TERROR'S REACH
by
TOM BALE

Terror's Reach: an exclusive island on the south coast of England, home to rival business tycoons Valentin Nasenko and Robert Felton. On a sweltering weekend
in May, the island is targeted by a team of ruthless killers. Its residents are facing annihilation, and only one man stands a chance of saving them. Four
years ago, after an undercover police operation went disastrously wrong, Joe Clayton lost his career and his family. Forced to adopt a new identity, he
drifted from job to job and ended up on the Reach, working as a bodyguard to Nasenko's wife, Cassie, and her children. Now he must draw upon all his experience
and reserves of strength to bring them out alive. But the situation is far more complex than anyone realises, and soon Joe is caught up in an explosive
feud between two immensely powerful forces. What gradually becomes clear is that the fortune hidden away on Terror's Reach is not a prize at all. It's
a trap. 

Published by Preface Publishing 2010

Copyright © Tom Bale 2010

Tom Bale has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work under the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or
otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's
prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published
and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser

First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Preface Publishing
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London SW1V 2SA

An imprint of The Random House Group Limited
www.rbooks.co.uk
www.prefacepublishing.co.uk


Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited
can be found at www.randomhouse.co.uk

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN Hardback 978 1 84809 074 3
ISBN Trade Paperback 978 1 84809 075 0

The Random House Group Limited supports The Forest Stewardship Council (FSC),
the leading international forest certification organisation. All our titles that are printed
on Greenpeace-approved FSC-certified paper carry the FSC logo. Our
paper procurement policy can be found at www.rbooks.co.uk/environment

Typeset in Electra LH Regular by Palimpsest Book Production Limited
Grangemouth, Stirlingshire
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives PLC

For Ann and John Harrison

One

They sent the first man in at midday. His job couldn't have been more
straightforward. All he had to do was sit on the beach. Watch, listen,
wait, and not be too obvious about it.
The target was Terror's Reach, a stunning accident of geography
nestled within the dazzling surroundings of Chichester Harbour. One
small island: five homes, nine residents and combined assets that ran
into billions. It was a gold mine, practically begging to be plundered.
But the remote location posed its own challenges. The options
for reconnaissance were limited, long-term surveillance all but
impossible. There was no passing traffic, no way to go unnoticed.
Here amongst the super-rich, anyone seen loitering was liable to
be challenged or reported to the police.
The solution, on the day, involved a gamble, but the good weather
helped to minimise the risk. It was an easy enough gig, and Gough
was pleased to be assigned the role. He could sit on his arse as well
as the next guy.
But it also carried serious responsibility. As first man in, his actions
had a direct bearing on the whole operation. Get it wrong and he was
in big trouble.
He was under no illusions about the kind of people he was working
for. If he screwed up, they would probably kill him. Simple as that.


Two in the afternoon: siesta time. With the temperature pushing ninety
any sensible person would be glad to lie in the shade and have a doze.
But Jaden, at six years old, didn't see it in those terms. Bursting with
restless energy, he had no intention of taking a nap, and he was making
his feelings known to his mother.
Joe Clayton was aware of the protests coming from the other end
of the garden, but he wasn't really listening to them. He was sitting
on the broad stone terrace, finishing a lunch of cold meats and salad.
'I want to go to the beach.'

'Not now, Jaden. Sofia has to sleep, and so should you.'
"I'm not tired. Sofia's a baby. I'm six.'
'Well, go in the pool, then. But only for a few minutes.'
'I don't want to go in the pool. I want to go to the beach.'
'It's too hot. And I have to stay here and watch Sofia.'
'I can go on my own.'

'No, Jaden.'

'It's not fair. You don't let me do anything.'
There was a thud, followed by a loud crack. Joe looked up and saw
something skidding across the grass. The boy had thrown one of his
cars to the ground. It must have ricocheted, hit another toy and broken.
Jaden glowered at the tiny die-cast models, furious with his mother,
and himself, and the whole world. It was a state Joe keenly remembered: the terrible aching frustration of childhood.
'I hate it here,' Jaden shouted. 'I wish we still lived with Nanny and
Grandad.'

Joe winced. He had already decided to intervene when a first-floor
window was thrown open and a voice above him roared: 'Cassie! Do
something about that boy!'
The window slammed shut. On the lawn, Jaden scooped up the
broken car and fled to his refuge: a sun-proof beach tent that was
variously a cave, a fire station and an enemy camp. His mother called
him back, but Jaden ignored her.

Maybe it was the heat making everyone so fractious, Joe thought.
Not that Valentin Nasenko ever had much patience with his stepson.
It was little wonder the boy missed life with his grandparents.
Joe drained his glass of water, tipping the remnants of several ice
cubes into his mouth. As he stood up his chair scraped on the stone
and he almost expected another tirade from above. When Valentin
was preoccupied with something, he demanded absolute peace and
quiet. And what Valentin Nasenko wanted . . .

Joe had been working for the Nasenkos for just over nine months.
He'd met them the previous September on the Greek island of Naxos.
Having concluded a summer-long stint as a deckhand on a chartered
yacht, he'd picked up some casual bar work in Naxos Town.
Valentin's principal adviser, Gary McWhirter, had been in the bar
when a fight broke out between rival football fans during a televised
Champions League game. Impressed by Joe's adroit handling of the
mini-riot that ensued, McWhirter had invited Joe to meet Nasenko.
One of his security team had resigned at short notice, and Valentin
wanted an extra body to watch over his wife and newborn daughter
during a three-week cruise around the Aegean.
At first Joe had been reluctant. The thought of babysitting a young
mother and her child didn't hold much appeal, but inevitably the
money on offer made the decision for him. One thousand euros a
week, available in cash if he wanted it.
Cassie Nasenko had seemed equally unhappy with the arrangement.
She rarely made eye contact with Joe, and was constantly ill
at ease in his company. The situation didn't improve when Joe
overheard her singing some cheesy ballad and quipped that, with a
bit more practice, she could make a decent karaoke singer. He later
discovered that at the age of seventeen Cassie had reached the final
stages of a TV talent competition and had gone on to enjoy a brief
career as a pop singer.
It wasn't until the third week that she grew accustomed to his
presence, and he came to see that what he'd perceived as arrogance
was actually shyness. She was from an ordinary lower-middle-class
background, very similar to his own, and she was still coming to
terms with the idea of having staff at her beck and call.
When the cruise ended it was Cassie, rather than Valentin, who
suggested that Joe should stay on the team. Joe suspected it was largely
because of Jaden, Cassie's son from a short-lived relationship with an
actor in a TV soap. Jaden was often quiet and withdrawn, but Joe
seemed to have struck up a rapport with him in a way that few others
had.

Returning to the UK posed another dilemma. In many ways he was
in no hurry to go back, and yet he couldn't deny his fascination with
the idea. It was there constantly in his dreams, when the past could
be effortlessly unrolled and reworked.
Joe had often agonised over the if and how and when of his return,
always careful not to dwell on the resultant question: What then?
The answer, as it turned out, was simple. Just go to work and get
through the day. Go to work and never think about where you might
be instead.

Joe descended the half-dozen steps from the terrace. The middle
section of the garden was effectively a large playpen, a neat square of
lawn fenced off for safety from the swimming pool and the jetty beyond.
It was littered with trikes and footballs, and Jaden's current favourite
diversion: a giant game of Connect 4 that was taller than he was.
Cassie Nasenko was sitting on a picnic blanket, staring pensively
in the direction of Jaden's hideaway. Next to her, ten-month-old Sofia
was stripped to her nappy and lay fast asleep beneath a large parasol,
her pudgy white limbs contrasting with her mother's deep tan.
Cassie was a small, slight woman with an almost boyish figure:
narrow hips, bony shoulders and thin arms. At first glance you could
mistake her for a teenager, rather than a woman of twenty-five, a wife
and mother of two children.

Throughout the present heatwave, unseasonable even for June, she'd
maintained a uniform of flip-flops, denim shorts and cotton shirts,
with a bikini in place of underwear. Her sun-bleached brown hair was
tied up in a ponytail, her green eyes clear and bright against the tan.
A sprinkle of freckles over her nose gave her a pretty, tomboyish look.
At Joe's approach she put on a brave smile. Close up, he was struck
by the weariness in her face. Sofia was teething at the moment, and
having a bad time of it. Despite the sleepless nights, and contrary to
her husband's wishes, Cassie remained determined to bring up her
children without the help of a nanny. Joe admired her for that.
He said, "I'll take him to the beach if you want.'
'We shouldn't give in to him when he's had a strop.'
'I know. But for a quiet life.' Joe nodded towards the house. 'Just
this once.'
'All right. Only for ten minutes or so. Then he really must get out
of the sun.'
'You okay if I have a swim while I'm there?'
'Fine,' said Cassie. 'But keep an eye on him. He's being a little
monster at the moment.'
'Jaden's a good kid at heart. I'm sure he didn't mean what he said
about living here.'
As soon as the words were out he knew he'd overstepped the mark,
but she just gave him a curious, slightly sad smile.
'Oh, I think he meant every word.'


Two

Terror's Reach had captivated Joe from the moment he'd first set eyes
on it. He wasn't familiar with the area, and had imagined Chichester
Harbour to be a man-made construction, with a sea wall and all the
accoutrements of a commercial port: quays and cranes and slipways,
and maybe a yacht marina.
In fact, it was a vast natural harbour, straddling the counties of
Hampshire and West Sussex. Eleven square miles of water in a tidal
basin of mudflats and salt marsh. There were three main channels
and countless other inlets, creeks and waterways around half a dozen
peninsulas of varying size and shape.
The Reach was a small island on the eastern side of the harbour,
once joined to the mainland by a narrow causeway, accessible on foot
at low tide. Its name derived from a Victorian working boat, the Terror, which had sailed around Chichester Harbour, transporting oyster
catches from larger offshore vessels. The Reach marked the furthest
southerly point on its route.
Although uninhabited until the 1890s, the island's sheltered coves
and woods had been used by smugglers for centuries. When coastal
erosion finally destroyed the causeway in the mid-1950s, a chain ferry
was installed, jointly funded by the residents and by the War Office,
which had acquired two-thirds of the five-hundred-acre island for use
as a training camp.
The ferry was superseded in the 1960s by the construction of a road
bridge, and while the Ministry of Defence still maintained the training
camp, its lack of use in recent years had led to fevered speculation
about its future. In the meantime, the only private dwellings were
spread in a graceful arc on the south-western corner, with views out
to sea and across the bay towards Hayling Island.
Originally there had been eleven relatively modest houses on the
island, but in the past two decades all but one had been demolished
and replaced by much larger, architect-designed mansions.
Now there were just five in total, with an average value of four
million apiece, making property on the Reach almost as expensive
as that in the more famous resort of Sandbanks, about seventy miles
to the west.
Joe had spent every spare moment exploring his new home, and it
had brought him up short when he first caught himself thinking of it
in that way. This felt like home - or at least the nearest thing to a
home that he could hope for.

Jaden's whole demeanour was transformed once he stepped through
the gate at the bottom of the garden. It was as though he'd been granted an unexpected release from prison. His shoulders lifted and
he grinned, whooping with pleasure as he broke away from Joe's grasp
and tore off along the timber decking. Joe had to jog to keep up.
The decking was about five feet wide, forming a communal walkway
that ran for some three hundred yards along the rear of the properties.
Each home had a private jetty that branched out from the deck
and extended fifty or sixty feet over the water, though today there were
only a couple of small craft moored here. For most of its length there
was no fence or safety rail on the seaward side of the deck, so Joe had
to watch that Jaden didn't trip and fall in.
Nevertheless, he couldn't help admiring the boy's daredevil streak,
perhaps because he recalled a similar quality in himself at that age.
It meant Jaden was straining for independence at every opportunity
and, to his mother's continual despair, angrily protesting whenever
limits were imposed on him.
Joe could see both points of view. To a restless, energetic six-year
old the island must have seemed like a personal adventure playground.
And in many ways the Reach was the safest place imaginable in which
to grow up. Only a handful of residents. Minimal traffic. No strangers
passing through.
But Cassie, like many parents where their first born was involved,
saw danger lurking around every corner. That was all the more reasonable,
given her husband's wealth: it was why Joe had been employed,
after all. For weeks Jaden had been pleading to be allowed to go to
the beach on his own, and Cassie had steadfastly refused.
Valentin's property was furthest from the beach, so their route took
them past the other four homes. Three of the four were imposing
buildings in vastly different styles: mock-Georgian, ultra-modern and
faux Gothic. The gardens were a little more uniform in design: all
terraced, with a mix of lawns and paved areas. Most had swimming
pools. All were scandalously under-appreciated, in Joe's opinion.
It was Friday afternoon, a truly glorious summer's day, and yet there
was no one outside to enjoy it. Joe and Jaden didn't see a single resident
until they reached the last house, owned by a retired couple:
Donald and Angela Weaver. Theirs was the only remaining original
property, and even though it had a substantial ground-floor extension
it was modest in comparison with its neighbours.
Donald Weaver was just visible amidst the mass of sweet peppers
and tomato plants in his greenhouse, a small red watering can bobbing
about in mid-air as if of its own accord. Jaden spotted him first, broke
his stride to call and wave, but there was no response. Either Donald
hadn't noticed him, or he just couldn't be bothered to acknowledge
the boy. Joe had a feeling it was the latter.
A few yards beyond the Weavers' home the deck ended at a tall
gate, marked with a warning on the opposite side: RESIDENTS ONLY.
In case anyone should disregard the sign, one of the residents, Robert
Felton, had paid to install a basic combination lock, as well as adding
several yards of fencing to prevent intruders from simply climbing
around the gate. It hadn't been a universally popular addition, but as
owner of two of the island's five properties Felton's wishes often tended

to prevail.
Jaden had already fumbled the gate open by the time Joe caught
up with him. They stepped down onto a gravel path, fringed by wild
grasses bleached almost white by the sun. Less than ten yards away
was the narrow shingle beach that ran along the island's southern
shore, facing the open sea.
It was a beautiful, solitary location, neglected by the residents and
little known to the outside world. Visitors weren't prohibited on the
Reach, but nor were they encouraged. There were no parking areas,
and the asphalt road gave way to a narrow track of beaten earth for
the last thirty yards between the Weavers' home and the beach. By
way of further deterrents, nettles and brambles had been allowed to
encroach on the track, and a sign marked PRIVATE PROPERTY had been
erected - illegally - by Robert Felton.
Today, however, those deterrents had failed.
There was a stranger on the island.

Gough heard them coming before he saw them, but only by a second
or two. He didn't have time to react, and he was professional enough
to know that sudden movements attracted suspicion. So did furtive
ones, in a situation like this. Better not to move at all.
He ignored them for a moment, then realised it would be unnatural
to show no curiosity. He turned and gave them a glance. A man and
a boy, dressed for the beach. The man had a couple of towels rolled
up under his arm.
They were from the Nasenko house, he decided. The kid must be
the wife's bastard offspring. And the man was a bodyguard. Had to be.
Gough made eye contact with him, noted the man's surprise, and
maybe something else. Something harsher. To counteract it he gave
the sort of quick nod that said: Hello but also: Yeah, I'm here, too. Get
over it.

Then he went back to ignoring them, hoping that they would ignore
him in return. He gripped his fishing rod and stared at the sea and
worked very hard not to look at the rucksack by his side. But he was
acutely aware of what it contained.
If they left him alone, all well and good.
If they didn't, there was always the gun.

Three



The fisherman was in his thirties, Joe estimated. Wearing an Arsenal
shirt and three-quarter-length trousers. He had a good physique and
a hard face. Short dark hair under a black baseball cap. He was sitting
close to the shore, holding a cheap-looking fishing rod with the line
cast out fifteen or twenty feet. There was an open rucksack next to
him, a half-empty bottle of Evian water propped against it. A couple
of tabloid newspapers lay folded next to him.
As they crossed the beach Joe glanced back towards the road and
saw a motorbike parked on the track. A mid-sized Honda road bike,
perhaps 500cc, with panniers for storing the fishing gear.
Joe's first reaction was disappointment, and he scolded himself for
it. He'd always been disdainful of the idle rich, living in splendid isolation,
and now here he was falling prey to the same selfish impulse.
It was the first time he'd seen someone fishing at this spot. The
island occasionally played reluctant host to birdwatchers, wildlife
photographers and hikers, but the sheer size of the harbour meant
there were always plenty of better-known and more accessible sites to
attract them.
Jaden ran to the shoreline and began searching the beach. Joe
followed him and sat down a few feet away. The sea lay flat and calm,
sparkling beneath the white-hot glare of the sun. The only sound was
the chittering of unseen crickets in the grass behind him, and the
distant trilling of a curlew. The tide was gently advancing, filling the
harbour basin, but the rich sulphurous scent of the mudflats lingered
in the air. At first Joe had found the smell distasteful; now, in an odd
way, he savoured it.

'Only ten minutes, remember,' he said. 'Are you going to swim?'
Jaden, distracted, shook his head. He picked up a stone, examined
it, tossed it over his shoulder.

'Can we do skimming instead?'
Joe smiled. He might have known that Jaden would change his
mind. It was breathlessly hot and Joe would have liked a swim. But
if Jaden wasn't going in, neither could he.
'Okay. Find me some flat ones.'

Gough kept his eyes on the sea, but his attention never wavered from
the other occupants of the beach. They were about ten yards away,
standing close to the shore. The boy was gathering stones and trying
to bounce them on the water.
They talked while they did it, and Gough overheard their names:
Joe and Jaden. The kid's technique was improving, with the bodyguard
demonstrating how to hold the stone between forefinger and
thumb, the flick of the wrist and the low-angled release that produced
the best results. When Joe managed five, then seven bounces, Gough
was tempted to have a go himself.
Bad idea, he thought. Befriending them ran the risk of inviting
awkward questions, and his cover story wasn't detailed enough to withstand
that.

He remembered that he was supposed to report any developments.
There was a mobile phone in the rucksack. He couldn't
talk while they were in earshot, so he sent a text. Man and boy on
beach. Man is called Joe, kid maybe belongs to Nasenko wife.
Trouble?

The reply was almost immediate: No threat to us. Relax.
Gough snorted when he read that. Easy for you to say, he thought.
It seemed an age before they grew tired of the game, although it
was actually less than fifteen minutes. Cue some bratty whingeing
from the kid when the bodyguard said it was time to go, but Joe was
having none of it.
"Your mum will give me hell if we don't go now.' The bodyguard
turned towards Gough and added, for his benefit: 'Anyway, this poor
man can't wait for us to leave. We're scaring his fish away.'
Gough acknowledged the comment with a disinterested smile, then
saw to his horror that the kid was heading towards him.
'Have you caught anything?' he asked.
'Not yet.'
'How long is the rod?'
Gough, mystified, began to stutter a reply, but Jaden beat him

to it.
'I think it's about six foot. And it's telescopic. They're not very strong.
For beach fishing you need something longer.'
Gough glanced at the rucksack. There was a Browning semiautomatic
pistol tucked between a bait box and a folded-up jacket,
just the grip visible. The boy was two or three feet from it, and edging
closer in that fidgety way kids had. Another couple of steps and he'd
see the gun, even if he didn't recognise what it was.
The bodyguard called: 'Jaden!' But the kid didn't seem to hear.
'I've got a ten-foot rod, with a Shimano reel,' he declared, his eyes
shining with pride. 'My grandad has to help me with casting, but what
I catch is mine.'
Nice. Perhaps you took all the fish, eh?' Gough tried a light-hearted
chuckle, but the boy just stared at him as though he was mad.
There's loads of fish left.' Jaden was still shifting nearer. 'You just
need more practice. And a better rod.'
Okay. Thanks for that.' Gough casually tipped the rucksack towards
him, disguising the movement by grabbing the bottle of Evian and
taking a long drink.
Jaden! Come on. Now.'
This time the kid reacted, gave him an apologetic smile, turned
and ran off.

Thank Christ for that. Gough finished the water and tossed the
bottle away. Much as he'd have enjoyed wringing the little brat's
neck, it was better for them all if the encounter passed without any
trouble.

Then he heard a crunching of footsteps on shingle. He looked
round and saw the bodyguard approaching. Jaden was hanging back,
uncertain, like he'd been told to wait where he was.
What now?

Joe saw the fisherman tense, as though he knew what was coming.
He shifted round, moving the rod to his left hand. His right hand
came to rest, almost protectively, on the rucksack.
'Beautiful beach, isn't it?' said Joe.
'Suppose so.' The man's voice was gruff, with an estuary accent.
He had a tattoo on the side of his neck: a crudely inked serpent,
poking up from the collar of his football shirt.
Joe gestured towards the Evian bottle. 'No bins here, I'm afraid.
You'll have to take your litter with you when you go.'
The man seemed confused, then belligerent. 'What?'
Joe kept his voice friendly, but his eyes stayed cold. 'It's a bugbear
of mine, people coming to enjoy a place like this and then thinking
it's okay to leave their waste behind. I hope you're going to clear up
after you.'

The man looked away, grinning as if at a private joke. 'Is that a
threat?'

'Do you need it to be a threat?'
'I don't like being told what to do, I know that much.' He stared
at Joe, his eyes narrowed.

'Consider it a suggestion, then. Or even a polite request. Please
take your litter with you.'
The man snorted. There was a long pause, of the kind that sometimes

precedes an outburst of violence. Joe readied himself for it, while the
fisherman stroked the top of his rucksack as if it were a pet.
Then he gave a sudden conciliatory smile.
'Sure, I'll clean up,' he said. You won't even know I was here.'

Boiling with suppressed fury, Gough leaned over and retrieved the
water bottle. He felt Joe's gaze on him for a few more seconds, then
the bodyguard turned and crunched his way over the stones. He
rejoined the kid and they walked towards the boardwalk, chatting
quietly, not hurrying.
Joe's broad back made a perfect target. Gough longed to pull out
the gun and bring the fucker down. Shoot the kid too, for that matter.
He stuck his hand in the rucksack and felt the comforting solidity of
the Browning's grip. Joe was punching in the code to open the gate.
There was still time to do it. Empty the magazine into them both,
then run for the bike. He could be out of here in seconds. . .

And then what?
He thought about the text: No threat to us. Relax.
'Yeah, right.' He dropped the fishing rod, grabbed the phone and
made a call. Joe and the kid were through the gate now, all but out
of sight.
'They've gone, but the bodyguard was suspicious.'
'Why? What happened?'
'Nothing.' Gough knew he sounded too defensive. 'I just think I
should pull out. I can't see fuck all from here.'
A moment's deliberation. Then: 'All right. We'll be coming in
ourselves soon enough.'


Four

Joe and Jaden were almost at the house when they heard the distant
roar of the motorbike. Joe was surprised that he might have scared
the fisherman away, but he wasn't particularly sorry about it.
He resolved to wander back to the beach later and see if the man
had made good on his promise; maybe get a swim at the same time.
He had protection duties this evening, when he had to take Cassie
and the children to Brighton, but the next few hours were his own.
It wasn't until he'd delivered Jaden back to his mother that Joe
realised how restless he felt. The run-in with the fisherman had got
his adrenalin pumping. He had a lot of energy to burn off, and he
knew just how to do it.

Valentin Nasenko's house sat on a large plot: some two-thirds of an
acre. The frontage was a hundred feet wide and eighty deep, enclosed
within a rendered brick wall. Most of the space was paved driveway,
with decorative shrubbery along the borders. A month ago Valentin
had decided that the greenery served no useful purpose and should
be paved over.

Joe thought this was a shame, especially as it involved ripping out
plants and trees that had been planted at great expense just two years
before. But rather than bring the landscaping firm back, Joe had
offered to do the work himself in his spare time. It kept him busy,
and it kept him fit.
And sometimes it served as a kind of penance.
He'd completed one side of the driveway, and the other side was
coming on well. He'd excavated the land to the correct depth, laid
weed fabric and hardcore. The next task was to add a layer of sharp
sand and compact it to form a bed for the block paving.
Earlier in the week ten tonnes of sand had been delivered in bulk
bags and stored just inside the gates. Now, fetching a wheelbarrow and
a shovel from the garage, Joe began to transport the sand across the
drive and spread it over the hardcore. The ninety-degrees temperature
made it punishing work, but that was good. That was what he wanted.
Within a few minutes he'd settled into a pleasing rhythm. What
he found most satisfying was the simplicity of the task and the
immediacy of the results. He liked the solitude and the fresh air,
and the fact that he could go anywhere in his mind while he worked
- or he could just let his mind go blank. Forget everything.
More than once Joe had reflected on the path his life might
have taken had he opted for a trade like this: a life of good honest
labour. If he'd chosen that route he might now be enjoying a happy,
uncomplicated existence with his wife and daughters; instead he
was marooned here, in a seductive illusion of paradise.

He was running the wheelbarrow back for another load when he
caught movement beyond the gates. Angela Weaver was walking
past, pushing her sturdy mountain bike. With her wide-brimmed
hat and floral summer dress she resembled a character from Miss Marple, but her legs were as slim and toned as an athlete's, and she
had the kind of deep natural tan that came from years of outdoor
living.
She was a familiar and treasured sight, sailing past with her long
grey-blonde hair whipping out behind her and Brel, her elderly yellow
Labrador, hustling in her wake. But Joe wasn't accustomed to seeing
her like this, trudging by on foot, head down and face hidden.
'Angela?'
She didn't respond. Joe left the wheelbarrow and walked across the
drive. He saw she was hobbling slightly, and the bike's front tyre was
flat. Her Labrador looked every bit as tired and dispirited as she did.
'Angela? Are you all right?'
Now she glanced round, her face creased with pain. 'I'm fine.' She
gave an unconvincing smile. 'I just took a tumble.'
'Let me see.' Joe hit the button on the post that opened the wrought
iron gates. 'Come in for a minute.'
She angled the bike towards him, the flat tyre splaying on the
ground. For all her stoicism, Joe had the feeling she was actually quite
glad to see him. Brel escorted her through the gates, accepted a quick
rub around the jowls in greeting, then trotted off to investigate the
pile of sand.
'Donald's always cautioned against my "reckless" cycling, and
now he has irrefutable proof,' Angela said. She had a clear, well
modulated Home Counties voice; the sort that Joe's parents would
have teasingly summed up with the word frightfully. But it fitted her
age and appearance so aptly, Joe couldn't imagine how else she might
sound.

'Did you hit something?' he asked.
-She shook her head, slightly ashamed. 'I'd just come over the bridge
when I heard an engine. I looked up and found a motorcycle haring
towards me in the middle of the road. Taking the racing line, I suppose.'
She sighed. Joe felt a twinge in his jaw and realised he was gritting
his teeth.

'Goodness knows what speed he was doing,' Angela went on.
'Anyway, in my panic I swerved towards the verge, while also looking
round for Brel. I hit a fallen branch, burst the tyre and went flying.'
'What about the motorbike? Did it stop?'
'Sadly, no. And I didn't recognise him. One of Oliver Felton's friends,
perhaps. I shall have words with that young man.'
Joe held her gaze for a moment. Her eyes were cornflower blue
and very clear, with a vitality that made her look thirty-something
rather than in her sixties. Of all the island's residents, Angela was
the only one Joe really trusted, the only one he'd come close to
confiding in.
'It's nothing to do with Oliver,' he told her. 'In fact, it's probably

my fault.'

He ran through his brief conversation with the fisherman and
concluded by spreading his hands in an expression of guilt. 'If I hadn't
been playing the eco-warrior, this wouldn't have happened.'
'Nonsense. For all you know the man always rides like a maniac.
Besides, you're quite right to challenge litter louts.' She gave a
mischievous wink. 'If I had my way, I'd kneecap the halfwits who
throw cigarette butts from their cars. Polluting beaches should be a
capital offence.'
He grinned. 'Well, I'm still sorry it happened. Are you hurt?'
'Not really.' With no hint of bashfulness, she hoisted the hem of
her dress to mid-thigh. There were grass stains on her shins and a
large graze oozing blood on her right knee. Joe was surprised to hear
a cheerful laugh.
'A schoolboy wound. I look like something out of Just William.'
She refused his offer to fetch the first-aid kit. "I'll clean it up when I
get home. And then try to get this damn machine roadworthy again.'
I can help you there,' Joe said. He raised a hand even before she
spoke. 'No arguments. I'm doing it.'
'Very well. But you don't have to.'
She stood back as he turned the bike upside down, resting it on
the handlebars and saddle, then fetched a box of patches from the
garage. He'd used one a few days ago for an emergency repair on a
big inflatable crocodile that Jaden had burst while playing in the pool.
There were no tyre levers, but he had a Leatherman multi-tool. The
f'l "e, wrapped in a handkerchief to stop it scratching the rim, would
do the job just as well.
Joe rolled the tyre off the rim on one side and the inner tube
flopped out like a dead black eel. He used the bike's hand pump to
inflate it and locate the puncture: a single tiny hole.
'There we go. Shouldn't take long to fix.'
'Actually, I'm not sure if I do have a repair kit at home,' Angela
said. 'I'm very grateful to you.'
'It's nothing. As a kid I spent half my life messing around with
bikes.' Joe grew wistful. 'When I was promoted to detective sergeant
I treated myself to a Marin. First brand new bike I'd ever had. I did
the whole South Downs Way a couple of times, before the girls were
born.'
You should get one now.'
'Hmm.'
Angela smiled at his non-committal response. She knew he wouldn't
buy a bike because that would feel too much like putting down roots;
and Terror's Reach wasn't his home, not really.
Although retired, Angela did voluntary work as a counsellor for a
charity in Portsmouth, helping young people with a range of issues
including drug and alcohol dependencies. Consequently she was a
good listener: one who knew when to intervene and when to say
nothing.
Hunched over the bike, Joe found the truth easier to tell. 'Even if
it didn't cause your accident, I overreacted. It was bloody stupid, risking
a fight over a discarded water bottle.'
'But there wasn't a fight. You might have felt aggression, and that's
perfectly natural. All the more so in your circumstances. The crucial
thing is that you controlled it.'
'Only because he backed down. I didn't even think about Jaden in
that moment. And I'm there to protect him.'
'I can't imagine Cassie's children being safer with anyone else.
Don't forget, a healthy dose of aggression is what the family are paying
you for. It's part of the job description - as long as it's channelled
correctly.'

'Maybe that's the thing. It's so peaceful here, there's nowhere to
channel it.' He waved towards the wheelbarrow. 'Except for work like

this.'
'From what you've told me, the crux of your problem is practically
irresolvable. There's really no alternative to what you're already doing.

Getting through it, one day at a time.'
Joe pushed his hand through his hair. 'I suppose so. I just thought
I'd gone beyond wanting to settle disputes with my fists. Now it seems
like the impulse was just lying dormant.'
Angela considered for a moment. 'Well, then perhaps you have to
accept that it's part of who you are. That means coming to terms with
it. Living with it when it's dormant, and when it's awake.'
He looked up at her. Her face was solemn, even vaguely sad.
'At the risk of sounding terribly mystical,' she added, 'I'd suggest it
might be there for a purpose.'

After patching the hole in the inner tube, Joe checked for other punctures,
then ran his hand round the rim to make sure there were no
thorns or grit left inside. He replaced the inner tube, worked the tyre
back into place and finished inflating it.
Angela beamed at him. 'Thank you, Joe. I was dreading what a
drama Donald would have made of this.'
Least I can do.' He spun the wheel and heard it rub against one
of the brake blocks. 'It's a bit buckled. Might need straightening.'
Oh, I'm sure it was like that before. It's an ancient, creaking old
wreck.' She laughed. 'Just like its owner.'
Joe shook his head, unsure what to say. He could see Angela
reddening slightly. He turned the bike the right way up and rolled it
forward, testing the brakes. They squealed a little, but worked fine.
Angela climbed on and adjusted her sunhat. She called to Brel,
who trotted over, happier for having had a rest. Joe accompanied them
to the gates. There was a car approaching from the north, a sleekooking
Renault with a man at the wheel. He was doing about forty:
not a crazy speed, but still too fast for the island.
'Rather than tempt fate, I'll wait for him to pass,' Angela said.
'That's the guy who's trying to sell Felton's place, isn't it?'
'The estate agent. Yes.' There was a wry note in her voice, for which
she offered no explanation. Not in the mood for gossip right now, Joe
surmised.
The Renault slowed for a left-hand bend just beyond the Nasenko
property and disappeared from view. Angela pushed down on her right
pedal and wobbled out onto the road.
'Thanks again, Joe. I owe you a favour.'
'No, you gave me some good advice. We're quits.'
He watched her pick up speed as she cycled towards home. Already
he could feel the negativity returning, seeping through his mind like
a stain. For no matter what Angela had said, he did bear responsibility
for her accident.
It was a salutary reminder to Joe that it wasn't only good deeds that
were paid forward, but bad ones as well. Another tiny measure of guilt; another bitter taste in his gullet.

Five

Liam Devlin couldn't bear inactivity. After meeting the others at the
staging post on an industrial estate south of Havant, there had been
a couple of hours with little to do but check over their equipment
and wait. The whole time he was aware of a manic energy surging
through his body. He felt like an overcharged battery, leaking heat
from his pores like acid.
Then came the bad news from Gough. Liam had had concerns
about surveillance from the beginning. Although the beach wasn't an
ideal vantage point, it was the safest place they could find. The trees
opposite the homes would have been perfect, but all it took was
someone's dog sniffing them out. . .
On the plus side, Gough's early retreat gave Liam good reason to
bring the operation forward. Only the first stage, and only by an hour
or so, but at least he'd be moving. There was plenty of waiting still
to come, once they were in place, but that would be easier to handle.
For one thing, he'd have a distraction.
Priya had arrived late for the rendezvous. She was polite but
aloof. She kept to herself during the afternoon, ignoring the repetitive
small talk and jittery gallows humour. A frosty little bitch: that
was the consensus Liam picked up from the others. They were
knuckle draggers, mostly; the type of men who hated authority in
any form. The idea of a woman as second-in-command wasn't just
alien, but repugnant. The colour of her skin didn't sit well with
some of them, either.
For Liam, it was different. He was top dog on this mission and he
made sure everyone knew it. Also, his background was white-collar,
so he was used to dealing with snotty bitches in all shapes and shades.
Priya's typically female air of superiority didn't threaten him in the
slightest. On the contrary: it gave him a thrill.
From the moment he first set eyes on her, he knew he had to have
her. With a bit of luck and a lot of willpower, he might be able to
keep that desire under control till the job was done. But if not. . .
If not, he'd do it whenever he got the chance.

Liam looked like a bandit in an old-fashioned western. He'd grown his
dark hair to shoulder length. He had a long, drooping moustache,
modelled on the one sometimes sported by the singer Nick Cave, and
he'd gone without shaving for a couple of days. The combination of
the moustache, the stubble and the granite-grey eyes gave him exactly
the right persona: he was one mean sonofabitch. Not to be messed with.
The new look worked equally well as a disguise. He was dressed
like a builder, in heavy boots, jeans and a tight black singlet. When
the job was done he'd shave and cut his hair short. With a good suit
and a neat side-parting, no one would connect him to the grubby
desperado who'd raided the homes of some of the wealthiest men in
Britain.
If there was a drawback, it was that 'grubby desperado' didn't seem
to do it for Priya. So far she'd hardly spared him a glance.
That was okay, Liam decided. He liked a challenge. It made the
eventual conquest all the more satisfying.

With Angela's misfortune weighing on his conscience, Joe worked
furiously for thirty or forty minutes. When he finally paused, the
muscles of his arms and back were screaming for relief and his body
was dripping with sweat. But he felt a lot better.
He peeled off his T-shirt and mopped his face with it. The sun was
high above him, mercilessly hot. A couple of black-headed gulls drifted
silently overhead. There was almost no birdsong, he realised; just a
distant forlorn chirping from the woods across the road.
Joe walked over to the pallet of paving blocks, where he'd left his
watch for safety. It was three forty-five. Time to get that swim he'd
promised himself.
He was putting on the watch when the sound of an approaching
vehicle made him look up. With traffic so rare on the island, he had
spent enough time out front that he could recognise most of the local
cars by their engine tones. This one was unfamiliar.
It was a white Ford Transit, two years old, the bodywork faded but
clean. A sign on the side in plain black lettering said CC Construction. Below that, in a font too small to read quickly, an 0845 number. No
web address or trade-association logo.
There was only one man in the cab: slim, youngish, with unruly
dark hair and a gunslinger's moustache. He gave Joe the briefest of
glances, then turned his attention back to the road, his brow furrowed
with intense concentration. Either deep in thought or pissed off about
something.
Probably the latter, Joe guessed. Builders' vans weren't a particularly
unusual sight on Terror's Reach, but at this time on a Friday he'd
have expected to see them heading in the opposite direction, back
towards the mainland and the nearest pub.
Joe was turning away when an audible thud from the rear of the
van caused him to hesitate. The Transit veered slightly, as if the driver
had been startled by the noise. Then the van straightened up and
accelerated away. Before it disappeared around the bend in the road
Joe memorised the registration mark. No real reason, but old habits
died hard.
He went on thinking about it as he tidied up. The likeliest possibility
was that some equipment had shifted or fallen over. But the
thud hadn't sounded hard and metallic; it had been soft and muffled.
Yielding, like flesh. It reminded him of the noise a disruptive prisoner
made, throwing himself against the side of a police van.
Except that didn't make any sense. If there was someone else in
there, why weren't they sitting up front with the driver?

As Liam drew alongside the Nasenko house, his attention was caught
by a man on the driveway. Late thirties, dark hair, tall and muscular.
He was staring straight at the Transit. Liam focused on the road,
sneaking another look as he drove past.
A thump from the back echoed through the van. The shock made
him jerk the steering wheel.
'Shit,' he muttered. Sit still, you silly bitch.
He corrected the steering and checked the mirror. Saw the man
watching as the van rounded the bend and the Nasenko house slipped
out of sight. That must be the fella on the beach who'd rattled Gough.
Seeing him, Liam could understand why.
Easing up on the accelerator, he grabbed his phone and pressed
the speed dial.
'What?'
'Just passed some big bastard, paving the driveway. That's the other
bodyguard, I take it?'
Yes. But you have no need to worry about him.'
You sure? He looks pretty handy.'
'Don't worry, I tell you. Soon he will be gone from here. The others
are ready, yes?'
'Oh, yes. Everyone's ready.' Liam smiled. 'Ready and raring to go.'

Six

Angela Weaver freewheeled onto her driveway and half dismounted, balancing gracefully on one pedal as she rolled along the path at the
side of the house. She felt tremendously relieved that Joe had come
to her aid. It meant she didn't have to mention the accident to Donald
at all. Her only regret was making that clumsy joke about her similarity
to the bike. An ancient, creaking old wreck. What had she been
thinking?
She regularly encountered Joe on the beach, usually reading or
sketching with pencils. Over a period of months, as they'd sat and
talked, he had gradually revealed more about himself and his
chequered past. She was flattered that he'd taken her into his confidence.
He was a lovely man, who for the most part endured his
suffering with good grace. He didn't deserve the fate that had befallen
him.
Then again, Angela thought, who did?
She propped the bike against the fence and turned to make sure
Brel had followed her into the garden. Before going in she checked
the graze on her knee. It was drying up nicely, but cleaning it out
with witch hazel could wait. First she needed a cup of tea and a sit
down.
She took a couple of deep breaths to compose herself. Rubbed her
hands over her face, took off her hat and patted her hair into some
kind of order. Silly, really. She could stroll in wearing clown makeup
and a bright orange fright wig and Donald would be hard-pressed

to notice.
She opened the back door and stepped inside, and as she crossed
the threshold a familiar melancholy descended.
Angela had once watched an intense, beautiful film called House
of Sand and Fog, and it had inspired her to christen her home in a
similar fashion. For the past two years this had been the House of
Sorrow and Fury, and although she could never countenance leaving
it, she also knew she could never quite feel happy here any more.
Donald was sitting at the scarred pine table in their large old
fashioned kitchen, engrossed in a recipe book. Impervious to the heat,
he was wearing his favourite gardening clothes: old brown cords and
a threadbare check shirt. He didn't acknowledge Angela's presence
until the dog padded over and collapsed, panting, at his feet.

'Nice ride?'
'Lovely,' she lied. 'Though it's sweltering out there. Poor Brel was

labouring.'
Donald bent down, stroking the Labrador's head. You go far too
fast, that's the trouble. It's not the damn Tour de France.'
'It keeps me fit. I wish you'd exercise more often.'
'No point,' he said, licking a finger and turning the page. 'See

anyone?'
'Not really. Just that chap who works for the Nasenkos. Joe.'
Angela saw her husband flinch. His body tightened, his head dipping
closer to the refuge of the book. She grabbed the kettle and tipped
the dregs into the sink.
'That's his name, Donald. He's called Joe. I can't help that, and I
can't not say it.'
Yes, you can.'
'Oh, Donald.' Her exasperation blew out on a sigh, lost in the
gurgling rush of water as she refilled the kettle. Here was a man who
decidedly did not bear his suffering with good grace.
So many times she had resolved to confront him, try and bring this
nonsense to an end. But always she found herself putting it off. Today
her justification for doing so was slightly more impressive. The accident
had left her weary and shaken, and a lot more upset than she'd
dared admit to Joe.
Because the truth was that the motorcyclist had seen her in plenty
of time, and yet made no attempt to correct his position.
If anything, he'd been aiming right at her.

The first thing Liam noticed was that the gates were open. A second
later he spotted a car on the driveway. It must have come in after
Gough had left the island.
He let the van roll past the entrance, coming to a halt alongside
the perimeter wall. The neighbouring property was partly obscured
by a screen of mature fruit trees, and there were no buildings at all
on the opposite side of the road. Plenty of privacy, at least.
He turned off the ignition and thought about what to do. Almost
immediately he was interrupted by a rapping on the bulkhead. A wary
voice called his name.
Yeah, all right.' Liam slipped out of the cab, wiping his face with
his hands. He checked the road was clear, then opened the rear doors.
The wash of hot stale air made him recoil.
The van was loaded with equipment, which included eight large
propane cylinders. Squashed amongst them, Priya should have looked
grimy and dishevelled, but there didn't seem to be a trace of sweat or
dust on her.
'Welcome to Terror's Reach,' he said, and as she stepped down it
was all he could do not to gasp.
Even in blue jeans and a plain black top, she looked like an
Indian princess. Or maybe a Bollywood star, playing the part of an Indian
princess. She was tall and slim, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist.
Her hair was dark and lustrous, as light and fine as smoke. She had milkand-honey
skin, every inch of it utterly smooth and unblemished.
No sense denying it to himself, Liam thought. He was hooked.
While Priya took in the magnificence of the building, Liam studied
her face. He saw her eyes widen, then narrow again with concentration.
He noted the way her lips came together, leaving just a tiny hole in the
centre.
The house was called Dreamscape, and to Liam it resembled a
dozen gigantic Coke cans, stacked in two layers of six. It was a
monstrosity: eight thousand square feet of prime real estate. The curved
exterior walls were clad in red and white glass ceramic panels, while
the interior featured huge open-plan rooms and a wealth of solid oak
and marble.
The current price tag was six and a half million, and it had been
on the market for nearly two years.
'The design's too idiosyncratic,' Priya said at last. 'That's why it
hasn't sold.'
'That, and the fact it's overpriced by about three million quid.'
She turned to him, frowning. 'Why are the gates open?'

Joe finished clearing up while debating whether to walk along the
road to the beach and see where the mysterious van had gone. At the
same time a voice in his head told him to leave it. His job was to
watch over Cassie and her children, not patrol the island for rogue
builders and potential litter louts.
He was still undecided when the front door opened and Cassie
Nasenko appeared, carrying a tall glass of water.
'Thought you needed a drink,' she said. You'll give yourself a heart
attack, working so hard in this heat.'
'I quite enjoy it,' said Joe. The glass was slippery with condensation.
He was careful not to drop it, or let his fingers brush against
hers.
He drank gratefully, while Cassie turned and inspected his handiwork.
'It's coming on well,' she said, without much enthusiasm. He
knew she'd have preferred to leave the shrubbery untouched.
'Thanks. Is Jaden okay?'
Yeah. He still wouldn't have a nap. And Sofia didn't have long
enough, so they'll probably end up being grumpy tonight.'
Joe tutted. 'I bet you're looking forward to seeing your friends?'
Yes, I am.' Her gaze flickered towards the house. 'Oh, and there's
been a change of plan. Yuri wants to see you.'
'He didn't send you out here, did he?'
It was a curt response, enough to make Cassie blush.
'I was bringing you the drink.'
'I know. Sorry.' Trying to soften his tone, he said, 'It's just... I don't
work for Yuri. I work for you.'
She crossed her arms, clapping her hands against her shoulders as
if suddenly cold. 'Actually, you work for Valentin,' she said, and there
was an unspoken message in the pause that followed. And so do I.

Liam leaned into the van and reached for a heavy-duty metal toolbox.
He was aware of Priya's scent, something light and floral. She was
standing just behind him, her hands clasped together. Anxious but
not panicked, which was a relief. Maybe she wouldn't turn out to be
a total liability.
'Did anyone notice you on the way here?' she asked.
'A guy out front at Nasenko's place.'
'A gardener?'
'No. One of the staff Then he remembered. 'What was that noise
you made?'

'Oh, I lost my balance. Sorry.'
Yeah.' Liam gave a brusque nod. Maybe not a total liability . . .
He opened the box and the top tier concertinaed out. He removed
a set of drill bits and examined the weaponry concealed beneath them.
Half a dozen semi-automatic pistols, complete with silencers, and a
selection of knives.
He stopped mid-delve. At this point he knew nothing about the
threat he was facing. Was a gun a tad excessive? Was a knife too messy?
'Ah, fuck it.' The remnants of his Irish accent were strongest when
he cursed: sounded more like feck it. He left the toolbox and shut the
van doors. Gave Priya an encouraging glance. 'Come on.'
The boundary wall was about five feet high, painted a brilliant
white, its curving design mirroring that of the house's front elevation.
The wide double gates were carved from Iroko hardwood, electrically
operated, with an intercom set into the wall beside them.
Liam knew the building had an extensive security system, with a
network of movement sensors and high-definition cameras. It was quite
feasible that someone would be monitoring their approach, so he made
sure to stroll up to the front door, his leisurely manner and pleasant
smile reinforcing his entitlement to be there.
Priya followed, studying the large potted palms along the driveway
as if half expecting someone to leap out at her.
'Relax,' he said.
'I'm perfectly relaxed, thank you.'
Definitely an attitude there. He found himself dwelling on her mouth
again, that tantalising little gap, and had to push the image away.
Later.
The car was a red Renault Megane Sport, parked close to the house.
Liam casually trailed his hand along the bonnet as he passed it. Still
warm.
The front door was made from heavy oak, flanked by narrow windows
of opaque decorative glass. There was a security camera mounted
above the door, and a covert one embedded at eye level in the door
itself.
'Go with me,' said Liam, and knocked firmly.
'What are you planning to say?'
'Depends who answers.'
He heard movement inside. The door was opened quickly, without
any caution, by a young man in pinstriped trousers and a puce-coloured
shirt. He was about thirty, with dark hair and big brown eyes. A good
looking guy, and didn't he just know it.
But his glib smile died as he registered their presence. His gaze
was drawn to Priya, then reluctantly back to Liam, and in his narrowing
eyes Liam spotted an unmissable trace of guilt. With that, a number
of things became clear.

'We're here for the viewing,' Liam said, taking a step forward.
'What?'
'We arranged it with the agents, Taplin Ward.'
'You must be mistaken. I'm from Taplin Ward, and I don't recall--'

'They told us you'd meet us at the house.'
'But they don't know I'm--'


Thank you, Liam thought, and he punched the man in the throat.




Seven

Joe followed Cassie across the driveway, her flip-flops slapping against
her heels with a sound like insistent wet kisses. She branched towards
the playroom, where the electronic thwock of a virtual tennis ball
was accompanied by a cry of victory. Jaden was a demon on the Wii,
regularly defeating Joe not just at tennis but at bowling and even
boxing.
Joe continued on to the kitchen. It was divided into two distinct
spaces. The rear section was about twenty feet square, as sterile as an
operating theatre with its white ceramic floors, Poggenpohl units and
Corian worktops. A step led up to the front half, where a breakfast
table and a couple of easy chairs looked out over the terraced gardens
and the grand sweep of the bay.
While he'd been working out front, a sleek motor yacht had appeared
and was sitting at anchor just inside the deep-water channel. On the
bridge, a crew member in white raised a pair of binoculars and seemed
to focus in their direction.
Yuri Deszniak paid it no attention. He was sitting at the table, a
pair of mobile phones set before him like cutlery. In one fist he
clutched a glass of cognac, and with the other he lifted a cigar to his
mouth and took a long, appreciative suck. The maid, Maria Vargas,
had just delivered a pot of coffee. In place of thanks, Yuri flapped an
impatient hand towards the wall of glass. He required ventilation.
Sniffing disdainfully, Maria turned away. She was a short, squarish
woman in her fifties, wearing a plain grey dress and a white apron.
Still oblivious of Joe's presence, Yuri watched her stretch up on tiptoe
to open one of the high windows.
You have a big ass, woman. Did I tell you that before?'
Maria made a small gesture, acknowledging that she had heard but
didn't necessarily agree. She knew not to take Yuri too seriously, but
nevertheless she still feared him.
'I ask myself, is there a man alive who would fuck you, eh?'
Joe snorted. 'That's rich, coming from an ugly bastard like you.'
Yuri spun round, glowering as he saw who was speaking. Maria
scurried past, briefly making eye contact with Joe. She was smiling.
'Another thing,' said Joe. 'Next time you want to speak to me, come
and get me yourself. Cassie's not here to run errands for you. She's
your boss's wife.'
Yuri's bark of laughter told Joe exactly what he was thinking. The
marriage was a mistake, easily rectified.
'I answer to Valentin. Nobody else. Not her,' he growled, stabbing
a finger at Joe, 'and not you.'
'That's crap.' Joe felt his heart beating faster again. So much for self
control. 'It's time you started showing her a bit more respect.'
Yuri looked amused. 'Or. . . ?'
Joe held his gaze. He was aware of Maria retreating to the depths
of the kitchen.
'Or face the consequences,' he said.
You would fight me?'
Angela's advice came back to him. Accept that it's part of who you
are.
You bet I would,' said Joe. 'I'd kick your arse right into next week,
and I'd enjoy every minute of it.'


With the element of surprise, a punch in the throat can be just as
effective as any weapon. The estate agent keeled over and landed
heavily, his head thumping against the solid oak floor. His eyes shut
and for a few long seconds he didn't move.
Maybe he's dead, thought Liam, surprised by how calm he felt.
He and Priya entered the house and closed the door behind them. He
listened for signs of inhabitation, but the building felt empty.
The estate agent's eyes opened and his body started thrashing, his
hands clawing at his throat. He let out a long, strangled noise.
'He's suffocating,' Priya said. 'He can't breathe.'
'He can breathe. He's just forgotten how, because he's panicking.'
Liam gave the man a kick in his lower back. The estate agent
twisted away. His frantic gurgling subsided and he took a couple of
big gulping breaths, like a baby after a tantrum.
'I suppose he looks like an estate agent,' Priya said. 'That shirt is appalling.'
'It was an educated guess. But I think he's AWOL.' Liam crouched
down, tugging the man's arm to get his attention. 'What are you doing
here?'
The man coughed first, then said, 'None of your business. Who
the hell are you, anyway?'
Liam grabbed him by his hair and slammed his head on the floor.
The impact reverberated around the cavernous hall. Liam's hand came
away sticky with hair gel. The man groaned and shifted a few inches,
leaving a smear of blood on the floor.
'I have to get back. I'm due in a meeting at six.'
'Six o'clock on a Friday? I don't think so.'
A shameless flicker of acknowledgement from the estate agent. His
was a career where exaggeration came as naturally as smiling: getting
caught out was merely an occupational hazard.
'In a bar,' he conceded. 'We all get together every Friday.'
'Not today, you won't,' Liam said. You still haven't explained what
you're doing here.'
The estate agent swallowed. "I'm meeting someone.'
'Who?'
'A woman.'
Liam glanced at Priya, indicating the house. 'I suppose you can't
blame him. A place like this standing empty and he has the keys. It's
got to beat the back seat of his car.'
'My car!' The man groped inside his pocket, brought out a set of
keys. 'Take the Megane. I promise I won't tell anyone.'
Liam feigned interest in the proposal. 'Company car, is it?'
'Well . . . yeah, but--'
You know, I'm stunned by your generosity. Offering me a car you
don't own, while you shag someone in a house you don't own.' He
laughed. 'What about the woman? I bet she's not yours, either.'
The estate agent stared at him, uncertain how to reply.
'Of course she's not,' Liam answered for him. You worthless piece
of shit. I don't want the car.'
The man went to put his keys back in his pocket, but Liam snatched
them from his hand. He turned to Priya.
'But we do need to get it in the garage before his lady friend arrives.
Bring the van in as well.'
'What if someone sees me . . .'
'I've got to watch Mr Slick here.'
'Please,' the estate agent blurted. 'Tell me what you want.'
'Shut up.'
'If it's something in the house, just let me go. I swear I won't say
a word.'
'I told you to shut up!' Liam shouted.
Priya waited for him to face her, and said, 'I can deal with him.'
Liam was doubtful. He'd argued against her late inclusion in the
team, and he still wasn't sure exactly what she was doing here. All he
knew was that she'd been some kind of science prodigy who'd gone off
the rails and ended up in rehab, where a former client of Liam's had
trawled her up. Not difficult to see what had attracted his interest, but
it hardly qualified her to guard a frightened and desperate hostage.
I don't know if that's wise,' he said.
'Better than someone spotting me and wondering what I'm doing
in a builder's van,' Priya said. 'Go on. I can handle it.'
But Liam had spotted a glimmer of hope in the estate agent's eyes.
He kicked him in the side, hard enough to crack some ribs. The man
screamed and rolled away. His hand fluttered above the injury: too
painful to touch. Tears dribbled down his cheeks.
'Try anything', Liam said, 'and I'll take a penalty kick with your
skull. Understand?'
He got only a whimper in response. Priya looked on, her arms folded.
She wore a grim expression, as though she disapproved of his methods.
You'll see a lot worse than this before we're done, he thought.

There was a tense silence in the kitchen. Then Yuri turned away.
He lifted the coffee pot and poured quickly, slopping some on the
table.
'If you would fight me for her, maybe you want to fuck her?' He
nodded towards the ceiling. 'Maybe I tell Valentin how you feel?'
Joe didn't rise to the bait. He and Yuri had formed a mutual enmity
from the beginning. It might have deterred Joe from taking the job,
if not for the fact that Yuri was rarely on the island. He was Valentin's
personal bodyguard, and Nasenko spent at least two weeks of every
month attending to his various business interests around the world.
The rest of the time was divided between the Reach and his apartment
in Belgravia.
Yuri was in his mid-forties, a short burly man with thick black hair
and dark eyes. His features were large and unprepossessing, and his
skin had the look and texture of old dough. One side of his neck was
disfigured with scar tissue where someone had once thrown battery
acid over him. Legend had it that he had ignored the burns until he'd
disarmed his attackers and killed them both with his bare hands.
The Ukrainian said nothing as he spooned three sugars into his
coffee. Finally he picked up his cigar from the side plate he was using
as an ashtray. He inhaled, then jabbed the cigar at Joe.
'Clean up and get ready. You take Cassie to Brighton in thirty
minutes.'
'I thought we were leaving at six.'
'Not any more. There is something to collect at Merrion's.'
Joe glanced at his watch. 'We'll be cutting it fine. What time do
they close?'
'Don't worry about that. Just do it. And say nothing to her.' Yuri
bared his teeth, but it couldn't have been called a smile. 'Valentin
has arranged a surprise.'
'Okay. What's the real reason for going early?'
Yuri glared at him. 'His visitor arrives soon. He wants no distractions.'
'Must be an important meeting.' When Yuri showed no sign of
responding, Joe indicated the yacht, sitting squarely in their field of
vision. 'Is that anything to do with it?'
'This is not your concern.'
Joe kept his voice level. 'If Valentin wants to change the plan, I'd
expect him to tell me in person. How do I know I'm not just running
some silly errand for you?'
'He is busy. He tells me, and now I tell you. And for Valentin, you
are here to fetch, to carry, to be good little worker and keep your fucking mouth shut.'
Joe clenched his fists. A glint in Yuri's eye suggested he would relish
a fight, and yet he didn't seem overly disappointed when Joe forced
himself to relax.
'We're going to have a talk about this tomorrow,' said Joe quietly.
'Get a few things straight.'
Yuri threw back his head and laughed. 'Tomorrow? Very good. See
how I tremble with fear!' He motioned towards the door. 'Now go.
Go before you make me angry.'
Reluctantly, Joe turned away. He knew he shouldn't let Yuri rile
him, nor should he keep trying to fight Cassie's battles for her. If
Valentin chose to keep her in the dark, it was her responsibility either
to have it out with him or to put up with it.
Crossing the kitchen, he earned another long-suffering smile from
Maria. He walked along the hall and descended the stairs to the staff
quarters, aware that the prospect of a night away had just become a
lot more inviting.

Eight

Liam knew from the floor plans that the garage could be accessed
via the house. He hurried through a kitchen so enormous that it was
probably larger than some of the flats he'd rented over the years.
Then into the adjoining utility room, where he discovered the door
into the garage was locked. He looked round for a key but couldn't
find one.
He was about to kick the door in when he remembered the estate
agent's keys. He pulled them from his pocket, saw that several were
on a keyring of their own, along with a plastic tag marked DREAMSCAPE.
The second one he tried slipped easily into the lock.
The garage was stifling, the air as thick as soup. Although it was
large enough for four or five cars, the interior was clad in timber;
there was no natural light and not much ventilation. It was like
stepping into a sauna.
At least Liam didn't have to grope for a light switch. The system
operated on movement sensors, and a bank of fluorescent tubes
fired up as he crossed the threshold. The ceiling was built low to
accommodate a strengthened floor for the games room overhead, the
centrepiece of which was a full-sized snooker table.
Years since I played snooker, he thought, grinning slyly as he reflected
on some of the other things you could do on a snooker table.
That brought him back to the estate agent, and the man's secret
assignation. This woman he was screwing could turn up at any moment.
Two extra hostages before they'd even got set up. Not exactly the best
of starts.
'Well, bollocks to that,' Liam said, his voice resonating in the large
empty space. At least he had the experience to know that things like this
always happened. There was even a motto for it, for Christ's sake: Expect
the unexpected. What mattered was how you dealt with it.
Reaching the big double doors, he paused, thinking he'd heard a
noise back in the house. A muffled cry, maybe?
He waited a second, wondering how Priya would react if the man
made a grab for her. Whether she could fight him off.
But there was no time to go and check. The last thing Liam wanted
was the estate agent's lover rolling up just as he got into the Renault.
So hurry . . .

Valentin Nasenko had a permanent staff of more than twenty people:
personal assistants, maids and housekeepers, gardeners and bodyguards.
Some were based on site at Valentin's various homes around the world,
while others travelled with the man himself. At Terror's Reach there
were usually two or three live-in staff, including Joe.
Their quarters were in the basement: four bedrooms which opened
onto a communal open-plan living area and kitchenette. Joe's room
was about ten feet by eight, decorated in neutral colours, with a single
built-in wardrobe and an ensuite shower room. The only window was
a narrow skylight that ran along the side of the house and poured a
little daylight into each of the rooms.
It was an arrangement similar, in Joe's opinion, to a prison cell.
Certainly Yuri seemed to think so. He took any opportunity to help
himself to one of the guest bedrooms on the second floor, rather than
languish down here.
The room could be locked, but since it seemed likely that Valentin
had access to master keys, Joe kept his personal possessions in a metal
strongbox stashed beneath a spare blanket in the bottom of his

wardrobe. As well as nearly ten thousand pounds in cash and a couple
of cheap pay-as-you-go mobile phones, the box contained credit cards,
passports and birth certificates in two different names, including the
one by which his current employers knew him: Joe Carter. There
were also half a dozen photos, growing increasingly dog-eared but still
without question the most valuable items in the box.
After taking a cool shower and dressing in jeans and a short-sleeved
shirt, Joe packed a small rucksack with toiletries and a change of
clothes. He debated for a second, then added his Leatherman multi
tool to the rucksack and put one of the mobile phones in his pocket.
Before closing the box, he allowed himself a few moments to look
at the photos. He'd considered framing a couple and keeping them on
his bedside table, but the same cautious instinct advised against it.
He knew the other staff viewed him as an oddity because of his
reluctance to reveal anything about himself. It wasn't always pleasant,
deceiving people on matters both trivial and profound, but he'd long
since learned to live with it. He didn't have any choice.
And on that bum note, he locked the box and put it back in the
wardrobe. Picked up the rucksack and left the room, his heart beating
faster at the thought of making the call - and the question he would
be compelled to ask.

