The Gilli Gilli Man - Part One

CHAPTER ONE

The tall woman bent down and looked in through the keyhole. She grinned, then indicated to her companion to take a look. The man put his eye to the hole. He smiled up at the woman, then moved aside and let her look again. She liked what she saw. The man they had come for was inside the room on the bed, naked, his fat arse rising and falling steadily. Underneath him was a sturdy but handsome woman, with dark eyes, hennaed hair, and complexion like creamy coffee. Her face was contorted with pleasure as her dark nails raked his buttocks and the small of his back. The tall woman watched as the couple raced towards the climax of their love making, then suddenly opened the door and strode into the room.

The woman screamed, clawing a sheet over her nakedness. The man turned over, then went pale. He said nothing.

The tall woman came right into the room, followed by her short, stocky companion, who turned and closed the door.

“It is a warm night. I decided to call on my friends. You are still my friend, Aziz?”

The fat man, who had met the woman only once and who was terrified of her, nodded weakly, his eyes bulging.

“That is good,” she smiled. “I was beginning to doubt, but your words warm my heart. And are you as loyal to Gilli?”

The terrified man nodded.

“Good.” She smiled. “We need to talk.”

Almost idly she reached into her handbag and took out a small automatic pistol, screwing on a stubby silencer.

“We need to talk alone.”

She pointed the gun at the woman in the bed, then pulled the trigger. There was a phut, and instantly a small red hole appeared in the centre of her forehead. Simultaneously the back of her head exploded, reddening the pillow, as the bullet exited. She smiled.

“She died happy.”

She turned to her companion.

“He has a daughter. She’s six, I think. Bring her here.”

She turned back to Aziz, who was pale and sweating now as his trembling hand clutched the reddening sheet. Aziz’s terrified eyes darted around the room. The woman stood still, the trace of a smile on her red lips. Her make-up was immaculate – perfectly applied yet discrete. She just waited. She could have been waiting for a bus.

A few minutes later the searcher returned.

“She’s not in the villa.”

She nodded, then inclined her head towards the man on the bed. No reaction. Slowly she brought up the barrel of the gun, centring it on his forehead.

“She’s with her grandmother for the weekend,” the fat man squealed. “She’s not here.”

“Then this is your very lucky night my friend, because I have two bits of good news for you. The first bit of good news is that your daughter will live. Had she been here, I would have killed her. The second bit of good news is that you may now choose the manner of your death.”

She paused.

“You may choose to die slowly and painfully, or you may choose to die very slowly and very painfully. I don’t care; it’s up to you. In either case you will tell me everything I want to know before the sun breaks over the mountains.”

She clicked her fingers, and her companion handed her a burgundy leather briefcase. She placed it on a chest of drawers and snapped it open, picking out three items.

“This is a gas soldering iron. Very hot. Very nice. These are pliers. Primitive, but they have their uses. And finally, a medical scalpel. No need for electric shocks or truth serums, is there? Back in the old country we kept things simple. Beni, tie my good friend to the bed.”

“Please... Beni, tell her I’m loyal. Gilli is like a father to me.”

Beni shoved the body of the woman to the floor, wrinkling his nose in distaste as it landed with a thump. He hated this side of the business. He tried his best to avoid it, but sometimes Gilli insisted. Everyone had to get their hands dirty occasionally.

Aziz whimpered as strong hands pulled his resisting limbs into position. Using cable ties Beni strapped Aziz’s wrists to the headboard of the bed, pulling the ties hard so that the plastic dug painfully into the flesh. Two more cable ties secured the ankles to the base of the bed. He stood back and looked at the naked, spread-eagled man. A man who had once been his friend. Then he bent to the floor and picked up the bloody pillow, which had fallen with the woman’s body. The centre of the pillow was in tatters, and there were bone fragments and brain matter among the red gore. He lifted Aziz’s head and propped it up with the pillow, then stood back again.

“He’s all yours, Celia,” said Beni, as he walked to the door of the room. “I don’t want to watch.”

Aziz could feel the warm wetness of his lover’s blood, smell its coppery odour. His body had gone haywire. He was sweating and shivering at the same time, trying to remember some of his childhood prayers, but the words would not come. Celia walked over to the hi-fi and slipped in a CD. Seconds later the room was flooded with the dreamy chords of Fleetwood Mac. Aziz understood what she were doing, creating noise to drown out his screams. There was no need – the nearest villa was almost a kilometre away, and the sound would not carry. Or maybe she just liked music to work by.

He could turn his head, and was able to see the blonde woman use a cigarette lighter to ignite the gas soldering iron. He watched as the tip reddened. She were in no hurry, savouring the build-up of terror. Experienced, she knew the value of anticipation.

It was almost a relief when, five minutes later, she came over to the bed and gently, almost seductively, stroked his chest.

“We start here, I think.”

“I will tell you everything.”

“Oh, no. It is far too early,” she smiled. “You will tell me everything, but not until I ask. First I have to help you understand how serious I am.”

She gently placed the tip of the scalpel against the skin of the fat man, an inch or so above the right nipple. With a swift, smooth stroke, she drew it downwards to the right of the nipple, stopping about two inches below. The pain was not as severe as Aziz expected. Then she brought the scalpel back up to the start of the incision, and made another cut, this time going down the left side of the nipple. Beads of blood sprang out along the lines of the cuts.

Celia reached for the pliers and moved into position above Aziz. His eyes fixated on her slim, delicate fingers gripping the instrument. Her fingernails were painted vivid scarlet. They were beautifully manicured, probably false. Aziz did not know why such trivial thoughts were running through his head at this time. Probably to distance his mind from the pain that was to come. She smiled at him. Her teeth were perfect – straight and gleaming white, not at all like his own woman’s. He could smell her perfume, feel her warm breath on his face. Then she moved the pliers towards his chest. She forced the arms of the pliers together, gripping the narrow wedge of skin where the two incisions met. She tightened her grip, and with gleam of ecstatic pleasure she jerked the pliers up, ripping the skin off in a long strip.

Then Aziz screamed...

Two hours later it was almost over. The man had screamed and screamed for over an hour. Then she had taken a break. She did not want him to die too quickly. Beni had made her a coffee in the kitchen of the villa while Aziz moaned softly, calling out the names of his wife, his daughter, and his God. After the coffee she had returned to the bedroom, and he went silent, watching her with wide-eyed terror. His chest was a mass of blood, sinews and muscle. All the skin had been torn or burnt off. Large chunks of his thighs were similarly flayed, and portions of his face, and the mattress underneath him was drenched scarlet.

“Now we will talk,” said the woman. “Now you understand just how serious I am.”

“I will tell you all – please, let me tell you. Please...” Aziz tried to scream, but the words came out in a whisper.

“The devil American – the bastard son of a whore. He set me up. He paid for my father’s funeral. I thought I owed him. I thought I owed him.”

“He’s not here for you now,” Celia whispered.

“I didn’t want to betray Gilli. But he kept pushing. He kept asking for more, and I thought I owed him.”

“You owed Gilli,” Celia spat, and Aziz knew there was no hope. The light seemed to fade from his eyes.

Near the very end he told her what she needed to know. Beni came in for the confession.

Celia smiled over at Beni as she lit another cigarette. Beni was chain-smoking foul French gaspers. He normally never touched tobacco, but today it helped mask the smell of the burning flesh.

“He didn’t know the target. I’ll tell Gilli the mission is still on.”

“He might not have known the target, but the mission is compromised.”

“Nonsense. The Americans have nothing.”

She took a final puff of the cigarette then bent forward, stubbing it out in the left eye of the writhing man on the bed.

“Our work is finished here.”

She got up and walked to the door of the villa. Beni followed with the burgundy briefcase of torture instruments.

“Please...” pleaded Aziz.

They closed the door behind them, and walked the half kilometre to where they had parked their car. Beni opened the passanger door for her, then got behind the wheel.

Neither thought of the man on the bed. His breathing had been very erratic when they left, and it was obvious he would not see the sun rise. Dogs like him did not deserve the mercy of a bullet and a quick death.

CHAPTER TWO

“You’ve got to meet Dave.”

“I’ve got to meet nobody,” said Andy Greig, putting down the sheaf of papers he was leafing through. “I’m busy.”

“Come on, we spend all our lives gigging in dirty pubs in the west of Ireland, and the one chance we get to travel, you’re busy.”

“I don’t gig in pubs – that’s you. When you’re not too busy plumbing or painting.”

“True – but how often do we get to hang out in a gaff like this?”

“All the time.”

“Ok, superstar. But it’s new to me.”

They were in the Crown Plaza Hotel in Abu Dhabi, one of the most luxurious hotels in a city of luxury. They had one gig for the Abu Dhabi Irish Society, and the rest of the week was their own. Surprisingly, the gig had come through Kevin the plumber, not through Andy, the international illusionist. The Irish Society was looking for a cheap act for their St Patrick’s Day dinner dance, and a friend of a friend had put them in touch with Kevin. Andy was along for the ride, because he and Kevin were like brothers.

The papers, an article on double-lifts Andy was editing for Magicscene magazine, could wait.

“You win. Who’s Dave?”

“Just some fat-ass yank I met up at the pool. You’ll love him. He tells more lies than you do.”

“If we do go up to the pool, you can’t go up like that.”

Kevin Moore, who was in a pair of skimpy speedos, looked pained.

“These are my best swimming trunks. But if you insist.”

He bent down and in one swift motion removed the trunks, then opened the door and stepped out into the corridor naked. Kevin strolled towards the lift. Andy Greig went scarlet. Once more he wondered how he had allowed himself to be talked into travelling half way around the world with this lunatic.

Kevin and he were billed as comedians, though perhaps that was stretching it a bit. Andy was a magician, and Kevin was a plumber – and a painter, and a DJ, and a line-dancing instructor, as well as comedian. He liked to call himself a “this and that” man. They got the gig because Kevin was cheap, and Andy wanted to see a new corner of the world on someone else’s buck. The Irish Society had shelled out enough already, what with airfares and their accommodation in the five star hotel. Andy was under no illusions. This was a working holiday, nothing more. For Kevin, it was his fifteen minutes of fame.

Andy gathered his swim gear and a spare bath robe, then hurried from the room, pulling the door gently him. He threw the bath robe at the retreating figure of Kevin, then noticed that they were not alone on the corridor. Embarrassed, he slipped the pretty Philipino chambermaid a 100 dirham note, and mumbled a vague apology for Kevin’s nudity.

She grinned.

“Not a problem. I’m a Catholic. I’m allowed to look. That Mr Kevin, he’s a funny guy.”

He smiled back, then entered the lift, pressing the button for the roof-top leisure centre – and stabbing the close doors button with his finger.

“Put that robe on quick. You could get us arrested. And here are your togs.”

“It’s only a bit of craic.”

“An English woman was jailed for three months in Dubai for kissing her husband in a restaurant.”

“Those Essex girls know how to kiss.”

“I’m being serious.”

“Unless one of those babes at the pool kisses me, I don’t think we have a problem.”

Nevertheless Kevin pulled on the swim trunks, and tied the bath robe around himself. It was a lurid pink.

“More your colour than mine,” he muttered, as he tied the sash.

Andy loved the Crown Plaza. A large twenty story block, the centre is hollow, and all the floors and rooms are built on the outer perimeter, leaving a massive courtyard effect. Half way up, across the tenth floor, The Garden Restaurant is suspended. It was the most sinfully extravagant restaurant Kevin or Andy had ever eaten in. From The Garden you could look up ten more floors, to where the leisure centre was suspended across the roof. The lift took Andy to the nineteenth floor, where the changing rooms were located. After leaving his cloths in the locker room, he made his way up the curving marble stairs to the rooftop. As he stepped onto the pool deck the heat hit him like a blast from a furnace, and the light stung his eyes. He put on his shades, then picked out Kevin on one of the sunloungers, chatting to a pretty brunette. Andy guessed she was German because the book she was reading had a German title.

Kevin had a way with women. It wasn’t his looks. He was bald and bug-eyed. But he had a manic face, and a way of making people laugh. Sometimes Andy envied him. Sometimes he just couldn’t be bothered. Putting down his towel and the paperback he had brought along, he lowered himself into the pool, and began lazily to measure lengths. Though it had been several years since he had competed, the stroke was still strong and smooth, and it felt good to stretch out slightly. At the end of each length he flipped expertly, knifing through the water like a shark. After a few minutes he stopped stroking, and lazily drifted on his back, his eyes closed against the glare of the sun. He was drifting off into a reverie, finally unwinding after the long flight over and the tensions of the sound check with engineers who didn’t speak English. This trip might be fun after all.

Suddenly he was bumped, and he instinctively flinched away. Water went down his nose, and he tried to straighten himself up, reaching for the floor of the pool. But he was out of his depth, and he grabbed at the large leg protruding from the airbed which had collided with him. The occupant of the airbed tipped over with a massive splash, spluttering for air. He was a huge man. Andy was already treading water as he watched the behemoth struggle. He realised that the man couldn’t swim. Instinct and training kicked in and Andy expertly duck-dived under the kicking legs, coming up behind the broad back of the flailing man, his arm going under his shoulder and around his chest, in the classic lifesaving grip. Two powerful strokes of his free arm, and two kicks, and they were in the shallow end. The man, an American, found his feet, spluttering the water from his nose and mouth.

“Much obliged to you, my friend,” he managed, in a voice a little softer than thunder, despite his ordeal. “My airbed wasn’t designed for a man of substance.”

He held out a hand like a shovel, engulfing Andy’s hand.

“I’m Dave Thompson. And you are?”

“Andy Greig,” said Andy.

“You’re Irish. I’m good with accents. Cork? No, further north. You must be Kevin’s friend. Hey, Irish, I found your friend,” he roared at Kevin, who had given up on the German and was making his way towards the poolside bar.

“You guys are comedians. Say something funny.”

But before waiting for a reply, he clasped Andy around the shoulder, and shoved him towards the wall of the pool.

“Get you over to the bar, boy. The drinks are on me.”

The poolside bar made Andy feel like he was on a movie set. There were six submerged stools ranged around a circular bar at the edge of the deep end. When he was seated the water lapped his chest. Beside him was the large American, a bear of a man with shaggy blonde hair and startling blue eyes. One seat down was Kevin.

“Two beers for my friends here. I’m sorry, guys, they don’t do Guinness. The head don’t last longer than a nun in a whorehouse out here in the desert. I’ll have Bourbon, straight up.”

He threw a pile of notes on the bar counter, then smiled, looking from one man to the other.

“Here’s to friendship. May the fleas of a thousand camels infest the crotch of your enemy, and may his arms be too short to scratch himself.” Dave Thompson tossed back the Bourbon in one.

“Slainte,” Andy replied in Gaelic to the toast.

“Saha,” said Kevin, using the local word.

Behind the bar the skyline of the city rose in stark monoliths, each one silhouetted against the cloudless sky. The light skipping off the ripples of the pool almost hurt. Dave, squinting despite his shades, looked slowly around.

“Lots of pretty ladies, guys. Great place to hang.”

Andy just sipped his beer. Kevin looked around. Andy decided to feed him a straight line.

“Not a red head in sight.”

Kevin grinned.

“I was always partial to a red head. Dave, did I tell you my wife has a beautiful red head? No hair, just a gleaming red head.”

“If you want me to continue buying you beer, the jokes better improve. I was always scared of three things, guys. I was scared of dying, I was scared of heights, and I was scared of women. But a tour in Vietnam cured my fear of dying.”

He slapped his large belly just above the belt-line, where a nasty white scar almost glowed against the deep tan.

“Took a slug in the gut during a heli reci, and it near turned Dave into Davina. An inch down, and think of what the ladies would have lost,” he chuckled.

“Took another couple of slugs too, and got a knife in the kidneys during R and R in Saigon. One of our own lads.”

“And what happened to him?” asked Kevin.

“Don’t know. I left the bastard in the gutter and skedaddled. Didn’t want to be there when the MPs came around. He was an officer. I could have spent a long time in the caboose.”

Dave took a long drink of the beer that had replaced the Bourbon.

“If you’ve ever been shot, been through the hell of a war, that will cure you of your fear of death. Cured my fear of heights too, when I came home. Went up every pylon, every crane, every railway bridge I came across, until I could hold myself as steady as tightrope walker. It works. You don’t need none of that psychology crap.”

There was a long pause in the conversation, as Dave rested his eyes on the German who had drawn Kevin’s attention earlier. Eventually Kevin had to break the silence.

“And your fear of women – how did you cure that?”

The American’s face broke into a huge grin.

“I bought myself a topless bar down in Tampa, Florida. I ran it for two years. They were fun years. I had myself a boat and I ran it up and down the coast, bringing in a bit of this, a bit of that – ducking and diving with the Coastguard. Good money. Happy days.”

“That’s some cure for a fear of women,” laughed Andy.

“If I had my days over again, I’d have had a cat house in Nevada. All legal there, you know. But the best cat houses of all, they’re in Manchester, England. Grotty places, but they have beautiful girls – and cheap too. Give me England any day – you guys ever visit Manchester?”

“No” said Andy, quickly.

“Nice city,” grinned Kevin, enigmatically.

“You’re both misogynists,” said Andy.

“I can’t speak for Kevin, but I’m an Episcopalian,” said Dave. “But if it’s the ladies you are looking for, you’re in the right hotel. In Abu Dhabi there are three types of lady to party with. There’s the Chinese, the Philipinos, and the Russians. The Philipinos are the best. They give a very friendly, loving service, but they are all Catholic, so there’s things they won’t do. The Chinese will do anything, but they’re pricey, and you don’t want to get involved with them. They’re part of an organisation.”

He tapped his nose mysteriously, then went on: “That leaves the Russians, and they are hot chicks. They are all blonde, all hard bodies. And not expensive. And do you want to know the good news? The pick-up point for the Russians is Heroes Bar.”

“Heroes Bar? That rings a bell,” said Andy.

“You eejit,” said Kevin. “That’s the bar in the basement of the hotel here. We were there last night.”

Andy blushed.

“Do you mean that the nice foreign student...”

“She was a Russian whore.” Dave roared with laughter. He heaved himself up from the barstool, water dripping from him.

“I’ve got to run. Work to do.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m with the firm. Very hush hush.”

He tapped his nose again.

“Catch you guys later. And break a leg tonight.”

As Dave walked towards the door back into the hotel, Andy looked up and caught the eye of a man who seemed to be staring at him. The man, stocky and round-shouldered, held his gaze for a moment, a fraction longer than was comfortable, then looked after the retreating American. Andy was puzzled by the man. He was certain he had seen him in the hotel before, or perhaps on the street, but the memory eluded him. Why was the man staring? Maybe he was a native, and the talk of women had offended him. But he could just as easily have been a European, some guest at the hotel. Andy stared out across the pool to where two young children were playing sea monsters with a rubber ring and a beach ball. When he looked back again, the stranger was gone. Andy shivered.

CHAPTER THREE

In the small second bedroom of the flat on the sixth floor of the European Exhibition Building the tall man stood and gazed at the contents of the wooden crate he had opened. He was beginning to relax now. It was all coming together. Aziz had almost blown the whole mission, but in the end they were certain that the Americans did not know the target or the time. Everything was on track again, now that the crate had arrived. If everything was inside as it should be then the mission would be completed successfully, just like the previous missions. He looked at the coils, the timer, the fuses, the packets wrapped in cellophane, and felt the familiar buzz of excitement.

Too often of late he had stood on the sidelines while others did the wet work. Now he was getting his hands dirty again, and it felt good.

As the tall mans eyes darted over the contents of the crate, his right hand was busy. He had a deck of playing cards in the palm of his hand, and was splitting and cutting the deck with one hand, the two sides of the deck slipping over each other and sliding smoothly into their new order. As he was executing the one-handed cuts he was doing a mental inventory of the items before him. Finally he nodded slightly, then with the fingers of his right hand he spun one card into the air, catching it deftly with his left hand. It was the ace of spades, the Death Card.

“Gilli Gilli,” he muttered.

A phone chirruped, and he looked around the room. There were so many of them. The two on the table – not those. They were special numbers. The one in his pants pocket wasn’t vibrating, so not that one. That left the one in his Andy pocket. He walked over to the chair and pulled out the phone.

“Gilli?”

“No, Beni. It’s Harry Houdini.”

“Any news?” the other voice continued, unperturbed.

The tall man looked around.

“The kennel delivered the dog this morning.”

“Were all her papers in order?”

“Yes. I’ve just finished checking. I’ll drop her over tomorrow.”

“I can have Abdul or one of the others pick her up if you like.”

Gilli felt a swift surge of anger.

“We’ve gone through this before. I will deliver the dog myself. I want to see the look on Fatima’s face when it arrives. End of discussion.”

He thumbed the disconnect button, and flung the phone into the corner of the room.

“Fucking bureaucrat!”

Portly Beni Lassels raised his eyebrows resignedly. He was the number two in the command structure, but sometimes that meant nothing.

“He will not listen. He insists on doing it himself.”

The others shrugged.

“The Americans?” Beni asked the taller of the two men facing him in the back of the blackened limousine.

Mohamet looked at Said before answering.

“The fat one has been asking a lot of questions, but he has not got anywhere, as far as we can tell. The others…” He spat dismissively.

“I agree,” said Beni, as he inched his expensive shoe away from the glob of spittle on the carpet of the car. “The danger comes from the fat one. I feel very soon we will have to do something about our fat friend.”

Said grinned, his dark eyes radiating hatred

The tall man surveyed the items in the bedroom. Now that the crate was here, it was time to assemble everything. He began with the table, a very clever piece of carpentry. It was a fold-up box table, about a foot by two feet at the top. When folded down it became a box, and up it was a table, jet black. He opened it out fully, table format. It was almost three feet high, and open at the back, with two big storage compartments.

In the front of the top storage compartment he emptied out the contents of a builder’s bag of nails. Half a kilo of four-inch nails gleamed in the light. In the back of the box, behind the nails, he placed the cellophane packages, fifteen in all. They weighed half a kilo each. He connected the wires from fifteen fuses to a long board. It took ten minutes with a small screwdriver. It was delicate work, but oddly therapeutic. Two wires led from the board. He connected one to a small motorcycle battery, and the other to a small round box, about the size of a plum. The box was a sound sensitive switch, and the tall man then wired the switch to the other side of the battery. He turned a dial on the switch, dulling its sensitivity. Then he moved back and surveyed his work.

As he idly rolled a coin between his fingers, he pondered, then slowly leant forward, unscrewing the fuse board from the two wires. He connected the wires to a small bulb. Then he walked over to the table at the other side of the room, and took up both mobile phones. They were pre-paid, and had been purchased that morning by an associate of his. They were untraceable. They were the ones with the special numbers.

He put one phone inside the box, using putty to fix it near the sound-activated switch. The other phone he kept.

He stood up and stamped his feet, looking at the light. Nothing happened. He picked up the box, and let it fall a few inches to the floor. Nothing happened. He turned on some music from a small hi-fi system, and not a glimmer. Finally he risked a shout, not loud enough to disturb the neighbouring apartments, but loud enough for his purposes. Still no glimmer.

He took the second mobile phone and dialled a number. After a few seconds the phone inside the box began to ring. With each incessant beep beep the light bulb came on. The tall man grinned. Everything was working as it should. He disconnected the light bulb, then, being careful to stow his phone carefully so that it would not accidentally redial, he reconnected the fuse box. He closed the table down into a box and stood up. The box was heavy, but he got it onto the small trolley, and moved it outside the bedroom to the door of the apartment. Everything was ready. He returned to the bedroom, and opened the wardrobe. Inside was a spotless black tux, complete with white tie. The patent leather shoes were so shiny you could see your face in them. Everything was ready for tomorrow.

CHAPTER FOUR

The sun stabbed like a spear, and Karin wanted to close her eyes again. But she had to face the day. She had an audition later that afternoon, for a stage play, and she had to get her hair done in the morning, because she was on the lunch shift at the restaurant. It was all go – and very little forward momentum.

As she thought of the hours ahead her head swam. She would have to leave the flat by ten and catch the tube into town, get her hair done and get the tube back to the restaurant. Then another tube back to Covent Garden, and a ten minute walk to the dance studio, where she would join a hundred other hopefuls for the cattle call. This would be followed by a two week wait for the inevitable rejection, which the production company wouldn’t even bother to let her know about. She would hear about it when she’d pass the theatre some day and see the poster, and realise she was not in rehearsal.

Why did she want to be in show business? And why had she agreed to go out with Gina the night before?

Speak of the devil, she thought, as the kitchen door swung open, then crashed closed. She winced.

“Easy on the noise,” she whispered.

“Sorry,” purred Gina. She looked irritatingly perky, yet she had matched Karin drink for drink last night, then had three vodka and Red Bulls on top of it. How did she manage it? Her make-up was immaculate, and her hair was washed, blow-dried and neatly curled. Her blouse was crisp, and her skirt elegant and understated. She looked like superwoman. Probably felt like it too. Karin was still in her bath robe, her hair in a mess.

“Last night was fun, sweetie. We should do it more often,” she purred.

“Leave me along to die.”

“Hangover? You should have had a glass of water before you went to bed. I did.”

“Bully for you.”

Gina sat at the breakfast counter, where Karin was toying with a bowl of cork flakes.

“Can you pass my breakfast, sweetie?”

“The usual?”

“What else?”

Karin passed over the pack of cigarettes, and Gina tapped one out and lit it.

“I’ve never heard of this Marlboro diet.”

“It’s all the rage in Hollywood. All the size zero A-listers are on it.”

Gina had read about the Marlboro diet on the internet and was its number one devotee. It was a very simple diet; no beer or red wine, but spirits and white wine were fine. No red meat, but chicken and fish were fine. No potatoes, pasta or rice, but vegetables and fruit were allowed in moderation. Salads were fine, as long as you didn’t use an interesting dressing. All that had made some sort of sense when Gina had explained it. It was the rest that struck Karin as bonkers.

Instead of breakfast, substitute two cigarettes and a cup of strong black coffee. This was repeated at eleven and four. But the insanity was ratcheted up several knots at dinner time. This was the heart of the Marlboro system. At the start of the meal you light up, and you put down your fork as soon as you finish the cigarette. Unless you were a very fast eater you were bound to lose weight.

“So how much weight have you lost?”

“It’s not about the weight you lose, but the way you feel. I feel trimmer.”

“So you’ve lost nothing?”

“Not yet – but I’m not following it strictly. I’ve been substituting Marlboro Lights for Marlboro’s because they’re easier on the throat.”

“I’m worried about the amount of cigarettes you’re smoking.”

“So is my mother.”

“And what do you tell her?”

“Not to worry. I have a good job. I can afford them.”

“They’re bad for your health.”

“Not if you smoke them as part of a calorie controlled diet.”

Karin gave up. She didn’t have the head for it this morning. She munched her cornflakes in silence, trying not to munch too vigorously. The coffee was beginning to wake her up, but she still felt as if an army were doing manoeuvres inside her head.

She was just putting the bowl in the dishwasher when the post arrived. Two bills and thick white A4 envelope.

“Anything good, sweetie?”

“Yes and no. It’s a job offer.”

Karin had been expecting this. Christina, her best friend from drama college, had applied for both of them to work in Lapland over Christmas as elves. The pay was small, but it was six weeks in the snow, and would be another acting job, of sorts, on the CV. It had seemed to be a great idea at the time. Then Tim had appeared.

She remembered the night. They had been out celebrating Christina’s twenty second birthday with a bunch of girls, and Tim and his mates had tried to chat them up. Karin hadn’t been interested. Tim was not her type. For starters he was wearing a suit and tie. His hair was too neat and styled. Never trust a man who spends more on his hair than you do. And he was an actuary in an insurance company, which was one step either below or above an accountant, she didn’t know which. Everything about him screamed safe and boring. And his work mates, all out for an end-of-week piss-up, had been loud and obnoxious. She had given him the brush-off. His name barely even registered with her.

Karin had other prey in her sights. She was interested in a lanky, sullen young man who was sitting at a small table with two companions. He was much more her type. He was tall and his dark hair was greasy. He needed a shave. But his eyes were a soulful deep brown, and he had a paperback on the table in front of him. His eyelid and nose were pierced, and the whiff of danger was like an aphrodisiac. He wasn’t the sort of man you would bring back home to your mother – so he was the sort of guy you’d bring home.

The guy ignored her.

She threw smiles his way, stared meaningfully at him, and spoke and laughed louder than usual. But he didn’t seem to notice. Finally she abandoned subtlety, walked over to his table, sat down and took his book.

“What are you reading?”

“A book.”

“Wise guy.”

She turned the book over and read the title. The Centre of the Cyclone by John Leary. She vaguely remembered it was a hippy bible, about psychedelic drugs and dolphins.

“Have you ever tried mushrooms?”

“I’ve got some on me. Have you the balls to try them, or are you all mouth and no trousers?”

There was a look of pure defiance in his deep eyes as he issued the challenge.

“I’ll try anything once. I’m Karin,” she smiled.

“People call me Snake. Let’s try them now.”

He stood up suddenly. Surprised, she followed him out. If she had thought for a moment she would have gone back to her friends. But it was the suddenness of the move that drew her in. Snake didn’t go out the front door of the pub. He went out the side entrance, and entered the car park. He walked to the back of the car park, and stopped to push open a big iron gate into a storage yard. Karin hesitated, but followed him. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. He gestured, and she walked into the store yard. He followed her and pushed the gate closed. It was very dark. As the gate creaked closed Karin suddenly realised she was in a place she did not want to be in. She turned, but he was standing against the gate, his weight blocking her escape. Her heart was racing.

“I’d like to go back in.”

“I’d like to go back in,” he mocked her. “There’s no going back, baby. You wanted me, now you’ve got me. I’ve see you looking at me all night. What are you going to do about it?”

“I’ve made a mistake.”

“You sure have.”

She tried to move past him, but he grabbed her roughly by the arm.

“Please. You’re hurting me.”

He grabbed her other arm and began pushing her back into the yard. She could feel her back pressing up against a row of barrels, and the rough feel of his face as he pressed into her. He was forcing her lips open with his, forcing his tongue into her mouth. One hand tore her t-shirt out of her jeans, and she could feel a cold hand on her skin. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t wiggle her mouth free. She struggled, but he was stronger than her, and she was pressed against the barrels. She got her hands on his chest and pushed, but it only seemed to excite him. He hit her once in the ribs with his free hand. There wasn’t any power in the punch, but the shock of it seemed to drain the resistance out of Karin.

“I’m going to enjoy this, bitch.”

“You think so?”

Karin felt her attacker freeze when the new voice broke in, strong and confident. She wriggled to the side, as he turned to face the intruder.

“Fuck off. It’s none of your business,” he shouted.

Karin stumbled to the corner of the small yard. Her eyes were adjusting to the limited light, and she could see a young man in a suit standing in the middle of the yard. He seemed a lot smaller than Snake, but he held himself with confidence.

“I like to make things my business. I guess I’m just an irritating guy.” There was a smile in his voice.

Snake bent and picked up a plank.

“Make this your business, punk,” he shouted, as he swung the plank at the new man’s head. Karin watched in horror, waiting for her knight to be crushed. But he did a surprising thing; he stepped towards Snake. He stepped into the swing, not away from it. The plank sailed harmlessly over his left shoulder. Then he crouched slightly, his shoulder dipped, and he swung a fast fist at Snake’s head. The punch connected. He followed it with two others in quick succession, then spun rapidly. His foot came up in a high kick, which caught the side of Snake’s head. It was all over in seconds. He went down like he’d been shot.

Then her knight’s arms were around her, and he was leading her out of the yard and into the light.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m all right. Really.”

