nd. Slowly, I pushed down on the door handle and it gave way with the smallest of squeaks. I didn't want to burst in. I wanted us to get in as far as we could, using the Portakabins as cover, before it went noisy. There was a little resistance from the hinges, but I managed to pull it towards me an inch as Goatee's shouts and the screams from the pit increased. My view was mostly obscured by the Portakabins, but between them to my half-right I could see the concrete ramps. And no one was there any more. Fifty-Two. I couldn't understand the Arabic, but I could tell the difference between begging and demanding. Lotfi's hard-set jaw told me that for him every word mattered. I just had to assume that they all were at the pit; there was nowhere else for them to have gone, unless they were bumming around in the Portakabins or giving the Lexus a polish. Change of plan now that I couldn't see anyone. I visualized how I would go straight through the gap in the two Portakabins to the ramps, so I could use them as cover while I dominated the area. None of them would be able to outrun Mr. Nine Millimetre. That would give Lotfi a chance to move in and lift Hubba-Hubba, and once that was done, there would be three of us to get Goatee into the car and get the fuck out. And that was about as far as I got. We'd just have to get in there with the maximum amount of speed, surprise and aggression, weapons up, making sure they didn't have time to draw down. Only Lotfi's God could tell where things went from there. I moved my head back so I could whisper to Lotfi. "Change of plan, I'll head straight for the ramps and ' A piercing scream forced its way through the gap in the door. Lotfi jumped up, pushing me over. Pulling at the door, he drew down his weapon before hurling himself into the warehouse, screaming Arabic, running straight through the gap between the Portakabins then turning right, to the pits, and disappearing from view. I followed, safety off, screaming at the top of my voice, joining in with everyone else now as the noise echoed about the building. "Hands up! Hands up! Hands up!" I'd taken only three steps into the warehouse when there was a loud whoosh from the other side of the Portakabins to my right, then agonized screams that drowned every other sound. I emerged past the Portakabins to see the group to the right of the blazing pit staring open-mouthed at us. We both screamed louder, trying to overcome the noise from below us as the flames shot higher than our heads. Baldilocks was in position to draw down, but couldn't decide whether to do so or not. He looked at Goatee. He was looking at me. I stayed static, weapon up, out in the open. Lotfi had reached the pit, his screams now just as loud as those of the burning men. I kept my Browning up, pushing down with my thumb on the safety. "Hands up! Hands up! Hands up!" The black-leather brothers were trying to work out whether to take a chance and draw down, I could see it in their eyes. I felt the heat on my face as I moved in closer, to get better shots, never crossing my feet over as I moved, wanting to keep them apart so I had a constant, stable platform to get some rounds off on target. I didn't have that many to fuck about with. Lotfi, on his knees by the pit, roared with all the air in his lungs as he battled with the hot, heavy iron gate, trying to drag it just a few feet. Hands flailed from the flames below. Disembodied, high-pitched screams filled the building. Above ground, the group's eyes were still darting everywhere, at the pit, at me, at each other. I moved towards them more and with each step the stench of burning flesh became stronger than the fuel's. It was tempting to do all four of them, but Goatee was in the middle of the group. I needed him alive. Lotfi yelled for his brother, fighting the flames, fighting the gate. Where was Van Man? There was movement to my right and I was too late. The piece of scaffolding swung in hard. I felt a crushing pain in the right side of my chest and the Browning flew from my hand. I lost all the air from my lungs before hitting the concrete. Between the flashes in my head I could see Lotfi lying on the floor, gripping a charred hand that strained up through the bars of the gate. The flames were beginning to die. Even if his brother hadn't burned to death, he would have been asphyxiated long before now. Lotfi bellowed like a wounded animal, a long, drawn-out, pitiful howl of despair. His sleeves were smoking and burnt away, and his hands and arms were blistering. Bodies moved in and he was kicked away from the gate, but it wasn't physical pain that was causing his anguish. My glimpse of him lasted a second more, before feet rained in on me too. I could do nothing more than curl up, close my eyes, grit my teeth, and hope it would stop very soon. Angry Arabic echoed round the walls. The kicking stopped. Hands grabbed my feet, dragging me on my stomach and chest towards the pit. Lotfi's screams got closer. I pushed down on the heels of my hands to try and keep my face from being grated along the concrete floor and felt the skin of my palms coming away. I opened my eyes in time to see the charred but still recognizable bodies in the pit, and the smouldering paint on the gates. My legs were released, my bum-bag got pulled off me and I was pushed against the right-hand Portakabin. Lotfi was frog marched over to join me and forced on to his knees. All four of them stood around us, letting off a good kick now and again. The hem of Baldilocks' trousers was just inches from my face I could smell cologne and cigarettes, and heard heavy, laboured breathing as one of them gob bed on to my neck. Lotfi seemed oblivious to the state of his arms and hands. His skin was hanging off him like potato peel, some flakes red, some black. His watch and Medic Alert looked as if they had sunk into his grotesquely swollen wrists. The raw skin on my hands, ingrained with grit, was incredibly painful, but nothing like he was going through. A pain in the right of my chest was as much as I could bear. I had to take rapid, shallow breaths, and each one felt like I was being stabbed. Lotfi caught my eye and started rocking slowly backwards and forwards with his arms out so he didn't touch them, just taking the pain. "I should have ' He got a kick that rolled him off to his side. They closed in on us again just as Goatee pushed his way through the crowd. They gave him some space as he looked down just a few feet away from us, having nearly recovered his breath. In his left hand he held our passports. The four behind him were already counting out our cash. In his right hand he held an un tipped cigarette, unlit, and a disposable lighter. Eyeing us both with mock concern, he placed the cigarette between his lips and clicked the lighter twice before he got a light. His watch, a very slim gold thing, glinted in the sunlight. He hadn't bought his clothes at a street market either. The black shirt looked quality, and his jeans had an Armani label on the back. He smelt of expensive cologne and as he smoked I could see well-manicured nails. The fingernail on the little finger of his right hand was much longer than the rest, to the point where it nearly started to curl. Maybe he played the guitar, or perhaps he just didn't like using a spoon to scoop up his cocaine. He traded stares with Lotfi while I cleared the snot and blood from my nose on to the concrete and my jeans. Hubba-Hubba lay less than fifteen feet away from his brother, yet Lotfi gazed at his killer as if he was studying a painting. I was impressed I'd known a few people over the years who could keep their head in a gang fuck, but this was something else. Goatee looked down at us and breathed deeply, before kicking Lotfi in the leg. "Do you speak English too?" Lotfi nodded, his gaze never wavering. Goatee took another drag of his cigarette. When he exhaled, the halo of smoke danced in the sunlight above him. "I suppose you are the people on the other end of the radio?" His tone was icy. He was waiting for an answer, but Lotfi wasn't giving, and he was right, but only up to a point. This wasn't the time to answer questions, it was the time to start begging for our lives. I wiped another fistful of snot and blood off my nose, then went for it. "Look, I don't know what the fuck is going on here." I nodded in the direction of the pit. "We were just told to follow those two. We thought they were moving heroin to the Channel Islands. Someone there was worried it was going to affect his business. Whatever's going on here, we don't need to know. What the fuck, we can just walk out of here now and forget the whole thing ..." I knew I had lost him on the first few words. He didn't even look at me, but remained staring at Lotfi, and took another drag before gob bing off at him in Arabic. Lotfi replied with three or four sentences, which meant nothing to me. I just knew Goatee was getting fucked off by him big-time. Goatee forced a lungful