been causing the dull glow from the left hand side of the house. Through an open door I could see it hadn't been room light escaping from the broken shutter but the glare from banks of TV screens. I made out CNN, CNBC, Bloomberg, and some Japanese program, all with anchormen and women talking business. Running captions displayed financial information across the bottom of the screen. So it wasn't Friends after all. I felt even more depressed. This was just like the weather, getting worse every minute. In among the TVs were banks of computer monitors, most of them turned off, but some with streams of numbers running vertically down the screen, just like I'd seen Tom messing about with. The computers and VDUs were being unplugged, while more white clad figures fiddled with other machines and keyboards in the room. I saw one hand sticking out from its whites and working some keys. It was immaculately manicured, feminine and wore a wedding band. The rest of the horizontal surfaces were in shit state, covered with candy wrappers, pizza boxes, cans, and large half-empty plastic bottles of Coke. It looked like a dorm room, but with a couple of truckloads of cutting-edge technology thrown in. I realized what they'd been carrying in last night from the 4x4: It must have been pizza time. My little recce was cut short when I saw pairs of black boots coming toward me, snow still in the stitching and laces. They were Danner boots, an American brand. I knew the make well, as I had a pair high leg, with leather outer and GoreTex inner. The U.S. military wore them, too. The Tom lookalikes on the floor behind me were moving about or being moved. The one who'd been crying suddenly sounded muffled, as if he was resisting something. I risked turning my head to see what was happening, but I was too late. A hood got pulled over my head, smearing the snot even more over my top lip, mouth, and chin. It was pointless resisting; I just let him do it as quickly as possible. I'd learned that the best thing to do was concentrate on breathing through these things and let your ears do the work. The drawstrings were pulled at the bottom and I was in a world of total darkness. Not even the faintest glimmer of light could penetrate. My face started to sweat up rapidly as the hood moved against my mouth and then out again as I breathed and tried to recover completely from the spray. I heard boots on both sides of my head, followed by heavy breathing as my hands were forced together in front of me and a plasticuff was applied. The short, sharp sound of ratcheting was accompanied by the pain of the plastic tightening around my wrists. There was more movement next to me and the rustling of clothes. The pizza boys were getting dressed. That was a good sign; they wanted them alive, and I hoped me, too. Between the sounds of muffled sobs and zips being done up I could hear, "Danke .. . hhtos .. . spasseeba .. . thank you." Obviously these boys didn't know the nationality of the men in white and were hedging their bets wildly, sounding off like Brussels translators. The floorboards flexed under the pressure of bodies walking past, heading toward the door. Trailing cables and plugs dragged and clattered across the floor just past my head. Some plugs hit the steel ram in the doorway and sent out a dull ring. I presumed the computers were being lugged out. By the sounds of it, everything was being piled up outside on the deck. The roar of engines filled my hood as vehicles drove into the compound. The temperature inside the house had started to drop as the wind whistled through the main door. To my left, I could just make out the low mumble of voices exchanging short sentences on the deck as the vehicles approached. They stopped and emergency brakes were pulled up on lock. Engines were left running, just like a heli on an operational sortie it never shuts down in case it doesn't start up again. Doors opened and closed and there was a flurry of boot steps around the deck. I could hear the creak and echo of what sounded like the door of an empty van; it was confirmed when I heard a sliding door lock into the open position. This area was beginning to sound like a super store's loading bay. I tried moving my arms, as if to get comfortable, but in fact to see if we were being guarded. My answer came very quickly when a boot made contact with my ribs, the same side as my fall. I stopped moving and concentrated on the inside of my snot-lined hood as I took the pain. I lay there waiting for the agony to subside. The sobbing and snuffling next to me got louder. The culprit was given the same sort of booted persuasion to shut him up, but it just made him worse. The boy was panicking big time, and he made me think of Tom. I was still hoping that he wasn't dead and had got away, or was he, like this boy, hyperventilating in a hood, stuck in one of those vehicles? The floorboards still gave and plugs clattered and rattled out toward the deck. Others loaded the stuff into the wagons; I could hear their boots on the vans' metal floors. The floorboards bent even more as the three lying next to me were hauled to their feet, amidst muffled groans and cries. The sobbing one was dragged past me and taken outside; the others followed. As the last of the three bodies passed, I heard a scream from the first one echo inside a van. I tried to convince myself they wouldn't go to all this trouble if they didn't want us alive. As I listened to the second being manhandled after his friend, boots came for me, the creaking leather stopping just millimeters from my ear. Two pairs of large aggressive hands grabbed each side of me, under my armpits and on the arms, dragging me upright. I let my boots trail on the floor. I wanted to appear weak and slow, I wanted them to think I wasn't any sort of threat, somebody not worth worrying about, just a gray man in a bad way. The two guys were grunting under the strain as we crossed the threshold onto the deck, my toes banged over the door ram and back down onto the wooden floor. At the same time my hands and neck were blitzed by the freezing cold, then it moved onto my face as the hood, made wet with my condensed breath, started to get cold inside. Stumbling between my escorts down the steps from the deck, I was dragged straight ahead, then all of a sudden they stopped at the command of a gloved clap and turned right, jerking me round with them. Perhaps they were going to separate me from the others? Would that be good or bad? Within five seconds of being dragged in a new direction I knew I was indeed going into a different wagon. It wasn't a cold metal box; it felt like the backseat area of a 4x4. There was a climb up to get into it and it was carpeted and very warm. I was short-term pleased. The door opposite was opened and hands reached over, gripping my coat and pulling me in, with grunts to match the effort. My shins scraped painfully over the door sill, and I was finally pushed down into the foot well I could feel one of the rear heating vents against my neck, blowing out hot air from under the seat; it was wonderful. Even through the hood I could smell the newness of the interior, and for some reason it made me feel a bit happier about my predicament. The vehicle rocked as somebody jumped into the rear seat above me, their heels digging into me one by one, followed by a muzzle jabbed into the side of my face, smearing mucus back toward my ear. Nothing was said, but I got the idea: keep still. I was powerless to act anyway, so the best thing to do was just lie there and take advantage of the heat. Our rear doors were kept open and the loading-bay activity was still audible. A few feet away I heard the telltale creak of a van door's retaining arm pushed back under pressure and then slammed shut. There was a double tap on the side of the vehicle to let the driver know it was secure, but no one moved yet. We must be waiting to go in convoy. A few seconds later another sliding door was shut and there was silence. There was still no talking from these people. Either they were working by hand signals or they knew exactly what to do. The vehicle's suspension went into overtime as more bodies piled in. All the doors closed, and it felt as if there were at least three people on the back seat. Boots were all over the place, a couple of pairs digging in their heels to keep me down. Another kicked my legs out of the way so he could rest his feet properly on the floor. I wasn't going to argue. We seemed to be the first vehicle to move out of the compound, in low gear to handle the wheel ruts and ice, with the windshield wipers slapping side to side to counter the snow. One of the people in the front was pressing switches on the dashboard. There was a burst of music, some terrible Europop. It was turned off, and I heard them laugh quietly. No matter who they were and what side they were working for, at the end of the day they'd just done a job and so far it had been successful. They were releasing a little bit of tension. I couldn't tell whether we'd reached the bend, because it was a long sweeping curve and I wouldn't feel it at this slow speed. But I soon sensed we were driving uphill; it wouldn't be far to go now before we hit the road. I was in deep, frozen shit and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. 23 We moved on for a few mare minutes and stopped. There was a clunk as the driver disengaged low gear and shifted into high, then set off again with a sharp left turn. We had to be on the gravel road, and the left turn meant that at least we wouldn't be driving past the Saab: that was further up on the right, toward the dead end. Did they already know where it was? Had they been here the night before, watching me carry out the recce, then followed me back to it? It made me worry about Tom again. Maybe they hadn't bothered to chase him too hard because they knew where he was heading. It wasn't whether he was dead or alive that worried me, it was just not knowing. We began to accelerate gently. The front passenger seat back moved and creaked under what must have been a very large body pushing against my face. He was probably trying to get into a comfortable position with belt kit on. The snow was now melting off the clothing of the three in the back and dripping down my neck. It wasn't the worst thing that had happened to me tonight, but it pretty much fitted in with the way my luck was going. There wasn't a lot I could do about it at the moment, apart from prepare for the ride by not tensing my body up and trying to relax as much as the three pairs of Banner boots would allow. The front passenger suddenly bounced around in his seat with a shout of "What the fuck?" The accent was unmistakably American. "Jesus! Russians!" A split second later the driver hit the brakes. There was a crash of metal and glass behind us and the heavy-caliber sound of automatic fire. The clear-cut, no-messing New England accent and the sound of rapid fire got me stressing big time. It got worse as our wagon came to a quick, sliding stop, turning sideways on the snow. The doors burst open. "Cover them, cover them!" The suspension bounced as everyone leaped down from the wagon, using me as a springboard. I suddenly felt very vulnerable, hooded and plasticuffed here in the foot well--a vehicle is the natural focus of fire. But I didn't care what was going on and who wanted what from whom. It was time to disappear. Wind whistled through the open doors and the engine was still running. The heavy automatic fire was only about fifty yards away. A series of long, uncontrolled bursts echoed off the trees. This was my opportunity. Pulling up my plasticuffed hands, I tried to tug the mask off my face, but the drawstring got stuck on my chin. My fingers were grappling with it when I heard hysterical shouting further down the road. The one advantage of working with Sergei and his gang was that I had learned to recognize some Russian. I might not know what it meant, but I knew where it came from. This had to be the Maliskia. If I could get the hood off, my plan was to crawl into