And then she was crying. She cried for a full fifteen minutes before she was ready to go back into the pub. He stood by her the whole time, a comforting arm around her shoulder. Then he brought her in and bought her a double rum and coke, to steady her. She poured her heart out to him over the next hour and a half, and he did a thing that surprised her. He did something she had not seen a man do before. He listened.

That night they made love for the first time. It was one of the most intense experiences of her life. She had never allowed a man into her bed on a first date before – or even a third. But with Tim everything had felt right.

They had been together ever since.

As she stared at the job offer from Lapland, Tim was on her mind.

“We applied before I met Tim. But now I’m not so sure. This would be our first Christmas together. And we wouldn’t be together if I’m in Lapland.”

“So turn it down, sweetie,” said Gina.

“Then I’d be letting Christina down.”

She put the letter aside unopened. She’d think about it for a day or two before reaching a decision. She smiled at Gina.

“So tell me about your night. What happened after I came home?”

“Nothing. I was home within half an hour of you.”

“And what about the fellow that was hanging off you all night?”

“I ditched him. I don’t sleep with every fellow who throws the eye at me.”

“Do tell. This is a side of you I haven’t seen before.”

“Well get used to it.”

“You’ve got a man, haven’t you? You’ve finally found Mr Right.”

Gina said nothing, just smiled uncertainly.

“Do I know him? Oh no, he’s not married...”

“No, he’s not married. But it’s complicated.”

Gina didn’t elaborate. After a few minutes Karin said, a slight hesitation in her voice: “Well I’m glad for you both.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Dave Thompson dodged taxies and made the pavement. He knew he was being followed. He couldn’t see anyone, but there is a sixth sense you develop after years in the field, and that sense was on overload now.

He did the usual – lingered by shop windows, trying to catch a reflection, hurried around corners in the hope someone would hurry behind him – but the guy knew what he was doing. Dave had nothing to go on but instinct. Despite the lack of evidence he knew he was being followed. He scanned the long shadows cast by the setting sun, but nothing seemed out of place.

The evasive tactics were making his walk back to his office a longer journey than he had planned. His bulky body was sweating profusely, and he knew he would need to change his shirt as soon as he got in. Crossing the road again might throw someone off – but more likely it would just alert them to the fact that he knew he was being followed. Instead he turned into a large sportswear shop. The shop occupied the corner of Zayed the Second Street and Bani Yaas Street. He went in the Zayed the Second Street entrance and hurried across to the other entrance. He reached the street door and pushed it– then stepped back behind a rack of clothing, leaving the door wide open. A minute later a slim, dark man in dark glasses and the traditional white dish-dasha robe and turban hurried across the floor of the shop, and out the Bani Yaas Street door. He looked up and down the street, but could see no sign of the American. He looked back into the shop, but Dave was well hidden. The man looked up and down the street again, then hurried to the corner. Through the window Dave could see him looking down Zayed the Second Street. After a few minutes he gave up. He took out a mobile phone, made a call, then flagged down a passing taxi.

Dave waited a few minutes, then picked up an oversize t-shirt. He walked to the counter and paid for the t-shirt with a company credit card, then went to the changing room. He took off his sodden shirt, put on the new one, and walked out, leaving the sweat-soaked garment for someone else to deal with. At the entrance he looked up and down the street for a few minutes. Happy that he was no longer being followed, he stepped from the shop and headed for his office. He was twenty minutes late by the time he reached the door to the office block, but he was the head of the team, so he had that privilege.

The lower floors of the building contained the Royal Bank of Abu Dhabi, and the side of the building was a ten-floor mural of the Royal Prince himself. But the upper floors were all businesses, most of them western. He got into one of the lifts, and pressed 12, for Consolidated Oil.

The lift opened onto a wide, mirrored lobby, with a harridan glaring from behind an imposing desk that looked like it could double as a bomb shelter. In this case the look was not deceptive; the desk could indeed withstand a considerable blast, and the front and top were bullet-proof. That was the sort of business Consolidated Oil was in.

“Good evening,” he muttered to the night receptionist, as he pushed past her and keyed in his personal pass at the keyboard by the small door behind her. His six digit pass did not open the door; it activated a retinal scan, which opened the door when it confirmed that he was who he said he was. But the whole process was so quick that it would look like an ordinary keypad operated door to any onlooker.

Once in the inner sanctum of Consolidated Oil Dave relaxed. Sweat was seeping through his new t-shirt, but his breathing was under control. He made for the coffee machine. It tasted like filtered dishwater, but he was addicted. Sitting at his desk, he opened a drawer and took out a small sterling silver flask, and poured a generous measure into the coffee.

“I was followed,” he said simply.

Brad Samuels looked up from a panel of monitors, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“You spotted him?”

“Yeah. A skinny guy with dark glasses and a shit load of turban.”

“I can see. You didn’t try to lose him?”

“I did lose him.”

“He’s in the downstairs lobby right now.”

Dave stood.

“I thought I had lost him. Fuck!”

Brad turned back to his monitors, and flipped a few switches. Immediately six images of the approach to the building were on display. A few more tweaks and they could all see Thompson hurrying across the road and disappearing into the building. No one was following. They let the tape run on a minute, but nothing registered.

And yet they could all see the thin man on the seventh and eighth monitor, which covered the lobby. He was casually lighting a cigarette. Then he looked up at the hidden camera, and smiled. He turned and walked from the building.

“I don’t think he followed me into the building. When I lost him he must have come straight here. But can we get a blow-up of everyone on the street five minutes either side of me arriving?”

“Consider it done,” said Brad. “What’s it all about?”

“It’s a warning. He wanted to be spotted. I’m compromised.

Brad frowned.

“Langley were on.”

Dave’s heart sank. That was all he needed.

“They want you to ring them back.”

“I’ll get on to it later.”

“They want you to ring them back yesterday.”

“Shit.”

Dave went into a small office, and punched in the American number. It was the direct line for the Middle East desk at the CIA headquarters.

“Rogers, Global Trading. Can I help you?” The voice was breezy, with the nasal touch of New England snobbery. Dave took an instant dislike to Rogers of Global Trading. There had been changes on the Middle East desk in the past few months, and Dave did not feel a connection with the new people.

“Thompson, Consolidated Oil in Abu Dhabi. Is the man in?”

The man was Elliot Galloway, head of the section. At least he had not changed when the new administration came in. He was a shrewd politician who had never dirtied his hands in the field, but knew how to play the corridors of power. That is why he had survived.

“He’s briefing the security council. Won’t be back for several hours. He wanted to talk to you. Anything new?”

The way he barked it out, it was as if he was the one calling the shots. It wasn’t like an intel officer debriefing an agent in the field, it was more like a sarcastic teacher dressing down a troublesome pupil.

But Dave had to continue the briefing, Galloway or no Galloway. Anyway, perhaps it was better that leaving it hanging the rest of the evening. It was already nearly 8pm local time, but still early in the day in Langley, and Dave didn’t want to be up until past midnight waiting for Galloway’s call. He would continue to talk to this jackass.

“I’ve been identified. I don’t know if they know who I am, but they know I am here. I have a tail. It makes the situation complicated.”

“It compromises everything,” said Rogers, his voice dripping disapproval.

“We can play it right.”

“I said to Elliot that we should have sent over Kovacs. This job needed a reliable man, not some maverick relic of the cold war. But he seems to have some ridiculous loyalty to you. What were you doing, getting drunk in the go-go bars?”

Dave swallowed his anger. Rogers was typical of the career man. Probably had his Harvard law degree, his place in the Hamptons, and his blond WASP at home breeding kids.

“The go-go bars are in the far east – you’re at the wrong desk.”

“Don’t come smart with me. You’ve fucked up, and your fuck-up has compromised the entire situation.”

Dave was lost. This was an over-reaction to being tailed in the street. There was a moment silence on the phone.

“Or perhaps you haven’t heard about your friend Aziz?” the other gloated.

Frantically Dave looked at the files on his desk. Nothing. He kicked at the door, and Brad appeared. Holding his hand over the phone, he hissed: “Aziz?”

“I thought you know,” said Brad. In a few swift sentences he told Dave, who went pale.

The voice on the phone cut in.

“You’ve been recalled. We’re not going to let them have the satisfaction of killing one of our men.”

“They’ve already killed one of our men.”

“No they haven’t. I think you’ll find they have removed one of our assets, that is all. The desert is full of assets and potential assets.”

“That asset had a wife and a child.”

“Bully for him. You will get out of Abu Dhabi. Wrap up tonight, and Kovacs will be out by military flight late tomorrow, your time. He’s being briefed as we speak.”

“I need to hear that from Galloway, not from some jack-in-the-box he leaves on the desk.” Dave slammed down the phone so hard it bounced and fell off the desk.

He turned to Brad, a look of despair on his face.

“I’m sorry,” said Brad. “I really thought you knew. We’re all sorry. We know you…”

“I’ll mourn later,” said Dave gently, laying a hand on his colleague’s arm. “Now we’ve got work to do. Do you remember the emergency plan we discussed? We do it tomorrow morning. Make the calls.”

“It’s too late – you’ve been recalled.”

“I haven’t heard that from Galloway. Have you lined up a witness?”

“Two of them.”

Dave deliberately removed his mobile phone and placed it on his desk, switching it to silent. Langley would not be able to contact him this evening.

CHAPTER SIX

The day had flown by. After their break by the pool it was time to get down to work. Andy had already done a preliminary sound check. He did a second check while Kevin was still lingering at the pool, with another engineer who didn’t speak English. Then Kevin joined him paced the Emirates ballroom. Andy checked sightlines. Kevin fidgeted. He used to chain smoke in the hours leading up to a gig, but had quit after a bad dose of flu had turned into something nastier. Andy had a club sandwich. Kevin didn’t. It was funny how their roles reversed in the run-up to a show. Andy was laid back and efficient. Kevin was all nerves, a total contrast to his usual devil-may-care ease.

The gig came and went. Kevin went on first, after the presidential address. He did all the popular voices from back home, the country singers, the sniping politicians, the pompous media heads. Then he took the audience on a tour of the country, from the musical accents of Cork and Kerry to the flatness of Clare and the midlands, the lilt of the west, the more strident tones of the North, and ending with the trendy Southside Dublin that everyone loved to sneer at. His voices were spot-on, and his gags were sharp and topical. Not for the first time Andy wondered why he wasn’t a household name. Then it was Andy’s turn. Because of luggage restrictions he had brought a pared down act, but it was a good one.

The heavy drums and electric guitars of Emerson, Lake and Palmer kicked in, and the lights died. Then the lights came up again, and Andy was centre stage. He held his hand up in a dramatic gesture, and a ball of flame shot into the air. He reached into the ball of flame, and produced a long, slender walking cane. The music blended into a waltz, and Andy held the cane like a lover, dancing around the stage. Suddenly the cane left his hands, and floated around him in perfect harmony. At the end of the dance he took the cane between his hands and it seemed to dissolve into a red silk scarf which fluttered to the floor.

Then the music died, and Andy stepped up to the microphone. Now he was rocking. This was what he was born to do. For the next thirty minutes he moved from one hilarious routine to another. Members of the audience got watches stolen from their wrists, and thoughts plucked from their heads. The president of the Irish Society signed a 100 dirham note, and handed it to Andy, who promptly burnt it to cinders. An orange was selected from a bowl at one of the tables, and when it was cut open the signed bank note was inside it, sticky with juice.

As he approached the end of the orange routine, he began sneaking furtive glances at the clock he had left hidden at the side of the stage. The hand had just crept past eleven when the orange was split open.

A few minutes later he was into his final routine, a side-splitting version of Russian Roulette involving a knife, a blindfold, and three squeaky rubber ducks. He took his bow at twenty minutes past eleven and made for the door. It had gone down well, and people were eager to detain him. But he was careful not to make eye contact as he weaved through the crowd, grabbing Kevin on the way.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

It was John Collins, president of the Irish Society, and the man who had arranged their trip.

“That would be delightful, John, if you can clean the orange off that note. But we need a few minutes to freshen up. We’ll be back up in ten minutes,” he smiled, as he manoeuvred Kevin out the door.

“I wanted a pint. You know I love a pint after a gig.”

“It’s a hotel. I don’t think they’ll be closing the bar. Aren’t you hunger?”

“Famished – but the restaurant closed at eleven.”

“Not for us.”

Andy led the way out of the Emirates Function Room and down three floors in the lift to the Garden Restaurant. It was, as Kevin predicted, closed. The lights at the entrance had been dimmed, and the large room was empty. Staff were clearing up the tables. A chain was suspended across the door.

Andy lifted the chain and walked in. Kevin followed doubtfully.

“Mr Magic” a voice boomed. A thin, intense man in chef’s whites came bounding across the empty room.

“Your table is ready – I hope you are hungry.”

Kevin grinned.

“How the hell did you arrange that?”

“The difference between a professional and a plumber is not the talent – it’s the eye for detail. You checked the restaurant opening times earlier. I called in and did a show for the kitchen staff. I made a balloon ballerina for the chef’s daughter, because tomorrow is her birthday. And so they’re feeding us.”

“We will be an hour cleaning up, so it is no problem to have you here, if you don’t mind the noise,” explained the chef. “There’s piles of food left over from the service – don’t bother with a menu. We’ll bring you a feast.”

He was as good as his word. The Garden was renowned for its theme nights. This night was the fish night, with dishes representing a whole spectrum of the world’s cuisines. Over the next hour Andy and Kevin enjoyed a tasting menu that included sushi and sashimi, smoked oysters, clam chowder, bouillabaisse, and lobster thermidor. For desert they had deep fried coconut ice cream and a divine lemon and lime meringue. The chef joined them for the final course, sipping a Pina Colada through a straw.

“I thought devout Muslims weren’t supposed to drink.”

“The Koran is very specific. Alcohol must not touch the lips of a true believer. That is why I use the straw.”

It was nearly one when they rejoined the Irish night upstairs. The party was in full swing, with an impromptu sing song going on at the bar, in disharmonious competition with the band. The president of the Irish Society was nowhere to be seen, and Kevin had to buy his own pint. He punched Andy playfully on the arm.

“You always find a way to ruin a good night.”

In the morning Andy woke first. He showered and shaved, then pulled across the curtains of the picture window.

“What the hell...” Kevin said groggily, as he adjusted to the sudden blast of bright light. Andy ignored him, and looked out across the city. The Manhattan of the Middle East, he had heard it called. But it was prettier, and cleaner. In the distance, he could see the shimmer of the heat rising from beyond the rim of tall buildings, and he knew that was where the Arabian Gulf lay. The Iranian Souk, great for handcrafts, was down there. He would have to walk through and pick up a souvenir, if only to prove that this was no dream. He looked straight down on the wide strip of Prince Fiesal Street, with the long island in the middle dividing the two carriageways. Across from the hotel he could see the student bookshop, and the two storey grocery store where he had bought the dates stuffed with almonds the previous day. Then his eye was drawn to a movement on the window sill. He looked down to his left and smiled as he saw the small green parakeet grooming itself with its yellow bill.

“We’re not in Ireland anymore,” he muttered.

“Damn right. It’s too damn bright,” said Kevin as he lumbered to the toilet.

Breakfast in the Crown Plaza is one of the small pleasures that form an oasis in the desert of life, Andy thought. It was relaxed and cosmopolitan, and more importantly, it was served until 11am. The staff would stretch it a bit beyond that if you needed them to. Andy and Kevin didn’t need them to. They arrived at 10.30, and were guided to their table by the Moroccan waiter (very few natives of the United Arab Emirates trouble themselves with anything as sordid as work. They bring in foreigners for that). Once seated Andy looked around. It was an eclectic mix. In one corner, near the private bar (closed until evening) were four Arab business men, dressed in traditional white dish-dashas, immaculate tea towels on their heads. Andy knew they weren’t tea towels, but he didn’t have the right word, so tea towels it was. Close by was a table with a brightly dressed Indian man and his even more brightly dressed wife. Her sari was a shimmering turquoise, and her fingers and neck glinted with gold jewellery. Sprinkled around the room were couples and singles, businessmen having informal meetings and families getting ready for a day of sightseeing. It wasn’t too crowded, just enough there to make it interesting.

Breakfast was self-service, buffet style, and you could get just about everything, including three different types of porridge. Kevin went for traditional bacon, egg and sausage. Andy got an omelette, watching as the chef broke the two eggs and fried them in the small copper pan. He chose mushrooms, peppers, onions and cheese as the topping, and then returned to the table. As he neared the table he bumped into Dave Thompson. The American seemed distracted, but turned towards Andy and smiled.

“Why don’t you join us for breakfast?” suggested Andy.

Dave looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

“Why not? Make space, I’m not small,” he said, as he fetched a plate of food and dropped into the third seat.

“I see you’re going for the Ulster fry,” he added.

“How do you know about the Ulster fry?” asked Kevin.

“I did a tour there. Six months in Castlereagh. An interesting experience, and one I’m in no hurry to repeat.”

“I didn’t know that the Americans had people in the Six Counties.”

“Advisor,” said Dave, tapping his nose mysteriously. “See your fry there, wee boy...” he was speaking in a perfect Ulster accent. “Those eggs are fine, good protestant eggs. But that rasher, it’s a bloody Taig turkey rasher, and those sausages are beef, not pork.”

Kevin looked surprised.

“What do you expect?” said Dave, reverting to his Texan drawl. “We’re in a Muslim country. Pork is blasphemy. But what’s a breakfast without a rasher?”

“They taste fine.”

“Each to his own. Personally I eat native. This is ham daas.”

His plate was covered in a gooey lumpy mix, saffron in colour.

“It’s a mix of beans in a grain porridge. Try it.”

He spooned a piece onto Kevin’s plate, and another onto Andy’s. Andy tried a bit. Kevin just grimaced.

“Looks like camel’s vomit,” he said.

“Tastes like it too,” added Andy.

“You guys crack me up.”

He lapsed into silence, eating his ham daas. He seemed distant, distracted. He was not the jovial man of the previous afternoon.

“Everything all right with you?” asked Kevin. “You seem quiet.”

“Well excuse me. It’s early in the morning, and I’m full of no coffee. Sorry – that’s not fair. I’m down because I got some bad news last night. A friend of mine passed away a few days ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Was it sudden?”

“I guess you could say that. He died of a skin complaint. He left behind a six year old daughter.”

“No wife?”

“She predeceased him.” He sighed.

“But enough of my troubles. How did it go for you guys last night?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The morning was to be devoted to sightseeing. But with cleaning and getting ready, it was almost midday before they found themselves in the small white and yellow cab, nosing down the busy street. Their first stop would be the souk, the vast warren of small shops and stalls selling everything from cheap plastic trinkets to eighteen carat gold. Then they would head for the Crown Plaza Beach Club for lunch and a dip in the Arabian Gulf, before heading back in the cool of the evening for the Iranian Souk, and a stroll along the Cornich before dinner. Dave had decided to take them under his wing. Perhaps it was because of his time in Ulster.

“So what do you do?” asked Andy, as they stepped from the taxi.

“The company sends me places, and I do things for them,” replied Dave.

Andy nodded, though this was no answer. It wasn’t enough for Kevin.

“What sort of things?”

Dave paused for a moment.

“Do you remember Pablo Escobar? The Columbian drugs baron?”

They remembered. He was the most notorious of the South American drugs czars, building up a billion pound empire on a foundation of blood and intimidation. He had been elected to the Columbian parliament, but had eventually been assassinated by the Americans.

“I was the man who put the bugs in Pablo’s villa. It was a hell of a job, and I damn near got killed doing it. That’s the sort of thing I do for the company.”

“So your company would be...”

“Call us consultants. Hey, time for a kebab.”

“We’re just up from breakfast.”

“Ok, I’ll have a kebab, and I’ll get you guys a coffee. The coffee here is rocket fuel.”

He led them over to a small shop on the corner. They took seats at a rickety round table on the pavement, and he returned moments later with three tiny delicate cups filled with a vile black tar. He also had three coconuts and a steaming kebab. The coconuts had been drilled near the top, and had straws inserted. The combination of the coconut milk, cool and sweet, and the fiery espressos, was wonderful, even on a full stomach. The three men relaxed in companionable silence.

Suddenly the noise of the street was cut through by a wailing coming from a primitive speaker system. Sounding like the keening of an elderly banshee, the wail washed in waves over the busy bazaar. Men all around them stopped what they were doing. In the distance they could see people heading into the small Mosque near the end of the street. Then two small boys, hardly more than twelve, ran out onto the street with poles. Quickly the poles were erected, and a large white sheet drawn between them. The men fell on their knees, their bodies rising and falling as they answered the prayers coming over the tannoy. Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over. The poles came down, the sheet was stowed away, and the men returned to the bustle of the street. One of the men who got up seemed to be familiar. He was stocky and round-shouldered. Andy was sure he had seen him before. The man glanced at their table, then hurried away.

“A great time to be a shop-lifter,” grinned Kevin. “Imagine what you could take during those five minutes. You could clear out a gold shop.”

“And lose an arm to the religious police,” said Dave. He was dialling a number on his small cell phone. He put the phone to his ear, listened for a moment, then muttered: “Ready at this end.” The voice on the other end said something, then Dave replied: “Ok, let’s rumble.”

Snapping the phone shut, he nodded at Andy and Kevin. “I have to sign something in my office. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

He got up and strode rapidly through the souk towards the main road. Andy saw the stocky man reappear, and head in the same direction as Dave. The man still looked familiar, and it was only when he passed a shop selling bathing towels that the penny dropped. He had been staring at them by the poolside the previous day. Andy wondered at the coincidence, but dismissed it.

They finished their coffees, then Kevin got up and walked across to one of the clothes shops. Quickly he was embroiled in a heated argument with the vendor over the price of a pair of trousers he didn’t want and wasn’t about to buy. He loved it. Andy remained at the table, soaking the atmosphere. His eyes began to shut, as he relaxed in the warm sunshine. The previous night was catching up on him, and he began to drift off.

Suddenly he was snapped out of his reverie by the screech of breaks, followed by a sickening bang. Someone screamed, then an engine revved, and he heard a car speed off. He jumped to his feet, spinning in the direction of the sound, and caught sight of a bright red Mercedes weaving away from them through the traffic, and a large crowd of onlookers peering at the road not fifty yards from him. He moved towards the scene. Kevin joined him. They pushed their way through the throng. In the middle of the road, face down, was the figure of a man. He was stationary. An ominous pool of blood seeped from under his head. Although they could not see his face, both men recognised Dave Thompson immediately.

“I think he’s dead,” someone said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

During the rest of the day Andy felt as if he had fallen out of life and into a Kafka novel. Time seemed to struggle through turgid treacle. There were hours in the police station waiting for an interpreter. Then hours after the interpreter had left when the world seemed to have forgotten them. Then an American came and briefly interviewed them. Finally, towards nightfall, a slight young man walked into their interview room, and ushered them out of the police headquarters. A taxi was waiting, and they all squeezed into the back seat.

“Where are we going now? More questioning, I suppose.”

“I haven’t been authorised to say.”

“Are you American or local?”

“I haven’t been authorised to say.”

“Will we be allowed home on Friday? Our flights are booked.”

“I’m not authorised to say.”

“Are you even listening to what I’m asking you?”

“I’m just doing my job, sir. I’m sure your questions will be answered in due course.”

“Oh good. I’ve always wondered what Miss Piggy saw in Kermit. Do you think that question will be answered in due course,” Kevin asked.

“Sir, I have to warn you that humour can become a security issue.”

After that silence descended on the taxi.

Andy was surprised when they pulled up outside the Crown Plaza. He had half expected to be spirited into the American embassy through a dingy back door, or bundled onto a military flight. It had been a surreal day.

John Collins of the Irish Society was waiting for them.

“I’ll join you for dinner,” he announced. “My treat. You need to freshen up. I’ll meet you in Heroes in half an hour, and we’ll have a quick drink there.”

It was as if the events of the morning hadn’t happened.

But over dinner he loosened out and told them the little that he knew. Dave Thompson had been killed instantly in the hit and run. Police were looking for a red Mercedes, but without the registration number it was unlikely they would find it. Since Dave was a foreigner the investigation wouldn’t be protracted. The whole thing would be quietly dropped in a few days.

He didn’t know too much about Dave, except that he was an American, and he worked for Consolidated Oil. His job description was vague, and Dave had spent most Tuesdays in the Crown Plaza, using the leisure facilities, indulging in the food, and presumably meeting with people, pressing the flesh and making contacts among the foreign and local business community. Occasionally he stayed overnight. That aside, John Collins knew nothing.

Andy felt curiously dissatisfied. Something about the death was bothering him. Perhaps it was the coincidence of the man who had been hanging around the pool being on the street at the same time. Or perhaps it was just a natural reaction to seeing an acquaintance killed. That was probably all it was. He tried to concentrate on the food.

The following morning a very polite young man was waiting for them as they arrived down for their breakfast. Dressed in a dark conservative suit, with a thin red and green-stripped tie, he introduced himself as George Kovacs, and asked them to come to the embassy with him. The day went rather like the pervious one, with the one difference that the Americans knew more English than the Abu Dhabi police. There were tedious waits in interview rooms, long periods in which they seemed to be forgotten about, and rambling interrogations by desultory officials. Twice Kovacs himself interviewed them. He was competent, and carried a definite air of authority. But he seemed lost.

At one point he let it slip that he had known Dave, and Andy could understand why he felt at sea. Loosing someone you know, however tenuously, does have an impact.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” the American had said. “Are you absolutely sure you didn’t see the driver of the car?”

“We saw nothing,” Andy repeated. He felt like putting it on tape and letting it play back on a loop. He was getting fed up of answering the same questions time after time. He was also beginning to feel that however affable the Texan giant had been, his death was causing them a lot more hassle than they needed on their short break in the sun.

“I’ve told you before, we didn’t see the driver. We didn’t see anything suspicious in the few minutes before the crash. We didn’t see anyone push Dave in front of the car. The only odd thing we saw was that man I had seen before – I keep seeing him.”

“Ah yes,” Kovacs consulted his notes. “You saw him on the pool deck the day you met Mr Thompson.”

“Yes. And again on the street after the crash.”

“Probably a coincidence, but we’ll have a sketch artist do up a picture. You remember him clearly enough for that?”

“I doubt it.”

Kovacs seemed disappointed, but a few minutes later he left the interview room and sent in the sketch artist anyway.

Later, when he interviewed them again, he kept coming back to the sketch. But Andy could add nothing to what he had already said. Finally Kovacs seemed to accept that there was nothing more he could learn.

“You understand I have to ask these questions,” he said. “Consolidated Oil is important to US interests in the Gulf states.”

At four o’clock a taxi brought them back to the Crown Plaza, and they spent an hour by the roof pool, until the sun suddenly disappeared, like day being switched off, and the air grew chill. Neither was in good form. Although Dave had not been a friend, to have him knocked down so close to them had been traumatic, and the bustle of the last two days had not helped either come to terms with the event.

They killed time until dinner, then killed time in Heroes bar. Kevin got lucky with a Russian woman and disappeared for an hour, returning with a broad smile. Andy got drunk with a pilot who claimed to be in charge of one of the numerous private jets belonging to one of the numerous members of the Royal Family. Long after midnight the elevator disgorged them outside their room, and they stumbled into their beds.

The following morning Andy thought a troop of set-dancers were rehearsing inside the hollows of his head. Kevin had the whole cast of Riverdance. But they were feeling more upbeat. The death of Dave was already beginning to feel slightly unreal. If everyone was entitled to their fifteen minutes of fame, Andy thought you could just as easily say that everyone’s death is a one day wonder. Dave Thompson would be remembered by those close to him. Others would consign him to a cubby-hole in the dark recesses of their mind, remembering him occasionally for some funny story or quirky anecdote. Andy and Kevin did not know him well. They had only two more days left in Abu Dhabi, and it was time to start letting their hair down, as Andy put it.

“Of course you don’t have much hair to let down,” he added.

“You know what they say; bald in front, a thinker. Bald at the top, a stud,” replied Kevin.

“Yeah, and if you’re bald all over, you just think you’re a stud. I’ve heard it before. By the why, how much did that Russian lady cost you last night?”

“A fair quantity of vodka and an hour of my time. Believe me, it was alcohol well spent.”

On their way down to breakfast Kevin asked the traditionally clad woman who shared the lift with them whether it was baking hot inside her burka. Her husband had glared at them, and Andy decided they needed a change of scenery. There was only so much of Kevin that even the most polite Arab could take.

A Landrover took them out of the city that afternoon, and into the desert. It was a welcome break. Within a quarter mile of leaving the main Abu Dhabi to Dubai motorway the road had degenerated to a sand track, and within a mile, to rolling dunes. Very quickly they were out of sight of civilisation, as their driver took the Landrover up and over the steepest of the dunes, sliding down the far sides. It was an exhilarating roller-coaster of a ride, ending after thirty minutes in a tented village. Here they tried camel riding, then sand-boarding. This was like snow-boarding in slow motion, and was great fun until you had to trundle back up the hill afterwards in the baking heat.

After a traditional meal of barbecued lamb (the whole lamb, head and all), and a display of belly-dancing, they were returned to their hotel.

“I think I’ll catch the magic show tomorrow,” said Kevin as he turned in.

“What magic show?”

“John Collins was telling me that the Italian society have a lunch every Friday in The Garden. They have some local magician, an Indian I think, and he does a show for the kids while the mums shoot the breeze. And Italian ladies are hot mamas. I think I’ll catch the magic show.”

Andy snorted. As a full-time magician, the last thing he wanted to see was more magic.

CHAPTER NINE

The morning was occupied with packing. Kevin’s act consisted of a hand-written set of notes that he scanned before each performance, so his packing was confined to clothes and souvenirs. Andy had to pack his act carefully to get it all into hand luggage. They had to check out of the hotel by noon, but they left their luggage in a room off the lobby until they were taken to Sharja airport for the flight to Amsterdam, connecting to Dublin. They were to be picked up at 10pm.

“I’m off for lunch,” said Kevin. “Got to check out those Italian mamas.”

“I’m going down to the souk. I’ll see if I can pick up a bit of gold for Susan.”

Susan was Andy’s older sister, and like all older sisters, she could be a bit demanding. But she was well-meaning, and Andy was very fond of her. He left the hotel, and waved down a taxi. It was only when he was opening the door, simultaneously checking his wallet, that he realised he had come away with Kevin’s by mistake.

“Sorry,” he waved on the driver. “I’ll get another taxi in a while.”

He hurried back into the hotel, taking the escalator to the lobby. Kevin wasn’t there. He must have already gone up to The Garden for the magic show. Andy would have to follow him. He hoped that was where he was, that he hadn’t gone gallivanting off after one of the mothers. He walked towards the lifts, and pressed the button. With a gentle whoosh one of the four lifts came down and the door opened. It was one of the glass lifts, a breath-taking way of travelling through the layers of the hotel. As Andy was entering a tall figure was hurrying towards the lift. Seeing Andy inside, the man hesitated. The door was starting to close. Andy pressed a button and the door slid open again. He smiled at the tall man.

“You’ll make it.”

The man smiled tightly, then entered the lift.

As he did so Andy could not conceal his admiring glance. The man was dressed in immaculate tails and white tie. He was pushing a small trolley, and on it was a strange looking black box. Andy knew those boxes well.

“You must be the magician.”

“That is right. Time to entertain the little ones. Tenth floor.”

Andy pressed the button, and the lift silently rose through the empty hollow of the hotel courtyard.

“I had heard that you were Indian.”

“That was my colleague, Rovi. Unfortunately he took ill, and I must take his place.”

“And you’re not Indian.”

“Alas, no. I am a Gilli Gilli man, an Egyptian. But my mother was French. I am a mongrel.”

“A very well turned out mongrel.”

“Thank you.”

Seconds later the lift broke through the floor into The Garden. The door opened automatically, and Andy moved aside to let the magician out.