Like almost everything else in Dreamscape, the garage doors incorporated
a fancy gimmick. Operating on an electric motor, they were
constructed from what looked like rigid vertical slats of hardwood. But
instead of sweeping outwards, tiny hinges on each slat allowed the
gates to bend and retract into a housing concealed within the curved
side walls. It was an impressive sight as the gates shuffled apart and
seemingly disappeared, but Liam was in no mood to admire it.
As soon as the gap was wide enough he ran to the Renault, started
it up and drove into the garage. Then he hurried over to the van,
casually checking the road in both directions. No one in sight.

He was glad of that, but it also freaked him out. Five houses all on
their own on a little island. No pubs, no restaurants, not even a corner
shop. If you suddenly needed a packet of cigarettes or a crate of beer,
you were looking at an hour's round trip to the nearest town.
Of course, most of the people who did live here had servants to
run errands like that. But it still wasn't for Liam. No, he'd take their
money and get himself a place somewhere busy and vibrant and anonymous.
New York, or perhaps Madrid. He'd once been on an amazing
stag weekend in Madrid.
He reversed past the gates, pulled onto the driveway and into the
garage. Stood and watched the doors rattling together, and when they
were shut he gave a nod of satisfaction. Everything back on track.
He opened up the van and took out a couple of plastic restraints
from one of the kitbags. There was a lot more stuff to unload, but
most of it could wait until the other teams were here: a job for the
knuckle draggers.
A neat little Louis Vuitton case caught his eye. God only knew
what Priya had brought with her. A change of clothes and some
toiletries, fair enough, but somehow she'd managed to fill up a whole
case.
Maybe there was some nice lingerie, he thought. So far she'd
presented herself as quite the prim little maiden but, as he knew from
experience, that kind of woman sometimes turned out to be a tigress
in the bedroom.
Liam caught himself whistling as he retraced his steps through the
house. He was feeling lucky, thinking about Priya and lingerie.
Thinking about christening the snooker table. It wasn't till he reached
the kitchen that he detected a subtle change in the air. Something
had gone badly wrong.
He recognised the smell immediately: hot, metallic, foul. The
stench of a slaughterhouse. A second later he reached the hallway
and saw the large spreading pool of fresh blood.

Nine

For a moment, Liam considered aborting the whole operation. It was
one thing to expect the unexpected. Quite another to foresee a problem
on this scale.
He watched the blood creep across the floor and settle, hot and
viscous, darkening the grooves between the sumptuous oak floorboards.
He'd never get it all out, he realised. No matter how rigorously he
cleaned up, traces of it would remain, soaking deep into the floor.
And blood meant DNA. It meant evidence that could put him in
prison for the rest of his life.
Almost as quickly, Liam understood that the job had to continue.
There were too many elements already in play. And far, far too much
at stake.
Tearing his gaze from the blood, he focused on its source. The
estate agent lay on his back, arms thrown out at his sides, one leg
straight, the other slightly crooked. If you lifted him upright it would
look like a dancer's pose.
His throat had been slashed just below the Adam's apple, but Liam
guessed it was one of the stab wounds to the chest that had killed
him.
'What happened?'
He looked at Priya. She was sitting at the foot of the stairs, her
elbows resting on her knees, her lower arms dangling free as if she
wanted nothing more to do with them. Her hands were covered in
blood, and there was a spatter line on her jeans, crossing both legs
just below the knees. Her head was tipped forward, her hair a graceful
curtain across her face.
There was no response, so he said it again. 'What happened? Did
he try to attack you?'
Priya raised her head, parting the curtain of hair. 'He said he felt
sick. Asked if he could go to the toilet. I said no.' Her voice was even,
but sounded a little tight. She was very still, he noticed. Not trembling.
'He
started to get up, said he just needed to turn over, but then he
lunged at me. He grabbed my ankle, tried to pull me down.'
Liam sighed. This was precisely why he'd proposed that she move
the cars.
'I couldn't let him overpower me. Not with so much at risk. I just. . .
I had to defend myself She gestured towards the weapon at her feet.
It was a military-style boot knife with a double-edged blade.
'Where did that come from?'
'I always carry it.' She met Liam's eye. 'For protection.'
He nodded, filing the information away. 'Wouldn't a single cut have
subdued him?'
'He kept coming at me . . .' She shrugged. 'I had to stop him. Let's
face it, he was a dead man from the moment he opened the front
door.'
Liam grunted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He couldn't rid
himself of the feeling that her explanation was a bit too slick. He was
about to say so when a burst of dance music startled them both. It
was coming from the estate agent's body.
His phone.

When Joe went back upstairs the house was vibrating with the undercurrent
of panic that accompanies the preparation for any kind of
journey with young children. In the kitchen, Cassie was packing milk
and bottles and bibs for Sofia. Joe heard the fridge door open, followed
by a crash. Cassie swore, and Maria offered soothing words as she
came to the rescue.
Yuri appeared, dumped a couple of overnight bags in the lobby
and stalked away, muttering into the phone clamped to his ear. Joe
caught the words: 'Ten minutes, okay?'
Passing through the kitchen, where Maria was mopping up a spillage,
Joe used the internal door into the garage, which had the look and
feel of a school gymnasium. At Christmas Valentin had been briefly
gripped by the notion that Jaden should grow up to be a professional
basketball player, the better to earn his keep, and so he'd had hoops
and a synthetic floor installed. Not surprisingly for a six-year-old,
Jaden's enthusiasm for the sport had quickly waned, and after a few
weeks the garage had reverted to its former use.
Vehicle keys were stored in a steel box mounted on the garage wall. Valentin's beloved Porsche 911 was away for a service, which
left two other cars: a brand new Mitsubishi Shogun and a 7 series
BMW. Joe opted for the Shogun, knowing Cassie preferred it to
the BMW.
As the big double doors swung open, the glare from the sun was
dazzling. Joe rolled the Shogun onto the driveway, got out and opened
the boot. Cassie was already at the front door, holding Sofia in one
arm. She was flustered.
'I can't find her other sunhat.'
'It's on the back seat.'
Cassie managed to smile and look annoyed with herself at the same
time. She reached for the baby's buggy, propped against the wall. Joe
beat her to it.
You take care of the kids. I'll load the car.'
She nodded. Frowned again as she realised that her son was still
absent. 'Come on, Jaden! We've got to hurry.'
There was a muffled shout from the toilet along the hall. Cassie
wasn't amused.
'They obviously want me out of the way,' she grumbled. 'All this
sudden rush, before his precious visitor arrives.'
Joe was searching for something constructive to say, without
mentioning the errand at the jeweller's, when the toilet flushed and
Jaden came bowling along the hall. Ignoring his mother, he ploughed
into Joe, grabbing his legs and roaring like a lion. It was a game they
often played, but this time it took Joe by surprise, causing him to stumble.
You got me!' he said, setting the buggy down and sweeping Jaden
high into the air. The boy squealed with laughter and swiped at Joe's
face, narrowly missing his nose. Jaden loved physical play, the rougher
the better, and Joe was the only member of the household willing to
indulge him.
For Cassie it was just another source of tension, emphasising as it
did all that was missing from the relationship between Jaden and his
stepfather. Mindful of her discomfort, Joe lowered the boy to the
ground and pointed out through the door.
'Time to go,' he said.

Liam moved first, circling round the body to avoid the pool of blood.
'Leave it,' Priya said.
'Can't. It's probably his girlfriend.'
'So?'
'We don't know where she's calling from.'
Crouching down, he slipped his hand into the agent's pocket and
retrieved the phone. Priya was climbing the stairs towards the big
picture window that flooded the hall with light. She looked out.
'She's parked on the road.' Then, more urgently: 'Coming this way.'
Liam felt a rush of giddy confidence. He loved this, he realised.
Loved the danger. Loved winging it.
You answer,' he said.
Priya gaped at him. She trotted down the stairs as Liam made to
throw the phone. Cupping her hands like a cricketer, she caught it
deftly and retreated to the back of the hall. 'What do I say?'
'Pretend he's cheating on her.'
Still unsure, she slid the fascia up and answered, her voice suddenly
deeper and slightly breathless. Yes?'
Liam took in the confused silence at the other end. Delighted, he
hurried over to Priya. She started to pull away, obviously fearing the
caller might pick up on his presence. Then it clicked: that was part
of the deception.
She said: 'He, ah, he can't speak to you right now.' She moved the
phone a couple of inches from her cheek, far enough for Liam to
hear the other side of the conversation.
'Who are you, then?' a shrill voice demanded. 'Do you work with
him?'
'Not work, no.'
Another troubled pause. Liam moved closer and Priya stood her
ground, allowing him into her personal space. They maintained eye
contact, Liam smiling, Priya's expression giving nothing away. But
he could sense her enjoyment of the charade, just as he sensed her
physicality; was aware of her thudding heart only inches from his and
the subtle intoxicating scent that rose from her skin.
There was a groan, like static in the tiny speaker, as the penny
dropped.
'Oh, I don't believe this... the two-timing bastard.'
Priya didn't respond, but made sure the woman could hear her
breathing. She could probably hear Liam breathing as well.
'I came all this way . . .' the woman muttered to herself. Then, after
a big decisive sigh: 'D'you know, you're bloody welcome to him, love.
He's a wanker, and you can tell him that from me.'
The call ended, accompanied by a half-hearted slap on the front
door. Priya closed the phone, crept past the estate agent's body and
back up to the window.
'She's getting in her car. Not a happy bunny.'
Liam, delighted, said: 'She doesn't know how lucky she is.'


Ten

Oliver Felton saw the woman arrive. He watched her walk up to the
house, a mobile phone at her ear. He watched her grow increasingly
frustrated, then return to her car and drive away. He watched and he
was intrigued.
Because he knew who she was, and he knew the house wasn't empty.
Oliver had a voyeur's instinct. He'd known for several weeks that
someone was using Dreamscape for secret liaisons with a cheap-looking
blonde. He worked out that it was an estate agent from the firm his
father had engaged, yet again, to try to offload the monstrosity on
someone.
He'd seen the couple sneaking in and out, and more than once
he'd watched them having sex in one of the bedrooms. He knew their
routine, and Friday afternoon was a favourite time.
But what he'd witnessed today made very little sense. A car, which
he recognised as the philanderer's, driving into the garage. A moment
later another man, a man he'd never seen before and didn't like the look
of at all, trotted out and got into a builder's van parked on the road. He
drove the van into the garage and shut the doors behind him.
And now the cheap blonde had called, found no one in, and
departed angrily. It was perplexing, but Oliver didn't mind that. There
were far worse things to be than perplexed.

With any number of possible explanations, he naturally latched on
to the most salacious. Perhaps the estate agent was bisexual: two-timing
the woman with another man. Or perhaps he'd invited the woman as
well, intending on a threesome, and then decided the woman was
superfluous.
But moving the cars into the garage? That seemed like excessive
caution. Normally the estate agent was content to leave his car on the
driveway, doubtless aware that his client spent most weekends in the
south of France. On the one occasion that Robert Felton had noticed
the car, he'd accepted Oliver's story that the agent was just checking
the place over.
The last thing Oliver wanted was his father putting a stop to these
assignations. He enjoyed them too much.

Joe picked up the overnight bags and followed Cassie outside. Jaden
was already at the Shogun, wrestling the back door open. While Joe
stashed the bags in the boot, Cassie manoeuvred the baby into the
child seat. Sofia immediately began to scream and thrash about. Joe
hovered at Cassie's shoulder, pulling silly faces, but even this normally
reliable distraction technique had little effect.
'She's shattered, that's the problem,' Cassie said. 'She knows the
journey will put her to sleep.'
Joe was returning for the buggy when Valentin Nasenko appeared
in the doorway. He seemed to recoil at the sight of Cassie's tussle with
Sofia and hesitated, pretending to let his vision adjust to the bright
sunshine.
Valentin was fifty-four, an unfortunate mix of flabby and thin: bony
limbs and a football-sized paunch. His face was long and narrow, with
bags under his eyes and a loose turkey neck, but his nose was thick
and fleshy. His hair was grey, combed back in a high widow's peak,
and his eyes were a filmy pale blue. Despite the heat, he was wearing
tailored trousers and a striped purple shirt. A nest of wiry silver hairs
protruded from the open neck.
He looked like a minor civil servant, or perhaps a head teacher at
a failing school. Joe still found it hard to reconcile such a mild appearance
with the knowledge that this grey, anonymous man had tumbled
through the Soviet Union's chaotic transition to a market economy
and emerged with interests worth hundreds of millions.
Only when Sofia was subdued did Valentin approach the car. Cassie
looked up and saw him, and Joe caught a flash of panic on her face.
Then, with a nervous smile, she opened her arms and received a
quick, clumsy embrace from her husband.
Joe turned away. Gary McWhirter was walking towards him, holding
the baby's buggy. Valentin's adviser was in his late forties, a slender
South African with wispy reddish-blond hair and a handsome windburned
face, marred by slightly bulbous eyes.
'Forgot this?'
'I was coming back for it,' Joe said, taking the buggy.
McWhirter yawned expansively and stretched, throwing his arms
out wide. There were sweat stains on his shirt.
'Days like this, I envy you. Where is it you're staying tonight? The
Blue Anchor?'
Joe nodded. The Anchor was a boutique hotel on Brighton's seafront
in which Valentin had a substantial financial interest.
'Perfect summer's evening, you'll be out on the terrace, knocking
back Cokes without a care in the world.' He smirked. 'Eyeing up
Cassie's friends, too, you lucky bastard.'
'Beats working,' said Joe, electing to play along.
You bet it does. I tell you, man, you ought to be paying me commission.
Must be the cushiest job you've ever had.'
Joe didn't respond. He carried the buggy over to the Shogun.
Valentin was speaking in a low voice, forcing Cassie to lean close, her
face earnest and dutiful. She looked like a child being addressed by
a parent. Joe rebuked himself every time he made the analogy, but
sometimes it couldn't be avoided.
After saying his farewell, Valentin leaned into the back of the car
and kissed Sofia, who promptly started wailing again. As Cassie scurried
round to the front passenger seat, Valentin slammed the rear door
shut without so much as a word or a glance for Jaden.
He turned to Joe. 'Take care of them.'
'I will.'
Valentin gazed at the Shogun, nodding absently to himself. 'Make
sure Cassie enjoys tonight. She deserves it.'

Today Oliver Felton had been late coming to his post. His sister had
called again, for the third time that afternoon. This after a barrage of
emails and texts, until finally he'd relented and picked up the phone.
'What are you doing?' she'd demanded.

'Preparing to be lectured by you.'
'Hilarious. I mean, why are you skulking down there on your own?
You're supposed to be at Ginny's.'
'I didn't go.'
His sister groaned. 'Dad spent ages setting that up.'
'Best reason to stay away.'
'Christ, Ol. Don't tell me you haven't got the hots for that girl,
because I know you have. You can't walk straight when you see her.'
'I've never denied that. But she thinks I'm a freak.'
'And this was the perfect opportunity to correct that impression.
You agreed, Oliver. I heard you promising Dad. Honestly, I despair
of you when you act like this.'
A peevish silence followed. Oliver could picture her expression in
every detail. With just a year's difference in their ages their mannerisms
were virtually identical, except that Rachel had a habit of pushing
her bottom lip out to emphasise her displeasure. Allegedly this was
the look that made so many men want to sleep with her, but all it
inspired in Oliver was an urge to slap her until she bled.
When his apology failed to materialise, Rachel pressed on. You
know what Dad'll say? Turning your back on something you want,
just because he wants it for you as well -- '
'"Cutting off your nose to spite your face",' Oliver intoned in a
passable imitation of his father's reedy drawl. 'Well, so what? I'll chop
my whole fucking head off before I let him control my destiny. He
seems to think marriages are just another form of strategic alliance.
That's partly why Mum was eliminated, remember? Once she'd served
her purpose.'
'Oliver, don't start. I won't speak to you about Mummy.'
You can tell him that I have no intention of moving out, and the
more it irritates him, the longer I'll stay. And if I don't outlive the old
Satanist then I want to be buried in the garden, with a fucking great
headstone.' He laughed. 'Better still, build me a monument of jagged
shrapnel, dripping with blood. Dad's great gift to the world. Here lies
Oliver Felton, laid to rest on a bed of bullets.'
From upstate New York, Rachel let out a sigh that might have crossed
the Atlantic under its own power. She started to say something, thought
better of it mid-way through the word 'regret', and ended the call.
Replacing the phone in its cradle, Oliver was surprised to see the
handset flecked with spittle. Perhaps he had argued his case rather
too vehemently.
Afterwards, in need of a pleasant distraction, he'd made his way
to a landing between two of the guest suites. A hidden switch
opened a hatch in the ceiling, concealed by a decorative coving,
and a lightweight aluminium ladder slid down, powered by an
almost silent electric motor.
This led up to a tiny room, about six feet square, slotted into a
peculiar corner of the arched faux-Gothic roof. His father, who had
designed both this house and its neighbour, Dreamscape, had wanted
lots of unusual nooks and crannies. As a result the library had a
bookcase that opened to a secret music room, and the gymnasium
could be reached via a fireman's pole from the floor above.
The eyrie, quickly forgotten, became Oliver's hideaway. All it
contained were a couple of beanbags and a fine Swarovski telescope,
mounted on a tripod and stationed at the small window. The room
was on the north-east corner of the house, on the landward side, and
the shape of the roof obscured all but a sliver of sea. But the elevation
gave him an interesting vantage point from which to observe
Dreamscape, and a little of the house beyond it.
To his father and his sister, the room was his observatory, and it
was true that for a time he had developed an interest in astronomy.
The box of Kleenex he kept up here told a slightly different story, but
Oliver didn't much care what they thought. He never had.
Now he mulled over the developments at Dreamscape. As far as
he was aware, his father hadn't commissioned any building or maintenance
work. So why would the van need to go into the garage?
'Unloading something?' he murmured to himself.
Plausible. But why close the doors?
'Unloading something . . . fragile? Private?' The philanderer must
have some sort of scam going, and Oliver wanted to know what it was.
Of course, there was one easy way to find out. Dreamscape still
belonged to his father, after all. There was a set of keys downstairs.
He could simply go next door and let himself in.
Potentially thrilling, and not a little dangerous. But would it be as
much fun as watching, he wondered. So often in life the real pleasure
was to be found in anticipation, in allowing the marvellous fertility
of his imagination to be unleashed, free from the constraints of grim reality.
For now, Oliver decided, it was better to wait.
And watch.

Joe climbed into the driver's seat, searching for the phrase that summed
up his predicament. Between a rock and a hard place probably said it
best.
He started the engine. Glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw
Valentin and McWhirter retreat inside the house.
'What did he say?' Cassie asked.
'Nothing much.'
'He must have said something.'
'Just told me to look after you.'
Cassie didn't push it, but there was a strained quality to the silence
that followed. Joe eased the Shogun through the open gates and turned
onto the road. There was no one in sight in either direction. With
just a single row of houses along the shore, the opposite side of the
road was bordered by Smugglers' Copse: several acres of boggy woodland,
intersected by a network of overgrown paths. Protected from
development by a covenant, these woods formed a barrier between
the residential area and the training camp.
It was half a mile or so to the bridge, and Joe kept his speed low.
Checking his mirror again, he saw Sofia's head beginning to droop,
her eyes heavy. Cassie was staring out of her window, perhaps to avoid
conversation.
Just before the bridgehead they passed the entrance to the Ministry
of Defence land: a set of high double gates, plastered with stern warning
signs. Joe checked to his right out of habit, but he hadn't seen any
activity at the camp for months.
Next up, on the left, was the big dilapidated shed that had once
housed the chain ferry. The bridge was built alongside the route that
the ferry had taken. Barely wide enough for two cars, the bridge was
about a hundred and fifty feet long and elevated above the causeway
by fifteen feet.
Today, unusually, Joe had to pull in and wait for an oncoming car.
It was a black Cadillac limousine, straddling the road as it crossed the
bridge. The driver wore a dark suit and sunglasses. He seemed to be
staring straight ahead, as though no one else on the road mattered a
damn.
It was only when the car drew alongside that Joe caught a glimpse
of the single passenger in the back. His impression was of a large,
bulky figure, a man in his late fifties or early sixties. Completely bald,
with strong, square features and a brooding gaze.
Their eyes met for only a fraction of a second, but Joe felt a jolt
of recognition. His reaction was mirrored in the other man's face, and
then the Cadillac swept past.
Joe drove onto the bridge, trying to place where he might have
seen him before. He glanced to his left, intending to ask if Cassie
had got a clear look at him, and saw there was a vehicle tucked in
front of the ferry shed. A plain white Citroen van, no livery. The
driver's window was open, a man's arm protruding from it, holding
a cigarette.
Must be here to do maintenance work, Joe thought, although twenty
past four on a Friday seemed an odd time for it.
But it was the identity of the Cadillac's passenger that was uppermost
in his mind. He waited until they were across the bridge, then
looked at Cassie again.
'I take it that was your husband's visitor?'

'I suppose so.'
'Do you know who he is?'
'Not a clue.'
Joe smiled. He couldn't tell if she was resentful of him, or of Valentin,
or just that the line of enquiry bored her.
'What about that enormous boat sitting off the island?'
'Oh, I heard them talking about that. Valentin chartered it. He was
moaning because the minimum term is a week and he only needs it
for today.'
'What's wrong with his own yacht?'
'Not impressive enough.'
'For this meeting?'
She nodded. 'He's thinking of replacing his one with something
bigger. I saw him looking at brochures the other day.'
Joe pondered for a moment, then risked another impertinent
question. 'That's a brave move in the current climate, isn't it?'
'It's crazy, if you ask me. But it's up to Valentin. He knows whether
or not he can afford it.'
The van driver watched the Shogun until it was out of sight. He took
a final drag on his cigarette and tossed the butt towards the water. It
fell short, landing on the wet mud at the foot of the slipway. He turned
to his colleague, who was hunched over, writing on a notepad balanced
on his knee.
'Got that?' the driver said.
'Incoming, a Cadillac limo, two male occupants. Outgoing,
Mitsubishi Shogun. One male, one female, two kiddies.'
'That was the Russki's lot.'
'Ukrainian,' the passenger corrected. 'Nasenko's from the Ukraine.'
The driver shrugged. You're confusing me with someone who gives
a fuck.'

Eleven

Priya wanted to leave the estate agent's body where it was, but Liam
vetoed the suggestion.
'Someone else might turn up. We can't open the front door while
he's lying there.'
Reluctantly she agreed, and helped him unload some of the lighter
equipment from the van: the kitbags containing their clothes, masks
and gloves. For wrapping up valuables they'd brought rolls of bubble
wrap, heavy-duty garbage bags and packing tape, plus paper towels
and bleach to erase any trace of their presence.
Not that he'd envisaged a job on this scale, Liam thought.
Donning latex gloves, they placed the body on a bed of garbage
bags, then wrapped it and bound it with tape. Liam scouted the downstairs
rooms and found an office that would suffice for temporary
storage.
Mopping up the congealed blood was a much tougher proposition.
Priya had found a bucket in the garage, which she filled with hot
water and bleach. Taking a stack of paper towels each, they knelt on
opposite sides of the slick and set to work.
Within seconds they were both gagging. The rich metallic odour
of the blood was bad enough. Mixed with the acrid tang of bleach
and the thick stench of bodily waste, it was almost overpowering. Liam
fetched a couple of ski masks and handed one to Priya.
'Try this,' he said. 'It might help.'
Priya nodded. Her posture was unnaturally straight as she tried to
keep her head as far as possible from the mess on the floor. She worked
with slow, thrifty movements, often with her eyes averted. Not shirking
from the task, as he first assumed; but definitely unhappy about something.
Liam
endured the mask for less than five minutes, then pulled it
off and hurled it over his shoulder. Too hot.
Shortly afterwards Priya did the same. For the first time today there
was a sheen of sweat on her face. A few strands of hair had escaped
her ponytail and glued themselves to her cheek. Glaring at the floor,
she began to scrub harder, grunting angrily, and that was when Liam
understood.

It wasn't distaste at the idea of cleaning up blood, but at the idea
of cleaning.
'Lousy job, eh?' he said.
Priya rinsed her paper towels in the bucket. She didn't speak until
Liam had turned away.
'My mother was always cleaning. She probably still is. On her knees,
scrubbing floors. Demeaning herself in the service of others. I swore
I'd never do that.'
The bitterness in her voice cut short Liam's intended quip.
Presumably her mother had never had to mop up the blood of a man
she'd just killed?
Then, as he pictured the scene again, he realised what had been
bothering him. The blood spatter across her jeans was too low. It
meant the estate agent must have been on the floor when Priya slashed
his throat.
That called into question how much resistance the man had put
up. Or even whether he had resisted at all.

Once on the mainland, Joe followed the road north through several
miles of wetlands. To his left he could make out the reed beds and
the glitter of water beyond. To his right was a bumpy landscape of
bracken and gorse and ancient coppice woods. There were several
parking areas with picnic tables, nature trails and bird-watching hides,
but hardly anyone was around today. Too hot, maybe.
Sofia quickly fell asleep, while Jaden occupied himself by playing
on his Nintendo DS. The baby tended to sleep more soundly with
background music, so Cassie had chosen the Mamma Mia! soundtrack.
It was a running joke that the songs had been imprinted in
Sofia's DNA, given how often her mother watched the movie. Joe had
once found her smiling through tears as she gazed at the giant plasma
screen in the living room.
'Can you imagine being as happy as that?' she'd said, almost to
herself.
Joe had watched the dancing, joyful women for a moment. Rather
than imagine, he believed he knew exactly how it felt to be that
happy, though increasingly he feared his recollection was becoming
contaminated by nostalgia. Nostalgia and raw longing.
But he hadn't told Cassie that. He'd said: 'It's just a movie. A feelgood
movie.'
'Even so, there must be people somewhere who have everything
they could possibly want.'
'I guess there are,' he'd agreed. 'But I bet most of them don't know
it until it's too late.'
Cassie had nodded sadly. 'That's what I thought.'
Now, as she and Jaden quietly sang along to Our Last Summer, Joe
reached the A27 and joined the eastbound dual carriageway. It was
four-thirty. Even with a clear run it would take a minor miracle to
reach the centre of Brighton within an hour.
He considered Cassie's allegation that Valentin wanted her out of
the way, and he went on puzzling over the identity of the bald American
in the Cadillac. That Valentin would go to the expense of chartering
a yacht suggested it was an important meeting. It was unusual enough
for Valentin to conduct business on the Reach, so he must--

His train of thought juddered to a halt. The bald American. How
did Joe know he was American . . . ?
The obvious explanation was that Joe had been present at some
prior meeting between Valentin and the other man. If so, he couldn't
recall the occasion. And yet he retained a persuasive image of the
man speaking. He could recreate the dry Southern drawl in his head,
and a particular phrase that had made him smile: Got ourselves another
clusterfuck . . .
He felt certain the memory was genuine, and that it predated his
period of employment with Valentin. That meant the American was
probably someone from his old life. The life he had fled.

It took the best part of twenty minutes to clean up the blood thoroughly
enough to leave no obvious trace. In places the bleach had
lifted the protective coating from the hardwood floor, leaving odd
patches where the wood was noticeably lighter. Liam wasn't unduly
worried. In the long run it shouldn't matter too much.
While Priya went upstairs to shower and change, Liam took his
netbook from the kitbag and carried it through to the kitchen. He
powered it up, found himself a glass and drank a pint of water before
sitting down at the island breakfast bar.
The tiny laptop contained the fruits of their extensive research,
including floor plans for all the homes on the island and detailed profiles
of the residents. Studying these documents had become almost a ritual
to Liam, but now the reassurance they offered had been compromised.
If they hadn't picked up on the estate agent using Dreamscape as a
love nest, was it possible that other important details had been missed?
Liam instantly stamped on that question. There was no room for
doubt at this stage of the operation.
He ran through the targets again. Five homes, hugging the coast
on the south-western corner of the island. The house at the most
southerly point, furthest from the mainland, was a chalet bungalow
belonging to Donald and Angela Weaver.
Donald was a retired civil servant, while Angela had been a university
lecturer and now did some kind of voluntary work. Their only
son, Joe, had died in a car accident in 2007, aged twenty-eight. The
Weavers weren't particularly high-net-worth individuals: it was their
location that made them important. They were too close to the action
to be left alone.
The house next to the Weavers belonged to Robert Felton, the real
financial heavyweight on Terror's Reach. After a period in the army
that included a secondment to the Ministry of Defence, Robert had
joined his father's munitions company in the mid-1990s, bringing to
it the vigour and ruthlessness of youth, not to mention any number
of important connections. Within a few years profits had risen tenfold,
and the Feltons sold their controlling interest to an American conglomerate
- just as concerns were being raised about their deals to supply
landmines, grenades and assault rifles to various dubious regimes in
Africa and the Middle East.
While Felton senior retired to play golf and count his money,
Robert concentrated on other areas of the business, most notably
winning a string of lucrative contracts for security and reconstruction
in post-invasion Iraq. He invested some of the proceeds in an
underperforming chain of sports shops and again worked his magic,
selling it on to a private-equity company for three times what he'd
paid.
With a personal fortune rumoured at well over a billion pounds,
Felton had designed and overseen the construction of the house at
Terror's Reach, a monstrous Gothic pile with eight bedrooms, a squash
court and - crucially - a walk-in safe.
A long-time widower, Felton had acquired the image of an
unabashed thrill-seeker and playboy of the old school. This weekend
he was at his apartment in Monaco, where he could best indulge his
passion for girls and gambling, safe from the disapproving scrutiny of
his two children. Although they were in their early twenties, neither
Rachel nor Oliver Felton had yet shown much desire to make their
own way in the world. Rachel was currently taking a photography
course in New York, while Oliver was spending the weekend with
friends of his father in Oxfordshire.
The third house was Dreamscape, the base for their operation, also
owned and designed by Robert Felton. Built on a scale that dwarfed
every other property on the island, its completion had coincided with
the first signs of a downturn in the property market. For a time it had
been rented by an ageing rock star, seeking refuge while he recovered
from an addiction to prescription painkillers. Since his departure the
house had remained furnished but unoccupied, while Felton sought
a buyer to take it off his hands.
Next to Dreamscape was a more conventional faux-Georgian
mansion, owned by a high-profile Premiership striker whose ex-model
wife, Trina, had boosted their fortunes by putting her name to a range
of swimwear, a fitness regime and three volumes of autobiography.
With the footballer on loan to an Italian club, the whole family had
decamped to Rome, leaving Trina's father, a retired builder named
Terry Fox, to house-sit in their absence.
The last of the five homes belonged to Valentin Nasenko. Another
modernist design, it had been the most original and imposing construction
on the island until Dreamscape had trumped it. To Liam it looked
like an electric sandwich-toaster, its open jaws facing the sea. While
nowhere near the top tier of oligarchs, Valentin was nonetheless said
to be worth several hundred million.
Officially the robbery was expected to net around three million
pounds. That was what the knuckle draggers had been told. The true
figure was likely to be a lot higher - how much higher, Liam tried
not to speculate, but he reckoned his share alone should see him
through to old age in comfort.
All in all, it marked a spectacular journey for a working-class kid
from Donegal. In his teens Liam had been excluded from school and
was continually in trouble with the police for vandalism and minor
thefts. He'd fled to England at the age of fifteen, stayed for a couple
of years with an aunt and uncle in Southport, then straightened himself
out and sweet-talked himself onto a college course.
At nineteen he moved to London and got a lowly administrative job
with the investment arm of a large merchant bank. He soon discovered
he had a gift more precious than any number of letters after his name.
He had charm. He could make people like him. He could take them
where they didn't really want to go, whether it was a business deal or
a side bet or a fast and brutal fuck at the end of a boozy night.
Some of it was down to good old Irish blarney, of course, but Liam
was careful not to overdo that aspect. Just as vital was his instinct for
assessing merit and good judgement in others. Soon he was moving
up the hierarchy, generating lots of profit but seeing too much of it
go to other people. He decided to alter the equation in his own favour
and - perhaps inevitably - he over-reached, falling into a trap laid for
him by the firm's compliance officers.
He was offered a choice: hand back what you've stolen and leave
quietly, or take your chances with the police. Sensing that his bosses
were keen to avoid bad publicity, let alone the regulatory attention
that would accompany any criminal investigation, Liam managed to
negotiate a partial repayment.
Even so, he was virtually broke when he walked out. And with
recession looming, his chances of further employment in the financial
services industry were non-existent. He had to sell his Audi A5
and his apartment in Canary Wharf, and ditch his high-maintenance
girlfriend.
He was renting a one-bedroom flat in Forest Gate when he received
a mysterious approach on behalf of a trusted former client, sounding
him out about a new and very challenging role. A role, he was promised,
that would utilise all his considerable talents.



Twelve

The traffic slowed to a crawl as they reached the outskirts of
Chichester. The A27 snaked around the southern perimeter, crossing
a series of busy feeder roads running in and out of the city. After clearing
the intersection with the A286, which led to a pair of coastal villages
known as the Witterings, the Shogun came to a complete stop.
There was a footbridge just ahead: a little gang of schoolgirls using
it to cross the road. They were maybe thirteen, fourteen years old, on
the impatient cusp of adulthood. You could see that from the jewellery
and the make-up, and the way their uniforms had been tucked and
rolled and unbuttoned in the name of fashion.
Joe sighed. Looked away. But Cassie had spotted them too.
'Do they remind you of your girls?'
Joe shrugged. The truth was that he didn't know. Amy would be
almost ten now, and Hannah was eight. A few years away from these
adolescent tricks, or perhaps not. Everyone seemed to agree that kids
grew up faster nowadays. Perhaps they had already changed beyond
recognition.
No. He had to cling to the belief that he would always know his
own daughters. To think otherwise was an invitation to give up hope.
He felt Cassie's gaze still upon him.
'How long since you last saw them?'
'Come on, Cass.' He had only reluctantly told her about them,
after succumbing to weeks of attrition. Cassie maintained that she'd
known at once, just from seeing how he was with Jaden and Sofia. A
natural father, she'd called him, unintentionally twisting the knife.
'I know you miss them,' she said. 'How long has it been?'
'Nearly three years.'
'Oh God. I think I'd rather die than go without--' She winced.
Patted his arm. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean
'It's okay.'
The traffic in front started to move. Joe put the car in gear, wishing
he could stamp on the accelerator and roar away.
'It must be their choice. Their mother's choice, anyway.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Because I don't believe you'd want to shut them out of your life.
You couldn't be that heartless. Not like a certain person we know.'
Cassie glanced over her shoulder, hoping Jaden wouldn't pick up on
the reference to his own absent father. And I'm sure they'd want to
keep in touch if they could. Most little girls worship their dads.' There
was a wobble in her voice that seemed to take her by surprise.
'Maybe it's no one's choice,' Joe said. 'Maybe it's just circumstances.'
'What kind of circumstances could be that bad?'
You don't want to know.' He said it gently, but with enough feeling
to end the conversation right there.
And, for a time, it did. But it was a pensive silence, in which he
could almost sense the gears whirring in Cassie's head. He imagined
her phrasing and rejecting all kinds of questions. He wished there was
a way he could explain, but even Angela Weaver hadn't been given
the full story. If he ever told Cassie, it would have to be on the day
he ceased working for her. The day he moved on.
The traffic in their lane slowed and stopped. Cassie cleared her
throat and said, very carefully: 'When me and Dean split up, it was
horrible. Really messy. I hope, if I ever got in that situation again, I'd
be able to handle it better. The children have to come first, don't
they?'
Joe nodded, but said nothing. Spotting a gap in the outside lane,
he checked the mirror and darted into the space. Between focusing
on the traffic and his own miserable predicament, several more minutes
passed before he grasped exactly what Cassie had been telling him.

At the age of nine, Oliver Felton had sacked an entire workforce.
His father had still been new to the business at that stage, eager to
escape the influence of his own father and make his mark. He'd begun
by shutting down a factory in Sunderland that made shell casings.
After acquiring a rival firm in Spain, all that remained was to inform
the British employees - nearly two hundred of them - that their services
were no longer required.
Without notifying the other directors or the on-site personnel staff,
Robert Felton had arrived at the factory one morning with a briefcase
full of brown envelopes and with his young son in tow. In a separate
car came three large, sinister-looking men, whose purpose didn't
become clear to Oliver until later.
His father had addressed the workers from a metal gantry overlooking
the factory floor, introducing himself while Oliver stood a
pace behind him, instinctively petrified, clutching the heavy briefcase
beneath his chin. He could still remember every word his father said.
'This is my boy, Oliver. He's nine years old. As you may know, I've
taken over the reins of this company from my father, and one day
Oliver may well take the reins from me. What's already clear is that
if I sent him down there right now to work on the production line,
he'd do a better job than the rest of you put together. Because you're
lazy, and greedy, and useless. Even my boy can see that.'
He gestured, motioning him forward, but Oliver was frozen. Already
there were jeers from the crowd below. Robert Felton seemed not to
hear them. He grabbed Oliver by the shoulders and thrust him to the
front of the gantry.
'That's why we're shutting this place down. My little boy doesn't
want a bunch of bolshie layabouts poisoning his future legacy. He's
got your redundancy notices right here in this briefcase. Assuming it's
not beyond your capabilities, I want you to line up in alphabetical
order. He's going to give you your cards, and you're going to thank
him, nice and politely.'
The three heavies had prevented an outright rebellion, but for weeks
afterwards Oliver still burned from the memory of the loathing those
men and women had directed at him as they'd filed past, humiliated
and seething with rage, snatching their envelopes from his trembling
hand. One of the men - a foreman with thirty years' service - had
thanked him and then spat in his face. Later Oliver heard the man's
screams from the car park. The thugs had broken both his arms, his
father admitted on the way home, pretending to sound as though he
disapproved.
Now, as he studied the neighbouring house through his telescope,
Oliver felt no qualms about his actions, nor indeed about the personality
his father had helped to mould. At school he had been lonely
and frightened and subjected to merciless abuse. If voyeurism had
become his preferred method of social interaction, it was because it
afforded him both distance and a measure of control. At any point he
could safely retreat.
But there would be no retreating today.
Today he had hit the jackpot.
He'd been keeping an eye on the house, but hadn't seen anyone else
come or go. Then he scanned across the windows and hit on the classic
voyeur's dream: a beautiful woman, fresh from the bath or shower,
walking naked across the bedroom. She was a young Asian woman with
unblemished light brown skin and superb muscle tone. If he had to
quibble, it was that her breasts were slightly too big for his liking.
Oliver drank in the contours of her body as she towelled herself
dry. She was so close that he could see the pores of her skin, still glistening
with steam. Close enough to smell, it seemed, and surely close
enough to touch. Unconsciously his free hand drifted towards the
window to do just that.
Slowly, lovingly, he moved the scope up over her breasts and her
neck. Better even than the sight of her was the knowledge that she
was utterly unaware of his existence. He had long suspected that it
was this - the secret, stolen intimacy - that offered the greatest thrill.
But just as he gloried in the idea of gazing deep into her eyes, she
was gone. She darted out of view so rapidly that it startled him. Oliver
turned the scope away and dropped to the floor, uncertain and afraid
and excited all at once.
Had she seen him?

Thirteen



Dreamscape's bedroom suites were every bit as luxurious as Priya had
anticipated. Although the house was unoccupied, great care had been
taken to furnish it. That meant a huge octagonal bed with a leather
trim, and a TV that rose out of the footboard cabinet. In the bathroom
there were Egyptian cotton towels and a selection of Harrods
toiletries, although Priya had brought her own.
Before showering, she stuffed everything she was wearing in one
of the garbage bags. Rinsed the knife under the tap, then placed it
on a shelf inside the shower cubicle. Her professional relationship
with Liam was less than forty-eight hours old: far too early to make a
full judgement. Her policy, born of hard experience, was to trust
nobody.
Priya had run away from home at the age of fourteen, after cracking
under the strain of her parents' relentlessly high expectations. But
living rough in London had provided challenges of a very different
sort. The first time a man groped her in the street she'd naively
wondered if it would be impolite to push him away.
She was raped once, within the first three months, and afterwards
vowed never to be caught out again. From then on she always carried
at least one weapon, usually a knife. Wherever she was, she made sure
there were backups and escape routes to hand.
Her new-found caution quickly paid off. A six-foot-tall, eighteen-stone
taxi driver followed her back to her rented bedsit and jumped on her
as she let herself in. He threw her on the sofa, drooling as he described
what he intended to do with her. Priya let him get started, made him
think she was terrified and compliant, then reached for the claw
hammer that she kept hidden down the back of the sofa.
She hit him hard enough to crack his skull. It wasn't fatal, but it
left him with permanent brain damage. A far more satisfying result,
in her view.
She wasn't sure yet if Liam would be any different. He lusted after
her; that much she knew. She was somewhat encouraged when he
made no move to follow her upstairs, or sidle into the bedroom while
she was in the shower. Perhaps he possessed a little more self-control
than most of them, but she wouldn't bet on it. By now she had a good
instinct for these things.
That was partly why she'd killed the estate agent. To demonstrate
her capabilities right from the start.
In Liam's absence the man had quickly grown cocky. He'd taunted
Priya, told her he was going to get up and walk out and she couldn't
do a thing to stop him. She'd intended to stab him just once, purely
to subdue him. But the red mist had descended, the way it sometimes
did, and the next thing she knew he was lying dead in a pool of blood,
and even once the rage subsided there was no remorse, no regret. He
had brought it on himself.
Drying off, she decided she could safely drop the towel and stand
naked. The room was warm and quite stuffy. She was debating
whether to risk opening a window when she felt the unmistakable
crawling sensation of a ravenous gaze. Goose bumps rose on her
skin and she knew she was being watched. Not just watched, but devoured.
She ducked out of sight, pulling the towel up and wrapping it tightly
around herself. Then, cautiously, she moved back to the window and
looked out.
The neighbouring property was at least forty or fifty feet away, another
big three-storey pile. There were several windows on the side, a couple
of them with frosted glass for privacy. All the windows were blank.
Dark. No one there.
Then she glanced up at the roof and noticed an odd little dormer,
almost concealed by the turret on the north-east corner of the house.
The dormer window was as blank as the others, and yet it went on
demanding her attention.
Priya stared at it and finally worked out what was wrong. She could
just make out a fat black tube, tilted at an angle to the frame, ending
in a glinting crescent of glass.
A telescope.

Liam looked up as Priya hurried into the kitchen. She'd changed into
a pair of grey tailored trousers and a black top, but she had bare feet
and her hair was damp and tousled. She looked shaken.
'I think someone's watching us.'
'What?'
'Next door. The Feltons.'
Are you sure?'
'Come and see.'
Liam followed her back across the hall, his mind working on the
problem.
'It can't be Robert,' he said. 'He's in France, and the daughter's
definitely in the States. Unless there's a house-sitter, or some kind of
security staff we don't know about.'
Priya said nothing until they entered the bedroom. There was a
wet towel on the floor, and various items of clothing were strewn over
the bed. No sign of the knife she'd used to kill the estate agent. Liam
wondered where she'd put it.
'Look.' Priya moved to one side of the window, while he went to
the other side. She directed his gaze to a tiny dormer on the house
opposite. 'It's a telescope.'
And you saw someone looking through it?'
'Not directly. But I could feel it.' There was an edge to her voice
that told him something else.
She'd been caught naked.
Liam sighed. 'I bet it's Oliver Felton.'
'He's meant to be away this weekend.'
Yeah, and he's also meant to be a sandwich short of a picnic. So
maybe he didn't go anywhere. Maybe he's holed up on his own over
there.'
'What if he reports us?'
'He's not likely to broadcast the fact that he's a pervert.'
'He doesn't have to. He might still call his father and tell him there's
someone next door.'
'Then what do you suggest?' Liam asked.
'Let me go and speak to him.'
And say what?'
A quick smile crossed Priya's face. 'I'm sure I can think of something.'
Liam
pondered. This was another departure from the plan, but it
also felt like a tactical move on her part, a subtle challenge to his
authority. He was tempted to refuse, just to see how she reacted.
On the other hand, her proposal did have its merits. He drew out
the silence, watching as she shifted her weight onto her other hip,
preparing to hear out his objections.
'Okay,' he said. 'Do it.'

She was coming to him.
Oliver knew it from the moment the woman stepped outside. He
didn't even need the telescope; he could see her perfectly well from
the window. He was pressed against the wall, contorting himself so as
to peer out at an angle which he hoped made him invisible to anyone
at Dreamscape.
A pretty pointless endeavour, really, because she already knew he
was there. He imagined her fury and revulsion. He imagined her voice
breaking as she described the sense of violation to the men in the
house with her.
He watched the woman walk across the driveway and turn in his
direction. She didn't look particularly angry. He caught himself
wondering which one of the men she was screwing: the rough-looking
man or the estate agent. Maybe it was both of them.
Odd, then, that neither had come storming next door on her behalf,
ready to defend her honour with his fists.
Something not right about this, Oliver thought. Of course, he
shouldn't forget that his father owned the house they were in. That
might influence their reaction.
It struck him that Robert Felton was possibly involved in some way.
Perhaps he'd arranged a party, or lent the house out to friends for the
weekend. It would be characteristic of him not to inform his son,
especially as Oliver was supposed to be in Oxford by now.
No. He preferred the first explanation. These people were friends
of the estate agent, using the place without permission. As such, they
were wary about attracting attention. They could hardly object to his
telescope if they had no right to be cavorting in the house in the first
place.
Then, as the woman strolled out of sight below the window, Oliver
made an important correction. The woman hadn't been cavorting
with anyone.
She'd been alone in the bedroom.
He laughed: a brash, exuberant rattle of noise. Hurried over to the
hatch and climbed down the ladder, enjoying the stirring in his groin
as he pursued a far more enticing hypothesis to its logical conclusion.
She might not have mentioned the telescope to the two men. She
might be coming next door of her own volition. In which case, the
possibilities were endless, and delightful, and dangerous.
'She's coming,' Oliver whispered. His voice sounded thick and
clogged with saliva. 'She wants me.'

Fourteen

The Felton house had the same entry system as Dreamscape. The call
station was set into a plate of brushed stainless steel, mounted on the
high perimeter wall. There was a small grille for the microphone and
speaker, and just above that, the tiny round lens of a camera.
Priya pressed the call button and waited, feeling uncomfortably
exposed. The sun was lower in the sky, but still ferociously hot. The
air was sluggish and heavy; not even the gentlest of sea breezes to
offer respite. The scent of cow parsley filled her nostrils, so rich and
sweet it made her slightly nauseous.
She shouldn't have come. This was a bad idea.
She pressed the button again, and felt a crawling sensation as the
hairs on her neck rose. A flush of heat spread across her breastbone
and up into her face. She was being watched, by the same hungry
gaze as before.
She looked around, scanning the road in both directions. There
was no one in sight. No cars or voices or music. Just some muted
chirping from the woods behind her, as though the heat had drained
the birds of their will to sing.
She backed away from the wall. Shielded her eyes from the sun as
she examined the upper floors of the house. At the same time, the
crawling sensation receded.
It must be the camera. He was inside, watching her on a monitor.
Priya sighed. She didn't relish telling Liam that she'd failed to make
contact. His opinion of her was low enough already. And if her coming
out here spooked the boy into calling his father, then the whole operation
would be in jeopardy.
She took a slow breath. Making sure she appeared composed and
in control, she stepped back to the intercom. She pressed the button
and held it in while she spoke into the grille.
'Hello? Are you there?' She had no idea if he could hear her, but
by now she had nothing to lose.
'Is that Oliver? Please let me know if you're listening.'
She released the button and waited. Her skin was still crawling, but
she fought away her disgust and looked directly at the lens, borrowing
a sweet, demure smile from the conscientious young scholar she'd
once been.
No response. He wasn't willing to reveal himself. But he was there;
she had no doubt of that.
Turning away, she decided it wasn't an entirely wasted effort. More
a case of laying the groundwork for what was to follow.

Oliver heard the intercom buzz as he sprinted along the corridor.
There was a spare handset at the top of the main stairs, but he ignored
it. The one on the ground floor had a bigger screen.
As he reached it, the buzzer sounded for the second time. He
snatched up the handset, activating the camera set into the outside
wall - and there she was, right in front of him. Cool, calm, beautiful.
Huge dark eyes. Lips so full and soft that he could barely imagine
how they might feel as they engulfed him.
She frowned at the camera, then backed away. Oliver almost cried
out. He didn't want her to give up this easily. He wanted her to stay
where he could see her.
Most of all, he wanted to let her in. He wanted that very badly. His
finger remained on the button; every nerve, every fibre screaming at
him to do it. Let her in.
Have some fun.
Then she strode forward, filling the screen once again. She moved
so close it produced a kind of fisheye effect, exaggerating the size of
her features. Mirroring her, Oliver knelt and put his face against the
monitor. When she smiled, he smiled back.
He watched her mouth opening and closing. She was talking to
him. But to hear her, he would have to press the button and open a
connection, and if he did that she would know.
His finger tightened on the button. He felt it give, very slightly,
under the pressure. His heart was beating wildly, pounding away as
though it was already out of control.
But he knew he wasn't going to open the gates. He had to let
her go.
Oliver opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue and tenderly, in
one smooth motion, licked the screen all the way from the bottom to
the top. Licked her from the base of her neck to the crown of her
head.
The screen had a dusty, electrical flavour: not unpleasant. As she
turned away, he groaned. He could feel the adrenalin pumping
uselessly in his system and knew he had to find an outlet. Had to vent
it somehow.
But he had done the right thing. He couldn't quite trust himself
to be alone with her. He was. . . unpredictable. It had taken real
courage, real maturity to recognise that fact. And for doing so, he
deserved a treat.
Buzzing with good vibes, he leapt to his feet and went in search
of fire.

Liam paced the lobby, unconsciously avoiding the telltale patch of
lighter wood. On one level the estate agent's death didn't trouble him
at all. Human casualties had been factored into the plan from the
beginning. But now, with Priya gone and nothing to do but wait, he felt
a niggle of concern.
He was doubtful about her mission, doubtful enough to wonder
if it was merely an excuse. Perhaps she'd had second thoughts and
done a runner, or even gone next door to call the police. He saw
how plausibly she could put him in the frame for the estate agent's
murder.
The buzzing of his phone was a welcome distraction. He answered,
listened for a few seconds, then nodded. At least some things were
going to plan.
'We'll take over the surveillance from here,' Liam said. 'Tell Turner
to hold steady. And I want the roadblock ready to go when I give the
word.'
As he put the phone away there was a knock on the door. Two
quiet raps; the prearranged signal. Priya was back.
He opened the door and she stepped past him, wafting in hot, dry
air infused with her perfume.
'He wouldn't answer,' she said. 'But he's in there.'

'Shit.'
'He won't tell anyone.'
'How do you know he won't?'
'I just know.'
Liam snorted. 'Don't give me any bollocks about women's intuition.'
Priya said nothing. Just looked at him and blinked slowly, managing
to convey both amusement and contempt. For a moment Liam was
inclined to grab her by the arm, throw her across the room and get
a few things straight about who was in charge here.
Then he thought about the boot knife, and the fact that he couldn't
afford to spend every other second looking over his shoulder.
He took a deep breath. Gestured towards the stairs.
'The American's here. They'll be heading out soon.'

Robert Felton wouldn't permit matches in the house, but Oliver had
a box of two hundred hidden at the bottom of the vanity unit in his
bathroom. He kept them to demonstrate to himself that his craving
was under control. Like any recovering addict, he took pride in his
ability to resist temptation.
But this was a special occasion. He had earned the right to succumb.
He could have done it outside, but there was precious little thrill
to be had from that. Outside, it was just another bonfire.
He chose the kitchen floor. It was some kind of Italian slate.
Hideously expensive, so it ought to be fire-resistant. Whether it would
crack at high temperatures, he had no idea. If it did, he'd just say he
had dropped something heavy on it.
The pyre he constructed was meagre, but symbolic. One of his
favourite porno mags - to represent his desire for the woman, successfully
restrained. Haifa bottle of brandy - to represent another common
vice, though not really one of his. And, lastly, the jacket of one of his
father's favourite handmade suits.
Oliver tore a few pages from the magazine, crumpling hairless genitals
and vacant pouts into surreal erotic waste. He splashed brandy
over the jacket. Lit the first of the matches, held it beneath his nose
and inhaled, dreamily, until it guttered and died.
He opened his eyes. Took a breath and considered for a moment.
Did he have to do this? Should he do this?
Silly question.
He lit another match. Ignited the brandy.

Fifteen

The traffic around Brighton was just as congested as Joe had thought
it would be. By the time they found an empty bay, in the car park
beneath the Churchill Square shopping centre, it was five thirty-five.
Too late.
Jaden yawned and announced that he was hungry. Sofia was still
asleep. Cassie carefully lifted her out of the car and into the buggy.
'So where are we going?' she said.
'It's supposed to be a surprise.'
She gave him a look, one eyebrow arched. 'Come on, Joe. I'm not
a big fan of surprises.'
He shrugged. 'There's something to collect at Merrion and Son.
But we're probably too late.'
'I doubt it, knowing Valentin.'
Her cryptic comment made no sense until they reached the shop,
nestled within one of the quaint narrow thoroughfares known as
The Lanes. This was the oldest part of Brighton, once a tiny fishing
village called Brighthelmstone, now crammed with designer
boutiques, trendy restaurants and about a thousand jewellery shops.
Despite its modest frontage, Merrion and Son was one of the most
expensive.
There was a CLOSED sign on the door. Joe tried it anyway: locked.
He peered through the glass at the dimly lit interior. Spotting movement
inside, he knocked. A moment later a face swam into view. They
heard a key in the lock.
The door opened and Merrion Junior greeted them. He was a
plump, glossy man in his forties, more car dealer than a jeweller:
sharp suit, hair perfectly waxed and parted, and the neatest fingernails
Joe had ever seen on a man.
He ushered them inside and locked the door behind them.
Embarrassed, Cassie apologised for their lateness.
'Oh, we're always here for a while after locking up. It's really not
an issue, Mrs Nasenko.'
Anything for a client as wealthy as Valentin. Joe watched the jeweller
scurry behind the counter, unlock a drawer and produce a small velvet
case. Cassie was concentrating on Jaden, who was busy planting sticky
finger marks on the glass-fronted cabinets.
"I'll keep an eye on him,' Joe said. He beckoned Jaden towards a
display of watches. 'Let's see if you can tell the time.'
With obvious reluctance, Cassie approached the counter. Merrion
Junior had opened the case and removed something from inside. He
held it out to Cassie, who made no move to accept it.
'Nice,' she said, her voice flat.
The jeweller coughed politely. 'Made to Mr Nasenko's exact specification,
it's a platinum eternity ring with sapphires, diamonds and
the most exquisite centrepiece. A Paraiba tourmaline.' Breathless with
excitement, he gushed, 'Isn't it fabulous?'
Cassie said nothing. Joe glanced round and saw the jeweller struggling
to hide his dismay.
'I believe Mr Nasenko intended it to be a surprise. I imagine you're
somewhat. . . overwhelmed.'
Cassie nodded, finally taking the ring from him.
'How much did it cost?'
'I, uh, I don't think it would be appropriate to divulge . . .' He
exchanged a panicked look with Joe. 'Our instructions were -- '
'I know. You can't tell me.' She sounded so forlorn, it was as though
she'd suffered a bereavement rather than received a present that, in
Joe's inexpert judgement, had to have cost around ten thousand pounds.
By now Merrion Junior also appeared to be on the verge of tears.
'Would you like to wear it?' he said.
Cassie shook her head. 'No. Leave it in the box, please.'

When they were outside Cassie acknowledged Joe's anxious look.
'I'm a spoilt little bitch, right?'
'I don't think that,' he said. 'But Merrion Junior certainly will.'
A beat of silence, then laughter.
Cassie said, 'Do you think he'd have waited there all night for us?'
'Possibly. Valentin's an important customer.'
'He must be, the way they suck up to him.' She grew thoughtful.
'I wonder what else he's been buying lately.'
'He can afford it, can't he?'
'That's not what I'm worried about. Not this time.' She indicated
that she didn't want Jaden to hear, so Joe took his hand as they walked
through the Lanes, while Cassie pushed Sofia in the buggy. They
looked for all the world like a perfect family unit, Joe thought.
'It seems like a lovely gift, but it's not,' said Cassie. 'For a start, a
gift is something you give to someone. In person. You don't just send
them along to collect it.'
'True. I guess Valentin isn't the romantic type.'
And think about it. An eternity ring. What does "eternity" mean?'
Catching Joe's frown, she said, 'It's all right, I'm not that thick. It
means for ever. That's the message Valentin wants me to get. He's
going to own me for ever.'
She picked up her pace, moving a couple of steps ahead of him.
Joe might have caught up, asked why Valentin would need to send
such a message, but the answer was already there if he cared to look
for it.
When he'd taken the job with the Nasenkos he'd never imagined
the extent to which he would become bound up in their problems.
He'd reached the point now where he took active steps to avoid knowing
more than was necessary. It went against his nature, because he'd
spent years in a world where the tiniest missed detail could prove
fatal. He'd immersed himself in lives far more chaotic and painful
than these without incurring any emotional damage.
Perhaps that was the trouble, Joe thought. This was so much harder,
because he actually cared about Cassie and her children.

They were wandering back towards the car park when Joe spotted a
phone box and remembered the call he'd intended to make. He had
his mobile with him, but decided a public phone would be better.
Save him having to ditch his mobile afterwards.
'I need to ring someone. Are you okay to wait here a second?'
Cassie regarded him as though he must be joking. 'Borrow my
mobile.'
'No. It's fine.' Leaving her perplexed, Joe stepped into the booth.
He dialled the number from memory and waited, listening to the burr
of the phone and the thudding of his heart.
A familiar but wary voice said: 'Hello?'
'Hi, Maz. Can you talk?'

'Course I can. How are you, Joe?'
'Surviving. You?'
'Same as ever. No point asking where you are?'
"Fraid not. Better for you that way.'
'So what's the occasion? Planning a return to civilisation?'
'They wouldn't have me. No, I need a small favour. Can you check
an index number for me?'
'I'm off duty, mate. Just about to light up the barbecue. Pop in if
you want,' Maz added cheerily.
'Wish I could. Don't suppose there's anyone you could ask?'
A quiet chuckle. 'I'm already dialling the landline. What do you
intend to do with the information?'
'Nothing. I promise.'
'Okay. Go on, then.'
Joe recited the number, then heard a clunk as Maz switched phones.
He nodded at Cassie through the glass, knowing he'd face an interrogation
for this.
Maz came back on, a wry humour in his voice. 'No record. Either
you misread it, or they're false plates. Your instincts obviously haven't
deserted you.'
'Just a hunch, really.'
Are you going to tell the local plod about this mysterious vehicle?'
'Not sure if it'll help. But I'll think about it.'
Maz tutted. 'Whatever you do, be careful, yeah?'
'Thanks. Say hello to Jill and the kids.' Then a pause, which both
of them were expecting. This time Joe didn't need to ask the question.
'No word from Helen, I'm afraid,' said Maz.
You are still trying to trace her?'
'I do what I can. But if someone's determined not to be found,
then generally they stay that way. You know that better than anyone.'
Yeah,' said Joe sadly. 'I suppose I do.'



They activated the transmitter ahead of time. For ten minutes there
was nothing to hear: just a buzz of silence that had a vaguely rhythmic
component to it. In fact the sound quality was excellent, but that
didn't become apparent until a seagull squawked and nearly blasted
their heads off.
Hastily adjusting the volume, they caught a rueful joke about bird
shit and, soon after, the clinking of bottles and glasses being set down
on a table. Another voice said: 'Here they are.'
Two more minutes of silence, then a series of bumps and shuffles
and the murmur of conversation, coming closer. The first clear sentence
was priceless. It was spoken in a low voice, by a man with a South
African accent. McWhirter.
You've swept the ship for bugs?'
The reply was from another familiar voice: the bodyguard, Yuri.
'Of course. It was the first thing I did.' He sounded resentful that
his competence had been called into question.
All right. Don't bite my head off,' McWhirter said. 'Now, I suggest
you make yourself scarce. We'll shout if we need you.'
They heard the vibration on the deck as Yuri stomped away. They
also heard the single word he muttered in his native tongue when he
judged he was out of McWhirter's earshot.
'Ppizzda.'
Joe, Cassie and the children headed slowly up Duke Street amongst
a tangled flow of pedestrians: shoppers, tourists, workers on their way
home, and an increasing number of revellers kicking off their weekend
celebrations. It took less than a minute for Cassie's curiosity to get the
better of her.
'Was everything all right?'
Yes, thanks.'
'Friend or family?'
'Old friend. Just touching base.'
She waited, watching him closely until she grasped that she would
get nothing more.
Suddenly full of good cheer, as though moods were sweaters you
could change with the weather, she said: 'I've got good news and bad.'
'Go on.'
'The good news is that I'm feeling better. But the bad news. . .'
You want to go clothes shopping?'
'You got it.' She gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. And not
the snobby designer places, either. I want to look in some normal
shops.'
'Fine. But you know what we have to get past first?'
What?'
Joe indicated Jaden, then mouthed: 'The model shop.' Cassie's
shoulders sagged in mock horror. There was a branch of Modelzone
up ahead, on the corner of West Street.
'Oh, well. If I'm going to drag you both round Debenhams, I suppose
a few minutes staring at toy cars won't hurt.'
'Cars!' Jaden yelled. He yanked on Joe's hand. 'I wanna look at
cars!'
A few minutes if we're lucky, Joe thought.
But as it was, they were waylaid by something far worse.

