He was right. It was the duty wagon and that was that. Every vehicle was allocated to something or other, and if this one had done a bit of cross-country, so what? That was what they did.

Charlie kept his eyes down. 'He tell you he was leaving tomorrow?'

'Yeah more of the futility stuff, I thought.'

'Maybe, maybe not. But I know I'd want to get the f.u.c.k out of town if I didn't have control of whatever we got in the back of that 110 wouldn't you?'

He turned to me and I could make out just a little of his face in the ambient light from the valley. 'It'll be a f.u.c.ker, but all the more reason to go to the airport, no?'

Two or three sets of headlights fired up and moved around inside the camp. Then one of them broke away and headed towards the main gate.

'We'd better a.s.sume the twins had phones, Charlie boy. We got the Russians or that VCP to get past. Or you want to get out and leg it? Even you'd be better cross-country than this thing.'

Charlie reached for the dash, smearing blood onto the plastic as he started rocking backwards and forwards in a not terribly serious attempt to make the Lada go faster.

He caught my expression. 'Russians. Got to be done. I'm not hopping over these hills all f.u.c.king night or risking b.u.mping into that squaddie I ripped apart.'

I put my foot down. The acceleration was so feeble that his rocking actually seemed to help.

'That's it, lad to boldly go where no Lada has gone before.'

I changed down into third, trying to get a burst on. The engine whined, but that was about all it did. I rammed the gearstick back into fourth.

My eyes strained to pick out the holes in the road. I didn't get much joy from the Lada's headlights even on full beam they only lit up about two feet in front of us. The junction right was coming up. The other set of headlights was coming fast down the track towards it.

If we didn't get past first, the other wagon would block us off.

'Come on! Keep it going!' Charlie rocked as if he was having a fit.

There was nothing I could do but keep the car pointed in the right direction and ram my foot down.

By the time we reached the junction the engine was not too far short of cardiac arrest. The other wagon's headlights were immediately to our right, about four hundred metres away.

Flecks of saliva sprayed me as Charlie urged us on. 'Keep going, lad, come on.'

The engine groaned again as we started to head uphill. It wasn't steep, but it was clearly steep enough.

The whole vehicle shook as we rumbled over the rough tarmac and I threw the wheel left and right to swerve around the potholes.

'That's it, lad. Keep going...'

The other headlights came to the junction and turned to follow. It didn't take long for them to start closing in.

The lights of the Federation camp were less than a K away. I changed down to try to get a few more revs out of this f.u.c.king thing, my face almost against the windscreen as I tried to read the road.

Charlie checked behind. 'It'll soon be in spitting distance, lad. Keep that foot down.'

As if I needed telling.

Into fourth. The engine squealed.

The Russians' floodlights were getting closer, but the hill was getting steeper.

Our speed dropped. Into third. A burst, then slowing.

Into second. We both jerked as the gear kicked in and the engine screamed.

'It's a Pajero, Nick! Got to be b.a.s.t.a.r.d!'

Even as he said it, the 4x4's lights flooded the inside of the Lada and we got the first nudge. It actually speeded us on our way.

'Is it b.a.s.t.a.r.d? You sure?'

Charlie was still twisted in his seat. 'Who gives a s.h.i.t? Just keep your foot down!'

Another slam into the back. Another jolt forwards. If it was b.a.s.t.a.r.d, maybe they'd do without the helis. That had been all about the duty wagon, not his s.h.i.t.

Not far to the Russians now, maybe four hundred.

The next collision was to the rear nearside. The back of the Lada slewed to the right. All I could do was keep the front wheels facing forwards and my foot on the floor.

The back fishtailed and I spun the wheel like a lunatic.

'He's backing off, Nick, he's backing off. Well done, lad, just keep those f.u.c.king wheels straight.'

We were coming up to the Russian camp's fence line.

I checked the rear-view. Charlie was right, the headlights were receding. Whoever it was, he was bottling out. Charlie checked behind us one final time, then relaxed back into his seat.

The Federation flag fluttered high over the floodlit main gate. Four fresh-faced guards stirred in their sentry posts, and started to prepare a traditional Russian welcome. They were in camouflage uniforms and helmets, AK a.s.sault rifles slung across their chests. They stared at us in a certain amount of confusion as we gave them a cheery wave.

'Maybe we should stop,' Charlie said, laughing. 'One of the lads might fancy making us an offer for the car.'

'You can leave it to him in your will, you stupid old f.u.c.ker.' The lights from both the camps disappeared and we dropped into lower ground. 'Sooner I get you back, the better.'

4

Monday, 2 May

The line of taxis outside the terminal hadn't moved much in the hour since first light. When the odd cab did leave the front of the rank, the drivers behind didn't start their engines to shuffle forward, they just got out, leaned back in through the window, and pushed.

