She asked, 'What does everyone dread, us and the big players alike?'

'Events, Boss,' Dottie chimed.

Behind her, Kenny said softly, 'What the old prime minister said, Boss. What could blow him off course, ''Events, dear boy, events''. Out of a clear blue sky.'

'In equal parts, us and them.'

The second officer on the bridge had seen a pod of whales to the port side. There were gulls ahead, perhaps with an albatross. The light in the expanse of the Atlantic was growing, and there was no cloud blown away by last night's winds. He was aware of an object in the water out to the starboard side, but it offered no threat to the Santa Maria maybe a cargo container that had been dislodged from a ship's deck, but they were clear of it. He had on earphones and listened to music from home, Lebanon.

He did not hear or see the helicopter, because it approached from the stern. The first moment he was aware of it was when it slid past the bridge, level with his eyeline, and hovered over the deck. Two ropes fell from the hatches on either side of its cabin, and men abseiled down to land on the deck. They wore black combat trousers, tunics and black balaclavas, and carried black-painted weapons. Half of those taking over the ship's superstructure were British Royal Marines, the others from the Infanteria de Marina. The deck and the bridge were secured, the engine was put to idle and the Santa Maria waited for a frigate of the Spanish Navy to close on them with Customs men. The crew those not required for the engine room or steering were left under armed guard in the mess room. The ship, with its cargo of cocaine, had been under satellite observation from the day it had left the docks at Maracaibo. The decision had been taken to board on the high seas rather than permit the dumping of cargo overboard for collection by smaller craft.

When the seizure operation had been launched, a 'good' haul was expected, not one that would dismantle the Latin America-to-Europe trafficking, with a street value of at least five million dollars in London, Paris, Berlin, Copenhagen, Warsaw or Madrid. A rigid inflatable ferried the search team from the frigate to the Santa Maria. Their work would not take long because intelligence had identified the storage point.

The Major attempted to climb the ladder with nonchalance but the rungs sagged under his weight and the sides creaked.

The priest had declined to go up he was too old, he said and the mayor, too, had hung back. A young deacon had gone up first, and a nun from the Pskov convent had followed.

The staircase reached to the platform above which the bells hung, but it was necessary to use a ladder to see at first hand the state of the roof timbers. The church was a few kilometres out of town and west of the river, and it had been abandoned more than thirty years before. The grass round it was grazed by sheep, the track to it was rutted and needles were scattered in the porch with beer cans. The local people wanted the church refurbished, but the roof had to be repaired before the building was usable. The deacon and the nun now straddled the cross beams and waited for him. The ladder was a death trap as Afghanistan had been.

When he was in position, he could inspect the damage to the timbers from the rainwater coming down on them through the spaces where tiles were missing, and assess what the work would cost him. It was unlikely that a local builder, having been awarded a contract that he had bankrolled, would have the nerve to bolster his bill unlikely and unwise. But the Major had to see for himself. He was hands-on because he was in control. He oversaw his charity projects, his management of the tax office, his trafficking, laundering and killing, and kept tight control of them all.

As the Major went up the last rungs he reflected that neither Grigoriy nor Ruslan had volunteered to go with him they had stayed below in the church. When the hit came, would they back away? The deacon offered a hand to help him the last two metres but he waved it away. The men who had dominated major groupings were killed by close-up gunfire, a sniper or a car bomb. All had had bodyguards close to them. How often had the minders survived? He swung himself on to a beam. There were bats above them, in the deepest shadows. The deacon had a torch and played the light over the wood. The Major saw the wet rot. The deacon passed the nun a small bladed penknife and she scraped at it. The wood fell away and spiralled down.

He had seen enough.

They steadied the top of the ladder and he swung himself on to it. He had been in combat zones, had faced men who wished him harm, but the shaking of the ladder below his feet unsettled him: at that moment, he had pictured Grigoriy and Ruslan, the coldness in their faces, and they had not climbed up with him.

He went from the platform to the staircase.

The deacon and the nun followed him down.

He should have felt in control and content. The arrangements had been made for the next journey, and the aircraft would soon be at Pskov airfield.

The priest came to him and the mayor sidled behind him. His men came from the back wall, and stood close to him. He did not attend religious services, although his wife and children did. Suspicion ate at him because his men had not climbed the ladder with him.

He said, 'I would like to finance the project to save the church. I am away for a week or two, leaving this evening. You should ask a reliable contractor to supply an estimate for the work. I'll look at it on my return?'