It was a hen party. Advancing up West Street in a slow, clumsy swarm.
A dozen women, ranging in age from late teens to sixty or so. All
shapes and sizes. All dressed in skimpy black satin dresses that flattered
some of them considerably more than others. Already drunk,
but in good spirits, laughing and joking and calling out to anyone
foolish enough to point or stare in their direction.
Joe saw them as he crossed West Street at the pedestrian traffic
lights. Jaden was pulling ahead, desperate to see what treats Modelzone
had to offer. As they drew up in front of the shop window, Joe hoped
that by standing behind Cassie he could shield her from view. She
was leaning over the buggy, speaking to Sofia, and didn't seem to have
noticed the hen party at all.
But they had noticed her.
The first indication came when the noise level dropped. Joe risked
a look round, thinking they'd crossed the road, but they were about
twenty feet away and closing in. Clustered together, nudging and
conversing in low voices. A couple of them were already eyeing
him up.
Leading the pack was a thickset woman in her twenties, with tattoos
on both arms and a pair of plastic devil horns propped in her hair.
She veered across the pavement and came to a halt in front of Joe,
who was still trying to keep Cassie out of sight.
'That's Cassie Briggs, innit?' she said, and Joe heard a gasp as Cassie
broke off whatever she was saying to Sofia.
The rest of the hen party fanned out around them. They peered
at the baby in her buggy, and at her mother standing frozen behind
it, gripping the handles with white knuckles.
'Oh my God! It is her.'
You still singing, then? Haven't heard anything from you for years.'

Cassie made eye contact, smiling bravely. 'No. I don't really--'
'She had a kid, didn't she?' One of them gestured towards Jaden,
who remained far more interested in a display of model sports cars.
'With the bloke from Hollyoaks. Dean somebody.'
'Oh, him? God, he shags everything that moves. . .' The girl faltered
as she remembered who she was talking to, then dismissed her embarrassment
and giggled instead.
You're probably right,' Cassie said. Her voice sounded amiable
enough, but there were bright red spots on her cheeks: a blaze of fury
and shame.
'Did you see him in the jungle?' another asked her.
Cassie shook her head.
'You can't blame her,' someone else said. 'She ain't gonna watch
him on telly when he's dumped her.'
'I thought she dumped him? That's what it said in Heat.'
'I wouldn't mind seeing my ex having to eat a load of maggots,' an
older woman chipped in.
'He coped with your cooking, didn't he?'
Wild laughter, which Cassie politely shared. Joe felt someone bump
against him: Jaden, sliding along the window, his nose pressed to the
glass.
The ringleader took a step closer, examining Joe's face from inches
away. Her breath could have stripped paint.
Are you her new feller?'
As Joe shook his head, one of them said, 'Nah. She married some
old Russian bloke. Seriously loaded.'
'So who's this, then?' The woman leered at him. 'Got a name,
gorgeous?'
Joe said nothing. There was an edge of threat in the woman's voice,
a hint that the mood could turn ugly at any moment. He wondered
how he would protect Cassie from a dozen drunken women, and
decided he couldn't. He had to get her away from them.
As if they could read his mind, one of them declared: 'I bet he's
her bodyguard.'
To squeals of delight, another said: 'Come on, show us your muscles.'
Joe smiled. Shook his head. He caught movement in his periphery
and saw Jaden slipping round the corner to examine the other window
display. Someone pinched him on the arm.
'Have a feel of this, girls.'
'Hey, we haven't booked a stripper, have we, Shell?'
'What're you doing tonight?' The ringleader tried to slip her hand
around his waist, but Joe sidestepped her.
He said, 'Enjoy your evening, ladies.' Then turned away, ushering
Cassie to move with him. She gave a start.
'I can't see Jaden.'
'He's gone round to the other window.'
One of the women blocked Cassie's path. 'Come for a drink with
us if you want?'
'No, I can't. I'm sorry.' Cassie angled the buggy and found a way
through, calling Jaden's name.
They turned into Cranbourne Street, a short pedestrian thoroughfare
that led up to Churchill Square. A handful of the women followed,
while others were drifting away. One of them complained: 'S'pose
she's too good for the likes of us.'
Jaden was gazing longingly at a big remote-control jeep, his hand
cupped over his mouth. At his mother's approach he turned away, a
guilty look in his eyes. Cassie grabbed his arm and he tried to shake
her off, whining in protest.
'Stop it, Jaden. We're going.'
An angry rumbling went through the hen party as the distance
between them and Joe's group increased. Some of the comments were

loud enough to attract attention from other passers-by, who started
looking to see who they were talking about.
'She was a shit singer, anyway.'
'I ain't surprised Dean left her. He can do a lot better.'
You see that awful boob job?'
'Yeah. No way those tits were real.'
Cassie hurried up the hill, head down, shoulders hunched, pushing
the buggy with one hand and practically dragging Jaden with the
other. Joe followed close behind, hoping she hadn't heard their
comments but fearing that she had, and painfully aware there wasn't
a thing he could do or say to make it better.



Eighteen

There were three voices to monitor, each one nice and distinct. It was
like one of those 'Three men in a pub' jokes: a Ukrainian, an American
and a South African.
The engine noise increased once the yacht was in motion, but the
conversation remained perfectly audible. Not that there was much of
it, to begin with. Even the small talk was cagey and stilted. Friendly
but not warm. Respectful but not entirely sincere.
The American, Mike Travers, said: 'So what's with the name? Terror's
Reach. Sounds like some kind of horror movie.'
It was left to the South African, McWhirter, to provide a history of
the Reach, which he did with all the well-practised glibness of a professional
tour guide. It was clear the American had lost interest well
before McWhirter reached the part about the oyster smack that had
given the island its name.
'So it's nothing to do with what you guys get up to? I'm disappointed.'
A throaty chuckle. 'Tell me about the real estate. Some of
these homes look like they belong in the Hollywood hills. That one
in the middle . . .'
'Dreamscape.'
Another chuckle. 'That's what caused all the trouble? Well, it's sure
fucking hard to miss. I can see why it got you so shook up.'
Nasenko: 'No one on the island was happy with it. The media chose
to put my name to the objections.'
You did fight the build?'
'That is all past now. We have moved on.'

'Glad to hear it.'
'So you have not been here before?'
'No. Never got invited till today.'
'But you have a long association with Mr Felton?'
'Bobby and I go back years, but we don't spend time in each other's
backyards. He's a man who values his privacy. So do I.'
You still work with him, though?'
'Not so much nowadays. I'm semi-retired, as my wife keeps
reminding me - usually when I'm calling her from some conference
room or hotel suite on the other side of the world. But you know how
it is.'
'Not easy to let go.'
'Nope. There are exciting times right now. A lot of opportunities
out there. I guess that's why we're having this meeting, only I'm kinda
surprised you called me.'
'Why's that?'
'Because you know all about my connection to your neighbour over
there. And I know that you and he don't exactly get along. So why me?'
A few seconds of silence before Nasenko replied.
'Our proposal is not just to work with you,' he said, 'but also with
Robert Felton.'



Nineteen

They took refuge in Churchill Square. It was nearly six o'clock, and
although the indoor mall didn't shut for another hour the number of
shoppers was rapidly dwindling. It was a relief to be inside, away from
the heat and the noise and the crowds. Having just experienced a taste
of Brighton's raucous night life, Joe was anxious to avoid any similar
encounters.
He followed dutifully as Cassie browsed for a while in Next. After
selecting a couple of dresses for Sofia, she called Jaden over to get
his opinion on a pair of shorts. His reply came out in a muffled voice,
and Cassie frowned.
'Open your mouth.'
Jaden tried to turn away, but she knelt down and held him still.
'What are you eating?'
Reluctantly, he opened his mouth. The remnants of a boiled sweet
sat on his tongue.
'Where did that come from?'
He shrugged looking as blankly insolent as any teenager.
'Tell me, Jaden. Where did you get it?'
A lady gave it to me.'
Cassie exchanged a glance with Joe, who was just as mystified.
'When was this?' he said.
'When I was looking at the cars.'
Joe thought back. He didn't recall seeing anyone approach the boy.
Had one of the hen party offered it to him, perhaps feeling guilty
about their behaviour?
'That's very naughty,' said Cassie.
'She gave it to me.'
'And you should have told me.'
Jaden broke away from his mother's grasp. Cassie looked at Joe
again. He could see she was on the brink of tears.
'Go easy on him,' he said.
Cassie sighed, then nodded wearily. After paying for Sofia's clothes
they moved on to Debenhams, the flagship department store at the
rear of the mall. Took the lift to the lower ground floor and wandered
through the various sections of women's fashion. Here and there Cassie
paused to examine an outfit or check a price tag, but Joe could tell
that her heart wasn't really in it. There was a distant look in her eyes,
as though inside she was still cornered by the hen party, forced to
hear their taunts over and over again.
She stopped by a rail of evening dresses. Picked up a pink chiffon
baby-doll dress and stared at it for a long time.
'Shall we go?' he said.
Cassie jerked back to the present. 'Bored?'
"I'm fine. I thought you might want to get to the hotel, relax for a
while.'
'Relax? All I ever do is relax. My whole life is one long holiday,
isn't it?'
As she spoke she lifted the dress and held it against her body, almost
without realising what she was doing. Then she glanced down, pulled
the fabric tight over her chest and gave a bitter laugh.
'I used to love wearing things like this. Now I just feel self-conscious.'
Out of politeness, Joe averted his eyes. Cassie waited until her gaze
drew him back.
'I heard what they said. And it's true. My boobs are ridiculous. I
hate them.'
Joe was trapped. He couldn't tell if she was seeking flattery or the
truth. She'd had the operation at Easter, and while he was used to it
now, his first impression had been of a girl who'd slipped a couple of
apples into her mother's bra.
Feeling shabby for ducking the question, he said, 'You have a great
figure. They're just jealous.'
'If only they knew, eh?' She put the dress back on the rail. Picked
up another and studied it. Seeking a distraction, Joe guessed, while
she opened her heart to him.
'It was Valentin's idea. I did it for him, because I worried that I
wasn't living up to what he expected from me.' She rubbed her nose,
then sniffed. 'Still, the big question is why I ever married him in the
first place.'
'Cassie, it's none of my business. I don't want to intrude on -- '
'You're not intruding. You live with us, for God's sake. You must
wonder about it.'
'I know you're going through a bad patch, but I assume you were
happy at first?'
'I can't really remember any more. I married him because I was
young and naive. He was charming, and rich, and he was in love with
me - or so I thought. Turned out he just wanted a pretty accessory,
someone who'd look good on his arm and wouldn't answer him back
or have a mind of her own.' Cassie laughed, opened her hands in a
question. 'How could it go wrong?'
He was about to say, 'It's not all bad,' and remind her that the relationship
had produced Sofia, when she turned sharply, then looked
back at him.
'Where's Jaden?'

This time there was no false alarm, no model cars to absorb the boy's
attention. He was gone.
Joe's first duty was to keep Cassie from panicking. 'Don't worry,' he
said. 'You just told him off. He's probably hidden somewhere, to give
you a scare.'
'To punish me?' Cassie said, stunned by the thought.
'He won't see it like that.' Joe pointed towards the aisle that led
deeper into the store. You look along there. I'll check the other way.'
He turned and ran. His priority was to reach the exit and the escalators
in the centre of the shop. Then he could work his way back,
searching each section more thoroughly.
He tried to calculate how long it was since he'd last registered
Jaden's presence. Twenty seconds. Thirty, maybe. The boy wouldn't
get far in that time.
Doesn't matter, he thought. It's not your job to get sidetracked,
listening to Cassie's woes about her marriage.
Your job is to watch them, and you failed.
And then a sound drew his attention. A brief, familiar squeal of
pain. Coming from the large open exit to the mall.
Joe ran past the escalators, giving them a cursory glance, and then
spotted Jaden. He was being led out of the store by a peculiar-looking
woman wearing trainers and a bulky plastic raincoat. She had big,
unruly blonde hair that didn't sit right on her head: a wig.
She was pulling on Jaden's hand and he was twisting away from
her, trying to break free. When he saw Joe he shouted, causing the
woman to hesitate. She was wearing dark glasses, and the collar of
her raincoat was turned up. A bizarre sight in the middle of a heatwave,
but it meant she'd be virtually impossible to identify from CCTV
images.
As soon as she recognised Joe, the woman abruptly released Jaden.
The momentum sent him flying. He lost his balance and fell heavily
on his front. As he landed, several small objects slipped from his hand
and went skidding across the floor.
Sweets.
The woman was already sprinting away. With Jaden wailing at his
feet, Joe knew he couldn't go after her. He scooped the boy up, offered
a few soothing words, but his mind was working frantically. The sweets
hinted at something organised: a concerted attempt to lure Jaden away.
First at Modelzone, and now here.
But why? And why give up so easily? With a little more care the
woman could have kept Jaden quiet, and gained vital seconds to abduct
him.
There was only one obvious explanation. Jaden wasn't their target
at all.
He was a decoy.

Drawn by Jaden's cries, a shop assistant was hurrying forward. Joe
made a quick, positive assessment. She was a middle-aged woman.
Probably a mother herself, judging by the concern on her face.
'I need you to watch him for me,' he said, thrusting Jaden into her
arms. 'It's a family emergency. I'll be back in one minute.'
He sprinted towards the section where he'd left Cassie, realising
the store was all but empty. A perfect opportunity to strike.
Cassie was just about where he expected to find her. She hadn't
gone far. The sight that greeted him wasn't totally unexpected either.
Two men had moved in on her. One tall, one short, but both in
good shape. They wore jeans and T-shirts and baseball caps. The tall
one had attacked Cassie from behind, pinning her arms at her side
and clamping a hand over her mouth. She couldn't scream but she
was making a low-pitched keening noise. She was writhing and kicking,
desperately trying to fight her way free.
The other man, the short one, was crouched over the buggy,
fumbling with the clasp that held the wailing, terrified Sofia in place.
They'd obviously counted on the diversion to give them enough time.
In normal circumstances Joe could have been expected to stay with
Jaden, comforting him, perhaps talking to the store's security staff, not
returning to Cassie for at least a minute or two. Long enough for them
to overpower her and make off with their real target.

As he ran towards them the short one sensed his approach and half
rose, as if unsure how to react. His movement brought him within
Cassie's range, and she lashed out with her foot and caught him in
the groin. He staggered backwards, but still managed to shout a
warning.
In turning to gauge the threat, the tall man must have relaxed his
grip on Cassie. She struggled free and hurled herself at his partner,
letting out a screech of rage as she clubbed at his head, pushing him
away from Sofia. The tall man forgot her and moved into a defensive
stance, ready to deal with Joe.
Closing the distance to less than ten feet, Joe skidded to a halt.
Without the element of surprise, there was no advantage in launching
an attack at speed. More likely that his momentum would be used
against him, especially if these men knew what they were doing.
There was a shout from behind him. Joe couldn't risk reacting to
it, but the tall man must have assumed he would. He lunged forward,
swinging a punch with his right hand. Joe dodged it with ease, but
didn't fully anticipate the follow-up: a lightning fast blow to the
stomach.
The impact caused him to double over, but as he did he drove
himself forward, butting the man on the chin. He followed up with
a couple of sharp chops to the man's upper arm, wanting to take the
sting out of any further punches.
Another shout, loud and urgent. Joe was aware of the tall man
backing away, blood leaking from a split lip, his sunglasses dangling
from one ear. He shot an uncertain glance at his partner. Cassie was
snarling and fighting like a demon, until a blow to the face sent her
sprawling into a rack of dresses.
Both men turned and fled towards the back of the store, just as two
of the centre's security team appeared.
'What happened?' one of them asked.
'Tried to mug us,' Joe said. It was the most logical answer, and it
sent the security men off in pursuit, which suited him fine.
After a few paces, the one who'd spoken thought to break his stride
and call back: 'Wait there.'
Joe nodded, but he had no intention of complying. He helped
Cassie to her feet, brushed some hair from her face and examined
her carefully. She had the beginnings of a nasty bruise on her cheek.
Are you okay?'
'Where's Jaden?'
'He's all right. But we have to get out of here.'
As he said it, Cassie's face softened with relief. The shop assistant
was approaching, Jaden running ahead of her. He threw his arms
around his mother.
'What's going on?' the assistant asked.
'Wish I knew,' said Joe. He spotted an exit sign at the far end of
the store. 'Can we reach the car park from there?'
The assistant nodded, looking worried. Yes, but shouldn't you -- ?'
'We're all right. Thanks again.'
He made sure Sofia was still strapped in. The poor girl was sobbing,
but unharmed. Joe grabbed the buggy and set off, Cassie and Jaden sticking close to his side. If Cassie was troubled about his decision
not to wait for the police, she showed no sign of it.
Probably just wanted to get the hell out of here, he thought. His
own concern was that the woman had first approached Jaden outside
the model shop, so this represented their second attempt. And if
they were willing to try twice, there was no good reason to believe they
wouldn't try a third time.

Twenty

The American chuckled quietly, without much humour.
You have Bobby Felton living, what, a hundred yards along the
street? And yet you drag me all the way over here from the States.'
'Our thinking', said McWhirter with a silky charm, 'was that Mr Felton
wouldn't be quite so receptive to a direct approach. Not at this stage.'
'Huh. So I'm an emissary, is that it? The go-between.'
'More than that,' Nasenko assured him. 'Believe me, this will be
of great benefit to you.'
'Doing what, exactly?'

'We have a number of, ah, opportunities to exploit in Central Asia,'
said McWhirter. 'Specifically the republic of Kajitestan.'
'Oil and natural gas. And certain mineral rights. The new president
is a man I've known for many years.'
Yeah, I heard you got good connections over there.'
'But we need other connections, too. In America, and in Britain.
We need to know how their administrations will react to our plans.
And we need to be sure we have a market in these countries.'
'That's where me and Bobby come in?'
McWhirter: 'We know Mr Felton has close relationships with a
variety of key individuals, not just in the present government, but,
more importantly, with their likely successors.'
Nasenko added, 'The next general election in Britain must be held
by June 2010. A new government would be very good news for Felton,
I think?'
Another pause. Then Travers barked: 'That all you want from him?'
'I don't understand . . .'
Any venture worth pursuing, usually it needs some kind of startup
capital. Especially when it involves one of those shit-ass Central
Asian republics. You need security, equipment, manpower. You need
to pay a lot of bribes. It all costs, and from what I've heard, you're not
exactly "cash-rich" at the moment.'
The silence felt charged with tension. McWhirter cleared his throat,
a sound that eloquently communicated his desire to be anywhere but
in this meeting. His boss's response was a lot more forthright.
'These are just rumours, spread by my enemies.'
You're saying you haven't taken a big hit lately?'
'I repeat, it is just lies. I have all the money I need for this project.'
'But if you or Mr Felton want to put up a stake,' McWhirter added,
"I'm sure there won't be any objections.'
'We do not come begging for money.' Nasenko spoke harshly over
his adviser. 'The purpose of this meeting is to offer an olive branch.
We need Felton's connections. He will also benefit from mine. That
is the nature of business, is it not? To put bad feelings aside and work
together for maximum profit.'
'Well, it sounds fair enough to me. Can't say what Bobby's gonna
think of it.' There was shuffling, a heavy exhalation. 'Will you guys
point me in the direction of the John? I need to take a leak.'
Incidental noises, the thump and clang of footsteps, then a distant
door closing. Instantly the remaining voices became low and conspiratorial.
'I
don't like it, Valentin. When you propose a deal like this you
should do it from a position of strength.'
And we are. This is a greedy man we have here. You saw his eyes
light up when I talked about Kajitestan. If the rewards are right, he
will help us.'
'Do you think he can bring Felton on board?'
'I am sure of it. Another very greedy man.'
'But what about finance? We are going to need Felton's capital.' A
heartfelt sigh from McWhirter. 'I don't mind telling you, Valentin,
I'm out of my comfort zone.'
'You worry too much.'
You pay me to worry, remember?'
'Well, now I am paying you to stop worrying for a change.' Nasenko
chuckled, then put on some kind of accent that he must have imagined
was American. 'This time, go with the flow!

Twenty-One

At the western end of the store there was a small lobby with two lifts
and a door to the stairs. The car park beneath the centre had three
levels. The Shogun was on the lowest. Joe instinctively preferred to
take the stairs, despite a warning sign on the door that these were for
emergency use only. But he recognised that, with Sofia in a buggy,
the lift was a better option. It was certainly no slower or more exposed
than carrying two children down three flights of steps.
No one else got in with them, and when the doors closed Cassie
dropped to her knees and tried to console Sofia while simultaneously
hugging Jaden. Sounding remarkably composed, she made light of
what had happened, explaining that it had all been a silly mistake. A
kind of game.
'It's all finished now,' she said. 'No one's going to scare you like
that any more.'
Joe listened, fuming quietly. But he knew this wasn't the time to
reproach himself for his failures. That would have to come later, when
he'd got them to safety.
He was also busy reviewing what had happened, trying to extract
as much information as possible from the limited data available. The
first thing to determine was precisely when the would-be kidnappers
had begun stalking them.
If the woman was the same one who'd given Jaden a sweet outside
Modelzone, it meant they had been followed from West Street, at
least, and probably earlier. The Lanes had been crowded with tourists:
not an ideal environment in which to carry out an abduction. Prior
to that, the car park itself would have been the perfect place to mount
an attack.
Mindful of this, Joe was first out of the lifts and made sure it was
safe before beckoning Cassie to follow. The car park was virtually
deserted. Lots of vacant spaces and only a handful of vehicles on the
move, none of them suspicious.
That was good news, in some ways. Bad news in others. For the
kidnappers to have ignored such an ideal location suggested they didn't
know where Joe had parked. That, in turn, meant they hadn't followed
the Shogun into Brighton. They must have acquired their target somewhere
else.
This was clearly no ad hoc operation. Using Jaden as a decoy showed
evidence of detailed planning. The kidnappers must have required and
possessed - knowledge of Cassie's whereabouts. But the decision
to go shopping in Churchill Square had been entirely spontaneous,
as had the window-gazing outside Modelzone. There was only one
destination that had been prearranged.
Merrion and Son.

By sheer good fortune Joe had found a space close to the pay station,
which meant he was able to feed the machine and still watch over
Cassie as she helped the children into the car. While he waited for
the machine to print the exit ticket, he considered who had known
they were visiting the jeweller's this afternoon.
Valentin Nasenko, of course. McWhirter and Yuri, and maybe even
Maria. Then the jeweller himself, Merrion Junior, and his old man.
Perhaps some other staff, although there couldn't be many, given the
size of the shop.
Not good. These all seemed like fair assumptions, and what they
told him was very ominous.
He grabbed the ticket and ran to the car. Cassie had elected to sit
in the back, with the children either side of her. That way she could
maintain physical contact with them and still communicate with Joe
when necessary. Not that she showed much sign of wanting to do that.
He got in, started the engine and followed the signs towards the
exit. He brooded on Cassie's behaviour. She'd been scared, but also
very brave. Joe felt huge admiration for the way she had fought the
two men.
But since then, she'd barely said a word. She wasn't calling 999.
She wasn't ordering him to drive to the nearest police station. He
could see that she might be reluctant to discuss it in front of the children,
but he would have expected a more forceful reaction than this.
When the barrier came up, Joe drove out and cast a quick look in
each direction. They were in a short access road that ran behind
Brighton's conference centre and the Grand Hotel. There were junctions
at each end that would lead him down to the seafront, but the
one to the left, into West Street, was controlled by traffic lights.
He went right. Straightened up, accelerated, then made a smooth
left into Cannon Place without having to stop. It was a short run down
to the next junction, where the lights were on red. He checked the
mirror: no one behind him. He took the right-hand lane and waited
for the question that never came.
The Blue Anchor hotel was in the opposite direction.
Joe gave some thought to whether the hotel, part-owned by Valentin,
would have been a better location for the kidnappers to strike. He
decided not. It was small and well staffed, and usually at full capacity.
Cassie was due to meet up with half a dozen friends, most of them
from the stage school she'd attended in her teens. All staying the night,
on Valentin's tab. There would scarcely be a moment when Cassie
and the children weren't surrounded by people.
That first point lingered in Joe's mind. The Blue Anchor was Nasenko
territory.
When the lights turned green he pulled across the A259 into the
westbound carriageway and immediately joined a line of slow-moving
traffic. To his left, the rotting hulk of the West Pier crouched in the
water like a gigantic rusting birdcage. The sea around it was a gentle
milky blue. Crowds of people on the beach: swimming, sunbathing,
drinking. The perfect way to kick off a weekend.
Joe checked the mirror again. Saw Cassie staring at her lap, a
furious concentration on her face. She felt his gaze and her head
snapped up.
'What?'
You haven't asked where we're going.'
'I don't care. As long as we get away from here.'
"I'm not sure if it's wise to go to the hotel.'
'Fine. I can ring the others, make up some excuse.'
'I only meant it's not a good idea right now. We can probably go
back later.'
Cassie looked thrown by his suggestion. "I'm not sure.'
Any reason to think it's not safe at the Blue Anchor?'
'No.' But she said it much too quickly.
Before he could comment the distant blast of a horn drew his attention.
He looked in the wing mirror and saw a big silver Mercedes
SUV cutting into the outside lane to overtake a bus. The car behind
it wasn't happy, and neither was Joe.
'Hold on tight,' he said.

The A259 ran east to west along the seafront, two lanes in each direction.
There were junctions and pedestrian crossings perhaps every
hundred yards, all controlled by traffic lights. Get the lights in your
favour and you might glide effortlessly along to Have and eventually
out of the city, reflecting on what a delightful experience the Sussex
coast offered to motorists. More likely you'd endure a long, slow
journey punctuated by frequent stop-starts and all kinds of frustrating
bottlenecks.
Which was how it was now. The city's geography narrowed Joe's

options for escape, and the sheer density of the traffic limited them
still further. But he would have to try. He'd screwed up enough already
today.
Behind him, about ten cars back, the Mercedes changed lanes
again, tailgating the car in front until it got the message and indicated
to move over. The queue ahead began to stretch, each
successive vehicle taking an age to get up to speed. Joe was already
in the outside lane and saw no point in switching, even if doing so
appeared to offer a minor advantage. For one thing, there were no
junctions on the left. To get off this road at all he would have to
turn right. But where?
Joe searched his memory. He'd brought Cassie to Brighton on six
or seven occasions, and years ago he had worked here for a short time,
so he knew the city reasonably well. The next major junction was
Preston Street, which led up to Western Road. Before that, there was
a turning that would enable him to feed through to Preston Street a
little sooner. But traffic on Western Road itself was usually even slower
than the seafront: lots of buses, lots of pedestrians.
He got up to thirty miles an hour, sailed through the lights, then
watched his mirror, praying the Mercedes would get caught. It nearly
did. At the last moment it swerved around a compliant motorist and
went through on red, putting an end to any uncertainty Joe may have
had about its purpose.
He heard a gasp from Cassie. She'd twisted in her seat and was
looking out through the rear window.
'Is that who I think it is?'
'Afraid so.'
The Mercedes leapfrogged a couple more cars. At this rate it would
be on their tail by the time they got to the junction at Grand Avenue,
where they would be sitting ducks. He had to get off the main road
before then.
The Have lawns were coming up on the left. Lots of people about,
walking dogs, playing football, lounging on the grass. On the right,
the hotels and restaurants had given way to elegant Regency terraces,
their facades the colour of butter in the warm evening sun.
Approaching Brunswick Square, Joe prepared to make a sudden
right turn. Then the doubts set in. He had a feeling it was closed off
at the top: no way through to Western Road.
He checked the mirror. The Mercedes was still gaining ground,
just four or five cars behind them. He could see the vague shapes of
two men in the front.
Up ahead, a set of pedestrian traffic lights was turning to red. At
the same time, a gap appeared in the oncoming traffic. Joe wrenched
the wheel to the right and cut across the main road, into Brunswick
Terrace. This was a two-lane slip road, running parallel to the coast
road and divided from it by a narrow pavement. With the main road
so busy, a few other people were using it as a rat run, and the speed
at which Joe was driving earned him some angry looks.
From Brunswick Terrace he turned right into Lansdowne Place. As
he did, he glimpsed the Mercedes crossing the A259 in pursuit,
bumping over the pavement into the slip road.
Shit.
Lansdowne Road ascended as it ran north. It was a clear route up
to Western Road, but offered no concealment. In terrain like this Joe
knew he couldn't realistically outrace his pursuers. He had to lose
them.
He took the first left into a side road, Alice Street. It was about a
hundred yards long, with parked cars on the right and double yellow
lines on the left. He flashed past garages and a pub car park, but was
forced to brake hard at the junction and wait for a passing truck.
In his mirror he saw the Mercedes almost overshoot the entrance
to Alice Street. It stopped, backed up, came after them. Joe turned
right into Holland Road and raced up the hill. By now he'd abandoned
any pretence at civil driving, and the children had picked up on it. Both were crying softly, with Cassie doing her best to soothe
them.
More traffic lights at the top. Joe prayed they would stay on green,
and they did. He shot through the junction, crossed Western Road
and continued north on Holland Road. He passed a boarded-up Indian
restaurant and a Gothic stone church, and even though the lights at
the next junction were on red he managed a grin.
'There's a police station up ahead.'
He expected to hear jubilation from the back seat, or at least a sigh
of relief. Instead he got a brief, suppressed wail of panic.
'No,' said Cassie. She was looking over her shoulder again. 'They're
caught at the last lights. We can get away.'
'You don't want to report this?'
'I can't, Joe. I just can't.'

Twenty-Two

The American returned and sat down heavily. They heard the creak
and groan of his chair: possibly canvas on a steel frame. Not quite
strong enough for a large man.
He was offered another drink, but declined. 'I'd like to get a few
things straight, including remuneration. I'll warn you now, gentlemen,
I don't come cheap.'
'But you will do it?'
'I'll talk to him, see if I can set up a meeting. But not till the first
instalment is paid. Ten thousand dollars.'
'You want ten grand for making one phone call?' said McWhirter.
'Not negotiable. I'll draw up a fee schedule, then it's up to you.
Take it or leave it.'
'Ten thousand is acceptable,' Nasenko told him. 'We can have that
transferred to your account on Monday.'
'Sounds good. Bobby's in France this weekend. I'll talk to him when
he gets back, see if we can set up something later next week.'
'You have spoken to him recently?'
'I touched base briefly.'
'So he already knows we are meeting?'
'No. I wanted to see what you had to say before I mentioned it.
But he did suggest we have lunch while I'm over here.'
'Excellent.' Nasenko couldn't disguise the satisfaction in his voice.
'Hey. All I'm gonna do is pass on what you're telling me. I can't
guarantee he'll go for it.'
'Of course not. But I am an optimist.'
'Good for you. But you'd better know that Bobby Felton likes to do
his homework. He's gonna want every little detail before he signs up
to anything.'
'We can provide that.'
'Right now? To me?'
McWhirter started to speak but something cut him off. A look or
gesture from Nasenko, perhaps.
'To show our goodwill we can outline the basic proposal. You have
time, while we enjoy the sights of the harbour?'
'Sure.' Travers didn't sound overly impressed - either with Nasenko's alleged generosity or the quality of the views. 'I want enough to
convince me that you're on the level. Nothing personal, but I'm far
too old to get screwed by anyone.'
'You don't trust me?' said Nasenko.
'Maybe. Maybe not. What's more important, if I'm acting as go
between here, is that I don't endanger Bobby's trust in me! Travers
gave another humourless chuckle. You remember those stories about
the Nazi occupation? How if the resistance ambushed a single German,
they'd retaliate by rounding up the locals and wiping out ten or twenty
at random? Well, that's kinda how Felton operates.'
Nasenko was bristling as he interrupted. 'It is not necessary to--'
'I sure hope not, but I'm telling you anyway. There are no boundaries
with that guy. No proportionality. He just doesn't understand the
concept. If you're loyal to him, and he knows it, there's no better man
to work with. But cross him and you've signed your own death warrant.'
Nasenko chose to laugh, making light of the warning.
'Robert Felton is a formidable operator, I don't dispute that. But I
am no amateur myself. And you should know that I work on exactly
the same basis.'

Twenty-Three

The tone of Cassie's voice left Joe in no doubt of her sincerity. She
clearly believed there was a good reason not to involve the police,
and that would have to do.
Behind him, the lights changed. The Mercedes accelerated towards
him. The lights ahead remained on red. There was no traffic in front
of him, and nothing coming through the junction.
Joe put his foot down and blew through the red light. Took a tight
left into Lansdowne Road, past an ugly municipal building: the law
courts. Went right, then left again, short hops of fifty or sixty yards
that he hoped would be enough to throw their pursuers off the scent.
They were in Eaton Road, a pleasant tree-lined street with a mix
of suburban homes and small blocks of flats in a grimy pale yellow brick.
He passed the cricket ground, recalling an enjoyable Sunday he'd spent
watching a game and an even more enjoyable Sunday evening
spent in the pub next door.
Another right took him into Wilbury Road, a wide street with
parking at each kerb and two lanes of additional parking spaces in the
centre of the road. Joe was halfway along the street when a battered
old Datsun pulled away from the kerb, coughing clouds of exhaust.
Joe hit the brakes, slowing to a crawl. He checked the mirror: still
clear behind them. The Datsun showed no sign of gaining speed. And
there were empty spaces in the centre of the road.
Cassie gasped as he cut through a narrow gap between a couple
of parked cars, accelerated for fifty or sixty yards on the wrong side of
the road, then veered back across to the correct lane. The elderly
driver of the Datsun, now safely behind him, seemed oblivious. But
coming up fast behind the Datsun was the silver Mercedes.
Worse still, Joe could see the westbound traffic was backed up across
the junction at the top of Wilbury Road. That was the route he'd
intended to take, and he wasn't sure of an alternative. He knew the
railway line was around here somewhere, and that usually meant a
lot of treacherous cul-de-sacs.
Reaching the junction, he stared hard at the driver blocking his
way. The driver got the message and edged forward, leaving Joe just
enough room to squeeze through. There was a road straight ahead,
and judging by its elevation it looked as though it went up over the
train tracks.
Fingers crossed, he thought, and powered across the road, north
into Wilbury Villas. As the Shogun accelerated over the rise he knew
the Mercedes wasn't more than a few seconds behind them. Crucially,
though, for those few seconds it would be out of sight. Joe had to
make that time count.
The next junction gave him three options. Wilbury Crescent to the
left or right, or continue straight ahead along Wilbury Villas. Two
things made the decision for him.
The first was a sign, proclaiming that Wilbury Villas was a T-junction.
In other words, a no through road. A dead end.
The second was a big red removal lorry, double parked, maybe fifty
feet away.
Joe went straight ahead.

'It's a dead end,' Cassie shouted.
'I know.'
He hit the accelerator and the Shogun jumped forward. He swung
it past the lorry, cut in sharply and skidded to a halt. Looked back at
Cassie, who was still clinging to her seat belt with both hands. Beside
her, Jaden let out a laugh, more exhilarated than afraid.
Joe leaned over so he could see the passenger-side wing mirror. It
showed him a sliver of Wilbury Crescent. He imagined the Mercedes
roaring over the railway line and slowing on the approach to the junction.
Pausing as the men inside realised that they'd lost sight of their
target. A moment or two to debate their options.
Go left...
He counted: five seconds. Nothing. He felt a tightening in his chest
at the thought of the Mercedes suddenly rolling up alongside them.
If it did, they were done for. No question about that.
Ten seconds. Fifteen. Were they arguing amongst themselves over
which way to turn?
Then a flash of silver in the wing mirror, which echoed inside him
as a kind of bright, metallic jubilation. It had worked.
They'd gone left.

Joe took a slow, calming breath. 'Everyone all right back there?'
Cassie nodded. 'Just about.'
'Good.'
He studied the road ahead. It was capped off by a wide pavement,
with a sturdy metal fence to prevent traffic getting through. Beyond
that was a reasonably fast east-west route: the Old Shoreham Road.
He released the handbrake and moved forward. Heard an exclamation
from the back seat.
'Aren't we turning round?'
He shook his head. 'If we turn round the only real option is to go
the same way they did. I want to check another possibility.'
As Joe got closer to the end of the street he found exactly what he
hoped for. The fence was an obvious deterrent, plainly visible from
the bottom of the hill. But it didn't run the full length of the pavement.
On the left-hand side there was a wide gap between the fence
and the last house in the street: easily enough room to get through.
Cassie snorted, as though she couldn't believe Joe's luck. She said
nothing as he bumped the Shogun up the kerb and crossed the pavement.
They were on the edge of a major junction. Now all he had
to do was wait for the lights to change and join the flow of traffic
along the Old Shoreham Road.
'Where does that go?' Cassie asked. She leaned forward, pointing
to where another road ascended to the north.
'Out of town,' he said, seeing that she'd hit on a much better route.
Far less risk of inadvertently coming upon the Mercedes if they
continued north rather than west for a bit longer.
Joe timed his manoeuvre well, crossing into the northbound lane
as the lights turned green. They raced up the hill to another set of
lights, then left into Dyke Road.
After a minute, Cassie said, 'I know where we are now. Valentin
has friends who live along here.'
'Makes sense. This is Millionaires' Row,' Joe said as they passed a
succession of vulgar mansions. Another mile or so and they reached
a major roundabout and joined the A27, heading west. Traffic was
busy, but Joe quickly moved into the outside lane and was able to do
a steady seventy miles an hour.
As they left the city behind the silence grew increasingly morose.
Joe thought it was just his imagination until Cassie issued a series of
big, heavy sighs. Finally he grasped that this was an invitation for him
to speak his mind.
On the approach to the Shoreham flyover the road widened to
three lanes. A light aircraft buzzed overhead, wobbling in a crosswind
as it descended towards the airport. Across the valley, the Gothic
revival architecture of Lancing College chapel resembled a Disney
creation, a petite fairy-tale castle nestled in the Downs.
Joe moved left into the slip road for the Shoreham interchange.
From the back seat came another heartfelt sigh.
'I take it you don't want to loop round and go to the hotel?'
'No.' A distinct emphasis in Cassie's voice. He glanced over his
shoulder and saw her nodding towards Jaden. The boy was gazing out
of the window with a dreamy, almost comatose expression. He looked
exhausted.
Joe said: 'What about home?'
'Not sure about that, either.'
'Okay. I get the feeling you may know more than I do about what
just happened?'
'Maybe,' she said. 'I hope not.'
'Let's put it this way. You suspect there might be a Ukrainian involvement?'
Nothing
from Cassie for a long moment. Then she said, 'Can we
stop, just for a minute?'

Joe found a place to pull in at the bottom of the slip road, bumping
onto a patch of grass directly beneath the flyover. They could hear
the thunderous roar of the traffic overhead.
Cassie leaned across and opened the door, prompting a cry of alarm
from Jaden. She hugged him tight, kissing him gently on the forehead.
"I'm
just going to sit in the front and talk to Joe.'
"I'm hungry,' he said.
'Okay. I can fix that.'
She fetched a bag from the boot and produced beakers of juice
and a packet of plain biscuits. Once the children were pacified, she
got into the front seat.
'We'd better keep driving,' Joe said. 'If they're looking for us
anywhere, it'll be on the A27. I want to take the back roads.'
'Fine.'
She said nothing else until they had negotiated the roundabout
and were heading roughly north-west on the A283, a single-carriageway
route that tended to be less frenetic than the A27. She put some music
on, adjusting the sound levels so it was louder in the back, ensuring
their conversation wouldn't be overheard.
'I don't know what Valentin's playing at, but something's going on.
The relationship's been weird ever since Sofia was born. It's like I
don't exist as anything other than her mother.'
Joe saw she was blushing and looked away. Not easy to talk about
your sex life, even in coded language.
A few months ago he got really secretive. A couple of times I discovered
he'd been lying about where he was. And he began paying more
attention to things like his hairstyle, his clothes.'
You think he's having an affair?'
'More than that. I think he's fallen in love.' Cassie's voice went a
little unsteady. 'After we got married, he started dropping hints about
having some fun on the side. With high-class escorts, mainly. He acted
as though it was perfectly normal, like he was expecting me to say,
"Yeah, fine, go right ahead".'
'But you didn't?'
'No. I went mental. Then he claimed he was just joking, but I
don't think he was. That's when I should have got out, really. I was
naive. Stupid. And I'd just fallen pregnant.'
She shivered. Joe waited while she collected herself.
'This time it's different. Not just casual sex, but something more
important. And knowing Valentin, he'll want the best of both worlds.
A wife at his house in Sussex, ready to give him kids whenever he
wants them. And a full-time mistress in London.'
'I see now why you thought the eternity ring was inappropriate.'
'It freaked me out. And the timing ... It can't be a coincidence.'
'What do you mean?'
Almost whispering, she said, 'I've been thinking about leaving him.'
You've discussed it with Valentin?'
'I wouldn't dare. The one time I tried explaining how unhappy I
was, he basically told me not to be so stupid. But I was on the phone
to my mum one day and I just lost it. She's really supportive, but she
also persuaded me to give it another try, as if it's all going to blow
over.'
'Parents are like that, I suppose,' Joe said. 'But you don't think it
will?'
'Not any more. But I told her what I think Valentin is up to, and
I also discussed how I'd arrange things if and when I go. Pretty much
from that moment he's been ice cold towards me.'

Silence for a second or two. Joe wished he could throw doubt on
what she was saying, but he couldn't. It was all too plausible.
'He's listening in on your calls?'
Cassie nodded. 'He's paranoid about industrial espionage, and I bet
he's spied on people himself in the past. Why shouldn't he also spy
on me?'
'If he knows what you're considering, wouldn't he just confront
you?'
'Perhaps he thinks there's more to come. The minute he admits to
eavesdropping, he loses some of his power over me.' She hesitated,
and took an anxious look over her shoulder. 'Anyway, it isn't me
running away that bothers him. It's who I'd take with me.'
'Sofia.'
Yes. She's the main reason he won't allow me to leave. He knows
I'd never go without her, and in his view she belongs to him. Therefore
I do, too.'
Joe said nothing. He concentrated on driving. The traffic was light,
the road clear and fast-moving. They were making pretty good time
- wherever it was they were going.
Then Cassie said: 'There's something else. A week or two ago I
overheard him talking to Yuri. I don't know what they were discussing,
but Yuri asked, "Do you want to kill them?" and Valentin said, "Not
if we can find a better way."'
'What?'
'That was all I heard. Not if we can find a better way. Then they
realised I was there and clammed up.'
You've no idea at all what it was about?'
-'No. I wondered if I'd misheard, but I don't think so. When he saw
me, Yuri gave me this look . . . Like all he wants is ten minutes alone
in a room with me, you know?' She shivered again, and rubbed her
arms. 'Sometimes I worry that one day Valentin will let him.'
'Not if I have anything to do with it,' said Joe. Despite his misgivings,
he decided it was his duty to be straight with her. 'Look, I
hate having to tell you this, but I don't think they were trying to kidnap
Jaden.'
'What?'
He described his perspective on the abduction. His impression that
Jaden was merely a decoy. 'I think they wanted Sofia. Or maybe you
and Sofia.'
Cassie began to weep, quietly, in a way that didn't invite him to
offer comfort. She took a tissue from her bag and blew her nose.
'The last few weeks, I've been trying to convince myself I've
misjudged him. Clinging to the idea that at heart Valentin's a good
man, not a monster. But it's a lie. Only a monster could stoop to something
like this.'
'Cass, we don't know for sure that he's behind it.'
'I think he is.'
'Okay. But what was he going to do afterwards? If he wanted to
spirit her away he could easily do it from home.'
Yeah, but this way he can deny knowledge. He gets to hold her
somewhere while he negotiates with me. It's like that saying goes . . .'
'Possession is nine-tenths of the law.' Joe sighed. "I'm still not
completely sure. I'd like to talk to him.'
'I don't want to go home,' Cassie blurted. 'I can't go back there
tonight.'
'I know. That's not where we're going.'

Twenty-Four

The top floor of Dreamscape was dominated by a vast room that ran
nearly the full length of the house. A huge open-plan living space,
furnished to entice prospective buyers with a selection of funky sofas
and rugs. A wall of subtly tinted glass gave a stunning view of the bay,
the still waters gleaming beneath the sun's slow descent. As a vantage
point for their current surveillance, it couldn't be better.
Liam and Priya had watched a motor launch collect four men from
the jetty and transfer them to the majestic-looking yacht moored on
the edge of the deep-water channel. Then the yacht had set off on a
cruise around the harbour, and it still hadn't returned. For Liam it
meant another frustrating wait, mitigated only by the arrival of the
second team.
A brief call notified him of their approach. Leaving Priya to watch
for the yacht, he hurried downstairs, into the garage. He opened the
doors so they could drive straight in. He had to assume Oliver Felton
was still spying on them. It was making him feel increasingly vulnerable,
and that in turn made him angry. The Felton kid was going to
pay for that.
A Ford Explorer drove in, pulling up alongside the Transit. Liam
hit the button to shut the doors. He took a deep breath. Told himself
he was perfectly calm. It was all good. Everything under control.
First out of the Explorer was Jim Turner. A career criminal in his
early fifties, Turner was a tall, heavyset man with chiselled features
and silver-grey hair. In recent years he'd turned semi-legitimate, setting
up a security company that had been doing well for itself until the
recession hit. Prior to that he'd earned notoriety in the underworld as
a 'taxman', a villain who specialised in targeting other villains. Even
Liam had to admit it took a special kind of nerve, not to mention a
psychotic temper, to earn a living by torturing and robbing drug
dealers.
So far their working relationship had been tense, to say the least.
Turner had made it clear he regarded Liam as little more than a white
collar sneak thief who should never have been entrusted with the lead
role. Liam saw Turner as an outmoded thug who lacked the brains
or finesse to take part in such an ambitious raid. Safe to say they
wouldn't be exchanging Christmas cards in future.
Turner shook his head in wonderment as the garage doors rolled
back into place. 'Fucking clever, eh?'
Liam nodded. 'I suppose.'
'I want doors like that, and a pad like this.' Turner's gaze alighted
on the Renault Megane, parked beyond Liam's Transit. 'Whose motor?'
'An estate agent. He was here on the quiet, to meet a woman. We
managed to get rid of her. He wasn't so lucky.'
Turner's eyebrows went up. You're not saying you topped him?'
'Priya did.'
You're shitting me? Dark horse in more ways than one.' He
chuckled, looking round. 'So where is our little Paki babe?'
'She's upstairs. And don't call her that.'
'What's it matter? She can't hear me.'
'It's unprofessional,' Liam said. 'For the next few hours we have to
work together. Better if we can all get along.'
'Oh, I dunno,' said Turner, swaying close and glowering at Liam.
'Nothing like a bit of creative tension to keep you on your toes.'
The other members of the team were climbing out of the Explorer
and examining their surroundings. The driver, Manderson, was a dumb
but loyal associate of Turner's. He was about forty, a scrawny, dishevelled
man with long greasy hair, bad skin and missing teeth. Tattoos
covered his arms from shoulder to wrist: he'd applied some of them
himself, and it showed. If he had been a dog, Liam thought, he would
have been put down at birth.
From the back seat came Eldon, a short, slender man with absolutely
no physical presence. Softly spoken, with a pale face and thinning
blond hair, he was the sort of man you could lose in an empty room.
But he knew a lot about art and antiques, and he had the contacts to
offload high-end goods with no questions asked. It would be his job
to determine what was worth taking.
The last of the four to emerge, Allotti, was also the most presentable.
He was in his early thirties, brown-haired and wiry, with a slow,
sardonic manner. He had a background in electronics, specifically in
the field of communications. His role was to secure and monitor the
island's phone network for the duration of the mission.
Liam indicated the Transit. 'All your stuff's in there. Get it unloaded
and set up inside.'
Allotti nodded unhappily. Sniggering at his displeasure, Turner and
Manderson started wandering towards the inside door, Eldon lagging
just behind. But Liam stopped them.
You three can unload the gas.'

When Liam rejoined Priya in the sunroom she was at the window, a
pair of binoculars in one hand. She didn't look round until he was
within touching distance.
'Turner's here,' he said.
'Okay.'
He stood alongside her and looked out over the bay. The yacht was
back in sight, slowly heading towards them.
'Took their time, didn't they?' he muttered.
'It doesn't matter.' In the same gentle tone, she added, You're very
impatient, aren't you?'
Liam made a dismissive noise, but it was true. He was itching to
get started. The tension was becoming unbearable, especially knowing
the Felton kid could blow the whole operation with a single phone
call. And every minute the barriers were in place they risked having
someone come along and try to use the bridge.
Should have delayed that, maybe . . .
'I've told them to bring the gas up,' he said. 'We'll stash the body
in here, too.'
Priya nodded. She handed him the binoculars, stepped away from
him and stretched, extravagantly, like a cat. "I'm going to get changed.'
Resisting the temptation to watch her leave the room, Liam lifted
the binoculars and studied the yacht instead. Valentin Nasenko and
his associates were standing out on the deck, talking and pointing in
the direction of Terror's Reach. Their body language spoke of a more
convivial atmosphere than before. The meeting had gone well.
'Congratulations, gentlemen,' Liam said to himself. 'Here comes
round two.'

Liam heard Manderson and Eldon trudging up the stairs long before
they materialised, each holding one end of a large propane cylinder.
They set it down carefully on the floor, cursing from the effort.
'Fucking hell . . .'
'How many of them?' said Eldon.
'We want six up here. Plus the body,' Liam said.
'Done that,' came a voice from the hall. Turner strolled in, as
nonchalant as a man can be with a corpse bundled over his shoulder.
He dropped it, unceremoniously, like he was delivering a sack of coal.
Manderson said, You're not even out of fucking breath.'
Turner jerked his thumb behind him. You dipshits. There's a lift,
just back along the corridor.'
The two men gaped at him, and then at Liam, as though it was
his fault.
'He's right. You all saw the floor plans.'
Manderson looked on the verge of rebellion but settled for another
growled expletive. He stomped out, followed by a more chastened
Eldon.
'Not chosen for his brains,' Liam said.
Turner pulled a face. 'He does what he's told. That's good enough.' He surveyed the room, hardly seeming to notice the spectacular views.
Then he nudged the estate agent's body with his foot.
'So what's the story?'
'I told you. He tried to get away.'
'And the Pak-- the Indian bird stuck him?'
Liam nodded, anticipating Turner's next question: Where were you?
'The guy had some tart on her way to see him. I had to get both
vehicles in the garage before she turned up. Priya couldn't do it because
someone might have seen her in the van.'
'Still a bit of a fuck-up, isn't it?'
Liam held the other man's gaze throughout a long, challenging
silence.
'I know you don't like it that I'm in charge,' he said. 'But that's
the way it is. Are you gonna risk everything because you can't deal
with it?'
'I can deal with it. My worry is whether you can deal with it.'
'I wouldn't be standing here if I wasn't up to the job.'
Turner merely raised his eyebrows, as if that didn't necessarily follow.
'So what now . . . boss?'
We get changed.' Liam gestured towards the yacht. 'Once they're
back on dry land, we're good to go.'

Leaving Turner to keep watch, Liam trotted down to the first floor.
Priya was in the bedroom she'd used earlier, but the door was shut.
The kitbag and the toolbox full of weapons had been placed outside
in the hall, a none-too-subtle indication that Liam wasn't welcome to
join her.
He carried them into the room opposite. It was a guest bedroom,
with a tiny en suite shower room and a minimum of furnishings: just
a small double bed and a chest of drawers.
Liam upended the kitbag on the bed. Their uniforms consisted of
black boiler suits, black ski masks and gloves and a utility belt that
would carry a torch, a Motorola two-way radio and a supply of plasticuffs,
along with a choice of weapons.
Turner came in as he was finishing up. 'They just docked.'
'Good.'
Turner picked up a mask and rubbed the material between his
fingers. 'This'll itch like crazy. It's still bloody eighty degrees out there.'
'Can't be helped. We don't want the hostages seeing our faces.'
Turner gave a snort. He opened the toolbox and inspected the
contents with a connoisseur's eye.
'I reckon it's bullshit, calling them hostages. The kind of firepower
we've brought along, there'll be a lot more bodies before this is over.'
Liam shrugged. In the face of such belligerence there wasn't really
much he could say.
'Something else,' Turner said, jabbing his finger at Liam. "I'll be
watching my back, just in case some bright spark thinks it's worth
slimming down the team when the job's done.'
'Sounds like paranoia to me,' Liam said.
Turner began to speak, but there was a knock on the door and Priya
came in. She'd changed into a virtually identical boiler suit, though
somehow hers managed to look a whole lot sleeker than theirs. Turner
blew a sarcastic whistle, then pointed at the mask in her hand.
You won't need that, darling. They'll never see you coming, will
they?'
Liam winced, but Priya only smiled.
Actually, you're right,' she said sweetly. 'That's something you may
want to think about.'
It took Turner a second to make sense of Priya's threat. Then he
chuckled, unperturbed, and watched as she made her selection from
the small arsenal of weapons.
'I hear you've already chalked up a kill?'
'What of it?'
'Just curious, that's all. I've been wondering what you were good
for.'
'Well, I'm not here to make the tea,' she said. 'Or flatter your ego.'
She slipped a Walther P99 into one of the deep pockets of her boiler
suit and clipped a sheathed hunting knife to her belt.
"Course you're not, darling.' Turner grinned wolfishly. 'Though I
reckon I know what the boss sees in you. A lot of potential.'
'That's enough,' Liam said. 'See if the others have finished
unloading. If they haven't, tell them to shift their arses.'
He waited until he heard Turner's footsteps on the stairs, then
cautioned Priya. 'Don't underestimate him. Just because he's ignorant,
it doesn't mean he's not a devious bastard.'
She nodded coolly. 'I know perfectly well what kind of people I'm
working with.'
Whether that was a sly dig at him, Liam couldn't tell. Maybe he'd
find out later, he thought.
"I'm pairing you with Eldon,' he said. 'I was going to suggest you
took the Weavers -- '
'I should do Felton,' Priya cut in. 'I've already made contact.'
You said he didn't answer the door.'
Priya gave him an enigmatic smile. 'I've made contact, believe me.
I know I can get inside.'
'All right.' That had actually been his plan all along, but Liam
hoped she'd give him credit for taking her ideas on board. 'We'll hit
the Weavers, Felton and Terry Fox simultaneously. Then I want one
person from each team to join me before we do Nasenko. A lot of
people in that house.'
'Okay.'
"I'll take Eldon from your team. I need you to stay with Oliver
Felton.' He saw her fuming, and added, 'He could be very important
to us. You know that.'
He undipped the Motorola from his belt, found the channel for
the men at the bridge and pressed the talk button.
A gruff voice answered. 'Pendry.'
'Anything there?'
'Quiet as the grave.'
'Good. Ten minutes, and then we move in. Phones will be out by
then, so radios only from now on.'
'Gotcha. Let me know when you need me.'

Twenty-Five



It was almost seven o'clock when they reached Midhurst and turned
south on the A286. At Joe's suggestion, Cassie had called several hotels
and guest houses in Chichester before finding a bed-and-breakfast
place that had a room available at short notice.
She'd also spoken to her friends back in Brighton and explained
that Sofia had succumbed to a sickness bug. She urged them to party
the night away in her absence, and agreed to meet up again very soon.
'But not at the Blue Anchor,' she murmured to herself after ending
the call.
Another twenty minutes and they were on the outskirts of Chichester.
There was food in the car for Sofia, but Jaden and Cassie were both
starving. So was Joe, he realised. He made a detour to the McDonald's
on the ring road and bought some takeaway meals.
The B&B was in the centre of town, a couple of minutes from the
cathedral. Joe parked in a small courtyard and helped carry the bags
inside. The proprietor was a sturdy blonde woman in her mid-thirties.
She fussed over the children and seemed perfectly willing to accept
Joe's assertion that they were Mr and Mrs Carter and family. If she
found the smell of French fries wafting through her lobby distasteful,
she politely refrained from saying so.
The room was basic but clean. A good size, with an old-fashioned
dresser in addition to two beds: a double and a single. The proprietor
had said she would fetch a travel cot for Sofia. There was also a modest
TV, a hairdryer and a tray with the usual tea- and coffee-making
paraphernalia.
To Joe it represented an improvement on his current living quarters,
and sheer luxury compared to some of the places he'd lived in
recent years. It was only when he pictured it through Cassie's eyes
that he saw what a step down it must be for her. He watched her
examine the room, unsure of her reaction.
All right?'
She nodded vehemently. Yes, it's cosy. Safe.'
Jaden shoved a handful of fries into his mouth and gawked at the
blank TV screen. He peered behind it, mystified.
'Why's it in a box?'
It took Joe a second to comprehend the question. 'That's how
televisions used to look. Before plasma and LCDs.'
He thought Cassie would smile at that, but instead she seemed
shocked - perhaps contemplating a life away from Valentin, and the
scale of the readjustment that would be required of her children.
After devouring a couple of burgers, Joe used the en suite bathroom
to freshen up. When he came out, Jaden was sitting on the bed, watching The Simpsons. The TV might be in a box, but at least it had Sky One.
Cassie was feeding Sofia her milk. She didn't notice Joe
surreptitiously plucking his Leatherman pocket knife from the
rucksack, but a look of panic crossed her face when he picked up
the car keys.
'Where are you going?'
'Like you said, we need to find out who was involved.'
'Can't you phone?'
Joe shook his head. 'I want to see his face when I confront him.'
'But it may be dangerous.'
'I can look after myself.'
Cassie nodded. A moment's hesitation, and then she plunged in.
You've never really said what you did before you went travelling.'
Quid pro quo, he realised, given what she'd revealed to him in the
car.
'I was a police officer.'
'I thought so. What kind?'
'CID. Undercover, for the last few years.'
'So what happened? Why did you leave?'
Joe paused, recalling his earlier promise to himself. That the day
he told her the truth would be the last day in her employment. Was
he going to keep to that promise?
He sighed, and said, 'An undercover op went badly wrong. My identity
was compromised, and the gang I'd infiltrated tried to kill me. I
managed to get away, but only just. Some of the gang died in the process.
As a result there was a price on my head. As far as I know, there still is.'
Cassie gasped. 'That's why you went abroad? One of those witness
relocation programmes?'
'I was offered that, but I made my own arrangements, because it
was probably another cop who blew my cover in the first place.'
'So what about your wife and daughters?'
'They had to start over too, with new identities. Helen was furious,
quite understandably. She felt I'd put their lives in danger. And she
was right.'
'That's why you don't see them?'
He laughed softly. 'It's a bit more complicated than that.'
'Then what?'
'Look, let's sort this out first, then perhaps we'll sit down and
discuss it'
Cassie nodded, with an expression that said she knew she'd been
fobbed off. But she didn't push it. Tears shone in her eyes, and she
looked away from him.
'I'm really sorry.'

At the door, Joe stopped and said: You'll be perfectly safe here, but
as a precaution, don't make any phone calls.'
'Not even from my mobile?'
'Especially not that. In fact, I'd switch it off if I were you. It sounds
paranoid, but like we said earlier, a certain person might have access
to all kinds of technology. If I need to call I'll ring the landline and
ask for you.'
'Mrs Carter,' she said, forcing a smile.
'That's it. I'll be back as soon as I can.'
Joe slipped out, shut the door behind him and hurried along the
corridor, past the reception area and out through the lobby. An idea
struck him as he reached the Shogun. He produced his mobile, deliberated
for a moment, then selected one of the preset numbers.
Yuri answered at once. Yes?'
'This is Joe. I thought I'd call in.'
You are at Blue Anchor?'
'Not yet. One of Cassie's friends wanted to meet her separately and
have a chat. Some kind of trouble with her husband.'

'Cassie?' said Yuri, confused.
'No. The friend.' Joe gave a grim smile. 'Cassie's delighted with the
eternity ring, by the way. She thought it was a very nice touch.'
Yuri made a dismissive noise: not interested.
Joe pushed it. 'Always good to have surprises, isn't it?'
'Where are you now?'
'I told you. Cassie's with one of her friends.'
'In Brighton?'
'No. Timbuktu.' Joe pretended to laugh. 'Of course we're in
Brighton. Where else would we be?'
A puzzled silence. Then: 'So when do you go to hotel?'
'Soon, I guess. I'll let you know if there are any changes to the
itinerary.' Joe paused a beat. 'How did Valentin's meeting go?'
'It is not finished. We are busy. Call when you get to Blue Anchor.'
Yuri disconnected. Joe stared at the display for a few seconds,
reviewing the conversation. Inconclusive, he decided. Nothing that
proved Valentin's involvement in the attempted abduction, but nothing
that ruled it out either. Yuri definitely seemed a little too interested
in Joe's whereabouts.

