

### Unquiet Mind

Simon M Gray

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Simon M Gray

http://www.simonmgray.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard workof this author.

Chapter 1

Frigid night air. A dog's eager whine. Still distant.

Cayden's teeth chattered. He searched the blackness for the outline of a hill, a pinprick of house light – anything for a bearing. His torch battery was flat; compass and map, useless.

He held his breath, blood pounding. The dog was to his right now. Tracking by air or ground? It was important. He had learnt they used two types: big-nosed, slobbering Basset hounds that followed your scent on the ground, or nimble, sharper-nosed German Shepherds that caught your scent in the air and followed you down a narrowing cone; moving backwards and forwards across its width, until they eventually found you at the point. They always found you.

He started to run. His feet sliding on ice and twisting in the frozen ruts. The cold numbed his face; his ears ached. Bushes with hard branches jabbed at his body like iron forks. He pushed on, desperate to warm up. The pale spectre of his breath ballooned in front of him.

Cayden's strides lengthened; the hill became steeper. Out of control, he stumbled over a log, and the ground fell away. For a heart-stopping second he was weightless, terrified he had run off a cliff. The ground hit him with a heavy punch in the stomach. He rolled in agony, gulping for air. Stones dug into his back and he rolled some more until there was smooth ice beneath him. His breathing gradually returned. His body began to shake. Perhaps he should just give up. What more could they do to him?

He stood, then cautiously shuffled away, bent forward like a novice ice skater. There was an ominous crack.

The dogs, closer, barked excitedly. He continued. This was more than a puddle.

Another crack.

He torpedoed into the vice-wrap of icy water. Fresh terror surged through him. Cayden kicked out, trying to stop his descent. He felt the slime at the bottom and kicked away. Rising swiftly, his head cracked the underside of the ice. He lashed out with his fists – weakening by the second, disorientated by blackness. He opened his mouth for air and a spike of icy water hit his throat. His brain fired a final shot of adrenaline.

Cayden punched upwards and the ice burst – like hitting the crust of a crème brûlée. He coughed and spewed the contents of his stomach. Steam again ballooned in front of his face as he sobbed for air. He surged forward, oblivious to the sharp slithers of ice. He could vaguely see the bank; darker trees above the luminescent lake surface.

Teeth chattering, he clung to a fallen tree, convulsing from cold. It was now life or death. He couldn't stop, he knew he was very close to the end. He had to get warm. He staggered through the trees, each branch like wire brushing his skin.

Cayden no longer cared about the noise. But when, moments later, he saw the brief flash of torchlight, he veered away, surprised his instinct to survive was still strong. His legs moved under their own volition; he raced away. He heard a voice shout, but it was like listening to someone while submerged in a bath. His legs pounded below him, and gradually the shouting receded.

Staggering from the forest edge blowing like a steam train, Cayden immediately felt the bite of the wind through his damp clothes. His head was shrouded in silvery fog. He hugged the black army-issue jacket. His teeth chattered. The clouds separated like stretched dough, allowing a slice of moon to show the flat terrain ahead. Far to his right was a cluster of lights, maybe five kilometres away. That would be the little village at the end of the loch. What was it called? They would have set traps for him on every route into it. He was looking north-west. If he headed west, he would eventually find the road. That was where the Land Rover was parked – equally obvious. They were sure to have discovered it by now.

A stick cracked behind him.

Cayden lowered himself to his haunches, holding his breath. Another crack – and further down the tree line, a beam of yellow light. He could see the black shadow of the man holding the torch, his head wreathed in steam. Crouching low, Cayden set off in the opposite direction. He had gone a few steps when a shape disentangled itself from the low scrub and launched towards him.

Cayden cried out and leapt forward. He heard the body crash into the ground behind him. He sprinted for his life.

'Stop y'bastard. It's over. Give up.'

The moonlight enabled him to see a little more but still he fell into hidden dips and stumbled over ruts and rises in the land. He had found a pale sandy path that meandered through low gorse. Alarm tingled along his spine, anticipating the hit from a tackle.

Finally, Cayden's legs gave out. He collapsed with a groan. 'Finished,' he panted, 'give up.' He crawled into a dead patch of bracken, finding that under the frozen heads the vegetation was softer, with a residue of warmth – like crawling into the bottom of a compost heap. He curled himself into a ball, his clothes wet and clinging. 'Oh God ... I'm cold.'

Moment's later, footsteps pounded by. He could not hear the dogs. His frozen swim must have confused them. Hopefully, they were now after one of the others.

'Stay positive,' he mumbled. 'Remember ... s-s-survival is in the mind. Think of something, anything, except feeling sorry for yourself. Remember your objective. Remember why.

Altnaharra – that was the name of the village whose lights he had seen. The little white-painted hotel built in 1820, with its creaking floors and deep-rolled topped bath that he had soaked in for an hour. How long ago? The dinner – the best sirloin steak he had ever had. His stomach grumbled and he curled himself tighter, his senses alert for approaching footsteps. A mouse, shocked by his intrusion, suddenly found the nerve to run. Its scurrying footsteps made Cayden's heart beat tenfold. His mouth was dry. With numb fingers he reached for the flask on his belt and bought the cold metal to his lips. Some of the precious liquid dribbled down his chin.

A distant shout – then, from further away, an answering whistle. They were calling for him, baiting him; scaring him.

Cayden screwed the cap back on the flask and wedged it into the belt holster. He curled himself tighter after spreading more of the dead bracken over his body.

Loch Naver. Yes, that had been the name of the lake near Altnaharra. Very good fishing the hotel owner had told him, after looking curiously into the back of his Range Rover. Cayden had explained he was not there to fish, which had only heightened the hotel owner's curiosity. People seldom stayed for anything else. If that man could see him now, what would he think?

Cayden could hear his name being called.

What was the big mountain north of Altnaharra? He tried to concentrate.

'Come on y'bastard. We know y're here.'

Ben Hope! That was it. Cayden curled his six foot-plus, slimmed-down frame even tighter as he heard the hard ground crunch under the man's boots, slowly backtracking along the path.

He needed a mountain of hope.

'Give up. We'll take y'somewhere warm. Get y'something to eat.'

The man's voice was shockingly loud. He must be standing almost above him. Would the steam from his breath come up through the vegetation and give him away?

'The dogs will be here soon. We have the others. Game's over.'

Fuck him! Fuck them all! He wasn't going to be caught. His pursuer had not moved. An owl hooted from the forest and the boots finally crunched away. Cayden let out a slow, deep breath. He brought his wrist up to his face and pressed the button to illuminate the dial: 1:30 am. They must give up soon. He would give them another 30 minutes.

He would like to have stayed hidden all night. But the cold would kill him. He had to get moving. The trouble was, they knew that. As the 30 minutes approached, he thought he heard a very distant bark. He listened intently. Yes, on the very edge of his hearing, he heard it again.

Cayden felt adrenaline; the last reserves trickled through him. He crawled back to the path. The sky had cleared. The moon was low on the horizon, its feeble light enough to see the scar of pathway. He set off, quietly at first, but after several steps without challenge; he ran. He searched ahead, several times swerving from shadows, but none of them materialised as his pursuers.

Perhaps they had given up. He wasn't that important, after all. If they had the others, then they had won anyway.

He ran on across the undulating landscape. When the moon disappeared behind a dark ridge of distant hills, he would have to slow down. The path made a sudden right, then a left turn and Cayden gasped as his body came up short against strands of barbed wire. He could feel the barbs pierce his skin. He backed away, tugging the wire from him. He held one strand above the other and stepped through. Immediately, he fell down a steep bank. He rolled to his knees. He was on a single-track, gravel road.

Which way?

Altnaharra was behind him to the east. He had driven towards Ben Hope to the north. 'It has to be left,' he mumbled. Unless he had bisected the road between Altnaharra and the vehicle?

Cayden kept to the edge of the road and jogged on, trying to keep a log of the distance he covered by counting his strides: one step – roughly one metre. A thousand steps later he had not found the Land Rover and his energy was spent along with his water. His nerves shot to pieces, he jumped as his stumbling gait sent stones clattering away into the darkness.

2:30 am ... 2:35 ... 2:37 ... 3:05 ... 3:30. Then, a structure, blacker than the starless sky, loomed to his left. For a moment Cayden stood, swaying like a drunk as he tried to focus, his brain refusing to calculate whether or not the shape was his Range Rover. He staggered the final few feet and his hands touched rough stone walling. It rose above him. He felt along the wall until he could discern a low-level opening, the top of its doorway level with his belt. He stood still and listened. A breeze stirred, pushing the damp fabric of his clothes against him. He shivered and stooped through the opening – debris blocked his way. Cayden knelt, relieved to feel dry dirt. He sat with his back against the stone and closed his eyes.

*****

Dun Dornaigil, the Iron Age broch on the River Hope. It was built to protect the ancient farming community from marauders and slave pirates – a bulwark seven metres high, accessible by a narrow entrance, its strength acknowledged by the exacting elements. Supposedly populated by ancient ghosts of the defenders buried within. Did they now take pity on the huddled body, bringing him quickly awake, his senses on full alert?

Dawn brought a tint of pink in the East, enough light to outline the 900-metre splendour of Ben Hope, its roots starting from across the road. Cayden heard another startled cry as two pheasant shot into the air and flapped over him.

He scanned the grey gorse and heather. No sign of movement. But then, on a waft of breeze, he heard the vehicle.

Cayden stooped out from his resting place, arched his back and grimaced from the pain of tired muscles. His teeth chattered. The vehicle caught him by surprise. Its headlights came out of a dip. Like a startled deer, he stood transfixed. Perhaps the occupants were friendly. The engine gunned and Cayden's sixth-sense told him they weren't. He bolted down the side of the broch, plunging into the gorse and down the riverbank. The vehicle revved and crashed over the lip of the bank, weaving madly down through the clumps of gorse. Cayden frantically scrambled across the shallow river and then clawed his way up the far bank. There was no way he could out-run them unless he got into the sort of terrain that would force them to abandon the vehicle.

At the top of the bank, to his dismay, he saw a wide, flat valley of gorse and heather. Perfect Land Rover country! He ran on, the diesel engine bellowing as it crested the bank. It was no good. A brace of grouse clattered into the air, their rapid wing beat soon carrying them far ahead. That was the only way he was going to get away.

Sweat began to roll down his face; his chest was painful as he laboured for breath. He could hear the diesel gaining on him. He couldn't go on – he had lost. They had him. His foot sunk into the soft peat and he sprawled forward onto his stomach. The Land Rover was almost on top of him. Cayden crawled away; each point of contact slurped and sucked at him. The Land Rover's engine became manic. He glanced backwards. A few yards behind, the vehicle had sunk to its sills, the wheels spinning uselessly, sending clogs of peat high into the air.

Cayden got to his feet, but slipped and fell forward. His head made contact with a slab of granite.

And then – blackness.

Chapter 2

' ... the traffic is not bad for a Monday and the end of half-term Mike ... everything flowing fairly easily ... a few problems on the slip road at junction two eastbound on the M33, and the traffic lights are out of action where London Road crosses Solent Ride ...'

Jac jabbed the TI button on the car stereo. He knew the traffic lights were out of action. He could see the mayhem ahead over the long line of crawling cars. Sighing, he adjusted the rear view mirror, framing the young occupant on the rear seat. Dylan was staring out of the window, a finger absently probing his nose.

'That's horrible, Dylan.'

The boy withdrew his finger and promptly stuck it in his mouth. 'Sorry daddy.'

Jac took his foot off the brake and the Cayenne idled forward another car space.

'Why is everything stopped, daddy? Is it because it's a rainy Monday?'

Jac smiled at his son. 'No, the traffic lights aren't working.'

'But mummy says it's always raining on Monday and everything's crap. Does that mean it doesn't work?'

Jac frowned. 'Something like that.' Opening the window for some fresh air, he could smell the sea. 'Does mummy often say things like that?'

'No.' Dylan sighed. His feet began to swing, kicking the rear of the front passenger chair. 'What's crap, daddy?'

'It's not nice, Dylan, I don't want you saying it ... OK?'

'Mummy says everything's crap since you left. Are you coming home, daddy?'

Jac flicked the windscreen wipers to clear the drizzle. A grey February Monday morning was never going to be the right time to answer such a question – not when the futility of life was so stark. But his son was thankfully many years from that stain on every adult's life – to him, everything was fresh, no question inappropriate. Untainted thoughts flashed through Dylan's mind like impatient bees. Jac sighed again, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. A driver in a small saloon glared up at him from a side street. One of the anti-4x4 brigade? Jac waved her in. The woman tossed her head and made a point of not thanking him.

'I'm sorry I had to go away, Dylan. You know it had nothing to do with you. I love you very much. You know that, don't you?'

'Roger says ... ooh, look at that doggy, daddy ...'

A husky was pulling its owner along the pavement.

'What does Roger say?'

'Can't remember ... something about um, you're not like him ... you're different, daddy ...'

Jac looked sharply at the mirror. He didn't mind being different, especially when being compared with Roger, but he was maddened that his ex-wife's new husband should be saying such things to his son. Roger lived with them, but that did not give him the right to discuss Jac's character with Dylan.

'Different? In what way?' he asked, clenching the wheel.

Dylan stopped kicking the seat and leant forward excitedly. 'Oh, turn it up, daddy. Roger gave me this for Christmas.'

Jac recognised the latest release from Franz Ferdinand. Dylan was only seven. Too young to be listening to stuff like this. He turned the dial down a notch.

'Ohh,' Dylan stopped jigging about in his seat.

'What did Roger say, Dylan?' Jac turned in his seat. 'Can you remember?'

So Karen thought her life had been crap since he left – good! She should have understood him better.

'Can't remember.' Dylan crossed his arms, watching the dog cock its leg up against a post box.

'Well, did he say I was different in a nice way or ...' Jac didn't want to give him any ideas.

'Can't remember.' Dylan looked stubbornly out of the window.

Jac looked at his son's little chin, thrust forward with determination, the cap pushed back on his head. A miniature version of himself, trying to look angry. Jac smiled and turned the radio up.

'Yeah!' Immediately, the anger vanished and Dylan was jigging in his seat again.

The driver Jac had let into the traffic was now having a conversation through the passenger window with an old woman, wearing a clear plastic headscarf and holding onto a two-wheel shopping bag.

Jac hooted.

The old woman straightened and glared at him. She said something to the driver before limping off towards the small parade of shops that ran up to the traffic lights.

Jac eased forward, thinking of Karen – beautiful, a Virgin flight attendant – and full of fun. They had married, Michael came along – and immediately it was all switched off. When Dylan arrived two years later, the clock for Jac's departure was already ticking down. He was doing the school run because she was ill and Roger was away in the Middle East, but just looking around him made Jac realise why he had to leave. He was not a suburban, school run, Saturday shopping at Tesco, shouting from the touchline, kind of guy.

The old woman was peering at the ad cards in the newsagent's window. She moved her head from side to side to see around the burglar-proof bars. She looked like she had a cranial nerve disorder.

Jac wasn't proud of himself – far from it. He would look at his reflection sometimes with disgust that he could be so selfish; such a coward with his responsibilities. Karen hated him most of the time, and he could understand why. But her life was crap since he left – now, that was a revelation.

'Daddy, Mikey says we're going to have another mummy. I don't want another mummy.'

A white van was parked on the verge. Alongside, a man in overalls sat on a stool under an umbrella, his lap covered in cables spilling from a metal box that Jac assumed controlled the traffic lights. Jac edged out into the intersection. No-one would give way.

'Wanker!' a builder yelled, his expression hateful as he leaned out of his van window, his breakfast spilt down the front of his sweatshirt.

'Just trying to get across, like you,' Jac muttered.

'Daddy ... why does Mikey say we're going to have a new mummy?'

Jac glanced at the clock. They were going to be late. He stamped on the accelerator and the Porsche surged forward. He hated this part of Portsmouth. Grey rows of identical semis, occasionally broken by a forlorn-looking piece of grass, a swing and a slide in one corner, and leaning goalposts in another. Corner shops with barred windows, litter caught against the tyres of parked cars, few of which he guessed would pass an MOT. Why couldn't they just plant a few trees? Cayden knew Karen only lived here because her husband was in the Navy, but Roger was an officer – surely they could have moved to one of the better areas. He hated the fact that Dylan was going to school in a place like this. He didn't want his son going into the Navy. Secret installations, hidden behind razor wire and signs saying trespassers would be electrocuted, passed by on his left.

'Daddy,' Dylan whined.

'What?'

'Why are we having a new mummy?'

Jac turned left down South Road. He could see the school gates; a woman with a Children Crossing sign was stopping the traffic, allowing a young mum wheeling a pushchair and dragging a girl by her hand, to cross. A cigarette dangled from the corner of the woman's mouth; her hair hung in greasy strands over a stained tracksuit; England emblazoned across her chest.

Jac pulled into the kerb behind a bus. He could see the teachers rounding up the children from the playground. There were tears in Dylan's eyes when Jac opened his door and knelt to unclip his seat belt.

'You're not going to have another mummy, Dylan. Janet is my friend. Like Roger is your mum's.' Jac picked him up and hugged him.

'But Roger says I should call him Dad.'

Jac held back his anger. 'You'll never have another mummy, or daddy.' He looked at his son's face and his heart flipped as he watched Dylan manfully hold back his tears. 'I promise, we will always be your mummy and daddy and we'll always love you. Michael was teasing you. He's naughty, but older brothers do tease. You remember that, he doesn't mean it, OK?'

Dylan nodded, running a finger under his nose.

'Come on, we're late. We don't want Mrs. Kennedy to be cross, do we?'

Jac held Dylan's hand and felt tears in his own eyes.

'Mrs. Kennedy was last year. It's Mrs. Newport ...'

They reached the gate at the same time as the woman in the tracksuit. She let go of her girl's hand and turned the pushchair down the street, without a word, or backward glance.

Jac hurried across the playground still holding Dylan's hand. They passed a climbing frame over soft matting and a hopscotch grid painted on the tarmac – but the rest of the area was colourless and miserable, surrounded by wrought iron fencing and, beyond, the endless sea of grey houses. The school building was one storey red brick, utilitarian and smelling of disinfectant. Dylan went to his peg and hung up his coat. Jac could hear a woman's voice from an open doorway calling out for everyone to be seated.

Dylan's eyes widened with fear. Jac knelt down and held out his arms. 'Give us a hug.'

Dylan dutifully ran into his arms and then tugged free, running into the classroom.

'Ah, there you are, Dylan Callejon, I was just about to put a cross against your name.

Jac got to his feet. He leant against the door frame. They were all seated at their little tables, facing Mrs. Newport, who seemed young enough to be his daughter. She caught sight of him and stiffened. 'Can I help you?'

Jac straightened, suddenly embarrassed as 28 seven-year-olds turned to look at him. 'No ... no, I'm Dylan's father ... Jac.'

'Class, say good morning to Mr. Callejon.'

'Good morning,' they chorused.

'Good morning,' Jac responded, feeling vaguely ridiculous. 'All of you have a nice day ... and be good.' He waved and turned away, catching the look of embarrassment on Dylan's face.

As he was leaving the cloakroom, Mrs. Newport hurried out to him. 'Mr. Callejon. It's very important that all the children are here on time. It's very unsettling otherwise.'

Jac nodded. 'Christ!' he muttered to himself as he left, 'I help run a multi-million pound company and here I am being told off by someone who still has bloody acne.'

A traffic warden was looking at his number plate when he returned.

'I was just dropping my kid off at school.'

Blank eyes in a round, black face stared back at him, the peak of the warden's cap pulled low like a soldier's in a militant African army. He was obviously waiting for a volley of verbal abuse.

Jac shrugged and slipped in behind the driving seat.

He turned the ignition and put the Cayenne into drive. The traffic warden was still looking at him. Jac smiled and pressed the accelerator, immediately stamping on the brakes as a small boy appeared from nowhere and walked in front of him. The tyres screeched on the slick surface and Jac could feel his heart racing. The boy did not look at him but carried on through the gates. He walked in a slow, purposeful way, apparently unaware of his surroundings, as if he was sleep-walking, thought Jac. He had dark skin, with large brown eyes, his black hair cut in a pudding bowl style. Several pigeons, jabbing at the asphalt, strutted from his path. Jac looked around for the boy's mother or father.

The bus was pulling away in front but there was no-one else around apart from the traffic warden, who was now standing in front of a car, parked on the chevrons at the crossing. He glanced back at Jac and then at the school playground, holding the ticket machine in his hand, like a gun.

Jac accelerated slowly, still looking at the boy, who seemed unsure about which way to go. Weak sunlight glinted off the wet slate tiles. A fat seagull was parading along the roof ridge, eyeing the pigeons. Jac had a fleeting image of his own bleak school yard; he must have been thirteen, first year at an ugly comprehensive in a south London suburb, fresh from spending his life under the hot Australian sun – crying with frustration that no-one wanted to be his friend. They had laughed at his accent – taken the piss mercilessly. Standing alone – from leader to outcast in the space of a few months. Perhaps that was why he was so useless at relationships.

Jac looked in his side-view-mirror. He thought of the lost looking boy who had just walked in. Poor little bugger – another kid, screwed-up because his damn parents were too selfish to adapt their lives to suit his needs.

The Cayenne shuddered from the explosion.

Jac's head slammed against the door pillar and his foot instinctively stamped down on the pedal. Over two tons of Cayenne hit the car parked opposite, pushing it across the pavement and into the front wall of a house. Jac head-butted the steering wheel. Then, as if in afterthought, the air bag exploded.

His hearing buzzed. His sight blurred. Jac pushed himself back into his seat, vaguely aware of the blood running down his face. He wiped his eyes.

He could hear screaming.

A car horn – his horn. Car alarms were blaring up and down the street.

A face appeared at the window. It was the traffic warden.

'What happened?' Jac shouted.

But the black face disappeared.

Ash and bits of paper, floated down onto the crumpled bonnet. There was a sudden bang as the decapitated body of a seagull bounced off the metal and slid from view, leaving a bloody trail across the paper. Red curtains hung out of a shattered window of the house he had hit.

Jac opened the door and fell onto the pavement. He looked back along the side of the Cayenne to the school entrance. The little playground was a mass of bricks and smouldering debris – the front wall missing, the middle section of the roof, fallen inwards. Slates were still sliding to the ground, and smoke billowed through the rafters into the grey sky.

People ran from the houses, shouting, screaming.

A child stumbled from the shattered entrance, his clothes blackened. He collapsed into the arms of a teacher, tripping over the debris as she ran from a Portakabin, undamaged, near the far wall.

Jac staggered forward, his feet crunching glass. What had happened? Had a plane crashed into the building? An image of Dylan crashed into his consciousness. He sprinted forward, tripping over the pavement, falling onto his hands and knees. Something stabbed into his palm. He was trying to say Dylan's name, but his throat felt as it was clogged with flour. He had lost a shoe. Someone helped him up and they went arm in arm through the open gate.

A heavily-built man shouldered past. He ran into the shattered entrance, disappearing into the smoke. Others were running towards the back of the building, some screaming, some talking into mobiles, others shouting, crying – Jac witnessed every wretched emotion as he hobbled towards the building. The burly man reappeared through the smoke, a small, lifeless body hanging in his arms. He passed it to a woman, then went back in. He managed it three more times before collapsing to his knees, coughing uncontrollably.

Jac could hear sirens. He looked back towards the gate as a fire engine came to a halt. He shook off the arm that was supporting him and carried on into the smoke.

Chapter 3

'I'm going to eat your psyche,' the voice, growled in his ear. 'I'm going to tear apart everything y'are ...' The voice faded. He felt movement behind his body. 'A sliver of soul ... hmm, very tasty ... I'm going to break ye down until y're nothing but a lump of useless flesh ... y'hear me, Callejon?'

Cayden turned his head, following the sound of the harsh Scottish tones. The mask was tight around his eyes. He felt his eyeballs being pushed into his head. His arms were tied to a pipe that felt cold and rusty against his wrists. He could smell urine – a public toilet. It was cold. His body shivered with uncontrollable spasms.

'Y're a proud man, aren't ye? Proud of what y've achieved. Proud of y'company. Proud of y'house. Proud of y' life. You're the biggest cock in the farmyard, aren't ye, Callejon? Crowing and crowing ...'

Cayden swung around, trying to follow the voice. The leather tightened about his wrists. He pushed up on his toes, easing the strain on his shoulders.

A hand suddenly clenched his testicles. Cayden stiffened.

'Not much of a cock are ye? The women aren't going to be too impressed with these, are they? I've seen bigger balls on my thirteen-year-old.'

Several voices laughed.

'Ye're a little man with a little cock, and ye'll tell me everything I want to know, won't ye?'

Cayden yelled as the hand tightened. He could feel his testicles being pushed up inside him.

'Easy there boy, I haven't finished with ye yet.'

'This has gone far enough.'

There was another burst of harsh laughter around him.

'Still think ye're in charge. Giving orders.'

'This has to stop!' Cayden's voice rose as the hand tightened.

'Och, I donna think so ...'

Cayden's hearing was suddenly muffled by headphones. Immediately, a noise like an un-tuned television blared through his head. It steadily increased in volume until it was a vast echoing roar, like an approaching wave which never broke.

Cayden jumped awake, his feet kicking out, striking something hard. He grunted with pain. Disorientated, he felt around the black space; the sleeping bag was keeping him warm but his exposed shoulders were freezing. The wall next to him felt cold and damp. His heartbeat calmed, tiredness enveloped him, His eyes closed.

'Have ye heard of a wee man called Aesop?' the voice whispered in his ear.

'Yes.' A mistake. Don't volunteer anything.

'Tell me then.'

Cayden tensed, waiting for the gloved hand.

'Who was Aesop, mister know-it-all with the small cock?'

Cayden felt the cold air move around his exposed testicles. 'Fables...' he shouted, '... Aesop's Fables. Lessons on ... life.'

'Now we're getting somewhere, ye wee prick. Tell me one?'

Cayden pulled on his wrists. 'One swallow does not a summer make.'

'Is that about you sucking your boyfriend's todger?' the voice sneered.

'Bugger off.'

The gloved hand traced over his buttocks, the coarse stitching from the seam scraping down the divide. 'How about I bugger ye, laddie?'

Cayden felt like an electrode had touched him. He swung away, clenching his buttocks. 'Spendthrift,' he shouted. 'The spendthrift and the swallow ... a man wastes his fortune and is left with nothing but his clothes ... then he sees a swallow one spring morning and decides the weather will get warmer, so he sells his coat ... except the weather turns colder and the swallow ... the swallow dies, and when the man sees the dead swallow he says ... "thanks to you, I'm freezing" ...'

Cayden bolted upright, his head making contact with the metal frame above. He cursed, shivering. He had kicked the sleeping bag down to his feet. Now, he hurriedly pulled it up around his shoulders, pushing the nightmare away. The thick insulation warmed him; he fell back, exhaustion overtaking him. His tired brain needed the anchor of normality – the reminder of who he was; what he had achieved. Think – concentrate.

Cayden Harold Callejon, forty years old next September ... no, forty-one next September ... owner of Tomahawk Powerboats ... successful company, built it up from nothing ... live in a beautiful converted barn in the Sussex downs ... drive a silver Aston Martin DB9 ...

An image of a woman filled his being, filled it as she had once filled his life. He pictured her smiling face, but the details – the exact colour and shape of her eyes, the laughter lines around the corners of her mouth, the cut of her hair – were obscure, the image more akin to a feeling – a physical shock, like the tenderness he felt when she had run into his arms at the end of the day, as if he had been away for a week.

'Rachel,' Cayden whispered. A tear squeezed between heavy lids, before sleep once again overtook him.

'Now here's my wee tale from our friend, Mr. Aesop,' the voice interrupted. 'Two cocks fight over who should rule the farmyard, and the beaten one skulks away to hide in the barn while the victor flies to the roof and crows loudly about his success. An eagle hears his crowing and swoops down, taking him off, at which the other cock returns to rule the yard.'

'Pride comes before a fall,' Cayden mumbled.

'Very good,' the man whispered encouragingly into his ear. 'Now, I'm the eagle and you are the stupid wee cock that's been crowing for way too long.'

Cayden moaned, rolling himself tighter inside the sleeping bag, only half-conscious.

She used to love the garden. Always happy to be out there, leaning over a flowerbed, pulling weeds, running the lawn mower through the curved sections of grass or planting another flowering bush the persuasive garden centre had pushed onto her. Memories flooded his brain: her long, slim legs in ripped old jeans, worn so thin on her backside that he had been able to discern the colour of her underwear; an equally old sweatshirt, stained with streaks of mud and grass, so voluminous it hid the jut of her breasts, the sweep of her waist; her hair bundled untidily on top of her head; her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth as she aggressively attacked the root of a weed with her trowel. He would watch, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, just outside the patio doors, until she became aware of him and turned, her smudged face instantly breaking into a happy smile. He had loved her so much in those precious moments. All his concerns and fears would evaporate. There was no doubt: this was the woman he wanted to be with.

Now, there was warmth on his face again. Cayden opened his eyes – her image faded. He shut them, wanting to hold on, not let the greyness close in. But it seeped in with the same determination it did every morning. He opened his eyes again, staring at the bunk-bed above; illuminated by sunlight from the window opposite. Slowly, the dreams receded. He sat up, pulling the sleeping bag around him, wincing from the bruised muscles and headache. He could see his breath. He tried to look out of the window but the inside of the glass was iced. He shivered. His clothes were hanging from a rail.

The door banged back against the wall. Cayden jumped. A short man strode in. He was carrying a steaming mug.

'Y're up, Mr. Callejon. Glad to see it. Here's a mug of tea.'

Cayden recognised the Scottish accent.

'I've had enough,' he stammered, realising he had pushed himself against the wall.

The man crouched down next to the bed. 'Aye, well that's for the good because something terrible has happened and we've all been called away south.'

Cayden accepted the mug slowly. 'What?'

The man he now recognised as McMillan stood and stared for a while out the window. 'Finish y're tea, get dressed and then come have some breakfast. Y'must be starving.' He turned back from the door. 'How's y'head? You took a helluvva whack!' He shook his head. 'You didn'a have to take it so seriously, y'know.'

They were waiting for him at the long trestle table in the next room. A fire was crackling at the far end but it provided little warmth. The linoleum floor was peeling. The wall with a broken dresser against it was green from mould.

'Sit down, Mr. Callejon,' said McMillan.

Cayden glanced cautiously at the others. The nine men who, like him, had been trying to evade capture were sitting around McMillan and his two corporals. They nodded their good mornings.

'How d'ya feel?' McMillan asked.

'Confused ... very confused...I was ... I was hallucinating last night ... about an interrogation ...' Cayden sat down next to his colleagues, looking at the plate of fried bacon, eggs, bread and beans rapidly getting cold in front of him. 'You didn't ...?' He looked up at McMillan, who shook his head.

'Och no, Mr. Callejon, we wouldn't do that to ye, would we lads?' McMillan winked at the corporals. 'It must have been the videos we showed ... anyway, sorry we had to cut things short. If ye want a refund, that won't be a problem.'

Cayden picked up his fork and jabbed at a sausage. His hand was shaking as he pushed a piece of sausage into his mouth and chewed mechanically. He could taste the fat. Swallowing, he felt the hard lump stick under his ribs. He reached for the mug of tea and sipped slowly.

'You OK, Mr. Callejon?' McMillan asked, scooping up the last of his beans.

'You have any Anadin?' Cayden replied.

'Aye, here y'go.' McMillan tossed him a box from his backpack.

Cayden took three, glancing down the table at the other pale faces. The two at the end were businessmen like himself, wanting to learn self-defence and anti-kidnapping techniques. That's what he had told them, anyway. He nodded and they smiled back. The one nearest was unshaven, his hair standing at odd angles. He had brown, bloodshot eyes and a long nose supporting a drop of moisture on the end. He wiped it away and went back to holding his mug with both hands. 'Hell of an experience,' he said through a grin, until the expression collapsed on his face so that his mouth merely quivered.

Cayden nodded slowly before looking back at McMillan. 'So, it's really over?'

'Aye. You've all done well. Very impressive seeing ye're civvies an' all.'

Cayden started to eat again. Dogs were barking outside.

'Now ye know a little more about evading capture. All vital stuff. If we had more time we would work on ye physical abilities, but mentally ye've shaped up very well.'

At this, the two former SAS corporals stood and cleared away the breakfast plates, a bottle of ketchup and the salt and pepper pots. Wasting no time, they went immediately through the only other door to the dilapidated croft and outside to their Land Rover, already full with equipment and the two German Shepherds who sat on the tailgate. These were men more used to communicating through their hard, efficient movements, rather than with words. Whether they shared McMillan's views or not, it was difficult to tell. They had hardly said anything to him over the course of the past few days. When instructions were needed, they had done it physically – jabbing the butt of an M16 hard into Cayden's chest to emphasise that he should hold it more tightly, or pushing him deeper into the mud to explain that he needed to lie lower, or forcing his arm painfully up his back to demonstrate how easy it was to incapacitate someone trying to attack you with a knife.

For all that pushing, shoving, hitting and yelling, Cayden had paid over £1,000.

'So, has it been worth it?' McMillan asked, smiling as he lit a cigarette.

They nodded dumbly.

'Make sure ye watch again the video on interrogation.' added McMillan. 'It's the hardest part, and one ye can't practice, eh?'

The buzzing was beginning to recede as the food began to restore some of Cayden's strength. 'I've learnt a lot, thank you,' he said. But was it really over? He wasn't fully convinced. Shouldn't there be more? 'If I wanted to ... learn more, can I call you on the same number?'

McMillan laughed – or sneered. Cayden couldn't tell. 'No, Mr. Callejon., ye've gone about as far as we can go with a civvy. Especially one as old as ye'self. No disrespect but I wouldn't want to be responsible ... if ye see what I mean.'

Cayden pushed his plate away. His body did feel all of its 40 years. He was tired beyond anything he had experienced before.

'Now, as I've said, we've gotta' move, sharpish ...' McMillan scooped his plastic plate and mug into a black waste bag. '... so we're going to leave ye to it ... just shut the door when ye're ready and ...' McMillan got to his feet and stretched his hand across the table. He shook hands with each of them. '... thank ye for using our wee company for yer training. I hope ye never have to use what we've taught you, but if ye do, I hope it proves useful.'

McMillan shouldered his pack and went out to the Land Rover. He shooed the dogs into their space and slammed the tailgate shut before squeezing in behind the wheel. The engine started with a clatter before the tyres churned over the moss and lichen and they bumped away along the narrow track, quickly disappearing from view. Cayden sat in silence with the others, staring out of the door at the grey clouds scudding across the pine-forested valley and blurring the tops of the far hills. The wind moaned through the cracks in the building.

'Why did they have to leave?' Cayden asked eventually. His voice sounded as grey as the sky.

The man next to him, whose name he had forgotten, pushed back wearily. 'Big emergency down south. They've bombed service targets and, because so many are overseas, they've called in everyone to help.'

Cayden looked up at the man. He was tall, slim, something to do with oil exploration. Bickerton – that was his name, he suddenly remembered. 'But I thought they were no longer in the SAS?.'

Bickerton picked up his rucksack. 'They're not. But the bastards have blown up three schools. Everyone's been called in. McMillan reckoned there could be civil war.'

Cayden looked from Bickerton to the others, all of them wide-eyed. 'What are you talking about?'

'Portsmouth, Aldershot, Brize Norton. Navy, army, air force. Three schools. Suicide bombers. Fucking kid suicide bombers. These people are insane.'

'I don't believe it!' Cayden exclaimed.

'Well, I wouldn't like to be a Muslim living in this country right now. Perhaps our training will come in useful when we attack Bradford.' Bickerton smiled, but his eyes remained grim. He shook hands briefly and left with the others. Vehicles started-up and one by one they followed McMillan's tracks. It had not been a week for amiable goodbyes.

One man was left. Patterson was shorter than Cayden by at least five inches; younger, but unfit, with a beer belly and arms that were undefined with muscle. He had cropped hair, and a round face that perpetually frowned. A mummy's boy trying to look harder than he was – that had been McMillan's description. His single interest was computer games. His eyes were dull.

Cayden found his backpack and retrieved a fleece smelling of a far-off world of washing machines and fabric softener. Not as good as when Rachel had done his washing, though. Cayden scowled at the Range Rover, backed up to a low barn that extended out from the cottage, with a roof of corrugated asbestos and flaking white-painted, stone walls.

'What day is it?' he asked, trying to shake some life into him.

Patterson shrugged.

Cayden pressed the alarm button before throwing his pack onto the back seat.

He opened the low wooden barn door and wandered along the narrow corridor that ran the length of the building. At intervals, to his left, were steel doors. He pushed open the middle one on well-oiled hinges. This was where they had been briefed, watching videos on a TV powered by a portable generator. The walls were two feet thick. Inside, the empty, windowless room was a rusty pipe across the ceiling. The room smelt like a public toilet.

Patterson was standing next to the Range Rover, his backpack at his feet. Cayden suddenly remembered that he had arrived by taxi at the hotel in Altnaharra. 'Where do you live?' he asked the younger man as he climbed in behind the wheel. He wanted to be alone.

'Burnham Deepdale.'

Cayden looked at him impatiently.

'Near Norwich.'

'How were you planning on getting back?'

Patterson's frown deepened, as if he was working on an exam question.

'Get in,' said Cayden, starting the engine. 'You can think about it on the way to the main road.'

Patterson ran around and climbed in, stuffing his rucksack into the footwell, the straps scratching the leather. Cayden pressed the buttons on the steering wheel, searching for a radio signal. He got a station in Gaelic; the rest were hidden behind static. He switched the radio off impatiently.

The deep ruts were full of broken chunks of muddy ice. Cayden engaged four-wheel drive when the rear wheels started to spin.

'So, what do you do?'

'This and that.'

Cayden clenched the wheel. The Range Rover rocked and dipped over the surface. 'Anything specific?'

When Patterson didn't answer, Cayden looked at him sharply. If he was going to be sitting there disturbing his need to be alone, then the least he could do was talk. 'How old are you?' he asked between clenched teeth.

'Ahh, thirty-four,' replied Patterson, frowning. The track turned sharp left and started to descend in a series of hairpins through the pine forest. 'My folks died in a car crash when I was sixteen.'

'Oh,' Cayden responded, unable to summon any sympathy. 'So, you play games all day?'

'Pretty much.' Patterson picked dirt from under his fingernails. 'They were well insured.'

Cayden sighed. 'Why this course?'

Patterson suddenly became animated. He leant forward, his hands gripping imaginary controls. 'To feel what it's like ... you know, like running from the enemy ...like ... er, holding guns ... brilliant!'

Cayden looked at him with astonishment.

'Yeah ... awesome,' added Patterson, staring ahead, unfocused.

