in the snow. I  just wanted to
get clear enough so the Volvo wasn't incinerated. After a three-point turn I
drove  150 feet up the track and  killed  the  engine. Jumping out  with the
keys, I stumbled back into the cover  of  the treeline, feeling as if  I was
back in that dream again.
     By the time I neared the hide I could  make out my shadow quite clearly
against the snow. The flames were well and truly taking over from the smoke.
     Sliding  into  the  snow hole, I pulled out my Leatherman, felt for the
plasticuffs and started to cut Val free, letting him sort himself  out as  I
scrambled out again into the wind.  He soon followed  and we both stared  at
the burning building. Bizarrely, he started to try and comfort me. "It's all
right,  I knew you weren't  abandoning  me. I am worth too much to  you, no?
Particularly now. May I suggest that we leave here, and as soon as possible.
Like you, I  do  not want to  encounter the  authorities.  It would be  most
inconvenient." What was it with this guy? Did his  pulse rate  ever go above
ten beats per minute?
     He  knew that  whatever  had happened out here it  had stopped me  from
meeting up with any of  the team; he didn't have to convince me any more  to
let him go. He knew it was my only sensible option now.
     The  Volvo  could  easily be seen in the flames. They hadn't penetrated
the walls yet, but they were licking out hungrily from the windows.
     I stopped him short of the car, handed him my Leatherman and carried on
to open the  trunk, shouting  at him to cut the cord in his jacket. Even  at
this distance, I felt the heat on my face.
     He  looked about him, found  the nylon  cord that could be  adjusted to
tighten around his waist, and began  cutting. There were loud cracks  as the
frame of the house was attacked by the flames.
     Val looked at the fire as he heard the trunk open.  "Please, Nick, this
time inside the car. It's  very cold in there." It was a request rather than
a demand. "And,  of  course, I'd  prefer  your  company to that of the spare
tire."
     Responding to my nod, he settled in the Volvo's  rear  foot well giving
me back the  Leatherman  and offering his hands. I tied them around the base
of the emergency brake with the cord, where I could see them.
     We drove out, leaving the fire to do what it had to do. Maybe it wasn't
such a bad thing; at least there wouldn't be any evidence of  me ever having
been there.
     There was no  sign of Carpenter or anyone else as we bumped  our way up
to the chain gate. I left it on the ground where I found it, as a warning to
Sergei. There  was  still a  chance  that  he'd got  away.  There'd been two
Hiluxes in the  hotel parking lot;  maybe he'd swiped  the other one. It was
too late now to  hope  that  he might get us  over the  border, but I  still
didn't  want him to get caught. He was a good guy, but  fuck it, I was on  a
new phase now, and one that had nothing to do with any of them.
     I had lost, I had to accept it. Now I had to take my chances with Val.
     "I'll drop you  off  at a train station,"  I said  as we  headed toward
Vaalimaa. "You can deal from there."
     "Of course. My people will extricate  me quite swiftly." There  was  no
emotion in his  voice. He  sounded like a Russian version of  Jeeves. "May I
give you some advice?"
     "Why not?"
     My eyes were fixed on the road, heading for the highway past  the town,
seeing nothing but piled-up snow on either side of me. The wind buffeted the
side of the car enough for me to have to keep adjusting the steering. It was
like having a heavy arctic drive past on a highway.
     "You will obviously want to leave the country quickly, Nick. May I
     suggest  Estonia?  From there  you can get  a flight  to  Europe fairly
easily, or  even a  ferry to Germany. After what has happened at  the hotel,
only a fool would  try to leave Helsinki by  air, or  cross into Sweden."  I
didn't reply, just stared at the snow in the headlights.
     Just  over  two hours  later  we were approaching Puistola, one of  the
Helsinki  suburbs. Not  that  I could see any of  it: first light wasn't for
another four  hours. People  would  soon be  waking  up to their cheese  and
meatballs and listening to  the radio accounts of  last night's gunfight  at
the O.K. Corral.
     I  looked for signs  to the train  station. The  morning rush  hour, if
there was one, would start in an hour or two.
     Pulling into the parking lot, I cut Val free of the emergency brake. He
knew to stay still and wait for me to tell him when to move. He was so close
to freedom, why jeopardize things now?
     I got out and  stood away  from the car, my  pistol in the pocket of my
down jacket. He crawled out and we both stood in a line of frozen-over cars,
in the dark, as  he sorted  himself out, tucking in  his clothes and running
his  hands  through his  hair. Still looking ridiculous in  Carpenter's snow
pants  and  ski  jacket, he clapped  his gloved  hands together  to get some
circulation going, eventually  extending one of them to me. The only shaking
I did was with  my head; he understood why and nodded. "Nick, thank you. You
will receive your reward for releasing me. P. P. Smith. Remember the rest?"
     Of course I  did.  My  eyes were fixed on his. I considered telling him
that if he was  lying to me,  I'd find him and kill  him, but  it would have
been a bit like telling Genghis Khan to watch himself.
     He  smiled. He'd read my mind again. "Don't  worry, you will see that I
am a man of my word." He turned and walked toward the station.
     I  watched him  crunch along in  the  snow, breath trailing behind him.
After about a dozen or  so  paces  he stopped  and turned. "Nick, a request.
Please do not bring a cell phone or pager  with you  to  Kensington,  or any
other electronic  device.  It's not the way  we conduct business.  Again,  I
thank you. I promise that you won't regret any of this."
     I made sure that he was out of the way, then got back into the car.
        7
     Norfolk ENGLAND Friday, December 10,1999
     The bedside clock burst  into wake-up mode dead on seven, sounding more
like  a  burglar  alarm. As I rolled over it took me three attempts before I
managed to hit the off button with my hand still inside the sleeping bag.
     The instant I  poked my  head out I  could tell  the boiler had stopped
working again. My house was a bit warmer than a  Finnish snow hole, but  not
much. It was yet another thing I needed  to straighten out,  along with some
bedding and a bed frame to go with the mattress I was lying on.
     I  slept in  a  pair  of  Ronhill  running bottoms and sweatshirt. This
wasn't the first time the boiler had broken down. I wrapped the unzipped bag
around me and pushed my feet into my sneakers with the heels squashed down.
     I headed  downstairs, the bag dragging along the floor. I'd  spent most
of my life being wet, cold, and hungry for  a living, so I hated doing it on
my  own  time. This was  the  first place I'd ever owned, and  in winter the
mornings felt much the same to me as waking up in the brush in South Armagh.
It wasn't supposed to work like that.
     The place was in the same state  as I'd left it before I went away just
over two weeks ago,  to RV with  Sergei  at the lake house, except  that the
tarp had blown off the hole in the  roof, and  the "For Sale" sign had  been
flattened by the wind. If it had stayed there any longer it
     would have taken root anyway. There wasn't enough time  to sort any  of
that out today.  I had three vitally important  meetings in London  in a few
hours' time, and they wouldn't wait for the boiler man.
     The  trip back to the U.K. had taken three days. I'd decided to find my
own way rather than take Val's advice to get out of Finland via Estonia.  It
wasn't as if we were sharing toothbrushes or anything,  so  I wasn't in  the
mood to trust everything he had to say. I drove to Kristians and in southern
Norway, and  from there  I  took  the  ferry to  Newcastle.  It was  full of
Norwegian  students. While  they got loaded I watched Sky News on  the snowy
screens. There  was footage of the  Intercontinental, with police apparently
doing a search for forensic  evidence, then came pictures of the dead, among
them  Sergei.  A  Finnish  government  spokeswoman gave a  news  conference,
declaring that  it  was  the  worst incident  of its type  their country had
witnessed  since  the 1950s, but declining to confirm whether  it was a  ROC
shooting, and stressing there was  no connection  with,  or risk to,  the EU
conference.  As far as they  were concerned, this was an unrelated matter. I
made my way down the  bare wooden staircase, trying not to snag the sleeping
bag  on the gripper tack strip that had been left behind when I'd  ripped up
the carpet.
     The  house was a disaster zone. It had  been ever since  I'd  bought it
after bringing Kelly back from the States in '97.  In theory it was idyllic,
up on the Norfolk coast  in the middle of nowhere. There was a small  corner
store, and three  fishing boats worked out of the tiny harbor. The highlight
of the day was when the local senior citizens took the free bus to the super
store eight miles away to do their big shop.
     The real estate agent must have rubbed his hands when he saw me coming.
A  1930s,  three-bed roomed mess of stone, just  six hundred  feet from  the
windy beach, it had been  empty for several years after the  previous owners
had  died,  probably  of  hypothermia.  The details  said,  "Some renovation
required, but with magnificent potential." In  other words, a  shit  load of
work was  needed. My  plan was to gut  the place and rebuild it. The ripping
out was okay; in  fact, I'd enjoyed  it. But  after a succession of builders
had sucked  through their teeth when giving me their quotes, and I'd  gotten
pissed off with them and  decided to do it myself, I'd lost interest. So now
the  house  was all  bare boards, studwork, and entrails  of wiring  that  I
didn't understand sticking out of the walls.
     Now that I was  responsible for Kelly,  it had seemed the right time to
fulfill the fantasy of  having a real home. But no  sooner  had  I exchanged
contracts than it had started to make me feel confined.
     I'd called the place in Hampstead, where she was being looked after, as
soon as I'd got back last night. They said she was much the same as when I'd
last seen her. I  was glad she was sleeping; it meant I didn't have to speak
to her. I did want to, but just never knew what the fuck to say. I'd gone to
see  her the day before leaving  for  Finland. She'd seemed  all  right, not
crying or anything, just quiet and strangely helpless.
     The kitchen  was in just as bad a  state as the rest of  the place. I'd
kept the old, yellow Formica counter, circa 1962. They'd do for  now. I  put
the kettle on the burner, readjusting the  sleeping bag around my shoulders,
and went  out into the porch to check for mail. It hadn't been stacked up on
the kitchen counter  as  I'd  expected. I also wondered  why the tarp hadn't
been replaced in my absence.
     I hadn't got a mailbox yet, but a blue trash can did just as well. Very
Finnish, I thought. There were four  envelopes--three  bills and a card. The
handwriting told me who the  card was from, and I knew before I read it that
I was about to get fucked off.
     Caroline had started coming here to look in on things now and again, to
collect the  mail  and check  the  walls hadn't  collapsed while I  was away
working as a traveling salesman.  She was in  her thirties and lived  in the
village. Her  husband no  longer lived  with her--it seemed he took too much
whiskey with his soda. Things were  going great between us; she was kind and
attractive, and whenever I  was  here we would link up for  an  afternoon or
two.  But  a couple of  months earlier she had  started  to  want  more of a
relationship than I felt able to offer.
     I  opened the card. I was right: no more visits or  mail collection. It
was  a shame; I  liked her a lot,  but it was  probably for the best. Things
were getting complicated. A gunshot  wound in the  stomach,  a reconstructed
earlobe, and  dog-tooth scars along  a forearm are hard to explain, whatever
you're trying to sell.
     Making a lumpy coffee with powdered  milk, I went upstairs  to  Kelly's
room. I  hesitated before I opened the  door, and it wasn't  because of  the
hole  in  the roof tiles.  There  were  things  in there that  I'd  done for
her--not as much as I'd have liked, but they had a habit of reminding me how
our lives should have been.