the driver's seat, then just go for it. As I was struggling with the string I got a little reminder to keep my head down. Safety glass cracked as a round came through the rear windshield and hit the headrest above me. At almost the same instant two rounds from the same burst ricocheted off a slab of granite at the roadside and shrieked up into the air. There were more shouts, this time from American voices. "Move!" "Come on, let's do it! Let's do it!" My 4x4 wasn't going anywhere, but other engines revved, doors slammed, and tires spun uselessly in the snow. At last I got the mask off. Pulling myself up, I couldn't feel any of my pain, and had just begun to move toward the gap between the seats when I realized it wasn't an option. About fifteen feet away, at the side of the driveway behind a mound of granite, a white-clad figure was pointing an SD at my center mass. I knew, because I could see the red splash of his laser sight on my jacket. The black-covered head screamed at me above the nightmare that was happening down the road: "Freeze! Freeze! Down, down, down!" Change of plan. With the laser on me, the only problem he had was not missing. There were more screams and shouts mixed with the heavy Russian fire. I got down as flat as possible in the rear foot well if I could have crawled under the carpet I would have. I was feeling even more exposed now I'd seen what was happening behind me. Headlights shone in all directions, illuminating the snowfall as the Americans tried to make their escape around the van that was directly behind our 4x4. It was off to the side of the driveway, its left wing wrapped around a tree; the driver must still have been in his seat as I could hear and see the wheels spinning in a frenzied attempt to get back on the gravel. The shadows thrown by the headlights caused even more confusion as bodies moved within the treeline. I saw the muzzle flash of the Russian fire, but coming from way behind the convoy now. They were moving back. My cover must have seen movement in the treeline nearer us. He brought his weapon up and started to fire, putting down a series of rapid, well-aimed three-round bursts. It sounded pathetic compared with the heavier caliber opposing fire; these weapons were not designed to be used at long range. Even sixty feet was a long way for an SD. "Stoppage!" The boy needed to change mags. I watched as he gripped his outer glove in his teeth, keeping his eyes on me. The moment the glove was off I saw a white silk touch glove in the headlights. The empty magazine went down the front of his white smock and, producing a new mag from his belt kit he slapped it into place. He then hit the release catch, which told me these guys were the newer version of the SD--even more indication that these were official. It was all very slick; I wasn't going to escape just yet. He had a bolstered P7 and his weapons drills were so good that even with him under fire there was no way I'd have time to do anything. I kept my head down and lay still. Vehicles screamed past me with skidding wheels, the tree-loving one in the lead, glass smashed and holes in the body work revving far too fast, trying to gain speed. Our vehicle group must have been giving covering fire while they moved out of the danger area. The New England voice was back in earshot. "Move on, move on. Come on, let's go, let's go, let's go!" The guy covering me got up, still pointing his weapon at me as he moved forward. He jumped into the wagon, ramming his heels down into my back and the weapon into my neck. The barrel was very hot and I could smell cordite and the oily odor of WD40. He'd probably smothered it in the stuff to protect it from the weather and it was now burning off the weapon. The last thing I had a chance to see was him getting hold of the hood then pulling it back down over my head. All the others were now jumping back in, making the vehicle rock with their weight. I felt the gearshift being engaged and we started to move off faster than we should, the tires slithering and sliding as we turned back on line to move up the driveway. The doors were slammed shut and I was hit by a rush of air from above. The electric sunroof was opening; a moment later I heard dick-thud, dick-thud, dick-thud and a yell of, "Get some, get some, get some!" as New England fired through the open aperture. I couldn't hear any reply from the Russians. One of the others turned and opened fire through the rear window, adding more holes to the safety glass. Click-thud, dick-thud, dick-thud. Empty cases hit the side window with a metallic ping-ping-ping, then fell and bounced off my head. Freezing cold air blasted through the roof, then the motor whined and the rush of air stopped. "Anybody down?" "I didn't see anyone." That came from the rear. "If there is, they'll be in the wagons. No one was left." I got a heavy slap around the head. "Fuckin' Russians! Who do you think you are, man?" The front passenger was, without doubt, the commander. His WASPy accent sounded as if he should have been standing on a soapbox fighting an election for the Democrats in Massachusetts, not trying to sort out a gang fuck in Finland, but thankfully he seemed to be sorting it out rather well. I was still alive. There was a short pause, maybe while he marshaled his thoughts, then, "Bravo Alpha." He had to be on the net, listening to his earpiece. "Situation?" There was silence from the others. Well-trained operators know better than to talk when somebody's on the net. The Wasp let out a cry. "Shit! They have Bravo's vehicle." He got back on the net, "Roger that, did you total the kit?" There was five seconds of silence before he replied in a low, depressed voice. "Roger that, Bravo." He addressed the vehicle crew. "The sons-of-bitches have some of the hardware. Shit!" There was no reply from the crew as the Wasp composed himself before getting back on the net. "Charlie, Alpha--situation?" He checked through all his call signs. There seemed to be four of them: Bravo, Charlie, Delta, and Echo. How many people at each call sign I didn't know, but there had seemed to be loads of them at the house. It seemed the whole thing had been a gang fuck for everyone. Me getting caught; Tom, well, I didn't know; the Americans and Maliskia each only getting part of the hardware they wanted; as for the three Tom lookalikes from the house, they must be more pissed than all of us put together. The radio traffic had been in clear speech, which indicated they were using secure and probably satellite com ms not like my Motorolas at the Intercontinental. As they transmit, these radios skip up and down through dozens of different frequencies in a sequence that only radios with the same encryption fill, fluctuating at the same rate and frequency, can hear. Everybody else just gets an earful of mush. He must have got a message from Echo. "Okay, roger that, Echo. Roger that." He turned toward the bodies in the back. "Bobby has gotten hit in the leg. But everything's fine; it's cool." There was a sigh of relief from the back. I felt the fabric press against my face as he turned. "Is that asshole still breathing?" My cover answered, "Oh yeah." He gave me another dig with his heel and a muttered insult in Texan drawl. I moaned in deep Russian acknowledgment. The commander's ass swiveled again and my head moved with it. He got back on the net. "All stations, this is Alpha. We're still going as planned. My group will take the extra paxes. Acknowledge." I imagined him listening in to the other call signs on his earpiece. "Bravo." "Charlie, roger that." "Delta, roger." "Echo, roger dee." It seemed that I was the extra "paxes." Whatever happened to me now, it would be down to the Wasp. We drove in silence for another twenty minutes, still on the paved road. By my estimation we hadn't gone far; we couldn't have been traveling that fast because of the heavy snow. The Wasp got back on the net. "Papa One, Alpha." There was a pause while he listened. "Any news yet on Super Six?" More silence, then, "Roger that, I'll wait." "Papa One and Super Six" didn't sound like ground call signs. Where possible these are always short and sharp. It stops confusion when the shit hits the fan or com ms are bad, factors which normally go hand in hand. Ten minutes later the Wasp was back on the net. "Alpha." He was obviously acknowledging somebody. There was silence, then, "Roger that, Super Six call signs are no go. A no go." After a pause of two seconds, he announced, "All stations, all stations. Okay, here's the deal. Go to the road plan; the extra paxes still goes with me. Acknowledge." Nothing more came from him as he got the acknowledgment from the other call signs. At least these guys were having a shit day too. The Super Six call signs must have been helicopters or fixed wing aircraft that couldn't fly in these conditions. In better weather we would have been flown out of here by people who worked for their Firm. Nine out of ten times these are civilian pilots with background jobs as commercial fliers, so they have solid cover stories. They'd fly in on NVGs, maybe pick us all up, or at least the kit, injured, and prisoners, and scream back out of the country to a U.S. base. Or maybe, if they were helis, they'd land on an American warship in the Baltic, where the computer equipment and its operators would be sorted out and moved on to whoever was so anxious to have them. If I didn't sort my shit out soon and escape I'd land up with them in one of the Americans' "reception centers." I'd been shown them in the past; the rooms ranged from cold and wet 3x9 foot cells to virtually self-contained suites, depending on what was judged the best way to get information out of "paxes" like me. No matter how you looked at it, they were interrogation centers, and it was up to the interrogators CIA, NSA, whoever they were whether you got processed the easy way or the hard way. Fuck the pizza boys; I didn't care what happened to them. But now being one of the Maliskia, I'd be checking straight into my personal 3x9 with corner en suite. There was nothing I could do about that for the time being. I could only hope I'd have a chance to escape before they found out who I really was. 24 We drove quite slowly for about another twenty minutes. It was physically painful lying crammed in the foot well but that was nothing compared with how depressed I felt about what the future held. "Papa One, Alpha--at blue one." The Wasp was back on the net. Papa One must be the operating base. The Wasp was counting down to it, sending a report line so that Papa One knew the group's location. A minute or so later we turned a sharp right. "Papa One, Alpha--blue two." I could hear the material on the driver's arms rustling as he worked at the wheel, and the tire noise told me we were still on pavement and snow. There was a sharp right turn and my head was squeezed against the door. Then we were bumping over what felt like a speed bump, and drove another ninety feet or so before the vehicle came to a halt. The Wasp got out, leaving his door open. As the rear doors opened, other vehicles passed and stopped all around me. The screech of tires on a dry surface told me we were under cover, and judging by the echoes made by the vehicles we were somewhere large and cavernous. The three on top of me started to exit. Elsewhere, engines were still running as other doors were pushed or slid open. People clambered out and walked around, but there was no voice noise, only movement. Then came the echoing clatter of steel roller garage doors being pulled down manually with chains. Whatever kind of building we were inside, they didn't waste money on heating. Maybe it was an aircraft hangar, which would make sense if we were going to have a pickup with a fixed wing or chopper. Then again, maybe it was just an old warehouse. I couldn't see a single glint of light through my mask. The air was becoming heavy with vehicle fumes. As soon as the three pairs of feet had used me as a platform to get out of the wagon, a pair of hands gripped my ankles and started to pull me out, feet