“Are you not coming?” he asked.

“I’m meeting a friend here. I have to pick up something from him.”

“And you will watch the show?”

Andy didn’t have the heart to say no.

“I’ll watch a bit. I’m a magician myself. I’m here for the local Irish Society.”

“They flew you out from Ireland? They must have money. What do you do?”

“A bit of everything. Kids shows when I have to. But these days I do a lot of stage work – mentalism and hypnotism. Adults are an easier audience than kids. They won’t kick you on the shins if they catch you out.”

“A clown I know wears shin guards,” said the Egyptian.

“What do you do yourself?”

“Close-up and kids. But I study everything.”

Close-up magic is what the purists do. It is magic with small household objects – cards and coins – and involves tremendous sleight of hand skills. It also hones the psychological skills, and the misdirection, that makes magic possible.

The man smiled at Andy.

“Look out for my opening. I like to start with a bang.”

He stepped from the lift and pushed his trolley across the floor, manoeuvring between tables, then heaved it up the three steps to the small Chinese restaurant at the side of The Garden, divided from it by low wicker screens. It was here that the Italian mums had their weekly luncheon, and their little dears had their entertainment. Andy followed the magician. He found Kevin at a small table to the side, not far from the front, and not far from the bar. He was sipping a beer.

“I’ve got your wallet.”

“I thought you had come back for the magic,” joked Kevin.

“Not a chance. Too much like a busman’s holiday. I’m out of here.”

He took the right wallet, and walked back towards the lift. As he reached the lift he was joined again by the magician.

“We meet once more,” smiled the Egyptian, though Andy noticed that a worried look briefly crossed his face.

“Did you get fed up of all those smiling kids?”

“No, I just left some of my equipment down in the car. I will be back up shortly to them. And you?”

“Going out to the souk. Last minute shopping. I’d love to catch the show, but today is our last day.”

“Maybe next time.”

The lift dropped them to the lobby, and both men took the escalator down to the street. At the door the Egyptian turned to Andy and smiled.

“Excuse me, please. I have a call to make.”

He took out his phone and snapped it open. Quickly he began to key in numbers. Andy turned away.

Across the road he caught a familiar face. It was the stocky man again, the one who had been following Dave Thompson. Andy got the impression that the tall Egyptian magician had spotted him, and had waved at him. Andy raised an arm, and started to cross the road, but the man jumped into a car, taking off at speed. Andy turned back, but the Gilli Gilli man was walking rapidly away, his phone still to his ear.

In the restaurant Kevin was feeling mellow. It was a particularly hot day, and the beer was going down nicely, doing exactly what it should be doing. The magician had set up his strange little table and had disappeared. He would probably be back in a few minutes. All the children were gathered around the table, some pushing up against it. Kevin could see their bright shiny faces, eager eyes upturned. Some were running about, others looking around to make sure that their parents could see them. It was a happy gathering.

Kevin’s gaze took in the room. The Italian mothers hadn’t let him down. There were some fine looking women enjoying the buffet. One in particular. Why had none of his friend’s mothers looked like that when he was growing up?

A small boy, about four, ran in his direction, his impish face framed by a blond fringe. “Mama,” cried the boy, as he ran towards one of the women.

Kevin could just hear a phone ringing. It seemed to be nearby, close to where the magician had set his gear. Then the sound was engulfed in an ear-shattering clap. It was the last sound Kevin was to hear. In a gush of searing orange, his world was extinguished. A fireball swept through the room, and riding in its wake came a shower of nails, each one like a high-velocity bullet. The last thing Kevin saw was a small innocent face speeding towards him, the fires of hell propelling it.

Down on the street Andy heard, or maybe felt, the explosion. As he looked up he could see the deadly hail as shards of glinting glass fell from the sky, each one catching the bright sunlight as it fell. He had time to throw himself on the ground behind a taxi. Others weren’t so lucky. When the shards settled and people began to come back onto the street, many had suffered minor cuts and scrapes. One woman was screaming. A large piece of flying glass had severed two of her fingers. A cyclist was on the ground trying to stem the blood from where his calf had been badly gashed. Across the street a woman was trembling, on her knees. A lump of debris had struck her baby’s pram, knocking it over and spilling the bawling child onto the footpath. By a miracle the child was uninjured.

Andy looked up the tall facade of the hotel. Around the middle the windows had all been blown out, and smoke was billowing forth, rising up into the clear blue sky. A jagged billboard for The Garden jutted out at a crazy angle. An alarm was clanging its urgent warning, too late, from inside the hotel. In the distance he could hear the sirens as the emergency services responded to the explosion. All this barely registered with Andy. All he could think of was that the restaurant floor had blown out. The restaurant floor was where he had left Kevin...

THREE WEEKS LATER

CHAPTER TEN

It was after seven when Karin got back to the flat. Gina was already home, eating her dinner according to the strict rules of her diet. She had a plate of steamed chicken and vegetables in front of her – and a bar of Bournville dark chocolate. She was desperately trying to push the chicken and chocolate into her mouth before she finished the cigarette.

“I don’t think that’s the way it’s meant to work.”

“Shut up. I’m losing weight. How did the audition go?”

Karin sat down heavily.

“They’ll let me know. There were twenty seven of us up for the one part. And some of them were gorgeous. I need to lose some weight.”

“Here’s your solution,” said Gina, passing over the pack of cigarettes.

“The solution is not chocolate bars and cigarettes. I need to start working out – join a gym, go out jogging.”

After a quick dinner Karin put on a DVD of a musical, Rent, and curled up on the sofa. Gina threw herself on a beanbag, a paperback and a glass of wine beside her.

“I shouldn’t be rooming with an actress,” she said. “That’s a horrible musical. Why can’t you watch something decent, like Mama Mia.”

“Old hat.”

“But the guys are gorgeous.”

“If you’re into middle-aged.”

“I’m into anything with a wallet. And that doesn’t include most of the young guys I run into.”

“And take to bed.”

“A girl’s got to have her fun.”

Half an hour into the film the phone rang.

“It’s for you.”

Karin took the call, cradling the phone to her ear.

“I thought you were at your karate class tonight.”

“Not karate – kickboxing. And we don’t call it a class. It’s a training session,” said Tim.

“Karate, kickboxing – it’s all the one. If it’s not on, are you coming over?”

“No – I’m on my way out the door. The training isn’t until eight thirty.”

“You’ll be late.”

“Talking to my best girl is a good excuse.”

“I love you, you sweet talking smoothie.”

“For heaven’s sake, get a room,” burst in Gina.

“We’re only talking – what’s the problem?” hissed Karin. But she got up from the sofa and went to her bedroom.

“Sorry about that – Gina is in a mood. I’m in the bedroom now.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Don’t be naughty – fighters need to keep themselves pure.”

“That’s only in the build-up to a fight. The rest of the time it’s good for you.”

“I’m wearing a smile and Channel No 5. And the pervy neighbour next door is looking in the window at me. He has a lovely smile.”

“Tease – now you’ve broken the mood,” he laughed. “What are you doing Saturday week?”

Karin paused for a moment, looking out the window. There was something.

“That’s the weekend I’m going to Bristol with Christina and the girls. Why?”

“I can get two tickets for La Boehme that night, through the office. A couple of us are thinking of going. Nick is coming, and he’s bringing Katie.”

“It sounds wonderful,” said Karin regretfully. “But I can’t let Christina down. It’s her birthday, and I’m already letting her down over Christmas.”

“What about Christmas?”

Karin realised Tim didn’t know. She had applied for the job in Lapland before she met Tim, and it hadn’t come up. She explained it now.

“I’ve decided to stay at home and spend Christmas with you. I’ll be telling Christina when we meet for lunch tomorrow. So you see, I can’t let her down over the birthday.”

“Fair enough,” he said reluctantly. “But you’ll have to have a great Christmas present for me to make it up to me.”

“Any suggestions?”

“A big smile, a whalebone corset, and services rendered.”

“You’re terrible,” she laughed.

“And you love it. I have to dash. See you tomorrow night. Love you, babe.”

“Right back at you.”

When she returned to the living room she was surprised to see that Gina had not paused the DVD for her. She was sitting tightly in her beanbag, and when Karin sat on the sofa, Gina glared at her.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

There were four men in the room, and it felt like a party. It was a party, a small and exclusive one. Everything was the best. There was no choice in the drink – just the top vintage Dom Perpignan. Cigars were being handed out, and they all puffed contentedly. They weren’t all smokers, but it was customary to indulge after a successful business deal – and these business men knew that their work today, the culmination of months of planning, had been a resounding success.

They were the senior executives, the planners, the Masters of the Universe who had made it all happen. On one side of the table sat two Europeans, a German and a Dutch man. The German wore an expensive suit, discrete gold cufflinks and matching tie pin, and a slim Cartier gold watch. The other was dressed more casually, in a black silk shirt and a tailored suede jacket. He had a gold chain around his neck, and a gaudy Rolex watch. He thought his look said sophistication, but it just screamed money. And indeed they were the money men, the men whose organisation had financed the operation.

Opposite them sat two middle-eastern men, the leaders of the team that had put the plan into effect. The shorter, plumper man was in a traditional white cotton dishdasha, sandals, and a red check head dress. Beside him sat a tall, slim man in a charcoal suit, dark grey shirt, and charcoal tie. His fingers were beautifully manicured.

There were no women at the party – but there would be later. Tonight was a night to indulge all the pleasures a decadent world had to offer. They would work their way through their sins in a leisurely fashion. They would begin with glutAndy, and end with lust. What came between was up in the air.

Outside the penthouse suite of the Abu Dhabi Hilton the sun had already set. The final call to prayer, ignored by all but one of the men in the room, had been an hour earlier.

“Gentlemen, I give you success,” said the tall, slim man.

The others raised their glasses.

“Success!”

Just then a knock came at the door.

“Come in.”

They had no worries. Their own men were posted outside, and no one was going to disturb them, no one who wasn’t meant to be there. They had every confidence in their security. On this day nothing could go wrong.

It was the waiter with their starters. The meal had been carefully planned. They would start European, in deference to the money men, then move on to middle-eastern. The starter was fois gras pate with truffles. There was something about the cruelty to the geese that added to the taste for the planners of this meal.

When the waiter came back to clear up after the starter the slim man took advantage of the distraction to whisper to the man in the traditional robes.

“Any complications?”

“None. It ran like clockwork.”

He smiled in relief.

“And tomorrow?”

“Everything is in order. We fly from Sharja airport on a private jet tomorrow afternoon. We will be back in Tripoli in time for dinner. I have a table booked at Casanegro for eight.”

“Excellent. It always surprises me how smoothly things go these days. We never seem to have any problems.”

“It’s called planning.”

Gilli smiled at Beni.

“You have me there. Since I started listening to your advice and acting less on impulse we have had no bad days.”

“You’re welcome.”

The waiter was coming back with the main course, so both men fell silent. The entree was a traditional Moroccan speciality. It was a whole goat, slowly spit-roasted until the meat was falling off the bone. The meat was served with cous cous, and a tomato, olive and feta salad. As it was being cleared away a big man in a dark suit, a suspicious bulge under his left shoulder, approached Gilli.

“Sir, the magician is here.”

Gilli grinned.

“Send him in.”

It was a tradition of his that he always invited a top close-up magician to his celebrations. He had earned the right to indulge his peccadilloes. Tonight’s act had been flown in from Paris especially for the occasion. Gilli had checked out DVDs of his work, and was very excited. He had been looking forward to it all week – almost as much as he had been looking forward to the attack on the Crown Plaza itself. In the morning the French magician would give him a private lesson for two hours, before he flew back to Paris. He would never realise who he had been performing for. That was the way of the close-up superstars. Their names were never known to the general public, but wherever the rich and the idle gathered to be rich and idle together, they were in demand.

“Gentlemen, you are in for a treat – and don’t worry. We have four belly dancers on the way. One each. And the performance doesn’t end when the music stops, if you know what I mean.”

“Success,” shouted the German.

“Success,” chorused the others, raising their glasses.

CHAPTER TWELVE

There was a satisfying thunk and the ball went sailing down the fairway, landing within chipping distance of the green. Straight as an ICBM Elliot Galloway thought as he bent to retrieve his tee. He straightened up and replaced the wood in the bag, then got onto the cart and watched as George Kovacs lined up to take his shot.

“Are you sure you’ve got the right club there, George?” he laughed.

Kovacs looked at the seven iron, then glanced knowingly towards the hole, a good 270 yards away. He had never played golf before, but he had found that a good rule in life was never to admit your weaknesses.

“Tiger told me that this is what he tends to go for on holes like this,” he replied.

“You’ve played with Tiger?”

“Not played with him – but I have been out on the course with him. Protection detail. The Pres and himself did a match last November in Atlanta.”

“They call it a round, George,” said the older man. He watched in amusement as Kovacs swung wildly at the ball, by some miracle connecting. The ball skidded wildly right, bounced off a rock, and landed squarely back on the fairway.

“Good shot.”

“Your sarcasm is wasted on me.”

As he lined up to take his second shot George Kovacs brought up the subject of the meeting. He had been a bit put out when Galloway had suggested meeting on the golf course, but wiser heads had pointed out that the fairways were rarely bugged.

“I think we are far enough away from the Club House. I wanted to talk to you about the Abu Dhabi business.”

“Concentrate on your shot.”

Kovacs, who had never let go of the seven iron, now squared up to the ball, eyed the green, and then shifted his left leg by six inches. This time his shot drove the ball straight down the fairway. It landed close to Galloway’s first shot.

“You’re getting better.”

“It’s basic physics. Change your foot position, change where the ball goes.”

“That another tip you picked up from Tiger?”

As Kovacs climbed into the cark, Galloway said: “Was it definitely the Gilli Gilli Man?”

“No doubt – it had all his trademarks. His group admitted responsibility, for what that’s worth.”

“I thought he was retired.”

“Semi-retired. He’s in Libya, near as we can tell. But we don’t know exactly where. Ghadaffi won’t let us in to go after him. He does the odd favour for the Colonel, and the Colonel keeps him safe from us. A win-win situation.”

“A lose-lose situation for the free world.”

Kovacs was a bit uncomfortable with the way his superior often chose to speak for the entire first world, but he said nothing.

“No way we can get him for this, I suppose? As I recall we had a team working on it.”

“Dave Thompson’s team. He was in the Emirates before me, got wind that Gilli was going to be doing something there. But he didn’t find out enough to stop the hotel attack. That mission was compromised. We lost some good men.”

“I heard – I’m sorry.”

Kovacs shrugged. He didn’t want to give away too much, but inside he was seething. He had wanted to take over the operation from the start. He was on the verge of getting his way, then the Abu Dhabi team had pulled a fast one on him. Mavericks. Things should be done in the correct way. Now he had inherited a mess, and the plan he was proposing to Galloway was Thompson’s plan. Kovacs played by the book, and the book made it clear that you do not change plans half way through a campaign, however moronic you think the original plan was.

“This time Gilli may have made a mistake. He left a witness.”

“Really?” said Galloway, as he chipped towards the green. His ball fell just shy, rolling backwards into a sand-trap.

“An Irishman,” Kovack continued, though he knew Galloway knew all this. He used his seven again, taking a wild slice at the ball. This time it flew wildly to the right, completely overshooting the green. Galloway started to grin, but then the ball struck a tree, bounced back towards the green, and rolled gently to a stop on shaved grass, barely a foot from the pin.

“This Irish man spoke to him just before the bombing, probably saw the detonation signal, if our intel reports are accurate. Now we have a good description. You can fake things like hair colour, even eye colour, but you can’t hide the basic shape of your face and your body, the way you carry yourself. I think he could ID him if we can track him down.”

“And can we track him down?” asked Galloway, as he took out a sand wedge and carefully chipped at his ball. He didn’t use enough force, and the ball hit the top of the sand trap, then rolled back down.

“Give it more welly,” said Kovacs.

“What?”

“It’s an Irish saying. One of my neighbours uses it all the time. I thought since we were talking about an Irish man…”

His voice trailed off as Galloway slashed at the ball. This time it cleared the sand trap – and the green. It landed on a patch of rough about thirty feet from the edge of the green.

“Well played, sir.”

“Your sarcasm is wasted on me.”

Another chip, from the other side, brought Galloway to the green, with a fifteen foot putt before him. As he removed his putter from the bag and walked towards his ball, he asked: “How do we use this Irish man? We can’t very well bring him on a tour of Libya and ask him to point out the bad guys.”

“No sir, that won’t work,” admitted Kovacs. “But some of the remnants of the Abu Dhabi operation want permission to try and set up something.”

There. It was said.

Galloway took his putt, missing by just inches.

“What do they have in mind, George?” he sighed.

“Simple – there is no point in us going after Gilli. We won’t catch him. So let’s have him come to us. We put the word out in the right circles that the Irish man knows more than he does, and is prepared to tell us everything. We put a protection detail on him to reinforce the message. Then we just watch and wait.”

“A trap?”

“A trap,” agreed Kovacs, as he used the seven one more time to putt the ball into the hole. “Gilli will move to eliminate the threat, and we will be there waiting for him. The beauty of it all is that the Irishman won’t even know he is being used as the bait.”

“What if Gilli uses an intermediary against the Irish man?”

“Not likely – he likes to handle things himself. But if he does call in help we’ll just have to ensure that we have the target covered and that the attempt is a failure. Then Gilli will take over himself. This is an ego thing – Gilli will want to sort out his own problems. His whole reputation is built around the fact that he does his own wet work.”

“Will it succeed?”

“If luck is on our side. But then I only use lucky agents.”

And the remnants of the Abu Dhabi team.

“Indeed,” said Galloway, recording a six next to his own name on the scorecard, and a four next to Kovacs’s. “Luck does seem to be with you. Another hole?”

“I don’t think so. I think I’ll amble back to the clubhouse and play the nineteenth for lunch, then back to Langley. Do we have a green light?”

“How well thought out is this plan?”

“Only at the early stages yet,” said Kovacs, though the entire operation was already planned to the limits. Kovacs did not like to share information any more than was strictly necessary – even with superiors.

Galloway nodded. “It’s a long shot, but I suppose I have to let you play it.”

Almost as an afterthought he called after the retreating figure of George Kovacs: “George, what happens to the Irishman?”

“The bait?” Kovacs smiled, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You know the rules. The bait is expendable.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jarno walked the 500 meters between the main hotel building and the restaurant, at the top of the hill. He usually drove, though it was such a short distance – in winter, when temperatures could drop below minus thirty and the snow was thick underfoot, that walk was severe. But today was mild. The temperature was above zero, and the snow that had fallen two days ago had melted off the trees. All around him he could see a panorama of low rolling fells, green with pine and fir. Beneath him was gravel. It was not good.

He opened the door of the log cabin restaurant and stepped into the porch, taking off his coat and gloves. Catching a faint reflection of himself in one of the windows, he straightened his tie, brushed his elaborate moustache, and marched purposefully into the main restaurant building. At least he didn’t have to bother with his hair anymore – he had shaved it all off when the first sign of baldness had appeared, and he had the strong, round head that looked good bare.

He nodded at Merja, laying out the tables for lunch, then passed through the small counter area into the kitchen beyond.

“What’s the staff lunch?” he called to the chef. The chef jerked his head in the direction of one of the hot counters. Jarno looked, saw the lasagne, and sighed.

“Throw on a steak for me, and some fries. Thanks.”

He walked into his small office and closed the door. From his computer an image of his wife and young son flickered at him. When he moved the mouse the screensaver image dissolved, and he clicked on a file, opening it. The sound of Sibalious’s Finlandia, played by a chorus of farts and frog croaks, swelled through the room. That was one of the joys of being the boss – he could have high-tech gadgets like this computer, which he really didn’t need.

He sat back in his swivel chair, arms behind his head, and closed his eyes. Time-out. Why hadn’t he stayed in Helsinki?

Managing the hotel and ski complex in Luosto, an hour north of the Arctic Circle in Finnish Lapland, was proving to be a headache. Responsibilities were getting on top of him, and there was only one person to blame; Barak Obama. He was a lot more popular than his predecessor George Bush, but he was the President of America, so he was obviously to blame. For the third year running the snow had come late, because of global warming. But assigning blame did not help; he had to find snow, and find it in a hurry. The German cross-country skiing team were due in two days time for a week of pre-season training, and the forecast was not good. The light sprinkling of snow that had fallen during the week had melted when the temperature had climbed.

Luckily he had a fall-back plan, poor though it was. It would get him out of the hot water with the Germans, just. He let his mind drift with the music.

Jarno was expecting a call from England as well. That is why he had bolted to his small hideaway office, away from the main office at the hotel building. He had no phone in this office. If the call came, he couldn’t take it. The last thing he wanted was an English tour operator asking were they ready for the Christmas Santa tours. He’d deal with it tomorrow. Today was all about the no-show snow.

Jarno straightened up and reached for a list of phone numbers. Clutching the sheet, he walked back into the kitchen and picked up the kitchen phone, punching in a number.

“Paavi – it’s Jarno here. We have a problem with the snow.”

The maintenance man at the other end grunted.

“Get the snowplough and use the stuff in the resevoir.”

“Shit!”

“I know,” said Jarno, sympathetically. “But what can we do? The Germans will be here on Friday.”

He hung up the phone. That was the snow looked after. At the end of the previous season, in late April, the hotel had had several hundred tonnes of snow ploughed into a huge mound in a dip under the northern edge of the fell. Shaded, most of the snow had survived the brief summer and was still there. Now that snow was going to be taken and placed strategically on the cross-country trails, all 17 kilometres of them. The maintenance man was going to have to bring in his two brothers, and put in a lot of overtime. It would cost the hotel. But on Friday there would be a thin ribbon of snow for the German team to train on. If they had gone to any other resort they wouldn’t even have had that.

Snow looked after, he strolled over to where the chef was plating his steak. He sat in the staff seating area behind the kitchen, between two waitresses having the lasagne, and reflected on the perks of management. He plunged his knife into the steak and watched as the blood oozed out. Typical of the chef. He knew Jarno liked it well done. It was proving to be a hell of a day. He should have stayed home and pulled the bedclothes over his head.

The phone rang.

“I’m not here,” he said.

The chef picked up the ringing handset, listened for a moment, then said: “He says he’s not here.”

Scowling, Jarno took the phone off the grinning man.

“Ladies underwear, how can I help you?” he barked.

“Jarno? This is Alan.”

Alan Taylor was the owner of Santa Tours, and in six weeks time he would be responsible for filling every bed in Jarno’s hotel. Much as he wanted to, there was no way of avoiding this call.

“Did our trucks arrive?”

Every year Santa Tours filled three trucks with spare presents, costumes, and equipment that they would need for their month in Lapland.

“Two have arrived. The third is due this evening.”

“Great.”

“You have a place in Scotland, Alan.”

“Yes. Near Ben Nevis. Why?”

“We need some supplies from Ben Nevis.”

“I don’t know. The trucks have already gone. You’ve told me two have arrived. What do you need?”

“A fourth truck – full of snow!”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was one of the poorer streets of Tripoli, the Via Garibaldi, that are so typical of any Mediterranean city once you leave the exclusive areas. The light sea breeze kicked up the dust that seemed to be everywhere. The tiles of the narrow pavement were cracked, and the pavement itself uneven. The buildings were all about five stories high, a mix of apartments, small anonymous offices, and corner shops. Bars or grills protected all the ground floor windows. A cat licked itself in the shade of one door, and in another an elderly man on a rickety kitchen chair puffed contentedly on a hookah. Half way down the street a withered balloon fluttered from one half-open door. Gilli spotted it immediately, and strode towards it.

His chauffeur had dropped him on the Via Roma, the big street that the Via Garibaldi runs off. Now he was on his own – except for the big man who followed dutifully behind him carrying his black box, and the other big man who meekly wheeled along the bicycle – a small mountain bike with fifteen gears.

Gilli was safe on these streets. They were his streets. He was a hero to the poor and the downtrodden. No one would touch him. No one would dare. Besides, two carloads of men – his men – had secured the street at dawn. He could see the car at the far end, driver and armed enforcer alert. He had passed the other car as he entered the street. He knew four other men were dispersed at strategic locations, so he could take his little constitutional. The last few weeks, since the Abu Dhabi job, had been hectic. It was often the way after a high profile operation. There was so much tidying up to be done afterwards, so many precautions to be taken to ensure that the Gilli Gilli Man never ended up in a western jail. This time there had been complications. They still had to be dealt with. But he was entitled to a day off, some time to unwind and indulge his passion.

When he reached the door with the balloon the sounds of children’s laughter wafted out to him. He pushed on inside, and was instantly greeted by happy smiling faces. One young boy pushed to the front, then threw his arms around the stooping Gilli.

“Uncle Gilli!” Then the boy relinquished his grip turned to his companions, screaming: “The magician is here!” Immediately a gaggle of screaming kids took up the chant.

Gilli laughed as he straightened himself.

“How’s my little Abdullah? I have your present out on the street. You can ride it later. But first – the magic.”

The boys proud father, Abdullah Senior, beamed. He was a minor trader in leather goods – had a small shop with his brother down near the harbour. The stuff was rubbish but the location was good, and the brothers did well, at least by street urchin standards. What most of their snobby customers never realised was that Abdullah was a trusted soldier in Gilli’s army, a vital cog in an illicit wheel.

Now he bristled around Gilli with a mix of pride, obsequiousness and apprehension. In the meaner streets of Tripoli this was on a par with a royal visit in other parts of the world. He would be the talk of the street by this evening, when word got out that the great Gilli Gilli Man had condescended to attend his son’s seventh birthday party.

“Come in, come in. Miriam, stand up and let Mr Gilli sit down.”

Abdullah’s heavily pregnant wife started to rise, but Gilli waved her back.

“Don’t worry – I will stand. If the kids see me sitting down they will think there is no magic show.”

Abdullah pressed a glass into his hand.

“We have wine, Mr Gilli,” he said proudly, taking out a cheap screw top bottle of red. “We got it specially for you. Have a glass.”

Gilli took the vile liquid with a smile. A devout Muslim, Abdullah would have wrestled with his conscience before buying it, so why insult the man? He sipped and smiled.

Luckily the kids’ patience wore thin at that point, and their appointed spokesman, Abdullah Junior, rushed forward.

“When are you starting, Uncle Gilli?” he blurted.

All the adults laughed.

Gilli went onto autopilot, effortlessly moving into a series of routines that had been honed over the years. His bodyguard had opened his black box out into a small table, and Gilli stood beside this, pulling little balls and sponge bananas out of the most unlikely places. Hankies disappeared, dolls came to life, and the circle of kids watched in rapturous silence, punctuated by wild howls of laughter and shouts of “Pick me for the next trick.”

After nearly an hour he was ready for the climax of his show.

“Who is the bravest person here?”

A sea of hands rose as the eager children vied for the attention of the performer. Andy paused a moment, then picked a small girl from near the back. He beckoned, and she shyly approached.

“So you’re the bravest person here. What’s your name?”

“Noor,” simpered the girl.

“That was my name when I was a little girl. How old are you?”

“Six and a quarter.”

“That’s funny. I was seven and a half when I was your age. Do you pick your nose?”

The girl giggled and shook her head.

“That’s good. Do you pick other people’s noses?”

“No, silly!” All the children laughed. The birthday boy shook with mirth. He exploded again when Gilli brought out a rectangular object with a red cover. As Gilli removed the cover the children saw a vicious looking guillotine, with a gleaming steel blade.

Noor blanched.

“I’m not putting my hand in that,” she screamed, instinctively putting both hands behind her back.

“I’ll tell you what; put your left hand in. That way it won’t matter,” said Gilli, taking her hand and putting it gently in the hole at the centre of the chopper. He got the red cover and wrapped it around her wrist.

“Just in case there’s any blood,” he muttered, to the delight of the birthday boy.

A little bit more by-play, and suddenly Gilli’s hand came down smartly on the handle of the chopper, sending the blade down through the girl’s wrist. She screamed, then grinned excitedly as she saw that her hand was still in one piece. Her grin broadened when Gilli blew up a long narrow modelling balloon and twisted it into a poodle for her.

Then he was surrounded, and the next ten minutes were a blur as he made a variety of shapes for all the kids.

In the background Abdullah hovered, pouring coffees, passing around cheap cigars and plates of cheese and tomatoes. This was the proudest day of his life, and his brother had been taking the pictures to prove it.

So many friends and neighbours called in during the day. It was an open house. Cousins called. Brothers called. The local businessmen called. They wanted to be in the presence of Gilli. Now Abdullah was a big man in the neighbourhood. Fortune was smiling on him.

Around dusk a fat man with shifty eyes slipped quietly into the house. This was the danger of being Gilli’s man. You had to mix with people you would prefer not to let into your house. But information came from all sources.

“My friend, have a cigar,” said Abdullah.

The man took the cigar, but didn’t light it. He slipped it into his shirt pocket, then took a second cigar, and put it beside the first.

“Good party.”

“Thanks you. It is my son’s birthday.”

“Can we talk?”

“We are talking.”

“Outside.”

Abdullah followed the fat man onto the terrace. His wife and some of the women were sitting out, smoking, but at a nod from him they silently rose and went back inside. He turned to his guest?

“Well?”

The fat man spoke softly, barely above a whisper, and as he spoke the colour drained from Abdullah’s face. When he had finished relating his tale, he said: “You’ll tell Gilli?”

“Of course.”

“Tonight?”

Abdullah hesitated.

“Let him have tonight. I will tell him in the morning.”

But almost a week would pass before Abdullah could summon the courage to visit his boss.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The yellow tie was wrong with the black shirt. It looked great in theory, but in the mirror Andy looked like a minor enforcer from some Columbian drugs cartel. Without the tie he lacked gravitas. Once more he opened the drawer and rifled through the contents. There was a black tie with a large clock on the bottom of it, bought as a joke passing through some airport at some unremembered time in his past. The black tie worked – black on black conveyed class. But the clock spoilt the image. That one was rejected as well.

It was too soon for frivolity.

Andy impatiently began tossing neckties of every description onto the bed. The problem with working as a magician and comedian was that your dress tended to reflect your trade. There were garish bowties, one of which light up and another which twirled like a crippled helicopter. There were ties with cartoon images and card fans, and one tie that mysteriously jumped up every time you squeezed a bulb secreted in your belt. There was a range of bolo ties, some of which he liked. But nothing to wear with a black shirt at a semi-formal dinner.

Why was he going out? His sister shouldn’t have bullied him into it. She should have left him wallow in his misery.

Wearily he took off the black shirt and put on a light tan one. It went with the chinos. Then he sorted through the ties again, finding one that would do. It was a narrow tie of dark green, flecked with gold. He stood back and caught his reflection. He looked young and preppy, like a junior in an insurance company or middle management in an IT firm. But it was better than looking like a drugs enforcer if you were meeting a strange woman for the first time. It would have to do. He would love to have put on one of the cravats, but his sister would have killed him.

His shoes were a bit scuffed, and he got out the polish. He didn’t know anything about his date except her name was Imelda, and she was a marine scientist of some sort. She had been in college with Andy’s sister Susan, which put her a year or so older than Andy. Susan was always doing this to him – setting him up with her friends. Susan was happily married to an accountant (but a nice guy, despite that) and they had two gorgeous children. Andy loved being an uncle, but he didn’t enjoy the pressure of trying to find an aunt for the kids.

Still the dates hadn’t all been a disaster, even if none had led to a relationship of any length. He had made some friends – and earned some funny anecdotes. Tonight would be different. Tonight was a double-date. Susan and Russell were coming along. They would have an early-bird dinner in The Blue Room, then catch The Odd Couple at the Belltable Theatre. He enjoyed a comedy. And it wasn’t so much a double-date, as making up numbers. Kate was single, and was home for three weeks from her job as a researcher at a pollution monitoring station on the Red Sea, so she should be interesting. This was just a dinner with some old friends.

