'Rose goes in the front, big guy/ Simon told him, indicating the embroidered flower currently at his side.

'Mmm,' he said, which might even have been "Thanks'.

With the suspenders now attached, Simon sat him back down on the bed, then handed him a set of false breasts and a lacy bra to contain them.

'Jumbo Wobbly Boobs. Even bigger than the ones you've got already.'

By this point, the guy was becoming so baffled that he almost forgot to be scared. He pulled on the falsies but fumbled unsuccessfully with the bra until Simon got him to turn around and did it up one-handed, pressing the gun into his neck in case he attempted to self-empower his way out of the situation.

'Gorgeous. Just needs one final touch now. Can you guess what?'

Evidently he couldn't. Simon opened the Tit's suitcase, resting by the bed on a folding rack, and produced one of his vital team-building components.

'Joke Wig, Big-boy!'

The Tit closed his eyes resignedly. If he hadn't been gagged he'd have let out a sigh of relief. He knew what it 223.

was about now, and probably assumed it was a vengeful prank. Probably thought the gun wasn't real either. He got to his feet unprompted, perhaps thinking he was about to be paraded through the ViaGen function suite. Time to disabuse him of that notion.

'Where you going? Sit down and face the window until I tell you otherwise.'

JWB complied, adopting a pitiful slumped posture on the edge of the double bed, his chin almost resting on the false funbags.

'Do you recognise me?'

The Tit shook his head.

'Not surprising. You must do this every week. Every day.'

The Tit nodded.

'Sintek Energy?'

He nodded again, more enthusiastically this time.

'Simon Darcourt. Strength and Diligence. Super Dynamic.'

More nodding, but Simon could tell it rang no bells.

Simon reached into his briefcase for a long silk scarf and used it to tie the Tit's hands behind his back. Then he took another one and passed it around his neck.

'You've guessed what's going on, haven't you?'

The Tit nodded.

'You humiliated me, so I'm going to humiliate you, right?'

More nodding, trying to look as humble and contrite as he could. Behind the Tit's back, out of sight, Simon looped the scarf into a slipknot and attached the free end to the headboard.

'In front of all those people at the conference, right?' he said, walking around in front of his prisoner, nodding as he spoke. 'That would be fair, wouldn't it?'

224.

The Tit kept nodding, Simon too, smiling until he could tell the Tit was trying to smile also. Then he suddenly ceased and began shaking his head. JWB stopped nodding and looked up, concerned.

'Simon Darcourt. SD. Self-Debasement. Squalidly Dressed. Secret Disgrace.' He grabbed both of the Tit's ankles and pulled, lifting him off the bed until the slipknot tightened around his neck. The Tit kicked and thrashed wildly, but all his efforts merely further tightened the noose, allowing Simon to stand back and watch the rest.

'Sexual Disaster. Senseless Death. Suicide? Dunno.'He didn't always have to kill to get the rush. Just knowing he could was sometimes juice enough, like the aforementioned face in the magazine. He and Alison were going through what in their relationship constituted a good patch, in that she managed to go almost a week without her face tripping her or making mention of 'the future', her catch- all euphemism for marriage, mortgage, babies and a long, slow lingering suburban death. In an attempt to further prolong this unaccustomed cordiality (and hopefully to effect some Pavlovian behavioural reinforcement), he decided to spring for dinner, bed and breakfast at a hotel on Speyside. It was while they were sipping their after- dinner espressos in the terribly-civilised-don't-you-know drawing room that Alison picked up a magazine from the coffee table and introduced Simon to the unique delights of the publishing phenomenon that was Country Life. More specifically, amid the offers-over-ten-million property ads and the features on how to cause bigger tailbacks on B- class roads, she drew his attention to the publication's equivalent of page three. There were half a dozen issues to be perused, and each one featured what could only be 225.

described as 'the willing sperm receptacle of the month'. The format was a full-page photo showcasing each puppy- fatted, fertile aristocratic offspring, accompanied by a caption that was all but selling her for pedigree breeding (no proles need apply).

