He was the Major. He had command. He had thrown down a half-smoked cigarette and his right hand had been against the fabric of his jacket. She had seen where a finger was missing.

Contact in Marbella is Pavel Ivanov, Russian citizen, legal resident in Spain, living at Villa del Aguila. Method of travel from NAfrica to Spain, unknown. Date of travel, unknown.

She had sensed the man feared nothing. They had hurried for the car.

Summary: He did it. The Major/Borsonov is the football player.

She'd finished her texting when they reached the airport. They were in Departures when the executive aircraft accelerated down the runway and she wondered how he was, her agent, how soon she would get the call on that mobile for Echo Zulu, and how he would cope with living the lie. She thought Spain offered the opportunity.

A Latvian policeman escorted her.

Dottie had come to Europol. She received an apology: the staff, their gear and their files were about to transfer to a new building beside the International Court and its gaol. There was some confusion so not every officer she might want to meet would be available. She had noted that the liaison man from Thames House, posted to The Hague, would be absent as if he wanted nothing to do with her or anyone working with Winnie Monks . . . A reputation travelled fast. 'Fuck him,' Dottie had murmured, when she was told the colleague was 'out of town'.

She met a Pole, head of a unit with Organised Crime Networks 08. 'The Russians are the best. They understand the way commercial enterprise operates. They move drugs and weapons. All along the Balkan chokepoints into Western Europe there are stockpiles of heroin from Afghanistan, stored by Russians as they wait for the market price to improve. They like to live in Spain because it's physically safe for them. In Moscow, Petersburg or any major city they can be feuding. They have to fight to stay alive and make gestures to government. Spain is quiet and good as a home. They own bars, brothels, restaurants and apartment blocks, and launder money. They pay a little tax and they look legitimate. They are exceptionally difficult to catch. You have a target? Good luck.'

The Latvian policeman took Dottie to an office occupied by a carabinieri officer from Milan, who waved her to a seat. 'There are the "old" Russians and the "new". They have different mentalities. The "old" are the ones who have done time in the gulags. They have the tattoos and live by codes. They will not co-operate with any form of government, and they fight with automatic rifles, even anti-tank weapons. The "new" men want money, the good life and access to respectable banks. Spain is the perfect base for them. You must understand that in Russia, the authorities control organised crime, hold it with a steel fist, and the former KGB is top of the heap because they have the skills in surveillance, interrogation, close protection. Russian crime runs like a virus through the Europol area, but the Russian state is not represented here and we get no co-operation. To nail a Russian, a worthy target, requires exceptional skill.'

There was an analyst, a short stocky Danish woman, who worked from a cramped office, and the Latvian policeman said he would leave Dottie with her. She should call him when they had finished.

Dottie gave a name. Fingers flickered on keys, and the screen threw up a photograph. 'That is Pavel Ivanov. He is forty-four years old and from the city of Perm. He would have been a street fighter, a hard man. He would have made a reputation and was a leader. He earned the name "Tractor". They used extreme violence in his group. We believe Pavel Ivanov went to Spain because he believed he was condemned, had powerful enemies. His wife and son stayed. They visit him. It should be assumed that his money has been cleaned and that he rarely embarks on criminal enterprise. We have a residence listed in Marbella as Villa del Aguila. He has done well, would imagine himself safe . . . but he will have guards and will have bought the protection of officials who would warn him of law-enforcement interest. Is he bored? I imagine so. To be respectable would be tedious. It should be remembered that he was, is, a killer. Be careful.'

She met a German, in charge of another unit of Organised Crime Networks. She asked about Petar Alexander Borsonov. Keys were tapped. 'Little comes up. All vague. Nothing that is evidence in a court of law. Links to the state, but undefined. Protection at a senior stratum. Former State Security, with the rank of major, an Afghan veteran, wounded. No photograph. There are times when the state requires a message to be sent, which means a killing, and wants an assassin who is deniable and reliable. He does drugs, he does trafficking, but he is discreet. Apperently cannot confirm it he is a legend among his peers. We believe that his home is in Pskov, south-west of St Petersburg. As yet there is no international arrest warrant in that name. He is a considerable target. You have information against him?'

She shrugged.

The Latvian policeman escorted her away. Had it been a useful afternoon?

