Or more likely she'd be pacing the carpet, music up loud for the dual purposes of soothing the baby's soul and drowning his howls. He ought to get home, he knew. Home, where he'd be handed Martin as soon as he got in the door, Kate retreating to the bedroom, bathroom or kitchen for an hour's respite.

Christ, five more minutes. Just five more minutes, please, to be tantalised, to sit within touching distance of what might be, what could be. He glanced down at the magazine, his phoney excuse for being here, made all the more phoney by the knowledge that he wouldn't get a chance to read it, never mind play the games it was talking about.

Then he looked up again, and saw a ghost.

It was just a face in the crowd, one of dozens barrelling through the Domestic Arrivals hall, fresh off the Heathrow shuttle. The incident lasted barely two seconds, perhaps 86.four striding paces amid that teeming bustle, but it was enough to leave Ray paralysed, sitting on the bench as though frozen in time, with the crowds whizzing around him like a frames-per-second time-demo test.

Look long enough at any busy corridor - any airport, any railway station - and for a second you'll glimpse a face you think you know, the mind having an incurable habit of filling in the blanks with its own available resources. Ray couldn't look at a pair of back-lit flowery curtains without seeing eyes, jawlines, profiles; clouds against a blue sky became a stratospheric sketchpad. However, this was slightly more than a glimpse, and the guy looked back. Stared back even, though he could have been doing so because Ray was staring at him, and he was maybe wondering if he was supposed to know the nosey bastard.

Then just as suddenly he was gone, as though swept under by the human current, leaving Ray white and gaping. He'd been looking at the guy before he realised he knew the face, staring at the face before he could put a name to it; and then the face vanished, just as he worked out that seeing it was impossible.

The hair was different; so different as to put the entire head distractingly out of context. A flowing, back-combed blond mane forever framed the visage in Ray's memory, which possibly explained the delay as he made sense of it beneath a militarily close bullet-crop. In fact, he might never have made the connection at all but for the woman alongside slowing to dial her mobile, giving Ray the briefest uninterrupted view of the figure's unmistakable gait. He walked as though he was wearing a cape, or as his mate Div used to put it, 'like he thinks there's two cunts blawin' trumpets either side of the doorway'.

87.Simon Darcourt.

Sixteen years ago, he'd walked into Ray's life with that same regal stride, a sweeping procession that seemed simultaneously too effortless to be entirely affected, too self-conscious to be entirely natural. His very physicality was pure theatre, a presence that commanded any room he entered and turned it immediately into his stage. Even the way the bloke smoked a cigarette was like a ballet. Ray never saw him do it upright, standing at a bus stop or walking along the street. It was always a seated performance, indoors: a graceful play of head, legs, arms, throwing back that mass of hair as the first jet of smoke was exhaled at forty-five degrees, right ankle cast over left thigh, left leg rigidly straight down to the heel, fag-bearing right arm languidly draped over the armrest of his chair. Ray used to watch it and wonder, like the tree falling in the deserted forest, whether Simon bothered to light up if there was no- one there to see it. If so, what a waste, like Neil Young playing to an empty hall.

He was magnificent, once upon a time, in those far-off student days. Like a comet blazing through wherever he passed, a coterie always in his trail, helplessly drawn by his aura and buffeted in his oblivious wake. They'd all been in his thrall once, all basked in his light, even if some would later be too proud or too wounded to admit it. Ray had stayed longer and flown closer to the heat than most, and got correspondingly burnt the worst too. All the others' wax wings melted and they soon fell away. Well, all bar one, and she had her scorchmarks too.

Nobody would ever, could ever forget Simon Darcourt. Ray had known him for less than four years, but in the time since, he had remained as fresh and vivid in Ray's mind as after that first Geography tutorial, or that last bitter 88.exchange. Even glimpsed in a crowded airport, his should have been one of the most instantly recognisable faces in Ray's memory, but two things had temporarily clouded his judgement, one of them being the buzz-cut. The other was that Simon Darcourt had been dead for three years.