The trees stood in silent rows, their lower branches brown from lack of sunlight. Nothing moved. Cayden remembered their needle-sharp touch in the cold night. He remembered the lake, shivered and turned up the heating – just as a branch ran down the side of the Range Rover, making him wince. Every nerve was trigger-happy. He wanted to know what day it was. He turned on the radio and tried to find a signal. Still nothing.

They reached the made-up track leading to Altnaharra. 'I'll drop you back at the hotel. You can get a taxi from there.'

Twenty minutes later, thankfully alone, Cayden settled into the long drive back to Southampton. He found Radio 4, amazed that it was Wednesday. He had started the Hunt and Find part of the course on Monday afternoon. Anger suddenly bubbled up at their treatment. All right, he had volunteered – no, what was he talking about, he had paid – but their casual, offhand manner now annoyed him. He had expected a proper de-brief. A report telling him how well he had done. Ticks next to his accomplishments. That sort of thing.

Then he began listening to the news – and any further thoughts of himself vanished.

Solemn voices reported the latest count of dead children. As he drove through villages and then towns, he sensed the shock in everyone he saw; could almost hear the cries of anguish behind the closed doors of the terraced houses and acres of boxes on estates packed close to the M6 near Birmingham. When he stopped for fuel, numbed people stood in queues, while the TVs and radios continued their non-stop reporting. The Prime Minister had been in South Africa; on his return, the plane had suffered engine problems. The country was leaderless. Politicians brave enough to say anything, talked in hesitant sound-bites:

'... everything is being done that is humanely possible ... we urge people to remain calm ... we are awaiting a full report ... no, we cannot confirm where the bombers came from ...'

In the end, Cayden had to turn it off. His mood had plunged dangerously low. Since Rachel's murder, more than two years ago, life had become desolate. She had torn an irreparable hole. Everything once so important was now dissatisfying. The problems of running Tomahawk had changed from challenges to irritations. The powerboats themselves, had become mere products – their sales contributing to a bottom line profit, which in itself should have filled him with pride, but now just meant he was able to pay for his survival for as long as he wished. Apathy had run through him like acid rain. Then, on insistence from Jac, he had gone to Scotland – a week learning basic survival for front-line business people. Cayden had done it for relief, perhaps subconsciously wanting to learn skills that might enable him to exact some kind of vengeance.

'Jac – my God, Jac!' The thought of his brother had triggered a jolt of panic. Jac had children in Portsmouth! Cayden reached for his mobile phone, his hand now shaking. Subconsciously, he pressed down on the accelerator; the Range Rover's speed shot over 90 mph.

*****

Cayden pushed through the detritus caused from the pandemonium Gosport's Haslar Hospital had been suffering for 24 hours. In the crammed waiting area, reporters and camera crews jostled with tearful relatives. Bins overflowed with crisp packets, drink cans and paper cups. A trolley served as a makeshift bench for the journalists until a nurse shooed them off and wheeled it through the double doors to the Accident Treatment Centre.

Haslar was sharing casualties with the Queen Alexandra, to the north of Portsmouth. Cayden's abused mind struggled with the simplest of tasks. In a daze, he pushed around the bags of camera equipment, tripods and islands of huddled reporters. He found his mother squashed in a corner. He hugged her.

'I can't find out anything.' Her tormented face looked up at him, the tragedy etched in her face.

'Let me see what I can find out,' he said, squeezing her arm and moving off through the crowd.

The nurse glanced at his driver's license for identification, then nodded sharply at her assistant, who consulted a list and confirmed that Dylan Callejon had been admitted.

'We know that.' Cayden rubbed his forehead with frustration. 'We want to know how he's doing.'

The nurse shook her head, too tired to give a reason why it wasn't possible to tell him anything further.

'What about my brother, Jac Callejon? Can I see him?'

The nurse picked up the phone, shaking her head again.

Cayden stood for a few moments longer, looking over her head, trying to see what was going on in the room behind, screened from the reception area by frosted glass. In the end he was shuffled away by more anxious relatives.

'Who are you?' a woman asked, a pad and pen in her hands. She had short blonde hair, brown at the edges, and wore tight-fitting black trousers. Pretty, but very young. She must have hated the red spot on the side of her nose with all those cameras around, Cayden thought.

'A relative,' Cayden replied as he started to push pass.

'Knew it! Cayden Callejon ...' She blocked him, 'I'm right, yeah?'

'Who the hell are you?' Cayden looked over her head, searching for his mother.

'I work for the Echo. We've done a few stories on Tomahawk.'

Cayden looked at her sharply. 'Have you now?'

'Can I get your comment about what has happened?'

'No. But you can tell me what the latest news is.'

She chewed the end of her pen with a fierce frown. 'OK, but give me an exclusive?'

Cayden made to step past her.

'Okay, okay.' She touched his arm. 'I don't know much, but ... um, let me see ...' She guided him away from listening news teams. '... there's an exclusion zone around the schools, right, no-one can get near. Helicopters are bringing in the investigators. Word is, it definitely was a bombing ... the other two schools helped them come to that conclusion pretty quick. Schoolchildren as suicide bombers, it's unbelievable ...'

Cayden waved at his mother.

'Seven fatalities here ... so far ...' the girl from the Echo continued. '... three at Aldershot, five at Brize Norton. Airports, ports ... everything shut down to stop anyone leaving the country. All service personnel and police called off leave. Hmm, what else ... yeah, Prime Minister still stranded overseas; they're sending a military plane, I think, but the Chancellor and Deputy PM have already been down and there'll be an official news conference pretty soon ... it's unbelievable something this huge should happen here, isn't it?'

Her eyes had become glittery inside the rings of black make-up.

Cayden clenched his jaw; the reporter took an involuntary step back. 'Do you have the names of the victims?'

The Echo girl looked at her pad. 'Nope. Just three boys and four girls.'

'Can you find out?'

She looked doubtful. 'One of the nurses is my sister-in-law ... I could see if she knows anything ...' An eyebrow arched. '... for an exclusive?'

'Find out. I'll be over there,' Cayden said, pointing towards his mother before thrusting his hands into his pockets. He watched the reporter weave through huddled groups of relatives to a side door. Working his way over to where his mother waited, he caught an image of himself as he passed a TV monitor. At least, he assumed it was him – narrowed eyes within deep sockets that looked bruised; a savage crease across the bridge of his nose; his hair sticking up at odd angles; the overhead light catching the flecks of grey around his ears. He squared his shoulders, smoothing down his hair. The backs of his hands were scratched, the skin dry and cracked.

The TV channel's anchor woman came on with another update. The Prime Minister, looking deeply upset, filled the screen. He was speaking, but the sound was off. Was it the BBC or a commercial station? It hardly mattered. The news was the same. Through a window Cayden glimpsed a row of trucks - their satellite dishes ready to beam any developments straight to the millions waiting anxiously in their living rooms. Two younger men, with lenses the size of small rockets, were talking and laughing as if they were in a pub, enjoying a pint. Cayden glared, but they chose not to notice. It was just a job – photographing misery for the tabloids. Just as he would view a Tomahawk carving gracefully through the sea as the fruit of his labours, so they salivated over pictures that showed the most grief, or blood, or destruction – or an A-list celebrity's cleavage or g-string as she climbed out of a limousine.

Cayden rolled his shoulders. He hugged the frail body of his mother, who at eighty was struggling to remain calm. Her friend and neighbour, who drove her everywhere, was at a vending machine, inserting coins for a cup of tea.

'Why can't they tell us what's happening?' she asked.

'They're very busy ... here, sit down ... rest.'

'But why can't they just tell us?'

Cayden hadn't slept since leaving Scotland. His physical exhaustion gave him no strength to combat the battering from a deepening depression – a bleakness that the world no longer had the capacity to care. Where was Jac? He opened his phone, his hunched frame nudged by the aimless crowd. Emergency use only. He put it back in his pocket.

A helicopter roared overhead. Dust and rubbish swirled between the gaps in the camera trucks, which began to quiver on their suspensions as it sunk onto the landing circle. The news people stampeded for the door. A bin overturned, its contents quickly trodden into the carpet tiles. Relative quiet descended inside the hospital as the journalists rushed towards the now idling helicopter, microphones thrust forward like stakes to upset a cavalry charge, at two men hurrying under the rotors, carrying between them a white box.

'Oh dear, what's happening?' Cayden's mother tugged his sleeve.

The Echo reporter ran across the reception room, glancing quickly between Cayden and the scene outside.

'They're bringing more blood,' she panted.

'Did you get the names?'

She nodded, looking as though she was about to leave for the fight around the medical crew.

Then, the news people started crashing back into the room.

'Well?'

'Yeah,' she said, 'Dylan isn't ...'

Cayden nodded impatiently, feeling his mother's grip squeezing his arm.

'He's in intensive care ...' the reported added.

Cayden's mother gasped.

'How bad?' he asked the Echo girl, moving closer to her to prevent his mother from hearing the reply.

'Couldn't find out for sure. He's in a coma ... I think ...'

Mrs. Callejon jumped to her feet. Her bony hands pushed Cayden out of the way. 'Can we see him?'

The journalists nearest to them looked at her – and fell silent.

Cayden held her arms and gently sat her back down. 'Not yet. Let me see if I can speak to Jac first.' He looked at his mother's neighbour. 'Can you take her home? I'll be there as soon as I can.'

The woman nodded. 'Of course.'

Cayden turned to the reporter. 'Let's go.'

'I can't get you back there!' Her panda eyes, opened wide with horror.

'Bollocks! If you can do it, so can I ... please ... for an exclusive.'

She led him out of the reception area and along the road between the parked TV trucks and idling helicopter. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a key, quickly unlocking a side door. When they were inside she looked at him anxiously. 'You won't tell anyone, will you? It's tough getting decent stories, you know.'

Cayden waved her on. She led him into a small cupboard-sized room, pulled a white coat from a pile and ripped off the laundry tag. 'Put this on,' she said, handed him a spare nurse's badge. 'Clip this to the pocket. They're so busy, no-one will look.'

'What's your name?' he asked as she pushed open the door, heading down a brightly-lit corridor.

'Claudette.'

They turned a corner and Cayden hesitated. The corridor stretched the length of the building, the stark fluorescent lights narrowing to a point in the far distance. But it wasn't this that had made him stop. From one end of the corridor to the other, figures in hospital uniforms ran, threading their way between stretchers and knots of lost-looking relatives, huddled together next to the walls. As he and Claudette walked, the wards opened up on either side. Small figures lay in large beds – some quiet, their wounds bandaged; others with crowds of nurses or doctors, or both, surrounding them. Above the general hubbub, Cayden could hear the sniffles and cries of hurt and frightened children; the soothing voices of their parents. Two orderlies were running a stretcher towards a bank of lifts.

Cayden pulled Claudette to a wall to let it pass. A small body lay unconscious. He couldn't tell whether it was a boy or a girl; the child's head was turbaned in bandages, the jaw shockingly swollen, a thin pale arm intravenously connected to a swinging bag of clear liquid.

Claudette led him to an open area in the centre of the hospital.

'So, where is he?'

Claudette shrugged. 'My sister-in-law wasn't sure ... just said he had been in intensive care.'

Cayden searched over the heads of the rushing medical staff and milling, anxious parents. There was a kiosk selling sweets, newspapers, flowers, grapes ... a man was staring at the long rows of sweet packets. Cayden's gaze swept on – and then flicked back. The man had not moved. His head was bowed, his coat hanging from the crook in his arm to the floor.

'Jac!' Cayden shouted, shouldering Claudette out of the way. The man did not move. 'Jac,' Cayden repeated more quietly as he came up to him.

'I can't remember his favourites.' Jac looked desperately at his elder brother's face. 'What kind of father am I?'

Cayden hugged him fiercely, his fists clenched against Jac's stiff back. There was no response.

Cayden let go. 'How's Dylan?'

'Is it fruit pastilles?'

Cayden nodded. He reached out and hooked off a packet. 'Is Karen here?' he asked, paying the girl behind the till.

'Having a cigarette.'

Cayden pushed the fruit pastilles into his brother's hands. 'Dylan? How is he?'

Jac scratched his head, the packet of pastilles crackling. 'Broken arm, ribs, jaw ... coma ... a roof beam,' Jac replied, in a monotone.

Cayden guided him out of a knot of people trying to get to the till. Claudette was suddenly at his side.

'Can I see him?'

'No. Go back and tell my mother Dylan's sleeping. She's to go home and I'll be over very soon.'

Cayden followed his brother. They had become closer since Rachel's death, many bridges repaired, but he couldn't find the right one to cross now.

They waited for a stretcher to pass through the entrance to Ward 3C.

Inside, eight small bodies lay in various states of distress. Jac led Cayden to the bed on the right, nearest the window.

Cayden smiled at Karen, sitting in a chair. He could smell the smoke on her breath as he bent to kiss the top of her head. She looked out of the window.

Dylan lay in the whiteness of the sheets, his pale limbs barely discernible, his face hidden by bandage, his chest the same, his arm lying protected in a cast. A machine beeped, displaying his heart rate and other body signs. Cayden touched the boy's hand. It was warm and dry, but what chilled him was the lack of reaction. He had always had a soft spot for Dylan: his intelligent curiosity, his impatient frown when he was struggling to understand something and, best of all, the abandonment with which he would hug his uncle whenever he visited, giving him a shy kiss on the cheek before dragging him to his room to show off his latest toy.

Cayden's eyes misted as he brushed a strand of hair from Dylan's forehead, careful not to disturb the drip. 'He's going to be okay, Jac,' he said, as much to himself as for his brother's benefit.

'He had a hell of a whack,' said Jac.

Cayden looked up. Jac was in front of the window, framed by grey sky; bare twisted branches crowning the trees lining the car park seemed to grow from his agonised hair.

'Roof had gone ... glass ... lots of paper ... paper everywhere ... some burning ... I couldn't see anything ... the smoke ...' Jac glanced towards Cayden and then back to his son. '... the smell ... like ... like a horrible ... horrible burnt Sunday roast ...' The glass began to rattle as another helicopter landed. Jac seemed not to hear it. '... screams ... God, the screams ... never forget the screams ... cuts through you.' He paused as if trying to steady himself, organise his thoughts. 'Found Dylan under the main roof beam. Guess it's what protected him from the falling roof. Two little girls either side weren't so lucky ...'

Karen started to sob. Jac knelt next to her, putting an arm around her shoulder

Cayden was aware Claudette had returned. She nodded uncertainly when he looked at her questioningly. 'Your mum, she wasn't happy,' she said, writing on her note pad.

The light outside the window quickly faded to dark. Inside, the hospital ran on without check. Newly-arrived doctors and nurses replaced the tired – running in, changing bandages, replacing drips, coaxing food into the trembling mouths of the conscious ones, wheeling the others away on stretchers to return, sometimes hours later, with the young victim wrapped in fresh bandages.

Claudette left after Cayden had given her his exclusive interview.

Karen left soon afterwards. With her husband, away, a friend arrived to take her home to look after Mikey.

Jac and Cayden sat side-by-side, like two old men on a park bench, their minds unable to come to terms with the bitterness of life. They gazed silently at Dylan's still body, willing a hand to move or the eyelids to flutter open – anything to show that there was hope; that there was still something worth living for.

Chapter 4

The fire light licked into the dark recesses of the cathedral-like space of the converted barn. Cayden watched the hypnotic flames devouring the wood. Oblivious to the majesty of the tree it had once formed, standing sentry for nearly one hundred years at the driveway entrance, before the previous years storm had finally claimed it.

How they had loved its early brush of spring green, the first in the garden, as if being the oldest gave it the right to be first to herald the new season. The squirrels, tails twitching with alarm as they approached; clumps of bluebells pushing through shoots of new grass; and blue tits, woodpeckers, magpies, pigeons, embellishing the tree's majesty with song.

Then, it was gone, a fallen victim – just as Rachel had been. For the oak, it was to a North Atlantic depression caused by a hurricane off the Carolinas. For Rachel, it had been his greed, his stupidity, his arrogance, his selfishness that had claimed her.

Cayden crossed his arms; his shoulders felt stiff, the thick cushions of the sofa doing little to ease the tightness. How long had he been sitting there?

Sparks sprinkled the dusty wood floor. Before Rachel's death, he would have jumped up to brush them away. Now he just scowled. He rolled his head and looked at another flickering image, this one from the TV – on mute. He saw the BBC's ten o'clock news bulletin was starting and hit the sound button ...The headlines for Tuesday, 20th February ...

The horror filled the screen

Pictures of burning cars, hooded youths throwing stones, police on horseback, riot shields. Muslim youths riot in Leicester ... The Welsh tones of Huw Edwards, graver than usual

More pictures. The Houses of Parliament ... protesters with placards demanding MUSLIMS GO HOME, the bearers wearing balaclavas and scarves, facing lines of riot police.

The government is under increasing pressure to bring in radical new immigration policies ...

A man in a grey suit, without a tie, but with neatly-trimmed black beard, standing behind a lectern in front of a banner proclaiming Kwarizmi International Award,

Iranian President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, has said that cultural interaction and exchange of experience and values, are the best forms of interaction among human beings in the contemporary world, but he has yet to condemn the school bombings in the UK ...

Huw Edwards expression hardening.

For the third week in a row, a major British city has been subjected to race riots, with Muslims claiming they are living in a police state. Their leaders are pleading for calm, saying that there is no evidence that the school bombing atrocities had anything to do with Muslim extremists. Al Queda has not admitted responsibility. Meanwhile, the tensions in cities with significant Muslim populations increased today, with Leicester being the first to report a victim – a young Muslim man crushed to death under the wheels of a police vehicle. The Prime Minister has also called for calm, but the police are asking for special powers to restore order, claiming that they are powerless to apprehend some ring-leaders of Muslim activists because of human rights legislation. For the first of our special reports, we go to Evette Vangali in Leicester ...

Cayden listened with indifference. He really didn't care if the whole world exploded with racial hatred.

Dylan had regained consciousness after ten days in hospital, his young body healing quickly, his period of unconsciousness mercifully blanking memories of the ordeal; the scar along his jaw would be the only reminder. Cayden had felt a rare sense of euphoria with that news. He had fantasised of using his training to go after the bastards if Dylan hadn't recovered, wondering if fate had pushed him to go to Scotland for that reason

The atrium doors rattled. Another storm. They seemed to be more frequent, stronger. Perhaps it was a result of global warming, the other major story of the time, currently on the back-burner while Huw Edwards dealt with the topic of why human rights were given to Muslim rioters when many people in Britain were asking what human rights had been afforded the eleven children murdered at their schools

Cayden finished his glass of red wine, scowling as the BBC news anchor quizzed Evette Vangali. Everyone was looking for someone to blame. The Muslims were an easy target. The lack of definitive answers was increasing tensions, accelerating animosities. Newspapers were desperate to be the first to expose the perpetrators. The politicians, as always, were evading the questions – spinning their politically correct answers; sending their bemused acolytes to stand in front of camera lenses; delaying the time when they would have to finally hold up their hands and say: sorry folks ... sorry that we squandered the money we should have used to protect you, on quangos and bureaucracy, but you'll be pleased to know, an emergency committee has been formed to discuss where a plaque should be sited to commemorate the lives of the eleven children ...

Cayden was close to throwing his glass at the screen. The doors rattled, as if gravel were being thrown against them

Getting up, he stretched and nudged a log further onto the grate. He walked the short corridor screened by dead ficus to the atrium which connected the barn in a glass tunnel to the outbuildings

Cayden flicked on the light. A face was pressed up against the glass

He jumped back – and then groaned as he recognised his next-door neighbour; wife of the farmer from half-a-mile down the road. What was her name? Crystal? He unlocked the door. 'Hi, something wrong?'

Her smile faltered. She pushed back windswept hair. 'Oh, Cayden sweetie, blimey what a night, phew, thought I was going to be blown into a ditch ... no, no, nothing's wrong, we just thought ...' She pointed vaguely in the direction of her farmhouse. '... that you might like to come and ... you know, join our little soiree and, well ...' She ran a finger under each eye, checking to see if her mascara had run.

'That's very kind ... um ...'

Christine.

'Yeah, Christine, of course ... sorry.' Cayden held open the door. 'Come in, you're soaked.'

'Oh it's only a bit of rain, but thanks, wow ... another storm, they just keep coming, don t they?' Short blonde hair framed what had once been an attractive face; now the double-chin and lifelines had eroded her looks. But, she had a decent figure. He had to admit that she looked good in tight jodhpurs out on her horse. Since Rachel's death, the locals had been trying to involve him in the community. To date, he had succeeded in avoiding it.

She heeled off her Wellingtons and dropped her Driza-Bone coat over the top. He followed her impossibly tight jeans through to the barn.

'Oh sweetie, you shouldn't be sitting alone watching that rubbish,' she said, switching off Huw Edwards without asking. 'Blimey, I forgot what amazing stuff you've done to this place.' She looked up to the high ceiling. 'Wow, I remember when this was full of hay!'

Christine accepted a glass of wine. 'Life's too short to take the news seriously, sweetie. Ninety percent of it never happens, it's just ...' She stopped suddenly. 'Damn! I can be a dizzy-moo sometimes. How s Jac, and little ...'

'Dylan,' Cayden said, dragging his gaze guiltily from her pronounced camel-toe.

'Yes ... sorry, terrible memory ... Dylan,' she gulped her wine, a look of concern furrowing her forehead.

'He's expected to make a full recovery.'

' Oh, that's good news. Something to celebrate, so you should definitely come and join us.'

'Thanks Christine ...'

'Oh God, please call me Chris, only my mother uses Christine!'

Okay Chris ... thanks, but I m not great company at the moment.' Cayden poured her some more wine

She fingered away wet strands of hair. 'But drinking alone is such a sad thing.'

The next day was a Saturday, so he didn't have the excuse of having to get up for work, although he had planned to go into the office – it was better than sitting around Meadowlight. Weekends had once been so special to Rachel. She would plan everything. Get food in if people were staying, or special treats for just the two of them if they weren't. She'd become excited over the chores that had to be done in the garden, and if the weather was nice, the outings she would like to take. Why had he always moaned? Had he been angry because it had seemed she was organising his life?

Chris's smile was slipping into a nervous giggle.

Cayden downed his glass. 'I just need to change my shirt.'

'Oh fantastic, good decision. I'll wait,' Chris cried with relief. 'I'll put the guard in front of the fire.'

'Thanks. You don t have to wait. I know where your house is.'

'Nonsense sweetie. Your resolve might waver!'

Twenty minutes later, an un-ironed shirt stuffed into his jeans, Cayden was pulled under the low front door of Chris's farmhouse, his dripping jacket yanked off him and flung into a corner. A roaring fire dominated the living room beneath gnarled black beams. Six expectant faces looked up at him.

Chris's husband was the first to move from his seat nearest the fire. A small man, with thinning hair and dark circles beneath his eyes. His grip was firm but his handshake, tired, his hand falling away slackly to his side when they had exchanged greetings. 'She persuaded you, then? Good to see you, Cayden,' he said as an afterthought.

'Thanks. You're right ... your wife can be very persuasive.'

The farmer looked at Chris as if he had been given a major insight. 'Well, this is ...' he began as his arm swept around the five other shadowy faces, each given a name that Cayden promptly forgot. He was pushed into a seat next to the last of the guests he had been introduced to. A glass of red wine appeared.

'So, you re the famous Cayden Callejon,' the woman next to him said, her smile full of very white, straight teeth. 'You re taller and better looking than I thought.'

Cayden looked at her over the rim of his glass. She had fine lines around the corners of her eyes when she smiled. Late-thirties, he reckoned. Attractive: straight dark hair, t-shirt without a bra, miniskirt revealing slim, tanned legs. He had been set up. Chris had manoeuvred him into a bloody blind date! He smiled pleasantly. Any bullshit and he was straight out the door. 'I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name already.'

She tutted. 'Disgraceful! I'll have to make a bigger impression, wont I?'

Her voice let her down. Fake. A local girl trying to sound sophisticated. He waited.

'Guess.'

'That may take the rest of the evening. I'm pretty hopeless at remembering names.'

'Oh, an' all the people you must 'ave to meet ...'

'How's your brother? And his son?' a red-faced woman asked loudly from the other side of the worn sofa.

'Dylan's recovering. My brother is ...' Cayden looked into the squinting eyes. Could he be bothered telling her, letting her into even that tiny part of his life? She was drunk; he was about ready to leave. The woman whose name he had been asked to guess put her hand on his knee. 'Don't worry, Mel can be an insensitive ol' cow sometimes.'

Silence filled with the crackling fire.

Leave now, Cayden told himself but sighed and carried on. 'Now Dylan's out of danger, Jac's angry, disillusioned ... depressed,' he said, holding his glass out for more wine. 'I don't blame him. The pathetic response from the government would make anyone feel the same way.'

Cayden suddenly felt the need to talk. Whether it was the wine or not, he didn't care. Whether they were interested or not, he didn't care. They had invited him, so they could bloody well listen. And they appeared to want to. They asked questions when he faltered, topping his glass when it ran low. He was beginning to slur and, occasionally, he smiled. Then he noticed eight white lines neatly laid out on the low table in front of them.

'You poor thing, you've been through hell. You need a boost. Guest of honour goes first.' Chris held out a rolled bank note.

Cayden shook his head. 'No, I m fine with wine.'

'You never done Charlie, Cayden?' Ms. Bra-less asked.

'Sure, but found booze better – and cheaper.'

She knelt in front of the table and expertly snorted up two lines. You don't 'ave to worry about cheaper though, do ya?' she said, closing a nostril and snorting loudly. Flakes drifted to the surface of the table, which she mopped up with a finger and rubbed over her gums

The others took their turn. Chris's husband seemed to collapse by the table like a deflating doll as he snorted noisily at the last line, the powder scattering over the surface with general gasps of annoyance from all around. He moved the bank note like a dying Hoover over the scattered grains. Eventually, he sat back and for a brief moment had a look of vitality about him, but then he collapsed back into his chair and stared into the fire.

'You play games, gorgeous?' Bra-less smiled.

Cayden looked at her. She was actually very attractive. He eyed her breasts – on the small side, but that suited her. The room suddenly felt very hot. 'Not much,' he replied, 'although Rachel accused me of playing them all the time.' He looked up guiltily from her thighs, then finished his glass. God, the room was hot.

She was grinning, a sly glint in her eyes. 'I meant card games.'

Cayden nodded. 'Sometimes.'

'We belong to the local poke-er club,' she said, emphasising the two syllables

Cayden grinned. He shrugged, not sure that he could answer anything intelligently any more. 'How much have you won?'

'Lost, more like.' Her laugh ended with a snort while the others giggled and smirked around her. 'You want to have a go?'

Cayden joined in with the grinning faces, subconsciously undoing a top button from his shirt. The room was like a furnace.

In a flash, Chris's husband had a deck of cards in his hands, He started shuffling expertly, flicking one half into the other. Chris refilled Cayden's glass. 'Five card, aces high,' she said. 'You know how the rankings go?'

Cayden nodded. 'I don t have any money on me,' he said, grinning, his face aching from the unused muscles. It felt good. He knew he didn't need money but thought, whatever happened later, he could still plead innocence. These were people he would probably never see again – well, only in passing vehicles – so what the hell.

Chris and Ms. Bra-less winked at each other.

The third women's husband, who had been unsuccessfully trying to create an argument over how Cayden could justify selling powerboats in a green-conscious world, now leered at him, his large red forehead covered with beads of sweat, his owl-like brown eyes, behind gold-rimmed glasses, suddenly excited rather than accusatory. 'You cut, Cayden. Guest of honour ...' he grinned, leaning forward eagerly

Cayden did as he was asked. 'Beginner's luck,' he said five minutes later, winning with a pair of kings

Five single shoes landed on the rug in front of the fire. Cayden frowned, feigning a puzzled look as the others laughed. A fake realisation dawned; he wondered whether he should make a show of leaving. 'I see,' he said slowly, gazing at Ms. Bra-less. 'You lose quite a bit at this, do you?'

She nodded, her perfect white teeth nibbling her lower lip.

The next six rounds he lost. He was glad he had been wearing socks; even so, he had only put on a shirt whereas the others, with their foreknowledge, had been wearing jackets, ties, jumpers. He was down to his Calvin Kleins – thankfully, a fairly new pair. Ms. Bra-less had become topless. He wondered if she had anything on under her skirt. They were the most undressed. The others were watching eagerly; even Chris's husband was animated, unable to tear his eyes away from Ms. Bra-less's small, pert breasts.

Cayden glanced at his cards: five, six and seven of diamonds, two tens. A full house. Could be beaten by four of a kind, straight flush or royal flush. Good enough to stick on. Despite the fog of alcohol, he could feel a tingle of tension – or was it excitement?

He declared he was sticking, which caused a general intake of breath and quick glance down to check how much each of them were wearing

They each handed in two cards

Cayden noticed Chris's expression brighten. She was down to her bra, jeans and whatever she had on underneath. Her breasts strained over the top of the lacy fabric, eager to be released

He laid his cards first and watched Chris. He had lost!

Her husband laid next, two pair; the blonde, nothing at all; Chris, four threes – shit! thought Cayden – the sailor, two pair; and Ms. Bra-less, a straight. Chris clapped her hands excitedly, falling back in the sofa, drumming her heels with such force that a glass of red wine toppled over.

Cayden glanced at Ms. Bra-less. She already had her hand at the zipper to her skirt – and a look of intense anticipation. She loved it, that was clear – loved being the centre of attention, wanted them to see her naked. Cayden, however, was not loving it. Although it had been ten years since he had last been this drunk, he hadn't reached total abandonment and his modesty tried to think of a way out. But it was too late to do so with any dignity.

The others had already removed an item. Chris's husband was down to his y-fronts, the sailor had lost his trousers, and Blondie was topless, covering her sagging boobs as she lent forward to mop up the spilt wine. Now, as one, they looked at Cayden and the girl next to him.

'We have a tradition,' Chris squealed. 'When you're down to your last item, you have to make a show of taking it off.'

Ms. Bra-less, without hesitation, moved across Cayden so that she sat astride and faced him. Her breasts bounced hypnotically. The others cheered. Slowly, she rose, her feet sinking into the cushions either side of him. Looking over her shoulder at the others, her fingers pulled down the zip; slowly, the material parted. She wiggled her hips, and Cayden watched, mesmerised, as the tight material inched down to reveal, centimetre by centimetre, her smooth skin. She lost her balance, toppling forward; Cayden caught her, his face between her breasts. The others roared with drunken lust as, in that position, she squirmed and kicked her way out of her skirt. Free, she sat back, her legs astride his, a silk g-string doing nothing to hide her Brazilian cut. 'Your turn,' she smiled, blowing hair away from her eyes.

'You obviously have so much more experience than me ...' said Cayden, now deciding to push firmly to the far recesses of his mind any conflicts he might have had with his conscience. '... perhaps you could do it for me.' He was drunk and needed a release.

'With pleasure.' she replied. Kneeling on the floor, she reached forward and, with her red-painted fingernails, hooked them over the waistband of his Calvins. He lifted himself as she pulled them slowly off him, pausing to allow the excitement to build among the craning onlookers. Her nails ran up the tight material, making sure he was fully aroused, before she lifted the waistband and slid them all the way off. Cayden felt strangely free and, more strangely, very turned-on. The women looked at his erection, their eyes wide; the men had gone back to finishing their wine.

'Wow!' exclaimed Chris. 'Blimey, what a beauty!'

Ms. Bra-less leant forward, clasped him, licked her red lips, and then kissed him gently. 'A stunner,' she murmured, before her mouth opened wider to take him completely.

Cayden was not sure how to respond; this was an entirely new experience for him. He closed his eyes, deciding simply to enjoy the sensation. When he opened them again, he saw that they were all naked, standing around him. Chris's pendulous breasts were being fondled by the sailor, while Chris rubbed the man's penis. Her husband, meanwhile, was kneeling between the legs of the blonde, while she continued to watch Ms. Bra-less, bent over Cayden. The sailor lay down on his back, his face disappearing from view, pushing between Ms. Bra-less's thighs. She purred with ecstasy, occasionally looking up at Cayden, her mouth still around his erection, her eyes hooded, her body moving on the face below. They formed a connected line: Cayden, Ms. Bra-less, the sailor, Chris, the blonde between her thighs, and Chris's husband at the end, struggling with a condom.

*****

Cayden heard the buzz of his mobile; cutting through his semi-consciousness, like a chainsaw across a peaceful valley.

He anticipated the throb of his head and screwed his eyes shut. A cheap, red wine hangover. Nothing worse.

The mobile stopped ringing but, seconds later, it started again. He blinked from sunlight streaming in through the skylight and tried to remember the sequence of events after the conclusion of the night's game. Then – movement beside him. He turned his head slowly. Ms. Bra-less – what was her name? – lay there with her back to him. The duvet just covered her buttocks, leaving the sweep of her back to her shoulders. She had a great figure – and a tattoo, an angel blowing a trumpet. Cayden swung his legs over the side. His head spun in a sickening cocktail of drink and guilt. The last person who had shared his bed had been Rachel.

He flipped open his phone. His watch showed it was just after ten.

'Where the hell have you been?'

Cayden glanced at the body next to him. 'Had a lay-in ... bit of a heavy ...' he began.

'Dylan's back in intensive care. Back in a coma.'

Cayden stood up, then rapidly sat down again, holding his head, pressing the phone against one ear. 'Why? How? I thought he was making a full recovery.'

'Doctors think ...' Jac sighed. '...they think they might have missed a clot forming or something like that.'

'You're kidding ...'

'Leave it out, Cayden, as if I would!'

'I didn't mean ... I just meant, how the hell could the doctors have missed it?'

'The impact of the beam must have been more severe than they thought. They don't know for sure. The little chap's having tests now.'

'I'm sorry, Jac. What can I do.?'

'I have Michael. He needs to have his mind taken off Dylan. Can you pick him up? It's Haslar ... remember?' Jac gave a heavy sigh. 'Shit! I just can't believe we're back here again.'

'I'm on my way, hang on.'

Cayden caught the wing mirror of the Aston Martin on the gatepost. He was still drunk. Skidding to a halt, he jumped out, wrenched the hanging debris from the connecting wires and threw it into the footwell

Dawdling Saturday shoppers increased his sullen mood. He drank water from a bottle snatched from the fridge. He felt his head was being wrenched apart. It made him think of the pain little Dylan must be going through. He tightened his grip on the wheel, and started to zig-zag through the traffic, ignoring the blaring horns and flashing lights

Haslar was a lot quieter this time. The car park was full; the ambulances were there, but the chaos from media trucks was gone. He found Jac in reception, Michael sitting next to him, a hood pulled low over his face, wires leading from his iPod; his head nodding to a beat.

'Any news?'

Jac shook his head. 'Janet will be here soon. So will Karen. We need to concentrate on Dylan.' Jac looked down at Michael, still hidden within his hood. 'You look like shit, Cayden.'

Cayden winced as he knelt in front of Michael. 'Heavy night.' He tapped the boy's knee. 'What're you listening to?'

'Snow Patrol,' Michael said, loudly.

'Cool. I've got that in the car. How about we go down to the waterfront, grab a burger and play on the games at that new arcade?'

Michael looked up at his father, who nodded encouragingly

'Call when you get news. I'll take him back to Meadowlight if you have to stay late,' said Cayden

Jac had already turned and was heading back through doors marked 'Medical Staff Only.'

'What happened to the Aston Uncle Cayden?'

'Cut it a bit fine leaving Meadowlight. I think it's fixable.'

The thirteen-year-old moved the broken pieces of plastic with his trainer. 'I bet a new one costs thousands.'

'You want to listen to Snow Patrol on the CD or carry on listening through your headphones?'

'Can I listen to McFly?'

Cayden held his head and drove with one hand through the crawling traffic to Ocean Village on Southampton's waterfront, gritting his teeth from the screaming adolescent voices of McFly. He hadn't anticipated Michael wanting to play his iPod through the car system.

The boy took his double cheeseburger meal to the quayside and sat on the cold stone, his feet, hanging over the edge, methodically eating, while looking out over the marina. Cayden sat down next to him, sipping a disgusting coffee.

A Tomahawk Blade was in the nearest pontoon. It looked only a year old but obviously hadn't moved much. Seagull excrement covered the white awning, and a line of green weed had started to appear along the hull. Why the hell didn't the owner pay for the marina to clean her once in a while?

'What engines that one got?' Michael asked after a while, his tone betraying only scant interest.

'Twin-turbo MANs, ' Cayden replied, matching his tone.

Michael scrunched up the empty burger bag. 'You can take me home if you like, Uncle Cayden.'

'Sorry Mikey, I'm just ... worried,' Cayden replied, laying a hand on his nephew's thin shoulder. 'Let's go. We'll check-out the new games in the arcade.'

Michael stood up, pulling his hood over his head. 'Dyl's going to be okay, isn't he?' he asked, his small voice barely discernible from the hood's dark opening.

'Of course, Mikey, he's going to be winding you up again in no time.'

'Dad says he's ... he's like, in a coma.'

Typical of Jac not to keep anything from his son. Treated them like adults, forgetting that sometimes they didn't have the armour to deal with everything life had to throw at them. A few white lies now and then wouldn't hurt.

He put an arm around the boy's shoulder. 'He'll be fine, Mikey, don t you worry.'

The arcade was packed with hooded, screaming youths, shouting obscenities at each other as they raced virtual rally cars through realistic terrain on massive flat-screen TVs. The girls hung around them, in micro-skirts, their already fat, white, teenage bellies hanging over glittery wide belts, their language equally obscene.

Cayden waited for twenty minutes while they played game after game, He winced at every 'fuck'... 'cunt' ... 'fucking minger' ... 'fucking cunt' emitted from the thin, bloodless lips in pale acne-ridden faces. Michael stood patiently beside him.

'Hey, how about going two minutes without swearing?; Cayden said to a girl standing next to him, yelling at her boyfriend to get 'a fucking move on' as he wrestled manfully with the game's steering wheel. Her eyes turned venomous amid their purple make-up, her little mouth sneered. She crossed her arms, attempting a look Cayden imagined she had probably seen from her mother a hundred times before while having a go at someone on the estate for telling her daughter to keep her 'filthy mouth' shut.

'What you looking at? You one of them fuckin' peed-o-feals?'

Cayden clenched his hands.

'You pick 'im up at a playground, then?' she spat, pointing at Michael.

Cayden stepped forward. 'What's your name?'

'Fuck-off ... Darren, this ol' git's tryin' to pick me up,' she whined at the pimply-necked youth, who had just crashed his rally car into a wall. 'He s a fuckin' peed-o-feal, Darren.'

Her boyfriend leapt from his seat together with his three mates and surrounded Cayden. 'You threatening my girl?' His face was twisted with hate. For a moment, Cayden faltered. He was hung-over. He glanced at Michael. The boy looked scared, or possibly embarrassed.

'Have you finished playing now?' Cayden asked.

'What the fuck's got to do with you? I asked you a question.'