'I think so,' Dottie said. 'But time will tell.'

Kenny felt the cold but did not show it. The wind hacked at him as he stood with the security policeman near the cafe at the back of the citadel. If he had stood on tiptoe he would have seen the floodlit grotesque shape of the Liberty monument. If he had crouched to look under the trees, he would have seen the lights of Budapest, the black line that was the river and the breaks in it, which were bridges.

'I ask you again, my friend, why do you come with questions and never with answers? You ask me what evidence has been accumulated in five years against Fenby's killers. You ask me whether the investigation into the death has centred on the activities of the Russian criminal brotherhood. My friend, you treat me with contempt. You believe we are the same as the security officials before we had regime change, that we are still bedfellows of the Russian special services and will not embarrass them. Probably that is right. Because we are fond of the old KGB? My friend, we will do little to annoy the Russians because it is cold here in November. Our gas for heating comes from Russia. We freeze if they turn off the tap. We will not stage a major investigation into Russian-originating organised-crime groups. My friend, Fenby died five years ago. Who was he? You did not tell us. What was his work in Budapest? You did not tell us. Who employed him? The Security Service or the Intelligence Service? Or was he on vacation? You did not tell us. Why was he on this hill where, after dark, there are only men who bring prostitutes and homosexuals in search of partners? You did not tell us. What was he carrying in a case manacled to his hand that was so valuable his arm was severed to free it? You did not tell us. Why, when there had been no preparatory liaison, did several people from the UK travel to the city to retrieve the body? You did not tell us. But you still expect us to effect an investigation. Now, late in the day, you hint at Russian Mafiya involvement. I remember when we had regime change and we were "welcomed" to the sunlit pastures of Western Europe. Your own people came to teach us how to respond to democracy, how to defer to a man from a great power who was kind enough to help us. You were so patronising. I tell you very frankly that the slim file on the death of your man went on to a shelf within forty-five minutes of you leaving the airport with the body and it has not been opened since. We will stay warm in the winter and you will get no help from us.'

Kenny did not contribute. He understood that none of it was personal. He was offered a cigarette, which was lit for him. Not much he could have disputed. It was said in the canteen at Thames House that the UK was sliding down the scale of those nations with clout, and that help from overseas agencies was ever harder to obtain. Fact of life. He thanked the man for his time and chucked the cigarette away. He thought the statue of the girl and the foal had weathered well. He'd get the last flight back to Heathrow.

'Is that Penny? It's Fran Fran Walsh.'

'How are you?'

'I'm fine, dear. I'm at the clinic. Can't speak for Geoff it's being done now. They've taken him into theatre poor old thing.'

'He'll come through, then be skipping about like a child. It's a wonderful operation.'

'That's what I tell him. His target is to go through the surgery, get back on his feet and return to Spain. That's all he wants, to be at home. He says it's where he belongs. He can't wait to be home again.'

Penny didn't say that Jonno had telephoned, that his description of the Villa Paraiso had ranged between 'dump', 'tip', 'museum piece' and 'health risk'. She didn't say either that a major clean-up was in progress.' She did say, 'It was kind of you, Fran, to allow Jonno to stay there. Much appreciated by him and his friend.'

A pause. 'Nice boy, is he?'

What did a mother say about her son? 'Well, average. I don't think that's selling him short. I can't tell you anything about Posie because I've never met her. He's not going to set the world on fire but neither will he waste what God gave him. He won't stand out in a crowd, but he won't be anonymous either. He's good, honest, principled and there are millions like him, but we love him.'

'As long as he doesn't find it too quiet. We may not have said quite where we are at the end of a road under a mountain. We've one set of neighbours but we hardly see them, and there's the language difficulty. They did repair our mower but we wouldn't want to rely on them.'

'They'll cope,' Penny said decisively. 'It's what the young have to do.'

'That house, if we want him, is the key.' Winnie Monks held court in St John's Gardens. Her little group was gathered close to her as she held up the satellite photograph.

Her finger stabbed at the image. There was the blue of the pool, the green of the tennis court, a softer shade of sun-strafed grass and the ochre roof tiles. Dottie was beside her on the bench and Caro Watson was at her right shoulder. Kenny crouched to the side and had his elbow on the slats, while Xavier stood next to her. With them, as he had been all those years ago, was Damian Fenby.

