She had been on her stomach, her shoes were splayed out. Her forward weight was on her elbows, which supported the binoculars. The driver had a smaller pair and whispered to her how many were at the meeting, the types of their vehicles. She noted everything had good French and was engrossed in what she watched.

The camels came within twenty feet of her and her driver. Two men were with them. The men could not have missed them, but did not acknowledge them. They kept their eyeline straight ahead, and the camels did not break stride. They went past the bluff, then down the easy slope, the beasts kicking up the fine sand. The vehicles and the Major's meeting were in their path. Caro and the driver had covered themselves with the brown rugs but Caro had fair hair, highlighted, and the scarf she had worn over it had slipped. She might as well have marked her position with a party balloon.

She could have killed the boy.

Perhaps the caravan was carrying a cargo of weapons, unloaded at Nouakchott's docks, of medicines, banned chemicals or cocaine at any stage of refinement.

It moved at a good speed, and she watched it drift further away. She tilted her binoculars to focus on the boy. He picked up handfuls of sand, then let the grains run through his fingers. She owed him no loyalty. He was an agent. But she would curse herself if she lost him. And so would Winnie Monks if her carelessness, exposed at an inquest, had jeopardised what they did.

The camels reached the group. There were greetings. One of the two riders pointed behind him. She slid down the slope, dragging the driver with her.

They hurried, as best they could, through the dunes to their wheels.

The Major sat in the sand, and did the calculations. They were hard bargaining people, the traders of the western Sahara. The Gecko had told him the Romans had been here. He was cross-legged and hungry, his temper was at a short fuse. His warrant officer had slipped the poison into his ear, and his master sergeant watched the boy. The caravan had been with them for a few minutes while the two men drank some water. He was under a wide-spreading thorn tree that gave some shade but there was little wind. Because of what he had heard it was hard for him to concentrate on the figures. Twice, the Major had seemed about to push himself up and walk away.

Abruptly, a hand that was more of a claw snaked towards him. His own hand was grasped and the stump of his index finger examined. There was a low cackle. He thought the amputation gave him status and waved for his minders to come closer and show their own scars. The man who held his hand stank and his breath was foul, but not for a moment did the Major doubt his word. The cargoes would come into the dock or the wharf at Nouakchott and would be brought by lorry or pick-up into the desert to the north. The necessary numbers of camel caravans would take the goods and ferry them further north to an airstrip. But that was another deal for another day.

He had heard what Grigoriy, his warrant officer, had said. He would dispose of the problem when he was ready to deal with it.

Natan pushed himself up, stretched, then started to walk. He did not know when or where he had created the suspicion.

He went slowly away from the road towards the immediate horizon of wind-smoothed dunes. Where he had been, near to the road and close to the thorn tree, there had been stones, blades of coarse grass and rabbit droppings. His feet slid in the sand. He aimed for the highest point on the highest dune. He heard slithering behind him, and a grunted oath. He did not need to turn to identify Ruslan because he knew the whistle that came from the man's throat.

The sun was high, and the temperature was close to a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Sometimes he sank to his knees and had to claw himself on. He thought the final move in the puzzle he posed them had been made by the two camel riders who had come to the group in the shade and had pointed back into the dunes. To see for himself was reckless, but he abandoned caution.

He had not known fear when the bullies had circled him at school or when they had kicked the football that was the head of the tailor's dummy and one had boasted that it had once been a man's head. He had seen what they had done in a town in southern Russia. A man tied to a chair, his face a mess of blood and bruising. The warrant officer and the master sergeant had stood over him, panting from what they had inflicted. He had gone to fetch a memory stick he had dropped the master sergeant had picked it up but had not returned it. The Major had been on his phone at the front door, separated from what was being done in his name. Natan had seen it and run. He had told the Major he couldn't find the master sergeant so couldn't finish the piece of work on the memory stick.

He had never been part of them. He was like a machine, given tasks and often ignored. He brought with him his knowledge, which they could not match, of technology. He was expected to provide secure communications that no intelligence agency could hope to break into. His work had never been questioned. He could almost feel the punches and hear the accusation based on the whore's word. The fear cramped his stomach. He remembered the girl in the embassy at Baku, the kindness in her eyes, and the bitch in Constanta. He could have screamed.