It was a short journey to Terror's Reach, through an idyllic slice of
the English countryside. Once Joe turned off the A259 he was
immersed in a world that had barely changed in decades. A world of
narrow country lanes, hedgerows bursting with wild flowers and a
patchwork of fields where cereal crops grew in vivid greens and golds.
He passed a couple of villages and then he was on the final stretch
of road, travelling through the nature reserve with dark copses and
heathland all around him. The only destination ahead was the Reach,
and the road was deserted. It never ceased to astonish him that a
country as small as Britain could have places that felt so lonely, so
remote, even when they were just a few miles from a major population
centre.
He crested a gentle rise and the island came into view, about a
mile and a half away. Immediately Joe saw something that didn't look
right. An obstacle on the bridge. He reduced his speed to give himself
more thinking time.
It was a vehicle, he realised, partially blocking the road. Something
else in front of it. A sign, and a row of barriers.

The bridge was shut.
He made an instant decision. There was a parking area coming up
on the left. He turned into it and parked the Shogun behind an avenue
of oak trees, where it couldn't be seen from the road.
Now he recalled the Citroen van he'd spotted earlier, next to the
ferry shed. Here to do maintenance work, he'd assumed, and maybe
that was what it was. But it was odd that they should close the bridge
without notifying the residents in advance.
And then there was the other van, the Transit. The driver with
the gunslinger's moustache. The strange noise from the back of the
vehicle that had aroused Joe's suspicion. According to Maz's
colleague, the Transit's registration plates were false.
Lastly, the belligerent fisherman with what might have been a prison
tattoo on his neck. The Honda motorbike had been parked at the
wrong angle for Joe to see the registration mark, but he wondered
now if that too would have come back as false. Three dubious incursions
on a single day. Coincidence?
It could be, but he'd learned to be wary of coincidences.
He went the rest of the way on foot. For a mile or so he was able
to stay within the nature reserve, threading through a coppice wood
of hazel, ash and oak. Closer to the shore, the trees thinned out and
finally stopped. The terrain grew flat and marshy. The only concealment
was offered by a scattering of gorse and hawthorn bushes.
He managed to work his way to within fifty yards of the bridge.
Close enough to see the row of interlocking barriers, and to read a
folding yellow sign that said: BRIDGE CLOSED FOR EMERGENCY REPAIRS.
It all looked professional enough. So did the two men standing on
the bridge, at first glance.
They wore jeans and boots and high-visibility jackets. They weren't
engaged in any kind of repair work, emergency or otherwise, although
that in itself didn't mark them out as bogus. But after studying them
for a minute Joe was convinced they weren't council workers or private
contractors. They had the tense, watchful manner of guards, engaged
in a crucial but essentially mundane task. Lots of nervous energy and
no way to express it.
One strolled across the bridge, while the other wandered down towards
the barrier. Their lack of urgency reassured Joe that he hadn't been
spotted. Just an occasional routine patrol back and forth, probably to
relieve the tedium. But one thing was clear: there was no way past them.

As the man nearest the barrier came closer, Joe realised there was
something familiar about him. A couple of seconds later he got a clear
look at his face. The change of clothes and the lack of a baseball cap
had thrown him, but now he could see who it was.
The fisherman.
Joe retreated in search of a better vantage point. The nature reserve
was protected from the sea by a ridge of higher ground, from which
a broad shingle beach sloped down to the shore. Using the ridge for
cover, he ran, almost crouching at times, until he was perhaps half a
mile further east. Then he crawled up the bank and took another look
at the island.
The bridge was still visible from here, and so were the guards.
Beyond that, he could see a sliver of the island's road, heading south.
Within ten yards it was obscured by trees and bushes, and then by
the high perimeter fence of the old training camp.
Joe studied the bridge for a minute, weighing up his options. Then
he slipped out of sight and lay on his back, staring up at the sky. It
was a beautiful evening. The air was warm and fragrant, the sun a
plump red ball as it sank towards the horizon. Clouds of midges
swarmed above the stones. There was no sound except for the cry of
birds and the gentle slurp of the sea.
He considered what he knew, what he suspected, and what he
might do about it. It appeared that the island had been sealed off,
quite deliberately, at a time of day when the residents were unlikely
to be coming or going, and passing traffic was practically non-existent.
In addition to the men guarding the bridge, he suspected the involvement
of the man he'd seen earlier, driving the white Transit with false
plates.
Then there was the abduction attempt in Brighton, which might
or might not have any relevance to what was happening here. Another
coincidence? Feasibly. Another reason to be cautious? Definitely.
The easiest response would be to return to his car, drive back to
Chichester and notify the police. Report some suspicious behaviour
on the island and leave them to sort it out.
But Joe couldn't see that achieving much. They were just as likely
to greet his call with scepticism, particularly if he phoned it in anonymously.
If they gave it any credence at all, the investigation would no
doubt consist of a single uniformed patrol, two officers at most, driving
out to the island with no real expectation of danger. A recipe for
tragedy, if something serious was going on over there.
Of course, Joe could tell them who he was. As a former detective
sergeant his word might carry slightly more weight. That was, until
they made the inevitable inquiries and learned more about his career
history.
Putting his head above the parapet now would have all sorts of
consequences, none of them positive.
Whichever way he looked at it, Joe was on his own.

Twenty-Six



They assembled in Dreamscape's grand hall: Liam, Priya, Turner,
Eldon and Manderson. Allotti had unloaded and activated the mobile
phone jammer, a four-hundred-watt unit capable of blocking signals
within a half-mile radius. Then he took the Explorer and drove to the
landline junction box, which was situated on the roadside just north
of the Nasenko house.
Standing on the stairs, Liam ran through the details one more
time.
'In this phase, we concentrate on securing each property. That
means accounting for everyone. You make a quick but careful search
of the house and grounds. Collect up any mobile phones to give to
Allotti. Priya and Turner stay to guard their respective prisoners, while
Eldon and Manderson join me to take Nasenko. Okay?'
There were nods, grunts. An exaggerated yawn from Turner.
'Remember, no unnecessary force. Just what it takes to subdue
them.' Liam waited out the inevitable sarcasm. 'And at this stage, you
remove nothing. Not cash, not jewellery: nothing. You leave the place
exactly as you find it until Eldon completes an inventory. Anyone
caught helping themselves . . .' He looked at each of them in turn.
'The penalty will be severe. Understood?'
Liam's radio vibrated against his hip. The sign he had been waiting
for.

He checked his watch. It was two minutes to eight. 'Okay. Phones are out. Let's do it.'

Joe edged back up to the lip of the ridge and crawled along until he
found a shallow groove in the path. He slipped off his trainers and
tied the laces together, then looped them round his neck. His knife,
keys and coins would survive the journey, but he wasn't so sure about
his mobile phone. As a precaution he removed the battery and put it
in a different pocket.
On the bridge the two men were walking towards each other. They
converged on the far side of the van and were hidden from view. That
was Joe's cue to move.
He descended the shingle bank, conscious of the noise of the stones
crunching underfoot and the low sun throwing out long shadows. He
made it to the shore within seconds and slipped into the water, not
even pausing to see if he'd been spotted.
The sea was cold enough to make him gasp. Once soaked, his shirt
and jeans began to drag against him. He wondered if he should have
ditched them, even if it would take some explaining when he got across.
He focused on a point on the island's eastern flank, perhaps three
quarters of a mile away. For about half that distance he would be
plainly visible from the bridge. By employing a gentle breast stroke
he hoped to minimise the disturbance to the surface of the water.
He swam, knowing that he had little choice but to do this. Besides
the need to confront Valentin, besides his concerns for the island's
residents, there was another reason why Joe couldn't just turn away
from Terror's Reach.
Almost everything he possessed was on that island. His passports,
his credit cards and cash, and most precious of all, the photographs
of his daughters. Those pictures were all he had left; the only remaining
link to his past life. No matter what was going on here, or what might
happen in the future, he had to get them back.
The fire had been a disappointment. Oliver was sadly out of practice.
The porn magazine just blackened and shrivelled to nothing.
His father's jacket melted in places, but otherwise refused to burn.
And the brandy fumes made him want to retch.
Probably for the best, though. The abortive blaze was fizzling out
when Oliver realised he should have shut off the smoke alarm. The
house was equipped with an elaborate fire detection system, but when
he typed in the code to deactivate it, a message flashed up on the display: INCORRECT.
Oliver swore softly. His father must have changed the code, no
doubt a reaction to Rachel's extended stay in New York. It confirmed
a long-held suspicion that his sister was employed to keep an eye on
him. He wasn't trusted to live here alone.
Bored, he'd roamed the house for a while. He even considered
whether he ought to phone for a car and go to Oxford after all. He'd
be a few hours late, and would have to dream up a convincing reason
for retracting his earlier excuse, but it wasn't impossible.
Except that, on reflection, it seemed like too much effort. Easier
to stay where he was. Easier to stay and watch.
For sustenance, Oliver took a bottle of Coke and a bag of tortilla
chips up to the attic room. After cautiously checking the view, he
decided he could risk another stint on the telescope. He studied what
he could see of Dreamscape's grounds, then concentrated on the upper
windows, but saw nothing of interest.
He drank some Coke, grazed on the tortilla chips, and waited. The
idea of sneaking next door retained a nagging appeal, like an itch
when you're too tired to move.
Maybe later. After dark.
And then, in an act of wondrous fate, she appeared right in front
of him. Back at the same window as before, where she knew without
question that he could see her.
It was a masterful performance. She was teasing, seductive, brilliantly
entertaining. She would drift languorously in and out of view,
disrobing slowly, item by item. Sometimes she turned her back on
him, as when she tackled the clasp of her bra, bending and leaning
as it dropped away and a glimpse of heavy breast swayed into sight.
And it was all for Oliver's benefit.
The tension was maddening, and glorious. She wanted him. There
was no other explanation.
Or was there?
The idea was like a shard of ice driven through his skull. That this could
be an elaborate prank: something you'd encounter on a cheap reality
TV show. If so, it could only be his father who had masterminded it.
Oliver let out a sob and flung himself to the floor. Hastily rearranging
his clothes, he curled into a tight ball and peeked out at a
world turned alien and hostile. He stared for long minutes at the
ceiling, seeking out the dark traitorous eye of a camera.
Eventually the panic receded. He climbed to his feet and conducted
a fingertip search of the room. He found nothing. He used the telescope
to inspect Dreamscape's side elevation. That too was free of
hidden cameras.
Not a practical joke, then.
The relief was extraordinary, and it was celebrated with a burst of
sound. The intercom.
He stumbled down the stairs, as jerky on his feet as a newborn foal.
Elation fought with a desperate lingering fear. It could still be a hoax.
It could still be some cruel game of his father's.
But when he looked at the monitor, a cry escaped him. A cry of
sheer unadulterated joy.
It was the woman. She had come back to him.
This time he couldn't ignore her. The question of self-denial never
entered his head.
He pressed the button to open the gates.

At first Joe kept his head low, his eyeline barely above the surface of
the water. The priority was to avoid being noticed by the men on the
bridge; navigating a precise route could wait till he was closer to the
island.
After a minute he looked towards the Reach to get his bearings. It
wasn't there.
He experienced a moment of pure bewilderment. Instinctively he
kicked his legs, pushing his head further out of the water. Instead of
being straight ahead, the island was a couple of hundred yards to his
right. He'd drifted way off course in a matter of seconds.
Not drifted. He was being carried by the currents. Normally he swam
from the island's southern shore, so he'd forgotten about the treacherous
current that ran through the narrow channel between the mainland and
the northern tip of the island.
A gentle breaststroke was no longer an option. To have any chance
of getting through the channel he would have to swim a fast, powerful
crawl, increasing the risk that the men guarding the bridge would spot
him.
Joe had been a good swimmer since childhood, and had always
preferred the sea to swimming pools. Now he had to rely on his
strength and technique to make it across. With every kick of his legs,
every sweep of his arms, he could feel the current working against
him, dragging him away from the island. He was moving sideways
almost as quickly as he moved forward. Only by swimming at full
strength, with no let-up, could he hope to make it across.
Joe shut out all sensation and focused purely on the reasons he was
doing this. For Cassie. For Angela Weaver. For his daughters.


Twenty-Seven

The gate opened. On the monitor, Oliver watched the beautiful Asian
woman move past the camera. She was wearing some kind of utilitarian
black outfit; not particularly revealing. Perhaps she'd had to dress
demurely to avoid arousing the suspicions of the men in the house
with her.
Oliver swallowed, his mouth as dry as sawdust. He moved towards
the front door, knowing he could still change his mind.
But his hand seemed to act independently of his brain, deftly
unlocking the door. There was no going back now. The important
thing was that he should keep control of his feelings, as well as his
actions. He made a vow: No inappropriate behaviour.
By the time he opened the door the woman had crossed the driveway
with startling haste. In the flesh, she was a magnificent sight, even
clad in what looked like workmen's overalls. Curious, he thought. A
fetish of some kind?
'Hello,' she said. Her voice was deeper than he expected, with a
certain husky promise. You're Oliver, aren't you? Oliver Felton?'
He nodded. He couldn't speak.
She held out her hand. 'My name's Priya. It's a thrill to meet you.'
Oliver swallowed again. The word thrill rattled around his head
like a ball bearing in a pinball machine.
You too,' he managed. He reached out and took the woman's hand,
aware that his own was damp and trembling. The moment of contact
would reveal just how grossly unsophisticated he was. He imagined
her pulling free and turning away, revolted by his touch.
But she didn't. She held him in a firm grip and stepped closer,
looking deep into his eyes. The scent of her body made his head swim.
Her lips came together and formed what he felt sure were the beginnings
of a kiss.
Their first kiss. Soft and tender, or hard and hungry. Either way, it
would be a spectacular milestone. The first woman he hadn't bought
outright.
But Priya didn't kiss him.
She punched him in the stomach.

Angela Weaver almost missed the sound of the doorbell. Brel was
loping around the back garden, barking at the gulls as they swooped
low over the house: a game she would swear both parties played for
the sheer pleasure of it.
Besides, callers were few and far between on the Reach. Those who
did come here usually announced their arrival well in advance, often
phoning for directions in a mild panic as they negotiated the narrow
winding road through the nature reserve. Surely an island with such
fabulous homes couldn't be so far from anywhere?
There was another explanation for the lack of visitors, of course.
She knew all too well that neither she nor Donald made for enthralling
company these days. No one in their right mind wanted to risk the
possible contagion of the House of Sorrow and Fury.
It wasn't until the cheerful trilling of the bell died out that Angela
properly responded to the sound. She had just finished washing up from
dinner - they had a dishwasher but rarely accumulated enough dirty
crockery to justify using it - when Donald called from the living room.
'Who on earth can that be?'

You could always answer it and find out, she thought, an uncharitable
response that later she would regret.
She dried her hands on a tea towel and hurried to the front door.
Through the frosted-glass panel she could see the outline of a man's
head and upper body.
As she opened the door she heard movement in the next room:
that would be Donald making himself decent. He was a martyr to
trapped wind, and after a meal had an irritating tendency to sit with
his trousers undone, massaging his lower abdomen.
Angela opened the door and gave a start. What she saw defied logic.
For a moment it seemed as though the man had remained a silhouette
rather than becoming three-dimensional. Then she identified a
pair of narrow, rheumy eyes and understood he was wearing a full
face mask.
There was a cry from the living room: Donald must have gone to
the window. He was shouting at her to shut the door, but even while
she struggled to process the message another masked figure darted
into view, pushing past her and into the house.
Angela turned, making an ineffectual bid to stop him. She heard
a scrabbling on the tiled kitchen floor as Brel raced towards them. He
reached the hall, snarling with a ferocity that made him unrecognisable.
Before he could attack, the man lifted his arm, revealing an ugly
black pistol with a silencer. He fired twice, and Angela's beloved
Labrador collapsed with an audible and very human-sounding groan.
For a full second no one moved. No one spoke.
Then Donald was in the doorway, his face bloodless and contorted
with shock. The gunman shifted, training the weapon on him. Donald
glanced at it, tried to say something, but all that emerged was a cry
of incoherent rage. Angela saw a madness light up his eyes, a madness
fuelled by two years of bitter, unrelenting grief at the death of their
son.
The gunman growled a warning, but Donald didn't hear it. Didn't
hear it or didn't care. He threw himself forward and swung a fist at
the man. Angela screamed, but the other intruder grabbed her by the
throat, pinning her to the spot.
'Stupid fucker . . .' The gunman batted away Donald's first blow,
but he kept coming, baring his teeth, swinging his fists like a drunken
barroom brawler. He wasn't going to back down, no matter what sort
of threats they made. He was way beyond reason, way beyond self
preservation.
The gunman fired at point-blank range. One bullet, straight into
Donald's heart. The furious light in his eyes still blazed as his legs
gave way and he collapsed, his brain not yet comprehending that it
was over. All the pain and loss and sorrow, finally ended.

Priya worked out with an almost religious fervour. Boxing was a major
part of her fitness regime. She was proud of the power she could
impart, and the extent to which it took her opponents by surprise.
Oliver Felton didn't stand a chance. A stranger to exercise, he was
tall and lanky, with a mop of curly brown hair and pale blotchy skin.
He probably weighed a little more than Priya, but had a fraction of
her muscle tone.
She watched the lust on his face fade and die like an overpriced
firework. When the punch landed he staggered back and fell, crying
out as the impact jarred his coccyx. He was wearing expensive but
unfashionable jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, buttoned tightly
at the wrists and throat. She realised why when she felt the air conditioning
working at full blast, cold enough to make her flinch.
Priya glanced round. Eldon was through the gate and sprinting
across the drive. He had his ski mask on, and he was holding a Glock
pistol at his side. That made her nervous. Eldon was about as much
a shooter as Oliver was a fighter.
He reached the front door and slowed, panting noisily through the
mask. Earlier he'd queried why she wasn't using hers.

'No point,' she'd said. 'We have history.'
Now he took in Oliver Felton, sitting dumbstruck and almost tearful
on the floor, and regarded her with admiration.
'Wow. I thought we'd have to get past all sorts of alarms and stuff.'
'No. Just him.' She looked to Oliver for confirmation. Anyone else
here?'
Oliver frowned a moment, as though he had to translate what she
was saying. He shook his head.
'Good.' Priya kicked the front door shut. Pulled a pair of latex gloves
from her pocket and put them on. Horrified, Oliver scrambled away
from her, his feet slipping and squeaking on the marble floor. His
prominent Adam's apple worked frantically, bobbing up and down
above his collar.
At last he got the words out. 'What are you . . . what is this?'
'What do you think it is?'
'I don't know. A robbery?' Even as he said it, he seemed to relax a
little. You've come to steal from my father?'
Priya nodded. 'Not just him. The whole island.'
Oliver stared at her for what seemed a long time, as if translating
again. Then he shook his head, disbelieving. Finally he grinned. When
he spoke, his voice bore the same note of admiration as Eldon's.
'What a fantastic idea.'

The gunman dragged Donald into the living room. His accomplice
took Angela at knifepoint, forcing her to lie down on the floor next
to her husband's body. When she tried to look at him the man slapped
her face.
'Please,' she cried. 'Please don't do this.'
She heard a snigger from the gunman, as though he took an active
pleasure from her distress. The other man bound her hands behind
her back, using some sort of plastic cuffs. His flesh gave off the hot,
meaty stench of ingrained body odour. Her skin crawled every time
he touched her.
'See if he's alive,' she implored them. 'Don't let him bleed to death.'
'Shut up.'
'Please,' Angela said again. 'We have hardly anything worth stealing,
but take it all. Just let me see my husband. Let me help him, if I can.'
The gunman shook her head. 'Will you get the message? He's dead
as a dodo.'
'Why did you shoot him?' she asked.
'The stupid fucker came at me,' the gunman said. 'I had no choice.'
No choice. The fallback of every Nazi, every Stalinist, every craven
bureaucrat. Angela could scarcely contain her disgust. She fell silent.
Rested her cheek on the carpet and felt a tear squeeze from her eye.
By tying her up and keeping their faces hidden, she understood
that they didn't necessarily intend to kill her. But it gave her little
comfort. At that moment she would have welcomed death. She had
nothing left to live for.
Nothing, except perhaps for the first tiny spark of a desire for
revenge.

Liam stood outside Dreamscape, the ski mask in his pocket. He tipped
his head back and shut his eyes, savouring the warmth of the setting
sun. The brilliant orange glow through his eyelids seemed like the
colour of success, the colour of victory.
A gentle breeze had sprung up, stirring the thick air, flavouring it
with the faint tang of salt water. The distant cry of gulls took him
back to the summers of his childhood. Grim holiday camps on the
north-west coast: soggy chips, dreary skies and an aching, pulverising
boredom.
After tonight he would never know boredom again. He would anticipate
its onset and spend his way out of it.

Priya and Eldon had gone next door a couple of minutes ago. Liam
wondered how Priya intended to play it with Oliver Felton. He regretted
not being able to watch her in action.
At the sound of an engine he opened his eyes. Allotti was in the
Ford Explorer. Liam directed him to park outside the footballer's
residence, tight up to the boundary wall. The wall was of brick construction,
about seven feet high, topped with some kind of decorative tile.
No deterrent to a serious intruder. The real security had been provided
by live-in bodyguards, but they'd accompanied the footballer and his
family to Rome. Only the father-in-law living there now.
There was an intercom, but Liam decided not to use that. With
no plausible reason to bluff his way in, he felt a different approach
was called for.
He put on the mask and drew his gun. A 9 mm Glock 17, with a
silencer. He racked the slide to make sure there was a round in the
chamber, then tucked it back into his belt.
He clambered onto the bonnet of the Explorer and up onto the
wall. Allotti climbed up alongside him. They paused for a second and
examined the house. A couple of first-floor windows were open, but
there was no one in sight.
They dropped down onto a small area of lawn that ran alongside
the driveway. Followed a concrete path to the front door, where Liam
stopped and listened. He could hear music playing inside. Some kind
of opera.
He led Allotti to the corner of the house, made sure it was clear,
then crept along the path towards the rear. Allotti's breathing, muffled
by the mask, sounded like a poor impersonation of Darth Vader.
Liam peered round the corner. A stone terrace ran the full width
of the property. In the centre there was a round aluminium table with
two chairs. Terry Fox was sitting in one and had his feet propped up
on the other. He was angled away from them, reading a magazine
and sipping a glass of red wine.
He was wearing blue swimming shorts and leather sandals. For a
man in his early sixties he looked in good shape. The muscles in his
arms and legs were still well-defined, and he had only a slight paunch.
His skin was the colour of mahogany, with a nest of white hairs on
his chest.
The music was louder here. The singer was possibly one of those
fat fellas from the World Cup concert, all those years ago. Opera had
never been Liam's thing, but now it came in useful, covering the
sound of their approach.
Liam walked towards the table, with Allotti just behind him. It took
a few seconds before Fox registered their presence. First he looked up
from the magazine and stared straight ahead, across the bay. Then,
slowly, he turned his head in their direction. He had close-cropped
silver hair and the strong, rugged features of an ageing movie star.
His eyes went from the guns to the masks, then back to the guns.
His hand jerked, slopping the wine in the glass. A couple of drips landed on his chest and he glanced down, studying the wine as though
it might be the cause of this hallucination.
Then he lifted the glass to his mouth and drained it in one quick
gulp. Smacked his lips together and declared: 'Well, bugger me.'
'No, thanks,' said Liam. Your daughter, maybe.' He moved closer,
saw the magazine was one of those glossy, celebrity-fixated rags. 'Is
that how you find out what she's up to?'
Fox snorted. 'Funny.' Then: 'She is in this one, as it happens. She's
got a new puppy. And a new tattoo.'
He put the glass down, tossed the magazine aside and sat back.
Laced his fingers together and rested them on his stomach, a picture
of mature composure.
'So what now?' he asked. 'Stand and deliver?'
Liam nodded. 'Something like that.'


Twenty-Eight

The swim was a battle, but at no time did Joe ever consider that it
was one he might lose. Partly it was experience, partly his training,
and partly just the way he was wired. If giving up had been in his
nature he'd have done it years ago, the day his wife and daughters
were placed out of his reach.
Eventually the pull of the current weakened and he began to make
better progress, slicing through the water with clean, fast strokes. The
island's eastern coast was rocky and inhospitable, but Joe managed to
weave his way through without getting cut to pieces, and finally he came ashore on one of the intermittent stretches of shingle beach.
He crawled out of the water and collapsed. After resting for a couple
of minutes, he checked himself over. His jeans were torn and he'd
picked up a few scratches, but they weren't serious. He took a look
at his phone. He had nothing to dry it with, and decided not to risk
putting the battery back in yet.
Ahead of him, the beach rose steeply for about fifty feet, then gave
way to clumps of brambles and blackthorn, growing along the side of
the high chain-link fence that enclosed the old training camp. To
reach the far side of the island, Joe would have to circle round the
coast and head inland somewhere close to the road.
He put his trainers on and laced them up. They squelched with
every step but still allowed him to move a lot faster across the beach.
He set off at a run, not yet dwelling too much on what might lie
ahead. Better to have an open mind and face each challenge as it
arose. After what had already happened today, he didn't think there
was much more that could surprise him.
He was wrong.

Terry Fox seemed more resigned than afraid. There was a polo shirt
draped over the chair. Before submitting meekly to the handcuffs, he
asked if he could put it on. Liam felt irritated that the old guy wasn't
begging for mercy, but he wouldn't let it spoil the moment. Better
that everyone should surrender so easily.
Leaving Allotti to deal with Fox, Liam made his way through the
house, barely glancing at what was on offer. As he'd suspected, the
footballer and his wife had never really left their roots behind. There
was very little art on display, and what they had was mostly tat. Every
single picture on the wall was a portrait of themselves.
Liam found the control panel which opened the main gates and
let himself out through the front door. He tore off the mask and wiped
sweat from his face. He'd be glad when this stage was complete and
he didn't have to wear the bloody thing any more.
Eldon was waiting for him by the Ford Explorer. He sounded hyper
as he described how Priya had waltzed past Oliver Felton.
'It was like he was expecting her,' he said. 'I dunno who he thought
she was. I swear he had a hard-on.'
Liam nodded vaguely, as though this didn't interest him much. Then
Manderson lumbered into view, and just from the grim satisfaction on
his face Liam had an instant premonition: the Weavers were dead.
'Had to snuff one of 'em,' Manderson said.
'Who? Why?'
'The geezer. Silly fucker went apeshit on us. Threw himself at
Turner. He had to put him down.' Manderson mimed a gun with two
gloved fingers and made an explosive sound, as though words alone
couldn't convey the message.
Liam sighed. 'The next target is a lot more important. No casualties
unless it's absolutely unavoidable. You clear on that?'
Both men nodded, though Manderson's savage grin didn't inspire
confidence. One of the many stories about Manderson was that he'd
once beheaded a man with an axe. Looking at him now, Liam could
believe it.
Once again they masked up, drew their weapons and set off on
foot. They rounded the bend in the road and Nasenko's house came
into view.
They were less than ten feet from the edge of the property when
a man in a plain grey suit wandered out through the gates, cupping
his hand around a cigarette as he lit up. He glanced in their direction,
saw three masked men carrying guns, and reacted faster than
they did.
He didn't freeze or do a double take, and he didn't run back into
the house. He took off along the road, heading towards the bridge.
Maybe thought his chances were better out in the open. He'd probably
forgotten how isolated it was here.
Manderson dropped into a shooting stance, but Liam grabbed his
arm. He didn't want gunfire out in the street; not when they hadn't
yet taken Nasenko.
'Go after him,' he told Manderson. At the same time he undipped
his radio and called Pendry.
'The American's driver is coming your way on foot, with Manderson
on his tail. Make sure he doesn't get away.'

It took Joe several minutes to round the curve onto the north-east
coast of the island. From here the mainland was in clear view. Joe
could see the point on the ridge opposite where he had formed his
plan to swim across. In the soft evening light the narrow strip of water
in between looked deceptively benign.
The foliage along the top of the beach grew thickly enough to conceal
him, but after another hundred yards it began to thin out. Eventually
he reached the last of the bushes and made the unfortunate discovery
that he didn't know the island as well as he'd thought.
He was trapped. Caught in a corridor between the sea to his right
and the MoD land to his left. The north-west corner of the training
camp extended to within a few yards of the road. The only way Joe
could move was directly ahead, across a patch of open ground. The
bridge lay beyond it, about fifty feet away. The fisherman from earlier
in the day was on the bridge, lounging against the Citroen van. The
other guard was pacing up and down the approach road.
Joe reviewed his options. The light was fading, but it wasn't dark
enough for him to sneak past. In any case, the ground underfoot was
a mixture of soil, sand and pebbles. If he tried to move quickly they
would hear him. If he moved slowly he would be seen.
That left two choices. One was to breach the fence and go across
the training camp. The other was to take the direct route. Rush the
two men and overpower them.
A big decision. Before Joe could make it, the man pacing the road
reached for something in his pocket. A two-way radio. He listened,
then made a brief reply. From this distance, Joe could see that he was
in his forties, plump and sandy-haired.
Replacing the radio, he shouted, 'Gough' and gestured at the fisherman,
who picked up on the note of urgency and propelled himself
away from the van. The older one relayed a message, then both men
drew ski masks and pistols from within their fluorescent jackets.
Joe froze, wondering if he'd been spotted, perhaps by a hidden
accomplice. Had there been another guard, posted somewhere along
the route he'd just come?
He prepared for the worst - not afraid; just angry with himself.
Angry at the prospect of failure.
But the guards showed no awareness of his presence. Both put on
their masks and took up positions behind the van. They were facing
inland, as though expecting a threat from the interior of the island.
Joe had no idea what was happening, but it put paid to any thoughts
of a direct assault. Pitching the short blade of his pocket knife against
two handguns would be suicidal.
That left just one option, for which his multi-tool was far better
suited. He shifted up to the fence, lay flat and used the wire cutter
to create a flap large enough to crawl through. It took him a couple
of minutes. He was confident the guards couldn't see or hear him,
but that didn't stop him glancing round every few seconds.
He wriggled through the gap, his wet clothes slithering across the
grass and weeds. He'd just got clear of the fence when one of the men
shouted: 'Hey!'

Liam watched Manderson set off in pursuit of the American's driver.
There was no question of waiting for him to return. He and Eldon
would have to take Nasenko on their own.
The routine was the same as with Terry Fox. They hurried across
the drive, keeping a sharp eye on the front of the house. Crept along
the path at the side and reached the back door. Liam checked his
gun, took a breath and opened the door.
He stepped into a boot room. Saw wet-weather gear and fishing
rods and a pile of inflatable beach toys. There was a toilet or shower
room to his right, and the kitchen lay straight ahead.
Liam entered the kitchen. It was empty apart from the maid, a
thick set Hispanic woman. She was cleaning a marble worktop, putting
real effort into it. When she saw him she dropped the cloth, slapping
her hands over the counter as if groping for a weapon. Liam was
impressed. In this house even the maid fancied herself as a warrior.
He pointed the gun at her face and shook his head: Don't be silly.
Eldon cuffed her hands behind her back, then Liam took a step
closer, prodding the gun into her ample belly.
'Where are they?'
The maid's eyes flashed. 'Yuri will kill you.'
Liam shoved the gun in harder, and she groaned. Her whole body
was trembling with fear and rage.
'Where?'
Another moment of defiance, then she flicked her head upwards.
'Office,' she said. 'Up the stairs, turn left.'

Once inside the training camp, the ground fell away into a large
natural depression. This, combined with the thick vegetation that grew
along the western perimeter fence, meant that very little of the camp
was visible from the road.
The shout was still echoing through the air when Joe sprinted down
the bank and back up towards the bushes on the adjacent corner. A
distant part of his mind prepared for the sudden punch of a bullet,
followed by oblivion.
But it didn't happen. As he got closer to the fence on the western
side he could hear movement from the road beyond. Thudding footsteps
and a harsh, desperate panting. Someone running fast towards
the bridge.
The older guard shouted again, real venom in his voice. The rhythm
of the footsteps altered. Joe found a patch of bracken and carefully
parted the fronds, easing himself amongst them until he could see
through the fence.
The runner was directly in front of him, about thirty feet from the
bridge. Joe recognised the grey suit of the Cadillac driver. His face
was pale and glistening with sweat. He stumbled to a halt and almost
collapsed. The older guard hurried towards him while the fisherman
remained at the bridge, holding his pistol in a two-handed grip.
'On your knees,' the guard commanded.
The driver obeyed like a man who was only just in control of his own
body, dropping to the ground with a thump that made Joe wince. Then
another masked gunman ran into view. This one wore a black boiler suit,
with a utility belt that held a two-way radio and half a dozen plasticuffs.
He stopped behind the driver, aiming his gun at the back of the
man's head. He was obviously out of breath, and his gun hand was
unsteady. If he fired now, it would be a messy execution.
But the guard shook his head. 'Not here. Take him back, let Liam
decide what to do with him.'
The gunman muttered something, shoved his gun in his belt and
took out one of the plastic restraints. He cuffed the driver's hands and
pulled him to his feet. The older guard conferred briefly with the fisherman,
Gough. Then he rejoined the gunman and they escorted their
prisoner away.
Gough returned to his original position on the bridge, next to the
van. He took off his mask but kept his gun at the ready. The incident
with the driver had obviously made an impression. He looked a lot
more alert than before.
Joe found himself replaying this afternoon's incident on the beach,
wondering if there was some clue he had missed. He realised that
Gough must have been reconnoitring the island. He'd probably had
the gun on him, even then. If Joe had escalated the row about litter,
both he and Jaden might have ended up dead.
Joe was conscious of the loathing he felt for the man who'd run
Angela Weaver off her bike. Reluctantly he concluded that there was
no way he could sneak up on the bridge. Any thoughts of retribution
would have to wait.
He turned away, descended the grassy slope and followed a route
parallel to the road. This corner of the camp was open ground, dotted
with bushes and the occasional small pond. It was a good running
surface, the grass springy and soft, although he had to watch out for
molehills and rabbit burrows. The last thing he needed right now was
a broken ankle.
While he ran, he analysed what he'd seen so far. The guns and
two-way radios showed this was a serious, well-organised operation.
The masks and the cuffs implied that the gang were intent on taking
prisoners, rather than killing indiscriminately. That meant the island's
residents could still be alive, in which case Joe's objectives were clear.
He had to find them, and help them escape.
He also had no illusions about his own predicament. If he was
caught, there was a fair chance they would kill him.
Angela Weaver had advised him to come to terms with his anger.
Learn to live with it, she'd said, whether dormant or awake. She'd
even suggested it might be there for a purpose.
Well, she got that right, he thought.
And now it was very much awake.


Twenty-Nine

The sound of voices swam into range as Liam and Eldon climbed the
stairs. They'd tied the maid's ankles and gagged her with a cloth, then
shut her in the boot room as an extra precaution.
The kitchen aside, the house was a lot more traditional than
Dreamscape: thickly carpeted, with dense wallpaper and dark wood.
It might have been built to endure harsh Ukrainian winters; on the
balmy English coast it felt gloomy and stifling. The faint aroma of
cigar smoke added to the impression of a fusty old gentlemen's club.
They reached a wide landing. The first door to the left was closed.
They heard the American speaking, then a burst of laughter from
McWhirter. Liam nodded to Eldon: Are you ready?
Instead of affirmation, Eldon's eyes betrayed panic. 'Four against
two,' he whispered.
'It's okay,' Liam said. And it really was. He wasn't faking how calm
he felt.
He turned the handle and threw the door open. He was first into
the room, and for a second he wondered if Eldon would let him down,
just turn and run. Then he felt movement at his side, saw the shock
on the faces of the room's occupants, and he knew it was going to be
all right.

Valentin Nasenko was seated behind a desk so imposing that his
laptop looked the size of a playing card. The American visitor, Travers,
was seated opposite, staring over his shoulder at Liam.
The lackeys, McWhirter and Yuri, were standing at either side of
the room. McWhirter looked like he was going to pass out. He grabbed
the edge of an antique roll-top bureau for support.
Yuri wore a tiny, bitter smile. His hand reached slowly towards his
pocket, but stopped when Liam turned the gun on him. 'Uh-uh.'
'Who are you?' Valentin demanded. He half rose from his seat,
waving his arms as though shooing away cattle.
'Sit down,' Liam ordered. 'Hands flat on the table. The rest of you,
face down on the floor, hands behind your backs.'
For a second, nothing happened. No one spoke. No one moved.
Liam fired the Glock, aiming for the wall a couple of feet above
Nasenko's head. The bullet struck a small framed watercolour of a
Ukrainian landscape. The shell casing rattled across the floor and
came to rest at McWhirter's feet.
Valentin blinked rapidly. He sat down and placed his hands on the
desk.
The American sniffed, as though he didn't think much of English
hospitality. He looked from Yuri to McWhirter.
'We better do as he says, gentlemen.'

Priya consulted her watch again. It was only a few minutes since Eldon
had gone to join Liam and already time was dragging.
But there was a plan to adhere to, and she had to accept that. She
knew it was prudent to keep the prisoners in their own homes until
the whole island was secure. She just hadn't foreseen that she'd be
the one left to babysit.
Of course, the Felton house was supposed to have been empty. It
wasn't really Liam's fault that their reconnaissance had been inadequate.
He'd argued that surveillance risked more than it gained, and
Gough's little confrontation on the beach had proved him right.
'You're eager to get on with it?'
Oliver's voice made Priya jump. She glanced at him but said nothing.
The silence resumed, intensified by the whirr of the air conditioning.
They were sitting in the principal living room on the ground floor,
a massive space with a minimalist decor of marble, steel and leather.
There were no soft fabrics and virtually no colour. The overall effect
was bleak and impersonal. She couldn't imagine anyone truly relaxing
in here.
Oliver Felton continued to watch her. His confidence had been
growing from the moment he'd realised they weren't going to kill
him on the spot. He seemed entranced, not just by her, but by the
situation.
She remembered what Liam had said: a sandwich short of a picnic. Not a phrase she'd heard before, but its meaning was clear enough.
And it certainly seemed appropriate. Her impression was that Oliver
had a whole range of issues. He was a voyeur. Socially inadequate,
withdrawn, perhaps slightly autistic. He also displayed various tics and
gestures that she'd seen before in people with obsessive-compulsive
disorders.
In short, he was a mess.
After a minute or two he tried again. You're waiting for a signal of
some kind. Confirmation that the other residents have capitulated?'
It was phrased as a question. Priya couldn't help but shrug in
response.
Oliver smiled. He was sitting very precisely in the centre of a black
leather sofa, his long thin legs pressed together. His arms were also
together, partly because of the restraints on his wrists. His hands, one
cupping the other in a fist, rested on his knees. It was a posture that
invited him to curl into a ball, but he seemed to be resisting that urge,
holding his head abnormally high.
'The Weavers will be easy enough,' he said, 'though Donald has a
fierce temper on him, especially since his son ended up as roadkill.
You know about that?'
Priya nodded.
'I bet Terry Fox was a tough nut in his younger days, but that was
a long time ago. His bitch of a daughter will be fuming that she missed
out on the excitement. Think of all the photo spreads. My Robbery
Hostage Hell!' Oliver giggled, then grew thoughtful. 'If there's anyone
you have to worry about, it's Valentin Nasenko. No one hates being
robbed more than another thief.'
'Nasenko's a thief?'
Oliver frowned, as though he expected better of her. 'Of course he
is. Growing up under a communist regime, it wasn't hard work and
entrepreneurial spirit that made him rich. He was just in the right
place at the right time. By accident or good fortune he was able to
plunder state assets and get away with it.'
He paused for breath, licking his lips. And good luck to him. Most
of us would do it if we had the chance. But be aware - just because
Nasenko stole and bribed and extorted his way to a fortune, it doesn't
mean he won't be livid when someone does the same to him. It's a
curious moral universe these men inhabit.'
Priya nodded, as though she took his ravings seriously. 'These men?'
'Oh, I fully include my father amongst their number. I mean, he
came from family money, took their wealth and grew it spectacularly.
But it's tainted with blood, every last penny.'
He must have seen that she didn't understand, and he laughed.
'My God, you're either very naive or you haven't done your research.
The family fortune was built on arms dealing. They call it the "defence
industry", as if that fools anyone. I mean, when you're in the factory,
watching a rocket launcher being lovingly packed in a crate, you don't
stand there picturing how wonderful it'll look on someone's mantelpiece.
Do you?'
He sucked in the excess saliva bubbling at the corners of his mouth.
Priya looked away.
'Of course you don't. What you're picturing is how effectively that
weapon will obliterate a peaceful little village suspected of harbouring
terrorists.'
Priya nodded. Her radio buzzed, but with Oliver in full flow she
ignored it. She sensed he was building up to something.
'If you're in the arms trade, your product is death. Maybe the drones
on the production line can delude themselves that they don't contribute
to the suffering in the world, but the men at the top know exactly
what they're doing. Some struggle, then learn to live with it. Some
never have a problem in the first place.' He smiled. 'My father falls
into the latter category, and that's why you're welcome to his money.'
She stared at him, wondering if she'd misheard. Her radio buzzed
again. She had to answer, or Liam would think the worst.
Angry at the interruption, Oliver began to rock back and forth,
pressing his arms down hard on his thighs, digging his elbows into his
groin.
On the radio, Liam told her: 'Terror's Reach is ours. We're moving
the non-essentials to Dreamscape.'
And mine?'
'Keep him there. I want to talk to him.'
Priya put the radio down. Oliver was rocking faster, the forward
motion nearly tipping him on to the floor. His eyes gleamed with an
unnatural fervour.

You look disappointed,' he said.

'Not really.'
You're jealous of someone. They're not giving you the respect you
deserve.'

'What you said about your father's money. You mean that?'
'Of course I do.' Oliver stopped rocking, but his elbows remained
wedged into his abdomen, concealing - or perhaps assisting - his
arousal. "I'll open the safe for you, if you want.'

After half a mile or so, Joe knew he had gone as far as he could while
staying parallel to the road. From here the training camp veered left,
while the road towards the residential part of the island turned to the
right, with the woods in between.
As he crossed the uneven ground a cluster of buildings came into
view. They looked oddly familiar: a terrace of half a dozen modest
dwellings that might have been plucked from a council estate in 1970s
Belfast or Armagh, complete with a sectarian mural on the gable-end
wall. There was even a small playground, with a roundabout and a
set of swings. Within the confines of a military establishment, it looked
eerie and out of place.
Just beyond the playground a picnic table rested on a weed-strewn
patch of grass. There was a man sitting at the table. He wore a blue
jacket and a bright red scarf. The sight of him made Joe's stomach
lurch - until he realised he was looking at a dummy. A mannequin,
presumably used during training exercises, now frozen in time and
place, redundant.
Feeling foolish, Joe turned away from the houses and approached
the boundary fence. There were thick bushes on both sides that would
give him cover as he cut his way through the wire. From here he
calculated that he was only a couple of hundred yards from Valentin
Nasenko's property.
He took out his multi-tool and knelt down. And immediately sensed
someone watching him. He spun, looking first at the picnic table,
half-convinced that the dummy in the red scarf would have gone. But
it hadn't moved.
Then he noticed he was overlooked by the last house in the terrace.
There was a figure behind the curtains in the upstairs window. Another
mannequin.
Get a grip, Joe told himself. He turned back and started work on
the fence.

Liam stayed close to the door, from where he could cover the prisoners
while Eldon applied the cuffs and patted each man down for
weapons and phones. They found a gun on Yuri, a Sig 9 mm automatic
pistol. More surprising was that the American had an illegal
folding knife in his jacket.
Didn't trust your hosts?' Liam asked.
Travers smiled ruefully, but said nothing. Of the four men it was
McWhirter who looked most afraid. He was visibly upset, casting
desperate glances at Valentin and then at Yuri, as if he felt sure that
one or both had it within them to produce a miracle solution.
Once they were all secure, Liam made Yuri, Travers and McWhirter
sit in a line against the wall. With their hands tied behind their backs
they had no way of rising quickly to their feet. He left Nasenko at his
desk, his hands cuffed from the front.
Liam sent Eldon to search the house for more phones or weapons,
then radioed an update to the other teams. He pulled up the chair
vacated by Travers and sat down, swinging a foot up on to the table.
He waited a moment, relishing the knowledge that he had the undivided
attention of everyone in the room.
'I hope we all understand what's going on here,' Liam said. 'Keep
it civilised, and no one has to come to harm.'
'You won't get away with this,' McWhirter said, his voice an octave
too high.

We will hunt you down,' Yuri added.

But it was Valentin who remained cool and businesslike. 'What do
you want?'

'It's nice and simple,' Liam said. You open up your vault. We empty
it. We leave. You claim on your insurance. Nobody loses.'
'Nice and simple,' Valentin echoed. You think I can allow this to
happen?'

Still facing Nasenko, Liam held his arm out at his side, aiming
loosely at the three other prisoners. In his peripheral vision he saw
McWhirter squirming, Travers and Yuri sitting stock-still, glaring at
Liam.

Eldon came back in, holding another handgun and several more
phones. He picked up on the tension and loitered uneasily by the
door.

You have no choice,' Liam said.

Valentin spoke softly. 'Leave now, and I will treat this as a mistake.
A foolish misjudgement. But go through with it, and I promise you
will never get to enjoy what you took from me.'
Liam sighed. He steadied his arm, checked his aim with an almost
lazy glance at the three men against the wall, and then fired without
warning. One shot. It hit McWhirter in the chest and killed him
instantly. His head flopped onto Travers's shoulder. The American
shifted sideways in disgust.
'Jesus Christ,' he said. To Valentin: 'Open the damn vault, will you?'
Valentin regarded Yuri, who scowled for a moment, then nodded.
'Very well,' said Valentin heavily.
As Liam stood up there was a commotion from the hall. Manderson
and Pendry hauled the American's driver into the room. His face was
covered in blood.
'He got a bit mouthy on the way back,' Manderson said.
All right,' said Liam. 'Take them along to Dreamscape. Everyone
except Nasenko.' He gestured to Eldon. You'd better get the maid.'
You okay here on your own?'
Liam nodded. He felt shaky and light-headed from the adrenalin
rush, but he was disguising it well.
He watched as the prisoners were led from the room. Apart from
a few muttered obscenities from Yuri, no one said anything.
McWhirter's body was left slumped against the wall. There was very
little blood visible. He looked as though he'd passed out after a heavy
drinking session.
Patiently Liam waited through the tramping of feet on the stairs,
and a distant thump as Eldon fetched the maid from the boot room.
Finally the house was silent. Empty but for the two of them.
Liam turned back to Valentin Nasenko. The Ukrainian hadn't
moved. He was gazing intently at his desk, and he didn't react when
Liam tore off his mask and slowly drew the knife from his belt.
'Ready to open the vault?' Liam said.
Yes.'
Valentin rose to his feet. He thrust out his hands. Liam came around
the desk and cut him free. For a moment the two men shared a sad,
awkward smile, like strangers at a funeral.
Then they embraced, and clapped each other on the back.

Thirty



The true force of her grief didn't hit Angela Weaver until she had
been marched along the road to Dreamscape, led through the house
and deposited in the garage. Sitting on the dusty concrete floor, her
hands bound painfully behind her back, it finally struck home that
this was not a dream, not a hallucination or a practical joke.
Donald was dead, and now she too might die.
Tears leaked from her eyes, almost grudgingly. The air in the garage
was stuffy and nauseating, but her body felt as though it had been
plunged in ice. She began shivering, and then vomited without
warning.
The guard snarled at the mess. You're gonna stink now, you silly
bitch.'
Another prisoner was escorted in and thrown down beside her.
Angela recognised him as the father of the footballer's wife. Terry
someone, she thought, and felt ashamed. There had never been much
community spirit on the Reach, and for that she and Donald bore as
much responsibility as anyone else.
Once he'd taken in his surroundings, he shifted so he could see
Angela better. His eyes narrowed with concern.
Are you all right?'
She nodded, then saw the absurdity of reaching for platitudes in a
situation like this.
'Actually, no. They murdered my husband.'
'Jesus. I'm sorry.' He regarded her for a moment in sombre silence.
"I'm Terry Fox. Trina's dad.'
Angela introduced herself. They watched as her guard strode back
into the house, leaving them alone with the man who had brought
Fox. His manner seemed less threatening than his colleague's. Certainly
Terry didn't seem intimidated by him.
'Hey! Get this woman cleaned up. You can't leave her like this.'
'Shut up,' the guard said. He was leaning against the bonnet of a Renault Megane, inspecting a number of mobile phones. Angela
remembered that the Megane belonged to the estate agent. She hardly
dared contemplate what must have happened to him.
'Look, I don't care if you're going to rob us,' Terry said, 'but you
can bloody well treat this lady with a bit of respect.'
He kept up the protest until finally the guard relented and fetched
a wad of paper towels and a glass of water. He knelt down at her side
and hesitated.
'Let her do it herself,' Terry said.
To Angela's astonishment, the guard proceeded to cut her restraints.
He drew his gun and kept a close eye on her while she mopped her
blouse and rinsed her mouth with water. Afterwards Terry tried to
persuade him to leave her hands free, but the guard wasn't having it.

'Cuff her in front, at least. She's no threat to you.'
Once again the guard complied, but he didn't just tie her wrists.
He bound her ankles as well. Then he did the same to Terry, before
returning to his collection of mobile phones.
'Thank you,' said Angela.
Terry nodded. 'Thank me later, when we get out of here.'
Angela was taken aback. Until now it hadn't occurred to her that
she might have any kind of future beyond tonight.
Her pessimism seemed justified when three more of the gang trooped
through the house and into the garage. They had four prisoners with
them. She recognised Valentin Nasenko's maid and bodyguard, but
not the other two men. Her heart jumped as she wondered what had
happened to the family - and most of all, to Joe.
She didn't particularly care for Valentin himself. He had always
struck her as a mean-spirited man, given to petulant tantrums. By
contrast his young wife seemed friendly and sweet-natured, if rather
shy, and her children were adorable. Angela prayed that no harm had
come to them.
And then there was Joe. She knew he possessed the skills to put
up a fierce resistance to these men, but he was hopelessly outnumbered.
She had to consider the very real possibility that he too was
dead.

Joe stayed close to the trees until he was level with the southern flank
of Nasenko's property. Then he dashed across the road to the cover
of the boundary wall. He crept towards the gates and almost immediately
heard voices. Someone coming out of the house.
There was no time to reach the trees. He ran back to the corner
and ducked down behind the wall. Heard what sounded like several
people walking across the drive and onto the road. If they turned
towards the bridge they'd spot him instantly.
He waited, heart pounding, but the footsteps receded. After a few
seconds he risked a look. He counted seven figures, moving briskly
towards the other homes on the Reach. Four prisoners and three
guards. One was the older man from the bridge, still in his high
visibility jacket. The other two were in the same black uniforms.
The four prisoners were Maria, Yuri, the American he'd seen in the
Cadillac, and his driver.
Joe watched them disappear round the bend in the road. The Cadillac
driver must have evaded the initial attack on the house. They'd chased
him to the bridge and brought him back here. Now he and the other
prisoners were being taken . . . where? Some kind of central command
point?
Dreamscape, he guessed, since that was the only empty property
on the island. Then he realised he had posed the wrong question.
There was another, more critical issue.
Why had they made a detour into Nasenko's house?

Oliver felt he was making excellent progress with Priya. Even the
handcuffs worked to his advantage, preventing him from overstepping
the mark.
Priya. He liked that name. Probably an alias, but it suited her all
the same. From the moment he'd offered to open the safe, she had
become much warmer towards him. He hadn't yet worked up courage
to broach the other side of the bargain. If I open the safe, what will
you do for me in return . . .?
In the meantime he was grateful for the opportunity to vent his
feelings about his father, something he was rarely able to do. His sister
had stopped listening years ago, and he had no real friends.
But Priya was clearly fascinated. She gazed deep into his eyes, deep
enough to see all his frustration and pain.
You truly hate him, don't you?'
'I despise him,' Oliver said, and his voice caught as he added: 'He
killed my mother.'
Priya frowned, exhibiting some of the doubt that usually greeted
this statement. However, she didn't dismiss it or laugh it off the way
so many others had.
'She came from a very influential family. Her uncle was Cabinet
Secretary, and she had other relatives in the Foreign Office, the military,
the judiciary. That was the main reason he married her. With
Dad, it's connections that matter, not emotions.'
He paused. It always upset him to recount this story, but he was
exaggerating the effects a little, hoping that Priya might reach out and
touch him. Even just her gloved fingers resting on his shoulder. . .
He shivered. 'My mother was a moral person. She restrained him.
He couldn't lead the life he wanted while she was around, and she
wouldn't countenance a divorce. So he arranged an accident, at our
place in Scotland. She was driving home one night, skidded and lost
control.'
Another pause. His eyes were moist, but Priya didn't move an inch.
'Couldn't it have been a genuine accident?'
'No. They found alcohol in her bloodstream. Way over the limit.
But my mother never touched a drop when she was driving. Never.
Dad used to tease her for being so uptight about it. That's how I know
it was murder.'
He sent her a pleading glance, just as another member of the gang
swaggered into the room and destroyed all his hard work.
Oliver felt a flare of anger. The man had a mask on, but he wasn't
the one who'd been with Priya earlier. He was taller, stronger, exuding
a gruff masculine authority that Oliver found oppressive.
Priya didn't look particularly glad to see him, either. She stood up,
leaning forward as she studied what little she could see of his face
through his eyeholes.
'Turner? Shouldn't you be with the Weavers?'
'The husband's dead. I took the old woman to Dreamscape. Thought
I'd check things out here.' He gestured at Oliver. 'Is this streak of piss
any use to us?'
Oliver stiffened. 'I told Priya that I'm prepared to cooperate--'
'Oh, how spiffingly good of you!' Turner grabbed Oliver by the hair
and pulled him to his feet. Oliver shrieked, and the thug slapped him
hard across the face.
'Shut the fuck up, and show me the safe.'
Priya wasn't pleased. 'We should wait for Liam.'
'Sod Liam. I wanna see what's in there.'

Thirty-One

Valentin opened a drawer in his desk and produced a silver hip flask.
He removed the cap and took a swig. Offered it to Liam, who was
about to say no, then changed his mind. He deserved a drink.
It wasn't vodka, but whisky. It burned a trail down his throat and
swelled his confidence still further. After Liam gave it back, Valentin
had another sip and wiped his mouth with the side of his hand.
'Did we convince him?' Valentin asked.
Travers? Definitely' Liam stared at McWhirter's body. The knowledge
that he'd taken a life didn't seem to weigh heavily on him at all.
If anything, he was surprised at how easy it had been.
'He served me well,' Valentin said, with a note of regret. 'But he
was losing faith in me. For McWhirter, certain things were black or
white. He would never have agreed to something like this.'
'A wise move, then.'
Valentin gave him a measured look, then snapped back to the
business at hand. 'Do we have other casualties?'
'A couple. Donald Weaver. And there was a problem earlier at
Dreamscape.' Liam described what had happened with the estate agent.
Valentin's reaction was stronger than he'd expected.
'Priya killed him? Was she hurt?'
'No. She's fine.'
'Where is she now?'
'At Felton's. We got a surprise there, too. It turns out Oliver Felton
didn't go to Oxford.'
'You mean he's here?'
'Don't worry. We're not going to harm him.'
Liam saw the Ukrainian relax slightly as he thought it through. 'No.
This could be very useful.' Valentin looked at his watch. 'Come on.
We must not be away too long.'
Liam followed the older man down two flights of stairs. The vault
was in the basement, between the servants' quarters and a lap pool. It
was a bespoke design, shipped over and installed by a specialist firm in
California. Liam watched Valentin tap in the code and open the door.
The interior was approximately ten feet square, and contained a
fairly sparse collection of artwork and antiques. Valentin was a keen
and knowledgeable investor, specialising in nineteenth-century Russian
landscapes as well as contemporary Ukrainian paintings and sculpture.
But the highest value pieces had been moved to alternative
storage, where they would remain until Valentin had concluded an
insurance claim for his entire collection - a nice little side scam that
Liam had suggested, and for which he was receiving a separate bonus:
twenty per cent of the proceeds.
They left the vault open and returned to the ground floor. Valentin
held out his hands for Liam to fit another set of plastic cuffs.
'The other prisoners are at Dreamscape?' he asked.
'In the garage. It won't be very pleasant.'
Valentin shrugged. 'Yuri and I must be treated the same as everyone
else. And Travers must see that we are.'
They were almost at the front door when Valentin nudged him.
Thinking there was some kind of ambush, Liam reached for his gun.
'Your mask.'
Liam let out a nervous laugh. He pulled the mask from his belt
and put it on, aware that Valentin wasn't smiling at all. This was nearly
a major fuck-up, and they both knew it.
When he judged it safe to move, Joe advanced as far as the gates of
the Nasenko property and paused again. The front door was standing
open, the hallway beyond in shadow. He had to assume that Valentin
and McWhirter were still inside, and probably not alone.
He waited another minute, then decided to risk moving forward in
stages. If he could get into the house, maybe he'd find a way to overcome
whoever was holding them.
Joe crept over to the pallet of paving blocks and crouched down.
Waited thirty seconds and was about to move when he heard a noise
from inside. It sounded like a laugh. He looked round and glimpsed
a man approaching the doorway, adjusting his ski mask. Valentin
Nasenko was alongside him, his hands bound at the wrists.
The two men hurried away, taking the same route as the first group
of prisoners. Valentin was talking quietly, but Joe couldn't make out
the words. Although Nasenko had a fearsome temper when aroused,
on this occasion he seemed to be successfully holding it in check.
Perhaps trying to negotiate with his captor.
A brave attempt, but Joe couldn't see it succeeding. Not when the
gang held all the cards.
He watched the house for another minute, then made his decision.
McWhirter was still unaccounted for, and Joe wanted to know why.
He emerged from hiding and ran up to the front door. Hearing
nothing inside, he stepped over the threshold.

As Oliver led the way upstairs, he experienced a crisis of confidence.
Was cooperation the right course of action? It wasn't a question of
moral qualms so much as pure self-preservation. They may simply kill
him once he'd outlived his usefulness.
It wouldn't be Priya who pulled the trigger, he thought. At least,
he hoped not. But this man Turner was an out-and-out gangster. He'd
do it without the slightest hesitation.
Oliver rarely went near his father's bedroom. The whole suite had
recently been refurbished, at a cost of some eighty thousand pounds.
Oliver couldn't see anything that justified such extravagance. The
interior designer must have laughed all the way to her bank.
He opened the fake panel that covered the safe door, and remembered
his earlier discovery that the code for the fire-protection system
had been re-set. If his father had changed this combination as well,
a bullet in the brain might be only seconds away.
Oliver's hand trembled as he reached out. 81-23-66. Just three
numbers, but the process wasn't quite that straightforward. He had to
turn the dial three times to the left, stopping at 81 on the fourth turn.
Not so easy to do with shaky hands.
He was conscious of Turner at his shoulder, snorting like a hungry
raptor. Priya had hung back a little. Twice she'd said they should be
waiting for someone called Liam. The ringleader, presumably.
Oliver turned the dial to the right, going twice round, stopping at
23 on the third time. There was a shuffling behind him: Turner, growing impatient. Oliver felt cold metal pressing against the back of
his neck.
'Don't get any ideas,' Turner said. 'We know there's a silent alarm.'
'I won't set it off.'
You'd better not. No one would get here in time to save you.'
Oliver swallowed. He could feel sweat prickling on his brow. He
turned the dial one full circuit to the left, then again, stopping on 66.
Then right, back to zero and just beyond, until he met resistance.
The dial wouldn't turn any further.
The moment of truth.
He gripped the door handle and turned. There was a heavy metallic thunk as the lock disengaged and the bolts drew back. Oliver shut his
eyes. The relief was like a flood of warm water.