     I turned the handle. There had probably been more  wind than rain in my
absence, as  the stain on  the ceiling wasn't wet. The blue  two-man tent in
the middle  of the floor was  still  holding  out.  I'd  put  nails  in  the
floorboards  instead of  tent  pegs  and they  were rusty now, but  I  still
couldn't bring myself to take it down.
     On the mantel were two photos in cheap wooden picture frames, which I'd
promised to bring down to her on  my next visit. One  was  of her  with  her
family--her  parents Kev, Marsha;  and  her  sister Aida-all smiles around a
smoking barbecue.  It was  taken about a month before I'd  found them  hosed
down in their home in the spring of '97. I  bet she  missed this picture; it
was the only decent one she had.
     The other was of Josh and his kids. This was a recent one, as Josh  was
carrying a  face  scar that  any neo-Nazi would be proud of. It  was of  the
family  standing  outside  the  Special  Operations  Training Section of the
American Secret Service at Laurel, Maryland. Josh's  dark-pink gunshot wound
ran all the way  up the  right-hand  side of  his  cheek to his ear, like  a
clown's  smile. I hadn't had any contact with him since my stupidity got his
face rearranged in June '98.
     He and I still administered what was left of Kelly's trust fund, though
as her  legal guardian,  I'd found myself  shouldering more and more of  the
financial  responsibility.  Josh was aware of her problem,  but it  was just
done via letters now.  He was the  last real friend I had, and I  hoped that
maybe  one day  he  would forgive  me for  nearly getting him  and his  kids
killed. It was too  early to go  in and apologize--at least that was what  I
told myself. But  I  had  woken up late at night more than once, knowing the
real reason:  I  just couldn't  face all that sorrow and guilt stuff  at the
same time. I wanted to, I just wasn't any good at it.
     As I picked up Kelly's photos, I realized why I didn't have any myself.
They just made me think about the people in them.
     I cut away from  all that, promising myself that reestablishing contact
with Josh would be one of the first things I got done next year.
     I went into  the bathroom opposite, and ran the buttercup-colored bath.
I  had a  bit of a soft spot for the foam tiles,  now light  brown with age,
that lined the ceiling. I remembered my stepdad putting some up when I was a
kid. "These'll keep the heat in," he'd said,  then his  hand slipped and his
thumb left a dent. Every Sunday night, when I had a  bath, I  threw the soap
at the ceiling to add to the pattern.
     Returning to my bedroom, I put Kelly's photos on the mattress
     to make sure  I didn't forget them. I finished my coffee, then dug into
one of the cardboard boxes, looking for my leather pants.
     I checked the bath and  it was time to jump in, after hitting the small
radio on the floor, which was permanently tuned to Radio 4. The shooting was
still  high on the agenda. An "expert" on ROC declared  to listeners of  the
morning program that it had all the hallmarks of an inter faction  shooting.
He went on to say that he had known this was going to happen and, of course,
he  knew  the  group responsible. He could not,  however,  name them. He had
their trust. The interviewer sounded as unimpressed as I was.
     I lay  in the bath and glanced at Baby G. Another ten minutes and I had
to get moving.
     The  order  of the day was  first, the doctor's office at 11:30 to talk
about Kelly's progress,  then  lie to the clinic's accounts department about
why I  couldn't  pay  the new  invoice just  yet.  I didn't think they would
completely understand  if I  told them everything would have been fine if  a
mad Russian called Carpenter hadn't fucked up my cash flow.
     My next visit would  be to Colonel Lynn at  the Firm. I  wasn't looking
forward to that conversation, either. I hated having to plead.
     The  third  stop  on  my  agenda  was  Apartment 3A  Palace  Gardens in
Kensington.  What the hell, I  was  desperate.  I  didn't see  the  Maliskia
solving my financial problems.
     My  foray  into  the freelance market had only  reinforced my reluctant
dependence  on the Firm.  I had  been weapons-free from the Firm  since  the
fuckup in Washington with  Josh eighteen months before.  Lynn  was right, of
course, when he'd said  I should  feel lucky that I wasn't locked up in some
American jail. As for the Brits, I reckoned they were still trying to decide
what to do with me give me a knighthood or make me disappear. At least I was
getting paid two  grand a month in cash while they scratched their heads. It
was enough to cover Kelly's treatment for about seventy-two hours.
     Lynn made it clear that in no way did the retainer  mean  any change in
my status; he didn't say it in  so many  words, but I knew from the  look in
his eyes that I was still lowlife, a K spy, a deniable operator carrying out
shit jobs that no one else wanted to do. Nothing would change unless I could
get  Lynn to put my name forward for  permanent cadre, and time was  running
out. He  was  taking early retirement to his mushroom farm in Wales when  he
finished running the desk in
     February. I  didn't  have a  clue who was  taking over. Contacting  the
message service last night, I'd heard Lynn would see me at 1:30.
     If  I  ever got back into the boys' club, pay would be increased to 290
pounds a day for ops, 190 pounds for training, but in the meantime  I was in
the  shit.  The  chances of selling this house were zero; it was in  a worse
state than when I'd moved in.  I'd bought it for  cash, but I couldn't get a
loan against  it because I couldn't  prove my income. Since leaving the army
it had been cash in envelopes, rather than a regular paycheck.
     Getting out of the warm  bath into the  cold  bathroom, I dried  myself
quickly and got into my leathers.
     From inside the paneling that contained the cistern I retrieved my  9mm
HK Universal  Self-Loading  Pistol  (Heckler &  Koch  universal self-loading
pistol), a  chunky, square-edged semiautomatic  9mm, and two  thirteen-round
mags. Its holster was  my usual one, which could be shoved down the front of
my jeans or leathers.
     Sitting on the toilet lid, I bit open the plastic bag protecting it and
loaded  the loose rounds. I  always eased the mag's springs when  the weapon
wasn't needed. Most stoppages occur because of  a misfeed from the magazine,
either because the  mag's  not fully home in the pistol grip  or because the
mag spring has  been under tension for so  long that it doesn't do  its  job
when required. When the first round  is  fired it might not push the next up
into the breech.
     I  loaded the  weapon, inserting a mag into the pistol grip and ensured
it was fully home. To make the weapon ready, I pulled back  on the top slide
with my forefinger and  thumb  and let  go. The working parts moved  forward
under their own steam and rammed the  top round of the mag into the chamber.
I  had  three  Universal  Self Loading  Pistols in  the  house,  two  hidden
downstairs when I was here, and one under my bed--a little trick I'd learned
from Kelly's dad years ago.
     I checked chamber by pushing back slightly on the top slide and put the
weapon  and spare mag in my pocket, slung  the backpack over my shoulder and
locked up the house.
     Waiting for me outside was the bike of my dreams, a red Ducati 966 that
I'd treated myself to at the same time as the house. It lived in the garage,
another  stone  marvel  of 1930s  architecture, and there were  times when I
reckoned the sound of its engine bursting into life  was the only thing that
kept me from total despair.
        8
     The London traffic was  chaos. There were plenty of shopping  days left
till Christmas, but you wouldn't have thought so from the number of cars.
     As  I rode  down from Norfolk it had been cold, overcast, and dull, but
at least it was dry. Compared with Finland it was almost tropical.  I got to
Marble Arch in just under  three hours,  but progress  was going to  be slow
going from now on.  Weaving my way around stationary vehicles, I looked down
Oxford  Street,  where  the decorations blazed  and twinkled.  The season of
goodwill  was everywhere, it seemed, except  behind the  steering wheels  of
gridlocked vehicles and inside my head.
     I  was dreading this. The house I  called in  Hampstead last  night was
staffed  by  two  nurses who,  under  the psychiatrist's  supervision,  were
looking  after Kelly  twenty-four hours a  day. They took her to a clinic in
Chelsea several  times a week, where  Dr.  Hughes had  her consulting rooms.
Kelly's  round-the-clock  attention was costing me  just  over  four grand a
week. Most of the 300,000 I'd stolen from the drug cartels in  '97, together
with her trust fund, had been spent on her education, the house, and now her
treatment. There was nothing left.
     It had all  started about nine months ago. Her  grades since coming  to
England  had been  poor;  she was  an intelligent nine-year-old, but she was
like  a  big bucket  with  holes in it--everything was going in, but then it
just dripped out again. Apart from that, she'd shown no visible aftereffects
from the trauma. She was slightly nervous
     around  adults,  but  okay with her own age  group.  Then, at  boarding
school,  she'd started  to complain  about  pains, but  could never be  more
specific or explain  exactly where they  were. After several  false  alarms,
including the school nurse wondering if she was starting her periods  early,
her  teachers concluded that she was just attention seeking.  Then it slowly
got  worse; Kelly  gradually withdrew from  her  friends,  her teachers, her
grandparents, and me. She wouldn't  talk or play any more; she just  watched
TV, sat in  a sulk, or  sobbed. I didn't pay that much attention at first; I
was  worried about the  future and was too busy feeling pissed at not having
worked  since the previous summer while  I  waited for Lynn  to make up  his
mind.
     My usual response  to her sobbing  bouts  had been to go  and  get  ice
cream. I knew this wasn't the  answer, but I didn't know what was. It got to
the point where I even started  to get annoyed with her for not appreciating
my efforts. What an asshole I felt now.
     About five  months ago  she'd been with me in Norfolk for  the weekend.
She was distant and detached, and nothing I did seemed to engage her. I felt
like  a  school kid jumping around  a  fight  in the  playground, not really
knowing what to do: join  in, stop  it, or just run away. I tried playing at
camping with  her, putting  up the tent in her  bedroom. That night she woke
with  terrible nightmares.  Her screaming lasted all night. I  tried to calm
her, but  she just lashed out at me as if  she was having  a fit.  The  next
morning,  I  made  a  few  phone calls and found out there  was a  six-month
waiting list for a  public hospital appointment, and  even then I'd be lucky
if it helped. I made more calls and  later the same day  took her to see Dr.
Hughes,  a  London  psychiatrist  who specialized  in  child  trauma and who
accepted private patients.
     Kelly was admitted to the  clinic  at once for a  temporary assessment,
and I'd  had to leave her there to go on my first St.  Petersburg recce, and
to recruit Sergei.  I wanted to believe  that everything would be fine soon,
but knew deep down that it  wouldn't, not  for a long  time.  My worst fears
were confirmed when the doctor told me that besides regular treatment at the
clinic, she'd need the sort of constant care that only the unit in Hampstead
could provide.
     I'd been to visit her  there a total of four times now. We usually just
sat together and  watched TV for  the afternoon. I wanted to cuddle her, but
didn't know how. All my attempts at displaying affection
     seemed awkward and forced, and in the end I left feeling more fucked up
than she was.
     I swung right into Hyde Park.  The mounted soldiers were out exercising
their  horses before perching on them  for  hours outside some  building  or
other for the tourists. I rode  past the memorial stone to the ones who were
blown up by PIRA in 1982 while doing the same thing.