The nun clapped, and others joined in. Grigoriy was at the door, Ruslan behind him. He didn't know how he would read the signs that his men might betray him. A politician in Pakistan had been killed by his bodyguard, another in India. An Iraqi minister had been targeted by a man 'protecting' him. Every man had a price.

Now Ruslan was at the wheel and Grigoriy held the door for him.

Natan heard the car horn in the street. He looked at the mess in his room, then switched off the lights, hoisted his rucksack and his laptop bag, went out, locked the door and ran down two flights. He came out into the street. The Mercedes was parked at the kerb.

There was another blast, impatient they hadn't seen him. He opened the front passenger door. He saw three index fingers, each amputated at the lower joint. The Major used his as a wedge to steady a pencil while he scribbled a note on his pad. The warrant officer used his to hit the horn. The master sergeant rubbed his chin with his stump. Natan believed they prided themselves on their wounds.

He sat, fastened the seatbelt, and they drove away. The glove box was open, as always, and the handle of a pistol peeped out. The storage bay between him and the driver contained the gas and smoke canisters. The light was fading. His shoulder was tapped, and the Major passed him the torn-off sheet from the pad: 'Rhodium, ruthenium, palladium, iridium and osmium, platinum group metals. Where are they bought and at what prices? Is it a good time to buy?'

They sped down a street, swung away at the rear of the Pskov Kremlin and were out on the open road. He was lifting the laptop from its bag.

The Major spoke again: 'You look better, Gecko. Has the flu gone?'

He said it had. The hand gripped his shoulder and squeezed. 'Good.'

The hand slipped back. The laptop was switched on. He asked, 'Now we go to Nouakchott? First stop, yes?'

Beside him, the driver the warrant officer nodded.

Then he asked, 'And from there to Spain, direct?'

He could have bitten his tongue out. He didn't query travel it was never of any interest to him. The woman, the voicemail on his phone, would want that answer when they met. He flushed and the driver stared at him. He sensed the eyes of the master sergeant on his neck.

'It is important to you?' he was asked.

Natan stammered that it wasn't.

'Why did you ask?'

He didn't know, he said.

'It doesn't matter to you?'

He said it didn't.

'So why?'

He muttered something incomprehensible.

'What is Spain to you, Gecko?'

Natan began to trawl on his laptop for details of the precious metals, their prices and where they could be bought. Sweat, cold, ran down his back. He had asked a direct question because the woman would demand the detail of the onward leg. He didn't know where or how they would meet, but she would be watching for him, as a stalker did. Twice more, the driver looked away from the oncoming traffic and stared hard into his face. Natan flinched from the gaze.

They would fly through the night and be in west Africa after one refuelling. The next day he would have his meeting, wherever, whenever, and detail would be sucked from him.

The Latvian policeman escorted a Swedish newspaper editor, from Malmo, past the Blue Bottle bar where a small celebration had begun. They paused at the entrance, and the visitor gazed at the bottles on the shelves behind the steward. As they watched, glasses were raised: beer, whisky or schnapps. The Latvian policeman said, 'Sometimes we have a proper session, and then it's firewater from the Balkans, champagne from France or vodka from Poland. We do that when we have concluded a matter we're proud of. Now we're in late November and there have been just two occasions over the last few months this bar has been crowded. One event was to celebrate the capture of the banker behind a major drug ring he was worth a hundred million euro. Then we drank the bar nearly dry after we helped stop two furniture pantechnicons coming into Germany from the Czech Republic. A group of Romanians were transporting fifty-three teenage girls to European brothels. Those were real successes but success is too rare. At Europol we have a budget of eighty million euro a year for a clearing house of intelligence. Individual governments raid their taxpayers in the interests of crime prevention, and the public demands a return for their money. Too often, to make sure of that return, the police charge in prematurely and there's not much more than an evening's headline or an interview with a minister. In an ideal world we would have rejected the politician, the paymaster who must show short-term results, the need of broadcasters to fill their news programmes and we would have allowed that cargo ship to sail on. We would not have boarded it at sea. It would have docked, the cargo would have been unloaded and split, and we would have put intensive surveillance on the trafficking of the narcotics across Europe. Then we would have been led to major figures whose apprehension might disrupt the trade. On such an occasion we would fill the bar. Today the men we have in custody some of the crew and others at Cadiz harbour won't be able to give us the names of the major players. So you won't see any of the senior men in the bar this evening, none of the organised-crime team heads will be celebrating. The likelihood is that the confiscation of the drugs will change little.'