So why was he so nervous? Andy had what many performers suffer from – an inability to handle small audiences. Put him in the Albert Hall and he was the life of the party. Put him in a small intimate setting, like a job interview or a date, and he folded. He found himself saying nothing, or talking rubbish to fill the silences. And like many people he had the simplest coping mechanism – he just avoided those situations. Crippling shyness drives a lot of people to the stage.

The trilling of the phone snapped him back to attention. Where had he left it? He found it on the dresser under the black t-shirt he had taken off a few minutes ago.

“Hello?”

“Hi Andy. I hope you haven’t got into the suit yet. The night’s off… Andy, are you still there?”

“I’m devastated. I thought this was the real thing.”

“At least you could try to keep the tone of glee out of your voice. Taking a beautiful woman to dinner wouldn’t have been a penance.”

“You hadn’t told me she was beautiful. What happened?”

“Imelda missed her connecting flight through London. So she decided to do a little shopping. She won’t be home until Thursday.”

“She sound’s high maintenance. I probably had a lucky escape.”

“I wasn’t trying to match you.”

“Of course not. But joking aside, I could have done with the diversion,” said Andy.

“Still down?”

“It doesn’t get any easier. I keep thinking of Kevin’s two kids, and Jenny having to bring them up on her own. And the other thing that keeps going through my mind is that I could have been there with him. It was only chance I was going out shopping when it happened. If I hadn’t wanted to pick up a souvenir for you, I would have been blown to smithereens.”

“You didn’t bring me a souvenir.”

“It’s the thought that counts. I thought of a gorgeous gold locket. I picked it out during our tour of the souk the night before it happened. I was just going out to buy it when the explosion went off.”

“And now you feel guilty.”

“I know I shouldn’t, but how can I not? If Kevin had been out buying you that locket…”

“Then his kids would have been fatherless anyway, as soon as Jenny found out. Sorry, bad joke. But it wasn’t your fault.”

“I can still see that bastard of a magician.”

“The Gilli Gilli Man? Was he really evil?”

“That’s the disturbing thing,” said Andy. “He was so fucking normal. He could have been anyone. You expect the bogey man to look like a bogey man.”

“You need to get out more, take your mind off it,” said Susan.

“I was hoping to, but my big sister screwed up the arrangements.”

“Sorry. Anyway, why do I have to arrange all your dates? A handsome man like yourself should be able to find your own dates. That’s not my job.”

Andy groaned.

“I can look after my own love life, thank you.”

“Seriously, Andy, it must be months since you last went out, and decades since you had a real girlfriend. When did you get laid last?”

“Susan!”

“Oh for God’s sake, don’t be coy. We girls are just like you boys. We need to get a bit of action now and again. Again and again if we find the right guy. If a woman goes out with you a second time, she’s on the hunt, just like you’re on the hunt. But you have to be able to read the signals. That’s your problem Andy. You don’t read the signals. You don’t close the deal. So you don’t get laid, and she goes home frustrated.”

“I have to go now, Susan,” said Andy, clicking off the phone.

He reached for the bottle of Talisker by the bedside and poured himself a generous measure, taking off his tie and tossing it into a corner at the same time. Susan’s frankness could often leave him feeling uncomfortable. Worse, she could come dangerously close to the truth. He knew well he couldn’t read the signals, and he couldn’t close the deal. So here he was, alone in an empty house, a bottle for company, trying to forget the best friend he had ever had, and trying to get on with his life, carrying the bear on his back of survivors guilt.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Abdullah was having difficulty controlling the knocking of his knees as he followed Benni up the marble stairs to the second floor reception room. More worryingly he was having difficulty controlling his bowels. Since he had heard the rumour at his son’s birthday party four days ago he had been torn between the knowledge that he must report the rumour or face death, and the knowledge that if he reported the rumour he might face death.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, his bowels had gone soft.

But he kept telling himself that he was in the privileged circle – he was one of the lieutenants of the famous Gilli Gilli Man. Hadn’t the man been to his house and broken bread with his family? So it would be all right.

Abdullah took in the luxury of the room, the rows of leather-bound books on the mahogany shelves, the polished oak floor, the roaring fire. In the leather armchair by the fire sat Gilli, a deck of cards on the armrest. He looked up as Abdullah entered.

“My friend – sit down. How is your lovely Miriam? And little Abdullah?”

Wringing his hands, Abdullah only nodded, grinning maniacally. He remembered Gilli at his son’s seventh birthday party, doing the magic and clowning. The child had loved him. The father had been proud (but constipated) for the entire day. And afterwards – afterwards he had been a hero on the street.

“Relax, my friend. Wine? But of course not. You are a believer. Coffee then.” He clicked an imperious finger, and within moments a small pot had arrived, and three cups. It was thick and bitter, and carried a kick.

“I must show you this – pick a card.”

The frightened man reached out obediently and picked a card from the fan in Gilli’s hand. Gilli handed him the rest of the cards and instructed him to shuffle his card back into the deck.

Taking back the deck, he wrapped an elastic band around it.

“Can you remember the card you chose?”

“Yes, master. It was…”

“No – don’t tell me.”

With a violent start Gilli flung the deck up. It slammed off the ceiling, then fell to the floor. Gilli pointed triumphantly to the ceiling.

“Was that your card?”

Stuck to the ceiling was the eight of spades.

Abdullah laughed, and began to relax for the first time. Gilli had always been a reasonable and a generous man.

“Remarkable – that was my card.”

“Now – Benni said you have news for me,” smiled Gilli, as he sipped from his crystal goblet. “Good news, I hope.”

“Alas, no. What I am hearing on the street is that …” How was he going to put this without saying the unspeakable, that Gilli had been involved in the Abu Dhabi attack? There was a convention observed among those who worked with Gilli that they never directly referred to operations they were not involved in. If they weren’t involved, they shouldn’t know.

“I have heard from someone in the Peninsula that the Yankee devils have a witness to the unfortunate incident there, and that witness is prepared to make vile allegations against you, master.”

He smiled. There, it was said without being said.

Gilli looked at Benni.

“What is this man saying to me?”

Abdullah blanched when he saw the hardness creep over Gilli’s face.

Benni shrugged.

“It is as bad as it can be. I have heard it also myself, just this afternoon. I was going to discuss it with you later. The Americans have got more from your magician friend than any of us could have imagined. He claims to be able to identify you. Word is he will testify against you if they can get you into custody. Because of this, they are preparing to put sanctions on Libya, force them to give you up. I hear they are putting him is in a witness protection programme, and are determined to keep him safe until they have... resolved this matter one way or another.”

Gilli turned slowly and looked at Abdullah.

“For this you come into my home? I, who have been like a father to your child? I who have given you my shelter and my protection? You drive a stake into my heart.”

Abdullah visibly shrank as Gilli suddenly rose from his seat. He almost ran across the room to a large ornamental desk close to the picture window overlooking the long drop down to the sea. He tugged at one of the drawers, then turned to the cowering Abdullah, a small silver automatic in his hand.

Benni rose immediately.

“Put away the gun, Gilli,” he ordered, his voice strong and commanding. “You do not shoot the messenger.”

Furious, Gilli turned the gun on Benni. His face was ashen, his eyes wide and hate-filled.

“How dare you tell me what to do in my home?”

His finger began tightening on the trigger, and such was his passion that the gun trembled slightly in his grip. He glared at Benni, not moving. No one spoke. The silence stretched.

Suddenly Gilli spun and pumped two rounds in rapid succession into a large Chinese vase on a side table. The vase exploded in shards of ceramic. Abdullah dropped to the floor, covering his head. Benni didn’t move a muscle.

After a moment Gilli sighed. “I am sorry – you’re right. Don’t shoot the messenger. Abdullah, stand up.”

The terrified man got to his feet, then tentatively came forward at Gilli’s beckoning.

“My friend,” said Gilli, engulfing him in a bear hug.

The man began to believe that he might walk out of here alive. But suddenly Gilli’s grip tightened, and he spun on his heel, bringing Abdullah with him. Over Gilli’s shoulder he could see the surprised look on Benni’s face, then he found himself being propelled backwards. He tried to stop himself but didn’t have the space. He felt the wind being knocked from his body as he was slammed into the plate-glass window, and the loud crack as the glass shattered. Then he was falling.

His shriek was abruptly cut short as he hit the ground a floor below.

Gilli looked at Benni.

“Don’t ever dare to tell me what to do again – understand?”

Benni just nodded. He knew that Gilli had crossed a line he would never be able to cross, and just as certainly he knew that he wanted to retire. This was no longer business, and Benni was at heart a businessman.

“You will see if that son of a dog is still alive. If he is, get him to a hospital. If he is not, see that his widow gets the usual settlement. Then you find me this magician.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Gilly glared from the leather armchair by the fireplace. Despite the searing desert temperature outside, he insisted on a log fire. Through the shattered window the Libyan landscape stretched stark and dusty, a heat shimmer obscuring the detail. Inside you could have been on the set of Brideshead Revisited. The leather chairs, ornate oak bookshelves, elaborate furniture, and the blazing fire were pure affectation. But today the fire was more than affectation; he wanted to roast someone on it. He glared from one man to the next, to the next.

Two hours had passed since Abdullah had exited the house through the window rather than the more conventional route, and they had been a busy two hours. An ambulance had retrieved the unfortunate man, who had been very lucky to strick an ornamental bush before bouncing to the ground. He had a badly fractured ankle, a broken leg, and a suspected fractured skull, but he would live, and he would work for Gilli again, and never mention the unfortunate incident.

Glaziers were on the way, but in the meantime Gilli had gathered some of his close associates.

“What the fuck went wrong?”

Hassien and Aziz looked uncomfortably at one another. Beni smiled apologetically.

“You insisted on carrying the bomb yourself.”

“If you want a job done right…”

“Do it yourself,” Beni finished. “Nevertheless, if you had not been there, he would not have seen you.”

Gilli went white. It was like a slap on the face. If Hassien or Aziz had dared to say that… But Beni had been with him from the beginning, and Beni was right. He could not argue with the unshakable logic. Sulkily Gilli took up a deck of cards and began executing riffle shuffles. His hands shook slightly, and he struggled to bring them under control. The strong man controls his will, and thereby controls his environment. The weak man allows his environment to control him.

“So what do we do?”

“Nothing,” Beni smiled.

“Nothing?”

“Many people saw you. Hotel porters, guests on other floors, people in the street. But I don’t think they got a good description. People under pressure don’t remember details. You didn’t stand out.”

“I spoke to him.”

“You speak to many people. If you didn’t nod and say hello to people, you would stand out. The secret of being inconspicuous is to be normal.”

“I know all that – but I spoke to him twice.”

They lapsed into silence. Gilli thought of the foreign man in the lift. He cursed his luck. It was all right to meet him on the way up, but why hadn’t he stayed on the tenth floor and died with everyone else? Why had he gone down again?

Gilli impatiently picked up one of the playing cards and with a deft flick of his wrist and fingers sent it spinning across the room. The card caught the side of Hassien’s face, and as it bounced to the floor a gush of blood seeped down his cheek. Hassien raised a hand, rubbed his cheek, and saw with surprise the red smear on his finger. He stared for a moment, then impassively put his hand back in his pocket, and looked ahead, into the roaring fire. Don’t flinch. Don’t draw him on you, not when he’s in this mood, he thought.

Gilli took a second card, and raised his hand over his head, curling back his fingers. He looked at Aziz.

“Don’t.”

It was Beni, his voice low but commanding. He looked right at Gilli.

“It’s not their fault. It’s nobody’s fault. If we have a problem, we deal with it.”

“And how do you propose we deal with it?”

“Do we know anything about this foreigner?” Beni asked.

Hassien caughed slightly.

“We know he was working in the hotel – doing a comedy show for a function there. He was brought over from Ireland…”

“I’ve read the fucking report,” Gilli said. “He wasn’t a comedian. He was a magician.”

Beni looked at him blankly.

“Is that a problem?”

“Of course it is a problem. He is a magician. I am a magician. He will remember me.”

“It doesn’t follow.”

“It does follow. All the magicians worldwide, they form a brotherhood – an international brotherhood of magicians. That is even the name they have for their organisation. So one magician recognises another, they look out for each other, they judge each other and remember details about each other, how they looked, what props they carried, what their demeanour was. And do you know why? Because they hate each other.”

He glared around at his listeners, almost challenging them to contradict him.

“They hate one another. Because every time one man gets a show, it means another man fails to get that show. They are all in competition with each other, so they hate each other. That foreigner I met on the elevator, he hates me. So he will remember me. So we have a problem.”

He looked around in sullen triumph.

Aziz broke the silence.

“But you don’t do shows. You are not a professional magician.”

“I made that fucking hotel floor vanish, didn’t I?” roared Gilli.

The unexpected joke – not really intended - broke the tension, and Gilli suddenly laughed. The others joined in, even Hassien. What was a slit cheek between friends? It was a cool thing to do with a playing card, and Hassien knew that when he was alone he would be flicking cards until he got the knack.

“So we accept that your magician friend is a problem,” Beni began. “There is no guarantee that he had said anything to the authorities – and no guarantee that anything he said could put you in any danger.”

“I don’t like to leave loose ends,” said Gilli.

“Fair enough – we could have a word with our friends in Ireland, see if they can help us. Monitor the situation and assess the danger.”

Gilli had worked occasionally with both the IRA and the UDF during the Irish troubles, never letting one side know what he did for the other.

“I will speak to them. They can eliminate the problem for me.”

Beni frowned.

“That might be a bit hasty. If there is no danger from that quarter, a clumsy assassination will only draw attention to ourselves.”

“They will make it look like an accident,” said Gilli, speaking as if to a child. “I have thought of that. And anyway, our links with them are not known. It will be safe. Now leave – I need to make the call.”

He reached for the phone.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Andy fingered the empty glass, then reached for the bottle. Empty too. He picked it up and looked unsteadily into its depths. Not a drop. Wearily he got up and walked into the kitchen, dropping the bottle beside the overflowing bin. He paused for a moment and sniffed. A faint smell of gas? He had been getting that on and off for the past month, but with everything else he hadn’t got around to reporting it. Probably a loose valve in the cooker. Hell, it would wait another day.

He opened a press and looked. There was nothing left. He went back into the living room, but there was nothing there either. A band of pain throbbed across his forehead, and his eyes hurt. Then he remembered.

Upstairs his bedroom door was open. Funny, he could have sworn he had closed it earlier in the day. Never mind. He had to fish under the bed for his suitcase. It hadn’t been opened since his return from Abu Dhabi. Now he eagerly tore at the straps, and unzipped the leather case. There it was, carefully wrapped in shirts to protect it – a bottle of single-malt from the duty free.

He took out the bottle out and uncorked it. The rich, peaty aroma filled the room. About three fingers were gone. Kevin and himself had had a glass on their first night in the Crowne Plaza. Kevin, a philistine if ever there was one, hadn’t appreciated the finer points of single-malts. This was not a whiskey, Andy had explained. This was a Laphroig, and no ordinary Laphroig either. It was cask-strength, and matured in quarter barrels instead of the regular full barrels, to intensify the flavour. He winced at the memory.

There was no glass in the bedroom, so he took the Laphroig downstairs – this time making sure to close the bedroom door - and found a tumbler by the sink. He swished it under the tap, and returned to the living room. The television was flickering in the corner, some inane wannabe popstar thing. The sound was turned down. He filled the tumbler and drank.

Might as well be the cheap crap, he thought ruefully. Just like Kevin he no longer appreciated the rich flavours and wafting aromas. It was just booze. He wanted booze.
The past few weeks had been hard. Kevin had been like a brother, and losing him was tough. Then there was the trauma of the explosion itself – nothing prepared you for the intense reality of all that destruction and gore. It was not at all like the television. For one thing blood has a smell, a thing most people spend their lives blissfully unaware of. It is a coppery, metallic odour, and once you register it, you will never forget it.

Then there was the trauma of facing Kevin’s wife. What do you say to a woman who faces the sentence of a lifetime raising two young children with her husband a martyr to a cause he had never even heard of?

Andy had to admit that his sister had really come through for him. Susan had brought him out, arranged dinners, even tried to set him up with her friends. She was a brick. He had held it together well, and it was getting easier. He had continued gigging – the bills had to be paid. He had attended the interrogations in the US Embassy, both in Abu Dhabi, and back in Dublin when he returned home. Debriefing, his interrogator George Kovacs had called it. Andy had even spoken to the press, adding his eye-witness impressions to the acres of ink devoted to the bombing. It all seemed so unreal, but occasionally the reality sunk home, and that was when Andy reached for the bottle.

He remembered the confusion in the early days, then the growing world anger as a picture of those responsible began to emerge. But in the end there were so many reports, so many television opinion pieces, so much information overload, that Andy had switched off. He had kept just one piece from all the coverage, a piece that appeared in the Daily Mail two days after the attack. He was still in Abu Dhabi at that stage, but when he returned to Ireland a friend had thoughtfully collected a scrapbook of coverage for him. Bloody ghoul, Andy had thought. But at the time he had read all the clippings.

Most ended up in the bin, but the one he kept gave the story in a nutshell.

ACTION FOR JUSTICE & DEMOCRACY

CLAIMS ABU DHABI BOMBING

AN obscure terrorist group, Action for Justice and Democracy, has claimed responsibility for the Abu Dhabi atrocity. The bomb, on the tenth floor of the Crowne Plaza Hotel, killed 42 people, 27 of them children.

Many of the victims were Italian, as the bomb was timed to go off during a children’s event organised by the local Italian society. Among the victims were three English people; Nigel Perry, an accountant with an oil company based in the Emirates, John Smith, a teacher, and hospital worker Samantha Coen. There was also one Irishman among the victims, comedian Kevin Moore.

The bomb, a sophisticated device detonated remotely, went off just before lunchtime. Authorities said that had the bomb gone off 10 minutes later the death toll could have been far higher, as many of the families had not yet arrived for the children’s party.

A man claiming to represent the terrorist group Action for Justice and Democracy phoned Al Jazeera television station and claimed responsibility for the terrorist attack. The aims of the group are not clear, but they are believed to be headed by an Egyptian terrorist known only as the Gilli Gilli Man. Intelligence sources say that the Gilli Gilli Man is French Egyptian, and was possibly trained in the former USSR.

Over 200 people were injured in the explosion, which caused massive structural damage to the hotel, one of the most exclusive hotels in Abu Dhabi, the capital of the United Arab Emirates. Many of those injured were struck by pieces of flying debris and have been discharged from hospital after treatment. Three children were pulled from the rubble near the centre of the explosion. One of those survivors subsequently died in hospital. The other two are still in critical condition.

Authorities say that the motive for the bombing is still unclear. It is not believed to be connected to Arab fundamentalism.

Al Jazeera, the Saudi television station, said that an unidentified male voice claimed responsibility for the attack in a telephone call just minutes after the explosion. The caller said that Action for Justice and Democracy would continue to carry out attacks until their objectives were met. He did not say what those objectives were.

The story ended there. Other papers had carried more information, but in the end Andy had become lost in the morass of facts and images. He had been there. He didn’t need to read the eye-witness accounts, see the pictures of carnage, read the reporters speculation. He needed to understand why Kevin had died. He had kept just one other piece, a sidebar from the same Daily Mail. The sidebar was speculative and didn’t tell him much, but it summarised everything that was known about the Gilli Gilli Man in one short piece.

That article Andy had kept in his trousers pocket for two weeks, before he bunged the trousers into a washing machine in a moment of thoughtlessness and had lost it forever. But the information was filed away in his head, burned into the hard drive of his brain. He knew there was nothing he could do for Kevin, but he wanted to be able to put the pieces together in his head.

What was known about the Gilli Gilli Man was sparse. He was apparently Egyptian, and extremely wealthy. His background was obscure, though it was thought he was half French. He had been educated at the Sorbonne in the late sixties, then had studied for three years in Moscow. It was at this time he was recruited to the KGB, and he graduated from Moscow University with the rank of Major. After a period as an instructor in a PLO training camp he had gone underground. Since then virtually nothing was known about him. He had effectively disappeared, and not even his former Soviet handlers knew his whereabouts. He had quickly ditched communism. No surprise – students who remembered him from his Sorbonne days described him as an anarchist rather than a communist, and said that his thrust in life was the creation of chaos and destruction. And, one added significantly, out of chaos he created cash.

The Gilli Gilli Man was a terrorist for hire. He was an extremely wealthy terrorist for hire. If you had the money and the cause, and could contact him, you could get the best. He was responsible for the Chechen hijack of an Aeroflot passenger plane from Moscow to St Petersburg in September 2004, which resulted in the release of a number of political prisoners. He was responsible for the kidnapping of Dresden Jewish industrialist Hans Klein in 2003. Klein was released, minus his right ear, after a ransom of ten million euro was handed over. He had also been responsible for the assassination of two very minor Saudi royals. That series of assassinations had ended when the Gilli Gilli Man received a massive injection of funds in his Geneva account.

In addition to being in it for the money, the Gilli Gilli Man had a reputation for doing much of his dirty work himself. He had no devoted band of followers, like the Red Brigade or the Bader Mienhof Gang, or no fanatics in his organisation. Just a tight group of associates who had been with him from the beginning. This was terrorism as a business model rather than terrorism as ideology.

Action for Justice and Democracy was a new group, and was not an Arab one. It was a European organisation, driven by two radical sixties nuts, one German, one French. The group had not come to prominence until one of the radicals had inherited from a rich relative, and they had hooked up with the Gilli Gilli Man.

The last piece of information the sidebar contained was interesting: The Gilli Gilli Man got his nickname from the street magicians of his native Cairo, the famous Gilli Gilli men who do the ancient cups and balls trick with live chicks for the pennies tourists toss at them. Somehow this had offended Andy almost as much as the atrocities that the man had committed over the years. It was the idea that a fellow magician had been behind the death of his best friend. It was too much to take.

In a way Andy had been glad when he had accidentally destroyed the newspaper clipping in the hot cycle of his Bendix. After two weeks of brooding, it was time to begin the recovery.

Andy shifted uncomfortably in the chair as he poured himself another whiskey. Better make it a small one – he wanted to dull the pain, not drown it entirely. As he steadied the bottle back on the floor beside his chair, he thought he heard a sound. It was too faint to be sure – perhaps a floorboard creaking. No, it was his overwrought imagination, and the drink. It had to be.

He settled back, but couldn’t escape the nagging sensation that something was not right. Something brought his senses to full alert, and he found himself listening to the sounds of the silent house. Pausing, listening, after a moment he realised he was holding his breath. This was silly. He stood up.

“Hello. Anyone there?” he asked shakily.

No answer. He stood there a minute, then sat down abruptly. It was only the drink. He tossed back the remains of the glass, then sat staring at the television for a few minutes. Reluctantly he got up, kicked at the switch of the television with his foot, then made for the stairs. Tomorrow he would ditch the bottle, clean himself up, and begin living again. In a few weeks time he was due to fly out to Lapland for his annual winter holiday. It wasn’t really a winter holiday, but he had to do just an hour of magic every evening for guests at the Santa resort, and the rest of the time was his own. He had become quite a good skier over the years. The break would do him good – get him out of his usual environment, and stop this bloody brooding. And it would be a relief to be away from Susan. She was great – but she could be overpowering.

Sleep came quickly that night. He tossed for a few minutes, remembered Kevin, remembered Kevin’s wife, remembered that he had not told the gas board about the smell he had noticed near the cooker that afternoon, then mercifully sank in the realms of Morpheus without trace. Briefly, as he drifted from consciousness, he thought he heard the cat next door scratching at the windowpane. This was his last waking memory, and his sleep was restless, disturbed by dreams of cats in turbans running through hotels, and he not able to outrun them.

It was the coughing that woke him. A terrible fit of coughing racked his body, and he came half upright in the bed as he hacked and choked. The fit passed, but his throat felt raw. His body was leaden, and his head felt as if the devil himself were dancing a jig across his temples. He leant out of the bed and was violently sick on the floor.

He dropped back to the bed and closed his eyes. Time enough in the morning to clean it up. As he began to drift back to sleep something was troubling him, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Something was different, but how he was not sure. Then he knew, and he was wide awake, all senses alert. It was smoke. That was what had brought on the fit of coughing. That was what was seeping under the door jam right now, wafting in translucent wreaths across the floor. He could see the smoke in the moonlight, shimmering like dust motes. Then he was on the floor, and reaching for the door. As he opened the door a gush of air with the heat of a furnace rushed into the room, carrying with it black smoke and other smells, and throwing him back into the room.

In a panic he found his trousers and pulled them on. He scrambled under the bed, but couldn’t find shoes. He put on one slipper and hobbled to the door. The smoke was already thick, and he could see the orange glow coming from the direction of the stairwell. Shit.

He ran back into the room and looked out the bedroom window. Too high to jump. Back to the corridor.

This time he dropped to the floor and crawled, trying to keep below the swirling smoke. It still choked. Thick noxious clouds billowed up the stairs, but he kept his face near the ground by slithering down on his rear. The bottom three steps were already alight, and he came to a halt a few feet above them. Then, summoning his last reserves of strength he stood, flung himself over the burning steps, and fled down the corridor.

In the darkness, illuminated only by the hellish glow coming from the kitchen, he fumbled with the door latch. The thick smoke was chocking him, his eyes were stinging, and his lungs were burning. Would the door ever open?

Just as he managed to wrestle the door ajar Andy’s whole world lit up as the gas in the kitchen blew, and a wave of flame engulfed him, flinging him forward.

CHAPTER TWENTY

There is nothing romantic about the smell of a burnt building. It is not the warm smell you get from a wood fire, or the pleasant smokiness of a barbecue. The smell from a burnt building is acrid and claws at your throat. The water mingles with the ash to produce a smell that hangs half-way between decay and industrial pollution.

It’s also a difficult smell to ignore. Putting a handkerchief over your mouth doesn’t help, and breathing in small gulps doesn’t make a difference, as Andy found.

He was inside the door of his home, looking at the blackened walls. The ground was still sloshing with the water from the fire-brigade, and he wished he had worn boots. He could see the kitchen, or what was left of it. The room was gutted – just charred and twisted remains of the white goods, while the furniture had been obliterated. Burnt floor-boards from the room above had collapsed in on the mess, and two fire investigators were sifting through the remains.

Andy didn’t need to bother. Cutlery and crockery could be replaced, and the paperback he had been enjoying was now part of the soot and sludge the two men were tramping on. But that wasn’t what this was about. This was his home. He had sunk his savings into the deposit. He had slaved to meet the mortgage payments, and now it was all gone. He hoped he hadn’t missed an insurance payment.

Andy looked up at what had been the stairs. What remained was badly charred, and five steps had collapsed, leaving a large gap. He couldn’t get up – he wasn’t going to risk his neck on some poor Tarzan imitation.

“Hey guys, any chance one of you left a ladder around?” he called to the two men in the kitchen.

“Not a hope, man. The chief will freak if you try to get up there,” said the taller of the two men.

“I’m trying to see what I have left.”

“Damn all. One of the guys was up earlier, said the place is a disaster. Was your room the one above the kitchen?”

“That was the spare room,” said Andy. “I was further down, and to the front of the house.”

“Might be something then,” said the man. He turned to the blown-out window of the kitchen.

“Mike – you were upstairs. Anything left?”

A very young man with fiery red hair appeared in the window. He had a large sandwich in his hand.

“Not much. Some clothes in one of the rooms, but you wouldn’t even give them to Oxfam. A couple of books that you might read if you have a bad cold and can’t smell the smoke. That’s all.”

He turned back to the garden, then, almost as an afterthought, his head appeared again.

“Oh yes, there was a trunk – big black box with metal corners. Like a musician’s box, only bigger. That didn’t seem too badly damaged.”

“That’s what I need to get,” shouted Andy.

“No problem, mate,” said the ginger fireman. “We hefted that down. It’s out here back with some other things.”

Andy hurried through the kitchen and out the hole where the door had once been. There was his trunk, standing carelessly against the back wall. He lowered it to the ground, then took out a key. But the padlock wouldn’t open.

The ginger fireman looked at him.

“Probably buckled with the heat – there are some scorch marks on the front. Stand back.”

He picked up a heavy axe, and with one deft blow severed the lock, calling “Open Sesame” as he did so.

Andy looked inside. It was a miracle. Everything seemed to be in order. Quickly he took out some of his favourite props, and began to test them. He couldn’t find any sign of damage. The aluminium flight case seemed to have protected them. It was the first bit of good news in quite a time. His home might be gone, his clothes might be gone, but at least he could still work.

With the equipment he kept permanently in the car, and what was in the trunk, he was back in business.

“Good?” asked the fireman.

“Very good,” grinned Andy.

Just then the phone rang.

“We need to talk.”

“Who is this?” Andy asked, but he knew the voice.

“I’m in Ireland at the moment.”

“It’s not a good time, Kovacs.”

“I’ve heard. I’m sorry. I’m staying at the Shannon Shamrock. A car will pick you up in twenty minutes.”

“Cancel the car. I’m not going to meet you.”

But the phone went dead.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The skyline of Tripoli cast long shadows into the Mediterranean as the golden orb of the sun sank behind him. He could feel the warmth on his back as he stood on the balcony sipping the brandy – a Hennessy Ellipse, the most expensive on the planet. He imported it specially from Harrods in London, the only stockists. The bespoke decanter, from Cristalleries Baccarate, balanced on the railing of the balcony. Hennessy Ellipse was only for special occasions. He could feel it – today was going to be a special. The call would come soon, telling him that the problem was solved.

He turned as the soft footfall behind him came to a stop.

“Well?”

Benni shrugged.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

“Start with the bad and get it over with,” said Gilli.

“He’s still alive.”

Gilli arched an eyebrow.

“Our friends in Ulster sent down a good man. He did everything right. Waited until your friend had passed out in an alcoholic stupor, then torched his house. Even rigged a gas explosion. But the guy woke up and got out in time.”

Gilli’s expression didn’t alter but Benni, who knew his moods, could see his eyes harden and a stiffness come over his face.

“And there is good news?”

“Actually, no,” said Benni. “Unless you count the fact that the fire investigators seem to have accepted that it was an unfortunate accident, so our friend will not be alerted that there was an attempt on his life.”

“Ok, that is good news. He is not alerted, we can try again,” sneered Gilli, tossing back the remaining brandy from the crystal snifter.

Benni came to the railing of the balcony and looked out at the darkening sea. Neither spoke for a moment.

“I think that would not be wise,” said Beni quietly. “He is less of a threat now than ever. If you have a toothache and someone hits you on the toe with a hammer, you will forget about your tooth for a moment. If they hit you hard enough you will forget about the tooth forever. Losing his house, it’s like someone hit him on the toe with a fucking axe. You are the last thing on his mind. He is no longer a threat.”

“Is that your considered opinion?”

“In twenty years working together, how often have I advised you badly?”

After a few minutes uncomfortable silence Gilli turned to his friend.

“Beni, in twenty years you have never advised me badly. But still, I am going to ignore your advice. My Irish friend will die. This time there will be no mistakes, because I will kill him myself.”

He picked up the crystal decanter and flung it in a high arc towards the sea, then turned and strode back into the house. Benni watched as the decanter glittered in the night air then dropped from sight. There was a tinkling crash as it smashed on the rocks far below. The equivalent of a year’s wages for many of the poor people scrounging around the streets of Tripoli, he thought, as he turned and followed Gilli inside.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Twenty minutes later, to the minute, a black Mercedes, the windows darkened, glided to a halt outside the burnt-out house. The rear door opened, and a young man in a navy suit gestured for Andy to get in.

Andy shrugged and did as he was asked.