Cayden studied the group. The arcade boomed with distorted music and the shouts and screams of game trailers. He glanced around for the owner or the manager, but all he could see was a bored-looking woman sitting in a glass booth. Cayden turned back to the boyfriend. 'I assume, as you're still standing, you've finished playing. Come on Michael, let's have a go.'

'Oi, where the fuck ...'

Cayden felt his arm being held and acted instinctively. He jabbed his elbow into the youth's stomach; the air whooshed form his lungs as Cayden turned, grabbing the teenager's hand, forcing it back while keeping the elbow locked in position. 'You just assaulted me.' Cayden growled, pulling the hand back further, forcing the acne-faced youth to sink to the floor, his eyes squeezed shut with pain. His friends moved behind the girlfriend, who had now been joined by other girls, chewing gum, shouting for the boys to 'kick the shit' out of Cayden.

'Now, I'll ask you for the last time – have you finished playing?'

'You're breaking my fuckin' arm.'

'Have you finished?

'Yeah,' the teenager moaned.

Cayden released him. The young man stood there, holding his arm, tears in his eyes as he backed into his silent gang. 'Now, clear off - all of you.'

'Wanker,' mumbled the teenager, turning and pushing his way through the girls.

Cayden sat down next to Michael and put pounds into the slot. 'Which car do you want to drive?'

'That was really cool, Uncle Cayden. Dad would never have done that.'

'Yes he would. You want to be the Subaru or the Focus?'

Michael won the first race through muddy Welsh mountains. They were deciding on the next track to try when Cayden felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned sharply, expecting the aggressive teen, full of fresh bravado. Instead, the pimply youth was standing behind a uniformed police officer.

'Yeah, that's the bastard, the one that threatened me ... attacked me, the wanker.'

'Is that true?' the policeman asked.

'No, of course it bloody isn't.'

'Mr. Parks claims you attacked him in order to have a go on that machine ... sir?'

'That's bloody ridiculous, and you know it! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have one more track to race with my nephew.'

'Sorry sir, but I need to ask you some questions.'

'Sure, I'll just finish this game.'

'It's not a request.'

'Oh, for God's sake,' snapped Cayden, leaping up. 'Don't tell me, this foul-mouthed yob, who threatened me, is now ... what? ... pressing charges?'

'He says you attacked him.'

'He assaulted me after I asked, politely, if he and his friends would stop swearing. I was defending myself.'

So, Mr. Parks assaulted you?'

'Audibly, certainly, physically ... he tried to, yes.'

'I'll have to ask you to accompany me to the station so we can sort this out.'

'Are you arresting me?'

'I will if I have to. Do you have any identification on you?'

Cayden glared at the knot of teenagers standing behind the policeman, smirking, holding up their middle fingers. He pulled out his wallet and showed his driving licence. 'I'm looking after my brother's son. These yobs were swearing and refusing to let anyone else play on the game.'

'They're kids. That's what they're meant to do – play games. You, on the other hand, Mr. ... Callejon, are not.'

'What the hell is that supposed to mean? I'm here with my nephew, looking after him while his father's in hospital.'

'But you did assault Mr. Parks – a fifteen-year-old boy – so I m afraid you must come down to the station to sort this out, otherwise I will arrest you.'

'I don't believe it!' Cayden faced the officer with hands on hips. 'This juvenile delinquent who, because of politically correct bullshit, you think should be afforded the civilised title of mister, is able to come snivelling to you with a cock and bull story, and you believe it. Use your commonsense. Look at him!'

The young policeman, pink-faced without a sign of hair on his smooth cheeks, took hold of Cayden's arm. 'Come along, Mr. Callejon, that'll be enough of that.'

Cayden shook free of the grip. His elbow connected with the constable's mouth, jerking the young officer's helmet off the back of his head; it rolled across the floor, accompanied by whistles from Parks's gang.

'Right, Mr. Callejon, you're under arrest for assaulting a police officer,' said the constable as he spun Cayden around, pinning him to the back of the rally game seat where Cayden felt, for the first time, the uncomfortable and deeply humiliating bite of handcuffs. 'You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention something when questioned that you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence.'

The officer spun Cayden back to face him. 'Do you understand?'

'Constable ... I understand perfectly.' Cayden glared at Darren Parks. The gloating teenager smiled and jabbed his middle finger in Cayden's direction.

'Serves you right, tosser,' said Parks as Cayden was pushed by him.

'That's enough from you as well,' the officer warned, his voice tense and lacking real authority

People looked up momentarily from their games as Cayden was marched outside and onto the pavement, from where a vehicle was summoned. The Parks gang followed, whistling and shouting.

'I can't leave my nephew here,' Cayden protested.

'He'll have to accompany you to the station, then we'll get someone to take him home.'

Cayden crouched down. He peered under Michael's hood. 'I'm really sorry about this Mikey, but don't be scared, everything's going to be alright – okay?'

Michael sniffed. 'I'm not scared, Uncle Cayden, I just think it's so unfair. If I was bigger, I would have smashed his face to bits.'

Cayden smiled. 'Hey, at least you get a ride in a police car.'

The Custody Officer at Southampton's Central Police Station was thankfully more experienced. Recognising Cayden, he listened to his version of what had happened, glancing occasionally at the young constable's youthful, unmarked face. Cayden wanted to take Michael home, to forget the aggravation from Darren Parks. He mentioned his solicitor, Boone, who acted as Tomahawk's company lawyer and was head of the largest law firm in the city. The prospect of taking on Boone with such spurious evidence persuaded the Custody Officer to drop the charges – he went so far as to offer Cayden and Michel a ride back to the Aston. Cayden declined, saying he didn't want to take up any more valuable police time

Back in the familiar luxury of the Aston Martin after a silent taxi ride, Cayden relaxed slightly. Michael sat quietly beside him. Cayden switched on the radio. The five-thirty news reported the Home Office minister still 'doing everything in my power' to catch the perpetrators of the school bombings – no specific details as yet, as it would jeopardise police investigations.

'In other words, you know nothing,' Cayden snorted. The minister had a record of being the first to bleat any good news, regardless of how it affected investigations, in an attempt to combat the constant lambasting he received from the press over allegations of corruption and incompetence.

Cayden followed the long line of cars leaving the city. The hysteria after the bombings was already fading. People were fickle. It was mob rule: braying for someone's blood one minute, getting an upgraded flat-screen on credit the next – impetuous, childlike, driven by the marketeers and the puppeteers editing the tabloids. Cayden despaired – most of the country was populated by Neanderthals like Darren Parks, stupid, cretinous creatures following the herd, being told what to think, what to react to, how to react to it. And when enough support had been gained, for whatever cause they needed it for, the message men sent them away on their next campaign – bird flu, immigration, over-populated prisons, celebrity scandal. Democracy controlled through fear. Control the fear and you control the population. More taxes – create a fear. But a cause célebre wasn't enough; these knuckle-draggers had still to fight on the football terraces, on their estates, on the roads, anywhere – foul-mouthed, stupid, credit-spending, celebrity wannabes.

The late Jade Goody, he recalled, had claimed once on Big Brother that she was the 25th most influential voice in the country. The politicians had scoffed, but Cayden totally believed it. Britain was meant to be one of the top five civilised countries. God help the rest of the world! But no, that wasn't true. The rest of the world, a large part of the poorer world, had higher morals, higher ethical standards, greater respect for law, family and those around them, because they hadn't been corrupted by materialism. Britain was only civilised because it had wealth. Scrape away the credit, the social security, the safety nets, and most Britons would instantly become a hundred times' more uncivilised than those in the worst slums of India.

Sadly, Cayden realised, he perpetuated the standard. He pursued material gain; he was motivated by wealth, enjoyed the satisfaction of making money. Consequently, he had failed in pretty much all his personal relationships. Even to the extent, of getting the person who had loved him the most, murdered.

'You alright, Uncle Cayden?'

He became aware of the horns behind him. Glancing quickly at the green light, he accelerated forward. 'Yes, sorry, Mikey, I was miles away.'

'Can I call Dad?'

'Of course.' Cayden handed him his mobile

Cayden felt his heart wrench as he listened to the lost voice inside the hood next to him having a monosyllabic conversation with his father. Dylan had obviously not improved. The conversation changed to what Michael had been doing, and Cayden started to mime to him not to tell Jac about the police. But Michael was suddenly animated, describing his journey through Southampton in the back of a squad car. The phone was quickly handed over.

'That's just fucking great, Cayden. I give you the responsibility of looking after my son because I had no-one else to turn to and, believe me, I would have gone to anyone, and look, my fears are completely justified ... I just ... oh, fuck it, I just cannot believe ... as if Mikey wasn't traumatised enough with his brother being in hospital, you have to take him to a fucking police station!'

It wasn't as bad as that, Jac ...'

'You're hopeless. Sodding hopeless. You don't give a shit about anyone!'

'It wasn't my fault ...'

'See if you can look after him for one night without anything else happening. I have to stay at the hospital. Dylan's an eleven on the Glasgow coma scale – on the border between recovery within a few days or maybe not at all. They're doing more tests, so we'll know later.'

'I'm sure he'll be fine, Jac.'

'Hand me back to Mikey.'

*****

Meadowlight floated on a halo of light above a blanket of cotton-wool mist. The Aston's headlights cut through the fog. A full moon in a cold sky; leafless trees outlined in its baleful light. The high-peaked eves of the barn looked like a great ship coming towards them.

'Why're all the lights on?' Michael asked through a yawn.

A thought that had been worrying Cayden.

'Stay here a minute, Mikey, I won't be long.' Cayden slipped out of the warm car and walked quickly around to the atrium doors. He tried the handle. It opened. He stepped quietly inside – and heard a clunk of metal from the kitchen. Ms. Bra-less walked from the room, holding a saucepan. She saw Cayden and her hands flew to her mouth. She screamed, and the saucepan hit the floor, spilling pasta and a red sauce over the wood.

'Sodding hell, you frightened the life out of me,' she said as she knelt to scoop the pasta up with a spoon.

'Sorry, but I do live here.'

Yeah, well ... you know ... you left without saying goodbye, or when you'd be back.'

Cayden frowned. 'Excuse me,' he said, leaving to fetch Michael from the car.

'You didn't tell me you had a son.' She looked up from kneeling with a cloth, mopping up the sauce. 'I suppose you're bloody married too?'

'This is my brother's son, Michael,' Cayden said, turning down the volume on the Bose SoundDock.

'Oh ... um, alright Michael?'

The boy tilted his head, peering from under his hood.

'Does he speak?' Ms. Bra-less was wearing Cayden's shirt and, from what he could see, nothing else.

'I wasn't expecting you still to be here. I was going to call when I got back.'

'How? You don't 'ave my number.'

'You could have left it.'

'Yeah, and you could 'ave left yours. I'm not a one-night stand, mister ... I don't sleep around, got it? You pissed off without giving me your mobile number or nothing. So I thought I'd wait. Cook you dinner.'

'Listen, it's been a hell of a day. Can we talk about this another time?' Cayden directed Michael towards the stairs. 'You know where the spare room is, Mikey.'

'Yeah, I sodding do mind,' snapped Ms. Bra-less. 'I've waited all day. Did you think you could fuck me, leave me without a word, and I would just disappear? Another notch on your bloody bedpost?'

Cayden waited until Michael had crossed the suspended gantry to the spare bedroom, built as a separate pod with its own sitting room and bathroom.

'No, I didn't think that,' Cayden replied between clenched teeth. 'My brother's other son ... he was involved in the school bombing ... we thought he was okay but there's been a complication.' He took off his jacket, looking at the magazines spread over the sofa. 'My brother's back at the hospital, that's why I had to leave so suddenly.' Cayden slung his jacket on the sofa and walked through to the kitchen. It was a mess. 'You've really made yourself at home,' he said.

'What?' She turned from the sink, rinsing out a stained dish towel.

'Nothing.' Cayden looked at the table, laid for two – the candlesticks he had last seen when Rachel had used them for a dinner party. 'Look, I'm sorry but I'm really tired and not good company. Can we pick this up another day?'

She dropped the towel in the sink, turned and lifted the shirt over her head – nothing underneath. 'But you 'aven't even given me a snog?'

Cayden looked up to Michael's room. 'My nephew's up there.' He threw the shirt back at her.

'He's seen a naked woman by now ... blimey, at his age I wasn't even a virgin no more ...'

'Get dressed. Go home. I'll call you.' Cayden glared at her.

The challenge in her eyes faded; instead, replaced by a look of uncertainty, possibly fear, from his expression. 'Fine, be an arsehole.' She flounced past him, jamming his shirt between his folded arms. Her buttocks jiggled and her feet slapped over the floor – then she stomped up the stairway, her breasts bouncing.

Cayden wanted to warn her to behave – but he still didn't know her name

She reappeared, dressed in the clothes from the night before, her micro-skirt half-zipped, her heels making a din. 'Arsehole,' she shouted before slamming the atrium door.

He guessed her car was still at the neighbours. It wasn't far. He should really give her a lift in the fog. Sod her! He started to clear up the mess.

The pasta was overcooked but he was hungry. He scooped what was left out of the saucepan and went back to the living room. It was cold, the central heating struggling to heat the cavernous space. He lit the fire.

The kitchen TV was blaring out a documentary on Iran: they had recently launched their first rocket, ostensibly to release a communications satellite; the world was worried it was a precursor to nuclear IBMs

Cayden was too tired to get up and switch it off. He opened the Echo and read the banner headline: Callejon Brothers Sunk By School Bombing. Jac was not going to be happy. Why did it have to be front page news? He read on:

One of the area's leading businessmen was among hundreds of anxious relatives awaiting news of a loved one's injuries in the wake of the Portsmouth school terror bombing

Cayden Callejon, owner of Tomahawk Powerboats, is pictured at the Royal Hospital Haslar in Gosport, where his nephew, Dylan, was taken with serious injuries following the horrific attack

Seen with him is Mr. Callejon's brother, Jac, Dylan's father. The seven-year-old boy was rushed to Haslar's intensive care unit with multiple broken bones and a severe head wound, although, as we went to press, a hospital spokesperson said Dylan was expected to make a full recovery

Cayden Callejon had driven back from Scotland the morning of the attack, unaware of his nephew's involvement.

'I'm devastated,' he told the Echo. How innocent school children can become the latest target for Muslim extremists is beyond me.'

Mr. Callejon claimed the government's foreign policy was to blame. 'When they took this country to war in Iraq, they should have done more to make sure its citizens were fully protected...'

Cayden scrunched up the paper and threw it on the fire. 'I didn't say that.' He would sue the illiterate ... what was her name? Claudette, that was it ... and why could he remember her name and not the woman he had slept with? What was happening to him? He fell back on the sofa, closing his eyes.

*****

Frost covered the lawn, each crystal glinting in the brittle sunshine. Two magpies left tracks as they foraged on a barren flowerbed. The east-facing elevations released tendrils of steam. Something moved by the tree line across the valley: a stag, breath jetting from his nose. Crows, their raucous cries punctuating the still air, circled three giant oaks standing proud as sentinels on the ridge line – guardians of the dwindling woodland.

Cayden sipped coffee. Smoke rose in a column from Christine's farmhouse down the lane. He wondered what they thought of him now.

Michael plodded down the stairway, his sweatshirt hood already covering his head.

'Want to go for a walk?'

'Nah ... thanks.'

'Fair enough. There's cereal in the kitchen. You know where the X-box is.' Cayden drained his coffee, set the mug on the patio table, then crunched across the garden to the overgrown stile. He needed to get a gardener now that Rachel was no longer around to attack the weeds. The stag continued to watch him as he skirted a field, his feet slipping in and out of the frozen tractor ruts. Several crows, landed among the ploughed lanes and started to jab at frozen clods. Looking for what, Cayden could not guess. The stag's bravery faltered. He disappeared into the woods without a sound.

The frozen ground suddenly reminded Cayden of Scotland. It seemed so long ago. He wondered what McMillan was up to. What special mission had he been sent on after the school bombings? What corner of the globe was he laying down in, camouflaged, a suspect in his cross-hairs

Cayden found the spot where the stag had been standing. He followed its tracks into the woods. Stiff branches caught in his clothes, as if attempting to stop him entering. He tried to move silently, just as they had trained him in Scotland, looking to place his feet without noise, using the leaf litter to avoid leaving footprints.

Suddenly, it was no longer the stag he was tracking – it was his nemesis. The spectre of that hated face ballooned in his imagination, like it had done every day since Rachel's murder

Maalik.

The name exploded as if he had stepped on a land mine.

Cayden physically reeled from the shock, his foot landing squarely on a stick, the resultant crack like a gunshot.

The stag had been only a few yards away. It ran, silently, leaping the fallen trunks.

That old feeling of hopelessness engulfed Cayden. Every day, his mind squirmed from his naivety, at his false courage, his ability to think he could control everything. He had failed her. He was no action man, nor was he streetwise. He could sit in an office and tell people what to do. He knew how to make a good boat, how to make money, but when it came down to the things that really mattered, like protecting the one he loved, he was a failure.

He reached the ridge and stood beneath one of the great oaks. He looked up through the moss-covered branches. A crow regarded him impassively.

Everything once so important now mattered little. His life structure had been so entirely knocked from its foundations, he was finding it impossible to rebuild. Part of the problem was lack of closure – a consuming resentment at the injustice. Maalik had been wounded during the gun fight, when they had tried to rescue Rachel, but the bastard had escaped, and the authorities had never found him. If Maalik was caught or killed, would he feel absolution from his guilt? Cayden doubted it Rachel would still be gone

A cow was lowing in a field. He heard a tractor coming up the lane and wondered whether it was Christine's husband. What a weird bloke – lethargic and disinterested when seen about the farm, yet into snorting coke and gangbangs! Cayden set off along the ridge, towards the bowl-shaped valley that backed into a chalk escarpment. He felt a shiver of embarrassment about the night at the farmer's home. Who was he to call anyone weird? Patches of sunlight had softened the frosty ground. His footsteps squelched in the mush. Chaffinches twittered around him as they darted among the holly bushes. The night at the farmhouse typified the feeling that his life had become uncontrollable, like sitting behind a steering wheel disconnected from the front wheels. No longer in control of his future; the way ahead unclear. He wanted to stop, take stock, but his foot was firmly on the accelerator.

When he returned, the frost had melted off the Aston Martin, revealing Ms Bra-less's parting shot – Arsehole scrawled in pink lipstick over the windows. When he tried to wipe it away, it smeared, coagulated, like cold, melted chocolate. At least she hadn't written on the bodywork. He guessed he deserved it. They would have to use the Range Rover.

*****

The Solent's wintry tranquility was distorted by the orderly march of wake from a Red Funnel ferry, on its regular commute between Southampton and the Isle of Wight – a yacht sail off Gilkicker the only other human disturbance to the peaceful waters, until the sound of engines boomed out over the stillness. The Tomahawk Blade's stem cut the surface, like a knife pushed through mercury, the cold steely waters parted in spouts of spray, flying far from either side of the hull and tumbling away astern, boiled by the three screws. Cayden huddled down behind the windscreen, wrapped in a fleece-lined spray jacket. Michael, life jacket on and strapped into one of the stern seats, waved at the rows of people lining the deck of the ferry

Ten minutes later, they circled Spitbank Fort off Portsmouth Harbour, the exhausts booming back from the 1860's structure, built to ward off the French, anticipating the boom of ancient cannon rather than modern diesels. Cayden throttled back. 'You warm enough?'

Michael unbuckled and came forward. His nose and ears were pink. 'How fast were we going?'

'About 50 knots.'

'That's 55 miles an hour,' Michael said, smiling.

Cayden smiled back, pleased that something had lightened the boy's mood. 'Not bad, Mikey ... if you want to be exact, 57.6. You want some coffee?'

He shook his head. 'Is there any hot chocolate?'

'I'll take a look. Keep her heading in this direction. If you see anything, give me a shout.'

Cayden was pleased his nephew took the responsibility seriously.

As Michael took the wheel, he carefully looked over the instruments before doing a full scan of the horizon. Cayden smiled again and went below.

His phone beeped as he switched on the kettle. A text from Jac: _hve u managed 2 keep Mikey out of prison today_

Off Gilkicker enjoying sun how s Dylan?

No change. Need a break. Meet u at company marina 1 hour

OK

'Here you go, Mikey – careful, it's hot. Use that cup holder beside you.' The handsome young face was full of concentration. 'Dad's going to meet us at the marina. You want to take her in?'

The boy's clear blue eyes shone. 'Yeah, wicked!'

'You're the captain. Nudge the throttles forward. Let's get her up on the plane.'

The hot chocolate remained untouched. Cayden's opinion of his nephew grew as Michael quickly learnt how to change direction, using the throttles instead of the wheel, and quickly learnt pilotage, to the extent that he was able to navigate yachts exiting the River Hamble without any instruction from his uncle. They rounded the bend of the river, confronted suddenly with the sprawling Tomahawk factory. It was full tide and the reflection of the winter trees and bank was so crisp, it was difficult to see where it finished and the reflected objects began. A lone figure was standing on the end of the jetty. He waved. Cayden waved back.

'Okay Mikey, throttle back. The boy pulled the levers to neutral. 'A bit of reverse, that's it ... now, can you tell me why we did that?'

'To see if there's any tide or wind affecting the direction of the boat.'

'Absolutely. There are other things you can look for to see if tide's affecting you, but the best way, is just to lose power and see which way the boat drifts. Okay, I'll put out the fenders and lines. You can take her alongside.'

With deft movements on the controls, his tongue jammed firmly in the corner of his mouth, Michael nudged the 48-foot power boat up alongside the jetty. Cayden handed his brother the lines.

'I think we've just found our new boat tester,' Cayden said as they looked down on the young smiling face.

'Well done Mikey. Now, I've got to get you home. Your mother says you need to finish off some homework for school tomorrow.' Jac's smile was an older version of his son's; a lot more creased around the edges. 'Glad to see you were able to keep out of trouble,' he said, facing his brother.

Cayden glanced back more aware than usual that he was a few inches taller than Jac – or had his brother shrunk with the worry? 'So... the hospital can't give any news on Dylan?'

Jac shrugged. 'Glasgow scale thirteen coma.' Cayden raised his eyebrows. 'Apparently it means, he'll definitely regain consciousness, and, there's unlikely to be any long-lasting damage.'

'Isn't that good news?' Cayden asked, searching Jac's grim expression.

'I guess ... if anything can be considered good news in this hell we're living. Come on Mikey, let's go.' Jac jumped down onto the deck and helped his son pull the cover over the cockpit.

There's still no information on who did this shit,' added Jac as they walked back to his Cayenne.

Cayden rubbed the stubble on his chin. 'These things take time.'

'You know what? The bloody police stopped me for speeding coming over here – bastards. I had a real go at them.' Jac laughed sarcastically. 'They only threatened to arrest me ... me!' He crossed his arms. 'Then, when they found out who I was, they let me off with a caution. Amazing, isn't it? Within 24 hours we both nearly end up in gaol while the deranged scum who murdered eleven school children still walk free.' Jac shook his head.

Cayden made sure Michael was buckled in. He ruffled his nephew's hair through the open window. 'Be good Mikey. Hope you had a great time.'

The young boy smiled briefly, before putting his hood up to its accustomed position.

Cayden walked to the driver's door.

Jac, looked up grimly. 'No-one cares ... not for the victims, anyway. Those poor little kids, they're just ... just sodding abandoned. You should see that ward ... all those beds – full of helpless little bodies and distraught parents. It's sickening, bloody hopeless,' He revved the Cayenne, staring through the windscreen, 'you know this great protection system they say exists in this country – with the bloody politicians saying, "oh, but this is one of the safest countries in the world," well, it's complete bullshit.' He looked guiltily in the rear view mirror. There's no protection, no safety net – nothing. The police can only be bothered with catching the softest rule-breakers, like people speeding – easy meat, easiest way to meet stupid bloody targets.'

'Hang in there,' said Cayden, drumming his fingers on the roof.

Jac nodded. 'Yeah, well, I'd better get him home. Thanks.'

They shook hands and Cayden watched the Porsche roll over the uneven cobbled surface of the courtyard, disappearing behind the building that had once been Rachel's boutique. He turned hurriedly away.

He made for his office via a private door in the back of the building. It was as quiet as he would expect for a Sunday. It always gave him the creeps walking through a deserted building, lit only by the orange glow of the setting sun. He switched on the TV in his office, turning up the volume before pouring himself a Scotch, while waiting for his laptop to power up.

Cayden flicked through to the 24-hour news channel. More talk on invading Iran. Still no news on the school bombers. Interest rates coming down. Unions calling for strikes against jobs for foreign workers.

He scrolled through the 45 messages in his inbox. A name leapt out at him. He sat upright with a jolt that slurped Scotch from his glass.

slywilliams@aol.com

He clicked on the address.

Hi Cayden – remember me! Guess hard to forget huh? Need to talk. Please call whenever

Sly

X

Cayden finished the Scotch in a gulp. Sly Williams. He hadn't spoken to the agent from Homeland Security since that day in Trinidad, that final day when they had at last tracked down Rachel's kidnappers; that day when they came face-to-face again with Maalik; the day Rachel was murdered and Maalik escaped. There had been other reasons – guilt, of course. Rachel had loved him to the core of her being, and all he could repay that with, in her hours of greatest need, was – making love to Sly Williams.

Cayden pulled out his mobile. He checked the address book. Her numbers were still there – after two years. His finger hovered over her work number – 1.30 Florida time and on a Sunday. Was she likely to be in the office?

He poured himself another Scotch, flicked open his phone – and hesitated again, this time with her home number. He had avoided contact for two years. He wasn't even sure she still worked for Homeland Security – her boss had been pretty tough on her during the hunt for Maalik; she had screwed up on a number of occasions.

Cayden was not a religious man but he could not be sure – was Rachel watching him, testing to see how deep his sorrow really ran?

He pressed the green button, turning his chair one-eighty to stare grimly at his reflection in the darkened glass. The overhead light exaggerated the lines on his forehead, a ravaged reflection of a face that had once been a pin-up for several secretaries in the building. Now, he thought sadly, those good looks had melted into fierce, unapproachable lines.

He pressed the phone tightly against his ear. Five burrs, the international ring tone. Ten. He pulled the phone from his ear.

'Hi, this is Sly, sorry I can't get to the phone right now, leave a message.' Beep.

Cayden again hesitated. 'Sly ... hi, it's Cayden, long time ... you're still living at the same place ...' He took a deep breath. 'Got your message, I'm on this number if you want to call back, otherwise I'll try again tomorrow at your work ... I'm assuming you're still there ...' He started to close his phone. '... oh, and, ah, good to hear from you.' He snapped the phone shut.

Draining his Scotch, he swivelled back to his desk and sat watching the Tomahawk screen-saver on his laptop.

His phone vibrated. He snatched it up. 'Hello.'

'Hey Cayden, is that you? This is Sly.'

'Long time ... how are you?'

A long pause.

'Okay ... I guess. You okay? You sound kind-a weird.'

'I'm surprised you remember how I sound at all,' Cayden said, grimacing

Long pause.

'Yeah, well I guess you Brits always sound kind-a gloomy.'

'It's the damn weather ... and all the other crap.'

'Yeah, you've been havin' a helluva time. I picked up from the internet yesterday that Jac's son was involved in these school bombings. How is he?'

'Back into a coma. They missed a blood clot.'

'Shit! I'm sorry 'bout that, Cayden. Tell Jac I'm sorry, will you?'

'Sure Sly ... thank you. What did it say?'

'What?'

'The internet.'

'Oh ... oh yeah ... well, you know, it was a story from your local paper, the Echo – don t you get it?'

Cayden was silent. He got up and poured himself another Scotch.

'This is harder than I thought it would be,' Sly said, her voice fading.

'Are you still working for Homeland Security?'

Long silence.

'Ahuh, sure am ... yeah, it's goin' okay. You planning a visit to Florida anytime soon?'

Cayden heard the switch in her voice – now matter-of-fact. 'No. Why?'

'Oh ... um, be good to see ya. It's been two years and we ... you know, we went through a lot and ... shit ...'

Cayden waited.

'I can't talk about it on the phone.'

Cayden finished his third drink. He was beginning to feel light-headed. 'Sly, I don't know if I can ...'

'What?'

'Well ... Rachel's death has really affected me.'

'Yeah ... yeah, I know, I know. I just thought ... oh shit, I don't know what I was thinking. Listen, if you're ever in town, it really would be great to see ya again. So call – okay?'

'Sure.'

'Bye then.'

Cayden wanted to say something – something positive – but the phone was already dead.

'Bugger.'

Chapter 5

The Cessna Caravan settled through low cloud, the pilot straining forward, searching beyond the flicking wiper and blur of propeller.

The three passengers, dressed in jeans and short-sleeved shirts, their leader wearing a jacket, sat calmly. They were used to danger. If it was their time to die, it was Allah's will. They had nothing to do with it, so why be concerned?

The pilot opened the throttle. The engine bellowed. The plane was at 1,000 feet. It was dangerous to go lower. He glanced at his GPS: a few miles to the strip. He eased back on the throttle and the Cessna started to lose height again. The pilot glanced behind. The leader shook his head slightly. There was no going back. The pilot wiped a gloved hand across his forehead.

600 feet ... a mile to go.

500 ... the cloud began to whip by in broken lumps.

400 ... the darker smudge of land – frighteningly close.

300 ... more cloud.

200 ... and they emerged into the gloom of the afternoon. The tropical rainforest grabbed at the Cessna's undercarriage. The pilot strained to look ahead for the strip. There it was! Slightly to his right. He banked, jinked past a mighty sequoia, selected full flaps and dumped the power. The plane dropped like an elevator; the wheels impacted just beyond the threshold of cut grass. He could feel the wet, muddy ground suck at the wheels. Straining the landing struts further, he applied the brakes. The Cessna weaved and bucked over the uneven surface before finally coming to a stop, slewed to the right, the great wall of jungle only a few metres away.

A jeep made its way out to them from the end of the runway.

The three passengers clambered past the pilot; the last, the man in the jacket, patted the pilot's shoulder, leaving a wet hand-print on the fabric.

They stretched. The shortest man, with dark stubble, eyes close together either side of a hooked nose, lit a cigarette. They didn't speak, but watched the jeep as it skidded to a stop beside them, mud covering the tyres.

The three men climbed in behind the driver, who was barely tall enough to look over the wheel. They sat for a moment, the driver staring through the windscreen at the Cessna. Eventually, he turned and regarded his passengers. He had a boy's face, twelve or thirteen, light-coloured skin, black hair in a pudding bowl haircut, but his eyes were older, yellow with black pupils, as if he had been in a smoky place. The boy grinned suddenly, his incisors, sharpened to points. It was like looking at a dog baring its teeth, threatening but not dangerous. The man with the jacket waved his hand, commanding the boy to drive off.

'I want a new pilot. Make sure the old one disappears,' he said to the man still smoking.

The third of the trio sat with a briefcase on his lap. He had a thin moustache, a pockmarked face from smallpox and a pony-tail. Opening the case, he pulled out a laptop. He tapped on the keyboard while the jeep slipped over the ruts made by the Cessna.

'Losing him and finding a new pilot will cost thirty thousand,' he said.

'Shut up, Allam,' the man with the jacket replied wearily.

Allam shut his laptop, his expression neutral.

They entered the tree line. The jeep's tyres fell into the deep ruts, the vegetation in the centre brushed against the underside. The vehicle swayed and staggered over the roots, its engine grinding in four-wheel drive. There was no air conditioning. The boy driver had his window open. He stared ahead. The wheel flicked aggressively through his small hands but he made no attempt to correct it; the jeep was not going anywhere but along the tyre ruts.

The shortest of his passengers flicked his cigarette out of the window. He leant forward. 'How far?'

The boy did not flinch from the closeness of the man's voice to his ear. His eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror, then back to the track ahead.

'Insolent puppy. Jalal, would you let me break his neck and leave him for whatever hunts these fucking forests?'

'Violence, violence, violence ... your answer to everything, Isam, my brother?'

Isam slumped back next to Jalal. 'Fucking heat.'

'See if there is any water in that cool box.'

Isam leant over the seat-back. He lifted the lid, grunted and bought out a bottle of water. 'He's probably pissed in it,' he said, handing it to his brother.

Jalal lifted the bottle to his nose – long and hooked like his younger brother's, but his eyes were wider, better proportioned to his long face; the neat, trimmed triangle of hair on his chin resembled an exclamation point. Satisfied, he tilted the bottle back and gulped before handing the bottle to Isam.

The jeep thudded into a trench, the water exploding around his lips, spraying his face and dribbling down his t-shirt. The jeep then started to climb. Jalal restrained his brother. 'It's not his fault, Isam, look ...'

The jeep strained up the incline, the tyres threatening to lose purchase as they crested the bank and broke out of the gloom into a narrow strip of bright daylight. The cloud cover was still there but it felt like stepping into sunlight. A broad dirt road ran arrow straight through the greenery. Its surface was less rutted, but potholed at regular, bone-jarring intervals; the jeep, now in fourth and doing fifty, plunged and leapt through them. Above the roar of the engine, the stones cracking against the metal underside, they heard bursts of insects through the driver's open window. There was no other sign of life until the road suddenly entered a village. From jungle to habitation – it was like stepping through a doorway.

The road broadened further to a dusty avenue. Instead of trees, telegraph poles leant at varying angles. On either side were single-storey buildings, with walls made from odd scraps of wood and boarding; roofs, from rusty corrugated metal. There was no glass in the jagged openings that masqueraded as windows, and frayed cloth hung in the doorways. A woman scrubbed clothes in a sliced oil drum, beneath a sheet of blue tarpaulin – the first human activity they had witnessed from the jeep since leaving the landing strip. She did not look up as the vehicle sped by in a cloud of dust, scattering goats, chickens and skeletal dogs.

The road forked. They had reached the village centre. To their left was a triangle of dirt, with a basketball hoop at one end, goal posts of leaning wood at the other. A broken 70's Ford truck stood on blocks behind the posts. To their right a few street lamps, more piles of wood with corrugated roofs; in the distance, a bridge, its wire supports covered in vines. The jeep stopped in front of a cinder block building, with a porch. A broken drink vending machine was propped against a wall. A rusty Inca Cola sign hung on a pole with a small red flag. Next door – another truck on blocks. An abandoned engine seeped oil into the sand alongside a pyramid of tyres, all worn down to the wire frame.

The driver waited behind the wheel while his three passengers climbed out. As soon as they had collected their bags, the jeep sped off, disappearing behind one of the buildings.

'Jalal, tell me again why we have come to this ... hell?' Isam asked stamping up the wooden steps to the porch. He kicked out at a dog which darted inside, its tail curled between its legs.

'You know why.'

Isam brushed off a chair. 'No mobile phones, no e-mail, nothing that can be traced,' he said sarcastically, propping his feet on the railing. 'Allam, see if there is anything to drink.'

'Go see yourself,' replied Allam, placing his briefcase carefully on the only table.

'I'll go.' Jalal glared at his brother. 'We might have to wait some time. Save your energy.'

There was no temperature difference to the outside. The interior was dark; what light that could have been provided by the window was subdued by blue tarpaulin. There were lines of trestle tables and benches, an empty fish tank, a plant in a pot with one leaf, and a glass counter to Jalal's left, with bottles on precarious wooden shelves. Beads hung in front of an opening. He cautiously parted them. Beyond was a concrete yard; the dog sat in the far corner. A gully ran through the centre, full of green, piss-smelling water. Two further doors led from the courtyard to other dilapidated outbuildings. He could hear chickens. A bottle clinked. Jalal turned quickly. A boy stood behind the counter. He looked identical to their driver.

Jalal approached, slowly, navigating the tables, searching for the hidden entrance the boy must have used. When he reached the counter he placed three fingers on the cracked glass. 'Three, cold drinks,' he said in guttural English.

The smoky eyes stared back at him, expressionless

Jalal smacked the counter. 'Now!'

The boy sprang up onto the counter – like a cat. Jalal fell back with surprise, the back of his knees catching a bench; he fell over and a table collapsed from the impact. The boy was crouched on the counter top, his teeth bared, the incisors sharpened to points. He growled in his young boy's tenor.

Isam was helping his brother out of the wreckage within seconds. 'What happened?' he asked, his back to the counter.

'Look out!' Jalal cried, looking over Isam's shoulder.

The boy leapt.

Isam spun, dropping his brother; his sinewy fingers caught the boy's t-shirt and, using the boy's flying momentum, he propelled him over their heads in a fluid blur of movement. The boy crashed into the far wall, his manic cry cut short. He lay on the floor, still. Isam helped his brother to his feet. 'What's wrong with the fucking kids around here?'

Jalal used his foot but the boy did not stir. Jalal knelt and felt his neck. 'He's still alive,' he said, studying the face that had sagged back into youthfulness.

'This is how he entered.'

Jalal turned, still on his haunches.

'There's a trapdoor,' Isam explained from behind the counter.

'Is there anything cold to drink?'

Isam hunted through the bottles and odd assortment of glasses under the counter. 'Chicha ...' he replied, holding up the jug containing the fermented maize beer. '... but it's warm.'

'It's how they drink it.' Jalal turned back to study the boy once more. 'The red flag outside ... I guess this is the only bar. We have no choice.'

'We've been travelling for two days, Jalal, I have not had a shower, a decent bed or even time to pray – now you expect me to drink this ...' Isam spat out the Chicha. '... shit.'

'You are a warrior, Isam, on holy jihad, you do not need these things and we have been given special permission by the Imam not to bring attention to ourselves by prayer. Allah, peace be to him, will be forgiving because we are his soldiers.'

'I still feel ... guilty, not praying. It's like losing an arm. And I feel naked without my beard.'

'Isam, remember your Qur'an – "and those who perform jihad for Us, We shall certainly guide them in Our ways, and God is surely with the doers of good." Jalal gave the crumpled body another nudge with his foot before turning to face his brother again. 'We are protecting our faith, our way of life, against those who would have all traces of it wiped from this earth. You should never feel guilty.'

'O Allah, forgive me.' Isam stirred the Chicha with a finger. 'Sharia law forbids alcohol.'

Jalal shook his head irritably. 'It also would not want us dying of thirst.'

Night came suddenly. The three men sat in various states of stupor. Isam had taken his pistol apart and cleaned it three times. It now sat in its holster, under his arm, his t-shirt ringed with sweat. Jalal's feet were propped on the crate of Inca Cola bottles they had found in a shallow cellar, accessed via the trapdoor. The cool liquid had been refreshing. Allam had finished updating his spreadsheets and now dozed, his laptop held against his chest; his chair leant back against the wall of cinder block.

The boy had recovered and disappeared. They had watched a few old women and a man go by; none had looked in their direction. The dog had reappeared but had gone yapping away when Islam threw a bottle at its bony frame. There had been a brief chorus from the big black birds with long tails in the tops of palm trees behind the bar, but now there was only the sound of the insects.

