

### Morgan's Inheritance

Doug Hilditch

Smashbooks Edition 2012

Copyright 2012 Doug Hilditch

The author asserts his moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved

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### For Tess

"The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing." – Albert Einstein

"A weapon which you do not have in your hand will not kill a snake." – African Proverb

The noise of the printing presses and the smell of solvent drifted into his office as he stood looking down at his little empire. He could hear the clattering of the small folding and gathering machine and every few minutes he heard the crunch of the guillotine as it sliced down through the printed sheets. A forklift truck, trundling slowly past his window, gently placed another pallet of paper at the end of one of the Heidleburg presses. The driver, climbing down from his cab, stopped to speak with the machine minder before heading towards the tea machine in the corner. The sun streamed in through the glass panels inset into one side of the roof's apex and a lump rose in John Morgan's throat as he watched the hive of activity before him.

"What time are you off?" asked Ronny.

John swallowed hard to clear his throat.

"This afternoon, about two-thirty," he answered.

He was going to miss this place. It had been his life for the past fourteen years and now he was leaving it all behind. He glanced at the calendar on the wall to his side. Today's date, 22 April 1998, and the following two weeks were encircled.

No one knew the real reason he was going, of course. As far as anyone else was concerned he was just going on a well-earned and much-needed holiday.

John Morgan was a good man. He had struggled to keep his small company going for years, refusing to make redundancies, fighting off creditors and suffering extreme personal hardship in order to keep his small band of trusting workers gainfully employed. There had been quite a few bad times but, on the whole, the company had just about made a profit. That is until this year.

A large customer, one who had put a considerable amount of work John's way, had gone to the wall owing him thousands. He had spent countless sleepless nights trying to think of a way out of his predicament. His bank would co-operate, but only up to a point and John knew that he had to come up with a solution fast because, once he had reached that point, the bank would pull the plug without giving him a second thought.

Then, out of the blue, a few months ago, his prayers had been answered. He had paid off his creditors from his private account so that the company could start again with a clean slate. Close friends, and his bank manager, had wondered where the money had come from, he just laughed and told them he had a bit of luck at the races.

"Would you like a cuppa, Mr Morgan?" an attractive, blonde girl stood in the doorway.

"Yes please, Susie," he smiled, then walking behind his desk, took a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. "I'll be out on the bay having a ciggie."

Two years earlier, the workforce had voted to have a total ban on smoking in the workplace. John Morgan, one of only three smokers, was therefore obliged to go outside if he wished to have a cigarette. He knew he should give them up. He'd printed enough posters and leaflets for the local NHS Trust to know the dangers of cancer and coronary heart disease caused by smoking but, what the hell, we've all got to go sometime.

Pushing through the double rubber doors he stepped out into the morning brightness. The closed his eyes as the warmth of the sun washed over him. He opened his eyes again and looked up at the clear, blue summer sky as he took his gold lighter out of his pocket. Pressing the button on the side he lowered his cigarette into the flame.

"A very nasty habit!"

The rich, deep voice startled him and he turned to see who had spoken. The man was tall, smartly dressed and of African appearance. The man grinned broadly and, as he walked slowly up the ramp of the loading bay, towards him, John could see a deep scar running from the corner of the man's right eye to his lower jaw. John took a step backwards but his way was blocked by another man, much taller and more heavily built, with a stubbly beard. The man grinned showing two rows of gleaming white teeth. The man must have been behind the rubber doors all along and John had not noticed him when he came out.

"Who . . . who are you?" John stammered.

"I think you know who we are, Mr Morgan. We would very much like to have a little talk with you."

"Wha . . . what about?"

"Oh, I think you know the answer to that question too, Mr Morgan. Now, why don't we go somewhere a bit more private? Will you come with us please?"

John flinched as the big man yanked the cigarette from between John's lips and threw it on the ground. He then pushed John down the ramp and manhandled him, unceremoniously, into the back of a dark grey Jaguar XJ6 that was parked around the side of the building. The two men got in either side of him, a third man sat behind the steering wheel.

"Here's your tea, Mr Morgan," Susie stepped out onto the loading bay.

As she walked into the blazing sunshine, Susie kicked something. It was a gold cigarette lighter. She watched it skitter a few feet down the ramp and then looked up just as the grey Jaguar drove away, Morgan clearly visible, sandwiched between the two men.

"Mr Morgan . . ." her words died on her lips as she watched the car turn left, out of the small trading estate and onto the main road, where it raced off at high speed towards the city centre.

John Morgan was shaking with terror as he sat, wedged between the two men.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked his abductors, trying to stop his voice from wavering.

He looked towards the man with the scar and a shiver ran up his spine as he regarded the grinning face. The hideous scar on the man's face was long and deep but perfectly straight and it gave him the appearance of a grinning gargoyle.

"Some gentlemen asked us to talk to you, about a certain amount of money. I think you are in a lot of trouble, my friend. Oh yes, a great deal of trouble." The scarred face grinned at him, eyes wild, teeth dazzlingly white.

"You can say that again." The driver laughed.

"Shut up!" snapped the scarred man. "Just concentrate on your driving!"

The driver glared at him in the rear-view mirror but said nothing.

"Wh . . . what are you talking about? What money?" John Morgan could not conceal the fact that he was frightened. He was pinned between two men and had nowhere to go. His breathing was rapid and he was visibly trembling. Suddenly, with amazing speed, the man reached up and grabbed Morgan's tie, just below the chin, forcing John's head backwards onto the head restraint behind him. He leaned over, his nose almost touching John's, his eyes wide and the grin replaced with a malevolent sneer.

"Don't play games with me, Mr Morgan, I am not in the mood and I am not a man to try to make a fool of. You know exactly what I'm talking about. You can save yourself a lot of trouble, not to mention pain, by telling us now. What have you done with the money?"

These last words he spat into Morgan's face.

"I swear to you . . . I don't know anything about any money. . . I don't know what you're talking about. Now please . . . please let me . . ."

John Morgan suddenly stopped talking and held his breath as an unbelievably intense pain swept through his chest. It felt at first like the burning sensation of a very bad indigestion but quickly intensified to a level far beyond any pain he had ever experienced before. Agonisingly slowly, it crept down his left arm, which now lay motionless in his lap. His eyes were wide and he made a harsh gurgling sound as he clasped his right arm tightly across his chest, in a vain attempt to stem the burning pain. His breathing came in short gasps as the agony intensified and he screwed his eyes shut again, forcing tears of pain to run slowly down his cheeks.

"What is he doing? What is happening?" The bigger of the two captors moved nearer to the door as Morgan slid sideways into him. He looked in horror at John's grey pallor as the man's face contorted with the unbelievable agony he was suffering.

"Oh shit, I think he is having a heart attack." Scar-Face dragged John back upright by his shirt front and, letting go, started to loosen the poor man's tie. He slid John's tie down and was just unbuttoning his collar when he felt the man's body sag and the gasping stopped. Reaching up, he felt in vain for the pulse in John's neck, but it was too late.

John Morgan was dead.

"Oh shit. Oh shit."

"Oh God Mwengi, what are we going to do now? What are we going to do with him? How are we going to get the money back now?"

"For God's sake Mackenzie, will you shut up, I'm trying to think here," shouted Mwengi.

"Do you want me to pull over?" asked the driver, his wide, disbelieving eyes reflected in the rear-view mirror.

"No, keep driving and shut up you idiot." Mwengi slammed his fist down hard into the back of the front passenger seat, "Shit."

The two men in the back sat in silence for a few minutes, looking at the corpse lying between them. They had thought this was going to be so easy, and it had been, until now. This was the last thing they had expected or needed. John Morgan's death had scuppered their plans and now presented them with a completely new set of problems.

"First of all, we have got to get rid of him," said Mwengi then, turning to the driver, "take one of the side roads and try to find a nice quiet street. Mackenzie, search him, see what he's got on him."

It didn't take long to search Morgan's body as he was still in his shirt sleeves, his jacket was back in his office. They found nothing except some loose change, a pocket-knife and some keys in his trouser pockets. A crushed cigarette packet was in the breast pocket of his shirt.

After driving around the back streets for fifteen minutes, Mwengi spotted a likely place to stop.

"Pull in over there," he commanded.

The car came to a halt alongside an empty playground, in front of which stood an old wooden bus shelter.

The two men in the back, after looking around to make sure no one was watching, manhandled John Morgan's body out of the car and sat it in the bus shelter, propped up against the wall.

In less than sixty seconds the Jaguar was heading back toward Salisbury city centre.

The man with the scar finally broke the silence.

"These are probably the keys to his house," he smiled, twirling the small bunch around on his finger, "maybe we should make a house call to see if we can find anything."

"That's a good idea," said Mackenzie. The look on his face showed that he was clearly still shaken by the recent events.

Leaving the city they travelled down the winding country lanes to the village on the outskirts where John Morgan had lived. On arrival at the house the car swept up the drive and stopped in front of the garage. The back door of the car swung open and Mwengi got out. He stood up and cautiously looked around. The village was small and there were few houses. Luckily, John Morgan's house was not directly visible from any of his neighbours' properties. Happy that they were not observed he bent his head down and looked at his accomplice.

"Come Mackenzie," then looking at the driver, "You stay here."

"But I . . ."

"I said, STAY HERE!"

The driver knew better than to argue. With a resigned sigh he folded his arms and slouched back down into his seat.

Mackenzie eased his huge bulk out of the car and followed Mwengi to the front door of the house.

The man with the scar sorted through the keys and found the one he was looking for. The door opened immediately and they entered. Mackenzie, ducking under the door frame, closed the door behind them.

An hour later they reappeared and climbed back into the car. The driver, opened his mouth to say something then, seeing the looks on their faces, knew better than to continue.

"Where to now, Boss," was all he asked as he reversed back down the drive and headed off back along the lane. Within thirty minutes they were on the A303 heading back towards London.

Two and a half hours later the car eventually came to a halt at the far end of an multi-storey car park overlooking the River Thames in central London. The driver applied the hand brake, switched off the engine and looked in his mirror at the men in the back seat.

"I don't like this at all," he said, "what if someone had seen us dumping the body?"

"You're not paid to like or dislike anything," snapped Mwengi. "Besides, it's something you won't have to worry about."

Unseen by the other two, Mwengi opened the blade of a large lock-knife as he spoke. Reaching over the driver's shoulder he jabbed the point of the knife deep into the man's throat, yanking the blade backwards, slashing the man's windpipe and main artery in one swift movement.

The driver instinctively grasped at his throat. His eyes widened in terror as he realised he was going to die. With every beat of his heart, blood pumped from the wound, pouring between his fingers and soaking his clothes in his vain attempt to stem the bleeding. After a few agonising seconds he slumped sideways into the passenger seat gasping and gurgling. Mackenzie, open-mouthed, looked on in horror as the driver's body twitched and quivered as the man's life quickly ebbed away.

As the sour, coppery smell of blood reached his nostrils the tall man finally broke the silence.

"Jesus Christ, Mwengi! What in God's name did you have to do that for?"

"He got on my nerves. I have a habit of killing people who get on my nerves. You would do well to remember that my friend." Mwengi leaned over and wiped the blade of his knife on the dying driver's coat. Then, folding the blade, slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Get out of the car," he commanded.

After climbing out of the car, he opened the driver's door and took the keys from the ignition. He looked down at the dead driver's body and the large pool of blood in the passenger foot well.

"Arsehole!" he spat.

Closing the door again he locked the car and put the keys in his pocket.

Mackenzie was leaning against the boot of the vehicle, looking around nervously, his hands shaking.

"Come on," Mwengi grinned, thumping him on the back. "Don't worry about that worthless piece of shit."

Walking across the car park they casually walked through the exit door and down the steps to street level.

On the short walk back to their hotel they crossed a bridge over the Thames. Without stopping, Mwengi took the car keys from his pocket and dropped them over the side into the murky waters below.

At about the same time as John Morgan was breathing his last, 3000 miles away seven men sat in heated discussion in a closed room. It was a particularly hot day and the atmosphere in the room was stifling. The windows were wide open in the fourth-floor office and the overhead fan stirred what little air there was. Smoke from the men's cigarettes drifted upwards only to be wafted back down by the whirling blades. The relentless African sun streamed in through the windows, the Venetian blinds angled in an attempt to stop it glaring off the surface of the highly-polished conference table around which the men sat.

The meeting had started amicable enough but, after only half an hour's debate, was becoming increasingly impassioned.

"I don't care what you say, this would never have happened if you had taken more care in whom you had entrusted our money."

"He filled all the right criteria . . ."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please try to stay calm. And please, keep your voices down. The last thing we want is to be overheard." The thin-faced man who interrupted this debate leaned forward in his seat and clasped his hands together on the table.

"I was just saying that if Juba had taken more care . . ."

"We all know exactly what you were saying." shouted Juba, rising to his feet.

"Gentlemen, PLEASE!" The thin man jumped to his feet also.

He stared at Juba until the younger man's eyes dropped and he sat down again.

"Nobody is accusing anybody of not doing their job properly . . ."

"Yakubu is, he just said . . ."

"We are all aware of what Yakubu said, but he is the only one of that opinion," Murtala glanced at each man in turn, defying any one of them to contradict him.

Despite his small stature, Prince Abubakar Murtala was both feared and highly respected by those around him and indeed all those who came in contact with him in the workings of the government machine. He was a very powerful man both inside and outside the Civil Service and knew everyone of importance. Murtala lowered his thin frame into his seat once more and again clasped his hands before him.

"Choosing a suitable candidate to help us in such a delicate matter was always going to be a difficult task and we always ran the risk of such a thing happening. It is very unfortunate, but we are taking steps to rectify the matter as swiftly as possible. Matthew here, has obtained the services of a man who is well placed to retrieve our money and, even as we speak, this man, together with Matthew's own nephew, are in England. Now . . . Matthew, you have remained rather silent, would you like to bring everybody up to date on the current situation please?"

The three soldiers in the first-floor office, at the rear of the building, heard Matthew's presentation loud and clear. The tiny omni-directional microphone, hidden in the front of the water cooler, picked up every word with remarkable clarity. The pictures they were receiving, from the fibre optic camera attached to the side of the large oak drinks cabinet, were also of astonishing quality. The big man in the khaki bush shirt grinned as he wiped his silver-rimmed spectacles on his monogrammed handkerchief. He placed them back on his nose, picked up a walkie-talkie and spoke in a clear, deep voice.

"All units, all units! This is Lion speaking. Operation Blue is GO! All units move in NOW! I repeat, all units move in NOW!"

Before Matthew got to the end of his oratory, the door to the conference room burst open and four soldiers, three men and a woman officer, rushed in, their weapons glinting in the sunlight as they trained them on the astonished men seated around the table.

"HANDS ON TOP OF YOUR HEADS, NOW!" shouted the woman, pointing her automatic rifle at Murtala's chest.

All the men, in silence, did as instructed. The young woman walked around the table looking at each man in turn. Standing taller than any man in the room her face was impassive as she took in the scene. Three more soldiers entered the room, including the Commanding Officer, who stood back, arms folded across his huge chest, surveying the situation. The imposing figure smiled down at Prince Abubakar Murtala.

"Abubakar, my old friend. How nice to see you again," he laughed.

Murtala hung his head and shrunk further into his seat. He knew that he was defeated.

The young female officer turned and nodded to another soldier who immediately walked towards the nearest seated figure. Pushing him face down onto the table he pulled the man's hands down behind his back and deftly secured them with a black electrical cable tie. He then hauled the man up out of his seat and frisked him to ensure he had no weapons about him. All of the man's possessions were put into a large manila envelope and labelled. Satisfied, he roughly pushed the man back into his seat before moving on to the next. When each of the conspirators had been divested of their possessions and securely bound they were made to stand up and were marched, unceremoniously, out of the room.

At the same time as the conference room was seized, four other offices were stormed. A total of eleven people were apprehended and led out to an awaiting lorry. A large crowd of office workers watched in stunned silence as the arrested individuals, some of them quite eminent, were bundled into the back of the canvass-covered truck. Several of the soldiers also climbed into the truck, to guard them on their way to the Military Headquarters Interrogation Unit.

The lorry moved off leaving a trail of dust swirling then hanging in the air like a blanket in the hot afternoon air.

"The relevant offices have all been secured and we have men guarding the doors, Sir." A round-faced Sergeant saluted the officer.

"Excellent. So, Zebra, I want you to pick four men and go through everything in those offices, and I mean everything. Look everywhere. Behind cupboards, under carpets, everywhere. Understand? Report the slightest thing to me, got that?"

"Yes Sir." The Sergeant saluted his commanding officer again and hurried back into the shade of the building.

Watching the retreating soldier the big man lifted his cap and mopped his glistening forehead with his handkerchief then, turning to the woman officer standing next to him, he grinned.

"Come Cheetah, we have some rather big fish to fry. Let's go and talk to our friends."

As he climbed into the passenger seat of the military Land Rover, the girl flicked the safety catch on her Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle, stowed it behind the front seat and climbed into the vehicle beside him. She fired the engine into life and they moved off, following the truck's dust trail.

Malcolm Goma looked out of the second floor window. Standing back so he could not be seen from below, he watched the Land Rover until it disappeared from view. He was shaken to think how close he had come to joining his helpless colleagues as they were manhandled into the back of the army truck.

He thanked the Lord for his good fortune. If he had not been running late for the meeting, and had not had to go to the office first in order to retrieve some files from his desk, he would be on his way to the same secure facility to be subjected to God knows what kind of torture. He had seen the army trucks arriving from his office window so had grabbed the files and fled. He was currently in a store room two floors down from his own office.

He was still in grave danger so would have to move quickly and extremely cautiously. There were still soldiers crawling all over the building so he emptied all the papers from the files and placed them in his briefcase. After a few minutes he took a very deep breath, to try desperately to regain his composure, and stepped confidently out of the store room. He walked nonchalantly down the corridor until he came to the elevators. Taking one of the elevators to the ground floor, he nodded companionably to two soldiers, as he pushed past them and entered the staff restaurant. The restaurant was empty at this time of day so he was unobserved as he walked quickly to the door leading to the kitchen.

He opened the door and the small group of kitchen and serving staff, huddled together, theorising over what all the fuss was about, paid him scant attention as he made his way calmly past them and out through the fire exit.

The heat of the day hit him as he passed out of the relative coolness of the building and into the blazing sunshine. He stood for a minute, leaning against the wall, letting his racing heart slow down a little.

Glancing around him, he walked cautiously to the corner of the building then hurried across the service yard and out of the gate leading to the access road. A few metres down the road he slipped unnoticed, into the trees at the roadside.

Even if he was not known to be one of the conspirators he knew it was only a matter of time before a member of the group cracked under the strain and named all of the other individuals that the military had yet to apprehend. He knew that time was ticking away and they would soon come looking for him.

He made his way home as quickly as possible, keeping as close to the side of the road as he could so that he could dash into a doorway or behind some undergrowth should any military vehicle come along. He had to get away as fast as possible before an all-out search was launched for him.

Malcolm Goma was a very intelligent man. One of the three who had initially thought up the scam, he had made sure that his back had been covered all along the way and that nothing could be proven against him. The only way he could be implicated was for one of the others to point the finger in his direction. That was always a risk if things got out of hand.

He finally reached his home without incidence and hurried upstairs to pack some belongings. His wife quizzed him as to what he was doing and he told her that he had to go to Lagos at short notice for a very important meeting with a group of British business men on a trade delegation.

"I will only be away for a couple of days. I'll call you this evening before we go to dinner, okay."

"But what about our meal tomorrow evening with Edward and Narea? You know how much trouble she always goes to for us."

"Telephone them and tell them I can't make it. Apologise and say we will rearrange it for another day. They will understand."

"I can't do that, it would be bad manners. She will have already started preparations."

"What do you expect me to do woman?" he demanded, "cancel a very important business meeting so as not to upset some woman, who only craves our company because it increases her social standing?"

His wife started to argue with him but he did not have time for this.

"WILL YOU SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE WOMAN?" he shouted.

His wife stood, open mouthed. Saying nothing, she marched out of the room, slamming the door behind her, and stomped her way back to the kitchen.

Goma gave a huge sigh and returned to his packing. He then went to his study and gathered any files and other information that might incriminate him, stuffing them quickly into his briefcase. He carried his belongings downstairs and left the house without saying goodbye to his wife. Opening the garage door he bundled the cases into the back of a small Nissan car that his wife used for commuting to and from her friend's houses. At the bottom of the drive he turned left and headed back towards the city centre. He had only been gone five minutes when the Land Rover and army truck turned up his drive.

Parking in a city centre car park he walked the last two hundred yards to the station where he bought a ticket on the next train out of the city. He had no idea where he was going, he just knew that he needed to get as far away as he possibly could.

As he sat on the train, heading out through the suburbs, he reflected long and hard on his predicament and decided what he must do.

Despite having very few relatives, there were a large number of mourners at the funeral. John Morgan was well liked and had a considerable number of friends. The entire workforce of MorganPrint had turned out to pay their respects, together with his friends from the Conservative Club and his local, the Green Man.

In the village where Morgan had lived, there was a moving ceremony at the local church followed by a procession to the crematorium. Another, even shorter, blessing was carried out and, silently, the dark blue curtains moved slowly around their tracks until the coffin was out of sight.

After the cremation most of the mourners went back to the Green Man where the landlord, Mike, a long-standing drinking pal of John's, had laid on a small buffet for the sombre party. As he and his staff poured drinks for the assembled group gathered around the bar, a tall, attractive woman approached him.

"Angela," he came around the side of the bar and kissed her on the cheek, "lovely to see you again. I'm just so sorry it's under these circumstances though. I'm gonna miss the old bugger."

"So am I, we all will. Mike, this is very kind of you to go to all this trouble you know. When Robert said that you had offered to have everyone back here afterwards, I was very glad, and relieved. I know I haven't been married to John for eight years but we were still very close and I don't think I could have coped with it all. You and Robert have been a great help."

"It's the least I could do for such an old friend. Fifty-eight, that's no age is it?"

There was a few moments silence as both fell into their own thoughts.

"Do you know," Mike said, at last, "Pat and I were looking at those old photographs of John last night. You know, the ones when he won the pub fishing contest with that damn great carp?"

"Oh, I remember," laughed Angela. "He was so proud, it was the biggest fish he had ever caught. And when he posed for the official photographs he dropped it and it flapped it's was back into the river."

"Yeah, and he nearly fell in trying to pick it up again. I've got a whole sequence of those photos. He was a great character and he's going to be sorely missed."

"No one is going to miss him as much as Robert, I'm sure."

"Where is Rob, by the way?"

"He's just seeing his Aunts to the station, he shouldn't be long. In fact, there he is now."

Robert Morgan looked tired and haggard. Not only had he had to come to terms with the death of his father and deal with all the funeral arrangements, he had also been subjected to almost daily questioning by the police regarding the circumstances of his father's death.

It seemed that the only witness the police had was Susie, who had not thought to take the car number, and they had no idea who the mysterious men were, what they wanted or why. To add to the confusion, the autopsy showed that John Morgan had died of heart failure and there were no signs of violence or any other form of foul play. The coroner had pronounced a verdict of "Death by Natural Causes" and the police had now dropped the case because of insufficient evidence to the contrary.

From the doorway, Robert saw his mother and made his way across the room towards her.

"Did Peggy and Dorothy get their train all right?"

"Yes, no problem," Robert went silent, then after a few seconds, "Mum, can I ask you a favour?"

"Certainly, Darling, what is it?"

"Are you doing anything tomorrow? Only, I'm going over to Dad's house. I've got to go through his papers and things and there may be things that you could help me with. Besides I don't really want to do it on my own."

"Of course, Darling, although I don't think I will be much help."

"You'd be a great help just being there."

"Are you all right Darling?" she asked, "You look very troubled."

"Yes, sorry. I noticed Jane as we where leaving the churchyard, I started to walk over to her but she got in her car and drove away. It brought back memories, that's all."

"She loved your father, I expect she wanted to pay her respects but felt uncomfortable about being there. You must try and forget about her, you've both got different lives to lead now."

Angela gripped her son's upper arm gently.

"You know, your father and I always remained close friends, even after the divorce. I think that was mostly because of you."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you never took sides, never heard or said a harsh word about either one of us, and you've always included the two of us in everything you do, inviting us both to parties and your exhibitions etc. You know, two days before he died, your father took me out to dinner and, during the course of conversation, asked me to marry him again."

"What?"

"Yes, I was just as flabbergasted. He told me that all his financial problems were over, which surprised me as three months ago he was asking me if I could lend him money to shore up his business. He said he was planning to retire and buy a house abroad, somewhere hot, like Spain."

"What did you say?"

"Well, like I said, I was flabbergasted. I told him that, although I was flattered by his proposal, I thought that just remaining friends was the best way to keep our relationship happy. I could see he was hurt, and I can see you are too, but believe me, Darling, as much as I loved your father, dearly, I couldn't live with him."

"I know," said Rob and smiled.

"I wonder where he did get his money from?" Angela mused.

"He told me he had a bit of luck on the horses."

"It must have been more than a bit of luck. Only a couple of months ago he asked me if I could lend him twenty thousand pounds. He said his business was in a jam and he needed a short-term loan to get over it."

"Twenty grand? Wow."

"Well exactly. I said I'd think about it and wanted to see his accounts etc. I mean, you don't lend that sort of money without making sure your investment is going to be protected. Even if you don't expect to see a return on your investment you at least want to make sure you're going to get your initial stake back don't you? Well, any way, two weeks later, he called to say don't worry about the money, everything was sorted. Most strange. Oh, look there's George. Excuse me Darling, I must have a quick word with him."

Robert watched his mother as she made her way across the room. She was a beautiful woman, tall, slim and always elegantly dressed, looking easily ten years younger than her 54 years.

He knew she was right about not remarrying his father. He often wondered how they managed to stay together for so long the first time. He knew they were very much in love but they were both strong-willed individuals with very dominant personalities.

He thought of his father. Tall, charming, hardworking, a good, honest man. Much to Angela's dismay he had resigned from a very good job, as Managing Director of a large, successful reprographics company, to start up his own back-street printing works. It had been extremely tough to start with finding enough new work to keep the workforce busy and getting their name established, but after a few years it had become a well-run, well-respected business. He had known that it would never have made him a millionaire but then, what would?

Robert arrived at Bramley, his father's house, about nine o'clock the following morning. He had always loved this house having been raised there as a child. He was just putting his key in the lock when it occurred to him that it was now his house. Being an only child, Robert inherited the bulk of his father's estate. Angela was left the holiday cottage in Norfolk, several items of silver and a couple of paintings she had always cherished.

The biggest surprise was that Angela and Robert had each inherited a fifty-percent share holding in MorganPrint.

By the time Angela arrived, Robert had been through most of the papers, making notes and a list of people to whom he had to write or telephone. He was on his way to the kitchen to make some coffee when the doorbell rang.

"Hello, Darling," Angela kissed her son as she entered the hall, "sorry I'm so late, I stopped off at the printers to have a chat with Ronny. Poor lamb, he's taken it very hard. He's been with your father from the very beginning you know. Anyway, I've fixed up a meeting for the three of us to have a chat about the business, hope you don't mind. Thursday morning, would that be all right with you, Darling?"

"Er . . . Yes."

Robert was always amazed how his mother was always on the ball. He supposed it was having spent twenty-eight years as a solicitor that gave her the edge. Now Senior Partner with Morgan, Revel and Gillman, Angela had used all her talent, wit and charm to fight her way to the top in a male-dominated arena.

"I'm just going to put the kettle on. Coffee?"

"Lovely."

"Instant okay?"

"Fine, thank you Darling," Angela walked through to the study and saw the scattering of papers everywhere. The cupboard under the bookcase was wide open and several items were on the floor in front of it. One of the filing cabinet drawers was open and there was a heap of files sitting on top of it and a few scattered on the floor beneath the filing cabinet.

"How far have you got?" she asked, as Robert returned from the kitchen.

"I've been through the sideboard and bureau in the lounge."

"You're father would have gone nuts if he'd seen this mess," she laughed, nodding towards the untidy desk.

"That was like it when I arrived," he said. "Perhaps Dad was in a hurry."

"No, John wouldn't have made this mess in the first place."

"You think someone else was snooping through his stuff?"

"I don't know," Angela looked about her, a troubled frown across her forehead. "Is there anything missing?"

"Not that I can tell, but then, I haven't been into Dad's study for years."

"What about the safe?"

"What safe?"

"The safe in the lounge."

"I had no idea that Dad even had a safe."

Robert followed his mother back into the lounge. Angela crossed the room and, bending down, pulled back the edge of the thick Turkish carpet to uncover a trap door, about eighteen inches square, inset into the parquet flooring. There was a small hole in the door and, putting one finger in the hole, she pulled it open to reveal a small safe door. Standing up Angela crossed the room and picked up a small vase from a bookshelf. Turning it upside down a key dropped into the palm of her hand.

"Your father told me about the safe, so someone would know about it, just in case something should happen to him. Catch," she threw the key to her son. She looked around as a whistling sound started up from the kitchen, turned and walked out of the room.

Robert knelt down, inserted the key and opened the safe.

Three metal boxes fitted snugly into the safe and Robert removed each one and placed them on the coffee table behind him. Sitting on the floor he opened the first of the boxes. Inside were the deeds to the houses, several stocks and bonds and a gold pocket watch. Picking up the watch, Robert flipped it open and studied the fine detail on the face. The inside of the case was inscribed, _To My Dearest Bernard, With All My Love, Eileen_.

"It belonged to your Grandfather," Angela had returned with the coffees. "Your Grandmother gave it to him for his fiftieth birthday."

"It's beautiful," Robert turned it over to see the engravings on the casing before placing it carefully back into the box. He then opened the next one.

This box contained three building society passbooks, together with letters and statements referring to four bank accounts all with different banks. There was also a bundle of money secured by an elastic band, all in fifty pound denominations.

Robert picked it up and flicked through it. There was easily five thousand pounds in the bundle. He laid the bundle on the coffee table, picked up one of the passbooks and opened it.

"Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed, he looked at his mother, his eyes wide. With slightly shaking hands he opened up the next book.

"Good God, this can't be right!"

"What is it?" Angela moved around so she could get a better view over her son's shoulder.

Robert opened the third passbook.

"Each of these accounts was opened on the same day and the opening amount in each one was two hundred and fifty thousand pounds!"

"That's some luck at the races." Angela picked up one of the passbooks.

Robert had dropped the remaining passbooks and was looking through the bank statements.

"How the hell . . . ," he whispered, "Royal Bank of Saudi Arabia, Bank of the United Arab Emirates, Credit Lyonnaise, Deuche Bank, Banco Espanol de Credito. All these accounts were opened within the last two months and according to these statements they each contain over three million pounds!"

"You've got to be joking?" Angela snatched the papers from Robert's hand. "I don't believe it. I wonder where he got it?"

"Maybe he won the Lottery or something," Robert offered.

"No, he kept too quiet about it. Knowing your father, I think he would have wanted to celebrate his good fortune with everyone. No, something tells me that this money is not strictly kosher."

They both sat in silence for a few minutes, reading through the papers.

"What's in the last box?" asked Angela.

Robert hesitantly opened the box, almost afraid of what he might find. All that the box contained was a folded envelope, a chequebook and a letter. The letter had the heading, Banque National de Suisse and thanked John Morgan for opening his account and stated that the various transactions would be carried out as requested and that all the necessary documentation would be held until such times as they received further instructions. They then went on to inform him that, should he wish to take advantage of any of the numerous excellent investment opportunities the bank had to offer, they would be pleased to arrange a meeting with one of their investment consultanats.

Robert handed the letter to Angela and picked up the envelope. It was an ordinary plain, A5 manila envelope with a sixteen-digit number written on the front. All that it contained was a small key.

Holding the key up to the light and turning it in his hand, Robert saw the letters B.N.S. stamped into one side and the number 307 stamped into the other.

"B.N.S., Banque National de Suisse. I bet this is the key to a safety deposit box," he mused, "I wonder where their nearest branch is."

"Why don't you give Directory Enquiries a ring," suggested Angela. "I'm sure the bank must have a branch in London, at least."

Robert reached over to the telephone on the small table next to the settee and, within minutes he had the number of the only branch the bank had in the UK. With shaking hands, Robert dialled the number and within a few seconds was speaking to a young lady. Robert explained that his father had died and the key to a deposit box had come into his possession, but the young lady informed him that the only safety deposit boxes were in the bank's head office in Zurich, Switzerland. She also said that without a letter of consent, signed by the owner of the account, the bank was not at liberty to allow anyone, other than the account holder, access to the safety deposit box. Robert protested and repeated that his father was dead so he could not get his signature. The young lady apologised and said that she sympathised with him and suggested he wrote to the head office explaining the situation to see if they could come up with a solution to the problem. Robert thanked her and hung up.

"Christ, it's no wonder there's so much money in Switzerland. Once it's there you can't get at it. I have to get a letter of consent with Dad's signature on it before they'll let me open the box."

"Not necessarily a problem," said Angela, thoughtfully.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're a graphic artist, aren't you? I'm sure it wouldn't take long for you to perfect a very passable copy of your father's signature."

"Mother, are you suggesting I should forge his signature in order to fool the bank into giving me access to his account?"

"That is exactly what I am suggesting. Look we've got to find out where this money came from and exactly how much it totals. Then we have to decide what to do about it."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if it's not legal we can't keep it, especially when we're talking that amount of money."

Robert nodded, thoughtfully.

"Got a pen and paper?" he sighed.

The following Thursday, after their meeting with Ronny, Angela drove Robert to the airport. They arrived in plenty of time for him to catch his flight to Zurich.

"You will ring as soon as you get there won't you, Darling?"

"Of course I will. Now don't worry."

"And you'll ring as soon as you've found out anything?"

"Yes, yes, yes. As soon as I've been to the bank I'll give you a ring from the hotel. Okay?"

"Okay," she kissed him goodbye and watched as he walked towards the busy terminal building. Robert turned and waved to his mother just before he reached the entrance. The two African men also turned to look at her as they followed him through the automatic doors.

Robert checked in at the Swissair desk and proceeded to the Departure Lounge where he sat down to wait for his flight to be called.

Mwengi and his companion presented their Diplomatic Passports at the desk and reserved seats on the same flight.

The young check-in clerk studied their documents, then looked up and smiled.

"Do you gentlemen have any luggage with you?" she enquired.

"Only our diplomatic papers, which, of course, will travel with us on the plane," smiled Mwengi holding up his briefcase.

"Of course. If you gentlemen would you like to go straight through to the VIP Lounge, a stewardess will inform you when your flight is called. Have a pleasant flight, Gentlemen." She handed their tickets and boarding cards to them.

They thanked the girl and headed off towards the lounge.

Minutes later they were seated in the lounge with a complimentary glass of wine.

"You know, I wish I could travel like this all the time. Being part of the Diplomatic Service certainly makes travelling easier. No customs, no checks, First Class seats, not to mention the complimentary wine."

"Yes, Mackenzie my friend," Mwengi looked seriously at his accomplice, "and if we sort this mess out with no further problems, there is a good chance we can take advantage of these things for a long time to come."

"I'll drink to that," they both raised their glasses.

"Look, I have something to show you," the man with the scar watched as Mackenzie reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and retrieved a silver ballpoint pen. He unscrewed the pen and opened it up. The cartridge was only about an inch and a half long and the rest of the pen seemed to be filled with electronic circuitry.

"What have you got there, my friend?"

"This is a very small transmitter. It emits a radio signal that can be triggered by this," he opened his bag and took out, what appeared to be, a Sony Walkman. He pressed a button and handed the earphones to his friend.

Mwengi could hear a continuous tone as he put on the headphones.

"What is that noise?" he asked.

"The nearer you get to the transmitter the faster it bleeps. At the moment we have it here so the bleep is continuous. The further away you are, the slower it bleeps."

"How far will it transmit up to?"

"About twenty miles."

"It is truly ingenious, where did you get it from?"

"My brother Joseph, he is a genius with electronics. He sees himself as a sort of M figure like in the James Bond movies."

"Mackenzie Bond," they both laughed and had another drink.