“I said I wasn’t going to meet him.”

“I’m sorry, sir. My orders were just to pick you up. I have no further information.”

They travelled in silence north out of the city. After five miles they turned off the main road at Bunratty village. The castle around which the village had sprung stood proud on the bank of the river. Typical of an American that he would stay at a tourist trap like this, thought Andy. The Shannon Shamrock was one of two large hotels in the shadow of the old castle. Beside the castle was a folk park, a sort of theme park to everything green and shamrocky that was Ireland’s biggest tourist attraction.

The Mercedes glided cross the flyover, then passed the Shannon Shamrock. Andy didn’t bother saying anything. The guy in the navy suit wasn’t a great conversationalist.

The car turned off the road at a shopping complex. It was a large stone complex full of craft and woollen shops designed to fleece travellers of their final few euros before they arrived at nearby Shannon Airport.

“Upstairs,” said the guy.

“And you have a nice day too,” Andy replied, as he left the car.

Upstairs was the coffee deck and restaurant, almost empty at this time of the day. Andy saw Kovacs immediately. The diplomat was sitting at a table as far away from the counter as it was possible to get without leaving the building. He had his back to the wall and a clear and unobstructed view of the entire room.

“Andy,” he called. “It’s good to see you again.”

“The pleasure is all yours,” Andy replied as he took a seat. But he shook the American’s proffered hand. “You know I have nothing more to tell you. I have gone over this so many times. You must have asked me every question twenty times. When will you get tired of me telling you I know nothing? Now I’m trying to rebuild my life.”

The American shrugged, and said nothing. It was a trick he had, Andy knew; the sympathetic listener. If he just sat there and looked sincere and let the silence stretch, the person he was questioning would eventually be compelled to break the silence. Andy was determined not to give in this time, but after a few minutes he faltered.

“Did you know my house burnt down two days ago?”

Kovacs nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“I’d be a hell of a lot more convinced of that if your expression occasionally rose above your nose. You smile and you frown, but it never reaches your eyes. You’ve got cold eyes, George.” He looked at the American, and said nothing. The American said nothing. The silence stretched.

This time it was Kovacs who broke.

“I am your friend, Andy. I only want to catch this guy and we can all get on with our lives. Closure, Andy. For Kevin’s sake.”

“Don’t lay a guilt trip on me. There’s nothing more I can tell you.”

After another long pause Kovacs sighed.

“I suppose not. I had half hoped something might have come to you in the past few weeks. It was always a long shot. Coffee?”

He raised a hand and a bored looking waitress came over.

“It’s cream and two sugars, isn’t it? Two coffees, please, and some of those delicious Danishes.”

He smiled at the waitress and got a desultory smile in return.

“I don’t suppose she makes a lot on the tips, do you?” he whispered to Andy.

“That’s not why you brought me here.”

“No,” said Kovacs, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not. I needed to talk to you.”

“So talk.”

But Kovacs didn’t say anything until the coffees and Danishes arrived and the waitress had left. As he sipped his coffee (black, no cream) he glanced wistfully at Andy.

“It was a bum deal, your house going up like that.”

“Tell me about it.”

“The fire investigators report will say it was accidental. Apparently one of your plugs was faulty, and that started the fire. Your cooker had a loose valve, and there was a gas explosion. More human error than human malice. Andy, when you pay the bills you should look after the maintenance.”

Andy remembered his Uncle Frank in America, and the pride he took in his cabin in the Catskills, upstate New York. He had built it himself, and was constantly tinkering with it, improving it. That was not an Irish characteristic.

“When I need lifestyle advice I’ll go ask my mammy,” he said sarcastically.

Kovacs held his hands up in surrender.

“I’m just saying.”

“I hope the insurance company are as quick with their report as you are.”

“Now there I have good news,” said Kovacs. “Your insurers have accepted the initial report of the fire investigators, and will be issuing full restitution on the policy. You will have the initial check, for accommodation expenses and clothing replacement, within the week. And there will be no quibbling over the rebuild costs.”

Andy looked at him in amazement.

“It’s no mystery,” Kovacs continued. “Your insurers are part of a multi-national company with strong US links. It just took a few words in the right ears.”

“So now I owe you?”

Kovacs nodded and smiled.

Andy smiled back. “I must warn you, the last time I owed someone was when I was a student. I got a job as a tour guide in an old abbey in my home town. A week after I started my local TD – that’s Member of Parliament to you - wrote to me to say that he had put in a word for me and got me the job. I hadn’t asked him to put in a word for me, and when I checked I found that he hadn’t done it anyway. He just fired off a letter afterwards claiming credit. When the next election came, I voted for the other guy.”

“Thanks for being upfront with me. But we don’t need your vote. Just your help.” He paused. “At least you can listen.”

“Fair enough,” conceded Andy.

“You know I’ve told you I work for the US diplomatic service – it’s not true. I’m a spook. I work for the CIA and my job – the job of several good men – is to bring down the Gilli Gilli Man. What I have just told you is classified. If you ever repeat it, I will deny it. I’ve never spoken to you on this matter. You understand?”

Andy nodded.

“You can help us. You are one of the few people who have seen him. I know he was in disguise, but our studies have shown that at some subconscious level you may be able to recognise him again.”

“No chance. I will never go to the middle-east again.”

“You won’t need to.” Kovacs paused, then dropped the bombshell.

“He may be here right now.”

Andy went pale, then glanced quickly around the room.

“Don’t spook me like that.”

“He’s not in the restaurant,” said Kovacs. “But he may be in Ireland. He may have decided that you are a threat to him, and you should be eliminated. I don’t know – maybe your house fire wasn’t an accident.”

Kovacs leant back in his chair and let that last statement lie between them like a bad smell.

Andy glared at him, then took out his phone and rang a number from a business card he had in his pocked.

“Mike, this is Andy. I need to know that the fire in my house was an accident. Any chance at all of arson?”

He heard a laugh from the accident investigator on the other end.

“Not a hope – it was all your fault. Faulty plugs and faulty valves. Just bad luck. That’s gospel, and that will go in my report.”

Andy glared at Kovacs. “I don’t appreciate these scare tactics.”

“You can’t blame me for trying. You remember big Dave Thomspon? He was a good friend of mine. The Gilli Gilli Man killed him. This is personal.”

“Thompson was killed in a car accident.”

“It was no accident – it was a hit.”

“Believe what you will. I lost a good friend in Abu Dhabi. I lost my house. I’ve helped you all I can. Now I’m getting on with my life.”

He stood up.

“At least think about letting us offer you some protection – discrete surveillance. How can that hurt?”

“In a couple of weeks time I’m going to Finland for a six week contract. I’ll be miles north of the Arctic Circle, and apart from leaving a forwarding address for Santa Claus, I think I should be safe.”

Kovacs perked up.

“Where in Finland will you be based?”

But all he got was a two-finger salute as Andy left the restaurant.

Kovacs smiled at the retreating figure. Gotcha, he thought. He took out a small cigar and lit it. He looked around for an ashtray and frowned. That was the problem with non-smoking restaurants; you could never find one. Still, the Irish had a quaint habit of serving their coffee mugs on little saucers. Problem solved.

He took out his phone. It looked like a normal mobile phone, but the signal was scrambled. He could only contact a limited number of other phones, but all were also fitted with the scrambler chip, and the call would be unscrambled in real time. The only way you could tell it was anything different was the slight echo on the line.

After a few moments an American voice answered.

“Is the man in?”

“No – he’s doing field work.”

Out on the golf course again, Kovacs grinned.

“Tell him the trap is baited. I need some information.”

“Shoot.”

“Greig is working in Finland over Christmas. I need to know where.”

“It’s a tall order.”

“Not really – he works as an entertainer. Odds on he’s either working as a nightclub act in one of the ski resorts or as a children’s entertainer in one of the Santa resorts. Start with the Santa resorts, and ring me back as soon as you know.”

Kovacs nursed his coffee and nursed the cigar, despite the scowl of the waitress, for twenty minutes before the call came.

“He’s in Luosto, about forty miles north of the Arctic Circle in Finnish Lapland. Begins on November 25. Children’s magician.”

“Thanks Mac. I owe you a Bud.”

Kovacs next call was to the Middle East.

“Global Oil. How can I help you?”

“Put me through to Brad.”

Brad Samuels came on the line.

“I hear we got green on the operation.”

“Better than that – Greig is working in a small resort in northern Finland over Christmas. The place is empty. If we can get the Gilli Gilli Man there, he’s ours. The operation is no longer stretched between the middle-east and western Europe. It’s confined to a couple of acres of snow. There’s no place to hide. Tell the big guy to be in place before November 25. My bones tell me this is going to work.”

“I thought you hated our plan,” said Sameuls.

“I do – I did. But I still think it’s going to work. One thing more – put the word on the street that Greig has told us loads. Let every beggar in Tripoli know that he’s under our protection at a secret location in Finland, and he’s going to testify and put the Gilli Gilli Man out of business for good. Tell whatever lies you need to, just make sure Gilli knows the threat and knows he has to react to it.”

“Done,” said Sameuls again.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Bristol was a blast, despite the last minute change of plans. Christina’s birthday was on Saturday, and that was the day the six friends were due to go down and party. But then Christina got a part in a student film, and they were shooting Saturday afternoon. So the plan changed. They met at Liverpool Street Station at lunchtime on Friday.

Christina was sneakily trying to munch a Cornish pasty when the five descended on her, surrounding her in a giggling hoard, and crowding around her small table. The round table had three chairs – one already occupied by Christina - but all five girls managed to get sitting.

“I hope you have one for everyone.”

“Give over – I need this. I spent all morning getting ready for tomorrow’s shoot. I had a costume fitting. You’re always hungry after a costume fitting.”

“Because you spend the night before fasting,” they all chorused.

“It’s healthy. It has carrots and onions,” pleaded Christina.

“You won’t fit into the costume tomorrow.”

“I’ll starve tonight – I promise!”

“So you’re not coming out to party with us?”

“I’ll stick to wine and spirits.”

“It’s not a party without beer.”

“She could always keep eating and champion the Diana Dors look. She was big.”

“But she’s dead now.”

“And so is her career!”

A tired looking waitress came over, and they ordered a round of drinks for lunch – five beers and a gin and tonic. The gin and tonic was for Christina. They insisted. It was well known that gin, like vodka, took more energy to digest than it released into the body, so it was great on a diet.

“We’re saving your career,” smiled Karin.

An hour later they were on a train hurtling west and a few hours after that they were in a dockside pub overlooking the SS Great Britain in Bristol dock.

The SS Great Britain was the first iron ocean liner, built in 1843 and a huge tourist attraction. But the girls barely gave it a glance. This was a night to relive their student excesses, and no student had ever flunked out of college for visiting tourist attractions.

They had agreed to begin the night with a sensible meal, but so far the nourishment had consisted of pints of lager. They were on their third, and the sun had set, darkening the street outside, when Christina’s phone went off.

“Ignore it.”

“It might be the film crew.”

She fished the phone out of her handbag, and pressed the green button. It was the film crew.

“No problem I hope?”

“A girl has let us down. We’re one short for the shoot tomorrow.”

“I’m with five girls, and each one is a fully trained actress.”

A cheer went up from the table. Christina could barely hear, but she held the phone pressed to her ear, nodding enthusiastically every now and again.

“It’s sorted,” she finally shouted into the phone, dropping it back into her bag.

She raised her hands for silence.

“Karin, you’re working tomorrow.”

“Why Karin?”

“It’s the costume. They want someone who’s tall and size ten.”

“I can get into size ten!”

“Yes – if you drop a stone.”

An hour later they staggered to the city centre, with a brief stop along the way for a messy kebab. They were in high spirits, linking arms and singing loudly as they paraded down one of the pedestrianised streets. Other Friday night party-goers joined in, or struck out with their own songs. Coming against them was a group of eight or nine guys, managing to sing two different football songs at the same time. The result was not easy on the ear. As the groups met they seemed to merge. One of the guys detached himself from his mates, grabbed Christina, and began dancing with her. Almost inevitably the whole group ended up in a nightclub together, shouting above the din of the music. It was a great night.

As they came into the nightclub Christina, her arm around one of the guys, shouted at Karin: “We need to talk about Lapland. You have to come.”

“Not a hope,” Karin had replied, and she hadn’t seen Christina until the following morning. Christina was occupied.

So was Karin. One of the guys had the most gorgeous brown eyes, and long black hair. He was tall, he was too thin, and he was just her type. His scruffy jeans and Pearl Jam t-shirt were the final selling points. All his mates were in shirts and clean jeans, out celebrating the last night of freedom of one of their number. But he stood out. Karin wasn’t looking for love – she had Tim. But there was no harm in some gentle flirting. It made her feel good. Male attention was always a confidence booster. And he seemed so nice. She had a knack of picking the wrong guy, but he was funny, considerate, and he listened – at least as well as he could with the music.

They danced the slow numbers together, and she loved the way he moved. He seemed to have a silky rhythm. It was nothing showy – he certainly would not have stood out as a good dancer. But his body was willowy, and always seemed to be in the right place and the right shape. He led and she let him lead. This was not like dancing with Tim. Tim was a great man for head-banging to loud music. He could move and shake and jerk with wild abandon, and he certainly enjoyed his music. But there was something primitive, masculine and animal about the way he moved. This guy shimmied like liquid mercury in her arms. It was nothing more than that. She certainly didn’t fancy him. But she was enjoying Christina’s birthday.

At the end of the night she looked for her companions. She could see no sign of Christina. All the rest seemed to have vanished into the darkness. Finally she spotted Emma. She was wrapped around a guy in a stripped rugby jersey.

“Where are the others?”

Emma disentangled herself.

“Christina’s found herself a man. And the rest left half an hour ago – they were going to find a chipper. We couldn’t find you.”

“I was up dancing.”

“Lucky girl. I’ve found my man for the night,” she said, attaching herself once more to the rugby man. He grinned.

“Don’t worry – I’ll make my way back to the guest house. Do you remember where it is?”

Emma waved vaguely to her left.

“It’s on Redcliffe Road, I think.”

Karin turned and began walking in the direction Emma had indicated. She hadn’t gone more than a handful of steps before her brown-eyed dancer materialised at her side.

“I know Redcliffe Road. It’s only a quarter of a mile. I’ll walk you there.”

She smiled her thanks, and held out her arm in a theatrical gesture. He linked his arm in hers, and they walked slowly through the still busy streets. The night was cold, and the sky clear. The crescent of the moon was dimly visible overhead, with an occasional cloud scudding across it. It was a short walk and Karin was almost sorry when it ended. It had been a good night. It was the end of a good week. Tomorrow she would be in a movie – admittedly only a student one, but good on the CV at least – and tomorrow night she would lie beside her beloved Tim and feel his strong arms beside her.

As they reached the guest house she could see that there were no lights on. Her friends had not returned yet. She knew them well. If they were in the building would have been lit up like a shopping centre on late opening night.

“Michael, it’s been a great night. And thanks for being a gentleman.”

She leant forward and kissed him gently on the lips. As she did so his hand came forward and caressed her cheek. She stepped back, and smiled nervously. He looked at her and raised one eyebrow. Then suddenly her arms were around him and his arms were around her, and their lips had locked. Her tongue greedily began exploring his teeth, then pushed through into his mouth. His arms began to caress her back, drawing her closer and closer. She could smell his aftershave and the musky aroma of his leather jacket. She allowed one hand to drop, cupping his firm bum and pushing him into her. With her other hand she fumbled for her key and pushed open the door of the guesthouse. They pushed inside, still locked in a passionate embrace. She could feel his rising excitement.

“Keep quiet,” she whispered. “We’ll wake someone.”

He kissed her more urgently. She could feel the last of her barriers come tumbling down. Then her eye caught a photograph, murky in the darkness of the guesthouse lobby. It was a garish wedding photo, a smiling groom and a garish bride, done up like a fancy confectioners cake. And she remembered Tim. She could feel her passion drain.

She put both her hands into Michael’s chest and pushed him away.

“I’m sorry – I can’t.”

He looked at her in confusion.

“I have a boyfriend. I told you about him earlier.”

He nodded ruefully. She had spent a lot of time talking about Tim, especially earlier in the evening, before they started dancing.

“I can’t do this to him.”

“He won’t know.”

“But I’ll know.”

Michael nodded.

“And you wouldn’t be you if you could do it anyway.”

“I’m glad you understand.”

They looked at each other in awkward silence, a foot of space and a vast gulf between them.

“I hope he knows how lucky he is,” said Michael, in a quiet voice. He took a half step back, and just then the door poured open, with three tipsy girls spilling into the confined space.

“Ops! I think we’ve just disturbed something.”

“She should have hung a sock on the door!”

Michael and Karin looked at each other, then suddenly laughed.

“You’re too late,@ said Michael. “We’ve spent the last hour upstairs making love in every empty bed we could find. And you missed the performance.”

“He was a perfect gentleman – and a complete man-whore,” laughed Karin.

“You’ll have to tell us every sordid detail.”

The girls linked her arms and began pulling her towards the stairs.

“Good night, man-whore,” one of them waved sweetly. “She’s spoken for.”

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

It was six thirty before Christina arrived back at the guest house, and her arrival was noisy. She woke everyone – but then she couldn’t tell them much about her night. All she would say was that it was the best birthday of her life, and she couldn’t remember all the details. She was shattered. She insisted on sitting in the one arm chair in the room, because she knew that if she got into a bed she wouldn’t be getting out of it. She was barely in the chair before her eyes closed, and she was out of it.

Twenty minutes later the girls were just getting settled back to sleep when the alarm clock went off. It was seven already, and Karin and Christina had to be on the train back to London at 8.20am. There was time to pack, have a good breakfast, and get to the train station. Karin had the full fry. Christina managed three coffees and a banana. She slept the whole way to London.

The film shoot went well. The morning was spent setting up the shots, so the girls were able to relax and enjoy the pampering from the hair and make-up team. By lunchtime nothing had happened, but Christina was on the mend. Her eyes were a bit baggy, but blusher sorted that out.

“I’m glad it isn’t an ad shoot. I wouldn’t get away with it,” she said.

“If it was an ad shoot we’d be getting paid – and the catering would be a lot better.”

Lunch was Spartan. An assistant director had been sent out to the nearest Prêt-a-Porter, and everyone made do with sandwiches. The coffee was from the same store, and it was tepid by the time the AD returned.

“Any plans for tonight?”

“You’re joking. After last night I don’t want to see alcohol again for a month. You?”

“I’m going to spend the night at Tim’s. A quiet night in with a bottle of red wine and a weepie movie.”

“Don’t even mention wine. Have you no sympathy for my suffering?”

“All self-inflicted.”

“Don’t remind me. Tim must be delighted you’re coming home early.”

“I completely forget to tell him. But Friday is the night he goes out with his mates. He’ll be in. Probably eating a pizza on his own, with his dirty clothes strewn all over his apartment.”

“Lovely. Thank Christ I’m single.”

The shoot ran late, and it was eight before the final light was switched off, the final camera stopped rolling, and Karin managed to slip away. She thought about going straight to Tim’s apartment, but decided to go back to her own place to have a quick shower, and change into something fresh. It was almost on the way, and she really did need to scrub up.

As she walked up the street she could see the light coming from the living room window, and the small window of Gina’s room was also lit up. She could tell her about the weekend as she was getting ready. She fumbled in her handbag and found the key, slipping it into the lock. As she pushed the door open she could hear the gentle sound of a CD wafting from the living room. Gina had a top quality hi-fi, but she rarely played something as mellow as Norah Jones.

Karin walked into the kitchen and put her travel bag and her handbag down. The kettle was standing on the counter, and she flicked the switch. Stretching to the overhead cupboard she removed a mug, then opened the canister on the counter, and tossed a tea bag into the cup. She got a second cup and dropped in a second tea bag, for Gina. Then she turned into the living room.

“Gina – I’m home.”

There was no answer. Gina’s bedroom door was closed. She was probably in her room, reading one of her fashion magazines. Karin crossed the room and opened the door gently, peering in. She drew back immediately.

“Sorry – I didn’t know you had company.”

She had seen far more than she had wanted to see. When she had poked her head in she had known immediately why Gina hadn’t returned her greeting. She was occupied. She was kneeling on her bed, naked or nearly so. And she was straddling a young man. His head was turned away from the door, but Karin caught a glimpse of a tattoo on his strong, tanned shoulder, and short dark hair before she pulled back into the living room.

“It’s all right – I’ll be out in a minute.”

“I didn’t realise...”

“Don’t worry.”

Karin could hear the sounds of activity coming from the room, as Gina and her beau hastily made themselves respectable. She smiled. She should have realised. Gina had been talking about a new fellow, but she had been very mysterious. It was no surprise that she had taken the opportunity of Karin being away for the weekend to bring him home. Like Tim, Gina didn’t know that the party had moved forward by a day.

Tim – she thought of him now. In an hour or less she would be in his arms. She would just relax, flake out in front of the telly, and unwind after two busy days. Tim had a tattoo on his shoulder too.

It was then the penny dropped.

She went pale. No, it couldn’t be. He was solid as a rock. She could hear the whispered voices coming from the bedroom, then the door opened and Gina crept out sheepishly, still bare footed. She was wearing jeans and a baggy jumper, and from the speed at which she had emerged from the room Karin guessed that was all she had on. Gina pulled the door closed firmly behind her.

“I’m sorry – I wasn’t expecting you home tonight.”

“Clearly. Your new fellow is here? I’ll finally get to meet him.”

“Not tonight.”

“No?”

Gina looked at her pleadingly.

“It’s complicated.”

Suddenly Karin strode forward and pushed her friend aside. She wrenched the door handle. Gina tried to stop her, but gave up as Karin turned and drove a shoulder into her, pushing her aside. She pulled the door open and stepped quickly into the small bedroom. A man looked around in panic. He had his jeans on by that stage, and was struggling to pull on a white sock. Karin froze. She could feel the blood drain from her face.

“Tim!”

It came out not as a shout, but as a harsh, guttural whisper.

“It’s not what it looks like.”

As Karin ran from the apartment she could hear him following her, his one bare foot and his one socked foot splashing on the wet pavement.

“Karin, let me explain. She pushed me into it. It meant nothing.”

Karin ran on, blocking out his words. Gradually the flapping of his feet faded behind her. She was on her own when she reached Christina’s flat.

It took a lot of noise to rouse Christina, and when she came to the door, wrapped in a frayed and faded bath robe, she looked tired and unfocused. She took one look at her friend in the street, and some of the focus began to reappear on her face. She didn’t know what had happened, but her arms went out instinctively. Karin rushed forward into the embrace, the tears finally flowing.

“It’s all gone wrong,” she sobbed. And later: “Is it too late to go out to Lapland with you?”

CHAPTER TWENTY FVE

The gun felt good in his hand. It was a new one, made entirely of super strong polymer plastic, which made it easier to get onto a plane. It was light and looked small, but it fitted snugly into his hand. He tried it in the left, and it felt good there too. It was important to be able to shoot well with both hands. You never knew when that might prove useful.

Taking the gun back into his right, he dropped it into the holster on his belt. The holster was special too – an American special forces idea. It had snap fastenings on the front. Instead of drawing the gun from the holster to fire, you pushed it downwards, so that it loosed the snaps and came free from the bottom of the holster. The advantage was speed. But more than that – the holster, before it unsnapped, drew back the barrel, chambered one bullet, and pushed the safety off. So instead of drawing the gun, chambering a round, knocking off the safety and shooting, you just pushed down, drew up your hand, and fired. That saving of half a second could save your life.

Of course you needed a light finger. If you touched the trigger when you drew you could easily shoot your toe off. And that could be very funny, but only if it happened to someone else, he thought.

He turned to Beni.

“Tell them to tighten the triggers, and we’ll buy eight.”

Beni nodded.

“And I’d like to see you fire it.”

Beni recoiled.

“I don’t do guns. I’m a planner. I organise things. You have soldiers to fire the guns.”

“Everyone must be ready if the call comes.”

Reluctantly he took the gun off Gilly, and raised his arm up straight until it was in line with his eye, and squeezed the trigger. They were out in the scrublands, miles from the city, but still the report of the gun was a shock. He had kept his finger on the trigger, and before he realised it about six shots were fired in bewildering rapidity. Shit, he thought. I forgot to switch from automatic to single shot.

Gilli looked at him, his eyes dancing.

“I know – I forgot.”

“You also forgot to assume the shooters position. Beni, you are rusty. Do you think there is much point in retrieving the target?”

They both looked across the scrub at the cardboard outline of a man, white lines marking the various kill shots. The target was standing proud and erect. It was obvious all six shots had missed.

“I’ll show you.”

Gilly took the gun and holstered it. He turned his back on the target. Beni knew the drill.

“Now!” he called.

Gilly spun, dropped his hand and raised it almost immediately, the gun cocked and ready for use. His second hand came up simultaneously and he stood facing the target, both hands steadying the shot. Although the gun was no longer on automatic the three shots seemed to be almost instantaneous. Both men looked at the target. Because of the bright sunlight they were able to see clearly the three holes punched in target. One was in the centre of the chest, and the second and third shot had each gone about an inch to the left of one of the eyes.

“Tell him to check the sights as well,” said Gilly, handing the gun back to Beni. Beni bent and picked up a small aluminium case, flipping it open and putting the small gun into the padded foam. There was a larger gun beside it in the case.

“Do you want to try the other?”

“I’ve told him before – I don’t like the Gluck. Too big and heavy.”

“He says it has one shot stopping power.”

“Every gun has one shot stopping power, if you learn how to aim.”

Both men walked back to the waiting car, and sat against the bonnet, looking out across north across the scrubland to the Mediterranean in the far distance. The driver quickly went to the back of the car, popped the boot, and took out a tray. He got a flask, two cups, and walked up to the two men. They took the proffered coffees and relaxed.

“No news on the other matter, I suppose?” Gilly asked after a few minutes. He had asked the question every day for the past two weeks.

“Today I have news. Not great news, but news all the same. We know now that the rumours are true. Andy Greig is being protected by the Americans. They have a team on him around the clock. It’s a small team, because he refused to go into witness protection. He is acting as normal, and they are tailing him, doing the routine checks for bombs, and so on. So that means that he must have information and he must have agreed to testify. So I stand corrected – you do need to have him killed. To attack him is difficult, but possible. It’s not a full team protecting him. But it will have to wait until the new year.”

Gilly took a sip of his coffee.

“Why the wait?”

“Because we have discovered that he is going to Finland for December. He will be working in a resort in the arctic for the month. He will be out in the wilderness, miles from any place. It will be a simple place for the Americans to protect him.”

“How isolated is this resort?”

“I don’t know, but I can find out.”

“Do that. Think about this – a confined space makes him as easy to attack as to protect. There is no place for him to escape to. We have him in a trap.”

“A baited trap.”

“I know. But they won’t be expecting a move against him now. They think like you. They will expect the attack in the New Year. So I think this work. I will make it work. We are going to Finland. Are you any good at skiing?”

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

He phoned her several times in the next few days, but she just pressed the red button and cut him off. She didn’t want to hear his bogus excuses. What excuse could possibly cover what he had done?

On Tuesday she finally made the move to Christina’s flat permanent, taking all her stuff out during the day while Gina was at work. She had answered just one call from Gina, had called her a back-stabbing bitch, and had hung up. She had ignored every other call, and apart from one call on Tuesday evening Gina stopped trying.

Tim kept it up. He rang several times a day. She considered changing her number, but it was on all her CVs at all the production offices around the city. So she had to just endure the calls. She did assign them a special ring tone, a farting frog. She thought it was appropriate.

Finally, on Friday, she pressed the green button and took one of his calls. He sounded depressed and frantic – and a little tipsy. He was out with his work mates as usual, and had drunk too much. It freed his tongue, but Karin was beyond caring.

“He wants me back. He thinks we can make it work,” she told Christina later that evening, over a cheap Chardonnay.

“He was pathetic. He even cried. I hate a man who cries. Men should be strong. All he did was plead and beg. He even tried the Bill Clinton defence. He didn’t have sex with that woman, because I disturbed them before penetration. Can you believe his cheek?”

“It’s technically true.”

“That’s no comfort.”

“Men are pigs.”

They raised a glass to that comforting truth.

A couple of calls on Monday got Karin back on the Lapland payroll. The company were still looking for Santa’s elves, and this time Karin said yes. After that it was time for some retail therapy. TK Max had some very cool ski wear at some very cool prices.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

The Gilli Gilli Man was in a cramped armchair in the Heathrow Sheraton, doing fourth deals with a deck of bicycle cards, the magicians’ favourite. Every magician can do the double deal – deal out cards from the second position within the deck rather than the top. Some few can do a third deal, taking out the third card and leaving the top two cards undisturbed. Only a handful can do the fourth or subsequent deals. Scandanavian Lennart Green was the acknowledged world expert. But only a few close associates knew that The Gilli Gilli Man wasn’t far behind him.

“Beni, let’s play a hand of poker,” he said.

Beni Lassels sighed and sat down, leaving his briefcase on the desk.

“Not for money, Gilli. Never play poker with a magician.”

“I’ll let you shuffle.”

Gilli handed the cards over to Beni, who shuffled them thoroughly before handing them back.

“Do you want to cut?”

“No,” said Beni, with the air of a man who has seen this all before.

Gilli dealt out five cards to Beni, then five to himself. It looked innocent. Beni turned over his five, to reveal two sevens, and three indifferent cards. Gilli turned over his cards with a flourish.

“Royal flush, aces high.”

“Very good,” said Beni. “But if you want to surprise me, give me the flush.”

Gilli laughed.

“You’ve been over the plan?”

“Every detail. It’s like a vegetable colander – full of holes.”

“Why does everything you say come back to food, Beni?”

“Why does everything you say come back to magic, Gilli?”

“Touché. Let’s go over the plan.”

The fat man opened his brief case and took out a number of papers, and a detailed series of maps of Lapland, showing the area from the Russian border to Finland.

“It’s a simple plan. You fly into St Petersburg tomorrow and hook up with our friends in the Russian Mafia. They will bring you across the border, and give you all the support that you need, including people. You will remain around the resort of Luosto under cover. There is a small town, Sodankylä, about ten miles away. You will be based there initially, and then we will find you a cabin in the woods near Luosto. It’s all woods around there I think. There’s nothing but trees and polar bears all over Finland.”

“You have to go a further thousand miles north before the bears start.”

“Really? Fascinating. So you will be surrounded by trees and no bears. It’s still a dump.”

“Travel broadens the mind.”

“I am a Muslim. I don’t need a broad mind.” But he winked as he said it, then continued outlining the plan.

“I have taken the liberty of booking two places on a Christmas Safari with Elfin Tours. That’s the company Andy Greig is working for. Maria will go with me and pretend to be my wife. We fly under the name of Patrick and Brigid O’Shea. We are celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary and have chosen to fulfill a childhood dream to see Santa Claus.”

“And you can fulfill your ambition to get into Maria’s bed, perhaps? I wonder what your wife would say about that?”

Gilli and Beni grinned.

“We won’t be flying out for another week or so, by which time you should have arrived safely. While we are in London I will be using our contacts to try and pull off something locally. If that works and we can kill Greig, then we meet up, drink a Snapps together, and go home. But if that fails, you will be in place with the backup to carry out the kill yourself.”

“Then I hope your efforts over the next week fail. I would love to carry out this kill myself.”

Beni looked at his boss with a wary eye. Sometimes he wondered how Gilli survived, let alone thrived, in the tough world of international terrorism. He had an iron will and an inspiring manner, he has cruelty honed to a fine edge, but if Beni wasn’t handling all the details, he would be hopelessly at sea. It has been so much easier in the old days, before Gilli had started hiring himself out to any organisation with the money to pay. Now he seemed to serve no conviction but the one in Switzerland, with the twenty-digit code and the guarantee of anonymity. Planning was merely a detail that others looked after, and he had an unhealthy fondness for the dirty work. He loved playing the celebrity terrorist.