of smoke out through his nostrils as he turned to face me. "What does it matter? I do not care who you are. If you came to steal from me, or you didn't, it matters not." He flicked the ash over towards the pit. "They are dead. You are dead. I still have the money, and I'll simply wait for another collection. I can't afford to take chances. I don't care what's happened. God understands, God will forgive me." He turned to Lotfi. "No?" There was no reply. Goatee took another drag and turned back to have a word with the black-leather brothers. Lotfi's lips started to move; he put his head down and rocked backwards and forwards slightly I didn't understand all of it but certainly got the "Muhammad rasul-ullah' bit. The Shahada; he was preparing for death. He might be ready to meet his maker, but I wasn't. Goatee heard Lotfi too, and turned his head round to watch, before shrugging his shoulders and throwing both passports towards the pit. They landed on the gate, one falling down on to Hubba-Hubba's black and red charred body. Goatee walked away and yelled stuff at the other four. Lotfi's eyes followed the black-leather brothers, one of whom carried the empty petrol container, as they walked towards the Lexus. If God was on our side, he needed to get his finger out of his arse and do something pretty quick. One of the brothers sparked up the Lexus while the other pulled on the chain to open up the grease- and grime-covered shutters. The vehicle reversed, then turned to face the exit as the hawallada's mobile gave another ring. He opened it up and headed towards the other side of the building. The Lexus went through the door and disappeared. Van Man started closing the shutter as Baldilocks kept watch on us, sunlight bouncing off his sweat-covered head. It was a very short phone call: I got the impression that Goatee was telling her he might be back in time for tea after all, but not to keep calling him at the office. Whatever we were going to do, we had to do it before the Lexus got back. I looked over at Lotfi and his eyes were still locked on Goatee. Blood dripped from his nostrils, bubbling as he prayed. Goatee put the phone in his pocket and walked back over to us. He'd almost reached us when two shots rang out outside. Van Man let go of the chain. The shutter stopped rattling, about two feet from the ground, as they all drew down and Van Man dived to one side of the entrance. There were more shots, followed by shouts and the revving of engines, then the screech of brakes and the sound of a collision. Baldilocks froze, looking to Van Man for some kind of clue about what the fuck he should do next. There were more single shots. Van Man took a quick look outside. "Police! Police!" Goatee barked instructions at them both. Lotfi had stopped in mid-prayer. The light was back in his eyes. He glanced across at me with a look that said, "You see, Nick? I was right. God's come to the rescue." I gave him one back that said, "Let's get the fuck out of here, and let's do it now ..." He launched himself at Goatee, as the pain in my chest disappeared and I wrapped myself around Baldilocks before he had the chance to switch himself back on. I hung on to him like a drowning man, trying to keep his arms down and the weapon out of the way. I kept pushing him back, moving my legs as quickly as I could to keep him off balance. The pistol clattered to the concrete and we crashed into the ramp, then fell to the floor, me on top, still wrapped around him. The pain returned, big-time. My ribs felt like they'd been given the good news by a jackhammer. I fought for breath. I heard myself scream as he squirmed under me, his pistol just over a metre away. It was a Beretta, and the safety catch was still on. My brain shrank. That weapon became my whole world. I fell sideways, arm outstretched, but Baldilocks managed to slow me down, grunting with the effort, dragging at my leg, pulling at my sweatshirt, trying to beat me to it. The muzzle was facing us; my hand was no more than six inches from it. I could feel his fingers scrabbling at me, trying to climb over me. But I was there, no pain in my hands now, gripping it to my chest. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't suck in any air. Trying to turn the thing round, I got it in my right hand. He was now on top of me, forcing the weapon down between me and the concrete. My ribcage started to collapse. I pushed up with my arse, trying to make space under me, trying to spin the weapon round, stripping the skin off my knuckles. He grabbed my throat. His teeth bit into my shoulder. I felt his laboured breathing on my neck. If I didn't get some air into my lungs soon, I was going down. Starbursts of light flickered across my eyes. I needed oxygen, my head was about to explode. More gunshots outside. I got the weapon in my hand, but his weight was still pressing down on me too much to move it. I twisted left and right, jerking up and down, trying to create a gap so I could free my hand. He bit harder, his hands shifting from my throat to my arms. I rolled on to my right side, got the Beretta into his biceps, and fired. He shrieked and sprang off me, clutching the wound, wriggling like an eel. I could see bone and blood as I lay there trying to breathe. Lotfi was lying by the pit, a few feet from Goatee. Both were curled up, both leaking blood. Sunlight poured in through the gap underneath the shutter. Shots ricocheted off the steel as Lotfi crawled over to the hawallada. I screamed at him, "No, let's go, let's go!" He'd got on top of Goatee and was forcing the pistol into his face. Fuck him, we'd never get him to the DOP anyway. "Just do it, let's go come on! Come on!" He looked over at me, his face covered with blood. "Come on! Do it! The window!" Sirens wailed. Rolling off Goatee, he lifted the pistol to fire at Van Man, who was still at the shutter, but he was in shit state; it would be a waste of rounds, and he knew it. The weapon came down as I moved to the cover of the Portakabins, my head swimming, vision blurred, eyes wet with pain. "Come on, kill him," I croaked. "Let's go!" We had to get out of there before the police threw a cordon around the estate. Lotfi hauled himself on to his knees, clutching his stomach. Take him, take him now ..." He was still scarily calm. "Fuck him. Let's go!" "No, I need revenge, you need the hawallada." He staggered to his feet and stumbled towards Baldilocks, firing two rounds into him as soon as he was close enough. One exited his head at an angle and ricocheted off the ramp. As he headed for Van Man, I shuffled forward and got hold of Goatee by the feet, dragging him behind the Portakabin. His head bounced on the concrete as he tried to keep his hand over the gunshot wound in his stomach. His black shirt, wet with blood, glistened in the sunlight. I stopped at the toilet door. I couldn't catch my breath, everything was too painful. But I had to keep dragging. Somehow, I got to the window. Blood streamed from my mouth as I bent down and tried to get Goatee on to my shoulder. I had to get on my knees to do so, then haul myself upright on one of the urinal pipes. He gave a whimper as I stopped to chug up and gob out another mouthful of blood, before trying to shove him out through the window. Fifty-Three. He fell out of the window head first, gasping in pain as his shins scraped against the metal rim of the frame, before he hit the ground with a crump and a muffled cry. I followed, trying to keep my weight off my chest as I wormed my way through, fighting to stop myself shouting with pain. I finally tumbled down beside him on the dried mud of the track. Sirens wailed in the distance. I got to my knees, trying to suck oxygen into my lungs without moving my ribs. Every intake of breath still felt as if I was being stabbed. I was sweating all over, the pulse throbbing heavily in my neck. On my knees, I lifted Goatee by the armpits, manhandling him back on to my shoulder. I struggled to get myself upright, using my legs to push, and my free hand to claw my way up the wall. I tried to take deeper breaths, but the effort just made me cough up more blood that in turn blocked my nose. As I stumbled towards the railway tracks and Lotfi's Focus, the sound of sirens got closer, coming down the main behind me and following the river. I made my way to the end of the building and peered round it, towards the estate entrance. The white police patrol car was blocking it. The Lexus had smashed into its rear, spinning it round in its attempt to get away, and ending up off towards the farmhouse in the right-hand corner. I couldn't see any sign of the black-leather brothers, but the three policemen were bobbing and weaving on the far side of the patrol car. Their main attention was towards their left and the farmhouse area. Lotfi appeared in the open ground, staggering towards the police with his weapon dangling in his hand. They started screaming orders at him as he made his way slowly towards