The flight to Zurich took only a short time and Robert wiled away the time reading the in-flight magazine. Once they had landed Robert took a taxi to the hotel recommended to him by his Travel Agent. At the hotel he checked in and a porter showed him to his room.

He nodded to the tall black man who entered the lift and rode up to the sixth floor with them.

The man stayed in the lift until the porter had shown Robert to his room then, he walked down the corridor, making a note of Robert's room number and briskly descended the stairs to the fifth floor where he took the lift back to the ground floor.

As he arrived back into the lobby he looked around to see Mwengi walking over to meet him.

"Well?" he asked.

"Room 615."

They walked over to the Reception desk and asked the desk clerk if Room 616 was available. The clerk said it wasn't, but Room 618 was. Having little choice they agreed and, after signing in, the clerk handed them the room key.

Once they were booked in Mwengi turned to his partner.

"Mackenzie, you stay here and keep an eye on him while I go and buy a change of clothes and things, we don't know how long we're going to be here. When I come back, you can go. If he goes out follow him and ring me back here in an hour to let me know what's happening. Okay?"

"Okay," the man grinned and swaggered back towards the lift, twirling his room key on his finger.

The Hotel Metropol was situated overlooking the lake so, after a shower and a telephone call to Angela, Robert took a stroll along the shore of the lake to try and clear his mind. The water had the cold milky-blue colour that all Swiss lakes seemed to have and the clouds reflected perfectly in the mirror-like surface. For over half an hour Robert sat on a bench looking out over the tranquil lake, oblivious to the man leaning on the balustrade.

"You seem to have taken a liking to all this cloak and dagger stuff."

Mackenzie started and turned to see who had spoken to him.

"Malcolm! What the . . . I mean . . . how . . . ?"

Goma laughed at Mackenzie's complete loss of composure.

"Mackenzie, my friend, I'm sorry I startled you."

"What are you doing here?"

"The same as you."

"What do you mean?"

"Mackenzie, my friend, we have a big problem and I need your help."

"What kind of problem," Mackenzie looked at the small man, cautiously.

"The military raided the offices took away hundreds of files and arrested all of the members of the organisation . . ."

"What?"

"Yes," Goma nodded. "I am telling you the truth. I watched them being taken away for interrogation. I was late for the meeting which is why I was lucky enough to avoid arrest and incarceration also."

"But, my uncle . . . "

"Yes Mackenzie. I'm afraid that Prince Issi was one of them."

Mackenzie looked at Goma in disbelief. It was too much for him to take in.

"But how did they find out?"

"I have no idea, my friend. But this now presents us with an even bigger problem . . . Mwengi."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, once Mwengi finds out that the organisation has been disbanded, there is no way he will part with the money. I very much doubt that he will part with it anyway."

"You mean, you think he will keep the money for himself?"

Goma nodded.

"I'm certain of it," he sighed.

"So what are we going to do?"

"Under no circumstances must you tell Mwengi about this. He must never find out what has happened. Do you hear me, Mackenzie?" Goma gripped tightly onto the tall man's arm. "Have you any idea how this has changed the whole situation?"

"Yes . . . yes, of course."

"And you must not mention that you have met me either. If he becomes aware that something is amiss, God knows what he would do. The man is mad and capable of anything. I was totally against using him in the first place. However, at the moment, he is still our best hope of recovering the money."

"What do we do when he has done so?"

"We must get rid of him."

"What!"

"It's the only way, Mackenzie. Once he is in possession of the money, we must act fast. If we do not kill him we will never get it from him. He will almost certainly kill you, and anybody else involved, without a second thought."

"He has already killed our driver . . . for no reason," Mackenzie shuddered as he recalled the gruesome murder.

"I don't doubt that for one minute. Mwengi is a ruthless killer but he is also very clever. We must use his skills to our advantage, but not hesitate to . . . terminate his contract when the time is right." Goma laughed at his little play on words. "Do not trust him for one instant, Mackenzie. Your life depends on it."

"What happens when we get the money?"

"We cannot return home, that is for certain. We can go to South America for a while until they have forgotten about us. It is only fair that we should share the money, Mackenzie. You and I"

"But what about the others . . . ?"

"I think we should forget about them, my friend. I'm afraid that the others are likely to be imprisoned for a very long time. There are far too many charges to be brought against them Mackenzie, this is a very serious crime we have all committed, so they will be punished severely."

Mackenzie turned and looked back at Robert, who was now making his way back towards the hotel.

"You had better keep an eye on your charge," Goma nodded toward Robert, "Here!"

He handed Mackenzie a small piece of paper.

"That is the number of my mobile telephone. Keep me informed as much as you can and remember, not a word of any of this to Mwengi. Understand?"

"Yes Malcolm."

"Go, before you lose sight of him," Goma grinned at Mackenzie. "Good Luck my friend."

Mackenzie looked at Robert and headed off after him. About fifty metres down the road he glanced back, but Goma was gone.

Later, after a reasonable meal in the hotel restaurant, Robert decided to return to his room and get an early night. On his way out of the restaurant, he noticed that the man he had met in the elevator was sharing a table with another man. As he passed their table Robert smiled and nodded to him. The man returned his nod, but the other just stared at him. His stare and the scar on the man's cheek gave him a quite menacing look, thought Robert.

As they watched him enter the lift, Mwengi turned to his companion.

"One of us had better stay down here to watch in case he goes out. I will take the first watch, you can take over at four o'clock. So I suggest you return to our room and get some sleep."

The tall man nodded in agreement, but as he rose to go Mwengi grabbed his arm.

"Mackenzie," he said sternly, "don't do anything stupid like raiding the mini-bar will you?"

"The thought never even crossed my mind," Mackenzie laughed, and sauntered off towards the lift.

Robert felt much refreshed after a good night's sleep. Washed and dressed, he went down to breakfast early. He had a lot to do today and if he could get it done quickly he could be on the evening flight back to England again. Walking across the Lobby he noticed Mackenzie sleeping in one of the over-stuffed armchairs.

As Robert entered the restaurant Mwengi appeared at the bottom of the stairs and, seeing his companion sleeping, walked over and, without speaking, kicked him hard on the shin, before continuing on his way to get his breakfast. Mackenzie awoke with a start and rubbed his leg vigorously as he glared at the man walking away towards the restaurant. Prising himself out of the chair he limped back to their room to freshen up.

After breakfast Robert returned to his room to retrieve his briefcase before stepping into the brilliant sunshine outside. Several taxis waited outside the hotel and walking to the one at the head of the queue, he got in and asked to be taken to the Banque National de Suisse. As the taxi pulled out of the rank, two men emerged from the hotel and climbed into the next available cab.

Ten minutes later the second taxi pulled up on the opposite side of the road to the bank. The two men watched from the cab as Robert entered through the imposing main doors.

The interior of the bank was just as Robert had imagined. The banking hall was huge, brightly lit, with marble flooring, ornate carved ceiling and fine wooden panelling, along with wall-to-wall security guards.

On the right, a sign proclaimed Information, so Robert walked towards it. As he approached the carved wooden desk, the young lady behind it beamed pleasantly at him.

She had blonde hair, almost white, cut very short, and the bluest eyes he had ever seen. A badge on her jacket informed him her name was Sophie Morel. Sophie, the name suited her.

"Guten Morgen," she said brightly.

"Oh . . . er, yes . . . er . . . Guten Morgen," Robert smiled back.

"Oh, you are Inglis?" Her accent was as beautiful as her face. "I am sorry, 'ow can I 'elp you?"

"My name is . . . er, John Morgan. I have an account here and a safety deposit box and I . . . er, was wondering if I could have access to the box."

"Certainly, can I 'ave a few details please? So that you can estabish your identity."

"Yes, by all means," the palms of Robert's hands were starting to feel clammy; this was a lot more nerve-wracking than he thought it would be.

As it turned out the questions were quite simple.

"Can I 'ave your account number please?"

Robert pulled out his pocket diary and flipped it open to the appropriate page.

"1513-9774-6742-3396."

"And your address please?"

"Bramley, March Lane, Lower Collingbourne, Wiltshire, England."

"And can I see your passport, please?"

"My passport?" Robert's hand started to shake; he hadn't expected them to ask for that. "My . . . er, passport is . . . um, back at my hotel. I wasn't aware . . . I mean, I didn't think I would need it."

"Is no matter," she smiled, "is only a formality. Do you 'ave any other form of identification?"

Robert let out a small sigh of relief and produced his father's driving licence, which, at the last minute, his mother had suggested he take. Luckily, it was one of the old paper licences, so did not bear a photo ID.

The girl studied the licence for about five seconds and handed it back with a smile.

"Thank you."

Robert smiled back and said nothing. He was afraid that his voice would waver.

"Could I ask you to sign 'ere, and 'ere please?" Smiling, the young girl slid the form across the desk and indicated the places to sign with a gold fountain pen, leaving the pen next to the form.

With trembling hands, Robert forged his dead father's signature in the places marked and handed the pen back to the young girl.

"Thank you, one moment please." The girl stood up and Robert watched as she glided over to a man, regarding something on his computer, seated at the back of the banking hall.

The man looked across at Robert. He typed something on his computer screen then stood and followed the girl back to the Information desk.

"Mr Morgan, Good Day. My name is Alain Favier," he held out his hand, "Sophie tells me you would like to open your deposit box?"

"Yes, please," Robert hoped that the man wouldn't notice how much his hand was trembling. "I've never done this before so I'm not sure of the procedure."

"No problem. Would you like to follow me please?"

Robert turned to the girl.

"Thank you," he smiled.

She returned his smile two-fold.

"Welcome."

As Robert followed the man, Favier signalled to one of the security guards who met them at an elevator at the back of the banking hall. Robert's heart skipped a beat as the guard approached.

Favier pressed several buttons on the keypad beside the elevator and, after a few seconds, the door slid silently open. The inside of the lift was brightly lit with fine wooden panelling on the walls. A CCTV camera was mounted up at ceiling level, to look down on the occupants. Robert was aware that just about every movement he made throughout the bank would be captured on video. He swallowed hard. Once inside, Favier pressed another button and the lift descended at least two floors below the banking hall.

The three men stepped out of the elevator when it halted two floors below ground level and, after a short walk, Robert was asked to step through a metal detector, the same as the one he had to go through at the airport. Beyond the detector he could see a large steel grill. Favier spoke to the guard on the other side of the barrier and the grill slid open. Once in the interior of the vault, Robert could see several corridors with boxes either side. Another guard consulted a computer screen before leading the way down a short line of boxes. The sound of their footsteps on the cold marble floor echoed as they proceeded further into the vault. There were about a hundred boxes in each row, five rows on each side of the corridor.

Robert wondered what riches these boxes must contain. No wonder they had guards everywhere.

After a short walk they stopped. Robert cleared his throat nervously as the guard inserted one of the keys on his keyring into the lower of the two locks on the front of deposit box number 307. A soft click was heard as the key was turned.

"Mr Morgan," Robert jumped as Favier's voice boomed out in the silence.

"Your key, Mr Morgan."

"Oh, yes. Yes, of course."

Fumbling in his trouser pocket, Robert produced his own key, which he handed to Favier. Once the box was unlocked the guard pulled open the door and slid out another box about two feet long and twelve inches wide, on top of which was another lock.

The guard carried the box to the far end of the corridor where a door, set into the wall, led into a room about ten feet square, in the centre of which were a large wooden desk and a chair. Placing the box on the desk the guard turned and left the room.

Favier removed the key and they followed the guard into the small room.

"We will wait outside," Favier handed Robert his key. "Your key will open that box too, just press this button by the door when you are finished and the guard will let you out."

As the door closed behind Favier, Robert heard a lock being turned.

The silence that followed was broken only by the steady hiss of the air-conditioning system and the blood pounding through his temples.

With hands that trembled even more than before, Robert inserted his key into the lock on the top of the box and held his breath.

The box contained several letters confirming transfers of money from Banque National de Suisse to accounts with other banks. There was also a piece of paper with the names of three other Swiss banks, each with account numbers next to them. There was also a small MorganPrint promotional keyring, attached to which were three small keys, each very similar to the one currently sticking out of the lock on this safety deposit box.

"Oh my God, Dad," he whispered, his heart pounding in his chest. "What on Earth have you been up to?"

The puzzle of his father's activities was getting more complicated as he dug deeper and he did not relish the prospect of having to go through this whole nerve-wracking experience a few more times before he was finished. He placed the papers and keys safely in his briefcase and, walking to the door, pressed the button on the wall, summoning the guard to let him out. On emerging back into the banking hall, Robert asked for the entire contents of the account, except for a thousand pounds, to be transferred to the account in his real name, in a London-based Swiss bank, which he had set up the day before leaving for Switzerland.

Outside in the street the two men lounged in the doorway of a large department store almost opposite the bank. The taller of the two stamped a cigarette out on the tiled step as Mwengi, deep in thought, leaned against the handrail, not taking his eyes off the bank's front entrance for an instance. Every few minutes he checked his wristwatch.

"This country makes me sick," Mackenzie hawked and spat on the pavement. A woman passing the shop stared accusingly at him.

"Why does it make you sick?"

"It is too damn clean, that is why. I have never in my life seen a place so spotless. There is no litter anywhere, there is no dog shit on the pavement, everything is shiny. It is a wonder that they don't force all visitors to jump into a big tub of disinfectant before they allow them in the damn country."

Mwengi laughed at his partner.

"Never mind Mackenzie, my friend. This job will soon be over and you can go back to the dirt and the dust and the squalor of Lagos, where you can throw your rubbish on the ground and step in as much dog shit as you wish."

"Hummph!" Mackenzie stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and stared at the ground.

"How much longer is he going to be?" he demanded.

"Relax, my friend. He has only been in the bank for twenty minutes. If you wish to make a career of this sort of business, I think you have got to learn some patience."

Their patience was rewarded when, five minutes later, Robert strode out of the bank and headed towards the city centre.

Following at a safe distance, the two men watched as he crossed to their side of the road and entered another bank.

"Please God, not another wait."

"Just as I thought, John Morgan was much too clever to have put it all in one bank."

"Why not? Why use two when you can use one?"

"You have a lot to learn Mackenzie my friend. If you put a large amount of money into one bank, then people begin to wonder, where did you get this money from? Maybe they will start asking questions. If you break it down into smaller amounts and spread it around lots of different banks, nobody takes any notice. That is why he asked for the money in four cheques in the first place."

"I see, so you think that he probably put it in four different banks?"

"It is probably in more than that. If he had any sense he would have spit it up and spread it around a dozen or more."

"What! That means we may be standing around out here all day."

Mwengi laughed and clapped his partner on the back.

Robert was disturbed by what he had discovered, he had visited the four banks in which he knew his father had made his initial deposits but the enormity of his father's dealings was beyond his comprehension. All the transactions had been carried out in US dollars and the total shown in the accounts so far came to over nine million dollars. If he added the amount that he had discovered in the safe at his father's house it appeared that John Morgan had recently banked more than twelve million dollars.

On opening the safety deposit box in the second bank he visited, Robert had found details of an account at the Banca d'Italia in Milan, together with another two keys.

There is only so much shock a person can stand and Robert decided he had seen enough for one day and besides, he needed a drink. So, leaving the bank, he took a taxi back to his hotel. He was so wrapped up in trying to figure out what his father had been up to that he failed to notice his two pursuers alighting from the following taxi. Robert strode across the hotel foyer towards the lift.

Once inside his hotel room, Robert made straight for the minibar. Taking out two miniatures of whiskey, he poured them both into a glass and downed the drink in one gulp. For a few seconds he stood staring at his own reflection in the mirror above the minibar then, reaching down he took out a third bottle and poured it into his empty glass.

He closed the door to the minibar. Crossing the room to the bed he placed his glass on the bedside cabinet before removing his jacket and throwing it over the arm of one of the two chairs either side of the window. Walking back across the room, he retrieved his glass and sat down on the edge of the bed, staring into space.

His mind was reeling at the monumental discovery he had made. How had his father come by such a huge amount of money? When had he received it? He didn't believe that his father had won it. So, if it had been given to him, then by whom? And, more to the point, why had they given it to him?

Robert assumed that John had been given the money, he couldn't imagine his father stealing it, especially such a huge sum.

Twelve million dollars. Christ, that was some print order. Except that it couldn't have been for a printing job because everyone would have known about it, especially Ronny.

"Christ, Dad. What a bloody mess." He drained his glass and lay back on the bed.

Without making a sound, Mackenzie moved away from Robert's door and joined his accomplice in their room.

"It is all quiet, he is probably counting his money. OUR money I mean."

"I think not, my friend. I think he is making arrangements to transfer the money somewhere else."

"And why would he do that? It is safe enough where it is."

"Ah, but it is not, my friend. His father put the money into the bank accounts and I would think that he would be the sole signatory. His son will probably feel it safer if he moved the money before the banks realise that he is not the same man who made the deposits. I would think he is using his father's papers for identity and is falsifying his signature. Very risky, and I don't think this young man is the type to take risks."

"Why don't we just get him to transfer the money into an account in our name?"

"We must tread very carefully, Mackenzie. There is nothing to be gained and plenty to lose by going off, as the Americans say, 'half-cocked'. It seems to me that the young man is trying to establish where all the money is. I think we should bide our time and when we are absolutely sure that he knows where it all is, then that is when we strike."

"Like a Cobra," laughed Mackenzie.

"Like a Cobra," Mwengi's white teeth gleamed as he grinned at his friend.

Several hours later Robert made his way down to the restaurant for dinner. He still felt a little unsteady because of the whiskey. He'd had another two before falling asleep on the bed. The snooze, and the shower he had when he awoke, had made him feel better but he thought he had better not drink anything else this evening.

Mwengi and Mackenzie watched him from their position in the bar and got up and followed him into the restaurant.

Robert hardly noticed what it was that he was eating, his mind was running through the events of the day. He silently chewed on his veal and sipped his mineral water.

"Can I get you a dessert, Monsieur," Robert jumped as the waiter reached forward to retrieve the empty plate.

"No, er . . . no, thank you. I think I'll skip the dessert. In fact, I think I'll have an early night."

"Would you like me to bring a coffee to you in the lounge then, Monsieur?"

"No thank you, I'm fine."

"Very good, Monsieur," the waiter collected up the empty plate and cutlery and walked briskly off in the direction of the kitchen.

Robert finished off the last of his water before getting to his feet. As he passed the two men on his way out of the restaurant, Mackenzie stood and followed. A few minutes later, he rejoined his friend in the restaurant.

"He has gone straight to his room, so I decided to finish my meal for a change."

"Well make sure you keep an eye on the door in case he comes back down."

Mackenzie shuffled his seat round a bit so that he had a clearer view into the foyer, and resumed eating.

Back in his room Robert tried to put a call through to his mother, but there was no reply. He flicked through the television channels a few times before switching it back off again. Then he undressed, paid a quick visit to the bathroom and climbed into bed. Within minutes he was sound asleep again.

The click of the lock seemed to echo in the silence of the corridor. Slowly the door was pushed open, light from the corridor flooded momentarily into the room. A tall dark figure slipped noiselessly into the room closing the door softly behind it, cutting the hallway light off again. The only light in the room now came from the red glow of the illuminated figures of the digital alarm clock on the bedside cabinet. A pencil torch snapped on and the narrow beam cut an arc across the darkened room as it slowly swung around coming to rest on the bed where the gentle sound of breathing emanated from beneath the mound of duvet. The dark figure quietly approached the sleeper until it looked straight down on him.

Robert was blissfully unaware that he had company until a strong, black hand clamped firmly across his mouth.

He startled awake and struggled, but the figure leapt astride him, pinning his arms beneath the quilt. His wide eyes could see nothing in the blackness of the room. He struggled but couldn't free his arms, his assailant was too strong for him. Suddenly, he was again taken by surprise as a bright light burned into his retinas when his intruder, surprisingly, switched on the bedside lamp.

For a few seconds Robert closed his eyes involuntarily against the glare. Then, opening them again slowly, he stared into the loveliest eyes he had ever seen. His attacker was a woman and a beautiful one at that.

The girl looked down at him as she sat astride his body, her hand still pressed firmly across his mouth. Her face had a determined look but at the same time her eyes showed a little guilt.

"If I let you go will you promise not to make a noise?" she whispered.

Robert tried to nod as best he could and slowly the hand started to lessen its grip.

"Who the fu . . . ." the hand clamped back down again, harder this time.

"Quiet," she hissed. "You must not make a sound. Believe me, Mr Morgan, I have no intentions of harming you, I am a friend. I am only here to help you. I promise that I will explain everything, but please, I will only release you if I have your assurance that you will not make any noise."

Again, she slowly released her grip. This time Robert made no attempt to move or shout, he was too afraid of what she would do to him.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" he whispered. "And what do you want, bursting in here in the middle of the friggin' night?"

"I have come here to get you out."

"Get me out? What do you mean, get me out? Out of what, for God's sake?"

"Shhhh! . . . Out of this hotel for a start and then, hopefully, out of danger and this mess into which you have gotten yourself."

"What danger? What are you talking about? I'm not in any danger," he hissed.

"That's where you are wrong Mr Morgan, you are in the most gravest of danger, which is why we must leave now."

"Leave? I'm not going anywhere until you've explained what the hell this is all about."

"No, there is no time. I promise I will explain everything to you, but not now. Please pack your things as quickly and as quietly as possible."

"But what about . . ." her fingers touched his lips lightly.

"Please, Mr Morgan, trust me." She looked imploringly at him, the whites of her big brown eyes shining in contrast to the black, satin smoothness of her skin. "I am trying to help you. Because of the money you really are in great danger."

Robert gasped.

"What? How do you know about the money?"

"I promise you that I will explain everything later. But we must get out of her now."

He looked up at her in silence for a few seconds, weighing up what she had said.

"Well get off me then," he said quietly.

She grinned, displaying her brilliant white teeth and slid gently off him and sat on the edge of the bed.

Robert pulled himself to the sitting position.

"Well at least tell me your name," he said indignantly.

"My name is Zeta, Zeta Markobi," still grinning, her long slender arm stretched out towards him, offering her hand.

Still unable to believe this was really happening, he took her hand and again was surprised at the strength in it.

"Please," she repeated, "we must leave right away. I have a car waiting, not far from here."

"Okay," he sighed, "Would you mind getting my stuff from the bathroom for me then?"

He watched her as she walked across the room, her feet making no sound on the thick carpeting and he couldn't help admiring her.

She wore a blue lumberjack-style shirt, blue jeans and a pair of red basketball boots. She must have stood six feet tall and had the most superb figure he had ever seen.

His gaze slid up her long legs and came to rest on her small rounded bottom. His eyes widened as he saw the butt of the gun tucked down the back of her jeans. She disappeared into the bathroom.

He blew out a long sigh and threw back the duvet. Realising that he was naked, he made a dash for his suitcase and was just pulling a clean pair of boxer shorts over his bare buttocks as she returned from the bathroom.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she smirked.

Robert looked around bashfully and smiled back. He quickly dressed and set to work packing his belongings back into his case.

"Look, can't you tell me what this is all about?"

"Please . . . I promise that I will tell you everything. We must get out of here, you are in great danger."

"So you keep saying," he sighed.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he pulled on a clean T-shirt and a pair of sports socks. As he was lacing up his trainers the girl walked across to the door and opened it very slightly, just enough to see down the corridor.

"Hurry," she urged.

"All right, all right, I'm hurrying."

He finished tying his shoes, put on his jacket and picked up his case and briefcase. Zeta remained standing at the open door listening intently. As he drew close he could smell her sweet musky perfume.

She turned, took the briefcase from him, and looked straight into his eyes.

"Follow me and whatever you do, do not make a sound, please."

Opening the door wider, she stepped as silently as a cat into the deeply carpeted corridor, where she stopped and listened. Then, indicated for him to follow her, started off down the corridor. They made their way quickly to the stairs and descended. Zeta was extremely light on her feet and Robert thought that he would still have trouble keeping up with her even if he didn't have a suitcase to carry. At last they reached the ground floor and Robert was about to step out into the Reception when Zeta grabbed his arm.

"No, this way."

"But what about the bill?" He whispered.

"Don't worry about that, I have already taken care of that."

"You've what?"

"Come on, this way." She grasped his hand and almost dragged him down stairs to the floor below. Every now and then she stopped and listened for tell-tale footsteps indicating that they were being followed.

At the foot of these stairs were double swing doors. Zeta put her index finger to her lips and letting go of his hand slowly eased open the door. When she was sure it was safe she took his hand again and hurried down the corridor, the suitcase banging against Robert's leg as he struggled to keep up.

The décor in this corridor was not as plush as that on the floors above, with plain walls and carpeting. The doors to the rooms were of plain wood, a small brass number screwed onto each one. Robert assumed correctly, that these were the staff quarters.

At the far end of the corridor another flight of stairs led upwards. The pair ascended to the next level where they were confronted by a large double fire door. Pushing the bar down the doors swung open and they stepped out into the cold night air.

The street was quiet and they saw no movement as they looked down the rank of cars parked against the kerb.

"This way."

She was off again and Robert was beginning to get a little short of breath as he chased after her.

At last they turned a corner and, after twenty yards, Zeta stopped beside a dark blue Jaguar XK8. She pressed a button on the key fob and the central locking system made a loud clunk.

"Put your case in the back and get in quickly," she pulled the gun from the waistband of her jeans as she opened the door and slid into the driver's seat.

Robert opened the passenger door and, tilting the seat, shoved his case into the back. After sliding his seat back again he climbed in beside her. She handed his briefcase to him then reached down and put the gun safely under her seat.

"Wow, this is some car," Robert enthused.

"Well, if you want to get somewhere fast you need to hire a fast car," she grinned, fastening her safety belt.

"And where exactly are we going?"

"Out of here, as quickly as possible." The Jaguar's engine burst into life and they raced off down the road almost immediately.

She handled the powerful car well and Robert could see the concentration in her face as she negotiated the city traffic. There was a surprising amount of traffic considering the hour. Zeta checked the rear-view mirror every few seconds to make sure they were not being followed. After about half an hour they reached open countryside and her face relaxed a little.

She saw him looking at her out of the corner of her eye and turned to face him.

"I am sorry I had to be so forceful, Mr Morgan. But I had to get you away before they got to you."

"Who got to me?"

"The people who gave you the money. Or I should say, the people who are working for the people who gave you the money."

"Gave my father the money, you mean."

"I'm sorry?" she looked at him, puzzled.

"My father. It was my father who had the money. He died three weeks ago and I came here to find out how much money he'd got and, hopefully, where he'd got it from."

"You are not John Morgan?" She looked at him in surprise.

"No, he was my father. I'm Robert Morgan."

The girl turned back to look at the road ahead. It was a short while before she spoke again.

"I am very sorry. About the death of your father, that is. I did not know."

"Thanks. Yes, it was a great shock to us all. He was such a fit man. Did his best to keep in shape, you know, played a bit of golf now and then. I suppose this whole business must have been a bit too much for him." Robert stared thoughtfully ahead.

"And you say that you do not know how your father came by this money?"

"No I don't. And I don't even know how much it is." Robert eyed the girl cautiously.

"Then I will tell you, but not now. I am tired and I want to concentrate. I will tell you everything when we get to the house."

"Where is this house?"

"Near Interlaken."

"And how long before we get there?"

Zeta glanced at her watch.

"About an hour and a half," she sighed. "Now, please, I promise you I will try to answer all of your questions when we get to the house. But now, I need to concentrate on my driving. I am not used to driving on this side of the road."

"Yes of course, sorry."

She set her jaw and Robert guessed there was no point in pressing her further for information. He settled back into the plush leather upholstery and gazed out into the night as the car sped through the Swiss countryside.

At about the time Robert and Zeta were leaving the bounds of the city, Mwengi was taking the stairs three at a time in his hurry to reach the ground floor. Once there he ran across the foyer and into the lounge.

Mackenzie started and leapt to his feet, as his friend rushed up to him. It did not look good, Mwengi was obviously angry about something.

"Where is he?" Mwengi demanded.

"Who?" Mackenzie looked warily at the man, he could see he was furious about something.

"Who do you think I am taking about? Morgan of course."

"He's in his room."

"He is not," Mackenzie could see the veins standing out on the other's forehead. "I came down to relieve you and the door to Morgan's room was open. I looked in and there was nobody there. His suitcase has gone . . . everything. If he got away because you were asleep, I will rip your balls off and stuff them down your throat until you choke on them."

"I have not been asleep, honestly. He has not passed this way." Mackenzie was in no doubt that the other man meant what he said.

"Shut up you incompetent fool," Mwengi snapped, then muttered several obscenities before stalking back into the Foyer.

Mackenzie followed silently as they walked over to the Reception Desk. The Desk Clerk was watching them out of the corner of his eye. He was aware that the two men had been having a heated exchange in the lounge, but could not make out what was said.

"Good morning," Mwengi gave the clerk a friendly grin.

"Good morning, Sirs. How can I help you?"

"Can you tell me if Mr Morgan, in room number 615 has checked out?"

The clerk casually put on his spectacles and consulted his computer terminal.

"Mr Morgan will be leaving this morning, Sir. His secretary came in last evening and settled his account in advance and said he would be leaving before breakfast as he had an early flight to catch."

The two villains looked at each other. Turning back to the clerk, Mwengi smiled again.

"You don't happen to know the name of Mr Morgan's secretary do you?"

"No Sir. She arrived whilst Mr Morgan was having dinner and paid in cash."

Mwengi gave a sideways look at Mackenzie.

"And has Mr Morgan left already?"

"Not to my knowledge, Sir. He is due to leave after breakfast. I have been on duty all night and I haven't seen him pass. I assume he is still in his room."

Mackenzie let out a sigh of relief.

"Thank you."

The clerk nodded courteously in reply.

He watched as the two men walked across the Foyer and entered the lift.

"What do we do now?" asked Mackenzie.

"Shut up, I am trying to think."

The lift came to a halt and, as the door opened, they walked across to room 615, entered and closed the door behind them.

"Search the room, see if you can find anything that may give us a clue as to where he may have gone."

They began their search of the room but, on finding nothing, returned to their own room. As they closed the door behind them Mackenzie's face suddenly lit up.

"I have just remembered something. Do you remember that transmitter?" he asked.

"What about it?"

"Morgan has got it."

"What do you mean?"

"When we first arrived here, do you remember that I went up in the elevator with him?"

"Of course."

"Well I slipped the pen into his jacket pocket."

"He has almost certainly found it by now."

"But nobody throws away a perfectly good pen, I would wager that he will still have it."

Mwengi thought it through for a moment.

"You may be right. Turn on the receiver."

Mackenzie fetched his bag and took out the Walkman. Putting the headphones over his ears he switched it on. The instant he heard the slow bleep his face beamed again.

"We have him," he laughed. "It is faint but I can hear it."

"Well done Mackenzie, my friend. How far away are they?"

"I would guess they are about ten miles from here." In truth Mackenzie had no idea how far away they were but he was not about to admit that.

"Come on."

They grabbed a few things and hurried to the lift. Once on the ground floor they ran past the bewildered clerk and out into the street.

"This way," said Mwengi and took the first turning on the right that they came to. Running down the line of cars, Mwengi looked in each one until he came to a BMW.

"This one will do."

He took out a Swiss Army knife and opened up the screwdriver tool, which he inserted directly into the door lock. He held it with one hand and gave the knife a hard thump with the ball of his other hand. He then forced the knife around and as he did the barrel of the lock turned with it. A sharp click signalled that the locking button had popped up. He withdrew his knife, opened the door and got in. Gripping the steering wheel and yanking it hard in a clockwise direction made short work of the steering lock. Climbing out again he turned and kicked the bottom cover of the steering column off, then bending down, he opened the blade on his knife again and went to work on the ignition. In less than a minute the engine fired up.

"Wow! That is brilliant," laughed Mackenzie, "you must show me how you do that."

"Hey! What are you doing? Zis is my car."

A tall man in a business suit stood looking into the car. He dropped his briefcase on the pavement, leaned into the car and grabbed Mwengi's arm. Mwengi pushed himself out of the vehicle and shoved the man backwards, slamming him into the railings that ran along the front of the buildings. The man swung a punch at Mwengi who dodged it with ease. The business man was no match for him and he needed to take his anger and frustration out on someone. Mwengi butted the man in the face, breaking his nose. Blood poured down the man's face and he started to sink to his knees but Mwengi pulled him back up by his lapels, he hadn't finished with him yet. He punched the man twice in the solar plexus then, with what seemed like, superhuman strength he picked the man up and threw him backwards onto the railings. Unable to catch his breath there was a high-pitched gutteral cry as the spikes of the railings entered the man's back and exited through his chest as his weight pushed down on them. The man lifted his head and stared pleadingly at the two men before passing out. Mackenzie looked on in horror as Mwengi got back in the car, leaving the dying man suspended on the railings.

"Get in!" He snapped.

Mackenzie did as he was told.

"Do you still hear it?" demanded Mwengi.

"Er . . . Yes."

"Good, which way?"

Mackenzie swallowed hard and guessed.

"Er, That way," he said pointing down the road.

"Good," Mwengi stamped on the accelerator pedal and the car raced off in the direction indicated.

The signpost announced that the town of Interlarken lay just ten kilometres ahead. Neither had spoken for over half an hour but now Zeta turned to Robert and smiled.

"Almost there," she said softly, a note in her voice told him that she would be relieved to finish the journey.

A short while later Robert suddenly realised that they were driving along the side of a vast lake. It was too dark to discern much except for a string of lights along the opposite shore, their faint glow reflected on the calm surface of the water.

Just before they entered the centre of Interlaken, Zeta turned off to the left, following a narrow valley. After another quarter of an hour they passed a small railway station which announced their arrival at the small village of Lauterbrunnen. Zeta drove slowly through the village and out the other side. Eventually, further up the valley, they came to a halt in front of a house. The house was a typical Swiss chalet, wooden structure with a sharply-pitched roof, giving it the appearance of a gigantic cuckoo clock.

Zeta killed the engine and switched off the lights. She let out a long sigh.

"We're here," she said.

Darkness engulfed them as they closed the car doors behind them, extinguishing the courtesy light. Robert looked around but could see nothing except the odd light burning in the windows of some of the other houses. Looking up he could see millions of stars and turned instinctively to look at the familiar sight of the Great Bear constellation. He could clearly see the Milky Way as it washed across the clear night sky. He strained to listen, but any other sound there might have been was masked by the sound of a river, which thundered past somewhere close by.

"Come," Zeta walked towards the house, Robert followed, obediently.

Zeta turned on the lights as Robert, putting his bags down, closed the heavy wooden front door. The room was sparsely furnished but comfortable looking. On one wall was a huge stone fireplace above which the head of a large deer stared down at him with soulless artificial eyes.

"I bet he was travelling when he hit that wall," Robert muttered.

"I am sorry?"

"Nothing," he walked into the centre of the room and looked around. In front of the fireplace there was a large settee and over to the right of the room a big wooden dining table with four chairs.

Zeta busied herself making sure the windows were secure and drawing the curtains. There were shutters fitted to the outside of the windows but these were left open. Robert assumed that the shutters were probably only closed in the winter time when it was much colder.

"Are you any good at lighting fires?" she asked.

"Oh, yes . . . yes . . . right," Robert walked over to the fireplace, pulled out a couple of handfuls of kindling from the basket alongside and started removing logs from the store beneath the great hearthstone.

"Are you hungry, Mr Morgan?"

Robert suddenly realised that he was, and nodded.

"Please, call me Robert. Yes, I am actually, and I could murder a cup of tea too."

"I have no tea, I'm sorry Robert. Will coffee be okay?"

"Coffee will be fine," he smiled.

"I will make some sandwiches and a drink then, while you are doing that," she smiled back and slipped silently into the kitchen.

Once Robert was satisfied with his arrangement of wood he took the large box of matches off the heavy wooden mantel and lit the kindling. The dry splinters crackled loudly as the flames increased. He stood watching his handiwork, marvelling at the colours of the flames and the patterns the grey wood smoke made as it swirled its way up the chimney.

He thought about the winters he had known as a child, when the family had sat around the open fire, roasting chestnuts or toasting marshmallows.