'Ariadne Winston-Havers McPherson, 18, pictured here at the family estate of Beinn Ardraig, Morayshire, atop Biffy, her favourite stallion. Ariadne is the younger daughter of Sir Douglas McPherson and Lady Marjorie Winston- Havers McPherson. Sir Douglas leads the Glen Ardraig hunt, with which Ariadne proudly rides, and all members of the family are keen supporters of the Countryside Alliance. Ariadne has just completed her final term at L'Ecole de Mme Aimet in Lausanne, and will be travelling for a year before taking up a place at St Andrews.'

But not if Simon had anything to do with it.

The power-rush was incredible, knowing what he could do, working out geography, methods, probable dates. It lit him up like a Christmas tree, seeming to animate every cell in his body, and as for his libido, well . . .

'What's got into you?' Alison had asked gratefully, around two a.m., as she felt him get hard again after two prolonged, sweaty, animalistic fucks.

'Must have been the oysters.'

'We didn't have any oysters.'

'I don't know. The country air.'

After the weekend, though, he found that he just couldn't be arsed. Logistically, it was too much of a hassle, and the weather that time of year was too miserable for what would almost certainly be an outdoors job. The idea had been exciting, though. Like going on holiday, as they said, planning and anticipation was half the fun, and in his case he could ditch his plans and go on another 'holiday' any time.

226.

He missed that aspect of the amateur days: not just the thrill of acting on impulse, but the constant awareness that he could. Sure, he knew he could still off people on an individual basis, but in practice he was usually just too busy with bigger projects, and besides, he didn't feel the same impulses these days. It seemed a little beneath him, in fact, as though he didn't have quite so much to prove any more. Sign of maturity, he supposed, and of moving on to larger concerns. It was natural that he'd get a little nostalgic for the way he used to work, the times he used to have, but that didn't mean he would swap what he had now to go back there.

There had been a couple of larger-scale operations undertaken for his own motives, and consequently financed out of his own pocket. The only true cost, however, was unnecessary exposure, and the nagging concern of stepping over the barrier into the realm of the clients. The money wasn't missed; if that had been his motive, he could have retired ages ago, but to do what? The same shit as moron lottery millionaires? This was living, and that was why it was worth the risk.

Strasbourg was the first, an irresistible riposte to Alain Beloc after he made his 'route de vitesse entre les cours de chaque nation' remark, which translated roughly to 'come and have a go if you think you're hard enough'. Beloc was coincidentally Simon's MEP since he moved to Draguinan, a fact that should have escaped his politically indifferent eyes but for the bearded little egotist's relentless self- publicity. Sad to relate, the bastard did get re-elected, though he lost his crime-fighting remit, Simon having proven more than hard enough.

He'd been able to justify it to himself as a marketing venture; an ebullient mission statement, if you like. But 227.

there was no such business mitigation about Dresden. That had been purely personal, probably too much so, hence his unease at the memory.

They deserved it. There was absolutely no fucking question about that. German Nazi cunts. A squad of them had machine-gunned his grandfather and all of his captured comrades in some godforsaken French forest. Two generations later, a bunch of their pathetic wanna be progeny had given Simon a doing on Sauchiehall Street, on his way home from seeing The Chameleons. Admittedly he had provoked them by being on his own, something the fuckers could never resist, and by the even more inflammatory act of having some dress sense, which must have been like waving fillet steak in the face of the starving. He'd always hated skinheads anyway, even before they sent him to Casualty. They were below vermin; cockroaches. At least vermin had some guile. The entire movement was an exercise in empowering the gormless, amassing specimens so devoid of personal creativity that they were delighted to shed any residual semblance of individuality in order to perpetuate the delusion that they were part of something.

He imagined the recruiting ads: 'Is the burden of independent thought wearing you down? Do you dread the indecision that awaits every time you open your wardrobe? Are you embarrassed by your reticence when you hear other people discuss current affairs, music, relationships, etcetera? Don't worry, you're not alone. Help is just a pair of clippers away! We've helped thousands of sad losers avoid confronting their loneliness and inadequacy, and we can do the same for you. We'll tell you what to wear. We'll tell you what to think. We'll tell you what music to listen to. And most importantly, we'll bring 228.

you together with lots of people exactly the same as yourself - it's just like having friends!'