'If I have to wait much longer, Allah forgive me, but I am going to start shooting people,' Isam growled.

They heard an engine turn over, then catch and settle into a steady rhythm. A few minutes later the street lights glowed but without enough light to reach the ground. Insects immediately swirled around the feeble illumination, then bats with twitching black wings flickered in and out of the light, their clicks directing them onto their prey. A frog revealed its presence from somewhere beneath the porch.

Jalal closed his eyes – and then jumped awake, startled by the sudden roar of diesels, quickly followed by a trail of dancing lights that swept over the bridge. The convoy roared up the road, gears crashing, the lights behind dimmed by the growing blanket of dust. The lead truck skidded to a halt in front of them; the others came in alongside, forming a half-circle. In the poor light Jalal could just make out the dilapidated 1970's Ford tippers.

Isam had drawn his pistol; he stood protectively beside Jalal. For a long moment they were motionless in the glare of the vibrating headlights. Then, a less antiquated vehicle, a Toyota Land Cruiser, swept around the edge of the semi-circle and glided to a halt below them. The rear door was opened by the driver and a slim figure stooped out. He spent some time straightening his jacket, then walked slowly up the steps. His face was hidden by the peak of a baseball cap, back-lit by the headlights. He was shorter than the six foot Jalal.

'Hablas a senor español?' he asked in a voice that sounded adolescent and matter-of-fact.

'Solamente un poco,' Jalal replied. He had always struggled with foreign languages, hating the English and Spanish spoken by the infidels.

'Then maybe English?' the new arrival sneezed – and spat between their feet.

Jalal glared at the shadow under the peak. 'Praise Allah!'

'May Allah have mercy on you', Isam said, automatically, alongside his brother. 'Should I kill him now?' he added quietly.

'English is easier.' Jalal ignored his brother and smiled at the top of the baseball cap.

'Allah is the greatest,' the capped figure said in Arabic, staring at Isam. The lights from the trucks vibrated their shadows against the cinder block wall. 'Come.' The young man pointed imperiously to the Land Cruiser.

'Keep your comments to yourself, little brother,' Jalal hissed to Isam as they stepped down from the porch before squeezing into the back seats. The Toyota sped out of the semi-circle, the trucks following. They turned up behind the bar, passing the triangular sports area and a series of dark, unlit structures, before going down a track between tall sugar cane and stopping on a concrete apron in front of a well-lit storage shed. Double, hangar-like doors opened and strong light spilled out. The trucks arrived and backed into the interior.

'Come.' They had a brief glimpse of a smooth cheekbone before the low cap hid their guide's features again.

Inside, they went up to a mezzanine floor. The size of the warehouse opened before them. Down one side, on floors separated by wooden beams, beneath a line of lights, were drying leaves from the coca plant. The trucks were tipping fresh leaves onto the concrete, which were shoveled into wheeled bins, before being taken to one of the partitioned sections.

'Ten kilos for one kilo coke,' said their guide, stopping to look along the line of many thousands of kilos. At the far end, they could see boys jumping up and down, running and fighting over the leaves, crushing them to a brown powder.

'Come.'

On the mezzanine were lines of tables where boys in masks mixed sulphuric acid and caustic soda with the brown powder; drums from which lime, salt and gasoline were slowly drained and mixed until a recognisable paste formed; an area where acetone was added to the paste; and, finally, drying tables, creating the powder snorted throughout the world.

'We are not here for cocaine,' said Jalal, dismissing a spatula held out for him to taste.

Their guide removed the cap. Long black hair fell to the shoulders – a girl! Her nose was slightly flattened with flared nostrils, her eyes, the same smoky-yellow as the boys'. She had full lips but when she smiled, they saw that her incisors had also been sharpened. She had a boy's figure, but seemed older, late-teens, Jalal guessed.

'Allahu Akbar,' she said, flinging the spatula back on the table. A crane waited overhead to lift a load of black drums down to the others stacked below.

'I am meeting your leader.' Jalal responded, feeling the weight of his pistol under his jacket.

'Maritza!' a voice boomed over a tannoy system. The girl froze, as did every boy in the building. 'Traermelos.'

They were now hurried, weaving around the barrels of forming paste to the far end of the warehouse, where they descended, then walked out through a narrow door and onto a path lit by torches which took them through the trees. The path became a duckboard above a swamp; mosquitoes whined around the spluttering torch flames, settling on their arms and faces. They slapped at them, irritably. Frogs croaked and burped from all sides; occasionally there was a loud plop, or a splash of water as something hunted through the stillness – further out, the occasional cry of an animal or a disturbed bird. Lights began to flicker through the trees ahead. Jalal felt strangely disorientated by them. Then they entered a clearing. It had been the perspective that was odd. The lights were high above. They followed on, their necks craning upwards. Maritza brought them to a massive tree. They heard an electric whine, and cables started to move. Eventually, a cage rattled to a stop in front of them.

'Are you sure we should go on?' Isam asked.

Allam nodded his own uncertainty.

'Allah suffices me and He is the best guardian,' Jalal told them.

'In the name of Allah,' the two chorused quietly as they stepped into the cage.

It rattled up into the canopy. Branches the width of roads began to spread around them. The cage stopped next to a wooden platform. Through the trees they could now see buildings, lit by electric light and better made then those of the village below: sawn timber slotted together seamlessly for the walls; well-made thatched roofs, wooden shutters for windows, and doors of reed, hinged to their frames. Figures moved through the light; they could hear distant voices – someone shouting, another answering. But, as they walked along the rope-ways, the treetop village was eerily devoid of normal community sounds: no traffic, running water, television or music; no clink of glass or rattle of china. The torches they passed gave off a familiar aroma, and Jalal realised there were also no mosquitoes – the twin fragrance of rosemary and lemongrass, a natural repellent. They crossed swinging rope-bridges connecting the giant sequoia trees. Then, Maritza stopped in front of a dark opening in the side of another massive trunk. She gestured for them to enter. It was apparent that this was as far as she was going.

Jalal stepped past her. Immediately, a light came on above, illuminating a spiral stairway cut into the wood like a castle turret. The wood had been tooled smooth and polished. Outlines of jungle birds and animals had been carved at every turn, and electric lights hung in sockets set into recesses above. Isam had begun to complain about the climb when they stepped out of the trunk onto a platform, the lowest of a series that followed the natural layers of the tree. Torches lit each area in dancing light. Above each platform was a canopy, supported on two poles like a circus big-top, camouflaged in shades of green. They walked cautiously, glancing behind and above. At the end of the highest platform they were confronted by a set of mock-gothic double doors, made from packing cases, hinged between two trunks. Suddenly, the doors opened and a naked boy bowed. Yet another walkway stretched out before them, this one lined with torches – the entrance to a high-level cave in a rock face visible at the far end. The walkway swayed beneath their combined weight, Below and above them, it seemed there was nothing but darkness. Jalal followed his brother through the cave entrance, glancing behind occasionally at the sweating Allam.

They passed along the dirt floor of a short corridor hacked roughly from the rock, illuminated by naked lights crammed into crevices. The passage led to another door, this one of metal set in a concrete frame. It swung open as they stood beneath a camera. Noise immediately assailed them – a diesel generator echoing around the small cavern they had entered. A man dressed in shorts, a cigarette hanging from his lips, poured fuel into an adjacent tank. They walked further into the hillside and, when the noise from the generator was a distant hum, they stepped around a jagged bluff of rock, through a second, open, metal door, into a wide, high cavern. The limestone walls towered upwards until lost in the dark. A row of television monitors were spread along the far wall, computer screens shone from a desk, and in front of a fire, its smoke curling up into the shadow, an animal was being turned on a spit by a boy. Around a circular table – the end of a sawn trunk, its rings polished – were half-a-dozen heavy wooden chairs. From behind came the clink of cutlery, the splash of running water. The boy had disappeared through a bamboo screen to the kitchen area.

Jalal turned back to the table, on a lower level beyond, he could just make out the outline of a bed, flanked along one wall with rows of books on shelves. A figure on the bed remained still as they approached the table. They looked at one another; Jalal rested his hands on the back of one of the chairs. He was excited; his tiredness and fear had evaporated. This was the man who was going to help them conquer the infidels. The humiliating imperialistic policies of the Western whores would yield this time to the voice of Allah. If September Eleven had not been enough, then ... Jalal's eyes shone in the flickering light. The sacred words of the Islamic creed quickly filled his consciousness ...

Islam is the truth – there is no God but Allah, Muhammad is His messenger. Allah buys from the Believers their Wealth and their Selves. The Believers struggle in the path of Allah – fighting the enemies of Allah and enemies of Islam ... the tyrants, oppressors, the idol worshipers.

He pays them with the eternal reward of paradise.

Chapter 6

Monday mornings.

Never used to feel so sombre – the beginning of joyless routine.

A gloomy slide which began Sunday evening, bottomed-out during the Monday commute and, provided there were no unforeseen problems, Cayden's mood would gradually return to something approaching cordial by midday.

He stared out of his office window, his chair leant back against the edge of the desk. He was always the first in, not because he necessarily wanted to be – it was just habit and the lack of anything to keep him in bed. The clouds were tinged a timid pink. He could now see the full outline of trees, the buildings, the cars behind the headlights on the road the far side of the river. Geese flew along the tree line; he imagined their 'honking' calls the other side of the thick plate glass. Was he ever going to find his old self? He used to love this quiet time – an oasis of calm when he could get all his meetings planned and his notes made on what needed to be done – what he wanted to achieve that week.

Cayden thought of little Dylan, lying in hospital. His hands clenched the armrests. He thought of Scotland and his frown deepened. What a waste of time! Then his thoughts turned to the other night and he shook his head with embarrassment. 'You sad old muppet,' he told himself, feeling uncomfortable – like an itch he couldn't scratch. He moved his back on the leather, subconsciously trying to alleviate the irritation. His whole life had revolved around solving problems. Why couldn't he sort this one out? What was wrong with him?

He watched the glass vibrate slightly from the pressure of the outer door opening. His personal assistant had arrived. Cayden sighed, turning back to his desk as Carol walked in.

'Christ, Cayden! You scared me,' she said, dropping her hand from her chest. 'Why are you sitting in the dark?'

He rested his elbows on the desk, rolling his shoulders. 'Thinking,' he replied.

Carol busied herself switching on lights and his computer, picking up a magazine and setting the Financial Times on his desk. 'How's Dylan?' she asked, sliding the paper closer to him.

'Glasgow scale thirteen coma ... which, according to Jac, is good news.'

Carol folded her arms, frowning, questioning.

'Means he's likely to recover without any serious long-term effects.'

'Poor little soul. Jac must be beside himself.'

Cayden nodded.

'If they ever catch these bastards, hanging won't be good enough. Fancy using child suicide bombers ... what the hell is the world coming to?'

Cayden shook his head wearily. 'Did you know that the passport office issued ten thousand passports to illegal immigrants, three of them alone to one of the July seven bombers?'

'I don't know what's happening to this country,' Carol replied over her shoulder.

'Apathy,' said Cayden, as Carol turned, the door handle. She looked back.

'I'm worried about you. You look really tired. I think you should take a holiday.'

Cayden yawned, sliding the paper around to face him. 'Sitting on a beach somewhere on my own ... well, it just doesn't appeal.'

Carol moved towards his desk again. 'You don't have to do that. There's plenty of holidays for singles – and I know a few girls who would drop everything ...'

He looked up from the paper and smiled slightly. 'Any coffee going?'

Carol shook her head irritably. 'You need to relax. Everyone in the company thinks so.'

Cayden tapped on his keyboard, bringing up his e-mails. 'What do they say ... exactly?'

Carol was back at the door. 'They're worried. You don't seem to be ... I don't know ... in touch, connected ... you've lost that spark, the dynamism you had before the Blade launch.'

Cayden glanced away from the screen. 'Yeah, well, a lot's happened since then. We're still the most profitable boat builder in the world ... they're still getting the best salaries in the industry ... so bloody tell them to focus on their jobs and not me. They're not children! They don't need me to tell them all the time what needs to be done.'

'I just said they're worried – concerned for someone they all look up to.'

'Hmm.' Cayden went back to reading the e-mails. There were 61 of them – 21 trying to sell him something, three from Florida on sales figures and reports, one from the Pacific coast asking him to come out and inspect the new marina, two from the Mediterranean with problems regarding faulty equipment, another from Australia, asking if Queensland Marine could become a Tomahawk agent, and the rest from various departments asking for his decision on design changes, discount clarification, engine quality issues – the minutiae of running a powerboat company. He sighed as Carol returned with a mug of coffee.

Cayden leant back in his chair and looked up at her. 'I'm bored.'

Her eyebrows arched. 'Well, I've got three days of work sitting out there if you're looking for something to do.'

'And I've got three months sitting here.' He gestured at his desk. 'That's not what I meant. I'm not stimulated. It's all the same old crap.'

'That's life. It's routine. You can't expect to be going a hundred miles an hour the whole time. Do you know how many people would give their eye teeth for what you have?'

'Jesus, Carol, do you have to sound like my mother?'

She folded her arms, her expression stern. 'Well honestly, you behave like a boy sometimes. I know you've had a tough time – what happened was unimaginably awful – but you also have a hell of a lot to be grateful for. Rachel, God bless her, would be the first to tell you so as well.'

Cayden looked down into his coffee mug. 'I think it's her vengeance ...'

'Don't be absurd. You're feeling sorry for yourself and that's not like you, Cayden. You've got to get away from here for a while. Change of scenery.'

The telephone buzzed in her office. Cayden's mobile began to vibrate on the desk. He looked at his watch – 8:30. He flipped open the mobile. It was Jac.

'Cayden, I'm going to be at the hospital today if you need me.'

'Sure, how's Dylan?'

'No change.'

'Give him a hug from me.'

'I will. Janet asked me to remind you about your meeting later.'

Cayden looked at his diary. He had forgotten. The appointment at Janet Hart's catamaran yard was written in for that afternoon. After the murder of Janet's parents in Trinidad, – she had paid a double price for thinking she could deal with Maalik – she and Jac had become inseparable, and against Cayden's better judgement, he had agreed to Jac's wishes that the Hart brand, with all its troubles, could be bought under the Tomahawk umbrella.

He hadn't told Janet that the best thing she could do was close the whole thing down. Instead, they had struggled on, trying one initiative after another to make it profitable. He had so far subsidised them with £500,000 – buying new jigs and modernising the manufacturing sheds as best as the limited space would allow. But the design was just too old-fashioned, the demand too small for the high cost of manufacture. Cayden had reached his limit and today was the day he was going to have to tell her the hard truth. It had to close. He was not prepared to put anything more into it. He circled the time and told Jac he had not forgotten. It was a long journey; he would have to leave soon, and, for once, the thought of leaving the office, did not irritate him

****

The M27, M3 and M25 – a long, slinky route of traffic: frustrated drivers carried along on its constantly expanding, then contracting, stream. Cayden wondered, not for the first time, about the value of an Aston Martin on such an overcrowded island, where the average commute speed in London was slower, than the days of horse and cart.

As he waited in the toll queues for the Dartford Tunnel, he switched from an Amy Winehouse CD to Radio Four and caught the late-breaking news just as he was entering the tunnel; two more child suicide bombings. Annoyingly, he could pick up only static fragments of the story. The latest atrocities were in Spain; the sacrificed children had blown up two schools used by service personnel. As Cayden emerged from the tunnel, his bleak mood seemed matched by the drivers around him. A few glanced nervously at him as he passed; others stared straight ahead, grim-faced. The chances of this not ending well were soaring. The Spanish were still prosecuting the fifteen Moroccan-born Muslim radicals who had blown up the trains in Madrid, killing 191 people. The news filtered through: twelve children killed this time – no warnings, no organisation claiming responsibility. The Spanish government in crisis meetings. Cayden listened grimly to interviews with the emergency services in Valencia, where the first bomb had been detonated – home base for the Spanish Helicopter Forces, the 1st Intelligence Unit and 8th Light Cavalry Unit, and Spanish HQ of NATO's Rapid Deployable Corps. The other, at the main naval station between Rota and El Puerto de Santa Maria across the bay from Cadiz. A child bomber destroyed the assembly hall at a junior school, a six thousand acre base used jointly by Spain and the United States, commanded by a Spanish Vice Admiral and home to the Armada Espanola. People's expressions were frightened; civilisation was looking into another abyss.

Turning onto the A13, towards Southend-on-Sea, Cayden found the road was mostly clear. The few cars he did see were moving slowly, their drivers' minds on the horrors coming at them from the radio. He passed the top of Canvey Island. Another bombshell: fifteen British Marines had been captured by the Iranian Navy while returning from inspecting a cargo ship in the Gulf. In an interview, the Captain of HMS Hockley stressed that he was adamant from GPS readings, that the incident had taken place in Iraqi waters, and once the Iranians realised their mistake, he expected the fifteen to be returned immediately.

Cayden turned right down Hadleigh Road, into the grey suburbs of Leigh-on-Sea, each street flanked by identical houses. No-one walked the pavements. The High Street was deserted; the cockle kiosks boarded-up for winter, the shops empty – he imagined everyone listening to their radios, watching TV.

Finding the road to Two Tree Island, Cayden shortly afterwards turned down the unmade track to the boatyard. The sign for Hart Catamaran had fallen from one of its posts; the arrow now pointed straight into the ground. Appropriate, Cayden thought grimly.

He navigated around the potholes, grimacing as the underside of the Aston Martin scraped gravel. He glanced guiltily at the still broken wing mirror. The yard was devoid of any life. He guessed the workforce was huddled around a radio somewhere. Two unfinished hulls sat on blocks, waiting for the finishing-shed, next to a truck, its bonnet up; parts spread in front. Janet's Range Rover was the only car in front of the two-storey office block – little more than Portakabins stacked on top of each other. Through the gaps in the buildings, Cayden could see the marsh flats, and in the distance, the River Thames. He pulled into the parking area, got out and stretched – his back ached. The tide was out, and two Hart catamarans sat on the mud at their moorings. They were brand-new, waiting to find owners, but already they looked neglected and years old.

Cayden retrieved his briefcase. Twisting his torso to relieve the pain, he walked slowly up the cracked concrete steps to the main entrance.

There was no-one in reception. He called out. No answer. Cayden pushed through a set of fire doors and walked across a stained carpet, looking into the deserted offices. He tried the door at the end. It opened and Janet Hart looked up at him from her untidy desk.

'Morning Janet. Were you expecting me?'

She smiled briefly. 'Of course,' she replied, glancing back at the small portable TV in the corner. 'Terrible, isn't it?'

Cayden nodded, watching the scenes of devastation on the screen: small bodies under blankets, tearful mothers, stressed firemen, stern-looking officials.

'A world becoming scared of its children – it's like lions turning on their cubs,' Janet remarked. 'The law of the jungle, and you know what that means ...'

Cayden nodded.

'...the end of civilisation.' Janet stood up. She was wearing jeans and a red knitted sweater, a size too big. She pushed up the sleeves. Her hair was tied untidily in a knot; strands had fallen away and she tried to push them behind her ears. She had been crying – that was obvious. Her green eyes were bloodshot, her lips thin. No make-up. She came around her desk and they exchanged kisses on each cheek.

'You look tired, Cayden.'

He put down his briefcase. There was no chair to sit on. 'Where is everyone?' he asked.

'Fancy some fresh air?' Janet said turning off the TV.

Cayden frowned but followed her outside and down the side of one of the sheds to the pontoon that ran out over the tributary. The old pilings, draped in seaweed, reminded him of a tramp's beard. The air smelt of sea and mud. A few seagulls wandered across the grey flats, occasionally jabbing into the stinking mass. Janet led him out along the pontoon, until they reached the end. They looked down on the small river cutting through the mud, rippling around the chain and buoy that anchored one of the catamarans. Close-up, it looked even more neglected.

'Why do you keep them on moorings, Janet? Look at the state of them.'

She gazed at the twin-hulled yacht, stranded at an angle down the bank, its right hull in the river water, the other buried in the sulphurous mud. A grey-backed gull gazed across at them from its perch on a spreader above a deck covered in excrement. Cayden shook his head.

'I've closed the company, Cayden,' Janet said, quietly. 'I've had enough.' She looked up at him but held up her hand to stop him responding. 'I've had enough of everything. This place, the bad memories ... and this country. Look at it ... the grey skies, the tension, the stress of making ends meet, everything sky-rocketing in price, the lack of community, caring, kindness – anything. And now these terrible bombings.' She began to cry. 'I just don't want it anymore.'

Cayden put his arm around her shoulder, feeling her bones through the thick wool. He let her cry, staring at the unblinking yellow eye of the gull.

'What about Jac?' he asked eventually.

Janet dabbed at her eyes with a sleeve. 'I know. That's what makes this so hard. He's been – you've both been – so kind. But I just can't ...'

'He loves you,' said Cayden, turning her to face him. 'For the first time in his life, I think he's found someone he really loves. You'll break his heart if you leave the country.'

A tear welled and rolled down her cheek. 'I love him too, and little Dylan ... Mikey,' she sobbed as she turned, then ran off the pontoon. Cayden watched her go. He wasn't sorry about the yard – this had saved him from making the same decision – but he was sorry about Jac. As brothers, they hadn't made great business partners, arguing frequently and bitterly; many a time he wished his brother had not been involved. Then, after Rachel's murder, and Jac's involvement with Janet, they had become close.

He found Janet back in her office. 'So, what are you going to do?'

'Well, first of all, I'm not abandoning either of you,' she said, determination back in her voice.

Cayden removed some files from the top of a bookshelf and rested against it.

'Many years ago, my father invested in a small yard in the Bahamas. At the time he thought it would be a good base to repair any Hart catamarans, as that seemed to be the final destination for most of our sales.' She smiled, 'It made good commercial sense.'

'It wasn't in the accounts,' said Cayden.

Janet shook her head. 'It doesn't make much money, and the hassle of including it, the tax implications and so on, just wasn't worth it. Anyway, we had a sweet guy called Duke Patterson running it. He repaired the cats that came in for free and made his money by using the yard's facilities to fix other boats. It was a good arrangement.'

Cayden shrugged.

'Anyway, he died last week and I'm going out to take over.' Janet looked around her. 'I just have to leave this place.'

'You're going to repair boats?' Cayden raised an eyebrow.

Janet's lips quivered between a smile and a cry. 'I'll find someone to do the repairs but what I'm banking on is Duke's relationship with a local boat-builder who used his yard and the extra space to start producing power-catamarans. They've made some 45-footers, and with the shallow waters around there, they've sold really well, particularly to US fishermen. So I'm hoping I can expand production ...' She smiled determinedly, '... make a go of it, and return the money you've pumped into this place.'

Cayden thought for a while. Eventually, he nodded. 'Will you have enough working capital?'

Janet nodded vigorously. 'Duke was starting to make some good money. The boat-builder gave him 25 percent.' She pushed up her sleeves. 'I'm going to see how the land lies. You might want to invest this time, rather than being forced!'

Cayden held up his hands.

'I know ... I know what you did...I know you would never have invested in this yard if Jac hadn't demanded it. And I'm very ... very grateful.' She smiled, 'I really am, that's why I'll make sure you get it all back.'

Cayden took off his tie. 'When do you plan to go?'

'In a month or so. I'll give your financial guy the name of the liquidators. Anything left over, you'll of course get, but after salaries and creditors, I'm not sure they'll be very much.'

Cayden nodded. 'I'm more worried about what this'll do to Jac.'

'I'm not leaving him, just this God-forsaken country. We'll be a plane ride away and the amount of times you send him to Florida, we'll probably see as much of each other.'

Cayden liked Janet. She was tough – she had sailed single-handed around the world, for Christ's sake. She'd taken over her father's business, more by obligation than desire and had spent years in this windswept marsh trying to make and sell a boat whose design had doomed her from the beginning. She had then suffered the horror of her parents' deaths. But she hadn't quit. Now, instead of taking a soft option, like staying at home with Jac and doing little else, she was going to try and make a go of it in the Caribbean. Yes, he liked her.

He nodded again. 'Well, I guess this calls for a celebration ... of sorts. How about dinner?'

Chapter 7

'You have asked many times, why ...' His head was in shadow, except for the lower jaw, methodically chewing coca leaves.

They were all wide-eyed from the bitter leaf, their numb mouths moving the wad to release the invigorating chemicals. The fire had reduced to embers, the roasted forest pig, long since eaten. What time was it? Jalal tried to look at his watch in the candlelight but it was too dark. The monitors on the far wall displayed grainy images of the processing shed. He could see figures moving occasionally. The grey light reflected in Allam's glasses.

'Long before your Allah ...' he continued, Jalal rested a hand on his brother's arm. The coca was making Isam agitated. '...in the year twelve hundred, while you were still crawling on your hands and knees ...'

'I would make him crawl,' Isam muttered. The figure stilled, and then his hand moved in a dismissive gesture through the circle of candle light. Jalal held his breath. They had been negotiating all night, rotating around the subject like a slow-draining sink as, gradually, they got closer to the reason for them being there. Then their host had disappeared for two hours, and on his return, they had been forced to start all over again. Frustrating, but the coca kept them alert. They had discussed their plans, their requirements. He had not agreed ... yet. Jalal thought they needed to find out more about each other, deepen the relationship. He had explained the philosophy of Allah, the practises of Islam, the purpose of jihad, the corruption of the West and their duty to fight it. Their host had not interrupted. They occasionally saw the red and yellow of his robes, the smooth line of his jaw, the graceful, female slimness of his hand. When he had left the cavern, he had done so using the shadows; they had not seen him in entirety – they could not form a complete picture.

They talked in English, a mutually despised language, but he did not speak Arabic and they could not understand Quechua. 'Manco Cápac ... mighty king ... took my people from caves to Cusco Valley to begin great Inca Empire ... Pachacuti ...' He breathed the name, '... first great leader, with his sons, conquered all Peru, Bolivia, Argentina, Chile, Ecuador. Built great cities – Cusco, Machu Picch – and roads, cared for people ... no-one hungry, we had government, we were only civilisation. Then from his son, Huyana Capac, came two further sons ... they fight, Atahualpa win, but he weakened empire and when Pizarro came with Spaniards it was too easy for them ...' His voice dropped to a whisper. 'Pizarro captured Atahualpa, with only 167 men ...' The hand drifted through the candlelight. '... just one six seven.'

'So, your people were also destroyed by Western infidels?' Jalal asked.

'Our great empire, our emperors, killed by their diseases, lies and greed. A few survived, living in poverty, high in the mountains, listening to their leaders in Lima speak the hated Spanish, making rules to satisfy their Western masters, while half the people, the Incas, walked without shoes. Today, many still live with no water or electricity. But we have grown strong from money from coca, and now ...' His voice hardened, '... we begin to take back what is ours and attack our enemies once more.'

'The Shining Path, Tupac Amaru ...' Jalal interjected with reference to the terrorist organisations who had killed 30,000 people through brutal murders, bombings, assassinations and attacks on Western embassies and businesses for decades, crippling the economy of Peru until 2002. Then, President Alberto Fujimori had disbanded the courts and congress, and with the help of the military, brutally cracked down on anyone suspected of supporting either criminal organisation, imprisoning thousands, many of them innocent, but including most of the leaders, which led to the campaign being heralded a success.

'No!' their host shouted. The three visitors jumped back in their chairs. He slapped the table, the crack echoing throughout the chamber. 'You dare compare us to communist whores, butchers of our people, destroyers of our economy?' They could see his jaw chewing furiously. 'I am Inca,' his voice boomed, 'related to the Emperor Atahualpa. They are nothing ... criminals, murderers.' He spat on the floor.

'Please ... please, my humble apologies,' said Jalal, crossing his elbows back on the table. He smiled. 'A gross mistake,' he continued. 'Like you, we are not criminals.'

Silence. It was as impenetrable as the walls of the cavern. Jalal felt moisture on his forehead. Had he destroyed the deal? He tried to relax. He stared at their host and became gradually aware that he could see more of the man's body. Jalal glanced upwards. He noticed a jagged circle of daylight. The top of the chamber was open to a sky crowded with trees and vegetation – and a cloud hovering above. A few birds flew across the opening, their distant cries reaching down to the chamber. It felt like they were sitting in the bottom of a Khubz oven.

'I am tired. Leave!' the man ordered. 'I will call for you when I am ready. I am Sapa Inca – this is the name you use.' He clapped and two boys entered. One stood by the door to the passageway, waiting for the visitors to depart; the other started to clear the table.

'We must talk. We have no time ...' Jalal spread his arms apologetically.

'Go!' The figure rose and in the strengthening light they watched him lift the robes from around his shoulders. Underneath he wore a basic tunic. The boy hurriedly picked up the fallen garments with one hand, while balancing their plates in the other. As he escorted them from the chamber, he threw the robe onto the fire embers. When they reached the steel door, the robe was burning fiercely.

'Sapa Inca, only new clothes,' the other boy whispered, as he led them away.

'What's he talking about, Jalal?' asked Isam.

'Do you not remember the briefing?' Jalal replied.

'I cannot remember anything after that foul weed we have been chewing,' said Isam angrily.

'The Inca, is the name they gave to their emperor. This one thinks he is the supreme Inca – Sapa Inca was the emperor of emperors, a direct descendent from the Sun God.' Jalal spat. 'They only wore their clothes once.'

They walked past the generator. It hammered away in its rock-hewn hole, unattended.

'Why do you talk about sun gods? There is only one god,' Isam protested, moving ahead on the ropewalk.

Jalal looked uncertainly over the edge of the swaying bridge. The forest floor was still lost in darkness. Moisture condensed on the leaves in the heavy air and fell like rain. He had the impression of what it must be like to be a bird. He was in their hidden world: crowns of lesser trees below, the towering heads of the giant sequoia and balsa trees above and, in between, thousands of plants. Some, like bromeliads, clung to their tree; others, like vines, hung – until it was difficult to see the host at all. Busy humming birds fluttered around red and purple trumpet flowers. It was a world of insects, flies and bugs that spent their whole lives without touching ground.

'Jalal, please move,' said Allam, nervously holding his laptop.

They descended the spiral stair, went back down the tiered platforms and across another suspended walkway to three wooden structures, built around the forks of five branches the diameter of articulated trucks. The walls were of platted reeds; the doors were hinged and made from coffee packing case, the Nescafé stencil on the outside. They bent double to enter. The floor was of sawn timber, held together with vine. Branches appeared through the floor, crossed the room space and disappeared through the roof of camouflaged canvass tightened with a drawstring to keep it watertight. It was like walking into a tent covering a children's climbing frame.

The dwelling was on various levels, following the natural layers of the giant tree. Its lowest and smallest room housed the toilet – a hole in the floor. A bucket with water stood alongside it. Black insects struggled on the surface. Old newspaper lay next to the bucket. The main room, furnished with wooden chairs and a table made from scraps of timber, was illuminated by a single electric light. Fruit, bread, dried meats and a jug of juice were set out in plastic containers. Jalal felt a pang of hunger. Waving his hand over the fruit to clear the flies; he selected a banana and peeled it quickly. A third room housed six mattresses, each beneath a canopy of mosquito netting.

Their boy guide left without a word. The temperature grew.

'Jalal, I must pray,' said Isam.

'Yes, that is a good idea,' his brother replied. 'Use the sheets as rugs.' They removed their shoes

'Which way do we kneel?' Allam asked.

Isam searched his pocket, grunting with relief as he pulled out a round leather object. He flipped the lid to the Qibla compass.

'Jalal, I have forgotten, brother, what is the Qibla code for Peru?'

'Three-twenty,' Jalal replied, slapping away a fly.

Isam rotated the compass until the red north end of the needle pointed to 320. The minaret pointer showed the direction of Mecca. Adopting the indicated direction, they stood to attention in a line.

Four rakats of the Isha prayer were selected by Isam, announcing his intention to 'face the Qibla for the sake of Allah and Allah alone.' They began the ritualistic Salaat in unison, bringing their hands to their ears, palms forward, thumbs behind earlobes. 'God is great ...'

Quietly, so as not to upset their host, they prayed. 'Glory to You, O Allah, and Yours is the praise ...' Jalal could feel his spirit soar; he felt it climb with the giant tree to the grey sky, pierce the heavy cloud and wing across the blue heavens to their lands, their oppressed lands, torn by conflict, ripped open by the greed of Westerners for black gold ... the suffering of his people at the hands of the imperialists.

Suddenly, their serenity was disturbed by a great roar from far away, like an approaching train. It grew rapidly, Jalal squeezed his eyes shut, his forehead pressed into the sheet, the rough wood underneath imprinting his skin. Their prayers strengthened, the noise grew – a roar from Allah in answer. The great boughs of their foundations barely moved with the squall, but the leaves and smaller branches above waved and clattered, and then all was still.

When they had finished praying, they looked at each other in awe. Never had they received such verification that they were indeed on God's work. The highest authority had just sanctioned their mission.

The glow from His blessing swilled inside them as they lay, sweating, under the mosquito nets; none of them could sleep.

The air was a sodden, woollen blanket. From their eyrie the jungle sounds were confusing, disorientating. Below and around them, seldom above, they heard the chatter of parakeets, macaws, trogons and the occasional toucan. The creak of wood replaced the crunch of gravel. Outlines of butterflies, bigger than birds, rested on their canvas roof; the repetitive buzzing of the humming birds vibrated on the walls, like excited atoms; from flower to flower, beetles the size of saucers blundered into the woven reeds, their weight shaking the panel ... together providing a constant plop and scurry of legs on canvas or netting.

'We must not forget noon,' said Isam, yawning.

Jalal looked at his watch. An hour to go. 'Remember, we were given special dispensation. We do not have to pray like at home.'

'But Allah, praise be to Him, has shown us his pleasure with our prayer; surely it would be unwise not ...'

A sudden scream. They froze.

Another, the other side, closer. They crouched under the netting, Isam motioning Allam to be quiet as he tried to retrieve his nearby laptop.

They waited, expecting a boy-like figure to rush in, his sharpened incisors bared in that feral grin.

Above, the branches started to shake; leaves and slivers of wood pelted the canvass. It was quiet for a moment – then the conversational chatter of the tree's foragers returned. Husks and other detritus from their hungry scavenging rained down. The three men rested back on their mattresses, sweat running down their faces as they listened to the black spider monkeys.

'Allah, forgive my weakness, but this place is beginning to make me crazy,' Isam whispered hoarsely.

'Relax, get some sleep, we will keep our prayers to sunrise and sunset. Once our work is done here, we will make a special pilgrimage to Mecca and we will also fast, to show our willingness to submit to Allah,' Jalal reassured his brother, closing his eyes. 'And Isam, do not chew any more coca.'

'Isam and Allam replied together: 'Truly we belong to Allah and truly to Him shall we return.'

But none of them could sleep. The coca leaves had done their job. Jalal lay listening to the jungle, thinking of his mission, what his Iman had told him. Shi'a Iraqi by birth, it had been some time since Jalal had lived there. He tried to remember his family's house but instantly crushed the thought, preventing the scenes of devastation from entering his mind. The Sunni car bomb had destroyed everything, including his mother and his only younger sister. He clenched his fists. How dare they call Shi' apostates while they targeted their shrines and festivals, murdered their families – Muslim families. It had taken him a long time to rise above the petty squabbles, stemming from the Sunni resentment that Iraq was now governed by a Shi'a-dominated party. They were worried who would have economic control when the hated Americans finally left. It was sometimes difficult even for him to keep track of the shifting allegiances; groups appearing and then fading away. He was bitter that the Americans had succeeded in deflecting Muslim attention from their imperialistic ambitions back to the ancient Arab struggle for regional dominance. If the British had not created Iraq, there would not now be the violence. The Sunni and Shi'a would have their own countries, peaceful neighbours – possibly. Now, there was no hope, Iraq was the touch paper for the whole world.

By now, he hoped, his organisation would have engineered the action in the Gulf, sparking the next phase. Jalal's eyes glistened as he thought of his Imam, their leader, Ansar Aziz al-Islam, head of Sciri, the Supreme Council for the Islamic Revolution, the largest Shi'a party in Iraq, which had opposed, with the support of Iran, Saddam Hussein with ambushes, sabotage and assassinations for decades. A brilliant leader, gaining economic dominance thanks to the Americans' trust, while diverting those funds to al-Qaeda and the Mujahideen Shura Council, an umbrella organisation, which brought together five of the main insurgent groups to attack the Americans in Iraq, and to Badr, the armed brigade of Sciri, whose aim was to attack the Sunnis and gain pay-back for every killing of a Shi'a. Finally, American money went to Iran, the nuclear power.

Jalal's eyes widened. The more atrocities – the bombings and killing – in Iraq, the more world opinion moved away from the interfering Americans and their puppet organisation, the United Nations Security Council, the instruments of their suffering. Western populations were feeling guilty and this made it easier to create unrest. Already, the West was too scared to target Muslims in case of public outrage at appearing racist. Illegal immigrants, many of whom were Holy soldiers, had easily infiltrated these obese societies because of their corrupt asylum lawyers and lax border controls. The Infidels were lazy, ripe for destruction – their time on earth as the dominant powers nearly over. The fat, white citizens of these bloated countries needed one more push, and Jalal was going to be the force behind it. Together, he, Isam and Allam were going to turn Western populations against their own children. History had proven time and again that all dominant nations were destroyed from within. Rome had fallen because its citizens no longer displayed patriotism; they were indifferent. The British Empire had also fallen to a loss of faith; they had begun to doubt that they had the right to rule others. It was happening now to the Americans. It was plain to see.

Jalal sat up beneath his mosquito net, eager to get back to the fight. He had to finish the negotiations with this mad Inca, who had managed to convince boys to become suicide bombers. How had he done it? They needed to find out. Muslims would never accept their own children becoming suicide bombers, even with jihad.

Sciri's links with Shining Path had found the man responsible for these child killers; now Jalal needed to bend his aims to their goals. Children were the lifeblood to the success of any society. Cut that off and that society would fail.

A low chanting began to permeate through the thick, wet air. Jalal saw that the others were also sitting up. They looked at one another as the chanting increased in volume.

Jalal motioned them to get up. They followed him out onto the rope bridge and gazed across to the next tree with the tiered platforms. Each platform had rows of small figures, facing the same direction. A man appeared from the staircase carved inside the giant sequoia. He was wearing white shorts, stripes down each leg like a footballer's; his torso glistened with oil, his face hidden behind a mask, a gold circle with two holes for eyes, the edges with points of gold, like beams of sunlight. The girl who had met them at the bar followed Sapa Inca. She carried a plastic jug, she too was wearing football shorts, her small breasts oiled and her eyes hidden behind gold sunglasses. She passed along the rows, ladling the liquid with a gold spoon from the container into each of the boys' mouths.

Sapa Inca spread his arms and every boy silently sank to the floor to sit cross-legged, arms at their sides.