     I had some understanding of Kelly's condition, but only some. I'd known
men who'd suffered with PTSD  (posttraumatic stress disorder) but  they were
big boys  who'd been to  war. I wanted to  know  more  about  its effects on
children. Hughes told me it was natural for a child to go through a grieving
process  after  a  loss; but sometimes, after a sudden traumatic  event, the
feelings  can surface weeks,  months,  or  even years  later.  This  delayed
reaction  is PTSD, and the  symptoms are similar  to those  associated  with
depression  and  anxiety:  emotional  numbness;  feelings  of  helplessness,
hopelessness  and  despair;  and   reliving   the  traumatic  experience  in
nightmares.  It rang  so  true; I  couldn't remember the last time  I'd seen
Kelly smile, let alone heard her laugh.
     "The  symptoms vary  in  intensity  from  case  to  case,"  Hughes  had
explained, "but can  last for years if untreated. They certainly won't  just
go away on their own."
     I'd felt almost physically sick when I  realized that if only I'd acted
sooner,  Kelly  might have been  on  the mend by now.  It  must be how  real
fathers feel,  and  it was  probably  the  first  time  in my life that  I'd
experienced such emotions.
     The road through the  park ended and  I was  forced back onto  the main
drag.  Traffic was virtually at a  standstill.  Delivery vans  were stopping
exactly where they wanted and hitting their  flashers. Motorcycle messengers
screamed through impossible gaps,  taking bigger chances than I was prepared
to.  I slowly  worked  my  way in  and  out of it  all, heading  down toward
Chelsea.
     Things were just as bad on the sidewalk. Shoppers  loaded with shopping
bags collided with  each other and caused jams at store entrances. And as if
things weren't  bad enough,  I didn't have a  clue what I was going  to  get
Kelly for  Christmas.  I  passed a phone shop and thought of getting  her  a
cell, but fuck it, I wasn't even any good at talking to her face to face. At
a clothes shop I thought of  getting her a couple of new outfits, but  maybe
she'd think I didn't think she
     was capable of choosing her own.  In the  end  I gave up. Whatever  she
said she wanted, she could have. That was if the clinic left me any money to
pay for it with.
     I eventually got to where I wanted to be and parked. "The Moorings" was
a large town house in a  leafy square, with clean bricks, recent re pointing
and lots of gleaming fresh paint. Everything about it said it specialized in
the disorders of the rich.
     The  receptionist pointed me to the waiting room, a  place  I was  very
familiar with by now, and I settled down  with  a magazine about the sort of
wonderful  country houses that mine would never be. I was  reading about the
pros  and  cons  of  conventional  compared  with under  floor heating,  and
thinking that it must  be  rather nice  to have any  sort at  all, when  the
receptionist appeared and ushered me into the consulting room.
     Dr.  Hughes  looked as striking as  ever.  She was in her  mid  to late
fifties, and looked like she and her consulting rooms could have featured in
Lifestyles of  the Rich and Famous. She had the  kind of  big gray hair that
made her look more like an American anchorwoman than a shrink. My overriding
impression was that she appeared incredibly pleased with herself most of the
time, especially  when  explaining  to me, over the  top of her gold-rimmed,
half-moon glasses that no, sorry,  Mr. Stone,  it was impossible to  be more
definite about timetables.
     I declined the coffee she offered. There was always too much time  lost
sitting around while waiting for it, and in this place time was money.
     Sitting down on the chair facing her desk,  I placed the backpack at my
feet. "She hasn't got worse, has she?"
     The  doctor  shook   her  unusually   large  head,  but  didn't  answer
immediately.
     "If it's about the money, I--"
     She lifted her  hand and  gave me a patient, patronizing  look. "Not my
department, Mr.  Stone. I'm sure the people downstairs have everything under
control."
     They  certainly did. And  my  problem was that supermodels and football
players  might  be able to afford  four grand a week, but soon I wouldn't be
able to.
     The doctor looked at me over the  top of her glasses. "I  wanted to see
you, Mr. Stone, because I need to discuss Kelly's prognosis.
     She  is still really quite subdued, and we aren't achieving any sort of
progress toward her cure. You will remember I spoke to you a while ago about
a  spectrum  of behavior,  with complete inertia  at  one  extreme and manic
activity at the other?"
     "You said that  both  ends  of the  spectrum were equally bad,  because
either way the  person  is unreachable.  The good ground is anywhere in  the
middle."
     The doctor gave a brief smile, pleased  and perhaps surprised that  I'd
been  paving attention all those weeks ago.  "It was our aim, you will  also
remember, to  achieve at least some movement  away from the  inertia! state.
Our best hope  was to get her into the central area of the spectrum, not too
low or too high, able to interact and make relationships, adapt and change."
She picked up a pen and scribbled a note to herself on a yellow Post-it pad.
"I'm  afraid  to  say,  however,  that  Kelly  is  still  very  passive  and
preoccupied.  Stuck, if you like, or cocooned; either unable or unwilling to
relate."
     She peered over her glasses again, as if to  underline  the seriousness
of what  she was saying. "Young children are  deeply affected  by witnessing
violence,  Mr. Stone, particularly  when the  victims of  that violence  are
family members. Kelly's grandmother  has been describing to me her  previous
cheerfulness and energy."
     "She used to be such fun to be with,"  I said. "She never  laughs at my
jokes now." I paused. "Maybe they're just not very good."
     The  doctor looked a little disappointed at my remark.  "I'm afraid her
current behavior  is  such a  contrast to how  she  was previously  that  it
indicates to me that the  road to recovery is going to be even longer than I
at first thought."
     Which  meant even  more expensive. I  was  ashamed at  even having  the
thought, but there was no getting away from it.
     "What sort of time scale are we looking at?"
     She pursed her lips  and shook her head slowly.  "It's still impossible
to answer  that question, Mr. Stone. What we're trying to repair here is not
something as simple as a fractured limb. I appreciate that you would like me
to  give you some sort of schedule, but I can't.  The course of the disorder
is quite variable. With adequate  treatment,  about  a third of  people with
PTSD  will  recover  within a  few months.  Some of  these  have no  further
problems.  Many  take  longer, sometimes  a  year  or more.  Others, despite
treatment, continue  to have mild to moderate symptoms for  a more prolonged
period of
     time.  I'm afraid  that  you really  must prepare yourself for  a  long
haul."
     "Is there nothing I can do to help?"
     For  the  second  time,  Dr.  Hughes  smiled briefly. It was fleetingly
triumphant rather than warm, and I got the feeling I'd fallen into some kind
of trap.
     "Well," she  said, "I  did ask  you  here today for  a specific reason.
Kelly is here, in one of the rooms."
     I started getting up. "Can I see her?"
     She, too,  stood up. "Yes, of course. That is the object. But I have to
say, Mr. Stone, that I'd rather she didn't see you."
     "I'm sorry? I "
     The doctor  cut in. "There's something I'd like you to see first."  She
opened a drawer in  her desk, pulled out several  sheets of paper and pushed
them across the  desk. I wasn't prepared  for the  shock  they gave me.  The
pictures Kelly had drawn  of her  dead family looked very different from the
happy smiling photograph I had in my backpack.
     The  one of her mother  showed  her kneeling by  the bed, her  top half
spreadeagled on the mattress, the bedcover colored in red.
     In another,  her  five-year-old  sister,  Aida, was lying on the  floor
between the bath and the toilet, her head nearly severed from her shoulders.
The nice  blue dress she'd been wearing that  day was  spattered chaotically
with red crayon.
     Kev, her father and my best friend, was lying  on his side on the floor
of the den, his head pulped by the baseball bat that lay next to him.
     I looked at the doctor. "They're the positions I found them in that day
exactly ... I hadn't realized ..."
     I'd found her in her  "hidey-hole," the place where Kev wanted the kids
to run to if there was ever a drama. She'd never said a word to me about it,
and I'd never thought that she might have  witnessed the carnage.  It was as
though the events were recorded in her memory with the clarity of a camera.
     Hughes looked over her glasses. "Kelly has even remembered the color of
the comforter on her  bed that day, and what was playing on the radio as she
helped set the table in the kitchen. She has talked to  me about how the sun
was shining through the window and reflecting on the silverware. She recalls
that Aida had lost a hair
     band just before the  men  came.  She's now  just replaying the  events
immediately preceding the  killings, in  an  effort,  I suggest, to  achieve
another outcome."
     I  was relieved that her  flashbacks didn't go any  further, but if the
treatment  worked  she would  surely  begin  to  recount  what  had occurred
afterward. When  it did,  I would have to involve the Firm to sort  out  any
"security implications"  that might arise; but for now, they didn't  need to
know that she was ill.
     The psychiatrist interrupted my thoughts.  "Come with me, if you  will,
Mr.  Stone. I'd like you to see  her and explain a little more  about what I
hope we can achieve."
     She led me a short way  down the hall. I couldn't make sense of any  of
this. Why wasn't  Kelly allowed to  see me?  We turned left  and walked on a
while, stopping outside  a door  that had a curtain across a small  pane  of
glass. She poked it very slightly aside with  a finger and  looked  through,
then moved back and motioned for me to do the same.
     I looked through the glass and wished I  hadn't. The images of  Kelly I
kept in my memory were carefully selected shots from before she got sick, of
a little girl quivering with excitement at her birthday party on the replica
of the Golden Hind, or shrieking with delight when I finally kept my promise
to take her to the Tower of London and she got to  see the Crown Jewels. The
real-life Kelly, however, was  sitting on a chair next to a nurse. The nurse
seemed to be chatting  away,  all  smiles. Kelly, however, wasn't  replying,
wasn't  moving. Hands folded  politely  in her lap,  she was staring  at the
window opposite her,  her head cocked to one  side, as if  she was trying to
work something out.  There was something deeply  scary about  how still  she
was. The nurse wasn't moving much, either, but Kelly's was an unnatural kind
of stillness. It was like looking at a  frozen  image, an oil  painting of a
young girl in  an armchair, next to  a  film  of a  nurse who happened to be
sitting still, but who would move again in a second or two.
     I'd seen it before. It  was four years ago, but it could have been four
minutes.
     I was on my hands and knees in her family's garage, talking gently as I
moved  boxes and  squeezed through the gap,  inching  toward the  back wall,
trying to push the images of the carnage next door behind me.
     Then there she was, facing me, eyes wide with terror, sitting curled up
in  a fetal  position, rocking her body backward  and forward,  holding  her
hands over her ears.
     "Hello, Kelly," I'd said very softly.
     She  must have recognized me--she'd known me for years--but she  hadn't
replied.  She'd just carried on rocking, staring at me  with  wide,  scared,
dark eyes. I'd crawled right into the cave until I was curled up beside her.
Her  eyes were red and swollen. She'd been crying and strands of light brown
hair were stuck to her face. I tried to move it away from her mouth.
     I got hold of her rigid hand and guided her gently out into the garage.
Then I picked her up in my arms and held her tight as I carried her into the
kitchen.  She was trembling so much I couldn't tell if her head was  nodding
or shaking. A few minutes later, when we drove away from the house, she  was
almost rigid with shock. And that was it, that was the stillness I saw now.
     The doctor's mouth came up close to my  ear. "Kelly has been forced  to
learn  early  lessons  about  loss   and  death,  Mr.   Stone.  How  does  a
seven-year-old, as she was  then, understand  murder? A  child who witnesses
violence has been  shown  that the world  is  a dangerous and  unpredictable
place. She has told  me that she doesn't think she'll ever feel safe outside
again. It's nobody's fault, but her experience has made her think the adults
in her life are unable  to protect her.  She  believes  she must take on the
responsibility herself--a prospect that causes her great anxiety."
