly.

Carlos understood immediately. “Of course,” he said.

Rashid unwound herself from the sofa and put a hand on Carlos’ shoulder. “Let me, Ilich,” she said softly. Carlos was about to refuse when he felt her press the full length of her lithe body against his back. “Please,” she whispered into his ear, her breath warm against his neck.

Ed Mulholland stood with his hands on his hips as he watched the short item on the FBI hunt for Hennessy and Bailey. Within seconds of the 1-800 number appearing at the bottom of the screen, all the lights on Helen’s console began to blink. Mulholland’s producer friend had warned him that he would be overwhelmed by the response. The programme had more than two dozen people answering its own phones, and there were just as many police officers on hand to follow up serious leads. The show had an admirable record: during the five years it had been running they had helped capture more than three hundred perpetrators, including sixty-seven murderers. It had also consistently increased its viewing figures and was now one of the network’s top money-spinners. The jaded American viewer, fed up with a diet of unfunny comedy shows and under-budgeted made-for-TV movies, couldn’t get enough of reality television and its real-life heroes and villains.

Helen began to work her way efficiently across the console, passing the calls on to the agents with a minimum of fuss. As soon as she dealt with a call and switched it across to one of the desks, its light would begin to flash immediately as another call came through. She was wearing a pair of lightweight headphones with a microphone suspended an inch from her lips. She smiled across at Mulholland, happy at her work. She was an absolute treasure, Mulholland had realised, and he decided that when the operation was over he’d try to persuade her to leave the White House staff and join the FBI in New York.

He went over to the Baltimore-Washington desk where Hank O’Donnell and Don Clutesi were already taking calls, phones pressed against their ears as they made notes on large pads. Cole Howard looked up. “It’s working, Ed,” he said.

“There was never any doubt, Cole,” answered Mulholland. “We’ll have them, don’t you worry.”

The phone in front of Howard rang and he picked it up.

Joker clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to get the circulation flowing. His arms felt as if they would pop out of their sockets at any moment and he stood up on the tips of his toes in an attempt to ease the pain. The movement reopened the wounds on his chest and back and he felt warm blood ooze from under the fresh scabs. He knew that his time was limited, that Mary Hennessy was preparing to end it. He had watched her toy with Mick Newmarch for several agonising hours before ending his life with a savage castration. Joker was determined that he wouldn’t go the same way. If she came close enough he was prepared to lash out with his feet, and even if he wasn’t lucky enough to land a killing blow he might be able to disable her for a while. He flexed his legs one at a time as he looked around the basement. The pipe he was chained to was as thick as his thigh, and sturdy. There were brackets holding it to the concrete ceiling every six feet or so. Just beyond one of the brackets was a bend in the pipe, and just before the bend was a joint, where a straight section had been connected to a piece which curved through ninety degrees, off to the left. Joker wondered if the joint might be a weak point. If he could get up to the pipe and crawl along it, maybe his weight would be enough to pull the sections apart. He leant his head back and looked up. His hands were about twelve inches away from the pipe and he wouldn’t be able to get enough leverage to jump up. If he could swing himself up, he might be able to grasp the pipe with his feet, but he’d been hanging for so long he doubted that he’d have enough strength in his stomach muscles. He began lifting his legs one at a time, drawing his knees up to his stomach. He could do it, just, but the pain was almost more than he could bear. And he could only imagine what effect it would have on his injured wrists when it came to lifting both legs off the ground.

He had no way of knowing how long Hennessy would be away. Something had clearly spooked Bailey. Perhaps he’d be better trying to break the pipe before she came back. He breathed slowly and deeply, bracing himself for the pain he knew would come. His preparations were interrupted when the door to the basement opened and he heard footsteps on the stairs. He looked up like a schoolboy with a naughty secret, expecting to see Mary Hennessy. He was surprised to see a young woman, skinny with long, dark hair. She stopped halfway down the steps and he heard the click-clack of a round being chambered in a handgun. As she got closer he saw her eyes were narrow, almost Oriental, and her face was thin and pointed. She wasn’t conventionally pretty but she had an animal presence which was both attractive and disturbing. She was wearing tight black leather jeans and a purple T-shirt, cut low at the arms so he could see that she didn’t shave her armpits. In her right hand was a matt black handgun. At first glance it looked like the P228 which he’d taken from the men in New York, but without the silencer. As she got closer he saw that it was a Smith amp; Wesson model 411. It was a lightweight handgun with a four-inch barrel but it was more than capable of blowing a sizeable hole in his body.

“Hello, Mr Cramer,” she said, her voice heavily accented. “We haven’t been introduced. My name’s Dina.” Joker said nothing as she looked him up and down, her gaze concentrating on his groin. She smiled coyly. “You don’t seem very pleased to see me.” She transferred the gun to her left hand, then reached out to touch his stomach with her free hand. She ran her hand down to his groin and stroked his pubic hair, a sly grin on her face. “I bet I could make you glad to see me,” she said. Her fingers tightened around him and she squeezed. Joker brought his knee up, hard, powering it into her groin. All the breath went from her lungs and she pitched forward, her legs buckling. Bolts of pain shot through his wrists and Joker yelped involuntarily. The woman staggered forward, her head banging into his chest, his blood smearing against her face. The gun clattered to the floor at his feet and her hands went to her groin as her breath came back in small, puppy-like, gasps. Joker leant back, taking more of his weight on the chain, and slammed his knee up into her chin, snapping her head back with an audible crack. Her eyes rolled up and she made a wheezing sound, then she slumped to the ground, stunned rather than unconscious. She fell face down and she tried to pull herself away from Joker, her fingernails scrabbling along the concrete floor. Joker looked down. His right ankle was next to her neck and he lifted it and placed his foot against the back of her head, trying to hold her still. She pushed up against him and tried to get to her knees and he thrust down harder. Her breathing was steadier and he knew she was getting her strength back — he wouldn’t be able to hold her down for much longer. He raised his leg and before she could react he drove down with all his might, slamming his heel into her temple so hard that he heard bone and cartilage splinter. He felt something warm and sticky gush over his foot. He lifted his knee and brought his heel down again, smashing into the same place and feeling the skull break. Her feet beat a rapid tattoo on the floor and he knew she was dead, it was just that her body hadn’t realised it yet.

He looked around for the gun and couldn’t see it. He realised she must be lying on it. He levered his foot under her arm and with a grunt he forced her over. As her head lifted from the floor her left eye plopped out of its socket and hung grotesquely on her cheek, gelatinous fluid dripping from it. Her hair was matted with brain tissue and blood and as he flipped her onto her back it spread out in a pool around her head like a scarlet halo. The gun was by his feet, its safety off.

She’d closed the door when she’d come down into the basement and she’d made very little noise as she died, so Joker reckoned no-one upstairs would have heard. He used the tip of his right foot to slide the gun so that it was between his feet, careful not to touch the trigger. He was finding it difficult to focus, and sweat was pouring off his forehead and dripping into his eyes. He shuffled his feet together and manoeuvred the firearm so that its butt was angled up, its barrel away from him. It was going to hurt, he knew, and he tried to prepare himself. He doubted that he’d have the energy for more than one attempt, and he prayed that he wouldn’t pass out. He took a deep breath, then brought both feet off the ground, swinging them up and taking all his weight on his bound wrists. It felt as if his hands were being ripped from his wrists and he screamed before he bit down on his lip. He contracted the aching muscles in his stomach and pushed up with his legs, trying to maintain his momentum. His legs were dead and his abdomen felt as if it was going to collapse. He screamed, partly in agony and partly out of frustration. He tried to blank out the pain and imagined that he was back in basic training, hanging from wall bars and doing repetitions of leg-lifts, building strength and stamina. He grunted and sweated and held on to the image, remembering the old sergeant-major who’d cursed out any of the recruits who couldn’t manage at least fifty of the torturous leg-lifts. He screamed again and realised that his knee was banging against his chin. He opened his eyes and saw his legs were up, the gun almost slipping from between his feet. Two more inches and it would be in his hands. He held his fingers wide like a child trying to catch a ball and brought his knees closer to his face, the pain in his wrists like red-hot manacles searing down to the bone. He felt something warm and hard against his fingers and he grabbed the butt of the pistol — just in time because his legs fell back to the floor, his stomach and leg muscles cramped and strained.

He stood up on tiptoe to relieve the strain on his wrists. His body was bathed in sweat and all his wounds were open and streaming blood. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. Under normal circumstances he was a crack shot with a pistol, but his present predicament was far from normal. He could barely focus on the chain where it wrapped around the pipe, and the sights on the gun kept splitting apart as his vision blurred. He blinked and screwed up his eyes, bringing the sights into line with the chain. He took a breath, let half of it out, and squeezed the trigger, twice. The shots echoed around the basement, the sound deafening him. The chain was still in one piece. There were two metallic streaks on the pipe, the closest to the chain was some three inches away. It might as well have been a mile. He concentrated and fired again, two shots. The second bullet slammed into the chain, breaking one of the links before ricocheting into a wall, and Joker felt the chain unravel from around the pipe, dropping all his weight onto his legs. They couldn’t take the strain and they buckled underneath him, leaving him sprawled across the woman’s body.

His hands were still chained together, the broken link had been on the section passed around the pipe. He didn’t have time to try to free his wrists because Hennessy and Bailey and whoever else was upstairs would have been certain to have heard the shots, despite the sound-proofing. He could see two light switches, one at the top of the stairs and one close to the bottom. He felt himself begin to lose consciousness and he fought against it, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. He staggered over to the lower light switch and flicked it off, plunging the basement into darkness.

Cole Howard made notes in his tiny, cramped handwriting, filling in the gaps on the photocopied report sheet. The caller was a housewife who had been buying a set of saucepans at a Glen Burnie shopping mall when she’d seen a woman she thought might be the one in the photograph. She’d bought a large pepper mill and the caller remembered that her hair looked as if it had been dyed blonde. She’d used a credit card because the woman recalled having to wait while it was swiped and approved.

Howard thanked her and hung up. He doubted that Mary Hennessy would be out shopping for pepper mills prior to an assassination, but every call had to be verified. It wouldn’t be difficult — an agent would be assigned to visit the store to find out if the salesperson could identify Hennessy’s picture and obtain details of the blonde’s credit card. It was a simple enough call to check, but it would take several hours. And within the space of ten minutes following the telephone number flashing onto the television screen there had been at least eighty calls and still all the lights were flashing on Helen’s console. The workload was building quickly, and Howard wondered how many men Mulholland would be willing to assign to the case. So far his commitment had been open-ended, but the calls were racking up at a frightening rate.

Don Clutesi had his own receiver pressed to his ear and was frantically taking notes, nodding his head animatedly. He kept saying “yes, yes, yes” as he scribbled. Howard couldn’t hear what else he was whispering into the phone but he was clearly excited about something. He wasn’t just filling out the report form, he was taking additional notes and Howard peered over, trying to read them upside down. Clutesi saw him and he wrote in large capital letters at the top of his notepad — “Got them!”

Howard frowned. The phone on his desk rang but he ignored it as he scrutinised Clutesi’s notes. Helen looked across at him, realised he was otherwise engaged, and took back the call. Clutesi replaced his receiver. “A woman in Baltimore leased a house overlooking the Chesapeake Bay to a woman answering Hennessy’s description,” he said, clearly elated. “Seven bedrooms and three bathrooms. And the woman used a cheque and ID with the same name that Hennessy used on the credit card she paid for the hotel room with. It’s her, all right.” He punched the air and grinned.

“How long did she take the house for?” asked Howard.

“Six months; she paid three months in advance.”

Clutesi waved Ed Mulholland over and quickly briefed the anti-terrorism chief on what he’d learned. Mulholland beamed. “That sounds like it,” he agreed. “Okay, you and Cole take the chopper out there now. I’ll have a SWAT team from Baltimore secure a perimeter around the house. They should be in place by the time you get there.”

Clutesi scribbled down the address of the house and the phone number and address of the woman who’d made the call. “Her name’s Martha Laing; I told her someone would be in touch,” he said. “It’d help if someone could take her out to the house and liaise with the SWAT team commander — supply him with floor plans and the like, in case we have to storm the place.”

Mulholland nodded and took the piece of paper. “I’ll have it taken care of, Don.” He handed a cellular telephone to Clutesi and another to Howard. “Now you and Cole get to it. The chopper’ll be waiting for you at the pad.”

Carlos had smiled when he heard Cramer scream. He knew Dina Rashid’s ways and that a simple straightforward killing wasn’t her way. She had to have her amusement first. In some respects she was similar to Mary Hennessy, but whereas Dina got some twisted, perverse sexual thrill out of seeing her men squirm, Hennessy seemed to do it simply to be cruel. Carlos couldn’t imagine Mary Hennessy having sex with a man before killing him, whereas that was Dina’s favourite method.

Mary had gone upstairs with Bailey to pack and to warn the two Americans. Carlos had grabbed a kitchen cloth and was quickly working around the kitchen, removing fingerprints as quickly as possible from those surfaces most likely to have been touched. He loaded all the dishes and cutlery into the dishwasher and switched it on, and then headed for the sitting room. As he began to rub down the television set he heard two shots, and then silence. He nodded to himself as he worked the cloth around the set’s controls. Dina Rashid was a true professional, despite her sexual quirks, and he much preferred working with her than the two Americans. He moved across to the coffee table and ran the cloth over it. There were several magazines on the table and he gathered them up and took them to the kitchen. As he threw them into a black garbage bag he heard two more pistol shots from the basement, and he frowned. Dina would never need more than two shots at close range. He dropped the bag on the floor and rushed over to the door which led to the basement stairs. He stood to the side and eased it open. The basement was in darkness. “Dina?” he called. There was no answer. “Dina?” he repeated. There was only silence. Carlos slammed the door shut with his foot and turned the key in the lock. He pushed the kitchen table over and jammed it up against the door before walking quickly to the hall. He called the others down and quickly explained what had happened.

