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 comms 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 fastball for an early pickup. 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 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 a.s.s 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 center of the bay.

Thackery's phone was pa.s.sed 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 yards 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 f.u.c.k around. "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 pickup, 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 the Glock .45 on her right hip.

"Your 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 color?"

I didn't want to f.u.c.k this up. I tried to get my brain in gear. Blue was the brush contact, and red was the Nice e-mail.

"White, it's white."

"Okay."

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 supplies.

She reappeared, and I saw that the paper she held was a printout of my Scott pa.s.sport photograph. "You okay?"

"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 onto 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 onto the concrete, clutching Thackery's cell phone to my chest in a vain attempt to ease the pain.

I could see now that we were in a boathouse. A gray Navy launch 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 around 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 okay," 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 backed out. The shutters came down again and the neon flickered back to life.

Keeping my back as straight as I could, I hobbled toward 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 b.u.t.ton 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 (road traffic accident).

We were ready to go. Venus. .h.i.t the switch again as another set of shutters opened seaward.

The launch started up, smothering me with diesel fumes, then backing 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 toward Antibes at warp speed, risking a crash or getting pulled over by the police.

57.

T he 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 yards above the waterline. At the bottom of it two shadows stood ready to receive the launch. Two black and businesslike RIBs (rigid inflatable boats), each with two huge outboards, bobbed up and down on the swell beside them. he 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 yards above the waterline. At the bottom of it two shadows stood ready to receive the launch. Two black and businesslike RIBs (rigid 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 Glocks. 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 hallway, drowning the red. I followed Nisha; as the door closed, we stood blinking in a hallway 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 linoleum tiles as I followed Nisha along the hallway, 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 farther." I started to turn back toward 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 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 center. 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 yards by five, with wires ducttaped to the floor and wall; this wasn't a permanent fixture. A large command desk dominated the center of the s.p.a.ce. A gray-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 pa.s.sport picture.

Grayhead 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 okay?"

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 spit 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 cell phone on the desktop; 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 a.s.sets. They'd been written off George's balance sheet.

I could hear murmurs of approval from the voices around George as he finished pa.s.sing on the great news.

"Okay. Two: is the device still on board? 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 f.u.c.k 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 G.o.d everything. Now, is the G.o.dd.a.m.ned 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-"

"Okay, son, this is how it goes down. It's over. They go free, we get the money, we get the hawalladas, hawalladas, you get a medic, and a good night's sleep." you get a medic, and a good night's sleep."

"My team is dead, George. You're letting the f.u.c.kers 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.