"Good fire."

He jumped and spun around, Zeta stood behind him, a tray of sandwiches and coffees in her hands.

"Sorry, I did not mean to startle you," she smiled.

"That's okay," he laughed, "I guess I was on another planet for a minute there."

Smiling, she settled the tray down on the edge of the hearthstone and sat down on the rug in front of the fire. Removing his jacket, Robert threw it on the settee and sat down on the floor beside Zeta. She smiled at him as she passed him a plate and his drink and put a large plate of sandwiches on the floor between them. Robert settled his mug down on the fire hearth.

"I am afraid they are only cheese with tomatoes. I shall get some more supplies tomorrow." Zeta apologised.

"That's fine, thanks. I love cheese and tomato. How long do you intend for us to stay here?"

"It will only be for two or three days, until Henry arrives."

"Who's Henry?" Robert asked, sipping his coffee.

She looked into the fire and smiled.

"Henry is my boss."

The absurdity of the situation suddenly struck Robert. He had been virtually kidnapped in the middle of the night by a beautiful woman, because he was apparently in mortal danger. He had been driven halfway across Switzerland and was now sitting, calmly drinking coffee in a quaint Swiss chalet in the middle of nowhere. He was suddenly becoming very frustrated again.

"Look," he said, "please will you tell me what the hell's going on?"

"Yes, I am sorry." She said, looking back at him, her face became serious again. "What would you like to know first?"

"Well for a start you can tell me who you really are and what you want."

"My name is Zeta Markobi as I have already told you. I am an Intelligence Officer and I work for the Nigerian Government . . ."

"Nigerian?" Robert interrupted, nearly choking on his sandwich.

"Yes." Zeta tried hard not to laugh.

"How in God's name did Nigeria suddenly get into the equation?"

"That is where your father got the money from."

Robert let out a long sigh and shook his head.

"I think you had better explain about the money," he said, calmly.

Zeta swivelled herself around, so that she leaned her back against the settee and stretched out her long legs. Robert moved the plate and turned to sit next to her and, staring straight ahead into the fire, listened to what she had to say.

"Four years ago, the Nigerian Government of the time was replaced by yet another Military Government in a coup. The new government is here to stay for the foreseeable future but they want to be officially recognised by the rest of the world and maintain a good relationship with the other foreign governments. The best way to do this was to try to get the running of the country back to normal and to ensure that all foreign contractors are paid on time and in full. Now, many of the old government officials, I think you would call them Civil Servants, still hold their positions, despite the fact that they are opposed to the Military Government, and have no political allegiance to them."

"Then why do they work for them?"

"Mostly, the Military force them to because they are very good at their particular jobs or there is no one else to do it. Others do the jobs because they have connections high up, because of family ties with tribal kingships and it is in their interests to keep on good terms with whoever is in power. As I said, it was important for the Government to get the country back to normal, it is also essential that you have competent people in those positions. Unfortunately, some of the people who have no allegiance to the government became very corrupt."

"What has all this got to do with my father?"

"I am just coming to that. Some of these corrupt officials ingratiated themselves with the foreign agencies with whom they did business and persuaded some of the less scrupulous ones to take part in a scam. When the business is completed the agencies issued them with two invoices. One for the correct amount, for the services carried out or the goods supplied, and one for a higher amount. The higher invoice was presented to the Government for approval, the money drawn from the treasury, and the lower invoice was paid. The balance was placed in a secret bank account with the help of a contact at the Nigerian National Bank."

"And I take it the agent got a back-hander for his trouble?"

"Exactly. The problem arose when the sum of money they had embezzled became so large that they felt it would be safer if it were taken out of the country. I think it was back in February of this year, your father went to an exhibition in London."

"Yes, the London International Book Fair. He goes every year. I've been with him once or twice."

"Whilst there, he met a delegation from the Nigerian Export Council. Certain members of the Nigerian delegation went there with the sole purpose of finding a person or a small company who would be prepared to help them to move the money, in return for a commission.

During an informal talk over lunch, your father mentioned that he had a small business and that he had been experiencing some financial difficulties but that he was hoping he had been through the worst of it. He was just the person they were looking for.

A few weeks later your father received a letter from a senior official in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The letter explained that they had in their possession a sum of money, which they wanted to get out of the country. They asked your father if he would set up an overseas numbered bank account into which they would transfer the money by Telegraphic Transfer. In payment for his services he was to receive ten percent of the total sum.

Your father agreed to do this, presumably because, as they had rightly assumed, he needed the money to boost his ailing business. Your father asked for the money to be paid to him in four cheques, to be paid into four different banks, and opened up several numbered accounts in Switzerland but as a sole signatory.

Once the money was cleared, your father immediately transferred it to various other accounts he had also set up. He was a very clever man, John Morgan."

"Hang on a minute, are you saying my father stole this money from these people?"

"In effect, yes, although the money was already stolen, from the Nigerian Government."

"My father was not a thief!" Robert looked at her indignantly.

"Robert, you must understand that even the most honest of men would find it hard to resist temptation when they are handed that sort of money."

"Well, how much money, exactly, are we talking about?"

"I do not have the exact figure but it is somewhere in the region of twenty-eight million, five hundred thousand United States dollars. Give or take a few hundred thousand."

"Jesus Christ All-Bloody-Mighty," Robert was stunned, "twenty-eight and a half million? You've got to be kidding."

"I assure you I am most serious," Zeta looked straight at him. "Now do you understand why I say that you are in extreme danger?"

"You mean that these guys are now after _me_ in order to get their money back?"

Zeta nodded.

"Bloody hell," Robert stared back into the flames.

Neither broke the silence for several minutes, Zeta allowing Robert to digest the bombshell she had just dropped.

"And I suppose you're here to try to get the money back on behalf of the government?" Robert looked at her at last.

"No, my job is to protect you until Henry arrives."

"Your boss?"

"Yes. He is coming to negotiate with you."

"Negotiate?" Robert gaped at her. "What's to negotiate, the money was stolen? My father had no right to it. Of course your government should have it back."

Zeta looked straight at him, her large brown eyes glistening in the flickering firelight.

"As far as I am concerned, you never said that," she smiled.

"What?" This girl was full of surprises.

"Your father entered into the arrangement in good faith, they had convinced him that it was a legitimate business transaction with no risks on his part. Had he not fallen victim to greed he would have received over two million dollars in commission. It is up to Henry and yourself to negotiate a settlement which is acceptable to you both."

"But it's not my money, and it shouldn't have been my father's."

"In a way, your father did my country a very great service. By taking all the money, and making sure they could not get retrieve it, he caused a considerable amount of disruption within the corrupt organisation perpetrating the scheme. The whole operation was thrown into chaos and, as a result, it gave our Government more time to act. It also enabled us to identify most of the members of the organisation."

"Do you know who exactly is after me?"

"Do you remember seeing two men back at your hotel, Africans?"

"Yes. God, don't tell me it was them. I shared a lift with one of them, they seemed quite pleasant, always spoke or nodded when we met. I never thought for one minute that they were following me." Robert shivered involuntarily.

"The taller one with the beard is Nigerian, his name is Mackenzie Balewa. One of the ringleaders is his uncle, Prince Issi Naruba, who works in the Ministry of Aviation and has great plans for his nephew. The other man, the one with the scar on his face, his name is Akintola Mwengi. He is not Nigerian, he comes from the Soweto Township in South Africa. He is a professional killer and a very efficient one, hired by people who want him to do their dirty work for them. He joined the Black Unity Front when it was first formed in 1976, but it was not radical enough for him, so he joined a more hard-line group of guerrillas, who went around terrorising and murdering fellow Africans as well as Whites. These guerrillas were more like mercenaries; they fought for any cause as long as it was in their own interests. Mwengi was one of those responsible for the massacre of fifteen white missionaries, near Mrewa in Zimbabwe. Three months later Rhodesian troops over-ran a nationalist guerrilla camp about three miles inside Mozambique, killing at least twenty terrorists and capturing many more. Mwengi managed to escape but, during the struggle, he was slashed across the face with a machete, which is how he got his scar. He was not seen again for three years, until he was positively identified as one of three terrorists who, armed with machine pistols and grenades, attacked a car depot back in Johannesburg, killing two Whites. Since then he has been cropping up all over the place, mostly in Africa, but occasionally in other countries. He is most definitely not a nice man. He is known as The Cobra."

"The Cobra? Why's that?"

"Perhaps it is because he is deadly, perhaps it is because he strikes quickly and effectively. I do not know. All I know is that you are very fortunate to still be alive. Let us hope we have seen the last of him."

"I think I owe you a big vote of thanks," Robert shuddered again.

"There is no need to thank me, I am only doing what I was sent here to do."

"Well, thank you anyway," Robert reached across and took her hand in his, she squeezed it and smiled at him.

"You are very welcome," she looked him straight in the eye and Robert marvelled at her natural beauty. The large eyes, the fresh, flawless skin, the brilliant white teeth, she was perfection itself.

It had been a long time since he had been as close as this to a young woman, since Jane had left in fact. That had been just over a year, but seemed like yesterday. He thought about her often, how they had shared their lives for the best part of four years, how she laughed, how she sang, how she cried as she told him it was all over. She had met someone else at work, they had a fling and one thing led to another. By the time she got around to telling Robert that she was leaving him, she was already three months pregnant. Robert was devastated, he would have forgiven her anything, but it was too late.

Now, sitting here beside a roaring log fire gazing into the eyes of this beautiful girl, he realised what he had missed.

"How come someone as beautiful as you can get mixed up in something like this?" he asked.

"I could ask you the same question," she laughed.

"No, seriously," he grinned, "how did you end up as some sort of female Rambo?"

"Rambo? What is a Rambo?"

"Sorry," he laughed. "It's a movie. Rambo was a man, a swashbuckling hero type. Except he went off the rails a bit."

"Swashbuckling?" she looked puzzled.

He laughed.

"Never mind, just tell me how come you work for the Nigerian Government."

She straightened up, put her hands in her lap and stared ahead into the fire.

"I left school and went to the University of Ibadan, that's in the south-west of Nigeria, to study African Politics. My father worked for one of the major columbite producers . . ."

"What's columbite?"

"It is a mineral used for making steel alloys. Nigeria has vast deposits of this mineral and is one of the foremost exporters of it. My father was the Director of Sales for this company."

She looked at him briefly then looking back down at her hands, took a deep breath and continued.

"In 1989 my father had to go to Harare, in Zimbabwe, for a meeting with the Zimbabwean Trade Ministry. He decided to take my mother and my two younger sisters with him. They were going to have a short holiday as he wanted to show the girls the Victoria Falls. But, on leaving the airport in Harare, the coach taking them to the hotel was attacked by guerrillas. Thirty-four people were killed in the attack, one South African government official, two Americans, one Swedish Aid worker, four Kenyans, twenty-two Zimbabweans and my entire family. Thirty-three innocent men, women and children slaughtered because the guerrillas wanted to kill one South African politician."

Zeta stared expressionlessly into the fire. Robert swallowed uncomfortably.

"Christ Zeta, I'm so sorry," he looked at her hand lying on her thigh and covered it with his own. She looked down at it and moved her fingers to grasp his. She cleared her throat and continued.

"That was the first time I had ever heard the name Akintola Mwengi. He was the leader of the guerrillas."

"Oh, shit," Robert exclaimed, involuntarily.

She turned and looked at him, her eyes were moist and he could tell she was close to tears at the memory. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. She smiled half-heartedly and nodded slowly.

Clearing her throat again, she continued.

"The only relative that I had left was my Grandmother. She was very supportive although she must have grieved every bit as much as I did. I left the university and joined the army. I had so much anger and frustration inside of me, I had to get rid of it. I thought that by joining the army I could do something to fight against those who sought to cause this insurrection. I threw myself into the life, I volunteered for everything going and did it to the best of my ability. After all, I had nothing else to lose. Three years later I was chosen to take part in Special Operations, it is a bit like the military wing of the police force only a lot of our work is undercover. A bit like your SAS you have in Britain, only probably not as professional."

"Your pretty professional from what I've seen," he had found his voice once more. She returned his smile.

"About twelve months ago, the new Military Government had a suspicion that certain individuals within the government machine were misappropriating government funds but, despite stringent investigation, they could find no hard evidence. That is when they called in the Special Operations division, headed by Henry Enugu."

"Your boss."

"My boss. You will like Henry when you meet him, he is a most charming man and has been very kind to me since I joined the division. He is more of a friend than my superior."

She looked down at their hands again and continued to rub her thumb gently over the back of his hand.

"I was one of three intelligence officers who managed to infiltrate the Civil Service Headquarters and installed various monitoring devices. I also worked as a temporary secretary in two of the ministerial departments. We eventually found out the names some of those who were behind the operation, but by then it was too late, the money had already been transferred overseas and your father was in possession of it. Many of the perpetrators we identified were arrested and that is how we found out that our old friend Mwengi had been hired to track down your father and recover the money. He was to receive your father's commission, once the money was back in the hands of the organisation and your father had been disposed of."

"You mean murdered?"

"Yes. They would not have allowed your father to live even if he had given back every penny; it was much too risky for them. Your father's untimely death must have really upset their plans."

"Poor old Dad, fancy getting mixed up in all this."

They sat for a few minutes watching the flames and listening to the hiss and crackle of the logs on the fire, both lost in their own thoughts.

"Come on," Zeta said at last, squeezing his hand. "We should both try to get some sleep. It has been a long day, for me at least."

"You go," said Robert, "I'm not a bit tired now. If you remember, I was fast asleep when we first met."

"Yes," she laughed, "I'm sorry."

She stood up and took their empty crockery to the kitchen. On her return, a few minutes later, she walked over to a door on the other side of the room.

"This, by the way, is the bathroom," she grinned.

"Oh, yes, right, thanks."

A few minutes later she emerged from the bathroom and walked over to the open wooden stairs that ran up the side of the room.

"Good night," she said as she started to climb.

"Good night," he replied, "Oh, and Zeta."

She stopped half way up.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

She raised the light palm of her hand to him and smiled.

"Thank me when it's over," she said and continued on her way.

Robert glanced at his watch, it was 05.18am. In his mind he ran through all the things that had happened over the last two weeks and all the things he had learned from Zeta. He really felt for her about the loss of her family and was grateful that she had spared him from Mwengi's clutches. With an effort he got to his feet, put two more logs on the fire and sat back down on the settee. It was beginning to get quite warm in the room now so he removed his jacket from the back of the settee, folded it up and put it behind his head. He continued to watch the dancing flames and think about his father. In less than twenty minutes he was asleep.

For a little while Zeta lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. Apart from Henry she had never talked to anyone about her family tragedy. Not a day went by when she didn't think about the events of that day, but she could never bring herself to talk about it. Now, here was this young man whom she had only just met and in whom she had willingly confided.

She smiled to herself as she thought of Robert. She had to admit that she found him attractive and he was very easy to talk to. But there was something more than that. Maybe it was the fact that the same man had affected both of their lives. It gave them, a sort of, common bond. Letting out a long, tired sigh, she turned over on her side and closed her eyes.

Akintola Mwengi was rapidly losing patience with his partner. They had dumped the first car when it ran out of petrol. This made Mwengi even angrier as they had only driven about fifteen miles. Walking through a car park, he had seen a man about to get into another BMW. Jumping the man from behind, Mwengi brought the man's head down hard on the roof of the car, splitting his forehead open and knocking him out. Reaching inside the car, Mwengi pulled the catch to release the boot lid and, swinging the lid up, he hauled the unconscious owner of the car off the tarmac and bundled him into the boot, slamming the lid down afterwards.

Since then they had driven around for hours but had no exact fix on where Robert was. Because the tiny tracking device had no direction indicator and no way of telling exactly how far they were away from their target, they had to keep doubling back as they continuously losing the signal. Now, to put the finishing touches to a disastrous night, the batteries in Mackenzie's Walkman had run down rendering the whole thing useless.

"You are a stupid, useless and incompetent fool," shouted Mwengi, "you have single-handedly ruined everything. First, you allow them to leave the hotel . . ."

"But I did not . . ." protested Mackenzie, but he got no further.

Mwengi's fist shot out and he punched Mackenzie hard in the face, splitting his lower lip and forcing the man's head to snap back hard into the door pillar.

"Don't you dare answer me back." Mwengi's eyes were ablaze. "Just shut up and let me think."

A muffled shout emitted from the car boot. Mwengi remembered the car's owner and opened the door, at the same time popping the boot catch. As he walked to the back of the car he pulled out his lock knife. Opening the boot, Mwengi looked down at the swollen face of the terrified man, who started to sit up. He didn't get very far as Mwengi thrust the knife deep into the poor man's throat and pulled sideways. Making only a gurgling sound the man fell back, his eyes wide with terror at the realisation of what was happening. His blood soaked rapidly into his clothes and pooled into the carpet that lined the floor of the boot. Mwengi stood, grim faced, looking down at the man, watching him die. After a minute he calmly wiped his knife on the man's jacket, before he closed the boot lid and got back into the car.

"Just one word and you are dead too, do you understand me?" His eyes were wide and he spoke through clenched teeth.

Mackenzie's eyes too were wide too, but with fear. His hand shook as he dabbed the back of it on to his lip. He winced at the pain and look in horror at the dark smudge of blood which was smeared across it as he withdrew his hand. He licked his lip a few times, feeling the jagged cut where his teeth had embedded themselves into his lip. He could taste the warm, metallic tang of the blood on his tongue.

Their car was parked in a lay-by alongside a lake. The lake was the Brienzer See, to the east of Interlaken. From where they were sitting they could see the lights of the town reflected on the calm surface of the lake just as Robert had done a few hours earlier. Mwengi sat staring at the lights, thinking, whilst Mackenzie sat very still, trying not to even breathe heavily, for fear of upsetting this madman next to him. Half an hour passed and the sky started to lighten behind them. At last, Mwengi turned on the car's ignition and the engine roared into life. Looking over his shoulder to make sure nothing was coming; he pulled out into the road and headed towards Interlaken. Mackenzie was eager to know what he had decided, but was too afraid to ask.

Fifteen minutes later Mwengi pulled the car into a small car park in the centre of town. Stopping the engine, he extracted the keys from the ignition and opened the door.

"I will not be long, stay in the car. Okay?"

Mackenzie nodded. As he watched the man close the door and walk away across the car park, Mackenzie let out a long sigh of relief. Adjusting his sitting position he pulled down the visor, switched on the interior light and studied his swollen lip in the vanity mirror.

"Bastard," he muttered as he slammed the visor back into position. "I will get my own back for this."

Mwengi walked silently along the deserted streets, studying the shops as he went. At last he came to a small newsagent and tobacconist. Glancing around, he turned down alongside the building and approached it from the rear. Finding the back door, he kicked it hard three times until it flew open, allowing him entry. Making his way to the front of the shop he quickly found what he was looking for and emptied the contents of the small shelf into a carrier bag.

Mwengi returned, within twenty minutes, to find the car empty.

"Mackenzie!" he shouted, somewhere off to his right a dog barked Mwengi heard a grunt off to one side and Mackenzie appeared from behind a bottle-bank on the far side of the car park, he was struggling with his flies.

"I thought I told you to stay in the car," snapped Mwengi, as he got back into the vehicle.

"I did, but I had to go for a piss," Mackenzie tensed, bracing himself for another punch, but it did not come.

Mwengi looked at him impassively.

"Get in the car."

The two men got back into the vehicle.

"Here," Mwengi threw the carrier bag onto Mackenzie's lap.

Mackenzie regarded it with suspicion before picking it up. Looking inside, he found six cards, each containing four 1.5V batteries. Mackenzie looked up at Mwengi in surprise, his eyes broadcasting his lack of understanding.

"I . . . What . . . ?" He stammered.

Mwengi sighed.

"I came to the conclusion that your tracking device is still our best hope, in fact our only hope, at the moment. Maybe, with new batteries, it might give us a stronger signal."

Without a word Mackenzie reached over to the back seat and picked up the Walkman. He fumbled to replace the batteries as his hands were still shaking. At last he snapped the cover shut, put the earphones on and switched on the set. He jumped as the loud pulse of the signal screeched through the headphones. Turning down the volume, from the maximum setting he had previously had it on, he turned to Mwengi and grinned.

"Receiving them loud and clear," he said.

"Good, do you think they are in the town?"

"No, I would say they are about ten to fifteen miles away. But I don't know in which direction," he added, quickly.

"That does not matter, we will find them. They have obviously stopped, so all we have to do is drive a short distance out of town in each direction until the signal gets stronger," Mwengi grinned and Mackenzie relaxed slightly.

Mwengi started the car once more and they continued with their search.

"For someone who claimed he wasn't tired, you certainly snore a lot."

"Huh . . . What . . ." Robert woke with a start. He lay full length on the settee and Zeta was perched on the edge, a cup in her hand.

"Here, I have made some coffee," she laughed, holding out the cup.

"Oh . . . right, thanks," he struggled into the sitting position and took the cup from her.

She wore a white towelling bathrobe, which gleamed against her dark skin. The sweet perfumed smell of soap reached his nose before he got the aroma of the coffee.

"You smell nice," he said without thinking.

"Thank you," she smiled, "I have just got out of the shower. You should have one, there is plenty of hot water."

He regarded her over the rim of his cup until she dropped her gaze.

"We must get some supplies in," she said standing up, "I must make a list. Do you have a pen and paper?"

"There's a pen in my jacket and a notepad in my briefcase, help yourself."

As she went over to his case and snapped the catches, he fumbled through his jacket until he found the pen that Mackenzie had slipped into his pocket. Holding it up, he looked at it for a moment.

"Strange that!"

"What is?"

"This pen, it's not mine. Haven't a clue how I got it either. I must have picked it up somewhere without thinking. Probably from one of the banks I visited yesterday." He handed the pen to Zeta and she sat down at the dining table and began to write. When she had finished her list she put the pen down and tore the top sheet off the pad.

"I'm going to get dressed and then we can go shopping. It will be nice to get some fresh air. We can buy some breakfast while we are out."

"Good idea," agreed Robert. "I'll finish my coffee and have a quick shower, and I'll be right with you."

He watched as she bounded gracefully up the stairs again, her bare feet slapping lightly on the wooden steps.

Once in her room Zeta disrobed and stood naked in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the door. She admired her lithe, toned body in the reflection for a few moments.

"Hmm, not bad I suppose," she smiled to herself and turned to the leather holdall beside the bed. She slipped on clean underwear and stepped into her jeans. As she was fastening her trousers she glanced out of the window at the beautiful sunny morning and was just in time to see a beige-coloured BMW drive slowly past the driveway leading to the house. What concerned her was the fact that the two occupants were black. She watched the car continue slowly up the valley until it came to a halt about two hundred metres away. Her mind raced, it was only when the car started to turn around in the road that she was galvanised into action. She grabbed her shirt, shoes and holdall and ran out of the room. Robert came out of the bathroom, to get his washing bag from his case, as she rushed down the stairs two at a time. He had turned on the shower but had not started to undress.

"Quick," she called, stuffing her things into the holdall, "we have got to get out of here fast, they've found us."

"Who?"

"Mwengi, he's here. They are just turning round. Hurry"

"But how . . ."

"I don't know, just get your things together and come on." Zeta grabbed the two coffee cups and ran into the kitchen, where she poured the contents down the sink and placed the cups upside down on the draining board.

Robert leapt across the room and snapped shut the catches on his suitcase. He grabbed his jacket and briefcase on the way past as he followed Zeta into the kitchen.

"My pad," he cried and, running back into the lounge he snatched up the notepad, sending the pen skittering to the floor as he did. Instinctively, he started to bend down to retrieve it from under the chair.

"Leave it!" yelled Zeta, "we haven't got time."

She was standing holding the back door open.

He ran through the kitchen and out of the back, Zeta took the key out of the lock, closed the door and locked it from the outside.

"Head for the wood store," she called, pointing to an old wooden barn fifty yards away from the house. "Keep over to the left until you get level with it, the shrubs and trees will give you cover."

As Robert ran towards the barn Zeta sprinted to the corner of the house and peered around it in time to see the BMW come to a halt fifty yards from the house. She reached into her holdall and pulled out her gun. Turning, she raced after Robert.

As they neared the barn they heard the sound of car doors closing. The entrance to the barn faced away from the house and they made their way to it. The door was fastened by a small wooden slat, which swivelled down into a bracket fixed to the wall. Zeta lifted the slat and pulled open the door. As they entered she threw down her bag and searched around until she found a thin piece of wood about a foot long. She lifted up the slat with the wood, holding it up while she slowly closed the door. When the door was back in place she lowered the wood until the slat was tucked safely back behind the bracket.

The barn was about twenty feet long and twelve feet wide. A large pile of logs was stacked neatly against the side wall. A solid looking work bench stood against the back wall with an assortment of old tools either on it or hung from nails on the wall behind. Looking around for somewhere to hide, Robert noticed a hatch leading to a loft of some sort.

"Up there?" he asked.

"Good idea."

The wood pile was about five feet high and came quite close to the hatch. Climbing up Zeta reached over and pushed open the trapdoor. Then, holding on to the edge of the opening, she swung out and hauled herself up into the loft.

"Throw the bags up," she called.

Robert did as he was told and then followed Zeta up into the loft. It was more of a struggle for him but at last he made it. Robert closed the hatch and went over to join Zeta at a small window that looked out towards the house. After a few minutes Zeta turned to see Robert looking at her. He looked away, sheepish and looking down she realised that, in her rush to get out of the house, she had not had time to put on her shirt. Her full breasts strained at the white lace of her bra as she breathed deeply after all the exertion.

Her eyes narrowed at him and he grinned.

"Pass me a shirt from out of my bag, will you?" she asked.

Without a word he did as he was told and Zeta couldn't help but smile as she put the shirt on.

"Not as embarrassing as your bare backside yesterday, I'll bet," she grinned.

"Touché," he laughed.

Zeta turned to continue looking out of the window, Robert knelt beside her.

The two men walked slowly towards the house gazing up and down the road as they went. It was still early and there didn't seem to be anybody about. As they approached the drive the two men pulled out their guns. Mackenzie still wore the headphones.

"This is definitely the place, there is a continuous tone," he said softly and removed the headphones from his ears so that they hung around his neck. He stuffed the Walkman into the inside pocket of his jacket. Once it was securely tucked away he transferred the gun to his right hand.

"You go and take a look around the back, but be careful," Mwengi ordered. He looked to see if he could see anything through the windows but the curtains were drawn. A couple of minutes later Mackenzie reappeared.

"It's all quiet around the back. I tried the door but it's locked."

"Look around that side then," Mwengi pointed with his gun.

Within a short time Mackenzie returned at a brisk trot.

"There is a small window open around there. It is obviously the bathroom because I can hear someone taking a shower."

"Good, the water will cover any noise we make. Come on."

They made their way to the opposite side of the house from the bathroom. Mwengi took the barrel of his gun and used the butt to smash one of the small panes of glass in the window. Reaching through, he pulled down the catch and opened the window wide. Turning his gun the right way around he gently slid open the curtain. Sure that they had gone undetected, he climbed up onto the window ledge and through the window. He stood for a moment listening, as his huge accomplice struggled through the small window opening. At last he was in and as Mackenzie stood up he cracked his head on the stairs, going up at an angle above the window. He gave a muffled cry of pain.

Mwengi glared at him and indicated with his gun that Mackenzie should go and look in the kitchen while he made his way towards the bathroom. The door to the bathroom was open and the sound of the shower grew louder as he got nearer. He stepped quietly into the bathroom and turned, only to discover the empty shower cubicle. He walked back into the lounge where Mackenzie stood, he shook his head and Mackenzie shrugged his shoulders.

The two men then made their way slowly and quietly up the stairs. There were two bedrooms next to each other and the landing ran across in front of them. A wooden railing ran the length of the landing and the two men turned and looked down into the lounge from it. The door to one of the bedrooms stood open and they could see that although the room was empty, the bed had definitely been slept in. They then crossed the landing to the other door and stood outside listening. Mwengi pulled Mackenzie to one side before giving the door a hard kick. It sprang open, crashing against the wall and he rushed in, his gun at the ready. But the room was empty and the bed appeared to have been unused.

They had a quick look in the first bedroom but finding nothing, Mwengi led the way back downstairs to the lounge. Crossing the room Mackenzie spotted something on the floor.

"A-ha," he cried, triumphantly, as he stooped to pick it up, "this proves they were here."

He held aloft the pen.

"But what use is that to us now? All it proves is that Morgan was here. He is obviously not here now and your stupid pen is useless to us. Isn't it?"

Mackenzie nodded, sullenly, and put the pen on the table.

"Did you check the cellar?" asked Mwengi.

"What cellar?"

"God give me strength," Mwengi stalked into the kitchen, Mackenzie followed at a distance. Mwengi saw the cups on the draining board. Reaching out he touched one. It was still warm. "They are either still here or were here recently."

He continued across the kitchen. As he reached the door to the cellar Mwengi looked out of the window at the wood store.

"Go and check out that old barn," he snapped.

Mackenzie walked to the back door and was about to say that there was no key, but thought better of it. So he turned on his heels and went out through the front door. Mwengi watched him and shook his head in exasperation.

Looking up and down the road first, to make sure no one was about, Mackenzie walked slowly around the side of the house and headed across the garden in the direction of the wood store.

"One of them is coming this way," Zeta whispered to Robert who had moved to sit against the wall.

He immediately scrambled to a kneeling position next to her to look out of the tiny window.

"That's one of the guys, definitely," he observed, "we'd better keep back from the window in case he sees us."

"Sit over there and keep as quiet as you can. Try not to move," Zeta instructed as they moved further into the loft.

Zeta grabbed her holdall, crawled over to a pile of old sacks about five feet from the trapdoor and, crouching down behind them, drew her gun from the waistband of her jeans. With her left hand she rummaged around in her bag until she found the gun's silencer, which she screwed onto the end of the barrel. This done, she sat back and waited. Robert crawled behind a stack of old wooden boxes and positioned himself so that he had a clear view of the hatchway. Keeping as low and as still as they could, they waited.

They heard the sound of Mackenzie's footsteps as he approached the barn and the noise of the wooden bar being swivelled back. The old door creaked in protest on its rusty hinges, as he swung it as far back as it would go and peered into the gloom of the barn. He entered and had a good look around and, having satisfied himself that all no one was there, he turned to leave. It was then that he noticed the trapdoor in the ceiling above.

"I suppose I had better look," he muttered. At least he couldn't be accused of not doing the job properly.

Moving over to the hatch he realised that he would have to climb onto the wood stack in order to reach. Tucking the gun into the pocket of his jacket he started to climb. Because of his height and weight it was trickier than he had thought and the stack was not exactly stable. At last he was within reach and stretching out his hand he shoved the trapdoor as hard as he could so that it sprang backwards on its hinges until it landed on the floor of the loft with a crash, sending up a cloud of dust.

Zeta had braced herself against the wall and pointed her gun at the hatchway, taking careful aim, ready to shoot if necessary. But there was no need. Two huge hands appeared either side of the loft opening and, just as Mackenzie was about to haul himself up to look in the loft, the stack of logs, on which he was precariously balanced, gave way. The logs rolled out from under Mackenzie's feet causing him to topple backwards and crash heavily onto the wood that had already fallen to the floor. As he landed he caught his face on the wall of the barn, once again, opening up the cut on his lip.

"Ah, Shit!" he cried, quickly putting the palm of his hand over his bleeding mouth and fishing in his pocket for his, already blood-stained, handkerchief. Tears of pain welled up in his eyes.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Zeta and Robert held their breath and waited, fearing to even move a muscle.

"Mackenzie, what are you doing in there?"

Zeta drew a sharp breath.

Mackenzie struggled to his feet and staggered out into the morning sunlight. Mwengi was standing about twenty yards from the barn.

"There is no sign of them and besides, the door was bolted from the outside."

"What have you done to your mouth?" Mwengi grinned.

"Nothing," Mackenzie grunted as he barged past him, holding his hanky to his mouth with one hand whilst trying to wipe a large green stain from his trousers with the other.

Mwengi laughed and shook his head and, after a cursory glance at the barn, followed his partner.

Zeta, moving as cautiously as a cat, made her way back over to the window. Peering out, she just caught sight of Mwengi as he disappeared around the corner of the house.

"It's okay, they are returning to the house."

"Thank Christ for that," Robert shakily got to his feet and joined her at the window.

Back at the house Mackenzie went into the bathroom and cleaned himself up. There was some Savlon in the bathroom cabinet, which he smeared liberally onto his lip. He also spread some on a graze down the inside of his left wrist and put the tube in his jacket pocket for later use.

As Zeta and Robert knelt with their heads close together, looking through the tiny aperture of the loft window, they saw nothing for quite a while until at last, two figures walked slowly to the parked BMW, got in and drove off in the direction of Interlaken.

"What do we do now?" asked Mackenzie, as the house disappeared from sight behind them.

"We will drive down the road a short way and wait. I am sure they are still in the area, they may have walked into the village for supplies. Either way, they will have to come down this road even if they wish to catch the train."

"But there were no bags and things."

"Maybe their bags were in the car. We didn't search that, remember?"

Mackenzie nodded and turned back to look out of the windscreen. Mwengi drove for about half a mile and, parking the car in a lay-by, settled back to wait.

Robert turned and looked at Zeta, her face was close to his and he could feel her breath, warm against his cheek. Suddenly she turned her eyes and looked directly into his and smiled. They held each other's gaze for a few seconds then, reaching up, she placed her warm soft hand on his cheek.

"Come on," she said, softly, "Let's get out of here."

Moving back over to the trapdoor, she dropped carefully down onto the fallen logs. Robert passed the bags down to her and lowered himself to the floor.

Back at the house, Zeta unlocked the back door and entered the kitchen. The shower was still running so she made her way to the bathroom and turned it off.

Robert, having followed her into the lounge, put down his cases and looked around. Noticing the pen on the table he absently picked it up and put it back in his jacket pocket.

"What puzzles me is how they knew where to find us," said Zeta as she came out of the bathroom. "Nobody knows about this safe house, Henry organised it only a few days ago. How could they possibly have got here so fast?"

"Maybe they saw us leave and followed us."

"No, we were definitely not followed," she said indignantly. She walked to the window and looked down the road towards the town. "They must have had some sort of tracking device. You must have it somewhere in your belongings."

"A bug? But where?"

She shrugged then, moving across the room, picked up Robert's case.

He watched her in silence as she popped the catches and turned the case upside down, emptying the contents onto the floor.

"Oh, don't mind about all my clothes getting creased," he said sarcastically.

She chose to ignore him. Getting down on her knees she went through his toiletries and each item of clothing, folding them up neatly after she had checked them.

"It doesn't seem to be in your belongings, maybe it's sewn into the case itself."

First she worked her fingers around the seams of the case and then, taking a penknife from her pocket, inserted it into the fabric and cut along the seam, pulling the cloth covering back.

"Hey, hang on a minute," Robert protested, "that case cost me a fortune."

"Look. I don't care about your case. All I am concerned about is finding the transmitter. Besides we should get rid of your bags they are too bulky. We'll get you something more suitable."

After satisfying herself that the transmitter was not in the suitcase she turned her attention to Robert's briefcase, emptying its contents onto the table and going through them meticulously.

"I don't understand it, it must be here somewhere."

"Perhaps it's in your car," suggested Robert.

"Possibly, but I doubt it. Anyway, we will have to leave the car, they know what it looks like and they are bound to be watching the road."

Walking over to the window she looked out again.

"We cannot stay here. I am sure they will return, they may even be watching the house now. We must leave here as soon as possible."

"But, what about all my stuff?" Robert looked down at his tattered suitcase; its contents stacked neatly around it on the floor.

"You will just have to take only the things you need the most and leave the rest. We can always arrange for them to be collected later. There is a shopping bag in one of the cupboards in the kitchen. Put what papers you need in one of the large envelopes from the desk," she pointed to a large wooden bureau against the wall. "Leave everything else. As I said, we can retrieve them later."

"Gee, thanks," letting out a huge sigh, Robert bent down to sort through his belongings.

While Robert was busy Zeta, after first satisfying herself that the coast was clear, sprinted to the car and retrieved her maps. On returning to the house she spread one on the table.