first. I was dragged over the door sill and had to put my arms out to protect myself as I dropped the two feet or so onto the ground. The dry surface was concrete. There was lots of movement around me, and the same sort of sound as there had been in the house, the shuffling and dragging of electric plugs. The equipment was being moved out of the vans. I heard the telltale clunk of metal on metal as working parts were brought back and weapons unloaded, along with the clicking of the ejected rounds being pressed back into magazines. I was turned over onto my back and my feet were released and left to drop to the floor. I gave a very Russian moan. Two pairs of boots walked round to my head. They pulled me up by the armpits and started marching me. My feet dragged along the concrete, toes catching on bumps and potholes and now and again colliding with a lump of brick or other hard debris. It might have seemed to the two either side of me that I was doing nothing, but at brain ell level I was really quite busy, trying to take in all the sensory information around me. They dragged me past a wagon and even through the hood I caught the aroma of coffee, probably them opening the flasks they'd had waiting for them at the end of the job. We passed some subdued sounds of pain and short, sharp breathing. It sounded like a woman. There were men around her. "Okay, let's get another line up." It seemed that Bobby in call sign Echo was a woman. They were getting fluids into her and treating her GSW (gunshot wound). We kept moving, my feet dragging through bits of wood, cans, and newspapers, theirs occasionally crunching down on plastic drinks cups. I heard the rip of Velcro, then was dragged sideways through a heavy door. They steered me round to the right as the door swung back. The pizza boys were already here: The sound of crying, moans, and groans filled what felt like a smaller area than before. The echoes made it sound like we were in a medieval torture chamber, and even in the sanitizing cold this place stank of decay and neglect. A couple more paces and we stopped, and I realized the others were being kicked; that was why they were screaming. I heard boots making contact with bodies and the grunts of the kickers. I was pushed down to the ground and given a good kicking as well. The moans and sobs seemed to come from my right, and were now somehow muffled one by one. We weren't all in one big room; I guessed we were being put into closets or storage spaces. The moment my head banged against the toilet bowl, I knew where I was. A bathroom. Another scream and a grunt echoed as the boys were subdued and persuaded into their new accommodation. I didn't know what was worse, their noise or the fact that the kickers were doing all this without a word, making best use of the echoes to scare the shit out of everyone. Guided by their kicks I crawled into the far-right corner of the stall, coming to rest on what felt like years of debris. The paper I felt was crispy and brittle, like very thin nacho chips. Still getting kicked, I felt a hard brick wall against my back and the base of the toilet bowl against my stomach. I kept my head down and knees up in protection, gritting my teeth and waiting for the worst. Instead my hands were gripped and pulled up into the air, the plastic now tighter against my wrists because they were swelling up. I felt a knife go into the handcuffs and they were cut. Shackling my left arm over the waste pipe at the rear of the toilet bowl, they grabbed hold of the other arm and shoved it underneath so I had a hand on either side. It was pointless resisting; they had total control over me. There was nothing I could do yet, apart from save my energy. They gripped my wrists together. I tensed up my forearm muscles, trying to bulk them out as much as possible. The plasticuffs came on and I heard the ratcheting and felt the pressure as they were tightened. I moaned as soon as it seemed the right thing to do. I wanted to appear as petrified and broken as the pizza boys. They left, slamming the door behind them. I tried resting my head against the pipe, but it was unbearably cold. If there was any water inside it must be frozen solid. I lay there amongst the rubble and trash, trying to get comfortable, but feeling very aware of the cold floor through my clothing. There was a loud, prolonged creak as the heavy main door into the hangar area swung closed. Then there was silence, even from the pizza boys. Certainly no sounds of dripping plumbing; it was too cold for that. I couldn't hear any of the vehicles, either. Nothing but pitch-black silence. A couple of seconds later, as if the pizza boys had all been holding their breath waiting for the bogeymen to go away, the moaning and hooded sobs began once more; after a few moments of that, the boys muttered a few words to each other in Finnish, trying to give each other a boost. They sounded severely scared. I shifted my position in an attempt to get some pressure off my wrists, trying to find out if that extra millimeter or two of muscle flexing had given me any chance of moving my wrists in the handcuffs. As I stretched my legs, I connected with what sounded like an empty can. The noise as it rattled and scraped over the concrete gave spark to an idea. I waggled my head past the waste pipe, so that it was resting on top of my hands. Then, feeling with my teeth through the hood, I got hold of my right outer glove. That came off easily enough and I let it drop to the ground, leaving the touch glove still on my hand. I reached forward with my head, positioning the bottom of the hood over my fingers, and got to work. I now knew the hoods were done up with a drawstring and ties round the bottom, and it wasn't long before it lay on the ground. It seemed a total waste of effort. The stall was in complete darkness, and now that I had the hood off, my head was getting cold. My nose started to run almost immediately. Leaning as far forward as I could to free up my hands, I started to feel around on the ground. My fingers sifted through old paper cups and all sorts of garbage until I found what I wanted. I readjusted my body around the pan to make myself comfortable while I pulled off my other outer glove with my teeth. Then, with both touch gloves still on, I squeezed the thin metal of the soda can between my thumbs and forefingers until the sides touched in the middle. I then started to bend the two parts backward and forward. After only six or seven goes the thin metal cracked, and soon the two halves were apart. I felt for the ring-pull end and dropped the other one next to my gloves and hood. Feeling gently around the broken edge, I looked for a place where I could start to peel the side down like an orange. The sensation had virtually gone in my swollen hands, but the touch glove caught on the aluminum and I found what I wanted and started to pick and tear. My fingers slipped a couple of times, cutting me on the razor-sharp metal, but there wasn't time to worry about that; besides, I couldn't feel the pain and it was nothing to what would be inflicted on me if I didn't get away from here. Once I'd pared the metal down to under an inch from the tab end, I tried moving my wrists apart as much as possible. It didn't work that well because plasticuffs are designed not to stretch, but there was just enough play to do what I wanted. Cupping the can in my right hand with the sharp edge upward, I bent it toward my wrist, trying to reach the plastic. If I'd left more tin sticking out it would have gone further, but the edge would have buckled under the pressure. That was also why I used the tab end: The thicker rim gave the cutting edge more strength. I knew that establishing a cut into the cuffs was going to take the most time, but once I'd got into that nice smooth plastic I could go for it. It must have taken just a minute or two for the jagged tin to finally bite; then, when I was about three-quarters of the way through, I heard the loud, echoing creak of the swing door opening. Light and engine noise spilled through a gap of about two inches under the stall door. There was the sound of boots on trash heading in my direction. The light got stronger and I started to stress big time, dropping the can and scrabbling for the hood, and, once it was on, trying to find my gloves. I didn't manage it, but just as I was gritting my teeth for the inevitable confrontation the footsteps went past. There was a flurry of muffled pleas in English from the boys as their doors were kicked open and they got dragged out and subdued. They must have heard the Americans during the contact, too, as there was no multilingual begging now. Doors banged and soon I could hear their feet dragging past me. Within moments, the door swung shut and silence was restored. I felt around for the can end, not bothering to take the hood off. I couldn't have seen anything anyway. I started to work with more of a frenzy; I had to assume that they'd be coming for me next, and soon. After two or three minutes of frantic sawing, the plastic finally gave. Pulling the hood off, I felt around for the gloves and put them in my pocket, keeping just the touch gloves on. Next I located the other can end. Getting slowly to my feet and enjoying being vertical, I felt around the stall . I found the door handle, opened it and walked very slowly and carefully out into what I could feel was a narrow corridor with painted brick walls. A faint glimmer of light under the swing door trickled into the corridor about ten feet up on my left. Picking my feet up and putting them down with infinite care, my left hand supporting me on the wall, I made my way toward the light. As I got closer I began to hear a vehicle engine revving, then starting to move off. Once at the door I couldn't find a keyhole to look through, so, clearing the debris on the ground, I got down on my knees. Chains rattled as the roller shutter was pulled open. I wondered if the pizza boys were leaving town. Lying flat on the floor on my right side, I managed to get my eyeball close to the bottom of the door. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the bottom half of the can, the one I hadn't worked on. Using the light to find a place in the metal where I could start peeling this time, I got to work and put my eye back against the gap. I'd been right, it was some sort of hangar or factory space. It was mostly in darkness, but lit in places by twelve-inch-long florescent lighting units, the sort that campers use. These had either been perched on the hoods of wagons or were being carried around. The pools of almost blue light and shadow made the place look like the set of the Twilight Zone. Several vehicles were parked in a row on the far left, about forty yards away, sedans, wagons, MPVs, and SUVs, some of which had roof racks piled with skis. My thumb slipped and ran along the ripped can. I still couldn't feel it, but at least some sensation was returning to my hands. Pins and needles had started to work their way around my fingers while I carried on peeling the metal back. I looked straight ahead to the exit, my only way out, then at the people who would try and stop me. They were mostly by the two remaining vans, parked haphazardly in the middle of the hangar. A group of maybe five or six bodies were hurriedly unloading their weapons and taking off their white uniforms and bundling them into what looked like Lacon boxes aluminim airfreight containers. They were in a hurry, but not rushing. No one was talking; everyone seemed to know what was required. When one of the bodies did a half turn so that it was in profile, I realized that Bobby wasn't the only woman on this job. As they continued to throw off their kit, I could now see where the sound of Velcro had come from: She was ripping apart the side straps from sets of body armor before stacking them in the boxes. Another group of maybe eight were out of their whites and unpacking civilian clothes from duffel bags. Others were combing their hair in the side mirrors, trying to make themselves look like normal