He reached the top. A vista stretched away.

He could not see into the far distance where the sand colour of the desert merged into the same sand colour of the skies hovering above the horizon. Ruslan was some fifty paces behind, hands on his hips, gasping for breath. He could see the thorn tree where they had met, and the vehicles. Beyond them was the disappearing line of camels. He looked to the front, and imagined the point towards which the herdsman had pointed. The wind had not yet obliterated the sand scrapes they had left. Two. He traced the prints into the valley between the smaller dunes, then down to the layer where loose sand was replaced by grit. He saw the circle that the wheels had made when the vehicle had headed back where it had come from. Natan shielded his eyes against the sun's glare. He saw the dust tail, faint going fainter.

Soon he would lose all contact with it and the woman. Could she not have brought guns and men, a force of soldiers or police? Should they not have taken him to a place of safety and shown him gratitude for what he had done? The cloud of dust thrown up by the back wheels of a vehicle slipped into the haze. He thought of the girl in the embassy, not the woman in the car.

His legs trembled and his chin was slack. The fear welled, and he started to go slowly down the slope. He often slid, and Ruslan was in front of him.

'They'll be fugitives, and they don't deserve it.'

Posie answered, 'Isn't it possible that these people know best?'

Another argument followed the same tracks and repeated itself.

'It's illegal, without local co-operation. It's house-breaking and they couldn't care less about Geoff and Fran.'

'Jonno, there's nothing you can do about it.'

'Which doesn't make it right.'

'For God's sake, Jonno, when did you start out as the world's conscience?'

'It'll kill the old people.'

'You're out of your depth.'

He had driven back from the shop, had carried the bags into the kitchen and dumped them on the table. He had done the calculation on the bill. He had ticked their items on the shopping list and had put their change on the receipt. Then he had thrown his and Posie's things into the fridge and had shouted upstairs. Posie had gone outside and cleared the washing line. Then he'd grabbed her hand and marched her to the car. He had driven back towards the town.

Now they were walking on the Paseo Maritimo, the promenade.

'I don't roll over.'

'Have you any idea, Jonno, how bloody priggish you sound?'

Her arms were folded hard against her chest. He couldn't have held her hand if he'd wanted to and his own were deep in his jeans pockets. Beyond the marina walls there were fishing boats and a jet-skier. On a long breakwater three fishermen sat with their rods. Far along the coast there was a jutting landmass that he had told Posie was Gibraltar.

He said, 'They should go somewhere else, not Geoff and Fran's patch. It's a dump, Posie, but it's their home, and it won't ever be the same again. Do you trust that cop with the camera? I don't. At the end, he'll be gone down the pub, celebrating. Geoff and Fran are wrecked.'

'So what are you going to do?'

He didn't know. He pondered on her question or she walked beside him. She didn't prompt him. There was an ordinary pavement bordered by an ordinary kerb and an ordinary stretch of road with the usual stained surface. The place had come on him fast. He hadn't intended to be there. It was different in daylight, without the throb of music. A man with a gun had crossed that road, tripped on that kerb, had missed a target approaching that pavement where a convertible had been parked. The pistol had been raised before the trip, and the man hadn't noticed Jonno was there. No one had asked him: So, what are you going to do? He had done nothing. If there had been blood, screaming and death, he would have carried it to his grave. Lucky, Jonno, that the idiot had missed twice, and that his failure to do anything wouldn't haunt him.

'I don't know.'

'We go home, call it a day, forget we were ever here, or '

'I can't. Don't laugh at me . . . I promised to look after the cat.'

' or live with it. Close your eyes to what you don't like and stop being so pompous.'

'But I can't do that either.'

'I don't understand where all this is coming from. I don't like it you've got so sanctimonious. If I'd known you could be like this, I'd never have come.'

'You should have looked harder.'

He kept walking. She'd stopped. The gap opened. He didn't know what he would do. Jonno could not have said that she would come after him. He heard nothing, but didn't break his stride. There was a phone booth ahead and he went to it. He fished out a fist of coins and flipped through his diary to 'Useful Phone Numbers'. He took a deep breath.

He dialled. His breath was panted and sweat squirmed in his eyes.