Like cockroaches, they were an extremely primitive and disgusting species whose evolution had stopped aeons ago, but not before robustly equipping them for stubborn survival no matter how far the world moved on and their cultural environment changed. When was the last time anyone saw a mod, a punk or even a football casual? Exactly. But these bastards simply refused to die out. Chances were, after a nuclear war or a collision with an asteroid, the first creature to emerge from the rubble would be wearing eighteen-hole Docs, drainpipe jeans and a green Harrington jacket.

In mainland Europe (where else?) they were actually on the increase, with the former East Germany proving an extremely fertile spawning ground. The German government had officially made denial of the Holocaust a crime, partly as a response to this growing chorus of morons. The neo-Nazis had become fed up with having no answer when the Final Solution was thrown at them as the ultimate and inevitable consequence of their philosophy, so taking their cue from a three-year-old loudly singing 'lalala' with his hands over his ears, they had come up with the ingenious riposte of saying it never happened.

A skinhead 'band' (i.e. four arseholes, three chords, two guitars and a fuzzbox) calling themselves Kristallnacht had been charged under the new law due to the lyrical content of their album, a meisterwerk presumably committed to vinyl using some nascent audio technology that prevented drool from shorting the recording equipment. To raise legal funds for their forthcoming courtcase, they organised a benefit gig in Dresden. They called in sympathetic favours to get free use of the venue, free PA 229.

hire, volunteer security and bar staff etcetera. Inspired by this rallying round and sense of communal purpose, Simon drove all the way from the Cote d'Azur to supply them with a dry ice machine too. He and Deacon (Gary Moore to his Phil Lynott on that gig) turned up in an authentically fucked-looking van and just lugged the gear into the hall before the soundcheck. Nobody asked any questions, other than the brain-donor in charge of the lighting rig, who was like a kid on Christmas morning and only wanted to know which button to press to see the magic smoke.

The official death-toll was fifty-five, including, entertainingly, all four members of the band. Less satisfying was the fact that the media coverage pretty much unanimously glossed over the irony of the means of execution, thus blowing the punchline somewhat. Surely just one 'Nazis gassed at Holocaust denial benefit' wasn't too much to ask in return for all that time and effort, not to mention cash. Nerve agent, he now knew, is not bloody cheap. Like most materials in this business, it didn't cost much to manufacture, but the ancillary and logistical fees jacked up the price no end by the time it made it into your hands.

To this day he remained unsure whether it had been worth it, which probably meant it hadn't. It had been an unqualified indulgence, and as such left him with mixed feelings, like the biliousness that might follow pigging out on nothing but cream cakes. Actually, maybe a better comparison was how he'd felt waking up next to some of the mouthy slappers he'd prodded in his uni days: the physical pleasure and the notched bedpost tempered by slight disgust at his own indiscipline and a tiny fear of having given something of himself away. Lust narrowed your perspective until you were only looking forwards at one thing, and the more you lunged towards it, the less you checked your six.

230.

He remembered wishing he hadn't put the RB cards inside the dry ice machines, afraid he had thrown the authorities a bone in admitting authorship of an attack that no organisation would be claiming ultimate responsibility for. Even as he placed the calling cards, there had been doubts, but not doubts enough to stop him. Any hesitancy had been overcome by an irresistible desire to imprint his identity on what was essentially an act of vengeance, something only half accomplished if the avenger could not reveal himself to the vanquished.

In essence, he was trying to kill Frank Morris again. Same thing, arguably, as when he had his fun with Jeremy Watson-Bellingham. Morris never knew why, never knew who. He never endured that richly deserved purgatory of regret, never got to plead forgiveness, piss his pants and beg for a mercy that would not come. And what Simon was mature enough to understand now was that nothing could change that.'You about done yet?'

