Dottie said, 'Sort of crossing the Rubicon, Winnie.'

'Not a million miles away.'

'I liked the question he asked us going after those targets, still.'

Winnie's voice dropped: 'The big Mafia boys taught us the lesson. It doesn't matter to them how long it is before the fist drops on your shoulder but it will. The creed is, ''Fuck with me and I'll hurt you.'' I'm not in the business of slagging off my political masters not often but all that pragmatism stank when it came to rebuilding relations with Russia after their hoods were sent over to poison the dissident with that fucking horrible stuff. They slammed doors in our faces, blocked an investigation and all we do is cosy up to them again. I have to say I'm gob-smacked, and chuffed that this one has the go-ahead. Even if it fails.'

'It was Georges Clemenceau, the French PM, who said, ''A man's life is interesting primarily when he has failed I well know. For it's a sign that he has tried to surpass himself.'' Any good?' Dottie asked, bent under the weight of the package.

'It'll do.'

'Can't fail if you don't try. But, Boss, you'll have to front up soon.'

'I'm aware of that.'

They reached the car and Kenny came out of his seat fast to open the door for Winnie Monks. He received the exasperated stare she used when they fussed over her. The sun beat off the apron, and there was a rumble behind her as the fuel tanker drove away. Suddenly, under the great rockface that was Gibraltar, she experienced the heart-stopping sensation that was becoming more familiar with each passing month. Who was Winnie Monks? She was an investigator. She worked for an organisation that did not acknowledge brotherhoods or sisterhoods. When she finished she would hand in her ID, clear her expenses, sort out her pension, give up the phone and the insider's knowledge, and leave. No calls would come afterwards, asking for her advice on an area of her expertise or with a titbit of gossip. Her old life would be cut, as surely as if a guillotine fell on her neck. She was haunted by doubts, lonely to the point of desperation. She had given her life to the Service and would finish as poor as a pauper. Her target, who might destroy her or might live to regret having crossed her, would not know her name.

'You have to make the calls, Boss, and level with them.'

'Don't nag. I will.'

'Yes, Boss, because you have to.'

'I want you here.'

Dawson told his caller that him travelling 310 miles south wouldn't make the message any sweeter.

'I want you here in a car with plates.'

'When are we talking about?'

'Tomorrow. Sleep over, then off at sparrow-fart. And the car will have plates.'

'And what am I doing on the Rock?'

'Tell you when you get here. More fun if it's a surprise.'

Dawson said, 'At risk of repetition, the story won't change. It was a big negative. I suggest you get your head round that.'

'Go for a walk tonight, Dawson, and plod up the Gran Via. You'll hear the tramp of boots and one pair were on the feet of Emrys the Brigade. Had a negative and kept going. Call me when you're here. Safe journey.'

Alone in his inner sanctum at the embassy, Dawson had not asked whether him driving down to Gibraltar had clearance from the liaison committee that dealt with all areas where the work of Thames House collided with that of Vauxhall Cross. He had not asked because the answer was obvious. He thought her one of those individuals who had a talent for enveloping others in a mesh of intrigue. He buzzed the outer office, caught his colleague, said he wanted the embassy car made available to him next day, the one with Corps Diplomatique plates. Could it be fuelled and the tyres checked overnight?

The woman intrigued him. It was a bloody awful journey to the Rock, on a lethal road, but she had damn well hooked him.

The Chief left work as evening gathered on London. The streets glistened with rain, and leaves blew off the trees in the park.

It was the end of his day and he was anxious to be home. He had not, of course, heard that day from Winnie Monks. He hoped rather fervently that her voice would not be in his ears any time soon. The longer the silence, the less the crisis. And yet the Chief, who scurried out of Thames House on to the broad pavement of Westminster Bridge, yearned often enough for the old days to be summoned back. He was not senior enough for a pool car to take him home to the far side of Wimbledon, so he endured the cattle-truck existence of a commuter. He would cross the bridge, veer to the left and join the herd heading for Waterloo. The old days had been, in his opinion, bloody good, and Winnie Monks was a spirit from them, one to be nurtured. He had not quizzed her when she called in and wouldn't unless the world caved in on top of her. Then he and she would need to cover their backs. It was so difficult, in this day and age, for the Service to assert itself. When he had started as a probationer, the work of a counter-intelligence officer had seemed to be a ticket to the elite. Not now. She could bring him down or lift him to the heights of his career.

It was like the spin of a roulette wheel he couldn't know where the ball would land. Exciting times. Terrifying times.

Times governed by matters unpredictable.