There was something else.

“You haven’t told me everything,” said Beni.

“You know me too long, you old dog,” smiled Gilli, as he lifted his deck of cards and began executing perfect Faro shuffles. But when Beni didn’t reply, just stayed looking at him, he put the cards down again.

“I have asked Celia to travel to Lapland as well.”

“And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“Of course I was going to tell you. Eventually.”

“That woman scares me.”

“She scares everyone. She has no soul.”

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

There is something about airports that either drives you to the brink of murder, or fills you with a child-like joy. Andy was as excited as a kid taking his first flight when he boarded the plane. He had three flights, to London, to Helsinki, and then on to Lapland. He flew Shannon to London, Gatwick, on Thursday evening, and stayed that night at the Yotel in the basement of the airport. The following morning he took the bus across the city, arriving in Heathrow a little after eight. He wanted to check in early, and get rid of his luggage.

His heavy trunk had caused some problems. A hefty 65 kilos, it had been difficult to manoeuvre through Gatwick, and a nightmare on the bus. It was more than double the limit of what the ground handlers would take. But a lot or arguing and some compromising later it was accepted at the oversize luggage desk, and Andy was down to a briefcase. It contained enough magic to allow him perform if his main trunk went missing (it had happened before) and a good paperback. He used to bring a small hipflask of whisky, but new security regulations meant that the whisky now travelled with the trunk, and he took his chances on it arriving safely.

At the check-in he had noticed a few young people, with the bubbly personalities of recent theatre graduates. They were not with families so they were probably the last of the elves and fairies. There were two older men, both stout and dressed casually, and also travelling without families. Probably the Santas, though they could just as easily have been Finnish businessmen returning to Helsinki after a trip abroad. Pointless speculating. Anyway most of the staff had flown out a week ahead of him – chefs, technical people, and management. He wasn’t needed until the tourists began arriving.

He came back from the oversize baggage desk. The two Santas had disappeared. This was no surprise. If they were like all the other men who had held the job in the years he had worked for the company they would be in the bar having a few for the road. All the people whom he had identified as elves were still milling around or sitting quietly. These were the people he was going to be spending the next five weeks with. He really should go over and introduce himself. But it was too early for the effort. He turned and walked to WH Smith, where he bought the latest James Ellroy novel, a doorstep of a book that would keep him going for a week. Then he turned towards Go Sushi for his breakfast. He had a stomach of iron, and he liked to challenge it occasionally. As he was crossing towards the food court he walked directly in front of two young women, almost bumping into them.

“Sorry,” he said, pulling back.

One of the girls was short, curvy and blonde, while the other was taller, and dark haired. They were both carrying small rucksacks, and he could see the Elfin Tours label dangling from their luggage.

“You’re off to Lapland?”

“Yes – we’re working there for the next month,” said the blonde.

“You’re both going to be elves.”

“How did you know?”

“I’m a magician. I’m going out there too. I’m Andy.”

“Christina,” said the blonde. “And this is Karin.”

She smiled at him. “We’re off to get our breakfast. Want to join us?”

“As long as you don’t do any magic. I hate magicians,” added Karin.

“Don’t worry – no magic. I hate magicians too. They always want to show you long boring card tricks.”

“And you’re different?”

“I do this for a living, not as a hobby. The only way I’ll do a card trick for you is if you pay me.”

“And what do you do for a hobby?”

“I raise fancy rats. Let me show you.”

He dropped his briefcase and began rooting around in his pocket. The women recoiled in horror.

“I’m kidding. I don’t have any rats. They don’t allow them on flights. Let’s have breakfast. Where were you thinking of?”

“The bar over there serves a good fry,” said Karin.

“And the sushi bar serves Omega-3 rich raw fish.”

“Then the bar it is,” said Karin.

Once their breakfasts arrived Andy began to tell them a bit about Lapland and the company they would work for. And they told him about themselves. If talking had been an Olympic sport Christina could have been a medal contender. Karin seemed quieter.

“And why did you decide to take the job?” he asked her.

“I couldn’t face Christmas at home. I’ve just been through a bad break-up.”

As she seemed reluctant to reveal any more, Christina took over.

“She found her man in bed with one of her best friends.”

“That’s rough.”

“Damn right it’s rough. She lost her man, her friend, and a lovely apartment.”

“He doesn’t need to know the details. I’m sure he has his own problems.”

“You can’t top that, can you honey?” asked Christina.

“I can try. I lost my best friend in the Abu Dhabi bombing, and my house burnt to the ground a few weeks later.”

“Really?”

“Of course not. I’m just taking the attention off Karin. She doesn’t need complete strangers knowing all about her personal affairs. If she wants to talk I’ll let her talk. And if she wants to keep it to herself, I’ll respect that.”

“Thanks,” she smiled. “Tell me about Lapland.”

So he did. Andy was an old hand, on his fifth season with Elfin Tours. They employed almost fifty seasonal staff, drawn mainly from the British Isles. Some worked as entertainers, some as elves and fairies, and others as guides on the searches for Santa, or as technical and support staff. Most were young, almost invariably under thirty, except for the Santas and himself. He had just edged over thirty, and that tended to make him the daddy in the cabin, because the Santas tended to stick together and ignore the younger people.

The Finnish side of the operation was more extensive. Roughly sixty locals were employed each year, under the direction of a local wilderness safari company, Snow Fun. But here Jack was more vague, because he didn’t work directly with the Finns.

“There’re lovely people, and they all speak a good bit of English,” he concluded.

“And they are all tall, gorgeous blondes – even the girls,” joked Christina.

“Actually that’s Hitler Youth you’re thinking of. You do get some of the Aryan master race, but that’s mainly down south, near Helsinki. In Lapland you get a mix of the Russians and Slavs, who all look like they’re graduates from a Soviet era shot putt team, and the Eskimos, who look surprisingly like Eskimos.”

“Sound’s horrible.”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone from the British staff – some nice man-elf with big pointy ears,” joked Karin.

“It’s you I’m thinking of – you’re the one in need of a bit of romantic distraction.”

Andy excused himself and went to the bar for another beer – it was that type of breakfast. When he returned the two girls were giggling.

“A private joke?”

“We were just admiring your shirt,” smiled Karin.

Andy was wearing a crisp pink linen shirt under a casual corduroy sports coat.

“Either you’re a very secure man, or you’re a screaming fruit,” said Christina.

“You’ve got me – it’s either one or the other.”

“You smell good, your shoes are polished and you’re thirty years old and not spending Christmas with a wife and kids. You’re gay.”

“I’m certainly cheerful. Beyond that, no comment.”

They were separated as the flight was called, but just as they were boarding Andy felt a hand reach out and squeeze his gently.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Karin whispered. “I read about it at the time. You must be devastated.”

He looked into her eyes and saw nothing but sympathy. She held his hand slightly longer than was necessary and he felt a frisson of electricity shot through his arm.

“You have to soldier on, which is why I didn’t pull out of this contract. But it leaves a hole. I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell anyone. I don’t want to be the grieving freak.”

She touched her nose with her forefinger, nodded quickly and was gone.

As the plane screeched down the runway and the airhostess went into her pre-flight routine, like a Balinese dancer on valium, Andy’s mind drifted over the coming weeks. It was the first time he had taken a long-term contract since Kevin’s death. The money was not great, but the lure of the Arctic was what drew him back every year. He loved walking in the fells, seeing the snow turn the trees into a living Christmas. He loved the half-wild reindeer wandering the trails, and he loved lying on the snow late at night, snug in a thermal snow suit, looking up at the Milky Way and the dancing Northern Lights. He hoped that the magic would work its allure this year, and he would return to Ireland ready for a fresh start in the New Year.

His musings were disturbed by one of the stewardesses. She delivered the platter of plastic food with a smile, and Andy tucked in. Four rows back Christina leant towards Karin.

“I think you like him.”

“What’s not to like? He’s friendly, he’s funny, and he has style.”

“And a great arse.”

“Stop – I’m not interested.”

“You need to get back in the saddle.”

“Don’t be so crude. I’ve sworn off men for the rest of the year.”

At Helsinki they transferred to a Finnair flight to Kittila. It was dark as the plane landed – though that far north it was dark most of the time in winter, so that signified little. As the plane taxied to a halt Jack stood up and stretched to the overhead locker, taking down his duty-free bag. At the whiskey shop in Heathrow he had splashed out on a cask-strength Lagovulin, matured sixteen years. It should supply the Christmas cheer – and the central heating if the temperature dropped too much.

As they left the plane the cold hit him like a physical blow. It was like being immersed in a vat of some liquid that didn’t wet him, but still whipped away all his heat. Then he could feel a peculiar prickly, tickling sensation in his nostrils as he breathed in. It was the nostril hairs freezing and thawing as he inhaled and exhaled. It felt as though his nose were permanently slightly stuffed. He was glad to reach the door of the airport and step into the small corridor leading to baggage reclaim.

Two tour guides were already there to help the guests. The staff were directed to go to one corner after they had reclaimed their baggage.

After a few minutes a motley crew had assembled. Most were young, and some looked as if they had just realised that this was not the place for them. But they were committed to it now, and were stuck in the cold for the next five weeks. Through the glass of the door Jack could see across the car park. There were a few vehicles scattered around, most near the terminal. A little further away were two coachs, and beside them a mini-bus. That would be the staff transport. Through the swirl of wind-blown snow they watched as a solitary figure came from the minibus, smothered in a thick red parka, and topped by an elaborate woollen hat with three peaks. It was impossible to distinguish the sex, but from the height Jack guessed a man. He was wrong. When the automatic door opened and the figure stepped inside, she pulled off her hat with a dramatic flourish, and shook her head as a dog shakes the water from its back. A mane of golden hair tumbled down her shoulders, and she smiled radiantly.

“Welcome to Lapland. I am Satu, and our driver Lasse has the bus ready for us. Has everyone got their luggages?”

Her English was good, though slightly accented, and she had some grammatical quirks that only added to the charm of her voice. There was a chorus of assent as people picked up their bags, and she smiled again. She smiled easily. Quickly she strode through the airport, finding an official, and chatting briefly in Finnish. She took out a clip-board from beneath the parka, and made some notes. She replaced the clipboard, nodded at the official, and then rejoined the group.

“We go now. Luosto is one hour and a half to drive, and dinner is ready when we are there. Tomorrow at eight we have a meeting. Then I tell you more.”

They followed her across the cold car park, and were glad to step into the warmth of the coach. Andy was the last to board. He stepped onto the bus and looked around for an empty seat. Satu, seated just behind the driver, gestured slightly with a nod and a smile, and he sat down beside her.

“You’re the new magician?”

“How did you know?”

“You are older than the rest, but not fat enough or old enough yet to play Joola Pooka – that is Father Christmas to you.”

“How cold is it today? I’ve heard that it’s been a hard winter so far.”

“Cold enough to freeze the balls off a snowman,” she said.

She filled in the rest of the hour to Olos telling him about the land, the locals, and the conditions – all information he knew already. He barely noticed the countryside – bare trees and thick snow – as he threw in a few questions, and learnt that she had done two years national service with the Finnish army before studying tourism at Sodankylä, a tiny wilderness town thirty minutes south and east of their destination.

She seemed to be flirting with Andy, and he didn’t mind one bit. At one stage she took off her thick fleece. Underneath she was wearing a plain white t-shirt, and her arms were slim but muscular. She had the body of an athlete and the grace of a model.

I’m surrounded by gorgeous and friendly women. Kevin would have been in his element, he thought.

All too soon the journey ended, and the bus pulled off the main road, onto a country laneway. After three miles the lights of the ski resort could be seen, and as they rounded a bend the entire hill, floodlit, came into view. To the left was a massive tee-pee structure, which seemed to house a grocery store and a pizza parlour. To the right was a large modern hotel, a structure of startling architecture. The rounded walls spotlighted in different colours were, Jack supposed, an interpretition of the Northern Lights. The blackened steel beams embedded in the concrete of the walls probably represented the pines of the forest. Jack wished that the forest would grow to the walls of the hotel and hide, or at least soften, the hideousness of it. Then they were past it.

They went up a steep slip road, and to their right they saw a huge log structure, at least 250 feet long. It was the log cabin restaurant, the largest log cabin in the world. It seated over 200 in comfort (and 300 in no comfort for the busy Christmas Day tour), and this was where Jack would be entertaining, teamed with Big Foot the Clown. Two other entertainers had the architectural monstrosity down the hill, and Andy was glad he had not drawn the short straw.

Finally the bus drove into a small grove of log cabins, of various sizes. Some looked like large family dwellings. Others were more substantial. They parked in front of one of the biggest, and the door of the minibus slid open with a soft whish. Satu took the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Olos, the jewel in the Finnish fells. This is your cabin. Inside Martin, the tour manager, will show you your rooms. You eat there as well, unless you are one of the people who eat in one of the hotels.”

Andy knew that referred only to the entertainers attached to a specific hotel. He had the option of eating in the log cabin restaurant, but he remembered that when the Scandic hotel chain had purchased the Arcticia hotel chain five years previously, the sticking point had been the log cabin restaurant, the runt of the Arcticia stable. Once the Scandic took over the standards had improved, but it was still the runt, and the kitchen tended to be staffed with chefs that Scandic couldn’t fire, but wouldn’t allow work in their better establishments. He would probably eat in the staff cabin if the staff chef was any good, he thought.

Satu went on: “This cabin is for the staff from the British Isles – and Ireland.” She smiled at Andy. “The big cabin back the road and on our left is the one we Finnish will be staying in. You are welcome there, but guests are always more welcome if they bring a bottle. If you keep walking the same direction, we are five minutes from the Hovi, what you English call a pub. There is Karaoke there two nights a week. Tonight is one such night. I may see you there. Otherwise, the meeting is tomorrow morning, up in the log cabin restaurant, at 8am. You will all be there. There are no exceptions.

“Some safety rules before I go. If you get caught outside, under no circumstances eat the yellow show. That’s where the huskies have pissed. Don’t go out without your snowsuits – within fifteen minutes you will be unconscious, and within an hour you will be dead. And look out for the chef. He’s crazy.”

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Gilli was in a private club in St Petersburg eating blinis and caviar with a troop of Rwandan Mountain Guerrillas. At least that is what it felt like. Russian gangsters are a breed unto themselves. Loud, crass, and obnoxious, they are the masters of their universe, and they let everyone know it. Gregori, the leader – or Czar, as he liked to be called – was a huge man with a red face and a nose criss-crossed with broken veins. He smoked an unfiltered cigarette while he ate, which Gilli took as a crime against good taste at the very least. He seemed to use his fingers almost as often as his cutlery, and he mashed the food into his face.

He was dressed in an expensive pin-striped suit, which he managed to make look cheap. It didn’t fit him properly and he wore his collar unbuttoned, with a broad tie like a bib hanging down from his neck. Beside him to his right was his number two, his son. The czarevich was tall and muscular, and obviously worked out, unlike his father. He had heavy shoulders, a skull that was shaven almost to a polish, and dead eyes. Dressed all in black, the only glimmer of colour was a gold tie-pin inset with a ruby, and a gaudy Rolex.

Four other men were ranged around the table, and you could tell their place in the hierarchy by the enthusiasm with which they threw themselves into the feast. Gilli could read the command structure like a book. Everyone respected the father, and feared him, in that order. The son was just feared. He had not yet earned their respect.

One quiet man in glasses ate like a French man, fastidiously. He laughed and joked with the others, only less so. He sipped wine rather than necking beer or chugging back vodka, and his tie matched his shirt and jacket. He’s the money man, Gilli had thought. He’s Gregori’s Beni. But he had been wrong, as Gregori delighted in telling him. The studious man was a senior official from the Mayor’s office. He was there so that Gilli could understand how well-connected and important Gilli was in the new Russia.

A middle-aged man sat at Gregori’s left, and he chatted freely with his leader. An old and trusted friend, his days would be numbered when the young man took over. The father’s advisors would die with the father. It was always the way. As a half-Arab Gillis understood this, and approved. He smiled at the thought that the Slav did not understand it, not being from a sufficiently hard culture. He would end his life wondering why his years of service had merited such a harsh superannuation.

Two other men shared the table. Both were young and very big, and were not eating or drinking much. They were watching. Gregori had boasted that one was the All-Russian Samba champion, while the other had sparred with Nikolai Valuev while he had been heavyweight champion. Gilli, who had never heard of Nikolai Valuev, was not impressed. Hired muscle made a good show, but a bullet ended all arguments. A bicep wouldn’t stop a Beretta.

Apart from that the busiest and most prestigious restaurant in St Petersburg was empty. That was the depth of Gregori’s influence.

They had been drinking steadily all afternoon (with Gilli discretely spilling more than he took) and everyone was in high spirits.

”A toast!” roared Gregori. “A pox on this Irish dog. May the devil fuck him up the arse with a hot fork this very night.”

The glasses were raised, emptied, slammed noisily on the table, then thrown vigorously against the walls of the room. Gilli threw a partially full glass. No one noticed.

“My friends need more drink,” Gregori roared, and a waiter came running over.

When the desert came Gilli wondered for the thousandth time what he was doing with these animals. It was Crepe Suzette, which was already kitsch back in the days Gilli had studied in the Sarbonne. Now it looked positively andeluvian, though the pretty waitress did her best to ham up the ceremony. She poured on the Gran Marnier, turned up the heat on the portable gas ring, and flamed the alcohol. The sickly orange pancakes blazed merrily. Then one of the two bodyguards – the Samba champion, if Gilli remembered correctly – grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her backwards, until she was sitting on the flaming confectionary. She screamed in pain, then ran from the room in tears, her crys drowned out in a howl of laughter from the men. Gregori reached across the table and shook the hand of the grinning Samba champion.

“You see why I keep him around me? He’s not just an ornament,” he laughed.

Just then his phone rang, and he pawed at it with his pudgy fingers. He listened for a few moments, the ghost of a smile crossing his face. Then he stuffed the phone into his top pocket.

“Gilli, your friend is dead,” he announced triumphantly.

Gilli looked stunned.

“So soon? How did you manage it?”

“I don’t know. Those are just details. But the important news is that he is dead.”

Gilli grinned. This saved him a trip to Lapland and more time among savages.

“How did he die? When did it happen?”

“I don’t know,” said the Russian. “Some time tomorrow morning.”

“You mean this morning?”

“No – he has one more night to enjoy, then...Kaput!”

“So when you say he’s dead, what you mean is that he is not dead.” There was an underlying harshness in Gilli’s voice that was unmistakable. The Russian responded to it.

“When I say that a man is dead, then he is dead,” he said coldly. “I have a very reliable team on it. These people have tripled my heroin business in Helskink. I trust them. They are in Lapland right now, and they have phoned to tell me that Mr Greig arrived an hour ago. They will kill him in the morning. Simple - the job is done. Andy Greig is dead.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Andy was sharing a room with Big Foot, a young Lancashire lad with spikey blonde hair, a loud mouth, and more attitude than his years merited. The room consisted of two beds, a sofa and a chair. There was also an ensuite toilet with a tiny sauna. Satisfied, Andy went back out to the communal room, with its kitchen off one end, and the sauna off the other. A number of people were milling around – a mix of new arrivals and old hands. Many were getting ready to check out the pub. Some were still at the large table, sitting on the long benches and chatting.

“There’s chilli on the cooker,” said one.

He took a plate of steaming chilli from the pot on the hob, and a few scoops of rice, and sat on the bench.

“Jesus,” he exploded. “What does he put in the chilli – rocket fuel?”

There was a shuffling of seats, then someone whispered: “Not so loud – he’s in the sauna. He might hear you.”

“And…?”

“Someone asked for salt yesterday, and the mad bastard buried a cleaver in the table. He said he had seasoned the food and there was no need for salt,” another man said.

“He’s a head case,” added a third.

“I have to meet this guy,” Andy said, as he surprised himself by going for a second, bigger, bowl of chilli. It was hot enough to bring tears to his eyes, but there was a richness and complexity to it – Andy thought he detected bitter chocolate, and there were definite notes of hickory smoke.

After the chilli he had a small noggin of the duty-free Lagavulin, savouring its smoky richness. He moved into the sitting room.

“What’s this?” He pointed to a lifesize robot figure that was made of lego.

“Chef’s been working on that since we got here,” said a small bald techie. “It works by remote control, or it will when he has it finished.”

“Brilliant,” said Andy, as he lent in to examine the robot. But he lost his footing. In a desperate but futile effort to prevent himself falling over the sofa he grabbed at the robot. With a sickening crash it came down on him, smashing into pieces.

There was a scurrying as people ran for cover, then a bang as the door from the sauna kicked open. A mountain of a man strode into the room, naked except for a small towel wrapped inadequately around his waist. He has a fiery red beard, a wild mane of hair, and naked woman tattooed across his right shoulder. His vast chest and stomach had a number of small white scars.

“What was that crash?” a voice like a highland gale roared.

“Sorry about that,” said Andy. “I accidentally knocked over your robot.”

The giant looked at the smashed collection of lego, then back at Andy, still on his back on the floor.

“No problem, wee man. Did you have some chilli?”

“I did – it was very hot, but by God it was good.”

“I use a square of Bournville chocolate for every pound of beef – and a wee bit of the ash from a Cuban cigar. You follow Rangers or Celtic?”

“Rangers,” said Jack, who wouldn’t have known one end of a football field from the other.

“A fucking taighe, like all the Irish,” said the chef, reaching down and plucking Andy to his feet.

“My name is Hamish Duffie. And who might you be?”

“Andy Greig, new magician.”

Duffie took Andy’s hand, engulfing it in his own in a shake so firm Andy winced.

“You just keep appreciating the food, and we’ll get along just like a chip pan on fire.”

Something flashed in Jack’s mind, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

“Have we met before? I could swear something about you is familiar.”

“No, wee man. I dunno think we’ve met. I make it a point to remember the pricks.”

With a wink he turned and strode back into the sauna.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

The alarm woke him at 7am. A quick shower and a shave, and he was in the kitchen, making toast and bacon. He threw in two eggs at the last minute, sprinkling mixed herbs on them as they fried, then wolfed up the breakfast. It was seven thirty before the next person made her way into the kitchen. She looked tired. By ten to eight most people were up, and by eight o’clock many of them had made their way through the darkness to the log cabin restaurant. But it was nearly half eight before the meeting began. Anita Chang, resort manager for Elfin Tours, was in control of the meeting, and Arvo Olli, who was responsible for the Finnish staff, handled the briefing about working conditions. Andy knew them both well from previous years. He didn’t like Olli, but Chang was fine. She was calm, but Andy could see that Olli was not happy with the punctuality of the new workers, or their bleary-eyed appearance. Behind him Satu smiled. She seemed to rise above the tensions, and was radiant in jeans and a woolly jumper depicting a childish snow scene.

It was ten o’clock when the meeting broke up. The workers looked slightly shell-shocked at the amount of information that had been thrown at them, but Andy had half-dozed through it all. He could have given the briefing himself, and wasn’t strictly required to attend any more. But he didn’t want to stand out from the other workers. Getting on was the key a smooth ride over the next five weeks.

As Andy left the room Satu touched him gently on the shoulder.

“I know it’s against the rules, but would you like to go out for a ride on a skidoo? I am tied up here for a while – a meeting with some of our own Finnish people. Will you wait for me in Kertulli’s? I will join you at eleven.”

Kertulli’s was a tee-pee shaped pizza parlour and coffee shop attached to the small grocery story that serviced the resort.

“I’d love to,” Andy said. He was doing nothing else for the morning, so why not? He glanced at his watch. Five past ten. That gave him almost an hour to go up to the ski shop with the others to pick up the snow suits and boots the company provided for them, then down to the tee-pee. No problem.

Eleven o’clock found him sitting in the small restaurant at the back of the grocery shop, drinking a hot chocolate and rum (the speciality of the place, an early morning cross-country skier told him) and eating a star-shaped confectionary that reminded him of a mince pie. He was wearing the all-in-one snow suit, and felt as if he was slowly melting. Satu came on the hour, and he was glad to follow her out into the snow.

North of the Arctic Circle the sun only rises for a few hours during winter – disappearing altogether for a period in December. Dawn had pinkened the sky, and though the sun would not rise until shortly before mid-day, setting again a few minutes later, there was enough light to give an illusion of day. The snow reflects what little light there is in the arctic, so that you can see into the far distance. It is only if you try to take a picture that you realise how little light there actually is for the few hours in the middle of each day. The locals refer to it as grey light rather than day light, and the further north you go, the less of it there is. In Luosto the sun would set permanently a fortnight before Christmas, not rising again until mid January.

“Where are we going?” Andy asked.

“I thought you might like to take a ride out of the resort so you can see the real Lappish Fells.”

Andy was childishly excited as they walked towards the parked skidoos. In five years he had rarely been given a chance to ride one of the powerful snowmobiles. The company felt that the risk of injury was too high, and if they lost a key member of staff it would be very difficult to find a replacement above the Arctic Circle. So there was a blanket ban on entertainers and other staff skidooing. In fact, strictly speaking, you needed a licence to ride one. But Andy also knew, as a five year veteran with a good safety record, the company would turn a blind eye on this morning’s escapade. This would be fun. And added to his childish excitement was a more mature feeling. When a tall blonde picks you as her companion on a skidoo ride, it is natural to feel a quickening of the blood.

About twenty skidoos were stored on a frozen pond (it gave level parking) not far from the log cabin restaurant. The big machines had two small skies in front, connected to the motorbike style handlebars, for steering. Propulsion was provided by the large caterpillar track at the rear. The driver sat on the saddle like a motorbike, but the machine handled more like a quad bike, or so Andy had heard.

Quickly Satu ran through the controls. There was the ignition key, the red button that switched on the built-in heater in the handlebars (essential or the wind-chill on a fast ride would cost you your fingers), and the brakes, plain lever brakes like a bicycle. To accelerate you twisted your wrist and the throttle on the handlebar turned. To reverse, you turned the skidoo around and went back the way you came. It wasn’t rocket science.

Satu picked two machines, both slightly smaller than the average.

“I can handle the big ones. I’m a big boy now,” joked Andy.

“The small ones are racing machines. The big ones are pulling machines. They tow sledges. Of course if you want one of the draught horses instead of a pedigree...

“I’ll take the small machine. How fast do they go?”

“Eighty, perhaps a hundred kilometres an hour. More down a smooth hill. Slower in the forest.”

Andy mounted the machine, and familiarised himself with the controls before turning the key in the ignition. The machine came to life, and the powerful headlight beamed across the ice. Satu gave him a pair of very thick leather gloves, to go over his thinsulate inner gloves. She opened the small compartment behind and beneath his seat, then straightened up, puzzled.

“There is no helmet.”

There was a man under an awning tinkering with the engine of one of the big skidoos. He came over.

“Lasse took the helmet. He said that it needed to be replaced. He will be back by two o’clock,” he said, in heavily accented English. He seemed to have to think before each phrase.

“We will take one of the other helmets,” she said, but he began to speak rapidly to her in Finnish. Following the brief exchange, she turned to Andy.

“All the skidoo drivers will be working this afternoon, getting equipment out to Santa’s Cabin near the old mines. So there is no spare helmet.”

“We’ll go without,” suggested Andy.

She thought for a moment, then grinned.

“Follow me.” And she was off.

Andy turned his wrist and the purr of the engine became a deep snarl, growing in volume. The caterpillar track turned and the powerful machine lurched forward. Instantly Andy eased back on the throttle, and the machine steadied. He followed Satu across the pond, then up the steep bank. It felt as if the machine was tottering on the brink of turning over, and he accelerated again. The skidoo popped over the bank, and they were on the main road. Slowly they crossed the icy road and were in a wide path at the side. She continued along the path past the slip road for the log cabin restaurant, turning left at the tee-pee grocery, then up the slight incline towards the ski slope. At the last minute she turned right into the forest, along a wide smooth path. It was the cross-country ski path, and skidoos were not meant to use it. But December and January are not high-season for skiing in Finland, as the temperature can drop as low as minus 50 centigrade, so the path was almost deserted. They picked up speed, but Andy knew they weren’t close to stretching the machines. This was just the warm-up, and he enjoyed the scenery as they went. The sun was just rising, and the golden orb could be glimpsed through the trees whenever the track took them uphill. On the dips, the sun disappeared, but the striations of orange, flame red and pink in the lightly clouded sky, glimpsed flickering through the bare trees, was magnificent. The crisp cold air in his lungs made him feel more alive than he had felt in years, and unexpectedly the words of an old Neil Young song popped into his head, about a blond with her hair streaming in the wind as she rode a Harley. He struggled, finally remembering the chorus: Somewhere on a desert highway she rides a Harley-Davidson, her long blonde hair flyin’ in the wind. She’s been running half her life, the chrome and steel she rides colliding with the very air she breathes, the air she breathes.

Satu did not have her hair flyin’ in the wind. She was wearing a battered black helmet with a white stripe for visibility. And the air she was breathing could freeze a mug of steaming coffee in minutes. But it was a sexy image

The ski track wound through the forest, and Andy was occasionally able to glimpse the road into Luosto on his right. Then they veered away from the road, and they could have been a million miles from civilisation. Winding, weaving, rising and dipping, the path took them further and further into the wilderness. Then suddenly the path opened out, and there was a small cabin on their right. Satu waved, then pulled up in front of the cabin. Andy zoomed in, only just stopping before he struck the side of the cabin.

“My favourite spot on this ski route,” she grinned. “I discovered it last week. It is a popular stopover for the cross-country skiers.”

They entered the small cabin, which was lit by candlelight and small oil lamps. A tall, lank man with a droopy moustache and big hands was seated at a gas stove. He grinned as they came in, and began speaking in rapid Finnish. Satu said something then jerked a thumb towards Andy, and the man smiled at him. Andy smiled back, and for a moment they engaged in a pantomime of communication, before Satu led him over to a small table by the window.

“He bring over two chocolates, and maybe some cakes,” she explained.

“With rum?”

She seemed surprised. “Is there another way to drink chocolate?”

As she said this she touched him gently on the hand with her finger, and he felt a shiver run through him. But he cautioned himself to be careful – he might be misreading the signals. He was in a new country, and perhaps the culture just allowed greater interaction between the sexes. He sipped his chocolate reflectively.

“I’m so glad I came back. I almost didn’t this year,” he said. “This place is amazing – it’s almost like stepping into a picture of Christmas. It’s so damned perfect.”

“You are a romantic at heart.” She touched his hand again. He wasn’t imagining it. A signal was being sent. He was not good at the semaphore of love – or lust for that matter – and he wasn’t sure how to return the signal. Perhaps there was no need?

He didn’t have much time to ponder this. Suddenly she was on her feet.

“We go now. This time we leave the trail, and go through the woods. We go fast. Are you ready for that?”

“Does a cow kick?”

They eased the skidoos onto the trail, then quickly turned left and nosed over the bank, leaving the ski path and entering the virgin show between the trees. It took some careful manoeuvring and a delicate though decisive touch on the throttle, to break a trail to the top of the small hill, but once over the top they came onto a smaller trail than the one they had been following up to now. Clearly this was not a ski path. It was a skidoo path, and the snow was compacted from the passage of the powerful machines. Satu was in the lead, and her skidoo shot forward. Andy followed, feeling a mad rush of exhilaration as the machine glided swiftly across the snow, lurching crazily on the bends. It was all he could do to keep up with the fleeing figure ahead of him, and he marvelled at her daring. The trees on either side came perilously close, and more than once he was brushed by passing branches. The next ten minutes passed in an adrenaline-fuelled blur, then suddenly the path levelled out and the trees fell away on both sides. There was a sickening bump, then the machine was gliding, almost floating. They were on a frozen lake, one of the thousands that dot the Lappish fells. A fresh fall of snow gave the lake the sheen of an unexplored plain, the only marks visible the twin tracks of Satu’s skidoo. She was well ahead of him now, so he pushed the machine to the limit, and put his head down. He watched the needle edge up, past the fifty, past the sixty, the seventy. He hit eighty kilometres per hour, and still the needle climbed. It levelled out at ninety five, and he was level with her.