“Aren’t we going to see if she’s all right?” asked Schoelen. He looked at Hennessy as if fearful that he was going to get the blame for the operation falling apart.

Carlos shook his head. “If she was all right, she’d have answered,” he said. “There were four shots. We can assume she’s dead.” Lovell smiled and Carlos glared at him. “Unless you want to go down, Lovell?” he said, staring menacingly at the sniper. Lovell averted his eyes.

“So what do we do, Ilich?” asked Mary. She knew how close Dina and Carlos were. It would have to be his decision.

“We leave, now,” said Carlos, his voice level. He looked at Schoelen. “You and Lovell go to the motel you stayed at before you moved here. Take both cars and take Mary and Bailey with you, but keep them under cover in the back of the car. I’ll see you there within an hour. Okay?”

“Okay,” agreed Schoelen.

“What will you be doing?” asked Bailey, nervously.

“I’ll get rid of the evidence,” he said. “First put all your things in the cars.” He pulled a pistol from the waistband of his trousers and gave it to Schoelen. “While they’re loading the cars, you stay in the kitchen. If you hear anything, shoot through the door.”

“What about Dina’s stuff?” asked Mary.

“I’ll take care of that,” said Carlos. “Now I suggest we move quickly. I don’t think we have much time.”

As Mary, Bailey and the snipers carried out their bags, Carlos went up to Dina’s room. Her rifle was in its case on top of her wardrobe and he took it down, opening it to check that everything was there. He found a small leather bag containing tools and cleaning equipment in the top drawer of her dressing table and he took that, too. Her pyjamas were hanging on the back of the door and Carlos held the jacket against his face, breathing in her fragrance. He would miss Dina Rashid, but he had no time to grieve for her. Not just then.

He took the case and the bag, along with his own suitcase, and went outside. He put them in the trunk of the car and slammed the lid shut and then went into the garage where he picked up a red can of gasoline. As he walked back to the house, Hennessy and Bailey came out, each carrying a suitcase. Bailey seemed even more apprehensive than usual and he was continually looking at Mary as if asking for approval. Carlos knew that Mary would be able to calm him down once they were away from the house. Behind them, Lovell left the house, carrying his gun case over his shoulder. Lovell got into his red Mustang and drove off first, while Bailey and Hennessy climbed into Schoelen’s rental car. Carlos headed back into the house.

He started upstairs, in Dina’s room, sprinkling gasoline on the bed and across the carpet to the door, leading a trail which went down the stairs, through the sitting room, and into the kitchen. Schoelen was leaning against the sink, the pistol in both hands. He raised one eyebrow as he watched Carlos pour the gasoline over the floor. “Planning a barbecue?” he asked sardonically.

Carlos sloshed gasoline over the kitchen table and against the door leading to the basement. “You’d better get your things and get to the car,” he said.

“Sure thing,” said Schoelen, handing the gun back to Carlos.

“Any sound from our friend?” Carlos asked.

Schoelen shook his head and went upstairs to gather his belongings and rifle. Carlos heard him walk back down the stairs, the car door open and close, and a few seconds later the car start up and crunch down the driveway.

Something inside Carlos refused to let him leave without trying to reach Dina one last time, even though he knew it was futile. He stood by the door and rested his head against the jamb. “Dina!” he called. “Dina, can you hear me?”

There was no answer and Carlos slapped the wood in frustration. “Damn you, Cramer,” he cursed under his breath. “May you burn in hell.”

The air was thick with gasoline fumes and Carlos was beginning to feel a little light-headed. He picked up the cloth he’d used to wipe down the furniture and slopped it around the sodden floor. There was a box of matches by the stove and he carried them out through the back door, keeping the sodden cloth away from his trousers. He struck a match and lit one end of the cloth. It burned fiercely and he tossed it into the kitchen where it made a whooshing sound as the fumes ignited. He turned away and climbed into his car.

Down in the basement, Joker heard a man’s voice shouting for Dina and a few seconds later a car started up and drove off. He listened and heard a crackling sound like paper rustling. The basement was completely dark except for a rectangle of light at the top of the stairs, outlining the door. Joker recalled that at some point he had seen light coming into the room from somewhere behind him, but now there was only blackness. He steadied his breathing and listened. There was only the crackling noise. No voices. No footsteps. He’d heard three cars drive away, so that meant at least three people had left the house, but he didn’t know how many there had been originally. He’d seen Bailey, and Hennessy, and the man with the moustache, and the two Americans who’d hauled him out of the car. That meant at least five, plus the dead girl. There could be two waiting for him upstairs.

His wrists were still chained together so he switched the light back on with his mouth while keeping his gun targeted at the door. When there was no reaction he went over to the workbench where Mary Hennessy had kept her tools and knives. He found a keyring with several keys on it and one of them fitted the padlock which fastened the chain around his wrist. He winced as he unlocked the padlock and unhooked it from the chain. The scab which had formed over the hole in his right breast split open and fresh blood dribbled down his chest. Every movement of his right arm sent bolts of pain deep inside his chest. Joker gritted his teeth and rubbed the circulation back into his battered hands. He found his shorts and jeans and pulled them on, followed by his training shoes. It wasn’t that he was cold, it was more that he didn’t want to fight naked. He winced as he pushed his right foot into his shoe. Hennessy had damn near severed his toe.

He crept over to the far wall, looking for the source of the light he’d seen earlier. There was a shutter high up, and he opened it to find a locked window with three thick bars blocking any exit. There was only one way out of the basement, and that was through the door. He went back to the stairs and tiptoed up, his back close to the wall, the gun at the ready. The higher he got up the steps, the louder the crackling became. Tendrils of smoke drifted up from the bottom of the door and when he put his left hand flat against the wood he could feel the heat burning through. He turned the handle and pushed, but the door was locked.

He went down the stairs and picked up the pieces of his shirt. He soaked them in the bucket and draped them over his head and shoulders, then upturned the bucket and poured the rest of the water over his body. It stung when it ran over his cuts and abrasions but he ignored the pain, knowing that it would be a matter of minutes before the wooden structure began to collapse. He ran back up the steps and fired two shots at the lock. He kicked the door hard and the wood splintered. He kicked it again and it opened, but only a few inches. Something was blocking it. Thick, cloying smoke billowed in, making him cough. He wrapped one of the pieces of wet cloth over his mouth and kicked harder but the door wouldn’t budge. Through the gap he could see flames flaring up from the floor and a wave of heat singed his eyebrows. He put his shoulder to the warm wood but could make no impact on it. He pulled the door shut and wiped his face with one of the wet cloths. The door was held in place with two hinges, each with six screws. He took a step back down the stairs and fired two shots at the top hinge and it buckled. The lower hinge disintegrated the first time Joker fired at it, his ears ringing with the sounds of the shots. He did a quick tally of the bullets he’d fired. Four at the chain, two at the lock, three at the hinges. Nine shots. The 411 held eleven cartridges in the clip, so that left two shots, assuming the clip had been full originally.

He seized the door handle and pulled it towards him. The wood around the hinges fractured and the door fell towards him, banging him on his head. He dragged it down and it fell against the stairs. The heat leapt at him like a wild animal, pushing him and threatening to steal the breath from his lungs. As the door clattered by his side he saw the table which had been blocking his escape. It was lodged between the door frame and the sink unit. He’d never have moved it by pushing. He clambered over it and leapt through a sheet of flame that sprang from the floor. He could feel the hairs on his arms crisp and burn and he held the wet cloth over his mouth so that he wouldn’t singe his lungs. He narrowed his eyes, looking for a way out. A figure appeared to his left, a man in sweatshirt and jeans carrying a gun. It wasn’t any of the men Joker had seen earlier. The man raised his gun but Joker fired first. The stranger got off one shot which ripped a chunk out of Joker’s shoulder, but Joker fired as he’d been trained to, two shots to the chest. Bang bang. The man’s arms slumped to the side and the gun fell to the floor, his mouth open in surprise. Two red splotches grew on his chest, so close that they formed a figure eight. Joker saw a door which seemed to lead to the outside. He aimed his gun at the lock but realised the gun was empty. He twisted the door handle and to his amazement it opened and he staggered outside, gulping in the cold night air. He fell to his knees, coughing and spluttering. He heard movement behind him and the man he’d shot fell out of the door, taking several unsteady steps and crashing face forward onto the grass. He smelled of burnt meat and his hair was smouldering. Joker rolled him over onto his back. He was still alive, but only just, and Joker knew there was nothing he or anyone could do to prolong his life. Both shots were smack in the centre of his chest.

The man’s eyes fluttered open. He had no eyebrows left and there were large blisters on his cheeks. His eyes fought to focus on Joker’s face. “You Cramer?” he croaked.

Joker was stunned. The man had an English accent. He nodded.

“You bloody fool,” the man said, forming the words slowly and painfully. “I’m with Five.”

Joker’s mind swam. Five meant MI5, the British Security Service.

“I was. . coming. . to help you,” the man said.

Joker held him, not knowing what to say. “Are you alone?” he asked, looking back at the house.

The man shook his head and closed his eyes. “Partner. . following. . Hennessy. .” he gasped.

“How did you know they were here?” Joker asked.

The man was wracked by a series of coughs, and blood dribbled from between his lips. “Followed you,” he said. Joker looked over his shoulder. He had to get further away from the burning house, which crackled and spat behind him, but he knew that to move the dying man would hasten his demise. “How bad?” the man asked, his voice cracking.

“It’s bad,” said Joker. There was no point in lying. If their positions were reversed, Joker would want the truth. Joker took one of the man’s hands and squeezed. There was more he wanted to know. “Who told you to follow me?” he asked.

The man shuddered. “London,” he said.

“You followed me from New York?”

“Yeah,” said the man, the word coming out in a long-drawn-out gasp.

“Why?” Joker asked. Blood was pouring from his shoulder wound but he ignored it.

There was a pause. Back in the house, something exploded. “Bait,” the man said.

“Yeah,” said Joker, “that’s what I thought. Thanks.”

The man squeezed Joker’s hand, then he sighed once and the fingers went limp. Joker staggered to his feet and walked away from the burning house. He was still carrying the gun in his right hand, even though the weapon was now useless. He managed only two dozen steps before his legs collapsed underneath him and he fell to the grass, unconscious.

Carlos drove quickly, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the house before the neighbours saw the flames. The motel was midway between Baltimore and Washington, a good forty-five minute drive from the house. There was little traffic on the road and Carlos was soon on the main three-lane highway which led to the Capitol. He kept his speed up in the high eighties and made good use of his rear mirror — the last thing he wanted was a State Trooper on his tail. He caught up with Schoelen after ten minutes of hard driving, and he braked and tucked in three cars behind him. Schoelen appeared to be alone in the car and Carlos nodded to himself, pleased that Hennessy and Bailey had followed his advice and were keeping out of sight. He assumed they were in the back, lying down.

Schoelen was driving in the centre lane, sticking religiously to the speed limit. Under the circumstances, with his two passengers just recently featured on a television programme with millions of viewers, he was being prudent. As they drove along at 55 mph, Carlos continued to check his rear-view mirror.

He didn’t see the tail at first because the guy was hanging back and switching lanes every few minutes. Once he actually overtook them and at first Carlos thought that perhaps he’d made a mistake, but then he realised it was when they were between intersections with nowhere for them to turn off. The driver was alone, and as the interior of his car was illuminated by passing headlights, Carlos could see he was in his late thirties to early forties, clean-shaven and wearing spectacles. That was all Carlos could see without making it obvious he was looking. Carlos was certain that the tail wasn’t after him but, to be sure, he slowed down, allowing Schoelen to get almost a mile ahead. He was right, the tail stuck with the sniper, usually keeping half a dozen cars back. Carlos couldn’t see any other cars, which surprised him because he knew that successful tailing depended on using several vehicles and rotating them frequently. Using one man and one car was asking for trouble. It couldn’t be the FBI or the Secret Service because they’d call in back-up immediately. He thought of the SAS man locked in the basement of the burning house. It couldn’t possibly be him, but what if he had a partner? That didn’t make sense either, Carlos realised. If Cramer had a partner, he’d have told Hennessy about him under torture. And what sort of man would allow his partner to be captured and held by a woman with Mary Hennessy’s reputation? Surely he’d have called in the police? None of the possibilities made sense, but there was no denying that the man was following Schoelen.

Carlos had the advantage in that he knew where Schoelen was going, so he waited until just before the exit ramp before getting any closer. He caught up with Schoelen and his tail on an unlit road which wound between leafy woodland dotted with impressive houses with private driveways and three-car garages. Most had flagpoles and basketball hoops, Carlos noticed. And probably a couple of.44 Magnums under the mattress and a shotgun in the den, he thought wryly. White, upper-middle-class America. Clean, wholesome and armed to the teeth.

Ahead he could see the tail, who was having a harder time staying inconspicuous. There was no sign of Lovell. Carlos wondered whether Schoelen would spot that he was being followed. He doubted it, Schoelen was a military sniper, not an intelligence operative. He was sure Mary Hennessy would not have been so careless. There was little traffic on the road so Carlos hung back and whenever possible drove with his headlights off. Carlos ran through the possibilities. He could wait until Schoelen arrived at the motel before confronting the tail, but if there were other motorists around he might not be able to act. He could drive ahead and find some way of warning Schoelen, but what then? As soon as he communicated with Schoelen he’d be spotted. No, that wouldn’t do. He could force the tail off the road, but he might sustain damage himself. There was only one solution. Keeping a firm hand on the steering wheel, Carlos leant over and opened the glove compartment. He took out the gun which Lovell had found in Cramer’s car, a SIG P228 with a bulbous silencer. A nice weapon, well balanced and compact. He placed it on the empty seat next to him and opened the passenger window. He accelerated smoothly, the wind noise roaring by the open window. Schoelen was still sticking to the speed limit and Carlos quickly gained on the tail. He reached over to pick up the gun and flicked the safety off with his thumb. The grip settled easily in Carlos’s hand and he rested the barrel on the passenger seat as he drove up behind the tail.