They went on down the corridors, then up a flight of stairs, and the drinkers in the bar were forgotten.

The minor problem was that neither had spoken up; the major problem was that bitching was now too late if the chance had been there.

Snapper would have said he was an elite photographer, and that Loy was good at back-up. They did their work from front bedrooms, factory roofs and, occasionally, from a van parked on a busy street.

He had on the wrong footwear, which was why he'd slipped and fallen. They were decent lace-ups with a reasonable tread, but he'd realised his mistake when Sparky had lifted a rucksack with his all-terrain boots dangling from it. It was pitch dark and they'd brought too much kit, which hadn't been a disaster until Xavier had shed his load and left them. Something about three being enough to do the last leg and get in through the back.

They had been up half the night, had caught a delayed flight out of Stansted to Seville. Dawn had been up when they'd arrived, and there had been a meeting down the road with a Six man who had driven from Madrid. There'd been banter between them about red berets and guys from the RAF. He'd brought a load of gear that Sparky couldn't have carried through Security.

Top of Snapper's talents was the ability to get crisply focused pictures that told a story, usually of conspiracy. He was also skilled at reading the meetings he watched. Important to gauge who was a chief and which man mattered might not be the one who had most to say, but the runt at the back who never opened his mouth. It was a three-hour drive from Seville to Marbella, so they had done two rest stops and dozed in the car. The mobiles, of course, were off, and they had new communications kit that was encrypted for transmissions. There had been an accident at the Antequera end of the motorway from Seville a bad one and they'd been stuck for more than two hours. The should have reached the drop-off point with Xavier at dusk but instead it had been in inky, darkness. If it hadn't been for Sparky, they'd have been nowhere near it.

Snapper could talk his way in anywhere. He had the knack of picking the one man or woman on a street who would invite him in and let him stay as long as he needed. But he wasn't much good at going cross-country over rough ground or slithering down slopes on his buttocks.

Loy had half of their gear and Sparky had taken the rest.

Sparky led, with Snapper behind him and Loy last. They hadn't been told that the approach to the 'plot' would involve going down a mountain where there were steps of a sort and a track that could only be identified by fingertip touch. Snapper was forty-seven and weighed at least sixteen stones. The doctor who did his annual medical had once urged him to cut back on calories, but had given up. No one, certainly not the Boss, had been quite frank on how the approach to this Paradise place was to be made. He should have asked, but he hadn't.

Sparky had said he'd been an 'airborne'. When he was asked how he managed the weight he was carrying, he'd said in the dark almost apologetically that he'd been a corporal in the 2nd Battalion, but had been out five years. He didn't explain why Winnie had recruited him from the gardening staff at the old graveyard. Snapper couldn't fathom the man. Why was a former paratrooper, good enough to be back-up on a Five job, employed as a gardener . . .? It made no sense, but . . . The moon was rising, and far below he saw the lights of the town, and the ships at sea. More important, there was an end in sight. He could see the lights to the sides and back of the 'plot', the location of the target. Paradise was separated from it by a wall of trees, in darkness.

They were on the floor, had spent hardly any time at their table. No one spoke to them.

He said into her ear, 'Maybe we're the only real people in the world. They're hoods with their slappers. We don't know where they come from, can't speak a word of any language they use. We don't carry guns. It's not that they're hostile they aren't, because we're no danger to them it's simply that they're indifferent. They don't care a toss about us. They haven't even noticed us but there's no hassle and the place is great. And we're in good shape.'

'Brilliant shape.' She kissed him.

There was more Rihanna and more Lady Gaga, and they'd dance until they dropped or the money ran out.

The late news came on. The flat was small enough for the TV to play in the living area, for Myrtle to hear it in bed and for Mikey to get the drift from the balcony. He was having a last smoke of the day on the little platform that had no view except the block across the road.

He reacted because he heard the name. Then the girl reading the news repeated it. Santa Maria. He felt weak, and cold sweat trickled down his neck it always had when disaster whacked him. Mikey Fanning turned to stand in the doorway between the balcony and the living room. The newsreader had named the boat and now he understood barely another word she spoke. He didn't need to.

The screen showed a map with the Venezuelan port of Maracaibo marked on it, the Spanish port of Cadiz and the Rock of Gibraltar. In the middle there was a wad of Atlantic Ocean, and a red cross marked a point that was nearer Europe than Latin America. Then they showed a picture of commandos swarming close to the containers on the deck. A lifebelt close to one bore the name Santa Maria. Mikey Fanning had had no education, but no one had ever called him dumb. He understood.