"Unfortunately, there is only one entrance to this valley. They will almost certainly be watching the road, probably not far from the station so they can keep an eye on the trains too," she said.

"In that case I think we should make our way to Grindelwald and take the train to Interlaken from there. They will not be expecting us to come from that direction."

Zeta looked at Robert in amazement.

"You know this place?"

"I've been here before, a couple of times," he smirked, "many years ago, when I was a teenager. My parents brought me here for summer holidays, we spent the whole time camping in the valley and hiking around in the mountains. It was wonderful. It will be a bit of a trek but we can get to Interlaken without going back through Lauterbrunnen again."

She consulted her map again and had to admit that to go to Grindlewald was the best option. She looked at him and smiled.

"It is a long way but, you are right. We must hurry."

"Don't worry, I know a footpath up to Wengen where we can take a train." Robert grinned. It felt nice to be able to actually contribute something rather than to rely on Zeta to get them out of this mess.

Melanie Palmer was looking forward to a nice peaceful day in the office. Her boss, in the small shipping agency where she worked, was keeping the wheels of industry greased, on the golf course, with one of their more profitable clients. That meant she would be alone for most of the day.

The reason Melanie was hoping for a quiet day was so she could spend a few hours talking to her boyfriend on the Internet. Adam was an American, living and working in Hong Kong. They had met in a chat room and, over the last year or so, had got to know each other very well. Adam eventually came over to the UK for a holiday and they realised their true feelings for each other. All too soon, Adam had to return to Hong Kong, but not before Melanie had agreed to marry him. She was the happiest girl in the world.

They talked most days but mainly only for an hour in Melanie's lunch break. Because of the time difference it was early evening in Hong Kong when Melanie took her lunch break. That made it convenient for both of them, though an hour was never long enough. Today, though, because she would be alone in the office all day, she could talk to him for as long as she liked.

She pictured his handsome face now and smiled as she eased her small Fiat into the parking space alongside the dark grey Jaguar.

Grabbing her handbag from the passenger seat, she climbed out of the car, pulling the keys from the ignition. As she was shutting the door, the keys fell from her grasp and clattered as they hit the cold concrete floor. She turned and bent down to retrieve them and it was as she was straightening up again that she saw him.

He was lying, in a most uncomfortable-looking position, across the front two seats of the Jaguar. At first she thought he was asleep, until she saw the blood. Lots of it, more blood than she had ever seen in her life. It was all over the man, all over the dashboard and all over the seats.

Her scream echoed around the car park, magnified by the low ceiling and the open space. Five floors below, two pedestrians stopped dead in their tracks and gazed up at the multi-storey block, trying to make out where the screams were coming from.

Melanie couldn't take her eyes off the body. The more she looked at the dark purple stains, the more she screamed. Eventually, two commuters, who had parked on the level below, ran up the slope to her aid. One led her away while the other called the Police on his mobile phone.

A patrol car had arrived within a few minutes and, after a quick look through the window of the Jaguar, one officer contacted his base and drove back down to the entrance, where he sealed off the entire car park. The other officer tried his best to question, the still hysterical, Melanie, while they waited for the Scene of Crimes unit to arrive. It was difficult as Melanie was very traumatised by her horrific discovery.

Over the next half an hour, several other police cars turned up and the police began sending away the few onlookers, who had managed to gain access to the car park via the various doors dotted around on each level.

At last, a white Mercedes van, with a large crest on the doors, swept up the slope and pulled to a halt a few yards behind the Jaguar. Two plain-clothed men got out and, after a quick look over the scene, walked back to the van and opened the large sliding door on the side.

One of the PCs, who were first on the scene, walked over to the two men as they were climbing into their protective suits.

"I ran a check on the licence plate. It's a hire car, reported missing about a week ago. Seems like our chap here booked it out for three days and never returned it."

Sergeant John Walters nodded in the direction of the Jaguar. He was a veteran of twenty-six years as a Scene of Crimes Officer and had just about seen it all.

"Anybody touched the vehicle?" he asked.

"Not that I know of, Sir. Although I'm surprised nobody found him sooner. This car park is very popular."

"Most people are still half asleep when they park here in the mornings," said the other SOC officer.

Jimmy Lane had only been in the job for five years but he and Walters worked well together as a team.

Slipping on his protective overshoes, Walters looked over in the direction of Melanie Palmer, who was being attended to by two paramedics and a young woman police constable.

"I take it that's the young lady who discovered the body."

"Yeah! Poor kid. Really freaked her out."

"Didn't do a lot for me either," said Jimmy, reaching into the van to pick up a large black toolbox.

"Keep everybody well away from this area until we've finished will you? Better still, get everybody down to the next level so we can work without disturbance."

"Yes, Sir." PC Mike Butler was still in his first year as a Police Constable. His training from Hendon Police Academy still fairly fresh in his mind as he set to work clearing the area.

The two SOCOs walked back over to the Jaguar. While one walked slowly around the vehicle, talking into a small tape recorder, the other took a series of photographs of it from various angles.

An unmarked car, a blue magnetic light stuck at a jaunty angle on its roof, arrived and pulled up behind the van. One of the three men who got out of the car, walked over to a Police Sergeant standing watching the forensic team at work. The officer glanced over at the approaching man and subconsciously straightened his posture.

"Everything under control, George?" asked the man.

"Seems so, Sir," the officer replied. "Young Bulter's done a good job of clearing the area and the forensics chaps are hard at it."

"When did the call go in?"

"About 8.25am, Sir"

The man glanced at his wristwatch.

"Bloody hell! And SOCO are here already? They must have shit the bed. Either that or they're going for a personal best."

The officer laughed at his superior's joke.

"Surprised me too, Sir. Didn't expect to see them this side of lunch time," George grinned.

After dusting the doors for fingerprints, one of the forensic officers used a dummy key to unlock the passenger door of the Jaguar. The two men recoiled at the stench of blood and decaying flesh that wafted out of the vehicle as they pulled open the door. Pulling masks over their faces, they then went to work, photographing and examining the corpse.

Detective Chief Superintendent Adrian Moore lit a cigarette and turned to the Sergeant beside him.

"Any chance you can rustle up some tea from somewhere, George? Looks like it's going to be a very long day."

Once they were ready and they had packed everything they intended to take with them Zeta and Robert left by the back door and made their way quickly down, past the wood store, until they came to a river that cascaded down from the mountains. Although not wide, the flow of the river was very strong and white with foam as it raged alongside them. They could feel the chill coming from the icy water as it cooled the air around it.

After about two hundred metres they crossed over a small wooden bridge and followed a narrow path, which ran up the hill and into the trees.

The plan was to walk to the small village of Wengen, where they would catch the train to Kleine Scheidegg and then the cable car to Grindelwald.

As the morning wore on the sun climbed higher in the sky and the going got harder, at least as far as Robert was concerned it did. The climb had seemed a lot less strenuous when he was a teenager. He had to admire Zeta's stamina as she strode on, heedless to the heat or the ascent. He made a mental pledge that, on his return to England, he would go for a run every day and visit his local gym at least once a week. He felt a trifle embarrassed that this girl was lugging her holdall up this mountain with a lot less effort than he could manage with his bulging shopping bag.

An hour and a half later they passed one or two wooden houses, signalling the approach of civilisation, and eventually the path joined a metalled road. Referring quickly to her map, Zeta marched off in the direction of the station.

Having purchased their tickets they sat down, or in Robert's case flopped, on a bench to await the train.

"Christ, am I glad that climb's over. I didn't realise how out of condition I was," Robert coughed and wiped the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief.

"By the time I have finished with you, you will be running up these mountains," laughed Zeta.

"Funnily enough, I can believe that."

They waited in the sun for about twenty minutes before the train arrived at the station. There were very few other passengers on the train. At last they arrived at Kleine Scheidegg where, after a short walk, they reached the cable car terminal.

Clutching their newly-purchased tickets, they climbed into one of the small, pod-like gondolas and sat back to relax for a while and enjoy the view that, even though their thoughts were somewhat preoccupied, they had to admit, was spectacular.

The tiny car swung gently and almost silently from its cables, carrying them high above the alpine meadows, past the faces of the Jungfrau, the Monch and the Eiger. They looked down to see cows grazing peacefully on the thick carpet of multi-coloured wild flowers. The cows' bells still audible over the gentle rumble of the cable mechanism from which they were suspended.

"You know, I read somewhere that this is the longest cable car run in the world," Robert enthused. "Though I'm pretty sure the Yanks have almost certainly built one ten times as long by now. They always like to go one better than everybody else. The view is breathtaking isn't it?"

"It is truly magnificent," even Zeta had relaxed a little now.

Robert reached across, lifted her holdall from her seat, placed it on his own and crossed the car to sit next to her, causing the vehicle to sway gently.

Zeta eyed him suspiciously.

"I don't like sitting with my back to the engine," he grinned.

She smiled back.

"Did you know," he said, "there is a train that runs, from Kleine Scheidegg, goes into the base of the Eiger and winds its way up through the centre of the mountain, across the inside of the Monch and up to the summit of the Jungfrau?"

"You are joking, of course?" laughed Zeta.

"Seriously. Look at your map if you don't believe me. There is a station at the top of the mountain, it's called the Jungfrau Joch. From there you can walk to the actual summit. And from there you get a spectacular view of the Jungfrau Glacier which runs down the other side of the mountain."

Zeta still eyed him suspiciously.

"Look," Robert leaned across her and pointed up at the face of the Eiger. "Up there. About three-quarters of the way up. See that rectangular shape in the rock? That's a sort of panoramic window, a viewing area. The train stops there on its way up so that the passengers can admire the view."

Zeta looked to where Robert had pointed and tried to make out the window. Robert leaned closer and studied her profile while she was occupied. She turned to look at him, grinning, her eyes wide like an excited child.

"Are you really serious? Is that really a window?"

"Look at your map," he repeated, "the railway is bound to be on it."

She studied her map for a full minute, then looked at him and grinned, before leaning back and looking at the mountain once more.

"That is truly amazing," she marvelled. "What an incredible feat of engineering. When was it built?"

"Early 1900s, just before the First World War. The tunnel is about seven kilometres long altogether. The station at the top is at about three and a half thousand metres. Incredible isn't it?"

Robert slid his right arm, which had been resting on the back of the seat, down until his hand rested on her shoulder. Without a word she tilted her head slightly so that her cheek touched the back of his hand, her forehead against the window. They travelled like this, neither saying a word, until just before they reached the terminus at Grindelwald.

It was too early in the season for there to be too many tourists and the majority of those they passed, as they walked into the tiny town, seemed to be either Dutch hikers or German students.

There were a number of shops in the town selling hiking and climbing equipment and it was in one of these that Zeta purchased two rucksacks. Walking back out into the sunshine she headed towards a wooden bench on the opposite side of the road.

They spent the next few minutes transferring their belongings to the rucksacks. When they were satisfied that the items were stowed securely and the straps were adjusted correctly, they set off down the road again, leaving their old bags stuffed into a rubbish bin.

"Where to now?" asked Robert, relieved to have been able to put his jacket in his pack rather than carry it over his arm.

"Boots. Good quality walking boots, and a small tent."

"A tent! Surely you don't intend camping?"

"We may have to. Better to be prepared," she smiled.

He followed her into another shop where she bought each of them boots and thick socks. They put them on in the shop and stowed their shoes in their packs before going to yet another shop to look at tents.

"Hang on a minute," protested Robert, "I can't let you keep paying out for all this stuff."

"Why not, it's not my money," grinned Zeta, "I was given a credit card before I came to look for you, for legitimate expenses. Henry told me . . . My God! Henry. I have just remembered, Henry is due to arrive at the safe house tomorrow. I must make a telephone call and delay him until we are safe. But first, the tent."

In the next shop Zeta bought a thermos flask, two small gas burners, two small saucepans with folding handles, plastic plates, mugs and cutlery and two sleeping bags. Then, after choosing, what Zeta thought was a highly suitable, and what Robert thought was a far too small, tent they made their way to the Post Office. After talking for a minute to a very nice man behind the counter, Zeta was shown into a small office, allowing her to make her telephone call in private.

Robert waited patiently outside in the sunshine and guarded their rucksacks.

Zeta emerged a few minutes later looking very pleased with herself.

"How did you manage that?" asked Robert.

"Manage what?"

"To use the phone in the Post Office, I saw you through the window. If I'd asked I'd have been told to 'bugger off and use a pay-phone' in no uncertain terms."

"Never underestimate the powers of a damsel in distress," Zeta laughed, as she struggled into the harness of her pack. "I told them that my Grandmother was very ill and that if I telephoned Nigeria using a pay phone to see how she was I would be feeding change into the telephone non-stop. I asked if I could use an ordinary phone and give them the money for the call. He was very nice and refused to let me pay for it."

"What? I find that even harder to believe," said Robert sarcastically.

"Why?"

"He's Swiss. You have to pay for everything here, they even take kidney donor cards in the shops."

Zeta laughed again.

"Well he didn't, and don't be so cynical. Come on, I'll race you to the station."

Mwengi strolled up the road until he could see the house. Mackenzie was lounging on the grassy bank at the side of the road.

"Take a break," he ordered Mackenzie. "I'll take over for a while."

They had parked the car in a lay-by, half a mile from the safe house. It was only a short walk around the bend to a point where they could see the property. He was certain Morgan was still around and possibly the girl too. Morgan's 'Secretary', whoever she was.

Mwengi was not a happy man. He was stuck with a partner, something he preferred not to have, who was no help. In fact, he was more of a hindrance as he had no experience in this sort of thing. The only reason Mwengi had agreed to take the fool with him was because Mackenzie's uncle, Prince Issi Naruba, had agreed to give Mwengi ten percent of the money on the condition that his nephew accompany him.

Now, to make matters worse, this woman had shown up and Morgan had given them the slip. Mwengi wasn't taken in at all about the girl being Morgan's secretary. After John Morgan's death, Mwengi had been trailing Robert day and night and knew full well that he was self-employed and didn't have a secretary. No, he was sure that this woman was working for the Nigerian Government. But who the hell was she?

Mwengi and Mackenzie had been taking it in turns to keep watch on the house. Unfortunately for them, they were in the car discussing their plan of action, and deciding who should take the first lookout, when Zeta and Robert slipped across the meadow and over the river. It had been two hours since they started their vigil.

Whilst Mwengi was on lookout, Mackenzie slumped in the back of the BMW having a cigarette, the smoke curling along the roof lining as he lay on his back, his long legs dangling out through the open door. He was glad to be away from Mwengi's gaze for a while. He had never met anyone who made him feel as decidedly uncomfortable as Mwengi did. Goma was right and Mackenzie was in no doubt that Mwengi would not hesitate in killing him as soon as his usefulness had come to an end.

He glanced at the Walkman lying on the dashboard and smiled to himself. His brother Joseph was truly a remarkable fellow to invent such a device. Joseph had told him that it was also possible to use the radio feature of the Walkman but not the tape, as that was full of the electronics for the tracking device. He decided to see if there was anything decent to listen to on the radio.

He reached across the front seats to retrieve the set and lying back down slipped the headphones over his ears. Having switched it on, he was instantly aware of the intermittent beeping of the transmitter. He intended to switch the set over to Radio but there was something about the signal that made him hesitate. The beeps were coming too slowly. He could not see how that was possible. As they were only half a mile from the house, the signal should have been considerably faster.

Suddenly it dawned on him, the signal was weaker because the transmitter was further away. Morgan must have returned to the house, picked up the pen and was on the move again.

It took him less than three minutes to vacate the car and run to where Mwengi was stationed to tell him the news.

At first Mwengi was sceptical. How could they get out without them noticing? Where could they have been hiding?

At last he agreed to drive back to the house to check that the pen was no longer on the table in the lounge.

The first thing that struck them on returning to the house was that the shower was no longer running. Cautiously, they entered via the window they had broken on their earlier visit. Sure enough, the pen was gone and there were clothes and a suitcase scattered over the floor.

"How did he manage that?" asked Mackenzie, to no one in particular. The big man scratched his head.

"I do not think that Morgan is the sort to give us the slip like this. I think the woman with him is very professional."

"But who is she?"

"I wish I knew, my friend, I wish I knew."

"They must have left on foot because the car is still there, so they cannot go very fast."

"Damn," cursed Mwengi, "of course, the station! Apart from the road, which we have been watching, the only way out of this valley is by train."

Rushing back out to the car, Mwengi consulted his map.

"See, here, they could have followed the river and turned left here to reach the station. We probably didn't see them because we were watching the road not the river. Damn."

Jumping back into the car they roared off into town, to find the station. It was not difficult to find and they reached it in no time. Parking the car at the side of the road, they rushed into the station and out onto the platform. The station was deserted except for one man who was painting a fence at the far end of the platform. His jacket and cap lay neatly-folded on a nearby bench. Walking up to the man, Mwengi cleared his throat to attract the man's attention and gave him a beaming smile.

"Please excuse me," he said, "Are you a porter?"

The man straightened up and looked impassively at Mwengi.

"No, I am the Station Master," he replied, looking the two men up and down with justifiable suspicion.

"Good. Can you tell me how long ago the last train to Interlaken went?"

"The last train to come through this station was three days ago." The man spoke perfect English.

"Oh. And when will the next train leave?"

"There will not be any Interlarken trains arriving at, or leaving from, this station for about a week I'm afraid, there has been a landslide about two miles from here," the man pointed down the track in the direction of Interlaken. "It has destroyed part of the track. Engineers are working on it but it will be a few days yet before it is repaired."

"I see," Mwengi thought for a few moments. "Have you seen a young English man and a woman come by here?"

"No sir."

"I see. Then could you tell me, are there any other routes out of this valley if you did not go by car?"

"Well you could walk or you could go over the top and get the train out from Grindelwald direct to Interlaken, but it's a long way around. You would have to go to Wengen, then on to Grindelwald. The train to Wengen will be back in about an hour."

"Is there another way, other than train, to reach Wengen?"

"There is a road, or you could walk, there are plenty of footpaths. But it's uphill all the way," the man eyed the mean-looking man with the scar and turned his gaze on his heavy-set companion with the swollen cut lip. He grinned at the thought of these two characters, in their expensive suits, climbing up to Wengen in this heat.

"Thank you for your help."

The man nodded and turned back to continue with his painting as the two men hurried back to their car.

"How far away do you think they are now?"

Mackenzie retrieved the tracking device from his pocket and switched on the receiver again. He fumbled the headphones into his ears and concentrated on the signal.

"The beeps are very slow so I would say they are about five or six miles away, eight at the most."

"Come on," Mwengi fired the car's engine into life, "my guess is that they are getting the train from Grindelwald. The train from there goes direct to Interlaken station so, if we hurry, we may get there before they do."

The small train rode smoothly over its tracks as it made its way down the gently sloping valley on its journey from Grindelwald to Interlaken.

Robert and Zeta found seats towards the front of the train and sat nervously waiting for the journey to end. Although they had been travelling through the most beautiful countryside and the trip had been completely uneventful, they were getting closer to their pursuers again and the tension was beginning to grow.

At last, the train started to slow as it approached Interlaken station.

"It is possible that Mwengi has guessed we would come this way so keep a lookout, if you see them do not let them see you," instructed Zeta, crossing to the seat on the opposite side of the carriage.

As the train drew to a halt at the platform Zeta jumped up from the seat and looked out of the window.

"Oh God! There they are, waiting by the entrance to the platform. Quickly, this way."

She led the way to the far end of the carriage and, fumbling in her pack, drew the gun from the front pouch. Then she opened the door on the opposite side of the train from the platform and jumped down to the ground. Robert dropped his rucksack and leapt down to join her.

"Come on," she urged, and ran across three sets of tracks towards the small perimeter fence.

As she climbed the fence that bordered the road, she looked back to see Mwengi and Mackenzie running across the footbridge above the tracks.

"Oh God! They have seen us," she cried. "We must hurry!"

Robert didn't need much urging and took the fence in one bound.

Zeta dashed out into the middle of the road and waved her arms, bringing a Renault people carrier to a screeching halt. Running around to the driver's door she pointed her gun at the bewildered man.

"I am sorry, but we need to borrow your car."

The man unbuckled his seatbelt and scrambled out of the vehicle. He ran to the safety of the grass verge, his hands on his head.

"Don't worry," Zeta reassured him, "You will get it back, undamaged. Sorry."

She climbed behind the wheel and a slightly hesitant Robert climbed in alongside her, apologising profusely to the poor terrified owner of the vehicle.

"I can't believe you just hijacked this car at gun point," he began.

"Put your seatbelt on. I think this ride may be a little . . . Oh God, here they come."

She stamped on the gas pedal and the car shot forward. As they accelerated away, Mackenzie ran out in front of them and raised his gun.

"Look out," shouted Robert, but Zeta just continued to drive straight at the figure that was now taking aim at the windscreen.

Mackenzie, who had no intentions of actually shooting them, suddenly realised that the car was not going to stop and leapt to one side just in time.

Mwengi stepped forward and pointed his gun at the receding vehicle. The revolver's report echoed off the surrounding hillsides as the bullet shattered the rear window of the car and embedded itself in the roof lining.

"Jesus Christ," yelled Robert, dropping down into the foot well. "That was a bit too close."

Zeta chanced a look in her rear-view mirror and saw the two men running off to one side, obviously eager to get to their own car. She pressed harder on the accelerator. They sped on for several miles, weaving in and out of the traffic, overtaking wherever possible. Robert was starting to feel a little nauseous.

"Keep an eye out behind to see if you can spot them," Zeta instructed. "They were driving a light brown BMW."

Robert twisted in his seat and peered out of the shattered rear window. After a while he noticed a beige-coloured car driving recklessly, flashing its headlights at the oncoming cars.

"There they are," he cried.

Zeta glanced in her wing mirror and she too saw the car. It was about a quarter of a mile behind them. The driver was still recklessly weaving in and out of the traffic trying to catch them.

All of a sudden she saw a junction on the left, the signpost read, "Kandersteg".

"Hold on," Zeta swung the wheel hard and pulled across the road causing an on-coming lorry to brake hard and swerve to one side. It blasted its horn loudly as it came to a halt, with its wheels over the verge on the wrong side of the road. The car that had been behind Zeta also braked and slewed to one side. Unfortunately, the driver of the car following that one was obviously not paying enough attention and clipped the rear bumper of the car in front causing it to spin right around blocking the carriageway. People were getting out of their cars shouting at each other.

"That should hold them up for a little while," said Robert, turning to face the front again.

"Good," said Zeta as she sped on.

It was not long before the small town of Kandersteg appeared in front of them. To their left, Robert could see chair lifts crawling slowly up the mountainside. Pine trees covered most of the slopes, with tall craggy peaks looming above. To their right cows, their bells clanging about their necks, grazed in meadows filled with tall, wild flowers. Robert wondered what this scene would look like in winter when it was all covered in snow.

As they entered the town, the road narrowed slightly and there seemed rather a lot of people milling around. A signpost, with a train symbol on it, pointed off to the right, so Zeta followed it and eventually pulled to a halt in a small car park opposite the station.

Reaching into her rucksack Zeta pulled out her map and studied it. After a while she looked straight ahead and let out a long sigh.

"What's up?" Robert sensed a problem.

"This is another closed valley. The only road out is the way we came in. The railway here goes through the mountain into the next valley. The only other way is over the top."

"Let's get the train then," suggested Robert.

"No. Mwengi will assume we've taken the train, but if we go over the top it should give us more time."

"But that's the point, they won't think to wait. If they think we've caught the train they won't know where we'll get off, they'll think we want to get as far away as possible. And we do want to get as far away as possible! Well, I do anyway."

Zeta sighed.

"They might get here before the train leaves. We could get caught on it. Have you thought about that? Come on."

Once out of the car they threw their rucksacks over their shoulders and ran across the road towards the station terminal. Zeta hurried Robert to the ticket office where they bought two train tickets.

"But I thought we weren't going on the train," Robert looked exasperated.

"We're not," Zeta rolled her eyes, "come on."

They set off down the path leading to the far end of the valley.

Mwengi and Mackenzie had indeed been held up in the confusion at the junction but, unfortunately, not for long. As soon as they realised they were stuck they abandoned their car and ran for the junction. Traffic coming from Kandersteg was caught in the blockage too and it didn't take long for the two men to find alternative transport.

Yanking open the door of a nearby car, Mwengi grabbed the woman driver by the hair and hauled her bodily from the vehicle. The terrified woman screamed and lashed out at him as he threw her forcefully to the ground. She lay there sobbing, her hands and knees grazed from the tarmac as she watched Mwengi climb behind the wheel of her car and proceed to turn the vehicle around.

Mackenzie nearly got left behind in his attempts to climb into the passenger seat. The man in the car behind started to get out of his vehicle when he saw the woman being assaulted but thought better of it when Mwengi pointed his gun in his direction from the open window of the car.

The two thugs continued their chase. They had been held up for only four minutes. So close were they that Robert and Zeta had only just turned up the path alongside the station as Mwengi, recognising the smashed rear window, swung his car in behind the Renault Espace.

"Quick," shouted Mwengi, "they must be on the train. Come on."

Leaping from their car they ran towards the station ticket office.

"Have a young Englishman and a black girl passed through here in the last few minutes?" he asked the ticket clerk.

"Yes, a young couple just bought tickets," the clerk replied. "If you want tickets you'll have to hurry, the train is about to leave, Monsieur."

"Good," laughed Mwengi.

He thrust some notes at the ticket clerk and without waiting for his change, snatched the tickets, ran for the barrier and raced along the platform.

A guard held the door open for them and, as they leapt aboard, he waved to the driver and slammed the door. The train began to move, slowly at first then picking up speed as it headed for the tunnel at the end of the valley.

It took ten minutes for the two men to walk from one end of the train to the other and establish that Robert and Zeta were not on board as they had thought.

"Do we get off at the next station and go back?" asked Mackenzie, hesitantly.

"And what would be the point in that? For one thing they have probably obtained another car and are heading back out of the town, and for another, how far do you think we would get if we went back? Eh? Do not forget, we hijacked a car at gunpoint and entered a closed valley. It might have escaped your notice but I think it is a safe bet that we are probably the only two Africans in Switzerland right now, so I would say we were more than a little conspicuous, wouldn't you?"

"What are we going to do then?"

"We are going to get off this train at the next stop and find another car. If we spend too long on this train they are likely to have a police welcoming party for us at every station."

"But what about those two?"

"Do not worry, my friend. I have an idea and I think that it will be they who will be coming to us very soon."

It took thirty-five minutes for Zeta and Robert to hike to the far end of the valley, where they arrived at a cable-car station. A man sitting on a low fence enjoying a cigarette looked up as they approached. Two more hikers, a man and a woman, stood with their arms around each other's waists, regarding the mountain.

Gazing up, Robert saw a small red dot high up on the mountainside. As he watched, it appeared to get bigger and he realised that it was the cable car returning.

"Won't be long now," he stated, matter-of-factly.

"Good," Zeta still looked uneasy, almost as if she expected Mwengi to come around the corner any minute.

It wasn't until thirty minutes later, as the cable car bore them upwards, that she relaxed visibly. As she stood, looking back at the car park of the cable-car station, she spoke quietly so the other occupants couldn't hear.

"It looks as if we have lost them. For the time being, anyway."

Robert turned and followed her gaze, slipped an arm around her shoulder and hugged her to him.

"Thanks, once again, to you," he smiled.

Zeta returned his smile and, sliding her arm around his waist she leaned her head on his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head.

Three and a half hours later, after hiking across a high pass, they stopped for a break at a cafe which, to Robert's astonishment, was built in the middle of nowhere. It was at such an altitude that they were above the clouds. After a well-earned glass of beer and a sandwich, they continued their hike for another hour.

"How much further now?" puffed Robert, looking at his watch. His back ached and his calf and thigh muscles felt as if they were going to explode at any minute.

"You really are unfit, aren't you?" laughed Zeta.

"Well, it is getting late and the light is definitely going."

"In about half an hour, by my reckoning, we should come to a lake," Zeta consulted her map. "I thought it could be a suitable place to pitch camp for the night."

"You're not seriously thinking of camping out up here are you?" Robert asked, incredulously.

"Don't be such a softy, where is your spirit of adventure?"

"I've had more than enough adventure just lately, thank you very much. Right now I would give anything for a hot bath and a real bed."

"Well, I can boil some water for you to have a wash, but a sleeping bag is the best I can offer you for a bed," laughed Zeta.

Thirty-five minutes later, as Zeta had predicted, they reached the shore of a small lake. After a short discussion as to the best site, they pitched the small tent and Zeta set to work preparing a hot meal from the supplies she had bought in Grindelwald.

The tinned chicken in white sauce and tinned potatoes, washed down with a cold beer, tasted delicious to Robert and he said as much.

"When this is over I will cook for you, a proper meal," said Zeta.

"I'll hold you to that."

"My mother taught me to cook when I was still quite young. She was a wonderful cook. My father had many friends and business colleagues. They would often come around for dinner, so my mother got to entertain a lot. I used to help with the cooking, right up until I went to university . . ." she suddenly stopped and looked around at him.

"What's the matter?" asked Robert. He was suddenly filled with a feeling of deep concern for her.

"Oh, nothing," she studied his face for a moment. "It is just that . . . I have never found it easy to talk to anybody about my family since their deaths, but with you . . . I don't know . . ."

"Maybe it's because I'm a good listener," smiled Robert.

"Maybe," she smiled back.

She looked up at the darkening sky, "I must find the lantern, we will be needing it soon."

"I have it here."

Robert dug around in his rucksack until he found the box and two cards of batteries. He inserted the batteries, pressed the "On" button and the lantern burst into life.

"What will you do after this is all over, go back to Nigeria and carry on in the army, I suppose?" He asked.

"I don't really know. I have reached the stage where I want more from life. I think am now rid of most of my anger and I feel I want to settle down a bit, to a more normal life. I don't know." Shuddering slightly, she drew her fleece jacket around her. "I would like to travel a bit more, to visit England, perhaps."

A slight breeze had got up which, at this altitude, meant that the temperature dropped several degrees.

"How long do we have to stay up here?" Robert too was beginning to feel the chill.

"If we set off about eight in the morning we should be in Leukerbad by midday. I have been studying the map and there is a trail that goes right over the pass up ahead."

"I must admit, I'll be glad to get down to a lower altitude, my chest's feeling a bit tight."

"That is probably due to all this exercise, that you are not used to," laughed Zeta. "Would you prefer to sit in the tent? It will be a bit warmer in there, we can clean these dishes in the morning."

They put all their plates and cooking utensils in a pile by the lakeshore and stowed their rucksacks in the entrance to the tent. The tent itself was an igloo-type which, Robert was surprised to find, they could erect in about ten minutes and, once inside, there was more room than he had thought there would be.

"This place is like the Tardis," he remarked as Zeta crawled into the tent.

"The what?"

"The Tardis. Time And Relative Dimension In Space. You know, Dr Who. Bigger on the inside than it is on the outside." He looked at her blank expression in the lantern light and knew that he had lost her.

"Oh, never mind," he chuckled.

Zeta unzipped her jeans and slipped them off. Sliding into the sleeping bag she looked up at Robert, kneeling in the doorway.

"I hope you don't mind, but I zipped the two sleeping bags together. That way we get more room and our combined body heat will keep us warmer."

"No . . . no, er, not at all," said Robert, who's body heat had already started to go up. He found a suitable place to put the lantern and, somewhat embarrassed, took his own jeans off and climbed into the sleeping bag beside her.

She smiled at him, opened up the map that she had brought into the tent with her, and spread it out on the bed in front of them.

"This is Kandersteg," she pointed, "and this is where we are now."

"Christ, we've walked all that way?"

"Yes," she smiled.

"I'm impressed," Robert felt quite pleased with himself.

Zeta spent the next half an hour showing Robert where she was taking him and explaining a plan she had fomulated. At last she looked at her watch.

"Right," she said, climbing out of the sleeping bag, "I'm going to answer the call of nature and then I think we should get some sleep. We have a long day ahead of us."

She crawled down the tent and out of the entrance flap. For the second time in two days Robert found himself admiring her perfect bottom. He waited for her to return a few minutes later before he too went out to relieve himself.

On his return, he zipped up the entrance flap and climbed into the sleeping bag. Zeta lay facing the wall of the tent, the quilt up around her neck. He noticed that her shirt now joined her jeans and fleece jacket, making up her pillow.

He quickly stripped off his own jumper and shirt, fashioned a pillow of his own, turned off the lantern and snuggled down to face the opposite wall of the tent.

Almost immediately, Zeta turned over and snuggled her warm, lithe body up to his. With her breasts cushioned against his back and his bottom in her lap, she put one arm across his chest.

Robert smiled to himself.

"Goodnight, Zeta."

"Goodnight, Robert."

Zeta awoke as soon as the morning sun began to shine through the fabric of the tent. It took her only a moment to realise where she was and recall the events of the previous day.

She lay there for a few minutes. Robert snored softly and she snuggled up to him, her arm across him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he slept, her hand gently playing with the hairs on his chest.

It was very comforting for her. It has been a long time since she had been so close to another person.

At college she had had a brief love affair with one of the young men on her course. They had been very young and inexperienced but it had been fun. That had finished when she learned of her family's misfortune and left the university.

Then there was Joseph, or Captain Joseph Impey Massulle, to give him his full title. Impey and Zeta had been lovers for about a year. Then, one day, while out on a routine patrol, Joseph's driver managed to drive their Land Rover over the edge of a steep river embankment, plunging it thirty feet to the torrent below and killing himself, his captain and a bright, twenty-year-old female corporal who had, only the day before, taken up her post with their unit.

Zeta had been heart-broken, but given her background, she had come to terms with her loss very quickly. After that she had been out with a couple of young men, but nothing serious. She concluded that, if you didn't get involved with people, then there was no heartache when it ended, however it ended.

Robert, she felt, was different. He was unlike any of the men she had previously encountered. He was gentle, thoughtful and maintained his sense of humour, despite being woken up in the middle of the night and dragged halfway across Switzerland. The way he listened and held her hand as she told him the story of her family's tragedy, she knew he was a kind and considerate man. She felt comfortable with him and, for some reason, safe.

As he lay on his back sleeping, she continued to run her fingers gently through the hairs on his chest but he never stirred. She smiled, kissed his bare shoulder lightly and, as gently as she could, so as not to wake him, slid out of the sleeping bag and pulled on her shirt. Grabbing her jeans and a towel from her bag, she turned and unzipped the tent slowly, so as to make the least amount of noise as possible.

Once outside the tent she climbed into her jeans and walked down to the shore of the lake. Shaking off her shirt, which she had not bothered to fasten, she bent and washed in the icy water. The cold water stung her face, but woke her up completely. Drying herself quickly, she put her shirt back on and, after washing the dirty dishes from the previous evening's meal, returned to their encampment.

It was the smell of coffee that finally aroused Robert about half an hour later. The aroma wafted in through the front of the tent, which Zeta had tied back so the morning air could blow through. He sat up in the sleeping bag, wrapped his arms around his knees and smiled at her.

"One of those for me?"

Zeta grinned and looked up from the map she was studying.

"Ah, Sleeping Beauty. I wondered when you were going to stir. You must have been tired to have slept for so long."

"Why, what's the time?"

Zeta looked at her watch.

"Half past six," she replied.

"What!" exclaimed Robert, "Christ! That's still the middle of the bloody night."

He buried his face in the downy softness of the sleeping bag and groaned.

Zeta laughed as she poured his coffee.

"Now that you're awake I can make us some breakfast. How do scrambled eggs, sausages and tomatoes sound?"

"Wonderful. But how are you going to cook all that with only two gas rings?"

"Oh, Robert. I can see I have a lot to teach you about survival techniques. I have made meals far more lavish than that, for a whole platoon, and without the luxury of a single gas ring."

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to learn about survival techniques, just getting on with living."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Zeta looked concerned, "I was not thinking . . . I was only joking."

"So was I," grinned Robert.

He hauled himself out of the tent, grabbed her towel, which was draped over one of the guy ropes and, wearing only his boxer shorts and a smile, sauntered off towards the lake.