'Metropolitan Police, yes? I'm calling from Spain. I seem to be blundering into an investigation, but I have big reservations. It'll be "serious crime" or "organised crime". I've been shown identification by people claiming to work for SCD. Please, I want to speak to somebody.'

There was a pause. He thought he'd sounded like some nutter with an agenda. If he explained a bit more, where he was and why, he would be told to get down to the beach or hike in the hills.

He dropped the phone and pocketed the money he hadn't fed. He walked on, was alone.

Snapper poured tea from the pot into the mug.

She had been close to tears on the doorstep, and had come back by bus and on foot. She hadn't had the key and the bell didn't work, but Loy had heard her and brought her in. Snapper had come down the stairs, sent Loy back to the view and the camera, and had been told, blurted little sentences, of their split down in the town. It was often said of Snapper that he had a fine way with people in crisis and he thought it an opportunity not to be passed up.

'I don't think, my love, that you know him very well.'

'Different in London . . . seeing bits now that I didn't know.'

'And if you had you'd have stayed at home. It's really bad luck . . . you'll not find us short of friendship, Posie.'

'Thanks.'

'We're not pulling out of course not. You're here to look after the cat while Mr Walsh has his operation. We should be able to co-exist as long as Loy, Sparky and I are shown some respect. Drink up, there's a good girl.'

She drank the tea.

Snapper said, 'It's the same with terrorists, Posie. People who don't know and don't have close experience of them see them as rather principled "martyrs" or freedom fighters, and having a cause and being prepared to make great sacrifices for it. They're wrong because usually the poor idiot with the Kalashnikov or the waistcoat of explosives is a manipulated half-wit. Only very rarely does a big man step into the line of danger, and he never puts his own family there. Same with the major players in organised crime which I wouldn't expect you to know anything about, or Jonno. A man is prepared to ship in from Latin America a ton of cocaine, cut it up, put some filth in it to make it go further and chuck it out on to the streets of Europe's cities the villages as well but his sons and daughters would get the hiding of their lives if he ever thought they were at it. So, organised crime . . .'

Sparky had come to the door. Snapper didn't acknowledge him. He had as back-up the report from Xavier of the meeting in the supermarket: nothing had been said, so he felt good, in control.

'Nice girl like you, Posie, will have seen one of the Robin Hood films and you might have been quite excited by the modern gangster movies where it's all rather romantic and there's usually a streak of good in every evil creature that just needs tapping into. Anyway, it's a world that isn't reflected on your commuter train in the morning and evening, nothing to do with mugging and burgling, and nothing to do with back-handers into the pockets of public servants because that wouldn't interest you. Forgive my language, Posie it's all fucking rubbish.'

He swore only for effect, to make innocents recoil.

'There is no romance and no sacrifice in organised crime. They fight like sewer rats, mostly among themselves, and they're not the stereotype of successful chief executives. The men who run major companies do not murder, maim or cripple their opponents. They do not base their import flowcharts on the trafficking of Class A narcotics, teenage prostitutes, cloned credit cards. Organised-crime bosses get to the top by the vicious and ruthless use of violence. It underpins everything they do.'

She was crying quietly now. Sparky watched Snapper and showed nothing of his emotion.

'We're responsible people, Posie, and our chiefs are governed by a mile-long list of regulations. We understand where Jonno's at but it's not justified. We're men to be trusted . . . Maybe you should have a lie down.'

Jonno came in. His face was flushed he'd been drinking. The car was outside the gates.

He slammed every door front, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. She had her back to him, facing the wall.

A small voice: 'What have you decided? What are you going to do?'

He fell on the bed. 'I don't know, but something . . .'

He could hear their movements upstairs.

'. . . because, Posie, it's wrong. Something.'

10.

Jonno followed Loy up the stairs.

Loy said, 'You don't want to get off on the wrong foot with Snapper. He's one of the best. Very highly regarded.'

Jonno didn't answer. He felt good. He had slept well. He had recognised the summons when it came: Loy at the door. Posie had gone further under the bedclothes. It was a call from Snapper so there were no apologies, nothing about him coming up when he was dressed or after breakfast. He'd fight, but on his own ground. Sparky was at the top of the stairs.