He waited until the road was clear in front and behind, then indicated that he wanted to overtake. Carlos pulled out to the left, the power steering making one-handed control effortless. He drew level with the tail, his indicator lights still blinking, and looked across at the driver. The driver appeared relaxed, he looked over at Carlos, who smiled and nodded. The driver smiled automatically; his eyes flicked back to the road, and then across at Carlos again. This time he frowned, but before he could react Carlos raised the gun. There was just a slight coughing noise from the P228 as the tail’s window exploded with the first shot and the bullet buried itself in the man’s shoulder. Carlos fired twice more, both shots hitting the man in the side of the head. A fountain of blood sprayed from the man’s skull and the car lurched to the right as his nerveless fingers lost control. Carlos accelerated and in the mirror he watched the tail veer off the road and smash into a tree. A few seconds later the car burst into flames. Carlos smiled and put the gun back into the glove compartment before closing the window. Ahead, Schoelen drove on, oblivious to what had happened.

Don Clutesi saw it first and he tapped Cole Howard on the shoulder. They were wearing headsets which cut out the thudding roar of the rotors and allowed them to speak to each other and to the pilot and co-pilot. He pointed to the burning house some six miles away by the side of the Chesapeake Bay. There were no streetlights or other houses close to it and the inferno seemed to be suspended in the darkness. “See that?” Clutesi asked.

“You think that’s it?” said Howard, squinting into the distance.

The pilot’s voice came over the headsets. “That’s where we’re headed,” he said. The co-pilot began calling up Baltimore air-traffic control to request that they inform the Fire Department. His call was acknowledged.

Howard slapped his knee. There was no sign of a SWAT team in the vicinity of the house, no lights on the road. He was hardly surprised, they’d probably be driving out from the city, whereas the FBI JetRanger helicopter was zipping through the air at more than one hundred knots.

The pilot took the helicopter down to about five hundred feet above the ground and banked around the house. “Jesus, look at that,” said Clutesi.

For a moment Howard imagined that he could feel the heat from the blaze but he knew that they were too high. The pilot switched on a searchlight below the helicopter and an oval patch of light appeared on the grass below. Over the headset, Howard heard the co-pilot tell air-traffic control that he was landing.

Clutesi pounded Howard on the shoulder again and pointed. “Here comes the cavalry,” he said. In the distance, about a mile from the house, they saw a convoy of vehicles speeding along the main road in the direction of the house. “That’ll be the Ninjas. Better late than never.”

“There’s no rush — I don’t imagine there’ll be anyone hanging around,” said Howard. A blue car at the rear of the house exploded in a sheet of flame as its fuel tank detonated. The pilot yanked the helicopter up and away and chose a landing spot further away from the house. The oval light grew smaller and brighter as they descended and then the skids gently bumped the ground. The co-pilot turned around in his seat and handed flashlights to Howard and Clutesi and indicated that they could disembark. The two FBI agents climbed out, the still-turning rotors making their jackets flap around their waists. Both agents were armed and they took their handguns from their holsters as they jogged across the lawn to the house. The convoy of cars and vans turned down the drive to the house and Clutesi headed in their direction, holding his badge and gun aloft.

Howard saw a figure lying on the grass about fifty yards from the house, stretched out and unmoving. He went over and knelt down beside the body. It was a middle-aged man, bare-chested with wicked cuts across his back as if he’d been whipped. There was also a nasty gunshot wound on one shoulder but it didn’t look fatal. The man’s right hand was holding a compact black handgun, his finger still on the trigger. Howard took a pen from his inside jacket pocket and used it to pry the gun from his fingers. He rolled the man over and winced as he saw more wounds on the man’s chest. His right nipple was missing, a red, crusty scab in its place, and it looked as if a strip of flesh had been ripped out, exposing the muscle underneath. “Hell, what happened to you?” Howard said under his breath. The man’s eyebrows and chest hair were singed from the flames and his cheeks and nose were red as if he’d been under a sunlamp for too long. Howard bent down and put his ear close to the man’s mouth. He couldn’t hear anything above the crash of falling timbers and crackling wood, but he felt the man’s breath on his cheek.

Clutesi ran over, followed by two men in blue overalls and body armour. Clutesi knelt down beside Howard. “He dead?” asked Clutesi.

Howard shook his head. “Not yet,” he said.

One of the men in overalls introduced himself as the commander of the SWAT team, Scott Dunning. Howard asked him to arrange an ambulance.

“You’d be better off using the chopper, airlift him to Shock-trauma in the city,” said Dunning. “It’ll take the bird ten minutes but it’s almost an hour by road.”

“Good idea,” said Howard. He patted Clutesi on the back. “Don, you go with him. I’ll check here. When you get to the hospital, call Ed, let him know what’s happening.”

The commander called over two of his men and had them pull out a stretcher to carry the injured man to the JetRanger. As the helicopter turbine roared and it lifted into the air, Dunning and Howard surveyed the burning building. “Not really much need for a SWAT team, is there?” observed Dunning tersely. His men were standing beside their vehicles, the flames throwing long flickering shadows behind them.

“Not unless you’ve got a fire engine with you,” said Howard.

“Afraid not, not today,” said the SWAT commander.

“Fire Department’s on their way,” said Howard. “We called them from the chopper.”

One of the members of the SWAT team, a young man with a rifle and telescopic sight, wandered over the lawn towards the house. “Tom, stay by the vans until the lab tech boys get here,” Dunning shouted. The man waved and went back to the van. “He’s new,” explained Dunning. “He’s a crack shot but a menace around a crime scene.”

Howard nodded. He walked slowly around the area where the body had been lying, looking at the grass. He was trying to work out where the man had been shot. The shoulder wound was from the front, so his first thought was that he’d been shot as he’d left the house, by someone outside. He shone the flashlight on the grass, looking for footprints. He saw a few drops of blood where the man’s feet had been and he began working his way back to the house, sweeping the flashlight beam from side to side. He found several more spots of blood and revised his first impression. The man had been shot in the house and had been running away before he’d passed out, either from loss of blood or the effects of the smoke.

Someone was shouting and he looked to his left. The young SWAT sniper was pointing towards the house and yelling. Howard shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted in the direction he was pointing. There was something lying on the ground, close to the door. Howard went closer but the heat drove him back. It looked like another body. He went over to the sniper and borrowed his rifle. He shouldered the weapon and looked through the telescopic sight. It took him a while to centre the cross-hairs. Through the scope he saw the man’s sweatshirt burst into flame and his skin bubble and crack. There was nothing they could do — the SWAT team had protection against bullets, not fire, and until the fire engines arrived they could only stand and watch.

The motel could be seen from the road; a red neon sign over the main entrance indicated that there were vacancies. The building was U-shaped, with the two wings pointing away from the road, either side of a car park and swimming pool. Lou Schoelen parked his car outside the entrance and went inside to arrange his room. Carlos stopped his car some distance from the motel and watched, checking that no-one else had tailed the sniper. After a few minutes, Schoelen appeared, swinging a key. He got back into his car and drove slowly around to the parking area. Carlos followed him and pulled in next to him.

Hennessy and Bailey climbed out of the back of the car, and walked quickly with Schoelen to the ground-floor room, carrying their bags. Carlos took his cases from the trunk and went after them. As he reached the door, which Schoelen was holding open for him, Lovell walked up. “Hi, guys. What’s up?”

“Inside,” said Carlos.

When they were all gathered in the room, Schoelen hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the handle and closed it. “You were followed, Lou,” Carlos said quietly. “You were followed all the way from the house.”

Schoelen’s mouth dropped in disbelief. “Are you sure?” he asked.

Carlos sneered but didn’t reply.

“What happened?” asked Mary.

“I took care of it,” said Carlos. Bailey went into the bathroom, ripped the protective plastic covering off a glass and poured himself a drink. His hands were shaking.

“Do you know who it was?” Lovell asked.

Carlos shook his head. “I said I took care of it, I didn’t say I stopped for a chat,” he said.

“A friend of Cramer’s?” asked Bailey.

“A friend wouldn’t have left him in our care for so long,” said Carlos. “Whoever it was, he was alone.”

“Maybe he was waiting for back-up,” said Lovell, and Carlos nodded.

“Possible,” agreed Carlos.

“That’s it then,” said Bailey. “It’s over. It’s f-f-finished.”

Carlos’s eyes hardened as he looked at Bailey. “It’s not finished,” he said coldly. “I said I took care of it.” He looked at Mary and she nodded, acknowledging that Bailey was her problem and that she’d handle him.

“You’re missing something,” said Lovell. “Without Rashid. .”

“Without Rashid we can still go ahead,” interrupted Carlos. “I will take her place.”

Lovell and Schoelen looked at each other, astonished. “How?” said Schoelen. “We don’t have time to rehearse again.”

“I have used Dina’s gun before, in the Lebanon. I have a tendency to aim a little high, but other than that I will have no problem using the scope as she has set it. I can compensate for the very slight difference in our eyes.”

“You’ve been a sniper?” asked Lovell.

“I have killed with a rifle,” said Carlos.

Lovell shrugged. “Okay, okay,” he said. “So what do we do now?”

“You and Lou take your room, Mary and Matthew can have this one. I’ll arrange a room for myself. We all meet here tomorrow morning at ten for a final run through.”

If Schoelen and Lovell were surprised at the suggestion that Bailey and Hennessy should share a room, they didn’t show it. They took their bags outside and Carlos closed the door behind them. There were two double beds in the room and Bailey had slumped down onto one, his head in his hands. “I’ll go and fix up a room,” Carlos said to Mary. “Will you be okay?” She nodded. “I’ll leave the rifle here,” he said, picking up his bag. As he left the room he saw Hennessy put a hand on Bailey’s head and ruffle his hair.

Lovell was waiting for him outside. “I don’t like the way Bailey is shaping up,” he said.

“Neither do I,” said Carlos. “But we need him.”

“He’s cracking up already,” said Lovell. “I’ve seen guys like him before, in combat. They talk a good war, but when the bullets fly they shit themselves and hide under the bed. I don’t think he’s going to cut it tomorrow.”

“He’s tougher than he looks,” said Carlos. “They don’t tolerate wimps in the IRA. He’s just on edge because we’ve been waiting so long, that’s all. Mary will straighten him out.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Carlos smiled. “Then I will.”

Cole Howard stood watching the fire fighters coil up their hoses and restack their equipment on the engines. What remained of the wooden house hissed and smoked in the moonlight. There was a surprising amount of the building still standing, but it was clear that what remained would have to be demolished. Much of the rear of the house had fallen in and the roof had collapsed. A stone chimney at the side of the house was still in one piece and smoke was feathering from the top as if a fire was burning in the grate below.

One of the fire engines drove off, the faces of fire fighters inside streaked with soot and sweat. The SWAT team had already departed and Howard was waiting to hear from one of the Fire Department’s investigators who was walking through the wreckage. They’d recovered the second body, a badly burnt man, when they had the fire under control. The corpse was charred and smouldering and Howard would never forget the smell. He’d covered his mouth with his hand as he’d put his head close to the blistered and blackened flesh. He found what he was looking for. Two bullet holes in the chest. Dunning had called Baltimore County Police and arranged for the medical examiner and a crime lab tech team before he’d taken his men and gone back to the city. He seemed to resent the fact that there had been no-one for his SWAT team to take down.

Howard heard shouts of warning and a large blackened beam fell to the ground, not far from where the investigator was standing. He turned and waved, signalling that he was okay. Two of the fire fighters walked over to him, axes in their hands. The investigator, a black guy in his late fifties called George Whitmore, knelt down and touched something on the ground before lifting his gloved fingers to his nose. Whitmore stood up and spoke to the fire fighters with axes. They nodded and began to chop away at something while Whitmore watched. The thwacks of the axes were replaced by the sound of tearing wood and then the three men disappeared. Howard frowned. One minute the fire fighters were standing together, the next they’d vanished as if the ground had swallowed them up. Behind him, another fire engine drove off, its work done.

Howard walked towards the smoking ruins, running his hand across his stubbled chin. The walls around the kitchen, and the floor above it, had been totally destroyed, and all that remained of that side of the house were smoking timbers and blackened appliances. As he got closer he saw that the fire fighters had opened up a stairway leading to a basement. A white helmet appeared, followed by the bulky shoulders of George Whitmore. He pulled a face at the FBI agent. “Another one down there for the ME,” he said. He took off his helmet and tucked it under his arm, reaching inside his waterproofs and coming out with a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter. “Want one?” he asked Howard, who shook his head. Howard looked around the remains of the kitchen as the investigator lit up. Everything above the kitchen area had been gutted and what remained of the ground floor was covered in a thick layer of ash. Despite the devastation, there were still signs of domesticity — the dishwasher door had popped open and inside were plates and cups, a floor mop stood by the refrigerator, its head melted but its handle surprisingly untouched, and a kettle stood on the stove.

“Can I look?” Howard asked.

“Better if you don’t,” said Whitmore. “There’s still a lot of smoke down there, and the stairs are in a bad way. Wait till the guys have made it safe.” He took a long pull at his cigarette and exhaled deeply, blowing the smoke into the air with a look of contentment on his face.

“Okay,” said Howard. “What can you tell me about the body?”

“Woman, late twenties maybe. Hard to tell ‘cos her face is all mashed up.”

“Shot? Smoke?”

“Not shot, that’s for sure. Smoke? I don’t think so, I think she was dead before the fire, but you’ll have to wait for the ME to take her apart in the chop-shop before we know for sure.” He drew deeply on the cigarette again. “Sure is some weird shit down there, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Knives, a pair of shears, all of them covered in blood. Bits of chain on the floor.”