Grinning maniacally, he gave a thumbs up, then began to pull ahead, determined to squeeze every last ounce of performance from his skidoo before reaching the far shore of the lake, where he would have to slow down again. Wearing no helmet, the scream of the engine filled his head, and the rush of the wind chilled his cheeks, despite the double balaclava and the goggles. This was living.

Suddenly he jerked the machine to the left, then right again, just to feel the wild, out-of-control sensation, then he aimed straight at the gap in the trees where the trail resumed at the far side of the lake. There was a rise from the shore of the lake, and there would be a bump. Reluctantly he eased his wrist back, throttling down in plenty of time.

Nothing happened.

The roar of the engine continued unabated. The whish of the wind was undiminished. Andy began to joggle his wrist, trying to coax some response from the throttle, but it was as if something inside the handle of his machine had snapped. All tension was suddenly gone from the throttle, and the skidoo was stuck on maximum acceleration. No amount of twisting was going to change that. Desperately he tried think of a way to bring the powerful machine to a halt. He turned the ignition key, but it was stuck. It would only come out if the engine was idle. He tried the brakes, but at full acceleration they only provided the slightest check to the forward motion. And if he continued to lean on the brake, there was the danger of it burning out before it did him any good. No, he would have to steer his way out of this one. The edge of the lake was rapidly approaching, and beyond it, the trees.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

In the staff cabin many had gone back to bed. It had been dark when the meeting finished, and it seemed natural to hit the pillows. It was a danger the old-hands knew well; it was very easy to become lazy in the long Arctic nights. Some of the staff were milling around the large communal living room, playing cards or reading books. One or two of the more adventurous were preparing for a walk in the cold.

“You fancy a stroll?” asked Karin.

“About as much as I fancy a bad dose of the flu,” said Christina. “Put on the kettle and relax.”

Sipping coffees and looking out through the triple-glazed window at the snow drifting down gently on the trees Karin fell oddly quiet.

“You’re not brooding on Tim?”

“Of course not.”

“It’s better you found out about him now. You could have moved in with him. Have you found his replacement yet?”

“Christina!”

“Don’t play coy with me. I saw the way you looked at that Irish man.”

“You’re unbelievable. A woman can survive without a man. And he’s not even my type.”

“Of course not. He’s far too old for you.”

“He’s only thirty.”

“So you do like him!”

“No! Yes. I do like him, but I don’t fancy him. And he certainly doesn’t fancy me. Did you see the way he was with that blond coach rep?”

“Don’t read anything into that. It’s just the way men are. You smile at them and they follow you around like lap dogs. Am I right, Michael?” she shouted over at one of the actors who would be playing elves with them.

“Don’t ask me, honey. I’m gay,” he shouted back.

“Don’t mind him. Just smile at Andy and he’ll be your lapdog.”

“I don’t want a lapdog. I just want to get through Christmas and go home.”

A few minutes later the door from the corridor beside the kitchen opened and Hamish the chef emerged. That was his own private suite. He got a suite, while the others shared rooms. How he swung that no one knew. He had clearly been enjoying a sauna. His large body was glistening with sweat, and he was wearing nothing but a pair of Union Jack boxers, with a towel draped over his shoulders. He went into the kitchen and poured himself a coffee, then sat on the sofa opposite Karin and Christina.

“Do you plan on spending the month in that sauna?” asked Christina.

“If I do, I might drop a few pounds.”

“You could drop fifty pounds, and you’d still look like a bear.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

“It’s lost on me.”

“It only works on she-bears.”

“You realise you are spoiling the view. Here we are in the most beautiful place on earth, looking out on snow and trees and reindeer, and if we turn the other way we see you sprawled in front of us in your boxers. Would you ever put some clothes on?”

“And why are you wearing Union Jack jocks? I thought that a proud Scots man like yourself would never wear the Union Jack,” added Karin.

“You’d be wrong there, wee lassie. These boxers are all the rage north of the border. We like a dram, and every time we drink too much we run the risk of pissing in our pants. So with every drop of patriotic whiskey I drink I increase the chances of pissing on your flag. That’s true nationalism.”

He took another sip of his coffee.

“Where’s my wee Irish friend? He owes me a day’s work. He knocked my robot, and he’s going to rebuild it.”

“He went out on a skidoo with his fancy woman.”

Hamish straightened suddenly.

“He what?”

“That blonde coach rep, the one with the sneaky smile and the fluttering eyelashes,” said Christina. “She asked him did he want to go for a ride. And he did.”

“Did she now?”

“She did. What’s it to you?”

“The man owes me a bit of work. And I always collect.”

Hamish stood, then walked briskly towards the corridor leading to the bedrooms. A few minutes later he was back, dressed in jeans and a warm jumper. He strode through the room without looking at anyone, then opened the door and stepped into the snow. He didn’t bother to put on a snowsuit.

A moment later the sound of an engine starting could be heard.

“I didn’t know he had his own skidoo,” said Karin.

“Yeah – it’s in his contract. It’s so that he can fetch supplies for us,” said Michael.

“He seems to be in an awful hurry.”

“As long as he’s gone...”

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

The banks on both sides were racing past now, and he was approaching the gap of the trail at an alarming rate. It looked such a small gap, and his only hope was to hit it straight in the middle, and hope for the best. In the wing mirror he saw the skidoo of Satu slowing down, and she was frantically signalling him to ease back. He could see her speed up again to catch up when it was obvious he was going to hit the gap at speed.

He braced himself, and felt a sickening lurch as the machine left the smoothness of the frozen lake and hit the bank. He felt his whole body thrown forward with the impact, then he crashed down on the seat as the skidoo surged forward again. With just inches to spare on his left, he shot into the gap, and was off down the trail. Suddenly the going was more difficult, and the bumps and hillocks in the path provided some resistance for the runaway skidoo, but it was still doing over eighty as he wrestled for control. Each small turn brought him to the brink of disaster, and he felt the strain on his shoulders as the handlebars bucked beneath him. He was being bounced up and down like a child on a trampoline, but without the cushioning softness on landing. Andy had seen rodeo riders in America, and he imagined this is how they must feel as they rode the rage-maddened bulls. But no bull ever rode at that speed.

The few straight stretches on the trail gave him some respite, but only added to the speed of the machine, so they were a mixed blessing. He cursed his foolishness in agreeing to go out without a helmet. A head-on collision with any of the trees could prove fatal. Trees are the one thing that will not give way in a collision – they have deep roots, and can be a more solid barrier than a concrete wall. Andy knew his only chance of avoiding serious injury was to pick the site of his almost inevitable crash very carefully – and that meant staying on the trail for as long as he could keep the machine under control.

He could no longer even see the headlight of Satu. She was well behind him, and beyond all ability to help. He was on his own. All he could think of was to stay calm, and steer as instinctively as possible. The brake helped a small bit on the corners, but not enough to give him any confidence.

The trail wound in a gentle curve to the left now, going up a shallow incline. The trees were thinner here, and the path wide. The machine whined up to full speed, the needle nudging ninety. By rising and leaning his body to the left he could keep it on the trail, as his eyes peeled the fast approaching ground for a suitable crash site. Suddenly he saw that the path twisted right at an almost ninety degree angle. He had only seconds to throw his body across the machine, jerking the handlebar around to make the corner. It would be touch and go, and any misjudgement would be punished. If he turned too sharply he risked cart wheeling. With the weight of the machine and no helmet, he didn’t fancy that option. If his turn was too shallow, he would overshoot the path and plunge into the forest. Although the trees had thinned out a bit, a head-on collision was almost inevitable. The best he could hope for was a side-on, which would probably crush his leg, and smash ribs.

He overshot. He didn’t shift his weight in time, and the machine ploughed through the fresh snow at the side of the trail, rocketing towards a big fir. He managed to swing to the side of the tree, then swung slightly in the opposite direction to avoid the next tree. He shot through two more, and then saw the danger – a sudden steep fall-off. The skidoo was about to shoot into air, plunging him to an almost certain death. Desperately he dived to the side. He looked at his navel, forcing his head to tuck in, then shot out his arm to hit the ground first and initiate a roll. He remembered that from doing judo as a schoolboy. As his hand hit the snow he allowed his arm to collapse, and his shoulder hit hard. But he was rolling, and the searing pain that shot through him was a wrench rather than a break. The speed of the roll carried him about thirty feet, and would have carried him further had he not been brought to a stop with a sickening thud against a tree trunk. He felt the blow to his side knock the air from his lungs, and he thought he would be lucky to escape broken ribs. As he lay in the snow he heard the crunch as the skidoo smashed into the ground one hundred and fifty feet below him.

He was still lying in the snow when Satu found him a few minutes later, and he allowed her to help him to his feet. Gingerly he moved his left shoulder, and winced. He then took a deep breath, and winced again.

“Are you all right?” she almost screamed. She seemed very upset – almost angry with upset, he thought confusedly.

“Don’t know. My shoulder is out. Collar bone is either dislocated or broken, can’t tell yet. My ribs are bruised, but I don’t think they are broken. I had a lucky escape.”

“What the hell were you doing riding at that speed? Stupid macho bastard show-off!”

He realised that she didn’t know about the malfunction on the skidoo. He also realised with a start that she was concerned about him. To hear her swear had jarred. She appeared to be so calm and in control. Briefly he explained what had happened, and her anger turned to concern.

“We must get you to a doctor.”

“Just get me back to the cabin, and we can assess damage,” he said.

He was a bit leery of getting on the back of her skidoo, but he didn’t fancy the five mile walk back to Luosto, so he sat behind her, his good arm around her slender waist. They moved slowly through the forest, taking the corners at a snail’s pace, and he was glad when the lights of the cabins came in view. A few minutes later they pulled up at the skidoo parking area.

The man who had been there earlier was still there, tinkering with a screwdriver. When he Satu’s skidoo arrive he stood up with a smile, but then he saw Andy was sitting behind her. Immediately his face blackened. He almost ran over and pulled Satu off the machine, dragging her to one side. Andy did not know what was going on, but he could hear the anger in the man’s voice. But Satu was giving as good as she got, shouting back at the man. Both were gesturing angrially, and he saw both point at him during the course of the conversation.Finally Satu detached herself from the man and marched back to Andy, her face dark and fixed.

“I bring you back to your cabin. I come in with you,” she snapped.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Andy grinned. “What was the row?”

“Bastard – he blames me. It is not my fault.”

“It was a mechanical fault.”

She glared at him.

“Yes – mechanical fault.”

She got on the skidoo in front of him and turned the key.

By the time they had got back to the staff cabin Satu seemed to have calmed down. Andy stripped off his balaclava and gloves. Because of the searing pain in his shoulder Satu helped him with his snowsuit and boots, before they moved through the communal kitchen towards his quarters. Satu followed him. There were few people left in the cabin – most were out exploring the snow, or were at their various locations working. Inside his room Andy removed his fleece and thermal vest. There was an angry red weal over his ribcage on the right hand side, and Andy knew that if it was this discoloured already there would be a vicious bruise, and plenty of tenderness. Coughing and breathing deeply hurt, so at least one of the ribs was probably cracked. But ribs are not load-bearing, so that should not be a huge problem. He would get it checked out later and have it strapped if it needed it. He looked at himself in the mirror. He appeared lopsided. His left shoulder hung down an inch or so below his right.

“Is it bad?” she asked.

“Not as bad as I expected. See how the shoulder has dropped? The collar bone is dislocated. If it was broken, the shoulder would have dropped far more. The ribs are just bruised, maybe cracked. But I’ll live.”

“You are sure?”

“I’m a magician. When you escape from strait jackets enough you get used to dislocated collar bones and other injuries.”

He stretched out his left hand, gripping the door jamb at shoulder height, then turned to his right, keeping the arm at full stretch.

“I might be able to push it back into place.”

“Can I...”

“It will hurt like hell. A bit gruesome.”

“I was in the army.”

Her strong fingers gripped his injured shoulder.

“What do I do?”

“Push down firmly but sharply when I say.”

He turned even more, then said: “Now,” winching as she pressed.

“We’ll try again. It didn’t work. This time press as strongly as you can.”

She did. As she pressed down he yelped in pain, then collapsed to the ground under the pressure, but when he stood up and looked in the mirror, both shoulders had evened out.

“It’s in. I’ll live. Thanks,” he grinned.

She smiled back at him, her even teeth flashing and the smile easing the care in her eyes.

“You need a sauna. It will lessen the swelling, and perhaps reduce the pain. Go now.”

“We have a sauna here in the room.”

“No. A proper sauna. The cabin has one.”

He threw a towel over his shoulders and followed Satu back through the cabin to the big communal sauna. It was bigger and more comfortable than the tiny one in the ensuite. It was also hot, too hot for an Irishman. But he would put up with it. He needed his shoulder loose for his work. The sauna room consisted of a changing room, a large tiled area with six showers, and two pine-lined sauna cubicles, each of which could sit four comfortably or eight at a squeeze.

Andy left Satu in the changing area, walked into the shower area, dropped his trousers, covered himself with the towel, then threw his trousers back into the changing area, his eyes averted. He looked at the two cubicle doors. Both had dials beside them, and both had a red light glowing, indicating that they were on. He was about to enter the sauna on the right when he heard giggling and the sound of voices. Immediately he turned to the one on the left, and approached the door. He listened, heard nothing, and pushed the door gently ajar. It was empty.

“I’m in the sauna on the left,” he said to Satu, then sat on the lowest shelf, towel wrapped firmly around his waist. When he had acclimatised he would move up a shelf.

A shadow darkened the door, and Satu joined him in the heat. She had a towel wrapped around her, and her shoulders glowed in the red light of the sauna. He couldn’t help starring. Her golden hair flowed down. She had the slim, tight body of an athlete, muscular and firm, and her arm brushed against his as she sat down beside him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Getting better all the time.”

“Good.”

With a smooth movement she pulled away the towel and left it on the bench beside her. With a start Andy realised she was naked. Immediately he shot his head up and began examining the beaming on the roof.

“My body displeases you?”

“Not at all. It’s just that I’m Irish, and we don’t... we don’t see each other naked.” He was blushing, and looking everyplace but at her.

“I am Finnish. We see each other naked all the time. You do not go into a sauna in a raincoat.”

Through the acute embarrassment her physical closeness excited his senses. He could feel the warmth of her body, smell the freshness of her hair and the faint odour of perspiration beneath it.

“You English are so prudish.”

“I’m Irish.”

“Same difference. You are all prudes.”

Her hands moved swiftly, pulling away the towel he had wrapped strategically around his waste. She burst out laughing.

“This I do not believe. You wear boxer shorts to the sauna. I will tell the whole world, and you will be the joke of Christmas.”

Her fingers found the top of the boxers, then slipped inside.

“I think you are glad I am here with you. I can feel you are glad.”

“Cut that out,” he said in a panic.

“Sorry,” she grinned, withdrawing her hand. “But you Irish are so full of shit. Your mother has a body. Your sisters have bodies. I am sure that even you have seen a woman naked before?”

“That was different.”

“Why? Because you were in bed?”

He didn’t reply.

“Why can a man and a woman not sit together in a sauna, and it mean nothing more than a man and a woman sitting together in a sauna? I do not play the sexual politics. I am here to help you with your injuries.”

“Point taken,” he said.

“So look at my body.”

He forced himself to look, and had to admit that it wasn’t such a hardship. She was beautiful. He even allowed himself a glance at her small, exquisite breasts.

“Now stop looking at me as a woman, and start looking at me as a person. Then we can enjoy this sauna.”

“Fair enough,” said Andy. He had never met anyone quite like her – so direct and outspoken. A contrast to the women he knew back home. He smiled at her.

“Satu, you’re all woman. But I promise you I’ll dismiss that from my mind forever.”

“Good. Now stop looking at my tits and relax.”

He closed his eyes and did just that. The heat began to seep into his bruised muscles, and he quickly felt the sweat oozing from his skin, and dripping from his forehead onto his face. It was so hot breathing was laboured. And his ribs hurt. After a few minutes he had had enough.

“I need to get out.”

“Five more minutes.”

He gutted it out, but it was no longer relaxation. Finally, he felt Satu tap him on the shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She smiled at him.

“Time. Now you take a very cold shower. You will feel better then, but it will still be a few days before you are loose again.”

“Thank you,” he smiled.

She smiled back. The invitation was obvious, but he hesitated. Finally she broke the silence.

“You do not desire me?”

“You’re a beautiful woman.”

“Yes – but that is not what I asked you.”

He looked at her, unsure of how to respond. She was gorgeous, and he could hear his sister’s voice in his head: you don’t close the deal. But he knew what he had been thinking all the time this beautiful naked woman was sitting beside him. As he had sat beside her, his eyes closed as he tried to relax, the image that kept popping into his head was of Karin. What would she look like draped seductively in a towel?

“I’m sorry. I think it must be the accident. And I’m having a rough year. It’s complicated...” he muttered.

She seemed to accept this, and they both stood. Despite his boxers Andy wrapped the towel around his waist. Satu picked up her towel, but let it trail behind her. She opened the door and walked out into the communal shower area between the two sauna cubicles. Andy followed her, smiling as he put an arm around her shoulder, and kissing her gently on the cheek.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Jarno looked out the window with satisfaction. The snow was falling in dense flurries, each catching and reflecting the bright lights that surrounded the log cabin restaurant. The ground was white, except for the footprints he had left as he walked into the lobby. He turned to the receptionist, who also manned the tourist shop.

“God has dandruff.”

“As long as he has no lice,” she replied.

“Everything ready inside?”

“Should be – they’ve been at it all morning,” she said.

Jarno went into the main restaurant and looked around in satisfaction. The bottom third had been cleared away and a small stage erected. That was where Andy the magician would work. He enjoyed Andy – and he was easy to work with. No demands. A space near the middle housed a baby grand piano. The tour company had insisted on that. He would have preferred an upright – it would have left the seating less cramped. Finally, a spotlight near the entrance highlighted the space for the harpist. This was the only disappointment; the harpist was right between the gents and the ladies toilets. Every year this caused tension, but what was he to do? The resort would be operating to capacity during the five weeks of the Santa tours. The first guests had arrived the previous night, and they would be having lunch in the log cabin restaurant in an hour.

He was delighted to see that the tree was up, and the decorations were in place. Overhead four hanging speakers were suspended from the roof, and there were two speakers on stands by the stage. It was not ideal, and there were blind areas where the sound did not penetrate effectively, but again it was the best they could do. The restaurant had been built as an informal retreat for the skiers and the summer fishermen and hikers, not as a family dining area for three hundred guests.

Just then the double door at the far end of the restaurant, rarely used, was flung open. Through the swirl of snow stepped Duffie, the English chef. He was wearing indoor clothes, and the snow clung to his unruly hair. There was something odd about that man. He was a few reindeer short of a herd. But everyone turned when they saw him, and Jarno used the distraction to walk quietly up to the harpists stool and tape a small black box, about the size of a walkman, to the underside. He quickly stepped away, job done. It was his little joke. The box was a remote controlled fart machine. Ever time he pressed the small remote control in his pocket a loud parp would come from under the misfortunate musician. Last year it had taken over a week before she had found it.

Box in place, Jarno moved into the centre of the restaurant. Duffie was walking towards him, but he ignored the big Scot and walked down towards the stage. It was vital that the stage area did not interfere with the kids’ buffet and the kitchen access. As he was examining it Duffie reached him.

“I’m looking for the wee Irish man.”

“Andy Greig? The entertainment is during dinner, not lunch. You’re a few hours early.”

“He’s out on a skidoo.”

“I know.”

“So where is he now?”

Jarno was about to snap at him, but then he remembered his instructions from Elfin Tours. Duffie is a key member of the team. Give him every co-operation. That doesn’t stop at the kitchen. He sighed.

“He went out with one of the coach reps. I saw them come back about twenty minutes ago. They were heading in the direction of the staff cabin. They should be well there by now.”

The big man shook his head in disbelief, then turned and walked back out into the snow, to retrace his steps.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

Karin was delighted with the accommodation. She was sharing a room with Christina and two other elves. It was cramped but cosy. Triple glazing ensured that. Everything about the accommodation delighted her. The small straw reindeers on the windowsills delighted her. The little wooden elf dolls, with their red and white felt hats, delighted her. The rough logs of the walls with their woody smell, and the large fabric wall hangings, delighted her.

Most of all the thought of having a sauna on hand for the next month delighted her. It would be like being paid to stay at a health spa.

As they got ready for their first sauna (a compromise, as Christina wanted to sit in and do nothing, while Karin wanted to walk in the snow) they sipped their coffee and discussed their colleagues.

“That chef is a weirdo. Did you see the way he just got up and ran out? Didn’t even bother to put on a snow suit.”

“He has enough layers of fat to keep him warm. I wouldn’t worry. Do you really suppose he’s going to find Andy and make him rebuild that robot? I thought he was joking,” said Karin.

“Everyone is terrified of him. He looks like his small brother could be a grizzly bear.”

“Beneath it all he’s probably a pussy cat.”

“Yes – the way a tiger is a type of cat. Did you see Bruce?”

“Who’s Bruce?”

“The tall dreamboat with the blue eyes and the blonde hair. You must have noticed him.”

“You mean elf number three? I’m not into elves.”

“If they all looked like Bruce, I could get into them.”

When they got into the sauna both girls were wearing their swimsuits. They lay their towels carefully down on the pine bench, and sat on them. The smell of pine was warm on their nostrils, and the dull light coming under the door and from the glowing heating element began to unwind their minds, as the heat unwound their bodies. Karin sighed. Christina giggled.

“I’ve heard that you can get pissed in a sauna, if you throw alcohol on the coals instead of water.”

She moved her towel to reveal a vodka bottle. With an impish grin she poured a generous measure over the coals. With a hiss a cloud of steam swarmed to the top of the small sauna. Karin felt a wave of heat assault her nostrils and her lungs, and beads of sweat dripped from her face. This was horrible – and great.

“Careful – that’s way too hot.”

“No pain without gain. Can’t you feel that alcohol getting into your pores and doing you good?”

Outside, through the tiny slit-like window, she could see the snow glistening in the light from the cabin. Inside everything glowed dull red, creating a cocoon of unreality. As more vodka splashed onto the coals, and the hot cloud of alcohol drew beads of sweat from her body, she could feel her head becoming light. Perhaps the heat of the sauna was reacting with the vodka Christina had insisted they lace their coffee with while they were waiting for the sauna to heat up. Whatever, it was working for her.

“This is the life,” she said dreamily.

“You know what I love?” said Christina. “These windows – we can see out but the people outside can’t see in. We can be buck naked and we can flash at the people outside, and the poor sods don’t even know what they’re missing.”

Karin looked out the window.

“There’s no one out there.”

“But someone will come – and I’ll flash them.”

“What’s the point if they don’t know?”

“I’ll know.”

They both giggled, then Christina took a swig from the bottle, handing it over to Karin. Karin took a swig, then poured another stream onto the coals.

“I think I’m pissed,” she said.

“Good,” said Christina. “Because we’re going to flash this guy.”

Squinting out the window Satu could see a burly figure coming through the trees, walking briskly. He was making directly for the cabin, turning right at the last moment to walk along the wall towards the back door back door. Now she could make out the shock of raid hair and the unruly mane of a beard.

“Any minute now,” giggled Christina. “As soon as he reaches our window, we both flash him.”

“No!”

“Don’t chicken out on me now, girl. He won’t even be able to see us. Are you ready?”

Both girls turned around and knelt on the second tier of seats, facing the small window. Christina held the bottle in her hand.

“On three – not yet. Not yet. Nearly. Now – one, two, three!”

With a shriek she pulled down the top of her swimsuit. Karin giggled, but didn’t join in. Christina leant forward and slapped the window with the bottle of vodka. The man jerked towards the window at the noise, and stared straight at the girls, puzzlement written on his face. From his expression Duffie clearly couldn’t see anything. Through the triple glazing of the windows he couldn’t really hear either. Christina began to shake her breasts, pulling faces at the puzzled man. Karin began to laugh.

“Put them away, you’re embarrassing us,” she pleaded.

Christina whooped and hollored until Duffie turned and continued his walk to the door of the cabin. She turned to Karin, a look of delighted satisfaction on her face.

“Got him. We’re going to have fun with that dour bastard.”

She looked at her friend. “I think we’ve had enough. Let’s get out and see what he has to say for himself.”

Both girls stepped from the wooden bench to the tiled floor, then opened the door, stepping out into the communal shower area.

Just at that moment the other sauna cubicle door opened, and a tall blonde Finnish woman stepped, completely naked, into the shower area. She was followed quickly by Andy Greig, who put an arm around her shoulder and kissed her on the cheek. Then he looked up and saw Karin, and a look of dismay crossed his face.

“Shit!” he muttered.

His mouth opened again. He was about to say that it was not what it looked like, when he realised the absurdity of that. What did it look like? And why was he so worried about what Karin would think? Life really was too complicated. All he wanted to do was spend a few weeks working away from all memories and get his head right, so that he could get on with his life. After a dry spell that had stretched from months to nearly two years, he was suddenly interested in one girl, and had another naked by his side, and he wasn’t happy at all with the new situation. Words didn’t come.

Karin was looking at him with an air of discomfort, possibly even of pain, on her face. He was not good at reading the signs, but he knew there was a sign there. Then her face froze into a look of complete disinterest. She just nodded curtly, wrapped her towel around her, and turned towards the door.

“Shit!” he thought again.

Her hand was just reaching for the handle when the door was pushed in against her, and Hamish Duffie stood there. With a glance he took in the situation, and a smile crossed his face.

“Nice body,” he said, glancing unashamedly at the naked Satu. “Now that you’re finished here, there’s a nice lemon cake in the kitchen. Have a slice of it before you go.”

He turned to Andy.

“Get dressed. You and me need to talk. In my office in ten minutes.”

“What’s it...”

“Ten minutes.”

And he was gone.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Duffie’s office was in the suite of rooms off the kitchen. Dressed, Andy followed the chef through the door and down a small corridor. He opened the last door on the left and stepped in. They were at the end of one wing of the L-shaped log cabin, and Diffie’s quarters were quite spacious. There was one bunk bed, the top strewn with clothes. On the other side of the room, now occupied by a table and three chairs, Andy could see the indentations in the rug where the other bunk had been. Two doors led from the bedroom. One was into a small kitchenette, while the other opened into an ensuite bathroom with a small sauna. Andy stepped after Duffie into the sauna.

Everything had been removed. The heating unit was missing, and the benches had been taken out, replaced by a workbench housing two computers and a large-screen television. Various bits of electrical equipment also crowded the bench, and there was a small filing cabinet underneath it. In one corner of the room stood a large secure locker, and hanging from a peg on the wall was what looked suspiciously like a bullet-proof vest.

“Sit.”

Andy took the proffered chair, and sat. Duffie sat opposite him.

“What am I to do with you?” he asked.

Confused, Andy just stared.

“Is this about the robot?”

“Fuck the robot. That’s only to keep my hands busy. I dunno care for kids toys.”

He continued to look at Andy.

“Do ye no ken who I am?”

The Scottish accent seemed to be thickening with every word.

“I’ll give ye a clue, wee man. If you have nae a way with women, as you clearly don’t, ye need to conquer your fear of them. And the best way to conquer your fear is to confront that fear. You buy a topless bar in Tampa, Florida, and you are no longer afraid.”

Andy stared in disbelief. Finally, he managed: “A man told me that once.”

“And where is that man now?”

“He’s dead. Died in a traffic accident.”

“And he was no afraid of death, because he had done a tour in Vietnam.”

“Did you know Dave?”

“You could say that. You could say I knew him very well.”

Duffie pulled up his shirt and began with a finger like a sausage to trace the white scars on his belly and chest.

“One slug in the guts from a heli reci that went wrong. A few more slugs, and a knife wound from a weekend of R&R in Siagon.”

The Scottish accent had miraculously changed into a soft Texan drawl. Andy stared in disbelief.

“I thought you were dead, you bastard!”

“You were meant to think I was dead. More importantly The Gilli Gilli Man was meant to think I was dead.”

The name froze Andy.

“Yes – Gilli. He’s after me too.”

“He’s not after me.”

“Who blew up your house?”

“It was an accident.”

“And this morning?”

“Another accident.”

But even as he said it, Andy knew it wasn’t true. There were just too many coincidences. He passed a hand across his brow.

“I don’t understand.”

Duffie – or Dave, as Andy now began to think of him – heaved a heavy sigh. He reached behind him and took a bottle of Tequila from the bench, then two paper cups. He poured generous measures for both of them.

“I know you’re a scotch man, but I need some reminder of my roots,” he smiled. “The skidoo accident this morning was no accident. It was an assassination attempt. And it was my fault.”

“I really don’t understand.”

“We should have had this briefing when you came in last night, but it was late and you were tired. I thought that you were safe for a few hours. I didn’t think they would make an attempt so soon. Do you remember what I told you I did in Abu Dhabi?”

“You said you were a consultant. You implied CIA, but I didn’t believe you. No spy would be so open about his work. I thought you were a Walter Mitty character. I assumed you worked for one of the oil companies, and you spent your days off trying to impress women with your war stories. Was I wrong?”

“Completely wrong. I don’t need to impress women with my war stories. Unlike you I know how to talk to women. That’s the secret. It’s not about how you look or how you dress or how much is in your bank account – though those things help. It’s about how you talk to them. I’m surprised your sister hasn’t told you that.”

“She has, often.”

“I know. I know more about you than you could possibly imagine. By the way, I’m sorry about Kevin. He was a cool guy. I meant to say that at the funeral, but obviously I couldn’t.”

“You were at the funeral?”

“I’ve been fairly much with you ever since the bombing. You need protection, and that’s part of my job. Gilli is trying to kill you, because you are the only person who can visually identify him. I’m trying to catch Gilli and to save your life. But I’m not doing a good job of it.”

“This morning might have been an accident. It’s too early – the skidoo will have to be examined before you can say it’s something else.”

“It was no accident. That woman, Satu, that you went with – she is a drug dealer from Helsinki. She runs the distribution network for heroin and cocaine for the Russian mafia throughout southern Finland. The mechanic in the skidoo park is her boyfriend, and her partner in the distribution network. They are the Russian Mafia’s top operatives in the country. You should be honoured. They sent the best to kill you.”

“Rubbish. I think she fancies me. I know she does.”

“Don’t be a sap. Did she make a move on you? Of course she did. You can’t kill someone unless you get close to them.”

Andy felt a chill run through him. He remembered her touch in the sauna, her flirtatious playfulness. But other images also crowded his head. He remembered the look of anger on her face as she came up to him after the skidoo crash. He had read it as concern – but what if it was anger because he was still alive? And there was her argument with the skidoo guy – what were they saying to one another? There was a lot more anger than concern in her face when she came back to her skidoo to bring him back to the staff cabin.

“Why do you think you had no helmet? That was no coincidence. Read the signs.”

Suddenly Andy was angry.

“You knew they were here. And you let them try and kill me.”

“Good – I want you angry. But focus that anger. I didn’t sabotage the skidoo. Gilli is who you have to be angry with. He killed your friend. He blew up your house. Now he’s trying to kill you. Focus.”

Andy stood abruptly, slamming his paper cup down on the table.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to kill the bitch.”

“Good – now sit down.”