'It's Pavel Ivanov's home. Caro says it's where old Three Fingers is headed. We'll get no help from the Budapest crowd, still in the new-look KGB's pocket not the end of the world. Spain should do the business for us. We'll provide the tip-off, there's a lift and we're looking at a fast flight back here, no fucking about with too many extradition niceties. I see him in a cell and reckon the key's been chucked in the Thames. I told the chief it's no time for procrastination. Caro's kid's done us proud. An operation like this is what we exist for. Safe home.'

She pushed herself up from the bench and dropped her dead cigarillo in the waste-bin. They were all in thrall to the emotions she'd roused. No one questioned the remit.

Sparky had hovered in the shadows and let them out, then locked the gates after them. She caught his arm. 'You're in on this, Sparky, with us. Too right you are.'

'I don't do stress, Miss. What would I go for?'

'A bit of this, a bit of that. Keep an eye on their backs.'

There were flowers on the pavement, spread wide enough to reach the outer chairs and tables at the front of the bar.

Tommy King walked past. He had covered much of his face with wraparound sunglasses and wore a baseball cap with a discreet Maserati logo that threw shadow over his nose and mouth. He didn't have a Maserati but, hey, his time was coming. He wanted to see the aftermath, just as it had been important to be across the street when the motorbike had closed on the target. He paused to read some of the messages: the flowers were for a man who would 'never be forgotten', who was 'a good mate' and 'always in our prayers'. He thought the Irishman would be remembered as long as the flowers lasted, and as long as the body was held by the authorities before release for repatriation to Dublin. He noted that the paving slabs had been power-hosed, maybe scrubbed with a stiff broom, and that the bloodstains were gone.

His life now was on the move. A cargo ship was ploughing across the Atlantic and the old days of poverty were behind him. A loan would be repaid in full. It seemed good, the prospect. He would go to see his uncle, architect of the loan a dinosaur who had performed one useful function.

He dropped the post into Myrtle's lap and went to the toilet. There was not much left in Mikey Fanning's life, but he enjoyed the hour each morning when he trudged up the hill in San Pedro to the concrete centre of the village where he'd sit with Izzy Jacobs. They'd have a coffee, then a small beer, which was about all the old bladder would take. His and Myrtle's future depended on a last chance, and the coming to Cadiz harbour of a rust-bucket out of the Venezuelan port of Maracaibo. The ship was not yet in and Mikey had had to grovel with Izzy. His long-standing friend the most reliable fence he knew had stood him his coffee and the beer.

He was heavily built and walked badly from the old wound he'd never had a proper course of physiotherapy or gone to a fitness trainer. If he had to go right into the centre of San Pedro he'd use a stick, and if he was on his way to Puerto Banus or Estepona he'd take the bus Mikey and Myrtle could no longer afford taxis. After a fashion, they were prisoners in San Pedro, which was back from the sea and downmarket from about everywhere else around them. There were plenty like them, with the pound collapsed, prices soaring and properties that couldn't be sold. There had been better times. He'd owned a villa and a club, and if the Russians hadn't arrived he'd still be running the joint.

Trouble was, they had come. The club had gone, sold at a knock-down price. The villa had gone. The Jaguar XJ had gone, and all Myrtle's jewels, other than what she wore day in and day out. There was no going back to south-east London, and the likes of Mikey Fanning could hardly send distress-call letters via the consul in Malaga to UK pensions. A career as a blagger and professional armed robber, whose most frequent home address in the UK was c/o Her Majesty's Prisons, failed to qualify for a pension right. If Myrtle's family hadn't helped, they might have been sleeping rough or in a fucking caravan.

Anyway, going home wasn't an option. There was a modern eight-storey apartment block, overlooking the Thames, on the site of the Bermondsey street where Mikey had been brought up. Myrtle's road was now a shopping precinct.

He shook himself. He needed the goddamn boat that was coming into Cadiz. It had been a big thing to involve that smarmy lawyer Mikey had put business his way twenty years ago when the guy was broke and hadn't a peseta to his name. And then there had been the meeting: he had scared the shit out of the Spaniard, with the introduction: 'My nephew, Tommy, a very good young man, utterly professional and trustworthy, don't come any better, and I promise that on my mother's grave.'