“You think she was tortured?”

The big man shrugged. “Maybe. There’s a man’s wallet down there. I didn’t touch it, thought the crime lab technicians might want to take a look first.” A timber crashed somewhere at the other side of the house and he put his helmet back on. “You’d better move back, Agent Howard, this isn’t exactly safe right now.”

Howard nodded and walked away from the smouldering wreckage. In the distance he heard an ambulance siren, heading towards the house. He wondered why they were bothering with the siren.

Mary picked Bailey’s glass off the floor and went over to her suitcase. She opened it and took out a bottle of malt whisky, keeping an eye on him as she unscrewed the cap and poured out a double measure. “Here, drink this,” she said, holding out the glass.

Bailey took it and swallowed it in three gulps. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“That’s all right,” she said. “We’re all a little apprehensive.”

“This isn’t Ireland, Mary,” he said. “They electrocute k-k-killers here.” He looked up at her and she saw that his left eyelid was flickering. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Mary held the bottle of whisky between her hands, gripping it tightly. “No-one is going to catch us. A couple of Sass-men have got close, that’s all. And they’ve been taken care of. You’ve dealt with the SAS before. You’ve gone up against them and you’ve always come out on top. And you know why that is? It’s because you’re fighting for something you believe in and they’re doing it for money. They don’t believe that the British Government is right, they do it because they pay their wages. They’re hired guns, and we’re freedom fighters. That’s why we’ll win in the end.” She put the whisky bottle on the dressing table next to a Gideon’s Bible and sat down on the bed opposite Bailey. “A few more hours and it’ll all be over.”

“Let’s just go home, Mary,” he said. “We c-c-can try again some other time.”

“We’ll never have another opportunity like this. Everything’s in place; we can’t fail. All we have to do is stay calm and do our jobs and they’ll talk about this for years to come.”

Bailey began to shiver like a wet dog and Mary shook her head sadly. “Matthew, you’re better than this,” she said soothingly. “Pull yourself together. It’s going to be all right.” She stood up and stroked his cheek and he tried to kiss her palm. She let him, trying not to show the distaste she felt. He licked her thumb and then sucked it like a baby feeding. With her other hand she stroked the back of his head as she watched herself in the mirror over the dressing table. Bailey had a vital part to play in the following day’s operation, and he had to be kept under control, for twelve hours at least. After that, it no longer mattered. “Stand up,” she said.

He did as he was told, his head bowed. She took off his spectacles, dropped them on the bed behind her, and put her arms around his neck. “You’re one of the IRA’s best, you know that,” she said. She waited for him to kiss her, knowing that he would, knowing that it was necessary, but dreading it nonetheless. She could smell his breath, a bitter, fishy odour, and his lips were dry and crusty. She closed her eyes and waited. His lips pressed against hers and his tongue forced itself between her teeth. She gagged but forced herself to respond. His hands went clumsily to her breasts, groping rather than caressing, and his erection stabbed against her groin. His kisses became harder, more aggressive, and his hands moved behind her, grabbing her backside as if he was scooping up handfuls of sand. He buried his face in her neck and began murmuring her name over and over again.

His hands went down to her shorts and he pushed them down roughly around her knees, then did the same with her underwear. Before she could move, his hand was between her legs, fumbling and probing, and he kissed her again. He was slobbering like a wild animal. He shoved her back onto the bed, almost on top of his spectacles, and then he began grunting as he ripped off her shorts, throwing them into a corner and unzipping his trousers.

“Mary, I’ve always wanted you,” he panted, falling on top of her. Mary opened her legs, closed her eyes, and filled her mind with images of Sean Morrison.

Joker awoke in confusion, unsure where he was or if he was still in danger. Before his eyes opened, his hands flew up in front of his face as if fighting off invisible demons. His first thought was that he was back in the basement but then he realised that the ceiling was a series of square polystyrene tiles and that the walls were white. His wrists had been bandaged, and professionally by the look of it, and his body felt numb as if he was floating on a cloud. Painkillers, he realised. He was in a hospital. There were smears of black ink on his fingertips. Someone had taken his fingerprints while he was unconscious. He tried to lift his head up but a bolt of pain ripped through his back. A low dose of painkiller, he realised. He lay back and gathered his thoughts. The last thing he remembered was the fire, and clambering out of the burning building. And the stranger, the man from MI5. The man he’d killed.

Something moved at the foot of his bed and Joker realised he wasn’t alone. He raised his head again, more slowly this time, and saw a uniformed policeman getting out of a chair. “Water,” Joker gasped.

The cop scowled. “What do I look like, a fucking nurse?” he said.

Joker lay back and closed his eyes. Something was digging into his hips and he felt around with his hands. There was a chain around his waist, and when he pulled it something rattled under the bed. “The doctors said not to handcuff you because of the damage to your wrists,” said the cop. Joker opened his eyes to see the man looking down at him. “But if you try any tricks with the chain, the cuffs go straight on. Understand?”

“Understand,” croaked Joker. “Where am I?”

“Shock-trauma, University of Maryland,” the cop answered. The cop walked back to his chair and sat down. Joker realised he wasn’t there to question him, which meant that the heavyweights were on their way. He was surprised that homicide detectives weren’t waiting at his bedside. Joker ran through his options, and they were few and far between. There were two corpses at the house, one with a crushed skull, the other with two bullets in its chest. A search of the house would show up his wallet and ID and a forensic test would show that he’d fired the gun which had killed the MI5 agent. His cover story as an itinerant barman would last about thirty seconds under any half-competent interrogation, and that was before he was asked to explain his wounds. He turned his head and saw that his shoulder was bandaged and he felt two dressings on his chest.

He remembered what the dying MI5 agent had said. The Colonel had sent him to America as bait, to lure Hennessy and Bailey out into the open so that the Five agents could capture or kill them. Hard arrests. The Colonel had never intended that Joker should succeed, and probably didn’t even expect him to come out of it alive. The Five agents had seen him taken prisoner, and they must have known what was happening to him inside the house. They did nothing, and Joker ground his teeth as he realised that they had probably been sitting in their car, swapping jokes and stories, as Hennessy ripped the flesh from his body. It was the betrayal that hurt Joker most, more than the cuts in his back, the bruised and battered wrists and the wounds in his chest. He’d been set up, right from the start, by a man he’d trusted. Trusted and damn near worshipped. And that meant that Joker couldn’t rely on the Colonel standing up for him now that he was blown.

The door to his room opened and a nurse walked in. She was a pretty black girl with short hair and eyes that were so green Joker assumed she must have been wearing coloured contact lenses. She was wearing blue-green scrubs and had a stethoscope hanging around her neck. She picked up a clipboard from the bottom of the bed and she read through his charts. “So you’re awake, Mr O’Brien?” she said.

“Water,” he gasped.

She went over to a small sink in the corner of the room and filled a glass. Joker tried to sit up but he was still weak. The nurse held the back of his head while he drank. “Okay?” she said when he’d finished.

“Thanks,” said Joker.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Sore. And weak.”

“You’ve lost some blood, but we haven’t given you a transfusion,” she said. “It was the smoke that did most of the damage. A few days’ rest and you’ll be okay.” She grinned. “Your injuries look worse than they are. Honest.”

Joker smiled thinly. “That’s good news,” he said.

“Except for that old wound across your stomach. The doctors were wondering how you got that one.” When Joker didn’t enlighten her, she clipped the board to the foot of his bed again.

The cop winked at her. “Any chance of getting a TV in here? For the Bird’s game?”

“Sure, hon,” said the nurse.

“Bird’s game?” repeated Joker.

The nurse nodded. “The Orioles, our baseball team. They’ve won their last eight games. Your Prime Minister is throwing out the first pitch.”

“Maybe I’ll make the game,” he said.

“Don’t bank on it, Mr O’Brien,” she said, “you’ll need some bed rest for a while. The TV is the nearest you’ll get.”

“Yeah,” agreed the cop. “He ain’t going nowhere, hon.”

The nurse left. Joker tested himself to see how hurt he actually was. His shoulder was his only real problem, but that only hurt when he moved it. His arms and legs were sore and his wrists felt as if they were still cut to the bone. The wounds in his chest would take some time to heal, and he was still a little weak, but he could tell that he was quite capable of walking out of the hospital. The only thing stopping him was the chain around his waist and the six feet tall black guy in the cop’s uniform.

Mary Hennessy watched the minute hand of her wrist watch crawl around as she lay with her back to Matthew Bailey. He was snoring noisily, his backside thrust out so that he slept in a V shape which deprived her of most of the bed. His love-making had been rushed and nervous and, Mary thought as she slipped her hand between her thighs, it had been painful. She hadn’t let Bailey know how much he was hurting her. In fact, she’d made all the right noises, encouraging, urging him on, calling out his name. It had been an act, the same sort of performance she’d given for her husband during the last years of her marriage, and she didn’t feel any less ashamed with Bailey. It had been almost five years since Mary Hennessy had been with a man, and she’d tried to make Bailey slow down, to arouse her before penetrating her, but he was too eager and he’d mistaken her gasp of pain for a moan of pleasure. She shuddered under the bedclothes as she recalled his bitter-smelling breath and bad teeth and the way he continually pushed his probing tongue into her mouth. She’d waited until he was asleep before slipping into the bathroom and showering. She had a bottle of Listerine mouthwash in her washing kit and she’d gargled with it for more than a minute, trying to rid herself of his taste. Later she’d climbed into the other bed but Bailey had woken up and asked why she wasn’t sleeping with him. Reluctantly she’d crawled back into his bed, hoping that he wouldn’t try to touch her again, and she’d thanked her lucky stars that he fell asleep almost immediately.

Mary drifted in and out of sleep, but she was never really relaxed. It was partly because she was apprehensive about what was due to happen later that day, but she was also worried that Bailey would wake up and want to make love to her again. It seemed an eternity before the sky lightened outside and birds began to sing. The hour hand of her watch reached seven o’clock and she rolled slowly out of bed so as not to disturb Bailey and dressed quietly. Only when she’d brushed her hair and put on lipstick and mascara did she draw the drapes and wake up Bailey.

He rubbed his eyes sleepily. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Just after seven,” she said. “You’ll have to move the plane to Bay Bridge.”

“God, yes,” he said. “I’d forgotten.” He threw back the bedclothes and Mary turned away, not wanting to see him naked. He came up behind her and grabbed her, and she could feel him getting aroused. She twisted around and put her hands on his shoulders. “We don’t have time,” she said.

He pouted. “Later?”

Mary nodded. “Later,” she promised.

He nodded and began to dress, pulling on the same shirt and jeans he’d worn the previous day. Mary noticed that Bailey no longer stammered in her presence. He seemed more confident, and she hoped that her sacrifice had paid off. “Which car shall I take?” he asked.

“Schoelen’s,” she said, tossing him a set of keys. “Have you got a baseball cap or something you can wear?”

He ran his hand through his red curls. “Hide the hair, you mean? Yeah, good idea.” He sorted through his bag and came out with an Orioles cap and waved it. “Pretty apt, yeah?”

As he dashed out of the room he tried to kiss Mary on the lips, but she moved her head at the last minute so it landed on her cheek. “Later,” she said, fighting the revulsion in her stomach.

The black nurse brought Joker a breakfast tray at eight o’clock in the morning: a clear plastic cup of orange juice, scrambled eggs, toast with a smear of margarine, and a pot of cherry yoghurt. And a white plastic spoon to eat it with. Joker didn’t know whether it was to ensure that he couldn’t hurt himself or to make sure that he wouldn’t be a danger to anyone else, but he felt like a baby as he ate. The cop watched him. “You want some?” Joker asked, holding out the spoon, dripping with eggs. The cop scowled. A large revolver was holstered on his right side and on his left was hanging a large black nightstick.

After breakfast, a doctor in a white coat came in and took his blood pressure and withdrew a small blood sample from his left arm. The doctor, who didn’t introduce himself, asked Joker how he felt. Joker shrugged. “Sore, and tired. I’ll mend.”

“I’m sure you will,” said the doctor. “We haven’t given you any blood, we try not to these days unless absolutely necessary. All you need is time.” He pointed to Joker’s stomach. “Who did that for you?”

Joker smiled. “You mean who stabbed me, or who fixed it?”

“The surgery,” said the doctor.

“Northern Ireland,” said Joker. The man’s interest seemed professional and he saw no reason not to enlighten him.

The doctor sat on the edge of Joker’s bed, careful not to touch his legs. He was a small man with a neatly clipped moustache and crooked teeth and a pair of spectacles with circular lenses. He had four pens lined up in the pocket of his white coat, and everything about the man was trim and tidy. Joker could imagine that any surgery the man performed would be meticulous and that his stitches would be as neat as those of a seamstress. “I have done some stomach and intestinal surgery — do you mind?” he said, nodding at Joker’s midriff.

“Go ahead,” he said. Joker wasn’t the sort of man who enjoyed showing off his war wounds, but he liked the doctor’s openness and he figured he owed him something for his treatment.

The doctor opened up the gown and frowned at the scar. “The knife went in here?” he asked, and pointed to the top of the scar. Joker nodded. “And the knife went down, then across?” Joker nodded again. The doctor shook his head in bewilderment. “It’s the sort of scar you’d expect to see in ritual suicide,” he said. “It’s the way the Japanese used to do it. Down and then across, to do the maximum damage to the gut. It’s not an easy thing to do. It takes a long time, and it’s incredibly painful.”

“You’re right on both counts,” said Joker.

“It wasn’t self-inflicted? Someone did this to you?”

“They sure did.”

“I don’t understand,” said the doctor, running a finger lightly down the scar. “Didn’t you fight back? Didn’t you run?”

Joker grinned. “I was chained to a table, Doc. I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“Why? Why did they do it?”

“It was a woman. She wanted me to die, and she wanted me to die slowly,” said Joker.

The doctor’s eyes widened. “It’s a wonder you didn’t.”