citizens. I caught a glimpse of the 4x4 I'd been transported in; its back window safety glass was pockmarked with holes where the rounds had passed through. Beyond it were the shapes of the other vehicles used on the job, which were now probably going to be abandoned. Strike marks from automatic weapons were not the best kind of modification to be sporting at stoplights. I couldn't see any evidence of the computer kit. I assumed they'd moved it straight on, along with the pizza boys and probably Bobby and the guy with the hook hanging from his thigh. They'd be in need of proper trauma care. Since the weather had put a stop to a quick exfiltration, the next destination would be a secure area like the U.S. embassy. From there, the equipment would probably be moved by diplomatic bag back to the U.S. Dip bags are basically mail sacks or containers that by mutual agreement other governments cannot have access to, which means they can contain anything from sensitive documents to weapons, ammunition, and dead bodies. I'd even heard a story of the intelligence service bringing back the turret of a new Russian armored personnel carrier in what must have been a party-sized one. The pizza boys would be stuck in the embassy or a safe house until a heli could get in sometime tomorrow and airlift them out of the country, unless there was a U.S. warship in dock. If I didn't get a grip of this situation, I knew I'd soon be following them. Everyone was now out of their whites and in jeans, down jackets, and hats. The woman was still organizing the loading of the Lacons. Loud metallic echoes filled the hangar as the boxes were moved into the vans. One man seemed to be running the whole show. I couldn't see his face from this distance, but he was the tallest of the group, maybe six foot two or three, and a head above everyone else. He gathered everyone around him and seemed to be giving them a brief. They were certainly doing a lot of nodding, but his voice wasn't loud enough for me to understand what he was saying. While he finished the briefing, the doors of the two vans slammed, both engines revved and they started to leave. Their headlights swept across the group as they turned toward the shutter. I felt around the rim of the half can in my hands as the chains went into action. I wasn't doing particularly well with it because I hadn't really been concentrating. I watched the Wasp team disperse as they moved off toward the line of vehicles like aircrew to their fighters, lights swinging in their hands. They were probably going to split up and do their own thing, probably in exactly the same way as they'd come into the country in the first place. They would now be sterile of anything implicating them in the job. They would have cover documents and a perfect cover story and would certainly no longer be armed. All they had to do was wander back to their chalets and hotels as if they'd had a good night out, which I supposed they had. None of them was dead. More engines revved, doors slammed, and headlights came on. I could see the fumes rising from exhausts. It looked a bit like the starting grid before a Grand Prix. The people from the embassy would probably take care of the abandoned vehicles. Their priority was to get away from here now that the equipment and pizza boys were safely on their way. Their only problem was that they had a little bonus me. It looked like the Wasp and another woman were taking on that responsibility. The vehicles were now leaving, but they were still on their feet, the woman with a set of jumper cables dragging along the floor as she moved out of the way of the holiday makers. They were leaving nothing to chance. Red brake lights lined up as they took it in turn to exit and hang left. Snow was still falling. I could see it clearly now as full beams shone out into the darkness. Soon there was just one car left stationary, its engine running and its lights blazing. The Wasp was sitting sideways in the driver's seat with his feet on the concrete, the glow of a cigarette intensifying as he sucked on it. The interior light was on and I could make out thick curly hair on a very large head. The jumper cables were thrown into the rear seat and the woman disappeared into the darkness. At last I'd finished the other half of the can. The blood from my fingers felt cold as it was soaked up by my touch gloves. It was a good sign. Feeling had returned to my hands. It was quiet for a few moments, with just the engine ticking over, and then chains started rattling, and the shutter closed. The woman emerged from the shadows once again and bent toward the glowing cigarette. I couldn't make out any of her features because her hair covered her face. They talked for a moment, then he turned back into the car to stub his cigarette in the ashtray. He was clearly too professional even to leave DNA evidence on the floor. By then she was round the back, pulling open the trunk. The Wasp started walking in my direction, his long legs silhouetted by the vehicle's headlamps. There was a flicker of bright white light, then the florescent unit in his left hand burst into life. I could see that he'd just finished pulling his ski mask back on. I watched his right hand go under his coat and come out again holding a multi barreled P7, which went into his coat pocket. My body banged into shock. He was coming to kill me. I made myself calm down. Of course he wasn't coming to kill me. Why would they have gone to the trouble of bringing me here? And why the hood to hide his identity? He was taking precautions in case I'd pulled my hood off. The car edged forward with the trunk open as he got within about thirty feet of the door, the light still swaying in his left hand. It was time to get in gear, otherwise I'd soon be given a dose of the medicine I'd forced Val to take last week. I got to my feet and moved to the right of the door, away from the toilets, stressing at the prospect of taking on a guy of his size. All that stuff about the bigger they are, the harder they fall, it's a myth. The bigger they are, the harder they hit you back. I wasn't sure how long the hallway was, but I soon found out. I'd only taken four steps when I banged into the end wall. Turning back, I faced the door, fumbling in my pocket for the other half-can, breathing deeply to oxygenate myself in preparation. The door swung open with a metallic screech of its hinges, momentarily flooding the area with bright white light. I could hear the car whining in reverse. He had turned right, his massive back to me now as he took the first few steps toward my toilet stall. I moved quickly as the door closed; not exactly running, because I didn't want to trip, but taking long, fast steps to get some speed and momentum, with my right arm raised. With the main door closed and car engine running, there was no way she was going to hear this. He did, though, and when I was still a couple of feet away he started to turn. I focused on the shape of his head as I leaped up and at him. Landing with my left foot forward, I swung my whole body to the left, my right arm crooked and the palm held open. Sometimes a really firm, heavy slap to the face can be more effective than a punch, and that's absolutely guaranteed if you're wielding a sawed off soda can with razor-sharp edges. It hit his head hard. I didn't care where the can connected, just so long as it did. There was a loud groan. I didn't feel the can digging in, just the pressure of my arm being stopped mid swing as the rest of my body carried on swiveling. The light danced as the florescent unit in his hand clattered to the concrete, and he started to follow it. I swung to the right with my left arm slightly bent, still focusing on his head. I hit the mark; I could feel the softness of his cheek under the left half of the can, then felt it scrape around the contour of his jaw as he fell. He moaned again, this time louder and with more anguish. By now he was on his knees. As I brought my right hand down hard onto the top of his head, the metal edges dug deep, then hit bone, stripping back the skin as he fell. I gouged a thick furrow from his scalp; the can held for a couple more inches and then broke free. He slumped to the ground, hands scrabbling to protect his head. For a few more frenzied seconds I continued to slash at his hands and head, then his hands fell away and he lay very still. He wasn't feigning unconsciousness: he wouldn't have risked dropping his hands and exposing himself to further attack. He had gone into shock, but he was still breathing; He wasn't dead. He was never going to get a job modeling for Gillette, but he'd live. There had been no other way out. If you're going to stop somebody, you have to do it as quickly and violently as you can. The florescent unit threw a pool of light across the floor and onto his ski mask. The wool still looked remarkably intact, as it does when a sweater rips and the tear seems to knit itself together, unless you look at it close up. Blood was seeping through the material. Dropping the cans, I rolled him over onto his back and, putting my knee into his face just to make things worse, I pulled out the P7 and a cell phone that was also in there. That went into my pocket. My breathing was now very fast and shallow and just slightly louder than the engine ticking over immediately beyond the swing door. I could see the red glow from the tail lights under the door gap, and my nose was filling with exhaust fumes. Getting to my feet, I got hold of the top of his ski mask and pulled it off. At last I saw the extent of the damage. He had some severe gouges where the can had gone right through his cheeks and flaps of skin hung across his mouth. In places I could see bone through the blood-soaked, hairy mess of his skull. I pulled the mask over my head, trying to cut down on the chances of being recognized later. It was wet and warm. I checked his body for a radio as he whined weakly to himself. There was nothing; he'd have been planning to be sterile like the rest of them. He'd had to hang onto the P7 to sort me out. I turned toward the door. It was the woman's turn next. Pushing through, I moved into a cloud of red fumes and brake lights. The vehicle was no more than three feet away, engine idling, trunk still open and waiting for me. I moved straight to the left hand side as the passenger door banged shut behind me. Bringing the pistol up into the aim, I pointed it at the woman's face, the muzzle a foot from the glass. If she opened the door, she couldn't knock the pistol out of line quickly enough to do anything about it; if she tried to drive forward, she would die first round. She stared wide-eyed at the barrel from under her multicolored ski hat. In the glow from the instrument panel I could see her trying to make sense of what her eyes were telling her. It wouldn't take her long; my blood-soaked touch gloves and the Wasp's mask would soon give her a clue. With my left hand I motioned for her to get out. I was supposed to be Russian; I wasn't going to open my mouth unless I had to. She kept staring, transfixed. She was bluffing; she'd drop me at the first opportunity. Moving further back as the door inched open, I decided to put on a heavy Slavic accent. Well, what I thought sounded like one. "Gun, gun!" She stared up at me with frightened eyes and said in a little-girl voice, "Please don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me." Then she opened her legs to show me a P7 nestled between her jeaned thighs. They were definitely traveling sterile, otherwise they would have had conventional weapons for this phase. I motioned for her to drop it in the foot well She moved her hand very slowly downward to comply. The moment she'd dropped it I moved in, grabbing her by her shoulder-length, dark-brown hair and heaving her out of the car and onto all fours. With the P7 jammed into her neck I felt for a cell phone. It seemed I had the only one. Moving back three paces, I pointed at the far wall, where the car had originally been parked, and she got up and started walking. I didn't care what