Ray had even gone up to Aberdeen for the memorial service, admittedly partly out of curiosity to see whether Div had been accurate in predicting that the only friends present would be the ones Simon had made in the last month, having systematically alienated everyone else. In the event, there was a pretty big turnout, but it was hard to tell how many really knew the deceased. There was a large representation from the firm Simon worked for, as well as a sizeable delegation of civic dignitaries, including several local MPs, MSPs and even the then First Minister. It was a courtesy, maybe an apology, that the state offered to those it had failed to protect, as well as an honourable (if futile) gesture of dignified defiance towards their murderers.

Ray had waited until the bereaved parties, the official parties, the official parties' security guards and even the old wino in the hooded duffel coat (a statutory fixture of Scottish cemeteries) had gone away, then went to the headstone to read the name and the dates, still hardly able to believe they referred to the right guy.

Poor bastard. It was never supposed to be like this. Simon had the awesome charisma of one who was born for greatness; if accompanied by the detestible arrogance of one who knew it. Whatever they had all come to think of him, he had made their world a more interesting place, and even once he had gone from Ray's life, he still anticipated Simon one day pitching up again somewhere of celestial prominence. Ray didn't buy the TIME these days, 89.but any time he saw the front page on a newsstand, he half-expected to see those intense grey eyes staring back from it. And sure, some people's lights shine bright in a confined space - school, uni - then dissipate against the wider sky, but Ray had never known anyone more naturally cut out for celebrity. It didn't seem right that he should just be erased, rendered a footnote to some foreign conflict, a notch on the rifle-butt of a terrorist scrote and his infantile sense of grievance.

'Sorry, mate,' Ray had said, standing over the stone. 'We should have met up for a pint, eh? Sorted it all out. I'll miss you, man. I think I always did.'

It wasn't sentiment; Ray had occasionally thought about getting in touch, going for that pint, but it had been easy to procrastinate. They had their whole lives, hadn't they? Their paths were bound to cross again sooner or later.

In Real Life(tm), without a 'reload saved game' function, you most regret the things you don't do, never more so than when the last chance has gone. Simon's death had been a valuable lesson in carpe diem, enough in fact for Ray to propose to Kate shortly afterwards, following years of living together. And maybe that's what this was too, via his stressed and fatigued mind playing tricks with him. It couldn't have been Simon he saw, just a similar face, his brain distorting it to fit. The bloke certainly didn't acknowledge him, there was no flicker of recognition before he looked away again. Even that distinctive walk must have been a projection; after all, how many nanoseconds did he actually see of the guy's full length?

This was his subconscious's way of telling him to stop feeling sorry for himself, go home and get on with it. It was reminding him, as he contemplated airborne escape, that journeys from airports don't always take you to better places.

90.So he was having a hard time as a new father and a new teacher. Boohoo. He was shit at online deathmatch as well when he first started that, remember? Respawn and plunge back into the fray.

It will get easier. It will all get easier.Ray winced, as ever, as he put his key in the lock, steeling himself for whatever awaited within. He had his lies prepared too, to explain being home late. Bad traffic on the M8. Should have known, his own daft fault for trying a shortcut.

Kate emerged from the living room, Martin in her arms. She was smiling and so was he.

'Look at this,' she said.

'What?'

'He's calm/ she explained, laughing a little. 'No colic tonight. Do you recognise him?'

'Just about.'

'How are you? You look like you've seen a ghost.'

Best not. He'd have to say where, for a start.

'D'you want a wee hug?' she asked, meaning with the baby.

'Yes,' Ray said, and meant it. He took hold of Martin, held his warm, tiny face to his cheek. The wee man barfed on his shoulder.

He laughed, and so did Kate.

'So how was it today?' she asked.

'Ach, no' bad.'

There were few things he didn't confide in his wife, but under the circumstances, the fact that he detested his new career was something he hadn't considered it prudent to share. He was aware she could read his reticence well enough to know that it wasn't the dawn of an invigorating 91.new voyage of self-fulfilment, but equally she knew that if he didn't want to talk about it right then, it was best not to pry.

'You?'

'All right. He's been a wee bit better today. Oh, and Lisa from the ante-natal group popped round with her wee Rachel, so we got a wee blether. I didn't get any dinner sorted out again though. Sorry.'