“I came close,” said Joker. “I was lucky, I was helicoptered to a hospital in Belfast. They’re used to dealing with catastrophic bomb injuries; they saved my life.”

“There must have been major damage to the small and large intestines?”

Joker nodded. “I lost about two feet of tubing, and I had to wear a colostomy bag for a year. But it’s fine now. No problems at all.”

The doctor closed up the gown. “It’s good work,” he said admiringly. “You know, of course, that you shouldn’t be drinking?”

“How did you know I was?” asked Joker.

“The first blood sample we took from you would have lost you your driving licence if you’d been at the wheel of a car.”

Joker laughed. “Hell’s bells, Doc, I haven’t touched the hard stuff for at least twenty-four hours!”

The doctor looked serious. “You shouldn’t put your digestive system under that sort of pressure.”

Joker held up his bandaged wrists. “Doc, the booze is the least of my problems.”

The doctor smiled and stood up, brushing the creases out of his white coat. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Do you feel well enough to answer some questions? From the FBI?”

“They’re here?”

“There are two FBI agents outside. I wanted to check on your progress first.”

“And?”

“You seem to be strong enough.”

Joker smiled. “Send them in then, Doc. Let’s see what they want.”

The doctor left the room and a few minutes later two men entered. One was small and overweight, with dark, slicked-back hair, and a shiny suit. The other was taller and fair-haired and carrying a large envelope and a portable cellular phone. They both flashed badges so quickly that all he could see was a blur of metal. “FBI,” said the taller of the two.

“Do you have names?” Joker asked.

“Don Clutesi,” said the smaller man. Joker spotted the antenna of a cellular phone sticking out of his right jacket pocket.

“Howard. Cole Howard,” said the man with the envelope.

“From?” said Joker.

“I work out of the Bureau’s Phoenix office, Special Agent Clutesi is with the Counter-Terrorism Division in New York.”

Joker nodded. The fact that the FBI and not the city’s Homicide Division were handling his interrogations suggested that they knew that this was more than a murder case. And Clutesi’s presence meant that they knew the IRA was involved.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” said Howard. He turned to the uniformed cop and suggested that he go out and get a cup of coffee. The cop accepted the offer, eagerly. Clutesi went and stood with his back to the door, a small notepad in his hand.

“Am I under arrest?” asked Joker, pointing to the chain around his waist.

“Not at this point, no,” said Howard. He held up his right hand, the finger and thumb an inch apart. “But you’re about this far away from being arrested for murder, and then you become part of the process and there’s nothing we can do to help you,” he said.

“Ah. So you’re the Samaritans now,” said Joker. He wasn’t in the least intimidated by the men or the badges. He knew that a large part of interrogation was game-playing and that if it suited the FBI he’d be in a cell somewhere awaiting trial. They clearly wanted something from him, and he had a good idea what it was.

“Not exactly,” said Howard, coldly. He pulled over the chair in which the cop had been sitting and sat down, crossing his legs and looking at Joker with cold blue eyes. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”

Joker was still lying on his back, and he felt at a disadvantage to the two FBI agents. He had to squint down his chest to see Howard, and Clutesi was over to his left. It was as if the two men had moved so that he couldn’t see them both at the same time. He slowly raised himself into a sitting position, trying to conceal the pain. “I was being held by two members of the Provisional Irish Republican Army,” he said simply. Howard and Clutesi were stunned by his lack of guile.

“You know who they are?” asked Howard. He tapped the envelope against his leg and in a flash of intuition Joker knew that it contained photographs of Bailey and Hennessy. The FBI agents were clearly on their trail and must have known that they were at the house on Chesapeake Bay. They had probably assumed that Joker had seen Bailey and Hennessy, but it had obviously come as a shock to discover that he knew who they were.

“Mary Hennessy and Matthew Bailey,” Joker said.

“They tortured you?”

“Yes,” said Joker.

“The girl in the cellar, did you kill her?”

Joker didn’t answer. They hadn’t cautioned him but without the protection of the Colonel it wouldn’t take much for them to put him in a windowless cell and throw away the key.

“The man outside the house,” continued Howard. “He’d been shot twice in the chest. Do you know who he is?”

“I think he’s an MI5 agent. The British security service. I don’t know his name.”

Howard and Clutesi looked at each other in astonishment. “Who the hell are you, Mr O’Brien?” asked Howard. “For a start, is O’Brien your real name?”

Joker looked levelly at Howard, who was obviously the more senior of the two agents. “I think we’re going to have to talk some sort of deal before I go any further,” he said softly.

Howard’s eyes hardened. “We’re not talking any deals, Mr O’Brien. This is a criminal investigation, nothing else.”

Joker smiled. “Oh dear,” he said. “I think I just wet myself.”

“This isn’t funny, O’Brien,” said Howard.

Joker looked at Howard, his face hard. “I know it’s not funny, Agent Howard,” he said, raising his bandaged wrists. “I was the one they took down into the basement, don’t forget that. She tortured me, she pulled me apart with knives and shears, then they tried to burn me alive.”

“She?” queried Howard. “Mary Hennessy did that to you?”

Joker nodded. “Everything but the bullet in the shoulder,” he said.

“Why? Why was she torturing you?”

Joker smiled. “I suppose it was because I didn’t tell her what she wanted to know when she asked me nicely.”

Howard ignored Joker’s baiting. “What did she want to know?”

“What are you after, Agent Howard?” said Joker.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re obviously not here because of what happened to me. You’re after Hennessy and Bailey, right?” Howard nodded, almost imperceptibly. “So we’re on the same side here.”

Howard shook his head. “I’m not the one who’s been leaving a trail of corpses,” he said.

Joker sneered. “One was a girl who was going to kill me while I was strung up by the arms, the other was a guy who came at me with a gun. There isn’t a court in the country who wouldn’t see either as self-defence.”

Howard raised one eyebrow. “And what about the two men you killed in New York. They were bound and gagged when you shot them in the back of the head.”

“What?” said Joker, confused. “What the hell are you talking about? They were alive when I left them.”

“So what are you saying, that someone else slipped in and finished them off for you?”

Joker frowned and rubbed his temples with the ends of his fingers like a mind-reader trying to guess a playing card. It could have only been the men from MI5. They wanted him free and clear on Hennessy’s trail, but Joker had no idea that they’d gone as far as to commit murder. He looked up. “I took their gun, the P228. If they were shot, it wasn’t from that gun.”

“But who’s to say you didn’t have two guns?” asked Howard. “You shot them with your own weapon and then dumped it, keeping theirs. That’s what I’d do. What about you, Don?”

The agent by the door nodded. “Makes sense,” he said. “Thing of it is, though, is that the gun they found on him wasn’t a P228. It was a Smith amp; Wesson model 411.”

“That was her gun,” said Joker. “I don’t know what they did with the P228. I never saw it again once they took it off me.” A thought suddenly struck him. “The gun that the MI5 agent had. Compare that with the bullets in New York. You might get a match there.”

“We might,” agreed Howard. “So, what did Mary Hennessy want from you?”

“She wanted to know how I’d managed to find her.”

“And you told her what?”

“That I’d traced Bailey from New York. Found him in Maryland and he led me to their house.”

“Anything else?”

The FBI agent was persistent, and Joker knew that his first instinct had been right, it was the IRA activists that they were interested in, not him. If he played his cards right, he might be able to extract himself from his present predicament. But handling the FBI men would be every bit as dangerous and demanding as dealing with Mary Hennessy. The chain was digging into the small of his back. “She wanted to know if I knew what she was doing.”

“And do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Did she believe you?”

“Eventually.”

“So why didn’t she kill you?”

“She tried. Or rather, she sent down that other girl to finish me off. Do you know who she is?”

Howard shook his head. “And identification is going to be difficult after what you did to her face,” said the FBI agent.

Joker had the feeling that Howard wasn’t being totally honest, and that he did know who the girl was.

“Why were you following Hennessy and Bailey?” Howard asked.

Joker had expected the question, but it wasn’t until Howard asked it that he decided how to reply. He’d realised that there was no way he could expect any help from the Colonel or from his old Regiment, they would presumably deny all knowledge of his involvement in any official operation. Joker opened his gown and indicated the old scar on his stomach. “She did this to me in Ireland three years ago.” At the door, Clutesi whistled softly through clenched teeth. Howard stood up for a closer look. “I was a sergeant in the SAS.” When Howard didn’t react, Joker added: “The equivalent of your Special Forces.”

Howard raised an eyebrow. “I’ve heard of the SAS,” he said. “I’m waiting for you to get to the point.”

“I was part of an undercover operation in the Border Country. Our cover was blown, she killed the guy I was with, and she started on me. An Army patrol found us and she escaped, but before she left she ripped open my guts. She said she wanted me to die slowly, so that I could think about her as I bled to death. Her timing was lousy and the Army got me to a hospital in time.”

Howard nodded and Clutesi took notes. “Three years ago, you say?” said Howard. “Why now? Why did you come after her now?”

“Another SAS officer was killed near Washington some weeks ago,” said Joker. “He’d been tortured. And it was Hennessy’s signature.”

Howard was tapping the envelope against his legs again and Joker knew it wouldn’t be long before the FBI agent showed him the contents. “You said you traced Bailey to Maryland. You followed him here from New York?”

Joker shook his head. “I was told that he was down here.”

“So you were told about the house while you were in New York?”

“No. I heard that Bailey had been meeting with a guy who owns an aviation company here.”

“What was his name?”

“Patrick Farrell. His company is Farrell Aviation.”

“So what happened? You staked out the airfield?”

“That’s right.”

“And you saw Bailey there? And followed him to the house?”

Joker nodded. “You’ve got it.”

Howard frowned and rubbed his chin. “So, this MI5 agent, where does he come into the picture? He was working with you?”

Joker snorted. “Hardly. The first time I saw him was when he came at me in the house with a gun.”

“So he was following you? Without you knowing?” There was a look of surprise on his face.

“I guess so.”

Howard rubbed his chin again, giving Joker the impression that he didn’t believe him. “Did you see anyone else at the house?”

“Two Americans. They caught me in the car. And another guy, looked like he was from the Middle East.”

Howard and Clutesi looked at each other, the amazement evident in their faces. Howard stood up and opened the envelope. He took out a stack of glossy colour photographs and began handing them to Joker one at a time. “Do you recognise these people?” he asked.

The first photograph was of Hennessy, an old one, before she’d dyed her hair. Joker held it up. “Mary Hennessy. You know she’s blonde now?” Howard nodded. “She looks as if she’s lost weight, too,” Joker added. The next photograph was of the Middle Eastern type with the receding hairline and thick moustache. Joker took a quick look at the back, hoping that there would be some sort of caption there. There wasn’t. “Yeah, this guy was there.”

“Did it look as if he was in charge?”

Joker shrugged. “Maybe,” he said, noncommittally. He went through the rest of the photographs. Bailey was there, and so were the two Americans. There was also a picture of the girl Joker had killed in the basement. “Yeah,” he said. “They were all in the house.”

Howard took the photographs back and put them into the envelope. “Do you have any idea where they might have gone?” Howard asked.

“I was the one being tortured,” said Joker, “they weren’t exactly letting me in on their plans, you know?”

Howard and Clutesi looked at each other and Joker had the feeling that it was because they weren’t sure what to do next, not because they were playing some sort of psychological game. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Joker asked eventually.

Howard looked across at Clutesi and slipped the manila envelope into his jacket pocket. “I’ve a phone call to make. We’ll talk again later.” The two FBI agents left the room, and a minute or so later the uniformed cop returned, carrying a styrofoam cup of coffee.

Matthew Bailey kept his left hand on the control wheel as he set his radio transmitter to the Bay Bridge Unicom frequency, 123.0 MHz. He called the airfield up as he levelled the Centurion off at two thousand feet over the Chesapeake Bay and asked them for a runway advisory. Through his headset he heard a young woman tell him that runway 29 was in use and that the winds were coming from the west at about six knots. There was no other traffic in the pattern and he took the plane down to one thousand feet, flew parallel to the runway and then made two gentle left turns before touching down.

The airfield was slightly larger than the one where Farrell Aviation was based, and it had a hard runway which was at right angles to the water. Bailey taxied over to two petrol pumps by the side of a white-painted wooden hut where a teenager in blue overalls topped off his wing tanks. “Can I tie down over there?” Bailey asked.

“How long are you staying?” said the teenager, hanging up the fuel hose.

“Should be leaving tomorrow,” said Bailey. “Maybe tonight.” He was wearing dark glasses and his Orioles baseball cap hid his red hair.

The teenager pointed to a group of small planes. “Over there’ll be just fine,” he said.

“Great, thanks,” said Bailey. He went over to the hut and paid a girl for his fuel and for the tie-down fee, then started up the Centurion and taxied it over to the parking area. After he’d secured the plane he used a public phone to call for a taxi. He wanted to get back to the motel as quickly as possible. He’d always known that Mary felt the same about him as he did about her. The previous night had been fantastic, the best sex he’d ever had. She had a terrific body, and he’d loved the way she’d gasped and moaned as he mounted her. God, there was so much he wanted to do with her. He wanted to make love to her in every possible way, to do things with her that he’d only read about before. Once the hit was over and done with, he’d ask Mary to go away with him. She was older than him, sure, but that wasn’t a problem. She was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman, and more. And he’d prove to her how good he was, in bed and out of it. They’d be a great team. The best. He found himself growing hard and he paced up and down impatiently.

Cole Howard stood in the corridor outside Joker’s room in the Shock-trauma unit, tapping the antenna of his mobile phone against his cheek. “You liaise with the anti-terrorist people in the UK, what do you make of him, Don?” asked Howard. A nurse pushed open the door behind them and wheeled a television set inside.

Clutesi shrugged. “He looks like shit, doesn’t he? Not what you’d expect an SAS soldier to look like. But he sounds as if he knows what he’s talking about. I think he’s on the up and up. What do you plan to do with him?”