their line. He was buying me time to get away. The gap between this building and the next was about two metres; after that I'd be in cover right down to the railway tracks. He raised his hands as more orders were screamed at him, but held on to the pistol. He moved forward, blood drenching his clothes, taking his time to come level with the Lexus, making sure they were following his every move. Would they spot me as I crossed? Lotfi moved to the right. I tried to fill my lungs, adjusted Goatee on my shoulders as Lotfi moved to the right, towards the farmhouse, firing at the black-leather brothers who were over there somewhere, firing back. I went for it. Sirens seemed to be coming from everywhere. I couldn't tell if I'd been seen or not as I crossed. It didn't really matter. All that did was getting to the car. I lurched along the path, a stone building to my right and the brick wall to my left, bumping into both. My vision was blurred; I was feeling dizzy, I needed more oxygen, but it just hurt too much to fight for it. I heard a fusillade of shots from the police that seemed to last for ever. If it meant they were still shooting at Lotfi as he ran out of rounds and went at them with his bare hands, I could only hope his end came quickly. The track disappeared into a cutting, which was lined both sides with bushes and caked with drinks cans and cigarette packets. The cutting was no more than five or six metres deep on each side, but that would be enough to hide Goatee in while I went to get the Focus. I scrambled and slid down towards the railway. Goatee was making spasmodic attempts to free himself, but they only lasted a few seconds. He lost it once more and slumped on to me. I could feel his blood soaking into my bitumen-covered sweatshirt and mixing with my own sweat. His beard rubbed against my right forearm as I struggled to keep him in position. Signs that probably said "Do not cross here' were nailed up to warn users of the dangers of this rat run. I picked my way carefully over the stone bedding, then crossed the tracks. My nose was still blocked, and by the time we were on the far bank my mouth was full of blood again, making it hard to breathe. I couldn't muster the strength to get him up the other side of the embankment. I tried, but we fell together on to the dry earth path just a metre up the bank. Sirens were directly above us, on the main beyond the station. It was decision time. I lay there in much the same condition as Goatee, both on our backs and desperately trying to take in oxygen. He mumbled to himself then screamed out. I swung a clenched fist to make him shut up, hitting him somewhere in the face. I wasn't too sure where, because my eyes were still wet and blurred, but it seemed to do the trick. I rolled on to my front and crawled over him, leaving him where he was, and headed slowly up the bank, finally coming level with the cracked and potholed tarmac of the packed car park. The station itself, a dirty cream brick building, was immediately to my right. I lay there for a minute, fighting for breath, and against the pain that each breath brought with it. Blood continued to pour out of my mouth each time I coughed. Craning my neck around the tyres of the car nearest me, I spotted the Focus, parked facing the road about fifteen metres away, its tailgate towards me. People had stopped, trying to see what was happening, and were getting on their mobiles to tell their friends about all the excitement. More police cars swooped into the area, one passing left to right on the main. There was nothing I could do to hide myself. I just had to go for it, and get us both into the Focus before there was no way out. It was fuck-it time again. I got up and staggered towards the black estate car, squinting in the sunlight, trying to walk upright and stop myself coughing, and failing at both. I burped up some more blood and gob bed it out. I was going to need to control my breathing soon, and McDonald's came to my rescue. A bin to my right was overflowing with McDo burger containers and grease-stained brown paper bags. I picked one up, tipped out the used napkins and ketchup sachets, and shoved it into my back pocket. It was then that I heard the gentle thwack of rotor blades up above me somewhere. I couldn't be arsed looking up, just focused instead on the car. The glare of the sun made my eyes water even more as I bent down and started to pull at the thin rectangular number plate With the key and fob in my hand, I pulled myself upright to go round to the driver's door, and found myself face to face with a skinny, middle-aged black woman with a freckled face and multicoloured dress. She stood on the pavement by the Focus with two carrier bags of shopping. She just opened her mouth and stared at my bloodstained, bitumen-streaked sweatshirt, and at the blood and snot all over my face. Fifty-Four. The four ways flashed as I hit the key fob. I grinned at her like an idiot, not having a clue what to say. Half climbing, half falling into the driver's seat, I settled for a smiley "Bonjour', and, to my amazement, she just replied in kind and carried on walking. Maybe she saw blokes like me every day round here. I closed the door on the stifling heat and smelly plastic of the interior and started the engine, checking the fuel gauge as I did so. It was just over three-quarters full. Good skills he'd filled up at every opportunity. I tried to turn my head to find the closest gap to the path, but the searing pain in my chest made me think again. I couldn't get a lungful of air. It seemed to be going into my mouth all right, in short sharp gasps, but nothing would go down. I was starting to hyperventilate. I reached into the back of my jeans, pulled out the McDo bag, and got it over my nose and mouth. With both hands cupping it in position, I concentrated on breathing slowly in and out a few times, puckering my lips. It was a bit juddery, but I managed to get at least half-lungfuls before holding my breath for just a second, then exhaling slowly. Leaning forward over the steering wheel with the bag over my face, I repeated the cycle. My eyes flashed up as a red pompiers ambulance passed me on the main. This just wasn't happening quickly enough. I was fighting to draw oxygen, but I wasn't getting anywhere. And then, painfully slowly, I started to succeed. The bag collapsed half-way, then filled out again. It was a big effort and took me several attempts, but at last I got things under some kind of control. That was all I could do for now; I really needed more time if I was to get my breathing back to anything like normal. I reversed the Focus out of its space, scraping it along the Peugeot next to me, and carried on backing into the gap nearest to where I'd left Goatee. The heels of my hands stung as the raw skin ran over the hot plastic of the steering wheel, smearing it with blood. Leaving the engine idling, I got out once more, opened the tailgate and scrambled down the bank. He'd shifted on to his side, and was curled up in pain. I got him on to my shoulders once more, and began to work my way up the bank. His weight pressed against my lungs as I moved up the hill, and I couldn't stop coughing. Still more sirens in the distance, but closing in. When I finally got on to level ground, I felt like cheering. I reached the car and tipped Goatee into the boot just as the helicopter closed in. There was next to no resistance from him as I pushed and bent his legs to fit him in. I checked that the back tray came down flat and closed the tailgate, pushing down on whatever bit of him was in the way until he moved it. Back in the driver's seat, I got the bag over my mouth once more, trying to regulate my breathing before I made my move. My eyes were still watering, my head banged, everything was blurred. The quickest way out of the city was north into the mountains. I turned the ignition and rolled out of the car park. The sun was still fairly high and to my left. To help relieve the pain, I had to lean my body left or right rather than turn the wheel with my hands. I caught sight of my face in the rear-view: I was really fucked up. I screwed it up further to try to keep the sweat out of my eyes as I moved into the traffic. I carried on out of the city, concentrating on the road ahead as best I could. Wiping my eyes with my sleeve didn't seem to make much difference. Goatee found another little burst of energy, kicking out at the back and screaming, then went quiet again. The road narrowed and we were soon climbing steeply. The pain in my chest was too bad for me to change gear, and I had to stop in a lay by to let a small convoy of cars pass before they got terminally annoyed at my snail's pace. I used the opportunity to take controlled breaths into the bag, the paper inflating and deflating like my lungs weren't. I didn't know where I was, but the sun was still to the left of me. I was definitely moving north. There was no way I was going to take the