When they'd both been at home, they'd been fighting each other to cook, as it meant time alone in the kitchen with a glass of wine and some music on while the other wrestled the infant. On your own with him, though, you were lucky if you got the chance to open a tin of beans.

'I'll rustle something up while he's on the breast.'

'Can you be bothered?' Kate asked. 'How about a takeaway? I've a hankering for curry.'

That sounded perfect. They hadn't had one for months, it seeming a waste of money if they couldn't sit down and enjoy it together. But even if they were eating it in shifts, a Ruby would do them the power of good. It would also give Ray the excuse for a walk, which he could really do with that night.

It was nearly nine by the time he got out, having allowed Kate time for a long soak and given Martin his nightly dook as well, in the absurdly optimistic but nonetheless enduring hope that it would send him off to sleep. It was raining a little, some light drizzle. Nothing compared to the miserable July they'd endured, a month of merciless downpours that had curtailed trips out with the pram and threatened to drive them cabin-crazy. August had been better, comparatively, but it had been a stinker of a summer in every possible way.

The rain wouldn't have bothered him that evening 92.anyway. He needed time with his thoughts, something best spent outdoors even before the advent of his offspring. What he had seen - or rather, what his mind had presented him with - had left him shaken, and not merely by its initial fright. It had been a psychological slap in the face with a large trout, distracting him from his depressed tunnel vision and knocking him off-balance enough to look again at what was in front of him.

Don't quit. Respawn and plunge back into the fray. Notch up some frags, man, the game's just starting.

The baby game was just starting too. Sceptically reluctant as he'd been to believe it, people had assured him that the colic would simply stop, as suddenly as it had begun. Three months, according to some, thirteen weeks said others. Martin hadn't been that bad the night before, and seemed unrecognisably placid tonight too. It was going to get easier, better. As predicted by the health visitor, he had even started to smile. Maybe one day Ray would too.

He walked along their street, Kintore Road, a little enclave of Sixties-built modest semis amid the sandstone grandeur of Newlands' nineteenth-century merchant-class avenues. At the end was a path leading to the footbridge across the Cart, a river that normally looked little grander than a large burn at this time of year, but which was swollen almost to winter depths by the recent monsoons. Across the bridge were the tenement-lined streets of Langside, divided by water from its more affluent neighbour. You could usually smell curry as soon as you crossed the bridge, though that would be from a tenement kitchen. The takeaway was quarter of a mile further on.

He heard a car door open behind him in the cul-de-sac as he reached the path. He glanced back. It was one of those people carrier efforts, with a guy in a sweatshirt and 93.jogging pants standing outside the passenger door, apparently giving directions to whoever had dropped him off. The people-carrier pulled away and did a one-eighty, heading back up towards Cathcart Road. Ray slowed his pace, planning to let the jogger pass before the bridge, but the bloke in the sweatshirt was walking too. Maybe dropped off after a kickabout somewhere.

Ray stopped on the bridge, again hoping the guy would at least overtake. He didn't want to have to hurry his trip, and he hated walking too close to people.

The river looked worthy of the name for a change, the water even high enough to cover the shopping trolleys and bike frames. Ray glanced to his side, where the guy in the sweatshirt was tying his shoe laces. It was the kind of thing that he knew ought not to make him nervous. If the bastard was planning to mug him, what was all the fannying about for? Foreplay? Or was he waiting until he'd bought his curry so he could rob that?

Daft.

Daft, but still, but still. It had been a freaky enough day already. He decided to pick up the pace and hope the guy went the other way once they were over the bridge.

The not-jogger resumed walking as soon as Ray did, which prompted a serious internal dialogue as to the dignity versus security issues of breaking into a run. He compromised on walking faster, and vowed not to look back. The trainer-cushioned footfalls remained behind him, but he couldn't tell whether they were gaining ground. His vow lasting a good four seconds, he glanced back, ready to sprint if the response demanded it. However, the guy wasn't looking at him, he was looking past him. Ray faced the front again and saw what he was looking at.