His voice began a slow incantation, its pitch rising and falling like a boat traversing a swell – melodic, hypnotic. The jungle fell silent. Then, from far off, they could hear a roar, as before, but this time sounding more like a breaking wave. As it neared, Sapa Inca's voice strengthened. The light faded, Jalal searched up through the trees for any sign of what was approaching. A blinding light, an agonised scream, an explosion of sound, the force of a bomb, tumbled them from the ropewalk. Jalal opened his eyes in time to see the branch; he put out his arm, the pain seared through him – and he blacked out, falling like a thrown doll.

Chapter 8

Drizzle, wipers on intermittent, Cayden drove slowly, the Aston Martin's V12 a comforting rumble. Despite the circumstances, he had enjoyed the evening with Janet, impressed with her courage and determination to make a go of it in the Bahamas, pleased with her commitment to Jac.

As the white lines flicked by, his thoughts turned to his own deflated determination. He felt twinges of jealousy towards Janet for her chance of a new beginning and the challenges involved.

Cayden stretched his shoulders. He reached across for a water bottle. It was empty. He switched on the radio in time for the ten o'clock news. The Iranians were still holding the marines, the Prime Minister's speeches in the House of Commons were becoming more bellicose; he was sending the carrier, HMS Invincible and her battle group to the area and no-one in parliamentary opposition was disagreeing. Visions of another Iraq loomed.

Meanwhile, in Spain, rescue workers were still sifting through the school wreckage, although the authorities were confident that they had accounted for everyone. There had been demonstrations in Madrid demanding tighter border controls and the return of the death penalty, which they had only abolished for all crimes in 1995. The Spanish Prime Minister gave the usual bureaucratic response that everything possible was being done to apprehend the perpetrators, but added that all children should be kept under strict parental control; any seen out on their own, wearing backpacks, particularly near schools, would be stopped and searched. Emergency measures were being introduced to allow the police to detain children who could not provide satisfactory residential and parental information. The reporter commented how this was going to affect the thousands of homeless Moroccan children living in the major cities.

Cayden punched the off button. A white Transit van pulled sharply in front of him. He braked hard and at the last minute decided to follow the van off the motorway and into a service area. The Transit pulled up next to one of the petrol pumps. Cayden carried on to the parking area in front of the shop. He got out and stretched, his gaze resting on the driver of the van, who was leaning against the side of his filthy vehicle, a hand resting on the pump nozzle, staring hard in Cayden's direction. He was used to the jealousy. He checked he had his wallet before locking the car. The only other person inside was the cashier, looking at something in his lap. Or was he asleep? He didn't look up. Yawning, Cayden walked along the aisles, not sure what he wanted. He selected a bottle of still water from the chiller cabinet. Approaching the till, he put the bottle down hard enough for the cashier to look up from his Game Boy. Brown, indifferent eyes stared up at Cayden.

The cashier scanned the bottle. 'One twenty-five,' he said, holding out his hand. Cayden glanced at the chewing gum display and took a step over to the stand. Selecting a pack of Airwaves, he turned back to find the van driver standing in his place.

'Excuse me, I was just paying for these,' said Cayden.

'Yeah? Didn't see no-one, how 'bout you, Paki?'

The man behind the till shook his head with an uncertain smile, moving the bottle of water to one side.

Cayden stared at the back of the van driver's thick neck; the black ink of a tattoo finished just above the collar of a builder's high-vis jacket. The shaven head revealed pink skin marked with several ugly scars. The man reached into the back pocket of his ripped jeans for a bill fold; his paint-stained Adidas trainers squeaked on the tiled floor.

'Of all the petrol stations in all the land ...' Cayden said under his breath.

The man turned sharply. He had pale blue wide eyes either side of a small, flattened nose. His brow was creased, his mouth puckered. 'What you say?'

Cayden stared evenly back at him. The man took a step forward, rising on his toes, pushing out his chest. 'You gotta' problem or what?'

Cayden could feel his heart pounding, adrenaline flooding through him like it had in Scotland. 'I don't have a problem and I don't think you have to be so rude.' He was proud at how calm his voice sounded.

The van driver stepped up, his face inches from Cayden's, twisted in hate. 'And what're you goin' to do about it, you fucking ponce?'

'I could ask you to wait your turn,' Cayden replied.

'And if I don't?'

Cayden sighed. 'Just get on with it.'

The van driver turned back to the cashier. 'Wanker,' he said, throwing some notes onto the counter.

The cashier gave him change. The man stuffed the coins into his back pocket and turned, shouldering Cayden out of the way.

Cayden staggered sideways. 'That's assault you moron.'

'No, this is assault, mate.' The van driver swung his fist. Cayden, still regaining his balance, ducked, but not quickly enough to prevent the fist from grazing his jaw. He fell back against the counter, feeling the sting of the punch. The driver took a few steps towards him, but this time Cayden was quicker. He kicked out, his leather shoe connecting solidly with the man's crotch. The driver let out an agonised cry, his pink head turning dark red. Cayden curled his fist around his key fob and swung, an upper cut connecting with the van driver's chin, the exposed key slicing through to the bone. The man's head jerked back, spittle flying from the circle of his mouth, blood quickly spilling down his chin as he collapsed against a special promotion box of Pringles. The containers popped from his weight as he rolled over, groaning, his hands between his legs.

Cayden stood over him, his heart pounding, his fists tightly balled; he was close to throwing another kick at the driver's backside. But then he heard the cashier shouting. Two men with blue turbans rushed in from the office, one holding a baseball bat, the other on his mobile. Cayden backed away.

'What is it you are doing?' the man wielding the bat shouted in a thick Indian accent.

Cayden took several deep breaths. He was shaking. He needed to sit down.

The Indian held the baseball bat across his chest. Cayden pointed at the man still lying among the Pringles. 'I was just paying for some water ... this idiot attacked me.'

'Is that right?' the Indian shouted at the cashier.

The cashier smiled uncertainly, shaking his head while mumbling something in Hindi.

'We have called police, you must pay for damage,' said the man with the bat.

'Do you think I could have my water?' Cayden asked.

'Have you paid?'

Cayden thumped some change down on the counter.

The Indian manager gestured with his baseball bat to the cashier, who handed it over.

Cayden unscrewed the cap with shaking fingers. His mouth was dry; water ran down his chin.

The van driver was still moaning, curled in the foetal position. Blood was pooling close to his head.

'It looks like he needs some help,' said Cayden between gulps of water.

'We wait for police.' The manager tapped the baseball bat in his hand.

'Listen, the only damage was to some Pringles. I'll pay for those. Why don't you just call for an ambulance and forget the police?' Cayden protested.

'You wait,' replied the manager, taking a step back and gesturing with his head for his colleague to move to the door.

Minutes later, pulsing blue lights filled the shop and a police car sped up to the parking area. Two officers jumped out and ran in. The manager started talking to them, but his accent was too strong; he gestured with his baseball bat between Cayden and the van driver.

One of the officers held up his hands and asked the manager to put down the bat. His colleague knelt down and asked the van driver if he was okay. Looking up, he asked Cayden: 'Are you involved in this, sir?'

Cayden nodded. 'He attacked me. It was self-defence.'

The officer raised an eyebrow. He rested a hand on the van driver's shoulder. 'I'm going to call for an ambulance.' He patched the request through on his shoulder mike.

His colleague had calmed the manager and now approached Cayden. 'Could I have your name and address sir, and some identification.'

Cayden handed over his driving licence and gave his details. 'As I said, he attacked me but I think he has learnt his lesson so I won't be pressing any charges.'

'I see sir. Well, we'll need to ask the victim, just to make sure.'

'He's not the victim,' said Cayden.

The van driver was now sitting up, his head back as the second officer held some paper towels against the cut on his chin.

'What's your name, mate?' the officer asked, letting the van driver hold the wad of paper towel.

'John Bunce. This bastard provoked me, didn't he, called me names.'

Cayden took a step forward but the officer copying his details from the licence quickly rested a hand on his arm. 'That's a complete lie,' said Cayden. Looking at the cashier, he added: 'Isn't it?' The cashier sat down, Game Boy in hand, and shrugged with the same uncertain smile.

The ambulance arrived. Paramedics started to clean the driver's wound, saying it was a deep cut in need of stitches.

'That's GBH, that is, I'm pressing fucking charges,' the driver shouted as he was led to the waiting ambulance.

Cayden closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'He pushed me, then took a swing at me. He was going for a second punch but I kicked him and then ... then hit him to make sure.'

'A little more than self-defence, wouldn't you say sir?'

'No I bloody wouldn't' Cayden replied, glaring at the officer. 'He should be locked up.'

'I see. Well, I'm sorry, but until we get to the bottom of this I'm going to have to arrest you for aggravated assault. You do not have to say anything ...'

'But he assaulted me!' Cayden protested.

'... but it may harm your defence if you do not mention something ...'

Cayden shook his head in disbelief as he listened to his rights being read. 'You have to be kidding!'

'Raise your arms. Do you have anything sharp in your pockets – needles, knives?'

'You're making a big mistake,' Cayden replied bitterly, watching them load the stretcher onto the ambulance.

'Is that your car?'

Cayden nodded.

'Are you sure?' the policeman enquired, looking up from beneath the peak of his hat.

Cayden glared at him. 'Of course I'm bloody sure.'

The officer's face reddened. 'Make sure it's locked. We'll get it picked up. You'll have to come with me to the station.'

'What about damages?' the manager shouted after them.

'Sue me,' Cayden snarled, stalking out ahead of the young officer.

Cayden slumped in the back of the patrol car. For the second time within 24 hours, he was in trouble for assaulting someone. He thought through both incidents in a moment of doubt. Was he really becoming violent? Absolutely not, he told himself sternly, sitting up straighter. It had been self-defence on both occasions. Maybe his experience in Scotland had given him the confidence to react more aggressively, whereas before he might have just turned away. Yes, that was a possibility – but what was wrong with that?

The police car turned off the motorway, towards Redhill. Cayden glanced at his watch – an hour before midnight. The car smelt of sweat and hot wiring. The windscreen wipers screeched on intermittent. He rested his head and closed his eyes, listening to the hiss of the tyres on the damp road and the metallic voices coming through the police radio. A now familiar feeling of despair engulfed him. He was out of control. Then his eyes flew open as street lights flashed by and leafless trees splattered water on the car roof. Nothing seemed worthwhile, what was the point? He couldn't remember feeling this way before. Cayden rested his head against the cool glass. He was scared. Was Rachel punishing him, taking away everything just like he had done to her?

The police car stopped at a traffic light. A woman in a Fiesta pulled alongside. She glanced at him, her tired face; lines etched in red, staring vacantly. Hopelessness ping-ponged between them. The lights changed. The police car turned left, the woman kangaroo-hopped forward and stalled. Cayden glanced over his shoulder. The street was deserted: wet tarmac beneath streetlights, dark office buildings and a multi-storey car park on one side; a row of brightly-lit shops on the other – the Fiesta stranded in the middle. They turned a corner; the Fiesta still had not moved – the kangaroo-hops had been the last pulses of life. It seemed to mirror his own wretchedness. Cayden sat back and felt tears sting his eyes.

They braked hard and turned right into a parking area, studded with police vehicles, in front of a long, ugly 1960's cement-rendered building.

The driver yawned, let go of his seatbelt and got out, opening the back door for Cayden. 'Follow me ... sir.'

Cayden stepped into a brightly-lit, sterile lobby, then through double fire doors and up to a Formica desk. The Custody Officer glanced up from the file she was reading, an eyebrow arched above a thin severe face. She looked questioningly at the arresting officer. 'Cayden Callejon, arrested for aggravated assault at South Stoke Motorway Service Station, 10.53 pm. The victim, a Mr. John Bunce, was taken to Redhill Memorial Hospital with a severe cut to his face.'

The custody officer started to fill out a form.

Cayden rested his arms on the cracked Formica. 'Officer, it was self-defence. I understand that in English criminal law, self-defence provides the right for people to act in a manner that would otherwise be unlawful in order to preserve the physical integrity of themselves,' he said, remembering precisely what his lawyer had said after the previous arrest.

The Custody Officer put down her pen. 'True, Mr. Callejon, but a jury decides on whether your self-defence was using reasonable force or whether you overstepped the boundary, and assaulted Mr. Bunce.'

'But the bastard punched me ... look.' Cayden leaned forward, pointing at the side of his jaw where he could feel the stiffness of a bruise forming.

'Why did Mr. Bunce punch you?'

'Because he's an ignorant Neanderthal with a chip on his shoulder and a permanent wooden club in his fist.' Cayden sighed. 'He pushed in front of me at the check-out and I muttered some remark.'

'So you provoked him?'

'Yeah.' Cayden slapped the counter top. 'I had the audacity to stand up for myself.'

The Custody Officer picked up her pen. 'I need to take a few details. Address?'

*****

Three hours later, at 1.50 am, Cayden was back on the motorway. He relaxed his jaw, flipped down the visor and turned his face, examining the bruise.

John Bunce had been brought to the station after his wound had been treated. Cayden had seen him briefly in a corridor, his chin bandaged, t-shirt stained with dried blood, his thick tattooed arms unable to hang straight at his sides.

'I'll 'ave you for this, you bastard,' he had spat as he caught sight of Cayden.

Cayden clenched the steering wheel. The police had discovered not only that Bunce's van was uninsured, but that he had two convictions on file for GBH. Bunce's arrogance had evaporated. He had retracted his assault charge.

Cayden squeezed his eyes shut for a second, feeling his fury, remembering how he had demanded whether the police were going to prosecute Bunce for driving uninsured. The Custody Officer had replied instead that Cayden risked being re-arrested if he did not calm down.

Cayden punched the wheel, glaring ahead as the road lines flicked by. He hadn't even had a parking ticket until ... until Maalik, whose criminal stench had sucked him into another world and everything had shattered. His life was no longer one he recognised.

Back in Redhill he had been cautioned that in future he should call the police rather than resort to self-defence on his own. He should have pursued Bunce for assault, but realised that, after a lot of aggravation, all Bunce would receive was a community service order and the 'humiliation' of dressing in a yellow high-vis jacket to pick up roadside litter – something he probably did for a living anyway. So Cayden had just asked for his keys back.

The turning for the M3 and Southampton appeared. Straight on was Staines and Heathrow. Cayden pressed on the accelerator. He stayed on the M25 – and headed for the airport.

*****

'Feet.'

Cayden jolted awake, winced as he felt a muscle strain in his neck.

A woman in a lime sari glared down at him, bent over the handlebars of a floor polisher.

He lifted his feet and the whirring brushes glided under him, banging against the supports with the cord tangling his legs. Cayden kicked the cable away, rolling onto his feet. Holding his neck, he looked around the deserted seating area. 'Was that absolutely necessary?'

The woman looked over her shoulder, her dark eyes wary. He wanted to push the red spot on her forehead, like a button on a doll, to make her talk. She looked away and carried on polishing the already gleaming floor.

A few minutes to five. The shutters were down on Boots, W. H. Smith and Curry's – even Starbucks was closed, although a man was loading paper cups into a machine. Cayden walked slowly around a stand with a Ferrari and Aston Martin on display. Buy a £60 ticket and one of these could be yours – just like that! Sixty quid, and without any effort you can own a £100,000 car. He thought of the effort he had gone through before he could afford an Aston Martin and his mood darkened. What the hell was he doing? He had a company to run.

A couple were asleep on a row of seats – youngsters, their backpacks as pillows. Their faces were peaceful, unlined from worry. The boy was snoring, his arm hanging over the side, carefree – he could have been in his bedroom. Cayden turned for the exit. There were queues of people in front of the check–ins; a susurrus of conversation filled the cavernous space. He detoured to the BA ticket counter. The woman looked at him sleepily.

'I've changed my mind. Can I get a refund on this?' He handed over his ticket to Miami.

She didn't look at it. 'Sorry sir that was a late booking deal, no refunds.'

'But my company spends thousands of pounds with you each year, surely you can make an exception.'

She looked at his crumpled suit, his coffee-stained shirt; he could see she did not believe him. She shrugged and handed back his ticket. Frustrated, he tapped the counter. 'Which is the bloody check-in then?'

She didn't look up from her terminal. 'You're already checked in. You have an e-ticket. Just hand it over to the gate staff.'

'Thanks for your help.' Cayden strode away but not before he heard her sarcastic encouragement to 'have a nice flight ... sir'

Shutters clattered open; the PA system began to announce flight departures; electric buggies beeped by with old people on board; trains of baggage trolleys weaved through knots of already tired-looking travellers; police officers with bullet-proof vests and sub-machine guns were everywhere. Cayden looked at his watch: 5.45 – it was as if a switch had been activated for an elaborate model - all the bits of terminal life stored behind the scenes during the night suddenly had leapt to life, like cuckoos from a wall clock.

The ticket was only £800. It wasn't the end of the world if he couldn't get a refund. Cayden walked through passport control. That had been the clincher – if only he didn't always keep a spare passport in the car safe...just in case.

He found a coffee shop, ordered a cappuccino and sat on a bar stool watching the 24-hour television news. The sound was off as they showed old footage of the school bombings and the devastation in Spain. The coverage switched to a conference room, the Spanish President shaking hands with the PM. The rolling tape beneath read: The Prime Minister today welcomed a proposal from the Spanish Government for an alliance of civilisations to combat the scourge of terrorism.

Then, an image of the Home Secretary, looking grey and rumpled, surrounded by microphones in front of the Home Office as he tried to explain, according to the caption, why it was not important that he had decided to go on holiday that Friday.

'Because children are being murdered,' Cayden wanted to yell, but he ordered a muffin instead.

HMS Hockley was the next item – a video had been sent to the Arab News Station, - Al Jazeera, of the 15 Marines captured by the Iranians – smoking, eating, laughing and apparently having a good time. The battle group was only a few hours away from the disputed border area. Satellite images followed of Iranian troop movements along the Iraqi border. Back to the politicians – their chinless faces wobbling with indignation. Cayden turned away, not wanting to read a captioned account of their bullshit. Under-funded soldiers were losing their lives fighting terrorism while they holidayed at a pop star's villa.

He needed to buy a change of clothing. There was a Hugo Boss franchise opposite but the shutters were still down. He looked at the departure information. Still an hour to go before his flight. He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone.

'Hi, it's me.'

Interference on the line didn't help – not static, but as if the phone had been dropped. 'Christ, Cayden, I've only just got to bed,' Jac whispered, eventually.

'Sorry ...'

'Hang on, I don't want to wake Janet.'

Cayden waited for his brother to leave the bedroom. He wondered whether Janet had told him she had closed the yard and was moving to the Bahamas. He decided to say nothing about it.

'What's happened?' Jac asked, his worried voice now louder.

'Nothing, I just wanted to find out how Dylan was before ... I left.'

'He's the same. No improvement. I was at the hospital until four ... what do you mean, before you left?'

'But the doctors are confident he'll make a full recovery?'

'Who knows ...' The sound of running water, '... Cayden, what do you mean left?'

Cayden massaged his neck. 'I'm at the airport. Flying to Miami in about an hour.

He could hear a kettle boiling, the clink of china.

'Business or pleasure?'

Cayden heard the sarcasm. 'Business of course. I need to get away. I was arrested again last night because another twat decided to have a go at me. I'm sick of this. I need ...'

'You're not on the run?' asked Jac.

Cayden snorted. 'No, let off with a caution.' The PA system was warning people not to leave unattended baggage. Cayden covered his ear. 'What?'

'I said, it's a hell of a time to be pissing off. What about Mikey? I really need someone to look after him. Mum's driving me insane, and I hope you don't expect me to be in the office while you're away ...'

The shutter clattered up on the Hugo Boss store. Cayden went inside, ignoring the glare from the pimply shop assistant. 'Carol can call me with any problems, I'll base myself out of Randy's office, so don't worry. I'm sorry about Mikey. How long is Janet with you?'

'I don't know, we haven't had a chance to talk ... she got in late last night as well.'

Cayden picked out three short-sleeve shirts in white, a pair of blue cotton trousers, a pack of white cotton boxer shorts and three packs of black socks. 'I'm really sorry, Jac, but I'm losing it here.' The assistant swiped the bar codes. Cayden added a travel bag with toiletries. The assistant sighed. 'Jac ...'

'No, go Cayden. go ... piss off, I really don't care. Dylan is all that matters.'

'Of course, if there is anything I can ...'

'Just go. Call me when you get to Randy's.'

The phone went dead. The spotty face was staring at him impatiently. Cayden found his credit card.

'Want a bag?'

Cayden nodded. He felt guilty – confused. He picked up the bag. The assistant had gone, moving rails into position at the back of the shop. Cayden assumed £200 wasn't worthy of a good morning.

He knew he should go back to Southampton but his feet seemed to have a will of their own. He found the departure gate, his ticket and passport were checked, and then he was on the 747, Business Class, being offered a newspaper and coffee, still feeling guilty, still feeling he should get off and drive back to Southampton.

Chapter 9

'You believe Allah should reclaim the earth? Arrogance!' A finger jabbed at him. 'Like the Christian, you are all ... all insignificant compared to mighty Inti, the Sun God. Without his benevolence everything withers and dies – everything! Muslims say the sun shall rise from the west ...' The voice shouted incredulously: '... you are fools.'

Jalal tried to control the fierce jabs of pain from his right arm. His elbow was grotesquely swollen – the wound deep enough to see the white radius bone. The arm hung uselessly at his side, blackened by dried blood. The leather strap around his forehead forced his neck back against the stake.

They were in a clearing below the tree village. Sunlight penetrated the canopy far above. Jalal could hear the fire still burning the house they had occupied, the crackle of flame from the lightning strike. Eddies of blue smoke accentuated the beams of sunlight as if he were looking up through a pool of murky water. He heard the distant shouts as they attempted to control the blaze.

Sapa Inca's gold sun-mask filled his vision again. Jalal could see the black eyes through the narrow slits, the movement of the lips behind the opening for the mouth.

'You have felt the power of Inti,' the Inca shouted. 'You dare to come here to ... to bend his will to your own.'

'No, we have come with Allah's blessing to help in the fight ...' began Jalal.

'Inti does not need your help.' The voice rumbled and grated like a rock avalanche. 'Your presence has corrupted this huaca. Inti has shown his anger – now we have to honour him with sacrifice.'

'Please ... let us talk, let me explain with the help of Allah how ...'

'Silence!' Sapa Inca's arm shot forward. A rough wedge of wood split open Jalal's mouth. He felt a tooth loosen and bit down to prevent the wood gagging him. Sapa Inca took a step back and the girl with the gold sunglasses appeared beside him, swiftly tying another band of leather around his head and mouth, keeping the plug in place. Jalal put up his good hand. The girl leapt at him, her sharpened incisors sinking into his skin; blood splattered her glasses, Jalal screamed behind the gag, flailing his arm in a bid to release her grip. Like a manic dog, she hung on until Sapa Inca stepped forward and backhanded her across the head. She collapsed onto the dirt, panting. Jalal looked at his hand; the blood ran down his arm.

'Stay perfectly still, or I will let her eat you.'

Jalal slowly lowered his arm.

Sapa Inca moved to the centre of the clearing, his yellow robes raising eddies of dust before he stepped up onto a stone platform shaped like a stylised sun. He clapped his hands. Immediately, the jungle seemed to fall silent.

Jalal twisted his head, searching for his brother or Allam. There was no sign of them. Had they survived the fall? The girl at his feet growled. He started to pray.

Silently, two rows of naked boys filed into the clearing, appearing like phantoms from the black shadows. Then eight men, also naked, appeared, carrying a golden throne, five metres long, two metres high. A lintel above the back of the throne supported a crown of red feathers and glittering semi-precious stones. Below it, the back of the throne itself had been formed in the outline shape of a temple frontage – a replica of the Temple of the Sun near Cusco, on whose 600-year-old foundations were built the present Santo Domingo monastery and church – a key Inca site largely buried by European Christian infiltration.

The throne was slowly walked around Sapa Inca. Dust swirled with the smoke as the cries from the fire-fighters quietened. The scream of insects was similarly subdued. Two obviously senior men – priests – walked into the clearing, wearing loin cloths and domed hats, like those worn by Catholic priests. They carried a staff and a miniature sun mask which hung by a chain. Stepping between the circling boys, the priests took up positions either side of Sapa Inca, a hum emanating from their stern-looking features. Their weather-worn faces resembled those of fishermen after lives spent fighting countless storms.

Jalal felt a trickle of sweat run down his side. Sapa Inca, his arms now spread wide, his head tilted back, looked up through the canopy to the small circle of sky directly above.

After the boys had completed two laps, Sapa Inca clapped his hands and they stopped instantly in their circle. At this, the two priests manoeuvred the throne onto the stones, setting it gently on wooden stands. Sapa Inca climbed into the seat, one of the senior men arranging his robes. He now wore the crown of red feathers, creating the image of a fiery sunset above the mask.

The priests now walked slowly around the circle, swinging the gold sun disc in front of each of the boys, whose deep resonating hum was the only human sound. The boys did not focus on the disc or the priests, but stood like stones, staring into the surrounding jungle.

Completing their circuit, the priests went back to stand beside the throne.

And then ...

' _Yo, I'll tell what I want, what I really really want,_

So tell me what you want, what you really really want,

I'll tell you ...'

The sound of the Spice Girls, shockingly loud, screaming, distorted, boomed incongruously through hidden speakers. Only Jalal reacted, his back becoming rigid against the stake, his eyes swivelling around the clearing.

... _If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends ..._

The British pop anthem shook through the tunnels of vegetation. Jalal caught a fleeting glimpse of a small deer tearing along a path, its body quickly dissolving into the shadows as if the waves of sound threatened to shatter its frail body. He tried to move his head, but it was painfully tight against the staff. He looked at his hand. Blood had stopped running from the two puncture wounds but the holes were angry and seeping fluid. He bent his knees, in an attempt to see if he could slip his head from the leather strap – but this only increased the pain. Jalal stood as straight as he could, pushing up, trying to lever the stake from the ground. He strained, looking upwards, seeing one of the speakers hanging from a branch above him.

... _slam your body down and wind it all around ..._

The stake remained solid. Jalal relaxed and looked back to the clearing. He went rigid with shock. The girl was back in front of him, her lips pulled back in a snarl, his dried blood around her mouth.

... taking is too easy, but that's the way it is ...

Jalal instinctively put his hand behind his back. The girl cocked her head.

... _if you wanna be my lover, you gotta, you gotta, you gotta ..._

She leant forward and playfully slapped his swollen elbow. Jalal screamed. She slapped it again and he became dizzy, his vision starting to blur.

:... _Slam your body down zigazig ha,_

If you wanna be my lover ...

Suddenly, the music stopped, as if a plug had been pulled.

Jalal felt his knees tremble. The girl turned away again, looking back to Sapa Inca. Insects began to saw and scream around Jalal, like party-goers filling an embarrassing silence.

A boy detached himself from the circle and in dream-like steps shuffled to the front of the throne. He approached one of the priests. Chanting, the priest laid a hand on the boy's head, then turned him and helped him up the steps to the throne. Sapa Inca rose. The boy knelt on a bar at the foot of the throne. Sapa Inca withdrew his arm from the folds of his robe. A flash of gold – and the knife plunged into the base of the boy's abdomen, its blade sweeping downwards, parting the young flesh, tearing through the muscle and sinew holding the rib cage. The boy started to collapse, a look of mild surprise on his innocent face. Sapa Inca's hand plunged into the boy's chest, preventing him from falling.

Seconds passed, Jalal had forgotten his pain, his eyes were wide in astonishment. Mesmerised.

Sapa Inca withdrew his hand. 'Inti, our Creator ...' he cried as he held aloft the blood-soaked heart ripped from the boy's torso, He squeezed the organ, smearing blood on the stones. '... take this blood, Inca warrior blood, see the strength of young Inca heart, know that we serve only you.'

Thunder like cannon fire cracked above. En masse they fell to their knees as fat drops of water exploded in the dust. They heard it coming through the canopy first, a distant rush, gallons of water tumbling through the leaves, running down the thick branches in streams before emptying into the huaca over their cowering heads. The sacrificed body was quickly washed clean as the dust turned to mud. Sapa Inca remained standing, his head bent towards the sky, the boy's heart in his hand and rivulets of bloody water streaming down his arm, soaking into his yellow gown. A roaring wind rushed through the canopy. The fire high above, was instantly snuffed out.

'Inti has answered ...' Sapa Inca screamed and a groan of reverence joined the thunder of water.

Jalal closed his eyes. He was no longer afraid, Soon he would be with Allah. He knew that his life on earth was nearly over. His time in paradise was approaching fast.

Chapter 10

Cayden ran a finger down the condensation, circling the MGD logo, watching the steady rise of bubbles that seemed to leak from the glass rather than the beer.

The pianist broke into song – Moon River. Cayden looked up and frowned. Business couples were relaxing over aperitifs, winding down. The pianist competed with a woman's laughter from somewhere behind a palm; the scrape of a metal chair on the tiled surface; the click of heels; Cayden watched a tall woman walk by – long dark hair framing an attractive face – trying too hard to be the tough businesswoman. The pressure of high heels exquisitely shaped her calves. She chose a table near the floor-to-ceiling windows, her back to him. Shrugging off her jacket, she draped it over the seat back. She looked at him briefly before turning back to stare out at the Miami evening. He could see her face reflected in the glass – was she looking at him? A waiter came over and blocked the reflection.

Cayden scooped a handful of peanuts from a bowl next to his elbow and ate one at a time. It was either the jet-lag or the beer but he felt giddy. All he had managed to do since arriving was check into his room at the Gulfstream Plaza – the hotel the company used in Miami. Randy Royce, Tomahawk's Eastern US sales agent, had a suite of offices on the Marina floor.

Cayden had surprised Randy with his arrival but, forever the salesman, Randy had quickly recovered; his sun-damaged face had wrinkled with bonhomie – though Cayden would later receive an e-mail making it clear that Royce would appreciate a little notice before visits. Surprises were no longer welcome, especially after the Maalik disaster.

Royce was the best powerboat salesman in the States, pushing Tomahawk into the number one foreign manufacturer spot. The triumph of the Blade launch had made them unassailable. Cayden remembered the magazine covers, his smile – grimace, more like – but his eyes failing to hide his desolation. Rachel had been murdered just a few weeks earlier.

A slap between the shoulders. Cayden coughed up a peanut. 'There you are, Cayden, Jeezus boss, sorry for keeping you waiting. You wanna another one of those?' Randy sat opposite in a cloud of aftershave. 'If you'd let me know you were comin', I would-a given my diary a clear-out.'

Cayden could see the woman down by the windows smiling in the reflection.

'Randy ...' Cayden coughed again, taking a gulp of beer. The woman was still smiling. 'I told you earlier, I'm here more for a break, not business.'

'Bullshit ... get me one of those, would ya?' he asked a passing waiter. 'A man like you's never on vacation.' Randy leant across the table. 'Just promise me one thing. You ain't checking up on me, are ya?'

Cayden knew how important the Blade was to Royce's fortunes. 'You know you're the best, Randy,' Cayden clinked the American's bottle. 'You've nothing to worry about. If it was business, I would have e-mailed first. But ...' Cayden leant forward. 'A birdy told me you've taken a deposit on another hundred-footer. Yeah?'

'You betcha – and I reckon that calls for a celebration,' Randy's eyes disappeared in a sea of wrinkles. He pushed his Kompass Marine cap further back on his head, wiping away a drop of beer that had spilt on his silk shirt. 'Champagne, that's what we should have, goddamit.' He clicked his fingers. 'George, how about a bottle of that champagne you keep trying to push on me?'

Cayden bowed his head, wiping a napkin over the glass surface. Randy Royce was difficult to cope with even on good days. Usually, Jac dealt with him, his charm able to absorb the Texan's frontal assault on the senses.

The manager arrived at the table. 'Brut is a dry champagne, Mr. Royce. We have an excellent Pol Roger or, of course, a Krug Grande Annee – or Grande Cuvee?'

Royce sat back in his chair and folded his arms. 'Just get me some damn champagne, George, or next time you want to use one of my boats for a shindig I'll be asking you what goddam size engines you want.'

Cayden chuckled.

'Son-of-a-bitch,' Randy muttered as he watched the manager go.

'Excuse me if I'm interrupting ...' the woman from the window stood by the table, framed from the glare of the setting sun, her dark hair flecked with reds like a glass of deep burgundy.

'Why, hell, if it ain't Charlotte,' said Randy, crushing her French name with his accent. He leapt to his feet and held out his hand.

'Hello Randy,' she smiled.

'Charlotte Weller, this is ...'

'I know. The famous Mr. Callejon, owner of Tomahawk.'

Cayden got to his feet. Her hand was cool, slim; her face obscured by the setting sun.

'Charlotte is the US sales manager for that French outfit ...' Randy clicked his fingers.

'Oh come now, Randy, you know who we are – we might even sell more boats than Tomahawk.'

'Jeezus, Charlotte, you can't compare those plastic sail boats to a Tomahawk. They give stuff away like that at fairs.'

'Hey, come on Randy, Roche make a very good forty-five, and you know it,

Cayden grinned.

'You guessed,' she smiled delightedly.

Cayden nodded thoughtfully, but then pointed at her name badge on her lapel.

Charlotte looked down and frowned with annoyance.

'Ah, lighten up,' Randy cried. 'Look what George has bought us. Why don't you join us for a glass, Charlotte?'

The sun dipped behind a tower block, the sudden shadow highlighting her perfect white teeth. 'Such expensive champagne, Randy – do you think I'm worthy?'

'Ah, com'on. We'll slum it.'

'How very generous of you.' Her American voice had a slight French accent.

'How long ago did you live in France?' Cayden asked, pouring her a glass while Randy reached for his mobile, vibrating on the table.

'Well let's see, maybe twelve years ago – yeah, that's how long I've been married.'

Cayden raised his glass. 'Cheers!' He had to raise his voice over Randy's shouted conversation.

'What are you celebrating?' She leant over the table, her jacket parting to reveal a white silk blouse and the edge of a lace bra rimming a tanned valley between her breasts. Cayden jerked his gaze away. 'Ah, Randy's sold one of our hundred-footers,' he said taking a quick sip of the Krug. He wondered if Randy knew how much George had stitched him up for.

Charlotte looked thoughtful. 'That will be your fifteenth since the launch. No?'

'Bullshit will I accept that!' Randy shouted, pushing his chair back. He covered the mouthpiece of his cell as he stood up. 'Sorry Cayden, buying a house ... damn realtor expects me to pay for the fixtures.' He clamped the phone back to his ear and marched off to the balcony – a perch hundreds of feet above the streets occupied by three guilty-looking smokers.

'So you keep track of the competition?' said Cayden, trying hard to keep eye contact.

'Of course.' She sipped her champagne. 'I'm flattered to think you consider us competition, despite Randy's obvious views.'

Cayden shrugged. 'We have a reputation for arrogance, what can I say? We are the best!' He clinked her glass. 'But seriously, I've tried to help you lowly sail boat manufacturers move into the 21st century, but none want to listen.'

'I can't imagine why.' Charlotte's eyes widened. 'No-one likes being a charity case.'

Cayden smiled. He drained his glass and reached for the bottle from the ice bucket. 'Are you staying here?' he asked as he topped up her glass. 'Or just visiting?' He could see the smooth skin of her legs through the glass. Her skirt had ridden high on her thighs.

'Visiting. I've been at a charter convention downtown. Needed a drink.' She uncrossed her legs as she reached forward for her glass.

'Tough day?' Cayden asked, settling the bottle back in the bucket.

'Boring,' she replied with a smile.

Cayden realised he was becoming embarrassed. Not only was he finding it difficult not to look at her legs, but the last few years seemed to have robbed him of the ability to make small talk. He gulped a mouthful of champagne; the bubbles made him splutter. He dabbed a napkin at his mouth. 'There you go, can't be that arrogant if I can't drink champagne without choking.'

'Arrogant ... no, I don't think so. Provocative maybe.' Charlotte smiled as she smoothed a loose strand away from her face. She glanced down to her skirt and brushed away a hair.

Cayden was aware of the perspiration under his arms.

'I was very sorry to hear of your ... tragedy,' added Charlotte, looking up, her expression sincere. 'It was a terrible thing. I'm sure you don't want to be reminded of it, but I had to say something.'

Thoughts of Rachel swept away his increasing arousal like an eraser over a chalkboard. He felt himself deflate; the familiar depression approached like racing storm clouds. Over two years he had lost count of the number of times it had been said. He had never found a reply that felt adequate, that conveyed accurately his responsibility for her death. He felt they should be accusing rather than consoling. 'Thank you,' he mumbled, looking at his watch as his hand reached forward for his glass.

'It must be something that lives with you forever?'

'Something along those lines ... yeah,' Cayden replied quietly.

'I'm sorry. I've a big mouth and my foot just gets jammed right in it, especially when I'm nervous.'

Cayden frowned. 'No, it's me, I ... why are you nervous?'

'Sitting alone with the famous ...'

'Sorry boys and gals, these goddam realtors! They have their heads stuck so far up their asses.' Grinning, Randy slumped down in his chair between them. 'How's the champagne?'

'You need to catch up,' Cayden said, feeling Charlotte's gaze still on him. 'George has provided you with a very expensive bottle here. I'd hate you not to have a fair share.'

'I must leave you two to celebrate,' said Charlotte, picking up her handbag.

'No,' Randy and Cayden cried together. Randy looked bemused, Cayden felt a fresh wave of embarrassment. Randy nodded at Cayden, a teasing smile on his lips.

Cayden frowned. 'No ... you can't drink Randy's champagne and just leave, and no ... if you leave, I'll have to listen to him all evening telling me what a great salesman he is.'

Charlotte laughed as she stood, pushing her skirt down her thighs. 'That's kind, but I've got a long drive back to Lauderdale, rush-hour and all.' She hooked her handbag over her shoulder. 'And a twelve-year-old who'll be nightmare if I don't get to see her before bed.'

The men stood. Randy shook her hand.

'Randy, I was wondering...if you had time, if I could schedule a meeting.' Charlotte bit her lip uncertainly. 'Say, sometime this week?'

Randy winked. 'Give my secretary a call in the mornin', she'll fix ya up, I know I have some spare hours towards the end of the week. Okay?'

She air-kissed him on both cheeks. 'You're a star,' she said, looking at Cayden.

'Mr. Callejon.' They shook hands.

'Call me Cayden.' His hand was damp against her coolness. 'Next time, don't be so nervous.'

'You too,' she laughed, walking away, her hips in the tight black cotton of her skirt, a magnet for every male in the bar.

'Damn!' Randy exclaimed, glancing at Cayden. He punched his arm playfully. 'Life in the ol' dog, huh?'

'Drink your champagne, Randy, and tell me about this house you're buying,' said Cayden as he sat down, trying not to feel disappointed that Charlotte had left. 'Anyway, she's married.'

Randy raised his eyebrows. 'Nope, divorced three years.'

'You seem to know a lot about her.'