risk of driving back into the city, just to get on to the main drag that I knew led directly to Villefranche. I was going to do it cross-country. I stayed in the lay by for maybe ten minutes, breathing into the bag. Now that I had time to do it properly, I was able to breathe back in the carbon dioxide that I needed in my blood to relieve the symptoms. Willpower alone wouldn't have done the job: I needed the bag to break the cycle of hyperventilation. I knew I must be in shit state for this to be happening. Breathing a lot better but still in small gulps, I thought about how I was going to get to the DOR From here, I knew that as long as I kept the sun on my left, to the west, the coast would be behind me. I'd chuck a right at the first opportunity, and head east, with the sun behind me, paralleling the coast. That way I'd be able to bypass the city. When I chucked another right, heading south, I'd eventually hit the sea. With luck, I'd be able to sort myself out from there. I rejoined the road, keeping in first gear, only changing up into second when the engine was screaming. There was another outburst from Goatee in the boot and I turned on the radio to drown the noise. It was monotonous, rapid dance music, but at least it was louder than he was. Even if I got Goatee successfully to the DOP, I didn't know what I was going to do next. There was no way I could go to a hospital. No identification, no money, no nothing I'd be picked up in minutes. What had happened down in the industrial estate would be a massive deal, even for such a rough banlieue. The police heli was up: they'd be looking for runners. TV and radio would carry saturation coverage any minute. I had no chance of getting out of this. The police would find my docs in the pit soon enough, and then I'd really be in the shit. I couldn't run to the American consulate. They'd fuck me off at the door. The only chance I'd have would be to jump over the wall, giving myself up to someone inside the compound. Even then they'd probably chuck me out. I could try making a run for Italy, but I'd still be in the same boat. I worked my way up on to the high ground, leaning on the wheel to take some of the weight off my chest. The coughing persisted, and the knifelike pain came back each time my body tensed as I tried to stop it. The only chance I had was to get on board that warship. It didn't matter how I did it, even if it meant posing as one of the hawallada. Only the warship guaranteed medical attention, and offered the possibility of escape. I drove with the sun to my left for what felt like hours. I still didn't know where I was because I'd been concentrating too much on other things. I eventually took a junction right, which led into a narrow lane with steep, rocky sides, dotted with clumps of grass and the odd stubby tree. I was heading east now; the sun half blinded me in the rear-view mirror. The dance music banged out, and the boot tray gave a jump now and again, not quite in time with the beat. I didn't have a clue how far inland I was, but I knew I was paralleling the sea and was some way above Nice. I was feeling more and more exhausted. I'd gone on maybe another hour. Any road south would do me now. I found one and with the sun to my right and getting lower, began my descent towards the coast. The rapid breathing returned, and I had to pull in at the roadside and get the paper bag on to my face. The radio boomed, and Goatee gave the back tray another couple of kicks as I puckered my lips and kissed air. Fifty-Five. I gob bed out some more blood and covered my mouth and nose once more with the McDonald's bag, but it was getting wet from me dripping into it every five minutes, and wouldn't be good for much longer. After about fifteen minutes, the hyperventilation had eased and I threw the bag back on the passenger seat. The road ahead swam in and out of focus. All I knew was that as long as I kept heading south, towards the sea, I could sort myself out and get to the DOR As darkness began to fall, I found myself on an avenue of large houses set well back from the road, at the end of which was a sign that told me Villefranche was to the left, and Nice to the right. The volume of traffic increased, and I had to concentrate even harder as the headlights came on and the wipers failed to shift the smear of insects on my windscreen. In just a few more Ks I was approaching the picnic area. I stopped by the bottle banks, and levered myself slowly out of the car, letting my arms take my weight. The car park was empty, but I left the music on to cover any noise Goatee might make. Opening the rear passenger door, I bent down to retrieve a full can of Coke Light from a six-pack in the foot well and shoved it under the right corner of the nearest bottle bank. My chest felt like a knife thrower had used it for target practice as I pushed myself back up. Back behind the wheel, I felt under the dash for the brake and reversing lights cut-out, pressing down on the brake so the rear of the wagon was now a blaze of red. It was in the same position as on the other two cars so that everyone knew where to find it, just like the keys. My fingers found the switch, and the gentle glow from the tail lights returned in the rear-view mirror. I circled the car park and headed downhill, eyes peeled for the DOP driveway. If I missed it, I'd have to go into Hubba-Hubba's old holding-up point, then make my way back uphill, and I didn't want to do that if I could avoid it. Every movement was agony. I kept the vehicle lights on full beam and let the car just coast on its brakes, leaning on the wheel to relieve the pain. I turned off the radio to help me concentrate. There was no sound from the boot. At last I saw it. I moved into the oncoming lane, killed the lights, put the Focusinto first and managed to make the sharp right turn on to the track. My chest burst into flames again, and I coughed blood on to the dash. The rusty chain was padlocked to a wooden post at either end. I put my foot down. I hit it dead centre and the Focus lunged forward, but then stopped, throwing me against the steering wheel. The engine stalled. My chest was agony. I coughed up another mouthful of blood and mucus and reached for the soggy McDonald's bag. When my breathing had slowed, I lowered the window, listening for vehicles. There was nothing; I moved the gearshift into reverse, checked there was no white light behind me, backed into the road, and tried again, this time with more revs. The post ripped out and I braced myself and braked, not wanting the Focus to go all the way down the hill just yet. I turned off the engine, put the hand brake on, and pressed the boot-release catch before stumbling outside. Shoving the wet McDonald's bag down my sweatshirt and using the car to support myself, I waded through a river of broken boxes, empty cans and burst bin liners. The light came on as I lifted the tailgate. Goatee was still out of it, just a limp bundle. I got hold of his feet and swung them out, bent down and half lifted, half dragged him out on to the ground. It was just as well there was no resistance from him: I wouldn't have been able to fight back. I made my way back to the driver's seat, released the hand brake and gave the Focus as much of a push as my grating ribs would allow. It rolled slowly forwards, gathered a bit of momentum, and carried on down the slope until it hit a barrier of old washing machines. It hadn't gone far, but was out of i view of the road, and that was what mattered. I turned and limped back to Goatee, got my hands under his armpits, and dragged him on to the canvas tarpaulin to the right of the driveway. A car came downhill from the picnic area, bathing the roadside and bushes in light. I waited for the sound of its engine to die, then pulled him over on to his side to make sure he didn't choke on his tongue. He curled up like a baby. I sat over him; I tried lying down, but it was just too painful. Coughing out more blood, I checked traser. It was just past seven o'clock: it could be hours before we got a pick-up. Goatee's condition was a worry. I wasn't sure he was going to make it. Come to that, I wasn't too sure about myself. I lifted the corner of the tarpaulin and covered him, trying to maintain his core temperature. I tried to get some of it over me as well, but it hurt too much to pull it any further. I started to hyperventilate again with the effort and the McDonald's bag finally fell apart as I tried to breathe into it again. There was nothing I could do but use my cupped hands. I rested my elbows on my knees for a moment, but that was too painful. More vehicle lights bathed the skyline intermittently for the next hour or so, then I heard a diesel engine coming down the hill. I listened and hoped it would stop at the driveway, but no such luck. It passed and the lights disappeared. I checked traser again. Only ten minutes had passed since the last time I'd looked. Goatee retched, and I heard a