Thirty-Two

It wasn't until eight-thirty that both children were finally sleeping
soundly. Only then did Cassie allow herself to reflect upon the day's
terrible events, and what seemed like the utter hopelessness of her
position.
She ran a bath and soaked in it for twenty minutes, leaving the
door open so she could see the children. She listened to the gentle
rhythm of their breathing and wondered how she'd be feeling now if
the abduction had succeeded. Just trying to imagine it was like being
speared in the heart.
And yet that was the kind of loss Joe had to endure every day: his
daughters growing up without him. To Cassie, it was an unbearable
tragedy. She'd been raised in a noisy, vibrant household with three
older siblings and parents who were still devoted to one another after
forty years together. Family was everything to her.
But after today her life would never be quite the same. The hairline
cracks in her marriage had split wide open, smashing the relationship to pieces. She and Valentin were finished as a couple.
After the bath, Cassie dried off and dressed again. She saw no point
in going to bed. The prospect of sleep seemed impossible while there
was so much uncertainty.
Instead she sat on the double bed, next to Jaden, and tried to watch
TV. Every thirty seconds or so her gaze drifted to the phone, or to
her watch. Joe had said she mustn't use her mobile, but how long
was she supposed to wait?
The fears wormed their way into her mind. What if he didn't
call? Would she just sit here, hour after hour, growing ever more
hysterical?
He'd already been gone nearly ninety minutes. Even if Valentin
was still in his meeting, he must have spoken to Joe by now. So why
hadn't she heard something?
She stared at her mobile phone. It felt wrong to ignore Joe's advice.
He'd been an undercover policeman, after all. He knew what he was
talking about.
But one quick call. Could it really hurt?
Yes, it could. Cassie shifted position, trapping her hands under her
thighs. No more looking at her watch.
It's just like dieting, she thought. Forget how much you want it, and be strong.

Liam took Valentin to Dreamscape, collecting the Ford Explorer from
outside Terry Fox's place on the way past. Valentin joined the other
prisoners, now seven of them in total, seated in a circle on the garage
floor.
Liam noted that, as well as Valentin, Angela Weaver was also
cuffed with her hands in front. The others had their hands behind their backs, which was far less comfortable. Liam wondered if he
should alter it so they were all the same, then decided it wasn't that
important.
Allotti had collected up the mobile phones and taken them into a
small office on the ground floor. Pendry and Manderson were standing
the other side of the cars, where they'd removed their masks to smoke
and talk in conspiratorial whispers. That left only Eldon to keep watch
on the prisoners.
'Where's Turner?' said Liam.
'He went next door,' said Eldon. 'The Feltons.'
Liam frowned. Apart from himself and Priya, Turner was the only
member of the team who knew that Valentin was in on the robbery.
The others believed he was merely another victim, and it was vital to
keep it that way.
But Liam had his doubts as to whether Turner could be trusted
with such an important secret. Like Priya, Turner was one of Valentin's
recruits, and didn't inspire much confidence. Privately Liam had
resolved to eliminate him if he came close to compromising the
operation.
Now he sighed, and checked his watch. Nine-fifteen.
"I'm going over there myself,' he told Eldon. 'When Turner comes
back, you and Pendry can get to work. Take the Citroen and start with
the Weavers, okay?'
Eldon nodded. Liam scowled at Manderson and Pendry; they felt
his gaze but brazenly continued smoking and chatting. As he turned
away, Liam made eye contact with Valentin. The Ukrainian gave an
almost imperceptible bow of his head.
Good luck.
On the way out Liam detoured to the office. Allotti was splayed in
a chair, chuckling to himself as he scrolled through the menu on
someone's phone. He saw Liam and scrambled to sit upright.
'What is it?'
'McWhirter. Nudie pictures of some hooker. Much too young for
him.'
Liam grunted. 'You turned the jammer off yet?'
'No. I can do, if you want.'
The plan had been to restore the mobile phone network once the
island was secure, allowing incoming calls to be intercepted rather
than blocked. Allotti's job was to monitor texts and phone messages,
and either respond to them himself or get the prisoners to reply, to
maintain an illusion of normality.
'We'll risk leaving it on a bit longer,' Liam said. You can monitor
anything coming in on the landlines, though?'
'Oh, yeah.' Allotti gestured enthusiastically at a small receiver and
telephone handset on the desk. 'We're piggybacking from the junction
box, with wireless transmission to here. I'm using a similar
frequency to the two-way radios, so the jammer won't affect it. It's a
sweet set-up. I don't even have to get out of my seat,' he declared
happily.
Liam nodded. Allotti was a clever bastard, but a lazy one.
Then his radio buzzed, and he forgot all about Allotti and the
phones.
It was Priya. Her voice sounded tight and unfamiliar, almost vibrating
with tension.
'There's a problem.'

The mystery of McWhirter's whereabouts didn't take long to solve.
Joe found the South African's body in Valentin's study. He felt for a
pulse, but knew it was useless. McWhirter's eyes were open, waxy and
sightless. Nothing that could be done for him.
Scanning the room, Joe noticed Valentin's hip flask sitting on the desk
next to his laptop. A few drops of whisky had run down the side and
pooled on the glossy walnut surface of the desk. The image troubled
him somehow, but he couldn't say why.
And there was no time to dwell on it. He left the office and swiftly
checked the rest of the house: partly to make sure he was alone, but
also to search for a weapon. He paid particular attention to the guest
bedroom appropriated by Yuri, hoping there would be a gun stashed
somewhere, but found nothing.
In Cassie's room he made an unwelcome discovery. A Cartier watch
and a set of diamond earrings lay in full view on her dressing table.
It was inconceivable that such items would be excluded from the
robbery, which meant the gang might come back at any moment.
Joe drank some water in the kitchen, then opened the cutlery drawer
and selected a six-inch boning knife. Not very effective against a gun,
but useful for close-quarter combat.
His last call was the basement. As he reached the communal living
area he saw the vault door standing open. He looked inside, and
frowned. He'd last been in here about a fortnight ago, when he'd
accompanied Valentin's insurance assessor, who was producing an
updated inventory. On that occasion the room had been bursting with
treasure.
Around half of it remained, sitting undisturbed, but the other half
was missing. Had it already been removed?
Joe puzzled over it for a second or two, but reached no conclusion,
other than a vague sense that this was something more complex
than a simple raid. More complex - and therefore more dangerous.

Outside, the light was rapidly fading. With most of the houses in darkness,
and no street lighting, the twilight had a more emphatic quality
than it did in towns and cities. Already the woods across the road
looked impenetrable and slightly sinister, like something from a ghost
story. Soon they would need flashlights to see their way from place to
place, Liam thought.
But at least it was cooler now, too. Liam tilted his head to catch a
gentle breeze coming in off the sea. The mask was driving him mad,
but he couldn't dispense with it until Oliver Felton had joined the
other prisoners at Dreamscape.
And that wouldn't happen until Oliver had served his purpose.
In the minute or so that it took Liam to walk next door, he tried
to push Priya's gloomy message aside, half fearing that she'd gone and
stabbed the boy to death. He didn't want anything to detract from the
anticipation he felt right at this moment - for Robert Felton was the
reason they had come to Terror's Reach.
The plan had been hatched by Valentin Nasenko, after his fortune
had taken a pounding in the banking crisis of 2008. He and Felton
had been enemies for years, for all kinds of reasons that were frankly
of no interest to Liam. He'd quickly learned to tune out whenever
Valentin began ranting about all the lucrative deals which Felton had
supposedly denied him, thanks to his network of political cronies
around the world.
What interested Liam was that Nasenko wanted revenge, and he
needed money. Stealing from Felton satisfied both objectives. The
catch was that it had to be done in a way that avoided any suspicion
falling on Valentin.
It was Liam who had provided the solution, which had three main
elements. Firstly, target all the homes on the island to make it appear
that Felton was just one of several victims. Next, find a way to ensure
that Travers - a trusted associate of Felton's - was present to witness
and later corroborate Valentin's ordeal at the hands of the gang.
The last touch, which really added the seal of authenticity, was the
cold-blooded murder of Valentin's loyal adviser, Gary McWhirter. Even
Felton was unlikely to think his rival capable of such a ruthless gambit.
Valentin himself had dreamed up an additional component. He
planned an overture to Robert Felton, via Travers, regarding a business
deal in some godforsaken Central Asian republic. This was a
quite genuine proposal, albeit one that Felton would normally reject
out of hand. After all, he had no incentive to do business with Nasenko.
Except that, as a result of tonight's activity, Valentin's offer would
be made from a position of strength, having helped himself to a large
slice of his neighbour's fortune.
Reaching the open front door, Liam gave a short, gleeful laugh. It
was a hell of a fortune. A hell of a slice.
He found Turner in the living room, sucking on a cigarette and
pacing up and down like an expectant father in an old movie. When
he saw Liam he dropped the cigarette and ground the butt into the
floor. He looked worried and upset and aggrieved all at once. There
was no sign of Priya or Oliver Felton.
'Where are they?' Liam asked.
'Upstairs.'
'So what's the problem?'
Turner just glowered, shouldering his way past Liam.
'What?' Liam asked again. His hand drifted towards the gun in his
belt.
'See for yourself,' Turner said without looking back. He marched
across the hall and started up the stairs.
'Mask,' Liam said, hurrying after him.
'Fucking thing,' Turner said. But he put it on.
The master-bedroom suite occupied about a quarter of the first floor.
It was a ridiculously large space, with dressing rooms, twin bathrooms
and even a sitting area with sofas and a coffee table. Oliver Felton was
perched on a sofa, rigid as a dummy in a shop window, staring blankly
at the far wall. Priya was standing over him, absently biting her lower
lip. She hardly reacted when Liam and Turner walked in.
One of the walls was clad in light-oak panelling. Robert Felton's
safe was set into the wall, concealed by a section of fake panelling,
which had been swung aside. The safe door was open. Operated by a dial combination lock, it was made of heavy reinforced steel with
three-way boltwork and anti-drilling plates: exactly as their research
had suggested.
The interior space was about six feet high, three feet wide and two
feet deep. There were five shelves, but four of them were bare. A
handful of trinkets lay gathering dust on the top shelf, and there was
an old foolscap box file on the floor.
And that was it. Nothing else.
The safe was empty.

Thirty-Three

Joe was relieved to find his own room still intact. He locked the door
behind him and dragged his bed across it for greater protection. Then
he stripped off and allowed himself thirty seconds in the shower. He
dried and got dressed in clean jeans, black T-shirt and trainers. Pocketed
his multi-tool and keys and the boning knife, and then remembered
his mobile phone.
He took out his strongbox from the wardrobe. There was another
phone in there, and he could swap the SIM card. Although he'd told
Cassie not to call, he didn't like the idea of her being unable to contact
him if she really needed to. That meant he had to keep hold of the
number she had for him.
But he was also aware of the time ticking away. He couldn't afford
to get caught down here. Besides, he ought to find a better hiding
place for his own possessions, to prevent his IDs from falling into the
wrong hands.
Joe moved the bed away from the door and tucked the strongbox
under his arm. He crept upstairs, listening hard for any movement in
the house.
Back in the hall, he paused. There was a landline extension on the
wall. He thought about McWhirter, lying dead in the study. He thought
about the prisoners, marched off to an unknown fate. Shouldn't he
call the police while he had the chance?
Still he hesitated. The junction box was just along the road from
here. He felt sure they would have cut the line, or disabled the phones
in some way.
He looked at the receiver for a long second, then snatched it up.
Expecting nothing, he felt his heart stutter as he recognised a dialling
tone.
Maybe they thought cutting the lines was too great a risk. If someone
called the island and couldn't get through, they might report a fault.
As he pressed 9, a voice in his head warned him:
The police won't believe you.
He pressed it again.
They haven't cut the lines, but they must be--
A blast of feedback made him jump. He nearly dropped the receiver.
The line went dead. Someone had cut him off.
'Shit,' Joe whispered. He'd just made a really big mistake.

Liam stared at the safe in disbelief.
'What the hell is this?'
You tell me,' Turner growled. 'There's meant to be a fucking fortune
in there, not this old crap. Makes me wonder if it isn't some kind of
stitch-up.'
Liam was so stunned, it took a few seconds for the accusation to
permeate. When it did, his own temper flared.
'When did you open this?'
'Don't be so fucking--' Turner started, but Priya spoke over him.
'I radioed you straight away' She glanced at Oliver Felton, who
looked like a rabbit caught in headlights. He nodded.
Liam said, 'My orders were to wait until I got here.'
'Like that matters now,' Turner shouted.
Once again, Priya intervened. 'Be quiet. Fighting amongst ourselves
won't achieve anything.'
Turner glared at her, but Liam knew she was right. He leaned
inside the safe, dumped the cheap jewellery on the floor and rattled

the shelves to see if any were loose. He was hoping for a hidden
compartment or a door to another storage area, but there was nothing.
He knelt down and picked up the box file. 'Have you looked inside
this?'
'Didn't seem any point,' Priya said.
Liam opened the file. There was a stack of paper crammed inside,
held down by a lock spring. Dozens of documents of varying size and
age. He lifted the lock spring and skimmed a few: deeds of sale, interest
statements, shareholder accounts. Nothing that screamed high value,
or any value at all. And certainly not what they'd come for.
He sighed. Gave Oliver a long, critical appraisal. Priya said, 'He
swears he didn't know.'
'Do you believe him?'
Yes. Otherwise he wouldn't have opened the safe so readily.'
In unison, their radios buzzed. The emergency frequency.
Turner got to his first. He identified himself and held out the
handset so they could all hear.
It was Allotti. 'Someone just tried to make a phone call.'
Liam grabbed Turner's handset. 'What?'
'At Nasenko's place, just now. Pendry's gone to take a look.' Allotti's
short laugh emerged as a burst of static. 'I didn't imagine it. Someone
tried to dial out.'

Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Joe put the phone back and took a quick look round, trying to work
out if he'd left any trace of his presence. Hopefully the steam from
the shower would dissipate before they searched his room. But they
might notice his old clothes, still wet from the sea.
Nothing he could do about it now. Just get out of here.
Leaving the front door open at the same angle he'd found it, he
stepped outside and hurried across the drive. He had the strongbox
under one arm and held the boning knife in his right hand.
The street was clear, but from the direction of Dreamscape Joe
heard the roar of an engine. Headlights swept the bend as he raced
across the road and plunged into the trees. Within fifteen or twenty
feet he was in almost total darkness. Branches tore at his face as he
blundered his way deep into the undergrowth. He tripped on a root
and nearly lost his balance, dropping the strongbox as he fought to
stay upright.
The box hit the dry earth with a thud. Joe turned and looked back
along the route he'd just taken. The road and houses were already
out of sight. He couldn't see a thing.
He heard the engine noise settle to a steady purr. A door opened
and slammed shut. Then nothing more.
Feeling carefully around him, Joe knelt down and brushed the
ground clear of leaves and twigs. From his pocket he took out the
SIM card from the phone he'd had earlier. Then he opened the box
and located the other phone. By now his eyes were adjusting to the
dark, and he could see the phone clearly enough to remove the rear
cover and change the SIM card.
Once that was done he shielded the phone with his body before
pressing the power button. The phone was set to vibrate, but even the
single low-pitched hum it emitted on start-up seemed dangerously
loud.
Joe took a quick look at the display and was disappointed on two
counts. The battery icon was down to a single bar, and the signal
strength indicator showed no signal available.
He knew that the island had its own mobile-phone mast. Either
they had disabled it, or they were jamming the signal.

Liam told Priya to stay and guard Oliver Felton while he and Turner
went next door. Priya started to protest, but Liam wasn't in the mood.
'Don't argue. Just do it.'
She turned away as if he'd slapped her. Turner made it worse by
chuckling. Liam picked up the box file and waved Turner towards
the door.
At Dreamscape, Allotti met them in the hall. He spread his hands
and said, 'I dunno what's going on. It doesn't add up . . .'
Liam shrugged. 'But you blocked the call?'
Yeah. I had to fry the line to do it. And the jammer's still on, so
mobiles won't work. Pendry's at the house, and Manderson's checking
along the road.'
'Good. You'd better go and patrol the waterfront. Have you warned
Gough at the bridge?'
'I will do.' Allotti drew his gun and left the house.
As they walked through the kitchen, Turner said, 'Who do you
reckon it is?'
'Just Allotti's over-active imagination. I hope.' Liam paused before
they entered the garage. He came to a decision, and drew Turner
close.
'I want you to get Valentin and Yuri, and take them into the lounge.'
'But I thought--'
'Now,' said Liam quietly, and strode into the garage. Eldon was
watching the prisoners on his own. He seemed agitated as he hurried
towards them.
'Shouldn't I be starting on the inventory?'
'Soon. In the meantime you can sort through this.' Liam handed
the box file to Eldon, who stared at it with dismay in his eyes.
'What am I looking for?'
'I haven't got a clue. Surprise me.'
There was a commotion from the prisoners as Valentin and Yuri
were led away at gunpoint. Liam deliberately kept his back to them.
Right now he didn't want to make eye contact with anyone, Travers
in particular.
Even so, he could feel the hatred they directed towards him. It
made his neck tingle. Made him want to spin round and open fire,
wipe them all out and bring an end to the total fucking calamity this
operation had become.
Joe put the phone back in his pocket and closed the strongbox. He
decided this was as good a hiding place for it as anywhere. To make
sure he'd be able to find it again he crawled back towards the road
and noted his position in relation to the Nasenko house.
There was now a Ford Explorer parked on the driveway. He
pictured the gang, searching the house. If they found his wet clothes
they'd want to know who he was. That would mean interrogating
Valentin.
With the phone system disabled, Joe's immediate concern was
to gather as much information as he could. Find out where the
prisoners were being held, and how many people he was up
against, then review his objectives once again. Perhaps there was
still a chance he'd be able to rescue them himself, but by squandering
the advantage of surprise he'd just made the task a lot more
onerous.
And now that he knew they were looking for him, he couldn't risk
taking the road. Instead he set off through the trees. Although there
was a path of sorts, it was narrow and hard to follow in the darkness.
Occasionally he spotted the faint glimmer of water in time to avoid
it; at other times his feet sank into boggy mud and he had to step
back and find a different way through.
In any case, he had to move slowly, for the other problem was
noise. The ground was covered with dry leaves and hard, brittle
twigs. Each snap seemed to resound like a gunshot in the still, silent
evening.
After what seemed like an age he reached a junction with another
path that led back out to the road. He crept along it and saw he was
almost directly level with Dreamscape's front gates. It was too exposed
to emerge here. Better to move on and find another route at a more
oblique angle to the property.
He was moving away when something set off his internal alarm.
Something he'd registered subliminally, his body responding before
his mind could catch up.
He stopped. Tried to throw out his senses like a net, scooping up
every tiny scrap of data. He was certain that he hadn't set off a trap
of any kind. And he hadn't seen or heard anything to give rise to the
warning. So what was it?

Thirty-Four

Liam waited for a minute or two, then made his way to the living
room. Once inside, he tore off his mask. Turner had already removed
his. Yuri and Valentin were sitting like patients in a doctor's waiting
room, faces passive, hands still bound.
Valentin's anger ignited the moment Liam shut the door behind
him. 'Why do you drag us in here?'
'Allotti thinks someone tried to use the phone. At your house.'
Valentin frowned. 'One of the team?'
'Apparently not. Any idea who it could be?'
'No.' Valentin still looked more angry than worried. 'You've
accounted for everyone?'
Liam nodded. I'm hoping it's just a mistake. But I've got men out
there looking.'
'Not enough,' said Yuri. To Valentin, he added, 'The team was too
light. We needed more people.'
Valentin ignored him. You cannot spend too long making the
search. You must start loading the vans.'
Turner gave a loud, sarcastic snort. Both Valentin and Yuri caught
the unspoken message and looked at him for an explanation.
'The safe's empty,' Liam said.
Valentin's head swivelled back towards Liam. 'The . . . ?'
'Felton's safe. The big combination safe sitting right there in his
bedroom, just where it was meant to be. His boy opened it up for us
without a murmur. We didn't have to drill it or blow the door off. The
only downside - there wasn't a fucking thing in it.'
Valentin stared at Liam through a long, incredulous silence, then
bowed his head as if yielding to a crushing weight. He raised his hands
towards his face, realised they were cuffed and let them flop back onto
his lap.
Yuri stood up. 'Let me go and I will help to search.'
'What do we tell the rest of the team?' Liam asked.
'Say I was inside man all along.' Yuri nodded towards Valentin. 'Say
I betrayed him.'
Liam glanced at Turner, who said, 'An extra body would help, at
least till we know what's going on.'
While he considered it, Liam had another question. 'Supposing
this phone call really happened. Why your house?'
'First place on the island, coming from bridge.'
'But who could it be?'
Yuri shrugged. 'That's what we have to find out.'
Liam addressed Valentin. 'Are you okay with this?'
The Ukrainian barely seemed to hear him. He gave a distracted
nod. Yes. If we must.'
Liam motioned to Turner, who took out a knife and cut Yuri free.
Yuri rubbed the life back into his wrists, then held out his hand.
'I need a weapon.'
Turner scowled, but gave him the knife. He undipped his radio
and passed on the message that Yuri would be joining the search.
'He's with us, you got that? So don't go topping him by mistake.'
Valentin didn't even look up when Yuri left the room. He was like
a man in a trance. There was a tremor in his hands as they rested on
his bony knees, and a tremor in his throat when he found his voice.
'It's there somewhere,' he said. 'It has to be there.'
'What if it's not?'
'It is there, I tell you!' Valentin growled, leaping to his feet with a
ferocity that made Liam take a step back. 'It is in that house, and we
have to find it. Take the boy and make him tell you. Cut him to pieces
if you have to.'
'Oliver doesn't know,' Liam said. 'He wouldn't have opened the
safe if he'd known it was--'
'He knows,' Valentin insisted. 'Now go and make him admit it.'

Joe waited, his eyes straining to distinguish something out of place,
his ears alert to the tiniest sound. He got nothing back.
And yet. . .
If someone had heard him moving and knew he was here, they too
would be frozen, hardly daring to breathe. They too would be desperate
not to give away any hint of their presence.
But maybe there was something they couldn't help but give away.
Something beyond their control.
Joe's nostrils twitched. Earlier he'd been struck by the rich aromas
of evening, as the plants and trees released their scent into the
accumulated heat of the day. Now those aromas were overlaid by a
much harsher smell, meaty and sour.
Body odour.
Joe lifted his foot and took one cautious step. Then another. He
turned his head while slowly inhaling, testing the air. The smell was
slightly stronger behind him and to his right.
The path back to the road.
He moved carefully, knowing he'd been found, knowing too that
he couldn't run. He had to fight instead.
The smell intensified as he crept along the path, a keynote of fresh
sweat riding the stale odour beneath. In the grades of darkness at the
copse's edge, an ominous shadow took shape and form.
The man was lying in wait for him on the edge of the path. Joe
assumed he had a gun, but perhaps the lack of light or the trees deterred
him from using it. Instead he was half crouching, holding a fallen
branch above his right shoulder like a baseball bat, poised for the swing.


Two feet from the end of the path Joe stopped. But not for long.
He steadied himself, then took another step, deliberately pressing his
weight down. Twigs crunched underfoot with a sound like small bones
breaking.
Right on cue the man attacked, swinging the branch with both
hands. If it had caught Joe unawares it would have just about taken
his head off. But he was already ducking, moving sideways and forwards,
throwing out his right arm and catching the attacker by the neck,
using his own momentum against him.
The man's eyes widened with shock, a white gleam in the darkness.
He couldn't believe he'd been outwitted, but he had no time to
react. He was tumbling forward, propelled by his own body weight.
His neck slammed against Joe's arm, his head jerking back. Joe darted
behind him, wrapped his left arm over his assailant's masked face and
wrenched his head round. There was a sickening crunch as the man's
neck snapped, and his body went slack.
Joe went on clinging to the man's head until he was sure it was
safe to loosen his grip. Then he lowered the body to the ground and
let out a breath. He'd had extensive training in self-defence, and over
the years he'd had to call on those skills a fair few times. He had also
taken a life before, but not like this. Not with his bare hands.
Everything was changed now. He'd engaged the enemy, and there
would be any number of consequences. But in truth he felt little
remorse. He'd seen McWhirter's body. He knew what the gang were
capable of.
He grabbed the man's feet and dragged him into the woods. A noisy
manoeuvre, but a necessary one. It hadn't escaped Joe's notice that
the man was roughly the same size as him, about an inch or two
shorter and a few pounds heavier.
Once he was well back from the road, Joe tore off the man's mask
and undid his utility belt. As well as the two-way radio, he found a
handgun and some cuffs.
He started to unbutton the boiler suit. The man was wearing shorts
and a T-shirt underneath, but the suit itself had still absorbed his
smell. Joe swallowed back his revulsion. This was too good an opportunity
to miss, especially now the gang were actively looking for him.
It was perfect camouflage, and might just keep him alive.

Oliver was disconsolate. He knew he had blown his chances.
Priya was keeping an eye on him, but she managed to do it without
looking directly at him. Oliver burned with shame and desire. If he'd
had a gun, or a knife, or even just his box of matches, he would have
ended it all right now.
'I'm going to die here tonight.'
'What?'
Priya's reaction made him start. He hadn't intended to say it aloud.
He said it again, this time savouring the truth of the words as they
were spoken. 'I'm going to die here tonight.'
She shrugged, perhaps interpreting it as a question rather than a
statement.
'Maybe,' she said. Then: You don't seem all that bothered.'
He shook his head. Slowly he lifted his cuffed hands and stretched
them towards her, causing the sleeves of his shirt to drop. Then he
twisted his arms outward to display the thin white scars that ran for
several inches from the base of each palm.
'Vertical, not horizontal,' he said. 'That's how you do it properly.
Anything else is just a cry for help.'
Priya nodded, and seemed to be studying him from a fresh perspective.
'So why--?'
'My sister found me.' Oliver looked her in the eyes. 'I wish she
hadn't.'

Thirty-Five

Liam stayed in the hall while Turner took Valentin back to the garage.
If the other prisoners queried Yuri's absence, Valentin was to say that
he'd been taken away somewhere, and that was all he knew. To make
it convincing he had to sound both angry and fearful. Given the news
about Felton's safe, that shouldn't be too difficult to fake.
Leaving Dreamscape, Liam was expecting Turner to take the piss,
having just witnessed his dressing-down. But although he was clearly
brooding on it, the other man said nothing.
Out on the road, Liam stopped abruptly. 'Did you hear that?'
'What?'
'Over there.' Liam stared at the trees, his hand resting lightly on
his gun.
They waited a few seconds, then Turner shook his head.
You're just getting jumpy. We've got four men searching. If
someone's out there, they'll find him.'
Yeah. All right.'
Liam hurried on, Turner scrambling to catch up. As they approached
Felton's front door, Turner said, 'Feels like this is going to shit.'
'We're fine,' Liam said. But he knew exactly what Turner meant.
Priya and Oliver were still in the master bedroom, Oliver sitting
exactly where they had left him. Priya looked weary and distracted,
as though she'd been trying to convince herself that none of this was
happening. She was standing at the window, watching the dark sea
fade into the coming night.
'Any progress?' said Liam.
'He's adamant that he didn't know.'
Turner clicked his tongue. 'How about if we cut his dick off, and
then ask him?'
Oliver gave them a sickly smile. Even as his body remained immobile,
there was a restlessness in his eyes that wasn't quite normal.
You never saw your dad clearing it out?' Liam asked. You didn't
hear him mention it at all?'
'No. I don't pay any attention to what my father does.'
A glance at Priya, who nodded: Oliver was telling the truth.
Liam sighed. He had a feeling that threats of violence wouldn't
work. The sick little bastard would probably get a thrill out of it.
'Look,' he said. 'We know the safe is a decoy'
'It's not,' said Oliver, but there was a flash of something in his face.
Uncertainty.
'We will cut it off,' Turner warned him. 'Stuff it down your throat.'
'And we'll do it in front of Priya,' Liam added. If they had any
leverage at all, it was that Oliver seemed to have an adolescent crush
on her. 'There's another safe, isn't there?'
'No, there isn't--' Oliver began, and then stopped. His gaze lost
focus and his lips came together in an expression of pure agony.
Whatever he was seeing in his head, it wasn't pleasant.
Liam thought back to this afternoon, when Priya had first noticed
Oliver spying on her. The weird little attic room.
Your dad's got a thing about hiding places, hasn't he?'
Oliver nodded slowly, like a naughty child boxed in and unable
to lie.
'So what is it? What do you need to tell me?'
'There's . . . There's a panic room.'
Turner clapped his hands. 'Thank fuck for that.'
'Where is it, Oliver?' Liam asked.
'I want to help you. I really do.'
'I know. Just tell me where it is.'
Oliver was still nodding, big fat tears rolling down his cheeks.
'I can show you,' he said. 'But it won't be enough.'

Joe put on the boiler suit over his own clothes. It wasn't a perfect fit
but it would do. At least he was acclimatising to the smell.
He fastened the utility belt, slipped his knife into it and transferred
his phone and Leatherman multi-tool to the suit's outer pockets. The
dead man was wearing latex gloves, but Joe decided to dispense with
those. He picked up the two-way radio and switched it off. He didn't
want it burping at him when he was within earshot of the house.
Pulling on the mask, he took one more look at the body, the pale
flesh ghostly in the darkness. Joe felt guilt nudging at his heart, but
wouldn't let it in. The lives of many innocent people still hung in
the balance.
When he reached the edge of the copse, he paused. There was just
sufficient light to check the gun in more detail. It was a Glock 17.
Joe knew that particular model was regarded as a very reliable firearm,
but if he had to use this one he first wanted to make sure that it
worked properly.
From the position of the trigger he could tell there was a round in
the chamber. He removed the magazine, which held seventeen 9 mm
cartridges, and racked the slide to eject the chambered round. He
dry-fired the gun to test the mechanism, then picked up the spilled
cartridge and reloaded it in the magazine. Lastly he slotted the full
magazine back into the grip and racked the slide again. Now there
was a round in the chamber, ready to fire.
Across the road several of Dreamscape's windows were lit up. The
front door was standing open, beckoning him. He left the cover of
the trees and walked into view, fighting the urge to keep low and
hurry. Now that he was in disguise, he had to stand tall. Act like he
belonged.
It felt odd for a second or two. Then something in his mind clicked
and he was instantly back in the job. Back at doing what he did best:
becoming someone else. Mixing with the bad guys in order to beat
them.
And he didn't much like admitting it to himself, but it felt good.

'Sneaky bastard,' Turner said. He had it about right, Liam thought.
The panic room was part of the master-bedroom suite. A logical
place for it, given that the worst case scenario for most people was to
have armed robbers bursting in during the middle of the night. Better
still, anyone who searched the bedroom would find the safe first, and
probably wouldn't explore any further.
Still snuffling like a baby, Oliver led them into one of the dressing
rooms. There were floor-to-ceiling wardrobes on three walls. Liam
opened one at random and found dozens of bespoke suits in a variety
of colours and styles, ranging from flamboyant to deeply conservative:
maybe two hundred grand's worth of exquisite tailoring.
Oliver gestured towards the wardrobe opposite the door. There was
a full-length mirror on it, which showed the four of them crowding
into the tiny room, bumping shoulders. Oliver fumbled with the
handle, then turned back to them.
You need to untie me.'
Turner cut the restraints and Oliver opened the door. The wardrobe
was empty but for a high rail that held a couple of overcoats and a
vintage leather biker's jacket. Watching as he leaned inside, Turner
drawled: 'Where are we going? Fucking Narnia?'
Oliver swept the coats aside and pressed a hidden switch on the
wall. The rear panel slid away on castors, revealing a solid steel door
set into a steel frame. It looked even heavier and more forbidding
than the door to the safe.
Liam pushed past Oliver so he could see more clearly. Instead of
a combination dial there was a small black screen and a keypad. Liam
whistled softly, then said: 'Go on.'
Oliver looked at him, stricken. 'I can't open it.'
'Bullshit,' said Turner.
You just opened the safe. Now open this, and save yourself a lot
of pain.'
'Look, I don't care how much you threaten me. I can't open it.
If I could, I would.' He made an appeal to Priya. You have to
believe me.'
You mean you don't know the combination?' she asked.
'Even if I did, it wouldn't help,' said Oliver. 'It's a two-stage lock.'
'So?' said Turner.

Liam was staring at the small blank screen on the door, and he
saw what Oliver meant.
'Biometric.'
'That's right,' said Oliver. 'Without the correct fingerprint, the
keypad won't even operate.'
Liam exchanged a look with Turner, both of them perhaps recalling
Valentin's orders. Take the boy and make him tell you. Cut him to
pieces if you have to.
'But this is a panic room,' Priya said. You must have access to it.'
'We used to,' Oliver said. He swallowed heavily. 'Rachel and I.
When it had the same kind of door as the safe we both knew how to
get in. But Dad had some work done a couple of months ago. When
it was complete, I came in one day and found he'd had a new door
fitted.'
'And he moved everything from the safe into here?'
'I don't know.'
You bloody live here, don't you?' Liam yelled. 'A filthy little pervert,
spying on people all day. How come you don't know?'
Oliver shrank back from him, but there was nowhere to go. He
bumped his head against the wardrobe door and screwed up his face
at the pain.
'Dad said the work was going to be messy. He told me to spend
the week in Scotland. We have a place on Loch Lomond.'
'So this room could be empty?' Turner said.
'Maybe. Dad said something about getting the door programmed
for us, but he never got round to it.' Oliver sniffed. 'Our safety has
never been his primary concern.'
Yeah, save it for Jerry Springer.' Liam turned away, kicking one of
the wardrobe doors in frustration. It put a satisfying split in the timber,
but it wasn't nearly enough to assuage his fury.
The other three watched him as if this were completely normal
behaviour. It was left to Turner to summarise their position.
'We're up shit creek, aren't we?'

Thirty-Six



Cassie lasted out until ten o'clock. Then her discipline failed her.
This was much harder than dieting.
She couldn't comprehend why Joe hadn't been in touch. Had
Valentin forbidden it for some reason? Through fear and anxiety she
worked herself finally into an indignant rage. Her children's future
was at stake here. How dare they discuss it without her.
Finding it much easier to act now she was angry rather than scared,
Cassie snatched up the mobile phone, turned it on and scrolled
through the address book. She remembered Joe's advice. Don't make
any calls, especially not from a mobile.
She wavered, then put the phone down. There was a landline
extension on the bedside table. She lifted the receiver and quickly
punched in Joe's number, her heart pounding so loudly it made her
feel faint.
But his phone went straight to voicemail. It must be switched off.
Why?
Her fury now blunted by despair, she left a brief, incoherent message. Joe, it's Cassie. It feels like you've been gone for ages. What's happening
over there? Can you call me when you get this, and let me know how
it's going? Sorry, Joe. I just want to hear that you're okay . . .
Infused with self-loathing, she shuddered and put the phone down.
Joe stepped boldly over the threshold into Dreamscape's grand hall.
Half a dozen rooms led off it, all the doors shut. He listened at a
couple and heard nothing, then continued on to the kitchen.
That, too, was empty, but there was an adjoining utility room. As
he approached it, he felt a vague claustrophobia. Sweat poured from
his face, causing the mask to prickle and sting.
The utility room boasted an internal door to the garage. The door
was open and the air from the garage was hot and putrid. Joe moved
to the corner of the room and found an angle that let him see about
half the garage. The first thing he noticed was the Ford Transit that
had driven past him a few hours ago. Then he saw the prisoners.
They were arranged roughly in a circle. Joe spotted Angela Weaver,
but not her husband. Terry Fox was there, and the bald American.
He couldn't see Valentin, or Yuri, or the American's driver, but he
guessed they were in there somewhere.
There was only one guard in sight. He was standing just beyond
the prisoners, watching them closely. There was a box file at his feet,
which he tapped a couple of times as though to remind himself not
to forget it. He was holding a gun at his side, but his movements had
a nervous quality to them, as if he were unaccustomed to this level
of responsibility.
If Joe strode in there now, he reckoned it would take two or three
seconds for the guard to realise he was an impostor. That might be
enough time to overpower him without any weapons being fired, but
it wasn't a sure bet. And if it came to a shoot-out the prisoners would
be squarely in the firing line.
Reluctantly Joe decided the risk was too great. He backed away,
consoling himself with the knowledge that he'd achieved his first two
objectives. He had located the island's residents, and verified that they
were still alive. Now he had to find a way to raise the alarm.

Liam couldn't accept that the panic room was a lost cause. He
grabbed the clothes rail with both hands and pulled until it snapped
in half. Tossed the broken pieces on the floor and stepped into the
wardrobe.
'Show me how it works.'
Warily, Oliver moved alongside him and pressed his thumb on the
screen. A message flashed up in the display: NOT REGISTERED. Liam
made him try every finger. Then he made him bend down and stare
into the screen, just in case the sensor worked on iris recognition.
'I told you,' Oliver said. 'It's only been programmed for my father.'
Liam fumed silently. Suddenly claustrophobic, he pushed past
Oliver and stalked back into the bedroom. Turner followed him out.
'We're fucked.'
'We can't be. We've got to find a way in.'
Turner shrugged. 'Let's have a look round.'
They conducted a methodical search of the upper floor, Turner slapping
the walls and mumbling to himself as he estimated the dimensions
of each room. Then Priya took Oliver back to the sofa in the master
bedroom, enabling Liam and Turner to check the dressing room more
thoroughly. They emptied out the other wardrobes, tossing the clothes
into a heap, and broke through the rear panels to examine the walls
behind. Finally Turner straightened up and outlined his conclusions.
'I'd say it's about eight by ten foot. The door may be new, but the
panic room itself is an integral part of the house. Built into load
bearing walls. Concrete and steel, and nigh on fucking impenetrable.'
'What about blowing the door?'
'Pendry's good, but he ain't that good. You'd bring the whole frigging
house down with it.' Turner stared thoughtfully at the door. 'This
doesn't even have a manufacturer's logo. If we knew who made it we
could at least do some research. Find the weaknesses.'
Liam groaned. 'There must be a way to reprogram the scanner. Get
it to recognise a different fingerprint.'
'Can't get at it. Set into a tamper-resistant shell, same as the ones
the banks use for their ATMs. Anyway, we need the fingerprint and the
code. One without the ot,her is useless.'
'So there's no way in?'
'Afraid not. You'd better go and tell the boss.' Turner gave him a
grim look: still no gloating. I'll back you up.'
Liam scowled. He didn't need the reminder that Valentin would
be waiting for a progress report.
'Can you take Oliver next door?' he said. 'I want to have a think
about this.'

Now he knew that the prisoners were grouped in one place, Joe
conducted a brisk search of the other downstairs rooms. The third
door led to an office, furnished with a modern glass desk and a sleek
leather chair. There was a big aluminium box on the desk. It was
about the size of an overnight case, with three fat antennas poking
from the top.
He recognised what it was at once. A phone jammer, and a high
powered one at that. It was a larger version of the one that Valentin
kept at his London office. The Ukrainian employed a battery of counterespionage
equipment to alleviate his fears that his enemies were
constantly seeking ways to destroy him.
Joe wanted to disable it permanently, but smashing the box would
make too much noise. Instead he pulled out the mains plug and used
his knife to sever the cable. Then he unscrewed the antennas and put
them in his pocket.
He opened the door and casually walked out of the room. As he did,
he heard footsteps on the driveway, approaching the house. Joe turned
and ran lightly up the stairs. There was no half-landing, so he wasn't
out of sight until he reached the top.
He glanced round and saw two figures moving across the hall. One
of the gang was escorting a tall, thin young man in jeans and a long
white shirt. Oliver Felton. Neither of them appeared to have seen Joe.
Lucky, he told himself. Now that he was up here he decided to
survey the rest of the house. If it came to it, the police entry team
would welcome as much information as he could give them.
The bedrooms yielded nothing of interest, though a couple had
kitbags and spare clothing lying around. This was where the gang
had got changed.
Then he took the stairs to the top floor. He'd heard this was
Dreamscape's key feature, though evidently not quite spectacular
enough to persuade anyone to part with six and a half million pounds.
The floor was dominated by an enormous room that ran almost the
full length of the house. A massive open-plan living space and a wall
of glass that gave stunning views of the bay. But Joe hardly gave it a
thought.
His attention was focused on the centre of the room. The gang had
obviously been up here as well - and what they had brought with
them filled him with horror.

Thirty-Seven

Although she hadn't been born until 1946 Angela was doing her best
to invoke the spirit of the Blitz. That meant plenty of eye contact, lots
of encouraging smiles and, whenever possible, whispered messages of
support for her fellow captives.
So far she'd had mixed success. Terry Fox clearly approved, and had
adopted much the same approach himself. So had Valentin's maid,
Maria, who had stopped weeping and even managed a watery smile
or two. But Valentin himself remained surly and uncommunicative,
staring into the middle distance as if he were alone in the room.
The men with him were little better. The American, Travers, was
constantly muttering to himself: either prayers, curses, or both. His
driver, who'd introduced himself as Pete Milton, looked shell-shocked
and petrified, his breathing ragged as a result of a broken nose. The
guard had refused to help him stem the flow of blood, and it was only
now beginning to clot.
If there was one consolation, it was that Valentin's dreadful bodyguard,
Yuri, was notable by his absence. While Angela didn't actively
hope they would shoot him, she realised that she wouldn't exactly
grieve if they did.
It was an appalling admission to make, even to herself, and
sobering to consider how rapidly she'd fallen prey to such bloodthirsty
sentiments.
Is this what we all revert to, she wondered, once the veneer of civilisation
is stripped away?
A foot nudged against hers, and she looked up to find Terry Fox
watching her solemnly. You're doing a grand job,' he said. Your
husband would be proud of you.'
Before Angela could summon a reply, another of the guards brought
Oliver Felton into the garage. He looked unharmed, but his expression
of distracted sorrow was hardly uncharacteristic of him. He was
a strange young man; by some accounts, really quite disturbed. In all
their years as neighbours Angela had barely exchanged a dozen words
with him.
The prisoners were made to shuffle along the floor to make room.
Oliver sat down between Maria and Travers, directly opposite Terry
and Angela. Like Valentin, he didn't acknowledge any of them; just
dipped his head and stared fiercely at the ground.
Angela sighed. Here was a young man who'd had every advantage
in life and yet resolutely refused to make anything of himself. She
couldn't forget that when her own son had died, she'd found herself
shamefully wondering why God or fate couldn't have spared him and
taken Oliver Felton instead.
Another of the gang came in. Like the others he was masked, but
the way he moved betrayed a sense of urgency, even alarm. Angela
pretended to take no notice, but strained to hear as he addressed the
guard who had accompanied Oliver.
'Where's Manderson? He's not answering his radio.'
'Isn't he at Nasenko's?'
'No. There's no sign of him.' The man lowered his voice, said something
else, then turned and hurried out.
A problem? Angela wondered. Then she thought: Good.

Joe stared at the large red cylinders. There were six of them, each
weighing forty-seven kilogrammes and filled with propane, suitable
for ordinary domestic heating. It was highly combustible. Joe had seen
the effects of a propane explosion once before, when a terrace of
council houses had been demolished during a violent feud between
rival drug gangs.
As far as he could recall, the quantity of gas on that occasion had
been less than was present here. Not only that, but Terror's Reach
had no mains gas supply. Instead, it had to be delivered by lorry and
stored in bulk tanks, most of which were above ground. An explosion
that detonated those stores might level every home on the island.
The obvious conclusion was that the gang intended to use that
destruction to cover their tracks. But it seemed an excessive solution.
A lot of extra planning and effort, given that they'd need a timer, a
detonator and possibly some kind of conventional explosive to ignite
the propane. Joe's instinct told him there must be another reason for
it, but he had no idea what.
His immediate concern was for the prisoners downstairs. He couldn't
assume that they were going to be spared.
He completed his search of the room, but found no sign of a timer
or detonator. For safety's sake they would probably be kept elsewhere,
most likely in the garage.
There was one other grim discovery, however. A body, wrapped
in black garbage bags. Joe knelt down and cut away a flap of plastic. The dead eyes and waxen flesh hindered identification for a
moment, but then he had it. The estate agent who'd driven past
this afternoon.
Joe stood up, feeling a fresh surge of anger. The poor guy hadn't
done anything except be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He returned to the landing and took the stairs to the first floor.
Reaching the second flight of stairs, he met one of the gang on his
way up. It was the older of the bridge guards, his sandy-coloured hair now slicked down with sweat. He looked up and frowned, perhaps
wondering why his colleague should have chosen to keep his mask
on away from the prisoners.
'Manderson?' he said. Plenty of doubt in his voice.
Joe grunted an acknowledgement while casually swivelling round
and heading towards the master bedroom at the back of the house.
'Where the hell are you -- ?' the man exclaimed. 'Hey! You're not
Manderson.'
Joe didn't bother to speak. He didn't even look back.
He ran.

'I'm sick of this house.'
Liam looked up. Priya had made no comment when Turner led
Oliver away. If she wondered why Liam wanted her to remain here
with him, this might be the closest she'd get to saying so.
They were still in the dressing room, standing just a foot or so apart
amidst the heaps of fine clothing swept from the wardrobes. He could
feel the gentle puff of air when she exhaled.
Priya had her hands on her hips and looked ready for a confrontation.
Liam thought he might welcome that.
Yeah, well,' he said. 'I don't much like it either.'
'We're already behind schedule.' Her brow furrowed. 'Do you
honestly believe there's someone out there?'
'I can't really see it.'
'Then you should call it off. Better to concentrate on what we came
for.'
Liam waved towards the panic room. 'That's what we came for.
And we can't get to it.'
'So let's talk to Valentin, and come up with a contingency plan.'
'If you can think of a way to get in, I'd love to hear it.'
Priya absorbed his sarcasm with a sweet smile. 'I do know a way,
thank you very much.'
'Go on, then.' He edged closer to her, and was encouraged when
she didn't step back.
She won't admit it, but she wants me.
'If Robert Felton is the only person who can open it,' she said, 'then
we must get Robert Felton to come here.'
Liam thought it was a stupid idea, but it was worth humouring her
for the time being.
'Through Oliver?'
She nodded. 'We call Robert. Threaten to torture his little boy if
he doesn't cooperate.'
'Felton's in the south of France.'
'So? He has a private plane. And we can wait all night if we
have to.'
'But the longer we wait, the more chance of getting caught.'
Priya's smirk implied that his objection was cowardly rather than
practical. It produced in Liam a not unpleasant pulsing at his temples:
a familiar queasy excitement that usually signalled danger.
He said, 'We know that Felton doesn't rate Oliver much. He may
not give a damn what we do to him.'
'In my opinion that's a chance we have to take. If you disagree,
you'd better inform Valentin that it can't be done. Tell him we've
failed.'
She smiled again, as though she was doing him a favour, laying it
all out nice and simple so that even a moron like him could see it.
And the way she said 'We've failed', in the kind of mocking tone that
actually meant You've failed'. He felt the pulsing grow stronger, louder,
unstoppable, and then--
Liam was on her before he knew what he was doing. He knocked
her to the ground and fell on her, ripping the boiler suit open, tactically
aware of the weapons she was carrying, a gun and at least one
knife, reassuring himself that he just needed to keep her pinned tight
so she couldn't reach them.
Priya hissed and spat at him, trying to form words even as he
put his head down and kissed her, pressing so hard against her lips
that she couldn't open her mouth to bite him. He ground his erection
against her thigh, wanting her to know exactly what this was
about, as if she didn't already, and even when he saw her eyes
blazing with fury he was undeterred, maddened by frustration and
a brutal determination that if he couldn't unlock the treasures of
the panic room, he'd settle for unlocking whatever treasure she had
to give. He would take it by force and afterwards convince himself
that she had wanted it as much as he did.
But he got greedy. He tried to paw at her breasts, and that meant
releasing one of her arms. She immediately raked his face, pressing
hard enough to split her gloves and draw blood from his forehead.
He reared up, and she bared her teeth at him.
'I won't make this easy for you,' she snarled. You'd better be prepared
to kill me.'
Liam grabbed the stray arm and forced it down. He was now on
all fours, each one of his limbs trapping one of hers. They were both
panting, gasping for breath. He could feel blood trickling down his
face.
Stalemate.
'If you do this,' Priya said, 'you'll never get out of here alive.'
Liam already knew it was over, but he said nothing. Just looked at
her and let it sink in what a fucking idiot he was.
'Oh, Christ.' He let go and rolled over, collapsing on his back right
beside her. In that moment he was unprotected, and he knew she
could quite easily carry out her threat. He didn't care. If they couldn't
get into the panic room he was a dead man anyway.

The bedroom door blasted open as Joe slid back the glass doors that
led out to the balcony. From there it was about a six-foot drop to the
flat roof below. Joe vaulted the balcony and felt something whistle
past his head. A bullet, he realised, fired from a silenced gun.
He landed heavily on the roof and was instantly up and running
for the edge. There was no time to pause or look back. Not even time
to consider using the gun he'd taken from Manderson. His pursuer
would be on the balcony in a second or two. If Joe was still on the
roof he would be an easy target.
The next drop was a lot further: ten or twelve feet. The safest method
would have been to lower himself down, but that wasn't an option.
Instead he leapt out, clearing the path that ran in front of the building,
and landed on grass, using the fall-and-roll technique he'd learned
from a couple of parachute jumps he'd done many years ago. Too long ago, he thought, as it caused a jolting pain through his ankles
and shins.
As he got up he spotted the gunman on the balcony, peering down
at the garden. Joe's leap had triggered a security light, but he'd
managed to roll into a patch of shadow. The harsh halogen beam
worked in his favour, intensifying the contrast between light and
dark.
But he couldn't stay here for long. The gunman was already calling
in reinforcements as he turned and went back inside.

Joe dashed across the garden. Fortunately it was mostly turf and
paved terraces, without too many obstacles. There was a low wall at
the end, which led on to the communal deck. Joe slowed as he
approached it, conscious that there might be more men out here.
He climbed over the wall, looking carefully in both directions. He
decided he couldn't risk turning left towards the beach. The danger
was that he'd get caught in the relatively narrow gap between the deck
and the road, with no other escape route.
Instead he headed towards Valentin's. If he could get onto the property
he was sure he could find a decent hiding place while he made
the vital phone call. After all, he reasoned, he only needed a minute
or two.
It was a challenge to run on the deck without making a lot of noise.
He was moving as fast as he dared, trying to stay light on his feet, at
the same time keeping alert for any sound or movement around him.
As a result he almost tripped over the obstacle in his path: a formless
black shape stretched across the deck.
Joe came to a stop just in time and instinctively dropped to his
knees. He brought his gun up, his finger already tight on the trigger.
Half fearing that a bullet might come winging at him out of
the blackness, he cast a quick look at the obstacle itself. He ended
up staring at it for a long time, trying to make sense of what he had
found.
A body.


Thirty-Eight

It was another member of the gang. Same black boiler suit, same
utility belt with the mask still tucked into it. No sign of his radio or
gun. He was lying on his side in a pool of blood. Joe could hear the
steady dripping as it seeped between the wooden planks and dropped
into the water.
He leaned over and saw a glistening shadow in the folds of the
man's neck. A deep slash had opened his throat. It was essentially the
same wound that the estate agent had sustained, except this one was
deeper: a cleaner, more ruthless strike. The work of a professional.
Joe examined the man's hands. Like his accomplices, he was wearing
thin latex gloves. There was no evidence of any defence injuries. Must
have been a surprise attack, probably from behind, and incredibly
swift. Either that or he'd been attacked by someone he knew. Someone
he trusted.
Out of habit, Joe lifted one of the wrists, rolled the glove up and
felt for a pulse. A voice in his head urged him to keep moving. He
couldn't begin to comprehend what was going on, and right now
he shouldn't even try.
But then he detected a pulse, weak and thready. Perhaps in response
to Joe's touch, the man's eyes opened briefly, but it was a dull, unseeing
gaze. He was beyond help, and yet Joe couldn't bring himself to let
go of the man's hand during his dying moments.
That decision cost him dearly. As he felt the pulse fading beneath
his finger, the timber behind him groaned. Joe started to rise, but
strong arms clamped down on his shoulders. He saw the flash of a
blade, and then there was a knife pressing at his neck. The same knife,
he felt sure, that had just cut the throat of the man lying before him.

Priya could have taken her revenge, but she didn't move. They both
lay in silence for a long time. Then Liam pushed his fingers through
his hair and sighed. He risked a quick glance at her.
'Jesus, that was stupid of me. I'm sorry'
'And I'm disappointed,' said Priya. 'I thought you might be different
from most men, but you're not. Because you're attractive, you find it
impossible to believe that a woman might not want you. Well, the
fact is that I don't want you.'
He nodded, neither of them looking at each other as they spoke.
'Are you with someone?' he asked.
'That's irrelevant.' After a moment, Priya added quietly: Yes, I am.'
Liam said nothing. He sensed the admission had cost her in some
way, but he didn't know why.
He got up on his elbows, then twisted and rose to his knees. Facing
her, he offered his hand to help her up. Priya ignored him, turned
in the opposite direction and climbed to her feet. She kept her back
to him while she zipped up her boiler suit and put on a fresh pair of
gloves.
Ruefully, he said, 'Guess I'd better watch out for a knife in my ribs.'
'I have better things to think about,' she said. 'And so do you.'
She kicked aside Felton's suits to find her radio, which had been
lost in the melee. It buzzed as she picked it up. So did Liam's.
It was Turner, breathing hard. Talking on the run.
'The intruder was at Dreamscape. We're after him now.' He paused,
and they heard his urgent footsteps. 'Thing is . . . he's wearing
Manderson's gear.'
Joe was trapped. The knife was digging into his skin, just below his
Adam's apple. He felt a tickling sensation as a few drops of blood
bubbled up on his neck. A little more pressure and his skin would
split like an over-baked potato.
He wouldn't have been so careless in his former life, he thought.
Focusing on the dying man at the expense of his surroundings had
been a clumsy mistake.
His assailant leaned closer, crouching over him to keep him on his
knees. Joe became aware of a revolting blend of smells: booze and
sweat and nicotine. It was a cocktail he'd encountered before.
A familiar voice growled: 'Not such a tough guy now, eh?'
Joe felt shock, then relief. Yuri?'
'Drop the gun.'
Confused, Joe did as he was told. The Ukrainian kicked it away,
then used his free hand to pat him down. He missed Joe's boning
knife, but he did find the Leatherman and his mobile phone. As he
pocketed them there was a noise from further along the deck.
Yuri, it's me. Let me go.'
A deep rumbling chuckle from Yuri. 'I know who it is. Tell me why
you came here.'
Clattering footsteps vibrated through the timbers, flashlights spearing
the darkness just yards away. Yuri had squandered their chance to
escape. Why would he do that?
Only one answer made sense. A robbery on this scale stood a far
greater chance of success if there was a man on the inside.
You're a traitor,' Joe said. Then he looked at the dead guard lying
in front of him. 'But why did you -- ?'
He wasn't allowed to complete the question. Yuri clubbed his fist
against Joe's skull, sending him sprawling to the deck. As Joe lay
there, dazed and helpless, two men ran up to them. Neither wore
their masks, although in the dark it was hard to make out their faces.
One was the bridge guard who'd challenged Joe back at the house.
The other was about a decade older, perhaps early fifties, with grey
hair and a face as hard as Sussex flint. The way they nodded at Yuri
confirmed Joe's suspicion.
'I caught him,' Yuri declared. 'But not before . . .' He gestured at
the dead man.
'Manderson?' the bridge guard said. He peered at the body, then
gave a start. 'Fucking hell, it's Allotti.'
Joe said, 'That wasn't me, it was Yuri.'
Yeah, and I taught Elvis to sing,' the older man said.
'Look at the knife he's holding,' Joe said. 'The same one he used
on your man.'
Yuri sneered at the accusation. He bent down and retrieved the
boning knife from Joe's belt. Held it out for them to see.
'He has knife too.'
Joe didn't respond. He'd underestimated the extent of Yuri's sly
intelligence. The Ukrainian had left the boning knife there on purpose.
'How come he knows you?' the older man asked Yuri. 'Who is he?'
'This is Joe Carter,' said Yuri. 'He works for Valentin.'
The bridge guard directed his flashlight at Joe's face, studying him
carefully. 'Hold on. We counted him out earlier. He had the wife
and kids with him.' He sounded defensive, as if preparing to deflect
criticism.
'Well, it looks like he came back,' the older man said. To Joe:
'Where's Manderson? And don't give us any bullshit. You're wearing
his fucking clothes.'
Joe knew it would be hopeless to lie. 'He's in the trees opposite
Dreamscape.'
'Dead?'
Joe nodded. The older man stared at him for a second, his eyes
cold and blank. Then he lashed out with a surprising agility, punching
Joe in the chest. At the last moment Joe read the blow and was able
to ride with it, but still he felt a searing pain in his ribs. A little higher,
a little harder, and it might have stopped his heart.


Thirty-Nine

Liam and Priya ran next door, too preoccupied even to speak. Liam
had no doubt that the tension between them would resurface, but for
now it had been rendered virtually immaterial.
In Dreamscape's kitchen they stopped to put on their masks. Liam
was grateful that his would conceal the scratch on his forehead, but
he was aware that Priya's boiler suit looked crumpled. The zip had
been damaged and wouldn't go all the way to the top. Someone was
bound to comment on it before long.
'Wait here,' he told her. "I'll check on the prisoners.'
He found Eldon pacing the garage, his gun drawn. As Liam walked
in he spun round, nervously raising the weapon.
'Easy,' said Liam. He pointed at the box file on the floor. You find
anything?'

'I've not had a chance to look at it yet. I'm here on my own,
aren't I?'

'All right. We'll get you some backup.'
Liam returned to the kitchen. Priya was standing by a set of glass
doors that led out to the garden. He joined her and saw the flashlights
approaching.
Turner was first inside, pulling on his mask as he stepped into the
light. Pendry and Yuri followed, bringing the prisoner with them. Liam
recognised him at once: it was the man he'd seen this afternoon.
Cassie Nasenko's bodyguard. His hands were cuffed behind his back,
but his strength and defiance were almost palpable.
Liam cursed. Of all the possible intruders, why did it have to be
someone who worked for Valentin?
Turner had even more bad news. 'He killed two of our lads.
Manderson and Allotti.'
'Allotti as well?' Liam glared at Joe, who shook his head but said
nothing.
'Cut his throat, down on the deck.' Turner produced three metal
rods from his pocket and showed them to Liam. 'And he's knackered
the phone jammer.'
'He made no call,' Yuri added quickly. 'I stopped him in time.'

'But not in time to save Allotti.' Liam turned to Pendry. 'Put him
with the others. And bring Nasenko out here. I want to see if he knew
about this.'
'He had nothing to do with it,' Joe called out as he was led away.
Liam waited till both Joe and Pendry were out of earshot, then
glared at Yuri.
'This could blow everything apart. He'll tell Travers that you're
working with us.'
Yuri seemed unconcerned. 'All that matters is that he does not
suspect Valentin.'
Liam reflected for a moment, before conceding the point. 'I guess
it could help to convince Travers. One bodyguard betrays Valentin,
while the other risks his life to come here and save him . . .'
Yuri nodded. 'Best that I stay away from them. You want me to
help patrol?'
'No. We need to get things back on track. Start clearing Valentin's
place. I'll send Pendry along with the van.'
Yuri went out the way he'd come in. Turner looked from Liam to
Priya, zeroing in on the damage to her clothing.

'What happened to you?'
'Accident.'

'You look like you got mauled by a dog.'
Priya started to answer, but Liam broke in.
'Come on. We'll speak to Valentin in the lounge.'

Joe was hauled into the garage and put with the other prisoners. He
ended up taking Valentin's place, sitting between Maria and Angela
Weaver. Both women greeted his appearance with delight, which
promptly gave way to sorrow when it sank in that he was now every
bit as helpless as they were.
Valentin's reaction was very different. He gaped at Joe and made a
choking noise in his throat. For a second Joe thought the Ukrainian
was having a heart attack. The guard had to hold him steady.
Regaining the ability to speak, he said, 'Where's my daughter?'
'She's safe,' said Joe. 'No thanks to you.'
Valentin's expression darkened. He wasn't used to his employees
addressing him in such a tone. But he also looked anxious and bewildered.
Joe wondered what kind of punishment awaited him. As Joe's
employer, the gang could very well hold Valentin responsible for what
Joe had done.
While brooding on that, and on the many unpleasant forms that
their retaliation might take, it was an image from earlier that kept
nagging at him. Valentin emerging from his home with one of the
gang. Probably the man who'd just spoken to Joe in the kitchen: a
subtle Irish accent and a conspicuous air of authority. Was that 'Liam',
the name he'd overheard at the bridge?
Angela Weaver leaned towards Joe, brushing her arm against his in
a gesture of affection.
'Try not to worry. They took him out once before, but brought him
back a few minutes later.'
Joe nodded. Perceptive as ever, Angela had read his mind.
'But not your colleague Yuri,' she added in a low voice. 'He's been
gone a while.'
'That's because he's working with them. It was Yuri who caught me.'
Angela gasped, and a rumbling of anger and disgust spread around
the group. Joe realised he could have been slightly more diplomatic.
But then she said: 'I can't say I'm surprised, actually. He's a despicable
man.'
'I wouldn't disagree with that.'
'They murdered your other colleague, Mr McWhirter.' Angela
paused. And my husband.'
Joe turned towards her, aghast. "I'm very sorry.'
And he was. He'd failed these people. He had been their best hope
of survival and he'd blown it.
Maria caught his eye and gave him a comforting smile. He returned
it in kind, but felt like a fraud for doing so.
The bald American had been watching him closely the whole time.
He had the cunning look of a man who always has his eye out for
the main chance, filing away every interaction for future profit.
Of all the prisoners, only Oliver Felton seemed detached from the
situation. He was leaning back, staring intently at the ceiling as if
there was another world playing out up there.
In a way, there was. Joe assumed that none of them knew about
the propane, and he certainly didn't intend to enlighten them.
What he'd seen already convinced him that the operation was in
disarray. Just how badly it had gone wrong, even the gang themselves
didn't appreciate. They all believed that Joe had killed the man on
the deck: Allotti. But he hadn't.
Right now that worried him more than anything. If things got
any messier, the temptation to make a clean break would become
irresistible. And there was no better way to sterilise Terror's Reach
than blowing the place apart.