     I looked at the frozen girl once more. "Is there nothing I can do?"
     The doctor nodded slowly as she replaced the curtain and turned to head
back up  the hallway. As we walked  she  said, "In time, we need to help her
gently examine and review  the  traumatic  events  that happened to her, and
learn  to  conquer  her feelings  of anxiety. Her treatment  will eventually
involve  what are best described as  "talking therapies,"  by herself or  in
groups, but she's not really ready for that yet. I  will need to keep her on
antidepressant  medication and  mild  tranquilizers for a while yet, to help
lessen some of the more painful symptoms.
     "The aim eventually will be to help Kelly remember the traumatic events
safely, and  to  address  her  family  life, peer relationships,  and school
performance. Generally we need to help her deal with
     all  the emotions she's having trouble making sense  of at  the moment:
grief, guilt, anger, depression, anxiety. You  notice, Mr. Stone, I'm saying
'we'."
     We had reached her room  and went back inside. I sat down again and she
went to the other side of her desk.
     "Parents are usually the most important emotional  protectors for their
children,  Mr. Stone.  They  can  do a  much  better  job of psychologically
reassuring their  children  than professionals can.  They can help them talk
about their fears, reassure them that  Mummy and  Daddy  will do whatever is
possible to protect them, and stay close. Sadly that's not a possibility for
Kelly, of course, but  she  still  needs a  responsible  adult  whom she can
depend upon."
     I was beginning to understand. "Her grandmother, you mean?"
     I could have sworn I saw her shudder.
     "Not quite what I had in mind. You see, a  major  factor in any child's
recovery   from  PTSD  is  that  the  prime  caregiver  must  communicate  a
willingness  to talk about the  violence and  be  a  nonjudgmental listener.
Children need to know that  it's  permissible  to talk about violence. Kelly
needs permission, if you like, to talk about what happened to her. Sometimes
caregivers may  subtly discourage  children from talking about  violence  in
their lives for whatever reason, and this, I sense, is the case with Kelly's
grandparents.
     "I think her grandmother feels hurt and discouraged that Kelly has lost
interest  in family activities  and is  easily angered and so detached.  She
finds it  very upsetting to hear  the details--maybe because she believes it
will be  less  upsetting for  Kelly  if she doesn't  talk about  it. On  the
contrary, children often feel relieved and unburdened by sharing information
with trusted adults. It  also may be  useful therapeutically for children to
review events and air their  fears by retelling the story. I don't mean that
we should coerce Kelly into talking about what happened, but reassurance and
validation once  she has volunteered  it will  be  immensely helpful to  her
recovery."
     She  was beginning to lose me in  all her psychobabble. I couldn't  see
what I had to do with all this.
     As if she'd read my mind, Dr. Hughes pursed her  lips again and did her
trick with  the half-moon glasses. "What it all boils down to, Mr. Stone, is
that  Kelly  is  going  to need  a trusted  adult  alongside  her during the
recovery process, and in my view the ideal person to do that is you."
     She paused to let the implications of what she was saying sink in.
     "You see, she trusts you; she speaks of you with the  utmost affection,
seeing you as the nearest thing she has now to a father. What she needs, far
more than  just the attention  and  therapy we professionals can provide, is
your acceptance of,  and commitment  to,  that  fact." She added  pointedly,
"Would you have difficulties with that, Mr. Stone?"
     "My employers might. I need "
     She  held  up her  hand.  "You have seen the cocoon in  which Kelly has
placed herself. There  is  no formula  that guarantees breaking through when
someone is out of reach. But whatever the cause is, a form  of loving has to
be there in  the solution. What Kelly needs is a prince on a white  horse to
come and free her from the dragon. It is my view that she's decided  not  to
come  out  until you  are an  integral part of  her life again. I'm sorry to
burden you with this responsibility, Mr. Stone, but Kelly is my patient, and
it's her best interests that I must have at heart. For that reason, I didn't
want her to see  you today; I don't want her to build up hopes only  to have
them dashed. Please go away and think  about  it, but believe me, the sooner
you are able to commit, the sooner Kelly's condition will start  to improve.
Until then, any sort of cure is on hold."
     I reached  into my backpack and  pulled out  the framed photographs. It
was the  only thing I  could think  of.  "I  brought these for  her. They're
pictures of her family. Maybe they'll be some help."
     The doctor took them from me, still waiting for an answer. When she saw
she wasn't going to get one not today, anyway she nodded  quietly to herself
and ushered me gently, but firmly, toward the door. "I'll be seeing her this
afternoon. I'll telephone you later; I have the number. And  now, I believe,
you have an appointment with the people downstairs?"
        10
     I was feeling pretty depressed as I headed east along the northern side
of  the Thames, toward the city center. Not  just for Kelly,  but  for me. I
forced myself to admit it: I  hated the  responsibility. And yet I had those
promises to Kevin to live up to.
     I had enough problems  looking after myself, without doctors telling me
what  I should be doing  for other people. Being  in charge of others in the
field was  fine. Having a man down in a contact was straightforward compared
to  this. You just got in there, dragged him out of  the shit and plugged up
his holes. Sometimes he lived, sometimes not. It was something I didn't have
to think about. The man down always  knew that  someone  would be coming for
him;  it  helped him  stay alive.  But this was  different. Kelly was my man
down,  but it wasn't just a question  of plugging  up holes; she didn't know
whether help was on the way or not. Nor did I. I knew there was one  thing I
could do: make  money to pay for  her  treatment.  I'd be there for her, but
later.  Right now, I needed to keep busy and produce  money.  It  had always
been "later" for Kelly, whether it was a phone call or a birthday treat, but
that was going to change. It had to.
     Working my way  through the traffic, I eventually got onto the approach
road to Vauxhall Bridge. As I crossed to the  southern side, I  looked up at
Vauxhall Cross, home of SIS. A beige-and-black pyramid with the top cut off,
flanked by large towers on either side, it needed just a few swirls of  neon
to look totally at home in Las Vegas.
     Directly opposite Vauxhall Cross, over the road and about one
     hundred yards away, was an elevated section of railway that led  off to
Waterloo  Station. Most of the arches  beneath had been converted into shops
or  warehouses.  Passing  the  SIS  building,  I  negotiated  the   five-way
intersection and bumped the sidewalk, parking  by two arches which  had been
knocked  through to  make a massive motorcycle  shop--the  one I'd bought my
Ducati  from. I  wasn't  going in  today; it was just an easy place to park.
Checking my  saddle  was secure so  that no  one could  steal  my  Universal
Self-Loading Pistol, I put my  helmet in the backpack,  crossed  a couple of
feeder roads and took the metal footbridge over the intersection, eventually
entering  the building via  a  single  metal door  that  funneled  me toward
reception.
     The interior of the Firm looked  much the same as  any hightech  office
block: clean,  sleek, and with  an efficient  corporate feel  about it, with
people  swiping  their  identity  cards through  electronic  readers  to get
access. I  headed for  the main  reception desk, where  two women sat behind
thick bulletproof glass.
     "I'm here to see Mr. Lynn."
     "Can you fill this in please?" The older one passed a ledger  through a
slot under the glass.
     As I signed my name in two boxes she picked up  a telephone. "Who shall
I say is here?"
     "My name is Nick." I hadn't even  had any cover documentation from them
since  my fuckup in Washington, just my own cover which I hoped they'd never
know about. I'd  organized it  in case it was time to disappear, a feeling I
had at least once a month.
     The ledger held tear-off  labels. One half was torn away  and put  in a
plastic  sleeve,  which I  would have to  pin  on. Mine  was  blue and said,
"Escorted Everywhere."
     The  woman got off  the phone  and  pointed to  a  row  of soft chairs.
"Someone will be with you soon."
     I  sat  and waited  with my nice new badge on,  watching suited men and
women come and go. Dress-down Friday hadn't reached this far upriver yet. It
wasn't often that people like me got to come here; my last visit had been in
'97. I'd hated it that time, too. They managed to  make you  feel that, as a
K,  you weren't very welcome,  turning up  and spoiling the smart  corporate
image of the place.
     After about  ten minutes of feeling  as if  I was  waiting  outside the
headmaster's study, an old Asian  guy in a natty  blue pinstripe suit pushed
his way through the barrier.
     "Nick?"
     I nodded and got to my feet.
     He half-smiled. "If you'd like to follow me." A swipe  of the card that
hung round his neck got  him back  through  the barrier;  I  had to pass the
metal detector before we met on the other side and walked to the elevators.
     "We're going to the fifth floor."
     I nodded and let the silence hang  as we rode the elevator, not wanting
to let him know that I knew. It saved on small talk.
     Once on the fifth I followed  him. There was little  noise coming  from
any of the offices along the hallway, just the hum  of air conditioning  and
the creak of my feathers.
     At  the far  end we turned  left,  passing Lynn's old  office.  Someone
called  Turnbull had it  now. Two doors down I  saw  Lynn's name on the door
plate.  My  escort knocked and was met by the characteristically  crisp  and
immediate call of  "Come!"  He ushered me past  and I heard  the  door close
gently behind me. Lynn's bald crown faced me as he wrote at his desk.
     He might have a new office, but it was quite clear he was a creature of
habit.  The  interior was  exactly  the same as his last;  exactly  the same
furniture  and  plain, functional, impersonal ambience. The only  thing that
showed he  wasn't  a  mannequin planted  here for decoration was  the framed
photograph of a  group, which I presumed were his much younger wife and  two
children, sitting  on a stretch of grass with the family Labrador. Two rolls
of Christmas wrapping paper leaning against the wall  behind him showed that
he did have a life.
     Mounted on a  wall  bracket above me to the right was a TV, the  screen
showing CNN  world  news headlines.  The  only thing I  couldn't see was the
obligatory officer's  squash  racket and winter coat  on a  stand. They were
probably behind me.
     I stood and  waited for him to finish. Normally I  would just  have sat
down and made myself at home, but today was different. There was what people
like him tend to call an atmosphere, and I didn't want to annoy him any more
than  I  needed to. We'd  parted on less than good terms the last  time we'd
met.
     His fountain pen sounded unnaturally loud on the  paper.  My eyes moved
to  the window behind him, and  I gazed over the Thames at the new apartment
building being finished off on the north side of the bridge.
     "Take a seat. I'll be with you very soon."
     I did, on the same wooden chair I'd sat on three years ago, my leathers
drowning the scratch of his writing as I bent down and placed my backpack on
the floor. It was becoming increasingly obvious that this was going to be  a
short meeting, an interview  without  coffee, otherwise the  Asian guy would
have asked me if I took milk or cream before I'd gone in.
     I hadn't seen Lynn since the debrief after Washington in '98. Like  his
furniture, he hadn't changed. Nor  had his clothes: the same mustard-colored
corduroy trousers, sports  jacket with well worn leather elbows, and flannel
shirt. With his shiny dome still  facing me, I could see that he hadn't lost
any more hair,  which I was sure Mrs. Lynn was very happy  about. He  really
didn't have the ears to be a complete baldilocks.