“I’m not sure,” replied Howard. “The forensic guys are doing a comparison on the bullets at the moment, but he admits killing the MI5 agent and the girl.”

Clutesi frowned. “We’re not going to charge him with the killings, surely?”

Howard shook his head. “No, it looks like self-defence. But it’s going to be harder to explain away the two bodies in his hotel room in New York, isn’t it?”

“Not if he’s right and the gun the MI5 man had on him was used to kill the men in New York. But that’s going to take time, and you know as well as I do that more often than not the bullets are so knocked about that the forensic boys never get a match.” Clutesi looked at his watch. “You hungry?”

“Sure,” Howard replied. He hadn’t eaten breakfast. He’d spent most of the night with the lab techs going over the scene of the fire, and had caught a few hours’ sleep on a cot in the bureau’s Baltimore office. Food had been the last thing on his mind.

“We can spare half an hour, right?” asked Clutesi.

“What have you got in mind?”

“Maryland crab cakes,” said Clutesi. “You’ve never eaten anything like it. The best place is just down the road.” He saw Howard’s frown and grinned. “I spent two years in the Baltimore office before I moved to the Counter-Terrorism Division. How about it?”

Howard agreed and the two men caught the elevator down to the ground floor. “It’ll do O’Brien good to sweat it out for a while,” said Howard as they stepped out into the street.

“I dunno about that,” said Clutesi, “he doesn’t seem like the type who’d sweat easily.”

Clutesi headed confidently down the street and Howard matched his stride. Several nurses were standing in a group, smoking and talking in the hot sun. Howard guessed that the hospital had a no-smoking policy. It was a bright, sunny day, with barely a cloud in the sky, and the sidewalks were shimmering in the heat. It was humid, too, and most of the people out on the streets were casually dressed in loose shirts and shorts. Most of the passers-by were black, and clearly poor. Their surroundings were also down-at-heel, ranks of row-houses with peeling paint and rotting window frames. Some of the houses had been converted into offices but many had ‘For Rent’ signs in their windows. The shops were also showing signs of wear and tear, with lacklustre window displays and apparently few customers. There were plenty of cars on the roads but most were old and in need of repair. Clutesi took Howard towards a large multilevel building with a sign saying ‘Lexington Market’ on the side. There were groups of blacks standing in groups around public telephones, mainly young men in hundred dollar Reeboks, Malcolm X baseball caps and heavy gold chains around their necks and wrists. They glared at the two FBI agents with hostile eyes.

“Drug dealers,” said Clutesi. A tall, thin black man, the front of his blue jeans stained around the groin, was waving a fist in the air and screaming at no-one in particular, his eyes vacant.

“Why don’t they clean this place up?” asked Howard, who was finding it difficult to imagine why Clutesi had taken him there to eat.

“Hey, this isn’t so bad,” said Clutesi. “There are areas in the city that are a hundred times worse than this, places where two FBI agents couldn’t walk without a full SWAT team in attendance. There’s a drive-by killing somewhere in the city pretty much every day, usually innocent bystanders getting shot in the process, and most of it is drug-related. The middle classes have all moved out to the suburbs. There are no jobs for those left, and with the economy in the state it is there’s not much chance of things changing.

“The government never really got to grips with the city’s problems,” continued Clutesi. “They’ve made big investments, like the new stadium, the shopping malls at the Inner Harbour and the National Aquarium, and this development, Lexington Market, but they haven’t done anything about the quality of the life for the people here. It’s not tourist attractions they need, it’s jobs.”

“Did you enjoy your two years here?” asked Howard.

Clutesi pulled a face. “For an FBI agent, it’s an okay posting. I mean, you wouldn’t want to be a homicide detective here. It’s mainly blacks killing blacks, with crimes investigated by white detectives answerable to a black commissioner of police. You’re caught between a rock and a hard place. At least as an FBI agent you know you’re not here forever, and when I was here they were a good bunch of guys. But it’s not New York, that’s for sure.”

He pushed open a glass door and ushered Howard inside. “Welcome to Faidley’s,” he said.

Howard was standing at one end of a large room with high ceilings around which reverberated animated conversation and the sound of eating and drinking. The smell of fish and crabs was almost overpowering. Around the edge of the room were a number of stands selling a variety of seafood. There were tanks containing large, mournful fish and lobsters with their claws bound with elastic bands, fresh fish lying on beds of crushed ice while behind them black men in bloody aprons chopped off heads and removed guts. In the far corner Clutesi saw a stall selling shrimps and thick salmon steaks, and in the centre of the room was a raw bar where customers stood and ate oysters on the shell and drank beer. In the centre of the bar section women were wielding sharp knifes, opening oysters and clams with professional flicks of their wrists.

Over on Howard’s right was a counter section with a queue of people, black and white, waiting to be served. The place was packed, with most of the diners standing by chest-high tables and eating with their hands. Howard peered curiously at the counter. “These are the best crab cakes in Baltimore,” said Clutesi, “probably in Maryland.”

They reached the front of the queue and Clutesi ordered two crab-cake platters. A few seconds later two plastic trays were slammed down in front of them. Howard picked up his and looked at it. The crab cake was about the size of a baseball and looked as if it had been formed by being squashed between two hands. He lifted the tray to his nose and smelled, a warm blend of crab and spices. The meal came with bread and a salad, and Howard’s mouth was watering.

“You want a beer?” Clutesi asked.

Howard shook his head. “No, thanks. Maybe a Coke.”

Clutesi paid the bill. “It’s on me,” he said, “just in case you don’t like it.”

They carried the trays over to a vacant table. There were no seats. “Makes for a faster turnover,” said Clutesi, seeing Howard look around for a chair. “Besides, they taste better standing up.”

Howard took a bite of his crab-cake sandwich and raised his eyebrows as he chewed.

“Good, huh?” asked Clutesi.

“Fantastic,” agreed Howard. “Oh shit,” he added, recognising the figure walking towards him. “What the hell is she doing here?”

“Huh?” said Clutesi, his mouth full of crab cake.

“Kelly Armstrong, young, thrusting would-be superstar and a real pain in the butt.” Kelly walked up to the table, smiling. “Kelly, this is a pleasant surprise,” he said through gritted teeth. “How did you know where to find me?”

“The FBI office said that you were with a Don Clutesi and that if you weren’t at the hospital with the suspect he’d probably be eating at Faidley’s.”

“They know me so well,” said Clutesi sheepishly.

“So you’d be Don Clutesi?” said Kelly, offering her hand. Clutesi shook it warmly.

“And you’ll be Kelly Armstrong,” he said. “Cole has told me lots of good things about you.”

“Oh really?” said Kelly, raising an eyebrow and leaving him in no doubt that she didn’t believe him. Howard offered Kelly lunch, but she shook her head, saying that she’d already eaten. “Cole, why didn’t you tell me about the television broadcast yesterday?”

Howard shrugged. “You were chasing up the alternative targets,” he said.

“It would have been nice if you’d kept me fully briefed.”

“I thought Jake Sheldon had already done that.”

Kelly’s eyes flashed and she looked as if she was going to snap at him, but with a visible effort she regained her composure. From her handbag she took several sheets of paper, neatly folded, which she handed to him. “These are what I’ve come up with after talking to the State Department and the Secret Service. I’ve put all the East Coast possibilities on a separate sheet and there’s a full itinerary for the VIPs at the ballpark. Did you get anything from the suspect in Shock-trauma?”

“Damien O’Brien? He’s not a suspect,” said Howard.

Kelly’s forehead creased into a frown. “I don’t follow you.”

Howard took a large bite of his sandwich, so Clutesi filled her in on what O’Brien had told them.

“Does he know what they’re planning?” she asked.

“If he does, he’s not telling us,” said Clutesi.

“But we’re assuming it’s an East Coast hit?” she said. Howard nodded. “What about the snipers? Do we know where they are?”

“Not yet,” admitted Clutesi. “We got an address but it was on fire and they were long gone by the time we got there. All we found was O’Brien and a couple of corpses.” Two black teenagers in leather jackets and jeans looked round with their mouths open and Clutesi realised he’d been shouting above the noise. He lowered his voice. “We were close, though. Damn close.”

“What’s your plan now?” Kelly asked Howard.

He shrugged. “We’re going to have another talk with Mr O’Brien. You?”

“I thought I’d talk to the local police, check over their security arrangements. Will you be going back to Washington?”

“I’m not sure,” said Howard. “Depends on what else we get from O’Brien.”

“Do you need my help here?”

“No, we can handle it,” said Howard. He smiled. “Keep up the good work.”

She looked as if she was going to say something else, but instead she just nodded, said goodbye to Clutesi, and walked away. Both men watched her go, as did several other diners. “She’s hot,” said Clutesi.

“She’s a bitch,” said Howard. “A poisonous, ambitious, nasty bitch.”

“Turned you down, huh?”

Howard glared at Clutesi. “Don’t even joke about it,” he said.

Clutesi grinned and looked at the door which was closing behind her. “Thing of it is, she looks familiar. Like I’ve seen her somewhere before.”

“Yeah? In Phoenix, maybe?”

“Never been to Phoenix,” said Clutesi thoughtfully. “But I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere.” He shrugged. “It’ll come to me eventually.”

The two men ate, chatting about Clutesi’s days in the Baltimore office, keeping the conversation general because the tables were crowded. Later, as they walked back to the Shock-trauma Unit, Clutesi raised the subject of O’Brien again. “You want me to check with the British?” he asked.

“About O’Brien? Or the MI5 agents?”

“Both. The shit is really going to hit the fan, that’s for sure. They’re not supposed to be here without clearing their operation with us first.”

“Is it possible they did clear it?”

“Doubtful. Hank O’Donnell could confirm that for sure. But it wouldn’t be the first time that they’ve operated here without our okay. You know how it works, both the Bureau and the CIA send people to the UK without letting the British know what we’re up to. It depends on how much we trust our opposite numbers, and how sensitive the operation is.”

Howard nodded thoughtfully. “Can you call up Frank and see if he’s gotten anywhere with O’Brien’s fingerprints — the girl’s too? And then call up our Baltimore field office and get them to pull in Patrick Farrell.”

“Sure,” said Clutesi. They reached the hospital and Clutesi took his cellular telephone from his pocket. Howard did the same and the two men found a quiet corridor before dialling.

As Clutesi called up the New York Counter-Terrorism Division, Howard rang through to the White House office where Ed Mulholland was directing operations. Helen answered on the third ring, her voice pleasant and professional, though Howard knew she couldn’t have had much sleep. He’d called from the burning house on Chesapeake Bay at ten o’clock the previous night and she’d been on duty then. She put him through to Mulholland, who also seemed to be firing on all cylinders. Howard quickly explained about O’Brien, and the information he’d given him. Mulholland listened without interruption. “Sound kosher?” he asked when Howard had finished his briefing.

“I think so,” said Howard. “We’ve faxed his prints to New York, Frank Sullivan’s running a check.”

“So what do you think, Cole? Do you think they’ll call it off now?”

Howard hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he said. “If it was me, I’d lie low for a few months and then try again. But these are terrorists, they’re used to taking risks. In fact, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that they’re going to go ahead regardless. From what O’Brien has told me, Hennessy seems to be on some sort of personal crusade.”

“Do we have a fix on where the hit is going to be?”

“No, and we’re no nearer finding out when, either. Though I get the feeling it’s going to be soon. According to the President’s itinerary, he’s going to be in the Baltimore-Washington area for the next three days.”

“Yeah,” agreed Mulholland. “I spoke to Bob Sanger last night and he agrees with you. He’s swamping the area with Secret Service agents and tightening up the presidential guard.”

Howard snorted. “I thought security was already as tight as it could be,” he said.

“Yeah, well I think he’s more worried about covering his arse than anything else,” said Mulholland.

“Ed, wouldn’t it be much easier to withdraw The Man from view until this has been resolved?”

“Bob’s already been to see the President, and his views haven’t changed. The President insists that he can’t be held hostage in the White House by an assassin. He’s allowing the extra security, but he’s not prepared to cancel a single appearance. That goes for the Prime Minister. We’ve been in touch with his security people, and the PM has made it clear that he is not willing to cancel any engagements either. He says they don’t bow to IRA threats in the UK and they’re not prepared to do so here.”

Howard had expected that to be the position, but was disappointed nonetheless. “How many calls have you had?” he asked.

“About two hundred so far, but they’re still coming in,” said Mulholland. “It’s like every man and his dog has seen Bailey or Hennessy; we’ve had sightings from San Francisco to Key West and all points between. About a dozen are from the Baltimore-Washington area and we’re working on them now.”

Howard told Mulholland how O’Brien had tracked Bailey from an airfield, and that he was pulling Patrick Farrell in for questioning.

“What do you think that’s about?” asked Mulholland.

“Could be their escape route,” said Howard. “If they do succeed, they’ll need a way out. Look, I’ve an idea that I want to run by you. This guy O’Brien is the only one who’s actually seen Hennessy, Carlos and Bailey close up. I was wondering if we could use him in some way.”

“What do you have in mind?” asked Mulholland.

“I want to have him around the President, not as part of the guard, obviously, but close by, in case they try anything at close range.”

“Yes, but I thought we were assuming they were snipers, right?”

Howard explained Andy Kim’s theory that Hennessy, Bailey and Carlos might be intending to be close to the target, as shown in the Mitchell video, either to guide the snipers or as a fall-back position if the sniping went wrong.

“So you want O’Brien on the ground looking for them?” asked Mulholland.

“He’s seen them in person, whereas we’re only working from photographs. If they do try to get close to the President they’re as sure as hell going to be disguised. He might be able to spot them by the way they walk, the way they hold themselves. You know as well as I do that you can often identify a person from a distance by the way they move. O’Brien’s the only one who can do that.”