'He hasn't phoned.'

'I know.'

'He said he would.'

She snapped, 'Mikey, it's the eighth time you've said that this evening. I know he hasn't rung you and you saying it won't change that.'

It had been a hard day for Mikey Fanning, and the failure of his nephew to ring him with news of his meeting with the Russian was but one of the matters scratching his nerves. Myrtle had come from the mini-mart round the corner as near to tears as he could remember because the woman at the till Rosa, always up for a laugh had refused her cheque. Myrtle had offered plastic and Rosa had checked a printout list of names. Her finger had steadied on Fanning, and she had shaken her head. There was no way Myrtle had enough in her purse to pay for what was in her basket and it was another week before the monthly pension came in. They were going to have a mug of tea but the milk was sour. The fridge had packed up: it might have been the thermostat or that Mikey hadn't closed it properly. To cap it, her club where once a month she met other elderly British women was upping the subscription by 50 per cent in sterling to counter inflation and the falling value of the pound, while the gas, electricity and water bills were going up. There was a rumour, too, that Age Concern would close in Puerto Banus. For weeks, their difficulties had had a temporary feel like the matter of the medical research unit that paid for funerals after they'd cut out the valued bits tough days, but a rosy dawn might be round the corner. No longer: his mind was on the TV news report about the Santa Maria. He was in his blackest mood. Perhaps, all those years ago, he'd have been better off skipping the drive to Dover, then the long hike down to the Costa. He should have limped on his sticks bullet hole in his leg heavily bandaged and dosed with pure alcohol into Reception at Rotherhithe Police Station. He might have done better to turn himself in, do the time, then live on housing association and a bit of benefit . . .

'I have to do something can't let it ride.'

'What would he have done for you?'

'Nothing. But he's a rat and I'm not.'

'What's "something", Mikey?'

'I'll start with that smarmy lawyer.'

She told him that would be enough. She reached for her knitting, not that they had much call for woollens on the sunshine coast but it kept her occupied . . . and Mikey Fanning wondered what he might learn from the lawyer.

The next day was the start of the cheap rate on the Costa del Sol. From the following evening there would be a last chance for the resorts of Estepona, Puerto Banus, Fuengirola, Benalmadena and Torremolinos to recoup what the higher seasons' rates had not funnelled into the banks. There would be an invasion of the elderly from Britain, Germany, Switzerland, Sweden and Austria, and prices would be at the bone. The pensioners of northern Europe would expect to eat their own country's fish and chips, schnitzels and pasta, and would promenade by the sea, watch football in bars relaying games from home, buy souvenirs, also marked down, and stay in blessed ignorance. They would wander past signs advertising apartments for sale or to let, and shuttered businesses, but wouldn't understand, or care to learn.

Few would read the English-language editions of local newspapers where local life was represented. A major British drugs smuggler, also wanted for murder, had been arrested. A Briton had been shot dead on his doorstep; police stated he was the victim of mistaken identity. A paedophile from Germany was believed to have fled to the Costa. An elderly couple had been kidnapped and beaten; their family had paid a ransom of a hundred thousand euro for their freedom, and had not dared to inform the police. A man was found, shot three times, in the burned-out shell of his car; police reckoned a turf war was the reason for his targeting.

The weather forecast was poor. Rain was expected, blowing in from the west.

Jonno said, 'You're not part of them. You don't have to be with them.'

Posie said, 'I'll spend my day where I want to.'

There was a single shot.

Jonno said, 'You don't have to eat with them. You're not their friend.'

Posie said, 'I'll eat where I want to with whoever I like.'

After the echo of the shot died, they heard a shout. Jonno thought it had sounded like the shout of a man when he'd scored a goal on the village recreation ground near his parents' home. He didn't know whether Posie had come down to cook, make a drink or use the bathroom, but it was clear that they were beyond reconciliation.

It had been a shout of triumph.

He pushed it: 'You don't have to sleep in there, alone.'

'I'll sleep where I want to.'

'The sooner we're out of here and on the plane, the better.'

It was the bathroom first, then the kitchen. When she filled the kettle he followed her. Didn't know why. He noticed that, in the bathroom, she had applied lipstick, a touch of eye-shadow and a dash of perfume Jonno wouldn't have known whether it was Dior, Givenchy or Gucci.

'I'm going to deal with it tomorrow.'

'Good. It'll give you something to do.'

He tried, knew it would be the last time and cursed himself for being feeble. 'We could do something together tomorrow.'

'It's a bit late for that, Jonno.'

She made instant coffee, four mugs. A cat cried out.