     He finished writing and put aside what I could now see was a typed page
of  legal paper that looked as if a teacher had marked it. Looking up with a
half-amused smile  at  my  outfit, he  brought  his hands  together,  thumbs
touching  as he rested them on  top of  the  desk.  Since  Washington,  he'd
treated me  as  if  he was a  bank manager and  I  was asking  for a  bigger
overdraft, trying hard to be  nice, but  at the same time looking down on me
with disdain. That, I didn't mind, as long as he didn't expect me to look up
to him with reverence.
     "Wot  can I do  fer  yer, Nick?"  He was  ribbing my  accent, but  in a
sarcastic, not jovial  way.  He really didn't like me.  My Washington fuckup
had put the seal on that.
     I  bit my lip. I  had to be nice to him. He was the ticket to the money
Kelly  needed,  and even though I  had  the sinking  feeling that my be-nice
routine wasn't going to work, I had to give it my best shot.
     "I really would like to know if I am ever going to get PC," I said.
     He settled  back into his leather swivel  chair  and produced the other
half  of  his smile. "You know, you are very lucky still  to be at  liberty,
Nick. You already have a lot to be thankful  for, and  do bear in mind, your
freedom is still not guaranteed."
     He was right, of course. I owed the Firm for the fact that I wasn't  in
some U.S. state penitentiary with a cellmate  called Big Bubba who wanted to
be my special friend. Even if it was more to do  with saving themselves even
more embarrassment than protecting me.
     "I do understand that, and I'm really grateful for all that you've done
for me, Mr. Lynn. But I really need to know."
     Leaning forward,  he  studied the  expression on my  face. It must have
been  the "Mr.  Lynn"  bit that  made  him  suspicious.  He could  smell  my
desperation.
     "After your  total lack of judgment, do you really  think you'd ever be
considered  for  permanent  cadre?" His face flushed. He was  angry.  "Think
yourself lucky you're  still  on  a retainer. Do you really  think  that you
would be considered for  work after you" his right index finger  started  to
endorse the  facts as he poked it at  me,  his  voice  getting  louder "one,
disobey my direct order to kill that damned woman; two, actually believe her
preposterous story and assist  her assassination attempt in the White House.
God, man, your judgment was no better than a love struck schoolboy's. Do you
really think a  woman like that  would be  interested in  you?"  He couldn't
contain himself. It was as  if I'd touched a raw nerve. "And to  cap it all,
you used  a member of the American Secret Service to get you in  there  .. .
who then gets shot! Do  you realize the havoc you've caused, not only in the
U.S. but  here?  Careers have been ruined  because of you. The answer is no.
Not now, not ever."
     Then  I  realized.  This  wasn't just  about me,  and it  wasn't  early
retirement at  the  end of his tour next year to  spend more  time  with his
mushrooms; he had been canned. He'd been running  the Ks  at the time of the
Sarah  debacle, and someone  had  had  to pay.  People  like Lynn  could  be
replaced;  people like  me  were  more  difficult  to blow out, if  only for
financial  reasons.  The  government  had  invested several  million  in  my
training as  a Special Air Service soldier. They wanted to get their money's
worth out of me. It must have  killed  him to know that I  was the one who'd
fucked  up, but he was  the one to carry  the blame probably as  part of the
deal to appease the Americans. He sat back  into his chair, realizing he had
lost his usual control.
     "If not PC, when will I work?"
     He had  gained a  little more  composure.  "Nothing is  going to happen
until the new  department head takes over. He  will decide what  to do  with
you."
     It was  time for  me to lose all pride. "Look,  Mr. Lynn, I really need
the money. Any shit job will do. Send me anywhere. Anything you've got."
     "That child you look after. Is she still in care?"
     Shit, I hated it  when they knew these things. It was pointless  lying;
he probably even knew down to the last penny how much money I needed.
     I nodded. "It's the clinic costs. She'll be there for a long time."
     I looked at his family  portrait, then  back at him. He had kids;  he'd
understand.
     He didn't  even pause. "No. Now go. Remember, you are still being  paid
and you will conduct yourself accordingly."
     He pressed  his buzzer and the Asian guy came to  collect me so fast he
must have been listening through  the keyhole.  At least  I got  to see  the
squash racket on the way out. It was leaning against the wall by the door.
     Taking  a  breath,  I  nearly turned  back  to  tell  him  to  ram  his
patronizing, hate-filled words up his ass. I had nothing to lose; what could
he  do to me now? Then I thought better of letting my mouth react  to what I
was thinking. This would be the last time I ever saw him, and I  was sure it
was the last time he ever wanted to see me. Once he'd gone it would be a new
department  head and maybe a new chance. Why burn my bridges? I'd get my own
back later. I'd jump all over his mushrooms.
     I was still feeling  philosophical about  the meeting at 3A. If Val had
been feeding me  a crock of shit, well, there you go, at least I was  on  my
turf rather than his. That was the way I wanted it to stay, so I'd tucked my
Universal Self-Loading  Pistol into my leathers before I left the bike shop,
just in case.
     All the  same, I knew I'd  be really  pissed if no  one was at the flat
with a little something for me, as long as it was  wrapped in a big envelope
and not a full metal jacket. I'd soon be finding out.
     The traffic in Kensington was at a standstill. At one set of lights the
bike got wedged between a black cab and a woman  in  a Mere with very  dyed,
long blond hair, held  off her face by Chanel sunglasses, even though it was
the  middle of winter. She tried  to look casual as she chatted on  her cell
phone. The cabbie looked over at me and couldn't help himself from laughing.
     Palace  Gardens stretches the  whole  length of  Hyde Park's west side,
from Kensington in the south to Netting Hill Gate in the north. I rode up to
the  iron gates  and the wooden gatehouse  positioned  between them. Sitting
inside was a bald man in his fifties, wearing a white shirt, black tie,  and
blue nylon jacket.
     Beyond  him lay a wide  tree-lined road  and pavements of  clean  beige
gravel. The large mansion houses were mostly embassies and their residences.
Flags fluttered and brass plates gleamed. The sale  price of even one of the
staff apartments  would probably clear my  debts at the clinic, pay  Kelly's
education right through to doctorate level, and  still leave enough to put a
new roof over most of Norfolk.
     The gate man looked me up and down  as if I was something  one  of  the
posh embassy dogs had left  coiled on the curb. He didn't get up, just stuck
his head out of the window. "Yes?"
     "Number 3A, mate. Pickup." I  pointed  to the now empty backpack  on my
back. I  really  hadn't planned to be a messenger today,  but  it seemed the
easiest thing to do.  At least I looked  the part, with the leathers  and my
South London accent turned up a notch or two.
     He pointed  up the road. "Hundred yards up  on the  left. Don't park in
front  of the building. Put your machine over  there."  He indicated to  the
opposite side of the road.
     I let in the clutch and waited for the  steel barriers  blocking my way
to  disappear  into the road. The  Israeli embassy loomed  up on my  left. A
dark-skinned guard in plain clothes stood outside  on the pavement.  He must
have been feeling quite cold, as his  coat and suit jacket  were unbuttoned.
If anyone attacked the place  he had to be  able to reach his weapon and gun
them down before the uniformed British policeman on the opposite side of the
road got a chance to step in and make a simple arrest instead.
     About  two hundred feet past them  both  I  parked in the line of  cars
opposite the apartment building. Walking across the  road toward  its  grand
gates, I started removing my gloves and unbuckling my helmet, then I hit the
bell and explained  to  a  voice where I wanted to go. The  side gate opened
with a whirr and a click and I walked through and down the drive.
     The building was bigger than most  of those around it and set back from
the road. It was made of red brick and concrete and was decades younger than
its neighbors,  with manicured gardens  on  each side of the drive that  led
downhill to a turning circle with an ornate fountain at its center.
     Pulling  off  the ski  mask that kept the cold off my  face,  I  walked
through  the  main doors into a  glittering  dark marble and glass reception
area. The doorman, another king sitting on his throne, seemed to view me the
same way as his mate down the road. "Delivery, is it?"
     Nobody calls you sir when you're in bike leathers.
     It was  time to play  messenger boy  again. "Nah,  pick-up P. P. Smith,
mate."
     He picked up the internal telephone and dialed, his voice changing into
Mr. Nice Guy the moment he got a reply. "Hello,
     reception here, you have  a messenger for a collection.  Do you want me
to send him up? Certainly. Goodbye." The phone went down and he turned surly
again as he pointed to the elevator. "Third floor, fourth door on the left."
     As the  elevator doors closed behind me  I had a quick  check round for
closed-circuit  cameras, then  pulled out my Universal Self  Loading Pistol.
Checking  chamber, I hit the button for  the third floor. I never knew why I
checked chamber so much. Maybe it just made me feel more in control.
     As  the elevator kicked in  with  a slight  jerk  and took me upward, I
folded the  ski mask over the  Universal Self-Loading Pistol and  placed it,
and  my right hand, in the helmet. If there was a drama, I  could just  drop
the helmet and react.
     The elevator slowed. Placing my thumb on the safety catch, I was ready.
     The door slid open with an up market ding, but I  stood my ground for a
few seconds, listening, helmet still in my left hand so I could draw with my
right.
     The  temperature changed as  I  stepped  into the hallway and the doors
closed behind  me. It was hot, but the  decor was cold: white  walls,  cream
carpet, and very brightly lit.
     I followed the carpet, looking for the fourth  door on the left. It was
so quiet that all I could hear as I moved was the creaking of my leathers.
     The  door didn't  have a  bell,  knocker,  or even  a  number. Using my
knuckles against the heavy wood, I stood off to the side, my right hand back
on the pistol grip, thumb easing off the safety catch.
     I  hated  this bit. It wasn't  as if I was  expecting  trouble;  it was
highly unlikely  to happen here, given all the security I'd had to pass. But
still, I  hated  knocking on doors and  not knowing who or  what was  on the
other side.
     Footsteps echoed on  a  hard floor  and  locks  were  undone.  The door
started to open,  only to be stopped  by a security chain. A face, or rather
half a face, moved into the three- or four-inch gap. It was enough for me to
recognize its  owner at  once. I was pleasantly surprised. It would  be much
friendlier dealing with her than some square head
     Looking almost innocent, Val's woman from  Helsinki was showing me just
one very light-blue eye and some dark-blond hair. It
     probably got lighter in the summer, when the sun got to work on it. The
only other  thing I could  see  through  the  gap  was  her dark-blue woolen
turtleneck.
     She looked at me without any expression, waiting for me to speak.
     "My name is Nick. You have something for me."
     "Yes, I've been expecting you." She didn't bat an eye. "Have you a cell
phone or pager with you?"
     I nodded. "Yeah,  I've got a phone." Fuck  what  Valentin  had said.  I
needed one with me for when the clinic called later.
     "Could I ask you to turn it off, please?"
     "It is." It was pointless wasting the battery while sitting on a bike.
     Tilting the helmet slightly so the pistol wouldn't  fall out, I reached
into my right-hand pocket and pulled out the phone, showing her the display.
     She gave a very courteous "Thank you," then the door closed and I heard
the chain  being undone. The door reopened  fully, but  instead of  standing
there and ushering me in, she turned and started to walk back into the flat.
"Close the door behind you, would you please, Nick?"