splash on the tarpaulin. He wheezed and fought for breath, then coughed again and I felt warm liquid on the hand that I was using to support myself. Two or three more vehicles passed in each direction as I just sat there, cross-legged, trying to keep my trunk upright, wishing my life away because I desperately needed Thackery to turn up and get us out of here. Goatee moaned gently below me; now and again his body twitched and his legs pedalled on the tarpaulin, but at least his breathing was more regular than mine. Suddenly, soft bleeping noises filled the air. I wondered if I was hallucinating. It took me several seconds to realize they were coming from Goatee's mobile. He started to straighten out his legs, mumbling to himself in Arabic. I lay down next to him, feeling in the dark, finding his hand as it tried to find his pocket. I pulled it away weakly. "Fuck you," he grunted. There were only a few inches between our faces now and I could smell his rancid breath. Mine was probably no better. I dug into his trouser pocket with my left hand and pulled out the mobile. It had stopped ringing, and Goatee was whining in Arabic, I thought more in anger at not being able to take the call than from the pain. "What you saying?" I could hear slurping as he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before muttering, "My wife." I opened up the phone and a dull blue display glowed in the dark. "Tough shit." With the blood- and bitumen-covered thumb of my right hand I tapped in the digits 001, then the rest of the Massachusetts number. It would be afternoon in Marblehead, and she should be home. She had to be it was her day to look after the B-and-B. It rang three or four times, then I heard her voice. "Hello?" "Carrie, it's me. Please don't hang up." "Oh." "I need help." "I've been telling you that for months." Her tone changed. "So, Nick, where do we go from here?" "Listen, I really need your help." I tried to stop myself coughing. "Are you OK, Nick? You sound ... have you got somebody with you?" "Yes, I have." I hesitated, then realized I had no choice. "Look, I'm still working for George." I moved the phone away from my mouth, and this time coughed up some more blood. "Nick?" I'm all right. I need you to call your dad for me. Tell him I'm coming in with today's collection, and the collection is ready now. Tell him we both need medical attention, and quickly. Can you do that? Can you contact him?" "Sure, his pager. But ' "Please, just make the call." "Of course." "Please do it now it's important." "Nick?" "I've got to go just do it now, please." I hit the off button, but kept the power on in case the phone had an access code. Goatee coughed and cleared his mouth before speaking. "Your wife?" He lay there waiting for a reply. "You're dying. People are going to pick us up soon and try to save you, but that's only because they want you alive. They want to know what you know. After that, I don't know what happens, but it's not going to be good." There was a pause. He didn't say anything, but I could hear his head moving up and down on the canvas and the smell of his breath came and went in waves. "Me, I'm going home. That's the end of it, apart from the fact that somebody stitched both of us up. Those two you lifted in the shop, they were the real collectors." I could hear his head move again. We were there to follow them, to get to you and then do exactly what I'm doing with you now. So my job is done, but my two friends are dead. And so are yours, and chances are you'll never talk with your wife again. Tell me who you saw in Juan-les-Pins Wednesday night, and what they said." I let it sink in a little before continuing. "Look, you're fucked, but I can do something for both of us." A vehicle passed by, up on the road, so I let my words sink in a little more. "You've got nothing to lose, you've lost it already." He gave what sounded like a sob, then made an effort to pull himself together. He turned his head towards me, and the rancid smell returned. "He said he knew that the collection was taking place today ... He said the collectors were not the real guys. They were coming to steal the money, but they were coming with the correct code. He also told me that there would be other guys out there following them as protection." What did this man look like? Was he white? Black?" "Arab." "With long, greying hair?" "No, no. Greased back." He coughed, and I heard liquid in his throat. "I had to do what I did. Surely you understand that? Just tell me your price and let me go. I'll pay you money, more than you can imagine. No one will know what happened. You can say I escaped. How much do you want?" My mind was on other things. I'd heard all that crap a million times before, over the years. I thought about the first time I'd been to Greaseball's flat. He hadn't been expecting me, and that was why he'd tried to hide the tennis bags. I'd thought he was trying to stop me seeing the syringes when he kicked them under the bed, but that wasn't it at all: he was going to collect the money in them. There were even a couple of racquets out on the landing. Their plan couldn't have been simpler: they were even prepared to sacrifice this collection so they could hang on to the other two, Monaco and Cannes. I opened up the mobile once more, mentally reciting the pager number. The first four numbers toned out from the phone, then I stopped. What if they were still in the harbour, or anywhere near real people? I couldn't do that. I had to stop the money movement, but it was my anger dialling, not the job. I could get something organized from the warship. After all, they had enough technology on board to find anything, anywhere. I kept the phone in my blood-stained hand as Goatee stirred again. "Please tell my wife ... please call her." I thought about lying to him to make him feel better. Then I thought about Hubba-Hubba's charred hand reaching through the wrought-iron gate. I turned to face him again in the darkness. "Fuck you." He didn't reply, just coughed up even more blood than I had and started to breathe very quickly and shallowly. I forced myself up on my arse to relieve some of the chest pain, and felt myself breathing out of rhythm. I cupped my hands over my nose and mouth. Another vehicle roared up the hill and I checked traser. It was eight twenty-seven. I slid my way down again, and lay next to Goatee. All I could do was wait now, try to control my breathing, and hope that we were going to get picked up before both of us were dead. Fifty-Six. Another vehicle swept down the hill, but this time slowed as it neared the entrance to the track. Whoever it was came to a complete halt, with his engine ticking over. I heard the high-pitched whine of the vehicle reversing; then a mixture of red and white light swept across the bank of bin liners beside us. There was just a second's silence before the doors swung open. There was something about their echo that made me think van, not car. It must be them. Then the crunch of footsteps headed my way as red light now fought its way past the collapsed chain barrier. I didn't move a muscle. Maybe it was just somebody about to do some late-night fly-tipping. If it was Thackery, he'd know where to find us: I didn't want to spook him, in case he and his mate were armed. I wanted to get into the back of that wagon in one piece. Goatee stirred, and I leant over and cupped my hand over his mouth. I realized that I still had the phone in my other, and slipped it into the pocket of my jeans. Two silhouettes appeared in front of the gentle red glow, weapons already drawn down, and picked their way through the rubbish. The one on the right saw us first. "Shit! We've got two!" The other one closed in and gave Goatee a kick. I didn't know whether he was looking for a reaction, or if it was just for the hell of it. The hawallada responded with a dull moan and curled up even more. I didn't want any of that: I didn't know if my ribcage could take it. I looked up and kept my voice very low. "He's the one you're here for. He's got a gunshot wound to the abdomen." The shadow leant towards me. "I'm the one who delivered him. The man ' The punch flattened my nose against my face. My eyes watered, and white stars flashed inside my head. I lay there, just trying to get my breath back, as a hand ran over my body, checking for weapons. The phone was found and confiscated. The other did the same to Goatee, then they both picked him up and carried him by his arms and legs to the van, beyond the bushes. I hoped they were going to come back for me, but just in case, I struggled up on to my hands and knees and started to follow. My route was paved with rusty cans and broken glass. I got to the track as the two shadows reappeared. I held up my hands, taking the pain in my chest. "I'm one of you," I gasped. "I need to get to the ship." They closed in and I got a very thick New York growl in my left ear. "Shut the fuck up." Hands gripped me and half