The people carrier was heading towards the bridge at 94.speed, having made the loop to the other side of the river via Langside Drive. Ray turned to look at the not-jogger, who was pulling up his sweatshirt to reveal an automatic pistol taped to his stomach. He tore the tapes away and began screwing a silver-grey silencer to the muzzle. Up ahead, the people carrier slewed across the end of Cartside Street and its driver jumped from the door, also holding a silenced pistol.

Ray blinked, closing his eyes tight for a moment. Chronically knackered and unprecedentedly stressed, he'd already been seeing things that weren't there today. Dead people at the airport and now double-trigger assassins on the Southside. Granted, the latter weren't unheard of these days, but they generally didn't bother with silencers any more than they bothered with English teachers. When he looked again, the driver had reached the far end of the bridge, and he most definitely was carrying a weapon. He stood with his feet apart and raised the gun in both hands. Five yards behind Ray, the not-jogger was doing the same thing.

This wasn't possible. It wasn't even plausible. Then Ray remembered a story about a student in Dennistoun answering his front door and getting kneecapped by two neds who were supposed to be hitting the bloke upstairs, a hash dealer who shared the unfortunate student's surname.

He threw his hands in the air like a bank clerk in a cowboy picture.

I'm the wrong guy/ he shouted. 'Fuck's sake, don't shoot, I'm the wrong guy.'

'Raymond Ash?' the not-jogger asked, clearly and slowly, in the clipped, precise English of a fluent but nonnative speaker. Ray turned to face him.

95.'Jesus Christ.'

'No, I think Raymond Ash.'

Ray tried to swallow, but it felt as though his throat was blocked. He should have had a dozen questions, but could only think of Martin and Kate. The not-jogger slid the lever on his automatic, chambering a bullet. Ray heard the action repeated at his back.

Martin.

Kate.

The names, the faces gave instinct a kick in the arse. He dived for the railings, expecting the lethal blows to cut him down as the first muted shots sounded in his ears. Somehow those impacts never arrived, but the next one was guaranteed. He hit the water before he could think of all the junk he was likely to impale himself upon, and instantly became the first Glaswegian grateful for the summer rain.

Sheer instinct had taken him from the line of fire, but the same reflexes put him right back there when he automatically surfaced, seeking his breath and his bearings. Above him, both gunmen were leaning over the railings, scanning the opaque and rain-dappled river. They opened fire as soon as they saw him.

Ray ducked under again, hearing bullets zip past him through the water. His feet found the bottom. It was only about a metre and a half deep, but he was invisible as long as he stayed below. The zipping sounds ceased, the assassins biding their time, saving their ammo. Ray could feel the current pulling at his clothes. He was pretty sure he'd pissed himself, but it was hardly a concern now. The river bent sharply amid thick cover of trees just twenty or thirty yards downstream, next to the playing fields. Unfortunately it also got wider and shallower around the 96.same stretch, but it was the only chance he had. He tucked his hands around his ankles, curling himself into a ball, and then lifted his feet from the riverbed, letting the flow carry him along in small, bouncing movements.

His last bounce ran him aground just as his breath gave out, the water still deep enough to cover him but not enough to keep him afloat. He gasped in the air and looked up. The bridge was out of sight, but through gaps in the bushes he could still see parked cars up on Cartside Street. The gunmen were bound to be up there somewhere.

He scrambled to the bank and threw himself flat among the trees, where he lay still and listened, but his waterlogged ears heard only his own heavy breaths and the sound of blood pumping round his head.

97.dead man wanking.Simon had barely walked the length of the room and hung up his jacket before he heard a knock at the door. Damn sharp service: the British hotel industry had benefited immeasurably from being largely bought over by the Yanks and the French and generally having as little local management input as possible. Some might whine about cultural imposition, but he hardly thought it a great loss to the national sense of identity that it was now in attendants and waiting staff's job descriptions to actually do what they were fucking paid for and not look like they were being anally raped while they were about it.

The bellboy carried his case inside and set it down on the rack, then gave him the textbook room-features breakdown, a service particularly useful to those travellers who hadn't yet worked out what the light switch was for, or were perhaps planning on using the telephone to dry their hair. Ostensibly it was a courtesy, and a chance for the guest to make any enquiries he or she might have; but the true purpose was to hang around long enough for you to get hold of your wallet. Simon slipped him a couple of quid, opting as always for a decent but not over-generous tip. Too mean or too ostentatious and they were more likely to remember your face.