     As I stepped  over the  threshold  I smelled floor wax.  I followed her
down the hallway, taking in the apartment's layout. A  couple  of doors  led
off  either  side,  and  one at the far end  was partly open. The  floor was
plain,  light  wood,  the  walls  and  doors  gleaming  white. There  was no
furniture or pictures, not even a coat hook.
     I switched  my attention  to  Val's woman. I'd thought it was her  high
heels that  had made her look so tall  in Finland, but I could  see now that
her legs did that all on their own. She was maybe just over six feet tall in
her square-toed cowboy boots, which made a slow  rhythmic clack as her heels
hit  the  floor. She walked like a super model on  a catwalk. Her  legs were
sheathed in  a pair of  Armani jeans, the logo on the back pocket  moving up
and down in time with her heels. I couldn't keep my eyes off it.
     Slipping the  pistol into  my right-hand pocket, I moved the phone into
my left, all  the  time  looking at her and thinking that  Armani  should be
paving her for this. I was almost tempted to buy myself a pair.
     One  door  to the  right was  partly open, and  I  glanced through. The
kitchen  was  just  as  sterile  as  the  hallway: stark  white  stools at a
breakfast bar, no kettle, no letters on the side. Nobody lived here.
     I walked into the living  room where she now stood, a large white space
with three unmatching  dining-room chairs  at  its center.  Muslin  curtains
covered the windows, making the light dull and hazy.
     The only other objects  in the room were  four very large Harrods bags,
which looked as if they were about to split at the seams, and a Borders bag,
the telltale shapes of books pushing at its sides.
     I moved  to the far corner of  the  room and  leaned against the  wall.
Through  the double glazing of  the large  picture  windows I could hear the
faint murmur of traffic.
     She bent over one of the shopping bags and pulled out a buff envelope.
     "My name  is Liv. Valentin sends his regards," she said  as she brought
it over to me. "And, of course,  his gratitude. This is for you. One hundred
thousand U.S. dollars."
     Wonderful.  That  was  the slate clean at the clinic, and  another four
months' treatment in the bank.
     She extended a perfectly manicured hand that showed she was no longer a
teenager. The  skin on her face was crystal clear and had no need of makeup.
I  reckoned she  was  in her  early  thirties. Her hair was shoulder length,
parted over her left eye, and tucked back behind her ear.
     If she was wearing nail polish today, it was  clear. She wore no rings,
no bracelets, earrings, or necklaces.  The  only  jewelry I could see  was a
discreet  gold tank watch with a black leather strap. But  then, she  needed
adorning like the Venus de Milo needed a velvet choker and diamond tiara.  I
was beginning to see why Val might prefer Finland to Russia.
     I wasn't  going to open  the envelope there and then. I didn't  want to
look  desperate and  untrusting. I was both, but  I didn't want her  to know
that.
     I hadn't had the time to take much notice of her before. The first time
I was  aware  of her was the day that Val arrived  in  Finland,  three  days
before the lift. are  about planning, not admiring the view.  But I did now.
I'd never seen a woman with such a perfectly symmetrical face--a strong jaw,
full  lips, and  eyes that  felt  as if  they knew  everything  but revealed
nothing. Her statuesque body looked like it had  been shaped by  canoeing or
rock climbing rather than jumping up and down to music in a gym.
     The feel of the bundles  in the envelope, even through  the bubble-wrap
lining, brought  me  back to the  real world. I  put  my helmet at my  feet,
unzipped my jacket and slipped the envelope inside.
     She turned and went to sit on one of the chairs beside her purchases. I
took up my position against  the  wall. She invited  me  to take one  of the
seats with a wave of  her hand, but I declined, preferring to stand  and  be
able to  react if Liv had a few of her  squareheaded friends around and this
encounter turned out to be not entirely friendly.
     I was starting to get jealous of  Val. Money and  power  always attract
beautiful women. My mailbox full of late  notices never  had quite  the same
effect,
     Liv sat there looking at me in the way that Mr. Spock did on the bridge
of the USS Enterprise when he thought things were illogical. It was the same
look  she'd given  me at the hotel, penetrating and searching, as if she was
staring  right into  my head, but somehow managing  to give nothing back. It
made me uncomfortable and I stooped to pick up my helmet before leaving.
     She sat back and crossed her long legs.
     "Nick, I have a proposition for you, from Valentin."
     I left the helmet where it was, but  said nothing. I'd learned the hard
way that it's worth remembering we have two ears and just one mouth.
     Her gaze remained cool. "Are you interested?"
     I certainly was. "In principle." I didn't want to spend all day beating
about the  bush,  and she didn't look or sound like the sort of person who'd
do that anyway. So let's just get on with it. "What does he want from me?"
     "It's a simple task,  but one that needs to  be  handled delicately. He
needs someone--and he  wants it to be you--to assist another person to enter
a house  in  Finland.  The other person is a cryptographer-a  highly skilled
hacker, if you like. Inside the house are computers which this  other person
will use his  skills to  access and then download the contents onto a laptop
for  removal.  The  contents, before  you ask, are  merely some  competitive
intelligence which Valentin is keen to have in his possession."
     She uncrossed her legs and pulled open one of her bags.
     "You mean industrial espionage?"
     "That's not entirely correct, Nick. More commercial than indus
     trial. Valentin  is  asking  you to assist in  the procurement of  this
data, but without the house  owners knowing that you have done  so.  We want
them to think they are the only ones with this information."
     "It's as straightforward as that?"
     "There are  some minor complications which  we  will discuss if you are
interested."
     I was, but minor complications  don't exist. They always turn out to be
major. "How much?"
     I had  to wait for an  answer while she fished a cream-colored cashmere
sweater out of the Harrods  bag with a rustle of  tissue paper. Sitting back
in the chair, she laid it across her thighs,  tucked her hair behind her ear
again and looked directly at me.
     "Valentin is offering you one point  seven million dollars--if  you are
successful, of  course."  She put  up  a hand.  "Nonnegotiable.  That is his
offer, more than a million pounds. He  wanted you to have a round  figure in
your own currency. You're a lucky man, Nick; he likes you."
     So far  it  sounded  like  a  dream  come true. That alone made me feel
suspicious, but  fuck it, we were  just  at the talking stage. "Valentin  is
powerful enough just to take what he wants by force. Why does he need me?"
     She expertly removed the tags from the sweater, dropping them back into
the bag. "This is a job that requires finesse, not muscle. As I said, no one
must  know  that  Valentin  has this material. In any event, he would prefer
this was  accomplished  outside his normal channels. It's a delicate matter,
and it was obvious in Helsinki that you have a certain skill in this area."
     That was all very nice,  but it was question  time. "What exactly is it
I'm trying to lay my hands on?"
     She  put  on the sweater, her eyes not leaving mine, still measuring me
up, I was sure of it. "That, Nick, you  don't need to  know. We just need to
be there before the Maliskia."
     I had to cut in. "You mean steal it before the Maliskia?"
     She smiled. "Not  'steal," copy. Download  it.  Your task is to get our
man  in and out without anyone knowing it has happened. Those are the terms,
if you wish me to continue."
     "I   get   it,"  I   said.  "Maliskia  must   be  Russian   for  'minor
complications." "
     She smiled again, her lips parting slightly to show perfect white
     teeth.  "The West call us the Russian Mafia,  or simply ROC,  as if  we
were  one big  group. We're not.  We are many groups. The  Maliskia  are one
faction, and Valentin's only  real  competitor. Whatever you may think about
him, he is a man with vision. The Maliskia are not; they are just gangsters.
It  is  very important that  they never have access to this information.  It
would  be a disaster for all of us, West  as well as  East. That is all I am
prepared to say on the matter. Now, do you wish me to continue?"
     Of course I did. It's  always good to know  something  about who you're
racing  against. Not  that she'd told  me anything  Val  hadn't. I  listened
intently as she explained that the target house was  still in the process of
being prepared to use the "competitive intelligence" Val wanted. It wouldn't
be online for  another six or seven days, and  only then would I  be able to
get their  man in to copy whatever it was. The problem was  that once it was
online the Maliskia were likely to trace its location very quickly.
     "That's the race, Nick. I emphasize again, we must get it  first and no
one must know that we've got it."
     It sounded okay to me. I'd spent years doing this kind of thing for far
less  than $1.7  million.  Maybe  this was my chance to sort out my life and
Kelly's once and for  all.  One  big fuck-off finger to everyone, especially
Lynn. The meeting with him had really pissed me off. He knew the  reason I'd
been  spared and he hadn't  was that  I  was  more  useful to the Firm as an
operator on the ground, whereas Lynn was just another paper-pusher. And ever
since Washington, the Firm knew  they had  me by the balls, and  I hated  it
when people had me by the balls.
     "I'm concerned about going back to Finland," I said. "I don't think I'm
very popular there."
     She smiled patiently. "They aren't looking for you, Nick. As far as the
Finnish  police  are concerned  it was a purely Russian event.  Valentin has
already  made  a statement to  that  effect to the authorities. Don't worry,
it's  not an issue. If it  was, Valentin wouldn't  have risked offering  you
this task."
     She gave me time to consider what she had  said as she picked fluff off
her  new  sweater.  "They  weren't  your friends,  I  hope?" She looked  up.
"Perhaps the choice of team was not one of your best decisions?"
     I smiled and shrugged. I had no defense.
     "I thought not."  She  twisted her forefinger  and thumb to release the
fluff onto the floor.
     For  the  next few minutes  I  asked  questions and she failed  to give
adequate answers. The objective, she said, was simple enough, but it  didn't
sound low risk to me. There were far too many questions left unanswered: How
many people  were in the house? What de fences did they have? Where the fuck
was it? I wasn't even allowed to know who I was taking in. I would find  out
only  when  I signed  on  the dotted line. On the  other hand, $1.7  million
versus  290 pounds a day wasn't  the  kind of discrepancy I  could afford to
live with.
     She held out  a piece of folded paper. I walked the five paces and took
it.
     "These  are the contact details of the man you will be taking with you,
assuming  you can persuade him. If you can, the fee goes  up to two  million
dollars, to cover  his cut.  Now,  one  other  minor  complication:  Neither
Valentin nor I can risk being associated  with this task, so you will be the
contact point. It's up to you to convince him to do it."
     I  turned  back to my  helmet,  reading an address and  phone number in
Netting Hill.
     Liv said, "His name is Tom Mancini. I believe you know him."
     I turned to face her. The name did ring a bell, but that didn't concern
me. What did was that she knew about me, that she knew things about my past.
     My concern must have been plain to see.  She smiled again and shook her
head very slightly. "Naturally Valentin has gone to the  trouble of learning
a lot about you these last few days.  Do  you think  he would employ someone
for such a task otherwise?"
     "What does he know?"
     "Enough, I'm sure. Also enough about Tom. Valentin is sure you are both
the  right people  for  this.  Now, Nick, as you will  appreciate, there  is
little time. You need to be in  Helsinki by Sunday. All I  will require  are
your travel details. Everything else will be looked after."
     She  gave  me the contact details. They were very basic,  if not a  bit
over  the top, but easy  to understand, which  was good, because my head was
spinning around with 1.7 million other things at the time.
     She stood up.  Our meeting was  obviously over. "Thank you  for coming,
Nick."
     I shook her hand, which felt warm and firm. I looked her in the
     eye, probably for a fraction of a second too long, then bent to pick up
my helmet.