lifted, half dragged me into the back of the van. The pain was unbearable but I wasn't complaining. One of the shadows got in with us and the door closed. In the gentle red glow from the rear lights, I could see him ripping apart the Velcro fastenings on a trauma pack. As we started to move, he turned on the interior light and I saw Thackery's face at last. He completely ignored me, concentrating on Goatee in the mix of white and red light from the rear units exposed in the back as we bounced our way back to the road. He was wearing much the same gear as he had in Cap 3000. I tugged at his jeans. "It's me. Cap 3000, remember? The brush contact, the colour was blue. It's me ..." He ripped open the plastic wrapper of a field dressing with his teeth. "Do you recognize me?" He nodded. "You OK?" He sounded like one of Dolly Parton's backing group. "Not sure." I dribbled some blood down the front of my sweatshirt, as if to show him what I meant. We headed steeply downhill and encountered the first of the hairpins. Thackery held the dressing in place over Goatee's gut, and manhandled him over to look for the exit wound. Not finding one, he started to wrap a bandage aggressively around the hawallada's stomach. "What the fuck's going on here, my friend? Some buttons got pressed and we were told to do the pick-up quick as we could." The driver hit the brakes. Thackery held Goatee in place and I put my hands on the floor of the van to steady myself as we took another sharp right-hander, and lost some more of the now drying top layer of skin from my palms. There's been a fuck-up. I need your help." He continued bandaging, checking Goatee's tongue wasn't blocking his airway. "Hey, man, I don't know what this is about, and I don't want to know. We know nothing, we just do what we do." More red light bled into the white as the driver hit the brakes for the next hairpin. "I need you to go to the port at Vauban." "All we do is pick up and drop off, man. Don't even have com ms with the guys down the hill." "Look, the men who killed the rest of my team they've got the money, they've got the boat. We have to stop them, or all this has been for nothing. They don't know it yet, but the guys down the hill need to know where it is. That's why I'm here, that's why you got the fast ball for an early pick-up. We need your help, there just isn't time!" He finished dressing the injury and stared at me intently. I explained about the Ninth of May. "I need to know if it's still there. If not, bang on other boats, wave our weapons around, shout do whatever we need to do to find out what's happened to it." He hesitated, and got back to checking Goatee. "How do I contact you?" "You got a cell?" He nodded. "In the front." "Keep mine, and I'll take yours. Find out what's happening in Vauban, then call your own phone." He nodded and slid back the hatch on the bulkhead. "Hey, Greg, we have a situation here. We have to kick ass in Antibes after the drop-off." I looked through the hatch as we continued downhill. We'd already crossed the main drag, and were heading into Villefranche. People were out and about, restaurants were open, neon was flashing. Then, to our left, I saw the warship, still lit up like a Christmas tree in the centre of the bay. Thackery's phone was passed back and the hatch closed. He turned it on before handing it to me. Greg banged on the bulkhead and Thackery said, We're here." The vehicle came to a halt, then moved on another ten or fifteen metres before stopping again. An American voice echoed outside, "Lights." Thackery opened the rear door and disappeared left as the last of the fluorescent strip lights flickered on along a wall. We were in a stone building with a high terra cotta roof; I couldn't see anybody, but there were more American voices around the van as they closed in on Thackery. We got two guys." Thackery didn't fuck about. The one in the sweatshirt covered in tar is one of ours. He's injured. He needs to talk to whoever is in command here. There's more going down, he'll explain. The other guy, the pick-up, has a gunshot wound to the abdomen. Looking pretty bad. Look, we gotta go, he'll explain." A radio crackled and a slick East Coast voice started relaying the information to the ship. Three or four people appeared at the back of the van, led by a black woman with Venus Williams hair, and a sheet of paper in her left hand. She was dressed as if she'd stepped straight from a Gap window, apart from a Clock .45 on her right hip. Tour name?" She was from the South, too. "Nick Scott." "What did you deliver yesterday?" "A man, Gumaa ... Gumaa something. Guy in a blue suit." "What's the next authentication colour?" I didn't want to fuck this up. I tried to get my brain in gear. Blue was the brush contact, and red was the Nice email. White, it's white." "OK." She moved out of the way as Goatee got lifted out by two men in jeans and safari jackets with pockets full of shiny scissors and other medical kit. She reappeared, and I saw that the paper she held was a printout of my Scott passport photograph. "You OK?" "You in command?" "No. He's on board. He knows you're here." One of the safari jackets cut in. "Has he been drugged?" I shook my head and looked back at the woman. "I need to get over there." It was pointless talking to her. I didn't know how far down the food chain she was, and to relay stuff just wastes time -which was something we didn't have. As soon as Goatee had been lowered on to a stretcher, a young guy got a line into his arm and attached to a bag of fluid. Two others tended the gut wound. Venus held out her arm to me. "Can you move?" I nodded and eased myself down on to the concrete, clutching Thackery's cellphone to my chest in a vain attempt to ease the pain. I could see now that we were in a boathouse. A grey Navylaunch with a hard top was waiting at a jetty. The place echoed with low but urgent voices and the sound of feet on concrete as the stretcher was taken on board. Venus put her arm round my waist to help me to the launch, but it wasn't the kind of help I needed. I could almost hear my ribs grating against each other. "It's OK," I gasped. "I'll sort myself out." There was a shout from somewhere behind me. "Lights!" We were thrown into darkness as a set of well-oiled shutters was lifted and the van reversed out. The shutters came down again and the neon flickered back to life. Keeping my back as straight as I could, I hobbled towards the launch. Venus went to lock up and sort things out. No one was remotely concerned about my condition. It was Goatee they were here for. I pressed a button on Thackery's phone to illuminate the display. The signal strength was fives. I stumbled aboard like an old man and sat on a hard plastic bench while Goatee got the five-star treatment. He had an oxygen mask on now, and was having more trauma care than a major RTA. We were ready to go. Venus hit the switch again as another set of shutters opened seawards. The launch started up, smothering me with diesel fumes, then reversed out into the bay as soon as she'd jumped on board. As we gathered speed, the line of restaurant lights along the quay receded. I went back to staring at the phone screen, willing the signal to stay strong, and hoping that Thackery and Greg weren't screaming towards Antibes at warp speed, risking a crash or getting pulled by the police. Fifty-Seven. The side of the warship loomed high above us. A rectangle of red light glowed at us from the top of a gangway, about six or seven metres above the waterline. At the bottom of it two shadows stood ready to receive the launch. Two black and businesslike RIBs frigid inflatable boats], each with two huge outboards, bobbed up and down on the swell beside them. The launch's props powered down, and we came slowly alongside. The two guys grabbed our side rails. They were dressed in dry bags and black woolly hats, and had rolled-up life preservers around their necks. Venus got to her feet as they pulled us alongside. "Come with me." She nodded down at the stretcher. "Where he's headed, you don't want to go." I left Goatee to his fate, and made my way up the gangway behind her. I was feeling weak and nauseous, and salt water gave the good news to my hands as I tried to get a grip on the guardrail. Wrapping my arms around my chest like a cold child, I stepped into the red glow. There was a gentle hum of radio traffic, and murmured exchanges among the dozen or so bodies crouched in the small, steel-encased holding bay. They were all in dry bags, unzipped to let in some air. Next to each man, a Protect helmet, the sort canoeists wear, rested on top of a black nylon harness, holding magazines for the 10mm version of the Heckler & Koch MP5. All wore leg holsters with .45 Clocks. The red light was to protect their night vision; something was going to happen out there in the dark and, by the look of things, it was going to happen soon. One of the bodies stood and spoke quietly to the woman. Her name