“Yes, but you don’t even know this O’Brien’s background, Cole.”

“Like I said, we’re running a check on him now. He claims to be a former SAS soldier who worked against the IRA in Northern Ireland. He’s as well trained as our Special Forces guys, and he’s worked undercover.”

“But you said he’d been tortured, and shot,” said Mulholland.

“He’s hurt, but not too badly,” replied Howard. “I’ve already spoken to his doctor. He says most of his injuries are superficial, and though he’ll be a bit weak for a few days, he’s in no danger.”

“I’m not sure how close Bob Sanger will want him getting to the President.” It sounded to Howard as if Mulholland was looking around for reasons to say no.

“I know it’s a long shot, but if it was explained to him in the right light. .”

Mulholland laughed. “Okay, Cole, I’ll run it by him. You let me know what Sullivan says. He’s going to check with London, right?”

“Right. And we’re running the prints of the dead girl through the computer, too.”

“You think she’s the third sniper, Dina Rashid?”

“There’s a strong possibility, yes. And if one of the snipers is dead, that increases the possibility of them changing their plans and going for a close-in hit.” Clutesi stood in front of Howard, his cellular phone at his side, making a small waving motion with his free hand. “Wait one second, Ed,” said Howard. “What’s up?” he asked Clutesi.

“Frank says the dead girl is Dina Rashid for sure,” Clutesi answered.

“What about O’Brien?”

“Nothing on our files, or Interpol’s. We’re checking with MI5 but, bearing in mind what happened to their man, they might not be especially helpful.”

Howard nodded and spoke into his phone. “Ed, Frank says the girl in the basement is definitely Dina Rashid. He’s still checking out O’Brien’s story.”

“Okay. Let me speak to Bob Sanger and then I’ll get back to you. Oh, I almost forgot, Jake Sheldon was on the phone from Phoenix. He wanted to know how Kelly Armstrong was getting on with our team here in Washington. He seems to think very highly of her.”

“Yeah, she’s doing a great job,” said Howard, bitterly.

“That’s what I told him,” said Mulholland. “Okay, Cole, talk to you soon.” The line went dead.

“Everything okay?” asked Clutesi.

“Peachy keen,” said Howard.

Matthew Bailey took a cab from Bay Bridge airfield to the Marriott Hotel in Baltimore, and there he waited a full thirty minutes before catching another cab to the airfield where Farrell Aviation was based. He kept his baseball cap pulled down and had his dark glasses on, but he needn’t have bothered: neither driver even bothered to look at him. He had the taxi drop him at the airfield car park and he waited until he was sure that he hadn’t been followed before getting into his rental car. He drove back to the motel, eager to be with Mary Hennessy again, but knowing that he had to stick to the speed limit. He couldn’t understand why the Americans had chosen 55 mph; it was a snail’s pace compared with what he was used to in the United Kingdom. He tapped the wheel impatiently, then flicked through the channels on his car radio. There were advertisements on every one: for restaurants, repair shops, store sales, beer, supermarkets. It was as if the stations had banded together and co-ordinated their advertisement breaks so that there was no escape. He’d noticed the same phenomenon on American television. He switched the radio off and concentrated on the road ahead. He was no longer nervous about the forthcoming operation — he was looking forward to it, keen to show Mary what he could do. The anticipation was a hard knot in his stomach, and it made him feel more alive than he’d felt in a long time. Mary had been right, they’d talk about this day for a long, long time in the bars of Belfast. Songs would be sung and glasses would be raised and Matthew Bailey and Mary Hennessy would be remembered forever.

He parked the car at the rear of the motel and rushed to the room, his heart pounding. He realised that he hadn’t taken the key with him and he knocked impatiently. His face fell when Mary opened the door and he saw that Carlos, Schoelen and Lovell were already there. Lovell was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt with the Farrell Aviation hawk and propeller logo on the back and on the breast pocket. Mary ushered Bailey inside and closed the door behind him. “Everything’s okay?” she asked.

Bailey nodded. “The plane’s at Bay Bridge, fully fuelled. It’ll take half an hour to get there from the city; by the time we get to the field it’ll be deserted. There’s no tower there, and so long as we head south immediately, we won’t cut through the Baltimore TCA.”

Carlos nodded and held out his hand, palm upward. “I’ll look after the keys, Matthew,” he said.

Bailey looked over at Mary and she nodded agreement. Reluctantly, he handed them over.

“I’ve been on the phone to Farrell, and everything’s fine at his end,” said Mary. “He hadn’t seen the television last night, and I didn’t enlighten him. Don’t bring it up when you see him, I don’t want him spooked.”

“Sure,” said Bailey. He desperately wanted to get Mary on her own but there didn’t seem to be any way he could manage that: Lovell was lying on one of the beds, his arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling, and Carlos had seated himself on the dressing table, swinging the keys to the Centurion around his index finger. Mary looked stunning. Bailey remembered how smooth and firm she’d been in bed, how her legs had gripped him like she was riding a stallion, squeezing and holding him, and how good she’d smelled — musky, like an animal in heat. He felt himself growing hard and he shook his head.

“Matthew, are you all right?” Mary asked.

Bailey blushed. “I’m fine,” he said.

“We’re going to do a final run through,” she said. “You give a wind reading, as if you were reading it off the computer. Okay?”

“Sure.”

Schoelen was already taking his rifle out of its case. Carlos looked at Lovell. “Let’s get to it, Rich.”

Lovell rolled off the bed and opened the case containing his Barrett rifle. Carlos took Dina’s rifle and checked it while Mary opened her suitcase and picked up five transceivers in black leather holsters, with earpieces and body microphones. She gave one to Bailey and he clipped it to his belt and inserted the earpiece. The microphone he attached to the neck of his shirt.

The rest of the men set up their transceivers and Mary spoke to them one at a time, checking that they could receive and transmit. When she was satisfied that the equipment was working, the three snipers moved to different parts of the room, all facing the same direction, towards the door. Bailey stood by the bathroom door and Mary leant against the dressing table, her arms folded across her stomach. The snipers had their rifles to their shoulders, but their fingers were outside their trigger guards.

Mary let them make themselves comfortable and waited until she could see that their breathing had steadied.

“Check One,” she said.

“Check One,” repeated Lovell.

“Check Two,” said Mary.

“Check Two,” said Schoelen.

“Check Three,” said Mary.

“Check Three,” said Carlos.

“Check Wind,” she said.

“Two One Five at Nine,” said Bailey. The imaginary wind was blowing from two hundred and fifteen degrees at nine knots. The snipers mentally calculated how they would adjust their aim.

“Two One Five at Nine,” repeated Lovell.

“Two One Five at Nine,” said Schoelen.

“Two One Five at Nine,” said Carlos.

“With you, One,” said Mary.

Lovell pressed the scope to his eye. “Target sighted,” he said. “Countdown starting. Five, four, three, two, one.” He made a firing motion with the index finger of his right hand, and then continued to count in a steady, even voice. “One thousand and one, one thousand and two.” As he said ‘two’, Schoelen made a similar firing motion. Lovell’s count continued. “One thousand and three.” Carlos pretended to fire his rifle. “One thousand and four,” said Lovell. All three snipers lowered their rifles.

Mary nodded enthusiastically. “Excellent,” she said. “If we can do that for real, all three bullets will arrive within half a second of each other. Any problems?”

Everyone shook their heads. They’d practised the manoeuvre hundreds of times and it was now second nature to them all.

Mary looked at her wristwatch. “Matthew, you and Rich had better go and meet Farrell.” Bailey frowned and began to protest, but Mary raised a warning eyebrow and he shut up. “I’ll see you at the airfield at eight o’clock,” she said. Lovell packed his rifle away and shouldered the case as Bailey changed into a short-sleeved white shirt like the one Lovell was wearing.

Bailey desperately wanted some sort of physical contact with Mary, a hug or a kiss, but he realised that it was out of the question while the others were there. He’d have to wait. “Okay, Mary,” he said. He raised a fist in silent salute. “See you later.” He left the motel room, the knot in his stomach growing like a cancer. Rich Lovell followed him, winking at Schoelen on his way out. Mary picked up her handbag.

“Are you going to see the Armstrong girl?” Carlos asked.

“That’s right,” she replied. “She’s going to tell me how much the FBI know and she’s got details of the stadium security for me.”

“I want to come with you.”

“No,” said Mary, sharply.

“I want to talk to her.”

Mary caught Schoelen’s eye and with a shake of her head indicated that he should leave the room. Mary waited for him to close the door before rounding on Carlos. “Are you crazy?” she shouted. “Kelly might be prepared to help me, but what the hell do you think she’ll say if she knows you’re involved? Jesus, you’re Carlos the Jackal! I’m Irish, she has a reason for helping me. You, you’re a. . a terrorist!”

Carlos looked at her, astonished by her outburst. Then he smiled, and gradually the smile turned into a laugh. Mary realised what she’d said, and she laughed with him, her anger forgotten. “I’m sorry, Ilich,” she said.

Carlos laughed all the louder, and wiped a tear from his eye with the back of his hand. “You’re right, of course. If she sees me, she might have a change of heart. You must go alone.” He regained his composure, but he was still clearly amused. “But be careful.”

She leant forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. “I will,” she promised. “I’ll be back within the hour.”

Carlos watched her go before picking up the telephone at the side of the bed. He tapped out a number and within seconds a man’s voice answered. “I’m calling in for the final time,” said Carlos.

“You have problems, I understand,” said the voice.

“You saw the television broadcast?”

“I would think that most of America saw it,” said the voice. “You are still going ahead?”

“The problems are not insurmountable,” said Carlos. “Security will be tighter but we now have a contact who is in a position to make it easier for us. Everything will continue as planned.”

“I understand that Rashid is no longer a part of the team.”

Carlos took a deep breath. “That is true.” The man on the other end of the line said nothing and Carlos knew that he was waiting for an explanation. “I will be taking her place.”

“You can do that?” said the voice.

“I can,” said Carlos.

“I must see you first,” said the man.

“Now?” said Carlos, surprised.

“Now,” repeated the man.

Carlos did not argue. He picked up a pen and scribbled down an address on a sheet of motel notepaper.

Joker lay back in his hospital bed, his arms at his sides. The painkillers were wearing off and he was becoming aware of the injuries to his body: the bullet wound in his shoulder was a small point of pain surrounded by a dull ache, like a toothache; his wrists were sore and it felt as if his hands were barely connected to his arms, that the bones and cartilage had been stressed to their limit and that they would never heal; and his legs ached as if he’d run a marathon. Worse by far, though, was the wound on his chest, the deep hole where his right nipple had been hacked off. The hole felt as if it went right to his spine and was liquid inside, though the dressing was clean and dry.

On balance, though, Joker considered that he’d been lucky. After his last encounter with Mary Hennessy he’d been in a hospital bed for three weeks and restricted to a liquid diet for months. As he tested and checked his various body parts, he realised that his bladder was full and that a visit to the bathroom was a pressing need.

The uniformed cop was slouched in his chair, his cap tilted on the back of his head, reading the Baltimore Sun. “Can I go to the bathroom?” Joker asked.

The cop looked at him with bleary eyes and put down the newspaper. “No,” he said. He returned his attention to the paper.

“Ah, come on,” said Joker. “What do you expect me to do? Wet myself?”

The cop shrugged. He kept his eyes on the paper and pointed to a glass bottle on the cupboard next to the bed. “Use that,” he said laconically.

“What, from here?” said Joker, indicating the chain that bound him to the bed.

The cop sighed mournfully, folded his newspaper and stood up. He kept his distance from the bed just in case Joker decided to lunge for his gun. He picked up the bottle by its neck, handed it to Joker, and went back to his seat.

Joker looked at the bottle in his hand, and back to the cop. “Is it too much to expect a little privacy?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the cop, reading.

“Terrific,” said Joker. He slipped the bottle under the covers and prepared to urinate into it. Just as he started, the door to his room opened and the two FBI agents stepped inside. Joker looked up. “Hell, if I’d known that my taking a piss was going to be this popular, I’d have sold tickets,” he said.

“Don’t let us interrupt you,” said Howard. He turned to the uniformed cop and asked him if he wanted to get himself another cup of coffee. The cop cheerfully accepted and slipped out of the room. Clutesi closed the door behind him and stood next to it, his arms folded across his chest. The FBI agents waited while Joker finished filling the glass bottle. He slipped it out from under the bedcovers and made a half-hearted attempt to put it back on the bedside table. It was clear he couldn’t reach, and he looked expectantly at Howard. Howard looked at Clutesi.

“Oh, come on,” protested Clutesi.

“Someone’s got to do it, Don,” said Howard.

“He can put it on the floor,” said Clutesi.

“Can’t reach the floor,” said Joker. “Unless I drop it. But if I drop it, it’s going to splash everywhere.”

“Shit,” said Clutesi. He held out his hand disdainfully and took the bottle over to the washbasin. He poured the contents down the sink and washed his hands.

“Our Counter-Terrorism Division has never heard of a Damien O’Brien,” said Howard. “We’re checking your prints out with MI5 in London.” Joker’s grin abruptly vanished. Howard continued to look at him, gauging his reaction. “What do you think they’re going to tell us?” Howard asked. Clutesi dried his hands on a paper towel.

Joker looked at the ink stains on his fingers, as if verifying that his prints had been taken. He looked up at Howard. There was more to this than a murder investigation. The FBI agents were obviously after Hennessy and Bailey, and the deaths of the girl and the MI5 agent seemed to be secondary to that. If Joker played his cards right, he might be able to find a way out of this mess that didn’t involve him spending a lifetime in a Federal penitentiary. If the FBI had sent his fingerprints to MI5, an identification would be forthcoming fairly soon. “My name’s Cramer,” he said slowly. “Mike Cramer.”

Howard raised an eyebrow. “So you were lying before?”

“Only about my name,” said Joker. “Everything else is the truth.”