He came back into the living room in truth, it was a living room, dining room and hallway, just about everything, except bedroom, bathroom and kitchenette. That was what they were reduced to. Others like them had ended up old and marooned, dreaming of something turning up. In Mikey Fanning's case it was the MV Santa Maria. He had said, and thought, 'There'll be a drink in this for me,' and the ship with its cargo was at sea. He'd never counted on the future being gold-plated. He'd bust open a bottle when the ship was docked, the cargo off it and his share in his hip pocket when and then it would be a bottle for himself and Myrtle and one for Izzy. Mikey believed in nothing until it happened, and there'd been guys with him on that last hit, the wages van, who had already spent in their minds every last cent of the money coming to them cars, homes in Kent, a place for the totty on the side and they'd died in the street or been on their faces with a Smith & Wesson against their neck and the handcuffs on them.

Myrtle was a rock. Ugly as sin, big as a bloody whale, wonderful woman. She'd done the post: there was a pile of brochures and pamphlets beside her for one of the recycle bins on the street and a smaller pile for the shredder. Good old Myrtle like, who'd want to nick their identity? She held up a sheet of paper for him to look at. She had two good rings on her right hand and the stones glittered in the sunlight.

It was from a department of the medical school at the university in Alicante.

Mikey and Myrtle Fanning he in his seventy-second year and she in her seventy-first were not the first and wouldn't be the last to write off for an application form, fill it in, post it and receive the acceptance letter. It was all done in English, by an ex-pat employed at the hospital because Mikey only had the Spanish to order a meal, and Myrtle if a local plumber was needed or an electrician. Neither could have managed a formal document. In a way this was their biggest involvement in the life of their adopted country.

'Fuck me,' he said. He read it again. Well, they were both overweight and out of condition, breathless on the stairs. Neither liked salads or health-food. Izzy had said he'd read it in the local newspaper for the British that seven out of every ten corpses 'donated for science' to the Miguel Hernandez University were British-born.

She said, 'More forms to be filled in, and they have to be witnessed.'

'Izzy would do that.'

'And we have to state we've nothing wrong with us.'

'Nothing a bloody drink wouldn't fix.'

'And when they've finished with us, cut out all they need, we get cremated.'

He tried to smile. 'Just what the doctor ordered.'

'And scattered somewhere.'

It would cost nothing. Wouldn't cost Mikey anything if Myrtle went first, and wouldn't cost her anything if it was him. They didn't have the money to pay for a decent funeral for either of them, let alone both. He told her everything, always had. She had known the detail of every job he'd been on and had spent almost as much time as he had in the interview rooms of Shoreditch, Southwark or Tower Bridge police stations. She knew about the loan, and the containers on the deck of the MV Santa Maria.

He said, 'Well, let's hope, love, that the bloody boat turns up.'

The bell rang. His nephew often called round. Mikey hated him, Myrtle said he was poison but Tommy King had done the deal to bring the stuff out of Maracaibo on the Atlantic coast of Venezuela; Mikey had spat the introduction through gritted teeth. And the deal was money. With money it might be possible to bin the papers from the medical school at Alicante. Then there wouldn't be a load of kids, bloody foreigners, staring at them stark bollock bare on a slab in a lecture hall. They knew, Mikey and Myrtle, that Tommy'd had an Irishman killed, which had made waves, attracted attention and was just bloody stupid. Mikey set the smile on his face and went to open the door.

She had not come out, had left Jonno to prowl the boundaries. Posie had not been outside since she'd gone in with a bundle of wet clothes covering her while the water dripped from her hair. He hadn't argued, had given her space. They had about cleared the fridge, found some old bottles of wine on a rack, had read vintage magazines and glanced at books. He'd learned about the RAF and its veterans' association, and she had leafed through dog-eared copies of Country Life and the Lady. He'd allowed her to go to bed on her own in the master bedroom and she'd seemed asleep when he'd come in.

In the morning, after what he considered a bloody grim night, he'd gone into the garden and learned the ground. The sun was climbing. She'd made him coffee.

Jonno said, 'I was a miserable prat, getting here. All changed now, won't happen again. Party time, sort of, starts now. We'll get the car going. God knows how, but we will. Then we'll hit town. It's going to be all right. Believe me.'