The TV was on, as per, displaying the hotel's welcome message and menu over a soundtrack of Vivaldi, the Muzak of the corporate age. He looked at the name addressing 98.him on the screen, different almost every time he checked in somewhere. This trip, he was Gordon Freeman. He'd chosen the Christian name to sound inconspicuously Scottish; while the surname was an indulgence, a celebration even. He'd been back before, of course, but never on business, and that was what made it so special. That Friday feeling, folks, and it was only Wednesday. Break out the Crunchies.

Talking briefly to the receptionist downstairs, it had been strange to hear himself speaking in his old accent, something he had found himself doing before he realised it. He seldom spoke English anymore, and when he unavoidably had to, he rendered it as Euro-neutral as he could. None of the people he worked with had ever known his nationality (or former nationality), and he insisted that they didn't enquire or speculate about each other's either. They spoke French - the international language of their profession unless circumstances required otherwise, as was the case now. But for this op, codenamed Mission Deliver Kindness, all communications, at all levels and across all media, were to be in English. He ordered them even to think in English, particularly those assigned 'speaking parts', who had each been on a satellite-fed diet of specific British soaps for the past two months: some on Corrie, some on Brookie and the rest on Stenders, poor cunts. The benefit of this was to roughen up the edges of their word-perfect pronunciations and ground them in regional colloquialisms so that they didn't sound like a bunch of homogenous Euro-twats. It seemed to have worked too, and apparently without any of the feared side effects. As far as he had noticed, Deacon's occasional Estuary English inflections hadn't come at the price of a complete failure of dress sense or a tendency to fend off sorrow with the aid of a singsong round the old 99.Joanna, while Taylor had been pig-ugly before his introduction to the time-warped and genetically deficient world of Weatherfield. May, being an explosives expert, was bound to feel at home with the unfeasibly combustible environs of Brookside Close, though Simon had no way of knowing whether he'd been prone to bouts of depression prior to his concentrated immersion in Scouse misery.

The accent he would be using, he told them, was learned from a show called Taggart. He feared all these years of speaking French might make him sound as Glaswegian as deep-fried foie gras, so he had to come up with an equally unauthentic source just in case someone was nosey enough to check it out.

Simon switched off the TV, probably the last time he'd see the name 'Freeman' in intended reference to himself. For the duration and execution of MDK, he would be 'Mercury'. No-one in the team ever learned their comrades' real names, an indispensable precaution in a world where loyalty only lasted as long as it took to pull off the job and trouser the greenback. They weren't allowed to name themselves, either, as who knew what traceable elements might lie in their choice of handle. Simon gave them their names, and always used those of major-league rock stars: easy to remember and international enough not to betray a parochial and thus identifiable frame of reference. He was sure Shub would approve, master that he was of the art of self-obscuring.

Hotel rooms like this were a pleasure that never faded with familiarity. A lot of them were indistinguishable, and minus the logos, you could easily forget which chain name you had just checked into, but there was actually something comforting about that. Yeah, they all had the same features, but they were features he liked, so the effect wasn't 100.so much a home from home as a reason to be happy you were on the road. Two double beds, well-stocked mini-bar, room-service menu, desk in the corner, towelling gowns in the wardrobe, marble in the bathrooms. When his schedule allowed, he savoured the ritual relaxation of unpacking and undressing, before pouring himself a drink and having a long, slow soak, after which the stresses and cares of mass murder just washed down the plughole with the suds.

Tonight, however, the ritual had to wait. There was pressing business to attend to, an unforeseen complication that had to be incorporated into their plans. He placed his laptop on the desk and plugged the phonejack into its socket, then booted up and double-clicked an icon marked Assembly.bat. The program ran a number of executables, dialling to page the three command-rank members of his team, then connecting to a password-protected relay chat server that only the four of them knew the address of anyway. In what might accurately be called the Surveillance Age, there was no such thing as guaranteed privacy, but this came close. The server and all clients were firewalled out the arse, so there was no way of intercepting data going in or out, except as scrambled gobbledegook. The only flaw was that one of the participants could log the chat session and later toss it to the cops, but only if he really wanted to know what a power drill felt like inside his abdomen.