'Did you catch that, love?' he called.

'I did, more's the pity.'

'All down the pan.'

'Looks as if our bodies'll get to go to Alicante. Want to talk about it?'

'Like I want a hole in the head.'

He was not among the old people who sat in the day-care centre in San Pedro. He had a good memory, sharp when he needed it and bloody sharp when he didn't. He pictured the lawyer, Rafael, who had the plush office near the Paseo Maritimo, the smart suits, the flash car and an introduction. He could remember the man he had met at the club where the lunch would have cost what he and Myrtle lived on for a month. He could also recall the two minders, whom Rafael had said were Serbian. They might have been on a war-crimes list, Rafael had said, and they had tattoos on their arms of women and knives. They had been arrogant enough to bring their handguns into the club, and no one on the staff had called the Policia Nacional. It was like they'd bought the place. That was where the money had come from to finance the big deal that was going to make Tommy King a big man with a big future. And there was to have been 'a drink in it' for Mikey Fanning.

'It'll keep for the morning.'

He could have cried.

His rock, Myrtle, said, 'Come to bed, Mikey. Things'll look better in the morning.'

They wouldn't and he knew he'd never sleep. It was a poleaxing blow because Tommy had talked his way into a deal that was way out of their league. He didn't want her to see in him how deep the fear went.

'Give us a minute.' He locked the balcony door though there was nothing in the apartment for a burglar to steal went to the cabinet and poured himself a drink.

'That's him Ivanov,' murmured Snapper. 'Get it in the log, Loy.'

It was a dream location: two dormers set in the attic roof of the bungalow. One, less important to them by a country mile, looked up the overgrown garden of the Villa Paraiso towards the mountainside down which they had come on hands and knees, with the rucksacks and bags. They had reached the back door. Snapper had done his burglary stuff and opened it. He had used the narrow-tipped screwdriver that was good for property or vehicle locks. Of course, none of the house lights had been switched on and it was a black night with only a thin moon. They had known from the satellite photographs about the converted attic and had headed for it. They had known also that they had a good chance of a view into the gardens of the villa beside them, the front, the pool area and the patio.

'That's our boy and he likes his evening cigarette.' Snapper pitched his voice to carry far enough for Loy to hear him. Whether Sparky, who had the Boss's ear, could pick up what he said was immaterial. He and Loy were a well-oiled machine.

In the kitchen, the door closed behind them, they had opened Loy's rucksack and taken out the shoe covers. Everything was packed so that what was needed first was immediately accessible it was a refined routine. They used the same shoe covers as the scenes-of-crime people to avoid contamination. Then they had groped out of the kitchen into the hallway and on to the stairs. Snapper had allowed himself to turn on his pencil torch, which threw a dull beam, just enough for him to see the steps and the steepness of the staircase. He had led them to the top of the stairs and had eased the door open slowly to mitigate the squeal of the hinges. To anyone without the training required of SCD11, whining hinges wouldn't register: Snapper had a host of stories of how minimal noise had carried into the night air and shown out a surveillance site. Good-quality villains, who stayed clear of handcuffs, had dogs with the best ears or their minders wore aids advertised for the hard of hearing. Big players in organised crime, Snapper's experience, were leagues ahead of the Islamist bomb people or the animal-rights crowd. The floorboards didn't help a couple squeaked when weight shifted on them. A detailed look round the bungalow could wait until daylight. He had reached the side window and stood back from it; the blind had been up so he didn't have to fidget with it. He had looked out and seen the man, the glow of the cigarette.

'About as good as it gets,' Snapper said.

Gear was coming out of Loy's rucksack. After the log book came the Swarovski binoculars, the Canon camera, the case for the lenses, the cables for battery renewal, the pocket printer, with paper, and the communications stuff that would link them to Xavier he'd be checking into his hotel. The little kettle and the sack of first-day food would be backed up by what they'd brought in the larger rucksack, and there was toilet paper. Loy stacked everything where it could be found by touch. The side window gave Snapper a clear view of the main door, and the last part of the driveway approaching it, the pool and the patio, the side of the villa and the rear extension where a door led into the main garden. He watched Pavel Ivanov height was right, as were the facial features and hair. A dog wandered near him uninterested until Ivanov kicked a ball. The dog dived after it. It was big, weighed more than fifty kilos.