She lifted her head and he kissed her.

5.

Jonno swore. Not that he liked bad language. He'd walk out of a pub if a loudmouth was yapping obscenities.

His mother said he was a good driver. He didn't have a car in London didn't need one. When he took Posie out of town, they'd hire one for a weekend go dutch on it, but he'd drive and if it was a long journey and late, or a dawn start, she would often sleep. He could pilot a car, head it down the road and do useful parking in narrow spaces, but he wasn't a mechanic. The car's engine had refused stubbornly to fire. He faced disaster. He couldn't fulfil his promise.

Behind him, in the garage doorway, was Posie, legs apart, arms folded, with a halo of sunlight around her. A scowl ruined her face. Jonno had checked the petrol and the oil, which were good, so the difficulty was likely the battery.

It would have been better if she'd helped. She didn't because she'd made a friend. The collar round the cat's throat gave his name as Thomas. He was thin and bony, tortoiseshell and small, but had a big purr. He had found her and they had bonded. She held him comfortably and watched Jonno.

He didn't know what she might have done but she could have done something, not just stood there. She might have helped by saying she didn't want to go out in the car, that they could walk down the hill, two miles, then get a bus, do some shopping and lug the bags back on the bus or splash out on a taxi. She didn't. The car was maybe fifteen years old, an Austin but with Spanish plates so he couldn't date it exactly. It was clean, had a nearly new sunhat tossed on the back seat and there was a shopping list in the footwell of the front passenger sear. He thought it might not have been used for a month, but it hadn't been abandoned. He knew about push starts. Jonno released the handbrake and started to push.

When he had the car half out of the garage he stopped. It was hot and he was sweating. Posie stood cool and clean, watching. The cat glowered at him, as if he was a rival.

Jonno swore again, silently, then said, 'I'm going to put it in gear. I want you in it, foot on the clutch. I'll push, then let the clutch out quick with the ignition turned on. I think that's how you do it.'

She came slowly, didn't hurry. She put the cat down carefully. Jonno bit his tongue, kept silent. He went to the boot and started to push. The bloody thing moved. He was getting the speed up and shouted at her. There was the choke, the shudder and a half-cough. It failed. He reckoned they could have two more goes before they reached the closed front gate.

They tried again.

And failed. He pushed it once more and they screwed it once more.

'We'll do it again.'

'Why?'

'Because we want to get the bloody car started why else?'

'No need to shout, Jonno I'm not deaf.'

'I didn't say you were.'

'And the more you shout, the less you'll be able to push.'

He buttoned his lip, breathed hard and gathered his strength. She raised her hand to show she was ready.

He bellowed, let out a yell, and pushed. He had the car moving, its speed increasing, when he slipped and fell on his face in the gravel. The car shuddered. The cat watched him, contemptuous. The car juddered to a halt near the gates. Posie climbed out, showed a bucketful of leg, and locked the door as if the vehicle was in Ealing Broadway not in a garden a bloody mile from civilisation. She came to him, reached down and let him heave himself up using her hand as a lever. Jonno thought he might throw up.

She had a headache. There would have been one glass, or two, too many.

She had not reached her bed so Winnie Monks had slept on the sofa. Small mercy the bottle had been on the low table that was covered with yesterday's newspapers. The glass had been wedged between her legs so the dregs had not spilled. The alarm had woken her. By the time she'd reached the bathroom the pain had started. She'd stripped and indulged in a half-minute of self-loathing, then showered, dried and dressed.

A horn had sounded in the street. The car was waiting for her. It was not yet six, but another day in the life of Winnie Monks had started. She didn't know what it would be like, as a mature woman, to wake in a bed and have the warmth of a similarly mature man beside her.

It was raining, a gentle pattering on the pavement as she'd hurried to the car, and Kenny was shrouded in a mackintosh as he'd held the back door open. Xavier had wriggled across the back seat to make room for her. They'd hammered for Heathrow.