She was carrying the tray into the hall and her hands shook. The mugs slopped on the tray.

The cry was a howl for help, and came from far down in an animal's throat. He thought Posie would drop the tray. If he hadn't taken it and she had dropped it, the coffee would have gone over the wall, spoiled the paper and the rug at the bottom of the stairs.

The shot had been fired from the back of the Villa del Aguila. The animal's agony was from the garden of Villa Paraiso, like a cat had come hurt to Paradise.

The kitchen door was open.

Jonno went up the stairs. Posie was behind him, whimpering. He went up the stairs with the tray, used his foot to open the door and dumped the tray on the table where Snapper had his gear. Snapper had the camera up to his eye, and was back from the window, doing focal adjusts. Sparky was at the back wall, beyond the spare bed and close to the door. His arms were folded, his face expressionless. Snapper seemed irritated that the tray was on his table. Jonno followed the line of the lens.

Marko had the rifle, held it up, one hand, an index finger resting on the trigger guard. His movements seemed aimless, like the job was done and another hadn't yet offered itself. What was different about Marko was that he wore a black leather jacket and dark glasses. The evening was coming, the light dropping. It wasn't cold and there was no wind.

Alex followed him out he had the dog on a leash. He also wore a leather jacket, heavy and wrong for the weather, with sunglasses. It was like they had changed to a new dress code. Jonno thought them intimidating. If he leaned forward, pushed against the dormer wall, he had a view of their garden.

It was a cry for help, and of pain.

The cat was the one they had been charged to look after, why he and Posie had been offered the Villa Paraiso.

It would have been a small thing for Alex and Marko to shoot a cat that had crossed their territory and interfered with the beams for their alarms. It might not have been a big thing for them to carry the man to the chipper and push him into it feet first, with the engine at full power. The cat had slept on Jonno's bed. It wanted help a high-velocity round had, Jonno saw, hit it in the haunches and gone through the stomach. It must have made a supreme effort to scale the wall and come through the undergrowth to the long grass where it had collapsed.

Snapper said, 'It's like they've chucked off the pretence and gone back to what they are scumbags. They've put on gangster gear a bloody pantomime kit.'

Loy said, 'I can't take the cat's noise.'

Posie was sobbing, not loudly.

The noise the cat made filled the room.

Jonno asked, 'What do we do?'

None of them looked at him. Snapper was hardly going to down his camera, march out into the garden, wring the neck of a wounded cat and show out. Loy couldn't. Not Posie. Jonno turned to Sparky: no response.

'So, I'll do it.'

No one called him back. The sound of the cat's agony hammered into him. He could remember two animal deaths at home. A dog had been left with them when he was a child the owners were abroad in the services. It had contracted distemper and died. It had been buried in the back garden and no one in his family had laughed for a week. A fox had been hit in the road by a car that hadn't stopped. It had been on the verge, screwed up in pain, beyond help. His father wouldn't do it. His mother rang the RSPCA, who said they'd send someone. They'd waited, and the animal had writhed in death throes. Two hours before the RSPCA had pitched up, a man had come down the road, dog-walking, a rough-looking sort. He had knelt beside it his dog had sat obediently and wrung the fox's neck. Jonno had thought his father was ashamed.

He went down the stairs.

His tongue smeared his lips and he went out of the kitchen door. The poor damn thing had exhausted itself coming over the wall, then crying. It snarled as he approached. He saw the teeth and the front claws. He knelt, as the man had done outside their home.

Jonno reached forward and the cat clawed his hands, making tramlines in his skin. He spoke to it soothingly and it went limp. He sucked in a deep breath and took its head no more fight in it. He twisted. He had never hurt man or animal before.

There was a spade in the shed. The ground was hard, difficult to dig.

He did it properly, went deep. It was an ugly cat, but he gave it a good grave. All changed, changed utterly; A terrible beauty is born . . . He'd learned that at school. He didn't think that anything beautiful walked this corner of Paradise, but accepted he was now a changed man. He beat down the earth with the flat of the spade, then scraped old leaves and small fallen branches over it. He thought of a man who had been kicked to death, a hand hacked off, and wondered if he'd enjoyed a better funeral. He felt hardened.

13.

It was not as if he could have refused. It was not in Jonno's nature to go out into the garden, sit in the sunshine, near where he had killed the cat and buried it, and know that Sparky couldn't follow him.

He saw the bottom step of the staircase as a shrink's couch. Jonno would have supposed that listening was the major part of a shrink's job, and he reckoned he did it well. He didn't interrupt or show boredom. Instead he was drawn into Sparky's world . . .