'Every goddam man on the Eastern seaboard would like to know a lot about her.' Randy laughed and whooped, punching Cayden on the arm several times before George returned to ask if he wanted another bottle of Krug.

*****

'Good morning, how are you today?'

Cayden pushed his sunglasses onto his head and accepted the menu.

'What can I get you today?'

He smiled at the waitress – a thin, five foot nothing, sun-dried woman of about fifty. 'I'll have the regular breakfast, hash browns, egg sunny side up and pancakes.'

'You want those on the side?'

'Sure,' he replied, returning the menu. She looked back disinterestedly from the beach and stacked it under her pad.

'And coffee, no milk.'

'Okay, I'll get that for you in just a while.'

A breeze ruffled the edge of the tablecloth. Cayden moved a glass to prevent a napkin blowing away. The sea hissed up the white sand, on which early morning joggers ran, keeping to the wet, harder surface, dodging the surge of each wave, their tracks curving into the distance. A man with a fishing rod walked past the Pier Café, his footsteps heavy on the wooden boards. Cayden looked through the salt-stained glass, at several others already casting at the far end of the wooden pier.

Through a gap in the boards, gulls patrolled the sand. The sea was calm, the early sun, glinting off the occasional wavelet. It was fresh and it held that promise every perfect morning has, of a special day to come.

Two elderly women strode by, using the exaggerated long distance walking style, wrinkled arms pumping, bright red and green shorts cut high over flabby mahogany thighs, determined faces hidden beneath visors.

'Coffee.' The waitress settled what looked like a small bucket of black coffee in front of him. Cayden had to use both hands to hold it to his mouth. He felt a familiar twinge in his shoulders and wished he could relax. He settled the mug with care and opened the local paper. The front page was dominated by a drive-by shooting near the airport. He could find nothing regarding the bombings in England or Spain. Cayden wondered how Dylan was doing. He had called Jac the night before – there had been no change. The conversation had been short. Jac had mentioned that security was intense: children no longer able to take backpacks into school; any child alone on the streets, stopped and questioned; and parents warned they could face heavy penalties if their child was in a public place without adult supervision. The elderly, traditionally suspicious of the young, were becoming openly hostile, saying the bombings were a result of political correctness and a lack of discipline. If they had their way, Dickensian laws would be reintroduced. Cayden turned a page of the local paper – news about Iraq ... another five US soldiers killed and strengthening hostility towards Iran; the President quoted as saying that, if the British naval captives were not returned immediately, he could not rule out the use of force. All the US needed was an excuse, Cayden reflected; they were itching to get into Iran.

'Hello stranger.'

He jerked his gaze from the paper.

She hadn't changed.

Braided blonde hair over one shoulder, the frayed end resting on the swell of her left breast, under a tight, white sleeveless shirt; blue jeans hugging her hips, flared at her feet; black boots. He took her familiar body in with a sweeping glance, the surprise of her appearing by his breakfast table momentarily forgotten as the memories flooded through him. He stood slowly.

'Agent Williams ... long time no see.'

'How are you, Cayden?' She took off her sunglasses. Her Latino eyes, the well-remembered colour of honey, narrowed, watching him closely.

He gestured to the bench opposite. 'I'm okay. Take a pew. You want some coffee?'

The waitress arrived with his order. 'Thanks.'

'You're welcome,' she said. Her gaze switched to the woman with him. 'Hi, what can I get you today?'

'Just coffee,' said Sly Williams, glancing briefly at the giant mug beside Cayden's plate. 'Make it a small one.' She smiled back at him. 'You've lost weight?'

As sexy as ever, thought Cayden. He could see why he had fallen for her. Guilt pounded through him. He tried to suppress it. What was different about her? Confidence, that was it – her level gaze had a self-assured gleam. She no longer chewed her lower lip, or avoided his eyes.

'I needed to ... wow, this is a surprise. You look as good as I remember,' Cayden told her. He looked out to the beach, bringing the sunglasses back down to shade his eyes. 'You sure you don't want something to eat?' He gestured to the stack of pancakes. 'I'm not going to manage all those.'

'I'll take a bite, but I can't stay long.' She indicated over her shoulder with a fork.

Cayden saw a silver car parked beside the kerb in the turning circle in front of the pier. He could make out the dark outline of a figure behind the wheel.

'My partner,' she said, around a mouthful of pancake.

'Does she want to join us?' asked Cayden.

'No, he has to make some calls,' Sly replied, slicing into the side of the pancake stack.

'You want some syrup?' said Cayden, watching her keenly. She still wore little make-up. Her eyes were gently accentuated by eye shadow, maybe some mascara, but her lips were definitely without lipstick. They had been her least attractive feature – thin, out of sorts with her Latino heritage – and prevented her from being truly beautiful. He had liked that, though; it made her normal, somehow more real, particularly when she smiled, which she hadn't done very often – but when she did, the transformation had been... almost magical.

'No, this is good,' she replied, maintaining eye contact as she chewed.

Cayden shrugged. It wasn't how he had imagined their reunion would be. 'So, you're still working for Homeland Security?'

'Ahuh, it was touch and go for a while but the boss stuck by me – moved me into special ops.'

Cayden raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Sly laid down her fork and nodded her thanks to the waitress who arrived with a slightly smaller mug of coffee. 'More field work, you know, out and about catching the bad guys, less decision-making, I suppose ... less strategising anyway.' Cayden thought he detected bitterness in her voice as she continued: 'My boss thought I was better out on the street then sitting on my ass in the office. I fill in the gaps between police and other agencies, mainly coast guard stuff, shit like that.'

Cayden detected little enthusiasm in her voice. 'Enjoying it then?'

'It has its moments.' She eyed him over the rim of her coffee mug. 'How's Jac and his son?'

'Dylan's still in a coma. Jac's ... well, you can imagine.'

Sly nodded, glancing briefly away, down the beach. When she looked back, she smiled for the first time. 'And you? Things still pretty tough?'

Cayden pushed his plate away. 'I guess you could say that. Anyway, let's change the subject. How did you know I was here, or even in the country, for that matter?'

'You were flagged coming through Customs. Your last adventures in our country obviously got your name on some database somewhere. Anyway, my boss spotted it and gave me a call. I guessed where you would be staying and hotel reception told me you had asked where a good beach restaurant was – so here I am.'

'You'll make detective yet.' Cayden smiled.

She didn't return it. 'Still just plain ol' Agent Williams.'

'Well, it's good to see you again ... Agent Williams,' Cayden said quietly.

A look of uncertainty crossed her eyes, her mouth quivered and he thought he might see the familiar nibble of the lower lip. But she straightened on the bench. 'Good to see you too, Cayden.' Suddenly, matter-of-fact, she added: 'I have some news for you.'

'That why you called me?'

Sly looked out to the beach again. 'I guess ... yeah, I guess so, but I was worried about you – you and Jac. I think you guys suffered enough ... couldn't believe you were being hit again.'

Cayden reached out and covered her hands.

She entwined her fingers with his and squeezed them. 'We've received Intel on... Maalik,' she said, her fingers stiffening.

Cayden also stiffened. He was aware that he was holding his breath.

Sly looked down at their hands. 'I struggled for ages, thinking whether it was a good idea to tell you ...' She prised away her hand and took a sip of coffee. '... I still don't know.'

Cayden stared at the space their hands had occupied.

'It's strictly off the record. If they knew I was telling you, they would cane my ass.' She laughed nervously. 'Do you want to know, or should I keep my mouth shut?'

Cayden squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deeply. His hands were shaking when he picked up his coffee mug. The waitress returned to clear away the plates, throwing the crumbs of pancake onto the sand below. Immediately, seagulls waddled out from under the pier; pigeons appeared from nowhere.

'Cayden, I know it's unfinished business for you – it sure as hell is for us.'

'So, what have you heard?' He looked at her from behind his sunglasses.

Sly hesitated. 'Oh shit, here goes ... he's set up a new people trafficking operation, together with drug smuggling and arms dealing – you name it, the whole caboodle ...'

Cayden was silent – recalling the blood blossoming on Rachel's chest.

'I know.' She leant across the table and squeezed his arm. 'I've been there too, remember. And I let my husband's death fester, work away at me like a cancer. I did nothing to clear my system and it affected everything I touched. I don't want you to go there. It's already been two years and I can tell you're still going downhill. You need closure, Cayden ... you know, if we could get the bastard, bring him in ...'

'What are you talking about, Sly?' Cayden's voice was suddenly full of anger. 'The only news that would slightly please me would be to hear that the bastard was dead, and had died painfully ... over a long time.'

Sly remained quiet.

Cayden glared at her. 'Your plan wasn't to get me involved with him again? Please don't fucking tell me that.'

Sly folded her arms. 'We're flat out with al-Qaeda, Iraq, you name it. During routine surveillance, a CIA op in Lima photographed him. We have no jurisdiction or any authority other than to observe. Sending in a team to extract him is out of the question. The Peruvians are not keen on helping – they don't seem to like us at the moment.'

'Yeah, well, you seem to be hell-bent on alienating the whole damn world. But I'm still not sure what this has to do with me?'

Sly took a deep breath. 'Go down to Peru. Get a positive ID and then ... well, we've worked out a way of getting him back here.' She reached across the table for him, 'Back to the States, so we can put the bastard away forever.'

Cayden sat back; his hands slapped the table making her jump. 'If it's him, I'd kill him ... then probably end up in some Peruvian jail. Christ, Sly, why are you telling me this?'

'I've told you ...' Cayden held up his hands. 'Bollocks! It won't take away the guilt – and I deserve it anyway. What goes around comes around.'

Sly shook her head sadly. 'You ... we made mistakes, Christ, we're only human Cayden, we did some stupid things and yeah, you could've cared more about her than your business, and yeah, maybe she shouldn't have been so gullible – I don't fucking know, Cayden.' She folded her arms. 'I really don't fucking know, okay? But you can't spend the rest of your life like this.' She fluttered her hand in his direction. 'You have a responsibility, remember? You told me once of all the people that depend on you. You're special, you're a leader, a provider when so many people just take ... shit, Cayden, you've built something you should be so proud of. You can't shrivel and die.'

'Right, that's all I am, Sly, I build power boats, I'm not an international ...' He waved his hands in the air. '... hit man or whatever the hell you wanted me to be.'

'I haven't said that. We don't want you to get physically involved. He hates you as much, don't forget. You spoiled his party, he lost millions,' said Sly, leaning forward, drumming her fingers on the edge of the table. 'Our plan is to use that hate, to trick him to come back to the US.'

'We?' Cayden said. 'Who's we?'

The bill arrived. They stared at each other while the waitress cleared the rest of the table. 'Is there anything else I can get you?' she asked.

'No,' they said together.

'Well, you have a nice day,' the waitress said stiffly, and left.

'It doesn't matter who we are specifically – the US Government, police, Homeland Security, it doesn't matter. We want to catch the bad guys and it seems we're the only country on this planet with the balls to keep doing it. Do you want to hear the plan or not?'

Cayden stood up abruptly. He searched his jeans for change, found a ten dollar bill and slammed a salt pot on top of it. 'No. He's wrecked my life once, I'm not giving him another chance.' Cayden stormed out of the Pier Café.

Sly caught up with him on the sidewalk. She rested a hand on his arm. 'You'll have our full support – covertly, of course. You won't be in any danger.'

He shrugged her hand away and stepped down onto the sand. 'Leave me alone, Sly. Yet again, your callous selfishness knows no bounds. I should have known.'

She watched his tall frame, shoulders hunched with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, as he stomped to the shoreline, turned and walked away, head down, not looking back. She sighed and got into the waiting car.

Her partner looked at her. Kim was half-Chinese. He wore a chequered red and white bandana – tall at over six feet and good looking with the typical sloe eyes of the Chinese race, but a straight European nose. 'How did it go?' he asked in a New York accent that betrayed the area from where he had been seconded.

'Not good.' She unwrapped a stick of gum and started chewing methodically.

'The boss isn't going to be happy.'

'Fuck the boss. It was a shitty thing to do. The guy's had enough.'

'Terrorism's a crock of shit, Sly, we gotta use whatever we can.'

'Kim, drive, goddamit, I need to think.'

Chapter 11

'Gotta moment, Cayden?' Randy stuck his head around the door, peering out from under the obligatory Kompass Marine cap.

Cayden glanced up from the screen-saver he had been staring blankly at for ... he looked at his watch ... half-an-hour. Looking bleakly at Randy, he powered down his laptop – the answer wasn't there anyway.

'Sure, what's the problem?'

'No problem, need your advice on something.'

Cayden followed Randy from the air conditioned offices. Stepping through to the walkway that led to the marina was like passing through a curtain from a chiller room – the change from comfortable to unpleasant was dramatic. Immediately, he felt the sweat on his body. He plucked at his short-sleeved shirt; he was using two a day and either needed to organise hotel laundry or pay a visit to the lobby boutique.

'Where're we going?' Cayden asked, gratefully accepting a spare cap that Randy produced from his back pocket.

'I'm having a helluva time with this customer bitching about his Blade's performance. Says it's at least ten knots slower than spec.' Randy grinned at Cayden. 'Hoped you might throw some light on the problem because I can't see what else to do.'

'You've still got the original four blade props?'

'Yep.'

'Twin eleven hundred MANs?'

'Yep.'

'Any special toys?'

'None added since she was shipped from the UK ... your test report said she could cruise at 41 knots and, at a push, make 53. We ain't getting 35.' He held the marina gate open for Cayden. 'Ah sheeit, would you believe it ...'

Cayden looked back up the walkway, the glare of the hotel glass making him squint. A tall female figure was hurrying towards them – white skirt and business jacket, high heels clipping over the cement, dark hair bouncing on her shoulders – Charlotte Weller.

'Randy, you bad boy! You forgot our meeting,' she pouted, holding his arm and then air-kissing both cheeks.

'Sorry darlin', you know my memory's like a sieve, even with a secretary.'

'And is that you, Mr. Callejon?'

Cayden took off his cap and waved from the other side of the eight-foot metal gate.

'Listen Charlotte, we're taking a Blade out for a test. Why don't you come along? We can talk as we go,' said Randy, looking at Cayden, who shrugged casually. 'Give you a taste of what a real boat should feel like.' He laughed, holding the gate open for her.

Charlotte looked at her watch, a gold band on a smooth tanned arm. 'How long Randy? I've got a customer at six, looking to order twenty-five of my unreal boats,' she said, raising an eyebrow.

'Well now ...' Randy scratched his head, '... that's one Blade sale, in terms of profit.'

'Come on you two, before I melt into this dock,' shouted Cayden, walking down the gangway to the floating pontoons. The white decks of the Tomahawks were blinding. He thought seriously about going back for his sunglasses. Randy had stopped at a 65- foot Blade called Snooty Ms Tooty.

'That it?' asked Cayden, shading his eyes.

Randy stepped over the rail and started to unclip the cockpit cover. 'Yep, owner bought her in yesterday, sayin' she can darn well sit here until she sinks for all he cares ... he's not havin' it back until we've found another ten knots.'

'Maybe a shorter name might help,' Charlotte suggested, adjusting her wide, fashionable Raybans.

Cayden smiled.

She stepped out of her high heels and handed then to Cayden. He dropped them onto a sun bed and offered his hand. Her grip was cool, which contrasted with the thin line of perspiration on her lip, and her toenails were painted a shocking pink. She slipped off her jacket, folding it neatly over her shoes. 'If I'd known, I would have worn my bikini.'

Cayden pulled the peak of his cap lower, imagining her stunning body clad only in a bikini.

Randy started the engines, Cayden slipped the lines and Charlotte discovered beers in the cockpit fridge. They headed onto the Intercoastal, Randy aiming for a gap in the far shore between blocks of high rises; a channel out to the Florida Straits.

Cayden was relieved to find a pair of sunglasses belonging to the boat's owner, and thankful for the breeze created by their passage – delicious after the stifling heat of concrete. The beer tasted equally good, and the sight of Charlotte, standing next to Randy, listening intently as he explained the controls, was intoxicating – silk strap blouse, mid thigh-length skirt and bright pink toes. He felt his troubles leech away as if he had put down a heavy bag he had been carrying uphill for miles. The release – the freedom. It felt good. He flexed his shoulders. He did not want to think of Sly, the dilemma she had presented, the fear she had evoked – the hope she had rekindled.

Randy took Snooty Ms Tooty through the channel and opened her throttles. The engines bellowed, her nose reared and then, as the wake boiled away behind her, she settled onto a plane, her hull sending out sheets of glistening spray from the slight chop. Cayden studied the instruments, listened to the engine and watched the wake thoughtfully. After five minutes, he asked Randy to do a slow turn and head back the other way.

Charlotte moved next to him, her arm brushing his. She tilted her head back and finished her beer. 'Randy says she won't do over thirty-five knots. Why don't you just put bigger engines in her?'

'Engines are plenty big enough,' Cayden replied. 'I think the problem is with the propellers.'

Charlotte nodded. It was obvious she wanted him to continue.

In Cayden's experience, it was usual for women visibly to switch off whenever he started to explain anything technical. That wasn't a sexist conclusion – it just happened to be a fact. But on this occasion he was encouraged by Charlotte's apparent look of genuine interest. 'Prop sizes are described by diameter and pitch, the bigger the diameter, the bigger the boat,' he said. 'Pitch ... that's the forward movement of the propeller through one complete revolution ...' He couldn't see her eyes but her body was leaning towards him, occasionally bumping his arm with the motion as he continued his technical explanation for her benefit. '... and lowering prop pitch will increase acceleration and pulling power.'

'Really!' Charlotte said, smiling slightly. 'How much pulling power do you think Snooty Ms Tooty has?'

Cayden finished his beer, crushing the can in his fist. 'Oh, I think her pulling power is pretty good, better than average possibly.' He smiled. 'But I don't think the props are letting the engines operate at wide-open throttle within their correct RPM range.'

Snooty Ms Tooty launched off the back of a passing boat's wake. Charlotte uttered a small cry as she lost her balance and Cayden caught hold of her with one arm, her silk-covered breasts pushed against his arm. 'So, she can pull but can't stay the distance?' said Charlotte with a hint of breathlessness while looking over her sunglasses.

Cayden could see the excitement in her eyes.

Randy throttled back, allowing Snooty Ms Tooty to settle, her engines at idle, the exhausts burbling and spluttering in the chop.

Cayden and Charlotte had separated but were standing close enough for Randy to hesitate as he turned in the driver's seat. 'You okay?' he asked.

'Mr. Callejon ...'

'Cayden.'

She smiled – a smile as dazzling as the hand-stitched, white leather sun-beds. 'Cayden ... was just explaining to me how pulling power works.'

'Was he now?' Randy slapped the seat back and whooped. 'You ol' sea dog!'

Cayden shook his head as he laughed. 'Shut off the engines. I need to take a look at the props and then I think I'll have your answer.'

He went to a locker near the stern, opened it and found the standard store of snorkelling gear. The heat intensified as Snooty Ms Tooty wallowed on the oily swell. Cayden felt the sweat run down his sides as he took off his shirt; the sun lasered into his white European skin. He was pleased, at least, that the physical exertions and training in Scotland had toned his body. He had no six-pack, but there wasn't a beer belly either and his pecs were firm. 'I'd rather not ruin my only trousers, so would you mind ...?' He indicated he was going to take them off.

'Go ahead,' Charlotte replied, leaning nonchalantly against the back of the driver's seat, Randy's grinning face behind her. 'You sure there're no sharks around here?' she added, grinning wickedly.

Cayden heeled-off his docksiders and removed his trousers, relieved that he was wearing a brand-new pair of white cotton boxer shorts. The material fitted snugly, and he felt self-conscious walking to the stern dive platform.

'Why do European men never go commando?' Charlotte asked Randy, loud enough for Cayden to hear.

'Guess it's all those cold draughts.' Randy slapped the leather again.

Cayden ignored them and sat down on the edge of the platform. The sea was like a tepid bath. He spat in the mask, then dropped into the water and pushed away from the stern. Charlotte and Randy had found two more beers. They stood looking down at him, clinking their cans as he sunk below the surface.

Silvery bubbles outlined the dark belly of Snooty Ms Tooty. Columns of sunlight disappeared below, refracted beams catching the glint of the brass propellers. Swimming under the hull was difficult, his natural buoyancy pushing him up against the rolling ceiling. Fortunately, it had not been in the water long enough to become rough with sea life.

Cayden confirmed his suspicions and quickly surfaced. Randy knelt down and helped him onto the platform. Cayden took off the goggles, nodding his thanks to Charlotte as she slowly handed him a towel.

'You've got the wrong props, Randy. Get them changed to cupped stainless steel.'

Charlotte handed him a beer. 'Will that help poor old Snooty Ms Tooty stay the distance?' she asked.

Cayden drank, washing the salt water from his mouth. 'Yep, you'll get at least another ten knots out of her Randy, and higher trim levels too. Just remember, you might find that the engines operate at the wrong rpm at WOT ...'

'What?' they chorused, feigning ignorance of Wide Open Throttle.

Cayden draped the towel round his shoulders. 'Yeah, and I haven't heard that one before,' he grinned. 'Check the RPM limit with the new props; you might find she's a couple of hundred off and you'll have to reduce the pitch size.'

Randy nudged Charlotte. 'What was I telling you? What this man don't know about boats ain't worth knowing.'

'So it appears.' Charlotte grinned, then turned back towards the drive console. 'And a good taste in underwear too,' she added over her shoulder. Cayden glanced down and realised the cotton had become transparent.

'Randy, before we go back, can we have that meeting?' Charlotte asked, scooting in along a curved sofa that complemented a cockpit dining table.

'Sure. Can Cayden listen in?'

Charlotte thought for a moment. 'That would be really useful, if you wouldn't mind, Cayden?'

Cayden wrapped the towel around his waist and sat with them.

Charlotte reached into her handbag and pulled out a spray. 'Here, use this Cayden, it'll stop your shoulders burning.' Pulling out a folded sheaf of papers, she spread them out on the table. 'This may come as a surprise to you fellas, what with my outstanding reputation in the industry and all,' she said, laughing, 'but I'm getting a little fed up with the routine. I need a change, fresh challenges.'

Cayden smoothed the lotion into his skin. Challenges were what he was trying to avoid. Irritableness invaded his mood.

'I've heard through the grapevine ...' Charlotte smoothed out the papers. '... of this really interesting business that's for sale in the Bahamas. She showed them pictures taken by the selling agent; grainy images of docks and boats on hard-standing, machine sheds – a typical boatyard.

Randy looked at her, his expression sceptical. 'You're gonna start fixing up boats, building them, – what?'

'Well, I won't be doing the physical stuff but there's definitely potential.' Charlotte leant forward; she had taken off her sunglasses and her eyes sparkled. 'There's a big demand for a well-run repair yard in the Bahamas. Yacht chartering is booming and there are reefs – the two things together ...' She raised her shoulders, '... equal many banged-up boats...'

They didn't reply

'Well, anyway, that's one good thing; the other is, this yard has started to produce a powered cat, called the Purcat Forty-Five. It's selling great guns, I guess because of the shallow draft, and there are a lot of fat slobs who like their boating without pulling ropes – no offence,' she said. Glancing at Cayden, she was surprised by his uncomfortable expression.

'Cayden...are you alright?' she asked.

He had been rubbing his face, but had dropped his hands. 'Yeah ... yeah, fine, just a bit of a headache coming on.' Cayden leant forward and started to massage his forehead.

'It might be sunstroke. You should get out of the sun,' said Charlotte, leaning forward to stroke his arm.

Cayden held his head, propped by his elbow on the table. Her touch sent shivers down his spine. He smiled and the concern lifted from her face as she turned eagerly to Randy. 'Well, what do you think?'

He shrugged. 'How do the figures stack up?'

'They're good – so my accountant says ... break even in eighteen months, profit from then on, increasing by eighteen percent per year.'

'I dunno, Charlotte, you don't seem the type to be running a boatyard, you're ...'

'What? A woman? Don't you dare say that, Randy. I'm just sick of making money for other people, particularly men. I want to have a go myself. What do you think, Cayden?'

Cayden felt sick. Why him? Why now? Janet Hart owned that yard, or so she seemed to think. Someone was selling it out from under her 'Are you looking for Randy to invest?' he asked quietly.

Charlotte sat back, putting her sunglasses back on, showing her obvious disappointment with their response. 'No, I've got the money.' she collected up the papers. 'I wanted advice, I guess, perhaps Randy's opinion as to how well the Purcat would sell on the mainland.'

The men exchanged glances. 'Well, I would have to look at the specs,' said Randy cautiously. 'Competition's stiff ... what do you think, Cayden?'

'I can see it working in the Bahamas, but anywhere else ... no. I would double-check those sales figures – you might have a bounce in sales for the first couple of years, but once everyone has one, who wants one, it may go stagnant. Tooling-up for other designs and sizes is hugely expensive. As for the repair side of things, that's a very risky venture. You're at the mercy of the charter companies, paying their prices, and it's not that far to the States, where competition is intense.'

Charlotte spent some time stuffing the papers into her handbag. 'I see,' she said, looking at her watch. 'Well, thank you for your comments guys. Randy, do you think we could start getting back now? I've got these people to see.'

'Aw, don't be getting all upset now,' said Randy, moving to the driving seat. 'Cayden, you're the expert in all this, I'm just a simple salesman – why don't you have a more detailed look at what's on offer? If you reckon it's possible, then it's definitely worth going for.' He turned the ignition keys and the engines rumbled to life.

Cayden glared at Randy's back. The bastard had neatly side-stepped the issue, he thought. Standing up, he tightened the towel around his waist. 'If you want me to, I'd be very happy to look it over in detail,' he told Charlotte before going to retrieve his clothes. He had belted up his trousers when he felt her beside him. They were cruising slowly down the channel, entering the Intercoastal waterway between the sentinel high-rise apartment blocks.

'You've definitely caught the sun,' she said, glancing from his face to his shoulders. 'Sit here, let me rub some lotion in before you put your shirt on.' Her hands massaged his tense shoulders; he groaned with pleasure. 'I'm sorry. I can be an uptight bitch sometimes,' added Charlotte quietly.

A ship passed close by, its decks stacked with red and yellow containers, the bridge out of sight from the powerboat's perspective. Cayden opened his eyes and watched the floating cliff of scarred steel pass by. 'People never react the way you want them to. I guess, if you're going into business, then that's going to be one of the hardest things to rise above. It's you against everyone else. No-one likes a winner.'

Her hands had stopped moving; he felt them resting on his hot skin. The ship had passed and she turned her attention to his neck, her thumbs massaging either side of his spine. He rolled his head, feeling the tension.

'When would it be convenient for you to check out the paperwork?' she asked.

'How about tomorrow night?' He turned and her hands fell away. 'We could combine it with dinner.'

Charlotte rubbed the lotion into her fingers. 'I would have to get a sitter for my daughter. Can I call you?'

Cayden nodded – guilt and desire wrestled inside him.

*****

Cayden scrolled through the Daily Telegraph website, a forgotten mug of coffee in his left hand.

The news was still full of the school bombings. They wanted someone to blame. The Government was doing everything in its power to find the perpetrators, he read, while the Opposition was doing everything to make sure the Government got the blame. There were problems in exchanging information with the Spanish, each government reluctant to let the other appear more successful in the investigation. In the comment section, an ex-MP described how he thought the European Human Rights legislation was to blame. Failed asylum seekers were being allowed to stay in the country, many of whom, the writer inferred, were potential suicide bombers. They were infecting the prisons and the poorer parts of the country with their hatred and beliefs, making it possible for drug-crazed followers to hypnotise children to kill. Cayden read on. Anything was being reported that could increase the fear, the disbelief – children were now the new threat.

Cayden sat back in his chair. Modern society was such a fragile thing. The laws that dictated behaviour and the way people treated each other was equal to comparing a mobile home to Stonehenge. Muslim extremists were standing on the side of the western world's 'mobile home,' rocking it ever more violently, and because the system had no deep-rooted foundation, it could topple. Cayden glanced at the Wall Street Journal beside his keyboard. The headlines read; World Stock Markets Fight Back. He smiled wryly.

He linked his hands behind his head and cracked the joints. Black times, about as bleak as they had appeared at the beginning of the world wars, but only for the affluent West. Millions of Africans in the Sudan and Sierra Leone were putting up with far worst, and had been for far longer.

A knock on the glass office door. Cayden glanced at the shadowy figure. He knew Randy's secretary had the morning off to see the doctor.

'Come in,' he called, lowering his hands.

'Your security sucks,' said Sly Williams, smiling brightly as she walked confidently to the edge of his desk.

Cayden glanced past her. 'Quiet day.'

Sly rested a buttock on his desk. 'Hey, you can't still be mad with me?' She looked down at him; a stray strand of hair fell across her cheek.

Cayden leant forward and clicked off the browser. 'No Sly, I'm not. But I'm not interested, Okay?'

'You want to get some coffee?' she asked.

He noticed the vanilla folder in her hand. She wore a black skirt, above the knee; she had never worn a skirt before, he reflected. Her legs were long and slim, her calves accentuated by heeled shoes. She walked to the door, her buttocks firmly defined within the clinging material.

Cayden sighed, stood and retrieved his mobile from the desk drawer. He had put a call into Carol for an update on how things were going back in the UK. His general manager was new, experienced in Tomahawk, but still young – Cayden didn't yet fully trust him. What the hell was he, his boss, doing here in Miami? He thought for the hundredth time. He followed Sly's swaying hips through the hotel to the lobby.

'I thought we'd go for a drive. Show you my favourite beach-side place,' she said.

Cayden glanced through the revolving doors and recognised the silver car from the previous day. He couldn't see if there was anyone in the driver's seat. 'Sly, if you're going to talk to me about whatever's in that folder, then you're wasting your time.'

She slapped it impatiently against her thigh. 'Come on Cayden, just give me an hour. You owe me that, surely.'

Sly had saved his life once – he guessed he owed her more than an hour. He waved her on. There was nobody in the car. 'Don't take me anywhere I can't get a signal,' he said.

The phone rang as soon as he got in the car. 'Hi Carol, how are things?'

He listened to his PA as she answered the questions he had sent by e-mail the night before, grunting an acknowledgement or asking for brief clarification. He paid no attention to the drive and was vaguely surprised when Sly parked up in front of a mobile vending truck in a parking lot, fronting the beach.

'This it?' he asked, covering the phone.

Sly nodded, swinging her long legs out from under the wheel. 'Best coffee in town.'

'Carol, I'm going to cut this short ... everything sounds okay.' He listened for a few seconds. 'Yeah, I'm fine, I just need ...' He looked up and saw Sly waiting impatiently. 'Just get Ben to check the production schedule on hull 234S100 and e-mail me the delivery date. We have to have that done by the end of the month. Put the guys on overtime if necessary ... yeah, I know ... okay, I'll stop worrying. Speak to you soon.'

The coffee vendor was setting aluminium chairs and tables around the side of his van. He beamed as Sly walked up, her heels clicking over the asphalt.

'Hey José, give us two regulars, milk in one, no sugar.'

Cayden pulled a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket and sat opposite Sly's smooth, crossed legs. She slipped off a shoe and bent forward, rubbing her foot.

'You planning on chasing any bad guys today?' Cayden said.

Sly grinned. 'You're not a bad guy Cayden, just confused.'

He smiled. 'I guess I should be honoured that you would put yourself through so much pain then.' He looked up as the vendor delivered their coffees.

'Don't flatter yourself. I'm on a stake-out in a shopping mall later. I need to blend in.'

Cayden took a tentative sip. It was strong, like an espresso, with a vanilla after-taste. 'I hope they give up without a fight,' he said, nodding appreciatively as the full flavour worked on his taste buds.

'Good huh?'

Cayden nodded.

'No fighting involved. Just watching a couple of Arabs shopping. Boring as shit but I get to wear a dress and heels. Feel like a woman for a change.'

'Oh, you've never looked anything else, believe me. Even covered in dust and bleeding, holding a gun and screaming at the bad guys, I've never seen a more beautiful woman.'

Sly put her coffee mug slowly onto the table. Her hands fell into her lap and she looked at him from behind her dark sunglasses. 'The famous English charm,' she said, quietly.

Cayden shrugged nonchalantly. 'No. I've missed you. Thought about you often.'

Sly looked away, past the coffee truck, over the low wall and white sand to the distant sea. He could see her clenched jaw, the gentle pulse of an artery in her neck, the gold loop of an earring pulling at the soft skin of her lobe. His imagination flared with images of her body, naked, writhing beneath him as they made love, as abandoned as the vessel they had been afloat in.

She finally looked back at him. 'Oh Cayden, why do you make things so hard for me?'

He shook his head. 'Okay, I'll make it easy. Forget about whatever's in that file and let's ... let's just be two normal people who like each other and would like to spend some time with each other. I could stay out here for a few weeks, a month even.'

Sly smiled, but her lips trembled. She reached forward and held his hand. 'Then what, Cayden?'

He entwined his fingers with hers. 'We'll see.'

Sly lifted his hand and pressed his knuckles against her lips. 'I've thought about you a lot too. I've missed you.' She laid his hand gently back on the table and then shivered. 'But this ...' she tapped the top of the folder. '... this is something that has to happen before we have a chance.'

Cayden picked up his coffee.

'I'm the past for you, Cayden. If we're to have a future, then we have to close that past.'

He stared at her over the top of his mug.

'I can see the hurt, the pain. Every time I picked up a magazine – and, yes, I have become a big boat fan since I met you – there was your face...' She smiled, '... full of pain. Your eyes, – it was so clear in your eyes in every photograph.' Sly took off her glasses and lent forward, her look sincere, her eyes the colour of molten honey. 'I feel so responsible for what happened to you. I want to help ... help you find closure.'

'Then what, Sly?'

Her shoulders sagged slightly. 'We'll see.' The corners of her lips quivered; he could see the tears forming.

Cayden drained the last of the coffee and indicated to the vendor that he would like another. 'Go on then, show me what's in that file,' he said, wearily.

Sly drummed her fingers on the cover for a heartbeat and then opened it. She put the sunglasses back on, scooted her chair further round so that she could be next to him, then bought out a sheaf of papers – with the photograph he had seen the day before on top.

Cayden turned it to face it. He studied the blurred image of Maalik. 'How the hell do you know that's him?' Cayden's voice was suddenly harsh.

Sly looked sideways at him. 'The CIA got better pictures. The computer was able to give a positive ID based on facial mapping. This was the only copy they would let me have.'

Cayden dropped it on the pile of papers and accepted the mug from José.

Sly shuffled through the papers. 'As I said, the CIA know he's involved in cocaine and gun running, and pretty darn sure he's back to his old tricks of people smuggling. The Peruvian authorities have informed us they've had an increase in the number of missing person cases, but there's no proof that Maalik's responsible.'

'So why don't the CIA pull him out of Peru and haul him back here ... or just shoot the bastard?' said Cayden. 'Better still, get the Peruvians to do it.'

'It's time-consuming ...' Sly drained her coffee. '... evidence has to be collected, a case put together, proof obtained – all sorts of shit which is hard enough to do in this country. With time, it might be possible to get the Peruvians to move on this, but by then, who knows? Maalik could've disappeared to anywhere – again.'

'Come on, Sly, you were quick enough to have a go in Trinidad.'

'The US has a better relationship there ... anyway, remember that cop, Lancelot ah ...'

'Winston, Lancelot 'Bumbles' Winston.'

'Yeah, wow what a guy huh? Anyway, he took all the credit, which we were happy for him to do. I don't think we'd be so lucky in Peru.'

'Okay, so you can't shoot him. You want me to?'

'No.' Sly quickly rested her hand on his arm. 'Please Cayden, the last thing I want is for you to get into trouble. The plan's simple. We know which hotel he hangs out in. We know Maalik is an arrogant, proud, ruthless son-of-a-bitch, and we think he would want revenge. He lost a lot of money last time and we also hear he's in trouble with some of his customers – he's not been totally honest with the quantities he's been shipping. So we calculate he might be desperate for some easy cash, and, if he can couple that with a bit of pay-back ...'

Cayden frowned.

'Our plan is for him to ... safely see you in Lima, across the lobby of the hotel. We then pull you out with him in tow, back to the airport, onto the plane and back here, where we grab him and throw him away in a stinking gaol for the rest of his life.'

'That's you plan? Why wouldn't he just shoot me in the lobby?' said Cayden.

'Because we'll give him a big incentive not to ...'

'Gee thanks!' Cayden raised an eyebrow.

'You'll be safe, I promise you.' Sly chewed her lip. 'Our guys will be right there and we'll make sure some Peruvian cops are not far away, too.'

'And only I will get this reaction out of him?'

'You're the only one we definitely know about with, um, the bonus that you're a relatively soft target for him.' Sly grimaced. 'You know what I mean – you're not a cop or, um, anything like that.'

Cayden stood up. 'You're damn right. I'm not. The more I hear about this, the more ... Christ, it just gets better and better. Let's walk.' He indicated the broad pavement running beside the beach. Sly scooped up her papers and stuffed them back in the folder.

'So I'm bait?' Cayden added as they started walking, grains of sand crunching beneath their shoes

'Just to reel the bastard back to the States, Cayden, so we can nail him.'

A seagull cried overhead. A biker swept by. A few umbrellas were up along the beach, isolated blobs of colour on the miles of white sand. Walkers appeared as dots on the shoreline in the far distance. Scaly palm trunks marked the border between sand and pavement.

'What happens if he sees me and doesn't try to shoot me ... or do anything?'

Sun glinted off cliffs of glass, fronting hotels and apartment blocks that followed the road in from behind the nature reserve in which the car park was located. 'This is the clever part,' said Sly – too eagerly for Cayden's liking. 'We're sure he's going to follow you. He'll find out which room you're in because we'll make it easy for him – and we'll make it just as easy for him to get in, find out which flight you're on – therefore, the city your going back to – and something else ...' Sly hesitated, waiting for a bus to pass. 'We're going to give him bank account details that he can access if he gets back here. Pin numbers – the whole lot – will be in your briefcase. You and money – pay-back.'

They passed a couple of grey-haired men on a park bench, Hawaiian shirts and baggy shorts extruding white, veined legs. 'How are you today?' the one with a newspaper called out.

'Fine, thank you,' Sly replied. She waved , before subconsciously linking her arm with Cayden's.

He was surprised how the intimate gesture affected him. It was the first time in over two years he had walked with a woman. He liked her body suddenly pressing against his, the warmth of Sly and the sun on his face. 'I don't know, Sly, it sounds flimsy. There are lots of "what ifs." I mean, what if the bastard's schedule means he can't just hop on a plane back here? What if he doesn't need the money and really would be just happy killing me?'

Sly was silent as they walked. 'We're not completely blind down there. We know he tried ripping off a drug cartel and they're now after him for what he owes. It's only a few hundred thou' but enough to get him knifed in an alley somewhere.'

'And there'll be a few convenient hundred thousand showing in my bank account, I guess,' Cayden said, looking down at her.