I had the trigger on the terminal entrance from the other side of the road. I was past the three garden sheds, sitting on the concrete between overflowing rubbish skips and four old abandoned buses in the small, potholed car park. I blended in well; I was wearing a black woollen hat I'd found in the boot of the Lada, that smelled like it had been worn by a wet bloodhound. The big ear flaps made me look like one too, but it helped hide some of my face.

Blue-and-whites had been cruising past every few minutes, and one was static right now by the sheds. The two cops inside drank coffee and smoked.

Charlie and I had come right into the lion's den, but there was no other way. Our only chance of retrieving the papers and tape was to get into the duty wagon. There were two fixed points where we knew it would be during flying hours at the camp and at the airport.

We could have tried to wave it down on the road, but SOPs for military vehicles usually precluded them from stopping and after the stunt we'd pulled yesterday, every driver would be on red alert. A hijack was out of the question; instead of dead ground, you need an open stretch of road, so you can identify the vehicle before you hit it in the dark. Our current plan wasn't perfect, but it was the only one we had.

I checked Baby-G. It was just after eight. Charlie had hobbled into the terminal ten minutes ago to get into position. He had to take the lead; I couldn't run the risk of being recognized.

The idea was simple: the wagon turns up to drop off or pick up; Charlie sees it through the gla.s.s; walks out, lifts it, heads into the car park behind me; I'd jump in and we'd head for the border. This time he wouldn't just bark a whole lot of orders, but rely instead on his weapon. He had a little 9mm Makharov, the sort of thing James Bond used to tuck into his dinner jacket.

a.s.suming there weren't any delays, all the international flights were gone by midday. If b.a.s.t.a.r.d showed up for one of them it would be one f.u.c.k of a big bonus for us, even if the 110 didn't show.

We had gone through dozens of what-ifs. What if he turned up before the 110? We had to hold him until it came, and use him to get the gear out. What if he turned up after the 110? Well, we would never know because we'd be gone unless Charlie managed to find out what flight he was on.

What it boiled down to was that we would have to take the situation as it came otherwise we'd still be out in the cuds a week on Wednesday, going through thousands of options. f.u.c.k it, let's just get on with it and get out of here.

My revolver was also Russian, and looked like it had seen action in the Crimea. It still had seven big 7.62 rounds in the cylinder, and that cheered me up a lot. Given that our plan stank worse than the dog blankets, it was the only thing that did.

I slumped down against a skip, sliding my legs under the one in front of me. The guys in the blue-and-white finished their brew and drove off. I craned my neck to look along the building. Two more policemen had taken up position outside the terminal. After yesterday's nightmare, word had obviously got round.

After dumping the Lada in the city at about five this morning, we'd hidden up and waited for the place to come alive a little before approaching a taxi. Between them, Hari and Kunzru had had exactly 127 lari in their wallets about $70, as it turned out. The taxi driver had pocketed about ten, and Charlie had custody of the rest. He was going to need it to grease a palm or two at the check-in desks to see if his best mate Jimmy Bastendorf was leaving today. Charlie wanted to arrange a birthday surprise for him when he got home and wasn't sure when he was flying. Was it today, or maybe tomorrow? In a dirt-poor country, even loose change can get you anything.

A rust- and grime-covered yellow bus pulled up at the stop outside the terminal, its exhaust pumping out diesel fumes you could cut with a knife. Most of those disembarking looked as though they were airport workers, but there were one or two others with suitcases. The airport was coming to life.

Charlie appeared through the fumes, lurching across the road like Long John Silver. His hand had been OK when he left me, just cut and sore, but his ankle had swollen like a balloon, even though I'd tried to strap it up with a couple of strips of blanket.

He had a newspaper in his hand. 'b.a.s.t.a.r.d's off to Vienna, we've got him.' He lobbed it in my direction and it fell between the skips as he carried on past. 'Here's the bad news.'

He had to do a circuit now, maybe check something out in the car park. n.o.body just exits a terminal and crosses the road, only to cross straight back ten seconds later.

I crawled over to the paper, then back to where I could still keep trigger in case there was a drama. If ten blue-and-white Pa.s.sats screamed up to the terminal and dragged Charlie away, I needed to know.

He'd chucked me a copy of the Georgian Times Georgian Times, the English-language paper. Folded inside was a large bar of chocolate. I ripped the foil off and popped a chunk into my mouth, but when I scanned the front page my throat went dry.

Most of it was covered by a grainy photograph of the yard in front of Baz's house. The banner headline screamed: 'SAINT' SLAIN! 'SAINT' SLAIN!