By the time they'd reached the Pyrenees the rain had given way to storm turbulence. The captain's advice had been for passengers to stay in their seats and keep their belts fastened. She hadn't talked on the flight but had done her face round the eyes, tricky when they were the teeth of the wind. Xavier had been on her right, holding the bag that contained the gear, and Kenny on the left, holding the mirror for her. It was not a great job, but it would do. It was years since Winnie Monks had done her face in front of a mirror and really cared about the effect she created: she had done it for an inspector from Special Branch, a corporate lawyer in the City, who had seemed worth the effort for a week . . ., and for a boy in Sarajevo. Each time she thought of him a little smile cracked her face. It was so long ago, too bloody long . . . a lifetime before Damian Fenby had spent time on her sofa. Xavier had said she looked 'great', and Kenny had said she looked 'brilliant' and she'd realised that a button on her jacket was only held by a single thread. She'd spent the descent to the airport with a cotton reel that did not match and a needle, and had made a good enough temporary repair. Xavier had said no one would notice and Kenny remarked that the colour was pretty similar. She felt good with them with any of her Graveyard Team.

The storm was to the north but there was a fierce cross-wind as they came down. There was a collective sigh in the cabin as the engines went into reverse and the plane started to slow. Kenny and Xavier had wives, children and homes in the suburbs. Both had such loyalty to her along with the rest of the Graveyard Team that it humbled her. She reckoned the wives must have accepted that she was almost a part of their marriages.

'Up and running, Boss,' Xavier said. 'Another day, another dollar.'

Kenny asked quietly, 'You good, Boss?'

'Ready to give the world a kicking.'

To set up a working visit through 'the approved channels' would have taken a week of explanations. Winnie Monks had travelled light, with an overnight bag in the bin above her seat. Her handbag contained her cosmetics and a folder with the photograph of Pavel Ivanov that had been brought back from The Hague and the aerial view of a property. She led them off the aircraft.

As she always did at this sort of moment, Winnie Monks felt excited and the adrenalin pumped in her. She took long strides that stretched the hem of her skirt, which rode up. It was as if, with her two guys, she was marching into combat. She reckoned that, in spite of the kind words, she looked a wreck and her handiwork was smudged. She was followed by two nondescript middle-aged men. Winnie Monks could not have said how many thousand troops and airmen were currently deployed in fucking Afghanistan, but she would have argued that the sum of what they achieved was of a lesser importance to the nation's well-being than an operation targeting organised-crime big cats. She would have said that although big cats tended to slink away if threatened, they would stand and fight if cornered, and would kill to preserve their freedom.

They were not met, but a text from Caro gave a name and a rendezvous point.

Without fanfare, or official cars, they arrived and went for a Metro train.

The Latvian policeman told an Italian from the interior ministry, 'There is a statistic that our director quotes to Europol's visitors. He uses the figures to emphasise the importance of organised crime against the threat from terrorism. Round numbers. When the aircraft were flown into the towers in New York, the death toll was three thousand. In the same year, 2001, thirty thousand men, women and children, inside that country, died from narcotics-related illnesses, gang wars and overdosing. Counter-terrorism operations attract the limelight and resources while the lives of millions across the spectrum of society are blighted by the toxic levels of violent crime. Organised crime manufactures a tyranny that intimidates so many. It moves child prostitutes from the East, and weapons to conflict areas. It degrades trust in officials and- We are here. He is our prime counterfeit-money expert. I'll collect you in an hour.'

He was Dawson's man. An increment to the senior of the two Services, he did the little jobs around Madrid and across the Iberian peninsula that Dawson passed him.

It made a reasonable living, usually in banknotes filched from the petty-cash supply in Dawson's outer office at the embassy. He also had the pension from twenty-two years in the RAF, with an intelligence speciality, and had spent time at the Gibraltar base. He had met his future wife there, Spanish. She worked in a commercial secretary's team. He was employed on superior errand work for Dawson of the Secret Intelligence Service and liked to believe that he successfully 'tied up the few loose ends that had been left hanging free'. He had gone south from Madrid on the 06.35 train, had been in Malaga at nine, had picked up a car at the station and been comfortably in Marbella by ten o'clock. Then he had found a small bar on the northern side of the town, close to the bus station. He had been under the mountain, able to see the upper walls and roof of a villa perched high above him. He had appeared to be one of the many tourists who studied the high ground through binoculars in the distant hope of spotting a vulture or an eagle on that desolate, almost sheer slope. He had established the location of the Villa del Aguila, and had headed into town.