Andy kept moving towards the door. He reached for the handle, but felt the strong hands of Dave on his shoulders. Then he was moving backwards, and he felt himself being pushed back into his chair.

“Take another Tequila. You need it.”

“What if they try again?”

“That’s being taken care of as we speak. Vanni – that’s her boyfriend – is being taken into custody right now. He is Lithuanian, and a simple check will show his papers are not in order. He will be deported in due course. But he will be lost in the system for a few weeks. He won’t even get to make his one phone call.”

“And Satu.”

Dave laughed, a big booming laugh.

“You’ll love this. Remember the lemon cake I gave her while you were getting dressed? It’s laced with a powerful narcotic. Give it an hour and she will be doubled over with fierce abdominal pains. An ambulance will be called, and it will be my ambulance that arrives. She will discretely disappear. My people will question her. Once we know everything she knows, she will be disposed of.”

Andy looked shocked.

“Not like that,” laughed Dave. “We’re not savages. She will be held in a safe house for as long as necessary. We’ll interrogate her but we won’t kill her. But I can safely say that the junkies of Helsinki will go without this Christmas.”

“This is all information overload. You’d better rewind a bit and tell me what the hell is going on. Who are you?”

Dave leant back and thought for a moment.

“I’ll begin at the beginning. You are right. I don’t work for the CIA. But I am a spy. I work for a special agency. It’s not part of the CIA, not part of MI6, not part of the KGB, but we have links with all those agencies, and many others. We were set up a few years ago, after the whole nine eleven fiasco. That caught the intelligence community with our pants down. Then we couldn’t catch Osama. The old ways don’t work against the new enemies. Terrorists don’t run their wars the way the old commie countries ran the Cold War against us. So we’ve adapted to the new ways.

“We are organised in cells, just like the terrorists we fight, and we have a lot of autonomy. We don’t report to any government, but we report to a special committee of the UN Security Council. We each have our targets. My chief target is Gilli. I have spent the last three years trying to get to him. A few months ago I was getting close. I had a man in his organisation, and we knew he was planning an operation in Abu Dhabi. Then my man was killed...”

“I remember you said you lost a friend.”

“Tortured to death by Gilli. I don’t know whether he revealed my identity before he died, but I have to assume he did. Gilli is very effective in that way. So you see, I had to die. It was the only way to protect myself and continue my mission. I am sorry, but I needed an independent witness to sell the illusion of my death.”

“Kevin and I were your witnesses.”

“Yes. I died, then disappeared from Abu Dhabi. I did not have the details of what he was planning, I didn’t have his location, and there was nothing I could do to prevent the bombing. I have to live with all those deaths.”

He took another swig from his paper cup.

“Now we’re right back where we started from. Two and a half years down the drain.”

“Why don’t you just arrest him? Or assassinate him, or whatever you spooks do to terrorists?”

“Because we don’t know who he is, or where he is, or even what he looks like. We know very little about him. You know more about him than anyone. You’ve actually met him. He spoke to you.”

“So you follow me around, and some day I will casually bump into him in the queue at Tesco’s, and let out a scream, and you’ll jump in and arrest him. Great plan. I’m glad to see that America doesn’t lack for great military planners. That must be why you won the war in Grenada – and why Osama is still on the loose.”

“He’s not my target – and that’s not my plan. My plan is a bit more subtle than that.”

“And I’m not going to like it.”

“Not one little bit.”

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

Gilli had the mother and father of all hangovers. Despite his best efforts he had still consumed far more than he intended with his Russian hosts. And after he had been assured that Andy Greig was dead he had dropped his defences and given in. His glass was refilled every time it ran low, and he ended the evening at 4am, arm in arm with Gregori, singing Karaoke in a St Petersburg nightclub.

Now he was regretting his weakness. The phone had rung three times in the morning, and he had ignored all three calls. It was the afternoon when he had finally risen and stepped under a cold shower. He hated every moment of it, but it washed some of the cobwebs from his head. He dressed in a black silk shirt, and sat at the hotel desk, a copy of Card College in front of him. Weakness had to be fought, so he would fight it. He wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and die, so he would work on a difficult card move.

He couldn’t face the one-handed pass with the left hand, but he could try a new subtlety on the Kelly Underpass. This would allow him to get several people to pick a card, shuffle the cards, and leave all the selected cards at the bottom of the deck, ready for his next move. The problem was he was dropping as many cards as he was placing at the bottom of the deck. He remembered the words of an old mentor. Practice doesn’t make perfect. Perfect practice makes perfect.

He dropped another card, then threw the deck across the room in frustration. The cards stayed together until they hit the wall, then they went all over the bed and the floor. Wearily he stood to pick them up. The old magicians gag came into his head straight away, the way it should; that’s the Texas shuffle, because it takes us forever to pick them up again.

Magicians have hundreds of those stock lines, and Gilli knew them all. They were bad jokes, but in the right context they would get a laugh. They were a tool of the trade. Gilli liked to master all the tools. That was what made him so good at what he did. Vodka was not a tool of the trade. Why did he have to work with amateurs? But at least they were good at killing. Next to the Columbians they were the best killers. He knew that. They had assured him that Andy Greig would be dead by lunchtime. He believed them. He had to believe them. His head was to sore to contemplate anything else.

The phone rang for a fourth time. He picked it up to reject the call and get rid of the infernal noise. But he recognised the number. It was Beni. Reluctantly he thumbed the green button and put the phone to his ear.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“No hello, no how is your head?” he responded. “Well since you didn’t ask, my head hurts, I’m tired, I can’t think straight, and I never want to spend a night drinking with Russians again. Satisfied? They even got me up singing.”

“Gregori called you three times. He’s frantic. He’s left two messages on my phone. I just had an earful from him.”

“I can’t face him this morning. You tell me the news. Is it good?”

“It was. Then it wasn’t. He rang you first to tell you that Andy Greig is dead.”

Gilli felt relief flooding through him. He grinned savagely. This was the news that would lift the cloud from his head. He could already feel the hangover lifting and the life returning to his weary body. It had been a great night last night. He needed to get out more often. But Beni was still talking.

“Then he rang you to say that there had been a problem.”

Gilli went cold. Beni’s voice was like a fingernail being drawn along a chalk board. Every word seemed to draw forth new nuances of pain. He grimaced and held the phone away from his ear.

“Run that by me again.”

“Andy Greig is not dead.”

“So they haven’t made the attempt yet.”

“They made it, and it failed.”

Gilli put the phone down on the bed, and rubbed his forehead. After a moment he picked up the phone again and asked, in a low voice: “What happened?”

“I don’t have the full details. It seemed to be badly conceived from the start. They lured him onto some sort of a vehicle and tampered with the brakes. He crashed, and walked away from it.”

“Bloody amateurs,” Gilli exploded.

There was a long silence, which Beni broke.

“I’ll be out there in a few days. I’m going for what they call a five day tour. That’s four nights. The first day is out, as we’ll be settling in. The last day is out, because we leave early. That leaves a three day window. We have three days to kill Greig. It will be rushed, but we can do it.”

Gilli nodded, then remembered he was on the phone. He was really foggy today.

“I’ll be out there tomorrow. I hate having to use the Russians, but they can get me there, and they will provide me with a team of soldiers. If I am desperate enough to use them.”

“Ok. Get some rest. I’ll talk to Gregori, and I’ll phone you in a few hours.”

A few hours later Gilli woke up again. This time there was no headache, just a slightly light-headed feeling. Colours seemed darker, and his hearing was accentuated. Even his sense of smell seemed to have kicked up a gear. As he had woken he could smell a stale smell of smoke from his pillow, even though the hotel had given him a non-smoking room. He could smell a stale aroma from the alleyway outside, and there was a distinct whiff of garlic and caramelised meat from nearby. Gilli knew all the signs. The killing rage was on him. This was good. He was in the zone. He was single-minded, the perfect predator, a killing machine. This was how he needed to be when the pressure was on. But it was a dangerous state. It needed to be controlled. He wasn’t always in control. Once, when he was younger, he had hired and killed a prostitute just days before a particularly dangerous operation in Europe. As he had matured he had learnt to control the anger, but it was a dangerously thin line he would walk until Andy Greig was dead.

He dressed quickly and walked down to the hotel lobby. As he assumed, Gregori was sitting in one of the comfortable leather armchairs, reading a newspaper and wearing two goons the way another man might wear an overcoat. He had obviously been waiting. As he started to rise Gilli stopped and looked at him. The Russian’s face froze, and he stopped moving, in a comical crouch half in and half out of his chair.

The voice, when it came, was barely a whisper, and the Russian had to strain to catch it.

“Your mother is a dog of the streets. Your father is the discarded tip of a eunuch’s prick. And you are the piss of a camel on the desert sand, that fouls the air for a while and then is gone.”

The Russian went white with rage at the insulting words. But he didn’t interrupt.

“I do not want to see you,” Gilli went on. “I do not want to hear your excuses. Tomorrow you will get me to Finland, where I will do what I should have done from the beginning. And if your two morons who screwed up this simple job are still in the resort, I will kill them too. For free.”

The Russian just nodded and, powerful man though he was, he scuttled from the hotel into the welcoming darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

Night had fallen about an hour ago, which put the time around 3pm. It was freezing, but that had nothing to do with the time of day. It was freezing all the time, and all the layers did nothing to hide the fact. The cold seeped through the ground and into your feet. Once the toes began to feel the cold, the body began to shiver automatically. Fur-lined arctic boots and double pairs of socks only kept the cold out so long as you kept moving. Once you stopped moving the creeping chill got to work.

The two girls were not moving. They were sitting on rough hewn benches around a roaring log five, which a dour dark-haired matron was feeding regularly. The fire smoked, stinging the eyes and bringing on fits of coughing. But the girls were determined to stick it out and not move away. The fire was a strange beast, illuminating the nearby trees in dancing flickers, but not touching the depths beyond. The heat was intense, especially whenever a new log was tossed on. But it was very focused. Karin could feel her feet, which were very close to the flames, coming back to life. Her hands were warm, and she could feel the radiating heat scorching her face. But her back and her bum were frozen. And if she moved it only changed the surface area that was in the comfort zone. There was no way of using the fire to warm the entire body, short of slowly turning like a skewered pig, or doing a Joan of Arc.

“Does the snow suit make my bum look big?” asked Christina.

“Over eating makes your bum look big. But if it’s any consolation you’re finally got the Diana Doors look. Wide at the hips and wide around the shoulder.”

“If you ask me,” said a slow voice, in hesitant English, “she does not have the Diana Dors look. She had the barn doors look. Yes?”

They both laughed politely. Their dour companion had tried a few conversational gambits, but was hampered by the language barrier. Still, she was trying.

The dull whine of an engine could now be heard in the distance. They listened for a few moments, then the pitch changed.

“They have turned up the road. They will be here in a few minutes,” said the Finnish woman.

Both girls rose reluctantly. That was their cue for action. They waddled away from the fire and towards the back of the nearby cabin. Both were wearing multiple layers topped by the bulky snowsuits. Over the snowsuits they wore red trousers and green tunics. The tunics were big enough to double as tents. Finishing the look were little peaked caps with bells on them. They looked more like trolls in disguise than elves. But short of bringing in a cast of children or pigmies, it was the best that could be done.

The bus would stop a few hundred meters behind the cabin and the children would be led through the woods by the coach guide until they found the cabin, and their search for Santa was over. Karin and Christina were the chief elves, because they spoke English. They would play with the children in the snow, and finally lead them to Santa. Other Finnish workers would play elves making toys or manning the Christmas post office.

Both girls hid behind a low tree, hastily scooping up snow. When the first children came into sight they jumped out, yelling, and loosing a volley of snowballs. Ten minutes of chaos followed, until all the stragglers had gathered. Then Christina called for order.

“I think that Santa is home. Let’s go through the trees and see if we can find his cabin.”

A line of children dutifully followed her, snaking through the snow until they arrived at the end of the cabin. One window was lit. The children lined up and looked in, wide-eyed. There he was, on the big rocker by the fire. His head was bent down, and he was going through some letters, but there was no doubt who it was. The red coat, and cloud of white hair, were giveaways. The children had found Father Christmas.

“One, two, three...” whispered Christina.

“Over here, Santa,” yelled twenty tiny voices.

Santa looked up, startled, then smiled. He waved at the children, then winked. There was a sudden puff of smoke, and before their eyes he seemed to dematerialise, shimmering briefly then darkening. Suddenly it was not Santa sitting in the rocking chair, but a big jovial elf, who reached into the mail bag and took out a big snowball, which he threw towards the children. Screaming, they scattered as the snowball broke apart on the inside of the window. Then the elf reached up and turned off the lamp above his head, plunging the room into darkness.

It was a brilliant illusion, created by Andy Greig four years previously, on his second season in the resort.

“Don’t worry, boys and girls. That was Tricky Dickey, the naughty elf. Santa must be nearby.”

“He’s over here,” shouted Karin.

Within minutes the elves workshop was full of smiling children, waiting to be called into the inner sanctum, where they Santa was waiting with their gift. Though they were surrounded by toys there was a reverential air in the room, and the children stood silently watching the toy making elves at work.

Karin and Christina were inside with Santa, sorting out the gifts.

“Did you see which coach rep was with the kids?”

“No. She’s staying well clear.”

“It must be her, the bitch,” said Christina.

“She’s not a bitch,” snapped Karin.

“Of course she’s a bitch. She stole your man.”

“He’s not my man. I have no claims on him. I didn’t even fancy him. He can do what he likes for all I care.”

“Am I missing something?” said Santa, who loved nothing more than a bit of juicy gossip.

“No,” said Karin.

“Yes,” said Christina.

“The coach rep Satu fancies the magician Andy, and he fancies her back.”

“That’s a good one,” laughed Santa. “In the five years I’ve worked with Andy I have never seen him show an interest in a woman. He gets so tongue-tied. I thought he was... the other way. Are you sure?”

“We caught them in the sauna together,” said Christina triumphantly.

“That doesn’t mean much. Everyone takes a sauna here. I do myself, and I certainly don’t fancy Andy,” he said.

“She was stark naked,” shot back Karin.

“But in fairness he had his boxers on,” added Christina.

“He is Irish,” said Santa. “I always seem to pick the boring times to take my sauna.”

Just then the first family knocked gently on the door, and Santa suddenly aged twenty years, sitting gently on his rocker.

“Come in,” he said.

A mother, father and grandmother came in, flanked by two young children. The girl put her finger in her mouth, and starred shyly. The boy had no such inhibitions. He jabbed a finger at one of the elves, and shouted: “There’s a monkey. There’s another over there.”

Then he spotted Santa.

“I’m Michael, and I’m from Tesco’s. Can I have your hat?”

Santa finally got the hyperactive kid to stand still for a minute, spoke to him briefly, then handed over a present, which the boy promptly ran off with.

“Wait a minute,” shouted his mother. “What do you have to say to Santa?”

“You took your time,” he said, as he ran out the door.

It was nearly an hour before all the children had seen Santa. They were gathered outside in the snow to wave good bye to him. The coach rep was standing on the step of the cabin, giving them their final instructions before the trek back to the coach, and waiting for mums and dads to wrap up their precious children against the cold. This always took up to ten minutes.

“Come on,” whispered Christine. “I have an idea.”

Karin followed her out the back door of the cabin. There was a ladder leading to the gently slooping roof. Christina began to climb it.

“Pass me that brush,” she said.

Karin passed her up the big yard brush, then followed her onto the roof. Slowly, carefully, they made their way to the top. Standing on the apex of the roof, they were able to see all the children putting on hats and gloves. This told them where the coach rep was waiting. Christina walked carefully to the right section of the roof, and began brushing the snow quickly but carefully into a pile. Finally she had enough, and with a whoop she brushed the pile over the eve, where it fell with a sodden plop on the woman underneath. Both girls burst out laughing. After a few moments Karin popped her head over the edge of the roof to admire their handiwork.

One small brunette was furiously brushing snow from her parka, and trying to shake it out of her sleeves and neck. She looked up and glared at Karin.

“I’m sorry. We thought you were Satu,” she said weakly.

“As you can see, I am not. Satu is in hospital. She is very ill.”

The woman turned and stomped away.

Karin turned towards Christina, a worried frown on her face.

“You heard that?”

Christina just grinned.

“Let’s hope it’s nothing too trivial.”

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

A number of hours had passed and Andy was beginning to come to terms with his new circumstances. But there was a lot he didn’t understand still. He sought out Dave. He found the big Texan in the kitchen, laying out darnes of salmon on a baking tray, then covering them with cream and chicken stock.

“An old Finnish receipe,” he said. “Who’d think chicken stock would work?”

“I really couldn’t care less, Dave,” Andy replied. “What are you doing here, and how did you organise it? I’m being spied on. I’m not happy about it.”

“It’s not Dave. It’s Duffie, or Hamish if you like. In this game you stick to your cover, or you die.”

“It’s not a game.”

“All life is a game.”

He carelessly scattered mixed herbs over the baking trays, then some ground pepper and salt. He didn’t speak for a few minutes. Finally he was satisfied with his dishes.

“I suppose I should level with you. You remember Kovacs?”

“A pompous ass.”

“A prick, I’d say. But I won’t argue with you. Kovacs found out you were going to be working here. So I came out.”

“Just like that? You can arrange to work where you like.”

“The boss of Elfin tours was in the British army. He did a tour with the SAS. We told him what we needed, and he set it up. No questions asked. I told you – we have tentacles everywhere. We operate as a cell, and we have a fair degree of autonomy.”

“And you are doing all this to protect little old me. I am touched.”

“I am delighted you appreciate it.”

“Don’t play me for a fool. What’s really going on?”

Dave sighed and sat down. “Have a slice of cake?” He indicated the lemon cake which was sliced on a plate nearby.

“That’s the cake you poisoned.”

“I only poisoned one slice.”

Seeing Andy hesitate, he took up a slice and took a big bite out of it, before putting it in front of him.

“If you die, I die,” he smiled. “I really do want to keep you alive. But you are right, that’s not what this mission is about. The best way to put it to you is like this; we have laid a trap for Gilli, and you are the bait. Gilli knows that you are here.”

Andy glared at him.

“Ok, he knows because I told him. But he was looking, and he would have found you anyway. He had your house blown up, and I had nothing to do with that. But when we discovered you were going to spend Christmas in this god-forsaken place we decided it was the perfect opportunity. We can guard you properly here. If he tries to kill you this month, we will catch him. We think he is based in Tripoli, but to be safe we have put word out in several places that we brought you here to prepare your testimony for a future trial. And if he doesn’t move quickly he will have left it too late. If he takes the bait he will come here to have you killed. He may even be here already. And my people are here, waiting.”

“And I just sit here and take it on the neck.”

“Afraid so.”

“I could go home.”

“I can’t protect you if you do that. He will follow you and he will kill you. Game over.”

“I need to go to the toilet.”

Andy managed to close the door of the toilet behind him before he completely lost it. Deep in the pit of his stomach a searing pain ripped his guts. His head throbbed, and he was beginning to hyperventilate. He sat on the toilet seat and held his head in his hands until his breathing returned to normal. This was too much. He was a magician, for God’s sake. No one targeted magicians. But as he sat in the toilet trying to stop himself from retching, the thought that was overwhelming his head was that someone was trying to kill a magician.

Did he send out victim vibes? All his life this seemed to be happening. He was bullied at school. He had been given the cold shoulder by the magic clubs when he began winning competitions and getting contracts abroad. His sister pushed him around. This was more of it. You expected to be pushed around as a child, but when was it going to end?

Unbidden, a memory of when he was twelve came back into his head. That had been a bad time. He was small for his age, and all his friends seemed to be sprouting up. There was no growth surge for him, but he could see hair growing in places no hair had even grown before. His voice had gone scratchy, then became quite deep and strange to him. He could no longer sing, and he was suddenly noticing girls. But none of those changes concerned him. What concerned him was his new school. He had been in it a week, and he hated it. As a first year student he was at the bottom of the social caste system. Some first years were immediately accepted – the popular kids, the ones who were fast and dexterous and sporty. But he was none of those things. He was a nerdy kid who did card tricks and always had a paperback poking out of his coat pocket. He was one of life’s victims.

It was on the final day of his first week at the new school, and he was walking home with his best friend Luke. The two boys had spent the day cowering in corners and trying to avoid one particular group of second year students. They seemed to have it in for his friend, and they included him in the bullying as a courtesy. The final class of the day had ended, and both boys had been glad to shoulder their bags and get away quickly.

But they had only gone a few hundred yards from the school before they were aware that one of the boys was following them. They speeded up, but so did he. They left the main road and entered a housing estate, hoping he would give up the chase. But he was getting closer.

“If we run he’ll follow us.”

“Maybe we can talk to him. Give him our money to leave us alone.”

The only way out of the estate was to go back the way they had come, but he was blocking their route. A year older than them, he was physically a lot bigger and more mature. And he was from one of the rough estates. Could they reason with him? It didn’t seem likely.

When they came to the cul-de-sac at the end of the estate they had to turn and face the boy. He advanced steadily on them, ignoring Andy and eyeballing his best friend.

“What are you looking at?” he yelled at Luke.

“Nothing. I wasn’t staring,” replied the terrified boy.

“So now you’re lying to me. I saw you looking at me. I’ll teach you to look at me.”

His attack was swift and brutal. He suddenly leapt forward, grabbing Luke and throwing him to the ground. As the boy knelt on the ground he stood back and kicked him in the head.

Something shifted in Andy. Afterwards he recalled it as a mist descending on his vision, darkening everything. It seemed to drive all thought from his head. Suddenly he was running towards the older boy, and he hit him from behind with his shoulder. The momentum of his charge brought both boys to the ground. As the older boy struggled to find his feet Andy grabbed him by the hair and yanked sharply, being rewarded with a yelp of pain. He kept his grip on the boy’s hair, and began to punch him in the face with his other hand. He remembered the boy being flat on his back on the ground, and he was kneeling on his chest, pounding him in the neck and face, raining down blows with his puny fists. None of the blows were particularly strong, but the surprise of the attack and the volume of the punches seemed to have paralysed his opponent.

The next thing he remembered was a woman running from one of the houses and pulling him off the crying boy. And she was giving out to him, blaming him for starting fights and bullying other children. Blaming him, though he was a foot shorter than his opponent. She was going to tell his father, and then he’d be in trouble. But all the time the thought swirling through his head was that he had done it. He had conquered his demon.

He hadn’t thought about that in years. What was Luke doing now? They had lost contact after secondary school. The last he had heard was that he was teaching someplace. But that had been a few years ago. Why had the incident popped into his head?

And then he knew what he had to do. He straightened up and took his hands from his forehead. He took a few breaths to settle his system. Now that he had reached a decision his stomach no longer felt so heavy. His head still hurt, but the pounding had ended. He straightened up. His head felt light. He stood, then walked to the bathroom door. He opened it and rejoined Dave in the kitchen. The salmon was gone now, presumably in the oven. The Texan was putting together a bread pudding.

“Here’s how it’s going to go down,” said Andy. “I am not bait. That’s not going to happen.”

Dave looked crest-fallen.

“But there is a way around it. I want Gilli put away as much as you do. He killed my best friend, and now he’s trying to kill me. I don’t react well to people trying to kill me. So from now on you level with me on everything. You tell me what you know, what you are doing, who is on your team, and everything you know about Gilli. I am a full member of your cell.”

Dave thought for a few minutes, then grinned.

“I can live with that.”

“Then I’m in.”

CHAPTER FORTY

“What have you got for me tonight?” asked Jarno, as he sank into the chair beside Andy at the small table near the wall, half way down the log cabin restaurant.

Andy smiled and reached into his pocket and pulled out a small hip flask.

“It’s a cask-strength Lagovulin. One of the best Scotches. You’ll need a drop of water to bring out the flavours.”

“I thought it was – what is the word? – sacrilege to add water to whiskey.”

“A cask-strength whiskey is the one exception. It has a higher alcohol content than the normal, so a drop of water brings it back to what it should be and brings out the flavours and aromas.”

It was a regular ritual with them. Every year Andy would educate Jarno on the finer points of whiskey drinking, while Jarno tried to return the favour with brandys and other spirits. Once he had tried to introduce Andy to the joys of a fine cigar, but Andy had nearly choked on the thick pungent smoke, and that was the end of that.

The rules in Finnish hotels are very specific, and rigorously enforced. You cannot bring your own alcohol, even in a hip flask. But Jarno was the manager, and after five years Andy was an old friend. So the rules were quietly ignored. Tonight was the first show of the new season, and many of the families, who’s kids weren’t too exhausted from the search for Santa, were in the restaurant eager for entertainment. Andy and Jarno were at one of the few empty tables.

Bigtop the Clown opened the show that evening. He had pushed hard to open. Young, cocky and not as experienced as he thought he was, he wanted to go on and show what he could do. Andy had no problem closing. In fact it was the position he preferred. If Bigfoot hadn’t pushed for that order, then Andy would have quietly insisted. With seniority he would have got his way.

“Is he any good?” whispered Jarno.

“I doubt it. Too much energy and not enough discipline from what I have seen around the cabin. He never switches it off. He’s my roommate this year.”

“Could be worse. Remember Cyril?”

“Cyril had been the second children’s entertainer two years previously. He had a terrible BO problem, and he never listened to anyone, chattering inanely all the time.

Bigtop bounced onto the stage in a multi-coloured suit – a suit he even wore when he was off duty. He pointed a bony finger into a dark corner of the restaurant, and said: “I’d like to point out.”

He followed this gem with a long pause, a finger held to his forehead in a simulation of deep thought.

“That was a joke for the telepathics.”

Andy turned away from the stage. The jokes were getting polite titters, nothing more.

“Those gags were delivered by Wayne Dobson during the Royal Command Performance twenty years ago,” Andy explained. “But Dobson did them better.”

Jarno, who had never heard of the Royal Command Performance, merely nodded politely, and took an appreciative sniff at the whiskey.

“It won’t be easy to get a brandy to match this. I think this round goes to you,” he said.

Bigtop overran by fifteen minutes. Each performer was meant to do a forty minute set, getting the show comfortably finished in under an hour and a half. But Bigtop went on for almost an hour. This was both a breach of professionalism, and an attempt to hog the limelight. Magicians are a competitive breed, and Bigtop wanted to dominate the show. If Andy cut his performance then it would look like he was just the support act, despite going on second. There was only one response; Andy did his full show. He didn’t cut a minute. He strolled up the length of the restaurant in his white silk suit, as his intro music played, as if he owned the building. Showtime did that to him. He could barely move his shoulder, and his cracked ribs hurt like hell. But as he walked up the restaurant a jauntiness crept into his demeanour and a bounce in his step. He shrugged off the pain like a dirty bath robe.

Near the top was a big table with several of the staff watching. As he passed he nodded a cheery greeting at Christina and Karin, sitting side beside and nursing beers. Christina nodded curtly. Karin didn’t even respond. Strange, he thought. They had seemed so friendly. Karin was cute – if he was a few years younger, or a bit better with women, he could have found her very alluring. Now he was getting the cold shoulder on top of the bruised shoulder. But there was no time to think about any of that; he was on.

Being even more competitive than Bigtop Andy had opted for a bold approach. He had a bare stage with no props, and he performed the entire routine from items that appeared at his fingertips when he needed them. It limited him to smaller props, but it had the advantage of focusing all the attention on the performer. In addition his gags were a lot sharper than Bigtops. When he took his final bow there was no doubt who was the top dog.

He disappeared behind the curtains, and reappeared a few minutes later, dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans. His silk suit and all his props were arranged neatly backstage for tomorrow’s performance. When he came back through the curtains the restaurant had emptied out. At least two thirds of the families had left straight after the performance. Some had gone out to play in the snow; others were exhausted after a long day, and had retired for the night. The people who were left were clinging to the bar at the far end like it was the last lifeboat of the Titanic. One or two would be there until closing time – which was around 4am if the locals were in.

Bigtop was hovering near the stage, no doubt waiting for some crumbs of praise about his performance. Andy wasn’t in the mood. His shoulder was hurting again, and sharp movements brought a stab from his ribs. He glared at the young clown.

“Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again. If you overrun tomorrow, I’ll kill the microphone and the lights. It’s not fair on other performers.”

Painfully he made his way down the restaurant. Jarno raised a glass and nodded.

“Top class, as usual. I see you have some new material this year.”

“Don’t I always?” He sat down painfully.

“Still hurting? Try a glass of this, and get a good night sleep.”

He poured a clear liquid from his own hip flask, and pushed the generous measure across the table to Andy. Andy sniffed it once, then tossed it back. He never even asked what it was. It burnt the back of his throat, but felt good. The rush deadened the pain almost instantly. Jarno quickly poured more into the glass.

“Bear’s piss, it’s called. It is illegal vodka. Bootleg, I think you call it.”

“We have something similar at home called Poitin. It’s made from potatoes. What gives this it’s the flavour? Most vodka is tasteless.”

“It is infused with cloudberries. My brother-in-law makes it. He gives us a bottle every Christmas – whether we want it or not. You will come out to the house some night for dinner?”

“I would love to. How is Lena?”

Jarno grinned slyly. “She is expecting our first child.”

“You never told me you were expecting, you old dog,” grinned Andy. He reached across the table and grasped his friends hand. “That is fantastic. When is it due?”

“Not until May. So I won’t force you to smoke a celebratory cigar with me. But the doctor has told her to take things easy, so she has been off work since November.”

“I was wondering why I hadn’t seen her.”

The couple had been trying for years to have a baby, and Lena had a history of miscarriages. So the precaution seemed sensible.

“Things look good this time. We are very happy,” said Jarno. He poured himself a glass of his cloudberry vodka, and both men clinked glasses.

“Slainte!” called Andy.

“Kippis!” Jarno replied.

They tossed the drink back, then Andy held out his glass once more.

“Another shot of that, and I’ll sleep tonight.”

When he got back to the cabin his head was light. His pains were hidden behind a fog of alcohol. He felt good. He was very slightly unsteady when he entered the cabin, and he saw a look of concern crossing Dave’s face. Dave? He would have to force himself to remember that this was Hamish. It was important not to blow your cover, that’s what he had said.

“Hello Seamus. I’m fine.”

“It’s Hamish, and I see you’ve taken a drop of the cure.”

“I took a flood of the cure. I think I’ll go to bed now.”

He left the kitchen and walked through the living area towards the corridor with the bedrooms. A number of people were there. Six elves were sitting around a table discussing the schedule for the following day. Karin looked up at him.

“Visiting your girlfriend?” she asked sarcastically.

He looked at her blankly.

“You’re girlfriend Satu. She’s in hospital, I hear.”

“Is she? Oh yes, I remember. She’s in hospital.”

“That’s what I said.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“That’s not what it looked like.”

So here it was – the reason for the cold shoulder.

“She tried to ...” Then he remembered. He couldn’t just blurt out that she had tried to kill him. This was a secret mission – Dave had insisted on that. They didn’t want panic in the resort.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he finished lamely. He looked at her, then felt a further explanation was necessary.

“Everyone in Finland takes their clothes off in a sauna. A naked Finish woman is not the same as a naked English woman. She’s not really naked, she just has no clothes on.”

How he wished he hadn’t finished the vodka. His thoughts were clear, but the words were coming out all wrong. He decided to play the sympathy card.

“She was helping me because of the accident. I fell off a skidoo. She said the sauna would help the bruises.”

Painfully he reached his good arm up and peeled off his t-shirt. The bruising on his right side had spread and covered much of his chest and shoulder. The white surgical bandage stood starkly against the livid red welt.

Karin paled.

“I didn’t realise,” she whispered. “Are you all right?”

“I’m tired,” he said. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”

With as much dignity as he could muster he walked through the room to his bedroom and collapsed on the bed.