It went on in a similar vein, to bemoan the savage killing of the most honest and incorruptible public servant the country had ever seen. This wasn't the picture b.a.s.t.a.r.d had painted, but that wasn't much of a surprise.

A force for all that was good and just has been callously cut down, it cried. it cried. Who has perpetrated this evil deed? The finger of suspicion can point in many directions, all of which this country needs to cut out like a cancer. Who has perpetrated this evil deed? The finger of suspicion can point in many directions, all of which this country needs to cut out like a cancer.

For weeks, the walls of St Zurab Bazgadze's house had been daubed with warnings not to pursue his crusade against corruption at all levels of government, the journalist wrote. In our wretched country, many words spell wrongdoing words like 'minister' and 'militant', 'business' and 'privatization', 'pipeline' and 'oil' In our wretched country, many words spell wrongdoing words like 'minister' and 'militant', 'business' and 'privatization', 'pipeline' and 'oil'. It seemed Baz had been a thorn in the side of them all.

Charlie still hadn't come back from his hobble-past. Blood pulsed in my neck as I read on.

The two other dead bodies found at Baz's house had been identified as members of the militant gang behind the recent siege in Kazbegi. But who were the other two men caught on CCTV, one masked, one unmasked? Were they now in possession of the affidavit which the Saint had been due to swear in front of the cameras for 60 Minutes 60 Minutes, exposing the rampant corruption in Georgian society?

According to a police insider, the safe in Bazgadze's house had been found open, and the CCTV also showed one of the masked men taking a folder from the body of one of the militants. If this was indeed the affidavit that 60 Minutes 60 Minutes claimed to have been waiting to receive, then exposure of its contents would be very embarra.s.sing for the government, as the programme was due to be aired on the eve of President George W. Bush's forthcoming visit. claimed to have been waiting to receive, then exposure of its contents would be very embarra.s.sing for the government, as the programme was due to be aired on the eve of President George W. Bush's forthcoming visit.

I sat and chewed chocolate, my mind spinning. Good guy gets f.u.c.ked over nothing new there but what had the militants been doing at Baz's house?

It got worse. The inside pages were teeming with maps and photographs.

TRAIL OF MURDER: SAINT'S CAR FOUND IN TBILISI ALLEYWAY GRISLY CARGO If there hadn't been a perfect artist's impression of me under the headline I might have laughed.

It was followed by a shot of the Audi up the track, with the boot open. Witnesses had seen two men drive it to the cemetery and load a body into the boot. Beyond that, apparently, was only 'murky speculation'.

I'd read enough. I refolded the paper and swallowed the last four chunks of chocolate.

That 110 couldn't arrive a minute too soon.

5

As Charlie got back to the terminal, a two-tone Pajero, silver bottom, dark blue top, sped past the main doors, one up. It was too far away for me to be able to ID the driver, but the sheer bulk of the silhouette at the wheel made me stay with it as it continued past the garden sheds.

I scrabbled along the skips and watched it turn into the car park. The Pajero bounced over puddles and potholes, heading towards the derelict buses closer to the terminal. The nearside wing was damaged. I had a feeling I knew why.

I lost sight of it behind the buses, and I turned back to scan the front of the terminal. Still no sign of the 110.

I heard a door slam behind the buses.

He'd have to cross a hundred metres or so of open ground before he got to the terminal. A straight line would take him very close to the skips. We were going to be in the s.h.i.t if the 110 turned up right now and Charlie carried on implementing Plan A. The driver would have to come with us; we couldn't have any more of them running around the country.

No time to think. b.a.s.t.a.r.d was waddling towards the terminal, dressed in the US business uniform for the over-fifties. He pulled an aluminium wheelie carry-on behind him. Whatever we had in those papers, it had got him all fired up. It would have been bad enough for him losing control of the papers Sat.u.r.day night. But now? With the Istanbul and Marriott tapes out of his control as well, he definitely needed to do the same as us just get the f.u.c.k out. I guessed he wasn't too anxious to land a starring role on 60 Minutes 60 Minutes.

I let him pa.s.s the back of the sheds, then crawled out from between the skips to get behind him.

Aroll of fat quivered above his shirt collar. Pulling my hat down low, I followed in step.

'Oi, Bastendorf!'

I gave him a big happy face as I closed in, but stayed just beyond grabbing distance.

His face clouded. 'How the f.u.c.k do you know my-'

'I've got Kunzru's weapon. I want our pa.s.sports.'

He rolled his head back and laughed. Maybe he was amused by the hat.

'Pa.s.sports, I want them.'

'Get the f.u.c.k! I shout out right now and you're history, a.s.shole. I'm walking. What you gonna do, pull steel and gun me down in front of the f.u.c.king terminal?'