she did now that she was disarmed. All their radios would have been stashed, I had the cell phone and there was no one left that she could turn to for help. I got into the warm car, a Ford, threw it into first gear and screamed toward the closed shutter. She was probably in the hallway by now to find out what had happened to her friend the Wasp. Stopping alongside the four vans and the shot-out 4x4,1 got out with a P7 in hand and splashed through the small puddles made by melting snow from the vehicles, ready to shoot out some tires. You don't just go up and fire straight at rubber: There's too high a chance of the round ricocheting back. You use the engine block to protect you, lean round the door and then do it. The P7's signature thud was nothing to the high-pitched dmgggg that echoed round the hangar as the round hit metal. Then there was a hiss as air escaped under pressure. I took a look behind me; there was nothing happening from the hallway yet. Once all vehicles were taken care of, I jumped back into the driver's seat and aimed for the garage doors, though this time in reverse, so the headlights were pointed at the swing door. If she came for me, I wanted to see. I braked, threw the gearbox into neutral and leaped out. The ice-cold metal chains burned my hands even through the touch gloves as I pulled down in a frenzy to open the shutters. Raising them just enough to get the car out, I clambered back in and reversed out into the snowfall, pointing the vehicle in the direction everyone else had gone. I left the hangar behind, not knowing whether to feel sorry for the Wasp, relieved at still being alive, or angry with Val and Liv. I checked the fuel tank; it was nearly full, as I would have expected. The cell phone went out the window and buried itself in the snow. No way was such a fantastic tracking device going to stay with me. The snow was falling heavily. I didn't have a clue where I was, but that didn't really matter as long as I got away. Pulling at the mask, I felt the Wasp's blood smear across my face. It finally came off, and I threw it into the foot well along with the other P7. Hitting the in tenor light, I took a look in the mirror. There was so much red stuff on me I looked like a beet. There was no way I could drive after first light or in a builtup area looking like this. The steering wheel, too, was smeared with blood from the touch gloves. I'd have to sort myself out. After maybe an hour I pulled off the road, and had a quick wash in the freezing snow. Then, with a cleaned-up body and car, and the blood-soaked gear buried in a snow drift, I drove through the night, looking for signs that would steer me to Helsinki. The more I thought about it, the more severely pissed I became. Whether Liv and Val knew about the Americans wanting to join in the fun, I wasn't sure, but I intended to find out. 25 Wednesday, December 15.1999 I set an the flam next to a red star in the corner of the station, facing the row of telephone booths that displayed the DLB loaded sign. The black marker strike down the side of the right-hand booth was clearly visible from the bus station doors immediately to my right. I had a copy of the International Herald Tribune, an empty coffee cup and, in my right pocket, a P7 with a full seven-round unit. Detached from its pistol grip in my left-hand pocket was the other unit, containing three remaining rounds. As soon as the shops opened that morning I'd bought a complete set of clothes to replace the cold, wet ones I was wearing. I was now in a dark-beige ski jacket, gloves, and a blue fleece pointed hat. I didn't care if I looked dorky; it covered up my head and most of my face. My pulled-up jacket collar did the rest. Pain lanced across my left shoulder as I adjusted my position. The bruising probably looked horrendous. There was nothing I could do about it but moan to myself and be thankful I hadn't fallen on anything sharp. I'd dumped the car off at a suburban railway station just after eight o'clock that morning and took the train into the city. The snow was still falling, so the vehicle would be covered by now and the plates would be un checkable On arrival at Helsinki I'd pulled off the left-luggage ticket from under locker number eleven and collected my bag, cash, passports, and credit cards. I also checked for Tom's, ticket under number ten. It was still wrapped in its plastic and taped under the locker. I'd been thinking about him a lot. If the Americans or the Maliskia hadn't killed him last night, the weather would have. Tom had skills, but playing at Grizzly Adams wasn't one of them. I felt pissed, but not too sure if that was for him or me. It was then that I wrote him off. There has to be a stage when that happens, so your mind can be free to concentrate on more important things, and I wasn't short of those. I left his bag ticket where it was. It would be an emergency supply of money and a new passport, once I'd tampered with it, in case what I was about to do went to rat shit. Despite my best efforts, I found I couldn't help feeling sorry for Tom as I sat and watched a constant flow of travelers moving through the doors. It was my lies and promises that had got him where he was now, face down in the snow or bundled up somewhere in an American body bag. The thing that made me feel even guiltier was that I knew I was just as pissed about not making any money as I was about his death. Cutting away from that, I buried my hands deeper into my pockets, wrapping them round the P7 barrels. I was getting even more annoyed because I'd dumped the bag and blanket that could now be keeping my ass warm and comfortable, and because I knew that Tom's death would become yet another of those niggling little glitches that would surface in the hours before daybreak while I tried to sleep. The station was packed. Santa Claus had already done two circuits, collecting money for neglected reindeer or whatever. People had been dragging in the snowfall on their footwear and, thanks to the large Victorian-style radiators, puddles had formed around the door area and gradually spread further into the station. I looked at Baby G. It was 2:17 and I'd been here over four hours already. I was dying for another coffee, but needed to keep an eye on the doors; besides, once I drank I would inevitably need the bathroom at some stage, and I couldn't afford to miss Liv when and if she arrived. It was going to be a long food- and coffee-free day, and maybe night. From the point of view of third-party awareness, it's not too bad hanging around a railway station; you can get away with it for quite a long time. I adjusted my numb, cold ass again, deciding not to waste time speculating about what the fuck had happened at the Microsoft house. The facts were, I had made no money, Tom was dead and I could be in a world of shit with the Americans and a universe of shit with the Firm. If my involvement was discovered, I'd end up helping to prop up an arch in a concrete pillar somewhere along the new Eurotunnel high-speed link. I'd never been too worried about dying, but to be killed by my own people would be a bit depressing. The longer I'd thought about what had happened on the drive last night, the more I'd boiled over with hostility toward Liv and Val. I had to come up with a plan that still got me what I needed and not waste time and energy trying to work out how to get even. Apart from anything else, that wouldn't pay any clinic bills. Plan B was taking shape in my head. The Maliskia's money would pay for Kelly when I lifted Val and offered him to them for cash. My life had been up for grabs for years, and for a lot less money. I had no idea how I was going to do it yet; I'd have to hit the ground running. But the first phase would be to let Liv think I had the Think Pad with the downloaded information on it, and, because of last night's fuckup, I'd only deal with Val now, and only in Finland. Who knows? If Val turned up with the money, I could just take that and save myself the hassle. But that wasn't the message I'd left in the plastic box I'd placed in the DLB. It was empty, just there so that when she came to get it there was something to unload, so as not to arouse suspicion. Everything needed to be as it should be. As she left the station I would grab her and tell her in person, so she made no mistake about what I wanted. I'd been sitting there for another twenty minutes when a large group of schoolkids on an excursion tried to get through the bus station doors all at once, juggling bags, skis, and Big Macs as they tried to walk, talk, and listen to Walkmans at the same time. Less than thirty seconds later I saw Liv come through and walk straight past the loaded sign without even turning her head. But I knew she would have seen it. Her long black coat, Tibetan hat, and light-brown boots were easy to spot among the crowd as she moved through the hall, brushing snow from a shoulder with one hand and carrying two large paper Stockmann bags in the other. She carried on past the kiosks and rest rooms, maneuvering through the schoolkids, who were now waiting for one of their teachers to sort his shit out with the tickets. I kept my eye on the peak of Liv's hat. I had a good check to make sure she hadn't been followed in, just in case she'd brought any protection with her, or worse, in case the Wasp had a few of the party faithful on her tail. The hat disappeared as she turned left into the ticketing and metro hallway. There was no rush, I knew where she was heading. Once on my feet and past the school trip I spotted her again, just about to sit on top of the DLB, next to some more kids. The street pre former was in his normal spot, knocking out some old Finn favorite on his accordion. The noise mixed nicely with the ruckus from a group of drunks on the other side of the benches. They were having an argument with Santa Claus, much to the amusement of those passing. Liv sat down as Santa poked the chest of one of the drunks. Staff began to step in to separate them. I watched Liv bend down and pretend to mess around with her bags. Her hand moved to pick up the DLB. The empty container was pulled from the Velcro and dropped into one of the bags; it wouldn't get read here. I waited for her to leave, positioning myself in a corner so that whatever door she decided to head for I wouldn't be in her line of sight. A few minutes passed before she stood up, looking toward the ticketing area and smiling broadly. Her arms went out as the man from St. Petersburg emerged, smiling, from the crowd. They embraced and kissed, then sat down together, talking in that smiley, hand-in-hand, nice-to-see-you way, their noses only inches apart. He was dressed in the same long camel-hair coat, this time with a dark maroon turtleneck sticking out of the top. Today he also carried a light-brown leather briefcase. Making sure I wasn't in line of sight of the platform doors, I checked the departures and arrivals board high on the wall. The St. Petersburg train, going on to Moscow, was leaving from Platform 8 at 3:34 just over half an hour's time. They talked for another ten minutes and then both stood up. Liv's contact picked up her bags in one hand, his briefcase in another, and they walked toward the platform doors. Alarm bells started to ring in my head. Why had he picked up her bags? My heart started to pound even harder when they both went through the doors and out onto the snow-covered platform. Shit, was she going with him? Maybe the courier had just given her the news about what had happened at Microsoft HQ and Liv was bailing out while she could. I counted to ten and pushed my way out into the cold. Platform 8 was to the right of me as I headed toward the luggage lockers. The snow was falling gently and there wasn't a breath of wind. I walked with my head down, hands in pockets. Glancing sideways across the tracks, I saw they were heading for the cars about midway along the train. I walked slowly toward the left-luggage room, watching until they got on board. Then, checking my watch as if I'd just remembered something, I turned