     She followed  me to the front door. As I  reached  for  the handle  she
said, "One last thing, Nick."
     I turned to face her; she was so close I could smell her perfume.
     "Please do not  turn  your cell phone  on until you  are far  away from
here. Goodbye, Nick."
     I nodded  and  the door closed. I heard the locks  and chain  being put
back into position.
     Going down in the elevator I  resisted the urge to dance  a jig or jump
up and click my heels.  I had never been one to embrace good fortune blindly
I'd never had that much of it to embrace,  really but Valentin's proposition
sounded  rather  good,  and  what  few  doubts I had  were dispelled by  the
envelope inside my jacket as long as it didn't go bang on the way home.
     The elevator  slowed and  the  doors  opened  on the ground  floor. The
doorman was frowning at me as he tried to work out why I'd been up  there so
long. I pulled the ski mask from under my helmet and nodded to him. "She was
wonderful," I  said.  By the  time the sliding doors opened and I was facing
the security cameras, the mask was over my head again.
     Walking up the  driveway  I started to pull out the chin  strap on both
sides of the  helmet  with my thumbs and forefingers. I'd just got past  the
gate and onto the sidewalk when  I heard the noise of an approaching car. As
I played with the straps I looked up and to the left to check it was okay to
cross.
     A  Peugeot 206  was screaming toward  me at the  speed of sound. It was
dark maroon and dirty from the last couple of weeks of slush and road  salt.
Behind the  wheel  was  a white-knuckled woman  in her early thirties with a
chin-length  bob.  I waited for her to  pass,  but as soon as she was  about
thirty feet away she slowed to a more controlled pace.
     I checked to my right. The Israeli security guy about two  hundred feet
away wasn't fussed about it, nor the uniformed officer, who was looking very
bored and cold on the opposite side of road.
     I watched her get down to the  barrier, indicating  left, then join the
stream of traffic. I  spotted  the license plate. It was a '96 registration,
but there  was something  else that was much more interesting  no sticker on
the back window telling me how wonderful the dealership was. I suddenly felt
I knew what she was about. Just as quickly, I  threw the idea aside. Shit, I
was getting as paranoid about surveillance as Val and  Liv  were  about cell
phones.
     Pulling my helmet on, I put the key into Ducati's ignition and was just
starting to put  my gloves on  when I spotted another vehicle about forty or
fifty  yards further  up  the  road a midnight-blue  Golf GTi in a  line  of
vehicles, two up, both sitting back in their seats with
     no conversation or movement. The side windows  were steamed up  but the
windshield had a direct view of  the gates to the apartment building. I took
a mental  note of  their registration. Not  that it mattered. Well, that was
what I  tried to tell myself, anyway. PI 16 something, that was all I needed
to know.
     I decided that if I didn't stop being paranoid I'd end up in the clinic
with  Kelly  and  began to give myself a mental slapping. Then I remembered:
Paranoia keeps people like me alive.
     I had one more look around, my helmet  down  as if I was checking  over
the machine. I couldn't  see anything  else that  made me feel uneasy,  so I
straddled the bike and pushed it off its stand.
     Turning  the  engine over, I pushed down the gear selector with my left
foot, got  into first,  revved it up  a little, turned left  and made my way
down  toward the main gates. If  the  Golf was a trigger,  the team that was
about to follow me would have just received a point by-point, stage-by-stage
description  of exactly what I  was doing over the net. They needed a visual
picture  of what I looked like, what the bike looked like, its registration,
and what I was doing. "That's  helmet on, that's gloves on .. . not aware ..
.  now complete (on  the bike).  Keys turned, engine on, stand by, stand by.
Mobile toward Kensington exit... approaching. No intention (no indicators on
to show which way the vehicle is going) ..."
     Everybody had  to  know exactly what I was doing and where I was to the
nearest thirty feet  so  they could put good covert surveillance on me. It's
not  like  Miami Vice, where the good guys are sitting there with hand mikes
at their mouths and a big antenna stuck on the roof. All the antennas  on E4
vehicles are internal, and you never see any mikes. All  you've got to do is
hit  a press el a  little switch placed wherever you want. My preference had
always been to have it fixed internally in the gear shift. That way you  can
just talk, making it look as if you're having fun, or having an argument. It
doesn't really matter as long as you're giving the  details. Which, if I was
getting triggered away from here, these two would now be doing.
     What made me still feel edgy was that the two  cars were ideal for city
surveillance. Both  were very common models  in dark, nondescript colors and
they were compact, so they could zip  in and out of traffic and were easy to
park, or  even abandon, if the target went foxtrot  (on  foot). Not all cars
have the retailer's sticker in the back
     window;  it's  just that surveillance cars would tend not to have  them
because they could become a VDM (visual distinguishing mark).
     If  they were  a  surveillance  team  they  would  have  to  be E4, the
government's surveillance group that  keeps tabs  on everybody in  the  U.K.
from terrorists to shady politicians. No one else would be able to stake out
anything along this road. There was more security here than at Alcatraz. But
why me?  It  didn't make sense.  All I'd  done  was  go  into  an  apartment
building.
     I got to the barrier and the guard looked out of his shed  and into the
cold, trying  to work  out if I was  that  guy who said he was the messenger
half an hour ago.
     I  turned  right  and  merged  with  the  traffic,  which  was still  a
nightmare. I  headed the opposite way from the  Peugeot, and tried  to be as
casual as possible. I wasn't going to scoot away like a scalded cat and show
that I was aware, but I'd check to see if I was a target.
     It was starting to get  dark now as I  checked my  mirror, expecting  a
surveillance bike to be up my ass in no time at all.
     Either the Peugeot driver was a  loony and couldn't drive the thing, or
she  was a  new or  very useless member  of  E4.  Val would have fitted very
nicely into  their portfolio, as would quite a few  of the residents in this
area. I could just be a new face that needed a  picture for the surveillance
log and general buildup of intelligence on the building.
     If I was right, she  was trying to make a photo- or video-run on me and
had fucked up the timing. It's very hard to make these runs as you only have
one  chance and the pressure is  always  on, but  this  one  was  especially
incompetent.
     The car  could  be rigged  with  both video  and stills cameras, hidden
behind the radiator grill or  part of the headlight setup, or little bits of
the body work cut  out in  the rear so there was just  enough  light for the
lens. The  cameras  are activated electronically by the driver as they  pass
the  target.  The camera takes the whole reel of film at a very fast shutter
speed. That's why the timing's so important: hit the button too soon and the
film  could  be finished by the  time  you're on  top of the  target, or the
target might  have  walked  behind  a  parked  car  as  you begin  your run,
producing nothing  more for your  efforts  than a  nice  picture of  a  Ford
Fiesta, and a hard time from your bosses at the debriefing.
     The video camera is a much safer option, but all it takes on the
     move is a  few bumpy seconds  of the  target walking. This time around,
all they would have was a visual of a biker with a ski mask on. That made me
feel  a lot better. I had no idea where those  pictures would turn up, but I
knew Lynn wouldn't be in the best of moods if they found their way to him.
     I looked  down at my mirror. Right  on  cue  I saw the reflection of  a
bike's headlight. It wasn't  necessarily a surveillance operator, but I  had
ways of checking.
     I  was  riding like one of those forty-something losers. The family are
all  grown  up,  the  house  is  virtually  paid  for, so now  they want the
motorbike their  mom would never let them have.  It tends to be the biggest,
fattest touring bike their platinum  Amex card can handle, and they ride  to
and from  work  without ever  getting  within spitting distance of  a  speed
limit. Except  I wasn't scared to  open up the throttle. I wanted to  see if
the single light behind me would do the same.
     It didn't.
     He shot past me at speed on  an eight-year-old greasy Honda 500 with  a
battered old  blue plastic box on the  back  held  down by  bun gees He  was
wearing well-used leathers and  Wellington boots, and turned  to look at  me
through his visor, all beard and disgust. I knew just how he felt.
     There were other bikes behind me,  weaving in and out of the traffic. I
moved into the middle of the  road and twisted the throttle to jump a couple
of cars,  then swung back into the stream,  crawling along behind  a rusting
van.  I let a  few more  bikes and mopeds pass me, and  even a bicycle,  and
after a  couple  more sets of lights it was  obvious I had  another  weekend
rider behind me, about two cars back.
     I turned left at the next intersection, and he followed me.
     Looking  for  a natural stop, I  pulled in at a newsstand.  Resting the
bike on its side stand, I  went through the charade of undoing my helmet and
gloves,  as an Yamaha VFR came past, probably waffling  on  the net, telling
everybody where I was.  "Stop! Stop! Stop! Charlie one  (the bike) static on
the left. At the newsstand, Bravo one (me) still complete (on the bike)."
     I took the helmet off but kept the mask on once he'd gone, then got off
the bike and walked into the shop.  I couldn't just ride straight off again,
because that would show I was aware.
     The  young woman  behind  the counter looked alarmed  because  I hadn't
taken my  mask off. There was a sign politely asking me to do  just that. If
she'd asked I would have told her no--in my tear-the-ass out  of  it cockney
accent--and to fuck  off  because I was cold. I didn't want the team to come
and requisition the security video tape  with yours  truly on it. She wasn't
going to  argue; why should she care if I was  there  to steal the money? It
could be dangerous for her.
     I went back to the bike clutching a copy of the evening newspaper. If I
was right, there'd probably  be a bike at either end of the road by now. The
net would be in chaos as cars hit their  horns at  the  dickhead drivers who
had suddenly decided to throw up (turn 180) in the traffic, all out of sight
to  me, trying to  get  in position  for  the stakeout. A  static short-term
target  is always a  dangerous time for a surveillance team. Everyone has to
get in  position,  so that next time the target  goes mobile they've covered
every possible  option.  That way, the target moves to the team,  instead of
the  team  crowding  the target. But where  was  the trigger?  I couldn't be
bothered to look; I'd find out soon enough.
     I pushed the Ducati down into  first gear  and carried  on  in the same
direction I'd been heading before, towards  South Kensington subway station,
about half a  mile  away. Parking up  in the bike row  on the  north side, I
walked into  the  packed station, looking as  though  I  was  unbuckling  my
helmet, though I didn't.  Instead, I walked straight through and crossed the
road, still  with my helmet on. The south side  of the station had a  large,
busy, and very confusing intersection, with  a big triangular island housing
a flower stall.  Their propane gas heaters  not only blasted out heat  as  I
went by,  but  also a very  comforting  bright  red light  in the  gathering
darkness.
     I  moved   with  a  crowd  of  pedestrians  to  the  far  side  of  the
intersection, past a row of shops along the Old Brompton Road.
     About fifty yards further along, I  went into the  pub  on  the corner,
took  off my helmet and  mask, and settled on a bar stool just back from the
window.
     The pub  was  packed with  shoppers wanting to get out  of the cold and
office workers having a drink with friends.
     I saw the Golf within minutes, but without the passenger. He or she was
probably foxtrot, scurrying around in the subway station looking for me.
     Then I  saw the VFR and its black-leather-clad  rider.  They would have
found the Ducati now, and the whole team maybe four cars and two bikes would
be bomb-bursting about,  fighting  the  traffic, calling in the areas they'd
covered so their control could try and direct them elsewhere in some kind of
coherent pattern. I almost felt sorry for them. They'd lost their target and
they were in the shit. I'd been there a thousand times myself.