Loy led him in, and Sparky closed the door. Snapper was in his chair, and the camera was on the table, Loy's logbook beside it, with the pencilled entries. Jonno thought they were in pencil so that they could be rubbed out and replaced if need be. Snapper had turned, and Jonno saw that they'd let the dog out. One of the Serbs was throwing a ball, and the Russian was on the patio, a mobile at his ear.

Snapper grinned. 'On the piss last night, were we? How are you feeling this morning?'

Give them nothing. 'Fine, thanks.'

A grin. 'Excellent, so we can clear things up.'

'You can. I've nothing to "clear up".'

'Get things on an even keel.'

'Whatever that means.'

'I'm suggesting that past misunderstandings are put behind us.'

'There are no misunderstandings.'

Snapper said easily, with the smile working hard, 'I have a job to do, Jonno.'

Jonno said, 'And the best place to do it is somewhere else.'

He stood with his hands on his hips, wearing boxers and a T-shirt. The bristle itched on his face and his mouth was dry. Where he worked, no one would have recognised him. He wasn't certain what had changed him.

'Your concern for the Walshes does you credit, Jonno, but it's misguided. Their interests can will be looked after. We're already talking about this with the seniors. We take their welfare very seriously and will do nothing that jeopardises their safety. We'll have gone by the time they return from London and our target will have been taken into custody. They won't know unless you tell them, which will only unsettle them that we were ever here. I'm suggesting we get off each other's backs.'

It was a winning smile, an invitation to compromise.

'I'd say it's not my war. I'd say I'd be aiding, abetting, whatever your language calls it, an illegal act. Nothing you've said has convinced me that there are any guarantees for Geoff and Fran . . . and you've threatened me. You should pack up and go.'

He still wore the smile but the eyes had no humour. 'Your girl giving you grief, is she?'

'Fuck you.'

'Charming. Get an education to learn that, did you? Let's deal first with the "threats"?'

Snapper broke off, turned, had the camera up and the shutter clicked. He glanced down at his screen, grimaced, then murmured to Loy, who wrote the entry in the log. Jonno thought it was theatre.

'What happens if you sabotage us? We'll start there, then cover what else is relevant. Right? Organised crime is not Jonno's war. Organised crime doesn't affect his comfortable little life. Organised crime, and the corruption it brings, pulls a society into a gutter, but it isn't knocking on his door. Organised crime breeds failed states Bulgaria, Mexico, Ecuador, Colombia, where they're shifting so much class A they need submarines for the tonnage that gets past the Yanks for the run to the California, New Mexico and Florida shores. But my friend Jonno doesn't see that. We find folk get wound up about organised crime when we tell them about the pedigree-dog breeder in Latin America, with all the necessary paperwork for pet exports north. He was slitting open the bellies of Labrador puppies, putting sealed containers of cocaine into them, then sewing them up and flying them in crates to the USA. There, the stitches were unpicked, the cocaine was taken out, and they were stitched up again. If any survive they are sold. We tell that one to people too stupid to understand the implications of organised crime.'

Jonno stared at him. Posie would have thrown up. His mother would have gone to the nearest animal-charity box and emptied her purse into it. His friends at work and the guys he lived with would stare at him in disbelief if he told them that story, but they'd ignore any lecture on the statistics of drug-dealing or . . . He wobbled. He was now unsure.

'Threats. We're on the back foot here, and you're safe. You go home, we go home, and you've screwed us. You have a job, a decent credit rating, insurance. You have references for accommodation lets, and one day you'll have a mortgage. All of those can be fixed. Not by me, of course, Jonno. You don't have a job because management learns of a police investigation involving minors, nothing that can be taken to court, but . . . Your credit rating and insurance are easy and, surprise, you flog round the banks but no one offers you a mortgage. What do you do, Jonno? Go to some left-wing rag, or a lawyer who does "miscarriages" for Islam's bombers? What's your story? Try this for size. "I'm the obstinate bastard who took it on himself to disrupt a major police and intelligence-based investigation targeting an international criminal, at last within reach, who is wanted in connection with the very brutal murder of a British national." This man is now, finally, beyond the reach of the protective umbrella provided by his own country. Do you think there'd be singing and dancing in the streets if you went to them with that? I'm not hearing you, Jonno.'

He turned. He opened the door.

'Still not hearing you, Jonno.'