She nodded, retrieving her arm to brush a strand of hair back behind her ear. Cayden wanted her to link arms again but she crossed them in front of her, holding the folder against her chest. 'He comes into Lima the beginning of every month, same hotel. He'll be there again in about ten days.'

'With the cartel looking for him?'

'He's an arrogant son-of-a-bitch.'

'He's not stupid,' Cayden said, bitterly. 'And surely he knows he's a wanted man in the States. The last thing he'll do is walk through Miami airport.'

'He'll use another identity.'

'You're sure ...'

'No ... no, goddamit I'm not sure, but ...'

'So, I have time to pack then?' Cayden said, stopping to stare out to sea. A fishing boat was trawling inshore; a man was working the nets towards the stern. A simple, honest life.

'He's Rachel's killer, Cayden.'

'I know who the hell he is,' Cayden retorted irritably. 'But he committed the crime in Trinidad. Why would a US court find him guilty of anything more than smashing a few boats up.'

'We have bodies in our territorial waters, the ones he had thrown overboard when he was using your boats to ship them here illegally, remember?' Sly faced him, holding up her fingers, counting them off. 'We have the prostitute he murdered and then fed to the alligator in the pool, remember? We have the gang killings, the drugs ... fuck it, we have a file thick enough to send him away for life – maybe even the death penalty.'

Cayden nodded. 'But ... he's not paying for what he did to Rachel.'

Sly reached out and forced him to face her. She took off her glasses and stared at him. 'He'll pay, Cayden, I promise you. We're a very powerful organisation and we can pull a lot of strings. Wherever he ends up ... well, it won't be pleasant, I promise ... and I'll make sure he knows why.'

Cayden pushed a hand through his hair. It needed a cut. It was hot from the sun. He could feel the sweat around his collar. 'I just fly out, bait him and fly back?'

Sly nodded, her brow furrowed.

'That gives us ten days to ...' His phone chimed. He pulled it from his pocket and flipped the top.

'Hello? Oh hi ... Charlotte. Yeah, how are you?' He had taken a step away from Sly. 'Tonight at eight.' Sly was looking at her feet, tapping the folder against her thigh. 'Where? ... I think I know ... great, see you there ... yes, me too ... bye.' He snapped the phone shut and slipped it back into his pocket.

'Looks like you know what you'll be doing for the next ten days,' said Sly, smiling tightly, before striding back towards the car.

Cayden caught up with her. 'Hey, slow down. It's business, okay?'

She stopped abruptly, put her hands on her hips, opened her mouth to say something, but then shook her head. 'You're right. What the hell am I doing?' She looked at her watch. 'Hey, some of us have work to do. I'll drop you back at the hotel and then be in touch once we know for sure when Maalik will be in Lima. Okay?'

Cayden frowned. 'Could we go out, without business being involved?'

Sly started walking. 'Sure. If you can squeeze me into your social diary, let me know.'

They drove silently south from Surfside, turning right off Harding Avenue onto Normandy Drive and then into North Bay Village. The radio played rock from the 80's interspersed with an irritating DJ who used the word "cool" in a deep southern drawl far too often. They headed across the 79th Street Causeway, the tyres humming on the metal bridge that lifted to let boats through. 'So, where's she taking you?' Sly asked, adjusting the air conditioning.

Cayden looked back from gazing out over the Intercoastal. 'The Blue Door, Miami Beach.'

'Very romantic,' said Sly as she accelerated past a bus that had pulled into a stop.

'Sly, you have no reason to be jealous. Honestly, it's just business.'

She drove fast, south on Biscayne Boulevard. 'I ain't jealous, Cayden. Why would I be? Jesus, it's been two years!'

He smiled and she poked out her tongue, pink and pointed. He wanted to lean over and feel it slide into his mouth – experience again those sensations he remembered so well.

The tyres screeched on the polished drop-off zone outside the Gulfstream Plaza. Cayden leant over and kissed her on the cheek. She continued to look ahead. He got out.

'I'll call you as soon as we know for sure,' she told him as he started to close the door.

Cayden nodded.

Sly watched him pass through the revolving doors and disappear into the hotel before retrieving her phone from her handbag. She pressed an automatic dial number. It was answered immediately.

'Agent Williams sir.' She put the car into gear and slowly drove out into the sunshine. 'Yeah, I think he's taken the story.' She stopped to let a taxi pull across her. 'I need to just confirm with you a few points once we get him out there.' She pulled away while her boss at Homeland Security headquarters flipped through the pages in his diary. 'Tomorrow at two will be fine,' she said. The line went dead. Sly threw the phone on the seat alongside. Her eyes stung; the cars shimmered as her vision blurred. She punched the steering wheel as a tear ran down her cheek. She hated life at that moment.

*****

The taxi inched forward. Cayden glanced at his watch. He was going to be late. He leant forward and was about to ask the driver if there was another way when the traffic moved as if a drain had suddenly unblocked. They discharged from the end of the causeway in a rush of metal, flowing out into the streets of Miami Beach. Cayden glanced back to find a reason for the hold-up, but the road was clear. They moved into the art deco-styled centre – square, white-painted architecture accentuated by blue, red and green neon beneath a black night sky that flickered with a distant thunderstorm. Women in gossamer-thin evening dresses, blown tightly by the breeze against toned and tanned limbs, linked arms with groomed men in designer jackets. Cayden was glad he had bought a $500 jacket at the hotel boutique. The taxi turned onto Collins Avenue. The traffic was light but slow – polished metal, cruising, the drivers hoping the money thrown at their wheels would do the talking to the groups of girls trying to walk nonchalantly between the restaurants and hotels.

The cab arrived at the Delano Hotel, the driver threading his aged Ford between Ferraris and a Porsche Spyder. Dark eyes glanced at him from the rear view mirror. 'Twenty-two dollars, sir.'

Cayden gave him $25 and nodded to the imperious-looking attendant as he stepped out. 'I'm meeting someone at the Blue Door restaurant.'

The attendant, eager to get the taxi away from his smart front porch, reached around Cayden to close the door. It slammed shut and he sprang back in front of Cayden like a child's toy. Cayden raised an eyebrow but the attendant glanced behind him, as the taxi had still not driven away. Cayden moved his head to make eye contact. 'He's very conscientious. He wants to make sure I get to my final destination safely ... before he goes.'

'Through the lobby, sir,' the attendant said between clenched teeth.

The taxi slowly moved away as Cayden climbed the steps beneath the 1947 pleated stucco facade and saw toothed elevations of the Delano, renovated – he had read back in his hotel room – to its current glory in 2005 by French designer; Philippe Starck. The bellman gave him the same imperious nod as Cayden followed a group of excited Texans into the disconcertingly dark interior of deep brown ashwood-panelling and floors of Brazilian cherry wood. The Texans led him down an avenue of tall, fat pillars and back-lit floor-to-ceiling pleated white curtains, behind which, like moving stage scenery, other surreal kitsch scenes were revealed, furnished with mismatched collections of chairs from Eames, Gaudi and Man Ray – and a seat by Salvador Dali, with high-heeled shoes as feet.

The maitre d'hôtel blocked the restaurant entrance. The Texans fell back from him like a wave hitting a storm wall. When they had settled into a quiet huddle, the maitre d' bent stiffly at the waist to listen to the fat Texan leader give his name. Satisfied they had a reservation, a waiter was summoned. After the Texans had been led away, Cayden stepped forward. Beyond was a room that must once have been a grand hall but was now overcrowded with startling white tables and chairs, surrounded by walls of white and beige material.

'Reservation, sir?'

Cayden looked down and nodded. He noticed the tick under the man's right eye. 'I'm meeting Miss Weller.'

'Of course, Miss Weller is waiting for you in the Rose Bar, Mr. ...' the maitre d' replied with a condescending crease at the waist and a slight turn of a head capped by oiled, thinning hair.

'Where is the Rose Bar,' Cayden asked evenly.

The maître d' glanced at him from the corner of his eye; it blinked rapidly. 'Of course,' he said eventually. The same waiter appeared and led Cayden past more white columns and eddying curtains, a white-surfaced billiard table and dark-panelled alcoves with chic men and woman trying to look comfortable on chairs whose backs were painted with turbaned Indians. The Rose Bar was a rectangular opening cut out of more harlequin-patterned ash wood panels with, at its far end, a vivid slash of red – riveting – like blood on a bed sheet.

Cayden was led towards it. Charlotte Weller turned, uncrossed her legs and slipped from the bar stool. Her dress flowed down her thighs and settled, clinging to the contours of her body; her dark hair shone and fell below her shoulders; her eyes were lightly made-up, accentuating their Bardot-esque appearance; and her red lipstick matched her dress – spread in a wide, inviting smile. Cayden returned the gesture, feeling the envy of the single men at the bar.

'I'm sorry I'm late.' His mouth felt dry as he kissed her on both cheeks. He recognised her perfume.

'Are you okay?' she asked as he pulled away from her.

Cayden nodded, pushing the stark images of Rachel savagely from his mind. Chanel had been her favourite – but then, it was with millions of women across the world; he couldn't avoid it forever. 'It's been a long day, and the walk through this place has finished me off. I never thought I would get here! I need a drink.'

'What will you have?' said Charlotte, smiling again.

'I'll join you with a Martini.'

Once he had his drink, Charlotte rested a hand on his arm and led him away from the bar. 'Come, let me show you something.' Her heels clicked over the wooden floor, each stride sending delicious slivers of material over her buttocks. 'Isn't that incredible?' she enthused when they reached the doors leading to a patio. Beyond was an infinity pool, 100 feet long, floodlit, flanked by palm trees, white sun-loungers and candles, and bordered by wooden-balconied rooms arched with greenery. Meditating music floated up to them. In the distance he could see an orchard of trees and, finally, the beach. Out at sea, lightning flickered. Philippe Starck had moved into Alice in Wonderland. 'It's, um, certainly out of this world,' Cayden murmured.

Charlotte looked up at him. 'You don't like it?'

'It's very surreal, very Dali-esque,' he grinned.

She pouted. 'You're teasing me. You're not an Art Deco man?'

'I like modern interpretations, clear-cut lines, limited use of colour, but the actual architecture from the time? I'm not sure, it's too soulless for me, I need something with passion, something either really old, like a seventeenth century cottage or something ultra-modern, vulgar almost, in aluminium and glass.'

Charlotte nodded thoughtfully. 'Ultra-modern I can understand by looking at a Tomahawk, but the cottages?'

Cayden finished his Martini. 'I guess I'm just an old-fashioned guy at heart.'

'Ahuh, well the Brits do have some of the oldest buildings I've ever seen, and the people can be pretty stuffy and old-fashioned, but you don't strike me as typical.' She linked his arm through hers. 'Hungry?' she asked as she looked up at him.

Her dress had a plunging 'V' between the swell of her breasts. 'Definitely,' he replied.

She flowed next to him like warm chocolate. He felt guilty; unfaithful. The maitre d' personally showed them to their table – sandwiched between two tables for six, one overcrowded with the fat Texans. Their leader's chair was touching the arm of the one Cayden was meant to take. Through a Bedouin tent opening of wafting white silk, he could see further seating on a covered patio, with steps leading down to the pool. He held the maitre d' by his arm and pointed through to the patio. 'I think that would be more suitable.'

'But Madam has booked for inside the restaurant,' the maitre d' said, his eyebrows rising indignantly.

Cayden turned away from Charlotte. He glared down at the oiled hair. 'I'm going to say this once, and only because you are an egotistical bore, my friend. This restaurant is owned partly by this man, is it not?' Cayden said, reaching inside his jacket pocket for the photograph Randy had given him. It showed Cayden and a suited businessman shaking hands as he stepped aboard his new Tomahawk. Earlier, Randy had hurried to Cayden's side as he was about to leave, saying, that Charlotte had let slip she was taking him to the Blue Door. Knowing how difficult the staff could be there, Randy had handed Cayden the photograph – to be used 'in an emergency' he had told him, winking knowingly. 'He wanted me to have the best possible experience,' Cayden added quietly to the maitre d'.

The man seemed about to collapse. His eye ticked uncontrollably. 'Of course, Mr. ... no matter ... please ...' His arm flew out, pointing towards the patio, nearly swiping a tray clear of its drinks. The waiter wheeled expertly and combined the movement with negotiating a chair that had suddenly been scooted back by a patron.

The maitre d' led them with procession-like honour to a quiet table for two near the edge of the patio, well away from other diners, with a view across the thousands of flickering candles and still waters of the underwater-lit pool. Waiters appeared from every angle, pulling back the high-backed red armchairs.

'Wow Cayden, what did you say?' Charlotte's cry of surprise was mixed with obvious admiration as her chair was brought forward to the table with greater speed then she anticipated.

'I was getting a headache from all the whiteness,' he grinned, waving a waiter away and pulling his chair forward. 'I said I was going to pass out and I didn't think he would like medical staff trampling through his restaurant.'

'Yeah, right, that would do it,' said Charlotte.

A bottle of Dom Perignon appeared at his elbow. The wine waiter held it with white gloves as if it was a new-born infant. Cayden could see the maitre d' hovering behind him. The man came forward. 'Compliments of the management, sir.'

Charlotte's eyes widened. 'Jesus, Cayden! You're full of surprises, aren't you?' she said, breathlessly.

They clinked glasses, 'Cheers!' said Cayden. She looked at him over the rim, her eyes glittering like the crystal. 'Wow, that was amazingly cool, Cayden,' she said, her foot resting against his leg, sending little shock waves of anticipation coursing through him as it collided with the warmth of the champagne. His eyes must have reflected her own excitement as she quickly looked down at her menu. 'Wow!' she said again, giggling. 'Before you completely turn me to jelly Mr. Callejon,' she growled, 'I must gain some control. So I insist I choose our meal.'

Cayden finished his glass and retrieved the bottle from the ice bucket. Forgotten emotions flooded his body, broken free by the alcohol. He felt carefree, but complete happiness still eluded him. The spectre of guilt lurked on his shoulders, holding a line to his black cloud of despondency, like a boy trying to control a kite in a storm. It always threatened to tear away from his grip, ruining his fun.

'We'll have the crab and avocado salad, the salmon and zucchini gratin and then, to finish ...' She looked at him and winked. '...the molten chocolate cake with pistachio ice cream.' She snapped the menu shut and handed it back to the waiter.

'So ...' her foot stroked his leg. '...have you always been this cool, sophisticated Englishman?'

Cayden laughed. 'I think you're the only woman in the world to have said that.'

Her eyes narrowed. 'Why do you laugh? D'you think I'm not a good judge of character?'

Cayden could see she was serious. The sparkle lost its gleam around the edges. He nodded, pulling his legs under his chair, breaking contact. 'Tell me how someone who is such a good judge of character ended up with someone like me in a joint like this?' He had tried to impersonate Humphrey Bogart. He'd failed.

She smiled – politely. 'I'm successful at what I do, Cayden, because I understand people. I understand what they want, I can push all the right buttons, make them hand over that hard-earned m-o-n-e-y.' Cayden filled their glasses. 'I guess it's because I come from a poor background,' she added, 'No silver spoon for me. My parents used to run the ferry in Les Sables D'olonne – you know it?'

Cayden nodded. 'Nice little French port on the Atlantic, near Nantes.'

Charlotte flicked her hand dismissively. Cayden finished his glass. The bottle was empty. 'All their lives they drove that stupid little ferry backwards and forwards ...'she used a fork to run lines back and forth in the table cloth, '... Papa driving, Mama collecting the cash.'

'I can think of worse things,' said Cayden as he signalled for a hovering waiter. 'Would you like white or red?' he asked.

Charlotte's head jerked up. 'Fish ... it has to be white.' He could hear the beginning of a slur.

'Oh, I don't think anyone cares any more. If you'd prefer red, I'm sure they'll still serve us.'

'No, no, no, I want white, white, white.'

Cayden quickly scanned the wine list. He spotted a middle-priced Californian Chardonnay. He appreciated a good bottle but was no connoisseur. He selected and handed the menu to the white-gloved waiter. 'A very good choice, sir,' the waiter murmured.

'So, you were telling me about Les Sables D'olonne.'

Charlotte sighed. 'Was I? Oh yeah...it's a boring story. Suffice to say I swore I would never be such a loser as my parents. Roche, you know, have their factory in Les Sables,' she said in exaggerated French, 'so as soon as I left school, I went for a job there.' She shrugged. 'They put me in sales ...' she added, spreading her arms, '... and within a year, I was their best sales person, not just for that year – forever. They made me Manager and then Director of Sales, US and Caribbean.' She sighed. 'La vie est belle profiter de chaque!' She raised her empty champagne glass, both elbows on the table forcing her cleavage to deepen.

'I detect sarcasm,' Cayden said, looking up. 'You're not enjoying your beautiful life?'

'Oh, it has its moments.' She grinned lasciviously, swinging her foot – it connected with his shin, making him wince. Charlotte settled her glass back on the table carefully. 'Fuck, I'm getting drunk, I'm sorry. I don't get out much, as you can probably tell.'

Cayden was pleased to see their starter. The maitre d' materialised to ask if everything was to their satisfaction. Cayden nodded, pouring the wine. 'So, tell me how you met your husband.'

'Ex,' said Charlotte amid a mouthful of salad.

'Sorry, ex.'

'He was the Managing Director of Roche.'

Cayden nodded.

'And no, I didn't fuck him to get where I am today.'

Cayden finished his glass of wine, hoping it would bolster his sagging enthusiasm. 'Your daughter's twelve, that must be a real handful on your own, what with trying to work full-time.'

'Well dodged Cayden,' Charlotte giggled. 'Yeah, she's beautiful, wilful – but beautiful. Takes after her mother!'

Cayden nodded again, concentrating on getting a slice of avocado on his fork.

'Anyway, I guess I'm very lucky,' Charlotte continued, 'and we women are good at multi-tasking! So work's not a problem.' She rested her chin in her hands. 'Let's not talk about it.' She reached across the table and covered his hand as he held a crab-filled fork. 'It makes me feel old, and that's boring. Okay?'

Cayden frowned. He wanted to get drunk – why couldn't he? 'How's your daughter going to like moving to the Bahamas?' he asked.

'Jeez, Cayden!' Charlotte sat back quickly, her knee hitting the table, slopping wine from the glasses. 'You sure ask a load of questions. What? Am I being interviewed for something?'

'I thought we were combining this with business?'

'We are.' Charlotte patted her handbag which hung off the back of her chair. 'But I want to get to know you first. The great Cayden Callejon!'

He finished his mouthful, laid his knife and fork together and lent his arms on the table. He looked earnestly into her challenging eyes. 'I'm sorry, Charlotte. It's been a while since I've done this sort of thing. I guess I'm a bit rusty on the small talk.'

Charlotte looked down at her thigh, brushing away a crumb. 'I don't want small talk, Cayden.' She smiled, her eyes narrowing as she looked up. 'I want exciting talk. Someone like you must have so many stories to tell. Who have you met recently? Who's the richest guy you've sold a Tomahawk to? I bet you've been to some amazing parties. I bet you've been with some beautiful women – eh? Anyone famous?' She paused before continuing: 'That's the sort of shit we should be talking about.'

'I see ... not politics, the bombings or climate warming then!' said Cayden jokingly, watching the waiter clear their plates. 'To be honest, I'm too busy to have experienced much of that other ... shit.' He smiled, finishing his fourth glass of wine. 'Why don't you show me the way and tell me what you've been up to?'

'Ooh, lookee here, you're gonna' love this,' Charlotte cried, enthusiastically as waiters appeared with their salmon. 'I once dated this millionaire guy from Charlotte,' she giggled, 'or maybe I should say, on Charlotte!' Her eyes widened. 'Get it?'

Cayden nodded.

'Anyway, what was I saying ... oh yeah, this guy ... he had a house and boat and all that shit on the Intercoastal ... bought a Roche forty-five for his sister's kid. Anyway, he had this 150-foot Fedship, which he would take me on.' She giggled again, 'Just for dinner – can you imagine? Just the two of us and a crew of ten catering for all our needs as we drifted about the Gulf. Anyway, this one time the first mate caught a red snapper ... I think it was a snapper, might have been a dolphin ... anyway, they barbequed it on the stern deck and oh-my-God, I have never tasted fish like it ... like it just melted in my mouth – do you know what I mean?'

'Sure,' said Cayden, holding up the empty bottle, indicating he would like another. Their salmon was dry, but at last he was beginning to feel the buzz from the alcohol. He stopped eating and sat back, laughing in the intervals between their conservation, grinning, he hoped with enthusiasm, as Charlotte provided an endless stream of gossip and anecdotes from her pseudo-rich and famous lifestyle.

Their half-eaten plates were cleared. Another bottle of Californian Chardonnay arrived, then the molten chocolate cake and pistachio ice cream – which bought another cry of excitement from Charlotte and yet another story – this time from Cancun – about sharing dessert with a pop star, or him licking it off his body – Cayden had missed the detail in the growing fog of drunkenness. She kept repeating his name but, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't bring an image of her superstar to mind.

Charlotte's hair was tousled from constant flicking, her eyes glittered, her lips glistened with constantly applied lip gloss, her cleavage became more daring as her dress struggled to keep up with her increasingly abandoned movements.

Cayden's arousal was sudden and consuming.

'I have to pee,' Charlotte announced loudly. The man at the next table hunched his shoulders. Cayden grinned as Charlotte dropped her spoon and shakily stood up, smoothing down her dress from the tops of her toned thighs. 'When I come back, it's your turn. I wanna know all about you. Okay?'

Cayden nodded, smiling as he watched her weave through the tables, her hips swaying and bumping the shoulders of fellow diners, the men's initial indignation quickly forgotten as they caught sight of her body.

A breeze cooled the perspiration along his hair line. He finished the bottle and sat back in his chair, crossing his ankles, gazing out across the ruffled waters of the pool. The sky was dark out beyond the orchard of trees. There was no moonlight, just the glow from the city reflected in the clouds. Cayden saw a flicker off to his left and an answering rumble of thunder. He tried to think of some interesting stories to tell Charlotte when she returned. The only ones he could bring to mind involved Rachel – and he certainly didn't want to talk about her. Not, he suspected, that Charlotte cared. He had heard enough about her previous conquests. Cayden wondered how he would feel, being another celebrity notch on her bedpost. What stories was she going to be telling about him down at the marina bars? He grinned – she did have a fantastic body. He felt good – surface good, it was true, but as long as he didn't question things, he was happy to stay there. Charlotte was a gold-digger – he wasn't that drunk – but she was light and frothy, nothing serious and, provided it didn't go further than tonight, no commitment. The chances of it going further were very remote anyway, particularly considering what he had to do.

Cayden looked up at the ceiling, blowing air up his face, the sweet cooling. She would make a memorable night. 'You've become that shallow,' his despondent conscience niggled. An image of an orgy in a farmhouse suddenly came to mind and his toes curled with embarrassment.

Coffee arrived.

The man stood at the adjacent table and pulled the chair out for his partner. They were middle-aged – he, bald with a wrinkled suit; she, plump with a floral skirt. A husband and wife? Holiday-makers having a once-in-a-lifetime experience at the Blue Door? Cayden smiled as they left, but the woman looked down at him sadly.

He finished his coffee. Another table's diners left. Cayden looked at his watch. 11.05. How long had she been gone?

The maitre d' was suddenly at his elbow. 'Is there anything else we can do for you this evening, sir?'

Cayden's head jerked up to study the pinched, imperious face. 'No ... thanks.' He reached inside his jacket pocket and found his credit card. 'Do you know where ...' he began, waving his Coutts World Card at the vacant seat opposite.

'I believe Miss Weller is in the Rose Bar, sir.

Sweat sprung from him like a burst pipe. Instantly, his shirt was soaked. A drop of perspiration rolled down his temple. Suddenly, it felt everyone left in the restaurant was staring at him – the waiters laughing behind the billowing falls of white curtain. Humiliation swept in molten hot waves through every vein; his fingers shook as he signed the slip. He had to remain unaffected – not for them, but for him. Charlotte didn't matter – but the alcohol smeared every clear thought like a wet cloth over a freshly-painted canvass, the picture blurred. Get a cab, get home, sleep it off – anger burst with an intensity that curled his fists so that his fingers felt they might break. He pushed back his chair, hooking his jacket off the back with a vicious tug that sent it clattering over.

Her handbag was still on the back of the chair. He snatched it up, unzipped it and quickly leafed through the papers. He found a pen in the bottom of the bag and scribbled names and numbers on the back of his receipt before striding from the patio. The maitre d', sensing trouble, followed at a discreet distance.

Cayden took a wrong turn, back-tracked and scowled as the maitre d' blocked his way and, with a sickly grin, pointed in the direction of the bar.

Cayden's footsteps sounded far away, his ears blocked with pounding blood. There she was, sitting comfortably on a bar stool, as if she had been there all evening, laughing at something said by the man on the stool opposite. He was young, much younger than Cayden, broad-shouldered with a short-sleeved yellow shirt, opened at the neck; handsome, dark-haired, well defined jaw line. Eventually, his gaze flickered away from Charlotte. He stopped talking as Cayden strode towards him.

'Can I help you?' he asked in a Florida accent, confident he could take care of any trouble Cayden might be about to offer.

'No,' Cayden said firmly, his voice making Charlotte swivel quickly on her stool.

She looked at her watch, put her fingers over her mouth in shock. 'Cayden, I am soo sorry. This is an old friend of mine ...'

'Shut up! Make sure you tell him how he's got to measure up to all the famous guys you've fucked.' Cayden dropped her handbag in Charlotte's lap.

'Hey pal, I don't like your ...'

Cayden planted the flat of his hand in the middle of the man's chest and pushed him back on the stool. He felt his muscles pump with adrenaline. He pushed, so that the man's gym-toned-back arched over the edge of the bar. 'Don't say a word or I swear I'll put you in hospital.' Cayden could see the fear in the American's eyes. He kept his hand on the man's chest, willing him to make a move. He could hear in the distance Charlotte shouting – felt a hand on his shoulder trying to pull him away.

'Take it easy pal.' The man held up his hands in surrender, knocking over a Martini.

The maitre d' had found reinforcements. They managed to drag Cayden away, but Cayden shook them free. Charlotte slid from her stool and started towards him.

'Goodbye Charlotte,' said Cayden, noticing how she struggled to show concern over her obvious excitement.

'Cayden, I'm sorry. I was only gone a minute,' she said, rolling her eyes with embarrassment, her hand resting on his arm.

'Yeah, well that's sometimes all it takes.' He turned and strode from the bar, his footsteps ringing loudly off the polished floor, his heartbeat receding, his pace quickening, his despondency engulfing him. He ran down the steps from the restaurant, walked unseeing beside the pool, out through the orchard, and ploughed across the sand, his shoes slipping on the fine grains. He didn't stop until the waves were hissing up to the points of the shoes. Then he dropped to his knees. People had always respected him. Now they picked fights, arrested him, dumped him. His flame had died; the burnt wick of misery that was left attracted nothing but darkness.

Cayden felt tears burn his eyes. 'Stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself,' he shouted at the luminous faces of the waves curling out of the blackness. 'Rachel honey, stop punishing me, help me to make it right – help me!'

He flicked open his phone and scrolled through the address book. 'Hi, it's me. How are you? How's Dylan?'

There was a pause. Cayden guessed his brother was leaving a room in order to speak with him. He could hear voices in the background. 'I'm shattered, Cayden, if you most know.' Jac's voice sounded worn. 'Dylan came out of his coma about eight hours ago. The doctors think he'll make a good recovery.'

Cayden squeezed his eyes shut. 'Thank God for that, Jac ... I should have called earlier... I'm so pleased ...'

'Yeah well, they're keeping him in until they're absolutely certain this time.'

'I'm sure he's going to be fine,' said Cayden.

A long silence.

'You sound as though you've been drinking, so I guess your break's going well? Is Randy sorting you out?' said Jac disinterestedly.

'I think you probably know the answer to that better than I do,' Cayden replied, getting to his feet and beginning to walk. 'There's a few things happening that might make the trip worthwhile – one of which I need to talk to Janet about. Is she with you?'

Lightning pulsed far to the east, over the horizon where the Bahamas lay.

Chapter 12

There were no sweat-bees in paradise. There was no pain in paradise. There was no fear. No restraint.

So why was he suffering these things?

But then, he was floating. So he must still be travelling to paradise. He had to endure all the earthly trials right to the gates of the Promised Land.

Jalal relaxed with the knowledge, breathed deeply, pushing the pain to the back of his consciousness, ignoring the infuriating bees that crawled into every crevice looking for moisture, ignoring the itch of the sackcloth tied around his head. For hours his fevered mind controlled the agony in his arm, blanking out the misery, waiting for the gates to hove into view.

He became impatient, trapped in dreams, alternating between reality and farce. One minute he was walking a beautiful hillside path, the sun warm on his face, the sky clear and deep blue, the trees full of bird song, the views across the valley grand – and then he was trudging through deep snow, except it wasn't snow; it was icing sugar on a great tiered cake. The trees were candles and the views of distant mountains became people's faces, smiling and cheering as the cake was bought down an aisle. The icing clung to his feet; he couldn't move, couldn't get to the top; couldn't see who was carrying the cake or where they were heading. He began to struggle. A thumb and index finger reached out and began to squeeze his head, working it free of his neck, as if it was the end of a lollipop stick.

The sunlight was blinding as the sackcloth was tugged from his head. He blinked, squinting, immediately feeling the sweat-bees working into the corners of his eyes. Jalal moaned, shaking his head. His vision cleared and he stared drunkenly through the rope cage, swinging free from a branch hundreds of feet above the forest floor. He had not died; he wasn't on a path to paradise. He was still in the jungle with the mad Inca. The reality bought back the pain. His arm was crushed against the netting, swollen flesh squeezing through the mesh like a fat woman's legs in fishnet stockings. He couldn't move in his cocoon.

The rope creaked as he slowly turned. A platform came into view. Human feet, legs and then the robes of Sapa Inca – and if he forced his gaze upwards, he could see his head, hidden behind the now familiar mask. The girl with the gold sunglasses was lying on her front, stretched out across the void, holding the sackcloth, snarling, her incisors, dribbling saliva.

'Ah, the great Jihad warrior returns,' said Sapa Inca, spreading his arms in welcome.

Jalal tried to speak.

Sapa Inca kicked the girl in her stomach. 'Give the great warrior some water.'

She reached behind, retrieving a plastic bottle of murky liquid. Stretching across the void, impatiently she wedged it between the rope strands near his mouth. Jalal strained his neck to get his lips to the plastic stopper, pulling it open with his teeth, allowing the tepid water to spill down his throat and chin, exciting the swarm of sweat-bees covering his body.

'Where is ... Isam?' he croaked.

'Only you survived His wrath,' Sapa Inca replied calmly, settling on his haunches so their gaze was level.

'Allam too?' Jalal whispered.

The glinting gold mask nodded.

'Why have you not sent me to Allah?'

'I have ... questions.'

'Can your mighty Sun God not answer them?' Jalal spat water at the mask.

Sapa Inca's black eyes studied him through the slits. 'These are mortal questions, beneath consideration for one such as Him.'

Jalal fell silent. The cage swung on the rope; he watched the forest rotate and when the mask came back into view, he said: 'I have to pray for my brother. And I need to see his body. You let me pray and I will answer your questions.'

'He has been sacrificed,' Sapa Inca shrugged, 'his ashes scattered as are His wishes.'

'No!' Jalal cried. 'Allahu Akbar.' Jalal began fervently to recite the funeral prayer in his native Arabic.

'Glory to thee, O Allah, and Thine is the praise, and blessed is Thy name, and exalted is Thy majesty, and there is none to be served besides Thee ...'

'Enough!' Sapa Inca shouted as he rose to his feet. 'How dare you pray in your whore tongue in the presence of Him when you have seen His power, witnessed His strength!'

'Oh Allah, grant Isam protection, and have mercy on him, and keep in good condition, and pardon him, and make his entertainment honourable, and expand his place of entering, and wash him with water and snow and hail, and cleanse him of faults as a white cloth is cleansed of dross.'

'Cut him down,' Sapa Inca hissed. The girl jumped to her feet, a knife flashing in her hand.

'We are Allah's and to Him we shall return,' cried Jalal..

The rope swung, its arc lessening, becoming further out of reach so that each slash of the knife only separated a few strands at a time.

Jalal continued his lamentations for Isam, talking without a pause: 'My beloved brother, who believed, who had forsaken the domain of evil and had striven hard in God's cause with your possessions and life, have the highest rank in the sight of God; and it is you who have triumphed. Our Sustainer will give you glad tidings because of the grace that flows from Him, and because of His goodly acceptance the gardens await you, full of lasting bliss, therein my brother you will abide beyond the count of time. Verily, with God is a mighty reward.' Jalal shouted the last sentence as he felt the cage give, held by the final strands of rope.

'Listen to the scared Muslim warrior babble,' Sapa Inca mocked, turning to the boys gathered around him. 'His prayers are useless, unlike your mighty Sapa Inca's.'

'They will come for you,' cried. 'You have no protection, you will see.'

'Cut him down,' Sapa Inca screamed, lashing out at the girl with his foot. It connected with her wrist and the knife spun away through the trees. The cage hung by two strands. 'Find another,' he cried.

'They come for you as we speak.' Jalal snarled. 'You will be destroyed and your accomplishments will be ours. Already, the infidels in Spain and England think we are responsible for the bombings. They do not know of you – you will disappear from this world, just like your weak forefathers,'

Sapa Inca froze. Slowly, he knelt down next to the cage. 'England? What bombings in England?'

'Take not life, which Allah hath made sacred, except by way of justice and law, thus doth He command us, that we may learn wisdom ...' Jalal replied – reverting to his native tongue.

'Speak English or I will cut out your tongue,' Sapa Inca growled.

'You do not frighten me, you clown,' said Jalal.

The girl returned with another knife, snarling. Leaning forward to cut the last strands, Sapa Inca back-handed her and she flew back into the group of boys, scattering them across the platform like ten-pins. 'What England bombings?'

Jalal grinned manically. 'Why don't you ask your God?' he spat, a yellow gob of phlegm hitting Sapa Inca's knee.

Sapa Inca reached slowly across the void. As the cage swung in, his fingers gripped the rope by Jalal's face. With graceful strength he pulled the weight to him and held it. 'A quick death is too good for you. You will suffer.' He stood with the cage and swung it up and onto the platform.

Jalal rolled onto his back.

Sapa Inca rested his foot against Jalal's swollen, bloody elbow and started to apply pressure. Jalal moaned with the pain. 'The bombings – what do you know?' Sapa Inca demanded again.

'Three boys, suicide bombs at schools near military bases,' Jalal gasped.

'Tell me everything.' Sapa Inca increased the pressure. Bloody pus oozed from beneath his foot.

'Why don't you know?' Jalal wheezed. He could feel himself passing out. 'Were they not your children?'

'If I was aware of this, you would be dead by now,' Sapa Inca growled.

Chapter 13

With the abandonment of an autumn leaf, the Citation Mustang sank towards the runway, a wet line of black tarmac bisecting the usual grid of interlocking taxi-ways familiar at most small international airports. From 22 miles out, the circumference of Nassau was visible, parts shrouded in squalls, the familiar Caribbean turquoise, a dull grey.

A gust tipped the starboard wing of the business jet, Cayden, its pilot, asked the captain alongside whether he should slow down to see what the field conditions were going to be. He had certified on jets just two months earlier and could feel the sweat on his brow as he concentrated on his ILS (Instrument Landing System) approach. A broiling thunderstorm detected his nervousness and raced him to the airport, its black base blurred with slanting grey rain.

'Keep your speed up, Cayden, you're doing just fine,' Captain Harry Goble told him.

'Citation November three-two-seven-seven-zero, slow approach to one-seventy knots, and be advised there is wind-shear activity in the region and tower visibility is half-a-mile with very heavy rain showers.'

Cayden listened to the air traffic advice and wrestled with the stick and peddles, his hands becoming slippery on the controls. He had chartered the plane from Miami on the understanding that he could pilot it, but it wasn't his plane and Captain Goble had authority to take over at any time. For the moment, he seemed content to watch Cayden sweat.

Suddenly, the airspeed indicator shot up to 225 knots and the Citation leapt 300 feet upwards.

'Keep her steady, Cayden ... that's it ... the airspeed is dropping off,' Harry Goble said calmly.

Cayden glanced sideways. Goble's trimmed beard moved methodically with his chewing, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, but the rings of dampness under his arms were testament to the captain's own nervousness. The sight did nothing to relax Cayden. The Citation bucked and dipped as if a cosmic hand was languidly playing with it.

Leaning forward in his harness, Cayden concentrated on maintaining the glide-slope. Rain pelted the windshield, clearing seconds later for dazzling sunshine, toning the thunderheads blacker still – the swelling runway like tear-streaked mascara. Land closed in; the horizon was circled with storms. Cayden felt he was in the centre of a hurricane.

Wind-shear alerts from the tower.

Cayden lowered the gear, registering three greens, and fully lowered the flaps.

Suddenly, the Citation, hit by a blast of solid air, was thrown to the right side of the localizer. Cayden desperately applied eight degree bank to manoeuvre back towards the runway but the track was not correcting.

'I have control,' Harry Goble shouted, and Cayden released his hands as if given an electric shock. At the end of the runway, a towering head of cumulonimbus; rain obliterated the view – as effective as a wall at preventing them going around for another try.

'Shit, the threshold!' Cayden shouted, looking to his left. The Citation was sinking towards the sodden grass, the muddy ruts and bumps sure to tear the undercarriage away. He could hear the scream of the little jet's engines; then the pressure of the wind eased and the Citation suddenly vaulted across to the centre line. Captain Goble dumped the power and slammed the plane onto the glistening surface. It bounced and, for a terrifying moment, Cayden thought they would come back down on the grass, but the wheels hit again on tarmac and this time stuck. Cayden felt his harness cut into his shoulders from the pressure of braking. The storm advanced, filling their vision like a black car-wash roller. It engulfed them as they turned onto the taxi-way. Cayden glanced anxiously through the side windows, seeing the landing lights of a Virgin Atlantic 747 coming in close behind. He fell back in his seat.

'So, what did you think?' said Goble, staring through the rain-blasted windshield as he looked for the exit to the general aviation terminal.

'I would have taken a more conservative approach to the weather,' Cayden replied tightly. 'We had enough fuel to go round again.'

'Yeah, but next time you might not have that luxury, and now you've got some good experience on landing when there's some wind around.'

'I could also be dead!' Cayden said, glaring at the smug-looking face behind the aviator shades.

Goble grinned. The storm cleared and he braked sharply to make the turn. A Follow Me van picked them up and led them to their parking spot at the end of a line of business jets.

Cayden unbuckled his harness. His shirt stuck to him. He fetched his suitcase and overnight bag.