wasn't Venus, it was Nisha. Then he turned back to the group. "White light, people. White light." Everybody closed their eyes and covered them with their hands as he threw the lock on a bulkhead door and pushed down the handle. White light poured in from the corridor, drowning the red. I followed Nisha; as the door closed, we stood blinking in a corridor lined with some sort of imitation wood veneer. There was complete silence, except for the gentle hum of air-conditioning from the ducts above us. Our rubber soles squeaked on the highly polished lino tiles as I followed Nisha along the corridor, expecting a squad of imperial storm troopers to appear at any moment. I kept unwrapping an arm, checking the phone. The signal bars suddenly disappeared. "Stop!" She spun around. "What's the problem?" "I can't go any further." I started to turn back towards the red room. "I haven't got a signal. The two guys in the van, they're heading to Antibes there's a boat, we need to know where it is. I need a signal." "You talking Ninth of May?" I nodded. "We got it. Left Vauban a couple hours ago." "You're already tracking it?" "We'll hit it just as soon as it crosses the line into international waters." She turned back the way we were heading. "Come on. Someone is waiting to talk to you." We came to another veneer-covered steel door, with a stainless-steel entry system alongside it. She tapped in a code, there was a gentle buzz and she pulled it open for me. Banks of radar and computer screens glowed at us from three sides of the room. This had to be the ops centre. Maybe a dozen people, all dressed in civilian clothes, talked quietly into radios and to each other as they studied the screens. The room was small, maybe five metres by five, with wires gaffe red to the floor and wall; this wasn't a permanent fixture. A large command desk dominated the centre of the space. A grey-headed forty-something in a green polo shirt stood by it, poring over charts, mapping and photography with two more serious-looking heads. All three grasped mugs of steaming brew, and none of them looked up. As Nisha and I approached, I could make out satellite images of Vauban and BSM, and then an enlargement of my passport picture. Greyhead finally acknowledged our presence. He raised a pale, overworked, acne-scarred face. Nisha moved over to one of the computer screens. "You in command?" I asked. He gave me the once-over. "You OK?" I shrugged. He nodded in the direction of Nisha, who was now holding a phone. "I wouldn't keep him waiting." "Who?" He didn't answer, but I didn't really need him to. As he turned and told someone to get me a medic, I dragged myself over to Nisha, eased myself down into a padded swivel chair, but couldn't stop another spasm of coughing. Stuff came up, but there was nowhere to gob it, so I pulled out the neck of my sweatshirt and used the inside. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve before taking the phone. I put the mobile on the desk top; there were two signal bars on the display. "Nick?" It was George. "Where are the ' The collectors? They're dead. It's not them on the boat, I reckon it's ' "Stop. I need two things right now. One: where's the rest of the team?" "Both dead. The police will have the bodies by now ..." "You sure they're dead?" I took a long, slow, painful breath. "I watched one die, and heard the other." "Good. Were you part of the incident in L'Ariane?" "Yes." "Good, we can contain that." I heard him turn away from the mouthpiece and speak to the people around him. This was a deniable operation: they were making sure every track that could lead to us had been blocked. Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba were no longer assets. They'd been written off George's balance sheet. I could hear murmurs of approval from the voices around George as he finished passing on the great news. "OK. Two: is the device still onboard? Our people are going to intercept." "Listen, George, it's not the collectors on board. I just told you, they're dead. It's the source and Ramsay. They got the team and the collectors killed, and they've taken the money." "We know, son, we found out yesterday. They won't get to keep it for long." We found out yesterday? They knew? Why the fuck hadn't we known? "What? We could have done things differently ... the other two could still be alive." "I keep telling you, son, I don't tell even God everything. Now, is the goddamned device still in position? They don't know it exists yet they need to know if it's still there." I shook my head in disbelief. "What's happening? You lifting them?" "All we want is the money." "You're just letting them go? They got our guys killed ' "OK, son, this is how it goes down. It's over. They go free, we get the money, we get the hawalladas, you get a medic, and a good night's sleep." "My team are dead, George. You're letting the fuckers go?" He didn't even pause to draw breath. "I have other plans for those two. Don't mess up on me now. You have everything to lose, and nothing to back up with." I remained silent for a moment. I thought about the boys on the RIBs giving Greaseball and Curly a big kiss on both cheeks and waving as they disappeared into the night. George seemed to be reading my mind. "Son, do I need to worry about you?" "No, George," I said. "I know what I've got to do." "Good. Tell them about the device. We'll meet soon." The phone went dead and I gave Nisha back the receiver. "There's an explosive device on board." She turned to Greyhead. "Simon, we definitely have a device on board." He looked up sharply from his desk. "On the top deck, a plastic cylinder tucked into the settee behind the wheel. There's no anti-handling device ... just twist the cylinder, take the two AA batteries out and it's safe. I'll draw a picture." Nisha was already fetching me paper as the information was passed down to the red room via one of the radio operators. One of the medics arrived as I started sketching a diagram of the device and its location, trying not to smear it with too much blood. Greyhead had other things on his mind. "Stand to, the crews. The Ninth of May ... Looks like they've stopped hugging the coast and are heading out to sea. Should be over the line in twenty-five." The red room would be a hive of activity now as the crews pulled on their chest harnesses, made ready their weapons, and finally put on their Protects and life-preservers. As I sat there, trying to cut away from my anger, the theme tune to Mission Impossible struck up. Heads spun to see which shit-for-brains had brought a cellphone into the ops centre. I pressed the green button and immediately got Thackery hollering in my ear. It's gone, the boat left!" I heard the kids from the Lee in the background. There were two on board, the guy who owns the boat, and his friend ..." I looked around me as things started getting more intense. The crews were in the boats, ready to go. "Stand down, mate, it's all been taken care of." "What?" "It's all been taken care of, stand down. Thanks, mate, thanks." I hit the end-of-call button, then finished the drawing and handed it to Nisha. I sat in the swivel chair as Greyhead confirmed the crews were ready in their boats. As soon as they had the drawing, he'd give them the go. "Contact thirty-three minutes." He wanted to make sure they were in international waters. George was right, of course. This was going to be a long war, and Greaseball would be even more useful in future. Now they'd stolen from al-Qaeda, George had both of them tightly by the bollocks, and could point them in whatever direction he pleased, as long as HIV didn't get them first. "Contact twenty-nine minutes," a voice called out from the radar screen. I wondered what was happening on the Ninth of May. Curly would probably be doing the driving, leaving Greaseball to pull the cork on a bottle of good champagne. Next stop, maybe, some boy town Greek island and the start of their own big bang theory. The ops room continued to follow the progress of their two crews. "Same heading. Contact twenty-one minutes." But then my smile disappeared. So what if they lost the money? They'd still be alive: they'd still get to go wherever it was they were heading. As the medic lifted my sweatshirt and started to have a good look at what was left of my ribcage, I pictured Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba in their Marigolds at the safe house, having a good laugh as I gave them my jester impression. They had saved my life, and kept their promise to each other. Now it was time for me to keep mine to them. I started pressing the buttons with my right thumb as the medic dug into his bag. A gentle beep sounded each time I hit another digit of the pager number, willing it still to be in range. Suddenly the answering service was gob bing off to me in French. I didn't understand a word it was saying, but I knew what it meant: "Wait for the tone, then tap in the number that you want the pager to