'We came back and went to the garrison, the married quarters they were rubbish, a disgrace. I'd done the paperwork so that Patsy could move in. I'm not saying we talked about marriage, but there was an understanding between us there had been before I went to Helmand. Patsy's brother and his girl were quite close to us. Jed and Tracey. Jed had come through well. He was going for sergeant, and our Sunray thought well of him. I was on sick leave, stuck on the sofa at home, looking at the damp patch behind the TV and listening to next door rowing. Symptoms are "morose" and "introverted". One morning Jed came in Patsy must have called him. He was in uniform and he stood over me and said I was "pathetic". It was like all I'd done, out in Helmand, stuck with Bent on hillsides, in sangars, was forgotten. I thought he was pulling rank on me. I should "get a grip", he said, pull myself together. His parting words were, "Why don't you get off your arse, mate, and do something about it?" Before it came personal, I'd have said that a soldier acting like me was a whinger, likely in a compensation queue. I'm supposed to be a paratrooper, a hero, and I used to think of the guys I zapped as vermin. Now I see their faces, every last one of them, and each one's frozen, as it was while I squeezed the trigger.'

At Jonno's office they had a coffee break in the mornings, and slipped out at lunchtime for a sandwich. In the evenings he did the pub with friends and Posie. Anywhere he went, they all jabbered, but never about the mental trauma of the military. Why would they?

'Her brother was one thing, but Patsy was another. She mothered me, fussed over me . . . I'd hear her on the landing or by the main door and she'd be talking about me. They were suggesting she was a saint to put up with me. And then she brought the padre round and I told him to eff off, there was nothing wrong with me. I just used to sit there and stare at the wall. She did the caring bit and the loyal bit and she had a folder full of notes ACE and PIES. It came to be Patsy's mission. ACE was ''Ask your soldier about suicide thoughts. Care for your soldier. Escort your soldier to find help.'' PIES was about fast intervention after the symptoms showed up "Proximity, Immediacy, Expectancy, Simplicity". She was nagging the family officer for action. She made out I was a victim and no one cared except her. She knew I had post-traumatic stress disorder and . . . I snapped with her.'

He tried to think how his mother would have been probably brusque. It was beyond Jonno's knowledge. He and his mates would be up in the West End on a weekend evening, and there would be dossers in office doorways or on the edge of Theatre Land. They'd walk round them. Able-bodied guy, looks fit enough: why isn't he working? They'd never related them to Helmand, which was someone else's difficulty.

'I was drinking. Last of a six-pack, strong stuff. She was talking, as much to herself as to me, about what she was reading. I snatched the file from her and started ripping paper. She tried to stop me and I hit her across the face. She ran to her brother. He didn't do what he might have done beaten the shite out of me. He brought in the Red Caps. Handcuffs, Military Police escort. I signed the resignation letter. Went into a civilian hostel. By the time I appeared before the magistrate for the hearing, Patsy's face was bright bruise colours.'

Jonno was drawn in, captured by it.

'Patsy was in court, and her brother. They weren't there to speak up for me no one was, except a legal-aid brief who told me to plead guilty. The magistrate was a turn-up ex-military. He understood. He asked me specific questions: where had I served, what was my skill? I told him I was a marksman. He asked me about atmospheric conditions in Helmand, how much the heat or the cold messed with aimed shots. At his age, he could have been in Aden or early Belfast. I think he'd have liked to take me down the pub and do a proper quizzing on sniping today. He was a great bloke. Gave me a chance. He sat up there, straightened his tie, and said, very quiet, that what I probably needed was a dog. If I couldn't have a dog, I should find a garden. Then he spoke to Patsy. He told her there was no winner if I was banged up, and he hoped she'd get on with her life. Last, he wrote a phone number on a slip of paper and passed it me. He said I was to call it and give my name. I think he did it because I was a sniper, and he knew about it.'

He felt a better man for having sat there with Sparky.

'I couldn't have a dog but he found me a garden. Thanks for listening.'

Sparky pushed himself up and slapped Jonno's shoulder, then went back up the stairs. Jonno pondered how it would be to look at a man through a magnified aperture, make the adjustments for the way the wind was blowing, then shoot him.

He went to get the sheets from the washing-machine to hang them outside. He prayed that no more shots were fired, and that the chipper engine didn't start up.

'What has happened to your nephew, Senor Fanning, I do not know.'

'He said, Rafael may I call you that? he was going to see you with a view to a meeting with-'

'Many people say they are in my diary, but they are not. Look.'