Deacon responded immediately, by way of an automatically generated text message, which meant he was still in the air and therefore unavailable. Taylor showed up in the chat session first, having pulled into a layby to do so, probably screeching the tyres now he had an excuse to crank up his new cellular modem. They all had them, but, for security reasons, Simon had rigidly restricted their use to these firewalled blethers and looking up pornow hack.com.

101.

May joined the session shortly after that, dialling in from their temporary HQ.

The alteration to the schedule was in motion within half an hour. Deacon would be brought up to date when he reported in, but he wasn't needed. May had it in hand, dispatching Joe Strummer and Mick Jones to go rock the little drummer boy's Kasbah whenever he next exited his address, which was helpfully listed in the phonebook.

Simon closed the chat session, grabbed two Bourbon miniatures from the mini-bar, then turned on the taps in the bathroom. Now that its potential consequences were being capped, he could afford to reflect on what had happened at the airport, and was in fact having some difficulty thinking about much else.

What were the odds? Really, what were the fucking odds? Ha! Shorter than anyone might think.

There'd been a woman with a drooling toddler beside him on the flight; the comparative anonymity of economy class coming at the usual price to comfort, dignity and olfactory wellbeing. She'd been telling the pudgy little spawn about God, as precipitated by their being above the clouds and the gnome asking predictably stupid questions.

'God is everywhere,' Mummy had explained, enough sugar in her voice to rot every last milk tooth in the cretin's chubby head. This being the case, God had to be a Glaswegian, because they were fucking everywhere too. It didn't matter how remote a part of the planet you cared to explore, when you got there, you were bound to run into somebody you'd last seen on Byre's Road or the Central Station taxi rank.

Actually visiting the place practically guaranteed an impromptu reunion with somebody, even if you were only passing through the airport. In fact, especially if you were 102.

passing through the airport. When he was younger, he thought it was just because everybody went on their holidays at the same time. Later in life he'd found that the time of year or even the time of day didn't matter: if you flew in or out of Abbotsinch, you usually saw someone you knew. It was the funnel effect, skewing the probability, channelling all the city's air travellers through one small space. Kind of thing you had to bear in mind in this game. Playing the percentages was negligence, no matter how well you thought you knew them: what comfort would it be as you bit the barrel of your own gun to know that you had been statistically unlucky?

Last time he'd flown into Glasgow, he'd seen Lucy Klesk, a student-era conquest of his in the 'ten pints down and no-one else in sight' weight-class. She was sitting in one of the departure-lounge cafes, captivated by Hello! magazine and a king-size Mars bar. The years and the calories had not been kind, and it took him a moment to recognise her under that full-thickness extra layer of pale flesh. She'd been too engrossed in fending off the imminent threat of malnutrition to notice his scrutiny, but even if she had looked up, eye contact was a luxury he knew he could afford, as long as it was kept brief.

It took some getting used to, took some believing. Like putting on Gollum's ring that supposedly made you invisible, you wouldn't go straight down the female changing- room at the local pool without making sure that it was working, and Simon's problem was that there was no-one he could ask for independent confirmation. The first time he returned, he must have looked like such a tit, walking around with sunglasses on indoors, wearing hats and hoods: all to obscure a face that was already hidden behind the world's greatest disguise.

103.

When the true proof of this came, it was back on foreign soil, where he took no such absurd precautions. He was walking through Schipol, connecting to his flight home to Nice, when he passed Rob Hossman on the opposite travelator. Rob had sat two desks away from him at Sintek Energy for four years; he'd even been to an abysmal dinner party at the guy's house, one of those desperate suburban purgatory-with-salad affairs, where all the men pretended they were listening to each other's conversations while they fantasised about fucking each other's wives. They had traded greetings in corridors a thousand times, observing that etiquette whereby you clocked who was coming but pretended not to notice them until you had reached the crucial ten-foot passing zone. At Schipol they glanced across the concourse simultaneously, and Rob was half a second from performing that twitchy nod of his when the magic ring did its stuff.