        12
     I sat  and watched as the Golf, with a  dark-haired  male at the wheel,
came  back round  the  one-way  circuit  and  pulled in to  pick up a short,
brown-haired  woman. They  were off again before her door was  even  closed.
They'd done all they  could; now  it was a question of waiting to see if the
target returned to his bike.
     It wouldn't have been  a big deal  to  them when  I  became temporarily
unsighted. This always happens for short periods. But the  fact  that it had
happened at the subway station was  a  big  problem for  them.  Once  they'd
failed to pick me up again, their next move  would be to stake out the bike.
Then some  of the team would have checked out known target locations.  There
were only two: one was the apartment block, and  they would be checking with
the porter which  apartment I'd gone to, for sure. The other was the address
where the bike  was registered--a PO box just a few shops down from where it
was parked. It was an office suppliers, and instead of having a box number I
had a suite number, because I  wanted  to make  it  sound  like an expensive
apartment block. No doubt that was what the woman was checking out.
     Nick Davidson  was the registered owner of the bike  and  Suite 26  was
where  he supposedly lived. The  real Davidson  was going  to be  incredibly
pissed if he ever came back from  Australia, because I'd taken over his life
in the U.K. He  was going to get  a hard time from customs, immigration, and
Special Branch (serious crime and antiterrorist division) if he ever stepped
off a plane now that this had happened. He'd be listed.
     It  also meant that having Nick Davidson as my  safety-blanket cover ID
was now history, and that pissed  me off. It had taken painstaking months to
get  a  social security number, passport,  bank account, all the things that
bring  a character to life, and now I had to lose him. Worse still, I'd have
to lose the bike.  There'd certainly  be a  trigger on it for  the  next few
hours, depending  on how important they thought I was.  An electronic device
might  even be attached to it.  The only thing  that cheered me  up  was the
thought of what would happen to the  person who'd  eventually steal it after
seeing it  standing there for a few  days.  They wouldn't  know what had hit
them when the E4 team closed in.
     I'd  nursed a  Coke  while  keeping  watch through  the large Victorian
windows. My glass  was  nearly empty, and if I didn't want  to  look out  of
place I'd need to get a refill. Fighting my way to the bar, I ordered a pint
of orange juice and lemonade, and  went and sat  in the corner. No  need  to
look outside now. I knew a team was on me. I just had to sit it out, keeping
my eyes on  the doors  in case they  started  to  check out the pubs. In  an
hour's time it would be the end of the working day. I'd wait  until then and
lose myself in the darkness and commuter traffic.
     As  I  sipped  my  drink,  I  thought about  Tom  Mancini. His name was
certainly familiar. One of my first jobs as a K in '93 had been to drive him
from North Yorkshire,  where he worked, down  to a Royal Navy  facility near
Gosport,  Hampshire. I was told to scare  him  so much  that he'd beg to  be
handed  over  to  the  Firm's people, who I was delivering him to. It didn't
take that much, just a few slaps, a stern face and me telling him that if he
fucked me about the only thing left ticking on his body would be his watch.
     Once we'd got him down in one of the "forts"  built along the coast, he
wasn't even given time to  clean himself up before  the Firm's interrogation
team explained the facts of life.
     A  technician  at  Menwith Hill listening station,  he'd been  detected
trying  to  obtain  classified  information.  I  wasn't  allowed  in on  the
interrogation,  but I  knew they told him Special  Branch would be arresting
him  the next  day for  offenses  against  the  Official Secrets  Act.  They
couldn't stop that. However, if he didn't get smart, that  would be just the
start of his problems.
     He would shut up  in court about what he'd really been tampering  with.
Whatever that was, it seemed the Firm didn't want anyone
     to know about it, even  Special Branch, for the  charge would be for  a
lesser  offence. He would tell them who  he was getting the information for,
and,  of  course,  he'd  have no recollection of this "meeting"  ever taking
place. He'd serve  a short sentence and that would be the end  of it. If  he
ever uttered a word to anyone about the deal, however, someone like me would
come and pay him a visit.
     Tom had been fucking about with the big boys. I knew that R.A.F Menwith
Hill,  on  the moors  near  Harrogate  in Yorkshire, was one of  the largest
intelligence-gathering  stations  on  earth. Its  massive  golf  ball-shaped
"radomes"  monitored Europe's and Russia's  airwaves. It might  be a British
base, but in reality it was  a  little piece  of the U.S.A. on British soil,
run by their all-powerful NSA (National Security  Agency). It was  manned by
about 1,400 American  engineers, physicists, mathematicians, linguists,  and
computer scientists. The  staff was  complemented by 300 Brits, which  meant
that there were as many people working at Menwith Hill as there were for the
Firm.
     Menwith   Hill   operated   in  close   tandem  with  GCHQ  (Government
Communications Headquarters) at Cheltenham, gathering electronic information
from as far  afield as eastern Russia. GCHQ did not, however, have automatic
access to  the intelligence gathered at Menwith  Hill. All information  went
directly to  the  NSA  at  Fort Meade  in Maryland. From there,  information
collected  on  terrorism that  might,  for  example,  affect the  U.K."  was
redistributed to the  security  service, Special  Branch or  Scotland  Yard.
Britain's contract with the U.S. is that we can  only  buy  American nuclear
weapons on the condition that bases like Menwith are allowed  to  operate on
British soil,  and  that  the U.S. has  access to  all British  intelligence
operations. Sad but  true: They are big brother. Britain is just  one of the
little runt siblings.
     From what I could remember, Tom was full of shit. He came on all  brash
and confident like a Jack  the Lad cockney trader, which was rather strange,
because he came from Milton Keynes  and was about as boring as his zip code.
By the  end of the  drive  south, however, he  had been like a small  child,
curled up on the back seat.
     It worried  me  yhat  Val knew I  had  met Tom,  that he had  access to
details  about  a twenty-four-hour  period  of  my life  that  I'd  all  but
forgotten about, but I was in it for the money, nothing  else, and so I  cut
that thought away, just in case it made me change my mind.
     I finished my drink, picked up my helmet and headed for the  rest room.
Placing the  helmet on the tank in a stall, I sat  down on the lid, unzipped
my jacket, and pulled out the envelope.
     After an afternoon of people  missing  the bowl and  flicking cigarette
butts in  the  urinals, the  place stank.  I inspected the nylon-fiber type,
bubble-wrap envelope. Then, resting  it on my knees and  using both hands, I
pressed down and started  to run my palms  over it, fingertips moving up and
down the contours  of the contents. I turned  it over and checked  the other
side.
     I couldn't feel any sort of wiring, or anything more solid than what  I
hoped was the cash, but then again, that didn't mean  a thing.  A wafer-thin
battery  from  a Polaroid film  tucked between the  bundles  would kick  out
enough power to initiate a letter bomb. It might be Val's special little way
of saying thank you.
     I picked it  up and  put the fold to my nose. If  it was a device,  and
they'd used any  exotic or older-style explosives,  I might be able to smell
them. Sometimes  it's  marzipan,  sometimes  linseed oil.  I  was  expecting
something more sophisticated, but these things have to be tested for.
     All I could smell was  the urinals. The bar noise rose  and fell as the
outer door opened and closed. I carried on inspecting the envelope.
     I  decided to go  ahead and  open it. It felt like  money, weighed like
money. If  I was wrong, the whole pub  would know about it soon and a pissed
off insurance company would be shelling out for a refit.
     I  opened  the  knife blade of  my Leatherman  and gently  cut down the
center of the envelope, checking inside every inch  or so for  wires. It was
looking  promising. I started to  see green U.S. bank notes. Each  bundle of
used hundred-dollar bills that I carefully pulled out was banded and told me
the  bundle  contained $10,000; there were ten of  them.  I was a very happy
camper indeed. Val  had  put  his money where  his  mouth was. I didn't just
respect  him now, I liked the man. Not enough to introduce him to  my sister
yet, but then again, I didn't have a sister.
     Someone else entered and tried the  toilet door. I  grunted,  making it
sound like I was having a big-boy dump. He checked the next one, and I heard
the sound of jeans coming down and him getting on with the business.
     I smiled as  I  started to  stuff  the money into my leathers,  feeling
quite pleased with myself as my next-door neighbor farted for England.
     Staying  in the pub for  another  half-hour, drinking more orange juice
and lemonade and reading the newspaper for the third time, I wondered if the
team had been called off yet. Nine out of ten times it boils down to  money.
They were probably  hoping to earn a little Christmas bonus  out of  me.  E4
operators get treated as badly as nurses;  they work their butts off and are
expected to carry on regardless.
     By now they'd know the address was a PO box arrangement, and that would
have set their  alarm bells ringing.  They'd probably  plan  to  go into the
office tomorrow, open up  my box and see what was in there. They'd  even put
me on their  own special mailing list;  as mail  addressed to  Suite 26 came
through the Royal Mail's sorting system, it would be sidetracked for a while
so that prying eyes could have a little look-see. All they would find was my
Visa bill. Well, Davidson's bill. Perhaps they'd be nice enough to pay it. I
certainly wouldn't bother anymore.
     By tomorrow,  if they decided to dig deeper,  they'd also know that Mr.
Davidson  had  been  to Norway  recently, returning by the same  route  he'd
traveled all those weeks ago. What would they make  of that? I doubted  that
their conclusion would be a skiing trip after  Davidson had been seen coming
out of the targeted apartment block where  one of the  owners was a  Russian
who'd got hit just days ago,  in a country  a mere  day trip away from where
Davidson  had disembarked.  Fuck it, it was too late to worry about all that
now. As long as they didn't have a photograph of me, I'd be okay.
     I  sat there with  another  Coke and a packet of  peanuts.  Thirty five
minutes on, I finally decided to  make a move.  The rush-hour traffic on all
sides of the  triangle  was moving at about three feet a minute, a confusion
of headlights  and exhaust fumes. Every fourth car had  its indicator lights
flashing, thinking the other lane was quicker. The pedestrian  traffic, too,
was much heavier, and moved quicker than the vehicles. Everybody was huddled
over, fighting the cold and just wanting to get home.
     Leaving the helmet under  the  table, I  exited through a door that led
out onto a different road. The motorbike helmet was a
     VDM. So were my leathers, but I  could hardly discard them. All I could
do was cut down on the things that would trigger me.
     The priority was to get a  hotel  for the night, before I contacted Tom
in the morning. I also needed clothing: Without  a bike, there  was no way I
could walk around looking like Judge Dredd.
     If you  want late-night shops, it has to be the  West  End. I grabbed a
taxi to Piccadilly Circus, and changed $1,000 at various currency exchanges,
throwing in a couple of hundred at a time.
     The  shopping frenzy  was  another short  cab ride away, in Selfridges,
where I  bought clothes, washing and shaving kit,  and a  nice little duffle
bag for my new-found wealth.
     Then  I  booked  myself into the Selfridges  Hotel using my  Nick Stone
credit card. To have  used Davidson's would have invited a knock on the door
within hours.
     After  a bath  and a change of  clothes  all  very  predictable, jeans,
Timberland boots,  blue  sweatshirt, and  a dark-b