Snapper said, without turning, 'Log that there's a dog, German Shepherd . . . and that's Ivanov, definite . . .'

Loy had brought him a bedside chair to sit on, and when it was light he'd use one of the inflatable cushions. They'd always log the presence of a dog. Dogs were a bad memory among the ranks of SCD11. There was a fine picture in the New Scotland Yard building, outside the administration offices, of a Detective Constable John Fordham. On a surveillance mission he had been on a stake-out inside the property of a target and had been found by the guard dogs and cornered. The target had stabbed him to death. A dog could walk past an 'empty' van in a street, get to the back door and stand still. Its hackles would rise and it would growl, telling the world that a couple of guys were inside. Pavel Ivanov looked to be in fair shape, maybe a little overweight. Then Snapper saw two more men.

'For the log,' he said. 'We have Ivanov as Target One. There are now two others. Not advised of names. I have the taller man as Target Two. Target Three is shorter, heavier. Again for the log, Loy: they both have firearms in their belts, handguns. Got that?'

His back was tapped, the familiar signal of confirmation. He would have expected there to be weapons on the premises. He would not have expected those weapons to be carried. He had had firearms training, as did Loy, but neither had ever carried a Glock 9mm on an operation. They relied, in the choicer stake-outs, on having armed back-up close and ready. The dog and the guns were predictable, but that something was predictable did not make it easier on the stomach. Outside, more cigarettes were lit and the three men walked further from the house, the minders trailing their principal. There was a space where the ground had been cleared, the grass mown, and a chipper was parked there. At the edge of the space there was a heap of wood chips and- A board creaked behind him. Snapper swung round.

'You sure we've come to the right pad?' Sparky asked, innocent.

'Of course we bloody have and we don't speak unless we have to.' Winnie had said Sparky was there to 'watch your backs'. He had some kit that might bail them out of a hole, but wasn't 'one of them' and didn't move quietly.

'Who lives here?'

'Geoffrey and Frances Walsh. You heard the briefing as we did.'

'How old are they?'

Snapper felt annoyance rising. He watched the three men on the lawn and the dog. 'I don't know. Eighty-something. Why?'

'Who else lives here?'

'No one. If you didn't notice, it's bloody empty.'

'Care to come and have a look at this, and tell me what's going on?'

Snapper scraped back his chair and stabbed a glance at his targets. They hadn't heard the chair. He went from the side dormer with the view to the one at the back of the room. There had been no light when they had come across the long grass. The Targets move to the cleared ground had tripped another security light and a shaft came into the Paradise garden. It lit a washing-line. On it hung a pair of panties, a bra, a halter-top and a skimpy blouse.

It was said of Snapper that he was not a man to be lightly knocked off course. He muttered, 'Have to wait and see what turns up unless anyone has a better idea?'

'Is that a rat?'

She stiffened, shrank from him, then flinched.

Jonno was sitting up. He had been close to sleep. He shouldn't have driven back from Marbella twice he had seen a man crossing the street ahead of him and swerved late. Should have had a taxi back up the hill and walked the rest. There had been laughter and giggles and they'd pretty much fallen still half dressed on to the bed. There'd been some fumbling, then a sort of understanding and they'd drifted off.

He said, 'I don't think rats snore.'

He could have sworn he'd heard the type of grunt that came with snoring, and then a sudden movement before the silence returned. What to do? He could phone the police, except it was past two in the morning and he spoke no Spanish beyond a couple of tourist pleasantries. He could turn over, mutter something to Posie about the wind in the eaves, then lie all night with his ears cocked. Neither was acceptable.

'I'd better take a look,' he said.

He switched on the bedside light and slid out of bed. She had a hand on his arm but he pushed it away. He was still part drunk. Perhaps he'd been mistaken. He bloody hoped so. He wore his boxers, and heard her whisper, 'Be careful,' as he went into the hall. From the coatstand he took the heaviest stick he could find, and put the light on over the stairs. He started up them.

At the top he eased the door open. He went inside. He saw the shoulders and head of a big man sitting on a chair, and then his toes met the soft shape of a sleeping bag. He reached for the light switch it would have been to the left of the doorway. His hand was caught. He swung round and had the stick up and- The movement was blocked and the stick clattered down. He felt a scream welling in his throat. He tried to writhe free but the grip was tighter. 'Don't fucking try anything or I'll break you,' a voice said in his ear.