Once again they convened in the living room: Liam, Valentin and
Turner. This time Priya was with them. She ignored the sofas and
stood with her back against the far wall, where she could keep an eye
on them all.
She pulled off her mask and shook her head, causing her hair to
shimmy and cascade over her shoulders. Liam looked away, but not
before Turner had caught him watching her. At the same time Turner
spotted the scratches on Liam's face, and gave a little snigger.
When Valentin entered the room, Priya was the first person he saw.
He faltered, as though he'd forgotten that the team included a woman.
He looked old and confused, a shadow of the powerful figure who
had put this operation together. Liam found himself wondering how
on earth he'd come to invest so much confidence in the man.
Priya seemed equally shocked by Valentin's appearance. She took
a step forward, but he shook his head and collapsed onto the nearest
sofa. His malevolent gaze scoured the room and came to rest on Liam.
'What is going on?'
'We have the same question.' The use of the plural was deliberate.
Given the bad news he was about to deliver, Liam thought it a judicious
moment to introduce the notion of collective responsibility.
'What the hell is this Joe Carter guy doing here?'
'I don't know. I arranged for him to be in Brighton.'
'With your wife and children?'
'My wife and daughter,' Valentin corrected him. And the boy.'
There was a soft, contemptuous snort from Priya. The tension in
the room ratcheted up a notch.
'So where are they, then?' Turner asked.
'I was not given a chance to find out,' said Valentin. 'This is a
mistake, to keep bringing me in here. Travers will suspect something.'
'Not necessarily,' said Liam. At least Joe's presence helps us there.
Travers will think he came running back to save his boss.'
'But Joe knew nothing of this. Why did he come here?'
Liam thought of Gough, getting jittery about Joe's presence on the
beach. Then, later, Priya bumping against the side of the van and Joe
watching as they drove past. He decided not to mention either incident.
'What matters is that he's here. He sabotaged the phone jammer
and he killed two of our men.'
'What?'
'Manderson and Allotti,' Turner chipped in. 'He cut Allotti's throat.
We haven't found Manderson yet.'
Valentin looked horrified. You must handle him very carefully. We
cannot afford any more of these . . . disasters'
The comment seemed to be directed wholly at Liam. He bristled,
but Priya spoke before he could defend himself.

'I don't agree that Joe's presence is a benefit. I think we should kill
him.'
'Fucking right,' said Turner. 'Payback for Manderson and Allotti, if
nothing else.'
Valentin pondered for a moment, then said, 'Very well. But question
him first. Do it in the garage.'
You want us to hurt him?'
'Of course. Make it painful, so the others take note.'
'In that case you should appeal to us to spare him,' Priya said.
'Nothing too theatrical, though.'
Liam expected Valentin to be insulted, but instead he nodded
vigorously.
Yes. I will plead for his life. Good.' He smiled. The discussion
seemed to have revived him, but Liam knew the bombshell that was
coming. He felt a flutter of anxiety in his stomach.
'Now,' said Valentin. 'The Felton boy - did he give you the information?
There's another safe, I am sure of it.'
Liam swallowed hard.
'It's not quite that simple.'


Forty

The reason for Joe's introspection might have been lost on some of
his fellow prisoners. It wasn't lost on Angela.
'There's no point dwelling on it, you know.'
'What?'

'Reproaching yourself, after you risked so much. Valentin told me
you'd gone to Brighton with Cassie and the little ones. You came back
to help us, didn't you?'

Joe nodded. 'I should have made a better job of it.'
'I'm sure you did your best. But how did you know what was
happening?'
'I didn't, at first' He described the first niggling concern after he'd
seen the builders' van, then the later barricade at the bridge and the
sight of the Cadillac driver being chased by armed men.
'That fisherman from this afternoon is part of it, too,' he told her.
'I saw him at the bridge.'
'Our litter lout? I had wondered if he was. He looked like a hoodlum.'
She tutted. 'No matter. The past can't be undone. We must focus on
what lies ahead.'
Joe couldn't help grinning. Angela might have been gearing up
for a campaign against an environmental outrage or an unpopular
government policy, not facing a gang of heavily armed criminals from
a position of utter weakness.
But she was absolutely right.
They continued to talk in low voices. By pooling their knowledge
they managed to put names to most of the gang. The dead men were
Manderson and Allotti. The Irishman who seemed to be in charge
was indeed called Liam. His second-in-command was Turner, the
man who'd punched Joe in the chest.
Oliver Felton was initially reluctant to contribute. He'd been held
next door on his own for some time, but steadfastly refused to discuss
what had happened. Finally he revealed that the woman whom Joe
had seen in the kitchen was called Priya, and she too enjoyed a senior
status.
The man guarding them was named Eldon. According to Angela
he seemed timid and out of his depth. Hearing that, Joe wished he'd
stormed the garage when he'd had the chance. Now Eldon had been
joined by the bridge guard who'd helped capture Joe. His name was
Pen dry.
So nine people in total, including Yuri and the fisherman, Cough.
Two dead, leaving six men and one woman. Not great odds, Joe thought.
Throughout the discussion the American had remained quiet. Now
he weighed in. 'This is a two-bit operation. And they're a bunch of
lousy amateurs.' He spoke loudly enough for the guards to hear.
'Doesn't feel like that from where I'm sitting,' Terry Fox muttered.
The American ignored him, fixing his gaze on Joe. You agree
with me?'
'Maybe.' Joe didn't care for the American's tone, implying as it did
that they might share a common outlook.
'They just got lucky,' the American assured them. And this guy
Liam? He may be running the show on the ground, but there'll be a
whole other layer above him. At least one man, and probably several,
don't you think?'
Again the question was directed at Joe. He shrugged. 'It's feasible.'
The American nodded with satisfaction. 'Since we're putting names to faces, I'm Mike Travers.'
'Joe Carter.'
Travers smiled. The twinkle in his eye said he knew it was an alias.
'I hear you work for Valentin?'
'That's right.'
'Been there long?'
A while.'
Always done security work?'
'In a manner of speaking.'
Travers nodded, as if this kind of verbal chess merely confirmed
his theory.

'I passed you on the bridge, didn't I?'
'That's right.'
And he came back,' Angela cut in, aggrieved at what she interpreted
as hostile questioning. 'He didn't have to, but he came back
to help us.'
Travers looked amused. You'll pardon me for saying so, Angela,
but it hasn't helped us a whole lot yet.'
Angela made a huffing noise, but was stilled from further comment
by Terry Fox. In the silence that followed, Joe was left wondering if
anyone else had picked up on the American's subtle but unmissable
emphasis on the word 'yet'.

Liam's explanation came out in a rush, bombarding Valentin with
facts in the hope that the cumulative effect would be to wear the
Ukrainian down.
There wasn't another safe, as such. It was a panic room. An integral
part of the building. The loot was almost certainly inside, but a new
door had been fitted. Biometric security. Oliver Felton had demonstrated
beyond doubt that he could not open it up. The room was impregnable
. . . as Turner would confirm.
At that point Liam's heart skipped a beat, until Turner nodded. 'We
could maybe blow the whole house apart. Other than that, not a cat
in hell's chance.'
Valentin's mouth tightened. His face flushed. Liam thought he was
going to explode, but when he spoke he surprised them all by talking
quietly. They had to strain to hear him.
'First you come to me and tell me the safe is empty.' He put on a
high-pitched sing-song voice: '"It is all over, Valentin. We are finished."
But I say: "No. It is a decoy. There is another safe." So you go away
and what do you find? It is a decoy! There is a panic room. This is
where Felton has put his money. So that is good news, yes? If I had
not told you this, would the panic room have been found? No. And
yet still you come back here and tell me: "Oh, Valentin, it is impossible.
There is no way to get inside.'"
Valentin slowly shook his head, as if marvelling at the chasm between
his wisdom and their incompetence.
'So now I say to you: "Do not keep returning to me for every tiny
decision. Open. This. Fucking. Door.'" He punctuated each of the last
four words by thumping his bound hands on the arm of the sofa.
'Pendry is the explosives man, yes?' he asked Turner.
Yeah, but he'll tell you the same -- '
'No. Pendry will not tell me the same. Pendry will find a solution.'
Valentin gritted his teeth, virtually snarling as he looked at each of
them in turn. You will not leave this island until we have found a
way to get inside that room. And yes, destroy the entire house if that
is what it takes. But don't come back to me until you have succeeded.'
Liam sighed. He tried to look both stern and conciliatory, all the
while thinking: I didn't sign up for this. From the way he was glowering
Turner seemed to share the sentiment.
But Priya did not. She said: 'I have a better idea.'
Valentin's temper immediately cooled. Aha! Someone who can
bring me answers not problems for a change. Well?'
'We use Oliver Felton as a hostage and summon his father here.
Either he opens the panic room or we dismember his little boy.'
Valentin looked sceptical, which gave Liam a small boost.
'Does Felton care enough about his son?'
'Not ordinarily. But this is an extreme situation. I can't believe he'd
let Oliver die.'
It was the first that Turner had heard of the idea, and he looked
far from impressed. Yeah, and what if he just calls the cops?'
'Felton's a professional. An experienced man. He'll know better
than to act so rashly.'
Both Liam and Turner started to add their objections, but Valentin
cut them short.
'There are hazards, yes. But I do not think we can reject it without
some more thought.'
And what happens while we wait for Felton to arrive?' Liam said.
'Every minute that we're here increases the risks. We're two men down
already, for Christ's sake. There's hardly anyone spare to load up the
vans . . .'
'Then some extra time will be of value to us,' said Valentin. 'No
one will come here during the night. As long as the phones are monitored,
we should be safe until morning.'
He stared at Liam, challenging him to disagree. Liam felt Priya's
gaze upon him, solemn and steady and gently derisive. After his
botched assault on her, he knew some of his authority had slipped
away. How he reacted now could determine whether he lost it
completely.
All right,' he said. 'But first let's find out what brought Joe here.
I'll get Pendry and Eldon started on the inventory and then we'll make
a decision, okay?'
Adding insult to injury, Valentin glanced at Priya before he replied.
'Very well. But any more mistakes and the decisions will not be
yours to make.'

Gough wasn't sure whether to feel pleased or resentful that he'd wound
up guarding the bridge. It was boring as hell, but at least it didn't
require much effort. Generally that suited him fine.
After abandoning the beach early, he'd feared that he had blown
his chances altogether. He probably would have done if he'd admitted
to playing chicken with the silly old cow on her bike. Wisely he had
said nothing to Liam or Turner.
Still, seeing her take a tumble had been the best part of his day,
no question. It made him smile to think about it now.
After some trial and error he'd found a comfortable spot where the
bridge joined the island. The kerb was raised just high enough to sit
on, and he could rest his back against the railing. The gentle lapping
of the water against the old slipway almost had him convinced he was
on holiday. He'd kill for a cocktail now, he thought. Something big
and fancy, loaded with spirits.
He shut his eyes for a moment, just to help him visualise the drink.
He wanted to get the ingredients right, even if he was only making it
in his imagination. Maybe a daiquiri. No. Havana Beach. A measure
of white rum, two measures of pineapple juice, half a lime and a
teaspoon of sugar...
He didn't fall asleep. He was quite sure of that. So the noise couldn't
have woken him.
Unless he had dozed off, just for a second or two, and there hadn't
been a noise at all. Maybe he'd dreamed that.
He sat up, rubbed his eyes and checked the time. It was ten-thirty.
Was that right?
Gough looked across the bridge. Without getting up he could see
that the road on the mainland was as deserted as ever. It was paler
than the empty, mysterious landscape which surrounded it, and seemed
to be glowing gently in the starlight.
He wondered about the wildlife. There had to be all kinds of things
moving around out there. It was a bloody nature reserve, after all.
Foxes, badgers, rabbits. Those little rodent things from that kids' book
about the frog. What was that? Wind in the Willows. They must have
willows here, as well, not that he'd know what they looked like . . .
The next noise was definitely real.
It was a voice. Right behind him.
'Too bad,' it said. The tone was one of mocking disappointment,
which for a second made him think that Turner had caught him
napping. That would have been bad, but not disastrous.
Then Gough felt the blade against his neck, and he knew it was
much, much worse than that.


Forty-One



A few minutes after Pendry took over guard duty, Eldon picked up
the box file and retreated to a corner of the garage. Joe watched as
he sat down on the floor, crossed his legs and rested the file on his
lap. He fidgeted for a moment, then opened it up.
The box was bulging with what appeared to be a mass of old documents.
Eldon lifted the metal clip and tried to separate the first sheet
of paper. The gloves made it difficult, so he stripped them off. Wiped
his hands on his trouser legs and then got to work. He read both sides
of the first document, set it down on the floor and picked up the next
one.
Joe was making a note that the police might be able to lift Eldon's
fingerprints from the paper when there was a low, despairing groan
from close by.
It was Oliver Felton. Visibly trembling, he seemed unaware of the
noise he was making.
'Oliver?' said Angela, trying to reach towards him. She glanced at
Terry Fox. 'Is he having a seizure?'
'I don't think so,' said Terry. He called Oliver's name, sharply enough
to catch Pendry's attention. The guard growled at him to shut up.
Oliver looked at Terry, then shook his head from side to side, as though denying some horrible accusation.
'No no no no no nooooo . . .'
Angela tried again. 'Oliver, what's wrong?'
But the young man was unresponsive. Joe heard activity behind
him and twisted round. Valentin was being led back in. He looked
furious but unharmed. For the first time it struck Joe that the
Ukrainian's hands were cuffed from the front, as were Angela's,
whereas everyone else was bound from behind. He wondered why
that was.
There were three members of the gang with Valentin, all masked
and distinguishable only by their shape and posture. He could see
that the two men were Liam and Turner, and the third was the woman:
Priya.
'What's his fucking problem?' Turner said, pointing at Oliver.
'I dunno,' said Pendry. 'He's a fruitcake, isn't he?'
'He'll get a bullet in the gob if he doesn't button it.'
As he spoke, Turner kicked Oliver in the back. The young man
fell forward, crying out with pain. He straightened up, tears spilling
down his face, snot bubbling from his nose.
Joe was forced nearer to Angela as Valentin resumed his position
amongst the prisoners. Liam and Priya had moved towards
the far side of the garage, where they were in quiet conversation
with Pendry.
Travers lifted his head, catching Turner's eye before he moved away.
'Hey, I wanna speak to whoever's in charge here.'
Turner studied him for a moment, his eyes narrowed. 'Why?'
'I want the boss man, okay? I've got something for him.'
Turner made a dismissive noise, and ambled casually in Liam's
direction as though unwilling to be seen in the role of messenger boy.
Joe looked at Travers. You're making a mistake.'
The American met his gaze with a blatant lack of shame. 'No
mistake, buddy.'
Terry Fox gasped as he realised what was happening. You're not
seriously intending to bargain with them?'
'Maybe.'
'That's pathetic,' said Angela. 'If they're the amateurs you claim
they are, it'll all fall apart soon enough.'
Travers regarded her with contempt. 'It's the fact they're amateurs
that scares me. Professionals would have taken what they wanted and
hightailed it out of here by now. These jokers have screwed up - and
that means we're much more likely to die. That's why I'm gonna trade
my way out of here.'
'Traitor!' Angela said with disgust. Anyway, what have you got to
give them?'
Immune to her scorn, Travers grinned. He stared at Joe as he
answered.
'Oh, I got plenty,' he said. 'Don't you fret about that'

Liam was explaining the probable layout of the panic room to Pendry
when Turner sauntered up.
'The Yank wants a word.'
'What?'
'Says he has something to tell you.'
Liam nodded irritably. 'Bring him over here.'
He told Pendry to take a look at the panic room, then join Yuri at
Valentin's place. Pendry climbed into the Transit and started it up,
while Priya pressed the button that opened the garage doors. There
were gasps of relief from the prisoners as fresh air wafted into the
room.
The tall American smiled as Liam approached. He gazed out at
the darkness and murmured: 'Freedom.'
Liam said nothing. He resented the American's easy manner, acting
like the two of them had just stepped out for a cigarette at a cocktail
party.
You're Liam, right? The big man in charge?'
Yeah.'
Travers tutted. 'So who's in charge of you?' He made a show of
surveying the room. 'Is he here too?'
At that moment Liam was grateful for his mask. He reassured
himself that it wasn't anything more than a throwaway comment.
If Travers genuinely believed that Valentin was involved, he'd surely
have come right out and said so.
'What do you want?'
'Got a proposal for you. Something you need to know.'
'Go on.'
Travers sucked air between his teeth, in the time-honoured manner
of a negotiator.
A few things to get straight first You see, I don't much care what
you fellas are up to. Far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to
every last cent on the island. All I want is my car and a route out
of here.' He chuckled. 'Hell, you can even keep my driver. I won't
breathe a word about what happened because, like I said, I don't give
a damn.'
'That part's clear enough. What I don't get is why we should let
you go.'
You're a man of honour, right?' Travers didn't wait for a reply. 'Sure
you are. And believe me, you really need to know this. So do we have
a deal, yes or no?'
Liam almost had to laugh. Talk about full of shit.
He glanced over the American's shoulder and saw Turner give a
shrug. Can't hurt to listen.
All right. But you'll have to give it to us first.'
And trust you to let me go?'
'That's the deal. Take it or leave it.'
He watched Travers weighing it up, uncertainty in his eyes.
'Okay,' he said. 'Now, I saw you took Nasenko out just now. What
has he told you about his man over there?'
Travers turned and nodded towards Joe, who was watching them
with a determinedly neutral expression.
'Like what?' Liam asked.
'Like his career history. His resume.'
Liam affected a lack of interest. 'Get to the point, or go back and
sit down.'
'The point is that Joe Carter, or whatever he calls himself, isn't just
a common or garden bodyguard.' Travers grinned. 'He's a cop. An
undercover cop.'

Forty-Two

Joe was too far away to hear, too far away to read anything but body
language. But that was enough.
He knew what Travers was going to tell them - because now he
remembered where he'd seen the American before. Going back ten
years or more, Joe had been attending a meeting at New Scotland
Yard. During a break, he and a fellow officer had queued for the coffee
machine behind the American, who'd been deep in conversation with
a couple of people from what was then known as SO 12, or Special
Branch. The man had been unfamiliar to them both, but Joe's
colleague had deduced who - or what - he was.
CIA.
Reflecting on it, Joe guessed that Travers would have retired from
the Agency by now, and had probably transferred his skills and contacts
to the more lucrative civilian arena. If so, that would explain his
meeting with Valentin earlier today.
Joe felt a calm descend on him. Whatever was about to happen,
there was little he could do but wait and see how it played out. But
Angela looked sick with fear, as though she too had worked out what
leverage Travers might have. Joe tried to reassure her that he wasn't
going to panic, and neither should she.
Valentin ought to have been desperate to know what Liam and
Travers were talking about, but he appeared remarkably unperturbed.

Perhaps nothing that Travers told them would alter Valentin's own
predicament. After all, Yuri had already betrayed him--
Joe shut his eyes. When he did, the image that came to him was
a drop of whisky, sliding down a silver hip flask. It had stuck in his
mind for a reason, and now he understood what it was.
A toast. They had drunk a toast to their success.
And then he recalled the conversation that Cassie had reported
overhearing. Yuri asking, 'Do you want to kill them?' and Valentin's
reply: 'Not if we can find a better way.'
When Joe opened his eyes the other prisoners were staring at him,
aware that something important had happened. Angela spoke to him,
and so did Maria, but Joe's mind was elsewhere.
He looked at Valentin. You knew about Yuri.'
Valentin shook his head, but the gesture lacked conviction.
'What are you saying?' Terry Fox demanded.
'This is a set-up,' Joe said, still working it through in his mind. A
big, elaborate con-trick.'
Then everyone started talking at once: a few seconds of noisy
outrage, brought to a halt when Liam marched over. Travers was alongside
him, looking smugly pleased.
Liam drew his gun, glanced at Valentin and then turned his attention
to Joe.
'Mr Travers here claims you're a cop. Is that right?'


Liam watched Joe carefully. He believed he would be able to spot
the lie, if and when it came.
He also felt sure the allegation was true. Joe's composure had bothered
him from the start. It was characteristic of a professional of some
sort: police, army, special forces. After all, why else would Valentin
have employed him?
Joe took a long time to reply. Liam could sense the other prisoners
hardly daring to breathe. Turner and Priya stood off to one side,
watching and waiting.
'Well?'
Finally Joe nodded. 'I was a police officer, just like he was in the
CIA.' He indicated Travers. 'But I'm not a cop any more. Haven't
been for years. I work for Valentin.'
It was a neat manoeuvre, Liam thought, passing the onus on to
Nasenko. It was also a reminder that the prisoners would expect him
to question Joe's employer.
'Did you know this?' he asked.
The Ukrainian shook his head. 'No. We suspected the ID he gave
us was false, but there can be many reasons for this.'
Stupid fucker, Liam thought. He came dangerously close to saying
it aloud. Organising a job like this with a bloody ex-cop on your books . . . He put it aside for now. Looked from Valentin to Travers, then to
Joe. You killed two of my men. I'm sure you'd allege it was self
defence, but I doubt if you can prove that.'
Joe started to protest but Liam cut him off.
'That means you've crossed a line, a line no serving policeman
would dare to cross. Therefore I conclude that you're not a threat to
us.'

Now it was Travers who began to speak. Liam turned and aimed
his gun at the American's belly.
'Hey, we had a deal, buddy,' Travers shouted. 'I was trying to help
you.'
'Bullshit,' said Liam. 'This was about saving your own skin.'
He fired twice, hitting Travers in the stomach and chest from a distance
of less than four feet. Because of the silencer, the noise was unspectacular.
A couple of the prisoners had their backs to him and didn't fully
comprehend what they'd heard until the American crashed to the floor.

Joe watched Travers fall, his eyes still wide in disbelief that his scheme
hadn't paid off. The only consolation was that it was a quick death;
perhaps better than Travers deserved. But Joe took no satisfaction
from it.
You didn't need to do that,' he told Liam. 'It just demonstrates how
frightened you are.'
The Irishman laughed off the comment. With his acolytes in tow,
he returned to the far side of the garage. Joe kept an eye on Valentin,
who looked genuinely staggered by Travers's murder.
'It's not going according to plan, is it?'
Valentin sighed. 'Please, Joe. No more crazy talk.'
The weariness was genuine, Joe could see, but the reason for it was
false.
'It's not crazy. You and Yuri worked on this together.'
'Is that true?' Terry Fox asked. He looked as though he would tear
Valentin to pieces given half a chance.
'It had better not be,' Angela said. 'If I thought you had anything
to do with my husband's murder . . .'
Valentin flinched. 'I tell you, no, it is not true. I am here, aren't I?
A prisoner, like you.' Joe spotted the tiny, calculating glance at his audience:
trying to gauge the effectiveness of his performance. 'Remember
that McWhirter is dead, too. My adviser, my friend for many years.'
These last words carried enough weight to create plausible doubt.
Angela and Terry fell silent, but Maria caught Joe's eye and shook her
head emphatically. Like Joe, she wasn't convinced.
'We were attacked in Brighton,' he told Valentin. 'Two men and a
woman, driving an M-class Mercedes. They were trying to abduct Sofia.'
'What?' Valentin looked thunderstruck. 'Is she all right? Is she safe?'
Joe nodded. 'You're saying you didn't arrange for it?'
?"Me? Why would I. . . ?'
'To pre-empt a custody battle. Because you and Cassie are on the
verge of separating.'
Valentin slowly worked through Joe's accusation. His body seemed
to sag, and he looked around hopelessly, as though he no longer cared
whether anyone believed him.
'No,' he said at last. 'I swear to you, I know nothing of this.'
Liam was aware of Priya seething quietly as she followed him across
the garage. The pressure on him was suddenly overwhelming. At that
moment he could have happily slaughtered everyone in the room just
for the chance to take off his mask and breathe some fresh air. He
felt the walls closing in, the garage no more than a cell, getting smaller,
tighter, as his options ran out. . .
And a cell was where he might end up. Liam knew he could never
survive that. He'd kill himself rather than face incarceration.
The first time Priya spoke, he missed it and she had to repeat her
question.
'I said, do you think that was wise?'
'I don't care. The Yank was pissing me off.'
Priya's eyes narrowed. 'Travers was a vital link in the chain. We
need someone Felton trusts, to corroborate what happened.'
'Not any more we don't. Because we're going to get Felton over
here, and then he can see for himself.'
Priya sighed. Not the reaction Liam expected.
'What's the matter with you? Calling Felton was your fucking idea.'
And if for some reason it doesn't happen? By killing Travers you've
just destroyed your back-up plan.'
'We don't need a back-up plan.'
Turner, not quite eavesdropping, muttered: 'Could have fooled me.'
'Look, we've had some setbacks,' Liam said, 'and we've dealt with
every one of them. Believe me, once you see inside that panic room
you'll forget all about this.'
'I bloody well hope so,' said Turner.
All right,' said Priya, sticking rigidly to business. 'What about Joe?'
'Like I said, I'm not worried about him. When we're done here
we'll strap him to a propane canister and it'll be like he never existed.'
Liam laughed, but no one else joined in.
'Come on,' he said. 'We'll take Oliver into the lounge to make the
call, then you two can help the others. Once we get the vans loaded
up we'll feel a lot better.'
They turned back towards the prisoners. Liam noticed Eldon sitting
against the wall, the box file from Felton's safe open on his lap. As
he watched, Eldon added another sheet to the loose pile of papers on
the floor and turned to the next item in the box.
Then he stopped. He looked up and back down again, staring at
a small brown envelope. He picked it up, examined both sides, then
glanced over as he heard Liam approaching.
'What?' said Liam. You found something?'
'I'm not sure,' said Eldon. He sounded confused. 'I think so.'

Forty-Three

This was the moment Oliver had been dreading. The last piece of
the puzzle had fallen into place only minutes before, when the guard
opened the box file and Oliver remembered . . .
... the file materialising in his father's study, four or five days ago.
Oliver carried out regular if desultory sweeps of the room. He knew
that anything valuable or vaguely scandalous would be kept well out
of his grasp, but still it amused him to search from time to time.
But riffling through the box had yielded nothing of interest. A
couple of days later, when he'd gone back into the study, there had
been an envelope sitting on top of the box. At the time it had left
him intrigued, but not particularly excited. It was just one of those
things that didn't make much sense.
Until now.

'What is it?' Liam said.
Eldon shrugged. He held the envelope at arm's length, as if he
wanted nothing more to do with it.
Liam took it from him. The envelope felt thin: probably no more
than a single sheet of paper inside. No stamp or postmark. But it was
sealed at the back, and on the front there was a name, handwritten
in capital letters.
Liam looked at it for a long time. He wanted to believe it was a
bizarre coincidence, or some kind of joke.
'Where did you find it?'
Eldon lifted a thick wad of documents. 'Right at the bottom, tucked
between a couple of old share certificates.'
Liam felt Priya at his side. He showed her the envelope. Her arm
brushed against his shoulder as she leaned over to look; neither of
them reacted to the contact.
She stared at the name on the envelope, then at Liam. She opened
her mouth to speak but he shook his head. Say nothing.
The letter might have been addressed to Valentin, but there was
absolutely no question of giving it to him, or even alerting him to its
existence. This understanding passed swiftly between them, confirmed
by Priya's nod of approval as Liam hooked his thumb into the flap
and ripped the envelope open.
No going back now.
Then someone shouted his name.

Joe was inclined to believe that Valentin knew nothing about the
abduction attempt. He was far less confident when it came to Valentin's
denials of complicity in the attack on Terror's Reach.
One thing Joe did know: Valentin Nasenko played second fiddle
to nobody. If he was involved, it was more than likely that he'd masterminded
the entire operation. And Robert Felton would be the principal
target, for two reasons.
Firstly, once the Nasenkos were discounted, Felton was far and away
the wealthiest individual on Terror's Reach. Secondly, and perhaps more
crucially, there was a deep personal animosity between the two men.
So far, so logical. But there were still missing pieces of the puzzle
- like the abduction, and Allotti's death.
He looked up, aware that Liam had made an abrupt detour towards
Eldon. Joe wondered why the guard was spending so much time
looking through old paperwork. What did they hope to find?
Dismissing it, he went back to the twin anomalies: the kidnap
attempt and Allotti's murder. This time he made the connection at
once. They were linked by one man.
Yuri had been only yards away from Allotti when Joe stumbled
upon the body.
Yuri had instructed Joe to take Cassie and the children to the
jewellers at a specific time.
'Oh shit,' Joe whispered.
He sat up, craning to get a clear sight of Liam. He was holding an
envelope, which he showed to Priya before tearing it open.
'Liam!'
The Irishman glanced at him, irritated, then turned away.
'Listen to me,' said Joe. 'You have a guard at the bridge, right?'
'Shut up!' From Turner, striding towards him.
You need to speak to him. Right now. Otherwise he'll end up like
Allotti.'

'Bollocks,' said Turner. 'You killed Allotti.'

'No. Believe me, you have to call him. Make sure he's still alive.'

Liam could hear what Joe was saying, but the words barely penetrated.
He felt strangely apprehensive as he opened the envelope, as though
its contents might somehow prove more hazardous than anything they'd
encountered so far.
Inside there was a sheet of good-quality A5 paper, folded in half.
He unfolded it and held it out for them both to read. One word,
written in the same block capitals as on the envelope:

Priya reacted first. 'What does he mean by that?'
'No idea. But I don't like it'

'Do you think it's a ... I don't know, a draft version or something?'
'Maybe. But the envelope was sealed.'
'So he just hadn't got round to sending it?'
'They live virtually next door to each other,' Liam said. His mouth
had gone dry, and he swallowed with difficulty. There was an idea
forming in his mind, and it was one he wanted desperately to ignore.
He saw that Turner had moved away from the prisoners and was
talking on his radio. He must be taking Joe's warning seriously. Liam
would have bawled him out for that, but he had more important things
on his mind.
He strode towards the prisoners. When they saw him coming, they
shuffled like nervous livestock. They avoided direct eye contact, but
watched him with wary sidelong glances.
Oliver Felton was the exception. Head down, gaze fixed on the
floor, brow furrowed with concentration; he might have been trying
to vanish by sheer willpower.
Liam thrust the paper in front of Oliver's face. 'Explain this.'
Oliver said nothing. With his free hand, Liam took out his gun
and jammed the muzzle against Oliver's temple.
'Tell me.'
Oliver looked up at the note, then back at the floor. 'I can't
explain it.'
'Do you recognise the handwriting?'
'It's my father's, I think. But I've no idea what it means.'
'Not good enough,' said Liam. 'When your dad cleared out the
safe, why did he leave that box of documents?'
'Most of it is worthless,' Oliver said. 'I suppose he didn't think there
was any need to move it.'
'So why not throw it away?'

'I don't know.'
'It was left there on purpose, wasn't it? For us to find.'
Silence. Liam tapped the young man's head with the gun. 'Wasn't it?'
'I suppose so.'
Now that Oliver was responding, Liam casually moved the note,
holding it in such a way that Valentin would be able to read it. He
heard gasps as the other prisoners also digested the message.
You knew this was here,' said Liam.
'I ... I saw the envelope,' Oliver admitted in a small voice. 'I didn't
understand it, not until ... all this happened.'
'Sure about that?' Liam's finger tightened on the trigger. Oliver
must have felt the tension, the desire within Liam to shoot, but he
looked untroubled by it. There was a dreamy expression on his face
as he whispered something that Liam didn't catch.
'What?'
'Do it,' said Oliver. 'I want you to do it.'

Joe read the unease in Liam's movements, in his voice. The man was
on the brink of panic. If Joe misjudged now, he might very easily push
Liam over the edge. But neither could he sit there and let Oliver die
the way Travers had done.
You need to think carefully about this,' Joe said.
'Don't interfere,' said Liam, 'or you'll be next.'
But his trigger finger relaxed, just slightly. The barrel of the gun
drifted a couple of inches from Oliver's head.
Checkmate.
Joe had seen the message, as had the others. He suspected Liam
had deliberately allowed Valentin to read it. The Ukrainian had given
no reaction, even when Liam's questions had also revealed that Felton's
safe was empty.
They told Valentin earlier, Joe thought. That's why he was taken out
of the room: for a progress report.
You've been played,' he said, but his words were lost as Turner
stomped over.
'Nothing from Gough,' he told Liam. And I know he was alive
after we caught Joe, because I spoke to him.'
'Try him again. He may not have heard you.'
'I tried three times. I've sent Pendry to look for him.' Turner noticed
the paper in Liam's hand. 'What's that?'
Liam showed him the letter and the envelope. Turner exploded.
'What the fuck is this about?'
Joe got in first. 'It's Yuri. I thought maybe he'd got greedy, wiping
out some of your team so he could make off with a larger share. That's
why I tried to warn you. But it's worse than that.'
Liam started to rubbish him, but Turner, who looked like the sort
of man who trusted no one, said, 'Hold on. I wanna hear this.'
Joe nodded, then addressed Valentin. 'I think you should have the
guts to explain. After all, it's you that got us all into this mess.'
Valentin recoiled at the accusation. 'Wh-what do you . . . ?'
'This is all about Robert Felton, isn't it?' said Joe. Your pathetic
feud. You wanted revenge, so you planned to rob him. And you
pretended to be a victim yourself so Felton wouldn't suspect it was
you.'
Angela Weaver cried out, and there was an angry exclamation from
Terry Fox. Even Oliver lifted his head to stare at Valentin.
'This is more crazy talk,' Valentin said, forcing sarcasm into his voice.
'Just a way for you to buy your freedom, like Travers tried to do.'
Joe shook his head. You're the one who's been lying through his
teeth. And you're the one who bears responsibility for what these
people have done.'
'What did you mean about Yuri?' Liam demanded.
Joe paused for a moment, making sure he had their full attention.
'He's double-crossed you.'


Forty-Four

The clock moved inexorably towards 11 p.m. while Cassie tried without
success to sleep. The room was uncomfortably hot, but because they
were on the ground floor she didn't dare open the main window.
Instead she'd opened a small trap window, but the air in the room
hardly stirred. The night was warm and still, and they were too far
inland to benefit from the cooling sea breezes that made sleeping at
Terror's Reach so pleasurable.
At the thought of her home a sadness and longing enveloped her.
She considered making another phone call, perhaps this time to
Valentin himself. She didn't know whether to feel frightened or
betrayed that Joe hadn't called back. Surely by now he would have
heard her message?
She turned over, facing towards Jaden. He was sleeping under a
sheet, snoring softly, his face almost impossibly serene. Cassie lay on
top of the covers, wearing only knickers and a thin T-shirt. She curled
into a foetal position and fought off another bout of tears.
The knock on the door was nearly too quiet to hear. Her body
jerked, the way it did sometimes when she was on the verge of sleep.
She waited a few seconds, then dismissed it and shut her eyes again.
She must have been dozing off, after all.
Another knock. Cassie flinched. She lifted her head, staring at the
door in the murky half-light. She held her breath and listened with
all her concentration: heard a creak from the travel cot as Sofia kicked
her leg, and an answering snuffle from Jaden; further out, the rumble
of traffic on the ring road and the bass thump of a car stereo. But
only silence beyond the door.
And then a woman's voice, hushed with concern for the sleeping
children: 'Mrs Carter? Are you awake, Mrs Carter?'
The landlady. Cassie swung her legs off the bed and jumped up,
reeling as her circulation tried to adjust to the sudden movement. It
didn't seem right to waste time getting dressed so she grabbed up the
towel she'd used after her bath, wrapped it around her waist and
padded across the room.
She started to unlock the door, then caution overcame her. Joe
wouldn't want her to open up without knowing it was safe.
'What is it?' she hissed.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs Carter. There's an urgent message for you.
I didn't want to transfer the call to your room in case it woke the
kiddies . . .'
Joe, she thought, fumbling with the lock. It must be Joe. Thank God.
Cassie turned the handle and the door opened as if on a spring. It
hit a glancing blow to her wrist as she threw herself sideways. She
heard a thud as the landlady's body crumpled and was pushed into
the room, followed closely by the two men who had tried to abduct
Sofia in Brighton.

Joe said: You went next door, but Felton's safe was empty. Just that
box full of paper, is that right?'
No one responded. They didn't have to. Joe saw the whole picture
with a clarity borne of long experience. Bank heists, drug deals, frauds:
they all had their own distinctive patterns. But throw together a group
of individuals whose principal traits were greed, aggression and
stupidity, and the results were miserably predictable.
You found a note inside the box, which you seem to think is for
you.'
'It's addressed to him,' Turner said, looking at Valentin.
'So Felton must have known about this from the start. He set this
up to fail.'
'Using Yuri?' Turner said. Of the three, he seemed most willing to
get to the truth.
Now the woman, Priya, said, You're claiming that Yuri has been
working for Robert Felton?'
Yes.' Joe remembered something. 'I want to know why you turned
him loose. When I first saw him, he was being brought here as a prisoner.'
There
was an awkward silence before Liam said, 'He offered to
help the search, after someone tried to make a phone call. I take it
that was you?'
Joe nodded. 'I made a mistake there. But it gave Yuri the perfect
opportunity. Once he was free he could get on with following his
orders, which came from Robert Felton.'
Priya again: 'Why would Felton do this?'
'Because he wants more than just a laugh. The note's there to illustrate
how brilliantly he outsmarted you. It's like a practical joke. It
also shows he could have prevented your attack if he'd wanted to. But
he didn't. He let it go ahead, and now he's got Yuri picking off your
men one by one. Killing them. That means there's a far more serious
motive.'
'Revenge,' Valentin whispered, and it sounded as though his spirit
leaked out with the word. 'He wants revenge.'


It was true. Liam knew it in his heart. Joe wasn't simply trying to talk
his way out of here. He'd supplied a plausible explanation for every
discrepancy.
There was a heavy silence. For captors and captives alike, it seemed
as though nobody grasped what this meant, or how they should
respond.
To Liam, the only sensible option was to cut and run. Whether he
could bring himself to do it was debatable, having been promised so
much.
Valentin was first to move. He strained to get up, leaning heavily
against his maid as he tried to stand. The woman scowled, jabbing
him in the side with her elbow.
'What are you doing?' Liam asked.
'Let me go.'
The other prisoners started to protest, throwing insults at the
Ukrainian. Valentin did his best to turn a deaf ear to them. Once
upright, he thrust out his hands.
'Free me, then get away from here. It is your only hope.' He nodded
graciously at the seated prisoners. "I'll release them, and call the police.'
You're fucking joking!' Turner growled.
'It won't work,' Joe said.
'I'm a victim here.' With difficulty Valentin stepped back, out of
the circle of prisoners. 'There's no evidence to say otherwise.'
Yuri,' said Joe.
Valentin kept his gaze on Liam. When he spoke, it sounded as
though he was reading from a prepared statement. 'I have no idea
what Yuri has done, whether he has betrayed me, or you. I am a victim
here. Let me go, and I will help the others.'
'Oh no, you're not getting away with this,' Angela Weaver shouted
at him. You killed my husband.'
Valentin wore a patient frown, as though regretting this outburst
from an emotionally unstable woman.
'I killed no one. These . . . strangers killed your husband. As you
can all see, I am merely trying to negotiate our freedom, so that no
one else has to die.'
Joe laughed. Your plan failed, and now you're going to portray
yourself as a hero?'
Valentin kept up the pressure on Liam. His eyes flashed a warning
that the prisoners didn't catch.
Go. Go while you still can.
It was tempting. Liam could see the fear hiding in the Ukrainian's
face. And if Valentin was scared, then Liam knew they should all be
scared.
He glanced at Turner and Priya. Both seemed dubious, thinking it
through. Liam was doing the same, and he believed there was a
glimmer of hope.
It might just work. If they went now there was no reason to assume
they'd get caught. The masks and gloves had protected their identities.
Of course, Valentin knew who they were, but he couldn't reveal that
without incriminating himself. And maybe he really would convince
the police that he was a genuine victim. It didn't matter what allegations
the other residents hurled at him: without solid proof to back
them up, Valentin would be in the clear.
No one else has to die.
Lie low for a few months, then have a serious talk with Valentin
about compensation. Generous compensation.
It was a very appealing concept, and Liam basked in its glow for
all of five seconds.
Then the lights went out.

Forty-Five

The darkness was absolute. Joe felt as though he'd been sucked into
oblivion. For maybe half a second he had nothing to go on: no light
or sound or movement. No sensory input at all.
But he knew it wouldn't last. This was the calm before the storm.
Right on cue, the next half-second produced a sensory bombardment.
The garage's internal door blew open and Joe felt the vibration
of urgent but coordinated movement. He heard the stomp of heavy
feet and the clatter of weaponry. Beads of red light danced across the
garage like fireflies, alighting on the invisible forms around him.
Several voices bellowed at once.
'Drop your weapons!'
'Get down now!'
'Everyone on the ground!'
Joe was already reacting. Despite his restraints, he managed to grab
hold of Angela's sleeve. He felt her turning, trying to get her legs out
from beneath her, but the prisoners were too tightly bunched to move
easily. As Joe pushed himself backwards to make room he hit someone's
foot: Liam's, perhaps, or Priya's.
A red spot roamed across Angela's head and lingered at the base
of her neck, illuminating a swirl of grey hair. Joe threw himself against
her.
'Lie flat. Flat as you can.'
He hoped his voice might cut through the shock. He could sense
that some of the prisoners were only just beginning to process what
was happening; their actions sluggish and uncertain. Behind him,
Liam, Priya and Turner seemed equally unresponsive, as if the roving
red dots had pinned them to the spot.
Joe knew they were infrared sights, probably from scopes attached
to high-powered automatic rifles. Often their primary purpose was
intimidation rather than operational necessity. To move with such
assurance in a complete blackout their attackers had to be equipped
with night-vision goggles.
Another long second passed. The men at the doorway were still
shouting orders. Joe heard the scuffles as they fanned out to cover the
room. Good solid tactics against an enemy that was blind and stunned,
but not entirely helpless.
And, worse still, susceptible to panic.
Joe couldn't tell who fired first. He'd given up trying to see anything
and ducked his head, his cheek pressed against the cool concrete.
One shot, away to his right, from a handgun with no silencer.
The response was a multiple burst of gunfire. Two automatic weapons,
each firing several rounds. Joe glimpsed the muzzle flash from one, saw
the gunman moving as he fired. The clink clink clink of spent cartridges
bouncing on the concrete evoked surreal images of a slot machine paying
out. No winners here tonight, he thought, as screams and a grunt from
close by confirmed that someone had been hit. Along with the crash of
falling bodies came a shower of dust and grit and fragments of concrete.
The air smelled hot and dense with smoke and blood and fear.
In that very first second, one conclusion had leapt into Joe's mind:
a police raid. Now it was replaced by another. This time the image
was of a handwritten letter, and a single word.
Checkmate.

Liam understood. At least, that would be his impression afterwards.
That he worked out right away what he was facing, but just couldn't
respond. It reminded him of those dreams where running feels like
wading through syrup. He couldn't force his limbs to obey.
Hopelessly he thought: If only I could jettison the mask and suit,
throw myself amongst the prisoners . . .
No time. He absorbed the order to get down and from the tone he
knew these people weren't messing. Then something hit his foot, and
in jerking away his knees unlocked and he started what felt like an
agonisingly slow descent. At the same time he heard Turner muttering
an angry curse and Liam gauged that he was moving too, but in a
very different way.
The gunshot, at such close range, was a shock but not really a
surprise. Neither was the answering barrage of fire.
Must be Turner, he thought. As stupid as he was aggressive. Well,
tough. Liam didn't give a shit about him.
By then he was on the ground, one leg wedged under someone
else's body. He felt the passage of the bullets, close enough to sense
their energy, their unremitting potency and purpose. This was Death
rushing past, and what Liam knew above anything else was that he
was still alive, he hadn't been hit, and the hot viscous blood that splattered
against his mask was not his own blood but someone else's;
someone who deserved whatever they got.

Angela was suffocating. There was a scream trapped in her throat like
a chicken bone. She could feel it pressing against her windpipe, the
pain sharp and dull at the same time. Her eyes were tightly shut, but
her vision was filled with dazzling light, exploding in her brain with
a dreadful intensity.
She had always feared the dark. Combined with the frantic activity,
the shouts and then the gunfire from just a few feet away instilled an
almost primeval terror. It rendered her incapable of thought or movement,
unable even to draw a breath.
Someone had been shot. In the midst of the chaos Angela felt a
sickening impact, close enough to shake the ground beneath her.
The gunfire left her ears ringing, but as the sound of the blasts
echoed and died she was at last able to suck some air into her lungs.
The relief was so great that she opened her eyes, but she couldn't see
a thing. She shut them again, feeling the sting of tears from the dust
and smoke. Someone's head was brushing against hers: a tickle of hair
on her forehead.
And Joe was beside her. Thank God. Angela realised now that he
had saved her, pulling her below the path of the bullets before she
fully appreciated the danger.
With that came a far more profound realisation. For all her earlier
vows to the contrary, she found that she was desperate to survive. The
yearning was like a hopeless thirst, a dry hollow ache in her throat.
She wanted to live.

On the ground, Liam could hear the ragged breathing of the person
lying next to him. Someone else was moaning, and one of the female
prisoners was sobbing quietly. Above that noise, the men who'd burst
in were still shouting orders. He heard their feet pounding on the
concrete, coming closer, and waited for the bullet that would end it all.
But no bullet came. Instead rough hands grabbed his arms. There
was a clatter as his gun was snatched from his hand. Dazed and frightened,
he didn't resist as they pulled him to his feet. The utility belt
dropped from his waist as if it had been cut, but he couldn't tell. Even
inches away, his assailants were completely invisible.
His hands were wrenched behind his back, and then a deeper darkness
suddenly enveloped him. He heard muffled cries and guessed
that others were being subjected to the same process.
Were they being separated: the guilty from the innocent?
Until that moment he'd harboured the erroneous belief- not quite
a hope - that the authorities had caught up with them. Now, as he
contemplated what might lie in store, Liam found himself fervently
wishing that he'd been right.
Lying completely still, Angela concentrated on ignoring the flurry of
movement around her. The panic had abated enough for her to think
more clearly, and now her memory dredged up news footage from
the 1980s: the Iranian Embassy siege in London, which had ended
after a dramatic intervention by the SAS, in full view of the world's
media.
Was this the same? Were the good guys coming to the rescue?
Her arms, trapped awkwardly beneath her, began to tingle as the
blood drained from them. She shifted a little, not daring to turn over.
When no one stopped her, she rose an inch or two from the ground
and flexed various muscles in turn, urging her circulation back to life.
As the seconds passed, her hearing returned to normal and she
judged that a measure of calm was descending. The men who'd taken
charge continued to bark their orders, but the volume had dropped.
There were other sounds: dragging and scraping, and the secretive
rustle of fabric. Cries and moans, questions or protests quickly muted.
Angela opened her eyes. There remained nothing to see, but she
had a sense of the pressure easing, a falling-away that led, quite inexplicably,
to a moment of silence.
Maybe this is a dream, she thought. A terrible dream.
The bang that followed was so loud that it nearly stopped her heart.
She collapsed back on the floor, convinced she'd been shot. While
she lay in a clammy panic, mentally probing her body for a wound,
the lights came back on.
She gasped, pressing her face against the floor. But she was
unharmed. The noise had been the inner door closing.
Tentatively, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the glare, Angela raised
her head again, bracing herself for all manner of carnage. Around
her, the other prisoners were doing the same: taking stock of the situation,
even while it sank in that they were still alive.
Not rescued, but still alive.
What she discovered made her gasp. There was only one fatality
evident, and it was the meek, nervous guard by the wall: Eldon.
He lay in a pool of blood, his body shot to pieces. The box file
he'd been searching was overturned at his side.
The brutish guard, Turner, was injured. He'd been placed in a
sitting position by the wall, his arms behind his back, presumably
bound with the same tape that secured his ankles. A wound on his
thigh was bleeding heavily. There was a man attending to him, wrapping
a bandage around his leg. The man was dressed in black combat
gear, with body armour and a helmet. There was no insignia that she
could see.
Priya was tied up alongside Turner. Both had their masks removed.
Both had been gagged with a strip of tape. They looked scared and
baffled by their abrupt reversal of fortune, and Angela thought they
had every reason to be.
She shivered. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.
But the greater shock was the number of people missing: spirited
out of the garage in a display of horrifying efficiency.
Liam, the gang's leader, had been removed, as had Valentin Nasenko
and Oliver Felton.
And worst of all, Joe was gone. They had taken Joe.

Forty-Six

It was a short journey, memorable for all the wrong reasons. Joe was
bundled out of the house, his hands still tied behind his back. There
was a hood over his face, with a drawstring tight around his neck. The
hood's material was thick and rough and impregnated with some sort
of chemical that made his head spin. He kept his breathing shallow
and slow. Determined not to vomit.
Blind and disorientated, he was forced to walk at a rapid pace.
His captors directed him with jabs from their rifles, but they said
nothing. If he tripped or faltered he earned a punch in the kidneys.
This was all part of the plan: they wanted him terrified, confused,
vulnerable.
But Joe felt oddly impassive. They could have killed him already,
back in the garage, but they hadn't. Therefore they must have something
else in mind, something that entailed keeping him alive for at
least a while longer.
And that meant he still had a chance.

Out on the road, Joe didn't hear any engines. He wasn't surprised.
He had a feeling they wouldn't be going far.
Sure enough, they walked a short distance, then turned right again.
Another driveway underfoot. Joe tried to savour the image of a world
beyond the choking claustrophobia of the hood. Balmy night air and
a sky thick with stars. The gentle slap of the sea against the deck's
wooden pilings.
They led him indoors and ascended a flight of stairs. Someone
behind him slipped and cried out. Joe recognised the voice, and another
of his suspicions was confirmed.
They hurried along a passageway, then came to a halt. Shuffling
and jostling, they were filed through a doorway and thrown to the
floor. Joe immediately tried to sit up, but was clubbed on the side of
the head.
Then the real beating began. A barrage of kicks that forced him to
draw his knees up to his chest and tuck his head down. The blows
were fierce, but not lethal. His assailants left his head alone, aiming
instead for the muscles and soft tissues of his legs and torso. Like
tenderising meat.
The same treatment was being doled out to at least two other
people. Joe could hear them gasping and groaning. Like him, they
were wriggling and rolling on the floor, trying to evade their attackers,
and sometimes they collided. But none of them spoke up. None of
them begged for mercy. The plea to desist came from another source
altogether, somewhere across the room.
'Can't you make them stop?' Oliver Felton cried.
'Just softening them up for interrogation,' another voice replied.
'It's sadistic.'
'They're only getting what they deserve.'
You're just as bad as they are.'
'Be quiet, boy.'
Oliver sounded distraught. At least go easy on Joe. He wasn't part
of this.'
A laugh, cruel and contemptuous. 'Oh, I know exactly what Joe's
part was. Crawling over my island like vermin. I've got special plans
for him.'
There was another muttered objection, which was silenced with a
snarl.
'If you'd gone to bloody Oxford the way you were supposed to . . .
You defied me by staying here without my knowledge. Now you can
live with the consequences.'
Nothing more was said, but Oliver's intervention seemed to have
had some effect. The assault dwindled to a few lacklustre kicks, then
Joe felt hands moving at his neck, loosening the drawstring. The
hood was wrenched off, and Joe found himself staring at Robert
Felton.

They had been brought to a vast bedroom suite, decorated in a
minimalist style. Acres of pale carpet, subdued lighting with a blueish
tint, light wood panelling along one wall. There was a large open
safe set into the panelling. It was empty.
Robert Felton was sitting on the bed, which occupied a circular
platform in the centre of the room. His legs were crossed and one
arm was draped across his knee, a glass of champagne in his hand.
The picture of relaxation.
Joe was lying on the floor between the bed and a sitting area with
a couple of white leather sofas. Oliver Felton was on one of the sofas,
about ten feet away. His hood and restraints had been removed, but
he looked as helpless a captive as the others.
As Joe had guessed, two more men lay on the floor beside him.
Both remained hooded, but he could see that one was Liam and the
other - the one who'd tripped on the stairs - was Valentin.
Their three assailants were almost identical in size and demeanour:
wiry, compact men with watchful expressions. They wore black
uniforms with body-armour vests and combat assault helmets with
microphones and earpieces attached. Night-vision goggles hung from
their necks, and they carried Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine guns
with muzzle-flash suppressors.
Had to be ex-special forces, Joe thought. Well-trained, well
equipped and deadly calm. They made Liam's men look like a bunch
of amateurs.
Not Liam's men, he corrected himself.
Valentin's.

At Felton's command, one of the guards moved towards Liam and
began loosening his hood. That was when Joe saw there was another
person in the room with them.
Yuri. He was leaning back against the door, staring at Joe with
undisguised malice. Joe held his gaze for a moment, then turned away.
Liam's hood was removed, along with his ski mask, and Joe saw that
he was indeed the driver of the Transit who had passed him this afternoon.
The
last to be uncovered was Valentin. He noticed Liam first, and
then, with a shudder so subtle that possibly only Joe detected it, he
forced himself to face Robert Felton.
For his part, Felton drew out the tension for a while longer. He
stood up, nodding gently to himself. He was as tall as Oliver, well
over six feet, but much broader. Not quite plump, but certainly well
fed: prosperity oozed from every pore. He was dressed in a navy blue
suit and a white shirt. He had the kind of thick brown hair that a
middle-aged man would take great pride in: immaculately styled, and
not a trace of grey. Full, slightly feminine lips, Hollywood teeth and
tan, and big blue eyes that sparkled with delight at the misfortune of
others.
He raised his glass in a mock toast. 'To a productive evening . . .'
He took a sip. 'I hear you found my little note?'
The question was directed at Valentin, who didn't respond. It was
left to Liam to supply a grudging nod.
"I'm disappointed in you, Valentin. Greed, I can understand. I know
you're on your uppers, and this must have seemed like the perfect
solution. But blowing Dreamscape to smithereens just because you
don't care for my architecture? That's plain vindictive.'
Oliver gaped at his father. 'What do you mean?'
'Hadn't they told you? The sun-room is filled with propane cylinders.'
'We didn't intend to ignite it with the prisoners inside,' Liam said.
Felton chuckled. 'Forgive me if I take your denial with a pinch of
salt'
'It's immaterial what they planned to do,' Joe cut in. 'Call the police
and let them deal with this.'
'That won't happen, Joe. And I suggest you keep your mouth shut.
You've caused me more than enough trouble already.'
'So they were your people in Brighton?'
Before Felton could respond, Liam said, You'd better do as he says.
He's an undercover cop.'
Felton was momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered.
"I'm sure he was something of the sort. But judging by his exploits
today I doubt very much that he's still a serving police officer.'
He looked to Joe, who knew at once that Felton would see through
any attempt to lie. Joe shook his head.
'Sorry, Liam,' Felton said. 'I dare say it was worth a try, from your
point of view. But it changes nothing.'


Valentin seemed belatedly to pick up on Joe's reference to Brighton,
remembering what he'd heard about the abduction attempt. But if he
was grateful to Joe for saving his family there was little sign of it.
He drew himself up, acquiring an imperious demeanour that sought
to convey to Felton that no one else in the room counted for anything.
Just the two alpha males, talking man to man.
'No police,' Valentin said. 'This is business. We sit down together.
We make a deal.'
Felton looked amused, until his attention was drawn to Oliver. He
was rocking to and fro on the sofa, his fingers plucking rhythmically
at his knees as if plagued by insects.
'Oliver! I think it's best if you go to your room.'
After a second's delay, Oliver's movements ceased and his head
jerked up. 'I have every right to hear this.'
'No, you don't. As Valentin says, we have business to discuss. Not
all of it will be pleasant, especially for someone with your "delicate"
constitution.'
Oliver ignored the taunt. You mean you don't want any hostile
witnesses.'
With the manner of any long-suffering father, Felton motioned to
one of his troops. The man strode over to Oliver, who let out a strange
yelp: part laugh, part cry. He studied the sub-machine gun while
chewing thoughtfully on his lip.
'What will you do? Have them shoot me?'

His father didn't crack a smile. 'There's something you need to
know - and this applies to you all.' Felton waved a languid hand
around the room. As far as the outside world is concerned, none of
this is happening. Unless I decide otherwise, these men aren't here,
and nothing they do tonight will be attributed to them.'
And what about you?' Oliver said as the guard pulled him to his
feet. Are you here?'
'Of course not. There's no official record that I entered the country.'
Felton glanced at his watch. 'In fact, at this moment there are several
very reliable witnesses who will swear I'm partying the night away at
my favourite little bistro in Antibes.'
He looked at each of them as he spoke: Oliver, Joe, Liam, Valentin.
The message was unequivocal: I can do whatever I want.
At the door, Oliver looked back. 'He's a cold-blooded killer,
remember that.' His voice was quietly heartbroken, as if he was already
resigned to his fate. 'He murdered his own wife. My mother. He'll
wipe out everyone on this island if he has to.'
Joe took careful note of Felton's response. He gave a disappointed
sigh, but made no effort to deny his son's accusation. Joe was well
aware of Felton's reputation as a tough, uncompromising businessman,
but had never dreamt that his ruthlessness might extend to murder.
And yet the way their capture had been orchestrated gave Joe the
impression that nothing had been ruled out. Hitting the garage in
darkness, ensuring that the prisoners inside had no idea what was
happening, meant that Felton's options were wide open. He could
commit mass murder, sneak back to France on whatever private
plane or yacht had brought him here, and no one would be any the
wiser.
Maybe Oliver was right.


Forty-Seven

The interruption caused by Oliver's departure appeared to have made
no impact on Valentin's confidence, or on his apparent delusion that
he and Felton were operating on equal terms.
'I suggest we go to your office, where we can talk privately.'
You suggest? Actually, Valentin, I think there's one thing we'd better
establish right now. You have no status here. None at all.' Felton
tapped his chest. 'This is my agenda, and you're going to follow it.
I've been waiting a long time for this moment. I intend to enjoy it'
The put-down was delivered with such scorn that Joe feared
Valentin's temper would erupt, and get him killed. But Liam eased
the tension with a question of his own.
'How long, exactly?'
Yuri approached me within a few days of the plan's conception. I
knew about this even before you did.'
Liam nodded, as if he'd thought as much. 'I guess you offered him
a better deal?'
'It could hardly be worse, could it? I knew the hit Valentin had
taken in the credit crunch, and Yuri knew it too. All he had to do
was pose a simple question. Why run the risk of something going
wrong when he could jump ship and guarantee himself a fat profit?
Very wisely, he chose the latter course and began feeding me every
little detail of your grandiose dream.'
Another hateful glare from Yuri as he saw that he had Joe's attention.
Felton picked up on it and nodded sharply at Yuri, as if in reply
to some unspoken query.
'Soon,' he murmured. 'Now, moving on.'
He gulped the last of his champagne, handed the glass to one of
his men, and took something from his pocket: a small electronic gadget
of some kind.
'Let's review the outcome of your meeting, shall we? See if we can
make some progress?'
With a sickly smile, Felton pressed a button on the device and the
voice of a ghost filled the room.

Oliver couldn't walk straight. He kept stumbling and bumping into
the walls as he was escorted along the corridor, while the guard's
disdain burned like acid on his skin.
He probably thought Oliver was drunk, but it wasn't alcohol that
had destabilised him. It was shock. Shock, fury, bitterness, humiliation:
a cocktail of emotions more potent than any drug on earth.
His home, Terror's Reach, represented no more than an elaborate
trap, designed to lure Valentin and Priya and Liam into a position
where his father had absolute control over them. Those who'd lost
their lives in the process were merely collateral damage.
Oliver assessed his own situation. Did his father truly care that he
hadn't gone to Oxford as planned? As he thought about it, he began
to suspect that his father had known he was here. His sister was bound
to have reported back after their conversation this afternoon.
By then, of course, Valentin had already launched his ill-fated
scheme. It would have been far less satisfying for his father to have
brought everything to a halt at that stage. He pictured Dad receiving
the news that his troublesome offspring was refusing to budge from
the family home. The resultant decision must have taken all of a
nanosecond: proceed as planned.
'Fuck him,' said Oliver.