on my heels. There were about seventeen minutes to go before they left for St. Petersburg, and it looked like I'd have to go with them. I went past two of the Russian train staff, standing in the guard's van at the rear of the train, their high-peaked, Nazi-officer-style caps pushed onto the backs of their heads as they glumly took a swig of whatever was in their bottle. I climbed aboard and entered a clean, though very old car, with a corridor facing the platform and compartments all the way along to my right. I moved along the warm walkway and sat down on one of the hard, fabric-covered seats in the first empty compartment. The strong, almost-scented cigarette smell probably never left these trains. What now? I had money but no visa. How was I going to cross into Russia? Hiding in the rest rooms only works in Agatha Christie movies. Maybe a bribe could get me in. I'd play the dickhead tourist who hadn't got a clue about needing a passport, let alone a visa, and offer to be very generous with my dollars if they would just be so kind as to stamp me in or whatever they could do for me. After all, only a lunatic would want to get into Russia illegally. I sat and watched snow-covered Nazi hats strolling along the platforms below the windows. My carotid pulse was throbbing on both sides of my neck and there was a pain running up the center of my chest as I heard whistles being blown and the heavy car doors slamming closed. I checked Baby G--three minutes to go. It wasn't dealing with the guards and immigration people that was getting me stressed; it was the possibility of losing Liv, my only quick and certain link to Val. My compartment door was pulled open and an old woman in a long fur came in, carrying a small overnight bag. She muttered something and I gave a grunt in reply. Looking up, I caught a glimpse of black leather moving on the platform. Now what was happening? Liv carried on past with her bags, head down against the snow. I felt huge relief as I jumped up and moved along the corridor, but I couldn't get out yet in case the courier was watching her and wondered why someone else had decided to jump train. She disappeared into the station and I leaped onto the platform, not checking to see if he was looking, and headed for the doors she had just passed through. I spotted her hat above the crowd, heading for the bus station exit. She must know by now that there was no message in the box. I fell in behind, waiting for my chance to grip her. I was about twenty paces behind as she pushed her way through the bus station doors. Once through them myself, I looked out into the snowfall. All I could see were buses and lines of people trying to get on them; Liv must have turned off as soon as she hit the sidewalk. I was moving down the steps when there was a shout behind me. "Nick! Nick!" I stopped, spun round, and looked back up toward the doors. "Liv! How lovely to see you." She was standing by one of the pillars, left of the doors, smiling, arms outstretched, getting ready to greet another of her long-lost friends. I switched on and played the game, walking into her arms, letting her kiss me on both cheeks. She smelled great, but what I could see of her hair under her hat wasn't as well groomed as usual and was knotted at the ends. "I thought I would wait for you. I knew you would be around somewhere, otherwise why leave an empty container?" Still embracing, I looked at her with my wonderful-to see-you smile. "Tom is dead," I said. The look on her face told me she knew how I felt. She pulled back and smiled. "Come, walk with me. You have a right to be angry, but all is not lost, Nick." She invited me with her gloved hand to carry her bags. As I bent down I saw the boyfriend's light-brown briefcase. Still smiling at her, I gripped her arm and more or less pulled her down the stairs. Once on the sidewalk I turned right, toward the front of the station and the town center. "What the fuck's going on? We got hit by an American team last night. I was lifted. Then the fucking Russians hit them!" She nodded as I ranted away at her, doing her normal trick of knowing everything but giving very little away. I said, "You already know that, don't you?" "Of course. Valentin always finds out everything." "You and Val have been fucking me over big time. Enough. I want him here tomorrow, with the money. Then I'll give him what he wants. I have the Think Pad and it's downloaded with what you want." I wished I'd taken Tom up on his offer back at the lead house to let him tell me exactly what he was doing. She hadn't even been listening. "Are you sure Tom is dead?" "If he's out in this shit..." I held my hand out. She looked exactly the same as she had done in the hotel, calm and in control, almost as if she was in another place and I wasn't talking to her. I increased my grip on her arm and guided her down the road, not caring what passers-by might think. "Listen, I have the download. But I'll only deal with Val now, not you. There will be no more fuckups." "Yes, Nick, I heard you the first time. Now tell me, this is very important. Valentin will not do a thing unless he has all the details. Did the Americans take all of the hardware with them from the house?" "Yes." "Did the Americans capture any of the occupants from the house?" "Yes. I saw three." "Did the Maliskia then manage to take any of the hardware or occupants from the Americans?" She was like a doctor working through a list of symptoms with a patient. "Not the occupants. They got one of the wagons that contained some hardware, for sure." She nodded slowly. We joined a small crowd at a crossing, waiting for the green man to illuminate, even though there was no traffic to stop us all crossing. I whispered into her ear. "This is bullshit, Liv. I want Val here, with the money, then I'll hand everything over and fuck off and leave all of you to it." My rhetoric was having no effect on her whatsoever. We crossed the main drag to the sound of the warbling signal, heading for the cobblestoned pedestrian shopping area. "That, Nick, will not happen. He will not come, for the simple reason that you haven't anything to trade, have you?" She spoke very evenly. "Now, please answer my questions. This is very important. For everyone, including you." Fuck her, I wasn't waiting for any more questions. Besides, she was right again. "Why did the Americans hit the house? Whatever we were going in for belongs to them, doesn't it? It's not commercial, it's state." She treated me to her best Mr. Spock look as I dragged her along. "Turn right here." I turned the corner. We were on one of the shopping streets. Streetcars, cars, and trucks splashed through the slush. "The Americans were NSA, Nick." Oh fuck. My heart sank to hear my suspicion confirmed and the pain returned to my chest. I wanted money, but not that badly. This was a big boy fuckup. Those people were the real government of America. "Are you sure?" She nodded. "They also hit my house last night about two hours after you left." "How did you get away?" She flicked at the ends of her hair. "By having a very cold and long night out on the lake." "How did they know to hit you?" "They must have been guided to the house, but I don't know how. Now please, you are just wasting time and we don't have a lot of it." I didn't even notice a van passing and giving my jeans and her coat the good news with some slush. I was busy feeling more depressed than pissed now. The NSA. I really was in the shit. She gave me more directions. "Cross here." We waited like sheep again until a little green man told us to cross. Jaywalking must carry the death penalty in this country. Moving on green, it was safe to talk again. "Tell me, did you or Tom use e-mail, telephone, fax, or anything like that while you were at the house?" "Of course not, no." And then I remembered what had happened at the airport. "Wait. Tom did. Tom " She turned her head sharply. "What? What did Tom do?" "He used e-mail. He sent an e-mail to someone in the U.K." The calm, controlled look drained from her face. She stood still, pushing me away as people skipped around what looked like a domestic spat just about to erupt. "I told you both not to do that!" I pulled her back toward me, as if I was in command, leading her down the street. She composed herself, and finally, very calmly, she said, "So, it was Tom who brought the Americans here." She pointed to the right, down another cobblestoned street. "Valentin wants me to show you something, then I am to make you an offer that your pocket and conscience will not let you refuse. Come. This way." As we turned I decided to keep quiet about the fact that it wasn't necessarily Tom's fault. E4 might have followed me from the moment I left her apartment in London, or kept tabs on us via Tom's credit card. But fuck it; I couldn't do anything about that now. We'd ended up by the harbor. A fish and vegetable market had been set up on the dock, steam billowing from under plastic awnings that protected the traders and their merchandise from the snow. "Over there, Nick." My eyes followed hers, hitting on what looked like the world's largest Victorian conservatory a couple of hundred yards away from the market. "Let's go and get out of the cold, Nick. I think it's time you knew what's really going on." 26 The teahouse was hot and filled with the aroma of coffee and cigarettes. We bought food and drinks from the counter and headed for a vacant table in a corner. With our coats over a spare seat and her hat now removed, it was even more obvious that Liv had had a bad night. We must both have looked pretty rough compared with the American tourists who were beginning to fill the place, fresh off the cruise liner I could see down in the harbor. The sharp hiss of the cappuccino machine punctuated their conversations, which for some reason were louder than everybody else's. The Finns seemed to speak very quietly. Our table was by a grand piano and partly screened by potted palms. The less conspicuous the better. Liv leaned forward and took a sip of tea from her glass while I shoved a salmon sandwich down my throat. She watched me for a while, then asked, "Nick, what do you know of the U.K./U.S.A. agreement?" A camera flash bounced around as the tourists posed with their tea glasses and big wedges of chocolate cake. I took a swig of tea. I knew the bones of it. Set up by Britain and America in the late 1940s, since when Canada, Australia, and New Zealand had also become part of the club, the agreement basically covered the pooling of intelligence on mutual enemies. Beyond that, however, the member countries also used their resources to spy on each other: In particular, the U.K. spied on American citizens in the U.S.A." and the Americans spied on British citizens in the U.K." and then they traded. Technically it wasn't illegal, just a very neat way of getting round strict civil liberties legislation. Liv's eyes followed three elderly Americans in multicolored down jackets as they squeezed past our table, loaded down with tea trays and elegant paper shopping bags full of Finnish crafts. They didn't seem able to make a decision about where to sit. Liv looked back at me. "Nick, the three men in the house last night were Finns. They were engaged in accessing a technology called Echelon, which is at the very heart of the agreement." "You mean you were trying to get Tom and me to access state secrets for the Russian mafia?" She looked calmly around the other tables and took another sip of tea. She shook her head. "It's not like that at all, Nick. I didn't explain everything to you before, for reasons that I'm sure you will understand, but Valentin wants commercial information, that's all. Believe me, Nick, you were not stealing secrets, state or military. Quite the contrary: You were helping to stop others from doing precisely that." "So how come the NSA were involved?" "They simply wanted their toy back. I promise you, Valentin has no interest in the West's military secrets. He can get those whenever he wants; it's not exactly difficult, as I'll demonstrate to you shortly." She