May was displaying his tediously reliable aversion to parting with his work. He always seemed to fuss around his fixtures for an inexplicable length of time after the charges were in place, making minor adjustments or, as in this case, testing and retesting the transmission signal.

'Sometimes I wonder if you've got a subconscious desire to be around your little creations when they go off.'

May ignored him, which was also reliable. He didn't let anything distract him, which Simon had found to be a common trait among people who handled explosives; those who didn't share it presumably not enjoying long careers.

Simon's first question was fairly rhetorical. The fannying-about phase signalled the imminent (all things 231.

being relative) completion of May's work. It was time to give the signal.

Simon steadied his footing in the water and turned around, opening the waterproof zip-pocket where his cellular was stashed. He heard the splash of sudden movement at his back and turned around to see May levelling a Beretta Jetfire. Fucker had stashed a pocket blowpipe in his wetsuit and was about ten degrees and four milliseconds away from having a point-blank lock between Simon's eyes.

Simon bent one knee, dropping his centre of gravity and moving his torso half a metre to the side, at the same time throwing a forearm upwards to deflect May's aim. The cellular spun away and plopped into the drink. May, having leaned forwards slightly, stumbled and lost his footing as his arm was knocked to the side. Simon gripped May's wrist and pivoted, stepping back with his free foot. The action released May's grip on the gun and flipped him off his feet into the water. As he fell backwards he lashed out with his left foot and caught Simon in the chest. The blow wasn't strong, but the spray blinded him, and when he blinked his eyes clear, he could see only the moon's reflection in the dark waters.

Having initially got hold of May's Beretta by its short barrel, he wrapped his fingers around the handle and cupped his left hand around the trigger-guard, keeping his elbows bent as he trained it directly ahead. May could figure a way of blowing up Mount Everest if you paid him enough, but his small-arms skills barely extended beyond knowing which end to point with.

Simon waited, quieting his own breath as he listened out for movement. May had to come up for air eventually, even if he was already heading back to where they'd left their 232.

wheels. He scanned the surface, looking for ripples, bubbles, a surge, anything.

When movement finally came, he heard it before he saw it, coming as it did from his back. The sly bastard had gone behind him right away and then waited for his moment. This time it was Simon who was caught off-balance, turning too close to May's upward-lunging body and allowing him to get a knife to his throat before Simon could aim the gun at his assailant's head. He could, however, jam it into his ribs, just below the heart.

May wanted to talk. Simon knew this because otherwise, right now they would both be dying.

"Something on your mind, Brian old chap?' Simon whispered.

'You were going to kill me. That was on my mind.'

'When?'

'Just now.'

'Well correct me if I'm wrong, but you're the one who came out here weighed down with stashed weapons. What else you got there, a fucking bazooka?'

'You never know when someone might decide you're expendable.'

'Why would I want to kill you?'

'Who the fuck is Ash, Freddie?'

'Oh Christ, not this again.'

'Who is he?'

'What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you something about him that would compromise us both? That way I would have a reason to kill you.'

'I think my curiosity was reason enough. You're lying and you're jumpy.'

'I'm jumpy? I'm not the one who-'

'You're the one who's lying. I asked a reasonable question 233.

back at HQ and you cacked your pants. There's something you don't want me to know. Fair do's. But I don't want a bullet in the head because of what you're afraid I know.'

'I'm not afraid you know anything. For fuck's sake, how many times?'

'So why bring the gun?' May demanded.

'What gun? This is yours.'

'You had a gun.'

'I... Oh for God's sake. Is that what this was about? I was going for my mobile, to give the all-clear.'

'Garbage. Where is it?'

'It's in the water, and it ain't coming back, thanks to you.'

'So I guess we'll never know.'

May increased the pressure on his blade. Simon responded with the Beretta. Their eyes remained locked on each other, barely blinking.

'Can I ask you one question, Brian?'

'Fire away/ May said, his stare intensifying to convey that the pun was intended.

'Do you think I know enough about explosives to pull off MDK?'

May thought about it and smiled.

'Negative.'

'Exactly. So what do you say we back off, slowly?'

'If I can ask a question too.'