display. After that just hit the star button." I waited for the tone, and did exactly that, just hitting the eight button a few times, then the star. I pushed the phone against my ear and held my breath. We had done our job, and done it well; so fuck George, and fuck everything he had for me. A few seconds later the answering service came back to me, and this time I understood every word. "Message bien reque." EPILOGUE. WEDNESDAY, 5 DECEMBER, 10:28 hrs The coast road north ran parallel with the rail track out of Boston. I watched from the carriage as it cut through the icy marshland. The day was dull and grey, the only burst of colour a huge Stars and Stripes in the distance, fluttering from a flagpole at the point where the earth met the sky. I wondered how cold my reception was going to be at Wonderland or if I was going to get one at all. The other passengers on the aluminium commuter train still looked at me as if I'd just escaped from the local nuthouse, maybe because I was in the same greasy, unshaven state as last time, maybe because I still had traces of bruising, and the cuts on my hands and head had not yet healed. I was too exhausted to worry. The front pages of their papers still carried pictures of troops in Afghanistan, where the Taliban were now on the run. "Inside the Manhunt' read the cover of Time magazine, and Bin Laden's face stared out at me through the cross-hairs of the art department's sniper rifle. I hadn't seen George yet, and still didn't know what was going to happen to me. My big hope was that I'd find a passport in my Christmas stocking, but I wasn't holding my breath. The train rattled on across Rivere. Every time I did this journey I felt as though I was in the middle of an American history lesson: everywhere you looked there was something to remind you that the Brits had had their arses kicked here a couple of hundred years ago. I remembered telling Carrie, "We'll be back as soon as the lease runs out." It had seemed quite funny at the time, but I couldn't raise much of a smile right now: I was too busy wondering how much Brit arse was going to get kicked today. The warship had weighed anchor within hours of the Ninth of May exploding, after Greyhead's boat teams had finished trying to make sense of the fireball they'd seen in the distance as they closed in. Once we were within reach of the western Italian coast, I was shoved on a heli. The headquarters of the US 16th Air Force, based at Aviano, was about an hour and a half from Venice, but I missed out on the sightseeing. My three days there were spent in a featureless admin block, getting debriefed by two men and a woman to the roar of F-16 fighters and a coffee percolator whose power kept cutting out. At least the coffee was hotter on the flight back to the States, courtesy of the USAF. They told me George had gone ballistic about Greaseball getting the good news. I spent a bit of time describing how the device worked, but couldn't for the life of me explain what had caused the detonation. Maybe a wrong number? That had always been a worry. They nodded, then moved on, but I wondered how long it would be before George took a long, hard look at Thackery's phone records. Whatever, I would just have to play dumb: it was one of the things I was really good at. Being holed up at Aviano at least gave me time to rest my two broken ribs, with some help from a shedful of codeine and sleeping upright on a settee. Gumaa and Goatee hadn't been so lucky. They'd wasted no time in telling the interrogation team who their contacts were in the US, and a bunch of six-man ASUs, one living in the Detroit area, had already been covertly rendered. There would be more to come: the two hawallada were giving out information faster than Bloomberg. The Detroit ASU had planned to drive to the Mall of America in Minnesota. Seven times larger than a baseball stadium, with more than forty-two million visitors every year, it was the perfect target for a dirty-bomb attack. Their plan was pretty much along the lines George had feared. All six were going to move into the mall at different times, through different entrances, on to different floors in different sections. They had aimed to detonate themselves at exactly two p.m. on 24 December. The place would have been filled with tens of thousands of shoppers, kids in line for Santa, all that sort of Christmas stuff. I thought Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba would have been pretty pleased to have got in the way of that. I just wished they'd been here to celebrate. Their bodies were probably still in a morgue in Nice. No one was going to come forward to claim them; they'd probably be burned, or buried by the French in paupers' graves. I hoped that they'd both be getting their little bit of the Paradise Lotfi had spent so much time talking to God about, and that they'd been able to look down on the Ninth of May with a big smile on their faces as it got the good news. I thought about the three of us fucking about with the hats in the safe house, and Hubba-Hubba with that evil eye thing around his neck, and couldn't help but smile. Then, from nowhere, I could hear his voice as clearly as if he was sitting next to me: "He hates this. He says I will not go to Paradise ... But he is wrong, I think. I hope ..." I hadn't been able to stop thinking about their sister, Khalisah. What would she and their families do now? They'd be needing money. I didn't know how these things were done: would George see to it that they were looked after? He'd have to, surely he'd have a hell of a job recruiting more Lotfis and Hubba-Hubbas if they discovered their families wouldn't betaken care of if everything went to rat shit. But there was no way I could trust him, even if he said he would. I'd do something about it myself. The Megane would have been towed from the square in Antibes by now, but with luck the money we'd taken off Gumaa would still be under the seat. It wouldn't be much, but it would be a start... The bridge over the Saugus river took us into Lynn. We were nearly at Wonderland. Last time I'd come up this track I'd looked forward to a new job, a new life. But what now? I didn't even know if she was going to take the day off work to meet me. But if she didn't, I'd just go and sit on the doorstep until she came home. There were some things I needed to say, and thought she needed to hear. Hubba-Hubba had helped make my mind up. He'd been sitting in the cab of the Scudo, repairing his evil eye. "We are a family first, no matter what disagreements we may have, no matter what pain we may suffer ... We learnt long ago to meet in the middle, because otherwise the family is lost." I couldn't be a student or a bartender or anything else, for that matter. I couldn't do anything other than what I did. Sure, I didn't much like a lot of the stuff that went with it. But she had once said to me that she didn't care what I did, as long as I was good at it. Well, this was what I did, and I was good at it. And, thanks to my two friends with the Marigolds and the shower cap fetish, I'd realized I was working for something I believed in. The people I cared for lived in the country I had played a small part in protecting, and for once in my life I felt good about what I had done. And if the angels did come down and weigh my book of destiny for a laugh, then maybe there'd be a page or two of good stuff for them to read. Maybe Carrie would read it too. Maybe I could tell her about Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba and Khalisah, and we could take a few steps towards the middle. People can stay together if they really want to, even if there's a whole lot of shit going on around them. I knew that now: I'd seen it happen. The train came to a halt and people stood and reached for their hats and coats, and gathered up their bags of Christmas shopping. The automatic doors drew back to reveal the signs for Wonderland station. I stepped out of the carriage. It was as cold as it ever was, and the wind was bitter. I zipped up my fleece jacket, and joined the throng heading for the barrier. Andy McNab joined the infantry as a boy soldier. In 1984 he was 'badged' as a member of 22 SAS Regiment and was involved in both covert and overt special operations worldwide. During the Gulf War he commanded Bravo Two Zero, a patrol that, in the words of his commanding officer, 'will remain in regimental history for ever'. Awarded both the Distinguished Conduct Medal (DCM) and Military Medal (MM) during his military career, McNab was the British Army's most highly decorated serving soldier when he finally left the SAS in February 1993. He wrote about his experiences in two phenomenal bestsellers, Bravo Two Zero, which was filmed in 1998 starring Sean Bean, and Immediate Action. His novels, Remote Control, Crisis Four, Firewall and Last Light, were all bestsellers. Besides his writing work, he lectures to security and intelligence agencies in both the USA and the UK.