It was two days later, when they had checked into the Hotel Rudolfo on Via Lazzaro in Milan, that Robert, at long last, got his bath and a real bed.

Chief Superintendent Moore was sitting behind his desk when a smartly-dressed man knocked on the open door and entered the small office.

Moore looked up from his file, saw it was DS Collins, and smiled at the man.

"Yes, David. What can I do for you."

"Sorry to interrupt, Sir. It's just that I had a thought a little while ago and have done a bit of nosing about and I think I have stumbled on something that might be interesting."

"Go on."

"Well, Sir. Do you remember a few weeks ago, there was a John Morgan who was found dead in a bus shelter? Down in Salisbury? It was on the national news. The business man who died of natural causes but who's secretary claimed had been abducted?"

"What about it?"

"Well, Sir. Something about that stuck in my mind, so I rung the Wiltshire lads and got them to email me through some details of the case. There was no evidence of foul play so, after the initial investigation, they dropped the case."

"So what's your point?" Moore was getting a little impatient.

"In the report into the case, the secretary stated that she saw her boss being driven away in a dark grey Jag. She also said that the other occupants of the vehicle were black."

"And you think that it's the same car and our murder victim from the car park was one of them?"

"Yes, Sir. That's what made me remember the Morgan case. The car was a dark grey and it's a Jag. The murder victim was definitely black. I checked back through the statement of the car hire clerk who says that the car was rented out, for a three-day period, by two black men."

"Any card or cheque records?"

"No Sir, they paid in cash. His description of the men was that one was about 6ft 4in and the other about 5 ft 10in with a long scar down his right cheek."

"Well, our chap in the car was nowhere near 6 ft 4in nor does he have a scar on his cheek. He had a nasty-looking scar on his throat though," Moore grinned.

"But he could have been an accomplice, or the driver."

"Hmmm. Possibly."

"I know the Morgan case is closed Sir, but my gut feeling is that they might be connected."

"Okay Dave. Have a dig around a bit more, see if you can come up with anything else that positively links the two cases. Get the Wiltshire guys to have another chat with the secretary, see if she remembers anything else. Maybe she can positively identify the car. If necessary you can go down to the West Country yourself tomorrow and see what you can turn up."

"Thank you, Sir," Feeling very pleased with himself, Detective Sergeant David Collins returned to his office to continue his investigations.

The sun blazed down with all the good prospects of a fine day as Angela Morgan closed the front door of her cottage and walked towards her car. She stopped to examine the leaves on one of her favourite rose plants, to see if the spray she had administered, had taken effect. Relieved that it had, she continued around the side of the house.

As she approached the corner, a hand grabbed her across the mouth and she was slammed heavily against the side wall of the house.

Her eyes wide with terror, she squealed a muffled cry.
"It is useless to struggle, Mrs Morgan," Mwengi grinned, squeezing her face in his strong hand, "you can not get away."

His grin was short lived as she brought her knee up hard into his crotch. He released his grip slightly as the pain intensified and, as he did so, Angela kicked him in the knee and dragged the edge of her heel all the way down his shin.

He cried in pain and released her totally. Seizing the initiative, Angela slammed him in the face as hard as she could with her briefcase and Mwengi fell to the ground, his nose pouring with blood.

Angela ran towards her car, she still had the remote control in her hand and unlocked the car as she ran. Jumping swiftly into the driver's seat, she fired the engine into life and put the transmission into reverse. Mwengi struggled to his feet as she shot backward on the gravel drive. It wasn't until Angela had reached the gate that she realised her escape was blocked by a black Mercedes. Mackenzie stood alongside it, grinning, his gun levelled at her head.

Mwengi staggered up the drive and tore open the door of the car. Seizing a large handful of Angela's hair, he dragged her from the car and over to the front door of the house.

He slammed her forehead hard against the door, giving her a large graze and breaking the skin with the force of the impact. Angela's head swam and she struggled to stay on her feet.

"Open it!" he spat.

"I think she may need these," Mackenzie smiled as he held up the keys he had retrieved from Angela's car.

Mwengi snatched them from him and wiped the back of his hand across his swelling, bloody nose.

"Open it!"

Angela took the keys from him and, with large tears of hurt and fear in her eyes, she inserted the key in the lock and turned it. The heavy wooden door swung inward and Mwengi shoved Angela so hard that she went sprawling across the tiled floor of the entrance hall. She lay there crying as the two men followed her into the house closing the door behind them.

"What do you want?" she sobbed.

"Get up!" barked Mwengi.

Angela made no move so he grabbed her by the hair and hauled her to her feet. She let out a scream and lashed out with her fists. This time Mwengi was ready for her and punched her hard in the face, causing her to fall to the floor once more. She let out another cry and put her hand up to her mouth. Her bottom lip had split where her teeth had cut into it. She winced at the sting as she licked at it.

"The next time you try to resist me, I will kill you." Mwengi glared at her.

In terror she looked into the scarred face. Her mind cast back to Susie's claims that John had been bundled into a car by two African men. Although she feared this man, she doubted if he would actually carry out his threat just yet. He obviously needed her for something, probably to do with the money. She prayed that he had not harmed Robert in any way.

"What do you want?" she repeated, wincing again at the pain in her jaw.

"I want your co-operation. If you do everything I tell you, you will not be harmed. If you do not . . . I will kill you. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

"Good, now let us go and sit down and have a little chat, shall we?"

Taking her by the upper arm he hoisted her once more to her feet and propelled her into the lounge where he pushed her into an armchair.

He turned to Mackenzie who had followed them into the room.

"Watch her," he commanded, "I'm going to clean myself up."

Mackenzie grinned as Mwengi left the room, it had done his heart good to see the man brought down a peg or two, and by a woman too.

"I do not think he will forgive you for making him look foolish, especially in front of me," he smiled. "It would be better for you if you did exactly as he says."

"Ugly brute," muttered Angela, dabbing her lip with a handkerchief. "And you can go to hell too."

Mackenzie sat in the chair opposite her and regarded her carefully, neither spoke.

After a few minutes Mwengi stomped back down stairs and returned to the lounge. He no longer had blood on his face but his nose had begun to increase considerably in size and he had the start of a large purple bruise on his left cheek. There was a damp pink stain on the front of his shirt where he had tried to wash out the blood that had dripped down his front.

He looked down at Angela and grinned.

"Mackenzie, my friend, why don't you go and park Mrs Morgan's car properly. We don't want the neighbours to get suspicious."

Mackenzie's face dropped. After the long drive he had just got comfortable and started to relax.

"Oh, and move the Mercedes on to the drive too. Meanwhile, Mrs Morgan and I will have a nice, friendly little chat."

Without a word, Mackenzie levered himself out of the chair and lumbered out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Both unaware of the drama unfolding back in Robert's mother's house, Robert and Zeta were sitting in a small café, in the Piazza della Republica, enjoying a deliciously cold beer and watching the world go by.

"Do you know, I have never been outside of Africa before?" Zeta looked about her, smiling broadly. "Switzerland is very beautiful with all the mountains and the scenery but, Italy is so much better. It's a wonderful country. I cannot believe the beautiful architecture of the old buildings. I almost have the feeling that I have gone back in time, it is incredible."

"My parents took me to Rome once, when I was young. Now that really is a beautiful city, you should see it."

"I hope one day that I shall."

"The Italians are such friendly people, aren't they? They make you feel so welcome."

"They certainly do. In Switzerland, for the first time ever, I felt conspicuous because of my colour. There are so few black people there, I was stared at a lot. There are not many here either, but people do not seem to take much notice. I feel more comfortable here."

"I think you were stared at, not because you are black but, because you are beautiful," smiled Robert and raised his glass to her.

"Thank you," she blushed.

They drank their beers in silence for a while, watching the tourists and residents going about their business.

"Christ, I've just thought," exclaimed Robert suddenly. "I've just realised. I haven't phoned my mother for ages, she must be worried sick. I promised her I'd call from Switzerland after I'd finished with the banks. That was days ago. We'd better find a phone box."

They finished their drinks and asked the waiter where the nearest payphone was located. He informed them that there was a card phone around the corner and that they could buy a phone card at the tobacconist across the street.

"Grazie," said Robert, as the man placed his change on the table.

Robert scooped up the money and they went in search of the tobacconist.

After buying the phone card, they found the telephone booth and Robert rang his mother's office number.

The phone rang several times before he heard a familiar voice. It was a very clear line but Robert was surprised to hear from Debbie, his mother's secretary, that Angela had rang the office to say that she had taken to her bed with some sort of flu bug. What was more disturbing was that she had cancelled all her appointments for the next few days, insisting that neither Debbie, nor anyone else visit her. She asked that all concerned parties stay away until she was better.

"That's most odd," said Robert, as he replaced the handset.

"What is?" asked Zeta.

"My mother's secretary, Debbie, reckons that my mother has a flu bug and doesn't want to see anyone. Something's up, she has cancelled all her appointments for the week too."

"What is strange about that?"

"My mother _never_ gets ill, she's too stubborn to get ill. On the odd occasion when she does get a cold, she battles on against it, refusing to let it get the better of her. I'll ring her at home."

Lifting the handset once more, he inserted the card and dialled his mother's home number. It rang several times before the answer-phone clicked on.

"Hello. This is Angela Morgan. I am sorry I am not able to take your call right now but, if you would like to leave a message after the tone, I will ring you back as soon as I can. Thank you." There followed four or five short beeps then a longer one.

"Hello Mum, it's Robert, I'm calling to let you know . . ."

"Hello Robert, is that you?" Angela had picked up the phone.

"Mum, hi. How are you? I called the office and Debbie said you were ill."

"Oh, it's er . . . it's nothing, er . . . just a cold. You know how I'm always coming down with something or other. Nothing to worry about."

"What do you mean, you're never ill. Are you sure you're all right, you don't sound it?" His mother's voice certainly did sound strange and the reference to her illnesses made Robert wary.

Angela looked sideways at the nine-millimetre automatic pointed at her face.

"No . . . no . . . I'm fine . . . honestly. Robert? I think a few days bed rest and I'll be back at work in no time."

"Are you sure?" he was getting very concerned despite her assurances.

"Ask him where he is and when he will be back," hissed Mwengi.

"Have you got visitors Mum?"

"NO . . . er . . . no."

"Oh . . . I thought I heard someone speaking."

"No Dear . . . it was just . . . er . . . the radio. You know how that old Ferguson radio your father gave me keeps getting louder and softer all by itself."

"What are . . ."

"Where are you?" Angela cut in before he could finish. "When are you coming home?"

"We're in Milan, but we should be home in a couple of days. We'll come straight round okay?"

"Robert . . ." Mwengi pressed the gun into her cheek, she took a sharp intake of breath.

"Mum?"

"Be careful, Darling."

Mwengi brought his hand down on the phone, terminating the call.

Robert stood, deep in thought, looking at the silent handset.

"Something is wrong . . . something is very, very wrong."

"Why? What do you mean? What did she say?" Zeta looked concerned. She put her hand on Robert's arm.

"She didn't sound right. My mother is a very strong-willed lady, but she sounded scared. And she started talking about an old radio that used to belong to my dad."

"What?"

"I thought I heard someone speak and when I asked her, she said it was the old Ferguson radio my father had given her."

"So?"

"So, the old Ferguson radio is in my studio. Not only that, but it broke about five years ago. I bought another one similar, took the guts out of them and put stereo speakers in them. They are sitting on shelves in my office. She knows that so she was definitely trying to tell me something. And another thing, she didn't ask who I was with. I came over here alone but I said _we_ were in Milan and that _we_ would be back in a couple of days."

"Maybe she never noticed."

"Zeta, my mother is a hard-arsed lawyer and as sharp as a razor. There is no way on God's Earth that she would miss something like that, believe me. It's as if she already knew I was with someone. And another thing, the phone was cut off abruptly. She would never just hang up without saying goodbye. That's not like her at all. I'd definitely like to get back to England as soon as possible."

"I think we should talk to Henry first and find out exactly when he will get here before we do that. Give me the card, I will call him now."

Robert handed her the card and went to sit on a nearby bench while Zeta made her call. He was extremely puzzled by his conversation with Angela, she definitely sounded very out of sorts. Her manner was very out of character.

Zeta finished her call and walked over to the bench where Robert, oblivious to her approach, sat looking dejectedly ahead.

She knelt down on the pavement in front of him and took his head in her hands.

"Don't worry," she smiled, "I'm sure she will be all right."

"I hope you're right," he said quietly.

She pulled his head towards her and kissed him gently on the forehead.

"Trust me."

"I do," he smiled.

She kissed him again, this time on the lips and he responded. They held each other for several minutes, gaining comfort from each other's closeness.

A coach pulled up at the bus stop behind them. Two old ladies in black alighted from the bus and teased the couple in a stream of good-natured Italian. Zeta and Robert looked at the two ladies, then back at each other, and laughed.

"Come on," said Robert, standing up, "I need a distraction. Let's do the cathedral."

Taking Zeta's arm, they set off, hand-in-hand, in the direction of the city centre.

"What did Henry say?"

"I have explained everything to him and he is getting the next flight to Milan. He will meet us at the hotel tomorrow morning."

They spent the rest of the day looking around the city. The sun beat down bathing them in a warm breeze as they took in the sights of the city. They visited the cathedral, taking the lift to the roof, which offered spectacular views of the city and the beautiful mountains to the north. Back at street level, they crossed the Piazza del Duomo and walked around the magnificent shopping arcade of the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, with its exquisite architecture and marbled floors. They found some of the less-expensive shops where they bought Robert some clothes to replace those that were left behind in the safe house in Switzerland. After a snack in a sunny outdoor café, they boarded a tram that took them to the ancient church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, on the Corso Magenta.

Zeta watched the old tram as it trundled slowly off down the road. She gazed around at the old buildings surrounding them and then at the crumbling façade of the church.

"Why have we come here?" she asked.

"There is something here that I always have to see every time I come here . . . and I want you to see it too. Come on, you'll love it."

Taking her hand once more, he led the way to a building set back on one side of the church, where a queue of about twenty Japanese tourists wound its way into a small door set into the side of the building. They joined on to the end of the queue and ten minutes later drew up at the ticket office, staffed by two very large, middle-aged ladies.

Robert bought two tickets from one of the ladies behind the desk and then led Zeta along a corridor until they came to a set of glass doors. Zeta went to push the doors but they were locked.

"Wait," said Robert, "they won't open until they're ready to, they're automatic."

"I don't understand," Zeta looked puzzled. "I have never seen anything like this before. What is this place?"

"What we are about to enter is the old refectory of the convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie. It's where the monks used to take their meals. It houses my favourite painting, one of the greatest masterpieces ever produced. It is so delicate that the whole building has been hermetically sealed from the outside world. The temperature and humidity are strictly controlled so that the painting doesn't deteriorate."

Just then a green light came on above the doors and, with a feint click, the doors swung silently open. Robert and Zeta walked along a short, window-lined corridor, overlooking a small, enclosed garden, until they came to another set of doors. The first set closed behind them and they waited for the whole process to repeat itself before they heard the familiar click and the second set of doors slide silently open allowing them to proceed to the next section.

"Do you mean to tell me that this building houses only one painting, and that all this is to keep that one picture from deteriorating?"

"That's exactly right."

"Well I hope it is worth it. It must be some painting."

"Oh, it is. You just wait. I'm sure you won't be disappointed."

"Why haven't these doors opened?"

"Because the temperature and humidity in here have not yet matched the temperature and humidity on the other side."

After waiting a couple of minutes, these doors too opened to allow them into the final chamber and another set of doors. After a few more minutes these doors opened and they walked into a huge room with a high, vaulted ceiling held up by massive wooden joists. Small windows just below the roof let in a small amount of light. The electric lighting seemed to have also been kept to a minimum, giving the vast room a dingey feel.

Despite there being about thirty or so people in the room, because the space was so vast it appeared nearly empty. They all talked in hushed tones as they looked in wonder at the end wall of the refectory. With the exception of themselves and two security guards the rest of the visitors were Japanese tourists.

Robert looked at Zeta who was gazing at the ceiling. He put his arm around her shoulder and turned her to face the back wall.

She gave a gasp of surprise as her eyes beheld the enormous painting of _The Last Supper_ by Leonardo da Vinci.

"What do you think? Fabulous isn't it?" Robert grinned at her.

"It is truly magnificent." Zeta had recognised it straight away from a book of famous paintings she had been given as a little girl. "I had no idea it was so big, or that it was a fresco. I always thought it was on canvas."

"Yes, it's huge isn't it? Those figures of Christ and the Disciples must be twelve feet high."

"What is that strange metal gantry thing . . . in front of it?"

"It's a mechanised platform for the picture restorers to work from. Da Vinci used some unusual paints called tempera forte that he manufactured himself. The trouble was that the painting started to deteriorate within ten years of him finishing it. It's so delicate that even a flash from a camera can damage the pigments. It was in a right state when they first started restoring it. Now, of course, it is a bit like painting the Forth Bridge."

"Forth Bridge?"

"Sorry, that's just an expression we have in England. It means that by the time they've finished restoring the last bit it's time to start at the beginning and do it all over again. That gantry moves across in front of the painting and raises and lowers allowing the restorers to reach every bit. Look, there's someone working on it at the moment."

Zeta looked to where Robert pointed and could just make out a figure hunched low at one end of the wall.

"I should think it must take years to do the whole painting."

"It took Leonardo da Vinci two years to paint it originally, so I should think the restoration work would take at least double that from start to finish. The restoration team have to manufacture all the paints exactly as he did."

"Except that they will never finish. Like the painting of the Forth Bridge," Zeta grinned at him.

"Quite," he smiled back.

"You seem very knowledgeable about this painting," Zeta linked her arm through his and regarded him. She found that this handsome young Englishman was full of surprises.

"Well, Art is my favourite topic. It's what I do for a living."

"You are a painter?"

"No, I'm a Technical Illustrator and Graphic Artist."

"I'm impressed," she smiled and turned back to Da Vinci's masterpiece.

They stayed looking at the painting for a while before taking a leisurely stroll through the city and back to their hotel.

"When you said that you were a Graphic Artist what does that mean?" Zeta asked, as they strolled in the shade of the ancient beech trees in the Giardini Pubblici.

"I design things, advertising and promotional stuff mainly, for advertising agencies. Although I have done the odd CD cover for local bands and things. I do mostly advertising designs but I also do quite a few technical illustrations for one or two publishers in the U.K."

"It sounds very interesting. How did you start in that line of business?"

"Well, I've always had a flair for art, I suppose. Art was my favourite subject at school and I managed to get into Cambridge University by the skin of my teeth and got a degree in Art. Afterwards, I worked for an advertising agency for a short time before deciding to start up my own business. It seems to have paid off, so far anyway."

"You must be very good at it."

"I like to think so," he grinned. "Since I started my own business I have never been short of work and it pays very well."

Later that evening, back at the hotel, after he had showered and changed, Robert made his way to the bar, where he had agreed to wait for Zeta. He ordered a whisky and sat at the bar talking to Gianni the barman. Oddly enough, he felt a little nervous, almost as if he was on a first date. About fifteen minutes later the barman nodded towards the door.

"'ere isa you younga lady now, Signore Morgan," he grinned.

Robert turned to look as Zeta entered the bar. She wore a light-blue silk blouse and a cream mini-skirt that showed her beautiful long legs off to their best advantage. A cream jacket that matched the skirt was slung nonchalantly over her shoulder. A large necklace sparkled around her throat.

"Wow . . . you look sensational," Robert took her hand in his, "absolutely stunning."

"Thank you," she smiled coyly and kissed him on the cheek. Zeta felt radiant, it had been a long time since she had really felt this happy and it showed.

"Si Signorina, a meelion dollar. Anda, what woulda the beautiful lady likea to drink?" Gianni, the barman, smiled warmly at Zeta.

"Thank you," she returned his smile, "I will have a dry white wine please."

"Willa you be eating ina the ristorante tonight, Signore? I can get a waiter to takea you order 'ere."

"No, thank you. We were thinking of going out to eat tonight. Actually, Gianni, can you recommend a good restaurant near here?"

"Oh, si Signore, a vera good ristorante. Is own by mia brudda, Vincenzo. Is call Primavera Ristorante, ina Piazza Fontana, justa behinda do Duomo. Is good ristorante, verra nice, verra romantico," he winked conspiratorially at Robert.

Robert looked at Zeta and laughed.

"Sounds perfect," he smiled.

They finished their drinks, thanked Gianni again and walked out into the foyer.

"Shall we get a taxi or walk?" asked Robert.

"Let's walk, it is such a beautiful evening."

He held the door open for her and they stepped out into the balmy evening air.

The restaurant was indeed very pleasant, full of local people all enjoying their meals and each other's company as only Italians can. Gianni had telephoned his brother and told him to expect them. Vincenzo escorted them to a table as they arrived. Although he couldn't speak any English he welcomed them to his humble restaurant and assured them that he would do everything to ensure their evening was a memorable one.

True to his word, the evening was a truly unforgettable experience. They were brought drinks by some of the other customers and generally fussed over by the staff. At one point Vincenzo disappeared out of the front door, returning five minutes later with a bunch of red roses, one of which he proceeded to give to each of the ladies in his restaurant.

After they had drunk their coffee, Robert paid the bill and they said goodnight to their new-found friends. They walked slowly along the avenue of beech trees, back to the hotel, Robert with his arm around Zeta's shoulders and she with hers around his waist, her thumb hooked through his belt loop.

Back at the hotel, Robert escorted her to her room, which was next to his own. Standing outside her room she leaned against the door and pulling him closer, they kissed for a long time.

"Goodnight Robert," she said, at last, holding the palm of her hand against his cheek

"Goodnight Zeta," he replied.

He watched her enter her room then walked along the corridor to his own room. Closing the door behind him, he threw his jacket on the chair and switched on the television. Helping himself to a scotch from the mini-bar in the cabinet beneath, he sat down heavily on to the end of the bed. He flicked through the channels on the TV, not really watching it, his mind was elsewhere.

He smiled and hummed a little tune to himself as he took his shoes off and headed for the bathroom. He undressed and turned on the shower. He turned sideways and regarded himself in the large mirror above the sink as the room quickly filled with steam. With his index finger he wrote the letters Z E T A in the condensation on the mirror, smiled, and climbed into the shower cubicle. He let the water cascade over his head and run down his back. Taking the shampoo off the rack he lathered up his hair, rubbing hard. The water was soft and the shampoo caused a profusion of bubbles. It was so nice to feel the spray of the water over his head. When the bubbles had been mostly rinsed out, he opened his eyes.

Robert started and stepped back in surprise, knocking the shampoo off the rack. It clattered loudly as it hit the ceramic shower tray.

Zeta stood looking at him through the glass of the shower cubicle. She wore a hotel-issue towelling bathrobe that was brilliant white against the brown of her skin.

"I couldn't get my shower to work so I thought I would use yours, I hope you don't mind," she grinned broadly.

Robert stared open-mouthed, a mixture of surprise and embarrassment.

Zeta pulled undone the towelling belt from around her waist and the robe slid to the ground, leaving her completely naked.

"Jesus, I think I must have died and gone to heaven," smiled Robert.

Grinning, Zeta opened the door to the shower cubicle, bent to pick up the shampoo and climbed in beside Robert. She kissed him gently on the lips, the water cascading across her face making her skin shine. Then she stepped back, squirted some shampoo over his chest and, with a laugh, started to rub it in.

Robert awoke at about 7.30am. He turned to look at the naked girl lying next to him and smiled. With the tip of his finger he gently traced a line from the end of her nose, over her mouth and chin, down her throat to her chest and across to her left nipple.

"Don't start things you can't finish."

"Ha! I knew you weren't asleep. And who said I can't finish them."

She ran her hand under the bedclothes.

"My word," she laughed, "you are up early this morning."

In one quick movement she swung her legs across him, pinned his arms above his head and sat astride his waist.

"Christ, you're strong. I wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of you in a fight."

She slid backwards a bit until she was sitting astride his lap.

"Oh, I don't want to fight, quite the opposite in fact."

She let go of his arms and sat up straight. He took her breasts in his hands and she leaned forward to kiss him.

"I honestly think you are the most beautiful girl I have ever met in my entire life," he smiled.

"You are pretty okay too," she laughed.

They made love once more before Zeta returned to her own room where she had a long, hot shower and dressed. An hour later she and Robert walked, hand in hand, into the dining room for breakfast.

One of the waitresses whispered something to another. They giggled and the second girl scurried from the room. She returned, minutes later, with the manager. He walked over to the couple's table.

"Signorina Markoba, Signore Morgan. I trusta you both sleepa well?"

Behind him the waitresses sniggered, he took no notice.

Zeta and Robert confirmed that they had and thanked the man.

"The Signorina must have slept verra soundly, I tried to put a telephone call through to your room three times last night and thisa morning, but I gota no answer."

The waitresses giggled again.

Zeta flushed slightly and smiled, Robert bit his lip and tried not to smirk.

"Yes, I was very tired, it had been a long day."

The waitresses giggled once more and the manager cast them a withering look and they fell silent again.

"The gentleman, he leave a messaggio. Is name," he consulted a small memo pad, "Signore Enoogoo . . ."

"Henry!"

"Si. He say he arriva at Aeropoti Linate ata ten o'clock. He will come straight 'ere to da 'otel."

"Okay, thank you."

"You welcome," and with a smile, he departed back to the reception, shooing the waitresses into the kitchen as he went.

"So, I get to meet Mr Henry Enugu at last," Robert grinned.

"Yes, I can't wait for you to meet him. Oh, Robert you will love him, he is a wonderful man."

Henry Enugu arrived at the hotel at 10.35am precisely. A tall, heavily-built man with silver-rimmed spectacles, he looked a very imposing character. He wore a well-tailored dark grey suit, white shirt and blue tie. In one hand he carried a small suitcase and in the other, a briefcase.

Zeta saw him through the window of the lounge and, unable to contain her excitement, rushed out to meet him. As he turned from the reception he caught sight of her and a broad smile broke across his face.

"Zeta, my Angel," his voice was deep, clear and well educated.

"Hello Henry," Zeta put her arms around his huge frame and hugged him. "I've missed you so much."

He kissed her cheek as a father would kiss his daughter.

"You've only been away for two weeks," he laughed.

"It seems like years, so much has happened."

"Yes, from what you tell me you had a lucky escape. Where is Mr Morgan?"

"Over there," Zeta unlocked her arms from around Henry and turned.

Robert had stopped at the lounge door, watching the reunion. Zeta walked over and took his hand. Hesitantly, he followed.

"Henry, I would like you to meet Robert Morgan," she said, leading Robert across the foyer.

Henry held out a huge hand which almost completely encompassed Robert's.

"Robert, this is my best friend and mentor, Henry Enugu."

"Delighted to meet you Mr Morgan, I trust my Zeta has looked after you well?" Henry said with a grin.

"Please, call me Robert. Yes, she's been wonderful. I'm pleased to meet you too, I've heard so much about you."

"All good, I hope," Henry laughed.

"Oh, Henry. How could you even think that it would be anything other than good?" admonished Zeta. "I think Robert has been looking forward to meeting you, haven't you?"

She looped her arm through Robert's and smiled at him.

"Yes, although . . . I just wish it could have been for different reasons."

"Ah, yes," Henry placed a friendly hand on Roberts shoulder. "Can I first say that I am very sorry to hear about your father's death? It must have been quite a shock to you, especially as it has resulted in such difficult circumstances."

"Yes, it was . . . er . . . thank you."

"Right, well. If you will excuse me, I will check into my room and freshen up, and then you two can tell me all about your little adventure."

"We'll wait for you in the bar," said Zeta and turned to go.

Henry walked over and pressed the button for the lift. He looked back in time to see Zeta squeeze Robert's buttock, as they strolled through into the bar, and smiled to himself at seeing Zeta so happy.

"He seems a nice enough young man," he thought, as he rode the elevator up to the fifth floor.

"Robert wants to return to England as soon as possible, he is worried about his mother." Zeta spoke to Henry, but was looking at Robert as she did.

"Yes," said Robert, "I'm worried sick about my mother. I'm afraid that this Mwengi character and his friend may have gone back to England and may be trying to get at me through my mother. I was wondering about getting the police to pop around and check that she's okay."

"No!" Henry said quickly, "you must not let the police know what is going on, at least for the time being. Police are the same the world over, they go in with sirens blaring and lights flashing and the bad guys know they are coming five minutes before they get there. Also British police are unarmed, Mwengi will not hesitate to kill, especially someone in uniform, armed or unarmed, it doesn't matter to him. First, we have to establish if your mother really is in danger and then we have to try to figure out a way of getting her out of it safely. We also have to take out Mwengi and Balewa at the same time."

"That's not going to be easy," said Zeta pouring them each another glass of Chianti.

They were sitting in the sun, on the terrace of a bar, in a quiet square not far from the hotel. Henry had changed into a safari-style shirt and beige-coloured slacks, which gave him more of a military bearing. He wore a heavy Rolex watch that gleamed brightly in the sunlight, but no other jewellery. His short sleeves revealed a deep scar, about four inches long on his left forearm and Robert couldn't help wondering how he acquired it.

"Henry . . . er . . . Zeta tells me that you came here to negotiate with me . . . about the money," Robert hesitated, almost not wishing to bring the subject up.

"Ah, yes, the money. Well I think under the circumstances those negotiations can wait, don't you? Our first priority is for your mother's safety, the money will still be there when we've finished."

Robert looked down at the table and thought about his poor mother, he felt helpless. Zeta reached forward and took his hand.

"Don't worry about your mother Robert, even if Mwengi has got her, I am sure he will not hurt her. I think she is too valuable to him at the moment." Zeta shot Henry an anxious look.

"I sincerely hope you are right," Robert looked up at her.

"I'm sure Zeta is right," said Henry. "Now, I have an idea brewing and I always do my best thinking when I have some food inside me so, shall we order lunch?"

They indicated to the waiter who brought them some menus. After they had ordered, Zeta excused herself and went in search of the toilets. Robert watched her as she disappeared into the restaurant.

"I see you have an appreciative eye," Henry smiled at him.

"I think she's wonderful. She's beautiful, funny, considerate, intelligent and so graceful. She moves like a cat."

"Ha! My thoughts exactly," laughed Henry. "Do you know, I give all the members of my unit names, for security reasons. The name that I gave to Zeta was Cheetah. Only because they rhyme, of course and the fact that, as you rightly say, she moves like a cat. She was livid at first because she thought I had named her after the chimp in the Tarzan stories."

Henry slapped his thighs and laughed heartily. It was a rich booming sound.

"I bet she was furious," laughed Robert.

"I couldn't help noticing that the two of you seem to have become quite close." Henry seemed more serious.

Robert flushed slightly.

"She saved my life . . . twice. Being in her company has made me realise what I have been missing. She has done me so much good," he said, quietly.

"I have not seen _her_ looking so happy in a very long time so I am sure that you are doing her a lot of good also, but . . ." Henry sighed and leaned a little closer to Robert. "I am very fond of Zeta, she is like a daughter to me . . . I would not like to see her get hurt."

"Then why did you send her on a mission like this?"

"I don't mean that kind of hurt, although I don't want that either. No . . . Zeta is very capable and can look after herself, better than most . . . I mean hurt emotionally. Zeta has been through more mental torture in the last nine years than most people will suffer in a lifetime. When she was sent to me she was so full of anger, hurt and frustration. She was the toughest, meanest, most determined cadet that I have ever had the pleasure to train. Gradually, over a period of years we managed to control the aggression and turn her into a first-rate military officer. We built up a trust, a bond if you like. I like to think of it as a kind of paternal bond. I became a father figure for her you see. She has no family, they were all killed."

"I know, she told me."

"She told you?" Henry was astonished. He sat back in his seat and regarded the young man. "To my knowledge she has never spoken to anyone about her family. Did she tell you how they died?"

"Yes . . . and who was responsible for it."

Henry stared silently at his drink for a few moments.

"I did not want her on this mission, you know. I tried everything I could to stop her but she is very insistent. I knew it would be dangerous and thought that the desire to avenge her family would cloud her judgement. But, in the end I gave in . . . as I always do with Zeta. Ha!" he laughed again.

"You have no need to worry, Henry, I won't hurt her and I promise I'd do anything to stop anybody else hurting her too."

Henry smiled at him.

"I'm sure you would," he said softly. "Did she tell you that she wants this to be her last mission?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to miss her. I told her that as soon as it is over I would sign her demobilisation papers. I don't know what her plans are, I don't suppose she does either. Zeta has a tendancy to do a lot of things on impulse. One of the many things I love about her."

"She said that she would like to come to England for a while to see what life is like there. Don't worry, I'll look after her."

Henry put a fatherly hand on Robert's shoulder.

"I'm sure you will," he said.

"I see you two are getting along famously," Zeta emerged from the restaurant and slipped into her chair, next to Robert.

"Robert has been telling me that you are thinking of visiting England," Henry regarded her over the top of his wineglass.

"Yes, Robert has promised to show me all the sights."

"Well, I think we will all be visiting England very soon, tomorrow in fact."

"Tomorrow?" Robert brightened at the thought of going home.

"As I mentioned a little while ago, I have an idea. Now, when we get back to the hotel I must put a call through to some old friends of mine in England. We did our military training together at Sandhurst."

"You were at Sandhurst?" Robert looked surprised.

"Yes, it was all part of the military training that my father insisted I undertook. After I passed out of Sandhurst I was in the Paras for a while too."

Zeta took Robert's hand.

"What you don't realise Robert, is that you are looking at Prince Henry Enugu. Henry's father is King Abarruna Enugu of Maseteri, a small kingdom in the Deltas region, in the south of Nigeria."

"Of course, our kingdom is now very small," explained Henry, "only a few towns and villages remain. We had once, a large kingdom but, alas, successive governments have seen fit to purloin most of our lands. But my father is still the King and is still well respected and held in high regard in our country. He thought it only fitting that, as a young man, I should go to England and receive my military training from the best military academy in the world."

"What is your plan then, Henry?" Zeta enquired.

"Well, I wouldn't mind a bit of help from the British Authorities but I don't particularly want the Police to get involved. No disrespect to your wonderful British Police but, I feel a bit more of a professional approach is called for in a situation like this, especially when we are dealing with the likes of Akintola Mwengi. Things will probably get . . . a little difficult. I think that a police presence would only complicate things. Ah, good. Here comes our lunch."

The waiter deposited plates and cutlery before them and they started to eat.

"I know you said that the money situation could wait, Henry," Robert said, nervously, "but I'd like to get that part of it out of the way. If you don't mind that is. It will be one thing less to think about."

"But of course Robert, whatever you prefer," Henry said, affably.

"Well, I've transferred the money from the Swiss accounts into one single account in my name so it will be easier to get at it. I have also visited two banks here in Milan and closed those accounts, also transferring the money into the same account. That just leaves a few more banks and one or two UK building societies, all of which I can deal with in England. None of those should pose too much of a problem. So, within a few days I should have all the money, or whatever is left of it, in the one account. I opened the account with another Swiss bank though, as I thought it would be a bit difficult trying to explain that kind of money to the Inland Revenue. The Swiss bank has a branch in the UK and I made sure I can carry out transactions from England."

"Very wise," laughed Henry.

Robert glanced at Zeta, who winked and gave him a reassuring smile. He cleared his throat.

"Erm, Zeta tells me that you have come here to negotiate a deal," he stated sheepishly. He had a very guilty feeling, as he still felt that he was not entitled to any of the money.

"Well," began Henry, "I have the authorisation to come up with a settlement to which all parties are happy and in agreement. Now, your father entered into, what he regarded as, a legitimate business arrangement, having been given written assurances to that effect. The agreement was that if he did as requested and opened a bank account on their behalf, a certain quantity of money would be transferred into that account and his commission for overseeing the transaction would be ten percent of the amount transferred. The sum transferred amounted to $37,373,000, or thereabouts. So your father's commission would have been approximately $3.8 million. That is US dollars, of course."

Robert's jaw dropped open and he turned to look at Zeta.

"That's a hell of a lot more than you told me," he spluttered.