The look on Hossman's face was one that Simon would see repeated many times down the years, up to and including Larry the little drummer boy that very evening. It began with a narrowing of the eyes, the spark-of-recognition stage. Next the forehead made like an accordion as they ransacked their memory banks and tried to work out why his mug was familiar. Then, at what would normally be the Eureka moment, they hit the buffers with a thud. After that there was blank incomprehension - the Photo- Me-booth first-flash look - followed usually by a slight shake of the head or some more accordion action, by which time he was gone.

If their brains were computers, they'd need a manual reboot. One simple line of data unfailingly crashed the programme. How did Sherlock Holmes put it? Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever you're left with, no 104.

matter how implausible, must be the truth. Their problem was that the impossible was the truth, so once they'd ruled that out, all they were left with was confusion.

Holmes was still right, though. They just weren't possessed of all the relevant information. What they believed to be impossible, wasn't. What they believed to be the truth wasn't either. It wasn't public knowledge, but was nonetheless a fact, that Simon Darcourt's body had never been recovered. According to the inquest, it was officially 'impossible' that he could have survived the explosion, given where he'd been sitting, never mind the ensuing crash into the fjord's icy waters. Officially impossible because the officials weren't possessed of all the relevant information either.

Hard to blame them, really. The Stavanger disaster must have been a bitch to investigate, what with the debris being scattered and submerged in a stretch of deep water that was only accessible by boat or seaplane. It took the diving teams and salvage crews almost a month to conclude their efforts, and though they eventually raised all sections of the plane, they worked in the soul-destroying knowledge that the currents and shifting sands were every day claiming a further share of the evidence. His wasn't the only body never to be recovered, the passenger manifest providing the only means of calculating the death toll. The bomber's tracks weren't merely covered, they were all but washed away. Whoever had blown up ScanAir flight 941, the investigators concluded, really knew what they were doing.

Well, yeah, sort of. But as even the most gin-addled, volunteer-fondling stage magician could tell you, the secret of a good disappearing trick is to keep the audience distracted: give them a loud bang and a bright flash so that 105.

they don't notice your discreet exit, making sure you also whip the props away before they start trying to suss how it was done.

Of course, he hadn't blown up a passenger airliner merely for the purpose of faking his own death; that would constitute a profligate waste of human life. There'd be no pay-out, for a start, and in any case, he wouldn't have been able to lay hands on the hardware. It hadn't even been his idea. Okay, the not-dying part had been his idea - what he regarded as a sensible modification of the suicide bomber's traditional remit - but the attack itself was at someone else's instigation.

Finland had extradited the fugitive Urkobaijani guerrilla leader, 'Artro', to Moscow, where he was wanted for organising a bombing campaign in support of the region's (yawn) struggle for independence. Artro's speciality had been marketplaces: security low, surveillance non-existent, very busy, very public. Having now seen a couple of Russian markets, the only downside Simon could envisage was that it would be difficult to tell the difference between the state of the place before and after the bomb went off. It certainly couldn't smell any worse.

Artro's geopolitical knowledge didn't extend very far beyond Russia being the Great Satan and the US being the Great Satan as well, and it was widely rumoured that he'd gone on the lam to Finland in the disastrously mistaken belief that Scandinavia was an entirely autonomous continent, politically separate from Europe. That said, misapprehension wouldn't necessarily have led to apprehension if he'd followed the first rule of lying low, which is to lie low; or in his case, to not get puggled on three bottles of Finlandia then start glassing Russian sailors in the centre of Helsinki.

106.

Artro's militia vowed revenge on the Finns, their feelings towards the Russians already having been made fairly clear. Their problem was that Artro had been very much the balls and the brains of the outfit - the latter admittedly wasn't saying much - and the credibility meter was starting a rapid countdown on their vow. In fact, with their leader behind bars, the potency of their entire organisation was under serious scrutiny; in the world of terrorism, perception is everything, so if nobody is scared of you, you might as well not exist. They needed to do something high profile and they needed to do it soon.