The guard didn't respond; just gave him the sort of searching look
that meant: not right in the head. Oliver laughed.
He stopped outside his bedroom door, where the guard conjured
up a key. Oliver kept the door locked at all times, and only he knew
the whereabouts of the spare key.
He patted his pockets. Realised they had frisked him thoroughly in
the garage and found the key. So maybe they didn't know about the
spare. That was promising . . .
'You're locking me in?' he asked, faking incredulity.
'I am. I'm sure it'll not be for long.' The guard had a soft Scottish
accent. He opened the door and stood back, ushering Oliver inside
like a rather brusque hotel proprietor.
You know my father's a psychopath, don't you?' Oliver said.
'Aye,' said the guard. 'What's your point?'

The voice on the recorder was McWhirter's. He sounded worried.
Turned out he had every right to be, Joe thought.
I don't like it, Valentin. When you propose a deal like this you should
do it from a position of strength.
Felton hit the pause button and tutted. 'Wise words, Valentin. Your
man deserved better than he got.'
Next came Valentin himself, quiet and assured: And we are. This
is a greedy man we have here.
The setting was clearly nautical. Joe could hear the background
hum of a powerful engine and the distant cry of gulls. In the end,
Valentin's obsession with eavesdropping had proved futile. The bug
had been planted by Yuri - the very man he employed to sweep for
them.
The conversation moved on. McWhirter, yet to be mollified, asked: Do you think he can bring Felton on board?
Valentin: I am sure of it. Another very greedy man.
Felton paused again.
"I'm a greedy man? Well, yes, I can't deny that. I won't go all Gordon
Gekko on you, but I'm sure there's a consensus in this room as to the
benefits of market capitalism. Even amongst its more recent adherents,'
he added, with a cheerful nod at the two Ukrainians.
He resumed the tape. They heard McWhirter say: But what about
finance? We are going to need Felton's capital
Then a big sigh of frustration from the South African. Joe appreciated
it better than most. He'd also been in situations where Valentin
had refused to heed his professional advice.
'Now there's the rub,' said Felton, looking pleased enough to burst.
'Poor Mr McWhirter couldn't reconcile your blithe confidence with
the reality as he knew it. Whereas you assumed you'd have the capital
you needed to come in as an equal partner because you were going
to help yourself to what's in there.'
He jabbed viciously in the direction of an en suite dressing room.
Valentin and Liam seemed to know what he was talking about. Joe
realised there must be another safe in there: one they'd been unable
to breach.
Felton's face was reddening, his voice growing slow and deliberate,
as though he were tiptoeing through a whole minefield of fury.
'You wanted what was mine. That's a common enough instinct, I
suppose. You were poor, relatively speaking, and I was rich. But you
of all people should have known better, Valentin. That's not the way
it works. Not in business, nor in life.'

Felton eyed them all closely, making sure every word hit home.
'In the real world it's the rich who steal from the poor. The strong take
from the weak. That's a much safer bet. Try it the other way round and
it ends in tears. McWhirter's the proof of that. So is my friend Travers.'
He turned and strode towards the dressing room. Perhaps he gave
a signal to his men, or perhaps this manoeuvre had been prearranged,
for the guards immediately roused the three prisoners, herding them
in Felton's wake.
Joe caught Liam muttering to Valentin: 'Rubbing our fucking noses
in it. . .'
Felton tutted again as he inspected the dressing room. Dozens of
suits had been discarded on the floor and some of the wardrobes
vandalised. Expecting a show of anger, Joe was surprised when Felton
faced them, his air of bonhomie apparently restored.
'You'll have to crowd around the doorway, but no further,' he said.
'Step inside this room and my men will shoot. Is that clear?'
The warning was reinforced with the prod of an MP 5. All three
men had a guard stationed right behind them. Their guns were angled
downwards so they could fire without any risk of hitting Felton.
'Good. Now, I know how desperate you were to see inside the panic
room, so I'm going to grant your wish.'
Turning away, Felton concentrated on something concealed within
the wardrobe. Joe spotted an electronic keypad and what looked like
a biometric scanner, set into a steel door. There was a bleep, followed
by the clunk of retracting bolts, and the big heavy door rolled open.

Forty-Eight

Oliver was out of luck. They had found the second key. He'd kept it
taped to the underside of his computer keyboard, which didn't seem
terribly ingenious now it was missing.
For a few minutes he slumped on the bed like a grounded teenager
and thought seriously about embracing defeat. After all, his father's
dispute was with Valentin Nasenko. Providing Oliver kept his mouth
shut, there was no reason why he wouldn't be spared.
As for Liam and his gang, they had treated him abominably. Why
should Oliver care what happened to them? Let his father annihilate
every last one.
But Priya . . . Even though her betrayal was the most painful, he
couldn't shake off the feeling that he'd connected with her. Maybe
not at first, when she'd tricked her way into the house, but later, when
he had displayed the scars on his wrists. He'd seen something in her
face: an echo of his own torment.
Or was that completely fanciful? Was he kidding himself?
A spurt of anger propelled him to his feet. It was irrelevant what
Priya thought of him. This wasn't about her. It was about himself,
and the way he had been treated.
He had to do something. Show them he wasn't weak or impotent.
Perhaps try to break the door down? He examined it, tapped gently
on the wood with the pad of a finger. Solid timber. Even if he had
the brute strength, which he doubted, the noise would bring the guards
running. His father's warning still rang in his mind.
These men aren't here, and nothing they do tonight will be attributed
to them.
Oliver searched the room, regretting his lack of interest in sport. A
cricket bat would have made a useful weapon. Better still, a knife of
some sort.
He laughed out loud at the thought. As a physically inept coward,
even wielding a knife he would stand little chance against several
highly trained former soldiers armed with sub-machine guns.
In the bathroom Oliver discovered that his matches remained in
their hiding place. If he set fire to his bedding, could he sneak past
the guards in the ensuing chaos?
No. Too many of them. Anyway, his father might just leave him in
here and let him burn to death.
But he shoved them in his pocket all the same, hoping they would
provide a talismanic boost to his confidence. There was only one sure
way to escape from the room and Oliver knew it. He was just trying
to avoid thinking about it.
Because he was a physically inept coward.
But he was still determined to do it.

Felton stepped back from the wardrobe, directing the attention of his
audience to the open door with a theatrical sweep of his arm. Like a
cheesy quiz-show host, Joe thought, complete with a smile of gleeful
regret. Here's what you could have won!
And what a prize it was. Staring into the vault, Joe knew he would
never forget the sight that greeted him. For the others, the effect was even more powerful. Liam gasped when he saw it. Valentin groaned
as though he'd been kicked in the stomach.
The room was piled with gold. A huge stack of gold bars, almost
unreal in their size and quantity. In the muted light they shone with
a dull yellow gleam. They looked at once both magical and yet
somehow more ordinary than Joe would have expected. Plain metal
bricks that just happened to be worth a king's ransom.

The bottom tier was formed of large 12.5-kilo ingots, arranged in
piles of a dozen. There were twenty piles that Joe could see, and
possibly more beyond his view. At least two hundred and forty in total.
He could scarcely begin to estimate their value.
The top tier was mostly one-kilo: neat rectangular slabs the size of
chocolate bars. Too many to count, but there had to be hundreds.
Along each side of the room, Joe could see sealed boxes and what
looked like artwork bundled in thick layers of bubble wrap. Some of
it may have been priceless, but it seemed almost insignificant in
comparison to the gold.
Felton waited in silence, allowing them all to absorb the sight and
in Liam and Valentin's case, to reflect on their failure.
'How much is it worth?' Joe asked.
'Including the art, about a hundred and fifty million.' Felton
sounded vaguely dismissive. 'I'd like more, but liquidating assets and
moving into gold hasn't been that easy lately. The trouble is, everyone's
doing it.'
'Because of the recession?'
'Broadly speaking. I've always kept a healthy percentage of my wealth
in precious metals. Another problem is that some of it isn't strictly kosher.'
A hollow laugh from Liam. 'You stole it?'
'Of course not. Just acquired it in somewhat unorthodox circumstances.
Usually as payment for services rendered, in parts of the world
where it's wise to avoid regulatory interference.'
Joe snorted. 'And tax.'
'Absolutely. Paying tax is for muggles. It's bad enough that I'll lose
value on the bars that don't have sound provenance.'
'It's a tough life.'
'It certainly is,' Felton agreed without a trace of irony. He turned
his attention to Valentin. 'Perhaps you can enlighten me on one thing.
How did you know about the gold?'
Valentin frowned. 'It was my maid.'
Felton appeared relieved. 'That's what Yuri claimed. I wasn't sure
whether to believe him.'
'She is friendly with one of the women who cleans for you. This
woman overheard a phone call. You were making arrangements to
store gold at home. She mentioned it to my maid, and Maria told me.'
'So we owe all this to the gossip of servants?' Felton pretended to
be marvelling at the thought, but that theatrical air was back. He was
playing with them again. 'I had my reservations, but to be on the safe
side I dispensed with the cleaning woman in question.'
'"Dispensed"?' Joe repeated.
'Well, the police will most likely treat it as a domestic burglary gone
wrong.' Felton chuckled. 'I thought that would be rather fitting.'
Valentin scowled. 'Enough of these games. If you wish to kill us,
do it. If not, tell me what you want.'
Felton raised an admonitory finger. 'My agenda, Valentin.'
'Fuck your agenda.'
Liam told him to cool down. Felton agreed. 'If ever there was an
occasion to keep that famous temper in check, this is it.'
He produced the voice recorder and scrolled through its menu.
'Let's have another reminder, shall we?'
He pressed play, and they heard Travers's disdainful growl:
There are no boundaries with that guy. No proportionality. He just
doesn't understand the concept. If you're loyal to him, and he knows it,
there's no better man to work with. But cross him and you've signed
your own death warrant.
In response, Valentin's laugh was high and mocking and slightly
false, because even then he must have been aware of the high-wire
act he was attempting.
Felton cut off the tape.

"I'm disappointed in you, Valentin. You rejected some very good
advice there. So far you've shown yourself to be arrogant, and stupid,
and selfish.' He gestured at Joe. 'Earlier today this man saved the lives
of your family. Have you expressed your gratitude to him? No. You're
so caught up in your bid for survival, I bet you've hardly given it a
thought.'
He grinned, and Joe felt a twist of fear in his gut.
'In fact,' Felton added slyly, 'I bet you don't even have a clue where
they are right now.'


Forty-Nine

Oliver's bedroom window was large enough to escape from, but it didn't
lead anywhere. Just a twenty-foot drop onto a concrete path. He knew
the fall wouldn't necessarily kill him, but it might shatter his ankles,
and then what would he do? Suffer yet more humiliation when his
father's goons discovered him bleeding and broken on the path.
Instead, he opted to climb out of the little window in his bathroom.
It was a tight squeeze, even with the window shoved wide open. Made
worse because he had to go out backwards, head and shoulders first,
facing the room.
He managed it by climbing onto the toilet seat, then turned his
back to the window and hoisted himself up onto the cistern. He leaned
out, gripping the underside of the window frame as his head protruded
into the cool night air.
He stopped for a moment, considering whether he possessed either
the aptitude or the will to go any further. He was no one's idea of an
athlete. His arms and legs were pitifully weak, and if they gave out
on him now it might be the last thing he did. He wouldn't survive
landing on his head.
And he didn't like heights: a fact he'd been neatly skirting around
until now, when it was impossible to block out any longer. Even
though he was trying not to look down, he could sense the void that
existed between his body and solid ground.
He took a deep breath and pushed the fear away. He imagined that
Priya was in the bathroom with him. Do this right, she was saying, and I'll give you anything you want. Anything you desire . . .
Oliver wriggled backwards, his thighs digging into the frame. The
window was set into one of the dormers that his father had incorporated
into the house design, and it meant there was a small rectangle
of flat roof directly above the bathroom. Thanks to his long limbs,
Oliver was able to reach up and grip the edge of the roof, while his
feet were planted on the toilet cistern.
That left him crouching, half in and half out of the house. Now
the void beneath him had assumed mythic proportions. He levered
himself up, knowing he must present a comical but precarious sight,
clinging on for dear life. And the worst was yet to come.
The dormer roof was clad in some kind of smooth dark material possibly
lead. It was slightly raised at the front, presumably to direct
rainwater towards the gutter at the rear. Oliver found he could hold
it quite comfortably. But could he lever himself up onto the roof?
Only the thought of outflanking his father gave him the impetus
to try. Because it wasn't just Priya's admiring gaze that spurred him
on. It was picturing the look on his father's face when his goons came
to report Oliver missing.

The guards ushered Joe, Liam and Valentin back across the room and
forced them to sit on the floor between the sofas. When Felton didn't
emerge from the dressing room, Yuri strode over to the doorway and
said something.
A moment later Felton stepped into view, nestling one of the large
gold ingots on his forearm as though it were a favoured pet. He dropped
it on the bed and smiled as it sank deep into the covers.
'What did you mean about Cassie and the children?' Joe asked.
Acting as though he hadn't heard, Felton poured himself another
glass of champagne.
'Had an idea for a wager. Yuri's chomping at the bit to have some
quality time with his erstwhile colleague, so we may as well spice it
up a little. It's some sort of private dispute, I take it?'
Felton addressed the question to Valentin, who played it dumb. Joe
gathered that Felton was talking about him.
'What did you mean about Cassie?' he asked again.
'My agenda, Joe.' Felton raised the glass to Valentin. 'That one bar
will fetch about two hundred and twenty thousand. Interested?'
Valentin looked mystified. 'You are offering me this ... for what?'
'I just told you,' said Felton, exasperated. 'My man Yuri versus your
man Joe.'
'So what is the deal?'
'If Joe wins, you get the gold bar. If Yuri wins, Joe gets to stay alive.'
Felton turned to Yuri. 'Unless you'd prefer a fight to the death?'
Yuri shrugged: Fine with me.
'Well, let's keep an open mind on that. If Joe dies, maybe I'll take
whatever's left in your safe. That seem fair?'
Valentin still looked perplexed. And this is it? The whole deal?'
'Lord, no. This is just a side bet, purely for our amusement. Rather
like the sort of stunts your pal Liam used to pull in the City. No, the main deal we're doing here concerns your mineral rights in Kajitestan.'
'No,' said Valentin. It was a gut response, but Felton took no notice.
'You're going to sign it all over to me. Every last drop of oil, every
scrap of copper and zinc. And I want a signed undertaking that you'll
provide all the necessary permits, introductions and inducements
necessary for the maximum exploitation of those rights.' A beat of
silence. 'Oh, and I'm taking your house as well.'
'What?'
'I want you off the Reach. This is my island now.'
Valentin finally tried to speak, blustering something that sounded
like gibberish in English or any other language.
'Don't get so worked up,' Felton cautioned him. 'This is a very
generous proposition. You'll still have that nice apartment in
London, and that tacky one in Miami where you entertain your whores.
I'm letting you keep all the decent art, the stuff you sneaked into
hiding. In fact, you can still go ahead with your fraudulent insurance
claim for all I care.'
And what about the rest of us?' Liam asked.
Felton gave a sombre nod, as if to say he had been coming to that.
'Your role will be to take the rap for what's happened here, and
think yourselves lucky. You get to escape with your lives, providing
you keep your mouth shut about Valentin's involvement.'
And if we don't?'
Felton clicked his tongue. 'Even when you're detained at Her
Majesty's pleasure, don't for one second think you're beyond my reach.'
'What about the other residents?' said Joe.
'They'll be released unharmed. At the appropriate time, they'll
receive a very generous offer to sell up. From now on I intend to
control who lives here.' He flapped his hand in Valentin's direction.
'No more foreign undesirables, for a start.'
Valentin spat on the carpet. And if I refuse?'
'If you refuse, well. . .' Felton took a slow, measured sip of champagne.
'What do you think might happen, Joe?'

Oliver split a fingernail, clawing at the roof as he hauled himself up.
Oddly, the sight of blood gave him a comforting rush. He was engaged
in the type of strenuous physical challenge that real men welcomed with
gusto. It was a mindset he normally despised: right now he could
appreciate the thrill of it.
Kneeling on the tiny rectangle of lead, he breathed slowly and waited
for his nerves to settle. It was extraordinarily quiet out here. A brilliant
starry night with only a sliver of moon, the sea black and glistening
like oil. White flashes in the air revealed themselves as seagulls, gliding
through the darkness. For a moment Oliver felt humbled by his lowly
place in the universe: as though anything that happened here tonight
could possibly matter in the scheme of things.
Eventually he felt secure enough to plan his next move. The main
roof rose above him at a pitch of about forty-five degrees. It was clad
in grey slate, with contrasting red clay tiles on the ridge. By lying flat,
Oliver thought he should be able to crawl the thirty feet or so to the
top, then work his way along to the opposite side of the house.
Scared and yet exhilarated, he stood up and pressed himself against
the interlocking slates. They felt rough to the touch, still warm from
the day's heat. He knew they would bear his weight, but was the angle
of elevation shallow enough to prevent him from sliding to his death?
'Guess I'll soon find out,' he murmured.

'Why are you asking me?' said Joe. Even before the words were out,
he realised he knew the answer.
'Your boss doesn't seem too bothered about his family's whereabouts,
but I take it you are.' Felton grinned. 'That was impressive work,
fighting your way free. And some nifty driving, from what I heard.'
'They're safe,' Joe said. But it was a hollow declaration, the words
of a man endeavouring to convince himself.
'Sure about that?'
'I won't give them up.'
'You misunderstand, Joe,' said Felton, his voice silky in victory;
almost musical. 'You see, you might have foiled the first attempt to
snatch them. But the second attempt succeeded.'

Fifty

'You're lying,' said Valentin.
You don't really believe that,' Felton said. 'I have them all. Cassie,
and her boy, and your baby daughter. My ultimate insurance policy
against any mishaps tonight. Any over-confidence, any defiance or
displays of rebellion, and it all ends badly for the children.'
'Felton's bluffing,' Joe told Valentin. 'I got them to safety. No one
knows where they are.'
A cackle from across the room, to which Felton added: 'Not quite
true.'
Joe turned and saw Yuri holding a mobile phone between his finger
and thumb. Joe's phone. Yuri had taken it when he'd captured Joe
down on the deck. But it shouldn't have been of any use to them,
unless . . .
'She left message for you,' said Yuri. 'Stupid bitch didn't use her
cellphone. She called from landline.'
A homely little B&B in Chichester, wasn't it?' Felton said. 'I really
have to thank you for bringing them so close to home. It took us no
time at all to fetch them.'
'So where are they now? Here?'
'Nowhere you'll find them.'
'If any harm comes to them . . .' Joe said, but Felton only laughed.
You won't be in a position to defend anyone. Besides, as Valentin
says, this is business. Once the paperwork's been signed and authenticated
by lawyers, they'll be released untouched. A matter of a few
days at most - providing I have Valentin's complete cooperation.'
'Prove it,' Valentin said. 'Prove this is not a bluff.'
'Very well.' Felton produced the voice recorder and selected a file.
For a second or two all they heard was a low electronic buzz. Felton
noticed Joe desperately listening for background noise that might give
a clue to the location of the recording. He shook his head: You won't
do it.
Then a woman's voice broke the silence. 'Valentin? It's me, Cassie.
Please give them what they want.' They heard the tears spill over into
her voice. 'Don't let them hurt us. Please, Valentin . . .'
Felton cut the tape. 'I think that's more than sufficient.'

He was Batman. A creature of the night. A dark avenger.
Oliver smiled. He adored The Dark Knight, had watched it a
hundred times, knew every line and move and nuance. But it was
never the Batman whom he wanted to emulate. It was Heath Ledger's
Joker that had spoken to him, made a connection deep in his soul.
Amoral, adrift and utterly alive in every moment of his existence.
That was the lesson Oliver took from the movie. That was the lesson
he tried to apply now.
The climb to the ridge of the roof was perilous but exciting. He
clambered up and sat astride the red clay tiles. Riding the house like
a mighty steed. He giggled at the image, and wondered if he wasn't
a little too high on adrenalin. Might have to tamp it down a bit.
Shuffling along to the front of the house was easy, but he wasn't
looking forward to the descent. Much easier to fall when you were
already heading down: the momentum always threatening to take
control.
In the end he was able to negotiate it without too much difficulty.
There was a valley on the roofs north-east corner, which lessened the
gradient. Oliver crept down and eased across to the next dormer.
It was about the same size as the one he'd emerged from, but with a
narrow pitched roof. It too had a single window, just large enough to
accommodate him.
He stood to one side of it, his toes pointing into the gutter. Gripping
the top of the dormer roof tightly with both hands, he braced one foot
against the main roof and used his other to kick at the glass.
The impact was horribly loud and hurt his toes, but it failed to
break the glass. He should have anticipated this and brought a tool.
He kicked the window again, aiming for the top corner rather than
the centre of the glass. He'd read somewhere that it was weaker around
the edges than in the middle. The window still didn't break, but it
cracked. Almost broke his foot as well.
The third time did it. The glass shattered with a sound that
seemed to expand and fill the universe above him. It made Oliver
jump so badly that he nearly let go. He clung to the dormer roof,
too petrified to move, waiting for the inevitable response: shouts,
doors slamming, even gunfire.
But none came.
After a couple of minutes he leaned out and confirmed that the
attic room, his beloved sanctuary, was empty. He kicked the remaining
shards of glass from the frame, swung his body round and went in
feet first. He landed as softly as he could, crunching on the broken
glass, and waited again, his heart racing.
Still nothing. Oliver pressed the button to open the hatch. More
noise as the ladder began to extend: a low-pitched metallic grinding
that seemed to rattle through the house like a dentist's drill.
He made it down the ladder, and there was no ambush; no one
came running. He debated whether to put the ladder back up and
decided that he must. After pressing the button he hurried away,
pushed through the door to the main corridor, and that was when
he heard footsteps coming towards him.
He ducked into the nearest room. Crouched behind the door and
listened as several people tramped past. Risked a look and glimpsed
the tail end of the group - Valentin Nasenko and one of the guards
- turning the corner onto the short landing that led towards the games
room.

It seemed a peculiar destination, but Oliver had long ago given up
trying to fathom the logic of his father's actions. At least they were
moving beyond the main stairs, which meant he should be able to
get out of the house safely.

But why the games room? What on earth could they want in there?

Fifty-One



Liam watched in sullen silence as the other prisoners were herded
from the room. It stung his ego that he wasn't deemed important
enough to be taken along for the show. He was left in the custody of
a single guard, a thin-faced man with eyes as small and black as rabbit
droppings.
He consoled himself with the thought that at least he wasn't
being fed to Yuri in the name of sport. Yuri was an ogre, a fact that
Liam had conveniently managed to ignore all the time he was Valentin's ogre. Now that Yuri belonged to Felton, he was a very
different proposition.
Joe had proved himself pretty resourceful so far today, but Liam
couldn't see him putting up much opposition to the Ukrainian. No
doubt that was why Felton was so enthusiastic about the wager in the
first place. It might be all over in a minute or two.
And then what?
His guess was that Felton would carve out the deal he wanted, and
Valentin would meekly go along with it. With his wife and daughter
held hostage he really had no choice. Then Felton and his men would
melt away into the night, leaving Valentin to summon the police and
let nature take its course.
Liam felt a tightening in his throat at the thought of what lay ahead:
decades of incarceration, impossible to endure. He noticed the guard
smirking at the misery etched on his face, and he found the strength
to push the self-pity aside. He nodded towards the dressing room.
'Don't suppose your man left the panic room door open?'
The guard said nothing.
'Only I'm thinking, we grab ourselves a couple of bars each and
get the hell out of here. What do you say?'
The guard shook his head. 'What I say is: I'm earning plenty for
this. And I'm going nowhere with a fucking Paddy. It was you bastards
killed my uncle, on patrol in Armagh.'
Liam almost had to laugh. Just his luck.
His thoughts turned to Priya, and whether she had survived the
assault on the garage. He was certain he'd felt Turner go down, and
maybe someone else as well. If Priya was alive, it was odd that she
hadn't been brought next door. Such an exotic creature would
definitely intrigue a ladies' man like Felton. Unless he didn't know
that much about her--
The revelation was stunning - a forehead-slapping moment, if his
hands hadn't been taped behind his back. Liam felt a turbulent mix
of emotions. Anger at himself for not working it out sooner. Disgust
that he'd wasted such an opportunity, and made a bloody fool of
himself in the process.
She'd told him herself, hadn't she, when he had her pinned on the
floor?
If you do this, you'll never get out of here alive.
That already seemed a lifetime ago. When Valentin had ruled
the world, with Liam and Priya his faithful lieutenants.
And Priya a lot, lot more besides.
But Felton obviously wasn't aware of her significance. That gave
Liam a tiny jolt of pleasure, even though it was far too late for the
information to be of any value. Selling her out now would only earn
him the same grisly fate as Travers.
She's untouchable, Liam thought. The lucky cow.
And then he spotted the problem looming for Nasenko. Valentin
would surely have no qualms about accepting Felton's terms when it
involved handing Liam over to the police. But could he do the same
to Priya?

Her position seemed hopeless, but Priya wouldn't accept that. She was
a fighter. All the time she was still alive, she knew she had a chance.
What she had to do was find that chance, and make it count.
She had been placed close to the side wall of the garage, some
distance away from the other prisoners. Her mouth was covered with
tape, a tight, foul taste against her lips. Her hands were behind her
back and her wrists and ankles were bound with the same tape. A
moat of blood surrounded her.
Turner was a few feet to her right, slumped against the wall. He
was conscious but weak, every breath a wince of pain. He'd been hit
in the thigh and had lost a lot of blood. The guard had applied a rudimentary
dressing, which seemed to have stemmed the flow, but Priya
doubted he would last very long without proper medical attention.
Their other colleague, Eldon, was to her left. He'd been killed in
the initial gun battle and his body lay forgotten amidst the papers he'd
been searching through. His blood had run along shallow depressions
in the concrete floor and pooled with Turner's, only inches from Priya's
outstretched feet.
It was a repellent sight, but she had already worked out how it
could be used to her advantage.
The air in the garage reeked of violence and death and the acrid
tang of digestive juices. One of the prisoners had vomited, and the
guard's remit obviously didn't include cleaning up the mess. His only
concession to their well-being was to drag Travers's body into the
corner.
At first there had been plenty of questions, mainly from Angela
Weaver and Terry Fox. They demanded to know what was going on,
who was in charge. If Liam's gang were no longer a threat, why couldn't
the innocent prisoners be released?
The guard fielded the questions with a stock phrase - 'I can't tell
you' - and a diminishing supply of patience. Eventually he took up
a position by the inner door, a distance from which he could more
easily ignore their interrogation.
Priya made no attempt to communicate with anyone. She knew
it was futile. The guard wasn't going to speak to her, and the other
prisoners, when they looked at her at all, made no attempt to disguise
their loathing. Hand any of them a gun, she thought, and they'll
kill me without hesitation. She had no problem with that. In their
position, she would do the same.
Part of her mind remained sufficiently detached to admire the man
who'd orchestrated this operation. The planning and execution showed
great skill and professionalism. It made Valentin's team - herself
included - look like clumsy amateurs by comparison.
If this was the work of Robert Felton, it raised some interesting
questions about Oliver's role. Priya believed she'd played him skilfully
enough to know if he was concealing information from her. If he'd
had any inkling of what was to come he would have betrayed that
knowledge in some way.
So it was feasible that Oliver had not been pre-warned, even though
Felton must have known his son was still on the island when he'd
launched his counter-attack. If only she had heeded Oliver's warnings
about his father, she might have seen the danger in time. Instead she
was facing, at best, a life behind bars.
Or maybe not.
From this point on it was every man for himself. That was how
Valentin would see it, and Liam too. A matter of straightforward
common sense.
Priya had no one to rely on but herself.

Fifty-Two

Yuri descended the stairs three at a time, his breath emerging in quick,
excited snorts. Eager to get on with it.
Behind him, one of the guards escorted Joe with the slow, respectful
pace of an executioner. They followed a wide hallway into the depths
of the house, until finally Yuri reached a door and stopped. He turned,
waiting for Joe to catch up.
You remember what you said to me today, in the kitchen? How
you would kick my ass?'
'That's right.'
Yuri bared his teeth. 'Well, now we will see.'
Yep,' said Joe, as though he relished the opportunity. He couldn't
afford to show any fear at this stage.
Pushing the door open, Yuri strode into the room like a gladiator
entering the arena. Shoulders thrown back, chest puffed out, chin in
the air. Another obvious attempt to intimidate him, but Joe was determined
that it wouldn't succeed.
The guard took out a knife and cut the tape from Joe's wrists.
He stepped back, looking slightly abashed, as if reluctant to be a party
to slaughter. When he wished Joe good luck he sounded as though
he meant it.
Joe stepped through the doorway and immediately understood why
this room had been chosen. It was a large, airy gymnasium, two storeys
high, overlooked by a gallery on the first floor.
The wall to his left was lined with impressive machines: a bike and
a rower and a full set of weights, an elliptical trainer and a treadmill
the size of a small car. But the centrepiece, undoubtedly, was the full
size squash court.
As the venue for a public battle, it couldn't have been more ideal.
A square room, enclosed on all sides, with a glass wall at the rear and
a viewing platform above. A ready-made arena, with no furniture to
encumber them and nowhere to hide.
Felton was waiting on the gallery above the court. The room behind
him contained a pool table and, bizarrely, a fireman's pole that led
down to the far side of the squash court.
Valentin was alongside him, a far less enthusiastic spectator. A guard
hovered close by, MP5 at the ready. The third guard had stayed with Liam.
Yuri was already inside the court, limbering up, his feet alternately
thumping and squeaking on the timber floor. Joe didn't wait to be
prompted. Massaging the circulation back into his wrists, he marched
up to the glass wall, stepped through the door and shut it behind him.
He pointed at the guard in the gallery.
'Is this a fair fight, or will he open fire if I'm winning?'
Felton looked offended. 'There'll be no interference with the result.
As for whether it's a fair fight, you'd better ask Yuri . . .'
The Ukrainian chuckled, and said quietly, so that only Joe could
hear: 'To the death.'
Are those your orders?'
Yuri glanced up at Felton and shook his head. 'Fuck orders.'

Felton cleared his throat. 'I'm going to up the stakes. If Joe loses, we'll
kill the kid. Jaden - is that his name?'
He looked at Valentin, who barely managed a frown. 'The other
terms are the same?'
'Oh, the gold's still up for grabs. Don't worry.' Felton leaned over
the balustrade and smiled at Joe. 'I'm guessing you'll fight a bit harder
if you have someone else's future at stake. I've seen you out on the
beach with the boy, playing the surrogate father.'
You'd better not hurt him.'
'Well, you'll have to sharpen up, then.'
The message had only just sunk in when Joe felt a heavy impact
to the side of his head. He spun away, falling, and heard a grunt of
satisfaction from Yuri.
So much for a fair fight.
Joe hit the floor hard and awkwardly on his right-hand side, his
knee and elbow taking the brunt of the landing. His vision was distorted
by flashes of light, and he felt bile rising in his throat. He sensed Yuri
moving in, aiming a kick at his skull, and he knew he'd be dead if it
connected. And then Jaden would die, and perhaps Cassie and Sofia
along with him.
No. He couldn't let that happen.

He was still too dazed to avoid the kick, but he managed to roll onto
his back and twist at the hips, shifting his upper body away from where
Yuri expected it to be. But instead of retreating he moved closer,
reducing the distance of travel, and threw up both hands to grab Yuri's
foot midway through its arc.
It was a partial success. There was too much power in the kick to
stop it completely but Joe got enough of a grip to divert its path. Yuri's
boot thudded into his shoulder and the Ukrainian wobbled, off balance.
Reading Joe's next move, Yuri leaned forward, intending to stamp
down on Joe's arm, but Joe wrenched Yuri's foot sideways, bending
the ankle as much as he could. As Yuri's legs splayed out, Joe curled
up tight and swung his foot into the air, aiming for his opponent's
solar plexus.
He missed his target but landed a kick in Yuri's groin instead. The
Ukrainian let out a whoosh of air and staggered backwards. Joe used
that space to get to his feet, helped a little by the springiness of the
court floor.
He blinked several times, and was relieved to find that he could
still focus. He had the start of a pounding headache, and a lot of
bruising down his right side, but the adrenalin was pumping now,
numbing the pain.
With Joe in a defensive stance, prepared for the next assault, Yuri
grew cautious. For a few seconds the two men circled each other,
searching for a weakness to exploit. A couple of times Yuri dropped
his guard, taunting Joe, but it was a bluff. Yuri wanted him to lunge
forward, to commit himself totally, on the basis that he would be no
match for Yuri's brute strength. But Joe stood a much better chance
on the counter-attack - and they both knew it.
There were jeers from above. 'Get on with it.'
Joe ignored the order, and for another full minute there was no
contact. Felton thumped the balustrade in frustration.
'Maybe we'll see how well you fight with your legs shot to pieces.'
The guard trained his MP 5 on the court. Joe saw it but reasoned
that he had no particular incentive to obey, since he'd already assumed
that Felton couldn't be trusted. For Yuri it was different. He couldn't
afford to disregard a direct order from his boss.
He barrelled forward, a mass of fury and muscle, charging Joe with
all the strength and subtlety of a wild boar. In a larger room Joe could
easily have sidestepped him, but within the confines of the court there
was far less scope for evasive action. He had about five feet of clear
space to his left, and no more than three feet to his right.
He waited until Yuri was about to strike him, feinted left, then
dodged to the right. It meant that he crashed into the front wall, but
it sent Yuri stumbling the wrong way, his big hands snatching at fresh
air.
Before the Ukrainian could turn, Joe laced his fingers together and
clubbed Yuri on the back of the head. He put all his strength into it,
enough force to have knocked most people cold, but Yuri only juddered
a little, like a man being jostled on a busy commuter train. Then he
spun with astonishing speed and threw a punch. It sideswiped Joe's
chin but still nearly lifted him off his feet. He heard a crack from his
jaw; tasted blood in his mouth.
There was another punch coming in, this one to the body. Joe had
no choice but to absorb it, letting its force drive him backwards, while
at the same time he was able to land a punch of his own: a good
right-hander that hit Yuri on the cheek, just below the eye, and raked
his nose as the Ukrainian reared away.
Probably the hardest punch he'd ever thrown, Joe thought, judging
by the screaming pain in his knuckles. He was pleased to see Yuri
falter, blood on his face and confusion in his eyes. Maybe this isn't
going to be as easy as he'd expected. . .
But Joe was still reeling from the blow to his jaw. He knew there
was no way they could go on trading punches for long. A few more
like that and his hands would be useless.
Yuri must have come to the same conclusion. With the agility of
a man half his age, he launched a flying drop kick that caught Joe
completely unprepared. He managed to turn slightly, but that was all.
Not enough.
Joe was dimly aware of a whoop of disbelieving laughter from Felton,
then Yuri's feet struck his hip and thigh and slammed him against the
wall. His head fell forwards and then whiplashed back, and his last
conscious thought was: It's over.

Fifty-Three

What next? That question had been running ceaselessly through Angela
Weaver's mind. It was now nearly forty minutes since the garage had
been invaded and she was no closer to an answer.
The man guarding them had stonewalled their pleas for information
and help. In Angela's estimation, forty minutes seemed ample
time to have located and subdued Liam's band of thieves. Surely by
now they should have released the innocent prisoners and summoned
the police?
But that hadn't happened, which suggested that the new regime headed
by Robert Felton, if Joe's assumptions were correct - didn't
necessarily have their best interests at heart.
As the time wore on Angela found herself becoming increasingly
downhearted. Four hours of captivity had left her exhausted, emotionally
drained, and at times quite faint. Added to that, she was hot and
grimy and very, very thirsty.
While the dehydration helped in some respects, she was terrified
that eventually she would lose control of her bladder in front of Terry
Fox. It seemed a ludicrous preoccupation, compared with the day's
other ordeals, but perhaps that was why it gripped her so fiercely: a
distraction from the far greater horrors that lay beyond her influence.
Angela was hardly surprised when Priya started coughing. There
was a terrible stench in the garage, and because of the gag Priya was
being forced to breathe through her nose. She was sitting next to the
bodies of Travers and Eldon, with a huge slick of blood only inches
from her feet. Until now, Angela had done her best not to look in
that direction. Eldon's corpse was particularly distressing. He had been
shot several times in quick succession, and one of the bullets had
struck him full in the face.
Whilst Angela couldn't help feeling a tinge of pity for Eldon, she
felt no such compassion for Turner, who had sustained a serious leg
wound, or for Priya, who had glared at her a couple of times, angry
and unrepentant.
But now the Asian woman appeared to be in trouble. After pausing
to take some long, wheezing breaths through her nostrils, she erupted
with another burst of intense coughing. The noise was muffled by the
tape over her mouth but still made Angela wince. It sounded as though
Priya's lungs were being shredded.
Angela turned to the guard. 'Shouldn't you see if she's all right?'
Terry Fox muttered, 'We should let her choke.'
Angela shook her head. 'Then we're just as bad as they are.'
As the second bout of coughing subsided, Priya slumped against
the wall. Her face was flushed, her chest rising and falling at an unnatural
rate. Her mouth worked uselessly, twisting and writhing against
the tape. Suddenly her cheeks bulged, and her eyes widened in shock.
'She's been sick,' Angela cried. She made another appeal to the
guard, At least take off the gag. Otherwise she'll suffocate.'
The man grumbled to himself, but strode across the garage for a
closer look. Priya was throwing her head from side to side, making a
frantic keening noise in her throat. For a moment her gaze settled on
Angela and her expression seemed to soften. Gratitude, or something
else?
'Okay, okay.' The guard slowed as he reached the pool of blood.
He made a detour to avoid it and took a couple of awkward, mincing
steps to bring himself alongside Priya.
She twisted her body towards him, but didn't think to lift her head.
The guard couldn't kneel, because of the blood, so he had to bend
over, crouching awkwardly while he reached one hand towards her
face.
Then he hesitated. 'Don't try and bite me.'
Priya gave him a meek, reassuring nod. The guard tried to prise
away a corner of the tape, his gloved fingers struggling to get it loose.
Angela watched, bracing herself for the unpleasant sight of Priya
expelling the vomit that filled her mouth. But as the tape finally tore
loose there was a blur of movement, and then an outpouring of
something very different.
Blood.

Priya had never given up hope. Even when her plan took much longer
than she expected. Even when the pain almost made her vomit for real.
She went on, undaunted, twisting and pulling until she had eased
her hands apart by half an inch. Not far, but enough to get a better
angle for her fingers to pluck at the tape. Her nails had been filed down
so she could wear the latex gloves, but as Priya dug them into the tape
they started to split, creating sharp edges that she could use to dig further.
It took her twenty minutes of constant surreptitious activity. By the
time the tape came apart her wrists were slick with blood. She wiped
her hands against the back of her boiler suit, then rested, easing her
arms apart a fraction to release some of the tension in her shoulders.
The guard had done her a favour by retreating to the far side of
the garage. Every now and then his attention wandered for a moment.
Priya waited for her chance, then carefully retrieved the knife that she
carried in the back pocket of her suit.
During the assault on the garage the guard had patted her down
while simultaneously cutting off her utility belt. With so many weapons
on the belt he hadn't given much attention to the body search. The
knife he'd missed was a push dagger, a broad three-inch blade on a
T-shaped handle. It was designed to be gripped in the fist, with the
blade protruding between the second and third fingers.
Once Priya had it ready, it was simple enough to fake a choking
fit to lure the guard over. The pool of Eldon's blood meant he couldn't
approach her directly: instead he was forced to stoop alongside her,
in a posture that hindered the use of his MP5.
He was on her right-hand side, fumbling with the tape. Priya readied
herself, looking up at him with big pleading eyes, and as the gag was
ripped from her face she swung her left arm round and punched the
knife into his inner thigh, aiming for the femoral artery.
A jet of blood told her that she'd hit the target. One of the prisoners
screamed. The guard didn't make a sound. He was staring dumbfounded
at the spurting blood.
Priya pulled the dagger free and stabbed him again, this time in
the groin. He let out a howl and stumbled backwards, desperate to
get away. Priya moved with him, clutching his injured leg with her
right hand, and as he overbalanced she clambered on top of him,
stabbing him in the abdomen. The MP5 hit the floor, and her heart
missed a beat as she waited for a burst of accidental gunfire.
Then the moment passed and she was grabbing the tiny microphone
at his throat. Ripping it free, she hurled it across the garage,
pushed herself up and reached for the MP5.
Leaving the guard to bleed out, she shuffled backwards, ignoring
the smears of blood over her legs. She used the dagger to cut the tape
from her ankles, and then she was on her feet.
She took a couple of deep breaths, studying the mess she'd made
with her wrists. There was a lot of skin scraped off, and her fingernails
were broken and bloody, but it was superficial. It generated
the kind of pain she welcomed. The kind that told her: I'm alive. The
kind that told her: Never give up.
The guard was dead. Priya smiled. Angela and the other prisoners
were staring at her, transfixed. But it wasn't their reaction that interested
her.
It was Turner's.
The flash of the blade didn't make sense until the blood started to
flow. Then Angela understood many things at once: Priya wasn't
choking. She hadn't been sick. Somehow she'd freed herself.
She had a knife and she was attacking the guard with a ferocity
unlike anything Angela had ever seen. It was a savage, inhuman assault;
in some ways more shocking to witness even than Donald's murder
for its sheer brutality.
And she, Angela, had made it possible. An unbearable truth: she
had been suckered into helping Priya kill a man.
Angela thought she would pass out. She heard herself groan and
felt the room tilt and spin. Then Terry was bumping against her, whispering
her name, doing his best to comfort her.
When it was done, Priya got to her feet, panting from the exertion
but otherwise unruffled. Her boiler suit was plastered in blood.
It was in her hair and on her face, but she seemed not to know or
to care.

She glanced at the prisoners, and now Angela deciphered the look
she'd seen a few moments ago.
Not gratitude, but contempt.
You used me.'
Priya snorted, as if to say: Of course. Angela drew in a breath to
speak again, but Terry hissed: 'Leave it.'
He was right, of course, though it took a while for Angela to accept
that. He was only expressing what the other prisoners were thinking: Don't antagonise her.
But for now Priya showed no interest in them. Her focus was upon
Turner. Angela could only see her face in profile, but it seemed calm,
composed.
Turner, on the other hand, was petrified. He stared at Priya as
though she was all his nightmares come to life. When she leaned
towards him he shrank back and made a high-pitched pleading noise
beneath his gag.

Priya tore the tape from his mouth so roughly that everyone winced.
Blood oozed from his lip and into his mouth. He spat it out, and said:

'Jesus! Thanks.'
The gratitude seemed heartfelt, as did his relief, but Angela felt it
was misplaced. Priya straightened up, her body language still wary,

hostile.
Turner wriggled away from the wall, trying to give Priya access to
his bound hands. 'These are killing me. How d'you manage to get

free?'
Without responding, Priya lifted the MP5 to chest height and examined
it carefully. There was some sort of switch on the side of the
gun, and she idly flicked it back and forth a couple of times while
Turner made another desperate pitch.
'That was a fucking good move. Always thought you had hidden
talents.' A brief snigger, cut short when he registered her blank expression.
'Come on, then. Are you gonna untie me?'
'Why would I do that?'
'Wha--?' Turner looked incredulous. 'Because it's one against Christ
knows how many. With two of us, we've got a real chance.'
'So we abandon Liam? And Valentin?'
'They're probably dead anyway.'
'But if they're still alive?'
Turner gave a dismissive shrug, as if he thought it unlikely. 'Why
not? Just you and me. We deserve it, after all this shit they put us
through.'
Priya tipped her head to one side, as if deep in thought. Then she
said, 'I don't think so.'
She hefted the gun into a firing stance. Turner looked from side
to side, then back at Priya. He was close to tears. Angela felt Terry
nudge her, another warning, but this time it wasn't necessary. She had
no intention of getting involved.
Turner changed tack: tried exasperation. 'Think about this, eh? You
want to get out of here, don't you? Because I'll tell you something,
love, you won't get far on your own, even with that big fucking gun.'
'Really? You must have forgotten what you said to me earlier.'
At first Turner was confused. 'What?' Then he remembered. 'Hey,
come on. I didn't mean -- '

Priya's finger wrapped around the trigger. She was smiling.
'They'll never see me coming, will they?'

Fifty-Four



Joe heard Valentin shouting his name. For a nanosecond he wondered
if he'd dozed off on the couch and Jaden had crept up on him. It
would be typical of the boy to leap onto his chest and playfully strangle
him.
But the weight on his body was immense. The hands around his
neck were thick and meaty and extremely powerful. This was no game.
It was Yuri. Squeezing hard and intent on killing him, while Felton
and Valentin watched from the gallery, enjoying a show which was
about to climax with Joe's death.
The urge to react was overwhelming. It took every ounce of his
self-control not to open his eyes and try to fight Yuri off. But he had
to be disciplined. He couldn't afford to squander the one small opportunity
the Ukrainian had given him.
For this was the first time he'd had Yuri in such close proximity,
with his defences lowered. Yuri believed the fight was as good as won;
that Joe would die without ever regaining consciousness.
The pain in Joe's neck made him want to throw up. His head was
starting to throb and his lungs were burning from the lack of oxygen.
He knew he was in danger of blacking out again. Couldn't wait too
long . . .
Another second to run it through his mind, visualise the manoeuvre
so it could be performed smoothly and quickly. And then he struck.
He didn't think he'd ever moved so fast in his life. With lightning
speed his arms flew up and his hands slapped against Yuri's head.
Anchoring his fingers around the Ukrainian's ears, he rammed both
thumbs into Yuri's eyes. Joe heard the tiny exhalation of surprise choked
off by a much harsher sound: an involuntary scream.
The grip on his own neck was suddenly relieved, but Joe knew this
was no time for half measures. He couldn't afford to be tentative, or
squeamish, or compassionate. He went on digging his thumbs as deep
as they would go, feeling the gelatinous tissues yield beneath them.
With a primal screech, Yuri reared up, swatting blindly at Joe's
arms. Joe ignored the blows, allowing himself to be lifted by Yuri
until both men were sitting up. Then Joe released his right hand,
his thumb emerging from Yuri's eye with a wet sucking noise and a
gout of blood.

Joe curled his fingers over and with an upward trajectory he drove
the heel of his palm into Yuri's nose. He heard a satisfying crunch of
bone and followed through, forcing Yuri's head back while at the same
time pulling his own body to one side, enabling him to get out from
under the Ukrainian.

They broke apart with another gloopy popping sound as Joe's other
thumb came out. Joe caught a clumsy punch to the side of his head
and rolled away, quickly jumping to his feet. While he carried out a
swift assessment of his own injuries, he watched Yuri backpedalling,
still blinded, blood gushing from his eyes and nose.
He had to be in agony, Joe thought. Surely this was enough to put
him out of action.

From Felton, there was a bloodthirsty roar of encouragement. 'Go
on! Finish him off!'

Whether this was directed at him, or at Yuri, Joe wasn't sure. He
spat in disgust at Felton's depravity even as he saw, to his dismay, that
Yuri had no intention of conceding. Of course not. A creature like
Yuri never accepted defeat.
Felton shouted: 'Fight, you buggers! Fight!'
Yuri nodded. Scraped blood from his eyes and blinked furiously.
The skin around his nose was swelling fast, but he seemed to have a
little vision in one eye, at least. He wiggled his fingers at Joe, taunting
him: Come and get me.
And, like a fool, Joe accepted the bait. He took a few cautious steps
towards Yuri, hands up in a boxer's stance, thinking he could now
settle this with his fists.
Yuri wiped his eye again, while his other hand drifted behind his
back for a second. For Yuri it was quite a subtle movement, but Joe
spotted the misdirection. He took another step forward, inviting Yuri
to reveal whatever surprise he had in store, then dodged sideways, out
of reach.
As he did, he heard a click and Yuri swung his hand into view,
jabbing at the space that Joe should have occupied. Joe had good
reason to be grateful for reading the move in time, because Yuri was
holding a knife.

Lurking just outside the gymnasium, Oliver watched the fight with a
mixture of fascination and revulsion. There was something extraordinary
about seeing two grown men beat the living shit out of each
other. It had an integrity, he thought. A kind of primitive nobility that
you rarely saw any more.
At least, that was how it seemed until Yuri pulled a knife. A typically
underhand move, and one of which his father would no doubt
approve. Robert Felton appeared to be delighting in the role of a
modern-day Roman emperor. To Oliver it was the final confirmation
that his father was beyond redemption.
Now that Yuri was armed, Oliver guessed the fight was heading
towards a suitably barbaric conclusion. He was debating whether to
stay and watch when he heard a noise from behind him.
He turned, but there was nothing to see. The noise had come from
around the corner. It sounded like someone trying to cross the marble
hall without being heard.
One of Dad's storm troopers? Maybe, but they had no obvious
reason to be stealthy. They ruled the roost.
With some reluctance, Oliver left the fight and went to investigate.

Felton laughed when he saw the knife, but Valentin was incensed.
You did not say he had a weapon. This is not fair.'
'As it happens, I didn't know he had it. Anyway, what's fair is what
I say is fair.' But a moment later he gestured towards the guard standing
outside the court. 'Give him a racquet.'
Joe frowned. He was trying to follow the conversation going on
overhead, at the same time evading Yuri's clumsy but forceful attempts
to stab him. The one eye that was working seemed to be having difficulty
focusing, and Joe suspected he had done some serious damage
to the Ukrainian. Only a supreme act of will kept Yuri on his feet,
hence his desperation to finish Joe off with the knife.
Joe was aware of the guard fetching something but had to turn away
as Yuri thrust the knife forward. Once again Joe managed to avoid it,
this time by an uncomfortably narrow margin.
He only has to get lucky once, Joe thought. If he catches me with
the blade, or even gets a hand on me, then it's all over . . .
Yuri's momentum sent him hurtling into the wall, but he immediately
rebounded, slashing the blade through the air like a demented
butcher. As Joe backed away, there was a clattering from behind him.
Turning quickly, he saw that the guard had thrown a squash racquet
onto the court.
'Thought that would even the score,' said Felton.
Joe snorted. 'A gun would be better.'
But after dodging another attack he snatched the racquet up. It was
a good, sturdy model. Not only could it be used to deflect the knife
but, more importantly, it extended Joe's reach.
He gripped the top of the handle just below the racquet head and
held it at arm's length, using the head as a shield. Yuri growled in
frustration at this new obstacle, but refused to countenance any other
option but attack.
His face was a mask of blood. His breath rattled noisily in his chest.
He was unsteady on his feet, and yet he kept on coming. Determined
not to be beaten.
As Yuri lunged and overreached, Joe leaned back but kept his feet
where they were, planted well apart. He parried with the racquet head,
then turned his wrist and smacked the butt of the handle into Yuri's
face. It caught him just below the good eye, where his cheek was
already swollen and purple.
Yuri roared with pain. His knife hand dropped to his side and Joe
danced closer, striking him another half a dozen times in quick succession,
aiming for the face and the neck. Yuri started to buckle, but still
he wouldn't go down.
Joe swerved to Yuri's right and stamped on the side of Yuri's knee.
There was a terrible cracking noise and Yuri's leg gave way and he
dropped, hitting the sprung floor with enough force to shake the room.
Joe kicked the knife out of his grasp and watched it skid across the
blood-splattered court. Then he looked down at Yuri. At last the
Ukrainian had lost the will to fight. It was over.


Fifty-Five

The prisoners pleaded to be released, even after they'd watched Priya
kill Turner. In her view, they should think themselves fortunate that
she'd spared them from the same fate.
For now, anyway.
As she hurried next door, she pondered Turner's last words. Could
Liam and Valentin still be alive? And did it really matter? Maybe she
was better off taking his advice and getting out of here. Empty-handed,
but free. Wasn't that the best option?
Quite possibly. But she couldn't do it. There were things she had
to know first, things that mattered more to her right now than freedom.
More than life or death.
From the entrance hall, Priya reconnoitred the main living rooms
and found nothing. But she could hear noise off to her left, where
she knew Felton's little leisure complex was located: a gymnasium
and games room over two floors.
She climbed the stairs, wondering if the main bedroom would be
empty. She felt sure that Felton, having thwarted their robbery, would
be unable to resist gloating over the contents of the panic room.
On the upper landing she heard more activity coming from the
gym. It sounded like a fight in progress. She went the other way,
towards the bedroom. The door was shut and she couldn't hear
anything, but her intuition told her it was occupied.
She checked the MP5, took a deep breath and opened the door.
She made sure the barrel of the gun went in first, pointing downwards.
She was counting on the guards to recognise the weapon as
belonging to one of their own and relax, just for a second.
The room contained two people, but only one guard. He did relax,
and it only took a second. Priya fired a short burst and cut him down
before he'd even begun to comprehend who she was.
The room's remaining occupant was cringing on the floor. Slowly
he looked round and stared at her in amazement.
'How did you -- ?'
'Sshh.' Priya kicked the door shut behind her and pulled the knife
from her pocket.

Joe staggered away from Yuri, then grimly awaited Felton's reaction
to the Ukrainian's defeat. Before either of them could speak there was
the harsh rattle of gunfire from the other side of the house.
Felton frowned at his men. The one guarding Valentin spoke briefly
into his microphone, waited for a reply, then shook his head. 'Nothing.'
'What's he playing at?' Felton murmured to himself. He leaned
over the balustrade and addressed the other guard, who was standing
just outside the squash court. 'Go and find out what that was about.
We can watch Joe from here.'
Joe studied the distance from the squash court to the doorway out
of the gym and reluctantly concluded that Felton was right. There
was no way he'd outrun an MP 5.
Having sent someone to investigate the shooting, Felton's attention
returned to the court. So did Valentin's, and for the first time this
evening his mood perked up and he managed a smile.
'My man wins,' he declared.
'Not yet he hasn't.' Enjoying the bafflement on Valentin's face,
Felton indicated Yuri, still on his back and gasping with pain. 'Not
while my man's still breathing.'
Oliver followed the intruder at a safe distance, which meant he could
hear but not see who it was. The warning voice in his head grew shrill
as he climbed the stairs. You risked your life to escape from this snakepit,
and now you're going back in voluntarily . . .
It was a foolish act. Quite reckless. But he didn't care. If he was
caught, so be it.
He heard the bedroom door open, but by the time he reached the
hallway the intruder had entered the room. The subsequent gunfire sent Oliver dashing into the bedroom next door to hide. The noise
was bound to bring a call for reinforcements.
Sure enough, within seconds he heard footsteps approaching. Only
a single set, though. Clearly his father didn't want to be dragged away
from the entertainment in the gym.
Pressing his ear to the dividing wall, Oliver strained to hear what
was happening next door. No machine gun fire this time, just several
distinct clicks, followed by a heavy thud. Then voices, urgent and
excited --
'No,' said Oliver. He clamped his hand over his mouth.
A few more seconds and there was movement in the hall again.
Oliver hurried to the door, opened it a fraction and saw two figures
in black striding purposefully along the corridor. One of them was
Liam, newly released, carrying a silenced pistol.
The other one, armed with an MP5, was Priya.

Joe said: 'I won't do it.'

'Then you haven't won,' said Felton. 'If you want to claim victory,
you have to finish it.'
Joe glanced down at Yuri. He was a pathetic sight, moaning softly,
his one functioning eye flickering like a worn-out TV. He seemed to
be drifting in and out of consciousness and probably had no idea that
his fate was being discussed in such a callous manner.
You want me to kill the man who made all this possible for
you?'


'He's certainly been useful. But I don't think you could argue that
he's anything but a liability in the longer term. Could you?'
Felton looked to Valentin, who spared Yuri a brief, lizard-like
contemplation, his tongue flickering over his lips as he meditated on
his verdict. Observing him, Joe saw a man whose entire outlook was
now governed by one thing and one thing alone: self-preservation.
Then Valentin said: You should kill him.'
'No.' Joe turned and strode to the opposite corner of the court. The
barrel of the MP5 tracked his movement.
'Sure about that?' Felton asked.
'I won't be party to killing a defenceless man.'
'Very well.'
Joe braced himself as Felton turned and whispered something to
the guard, who promptly stepped closer to the balustrade and opened
fire.
The shots boomed like thunder around the tight walls of the court.
Yuri's body was pummelled by the impacts, the bullets plucking at
his shirt. A spray of spent cartridges rained down on them and Joe
turned away, shielding his face, wondering if Yuri felt it coming or if
it was over too quickly to feel anything; then wondering if he was
about to find out for himself.

Fifty-Six

Priya stopped when she heard shooting from the direction of the games
room. She hid her face away from Liam, so he wouldn't see what she
was thinking.
Am I too late?
Liam stood beside her, waiting for instructions. From the moment
Priya had cut him free there had been no question that she was in
charge. Even now, with a gun in his hand, she doubted that he had
the nerve to challenge her authority.
She wasn't entirely comfortable that he carried a weapon, but it
gave her some useful support, at least for the time being. If nothing
else she could use him as a decoy.
Admittedly it had been quick thinking on his part to frisk the man
she'd killed. And finding a handgun with a silencer meant he'd been
able to shoot the second guard without alerting Felton.
But it had been a messy kill. After dragging the first man out of
sight beyond the bed, Priya had hidden in the entrance to the dressing
room while Liam had resumed his position on the floor, apparently
still handcuffed.
The second guard had entered the room, assumed that Liam posed
no threat, and turned to search for his colleague. Liam had pulled
the gun and fired. The first bullet only winged the man's shoulder, the
second missed altogether, and the third got him in the stomach as

he dived for cover and would have been fatal if not for his body
armour.
The guard hit the floor with enough presence of mind to bring his
own weapon up and level it at Liam. Before he could get off a shot,
Priya leapt out and stabbed him in the neck.

'How many more?' she'd asked.
Liam had taken longer to recover, his hand trembling as he stared
at the body. 'S-sorry, I fucked that up . . .'
'How many?'
'Um, only one more of these fellers, I think. Plus Yuri, and Felton.'
'What are they doing in the gym?'
Liam gave her a garbled explanation about some sort of duel between
Joe and Yuri, with Valentin standing to win a gold bar if his man
triumphed.
'Not that he's got a hope. But the bloody gold in there, Priya.' Liam's
face lit up as he realised they now stood a chance of reconstituting
the original plan. 'Wait till you see it. Makes all this worthwhile, and
then some.'
Before leaving the room Priya had exchanged the magazine in her
MP5 for a fresh one taken from one of the dead guards. Wisely, in
her opinion, Liam had chosen to stick with the handgun.
Now she considered how best to use the firepower at her disposal.
The decision made, she jabbed a finger at the stairs.
You go down, through the gym. I'll go this way. Whoever gets a
clear sight on the guard takes him out, all right?'

For about a minute after Priya's departure there was an uneasy silence
in the garage. Nobody moved. Nobody could be sure it was safe.
Then Terry grinned boyishly at Angela. 'Well, I guess we can sit
around like lemons and wait for whichever bunch of bastards wants
to kill us next. Or we can try to get out of here.'
Angela nodded, and managed to summon a smile of her own. 'My
thoughts exactly. First we need to find a knife. Something sharp, at least.'
Because she was the only one who'd been cuffed with her hands
in front of her, it made sense for Angela to carry out the search. Terry
objected to this, on the basis that whoever did it faced the risk of
punishment if Priya should return.
Angela put him right. 'Terry, if that damn woman comes back I
suspect we'll all be in big trouble.'
She made straight for the body of the guard that Priya had
killed. The restraints on her ankles meant that she had to move in
a kind of ungainly shuffling crawl. It was a slow and demanding
task, made worse by the sheer quantity of blood on the garage floor.
The smell repulsed her, as did the warm, sticky feel of it on her
hands.
Then, when she reached the guard's body, she had to search his
clothes and feel inside his pockets. It was an appallingly intimate act:
a desecration, almost. A couple of times she retched and had to stop
and look away, breathing slowly through her mouth until the nausea
receded. She had to disassociate herself from the reality of what she
was doing, and concentrate on what was at stake.
The first stage of that objective was to find a knife, and she did. A
thin-bladed dagger in a leather sheath. She cut her ankles free, stood
up and nearly fainted as the blood rushed from her head.
Feeling ridiculous, but cheered on by the encouragement of the
other prisoners, Angela tottered back to the group, brandishing the
knife like a prize, praying that someone wouldn't march in with a gun
at the very moment when escape seemed like something more than
an absurd fantasy.