"When Zeta set off on her assignment she was not in full possession of the up-to-date facts," Henry interjected. "The amount she was told at the briefing was an approximate figure. Now, the problem that we have is this. After the money was transferred, your father . . . how can I put this tactfully?"

"Stole it all," Robert interrupted.

"I would much rather say that he had . . . er, misappropriated it."

"Amounts to the same thing."

"Robert, when one is presented with such a vast sum of money, and one is the sole signatory, it is a very strong-willed individual who can not succumb to such temptation. Any other individual with that kind of wealth would have disappeared and lived in luxury for the rest of his life and the consortium would never have tracked him down. Your father's problem, however, was that he was basically a very honest man and had a lot of consideration for his family and the people who worked for him. Quite naturally, he wanted to provide for them first but, in so doing, he gave the consortium valuable time and they caught up with him."

"I think, what Robert wants to know is, what sort of deal had you in mind?" Zeta slid her hand under the tablecloth and onto Robert's thigh. She gave it a little reassuring squeeze.

"Well, in view of the fact that Robert's father entered into the agreement in good faith and his actions foiled a massive misappropriation of Government funds, I am authorised to offer Robert the sum of his father's commission."

Robert's eyes widened and he stared at Henry in disbelief.

"But . . ." he managed.

"Don't you think that there should also be some sort of compensation for the very stressful situation that Robert now finds himself in, through no fault of his own?" Zeta shot a knowing smile at Henry.

"Well, I suppose I could up the commission by, let us say, another five hundred thousand for the inconvenience. How does that sound Robert?"

Robert opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

"Hang on a minute," Zeta chimed in again, "you are forgetting about Robert's mother. She could be in grave danger and we need Robert's continued help. Not only that, I am sure that whatever you offer, if it led to the capture and elimination of Mwengi and the recovery of the money, the Provisional Ruling Council would feel it was a small price to pay."

"Whose side are you on Zeta?" Henry laughed out loud. "Okay, this is my final offer. If Robert continues to give us help and it leads to the release of the funds and the capture or death of Mwengi and Balewa, I am prepared to increase the commission to four million five hundred thousand."

"Five million!" demanded Zeta.

"Oh, I give up! Very well, five million dollars. Now eat, before it gets cold." Henry continued with his lunch.

Zeta grinned broadly and again squeezed Robert's thigh. Robert stared back at her, he was in shock. This man with whom he was sharing lunch had just agreed to give him five million dollars, and it was legitimate.

"Robert?" Zeta laughed.

"Hmm?"

"Eat!"

Robert continued to eat his lunch but his actions were almost automatic.

Mwengi looked out through the net curtains, waiting for Mackenzie to return. He had thought it best to get rid of the Mercedes. It had spent the first day at the end of Angela's drive and he thought that it may attract unwanted attention. He had instructed Mackenzie to drive it away and park it somewhere out of sight. Its return date to the car rental company was already two days overdue so the longer it went undiscovered the better. Besides, if anyone who knew Angela was to pass the house, they may get suspicious seeing a strange car on her drive, especially as she had instructed her secretary that she wanted no visitors. He heard a noise behind him and turned, Angela was on her way to the lounge door.

"Stop! Where are you going?" Mwengi levelled his gun at her.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

"I need to go to the bathroom," Angela straightened her shoulders, turned and stared at him defiantly.

"Sit down! You are not going anywhere until Mackenzie has returned."

"But I'm desperate. I can't hold on."

"Well piss yourself then. You will go to the toilet when I say you can. NOW SIT DOWN!" he shouted.

Angela stood her ground for a moment staring at him. Her hand was resting on the open top of the bureau that was situated to the right of the door. With her back to the desk she felt around with her hand. She knew exactly what she wanted and found it, tucked into one of the compartments in the back of the bureau. She picked up the sterling silver letter-opener John had given her as a present when she had first become a partner in her law firm. As she turned she tucked it deftly into the belt at the back of her dress, sighed resignedly and returned to the armchair, flopping heavily into it. Mwengi grinned and turned back to the window.

Angela put her arm behind her back, retrieved the letter-opener and slipped it down the side of the seat cushion. She folded her arms and sat back to continue the waiting game.

Her headache, from where her head had been slammed against the front door, had lasted for several hours. She had finally persuading Mackenzie to get her some Paracetemol from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Her headache had finally subsided around midnight. She had a huge bump on her forehead with a large yellow and purple bruise spreading across to the left. Her left eye was black and almost closed and her face was swollen on one side, especially around her lip, from where Mwengi had punched her, but only really hurt if she touched it.

She had spent a particularly uncomfortable night on the settee, one or other of her captors keeping an eye on her whilst the other slept on her bed. She was frightened, tired and hungry but remained strong. She felt she had to, for Robert's sake.

Angela hoped that her garbled conversation with Robert had been enough to warn him that something was up. She did not know whether he was aware of the existence of these two thugs. She assumed that he did because he had been away so long and had not contacted her until yesterday. Neither Mwengi nor Mackenzie had mentioned any meeting with Robert, all she knew was that they had followed Robert to Switzerland and that they did not know where he had gone. They had questioned her as to the identity of a girl who was with Robert but, of course, she had no knowledge of any girl.

Mwengi smiled and turned back to her, a minute later she heard Mackenzie entering through the back door. He walked into the room and flopped onto the settee.

"Do you have to wear those filthy, muddy boots in my lounge?" Angela asked, defiantly. "Look at the mess you are making on my carpet."

Mackenzie grinned and turned to Mwengi.

"I parked the car in a car park about a mile away," he said, bending to unlace his shoes.

"Good," said Mwengi, "I feel happier with it out of the way."

Mackenzie scraped up the mud he had left of the carpet and picked up his shoes.

"I'm going to make a drink," he got to his feet again.

"Take her to the toilet on your way then," Mwengi turned back to look out of the window.

Angela stood up and walked to the door, Mackenzie followed her, carrying his muddy shoes. They crossed the hall and as she reached the downstairs toilet Angela entered and started to close the door.

"Oh no," Mackenzie's hand slammed the door back open again. "You know that's not allowed."

"Well at least turn your back then, you moron."

"I have no intentions of turning my back on you, I'm not that stupid," he laughed.

"And you've got no sense of decency either. Go somewhere where you can't see me then."

Mackenzie shrugged and walked over to the stairs and sat on the third step, from where he could keep an eye on the toilet door, but not actually see Angela. He placed his shoes on the floor next to the stairs and emptied the muddy scrapings in his hand onto the polished floor of the hallway.

Angela washed her hands and splashed cold water on her poor swollen face. She soaked some toilet paper and dabbed some dried blood off her face as gently as she could, but the pain still brought tears to her eyes. She stood upright, looking at herself in the mirror and, taking a deep breath to maintain her composure, stepped out into the hallway.

Mackenzie heaved his huge frame off the stairs as she reappeared.

"Do you mind if I sit in the kitchen with you, he gives me the creeps?" she asked, nodding towards the lounge.

Mackenzie grinned as he followed her to the kitchen.

Angela sat down at the kitchen table whilst Mackenzie filled the kettle at the sink. Then, taking a tea caddie out of the cupboard he stuck his nose into it and sniffed.

"This tea must be old, it stinks," he said.

"It's Earl Grey, you Philistine! It's supposed to smell like that, it's flavoured with Bergamot oil. There are some bog-standard teabags on the next shelf."

He put the caddie back and took down the box of teabags. Taking the lid off the teapot, he dropped two teabags into it.

"Good God, man!" exclaimed Angela, rising to her feet. "Where the hell did you learn to make tea? Here, let me do it."

She pushed him out of the way and took the teapot away from him. Looking rather like a scolded schoolboy, he backed away and sat down at the table letting her get on with it.

Angela emptied the teabags out of the pot again and, just before the kettle boiled, poured some water into it and swirled it around to warm the pot. Mackenzie watched, amused, as she emptied the water down the sink and put the teabags back in again, dropping a third in for good measure.

When the tea was made she handed him a mug and watched in horror as he added six teaspoons full of sugar to it.

"Good God man, it's a wonder you have any teeth left," she remarked. "You'll probably have diabetes before you are forty.

He laughed, displaying a complete set of pearly white teeth.

"I like you," he said, "you have, what would you say? Oh yes, spunk."

"Not a noun I personally would have chosen, but I'll take it as a compliment."

Angela looked at him thoughtfully. She had spoken to a great many criminals during her long career as a lawyer and felt she was a good judge of character. It seemed to her that Mackenzie probably was, underneath, a good man. She sensed that he was a bit of a slow-witted oaf but relatively harmless. He was easily influenced and had just been associating with the wrong people. Angela picked up her tea and sat opposite him. She took a few sips of her tea as she regarded the big man sitting on the other side of the table.

"How did you get mixed up with a creature like him?" she asked, bluntly.

"Mwengi? Well, my uncle thought it would be good for me to assist him. I must say that I did not realise how seriously he takes his work . . . or how ruthless he is." His fingers went to his still swollen lip. It was still tender although the cut had just about healed over.

"He's an animal," Angela touched her swollen cheek. "Just look what he did to me, a woman."

"Yes, I am sorry about that," Mackenzie looked guilty. "I did not like the way he treated you. I do not like violence towards women . . . but you did put up a good fight."

He laughed as he remembered Mwengi's first encounter with Angela. It made him feel good that Mwengi had been so humiliated.

"You hurt him and made him look foolish. He is a very dangerous man, you would do better to avoid antagonising him."

"Thanks, I'll try to remember that." Angela sipped her tea. "What do you want with me? And why do you want my son?"

"I do not know what Mwengi has planned for you but I can tell you why we want your son. Your husband stole a large sum of money from us and we were sent to get it back. As your son now has the money, we want to speak to him."

"Speak to him?" Angela looked furious. "Robert is the most honest man I have ever known in my life. If his father had stolen the money, which I doubt, then you have only to ask Robert and he would gladly return it to you. There is no need to chase him halfway across Europe and there is certainly no need to treat me like this."

"I apologise for my friend's unorthodox negotiating methods."

"Unorthodox! Punching a defenceless woman in the face and holding her prisoner in order to put pressure on her son. That's certainly unorthodox. Christ, you are the Master when it comes to the understatement."

Mackenzie lowered his eyes and stared at his tea. He knew that she was right and felt ashamed

"I'll promise you one thing right now," she looked sternly at him. "If that bastard hurts one hair on my son's head, I'll kill him, and that goes for you too."

Mackenzie opened his mouth to speak but, before he could utter a word, the door burst open and Mwengi stormed in.

"What is going on?" He demanded. "You came out here to make a drink, not to sit and have a cosy little chat with her."

"We were only talking. She wanted to know why we want to talk to her son, so I told her."

"Shut up!" Mwengi stalked around the side of the table and grabbed Angela's upper arm and hoisted her to her feet, slopping her tea across the table.

"Get you filthy paws off me or I'll tear your eyes out, you vile excuse for a human being," Angela glared into his cold brown eyes.

Mwengi thought for a moment, sensed the venom in her voice and released the grip on her arm.

"Get in the other room." he spat. Then, turning to Mackenzie, "You too."

Mackenzie lifted the teapot and topped up Angela's mug, then picking up their teas, followed Angela into the lounge.

Angela sat down in the armchair and slid her hand down the side cushion until she felt the reassuring coldness of the letter-opener. Mackenzie smiled and winked at her as he held out her mug of tea.

Detective Sergeant David Collins was standing by the window, in Moore's office, watching Susie Wallis as she walked across the car park to her silver Volkswagon Beetle. He had decided that he was having a bad day.

It had started badly and just seemed to get worse as the day progressed.

"So, she couldn't positively identify the car?" asked DCS Moore.

Collins gave a long sigh.

"Unfortunately, no Sir," he walked around the desk to lean against the filing cabinet. "She said it was a similar colour and might be the car . . . but she couldn't be certain."

"Trouble is, that's not enough to go on, is it?"

"No, Sir."

"The Morgan case is closed, Dave. The tie in with this case has to be stronger than just speculation if you want it reopened," Moore smiled at his Sergeant.

"Yeah, I know Sir. It's just that, I know in my gut that this is the car, but that brainless bimbo, Susie Wallis, is the only person who can positively identify it and link the two cases."

"Any ID yet, on the body."

"I'm afraid not, Sir. There was no identification on him or in the car. His fingerprints are not on file and nobody's filed a missing persons report on anybody matching his description."

"Frustrating, I know, but you'll just have to keep at it."

"Yes Sir. Thank you Sir."

Collins picked his files up off the top of the filing cabinet and returned to his own office. He sat at his desk, thinking, for a while before picking up the phone and dialling.

"Forensics."

"Hello Roger, Dave Collins here."

"Hello Dave. What can I do for you mate?"

"Rog, do you remember a case a few weeks back? John Morgan, Salisbury businessman, found dead in a bus shelter, suspected foul play?"

"Yes, I remember. Turned out he died from natural causes, case was closed I believe."

"That's right. Would they have done fibre samples, etc, from the body?"

"Of course, routine in mysterious death cases."

"Excellent. Do you know how we can get our hands on the forensic results from that case?"

"Already got them, Mate."

"What?"

"Yeah. I did the lab work on the case."

"How come?"

"The Wiltshire lads are building a bloody great extension to their HQ and incorporating complete on-site lab facilities, so they are farming out a lot of lab work as their labs are in a bit of upheaval. Jim Forrester, an old mate of mine from Uni, is the lab rat down there. He asked me if he could come up and use our labs. I always make duplicates of all my findings."

"Great! Do you mind if I popped down and scrounged the files? I'd like a butchers at them."

"Of course, no problem. But what do you want them for?"

"Well, just before this Morgan guy died he was seen, being driven away, in the back of a dark grey Jag. The other occupants were black."

"Shit! So you think there might be a tie in with the stiff we have down here?"

"I most certainly do. If we can match the fibres from Morgan's clothes with anything we can find in the car it will prove it."

"What do we do if we do find a match?"

"I have no idea. See you in a few minutes."

"I'll put the kettle on."

Henry put down the telephone receiver and turned to Zeta and Robert who were seated on the edge of the bed opposite him.

After their lunch they had all returned to Henry's suite at the hotel where Henry made two telephone calls, one to his friend in England and the other to the airport to book three seats on a flight to Heathrow for the following morning.

"Is there anywhere, not too far from your mother's house, that we can use as a base when we arrive in England?" asked Henry.

Robert was still a bit shell-shocked after his luncheon, but was beginning to return to the real world now.

"Oh, . . . er . . . I . . . er, suppose you could use my apartment, or my father's house."

"I think, perhaps, that your father's house would be better, don't you think? I'm already booked into a local hotel so that would do excellently."

"Er, . . . yes, whatever . . ." Robert stared into the middle distance.

"Zeta, take him for a walk or something," grinned Henry. "I have one or two more calls to make."

Zeta smiled and got to her feet.

"Come on Robert," she took his hand. "Why don't we go up to the roof of the cathedral again? I would like to see the view once more before we leave."

"Oh . . . right . . . yeah," he said.

Robert followed her to the door and, as she opened it, Zeta looked back at Henry who was grinning and shaking his head.

"See you later," she smiled.

They strolled slowly, hand in hand, towards the city centre, hardly speaking. There were a considerable number of Japanese tourists, mostly teenage girls, clutching their Prada or Versace carrier bags and talking excitedly to each other.

Suddenly, outside La Scala opera house, Robert stopped dead and turned to look deep into Zeta's eyes. Without a word, he reached up and put his hands gently, either side of her face. Then, leaning forward, he kissed her long and passionately. She responded in kind. Several Japanese tourists laughed and clapped and one even took a photograph, but neither noticed.

"Wow! What was that for?" Zeta gasped as they finally pulled apart.

"I wanted to say thank you."

"What for?"

"For what you did at lunch time, for turning me into a millionaire," he laughed.

"It was nothing. Henry would have settled on your father's commission anyway. All I did was to ensure you were compensated for the trouble to which you have been put."

"But five million. That's some compensation. I think the commission was too much . . . not that I'm complaining," he laughed.

Zeta laughed too.

"You will only get the full five million if we get Mwengi, as well as the money. That will be more difficult than you think. He is no fool and, being outside of his normal environment, he will be desperate."

"And he has my mother prisoner."

"So we believe, but he may not though. We have no conclusive evidence one way or the other."

"Oh, come on Zeta. Do you really believe that?"

"No, I am sure he does have her prisoner," Zeta touched his arm, tenderly. "After we gave him the slip in Switzerland he had no way of finding you again. His best guess was that you would contact your mother to reassure her. By getting to her, he can get to you. Henry wants you to telephone your mother again this evening to try to confirm that they are with her and to tell her that we will be returning tomorrow."

"But then they'll know to expect us."

"Exactly. We want them to know."

"But I thought we would turn up unexpectedly and surprise them."

"No, that would be far too dangerous to even contemplate. I think Henry's plan is our best chance, but we have to know what Mwengi wants us to do. He will not harm you all the while you have the money and I am certain he will not harm your mother, because he wants you to cooperate."

They continued walking and five minutes later arrived at the cathedral, but unfortunately, the ticket office for the lift to the roof was closed for the day.

"I had really been looking forward to seeing the city again from up there." Zeta sighed.

Robert put his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek.

"Never mind," he said, "when this is all over, I promise you, I'll bring you back here for a holiday and we can see everything. In fact, now that I'm a millionaire, I'll treat us all to a world cruise."

Zeta laughed and turned to put her arms around his neck.

"I will hold you to that," she kissed him.

Then, with their arms around each other, they strolled back to the hotel.

Later that evening, after dinner in the hotel dining room, the three returned to Robert's room where he made his telephone call to his mother. He and Henry sat on the side of the bed, Zeta standing beside Robert.

"Try to establish whether Mwengi and Mackenzie are there without making it obvious that we suspect, just in case he is listening on an extension or something," Henry looked concerned.

Robert nodded and continued dialling. The telephone gave a few clicks and rang eight times before it was finally picked up. Angela's voice was hesitant, she sounded nervous.

"Hello?"

"Hi Mum, it's me, Robert."

"Robert, Darling, are you all right?"

"I'm fine Mum, how are you? How's your cold? Are you feeling better?"

"My cold . . . Oh, yes, it's er . . . much better, thank you, Darling."

"Mum, before I forget, I must ask you. Did a couple of packages turn up for me?"

"Packages?"

"Yes, two large packages, with brown wrappers. They may have turned up unexpectedly at your place while I was away," he spoke slowly and clearly, willing her to understand.

"Two packages? Oh . . . yes. Er . . . they arrived a couple of days ago, I have them here with me."

Robert turned to the others and put a thumb up to signify that his mother had confirmed that Mwengi was indeed with her.

"Thanks Mum. And don't worry about me, I'm fine. We are coming home tomorrow so, as soon as we land, we'll come straight around to see how you are and take those packages off your hands."

"Robert . . ."

"Don't worry," he butted in, "we're not afraid of catching your cold. We'll take precautions. See you tomorrow, and Mum . . . I love you."

"Oh Darling, I love you too," he could tell she was on the point of tears.

"Take care," he said, softly, and put down the receiver.

"Two packages in brown wrappers indeed," grinned Henry, as Robert replaced the phone on the dressing table.

"It was all I could think of," shrugged Robert.

"Well, at least we now know for sure that Mwengi and Mackenzie are at Robert's mother's house," Zeta put her hand, reassuringly, on the back of Robert's neck. He slid his arm around her thigh and leaned his head against her stomach. He suddenly realised just how much her cared for this girl.

"Let's hope we can end all this without anybody getting hurt," he said, hopefully.

"What are these packages?" asked Mwengi as Angela replaced the receiver.

"Oh . . . it's . . . er . . . nothing. It's just something to do with his work. He has an arrangement with the Post Office. If they don't get an answer from his apartment, they bring the parcels around to me. He's always ordering things on the internet and I'm forever taking in parcels for him, usually stationery or books and things."

Not knowing how the British postal service operated, Mwengi accepted this explanation. Angela, gratefully, returned to her armchair and sat with her eyes closed, praying that Mwengi would not press her further on the matter.

"They are arriving back in England tomorrow," Mwengi informed Mackenzie. "Well, he should have a surprise in store when he visits his poor sick mother."

They both laughed and Angela shuddered. Though not a religious woman, she prayed for Robert's safety and for his female companion, whoever she was.

"I am going to get some sleep for a few hours," Mwengi stood up and walked towards the door. "Keep an eye on her, I will relieve you at two o'clock."

Angela opened her eyes and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Eight o'clock, six whole hours without Mwengi's presence. She could just about cope with Mackenzie, but Mwengi had such a malevolent presence about him that it made her very nervous, though she would not let him see that of course. It annoyed him intensely that she stood up to him. He was not used to people facing him down, especially a woman, and it unnerved him too, slightly. The trouble was it made him a little more dangerous as well.

The door slammed as he left the room and his heavy footsteps could be heard clumping up the stairs and into Angela's bedroom above them. They heard him cross the room to the en suite where he urinated copiously. He then returned to the bedroom without flushing the toilet or washing his hands.

"That man is an animal," Angela was fuming into the intrusion into her well-ordered life. "I bet his muddy boots are all over my bed too."

Mackenzie grinned and walked across the lounge where he proceeded to lay full-length on the settee.

"Don't put your filthy feet all over my furniture!" scolded Angela.

"But I have not got any shoes on."

"I don't care! Get them off!"

"Sorry," Mackenzie apologised and slid his feet down to the floor.

Angela put her hand over her mouth, making out she was yawning, in order to stifle a smirk.

"How long have you been associated with him?" she asked Mackenzie in a low, conspiratorial tone.

"About two months," he replied.

"I don't know how you put up with the way he treats you. I bet he gave you that cut on your lip didn't he?"

Mackenzie's hand instinctively went up to his still swollen mouth, but he didn't answer. His silence was confirmation to Angela.

"I thought so. I can tell you're not like him, he's a brute. You are far more intelligent than him." Angela thought that it would do her no harm to flatter Mackenzie.

Mackenzie grinned, dazzling her with his pure white teeth.

"My uncle is a very powerful man," he explained. "He appointed Mwengi to recover all the money that was stolen from us. He thought it would be best if I accompanied Mwengi, as a bit of additional security. They have agreed to give him the commission that they were planning to pay your husband. But they did not like the idea of Mwengi keeping all of the money once it was in his possession."

"And you really think that you will be able to stop him?"

Mackenzie stared at a point above Angela's head, but the expression on his face clearly showed that he was unsure.

"And what are you going to do with us, when you have the money? Kill us, like you killed John?"

Mackenzie sat up and looked directly at Angela.

"We did not kill John Morgan, he had a heart attack. I swear that we did not harm your husband."

"Rubbish! John was as strong as an ox. You two kidnapped him, threatened him and even tortured him for all I know, until he had a heart attack. His death is on your hands. You killed him just the same as if you had put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger."

"No, I swear. We did not touch him. We picked him up and drove him away, but before we had time to talk to him properly, he collapsed in the car. We tried to help him but he died before we could do anything."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because it is the truth. The last thing we wanted was for him to die. He was the only link to the money."

"Are you looking forward to killing us as well?"

"I do not want anybody to be killed, there is no need."

"And you think that monster up there is going to walk away and leave all of these witnesses behind? Come on man, he's not stupid. He wants to make sure that we can't contact the authorities and there is only one way he can do that. The two of you will have to kill us. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

"I will not let that happen."

"Oh yes, and how do you plan to stop him? He wouldn't hesitate to kill you as well if you got in his way, and you know it. Mind you, as soon as he has the money in his possession, he will almost certainly kill you anyway."

"No, he would not do that," but his tone was not very convincing. The same thoughts had crossed his own mind several times over the last few days.

"Listen to me, Mackenzie," Angela sat forward in her chair and looked into the man's eyes. "I am a very good criminal lawyer. I have worked with some of the most vicious, malicious and evil people who ever walked on this earth. I have a degree in Criminal Psychology. I meet men like him every day of the week and I think I know him better than he knows himself. Believe me, he will definitely kill Robert and me and probably this girl as well. He can not afford to let us all live and, if he gets the chance, he will kill you too and keep all the money for himself. This man is motivated solely by greed and hatred.

"If he doesn't kill you, you will still be implicated in our deaths. Even if you had no part in them you would still be regarded as an accessory. And in this country, Mackenzie, an accessory to murder carries the same penalty as the actual act of murder.

"You will be hunted down and eventually brought to trial. The British police force is the best in the world, when it comes to detective work and very few people get away with murder in this country. Even if you managed to get out of the country you could not return to your home. Nigeria is a member of the British Commonwealth and, as such, has an extradition treaty with Britain. In fact Britain has extradition treaties with most countries in the world. Robert is not stupid. He has almost certainly covered his back by mailing details of the money and information about the two of you somewhere, probably to be opened if anything happens to him. Your photographs will be wired to every police force in every country. There are very few places you can hide.

"If, as you say, the money legitimately belongs to your people, Robert will hand back every penny without question, I know him. Whatever my John did, it was wrong and we want no part in it. Let me go and I promise I will not call the police and Robert will pay the money into any account, in any name you want. I am sure your uncle would prefer that you returned the money to him without any unnecessary bloodshed."

Mackenzie thought this over for a minute before shaking his head.

"I can not do that," he said, at last. "For one thing, how can I trust that you would not go to the police as soon as I let you go? How do I know you would keep your word and hand over the money?"

"Oh, for crying out loud, use your head man. Come with me. We can go to Robert's flat and wait for him there. We can all go to the bank and sort it out together."

"No," he was adamant.

"Why, for God's sake?"

"I just can't," he said defiantly. Angela guessed that Mackenzie was afraid of what unspeakable things Mwengi would do to him when he eventually caught up with him, which he undoubtedly would.

"Mackenzie, please don't let that heartless murderer frighten you into doing something you are going to regret for the rest of your life."

Mackenzie stared at his feet and said nothing.

"Well, I just hope that you can live with your conscience," she sighed and got to her feet.

"Where are you going?" he sounded surprised.

"I'm going to pour myself a large gin and tonic," she said matter-of-factly, walking to the drinks cabinet. "Thanks to you, you spineless creep, it's probably going to be the last one I will ever have."

"Sit down," he commanded.

"What are you going to do, shoot me in the back?"

Mackenzie's thoughts were in turmoil as he watched her fixing herself a drink. He knew that many of the things Angela had said were true, but also felt she was trying to trick him. He knew she was smart, he could tell she was far smarter than he, or Mwengi come to that. She was a high-class British lawyer and a woman. That meant she must be really smart to have got that far.

He thought about what Goma had told him when they met in Switzerland. His uncle and all the other conspirators were imprisoned, Goma was the only one who had escaped the raid. Was it true? Did it mean he could not return to Nigeria for fear of being arrested himself?

He had not known what was in store when he started out on this mission. He had heard rumours of Mwengi's reputation before agreeing to accompany him, but his uncle had insisted on it and so Mackenzie had gone along with it, thinking it would be a bit like a James Bond type of adventure, quite exciting. It was exciting all right, but the wrong sort of excitement.

Mwengi was a madman, a trainer killer, who had a total disregard for anyone or anything. He was only interested in one thing and that was getting his hands on the money.

Mackenzie still had visions of the driver, whose throat Mwengi had cut for no reason. He had done nothing wrong, in fact he had been an excellent driver and a very nice man.

Then there was the man whose car they had stolen in Basel. Mwengi could have easily overpowered the man and knocked him unconscious. But no, he had killed the man and left him hanging from the railings like a carcass in a butcher's shop window.

He remembered too the second poor man whose car they had stolen. Beaten and locked up in the boot of the car and eventually slaughtered. Three innocent people already killed for no reason.

Mackenzie shuddered at the thought.

"What would he really do when he's finished with you?" he asked himself silently. Goma was right, they had to get rid of him once they had the money. The trouble was that Mackenzie had the feeling that he alone would be expected to do the dirty work and he didn't know if he was up to it.

The plane touched down at London Heathrow and, after taxiing half way across London, or so, it seemed to Robert, arrived at the telescopic gantry that snaked out from the terminal building, like the tentacle of some giant mechanical octopus. As they were seated in First Class, they were assured that they would be first to leave the plane. Even so, they waited, for what seemed an eternity, for the cabin crew to finish making their final preparations for disembarkation, before being allowed to leave the aircraft and walk up the long, sloping corridor to the terminal building.

As they entered the Arrivals Lounge an official-looking gentleman, wearing a dark suit, stepped forward.

"Prince Henry Enugu?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Henry. Several of the other passengers stopped to look, whispering in hushed voices, surprised to find out that they had been on the same flight as Royalty.

"It is a great pleasure to meet you, Your Highness. Would you follow me please?"

The man ushered them through a door to the side of the Arrivals Lounge and into a large room where a tall, grey-haired man, of military stature, stepped forward.

"Henry, you old dog! How the bloody hell are you old boy?"

Henry turned towards the voice and beamed.

"Gordon! You haven't changed a bit. It's good to see you." The two men clapped each other on the back and shook hands. After exchanging pleasantries for a few minutes, Henry turned to his companions and introduced them in turn.

"Zeta, this is General Sir Gordon Hartley-Jones. Gordon, may I introduce my protégée, Captain Zeta Markoba."

"Delighted," he said, shaking her hand.

"Very please to meet you, Sir."

"And this is Mr Robert Morgan."

"Pleased to meet you Mr Morgan," Robert was surprised and impressed by the firmness of the General's handshake.

As Hartley-Jones turned his attention back to Henry, Robert stepped back and put his head close to Zeta's.

"I didn't know you were a Captain," he whispered.

Zeta grinned.

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me," she laughed.

"Such as?"

"You'll find out, just stick around."

"Oh, I intend to," he said, and ran his hand down her lower back and squeezed one of her buttocks gently.

"Robert!" she hissed, and giggled as she moved away slightly.

After a word with two airport officials who were also in the room, the General led the party out of the airport terminus to an awaiting limousine, into which their luggage was already being loaded.

"Blimey," said Robert, "I've never been through an airport so fast and with so little fuss."

"Diplomatic Class," laughed Zeta, "it's the only way to travel."

"You're not kidding."

They all climbed into the car and were driven to a nearby hotel, where Hartley-Jones had booked a suite of rooms.

Their bags were brought up and stacked just inside the door of the main salon. The General spoke to the porter who smiled, nodded and left the room, closing the door silently behind him. There were two other men in the room whom Sir Gordon introduced as Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Reed and Captain Julian Henderson.

Henry brought the assembled group up to date on what had happened so far, leaving out the actual amount of money involved and any reference to Robert's commission. He invited Zeta and Robert to add any points they thought were relevant. The three officers listened intently and, afterwards, asked a few questions to clarify one or two points on which they were unsure.

"So, what is your plan, Henry?" asked Sir Gordon.

Henry opened his briefcase and handed around photographs of Mwengi and Mackenzie.

"First of all I am certain that Mwengi's intention is to keep all the money for himself. I do not think he intends to give the money back."

"Does that make a difference?"

"It most certainly does. From what I can tell, this Balewa character is not used to all this cloak and dagger stuff, he is not a terrorist. His uncle sent him along solely to keep an eye on Mwengi, but he has no chance of course, he's completely out of Mwengi's league. If Mwengi plans to keep all the money, which he undoubtedly does, then Balewa's life may also be in danger and we only have one terrorist to deal with. I do not think he will risk killing Robert or Balewa until he has the money and I don't think he will harm Robert's mother until then either. That is my guess. Mwengi is incapable of having all that money in his grasp and giving it away, he will want to keep it all."

"What makes you so sure he won't kill this Balewa chappie or Robert's mother sooner rather than later."

"He won't kill Balewa until he is assured of the money because he needs his help looking after his captives. And he won't kill Robert's mother because Robert has the bargaining tool. If he hurts her, Robert can disappear with the money and he will never get his hands on it."

"What do you suggest then, Henry?" asked Colonel Reed.

"I think that first of all Robert has to go to his Mother's house and face these two," he looked at Robert who had visibly paled. "I'm sorry Robert, but you must. I do not believe that Mwengi will hurt you, or your mother, come to that, as long as you are not in a position to hand over the money. As I said, that is a tremendous bargaining tool. Gordon, we will need to have some back up. Can you arrange that?"

"Actually, that's where Andrew comes in. He's been trying to arrange some Special Ops boys. How's it going, Andrew?"

"Not well at the moment, I'm afraid. I've been trying to get hold of General Potton ever since Henry phoned you, but can't track the bugger down. Shouldn't worry though, I've left messages everywhere for him to ring me a.s.a.p. As soon as I've spoken to him it should all happen very quickly, shouldn't be a problem."

"We also need to keep the police out of this. We should let them know that something is up, a terrorist siege perhaps, but we need to make sure they only sit on the sidelines and not interfere."

"Leave that to me," smiled Henderson. "The Chief Constable is a friend of mine. He might insist on a token presence at the scene but it shouldn't be a problem either."

"They could come in handy at some point, if only to set up road blocks to stop traffic coming in and out of the area. Looks as if everything is under control Henry."

"I hope you are right," Henry looked concerned. "Now, what information do you chaps need?"

"Not much. We have a couple of bods keeping an eye on the house but if Mr Morgan can draw us a plan of the house, putting in as much detail as possible. Layout of the rooms, where all the furniture is, that sort of thing. Oh, and the layout of the gardens, would also be a great help. That should be enough for the time being. Once the SAS lads are on the scene we will have the equipment that can tell us exactly where everyone is in the house at any time. We should hopefully be able to establish video and audio monitoring too." Reed turned to Robert and gave him a reassuring smile.

"If Robert goes in, so do I," Zeta announced, suddenly.

They all looked at her.

"No!" barked Henry. "Under no circumstance, I cannot allow it, Mwengi will not hesitate to kill you."

"No, I don't think he will, and besides, he saw us together in Switzerland. But he is not aware that we know he is at Robert's mother's house. He will have guessed by now that I work for the Nigerian authorities. If Robert turns up on his own Mwengi will be suspicious, he will be expecting both of us. I must go with Robert."

Henry shook his head and turned to look out of the window. The trouble was he knew she was right.

"Very well, but it is against my better judgement," he said, at last. "I would like to try to split the two of them up so, if Robert offers to take one of them with him to sign over the money, it will give us a better chance to take them, one at a time."

"Good idea, all we need is for you to give us the nod and we'll take them out. I need about seven men around the house and I can have another dozen standing by," Reed enthused.

They discussed their plans in greater detail for several hours, stopping shortly whilst the porter arrived with a trolley containing a buffet lunch. During the lunch, Reed received a telephone call from General Potton and arranged the Special Operations squad he needed.

Finally, at around three in the afternoon, Henry brought the meeting to a close.

"Well, Gentlemen. I think it is time to put our plan into action."

"What now?" asked Robert, "Aren't we going to wait for the SAS guys?"

"No, there is no time to lose. Besides, you have to act as normally as possible. Remember, you don't know Mwengi is there. It is only natural that you should go and see your mother as soon as you return to England."

"Don't worry Robert, I will be with you," Zeta put her arm around him.

"That's another thing. I don't want you to come with me. I agree with Henry, it's too dangerous for you."

"I know how you feel, but hard luck, I'm coming." She looked him straight in the eye.

Robert saw the determination in her face and smiled, he knew he could not dissuade her.

"Okay then," he said at last, "let's get this show on the road."

Picking up their rucksacks, they left the room and Henry and Sir Gordon escorted them to the hotel's underground car park where a black taxicab awaited. The young man in civilian clothes snapped to attention and saluted as the General approached.

"Michael will drive you to your Mother's house. Don't worry, we'll get there as soon as we can. We'll be following you. We'll go to your father's house first and set up our HQ."

"Oh yes, I'd forgotten," said Robert, fumbling in his pocket.

Robert handed Henry the keys to his father's house, and directions of how to get there, and then shook hands with the two men. Zeta shook the General's hand and, turning to Henry, she kissed him gently on the cheek.

"Don't worry Henry," she said, softly. "I'll be all right."

"Good luck," he said without smiling. "And take care. Don't do anything to make Mwengi more unstable than he already is, please. I don't want anybody to get hurt."

They climbed into the back of the cab and, without having to be told where to go, the young driver pulled out of the car park.

It took just over two hours to reach Angela's house where Michael pulled to a halt at the end of the drive.