glanced at the Americans to make sure they weren't listening, then back at me. "What do you know of Echelon?" I knew it was some kind of electronic eavesdropping system run by GCHQ, intercepting transmissions and then sifting them for information, a bit like an Internet search engine. However, I shrugged as if I knew nothing at all, I was more interested in hearing what she knew. Liv sounded as if she was reading from the Echelon sales brochure. "It's a global network of computers, run by all five nations of the U.K./U.S.A. agreement. Every second of every day, Echelon automatically sifts through millions of intercepted faxes, e-mails, and cell phone calls, searching for preprogrammed key words or numbers. "As a security precaution in our organization, we used to spell out certain words over the phone, but now even that has been overtaken by voice recognition. The fact is, Nick, any message sent electronically, anywhere in the world, is routinely intercepted and analyzed by Echelon. "The processors in the network are known as the Echelon dictionaries. An Echelon station, and there are at least a dozen of them around the world, contains not only its parent nation's specific dictionary, but also lists for each of the other four countries in the U.K./U.S.A. system. What Echelon does is to connect all these dictionaries together and allow all the individual listening stations to function as one integrated system. "For years Echelon has helped the West shape international treaties and negotiations in their favor, to know anything from the health status of Boris Yeltsin to the bottom-line position of trading partners. That's serious information to get hold of, Nick. Why do you think we are careful not to use any form of electronic communication? We know that we are tagged by Echelon. Who isn't? Princess Diana's calls were monitored because of her work against land mines Charities like Amnesty International and Christian Aid are listened to because they have access to details about controversial regimes. From the moment Tom started working at Menwith Hill, every fax and e-mail he sent, as well as phone calls, would have been intercepted and checked. "Those Finns had designed a system to hack into Echelon and piggyback off it. The firewall that Tom breached was their protection around that system, to stop them being detected and traced. They were online last night for the very first time." "Trying to do what? Hack into NSA headquarters or something?" She shook her head slowly, as if in disbelief at their naivete. "We knew from our sources that their sole objective was to pick up sensitive market information that they could then profit from. All they wanted was to make a few million dollars here and there; they didn't understand the true potential of what they had created." "But what has all this got to do with me?" I asked. "What is Val's offer?" She leaned even closer, as if we were exchanging words of love. We might as well have been, the way she spoke with such passion. "Nick, it's very important to me that you understand Valentin's motives. Of course he wants to make money out of this, but more than that, he wants the East eventually to be an equal trading partner with the West, and that is never going to happen as long as ambitious men like him do not have access to commercial information that only Echelon can provide." "Ambitious?" I laughed. "I can think of plenty of other words I'd use before that one to describe ROC." She shook her head. "Think of America a hundred and fifty years ago and you have Russia now. Men like Vanderbilt didn't always stay within the law to achieve their aims. But they created wealth, a powerful middle class, and that, in time, creates political stability. That is how you must see Valentin; he's not a Dillinger, he's a Rockefeller." "Okay, Val is businessman of the year. Why didn't he just strike a deal with the Finns?" "It doesn't work like that. It would have alerted them to what they had, and then they'd have sold it to the highest bidder. Valentin didn't want to take that chance. He was happy for them to make access and try to play the markets while he found out where they were, and got to them before the Maliskia." "And the Americans?" "If you had been successful last night in downloading the program, Valentin would have told the Americans where the house was. They would then have gone in and closed it down without knowing that he also had access to Echelon. Remember what I said in London, that nobody must know..." Very clever, I thought. Val would have carried on logging on to Echelon, and the West would have slept soundly in its bed. "But the Americans did know." "Yes, but our security was watertight. The only way they could have found out was through Tom." Before we got sidetracked into conjecture about who was to blame, there were plenty of other questions I wanted the answers to. "Liv, why Finland?" She answered with evident pride. "We are one of the most technologically minded nations on earth. This country probably won't even have currency by the next generation, everything will be electronic. The government is even thinking of doing away with passports and having our IDs embedded on the SIM cards in our cell phones. We are at the cutting edge of what is possible, as these young men demonstrated. They had the skills to hack into Echelon, even if they lacked the street sense to know what they could really do with it." She waited as I took a sip of tea. The sandwiches had long gone. "Any more questions?" I shook my head. There were many, but they could wait. If she was ready to explain the new proposal to me, I was ready to listen. "Nick, I have been authorized by Valentin to tell you that the offer of money still stands, but your task has changed." "Of course it has. Tom is dead and the NSA have Echelon back." Her eyes locked on to mine as she shook her head. "Wrong, Nick. I didn't want to tell you this until the information was confirmed, but our sources believe the Maliskia have Tom. Unfortunately, we believe they also have the Think Pad This is very disturbing as it still has the firewall access sequence that--" I fought to keep my composure. "Tom's alive? Fucking hell, Liv. I've been sitting here drinking the man was dead." Her daughter-of-Spock face never changed. "The Maliskia think he's with the Finns. They naturally assumed .. ." She waved her hands across the table. "Remember, they also want access to Echelon." "So you want me to get Tom back." "Before I tell you the objective, Nick, I must explain a complication." A complication? This wasn't complicated enough? She bent down and lifted her boyfriend's briefcase onto the table. It was dark outside now and Christmas lights twinkled in the marketplace. Liv opened the case. Inside was a laptop, which she fired up. I watched as she reached into her coat and brought out a dark blue floppy disk in a clear plastic case. As she inserted the disk I heard the Microsoft sound. "Here, read this. You need to appreciate the situation completely so you can understand the gravity of the task. I could just tell you all this, but I think you might want confirmation." She handed the briefcase over to me, the floppy still loading as the laptop did its stuff before displaying it on the screen. The disk icon came up on the desktop and I double clicked it. Adjusting the screen and ensuring that only I could see its contents, I started to read as the group from outside came in and greeted their friends, and lost no time in showing them their purchases of Russian-style fur hats and reindeer-meat salamis. There were two files on the disk. One was untitled, the other said, "Read Me First." I opened it. I was presented with a Web page from the London Sunday Times, dated July 25 and displaying an article entitled, russian hackers STEAL U.S. WEAPONS SECRETS. Liv stood up. "More tea? Food?" I nodded and got back to the screen as she went to the counter. By now the tourists were a group of six and making enough talk for twelve. "American officials believe Russia may have stolen some of the nation's most sensitive military secrets," the article began, "including weapons guidance systems and naval intelligence codes, in a concerted espionage offensive that investigators have called operation Moonlight Maze." The theft was so sophisticated and well coordinated that security experts believed America might be losing the world's first cyberwar." The hits against American military computer systems were even defeating the fire walls that were supposed to defend the Pentagon from cyber attack. During one illegal infiltration, a technician tracking a computer intruder watched a secret document be hijacked and sent to an Internet server in Moscow. Experts were talking of a "digital Pearl Harbor," where an enemy exploited the West's reliance on computer technology to steal secrets or spread chaos as effectively as any attack using missiles and bombs. With just a few taps on a computer laptop it seemed anyone could totally fuck up any advanced nation. Gas, water, and electricity utilities could be shut down by infiltrating their control computers. Civil and military telecommunications systems could be jammed. The police could be paralyzed and civil chaos would take over. Fuck it, these days, who needed armies? Even top-secret military installations whose expertise was intelligence security had been breached. At the Space and Naval Warfare Systems Command (Spawar), a unit in San Diego, California, which specialized in safeguarding naval intelligence codes, an engineer was alerted to the problem when a computer print job took an unusually long time. Monitoring tools showed that the file had been removed from the printing queue and transmitted to an Internet server in Moscow before being sent back to San Diego. It was not clear precisely what information was contained in the stolen document, but beyond its role in naval intelligence, Spawar was also responsible for providing electronic security systems for the Marine Corps and federal agencies. It was suspected that several other intrusions had gone undetected. The piece went on to say that President Clinton had called for an extra $600 million dollars to combat the problem of Moonlight Maze, but that still might not be enough, as China, Libya, and Iraq were developing information warfare capabilities, and, according to one White House official, so were certain well-funded terrorist groups. It didn't take much imagination to think of the damage Osama Bin Laden and his friends could do if they got their hands on it. As for the massive Russian probing, that could very well be the Maliskia. I double clicked the next file. What came up on screen confirmed the story of the hit against Spawar in San Diego could very well be true. The Sunday Times might not know what was in the file, but I did now. The Naval Intelligence crest in front of me headed a list of maybe fifty code words that corresponded to radio frequencies. Liv sat down with more tea and sandwiches. "Have you read both?" I nodded, and as I closed the files and ejected the disk, Liv leaned over and held out her hand. "Nick, you can help stop this from happening if you want to." I passed the disk over and started to shut down the laptop as she continued. "The Russian government aren't the only people who buy this information from the Maliskia. So can anyone with a big enough checkbook." Obviously Val's was big enough, otherwise I wouldn't have been reading the code lists. "As I said before, Nick, if they get Echelon capability and start to exploit it, even without selling the information to others, just think of the consequences. They are already on the way to achieving the capability to close down the U.K. or U.S. with their Moonlight Maze operations; with Echelon they will have complete and unrestricted access to any information worldwide--state, military, commercial. . You can stop it, Nick, if you want." She paused and looked me straight in the eye. I handed the briefcase back to her across the table. She was right. If this was the truth, it was an offer my