Howard nodded thoughtfully. “You came into this country with a false passport?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“Must have been a good one,” said Howard.

“Yeah, it was.”

“So where did you get it from? And why didn’t you use your own?”

“A friend got it for me. He works for the Department of Immigration and he owes me a favour. It’s a genuine passport, it’s just the name which is different. I didn’t think it made sense to try to tail Hennessy using my own name.”

“You still say you’re working alone?” said Clutesi, his voice loaded with disbelief.

“You think if I had any back-up at all, they’d have allowed this to happen to me?” asked Joker. “Why don’t you guys tell me what’s going on here? What do you think the IRA are up to?”

Howard took the envelope out of his jacket pocket and flicked through the photographs inside. He handed the picture of the man with the receding hairline and moustache to Joker. “You saw this guy, right?”

“In the basement,” said Joker.

“His name is Ilich Ramirez Sanchez. Most of the world knows him as Carlos the Jackal.”

Joker’s jaw dropped. “The IRA’s working with Carlos? What the fuck are they up to?”

“To be honest, Cramer, we were kind of hoping you’d be able to tell us.”

Joker shook his head. “I didn’t even know he was Carlos,” he said. “That explains why Hennessy kept on asking me how much I knew. She wanted to find out if I knew what they’d planned. Whatever it is, it must be bloody important.”

Howard nodded and took back the photograph. “We know they were working with three world-class snipers, one of whom you killed in the basement.”

“The girl?”

“The girl. Dina Rashid, a Lebanese. The other two are former Navy SEALs.”

“And who do you think they’re trying to kill?”

Howard smiled enigmatically. “Cramer, we’re the FBI agents, we’re the ones who’re supposed to be asking the questions here.”

“It must be someone important, right?”

“We think they’re planning to kill the President. And soon.”

Joker frowned. “Why would the IRA want to help assassinate the President of the United States? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does if you know that Carlos and representatives of the IRA were guests of Saddam Hussein in Iraq not so long ago.”

“What? You think Saddam Hussein is behind it? What would he have to gain by killing the President?”

Howard shrugged. “Revenge for Desert Storm, we think. He’s never forgiven the States or Britain for forcing him out of Kuwait. But it doesn’t end there. There was the cruise missile attack on Baghdad after the Iraqis tried to kill George Bush in Kuwait. And the Iraqi fighter we brought down recently in the no-fly zone was a real slap in the face for him. He hates the US with a vengeance. As a result we’ve seen a growing number of terrorist attacks here. We had a big one in New York in ‘93, remember? The World Trade Center. They killed six people, and they were planning to blow up the Holland and Lincoln tunnels under the Hudson River and the United Nations headquarters. We caught the guys, but next time we might not be so lucky.”

“The IRA weren’t involved, were they?”

“Not that we can prove, but the bomb was similar to ones that have been used in Northern Ireland and London. We believe that the IRA have been helping Muslim fundamentalists in several locations around the world.”

“But you said this time they’re planning to use snipers?”

“We know they were practising a sniper hit in the Arizona desert several weeks ago. And we’re talking real long-distance stuff. We think one of the snipers is going to be firing from two thousand yards away.”

“Two thousand yards?” said Joker, with the emphasis on thousand. “You mean two hundred, surely?”

“No, two thousand yards. Six thousand feet. Our sniping experts tell us that the bullet will take four full seconds to reach its target.”

Joker looked stunned. “That’s incredible,” he said. “You don’t think they’re still going ahead, do you? Now that you know what they’re up to?”

Howard shrugged. “We don’t know. There’s another problem. We think there’s a chance that Hennessy, Carlos and Bailey might be planning to be nearer the target.”

Intuitively, Joker realised what the FBI agent wanted from him. He was the only person who’d seen the three terrorists close up. “In case the snipers fail?” he said.

“Or helping with the co-ordination,” said Howard.

“When do you think they’ll do it?” asked Joker.

“We don’t know. But soon. Assuming they don’t cancel.”

“Carlos isn’t a man who’s likely to be scared off,” said Joker. “I remember what he did in Vienna with the OPEC ministers. If anything, I think he’d relish a challenge. So, Agent Howard, what is it you want from me?”

Howard looked at Clutesi and then back at Joker. “We want to put you close to the presidential guard. Not as part of the President’s protective screen, but as an observer. You know what Carlos looks like, in the flesh. If he’s in disguise, you might spot him.”

Joker scratched his chin and winced as he moved his injured shoulder. He indicated the chain with his left hand.

“You’ll be released into the FBI’s custody,” said Howard. “I’ll be taking a chance on you, Cramer, but I don’t think you’ll let me down.”

Joker looked at him with hard eyes. “Yeah, and if Hennessy or Carlos sees me around the President, maybe they’ll take a shot at me first.”

“That’s possible,” agreed Howard.

“Do I get a gun?”

Howard smiled and shook his head. “It’s going to be hard enough to persuade the Secret Service to let you within a mile of the President, I don’t think there’s much chance of you carrying a gun.”

“Bullet-proof vest?”

“That I think we can arrange,” said Howard. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

Joker nodded. “I’d do anything to get another crack at that bitch.”

“I thought you’d say that,” said Howard.

Marty Edberg pointed at the television monitor showing a close-up of the Orioles scoreboard. “Go to two,” he said. His assistant pressed a button on the console and the picture flashed up on the large screen in the centre of the wall of monitors. The picture wavered crazily and Edberg slammed his hand down on the console. “Wendy, would you ask that shithead Lonnie to stop fucking jerking himself off when we’re with him, please.”

Wendy spoke into her microphone, translating Edberg’s outburst into constructive criticism which wouldn’t upset the cameraman too much. The picture steadied.

“Better,” said Edberg. “Thank you. Now, let’s go to four.”

Wendy depressed the button for camera four and a close-up of the pitcher’s mound filled the main screen. Several men in suits and sunglasses were checking the ground, bent double as if they were looking for dropped change.

“Good, now to six.” The picture on the main screen flicked to a long shot of the baseball diamond taken from a camera high up in the stands. Edberg looked across to the small monitor showing camera two’s output. It was wobbling again. “I’ll have Lonnie’s balls if he doesn’t shape up,” hissed Edberg. There was a knock on the door to the television control room and Edberg looked up, annoyed at the disturbance. “Go away!” he yelled. “Let’s go to three, with a slow panning shot of the crowds behind the batter,” he said.

Wendy spoke quickly to the cameraman on three and pressed another button. On the main screen the picture showed rows and rows of empty seats. A man in a grey suit and sunglasses was walking slowly down an aisle, checking underneath the seats. Several uniformed police officers were leading sniffer dogs along the rows. The knock on the door was repeated, and it opened. Two men with short hair and square jaws stood in the doorway wearing dark suits and sunglasses. Edberg sighed mournfully, recognising the suits and the demeanour. Only Secret Service agents and rock stars insisted on wearing their sunglasses indoors. “Yes, guys? What can I do for you?”

“Mr Edberg?” said the agent on the left.

“That’s right.”

“Did Bob Sanger of our Washington office speak to you yesterday about the live feeds?”

Edberg nodded. “He did, but it’s damn irregular.”

“Actually it’s not,” said the agent. “We’ve done it many times, just not at this ballpark, that’s all.” He flipped open a black leather wallet and showed Edberg his credentials. The other agent, who still hadn’t spoken, did the same. “We’re with the Technical Security Division. Our truck is downstairs.” The agents stepped to the side and Edberg saw that there were two men wearing white overalls and carrying tool boxes standing outside the door. “These technicians will run the feeds to our truck and establish a communication link with you.”

“You realise that you won’t be able to direct the cameramen, you’ll just be getting the feeds that come through to our console?” said Edberg. “I already explained that to Sanger — you can have the feeds but I call the shots.”

“That’s understood,” said the agent. “We’re just looking for a way to increase our surveillance of the crowds, that’s all. But if we see something and we’d like a closer look, and the camera wasn’t going out live, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind giving us a close-up — if we asked you, of course. It is the President’s safety we’re talking about, after all.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Edberg testily.

The two men in overalls entered the control room and scanned the monitors and racks of electronics equipment. One of them pointed to a blank monitor which was labelled ‘ten’.

“Is there something wrong with that one?” he asked.

Edberg shook his head. “That’ll be the overhead shots taken from the blimp,” he said. “That won’t be on line until it’s in the air, about half an hour before the game is due to start.”

“We can take a feed from it?” asked the technician.

“Sure, you just won’t pick anything up for a while. We can put a test signal through it if you want to check your connections.”

“That’ll be great,” said the technician, kneeling down and opening up his tool box. The two agents stood at the rear of the control room and watched the technicians work. Edberg could see the butt of what looked like a machine pistol sticking out of the back of one of the men’s jackets. He jerked his head away as if he’d been caught looking at something he shouldn’t have. Wendy was looking at him anxiously.

“Okay, Wendy, let’s go to seven. And tell Lonnie he’s got the fucking shakes again.”

This time there were no games: no open doors, no missing light bulbs, no running showers. Mary knocked gently on the door and Kelly opened it. Kelly looked tired and agitated. She paced up and down as Mary closed the door. A television set was on in the corner, but the sound was muted.

“I didn’t know, they didn’t tell me,” said Kelly, before Mary could speak.

Mary put her bag on the bed. “I know,” she said.

“If I’d known, I’d have told you,” said Kelly, her voice shaking.

Mary frowned. At their first meeting Kelly had appeared confident and self-assured, but now she saw that she wasn’t much more than a girl, a girl young enough to be Mary’s own daughter.

“My boss sent me on a wild goose chase,” Kelly continued. “If I’d stayed in the White House, I’d have been able to warn you.”

Mary shook her head. “You couldn’t have reached me, remember? You didn’t have the number. We were to meet here today. Don’t you see? Even if you’d known about the broadcast, you couldn’t have warned me.” The girl looked so distraught she wondered if there was something else amiss. “Kelly, do you think they suspect you?”

Kelly looked up sharply. “Oh no,” she said, “I’m sure they don’t. My boss just feels threatened by me, that’s all. He just wanted me out of the way. I thought if I got the security arrangements for you, it might help.” She smacked her thigh with her fist. “I should have stayed with them.”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” soothed Mary. She pulled Kelly close and hugged her the way she’d held her daughter when she’d failed one of her exams.

“I let you down,” said Kelly. “I let you down and I let my father down.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Mary. She helped Kelly sit down on the edge of the bed and then fetched her a glass of water from the bathroom.

Kelly sipped it gratefully. “They killed one of your people?” she asked.

Mary nodded. “Yes. A girl.”

“Bastards,” said Kelly. “There was a Brit there, a man called O’Brien.”

“He’s dead,” said Mary.

Kelly shook her head fiercely. “No, he’s in Shock-trauma.”

Mary’s mouth dropped. “Are you sure?”

Kelly nodded. “They’re talking to him now.”

Mary stood in front of the dressing-table mirror and stared at her reflection. That was twice that Cramer had escaped her. The man must have the luck of the devil himself. How the hell could he have escaped from the basement when the house burnt down? Especially after what she’d done to him.

Kelly held the glass of water with both hands. “They’ve identified everyone at the rehearsal in Arizona now,” she said. Her grip tightened on the glass. “This Carlos, what’s his role in all this? You didn’t tell me about him.”

Mary shrugged, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “He helped us recruit the snipers, that’s all. He’s out of the country already.” Kelly nodded and Mary knew she believed her. “How did they find out about Carlos?”

“Same way they identified you and Bailey, from the computer-enhanced photographs.”

“Why didn’t they include his photograph on the TV broadcast? Why did they only use me and Bailey? Why didn’t they show the snipers?”

Kelly shrugged. “I’m not sure. My boss isn’t telling me much at all at the moment.”

“Do they know who the target is?” Mary asked.

“No,” said Kelly. “They’re working on a list of VIPs. It’s over there, on the chair, with the security details. They’re planning to flood the stadium with extra agents — I’ve got a map with their locations on it.”

“Does that mean they think the hit is going to be there?”

Kelly shook her head. “No, that’s going to be standard procedure at all the presidential venues for the next few weeks.”

Mary picked up the sheets of paper and looked through them. “They’re mostly British, I see. The targets.”

“They’re assuming it’s either the President or an IRA target,” said Kelly.

“Do they know where?”

Kelly shook her head. “That computer program I told you about hasn’t come up with anything yet. Something about them not being able to identify the long shot.”

Mary smiled tightly. “Or when?” Another shake. “Good,” said Mary. “Then we can still go ahead.”

Cole Howard knelt down by the side of Joker’s hospital bed and unlocked the padlock which secured the chain. He tugged the chain and it rattled through the steel rails at either side of the bed. Joker slid the chain from around his waist and dropped it on the floor with a rattle like a ship weighing anchor.

“Better?” asked Howard.

“Much,” said Joker. “Thanks.”

The two men were alone in the room. The television set flickered silently in the corner, its sound muted. Howard had told the uniformed cop that the FBI would be responsible for custody of the patient and he’d taken his newspaper and left. Don Clutesi had gone to the FBI’s field office in Baltimore to collect some clothing for Joker. Mary Hennessy had destroyed his shirt, and the rest of his clothes had gone up in flames when his car had exploded in the fire. Joker swung his legs off the bed and placed his bare feet on the floor. He tested them gingerly, shifting his weight gradually until he was standing upright.

“You okay?” asked Howard.

Joker nodded grimly. “A bit weak, but I’ll be fine.” He took a few unsteady steps towards the window. He walked like an old man, slightly stooped and with a discernible pause between each step.

“If it’s going to be too much, you can get back in bed and we’ll forget the whole thing,” offered Howard.

Joker turned around and glared at the FBI agent, “I’ll be fine,” he said tightly.

Howard’s cellular phone bleeped and he pressed it to his ear. It was Ed Mulholland. “Bob Sanger’s given you the go ahead,” said Mulholland.