The guard checked that Yuri was dead, then stepped back from the
balustrade. Joe experienced a mixture of confusion and relief. He was
still alive - but for how long?
Felton barely glanced at the body. He turned to Valentin, briskly
moving to the next item on his agenda.
'Congratulations. I must confess, I hadn't expected Joe to perform so

well. That could present us with a problem.' He gave a brief, mirthless
chuckle. 'Perhaps I'll have to make him an offer he can't refuse.'
You're welcome to him.'
Felton looked at Joe and tutted, as if to say: How's that for loyalty?
'Very well,' he told Valentin. 'We'll fetch your gold just as soon as
we conclude the terms of the main deal. What do you say?'
'I have no choice,' said Valentin, with a touch of petulance. 'But I
don't see how you can make this work.'
'It's perfectly straightforward. Liam and Priya arranged a robbery.
You were an innocent victim, the same as everyone else on this island.
I was in the South of France, but thankfully some of my security team
were here, guarding the house. They were captured at first, but after
several hours they managed to escape. A fierce battle ensued, in which
most of the gang were killed.'
'Most?'
'I think we have to spare Liam. Maybe Priya, too, if she's willing
to play along.'
And my family?'
You'll tell the police they're in Brighton, just as you planned to
do. They're no part of this.'
'But you still keep them?'
'Until everything's signed and sealed.'
Valentin nodded, but he looked disgusted. Not surprisingly, Joe
thought. Felton had every detail nailed down.
'Very well,' said Valentin at last.
'Excellent.' Felton clapped his hands together. He wore a look of
intense satisfaction that lasted only until he caught the guard's eye.
'Has Briggs reported in yet?'
The guard shook his head. Spoke into his mouthpiece and then
coughed. A fine mist of blood blew from the side of his neck.
Joe saw his chance and ran for the door at the back of the squash
court. He wrenched it open, then froze.
'Nice try,' said Liam. He was standing just inside the gymnasium,
holding the silenced pistol that had killed the guard. Up in the gallery,
Priya had an MP5 trained on Felton. Her boiler suit was caked in
blood: she looked like she'd just crawled out of an abattoir.
It was the first time Joe had seen her without her mask. He was
shocked by the contrast between the startling perfection of her face
and the cold, jaded look in her eyes.
Liam stood on tiptoe and peered through the glass at the body on
the squash court. 'Jesus. I'd have put a grand on Yuri winning that
one.'
'I got lucky,' said Joe.
You sure did,' Liam agreed. 'Until now.'

Fifty-Seven


While Priya cut Valentin free, Joe slowly backed across the squash
court. Liam followed, walking up to the glass wall, where he was in
full sight of the people on the floor above. That was when Felton
spotted him and groaned, as if he'd just been thinking it couldn't get
any worse, and then it had.
But there was another side to Felton's character, Joe realised. The
reckless gambler. The supremely arrogant businessman, buoyed by
years of success and accustomed to flattery and deference on every
continent. That side was evident when Felton asked, scornfully, 'What
happened to my team?'
'They're dead,' said Priya.
You're kidding me. Who did it?'
'Who do you think?'
'Good grief.' Felton looked Priya in the eye and jeered. A skinny
little runt like you?'
It seemed like a deliberate taunt, designed to provoke a reaction. For
that reason, perhaps, Priya responded with nothing more than a warning
look. It was Valentin who lost his temper, swinging a well-telegraphed
punch at the other man's jaw. Felton easily dodged the blow, stuck out
his foot and sent Valentin to the floor in a clumsy sprawl.
Liam's spluttered laugh earned a rebuke from Priya. No one spoke
while Valentin climbed slowly to his feet, burning with humiliation.
Felton shook his head as if disappointed to face an adversary of
such poor quality. 'Oh, Priya,' he said in commiseration, 'I suppose
you think this gives you the upper hand?'
To Joe's eye, it seemed there was almost a glint of admiration in
Priya's smile. 'Doesn't it?' she asked.
'Not really. I think my proposal is by far the best option.' He pointed
at Valentin, as if expecting him to concur. You see, unless we play it
my way an innocent woman and two young children will die a slow,
lingering death.'
Priya was spectacularly unimpressed. 'Maybe. But you're still going
to open that room full of gold.'
She was a far better poker player than Valentin, who turned on her.
You don't get to--'
Priya shushed him, reaching out and patting him gently on the
arm. It was an oddly affectionate gesture, and Joe wasn't the only one
to take note of it.
For the first time since Priya had walked in, Felton looked taken
aback. 'Something you're not telling me?' he asked Valentin.
'We want the gold,' Priya said. 'In return, we'll spare your life.'
Young lady, you don't understand. Cassie and the children are
alone, locked in a room at a location known only to me. No one else
is going to find them. Now, I'm prepared to be reasonable and revise
our earlier deal. But if you want to see them again you'll have to
accept my terms.'
Valentin looked undecided, while Priya suddenly frowned, looking
around the room. She turned to Liam.
'Where's Oliver?'

The mention of his name made Oliver jump, and nearly gave him
away.
He'd come downstairs and hidden in the hallway just outside the
gym. The danger only added to the excitement. He was in his element:
spying on others while remaining unobserved.
His view of the gallery was limited, but if he concentrated hard he
could hear almost every word. The acoustics of the gym helped: all
those hard shiny surfaces reflected the sound of voices.
Now Priya was demanding to know where he was. He felt a stab
of pride that she cared enough to ask, followed by a vague resentment
that it had taken her until now to register his absence.
It was Liam who supplied the answer. 'He's locked in his bedroom.
Daddy didn't want him around while he discussed business.'
'Where's the key?' Priya demanded.
'Probably in the lock,' said Robert Felton. He seemed absurdly
confident, given the circumstances.
'Will you fetch him?' Priya asked. Now her tone was strikingly
different: warm, feminine, sensual. Intrigued, Oliver crept nearer to
the doorway and discovered that she'd been talking to Valentin

Nasenko.
Before leaving the room, Valentin leaned close and brushed his
lips against her cheek while trailing his hand across her belly and hip.
It was a crude display of possession and, judging by Priya's expression,
not exactly something she relished. But she didn't fight him off, either.
Oliver felt something vital curl up and die deep inside him.
With Valentin gone, Priya turned back to Robert Felton. 'Now we
have an obvious transaction. You give us the gold and the girl, and
you and Oliver will be spared.'
'Just the girl?' his father repeated. Oliver barely heard him over the
sudden loud buzzing in his brain. 'What about the others?'
'Cassie and the boy? I don't care about them. Neither does Valentin.
We only want his daughter. Either you release her, or Oliver dies.
And I guarantee I'll hurt him in ways you've never dreamed of, and
I'll make you watch.'
The static filling Oliver's head was almost unbearable, like a radio
caught between stations, blasting out at full volume. He had to shut
his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them, his father was still staring at Priya, his eyes
narrowed as if conducting a professional evaluation, trying to assess
exactly what manner of creature he was dealing with.
Frankly, Oliver couldn't see why there wasn't instant recognition.
If you went on character alone, his father might as well be looking
in a mirror.
'Interesting,' said Felton. 'But I'm afraid your threats don't work.
You can do what you like with Oliver.'
'Bullshit!' It was Liam who reacted. 'What do you take us for?'
'I assure you, Liam, my son is a source of constant regret. A dysfunctional
parasite. A waste of oxygen.' He gave them a complacent smile.
'In all honesty, you'd be doing me a favour.'
You think you could stand by and watch your own son tortured to
death?' Liam again.
'I'm not claiming that I'd take any pleasure in witnessing it, of
course not. But I'd get over it. I have a remarkably strong constitution,
you see.'
Oliver wanted to scream. He wanted to throw himself into the room
and do battle with his father one last time.
But he didn't. Somehow he not only controlled himself, but even
summoned the presence of mind to consider whether his father was
bluffing. Felton senior could have reasoned that the best way to save
Oliver was to profess no concern for his survival.
On the other hand, Robert Felton was also a ruthless sociopath,
and every one of his insults bore the ring of truth. In fact, most of
them had been said before - to Oliver's face.
A room full of gold versus a dysfunctional parasite? There was really
no competition.
Oliver knew he couldn't listen any more. As his gaze fell away he
realised he wasn't as well hidden as he'd thought. Valentin's bodyguard,
Joe, was standing inside the squash court, staring straight at him.
They made eye contact for a second. Oliver was grateful that Joe's
expression never wavered, because Liam would surely have noticed
if it had.
But that moment of silent communication was enough. Oliver
hurried away, believing he knew what Joe wanted him to do.

Joe couldn't decide what to make of Felton's performance. Priya was
bound to assume that Felton was feigning his disdain for Oliver, but
Joe wasn't so sure. He knew a little about the tensions between them,
mainly from gossip passed on by Angela Weaver. And with so much
at stake, it seemed all too plausible that Felton would be willing to
sacrifice Oliver for his cause.
But one thing was certain. Regardless of which side prevailed, Joe's
fate was sealed. No one would trust him to keep quiet about their
deal: therefore he had to be eliminated.
When he glanced at the doorway, trying to gauge if he could take
Liam on, he was confronted with the unexpected sight of Oliver Felton.
The young man's face was a white mask of shock as he listened to his
father's ruthless condemnation.
He'll believe it, Joe thought. He'll want to believe it, to fuel his
paranoia and self-pity.
But at least Oliver was going to get away. That was one small mercy.
And if Priya really had killed Felton's men, maybe the other prisoners
at Dreamscape had a chance of freedom as well. With any luck, Oliver
would help them escape, and then raise the alarm.

Fifty-Eight

When Angela cut Terry free, the first thing he did was wrap her in a
heartfelt embrace. It lasted only a couple of seconds, but its effect was
extraordinary: obliterating all the pain and fear in an instant. She could
scarcely believe how wonderful it felt. Her instinctive response was to
clamp her arms around him and not let go, but Terry was already stepping
away.
Of course he was. They had two more people to release. To keep
them waiting would be rude and selfish. But she was sorry it had
ended so soon.
While he cut the restraints, Terry set out his escape plan. 'We may
have to get past guards or a roadblock at the bridge, so I suggest we
go to my place first. My Hummer's parked in the garage.'
Angela nodded her agreement, but Maria gave an apologetic smile.
'So sorry. But first I need . . .' She made a face, embarrassed.
Terry frowned. 'What?'
Then the driver, Pete Milton, said, "Me too. I feel like my bladder's
gonna explode.'

'You know that every second we stay in here -- '
'We know, Terry,' said Angela. 'But we've been trussed up in here
for hours, and frankly I'm also in no fit state to run anywhere until
I've visited the loo.'
She started towards the inner door, but Terry stayed where he was.
When she turned, he waved her away.
'You go on. I'll meet you in the hall.'
They found two cloakrooms on the ground floor. Angela took one,
and Maria the other. Milton didn't discuss what arrangements he'd
made, but when Angela came out she found him strolling back from
the kitchen, looking a lot more relaxed. He'd also managed to wash
off some of the blood around his broken nose.

Terry was waiting for them in the hall, bouncing on his feet like a
hyperactive teenager. He too looked much happier, and he showed
her why, lifting a handgun into sight.
'Found this on the guard,' he said. 'Loaded and ready to go.'
'You really think you'd use it?'
'Too bloody right I would.'
Making sure the way was clear, Terry led them outside. Angela and
Maria followed close behind him, with Milton bringing up the rear.
The night was clear and starry, the air cool and sweet after the evil
stench of the garage: to breathe it was a heady delight.
They made it across the driveway, but as Terry reached the gates
he suddenly flapped his free hand in a downwards motion. He dropped
into a crouch, checking over his shoulder to make sure they'd done
the same.
'What?' Angela mouthed, but by now she could hear the footsteps.
Somebody coming . . .

Priya didn't like the way Felton was looking at her: with a lazy smile
and half-closed eyes, an expression that was at once smug, disrespectful,
even faintly lecherous. He radiated the type of blithe natural confidence
that seemed impervious to threats.
Worst of all, she didn't think he was faking any of it. He really did
believe he was immune to failure.
'Lot of mopping up to do,' he observed. 'The poor buggers next
door, and those two, of course.' He nodded towards the squash court:
Liam and Joe. 'If we do it your way, there can't be any witnesses.'
'You don't have a say in the matter.'
Felton shrugged, then called out to Liam: 'How do you feel about
being surplus to requirements? Priya and her lover boy won't want
you playing gooseberry.'
'Shut the fuck up,' Liam responded.
Grinning, Felton turned back to Priya. 'The truth hurts,' he said
quietly. 'It's the same with you, I'm afraid. You made a poor choice
with that wannabe oligarch.' He leaned slightly, peering along the
corridor behind her. 'Valentin was never a player. Just look at his wife.
He couldn't get a supermodel or a Hollywood star, so he settled for
some one-hit wonder from a TV talent show. Believe me, Priya, you
can do much, much better than that.'
She smiled. You're wasting your breath.'
'Oh, I think you're tempted. Even if Valentin does get his hands
on that gold, he'll find a way to squander it somehow. And then where
will you be?'

Far away from any of you, Priya thought. With my own money safe
and sound.

Felton opened his hands palm out: a straight-talking gesture. 'Look,
I could pour on a lot of flattery about how smart you are, how beautiful,
but I don't need to do that. All I'm suggesting is that you reassess
your position. It's not too late.'
'To change sides, you mean?'

He nodded. 'To be a winner.'
His gaze flickered past her, and a touch of caution entered his face.
Valentin returned, one hand caressing the small of Priya's back as he
came alongside her. He looked about twenty years older than Felton,
grey and drab and weary.
One foot in the grave, she thought.
He showed her the key in his hand. 'I can't find him. The door
was locked, but the room is empty.'

Felton displayed grudging admiration. 'He's escaped? My God, I
didn't think he had it in him.'
'The bathroom window was open,' Valentin went on, 'but it's a long
drop. Unless somehow he climbed down?'
Priya was picturing the house, the peculiar little dormers and
concealed attic room. She shook her head.
'He went up. Climbed over the roof.'
As she said it, Felton was waiting with a congratulatory smile:
one step ahead of them as always. It was the smile of a man who
believed he was home and dry, because without Oliver they had
no leverage at all. Reason dictated that Priya would have to take
his offer seriously. She would see the merit of his argument and
climb aboard.
It could be done in an instant, she thought. Valentin was just inches
away from her: unarmed, unsuspecting, his attention focused mostly
on Felton. Point-blank range.
Easy as a bullet, once the decision was made.
Easy as a bullet.

The footsteps were light but rapid. Angela felt her stomach clench at
the thought of yet more violence. She had sensed a subtle change in
Terry, now that he was wielding a gun. Not quite a swagger, but definitely
a swelling of confidence, as though he would welcome a chance
to use it.
For all her misgivings, it was quite understandable. And if their
survival depended on his willingness to kill, Angela knew she would
not object.
A figure loomed over them as Terry launched himself up, ready to
shoot. Angela was the first to recognise Oliver Felton, but it was too
dangerous to shout or grab Terry's arm. Instead she rushed past him
and threw herself in front of the tall, thin, bewildered boy.
'Oh, Jesus.' Terry whipped the gun away from them, and Angela
saw the white spots on his knuckles. 'I nearly. . .'
Angela touched Terry's cheek; she could feel his warmth, and the
roughness of his stubble. 'It's all right. Oliver's on our side. Aren't
you?'
For a moment Oliver just stared at her, as if she'd spoken in a
foreign language.
'So is it your dad over there?' Terry asked, indicating the Felton
house. 'Is that who those other men are working for?'
'His storm troopers,' Oliver said, his voice strangely placid.
'Why didn't they release us when they had the chance?' Angela
asked.
'He had a deal to make first. With Valentin. It's all he cares about:
deals, money, power. My father is a monster. Always has been. Always
will be.'
His voice tailed off as he looked beyond them and fixed his gaze
on Dreamscape. Angela had the unsettling impression that he'd been
talking to himself, and barely knew they were there.
'We need to hurry,' Terry reminded her.
Yes.' She waved her hand to attract Oliver's attention. 'Come on.
Leave them to their in-fighting and let the police take over.'
'He'll only buy his way out. Police, judges, politicians, they all
succumb at the right price.'
He smiled, as though he found his own wisdom immensely satisfying,
and continued to stare at the huge empty house.
Angela flinched as a hand gripped her shoulder. Terry. 'What he
does is up to him. But we're leaving. Now.'
He eased her towards the road, but she went sluggishly, still trying
to persuade Oliver.
'Please come with us. Don't stay here.'
But it was no good. Oliver's dreamy smile never faltered as she
backed away, and finally she allowed herself to turn, hurrying to keep
pace with the others, her heart wrenched by a sudden conviction that
she would never see him again.

'Is that how he got out? Did he climb over the roof?' Priya asked. The
answer was immaterial, but she needed time to think and this bought
her valuable seconds.
'I've no idea,' said Felton. 'Maybe he built a glider and flew away
on it.' He lifted his hand and made a fluttering motion with his fingers,
all the time his eyes locked on Priya, glinting with the thrill of their
illicit communication. We could fly away . . .
'Where will he go?' Valentin demanded.
'Why would I tell you that, even if I knew? He's soft in the head.
Impossible to predict.' Enjoying Valentin's frustration, Felton added,
You know, do you, that this young lady is quite happy to let your
family perish?'
'That's not true,' said Priya.
'I beg your pardon. You want me to spare the daughter, but Cassie
and her son can die, paving the way for your own . . . liaison. Will
you marry her?' Felton snapped the question at Valentin, who baulked.
'Enough of this. Give me my daughter, and the gold, and we will
spare your life.'
Felton ignored him. 'I wish Yuri had told me she was your Achilles
heel.'
Yuri did not know about us,' Valentin said. 'No one knew.'
'She's a hell of a catch, Valentin. In fact, we were just saying, she's
really a bit too good for you. I can't see it lasting, to be honest.'
For a second Priya thought Valentin was going to snatch the gun
from her and shoot Felton on the spot. She knew all about Valentin's
short temper; his eagerness to take offence and bear a grudge. She'd
told herself that it wouldn't matter once they were together; that his
negative qualities would be outweighed by security and wealth.
Besides, Valentin had rescued her, like a knight in a fairy story. If
not for him, she'd have sunk into a morass of drug addiction and prostitution.
She
owed him. Didn't she?
'One last chance,' Valentin said slowly. 'Tell me where my daughter
is, or Priya will shoot. We start with kneecaps. Very painful.'
Felton looked unfazed, and Priya knew why. Valentin couldn't
afford to hurt him too badly, in case something went wrong and his
daughter was lost for ever.
That was the key moment. The moment when Priya saw with
absolute clarity that Felton was right. He did hold all the cards. He
had the gold, and he had Sofia, and they had nothing comparable;
just empty threats and guns that might as well have been toys for all
the use they were.
And Valentin was to blame. It was his arrogance and poor judgement
that had allowed Yuri to deceive him. His sloppy planning that
had allowed his family to be kidnapped.
All signs of the fundamental weakness of character that Robert
Felton had described.
And Felton, watching with that wise, crafty, penetrating gaze of his,
followed every tiny stage of Priya's realignment, took note of every
single calculation and waited for the inevitable conclusion.
When it came, his eyes widened and warmed a little, and Priya
thought he was going to ruin it all by offering his congratulations
prematurely. But he didn't get the chance. Because that was also the
moment his phone rang.

Fifty-Nine

In the context of this night, the everyday trilling of a phone seemed
banal and nonsensical. Joe didn't know what it meant, that someone
should call, but he was glad of the interruption.
He'd followed the conversation between Felton and Priya and saw
how she might be tempted to jump ship. Soon Liam would reach
the same conclusion. Felton's taunt about playing gooseberry had
struck a nerve: since then Liam had been restlessly shifting his weight
from foot to foot, keeping his gun hand up and ready. Not trusting
anyone.
And this is how it falls apart.
In the gallery, Priya allowed Felton to ease the phone from his
pocket. He looked at the screen and did a double take.
'Oliver?'
As he listened, Felton made eye contact with Priya. He shrugged,
then frowned, pressing the phone against his ear as if striving to hear
or understand.
Oliver's impulse would be to gloat, Joe thought. He'd phone to tell
his father he was safely off the island, and that he'd called the police.
Joe prayed that he'd also thought to release the other prisoners.
Then Felton made a stuttering sound, and said, 'Wh-what do you
mean? Matches?'
'I kept some,' Oliver told him. 'I've had them for years. Hidden in my
bedroom, as a test of will.'

A test. . . ?' His father seemed incapable of anything but dumb
repetition.

'That's right. But I don't need to do that any more. I can face up
to what I am.'

'Oliver, I haven't got a clue what you're talking about, as usual.
They said you escaped. Where are you?'
'Next door. It may be an ugly house, but the view from up here is
incredible. The sea is shining like a vast oil slick--'
'Oliver . . .' Felton gave a sigh that seemed intended for his other
audience. 'That's not really the wisest location, is it? But since you're
there you could save me a lot of trouble by coming back with a gun
and shooting these bastards.'
Oliver moved the phone away from his ear, correctly anticipating
the big, ingratiating laugh that followed.
When it faded away to a flat silence, Oliver said, 'I'm not interested
in guns. I was pleased to get my phone back, though. They had
a room full of them downstairs. And then I wasn't sure if Priya would
let you answer it.'

'Priya and I are getting on fine.' More false jollity. 'Talking things
over. Like I said, why don't you join us?'
'I'm not riding to anyone's rescue. But I will solve all your problems.
Can you hear that?'

He held the phone at arm's length. It took less than three
seconds for his father to dump the good-pals routine and snap:
'What?'
'Doesn't matter. It's not loud enough.'
'What isn't?'
'The sound of gas, escaping.' Quite unexpectedly, Oliver discovered
tears running down his cheeks. He sniffed, then grimaced. 'I'm inhaling
it already, I suppose.'

Now he had his father's attention. His full and final attention, Oliver

thought, recalling a form of wording his father liked to employ in his
business correspondence.
'Oliver, think about this. Think very, very carefully--'
'I have.'
'No, I mean it.' His father's voice was low and husky, like a bad
late-night DJ. 'Please, Oliver . . .'
The P-word. He hadn't heard that from Dad in . . . what?
A lifetime.
'It's too late. I've opened a couple of the canisters. Liam's people
brought a small quantity of explosive, but I'm not au fait with this
sort of detonator. Rather than risk any mistakes, I'm going to make
doubly sure by igniting the gas myself. With my trusty box of
matches.'
He laughed, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, and once again
his father reverted to type.
'No, Oliver. You'll stop this nonsense immediately. Don't be so
bloody stupid.'
Stupid. Some epitaph, Oliver thought.
He dropped the phone and picked up the matches.

Joe heard snatches of the conversation, and then only Felton's side of
it, but that was enough to figure it out.
Oliver was inside Dreamscape, and he had matches.
After swearing at his son, Felton listened for a moment and then
shook his head. He stared at Priya and said, 'The propane.'
She didn't get it at first. Didn't react when Felton retreated across
the games room, out of Joe's sight. She watched him go, curiosity
giving way to anger as she decided this must be a ruse. She raised the
MP5 but Valentin screamed and lunged for the barrel, knowing its
power might tear Felton apart, and Priya swatted him away while also
nodding that she hadn't forgotten his concern. The gold was at stake,
never mind Valentin's daughter.
Priya fumbled with the selector switch, perhaps trying to set it to
single fire, so she could wound him, bring him down with a leg shot
but keep him alive.
Madness. Joe saw that, and so did Liam, for both men began their
dive for cover in what must have been the first millisecond of the
explosion. Long before they heard it. Long before they felt anything
but the greedy suck of air as every window on the northern side of
the house blew out.

Joe hit the floor and rolled, seeking the relative protection of the
squash court's side wall. He was facing upwards for just long enough
to witness the first devastating impact of the pressure wave: Valentin
and Priya, snatched off their feet and hurled across the games room.
Then a searing flash of light had him throwing his arms up over his
face and pressing his head into the space where the wall met the floor.
He felt the whole house shift, and heard a boom louder than thunder
as the sound of the blast caught up. It was accompanied by a deep,
rending noise that scared him more profoundly than anything he'd
ever heard in his life: it was the sound of stone and timber and brick
and glass being torn apart; a sound like the end of the world.
to destroy Dreamscape. Valentin hadn't been too worried whether any
of the other homes were damaged in the explosion: just as long as
Felton's extravagant design was obliterated.
So in that sense Liam should have had a good idea of what to
expect. But the reality was far worse than anything he'd imagined.
Too much gas, he thought as the world turned to hell around him.
They should have kept the canisters on the ground floor so the house
would absorb more of the blast.
Got it wrong.
And now they were all going to die.


Priya was still conscious when the shock wave picked her up. Her
head snapped back and her arms and legs splayed out and the submachine
gun went flying off in another direction. She tried to keep
control of her limbs, tried to reach for Valentin as he too was caught
in the blast, and for an instant she thought her hand might have
grasped his - she was sure she felt the soft, comforting touch of human
flesh for a single fleeting moment - and along with her belated understanding
of Oliver's betrayal came the knowledge that this was the
very last touch, the very last moment.

Liam was better placed than most to comprehend what was happening.
He'd been responsible for acquiring the propane. He was the one who'd
researched its effects and made a rough estimate of the quantity needed



Sixty

There weren't any guards patrolling the island, and there was no roadblock
on the bridge, but Liam's man nearly got them killed just the
same.
Terry charged into his house, opened the garage doors and rolled
out at the wheel of his huge black Hummer. Angela had always
regarded it as a ludicrous vehicle: a hideous, planet-killing beast.
'Very small penis,' had been Donald's inevitable wisecrack whenever
Terry Fox thundered past in it. Now Angela made a silent vow never
to criticise the Hummer again, if only it transported them to safety.
They piled in, Angela still fretting that they'd left Oliver Felton
behind, then Terry gunned the engine and she was thrown back in
her seat as he accelerated away. She assumed he'd maintain the same
furious velocity until they were well clear of the island, but after less
than a hundred yards he slammed on the brakes.
By the time she'd recovered her equilibrium Terry had jumped out
and was crouched over a dark shape by the side of the road. He turned
and motioned at her to join him, and when she did she found that
the shape was human, unconscious, and bleeding heavily from wounds
to the head and chest.
It was one of the original gang. Pendry, she thought his name was.
He was barely alive, and must have fallen foul of Felton's men, or
possibly Yuri.
The new, battle-hardened Angela could almost have told Terry to
leave him there. Get back in the Hummer and just go. Thankfully,
the day's experiences hadn't quite brutalised her to that extent.
Even with the four of them working together, lifting the injured
man into the Hummer ate up precious seconds. It was hard, hot,
messy work. All the time she had to ignore an insistent voice in her
head, reeling out horror after horror: that moving him would kill
him, or they'd get him to a hospital and he'd die anyway, or he was
exaggerating his wounds and might spring up and attack them. Worst
of all, that Priya would come after them . . .
But none of these things happened, and they set off again, moving
cautiously once the bridge came into sight. There was a Range Rover
parked at the side of the road, and Terry watched it closely, holding
the gun in his right hand while steering with his left. Thankfully it
was unoccupied.
On the bridge itself there was a Citroen van, also empty, and beyond
that a line of interlocking plastic barriers. Terry eased past the van
and then blasted right through the barriers, muttering something about
his paintwork, and then they hit the mainland and at last the island
was behind them and they could dare to relax.
Angela let out a long breath, thinking she understood how astronauts
must feel when the space shuttle touched down on the runway
at the Kennedy Space Center. Now they were only minutes away from
civilisation, working phones, normality.
Then Terry glanced at his rear-view mirror and said, 'What the
hell ...?'
As Angela turned to him, she caught a flash of light in the corner
of her eye. The Hummer rocked on its suspension and the rear window
shattered. Both Angela and Maria screamed, and all four of them
ducked in their seats, assuming they were under attack. The noise of
a tremendous explosion drowned out all other sound, and only when
it passed could they hear the rattle of debris raining down on the roof.
Terry brought the Hummer to a stop in the middle of the road,
applied the handbrake and twisted round to get a proper look. In the
passenger seat, Angela did the same, their shoulders pressed together
as they stared at the island behind them.
A huge fireball was climbing into the sky above Terror's Reach. It
had the shape of an atomic explosion, boiling and swelling like something
alive and malevolent, forming an enormous mushroom cloud
that blotted out the night sky.
On the back seat, Maria shifted upright and then leaned over to
make sure Pendry was still breathing.
'Is he all right?' said Angela.
'I think.' Maria's eyes were red from weeping, and her face twitched
as she glanced back at the island. 'What was that?'
'Someone blew the whole place,' Terry said.
'Oliver,' said Angela.
Terry grunted. 'Christ knows how. I mean, there are the LPG tanks,
but I don't see how they'd produce an explosion like that.'
'Maybe Liam's gang brought a bomb with them?'

'Or maybe Felton did.' Terry shifted in his seat, facing forwards
again. 'We need to get Pendry to a hospital.'
Angela reached for his hand and squeezed it. She couldn't quite
control her voice as she said, 'Do you think they're dead?'
Terry sucked air between his teeth. 'Depends if they got any warning,
I suppose. But it doesn't look good, does it?'
'No.' Angela turned away and shut her eyes. 'No, it doesn't.'

Sixty-One

Joe wasn't certain whether he blacked out, or if it was simply that the
turmoil following the explosion scrambled his senses. But after what
might have been seconds or minutes he moved his head slightly and
realised he was alive.
After that, his first thought was: Felton. And then: Cassie.
He was lying under a pile of rubble, his face caked in dust. He
tried opening his eyes and felt grit scraping against his eyeballs. Next
he flexed his arms and legs and got the desired response. Not
paralysed, then. But he might still be trapped.
He felt for obstructions around him before easing first one and
then the other arm free of the wood and plaster that lay on top of
him. He wiped his eyes and blinked until his tears washed them
clean.
With his vision restored, Joe was able to see how lucky he'd been.
A large slab of masonry had fallen and ended up propped against the
wall about a foot above his head, shielding him from the worst of the
debris. If it had landed any differently he would have been crushed
or buried alive.
After making sure he wouldn't dislodge it when he moved, he was
able to wriggle out from under it and look over the rest of the room.
It wasn't a pleasant sight.
The gymnasium was hardly recognisable: two of the squash court's
walls destroyed, the floor punctured and pitted and strewn with rubble.
And there was a lot of blood.
The first body Joe noticed was Valentin's. The blast must have thrown
him off the gallery, which had itself partially collapsed, with loose sections
of balustrade dangling just inches above the floor of the squash court.
Valentin was sprawled on a pile of bricks and splintered wood, his
right leg twisted at an obscene angle. Looking more closely, Joe saw
that the limb had been almost torn from his body. His right arm was
also severed, and the back of his skull had been caved in.
Joe stared at the body for a moment but found it hard to summon
any real regret. Too many innocent people had paid the price of
Valentin's stupidity and greed. What sympathy Joe felt was directed
towards Cassie and Sofia.
And that sympathy won't be worth a damn if I can't find them, he
reminded himself. It looked as if those on the upper floor had borne
the brunt of the explosion, and the severity of Valentin's injuries didn't
bode well for Priya or Felton.
Now standing, Joe checked himself over. He had a few minor lacerations
and a lot of bruises, but no broken bones, no serious cuts or dents.
The fight with Yuri had done more damage to him than the blast.
The boiler suit he'd taken from Manderson was tattered and filthy.
He tore it off, and was gratified to find the jeans and T-shirt beneath
still looked presentable.
He took a couple of steps and then a violent coughing fit had him
doubled over. He hacked until his lungs burned, but afterwards he
could breathe more easily.
As his convulsions subsided, he heard what appeared to be an echo;
then he realised it was the sound of someone else trying to clear their
lungs. Joe felt a stab of relief. There was one other survivor, at least.

It was Liam. He was lying about fifteen feet away, close to the mangled
ruin of an expensive-looking treadmill.


He was buried more deeply than Joe had been: only his head and
shoulders visible in the rubble, his hair grey with dust. There was a
plank of splintered wood lying across his back, one end poking towards
his neck. As Joe approached, he started to writhe.

'Don't move!'
Liam ignored him: he was either scared of what Joe might do or
perhaps deafened by the blast. But he must have felt the wood jabbing
his neck, for he suddenly froze.
'Joe?'
'Keep still. You're going to skewer yourself if you're not careful.'
Joe knelt down and carefully lifted the timber, in the process
dislodging some of the bricks and plaster that were covering Liam's
lower body. The Irishman shrieked.
Ah fuck, that hurts!'
'Pain's a good sign. It means you've got feeling in your legs.'
'I don't know . . .' Liam must have flexed something, then he gasped.
'My right leg won't move, and the left one hurts like hell.'
Joe examined him as best he could, removing some of the bricks.
'You've got some nasty cuts, but they're not bleeding too heavily. There's
no sign of any bones protruding--'
Liam made a retching sound, spat, and said, 'Thanks.'
'_so it's looking positive,' Joe finished, electing not to mention the
possibility of internal bleeding. 'I don't have time to dig you out now,
and frankly I want you staying put till I can get help.'

Liam groaned. And the paramedics'll have fucking cops at their
elbows.'
'They will, yeah.'
Joe stood, peered at the field of debris around him, then nudged
a lump of concrete aside with his foot and scooped up what he'd
spotted: Liam's gun.
As he turned away, Liam twisted his head and shouted, Ah, show
some mercy. Don't leave me here.'
'Be thankful you're still alive.'
'But I'm in agony.'
'Tough.'

Joe picked his way across the gym while looking the gun over. He
unscrewed the silencer and slipped it in his pocket, then removed the
magazine and checked the barrel. The weapon didn't seem to be
damaged or jammed, but he wanted more than a visual inspection to
rely on.
He pointed the gun at the far wall and fired once. Saw the bullet
strike within a couple of inches of the spot he was aiming for, and
decided that was good enough.
To reach the gallery, Joe climbed up on a pile of masonry and then
grabbed a section of the balustrade, testing its strength before hauling
himself up. It was a risk, but a quicker option than negotiating his
way to the main staircase.
The games room had sustained heavy damage in some places but
remarkably little in others. The pool table had overturned, while the
flimsier table-tennis table, set further back, remained upright. It looked
as though the force of the explosion had blown through the wide
doorway on the inner, north-facing wall but had left the wall itself
intact. Why?
Sketching the layout in his head gave Joe the answer. The panic
room. Its reinforced walls formed the inner core of the building, and
had acted as a barrier between the room they were in and Dreamscape.
If they'd still been in the bedroom suite, on the far side of the panic
room, they'd almost certainly be dead now.
Joe turned to his left, visualising his last glimpse of Felton, retreating
from Priya, who'd been standing with her back to the doorway, catching
the blast full on from behind. He estimated that both of them would
have ended up somewhere close to the south-facing wall.
a glass-fronted cabinet that contained a selection of pool and snooker
cues. She was lying face down, one arm thrown out at the side, her
fingers reaching toward the hole in the floor that accommodated the
fireman's pole.
Joe crouched down for a closer look. The sight of her long, dark
hair, its lustre of life barely diminished, stirred his emotions more
powerfully than he would have cared to admit. Gently he lifted her
head an inch or two, to allow him to see her face.
What he saw made him flinch. It sparked an unwelcome memory
of the night when, as a young PC, he'd had to search a muddy field
for the decapitated head of a motorcyclist. On that occasion he'd located
it, and then embarrassed himself by vomiting. Here he quelled the
nausea by reminding himself who Priya was, and what she had done.
At least her death had been mercifully quick.
Now Joe had to prepare for the next discovery to be equally grisly.
He tried consoling himself with the thought that there might yet be
a clue to Cassie's whereabouts in Felton's pockets, or maybe on his
phone.
It took him less than ten seconds to make a circuit of the room.
There weren't many places where you could conceal the body of a
fully grown man, but Joe searched them all and found no trace of
Felton.


Priya's body was exactly where Joe thought it would be. She'd been
thrown some twenty feet across the room.

Sixty-Two

There were two windows on the south-facing wall. One had shattered;
the other hadn't. Joe thought it unlikely that Felton could have
been hurled clean through the broken one, but he checked it carefully
all the same. There was no blood on the frame or the sill. No
body on the lawn at the side of the house. Somehow Felton had
vanished.
For a second Joe wondered if he could trust his own memory.
Maybe he'd suffered concussion, and had imagined Felton's presence
in the first place?
No. Felton had definitely been there, just before the explosion.
Backing away from Priya, less afraid of her than of what his son was
about to do . . .
Joe turned and stared at the spot where Priya lay, as if this time he
might see Felton lying next to her. He'd expected to find both bodies
in the same part of the room. So where was he?
Reluctantly he walked back towards Priya's corpse. This time he
noticed what he'd missed before. The fireman's pole had a sweaty
handprint on it, about two feet off the ground. He pictured Felton
slithering through the hole, perhaps falling just as the explosion hit.
Joe peered down at the gymnasium below - and immediately spotted
drops of blood on the floor.
Tucking the gun into his waistband, Joe used the pole to get down to
the gym. He landed heavily and dropped to a crouch, half fearing
that Felton would be lying in wait for him.
But there was no one in the gym except Liam. He'd made a lacklustre
effort to free himself and was now lying on his side, still buried,
in a position that looked even less comfortable than before.
'Did you see Felton?' Joe demanded.

'What? When?'
'After the explosion. I think I blacked out. I don't know how long
for, but Felton must have come past.'
'He's escaped? You're joking!'
Joe's voice hardened. 'Did you see him?'
'Of course not. I was unconscious, too.' Liam shook his head. 'We're
lucky he didn't kill us on his way past.'
Joe shrugged. 'He's got better things to do.'

He made his way through to the entrance hall and discovered that
half the main staircase had collapsed. The marble floor looked as if
an earthquake had hit it, and a couple of small fires smouldered in
one of the living rooms. Weighing it up, Joe decided that the risk
didn't warrant the time it would take to carry Liam out of the house.
The front door had been blasted off its hinges and lay broken in a
corner of the driveway. Most of the perimeter wall had been demolished
and there were more fires taking hold in the trees across the
road. That could be serious, he knew, given the recent dry weather,
but there was nothing he could do about it.

Joe walked briskly, his muscles and joints protesting at the
hammering they'd endured. Reaching the road, he looked north, in
the direction of the bridge, nursing a desperate hope that he'd spot
Felton hobbling along just a short way ahead of him. But there was
no one to be seen.
After a few more steps Joe turned to survey the extent of the damage.
Despite having prepared himself for the sight, it still came as a shock.
Dreamscape was gone. Although he hadn't lived to see it, Valentin's
wish had been granted: the entire house, wiped from the face of the
earth, and in its place a burning wasteland. There wasn't even a lot
of debris to be seen: Joe guessed that most of it had been blasted into
the sea or far across the island.
Of the houses on either side, Felton's had fared better than Terry Fox's,
again probably because of the panic room. There was a lot of damage
to the outside wall and the north-facing roof, but nothing that couldn't
be rebuilt. Terry's place, on the other hand, looked dangerously unstable,
the roof drooping like a lazy eye over a missing gable-end wall. It would
have to come down, Joe thought.
Assuming he'd set off the explosion by hand, Oliver Felton would
have been vaporised in an instant. It was unlikely that any trace of
him would ever be found. The same would be true of Angela and the
other prisoners, if they'd still been in the garage.
The thought made Joe pause and bow his head in sorrow. He tried
to envisage a scenario where Oliver, deranged and suicidal in his final
moments, had summoned the humanity to release a group of innocent
men and women.
Deep in his heart, Joe couldn't see it.

He started along the road, heading in the only direction that made
sense: towards the bridge, and the mainland beyond. He had no plan
as such, except to keep moving. If ever he needed a lucky break, it
was now.
In a moment of despondency he remembered how Felton had
described him: Crawling over my island like vermin. The blunt truth
was that not only had Felton thoroughly outwitted them all, but the
momentum was still going his way.
Unless the man had been badly injured, which now seemed unlikely,
he felt sure that Felton's priority would be to reach the place where
Cassie and the children were being held. They were his one trump
card, if he still imagined some kind of deal was possible; and if not,
they were inconvenient witnesses whose silence offered him a chance
of freedom.
Joe thought back over the conversation in the bedroom suite. Felton
had boasted that his hostages would never be found, but in mocking
Joe's efforts to hide them at the B&B in Chichester he'd also said it
had taken no time to 'fetch them'.
That suggested they were still close by. Perhaps one of the villages
south of the city?
How to narrow it down: that was the problem.
Fretting, Joe kept his eyes on the road. The surface was littered
with bricks and tiles and various household items: a kettle sitting
upright by the verge; a paperback book with its pages fluttering gently
in the night air; a bathrobe curled up like a sleeping cat. Joe looked
for signs that a car had driven over the debris, and could find nothing
to suggest that one had.
Very little would have survived in Felton's garage, and the single
vehicle parked near Dreamscape had been reduced to a twisted, smouldering wheelbase. If Felton was on foot, then Joe had a real chance
of catching him.
He increased his pace, trying to dredge up some encouragement,
a spark of hope that he could convert into energy. Felton's taunt kept
on rolling around in his head, nagging at him for some reason he
couldn't grasp.
Crawling over my island like vermin.
When he reached the corner his spirits lifted further as he saw that
Valentin's property had sustained only minimal damage. By now he'd
got used to the pain in his limbs and he was able to run the rest of
the way.
He stopped at the threshold, crept inside and waited, attuning
himself to the vibrations of the house. It felt empty. He pressed the
light switch in the hall and discovered that the electricity was out. Of
course it was.

Groping through the blackness, he made it to the garage and found
the keys to Valentin's BMW. He started it up, turned the headlights
on, then got out and tussled with the big garage doors. The frame
must have warped slightly: one of the doors jammed when it was only
half open.
Joe kicked it a few times, achieving nothing but a bruised foot,
then gave up and returned to the car. He revved the engine and drove
through the gap, ignoring the piercing metallic shriek as the nearside
bodywork scraped against the door.
North of Valentin's the road had a lot less wreckage on it, but Joe
knew he had to be careful to avoid a puncture. He leaned close to
the steering wheel and peered at the road, lit up by the headlights
and by the distant glow of the flames. The fire was spreading fast in
the wood and might soon engulf the whole island.
'Shit,' he said aloud, and stamped on the brakes.

Joe backed up, his head turned to the side as he tried to spot the gap
in the trees. He missed it the first time and reversed too far. He eased
forward, stopped and jumped out. Ran towards the trees, looking back
to align himself with the house and driveway. Then he plunged into
the copse, thick with grey smoke and alive with the crackle of
approaching fire.
His strongbox was just where he'd left it. A few more minutes and
it would have been a lump of melted junk.
He ran back to the car, threw the box into the rear footwell, then
accelerated away, a distant part of his mind contemplating how Terror's
Reach would look if destroyed by fire. Again he thought back to Felton,
languidly sipping champagne and declaring: 'I want you off the Reach.
This is my island now.'
The bitter irony was that Oliver might have done his dad a favour,
particularly if the fire spread as far as the old training camp. With the
buildings destroyed, it could tip the balance in favour of redeveloping
the whole site. And if Felton found a way to evade justice, he could
end up owning--
Joe's train of thought was jolted by the sight of flashing blue lights
on the mainland, still about four or five miles away. He slowed down on
the approach to the bridge, flicked the headlights to main beam and
swore again.
The Citroen van used by Liam's gang was still parked on the bridge,
but the plastic barriers were lying broken in the road. It might have
been the explosion, but Joe doubted it. More likely someone had
driven through them at high speed.
Felton's men were likely to have stationed a vehicle at the bridge,
once Yuri had disposed of the original guard. All Felton would've had
to do was get here on foot, then drive away. Even with only a ten
minute start he could be on the A27 by now. Impossible to find.
So what am I doing? Joe asked himself.
Fooling myself. Fooling myself that I'm going to find them. Fooling
myself that I was ever a bodyguard worthy of the name.
He saw Felton raising his glass to toast his own success. Couldn't
get that smug voice out of his head.
This is my island now.
Crawling over my island like vermin.
Both times he'd referred to Terror's Reach as 'my island'. Why
would he say that?
Simple arrogance - or something else?


Sixty-Three

Joe gnawed at the memory, wondering if he was trying to read in it
something that wasn't there. My island. Could be just a lazy figure
of speech, a kind of shorthand prompted by the fact that Felton had
been so firmly in control at that point.
Or ... he had a legitimate reason to claim ownership.
Either way, Joe couldn't take long to decide. The emergency
vehicles were obscured by the trees in the nature reserve, but he
could track them by the faint pulse of light in the sky. Less than
two minutes away, if they were pushing hard.
He repeated both lines out loud and realised what was troubling
him.
Not my island but crawling.
The choice of such a specific word had jarred at the time, but he
hadn't been able to consider its significance until now. Crawling over
my island had hit a nerve, because Joe had been crawling, literally,
to get in and out of the training camp.
And Felton had seen him.

Joe turned in the driver's seat and looked over his right shoulder. The
entrance to the base was less than a hundred feet behind him, mostly
hidden by the vegetation that grew alongside the perimeter fence.
He swung the BMW round in a brutal three-point turn and rolled
it up to the entrance, dimming his lights as he came to a halt. As he
got out he noticed a slight gap where the two gates met, a couple of
padlocks hanging loose from the central bar. His heart did a crazy
little skip.
Joe eased the gates apart and hurried back to the car. He couldn't
afford to be caught here when the emergency services came past:
otherwise he'd be spending the rest of the night in a cell.
Leaving the headlights off, he drove forward as fast as he dared
while navigating by starlight. The main cluster of buildings was about
a quarter of a mile away, over a low ridge. Joe recalled the feeling
he'd had that someone was spying on him from an upper window of
the terrace, and he shivered. He pictured Felton and his men waiting
patiently for Valentin's operation to unravel. Selecting their moment
to strike . . .

As Joe pulled in close to the top of the ridge, the first fire appliances
hurtled past the camp, sirens blasting through the still night air.
Joe got out of the BMW, made sure the gun he'd taken from Liam
felt comfortable, and warily approached the crest of the hill. Shielding
his eyes from the glare of the fire to his right, he made out two dabs
of light in front of the terrace.
Another few yards and he saw the lights belonged to a Range Rover.
Its engine was still running, and the driver's door was open. Joe felt
a surge of hope.
As he ran down the gentle incline towards the row of houses, he
noticed a weak, roving light in a window at the end of the terrace: a
flashlight.
He was less than ten feet from the house when the front door
opened and Cassie appeared, her hands tied behind her back, tape
over her mouth. Jaden was stumbling alongside her, also bound and
gagged. The sight of black tape across the six-year-old's mouth filled
Joe with revulsion.
Cassie looked frantic with worry. She glanced behind her, then
made a screeching noise in her throat: a single long note, directed at
her son. It sounded like she was urging him to run, but either he
didn't understand or he was too traumatised to respond.
From the doorway came an angry growl: 'Get in the car. Back seat.'
Felton emerged, Sofia propped under his left arm like an unwanted
parcel. She wriggled and let out a tiny, anxious mewling. Joe felt a
cold rage building.
Felton was covered in dust and blood, his once immaculate suit in
shreds. He had a nasty gash on his forehead and another on his upper
arm. He was holding a Maglite in his right hand. When Cassie faltered
at the end of the path, he swatted it across her shoulders. She lurched
forward and fell to her knees, her scream muffled by the tape.
'Stand up!' Felton shouted, raising the flashlight to strike again.
Joe moved along the side of the Range Rover and stepped into
view, bringing the gun up and sighting on Felton's chest. 'Leave her
alone.'
Felton saw him and reacted at once, hurling the Maglite at Joe
while simultaneously twisting, lifting the baby up in front of his chest.
Using Sofia as a shield.
Joe registered what Felton was doing even as he ducked away from
the flashlight, which landed harmlessly in the road behind him. He
regained his balance and made quick eye contact with Cassie,
signalling her to move clear. But she stayed on her knees, Jaden
standing helplessly next to her, his shoulders heaving as he sobbed.
Joe looked back at Felton, whose right hand was now free. He
reached into his pocket and produced a gun of his own. Placed the
muzzle against Sofia's writhing body and said: 'We're leaving here,
Joe, and you're not stopping us.'

Sixty-Four

Joe felt sure that someone was going to die here. With so many elements
beyond his control, and three innocent people caught between the
two guns, he could only pray it would be Felton rather than Cassie
or the children.
He hoped it wouldn't be himself, either. But if it was, he probably
deserved it.
'Put your gun down,' he told Felton.
'Uh-uh. It's still my agenda, Joe.'
You won't make it out of here. Can't you hear those sirens?'
'They've got fires to put out. No one's going to notice me.'
And where will you go? What can you hope to do now?'
'Recover. Regroup. Make a deal.'
'Who with? Valentin's-' He stopped, but Felton gave a thin smile.
'Don't worry: she knows. And believe me, there's always a deal to
be made.'
'Not this time.'
You're forgetting, I was never here. I can be back in France in time
for breakfast.'
And what about your hostages?'
'They're coming with me. With some time to reflect, I'm sure Cassie
will recognise the wisdom of my proposal.' Growing bolder, Felton
took the gun away from Sofia's body and waved it to emphasise his
command. 'Drop your gun and move away from the car.'
And let you shoot all four of us?' Joe shook his head. He was still
aiming at Felton's chest. His double-handed grip remained steady, but
he remembered the test shot he'd fired in the gymnasium: a couple
of inches out. Even that margin of error would put Sofia in mortal
danger.
'I have no reason to kill them,' Felton said, turning his gun on Joe.
'I'll have to kill you, of course, but that's the risk you accepted when
you took the job. A good bodyguard should be willing to take a bullet
for his clients.'
Joe said nothing. The critical moment was approaching. He'd either
have to shoot or else accept Felton's terms and surrender his gun.

Felton saw Joe wavering and, as with Priya, assumed that he'd won
the argument. Sofia was still wriggling and moaning under his arm.
Irritated, he hoisted her up to stop her from slipping free.
But he lifted her too high. As Sofia's head drew level with his chin,
her left hand swatted against his face and snagged on Felton's mouth,
her fingers dragging his lower lip down. She'd done the same thing
to Joe many times, and he knew it could be surprisingly painful, especially
if you weren't expecting it.
Felton grunted, twisting his head away from her, but Sofia clung
on. He couldn't lower his left arm without the risk of dropping her which
would clear the way for Joe to shoot him - and his right hand
was pointing his gun at Joe.
For half a second Felton was lost to indecision, his face contorted
as he tried to break the baby's grip. His gun hand fell to his side, and
as Sofia finally released him Cassie saw her chance and sprung up,
propelling herself towards Felton.
She had difficulty balancing because her arms were tied behind
her back. As a result, it wasn't the most cleanly delivered head butt
that Joe had ever seen. But it was undoubtedly one of the most
effective. The top of Cassie's forehead struck Felton on the chin with enough force to snap his jaws together. Joe heard the crack of bones
breaking.
Felton reeled back and fell, blood streaming from his nose and
mouth, Cassie toppling after him, helpless as Sofia tumbled from his
grasp. Joe dived forward, throwing his left arm under the baby as she
landed, just managing to cup the back of her head before it hit the
ground.
Cassie collapsed onto Felton and rolled over, howling a warning
as Felton wrenched his hand from beneath her. He was still holding
the gun.
Joe saw the glint of madness in his eyes and knew that all thoughts
of deals had been forgotten: nothing mattered more to Felton now
than simple, savage retaliation. And Joe couldn't get a clean shot at
him. Cassie and Jaden were in his line of fire.
'Robert!' he shouted.
It was enough to distract Felton's attention for a split second. The
mist of fury cleared as Felton forgot about Cassie and looked at Joe,
and as he turned his head Joe lunged and hit him with his gun hand,
clubbed him full in the face, and although Felton saw it coming there
was nothing he could do to stop it. The impact drove his head back
against the ground and knocked him out cold.
Joe leaned across Felton's body to grab his gun but Cassie beat him
to it, stamping on Felton's hand with her heel, then using her foot to
kick the gun out of his reach, all the time making raw, animal cries
of desperation. Her face was bright red, her eyes crazed with fear,
trapped in a place where no one could be trusted or believed, where
her children might still be stolen from her.
Joe had to take her gently by the shoulders before she would look
in his eyes.
'It's okay, it's okay,' he told her. You're safe now.'

Sixty-Five

She didn't fully believe it until Joe had picked Sofia up and soothed
her as best he could while at the same time removing the tape from
Cassie's mouth.
Anyone else in the house?' he asked.
'No. We were brought here by the two men who attacked us in
Brighton. They dumped us in one of the bedrooms. I heard them
driving away.'
'Okay.' He realised that he no longer had his knife, but he found
a little penknife in Felton's jacket and cut Cassie and Jaden free. Then
he stood back as Cassie gathered both children into her arms and
wept tears of joy and relief.
Joe knelt down by Felton's body and made sure there was a pulse.
It was weak, but steady.
'Is he dead?' Cassie asked.
'Not quite. But I think he's got a fractured skull'
'Good.' There was no malice in her voice; barely any emotion at
all. Just a matter-of-fact statement.
'We'd better not move him. Is there any more of that tape in the
house?'
He retrieved Felton's gun and offered it to Cassie, half expecting
her to shrink away from it. But she took it calmly, instructing Jaden
to stand behind her while she trained the gun on the unmoving body.
Joe found a roll of tape in an upstairs room and used it to bind
Felton's ankles and wrists. It felt inhumane to treat an unconscious
man in such a way, but if they were going to leave him here while
they sought help Joe didn't want to take any chances.
While he worked, he sensed Cassie drawing up the courage to
speak.
'It was my fault, wasn't it?'
'What?'
You warned me not to make any phone calls. But I got so worried.
I couldn't bear not knowing what was going on.'
Joe nodded that he understood. 'No one could have foreseen something
like this.'
'How did you find us? Did you follow him here?'
'Not exactly. I managed to work it out from what he'd said to us.'
'So it was a guess?'
'Let's call it a professional deduction.'
Cassie smiled with him, but he could read the fear in her eyes: What if you hadn't guessed it right?
'I can see this place made the perfect staging ground for them,' Joe
said.
She nodded. 'Felton was boasting that he'd bought the whole camp
months ago and kept it quiet. He said he had planning permission in
the bag, too.'
My island, Joe thought. For a man with as many political connections
as Felton, acquiring the camp in a secret deal wouldn't have
posed too much difficulty.
In a sombre voice, Cassie added: 'He also claimed that Valentin
had arranged a robbery, but tried to make it look like he was one of
the victims. Is that true?'
'I'm afraid so.' Joe gave her a brief account of what he knew,
including Valentin's culpability and his subsequent ambush by Felton's
men. Cassie was disgusted but not greatly surprised to learn of Yuri's
betrayal.
'He's dead now, though?'
A lot of people are dead. Some of them deserved it. Some didn't.'
Joe sighed, thinking of Angela Weaver. Cassie had a lot more questions
but he gently deflected them. This wasn't the right time to go
into detail, especially with Jaden soaking up every word.
'Let's go,' he said.
He opened the back door of the Range Rover and helped the three
of them climb inside. Jaden was last in and Joe stopped him for a
second, crouching down to look him in the eye. Keeping his voice
low, he said, You've been a brave man today. I'm proud of you.'
Jaden coyly shook his head.
'No, you have,' Joe told him. 'The thing is, you might need to be
just as brave over the next few weeks.'
Are more people going to hurt us?'
'No. Nothing like that. But your mum's going to need a lot of help,
and a lot of love. Okay?'
Jaden was old enough to squirm at the mention of the L-word. 'Will
you help her, too?' he asked. The earnest, affectionate look in his eyes
was tough to bear. Joe knew it would stay with him for a long time.
'I'm sorry, Jaden. I can't.'

While they'd been talking, at least two more convoys of emergency
vehicles had raced past on the other side of the perimeter fence. Joe
climbed into the Range Rover and drove slowly along the access road
until he reached the BMW.
Cassie said nothing as he got out and fetched the strongbox. It was
only when he climbed in and put the box in the front footwell that
she understood what it was, and what it signified.
She started to speak, choked up, turned it into a cough. When Joe
glanced in the mirror he could see her eyes shining.
He drove out through the main gates and turned left, ignoring the
instinct that urged him to leave the island right away.
Within a couple of hundred yards they found the Reach more
choked with traffic than it had ever been. There were even a few
civilian cars parked at the roadside. Insomniacs, presumably, drawn
by the sight of a fire.
'Rubberneckers,' Joe murmured, shaking his head.
From the back seat, Cassie regarded the chaos of fire and destruction
and said, with bitter sadness: 'All this for a room full of gold.'

Joe parked at a safe distance, several cars back from a hurriedly erected
police cordon. The Nasenko house was a couple of hundred yards
beyond that, still looking remarkably unscathed. Flames were blazing
in the woods opposite, but hadn't yet crossed the road. There were
about twenty firefighters on the road itself, doing their utmost to hold
the fire at bay.
Joe got out of the car, then helped Cassie with the children. The
air was hot and sharp with the smell of the fire, the night sky obscured
by the spreading pall of grey smoke. Fragments of ash drifted around
them like blossom.
A familiar vehicle caught his eye, parked just inside the cordon.
Terry Fox's Hummer. It was facing the island's homes, which suggested
that someone had driven towards the fire rather than away from it.
Odd, he thought.
Then he spotted the small group clustered at the back of an ambulance.
Maria and the American's driver were sitting inside, receiving
treatment from a paramedic.
Cassie moved alongside Joe, followed his line of sight and said: 'Is
that Angela Weaver?'
It was one of those occasions where Joe almost had to pinch himself.
They were alive. Perhaps Oliver had done the right thing after all.
Angela and Terry were in animated conversation with two police
officers. Even from this distance Joe could tell that the police looked
taken aback by what they were hearing.
Cassie patted him on the back. 'She'll be really pleased to see you.'
Joe turned to her, his elation fading as rapidly as it had appeared.
He could see she'd mentally braced herself for what he was about to
say, but that didn't make it any easier for either of them.
'I can't. I have to go.'
'Because of what you told me earlier?'
He nodded. 'My false ID's pretty good but it won't stand up to
detailed scrutiny. And after something like this . . .' He waved a hand
towards the devastation. 'I can't take the chance. I'm sorry.'
Cassie looked round, checked there was no one within earshot, and
said, You really do have a price on your head?'
He smiled. He sensed another quid pro quo moment coming up.
As far as I know.'
'But I still don't get it. If your wife and daughters were given new
identities as well, why can't you be with them?'
'That's the complicated bit.'
'Go on.'
Joe sighed. He had never told anyone this. He had never said the
words aloud, and wasn't sure he wanted to hear them now.
My wife accepted the deal on one condition. That under no circumstances
was I to be given any details about their relocation. They went
off to their new lives, and I went off to mine.'
'What?' Cassie sounded appalled.
'It's safer that way. No one can target them through me.'
'But that's a terrible thing to do to someone. You're telling me that
you've got no idea where they live now?'
Joe shook his head, almost embarrassed by the force of her outrage.
'I don't know where they are. I don't even know who they are.'

Once she had adjusted to his decision, Cassie had more questions
about what she should do next. What should she tell the police?
'Tell them the truth.'
'But what do I say about you?'
'Same thing. Tell them everything you know about Joe Carter. I
have another ID I can use if I have to.'
Cassie nodded slowly. Sofia was becoming fractious, drawing curious
glances from one of the uniforms at the cordon; any second now he
would be wandering over to ask what they were doing here.
'So I won't see you again?' she asked.
'I don't think so. No.'
She leaned forward, holding his arm while she kissed him. It was
a brief, tender contact, and it warmed his heart.
Then they broke apart, and he said, You'd better go and tell them
about Felton.' He fished in his pocket and gave her the keys to the
BMW, then indicated the Range Rover. 'I'm going to borrow this for
a day or two.'
Cassie didn't speak again until he'd turned away from her.
'Where are you going? I mean, I realise you can't tell me the actual
place . . .'
'I don't know. I guess I'll decide when I get there.'
Joe opened the driver's door and started to climb in, but he could
feel her eyes on him and knew there was more to be said. Probably
one last question.
He left the door open while he started the engine. Cassie took a
step towards the car and gazed at him through the windscreen, as if
the existence of a barrier made it easier to say.
'Try to find them.'
Joe stared at her. It wasn't a question at all. He didn't really know
what it was. A suggestion? A command? An expression of hope?
To her credit, Cassie didn't push for a response, but simply turned
and led Jaden towards the police cordon. The boy only looked back
once, raising his hand to wave at Joe; too entranced by the fire to be
distracted for long.
It meant that neither of them got to hear Joe's reply, but that didn't
matter. The important thing was that he said it.
'One day.'


Acknowledgements


Once again I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my editor, Rosie de
Courcy. Thanks also to Richard Cable, Trevor Dolby, Nicola Taplin,
Nick Austin and the rest of the team at Preface / Random House.

At Janklow and Nesbit, I'd like to thank my agent, Tif Loehnis, as
well as Rebecca Folland, Kirsty Gordon, Tim Glister and Lucie
Whitehouse.

I'm very grateful for the support of the family and friends who comprise
my first readers: Tracy Brown, the Harrisons, Spencers, Deakins and
Roslings. Special thanks to Claire Burrell, who provided some valuable
feedback on the almost-final draft. As ever, a combination of thanks
and apologies are due to Niki, James and Emily for their love and
tolerance.

Finally, I should point out that certain geographical modifications
were made to ensure that my fictional island of Terror's Reach could
be accommodated within the real - and very beautiful - surroundings
of Chichester Harbour.


Note on the Author

Tom Bale is the author of Skin and Bones. He lives with his family
in Brighton. For more information, visit www.tombale.net.

The End.