conscience couldn't let me refuse. The idea of these machines listening to everything we did and said was very Big Brother, but shit, I'd rather have just the agreement countries accessing it than everybody and their brother with enough cash. As for the leak of military information, that had to be stopped. I didn't give a shit about people finding out about the latest surface-to-air-missile technical details or whatever. It was people's lives, including my own, that mattered. I had been part of enough fuckups where friends had died because of insecure information. If I could stop it and come away with a suitcase full of money, it seemed to touch every base. "So what exactly do you want me to do?" She heard the acceptance in my voice. "You must destroy the Maliskia's Moonlight Maze capabilities and any advance they've made with Echelon. That means, destroy the complete installation --computers, software, everything. "This time, however, you'll be completely on your own. Valentin cannot be seen to be attacking the Maliskia. Any conflict would cause disharmony and distract him from his aim. So if you encounter a problem, I'm afraid he or I will not be able to help you." I might be the most cynical man in the U.K. about the U.K." but I was not a traitor. And if all she was saying was true, I was sure that Val would be happy to open his checkbook a little wider, especially if I was having to go in singlehanded. I sat back and held up three fingers. There wasn't a flicker in her face. "Dollars?" Since she'd even asked the question, the answer was obvious. "Sterling. The same arrangements as for the exchange." She nodded. "Three million. You will be paid." It worried me slightly that she'd agreed so easily. "What guarantees do I have?" "You don't. And there's no money up front But Valentin is well aware of the lengths you went to to track him down before, and that no doubt you'd do the same again." "Correct." I didn't need to explain about never making a threat you cannot keep. She knew. "As I've said a number of times, Nick, he likes you. You will get your money." "So tell me, where is the installation?" She pointed behind me, out toward the harbor and the sea. "It's that way. Estonia." I frowned. The only thing I knew about Estonia was that it had been part of the old USSR." and now wanted to be part of NATO, the E.U." JC Penny's loyalty scheme, you name it anything to detach it from Russia for good. "The population is still thirty percent Russian. The Maliskia find it easier to operate from there." She lifted the cup to her lips and screwed up her face. The tea was cold. There was one rather important point she seemed to have overlooked. "If the Maliskia have Tom," I said, "I take it he'll be at this installation. Do you want me to bring him back here after I've lifted him or just take him back to London?" She stared at me as if I was an idiot. "Nick, I thought you understood, Tom must be considered part of their capability." She kept her gaze fixed on me for several moments while waiting for the penny to drop. It finally did. She saw it in my face. "I don't wish to state the obvious, Nick, but why else do you think Valentin would pay you three million? Tom must die." I was almost lost for words. "But why? I mean, why don't I just get him out at the same time?" "That's not an option, Nick. Tom will very quickly be coerced into helping them with Echelon. As we both know, he can breach the firewall. We know they have at least some of the software. We know they have Tom, and probably also the Think Pad As soon as it all links up, what's in his head, what's in his pocket, what's in the van .. ." She shuddered. "If the Maliskia get access to Echelon and add it to their Moonlight Maze capabilities, they will have all the ingredients for catastrophe. It will affect not only Valentin's vision for the East, but bring the West to its knees. "Look, Tom has the Think Pad He has the ability to use it. The risk is too great. What if you are killed or taken before finishing the task? Even if you did rescue him he would still be in the country, and the possibility of capture by them is a risk Valentin is not willing to take. It is simply better that Valentin sacrifices Tom and the opportunity to access Echelon himself than risk the Maliskia having it. No one, Nick, can afford for the Maliskia to have Echelon." I was still finding this hard to accept. "But why not just tell the Americans? Val was going to tell them about the Finns' house." "Unthinkable. What if they take Tom and he explains exactly what has been going on? Nick, I don't think even you would want that, would you? Tom would go back to prison for life and you'd be in the adjoining cell." Bending down and placing the briefcase in her bag once again, she seemed to be rounding up. "I'm sorry, Nick, but I have many things to do now, as you can appreciate. We'll meet tomorrow at Stockmann, eleven a.m. in the cafe. That is the soonest that I'll be able to get more information. One thing is certain, after that you must leave as soon as you can. If the Maliskia have got Tom to cooperate, every hour counts." I looked at her and nodded. "This new information, is it coming in on the 6:30 a.m. train from St. Petersburg?" She didn't bat an eyelid. "Yes, of course. Nick, I want to apologize once more for what has happened. It was just that if you'd known exactly what was going on " "I wouldn't have done the job in the first place?" "Precisely. I must go now." She busied herself in standing up and fastening her coat. "I think I need about fifteen minutes." I nodded. I'd get another tea while she got clear of the area, then I'd go and find out exactly where Estonia was and how the fuck to get there. 27 Thursday, December 12 1933 Ten minutes before she was due to arrive, I settled into a corner seat at the Cafe Avec in Stockmann. On my way over I'd stopped at an Internet cafe and checked out the Moonlight Maze story on the Sunday Times Web site. It was genuine. The "Avec" seemed to refer to the fact that you could have your coffee with a shot of anything from the bar, from Jack Daniels to local cloudberry liqueurs. The locals were knocking them back like there was no tomorrow. Placing two coffees and two Danishes on the table, I put a saucer over the top of Liv's cup to keep it hot. The cafe was just as packed as when I'd been there with Tom. I'd spent a lot of time thinking about him last night, lying in my cheap and, more importantly, anonymous hotel room. The sad fact was that stopping the Maliskia from combining Echelon with their Moonlight Maze operations, and getting the money for doing it, was more important than Tom's life. Then I pictured him leaping to my defence after we'd come off the fence. Killing him was not going to be easy. I had even considered going to the consulate and calling Lynn on a secure line, but then I realized I was losing sight of the aim, which was money. If Lynn knew, that would be the end of it. All I would get was a pat on the head if I was lucky. This way I got to pocket 3 million, plus I did democracy a good turn. It was bullshit, of course. The trouble was, it even sounded like bullshit. After my tea stop with Liv yesterday I'd gone straight down to the harbor to check out the ferries to Estonia. Its capital, Tallinn, seemed to be the destination for an array of roll-on, roll-off ferries, high-speed catamarans, and hydrofoils. The faster craft made the fifty-mile journey in only an hour and a half, but the girl at the ticket office told me there was too much ice floating in the Baltic and too much wind for them to make the crossing in the next few days. The only ones that could handle the conditions were the old-fashioned ferries, and they usually took over four hours, and because of the heavy seas they would now take even longer. Story of my life. I took a sip of coffee as I sat looking at the long words in a Finnish newspaper and scanning the escalator. I was going to use the Davidson passport to go into Estonia, but had booked the ferry ticket in the name of Davies. Giving the name slightly corrupted always adds nicely to the confusion. If stopped for it, I'd just say it was the mistake of the people who did the ticketing. After all, English was their second language, and my cockney accent could be quite hard to understand when I tore the ass out of it. The method wasn't foolproof, but it might just muddy the waters a bit. I was sure the Firm would still be looking for Davidson now that he was connected with Liv and Tom. I didn't care how much they might have worked out, as long as there wasn't a picture of me to go with it, and thankfully the one in Davidson's passport wasn't much of a likeness. The mustache and rectangular glasses, plus makeup to change the size of my nose and chin slightly, worked quite well. If put on the spot, I'd say that I used contacts to read now and liked my new clean-shaven look. I'd learned makeup from the BBC. Plastic noses and eyebrow sets are not what it's all about. As I dunked a corner of the Danish into my coffee, I couldn't help a smile as I remembered spending four hours making myself up as a woman for the final session of the two-week course; I'd thought the shade of lip gloss I'd chosen particularly suited me. It had been a laugh spending the day shopping with my teacher "girlfriend" Peter, who was dressed up in quite a fetching blue number, especially when it came to going into women's rest rooms. I didn't like having to shave and wax my legs and hands, though. They itched for weeks afterward. An insistent electronic burst of the William Tell Overture came from somewhere behind my left shoulder, followed by a brief moment of silence, then a burst of Finnish from an elderly lady. Everybody in this country had a cell phone--I'd even seen small kids wandering around holding their parents' hands and talking into a dangling mike--but no one settled for the standard ring. You couldn't go five minutes in Helsinki without hearing The Flight of the Bumble Bee, snatches of Sibelius, or the James Bond theme. I sat, dunked, and waited. I had the passports tucked uncomfortably under my foot inside my right boot, and I had $1,500 in hundreds, twenties, and tens in my left. As for Mr. Stone, he was well and truly stuffed away in the bag at the railway station. The P7 and extra barrel were still with me and would only go into the railway bag at the very last minute. There was no way I could take the weapon with me to Estonia. I had no idea how heavy the security was on the ferry journeys Liv's head appeared first as the escalator brought her up toward me. She was looking around casually, not specifically looking for me. The rest of her body came into view, wearing the black, belted three-quarter-length leather coat over her normal jeans and Timberland-type boots. She had a large black leather bag over her shoulder and a magazine in her right hand. She spotted me and headed for the table, kissing me on both cheeks. Her hair was back on top form and she smelled of citrus. An English-language copy of Vogue landed on the table between us, and we bluffed away with the how-are-you? smiles as she settled into her seat. I put her cup in front of her and removed the saucer. She lifted it to her lips. Either it was cold or tasted past its best, because it went straight back down on the table. "The Maliskia are located near Narva." I returned her smile as if enjoying the story. "Narva?" It could have been on the moon for all I knew. "You'll need a Regio one-in-two-hundred-thousand map." "Of which country?" She smiled. "Estonia, northeast." She put her hand on the Vogue. "You'll also need what is inside here." I nodded. Her hand was still on the magazine. "It's from this location that they have been running Moonlight Maze; and now that they have Tom and the Think Pad it's where they will also be attempting to access Echelon. They move location every few weeks to avoid detection, and after what's happened here they will be moving again very soon. You'll need to act quickly." I nodded again and her hands came together on the table as she leaned