"Good luck," he offered. "Do you want to take this Captain? It came in very handy for me in the Falklands," he handed Zeta a slim, pointed knife with a blade about three inches long, its slender hilt made of fine chain link wound around a central steel shaft. She took the proffered weapon and slipped the blade deftly into her right boot.

"Thank you, I think that could really come in handy for me too," she smiled, pulling the leg of her jeans down. She took a deep breath and squeezed Robert's hand. "Come on, it's now or never."

As they stepped out of the cab Robert looked around but could see no sign of any surveillance. His mouth was dry and his hands were shaking. Picking up his rucksack he waited for Zeta to alight. As they turned towards the house the taxi pulled away.

Letting out a long sigh he looked at Zeta.

"Well," he said, "let's go face the music."

They walked hand-in-hand up the drive until they reached the porch. Robert swallowed hard and looked at Zeta again.

"Here goes," he said, and pressed the doorbell.

Nothing happened for a couple of minutes then they heard the sounds of the door latch being turned. The door swung open and a nine millimetre automatic handgun pointed straight at Robert's head. He did not need to act surprised or frightened as Mwengi stepped out from behind the door.

"Welcome," Mwengi grinned, the gun swung across until it was level with Zeta's eyes. "Inside! Both of you."

He stepped to one side as they entered the hallway. The gun remained aimed at Zeta's head as she followed Robert into the house. Mwengi was taking no chances with this girl.

"Drop your bags on the floor and stand over there, with your faces to the wall," he ordered. "That's right, hands on your heads, feet apart."

He pushed the gun into the back of Robert's neck as Mackenzie frisked him to make sure he was not carrying a weapon. Then, with Mwengi pointing the gun at Zeta, Mackenzie began to search her. The man ran his hands down her back and around her belt. Then his hands slid under her arms and with a rakish grin he slid his hands further around and grasped both of Zeta's breasts, squeezing them hard. With lightening speed, her right leg whipped backwards and up, kicking him hard in the scrotum and at the same time she turned and her elbow shot backwards into his face making a sickening crunching sound. He collapsed to the floor holding his throbbing testicles with one hand and his bleeding nose with the other.

Before she had time to do anything else the automatic was shoved hard in her face.

"One more move and I will put a bullet in your head . . . In there!" Mwengi growled, nodding his head in the direction of the lounge. Then he turned and looked down at Mackenzie, writhing in agony on the floor.

"Get up, you idiot," he spat.

Mackenzie struggled to his feet and, holding his nose and his throbbing balls, hobbled after the others.

They did as instructed and as they entered the room, Angela flung herself on Robert.

"Oh, Robert, Darling."

"Mum, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, no thanks to these two morons."

"Christ, look at your face. You poor thing. What the hell did they do to you?"

"It's that bloody animal's idea of how you should treat a lady," she nodded in Mwengi's direction. "I dread to think what state my bedroom is in too. It'll probably have to be fumigated."

"Shut up and sit down, all of you," Mwengi stepped forward, waving his gun around at each of them in turn.

Angela sat in her armchair and Robert and Zeta sat on the settee. Robert looked around and saw Mackenzie by the window, both hands nursing his crotch, blood smeared across his already swollen nose.

Mwengi stepped forward and stood with his back to the fireplace, looking down at Zeta, trying to think if he knew her or not.

"Who are you?" he said at last.

"My name is Zeta Markoba," she replied.

"You work for the Government?"

Zeta said nothing, just stared at him. She had waited for this moment for many years. A few hours earlier she was apprehensive about their meeting, but now she felt only anger and revulsion as she looked directly into the eyes of the man who had murdered her family.

"You have caused us a great deal of unnecessary trouble," he told her. "If you had not interfered this would all have been over a week ago."

Zeta remained silent, it was the only way she could keep her emotions under control.

"I should kill you now and save us all any further problems," he said, raising the gun to her head again.

"You do that and you won't get a penny of the money," Robert intervened.

Mwengi looked at him but kept his gun levelled at Zeta.

"Why should you care?" Mwengi spat, "she means nothing to you."

"That's where you're wrong pal," Robert sat back and put his arm around Zeta. "She means everything to me, the same as my mother. And if you harm either one of them in the slightest, I swear I'll never hand over the money. After the way you've treated my mother I have half a mind not to give you it anyway."

"Then I wall kill you all now and don't think I am joking."

"Oh, I have no doubts at all that you will kill us all . . . but not until you have your hands on the money. You wouldn't risk losing all that."

Mwengi thought for a moment.

"What have you done with the money."

"I have transferred all the money into a single account, in my name. So you need my co-operation."

"Okay," Mwengi grinned, "I will do you a deal. You sign all the money over to me, in an account in a false name that I will give you, and I will let you all live."

Mackenzie stepped over from the window.

"No, the account should be in my uncle's name. It is his money."

Mwengi glared at him, then a big placatory grin spread across his face.

"Mackenzie, my friend, I only suggested a different account in case I need to sign anything. I will sign it over to your uncle when we return to Nigeria."

Mackenzie looked at Angela and then back to Mwengi.

"No, I insist on the money being made over to my uncle."

"You are in no position to insist on anything," shouted Mwengi. Then, in a quieter, friendlier tone, "Look, your uncle contracted me to recover his money for him. He gave me the freedom to make the decisions necessary to carry out that task. I think it is best to have all the money signed over to me for the time being, don't you?"

There was a long silence as the two terrorists stared at each other until Mackenzie flopped dejectedly into the other armchair, he looked down at his feet so as to avoid Angela's gaze.

"Now, what do you have to do to sign it over?" Mwengi turned back to Robert.

"How do I know you will let us live if I hand it over?" Robert asked, defiantly.

"You will have to take my word for it."

"Huh! I wouldn't trust the word of that vicious pig as far as I could spit," Angela blurted.

Mwengi chose to ignore her.

"I promise you," he smiled at Robert, "we will tie you up and leave you here for someone to find. We will only need a couple of hours and we will be out of the country."

Robert made out he was thinking it over for a while before answering.

"I tell you what, let my mother go free now and I will agree, she has nothing to do with this."

"No, she will go straight to the police. You will just have to trust me. I do not want to hurt any of you, I only want the money."

"Very well, but you will have to come with me in case you need to sign anything."

"No! You will go on your own and bring any papers back here for me to sign. But do not even think about going to the authorities because the slightest sign of the police and both of these women are dead. Do you understand me?"

Robert nodded.

"Good, you can go in the morning," then, turning back to his accomplice, "Mackenzie, my friend, go and see if you can find some rope or cord, I want you to tie them up. We do not want to risk anyone escaping and going to the police do we?"

Mackenzie stood up and sloped off out of the room. They heard him rummaging about in the kitchen and utility room. Eventually, he returned to the lounge with a large ball of nylon cord.

"Excellent," beamed Mwengi. "Make sure you tie them tightly, particularly the girl."

He forced Zeta to sit in one of the dining chairs whilst Mackenzie tied her hands tightly to the back of the chair. Robert was next, pushed into a chair beside Zeta.

Mwengi did not tie Angela. Instead he made her accompany him to the kitchen and fix him something to eat. Reluctantly, Angela complied. She wished she had some poison handy, she would happily have added it to his food.

After he had eaten, Mwengi told her to make some sandwiches for the others and they took them through to the lounge.

"You'll have to feed them. Mackenzie, watch them," he laughed, and walked out of the room.

Angela pulled a chair next to Zeta and held a sandwich up for her.

"It's only ham, I'm afraid," she apologised, "that greedy so and so over there has practically cleaned us out of food."

She glanced over at Mackenzie, who looked away, still trying to avoid her gaze. He licked a handkerchief and wiped some of the smears of drying blood from his face.

"That is fine, thank you," Zeta took a bite of the sandwich and watched as Angela held a sandwich up for Robert.

"I'm so pleased to meet you at last," said Zeta as she finished her mouthful. "I've heard so much about you. Robert has been so concerned about you."

"And I'm pleased to meet you too, Dear. What did you say your name was?"

"Zeta, Zeta Markoba."

"She's a Captain in the Nigerian Army," whispered Robert.

"What are you whispering about?" demanded Mackenzie.

"Oh, go nurse your balls," Robert answered.

Mackenzie leapt across the room, his hand up, ready to strike. Angela bounced to her feet, stepping in between the man and her son.

"Don't you dare raise your hand to my son you spineless oaf, or I swear it will be the last thing you ever do," she hissed.

Mackenzie stopped short, looked at the hate in her eyes and backed down.

"No whispering," he commanded, and flopped down on the settee.

Angela knelt down again and continued as if nothing had happened.

"Zeta . . . what a lovely name. I wish we could have met under better circumstances."

"Don't worry, Mrs Morgan, everything will work out all right, I'm sure."

"I wish I could share your confidence, Dear. The trouble is that big coward over there has no backbone or we could have avoided all this earlier."

She looked over at Mackenzie who sat staring into the fireplace.

"How did you two meet?"

As Zeta had taken another bite of her sandwich, Robert answered.

"She pounced on me one night while I was asleep. Then forced me into a car and drove me halfway across Switzerland. I didn't know it at the time that these two murdering bastards were after me."

"What exactly is going on?" asked Angela. "I have managed to ascertain that your father stole a lot of money, and that these men are here to get it back."

Between them, Robert and Zeta took turns to tell the story until Angela was fully conversant with all that had happened, leaving out any mention of Henry or the total amount of money. They said that Zeta was working independently.

"One thing I want to know is, how did you manage to track us, where was the transmitter?" Robert asked Mackenzie, who was now sitting listening.

Mackenzie suddenly sat up straight, grinned and puffed up his chest with pride.

"It was hidden in a pen. My brother made it, I dropped it in your pocket the first time we met. In the elevator of the hotel."

"The pen, of course. It's still in my rucksack."

This amused Mackenzie enormously.

"My brother will be most pleased," he laughed.

Roger Barratt breathed a big sigh of relief and sat back from the microscope, into which he had been peering only moments before. He felt very pleased with himself. Smiling, he picked up his mug of tea and took a long, satisfying gulp. He lifted a sandwich from a plastic lunch box and, took a huge bite out of it. Wiping tomato juice from his chin with the back of his hand, he picked up the phone and dialled.

DC Collins was just locking his desk drawers in preparation for leaving for the evening when the phone rang. He debated whether or not to answer it but was too conscientious to ignore it. He cleared his throat and picked up the receiver.

"David Collins."

"Dave, it's Roger. Think you'd better pop by on your way out old chum. I have something interesting to show you."

"I'll be right there."

Collins picked up his briefcase and jacket, turned off his desk lamp and walked towards the door.

"Goodnight," he called to the few remaining staff members who were trying to catch up on their paperwork. The elevator door was already open so he entered and pressed the button for the Lower Ground Floor.

The Forensic Laboratories took up the whole of the basement floor of the huge police headquarters where he worked. He walked down a short corridor until he came to Barratt's office. He knocked and walked in. The office was small and every available work space was covered with files and papers of one sort or another.

"Come on through Mate," called a voice from another room.

Collins walked through the office and through a door at the back, leading to a small laboratory.

"Welcome to my humble abode," laughed Barratt. He was in a really good mood and rightly so. "Guess what I found?"

"A match?"

"A match."

The two men grinned at each other

"Show me what you've got."

"I took various fibre samples from the back seat of the car and a couple of samples from John Morgan's clothing . . ."

"And they matched?"

"Spot on. Luckily the seats were fabric. If they'd been leather it might have been a bloody sight more difficult. Also, luckily for us, the car had been completely valeted prior to our friend hiring it. There were four sets of prints in the car. Matey-boy's over there, two unknowns and just two fingerprints on the base of the rear, offside window, belonging to guess who?"

"John Morgan?"

"Correct, you win tonight's star prize," Roger beamed.

"Fan-bloody-tastic! So, I was right, it was the car after all. The cases are connected." Collins felt really pleased with himself. "What time are you here until, Rog?"

"Don't worry, I'll write up my report before I go home," the scientist laughed. "You'll find it on your desk in the morning."

"Can you make a start now while I make you a cuppa?"

"Oh, I suppose so."

"Thanks, Roger. I owe you one."

"You owe me several Mate."

The two men shook hands and DC Collins turned to go.

"What do you intend to do with the information, Dave?"

Dave Collins walked to the door before turning to face his colleague.

"I'm not sure at the moment. Get the Morgan case re-opened for a start. After finding Joe Bloggs in the car park with his throat cut, I think there is every likelihood that foul play might well have played a part in John Morgan's death after all."

As the evening wore on and the sky outside grew dimmer, none of the occupants of Angela's house were aware as four men in the open field behind, climbed over the wall at the bottom of the garden and dropped silently to the ground. Dressed from head to toe in black with balaclavas over their faces, each man carried a small pack across his back. Even the matt paint on their machine guns blended in perfectly to the shadows. As soon as they hit the ground the men's packs were off their backs and the guns were in their hands, ready for action. Without a word, one of the men made a hand signal to the others. They spread out and, using the shrubs and trees for cover, crept slowly towards the back of the house.

As they neared the house the leader raised his hand and the other three men froze in their tracks. The leader slowly edged his way forward until he was crouching low below the dining-room window. He turned, pointed to one of the men and then pointed to the back door. Then, to another he pointed to the kitchen window. The two men crept slowly from the bushes and took up their positions as indicated.

The leader opened his pack and took out a small box with a lead attached to it. On the other end of the lead was a small camera lens with a sucker attached to it. He gently pressed the sucker against the window letting the lead trail down to the box lying on the ground. He pulled up a small aerial and pressed a button on the top of the box. He looked across at the other men. One was standing to one side of the back door while the other was reaching up to attach a similar camera device to the kitchen window. He looked across at the man keeping watch in the shrubbery. The man pressed his thumb into the pad of a small device he held in his hand. It gave out a single click, similar to the sound a cricket makes. A single click meant that all was well.

The leader felt a small device, in his pocket, begin to vibrate. It was a signal from the base unit, to inform him that the team in the Ops van one hundred yards down the road, could see pictures coming from the camera.

From his pack the leader now took a small instrument, slightly thicker than a pencil. It was, in fact, a small collapsible periscope. He raised one end above the windowsill and peered into the other. His view was only slightly obscured by the net curtains, but he could clearly make out two people sitting in high-backed chairs. They were obviously tied because a lady was feeding sandwiches to them. He could also see a heavily-built character sitting on a settee watching. There was no sign of the second terrorist though.

Putting the periscope back in his pack he next took out a small brace and bit. He inserted the tip of the bit into the corner of the wooden window frame and slowly began to drill a hole.

"What is that noise?" asked Mackenzie, getting to his feet.

"What noise?" asked Robert. He had heard it too and guessed that it was someone outside.

"It's stopped now. It sounded like it was coming from outside the window." He started to walk towards the dining room.

The Leader of the Special Ops team heard two clicks in quick succession. The three men quickly unplugged the cameras and melted into the undergrowth just as Mackenzie drew back the net curtain. Cupping his hands around his eyes to shield the reflections Mackenzie stared out into the darkness. Seeing nothing, he returned to the others, leaving the nets wide open.

"It was probably a moth fluttering against the window," suggested Angela.

"Huh!" Mackenzie flopped back onto the settee.

The SO leader crept back down the garden until he was beneath the perimeter wall. He took out a small radio and plugged an earpiece into his ear. He depressed the call button twice and spoke into the microphone.

"Christ Barney, that was close."

Sergeant Barnes came back on the line almost immediately.

"Certainly was Sir. The Lieutenant Colonel would like a word with you Sir."

"Okay, stick him on."

"Mac, this is Reed. The pictures were good though a little fuzzy from the curtains. What made him come to the window?"

"Don't know Sir. I can only assume that he heard the drill."

"Ah, yes. Give us a little while before you have another try. I'll try to rustle up some noise to drown out the drilling."

Captain Steven Mackintosh crept slowly back to his place near the house and slowly, but cautiously, the three men took up their positions against the house once more. They had repositioned the TV cameras and a short while later they could hear the distant rumble of an engine. The noise grew louder as the machine drew closer. The two soldiers immediately stared to drill, slowly at first but more quickly as the noise got louder. At last the Chinook helicopter thundered slowly overhead, at about two hundred feet. The noise was deafening. It had come from the back of the house and as it flew over Mackenzie got up and looked out of the front window.

"I do wish they would stop flying over here, especially at night time," said Angela, casually. "I've a good mind to write to whoever's in charge at that airbase and give them a piece of my mind."

Mackenzie sat on the arm of the chair and continued to look out of the window.

Although it hadn't taken long for the helicopter to fly past it had given the SO team plenty of time to drill a hole deep enough to insert a small probe microphone into each window frame. They connected the microphone leads into the same boxes that transmitted the television signals and Mac received another buzz to let him know that the signals were good. He put his thumbs up to the other men and indicated that they should retreat. As silently as cats the men disappeared into the shrubbery once more and regrouped at the foot of the perimeter wall. One by one they scaled the wall and made their way back to the vans.

"Well done Mac," said Reed as Captain Mackintosh climbed into the back of the command vehicle. "Both pictures and sound are first class. The idiot forgot to draw the net curtain back so he's given us an excellent view now."

He moved to one side so the men could see the monitors.

"Thanks for the distraction," said Mac.

"My pleasure," beamed Reed.

"Right Mac, the others should be here any minute. What I want is for you to take a half dozen or so men and dot them around the garden. I need them to be ready at a moment's notice to move in if need be. I don't honestly think that anything will happen tonight. I think it will happen when this Mwengi character has got the money. We'll have to move pretty fast then because I don't think he will want to leave any witnesses behind."

"We could always go in now Sir, and take them out."

"No, I think we have to play it by ear for a bit. These instructions come from higher up Mac. We'd better do as we're told, unless the situation develops into something more serious."

"Okay, Sir." Mac turned as a large vehicle pulled up behind the van. It was a Winibago, a long coach-like vehicle, specially converted to serve as a Mobile Command Centre. Its camouflaged colouring and blacked out windows gave it a rather sinister appearance.

"That'll be the others now. Sergeant Barnes, why don't you bring the radio and all the other gear and set it up in the bus?"

"Very good, Sir."

As Reed and the three-man team alighted from the van and went to brief the new arrivals, Mac and his men headed back towards the house to take up their positions in the garden again.

In the back of the Winibago, into which the radio and TV monitoring equipment had now been transferred, Lieutenant Colonel Reed quickly brought Henry and General Hartley-Jones up to date with the situation.

"Any sign of violence towards any of the occupants?" Henry asked.

"Not as yet. Well, not that we can see anyway," Reed replied.

"Good. At the first sign, I want your men to move in fast. We cannot afford to take chances with Mwengi, he is far too dangerous."

Hartley-Jones leaned forward, placed his coffee mug on the table and took another chocolate digestive from the plate.

"Got one of my chaps to do a bit of research into this Mwengi fellow. Henry's right, we can't afford a cock up of any kind. He's a slippery bastard, by all accounts. Doesn't care whom he kills as long as he gets what he wants. Apparently, he's wanted in over eleven countries for terrorist and mercenary activities. He'll stop at nothing. Nasty little bugger all around by the sounds of it."

Henry nodded in agreement.

"Believe me, you have no idea just how nasty he is I'm afraid. Let's hope you do not get to find out either. Our main priority should be for the safety of the hostages," Henry looked at each man in turn. "Off the record Gentlemen, when the time comes, I think it would probably be best if Mwengi were taken out as quickly as possible."

"Don't worry Henry, my lads know what to do," Reed smiled at the big man opposite him.

"I have no doubt, Andrew," Henry smiled back.

"Would you gentlemen like another coffee?" asked Barnes, offering the large glass jug he had just taken off the filter machine.

"Please Barney, thanks," said Reed, taking it from him.

As Reed was pouring, the radio crackled into life, surprising the occupants of the bus. A voice came through the static.

"Five to control. Do you copy?"

Reed put down the coffeepot and picked up the microphone, all heads turned towards the radio.

"Go ahead, Evans."

"Sir, we have an individual, on foot, heading towards the house. Looks a bit shifty to me, keeps looking around. Also they're keeping to the shadows as much as possible. Don't know how they managed to get so far without being spotted by one of our blokes either."

"Okay, Evans. Never mind, at least we've seen him now. Just keep an eye on him."

"Roger that."

Silence returned to the vehicle. Henry looked out through the blackened windows but, as they were parked down a lane some hundred yards or so from the house, could see nothing of what was going on.

The radio crackled once more.

"Sir, subject has just entered the garden of neighbouring house. Appears to have gone down the side of the building."

"Roger that, Evans. Is subject male or female?"

"I think it's male, Sir. A bit hard to tell. Small and thin, like a woman, but moves like a bloke."

"Keep watching, Evans."

"Sir."

Sergeant Reed pressed another button on the radio and spoke into the microphone.

"Unknown subject entering rear of adjoining garden. Repeat, unknown subject entering rear of adjoining garden. Exercise extreme caution."

The soldier crouching behind the rear wall of Angela's garden pressed a red button on his radio, three times, to confirm that he understood. He then pressed his clicker three times in quick succession, waited three seconds and clicked another three times.

The intruder nervously looked about before hurrying down the side of the house. For a moment he thought he had seen a movement in one of the front gardens opposite. He watched intently from the shadows for a minute before he decided that he was seeing things. He was understandably nervous so assumed that his senses were hypersensitive.

He opened the back gate, praying that it would open silently. His prayers were answered so, after one last glance behind him, he moved through the gate, closing and latching it again behind him.

Without a sound, he crept around to the back of the house and made his way, cautiously, to the wall separating that garden from Angela's.

Because of his slight stature the top of the wall was way above his head, so he looked around for something to stand on. He spotted a wheelbarrow next to a garden shed.

So as not to make a noise, with tremendous effort, he carried the wheelbarrow and placed it at the base of the wall.

Climbing into the barrow he peered cautiously over the wall and into Angela's garden. He held his breath and listened intently for a few minutes, looking about the garden all the time.

Satisfied that the coast was clear, he glanced about him to reassure himself that all was quiet, then boosted himself up onto the top of the wall. Swinging his leg over he manoeuvred himself into the sitting position. He sat on the wall listening again for a few seconds before dropping silently to the ground. He crouched down and listened.

He stayed in the crouching position, low against the wall for about two minutes. This was to enable him to slow his heartbeat down and control his breathing.

At last he stood and studied the back of the house. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out an automatic handgun. Without looking he flicked off the safety catch with his thumb and, with the gun held in front of him, its barrel pointing towards the sky, he crept slowly towards the house.

He ducked under the kitchen window as he moved cautiously along the back of the house, stopping a few feet from the dining-room window. Light spilled from the window illuminating a small area of patio and lawn.

He transferred the gun into his left hand and, very slowly, turned so he was facing the wall. Pressing himself against the wall he bent forward until he could see through the window.

He was so engrossed with the scene inside the house that he was unaware of the man behind him until he felt the cold steel of the gun barrel pressed against the side of his neck. The blood seemed to drain from his face and he went light headed at the thought of what Mwengi would do to him. His breath caught in his throat as he turned his head slightly and saw that it was not Mwengi but a large man, dressed in black, with a balaclava covering his entire face.

Captain Mackintosh reached forward and took the gun from the man's hand. He handed it to another soldier who had suddenly appeared beside him. Mac held the gun to the man's head while his colleague, forcing the man's hands behind his back, secured them with electrical cable ties.

"If you make one sound it will be the last one you ever make. Do you understand me?" Mac whispered into the man's ear.

The intruder nodded vigorously. He was terrified but at the same time relieved.

As two SAS officers replaced the TV camera and microphone, Mac and his colleague manhandled the man into the shrubbery and down towards the back of the garden. They lifted him, unceremoniously, up until he was balanced across the top of the wall where another two men pulled him down on the other side. Mac and his fellow officer crept back into the shrubbery to rejoin their colleagues in their surveillance of the property.

Behind the rear wall the two soldiers lay the man on the ground and searched him thoroughly to make sure he was not carrying any more concealed weapons. Satisfied that he wasn't, they dragged him to his feet and waited.

One of the men pushed the red button on his radio.

"Do you have him?" Reed's voice asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"Good, we'll send someone to fetch him and arrange a welcoming committee."

"Roger that."

Less than three minutes later, two more men arrived. They placed a cloth bag over the man's head, checked his bindings and led him away.

The group in the Mobile Command Centre waited anxiously for their captive to arrive. At last there was a knock on the side of the bus and Reed nodded to another soldier to open the door.

"Bring him in," Reed called out to the men escorting their charge.

The prisoner was unceremoniously bundled up the steps of the bus, where he fell to his knees on the floor.

"Let's have a look and see who we've got then, shall we?" Reed stepped forward and pulled the cloth bag from off the man's head.

"Well, well. Malcolm Goma," Henry leaned back in his seat and folded his arms, a satisfied smile on his face.

Goma gasped in surprise as he saw Henry grinning down at him.

"Oh, so you know him do you Henry?" asked Hartley-Jones.

"Oh yes, I know him all right, although I sometimes wish that I didn't. He is one of the masterminds behind the stealing of the money," Henry informed the General. "This little weasel managed to give us the slip. We have been looking for him everywhere. Well, well, well, what a very pleasant surprise."

Then, turning his attention again to Goma.

"I was wondering when you were going to resurface Goma. Ha! I must admit, I never expected it to be in England."

Goma could not believe his bad luck. He was just as surprised to see Henry, as Henry was to see him. He had already guessed that Mwengi and Mackenzie would come back to England and it didn't take much effort to work out that they would turn up here. Mackenzie had called Goma's mobile phone and confirmed this when he moved the car from outside of Angela's house. Mwengi had a very good bargaining tool in Angela Morgan.

"We missed you when we paid a little visit to your offices the other week Malcolm. If I'd realised you were going to be on holiday I could have dropped in earlier. Never mind though, we meet at last."

Goma hung his head in defeat and said nothing.

"Why are you here, Goma?" Henry leaned forward in his seat. "No, let me guess. You know that the rest of your associates would be out of the picture for a very long time, so you decided you wanted to keep the money all for yourself. You knew that if Mwengi found out he would never hand over the money. So you decided to wait until Mwengi had recovered the money for you and then kill him. Am I right?"

Goma remained silent.

"AM I RIGHT?"

Goma jumped.

"Yes," he said weakly.

Henry grinned and leaned back again.

"And is Mackenzie Balewa working with you?"

"Yes."

"How long for? From the beginning? Were you planning all along to take all the money from Mwengi?"

"No. I only decided when you arrested the rest of them. I met Mackenzie in Switzerland and told him of my plans."

"Switzerland! My, my, Malcolm you really are quite the little Globetrotter aren't you?"

The others could see that Henry was really enjoying himself.

"Well I have some very good news and some very bad news for you, Malcolm. The bad news is that, I'm afraid, you are not going to get your hands on any of the money. But the good news is that I'm going to send you on another vacation. This one is going to be for a very, very long time . . . and the best bit is, you are going to be spending it with all of your friends." Henry laughed and turned to Reed. "Andrew, do you have anywhere secure we can keep him in the meantime?"

"Leave it to me, Henry."

Reed nodded to the two guards who lifted Goma to his feet and bundled him out of the bus.

"Well, that's one small victory," smiled Henry, rubbing his hands together. "Any chance of some more of that delicious coffee please, Andrew?"

The occupants of the house spent a long, wakeful night waiting for the morning to arrive, Mackenzie and Mwengi taking it in turns to watch over the hostages. At last the new day arrived and, after a light breakfast, Mwengi joined the others in the lounge. He was in a good mood. Today he was going to be a millionaire. He had already worked out what he was going to do with the others. As soon as Morgan handed him the papers he would kill them all, including that idiot Mackenzie, and return to South Africa, or maybe Cuba. With all that money he could go anywhere he wanted.

Entering the room, he ordered Mackenzie to untie Robert.

Mackenzie did as instructed and Robert got shakily to his feet. He had been in the same position for hours and his knees ached like hell as he straightened up. He rubbed his wrists to get the circulation back into them.

"Well then, Mr Morgan. I think you know what to do. No harm will come to your mother or your girlfriend here as long as you do exactly as you are told," Mwengi grinned.

"I'd better phone for a taxi," said Robert.

"Why? Can't you take your mother's car?"

"No, I'm not insured to drive it. If I had an accident they would have to call the police. We don't want that do we?"

"Very well, call your taxi."

Robert walked over to the telephone and dialled his father's house. On the third ring it was answered.

"Hello, is that Ace Taxis?" he said

The reassuring tone of Henry's voice came down the line. The phone had been redirected again, to a mobile handset in the Command Centre this time.

"Robert, is that you?"

Robert gave a cautious glance at Mwengi.

"Yes, hello."

"Robert, is everything all right? Are you all okay?"

"Er . . . yes, er . . . can I order a taxi please? As soon as possible."

"Robert, I assume Mwengi and Mackenzie are there, am I right?"

"Yes, that's right. I want a taxi please, just for me. I want to go to the Ernst & Reichman Bank in Albany Street, Salisbury. Yes, Albany Street. As soon as possible please. The address is Sanders Cottage, Carrington Road, Little Compton."

"I'll send Michael around as quickly as I can," Henry could not hide his anxiety.

"Thanks," said Robert. He replaced the receiver and asked permission to go to the toilet and freshen up a little.

Mwengi accompanied him to the downstairs cloakroom and stood by the open door while Robert carried out his ablutions. Afterwards, Mwengi gave him a piece of paper with details of the account he wanted Robert to open and into which he wanted him to transfer the money. Robert put the paper in his mother's briefcase.

Within twenty minutes a car hooter was heard at the front of the house. Mackenzie looked out of the window.

"There is a taxi at the end of the driveway," he announced.

Robert kissed his mother and Zeta, picked up his briefcase from beside the settee and went into the hallway. Mwengi opened the front door and Robert left the house.

"Good Morning Mr Morgan," said Michael, cheerfully, as Robert climbed into the back of the black cab. "Don't worry it'll be all right. We are keeping a very close eye on them."

He drove the car to Robert's father's house. Henry and Hartley-Jones had already taken a car to the house and met him at the door.

"Good morning Robert," smiled Henry, relieved to see that Robert was still relatively unscathed. "Is Zeta all right? . . . and your mother of course? Have any of you been harmed in any way?"

"They are both fine thanks. I told Mwengi that if he hurt either of them in any way that I would not co-operate and he would never get the money. I think my mother had already got him on the back foot before we got there. From what she told me she had given him a bloody nose before he managed to overpower her when they arrived. He got his own back though. She's a bit battered and bruised but she's okay," Robert managed a weak smile.

"Your mother sounds a formidable lady, Robert. I look forward to meeting her." Henry smiled and put his hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Tough as old nails," laughed Robert.

"We were rather hoping that we may have been able to split the blighters up, that one of them would have accompanied you," said Hartley-Jones.

"Mwengi was not keen on that. But, never mind. I have an idea, but we'll have to go to my apartment."

Once Henry had retrieved something from the lounge, they all climbed into the cab and set off immediately. Twenty minutes later they arrived at Robert's apartment. Opening the door, Robert entered, disabled the alarm system and led the group into his home.

"Cor blimey, some pad you've got here Mr Morgan," looking around, Michael was very impressed.

"Thank you, feel free to have a nose around." Robert was justifiably proud of his home.

Robert's apartment was the whole of the top floor of a former water mill. Having been standing for at least a couple of hundred years, in the late 1980s, an enterprising builder converted the four floors into seven luxury apartments, finishing the project just in time to witness the bottom falling out of the housing market. As a result the builder took a substantial loss and Robert bought the whole top floor penthouse for an absolute knockdown price. The apartment was the biggest in the entire mill.

He had chosen the penthouse because he could section off a large area and build his dream studio, still leaving a substantial amount of living accommodation. It had been very tastefully decorated and furnished, mainly by Jane, so did not have the usual air of a traditional bachelor pad.

"I call it home," Robert grinned as he walked over to the door of his studio. Producing a set of keys, he unlocked the door, pushed it open and went in. The small party of men followed as he entered, switched on the lights and set to work turning on a bank of computer equipment.

"Wow, this place is like some sort of Mission Control," Michael enthused again.

"It is," laughed Robert. "While that lot's waking up I'll make us all a cuppa."

He left them in the studio and disappeared to the kitchen, emerging a few minutes later with a tray of coffees.

"Sorry chaps, no milk. You'll have to either have it black or use whitener." He put the tray on one of the worktops, sat down in front of a computer and searched on the screen for the program he wanted.

"What exactly are you doing?" asked Henry.

"Mwengi is expecting some bank forms for him to sign, so I'm going to give him some."

Opening his briefcase he took out the paper that Mwengi had given him together with the agreement form for the new account he had opened. He studied it for a minute before lifting the lid on a long rectangular piece of equipment and placing the form face down on the glass screen. Closing the lid back down he returned to the computer.

"What's is that?" asked Henry.

"It's a scanner," replied Robert. "I'm going to scan the logo at the top of the page and use it on my new form."

They watched in silence as Robert deftly scanned the image, positioned it on the page and skilfully concocted a bogus transfer agreement. Using the same logo he then created a form for opening a new account. When he was satisfied with it, and checked through it to ensure there were no spelling mistakes, he reached into a cupboard and retrieved a small amount of pale green bond paper. Loading it into one of his laser printers, he printed a copy of each and handed them to Henry.

"I am amazed," laughed Henry. "They are just like official forms. You are very talented."

"That's nothing. I'm a designer by trade. I'm used to doing things far more complex than that, and in colour."

"Nonetheless, I think it is still very impressive. Especially the way you have made the logo sort of ghosted out in the background, almost like a watermark. It makes it look very professional."

"All I need is to fool Mwengi."

Robert printed second copies of the forms on pink paper, then switched off his equipment. Picking up a pen he put a piece of carbon paper between each of the green and pink copies and set to work filling in the forms with bogus account numbers and other details. Putting the two forms in a briefcase he turned back to Henry.

"What now?" he asked.

"Well, we were hoping that by splitting them up it would make things easier but obviously, such things were not meant to be. My suggestion now is that you go back to your mother's and present the forms to Mwengi. The problem is that he will almost certainly kill you once he thinks he is in possession of the money so, once you have given the forms to him you must stall him somehow. He will do nothing until he is satisfied he has the money so when the time is right, you give us the signal and our men will take over."

"Are the SAS here then?"

"General Potton sorted things out at his end yesterday evening," Hartley-Jones cut in, "They've always been there, we just needed him to okay it with The Powers That Be. Andrew's boys have been there since Henry rang us from Switzerland. They were keeping an eye on you chaps all night. Nothing can happen without us knowing it. We have the place surrounded and are ready to move in at a moment's notice."

"That's reassuring," said Robert, "It's not easy being safe here while some pissed-off mass-murderer is holding my mother and girlfriend at gunpoint."

Henry took Robert by the shoulders and looked into his face.

"We are all doing the best we can, Robert."

"I know, I'm just worried to hell about them, Henry."

"I know you are Robert, we all are. But we need you to keep a level head. Once you are back, Michael and I will not be far away to give some additional backup. If the situation starts to look dicey, we will move in. If everything looks okay we will hang on until the best opportunity arrives. Now, I suggest you make us another cup of that delicious coffee, we don't want to get you back too soon or our friend might get suspicious."

"Well, well. Looks as if your hunch was right after all then, Davey Boy. Well done." Detective Chief Superintendent Moore placed the forensic report on the desk in front of him and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

"Thank you Sir."

"Looks like our Mr Morgan got himself mixed up in something nasty, doesn't it?"

"Indeed, Sir," Dave Collins couldn't help smiling.

"I think we'd better take a closer look at his case, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I'm going to ring the Wiltshire lads straight away. I want the case re-opened and I think it might be best if we had another little chat with Miss Wallis. I also think it might be worth having another talk to Morgan's ex-wife. See if she knows of any dodgy dealings that her husband may have been in to. Although from all the reports he seems to have been as straight as a die."

"Yes, Sir." DS Collins picked the report up from his superior's desk and placed it back in the file he was carrying. "I'll give Miss Wallis and Mrs Morgan a ring now and arrange for them to come in."

Back in his own office he rang MorganPrint and spoke to Susie. Then he rang Angela's office, only to be told that she was at home ill.

Collins turned to see DC Moore walking along the corridor towards him.

"Mrs Morgan is not at work today, Sir. Her secretary told me that she is at home. Sick by all accounts."

"In that case I think it would be best if you take a car and pay them a visit rather than talk to them over the phone. People seem a bit more responsive when you talked to them face to face."

"Yes, Sir. Very good, Sir."

"Don't be late back for our briefing on the Saunders case at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

"I won't, Sir."

The day had started badly for David Collins. He had had an argument with his wife the previous night because he had promised he would be home early as his wife was throwing a dinner party for some friends. Collins had been so wrapped up in the fact that Roger Barratt had discovered the evidence that linked the two cases, he had completely forgotten about the dinner party. He hadn't remembered, in fact, until he had arrived home and found them tucking into their desserts.

His wife was pretty tolerant most of the time, about his time keeping. Sheila knew that it was part of the job, but last night it had been too much. He supposed that it was because he had not called her to say that he would be late.

After the guests had gone home, they had a blazing row, Sheila had even thrown things at him before storming off to bed. Tactfully, he had slept in the spare room.

This morning, over breakfast, he again tried to apologise and promised he would make it up to her, but his promises were met with stony silence. He loved his wife dearly, but he realised he had overstepped the mark and had a lot of ground to make up. He hated falling out with Sheila.

On his way into work he had stopped at the florist and ordered a huge bouquet of flowers to be sent around to her as a peace offering. He knew he could always get back in favour with flowers. He was also intending to stop off at the off-licence on the way home and get a nice bottle of her favourite Chablis. He had decided that even if he didn't finish his enquiries today he would come home and return to the West Country tomorrow. No way was he going to be late home again this evening.

He just had a strange feeling that, even though the day had started badly, it was going to be a great ending.

DS Collins had been on the road for about an hour when the phone in Moore's office rang. Moore answered it and sat listening intently for a few minutes. He asked a few questions and, eventually, replaced the receiver. He sat, thinking for a few minutes before walking back out into the main office.

"Johnny, call DS Collins immediately and tell him to come straight back here as soon as possible, would you? There's been a change of plan."

"I can't, Sir. I just went into his office and his mobile phone is still sitting on his desk. He must have forgotten it when he went out."

"Bollocks!" Moore shook his head slowly and returned to his office.

His telephone call had been from Peter Finch, his opposite number in the Wiltshire Force. It informed him that there was a special operation, taking place at the home of Angela Morgan. It seemed that there was a suspected hostage situation, with unknown terrorist perpetrators. The army had seized control of the situation and the police had been told to back off. This was too much of a coincidence, it didn't seem right to him. They were in the middle of a murder inquiry and the police should not be kept out of it. He decided to go there himself to see what was really going on. He leaned over his desk and picked up the phone.

"Barbara, have my car brought around to the front please."

He then called Peter Finch back.

"Peter, It's Ray Moore again. Listen, something smells fishy with this. I think that we should make our presence felt at the scene. Even if the SAS, or whoever, are going to unleash God knows what, I think we have a duty to make our position very clear and be part of the action. Show these army buggers that they can't just muscle in on our patch whenever they feel like it."

"My thought's exactly, Old Boy. And on that note I have already despatched a few chaps."

"Great stuff. Look, I'm coming down to give you a bit of support, one of my lads is already on his way there to interview Mrs Morgan. I'll meet you at the scene. See you in a couple of hours."

Finch felt the same as Moore, he didn't like these army guys taking over police work. He accepted that they had special skills but it was a police matter first and foremost and the army should only get involved in order to assist the police. He had organised for some men to go to the scene to help block off the surrounding roads and provide a police presence. His superiors wouldn't like it, but he was buggered if he was going to let some jumped up army bastards dictate to him over, what was clearly, a police matter.

Back at the house Mwengi was still in high spirits. Soon he would have all the money to himself and he could get rid of all these meddling people. It would be best to kill Mackenzie first, he thought. Mackenzie did not have the stomach for killing and might try to stop Mwengi getting rid of the others. He had to think about his next move.

"Mackenzie, my friend, I am going upstairs for a lie down. Keep an eye on our friends," he smiled and left the room.

Angela looked up at the ceiling as he was heard to clump into her bedroom and wondered what sort of mess he had made up there. The thought of him sleeping in her bed made her decide to burn the matress when this was over. The mere mental image of him on her bed made her skin crawl.

They heard the door to the ensuite bathroom slam back against the wall. This was followed by the loud noise of Mwengi urinating and, once again, without flushing the toilet or washing his hands, he stomped back into the bedroom.

"God, that man is a disgusting pig," Angela was enraged.

Mackenzie laughed.

"You're not much better," she scolded him. "What time is it?"

The big man looked at his watch.

"It is twenty minutes after twelve," he replied, gazing casually through the net curtains of the window overlooking the front garden.

"Good, the sun's passed the yardarm. I'm going to fix myself a G & T. Anyone care to join me?"

"No thank you," Mackenzie replied.

"I wasn't offering you one," snapped Angela.

Zeta grinned before also declining her offer, so Angela got up and went over to the drinks cabinet to pour one for herself. She smiled and felt a little personal triumph that Mackenzie made no attempt to stop her. He was too preoccupied at the window to notice her deftly palm the knife she used for slicing lemons, which lay on the shelf next to the bottles. She picked up her glass and walked over to Zeta.

"Zeta, are you sure you wouldn't like a sip, Darling?" she asked casually, standing between Zeta and Mackenzie.

"No thank you," smiled Zeta.

"Oh, I would if I were you. It might make you feel better," Angela gave Zeta a conspiratorial wink.

"Oh . . . oh, very well then, thank you," Zeta did not know what Angela was up to but guessed she should play along with her.

Angela crouched down next to the chair and, as she held the glass up to Zeta's lips, she slid the knife, hilt-first, into the girl's hand. Zeta's eyes widened as she realised.

"Thank you," she said, "I needed that."

"You're welcome." Angela remained kneeling in front of Zeta, partially masking her from Mackenzie's view.

"You and Robert seem as if you are quite close," she observed.

"Yes, we have become so. He is a wonderful person, so caring," Zeta tried to remain casual as she went to work on the nylon cord that bound her firmly to the chair. "He is a good listener too."

"Yes, he got that from his father. I'm a bit impatient myself. He gets his stubbornness from me, I'm afraid."

"I got the impression that he has been hurt by someone in the past."

"Yes, he has. About a year ago, Robert's girlfriend, Jane, walked out on him. They lived together for several years. She had an affair with another man and Robert only found out when she announced that she was pregnant and was moving in with her lover. Robert was devastated, poor lamb, he worshipped her. As far as I am aware, he has not so much as looked at another girl since. He's just thrown himself into his work. His father's death has really knocked him for six, but he hasn't really had time to come to terms with it, what with all this other business. When it's all over I think it will really hit him hard. He'll need someone strong to help him through it." Angela looked directly at Zeta.

Zeta stopped sawing her bonds for a moment and returned Angela's gaze.

"I too know what it is like to lose someone you love. That man upstairs murdered my whole family."

Mackenzie turned quickly and looked at Zeta. She held his gaze as she continued.

"Yes, my entire family. Mother, Father and two younger sisters, together with thirty other innocent people, killed for no reason, by your friend upstairs." She looked back at Angela, "I will give Robert all the support that he needs."

Angela smiled at Zeta and raising her hand placed it gently on the girl's cheek. Tears welled up in her eyes.

"I'm sure you will," she breathed.

The two women continued to talk for about half an hour. It soon became apparent to Angela why her son had fallen for this remarkable young woman. She was like a breath of fresh air, the total opposite to Jane in many ways, but similar in others. Just what Robert needed she thought.

She smiled at Zeta.

"It is good to see him happy again. I could tell from his whole persona, as soon as the two of you arrived, that he'd changed. Thank you for looking after my son"

She got to her feet, kissed Zeta on the forehead, and sat back down in her armchair. Instinctively her hand slid down between the cushions to feel the reassuring coldness of the letter opener.

"Mwengi, he's back!" Mackenzie's shout startled the two women and they fell silent. They heard the sounds of Mwengi stomping back down the stairs and then silence until the doorbell rang. There were muffled sounds as Robert was ushered in and the lounge door opened. Mackenzie moved across the room and as Angela started to get to her feet, his strong hand fell on her shoulder, forcing her into the seat once more.

Robert entered the room followed by Mwengi, gun in hand.

"Are you girls okay?" he enquired.

Both women confirmed that they were.

"Give me the documents," snapped Mwengi, jamming the gun hard in the small of Robert's back.

Wincing, Robert turned and put his briefcase on the open lid of the bureau. Flicking the catches, he took out the two copies of his forms and closed the briefcase again, placing it on the floor next to the bureau. He stepped aside so that Mwengi could study the forms.

"You will see," said Robert, "that I have opened an account, in the false name, as you instructed. That's the new account number, there. And that there, is the opening balance, thirty-seven million, three hundred and seventy thousand, eight hundred and fourteen US dollars, the entire contents of my account. Less the bank's commission for the transaction, of course. All you have to do is sign there and there, and send the green copies to the bank. The address is at the top there. The pink ones are yours to keep as proof of the transaction. The transfer will take place approximately three working days after receipt of the forms by the bank."

"Three days!" Mwengi was incensed.

"I'm sorry, but I can't be held accountable for banking policy. They said that it would take three working days for the transaction to take place. There is nothing we can do to speed up the process, I'm afraid. Don't forget we're talking about a bloody shed-load of money here, for Christ's sake."

Mwengi shook his head in disbelief. He had not planned on having to send the signed forms to the bank or waiting three days.

"Of course," Robert smiled, "if you'd come with me, as I suggested, you could have signed the forms in person and that would have saved a couple of days as you wouldn't have had to post them. As I said the three days start from the day they receive the forms back."

"Why do I need to sign these stupid forms anyway?" demanded Mwengi, flinging the forms onto the bureau.

"Because, they need copies of the agreements and they need a copy of your signature so that you can prove you are the account holder when you want to withdraw the money. For God's sake, this isn't some piddling little building society account we're talking about here. It's a numbered account containing millions."

Mwengi sighed, he realised he had no choice.

"Okay, where do I sign?"

Robert pointed to the places on the form and Mwengi signed in his false name.

"Sir, a blue Vauxhall Omega has just entered the street and heading in the direction of the house."

The men in the back of the Ops van parked in a side road looked at their monitors. During the night surveillance cameras had been set up at various points giving them good views of the house and up and down the road. An officer radioed the news to the Command Centre.

"Damn, I knew we should have closed off the roads." Reed thumped his hand on the side of the bus as they all turned to watch the CCTV monitors. "Let's hope he carries on past then."

Unfortunately for Reed, the car pulled up outside Angela's house and they watched their monitors with growing consternation as Detective Sergeant David Collins alighted from the vehicle and walked casually up the drive to the house.

"Copper," muttered Sergeant Barnes.

"You reckon?"

"He's got copper written all over him, Sir. Look at the swagger in his walk and that cocky grin. Copper, got to be."

"I sincerely hope for his sake that he is not," remarked Henry.

"Well, if he is there'll be hell to pay. The police were expressly told to stay away. This is our Op. They have been told not to interfere."

Back in the house, Mwengi dropped the pen onto the bureau and looked back up at Robert.

"Now," he grinned, "I'm going to kill you all."

"Ah, now, there's the catch," smirked Robert.

"What do you mean?" demanded Mwengi, jamming his gun under Robert's chin.

"Well, how do you know the money's going through. I mean, you could kill us all and then find out that I'm bluffing. Then what would you do? Eh?" Robert laughed, "You'll have to wait for the three days to be up before you can find out for sure."

Mwengi thought for a moment.

"I'll just kill the two women then, and leave your death until the money goes through," he laughed, triumphantly and stepped away from Robert. Turning, he jammed the pistol at Zeta's head.

"Oh, did I forget to mention that when you go to the bank to make the first withdrawal, I have to accompany you, to countersign your signature, as you were not present when I opened the account for you. And there's no way in hell I'm going to do that if you hurt either of them in any way. Bank policy again I'm afraid.

"You . . ." Mwengi raised his pistol above his head and stepped forward to strike Robert with it.

He was stopped dead in his tracks by the sound of the front door bell.

"Mackenzie you idiot, why aren't you watching out of the window? Who is that?"

"I can't see," said Mackenzie, straining to peer through the net curtains.

"If you have informed the police you will be very sorry indeed my friend." Mwengi's eyes were wide as he scowled at Robert.

"I never. I don't know who it is, but I can assure you, it's nothing to do with me."

Mwengi pointed the gun at Angela.

"You, get rid of them, NOW!"

Angela got to her feet and walked slowly towards the door. Mwengi followed her into the hallway and stood behind the front door, his gun at the ready. The doorbell rang again and he nodded to her to open the door. Angela took a few deep breaths and, turning the latch, she eased the door open.

The man looked at her poor battered face and was visibly taken aback.

"Mrs Morgan . . . I'm Detective Sergeant Collins. Are you all right?"

Before she could answer she was roughly pushed to one side and Mwengi stepped into view, his gun levelled at the policeman's face.

"Inside, NOW," he barked.

DS Collins stepped over the threshold and into, what was to become, his own private nightmare. As soon as the man had entered the house Mwengi slammed the door shut behind him. He ordered Angela to go into the living room and instructed DS Collins to stand facing the wall.

Angela hurried into the lounge, glancing back to see Mwengi strike the policeman hard on the back of the head with the butt of his gun. DC Collins fell heavily on to the stone floor. In a flash, Mwengi was on him pounding the gun butt over and over again into the side of the man's head, taking his frustration and anger out on the poor unfortunate policeman. Collins tried his best to fight back but his efforts were futile, Mwengi was by far the stronger of the two.

There was a crunch as Collins's cheekbone shattered and he gave a muffled cry. Blood poured from his nose and mouth, pooling under his head and spreading out across the polished stone floor.

Mwengi climbed off the man and stood over him. He kicked him hard in the chest several times until he had broken several of his victim's ribs. He kicked him twice in the face, shattering what was left of Collins's nose and jaw.

Collins rolled over onto his back, choking on his own blood as he gasped for air. An image of his wife and five-year-old daughter flashed through his mind and he wondered momentarily, if he would ever live to see them again.

Mwengi looked down in disgust at the man, his chest heaved and he shook with rage.

"I hate policemen," he said and, raising his foot above the officer, brought his heel down hard onto Collins's throat, rupturing his windpipe and crushing his larynx.

The officer made a few gurgling noises as he tried desperately to take in some air, but it was all in vain. His windpipe was so badly damaged that no air could pass through it and it took less than two minutes for him to die.

Mwengi kicked him in the head once more for good measure and stood back, satisfied with his handiwork. He stood looking at the lifeless form of DS Collins for a while, smiling. He enjoyed killing, to him it was one of life's simple pleasures, especially when his victim was a policeman or a politician.

Moore's car screeched to a halt in front of a barrier blocking the road leading to Angela's street. Two more police cars were already there, their lights bouncing off the adjacent buildings. Finch had instructed his officers not to use sirens as he didn't want to announce their presence in advance.

Peter Finch got out of an unmarked car parked opposite and walked over to Moore's car.

"Raymond," he greeted his counterpart with an outstretched hand, "Good to see you again. Thanks for coming."

"You too, Peter. What's happening?"

"Apparently, some terrorists have taken John Morgan's wife hostage. They also have her son and a young woman."

"What do they want?"

"God knows."

"Any sign of DS Collins?"

"None at all, I'm afraid. He could be stuck at the road blocks at the other end of the street. Want me to send a man round to find out?"

"No it's okay. What do you say we go and ruffle a few feathers."

Two armed soldiers stood in front of the barriers, facing the two senior police officers as they strode purposefully towards them. As the two men approached the barrier one of the soldiers stepped forward.

"Sorry Sir, I can't let you go any further. I have orders to stop anyone passing."

"Where is your Commanding Officer?" he demanded.

"Lieutenant Colonel Reed is in the command vehicle, Sir."

"Well would you mind telling him that Detective Chief Superintendent Moore and Detective Chief Superintendent Finch want to see him."

The soldier stood looking at him for a few seconds.

"If you could wait here please, Sir," he said and walked away a few yards.

He pressed the button on the side of a microphone clipped to his lapel.

"Briggs to Base."

"Go ahead, Briggs!" a voice appeared in his ear-piece.

"I have a Detective Chief Superintendent Moore and a Detective Chief Superintendent Finch and a small army of coppers requesting an audience with Lieutenant Colonel Reed."

There was a short silence.

"Reed here. How many are there all together Briggs?"

Briggs looked around as two more police cars entered the street and pull to a halt behind several other police cars.

"I'd say, at the moment about twenty police officers, Sir."

"Shit!" Reed turned to the others in the command vehicle. "Why can't these coppers keep their bloody noses out when they're told to."

He gave a long sigh.

"Okay Briggs, escort Moore and Finch up but don't allow any of the others to pass."

"Very good Sir, out."

Briggs walked across and spoke to his colleague, then returned to the two officers.

"If you would follow me please Sirs."

Moore and Finch exchanged glances and followed in silence as Briggs lead him down a small pathway and into the lane where the command vehicle was parked.

The door to the coach stood open and as they entered, Moore could tell by the atmosphere that their presence was not welcomed.

"I am Lieutenant Colonel Reed, I am in command of this operation. What can I do for you gentlemen?" Reed looked stony-faced at them.

DCS Moore looked about him, at all the serious faces. Calmly he returned his gaze to Reed.

"I want to know what is going on and why you are deliberately keeping the police out of, what is clearly, a very serious and dangerous situation."

"This is a military operation and you have had express instructions to keep your noses out of it," Reed raised his voice.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Henry interjected. "Please. Chief Superintendent Moore is it and Chief Superintendent Finch? Please Gentlemen, sit. I shall explain the situation to you and maybe you will understand a little better. Andrew, don't be so confrontational, please. I think that the police can play an important part in this operation."

"And you are?" Moore looked coldly at Henry.

"I am General Henry Enugu. Please, sit."

Moore sat, Finch took a seat opposite.

"Chief Superintendents," Henry continued, "what we have here is an extremely delicate hostage situation. It is being perpetrated by two extremely dangerous international terrorists, one of whom is wanted in at least a dozen countries for various atrocities. They are currently hold two civilians, one of your officers and an army captain . . ."

"They've got DS Collins?"

"If that is his name, then yes. He was observed entering the premises about an hour ago. We can only presume they have taken him hostage as well."

"But why didn't you chaps try and stop him going in."

"I'm afraid he took us a little by surprise. He turned in from a side road before we had established the roadblocks. We had no way of alerting him without compromising the situation. At the moment they do not know of our presence but we do not know for how long that will last. We did not involve the Police because we wanted to treat the situation as a military operation so that we could take whatever steps were necessary to resolve the situation. That is why the Police were asked to keep away. We have the clearance of the Home Office and your Chief Constable."

"Hummph! Seems some people are no good at taking orders," grumbled Reed.

Moore shot him a glance. He opened his mouth and was about to say something in retaliation when Henry cut in again.

"However, as you and some of your officers are now here, I think it would be an excellent idea if we could put you to good use."

Finch looked across at Henry.

"In what way," he asked.

"Well, I think it would be very useful if your men could take over the manning of all the road blocks for one thing. That would free up some of our men for other duties. Also, we have evacuated the people living in the immediate vicinity but I think we should widen that field a little. Ideally, we would like to evacuate the entire street. We do not know if the terrorists have explosives with them. We also need someone to keep the local press at bay. They are bound to get wind of things and start interfering, if they haven't already done so. The Police are much more adept at that sort of thing than us military men. We must rely on each other's strengths in a critical situation such as this, don't you agree?"

Moore smiled smugly at Reed.

"But Henry . . ." Reed began.

"I think Henry's right, Andrew," Hartley-Jones, who had remained silent up to this point, leaned forward in his seat. "Now that the Police are here, I think we should utilise their knowledge and expertise to our advantage."

"Very well," Reed sighed, "Barnes will you go with Chief Superintendents Moore and Finch, bring them up to speed and explain what we would like their men to do?"

"Yes Sir."

Moore stood up and looked at Henry.

"Thank you General," he said and the two men climbed back out of the vehicle again.

They were hardly out of earshot when Reed started.

"What the hell were you thinking, Henry?"

"Calm down Andrew. I know we didn't want the Police involved but, they are involved now and we can't do much about it. We must make the most of the situation."

"Couldn't agree more," added Hartley-Jones, "if we give them a minor role it keeps them off our backs and makes them feel less excluded. This Moore chap seems an arrogant bastard and could turn out to be a right pain in the arse, so I think it is better we have him on our side than against us."

"Oh, I suppose you're right," Reed sat down heavily and sighed. "I just have a horrible feeling this whole thing is going to go tits up very soon and I want to make sure that when it does it is we who are controlling the situation and not them."

The four people in the lounge had heard all that was going on in the hall, but could only imagine the horror that had taken place.

Suddenly, Mwengi burst into the room, slamming the door into the bureau. He glared straight at Robert.

"You lied, you tried to trick me," he spat.

"No I never, I swear it."

"You lied. That was a policeman . . . You are going to pay dearly for this treachery."

Mwengi advanced towards Robert, raising his pistol as he did, ready to strike him.

Before he reached Robert however, Zeta dropped the lemon slicer, slid the dagger from her boot and sprang from the chair. She seized Mwengi around the neck, pushing the knife hard against the side of his throat.

"Drop the gun now," she hissed, "before I open your windpipe."

"Mackenzie," he gasped.

Mackenzie, startled at first by Zeta's sudden escape, reached into his jacket and pulled out his gun. He raised it at Zeta's back but, before he could even think about pulling the trigger, Angela's hand moved quickly, from the side of the armchair. She turned and plunged the silver letter opener deep into his side. The pointed blade sank easily, up to the hilt, into his soft flesh. He screamed and threw himself to one side. He dropped to his knees, grabbing at his side and dropping his gun in the process.

Zeta's eyes followed the gun and, as she was momentarily distracted, Mwengi seized the opportunity. He grabbed Zeta's wrist with one hand whilst bringing his elbow up into her solar plexus. Zeta gasped and fell backwards, stumbling over the dining-room chair. As Mwengi turned towards her, Robert grabbed for the gun. Catching Mwengi's wrist, he tried to turn the gun backwards. As he did so a shot rang out, blasting a huge lump of plaster out of the wall.

In the van the men witnessed the action on the video monitors, the shot was clearly audible. Reed grabbed the microphone.

"MOVE IN NOW! ALL UNITS, MOVE IN NOW! GO, GO, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!"

Robert struggled to get the upper hand but Mwengi was too strong for him and spun around, punching him hard in the face. Robert fell to the floor, knocking over a small table and lamp. The shade fell off the lamp and the bulb shattered as it hit the wall.

Mwengi raised his gun at Robert's prostrate body but Angela was on him in a flash. She grabbed his arm and a second shot hit the hearth, smashing several of the ceramic tiles at the back of the fireplace. She had no hope of holding Mwengi and, with the butt of his automatic, he hit her hard on the forehead, sending her flying backwards, blood poured from the wound she already had on her head and she lay unconscious.

Before Mwengi could do anything else, Zeta, who had regained her breath, from her position on the floor, hooked her feet around his and, tipping him off balance, sent him thudding into the wall by the door.

Suddenly, there was a crash of breaking glass as a small black object smashed through the back window. It skittered, spinning across the polished wooden floor as it slid under the dining table and out into the lounge. Zeta instantly recognised the object as a stun grenade and her cat-like reflexes took over. She sprang, effortlessly, over the back of the settee where she would be shielded from the blast.

There was a terrific boom as the grenade detonated. The shock wave shook the room, sending pictures crashing to the floor and small ornaments flying through the air. The purpose of a stun grenade was to incapacitate people, within an enclosed area, by temporarily deafening them and sending out a shock wave to render them unconscious. Mwengi, because of his position low to the floor behind the wall, had escaped the worst of the blast and so, was only momentarily disorientated.

Angela lay unconscious on the floor and Mackenzie sat slumped against the wall behind the armchair. From her position, Zeta heard Robert move so knew he was still all right.

Suddenly, the lounge door burst open and a figure, dressed entirely in black, dive into the room. Mwengi, quick as a flash, despatched the man with one swift shot to the head. Blood gushed through the man's balaclava, as he lay motionless on the floor. The back window suddenly exploded with a loud crash as another SAS officer dived through it, another coming through the lounge door at the same time. Mwengi fired at the second of the two soldiers as he passed, hitting him in the back. Then, scrambling to his feet, he turned to meet the man who had entered through the window. There was a burst of machine-gun fire and bullets tore into the wall at Mwengi's side, but the man was not quick enough.

Mwengi dived headfirst across the room, rolled and came up into the kneeling position, his gun pointing at the soldier. His first shot hit the man low in the stomach, the second in his upper arm. The man gave an agonised cry and fell to the floor amongst the shattered glass and smashed ornaments. Mwengi put a third bullet in the top of the man's head, as he lay writhing in agony on the floor.

Mwengi stayed kneeling on the floor, all his muscles tense, waiting for the next move. He was so engrossed and his ears still rang from the blast that her did not hear the faint click as Robert flicked the switch on the table lamp he had picked up. Lunging forward, Robert shoved the jagged remains of the shattered bulb into Mwengi's thigh.

Mwengi screamed with agony as the electricity coursed through his body, scorching his trousers and burning his leg badly. Despite his convulsions, he still managed to kick Robert in the face and the lamp fell from his hand. Mwengi quickly scurried back to his position against the wall, out of reach. He sat with his back against the wall, his gun miraculously, still in his hand, pointed at Robert.

"You bastard!" he spat, "you should not have done that."

Robert froze, eyes wide, waiting for the shot. But when the shot came, it was not fired from Mwengi's gun.

Mackenzie had regained consciousness at last.

"NO!" he screamed.

He had picked up his gun and, as Mwengi had aimed at Robert, fired at his erstwhile partner. The bullet hit Mwengi in the chest and spun him around in the sitting position. Mwengi cried out in pain and looked in disbelief at Mackenzie slumped against the wall opposite. The gun had flown from Mwengi's hand and landed on the carpet by the door. He tried to lean forward and grab it, but he was not quick enough.

Zeta was on her feet in an instant and snatched up the gun.

"Are you all right?" she asked turning to Robert.

He nodded, unable to speak, a mixture of fear, surprise and relief.

Another soldier rushed into the room and, seeing Mackenzie, gun in hand, fired three shots in quick succession. Mackenzie flew backwards, his head cracking hard against the wall, and he fell sideways, dead. The man spun around and faced Mwengi.

"LEAVE HIM!" shouted Zeta, the man stopped dead in his tracks. Zeta rose from her crouching position and walked around the end of the settee until she was standing in front of Mwengi. He looked up at her, his eyes showing fear, like a cornered animal.

"He's mine," she said softly.

"Zeta!" It was Henry, standing in the doorway. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine thanks," she smiled at Henry, "I have just got some unfinished business to attend to."

She turned back to Mwengi.

"I have been waiting many years for this moment," she told him. "How good is your memory Mwengi? Do you remember a terrorist attack you made on the South African politician, Jan van der Kerke? You and your murdering friends attacked a bus on the way from the airport. You must remember, 1989, Harare. I'll certainly never forget it . . . because my family were on that bus."

Mwengi's eyes widened at the revelation.

She raised the gun, pointed it at Mwengi's forehead, he closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.

Tears welled up in Zeta's eyes, her chest began to heave and for a moment her hand wavered before finally dropping to her side. Henry stepped forward and put his arms around her and she sobbed into his chest. He took the gun from her hand.

"I can't do it, Henry," she sobbed. "After all that he has put us through and I still can't do it."

Mwengi opened his eyes and gave a sigh of relief. A small smirk crossed his lips.

"It's going to be all right, my Angel," Henry spoke softly as he comforted her.

The gun shot, when it came, made them all jump and Zeta sobbed louder. Henry put the gun, its barrel still smoking, into his jacket pocket.

"It is all over now, my precious one," he whispered.

Henry continued to hold her and after a few moments he looked down at Zeta.

"Go to Robert," he suggested, gently, "he needs you now."

She pulled away from Henry and looked down at Mwengi. He didn't look so fearsome now, sprawled lifeless against the wall. A torrent of blood had gushed from a large hole high on his forehead and poured down his face obscuring most of his features.

She stumbled across the room and into Robert's arms, sobbing long and hard as he held her to him.

Henry helped Angela to an armchair, she had just regained consciousness and sat dazed on the floor. Within seconds the room had filled up with people, mostly in uniform. A medical team arrived and an army paramedic set to work inspecting and dressing Angela's wounds. When he had finished he helped her out of the chair and, after she had found her balance, she too crossed the room, unsteadily, and put her arms around Robert and Zeta, weeping with relief.

They stood holding each other until long after the bodies of the two terrorists and the dead and injured soldiers had been taken away.

Henry, at last, came back into the room and walked over to the trio.

"Zeta," he said softly, placing a fatherly hand on her shoulder.

Zeta turned and hugged him hard. He placed a hand on the back of her neck and kissed the top of her head.

"I am most sorry for all this mess Mrs Morgan," he looked at Angela. "We will make arrangements to have the house secured and put right all the damage. Is there somewhere you can stay in the meantime?"

"We can all go and stay at my father's house," suggested Robert, his arm still around his mother's shoulders.

"Good idea and don't worry about a thing. I will sort this whole business out with the authorities. You just rest and try to get over your ordeal." Then turning to Robert, "Don't worry about the other matter we have to attend to for the moment, I can sort that out with you in a couple of days."

"Oh yes, that. I had almost forgotten, with all the excitement," Robert laughed weakly.

It was just over a week later that, during one of his frequent visits, Henry informed Angela that she could return to her home, to inspect the repairs.

They had spent the intervening days at Bramley, not venturing outside any further than the garden. They had talked endlessly about their ordeal and found comfort in each other's company.

Henry called in at least once every day, and gave them progress reports on what was happening with the authorities and on how the repairs to Angela's cottage were progressing.

As they were being driven to the house they were all a little apprehensive about returning to the scene that held so many bad memories for them. Memories they were sure would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Henry drove steadily, Zeta at his side with Robert and Angela in the back seat.

Robert grasped his mother's hand.

"Why don't you sell Sanders Cottage and move back to Bramley?" he suggested.

"But it's your house, Darling, your father left it to you," she replied.

"I know," he smiled, "but I'm giving it to you. You know you'd be happier there. I know how much you love that house and it's still got all of Dad's things. Besides, I can buy any house I want now."

"What do you mean?" she looked puzzled.

"I've just remembered, I'm a millionaire now." He put his hand on Zeta's shoulder, she covered it with her own.

"But . . . I thought you had to give all of the money back."

"I do, but Henry has agreed to give me the commission that Dad was going to get, plus a bit extra for my trouble. Isn't that right Henry?"

"It most certainly is," Henry Enugu grinned into the rear-view mirror. "And . . . talking of which, I have taken the trouble to write down the details of an account into which I would like the balance of the money transferred, if you would be so kind?"

Without taking his eyes off the road, Henry reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a folded sheet of paper, which he passed over to Robert.

"I will also arrange for some compensation to be forwarded to you too, Mrs Morgan. Would two hundred and fifty thousand dollars be sufficient?"

Zeta cast him a look.

"Pounds, I mean," he corrected quickly.

Angela's mouth dropped open, but she struggled to find the words.

"I . . . but . . . but . . ."

"Just say 'thank you' Mum," smiled Robert.

"Yes, er, sorry, I mean, thank you. Are you sure? I mean . . . that's an awfully large amount of money . . . and you have put right all the damage."

Henry laughed.

"You are very welcome, Mrs Morgan. I am most sorry for the danger to which you have been subjected, and for all the damage to your beautiful home. It is the very least I can do."

"I think under the circumstances you can refrain from calling me Mrs Morgan, Henry. Please, call me Angela."

They were all laughing as they pulled into Angela's driveway.

It was two days later that they congregated at Heathrow Airport to bid farewell to Henry who was returning home to Nigeria. The small group were assembled in a private lounge waiting for Henry's flight to be called.

News had come through of the death of General Suni Abacha, the self-appointed President and military leader of the incumbent Nigerian Government. The former Nigerian Defence Chief of Staff, General Abdulsalami Abubakar, had assumed temporary control of the country. He had agreed that the country should be returned to a democratically elected government as soon as was practicable. Henry had a lot of work to do back home.

"You will come back and visit me won't you, my Angel?" Henry hugged Zeta, enveloping her in his huge arms.

"Of course I will," a tear rolled slowly down her cheek. "I will miss you so much Henry."

"I will sign your demobilisation papers and forward them to you, care of Robert, if I may?"

Robert nodded his consent.

"You look after my girl," Henry instructed, as he unravelled one arm from around Zeta so that he could shake Robert's hand. "She is very precious to me, you know?"

"Oh, rest assured, Henry, I'll never let her out of my sight for a single moment," Robert promised.

Henry smiled.

"And Angela," he said, "it has been a delight and a privilege meeting you. I only hope that I can have the pleasure of meeting you again under much happier circumstances."

"It has been a great pleasure meeting you too Henry, you are a wonderful man. Any time you fancy a holiday in England, you would be most welcome to stay with me at Bramley." Angela stepped forward and kissed Henry on the cheek.

"I think I may well take you up on that offer, Angela," he smiled.

"Oh, by the way Henry," Robert said, with a sly grin. "When I transferred the money over, I couldn't help noticing that the account details you gave me were in the name of King Abarruna Enugu. Any relation by any chance?"

"Ah," Henry looked slightly embarrassed and turned instinctively to Zeta.

"Henry?" Zeta looked at him suspiciously.

"Well, I was going to tell you, Zeta. But in all the excitement it must have slipped my mind."

"Tell me what, Henry? You are planning on returning all the money to the government aren't you?"

"No, Princess, the money is going to be returned to its rightful owners, the Nigerian people. You see, the Government know nothing about the money," he confessed. "As far as they are concerned the members of the consortium were arrested for various fraudulent activities. They will receive fairly minor sentences but will never be allowed to hold office again. No, the Government think that the sole purpose of all this was to eliminate Mwengi. He has been a thorn in the side of the African people for years and we had the chance to put a stop to him once and for all. The money will be used to build a hospital and a school in the Maseteri region. I will be crowned King next year as my father has decided to step down. There is so much we want to do and the money will enable us to do it. We want to buy back some of our old lands and give them back to our people so they can return to their old farms that were confiscated by a succession of governments. I, too, will be resigning my commission at the end of October. I have had enough, and I'm getting too old for all this cloak and dagger stuff. Whether this new government will uphold its promise to return the country to a democracy or whether it reneges once again, just like the last, remains to be seen. Either way, the money will be used to give my people back what is rightfully theirs. I can not stand by and watch the Ruling Council waste money on their lavish new government buildings in Abuja and Lagos, while there are people in Maseteri dying for the want of clean drinking water and decent medical facilities. I will be keeping none of the money for myself, I promise you. It will all be used for the good of the community."

"You don't have to justify it to me," Zeta smiled. "I know you well enough to know that you would not have done it for personal gain."

She kissed his cheek.

"I love you, Henry."

"I love you too, my Angel."

The intercom announced that passengers for the eleven-thirty flight to Abuja were to proceed to the Departure Lounge, to await further instructions. As the announcement finished a smart young airport official, who had been waiting a discrete distance away, approached cautiously.

"Your Highness," he said, "would you like to follow me to the VIP lounge? Your flight has just been called."

"Oh well, this is it, I suppose," Henry sighed, letting go of Zeta and picking up his briefcase. "Take care, my Angel. Well, goodbye, my friends. Oh, and by the way, you are all officially invited to my coronation celebrations next year. There's going to be one hell of a party."

They laughed and waved as he walked through the doors of the Departure Lounge and disappeared from view.

* * *

**Doug Hilditch** is happily married to his wife, Tess and they live in Somerset, UK with their two cats. Doug works as a Fraud Risk Analyst/Investigator. His hobbies include writing, travelling and music.

By the same Author

### Splendour in the Grass

### The Seahorse