Captain Goble had opened the door for him. Stairs automatically unfolded to the puddles below and a woman in uniform – a skirt which blew up to reveal chubby legs – tried to hold on to her hat and the car door. She waved as Cayden stepped into the sauna-like atmosphere. Her hat tore away and disappeared into the murk.

'My instructions are to file a flight plan for a departure about this time tomorrow. Yeah?' Goble shouted.

'I'll call you if I have to stay longer,' Cayden replied, starting down the stairs.

'Sorry about your hat,' he said as he sank into the leather of the limousine, watching the driver hurriedly smooth down her short, straight hair and check her make-up.

'Oh don' yo' worry 'bout that, Mr. Callejon, you just sit back and relax. Welcome to the Bahamas.' Her round, black cheeks glistened from the rain.

'Thank you,' said Cayden wearily, rubbing his eyes. He needed a drink. When they had left Miami the weather report had been good – some local storms but nothing severe. It was the wrong time of year for hurricanes, but he felt as though he had just been through one. He hoped it was going to be worth it.

'It's all this global warmin', we never get the winters we used to.' The driver was looking at him in the rear view mirror as she angled the Cadillac towards the gates.

'They say the same back home,' Cayden replied, glancing out of the window.

'Yo' had a tough day, Mr. Callejon?'

Cayden glanced at the concerned-looking eyes framed in the mirror. He smiled. 'What's your name?'

'Gloria.' Her eyes crinkled as she returned his smile.

'Well Gloria, before you take me to the Hilton, will you do me a favour? Drive along to this address on Bay Street.' He passed her a post-it note from his wallet, 'I think it's just before the Nassau Yacht Haven.'

'Ahuh, I can do that. If yo' look in that cabinet in front, yo' may find something to de-stress you,' she laughed. 'Let the driver take the strain, sugar.'

Cayden opened the cabinet – a mini-bar. He selected a Hennessey and found a cut-glass tumbler in a drawer alongside. 'Cheers Gloria!' He raised his glass as he sat back in the leather. 'I'd offer you one, but I guess drinking and driving rules are the same here as in the UK.'

'Ahuh, yus sir, yo' get caught and they throw yo' sorry ass in gaol.'

Cayden raised his glass and drank half the contents, the fiery liquid squirming down through his body, pooling in his stomach. He shivered, then felt his muscles relax.

Gloria weaved the black Cadillac down into the centre of Nassau, the buildings of the narrow colonial streets painted pastel shades of blue, pink and yellow. People sheltered under the ornate balconies projecting over the pavements; Dodge pick-ups, converted to charabancs, manoeuvred with Nissans and Hondas along the crowded roads, their suspensions dipping into water-filled potholes; vendors hunched beneath umbrellas, trying to protect their carts; and cyclists passed with billowing clear plastic macs. A horse and red-painted buggy clip-clopped by, the animal looking dejected while the driver hunted the pavements for tourists foolish enough to want to sit in the rain. Beyond the tin roofs, Cayden could see the towering superstructure of a cruise ship; its size seemed to suck all the available light from the area, so that it gleamed as if in sunshine, making everything around it that much greyer and forlorn. Through the sterilised coolness of the air conditioning system came the wafts of town: exhaust, food, garbage, drains.

Cayden could feel the beginning of a headache, his mouth dry from the cognac. He found a bottle of water in the mini-bar, unscrewed the cap, drank the contents and rested his head, closing his eyes as he listened to the muffled sounds of passing life.

He felt Gloria decelerate, the Cadillac listing on its suspension as she made a tight left turn. He opened his eyes. Ahead was an access road, clogged with pallets, packing cases, wheelie-bins, odd bits of machinery and, blocking any further progress, a battered-looking forklift. The access route ran between two four-storey corrugated metal sheds.

'The end of the road?' Cayden asked, sitting forward to peer through the windscreen

'Looks that way, Mr. Callejon.'

'Okay, thanks for the ride. I know the way to the Hilton from here. I'll walk.'

'Uh-uh – no. Can't let you drag that suitcase round town. You leave it here with me, sugar, then I'll take it with you to yo' hotel when yo' ready.'

Cayden smiled and grabbed his briefcase. 'Okay, you've got a deal.' He stepped out into the thick, buffeting air. A plastic sheet flogged against a wheelie-bin. The sheets of corrugated wall rattled and hummed with the gusts. He squeezed between a swaying stack of pallets and the forklift. Familiar smells of resin, fibreglass, engine oil and the sea; blasted up his nose. The access-way led out to a wide, weed-bisected concrete area, much like a hovercraft ramp. A set of rusty rails ran to the water's edge and disappeared into the waves that surged backwards and forwards with a motley collection of plastic bottles and bags, polystyrene blocks, packing material, drink cans and a dead seagull.

Cayden shaded his eyes against the stinging grit and looked up at the bridge that connected to Paradise Island. He followed its span and picked out the pink towers of the Atlantis resort. His gaze dropped to a concrete jetty. A rusty tug was moored beside two steel barges, while a decrepit torpedo boat, its appearance indicating Second World War origins, slammed against the pilings on the windward side. Cayden put his back to the wind and studied the hangar-shaped shed. The closed doors had a faded Bahamas flag painted across the full span – with yachts on cradles in front of the doors in various states of repair, some with their masts still up, halyards clacking. A motor boat stood on wooden supports, its engine spread out around it.

Cayden shook his head wearily as he walked up towards a staff access hatch cut into the main sliding doors. The wind helped him open it but the rusty hinges screamed in protest. The cavernous interior was lit only by a row of skylights, the smell of resin and glue, strong. He breathed deeply. The wind whined through the cracks. His footsteps echoed on the concrete. Slowly, he walked along the Purcat production line, shaking his head at the mess around. Each hull was 45 feet long, 23 feet wide. He noted with small satisfaction that the hulls were of hand-laid glass-reinforced plastic, providing a stiffer, stronger structure. He passed four other hulls in various stages of manufacture as he returned slowly to the front of the building. Still more had bulkheads inserted, indicating the layout of cabins, heads and engine room. He climbed a ladder to look more closely at the bulkheads, then ran his fingers along a hand-finished, individually carved timber insert that filled a slight discrepancy. Again, he nodded with satisfaction at the obvious care and effort given to each stage of production, noting as he walked further down the line that the superstructures were bolted every eight inches, the bolt heads sunk, filled and polished out. A final hull had two MAN 1300 hp engines fitted into each hull. Unconnected pipes, conduit and cable lay in twisted bundles, running through holes in bulkheads and down ductwork to the generator, the bow thrusters, the galley area, the desalination unit, the missing bridge console, each of the four cabins and the heads.

Cayden stepped down from the platform, wondering not for the first time where the employees were. He gazed back into the gloom. He didn't like the design – too wide. The superstructure, constructed in an attempt to emulate the fluid, flowing fashion, sat uncomfortably on top of the twin hulls, and the gap between the two made him think of a beautiful woman with her front teeth missing! But they had a very shallow draft, were fast and offered double the cabin space of a 45-foot monohull. There was a market for them and he felt a surge of enthusiasm. Perhaps this is what he had been missing. Tomahawk was an established company, most of his work now routine. Purcat represented many more challenges, and the first, he would take great satisfaction from – ownership.

He wrenched open the door, squinting at the other shed, guessing this was where the Purcats were finished with the luxuries the half-a-million dollar price tag demanded – electronics, cherry wood panelling, carpeting ...

Cayden turned to his right, eager for the comfort of the Cadillac, when he thought he saw movement on the torpedo boat. He shaded his eyes. Another squall hurried towards him from Paradise Island. The wind increased, flattening his trousers against his legs. The war veteran thudded against the pilings. Someone should have bought her round to safety, he thought as he walked slowly to the jetty – she would not see out the day. The wooden steps were slippery with spray. Cayden glanced at the squall. He could taste salt on his lips.

Wooden pilings ran at intervals beside the concrete dock, some broken with rot. The torpedo boat was 50 feet away. Her deck railing had buckled from the impact; stanchions were leaning inwards over a pile of rags.

Cayden narrowed his eyes. Those weren't rags! He climbed the steps to the dock and started to run.

'Hey ... hey! Are you all right?' he yelled. The wind moaned through the antennae on top of the paint-peeled bridge. The figure in overalls did not stir. Cayden winced as the hull hit the pilings like a giant wielding a mallet. The squall arrived with stinging rain. Cayden judged the tossing motion and leapt on board. He threw his briefcase into the wheelhouse and ran forward, kneeling next to the body, putting his hands out for support.

The elderly man lay face down. Cayden shook his shoulder, easing his head to the side. There was blood on the man's forehead. Cayden felt his neck for a pulse. Just in front of the man's head he spotted a windless. There was a smear of blood on the pitted chrome, rapidly dissolving in the rain. Grey hair plastered the man's skull; the sodden overalls had collapsed around his limbs. Cayden tried to pick him up; he weighed about the same as Rachel. Staggering with him to the wheelhouse, Cayden cracked his own head against the steel, the man's feet swinging against the frame with enough force to break them. Cayden cursed, seeing stars; he half-dropped, half-laid the man on the deck, using his briefcase as a pillow. The man began to moan. Cayden sat heavily next to him, rubbing his head.

Beneath the metal wheel Cayden found a bottle of Fanta. He unscrewed the lid and helped the man sit up, holding the bottle to his lips. Most of the drink dribbled down the man's stubbled chin; the rest he gulped, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing with effort. 'Who the hell are you?' he moaned, wiping his mouth and then tentatively touching the wound in one of the permanently deep furrows on his forehead. The boat crunched against the side. The noise seemed to galvanise him. He started to get up, but fell back with a moan. 'Dizzy ...' he whispered.

'Stay still, you've got concussion,' urged Cayden as a gust splintered still more wood on the boat's hull.

'Got to move her,' the man mumbled. 'What's your name?'

'Cayden,' he replied, helping himself to a gulp of Fanta.

'What the hell are you doing on my boat?' The man looked accusingly at him. His voice had strengthened. It sounded English, educated – at odds to his appearance.

'Not stealing it!' Cayden said, staggering up. The MTB made another viscous lurch. 'We better get off. This thing's going to break apart.'

'No!' the man cried. He held up his hand. 'Help me up. I've spent too much time and effort getting her. I'm not losing her to a stupid storm.'

Cayden heaved him to his feet; the man clung to the wheel for support, looking about him like a drunk. 'You got to help me get her to the other side of the jetty.' His blue eyes focused intently on Cayden.

Impressed at how quickly the boat's owner appeared to be recovering, Cayden looked directly at him. 'The only place this thing's going is to the bottom of the harbour,' he shouted, bending down to pick up his briefcase.

The elderly man clutched at Cayden's sodden shirt sleeve, a surprising strength in his fingers. 'Please, Cayden ... please, old chap ... I got her across the Atlantic for Christ's sake, rescued her from a scrapyard in England ... she saved thousands of men at Dunkirk – thousands; she's a legend ... I can't let her sink.' His eyes were clear, intelligent. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead, disappearing into one bushy eyebrow. The squall passed, the rain ceased thundering on the roof above it dripped through several holes. The hull lurched, pushing them together. 'I'm Samuel Babbacombe.'

Cayden pushed him away. 'Are you now?'

'Yes,' the man replied with a frown.

'The name Hart ring a bell?' Cayden snarled.

Comprehension flooded Babbacombe's face. 'You're that Cayden ... Cayden Callejon, owner of Tomahawk.'

Cayden nodded.

'I was told you might be coming.'

Cayden looked at him questioningly.

'The sales agent in Miami ...' Babbacombe glanced anxiously out to the battered side of his boat. '... when old Patterson died, he left his share of the business to me. I also bought out some other local shareholders. I own fifty percent. I bet you didn't know that, did you?'

Cayden clutched the edge of the chart table. 'I did. But the Harts own the rest. You have no right to sell without first consulting them.'

'But old man Hart is dead,' said Babbacombe, wiping away the trickle of blood that had run down his nose.

'Murdered,' Cayden growled.

Babbacombe waved his hand dismissively. 'I make all the money anyway, Purcat's my design.'

'So why are you selling?' Cayden asked.

'I'm seventy years old. I want to relax, restore this beauty – leave the bollocks to the youngsters. I've pursued all the dreams I'm going to have ... except this one. This is the last.'

'So why didn't you contact Janet Hart? You wouldn't be here if they hadn't given Patterson a share in the yard.'

'Didn't know she existed. Old man Hart came out here ... maybe three times in all the years I've been around.' He winced as the hull thudded into the pilings.

'Well, you're going to lose everything,' Cayden said, scrambling for the door. 'I've papers here showing legal ownership, stamped by the Bahamas Government. There's a clause in here that says you have first to consult with the other shareholders to see if they wish to buy your share, before it's put on the open market. You must have known about it when you persuaded the others to sell to you.' He navigated around the buckled planking, and leapt to the jetty.

'Wait, Mr. Callejon,' Babbacombe shouted from the wheelhouse. 'I'll make a deal with you.'

Cayden looked down at him, standing back from the waves that slopped up between the 68-foot grey hull and the jetty. 'You're in no position to make a deal.'

'I have friends in very high places with the government here. You won't find it that easy, I promise you.'

Cayden grinned. 'Oh, I think with the resources I have, the investment, the employment I'll bring – well, you don't stand a chance.'

'Wait!' Babbacombe shouted again. 'I shouldn't have rushed into it. But it's my design, I know how to build it, the people who work here, they ... they follow me.'

Cayden took a few more steps and then stopped. He returned and walked slowly back. Another squall was racing across from Providence Island. 'Where are all your employees?'

'At a funeral.'

'You're kidding!' Cayden shouted, looking towards the squall.

'We're a close family here. The man who died ... he worked here from the beginning.'

Cayden glared at the determined face below him.

'Help me get her around the jetty and you can have it.' said Babbacombe. 'It's not too late. I ... I haven't signed the papers the agent sent me,' He looked nervously at the fast approaching squall. 'Please old chap, I'm seventy years old, this boat is all I really want.' Babbacombe looked miserably at the side of his cherished MTB being pounded into the jetty.

Cayden turned away, plucking his shirt from his body, shivering from the cold material. 'Start her up, I'll get the lines. Spring her on the stern line, go out astern – you don't have enough room to turn.'

Babbacombe put his thumb up and disappeared inside. Moments later, thick black smoke appeared from the MTB's exhausts with a simultaneous explosion of sound as the three vintage Isotta Fraschini 57-litre engines roared into life. Cayden jumped back on board, smelling the petrol. Rain engulfed them, the wind screaming across the deck. The stern line was taking the full weight of the torpedo boat. He ran to the wheelhouse. 'Axe?'

Babbacombe glanced up from the dials, gesturing to a locker on the side. Cayden lowered the lid, found a fire axe and ran back on deck. He slashed through the taught stern line. The MTB swung on the stern spring. Babbacombe opened the throttle – the stern pushed further out, Cayden slashed through the remaining line and Babbacombe immediately slammed into reverse. Waves crashed over the boat's flat transom, surging past the exhaust stacks, into the open cockpit. The bow took a viscous swipe at the piling, which knocked Cayden to the deck. He clung to a mangled stanchion as the MTB bucked and roared out into the channel. Rain pummelled Cayden and he gasped for air, his feet over the edge. Once clear, Babbacombe pushed the throttles forward and the veteran boat bolted into the protected lea of the jetty – from madness to calm in the space of a few yards.

Cayden felt stunned. He pulled himself upright, blinking the rain from his eyes and swept his hair from his face. 'I'm too old for this,' he groaned.

Babbacombe located spare lines and Cayden made the battered hull safe to the pilings in front of the barges.

'That would have been a lot easier before the storm,' Cayden said, dropping the axe back into the locker.

'I was at the funeral. Didn't appreciate how severe it had become.' Babbacombe wiped his hands on a cloth before dabbing at the cut.

'You should get that looked at. I've a driver waiting for me. She could drop you at the hospital.'

'It's a scratch' Babbacombe said distractedly. 'Look at her,' he cried. 'fighting U-boats in the channel ... bullet holes to show for it ... one sodding storm and she nearly went to the bottom.'

'But I guess you've got the time to work on her now,' Cayden smiled, holding out his hand. 'I don't think we shook on our deal.'

Samuel Babbacombe went back to the wheel and turned off the rumbling engines. His hand was firm, bony. 'In these parts, we drink rum to seal a deal.'

'Okay, well I'm sure the Hilton has some,' Cayden responded, picking up his briefcase.

'To hell with the Hilton. Watered-down crap. I've got some Pusser's down below.'

Cayden's eyes watered from the smell of fuel. Paint peeled off the Honduras mahogany hull, the deck littered with paper rubbish, old manuals and photographs, obscured from water and fuel spillages. Cayden scooped a brass-framed photograph from the mess. It showed three MTBs throwing sheets of spray in close formation. Anti-E-boat Patrol, read the faded caption underneath. Cayden set it carefully on a scarred worktop next to a copy of the Daily Telegraph with headlines claiming an al-Qaeda Link To Child Bombings. A bench with cushions, their original colour hard to discern because of the mildew, offered the only seating. 'She needs a bit of work,' said Cayden, looked around him.

Samuel ran his hand down the side of the hull. 'Tough as steel,' he murmured.

Cayden sneezed. 'It's like sitting in a fuel tank.'

'Can you imagine how those poor bastards felt with bullets and tracer flying around? The main tanks are along the side. These things used to explode like napalm.'

'Great!' said Cayden, accepting a glass of Pusser's rum. 'All your hard work could go up with one carelessly tossed fag.'

Samuel raised his glass. 'First thing I'm going to do is strip out the engines, and put a couple of diesels in her. They won't sound as good, but as you say...a lot safer ... cheers!' He tipped back his head and downed the rum.

'Here's to MTB ...' Cayden looked at the plaque above the door leading to the deck. '... One-Zero-Nine, may God bless all who sail in her!'

Samuel chuckled, throwing his head back as he finished his second glass. 'Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Callejon, you've made one hip-swaying beauty from Miami, one angry woman.'

Chapter 14

Coalition flags stirred with the light breeze blowing from the Potomac. Their myriad colours, bright in the spring sunshine provided a festive backdrop behind the dais built especially for the occasion. Butler Stadium athletic field, used to the trample of the Falcons' football team, was now hosting regimented lines of plastic chairs occupied by diplomats and generals, together with their families, from each country represented by a flag.

The Quantico base commander, Colonel Ray L. Reynard, rose from his chair and walked stiffly to the dais. He adjusted the height of the microphone, the feedback making a few on the front row wince. Reynard lifted his gaze over the rows of sombre faces, some glancing irritably at their fidgeting wives and children, through the goal posts to the base buildings beyond, square and functional, designed for efficiency, not aesthetics, helping the Corps develop strategies for Marine combat – a stressful, evolving process. High demands were placed on his shoulders and those of the 12,000 who worked under him – tasked with training Marines more affectively for Iraq, where the casualty rate had always been unacceptable; his world – 100 square miles – the crossroads of the Marine Corps.

'Good morning, ladies and gentleman. On behalf of the Marine Corps I would like to welcome all of you to Quantico. This is a very special day, a first for Quantico. We are 84 countries joined in a common purpose – to defeat terrorism. We are united militarily and diplomatically. We will never bow to the violence of a few.' Reynard glared at the men in the front row.

'Ladies and gentleman, our motto is Semper Fidelis – Always Faithful.' He paused, gazing across the seated audience to his office buildings. 'That is how we look out for each other on the battlefield; that is our pledge to the United States, and now it is our duty to you, because we realise that militarily, we can only overcome this threat together.'

Applause.

Colonel Reynard glanced at the pages of notes, keeping the irritation from showing. He hated the crap he was fed from Public Affairs. The US military didn't need anyone's help. With the exception of British Special Forces, everyone else just got in the way. But orders from the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and therefore the White House, said that more appreciation had to be demonstrated towards the coalition. That meant showing them how the Marines were developing strategies to combat the insurgents. He was to spend the day making it clear to all those assembled that the Marine Corps were not trigger-happy grunts, but were trying hard to find peaceful solutions for the streets of Baghdad.

Bullshit!

'As we sit under this beautiful Virginia spring sunshine, let us not forget the people of Spain and England who are burying their innocent dead. These children ...' Colonel Reynard gazed balefully at a few youngsters who had started running up and down the outside of the seating area. '... these children have lost their lives on a battlefield, murdered at random and without remorse.' He glanced at several of his men to the right of the dais, his look conveying the message that he wouldn't object at that moment if the same fate were to strike down the children running uncontrollably on his football field. 'These murders are a reminder that the civilised world is at war. Civilians from Spain, England, Russia, Israel, Morocco, the Philippines and the United States are on the front lines. No nation or region is exempt. Each attack is meant to demoralise and divide us from one another, but ...' Colonel Reynard jabbed his finger out over their heads. '... it must be answered not only with sorrow, but with greater determination, deeper resolve and bolder action against the killers. There can be no neutral ground in the fight between civilisation and terrorism, good and evil, freedom and slavery – life and death.' An F15 roared overhead, on its final approach to the air base a few miles away, 'Today, we are going to show you how the Marines are using every tool of intelligence and military power to break terror networks, to deny them refuge and to find their leaders. You will see we do not just kick down doors and ask questions from the end of an M16.' He glared at a few smirking faces, 'Over the past 30 months we have seized assets belonging to al-Qaeda worth hundreds of millions of dollars, captured or ... killed two-thirds of al-Qaeda's known leaders and associates. We are sending an unmistakable message to the terrorists, including those who struck in England and Spain, that these killers will be tracked down and found – they will face their day of justice.'

Reynard slapped the top of the dais, leaving no room for doubt as to his determination. Nervous applause built until even the children who had started to cry were clapping cheerfully. A glance at his watch and a slight nod from his Public Affairs Officer indicated that it was time to wrap things up.

'Ladies and gentlemen, the establishment of a free Iraq is our fight. The success of a free Afghanistan is our fight. The war on terror is our fight. All of us are called to share the blessings of liberty and to be strong and steady in freedom's defence. Let it be said of our times that we understood our great duties, and met them in full.'

Colonel Reynard stood to attention. 'Semper Fidelis and God bless our efforts.' He gave a quick half-salute, half-wave to the standing ovation and walked briskly away from the dais. Spotting the milling journalists he turned to his Press Officer. 'Keep those idiots away from my Marines,' he said out of the corner of his mouth

Major C. R. Dett watched the Colonel stalk away. This was not what he had joined the Marines for, but they were so short-staffed thanks to the war in Iraq, he just happened to be the one available to fill in. He climbed the dais, smiling at the expectant faces, and introduced himself, speaking slowly because he knew his Louisiana accent would be difficult for foreigners to understand. A couple of wives had left their seats and were sitting on the grass, holding their children in their laps, trying to keep them quiet. Dett wondered how Anne was doing with Luke at the doctor's; they suspected the boy might have measles. He hoped not; he didn't want to leave his wife with a sick kid. She was already frustrated with the limitations of living on base, even one as big as Quantico. She wasn't suited for military life – he had known that when he married her. If she became stuck at home with Luke, who knows what she might do.

'Ladies and Gentleman,' he began, 'y'all going t'be escorted to the buses and taken to the Marine Corps Combat Command Centre – that'll be near the Gray Research Centre on your maps.' Noticing a woman in the front row frowning as she studied her map, he added helpfully: 'Take a right off Barnett Avenue.' The woman looked up, blushed and glanced at her husband who irritably reached over and turned the page the correct way up.

'We'll talk a little 'bout the Marine Corps history.' Dett continued, 'then before the kids get too restless, we'll split 'em up and take 'em off to the Security Battalion K9 unit – the kennels – and show y'all what a well-trained dog can do. Then ...' He glanced at his notes. '... oh yeah, the helicopters. Y'all get to look at the CH six-forty and three-fifty.' Major Dett looked out over the disinterested faces, some fanning themselves with the programme, others yawning, the mothers on the grass now talking in a circle, rocking their kids in their laps. He waited five seconds and when he was sure he was not going to get any applause, he signalled his sergeants to help with the boarding. 'Jeez, this is gonna be a long day!'

Major Dett's six foot, broad-shouldered figure, clad in a well-fitted dress uniform, attracted flirtatious looks from bored wives. He smiled pleasantly, making them blush and look guiltily towards their chest-ribboned husbands. Dett slumped into the waiting Humvee. 'Let's go,' he said, retrieving his cell phone and noticing he had three missed calls, all from his wife.

'Hey baby, how'd it go?'

The corporal driving concentrated on negotiating the Humvee through the running children to the head of the column of waiting buses.

'Well, I told ya there was nothing to worry 'bout, he'll be just fine in a coupl'a days, he just ate something bad, that's all.'

The sergeants, used to unruly recruits, had the buses loaded in minutes – though some of the children were reduced to tears by the brusque commands. The corporal led the convey down Anderson Avenue as Major Dett listened to his wife shout out the reasons why she thought she still had plenty to worry about. A platoon in vests and khaki combat trousers jogged by, led by a sergeant-major. Stopped at the lights at John Quick Road, Major Dett threw his phone on the dash. 'Y' married, corporal?'

'No sir,' she replied, turning right and accelerating.

'Good for ya,' said Dett, absent-mindedly watching the everyday life of the base go by: the civilians – secretaries, administrators, strategists, advisors – hurrying in and out of buildings; the maintenance guys peering down a manhole, their truck bumped up on the verge; a Bank of America drive-thru; a Marine leaning out of his Bronco, collecting cash. Welcome to Quantico, the crossroads of the Marine Corps, Dett shook his head gloomily. He wanted to be back with his unit in Iraq; there at least he knew what to expect. He glanced in the side mirror. 'Slow-up, y' losing them back there.' he ordered his driver.

Coke, Sprite or Fanta – the choice was theirs – was handed out as the guests filed into the conference hall. Tiered seating led up to the projection room, facing a raised stage and lectern in front of a white movie screen. A child asked if they were going to watch a cartoon. Major Dett smiled and walked to the centre of the stage. 'If y'll could move right down to the end of the line that would be appreciated,' he said, glancing to the entrance where a sergeant was herding in the stragglers. A short man in uniform, which Dett recognised from the time he had served in El Salvador, accepted a can of Coke. He was followed by three boys, presumably his sons, all wearing headphones and backpacks. They all had that bored, disinterested look of teenagers, their heads nodding slightly to whatever music they were listening to. They had identical backpacks, dressed like triplets, except that there was a difference in their height and ages. Major Dett indicated to the sergeant at the door that the boys would have to remove the headphones. The sergeant tapped the general from El Salvador on the shoulder and passed on the Major's order.

The man nodded, glancing quickly at Dett. The major had seen that look before, – at a checkpoint in Baghdad.

He leapt forward.

They removed the headphones in unison; the boys walked a few more paces into the conference room. The C4 plates in their suicide vests detonated with a velocity of 8,000 meters per second, the covering fragmentation jackets spraying three millimetre steel balls like an omni-directional shotgun blast.

Major Dett and the sergeant dissolved in the lethal hail, their bones, blood and sinew joining the obliterating spray. Like a seismic wave, the triple blast ripped up through the hall, tearing away seating and bodies in a sticky soup of destruction. The glass imploded into the projection room and blew out the partitioning wall into a Marine classroom, blinding the studying recruits with fragments of bone, steel and wood. The backpacks, momentarily protected by steel casing from the initial blast, cart-wheeled through the carnage; then, in the fraction of a second it had taken the blast to tear away walls and punch holes through the roof skylights, the incendiary bombs ignited. The home-made Styrofoam-gasoline mix coated the survivors' bodies, sticking to the flesh where the clothes had been shredded – burning through to the bone. The steel frame of the building melted; it buckled until it no longer could support the weight it had been left with and collapsed in a cloud of flame and billowing smoke, snuffing out the screams and cries of terror.

Colonel Reynard had been walking up to the entrance from his staff car. The explosion had thrown him back down the walkway, slamming his body into the door of his car. He had sat, slumped in front of the buckled metal, debris raining about him as he slipped into unconsciousness – his last image, a Marine spinning from the doorway, screaming, his head and shoulders engulfed in fire, his hands slapping uselessly at the flames. In turn, they too ignited on contact with the sticky fuel. The colonel watched in horror as the Marine fell to the ground, rolling; rolling; rolling – his spine arching, snapping, his remains burning into the paving. The stench assailed Colonel Reynard's senses.

Oh God, no ... no ... not his Marines!

Chapter 15

Thick smoke, like a wet autumn bonfire, filled the cavern. Wraith-like boys, fanned the smouldering vegetation.

Dense, pungent columns climbed upwards and through the jagged limestone opening; suffocating tendrils searched the rough surfaces and dark crevices, driving the mosquitoes, the bees, the bats and the swiftlets, like spiralling black embers, into the crown of trees high above. They went buzzing and twittering into the dense jungle, absorbed like the smoke into the thousands of square miles of rainforest – the limestone outcrop that housed the cavern no more than a slight undulation in the endless green vista.

Sapa Inca sat, hunched over, his face close to the foam, breathed deeply the mint vapours from his favourite bubble bath; the great wooden sequoia bath looked like a dhow in Jalal's tear-rimmed vision, floating through the mists of a volcanic lake. His chest burned, the agony involved in his efforts to breathe eclipsing the throbbing from his arm. The rank smell blotted the gangrenous stench of the wound. His good arm was held above him via a chain that connected to leg irons and a rough, steel neck brace – held by a metal ring cemented in the cave wall. Ten boys had hauled him up by rope and pulley so that his feet rested on the worn points of two ancient stalagmites. His straining arm muscle kept the weight of his body from pushing the stone points through his feet.

The lack of oxygen rapidly weakened him. His muscles jerked with effort. The stalagmites pressed into his soles. 'Allah have mercy,' he sobbed. He was not afraid to die – he had lived to die in the name of Allah. But he had to avenge his brother. He concentrated on the blurred image of Sapa Inca, still bent forward in the great bath, his shoulders glistening with oil. A boy massaged the mad Inca's shoulders, his naked body, bent over the thick sides of the bath, his young head incongruously covered by an army gas mask.

Choking smoke blotted Jalal's view. He gagged, each heave forcing his feet onto the stone points. The polished sides offered no purchase; he could not cup his feet around the arc of the tapering column and maintain the same supportive weight of his body. It was a fine balance, which he had managed to control before they had lit the fire to purify the cave and shroud Sapa Inca as he disrobed. Jalal had yet to see the Inca's body clearly; yet to gain a clear idea of his enemy's physical strength.

He was in the middle of the cavern above the table. His mind whirled with images of empty chairs – his eyes streamed, 'Isam, my brother.' Then, smoke again, this time black and oily – a Sunni car bomb, blackened, smouldering timber collapsing over rubble – their home. Then their mother and sister – dead – and their father's blood-stained thobe ... tears ... his eyes full of desolation. And then the procession, the small coffin for their sister, the larger one for their mother – and those for their friends and neighbours. AK-47s firing into the air; the calls to Allah; the wailing ululation of the women; the screams for revenge from the men. Their father had been a local man, a simple stall-seller but still a local man with no enemies, no ambition – just a simple family man.

Jalal's mind switched to the Americans, arriving with their Humvees and Abraham tanks, pushing, shoving – ordering the procession to disperse and the men with the AK47s to lie, face-down in the street. Then an image of their father, pleading with the Americans to let them carry on in peace with the funeral – and the Americans, not knowing what he was saying because they had no interpreter, shooting him as he ran to catch up with the coffins.

Jalal's tear-streaked vision was spotted red, like the bright crimson that had ballooned on his father's back – his body tumbling across the dirt, people running, screaming, more firing, Isam picking up a discarded AK-47, his face murderous, his cry of Allah Akbah screamed above the ripping sound of the magazine emptying. They had dragged him away, their feet slaloming through the spurts of gravel – ducking through doorways that imploded as they fled down hallways, running through sun-baked yards, vaulting crumbling whitewashed walls, crossing rooftops, not stopping until the sound of pursuing boots and hated infidel voices, could no longer be heard. Slumped against a wall in a part of town they had never visited, they had suddenly been surrounded by six hooded men from the Victorious Sect Army – dressed in jeans and checked shirts, faces hidden in red-checked Ghutra's, armed with AK-47s and RPG launchers slung across their shoulders – the choice had been simple. But their jihad, their mission, was not over, Ansar Aziz al-Islam – 'may Allah bless him' – had said their martyrdom would be one of the greatest – talked about above all others. Yet Isam was in paradise. Why? Where was the glory? The death of infidels? 'In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful,' Jalal mumbled, his head sagging, the points of pain increasing as if Allah himself was rising through the earth and entering his body through the soles of his feet.

Jalal's head jerked upwards. He had caught a waft of fresh air. His stinging eyes could see the boys laying a wet blanket over the fire, subduing the clouds of acrid smoke. 'Let Allah decide your time,' he whispered to himself.

The bath was empty.

The boys flapped the blankets, helping the smoke disperse, their faces hidden behind the desert-camouflaged gas masks. The TV monitors lining the far wall appeared through the thinning smoke, their grainy screens still showing scenes of the cocaine processing plant. Jalal swung on his chain, searching for the smaller chamber that led off the main cavern, the area Sapa Inca used as his personal quarters. They had seen his camp bed; the bookshelves of rough-sawn timber at odd heights and levels along the uneven walls; a chair converted from a car seat next to a an upturned coffee crate, the top covered with an array of receivers, screens and boxes, with cables running in a twisted coloured bundle – like a kid's play-dough snake – across the cavern and out through the door that led to the generator.

Sapa Inca stood in the entrance, a yellow robe with a monk's hood hiding his features. He faced Jalal. 'This England bombing, tell me what you know?'

Jalal blinked sweat from his eyes, lifted his head, gulped smoke-stained breaths and tried to pump life into his shaking muscles. 'We came... ...' he gasped, '... came because friends said you were responsible ... we wanted to help ... help each other kill our enemies.'

'You did not come to help like our mighty Sun helps to restore life and help give back what was taken from us. You came to redirect His warmth, His power. You came to bend His will, His life-giving rays, to fulfil your own aims,' Sapa Inca replied, his tone neutral. 'You and your superiors made a grave mistake thinking you could corrupt my pure purpose to your...Allah's will,' he added contemptuously. The Inca had started to walk slowly around the outcrop of rock supporting the worn stalagmites, the top of his covered head a metre below Jalal's blackened feet. 'We sacrifice our young Inca blood to avenge my forefathers, to destroy the Spanish like they tried to destroy us.'

'Our intelligence was bad,' Jalal groaned.

'You have no intelligence,' Sapa Inca snapped, gesturing dismissively. 'You sand people are those who have most suffered under the presence of His power; your lands are barren because He wishes you to be punished, like the Spanish and their God – he shows the Allah believers who really is all-powerful, who alone can give life.' Sapa Inca looked up, his jaw and neck visible in the dark shadow of his robe; a tattoo, black lines like sunbeams, converged on the deep cleft in his chin. 'You dare to come here and expect me to help you.' His voice had not risen but the power of his words echoed off the rough walls.

'As Allah is my ...'

Sapa Inca's hands shot from the folds of sun-yellow and clamped on Jalal's ankles, his strength driving Jalal's feet onto the limestone points. 'God Sun will not tolerate your insolence,' the Inca roared, as boys ran into the cavern like rats fleeing from a flooding drain.

Jalal cried with pain, his feet clamping over the stone. He tried to lift his weight with his arm but the strength was gone. The nerve endings sent shards of pain into the base of his brain. His body convulsed. He tried a feeble kick, lost his grip and slipped his head down into the metal collar, pushing it backwards, squeezing his neck, blocking the airway. The jungle-clogged circle high above receded like a tunnel opening, smaller and smaller, the blue sky a fading blackness.

The tension on the chain vanished. Like a rag doll he tumbled to the damp, moss-grouted floor, his cheek bone cracking against a node of limestone. His half-conscious mind felt the kicks and the punches from the surrounding boys until Sapa Inca commanded them to stop, and he was dragged like a carcass from an abattoir to the smaller chamber. The chain and neck brace were removed but his ankles were left in irons.

Sapa Inca sat on his bed and used his foot to roll Jalal onto his back. 'You will tell me what little you know, and then you will die quickly.'

Jalal tried to focus. Every fibre in his body screamed with pain. His feet were on fire. His left eye had already swollen shut. His arm stank. 'Water,' he managed to groan.

Sapa Inca gestured impatiently and a boy came in holding a plastic bottle. He knelt and inserted the end into Jalal's sagging mouth. Jalal choked, spewing the brown water into the face of the boy, who sprang backwards against the bed frame, snarling, before Sapa Inca knocked him sideways – and waited patiently for Jalal to recover.

'I will tell you everything, I swear,' Jalal wheezed into the stillness, stopping himself from saying Allah willing. A sudden throb of generator interrupted his attempt to speak as the main door to the cavern opened and then shut with a clang. 'Ansar Aziz al-Islam is my Imam ... my leader.' Jalal took a sip of water. 'He had information on the child warriors.' Jalal's voice was barely a whisper. 'A council member ruled ... ruled that Muslims would not tolerate child shahid ...' Jalal drank and coughed weakly. '... but it is perfect ... perfect for our purpose for destabilisation.' He struggled to find the right words. 'Our ... our mission was to negotiate with you – ask if we could work together. It took us many weeks to find you ... I have not spoken to my leader in that time.'

'How did you find me?' Sapa Inca demanded.

'Ansar Aziz al-Islam told us who and where – not how,' Jalal wheezed, wincing as he tried to move his trapped arm. 'You cannot deny you are responsible for the child shahids.'

'You will call him. Ask him what he knows about these bombs in England,' said Sapa Inca.

'How?' Jalal asked.

The Inca indicted the table. Jalal blinked at the satellite phone and realised he was lying on the cable that linked the equipment to the generator and receiver aerial, which be assumed was hidden outside. He groaned as he shifted his body into a sitting position, cradling his arm.

'And if I don't?' Jalal gasped. 'You have said, I am already dead.'

Sapa Inca rose with a swish of robe and drifted to the table. 'Maybe I was lying about your brother.'

Jalal looked up sharply, trying to focus. 'Isam is alive?'

'You will not know until you call.' Sapa Inca held out the handset.

'Prove to me he is alive,' said Jalal.

The dark opening of the hood, faced down at him. Then Sapa Inca clapped his hands and issued instructions in Quechua to a boy who had come running to him. The Inca sat still, watching Jalal fidget in pain on the floor. There was a blast of noise from the generator, the clang of the metal door shutting, and then the boy reappeared. He knelt at the feet of Sapa Inca, whose gold-painted toe nails hung over the front of his red flip-flops.

The Inca flipped open the mobile phone; the glare of the screen shone like moonlight on the black beams of his tattoo. He grunted. Jalal could see the cleft in his chin flatten with what he guessed to be a smile.

Sapa Inca held out the phone. 'Your brother?' he asked.

Jalal looked at the low-quality image, hastily taken, of a man peering drug-eyed through wooden bars, shoulders bent forward, arms tied to a pole across his back. It was dark – blackness around the edge of the flash. The face was streaked with dirt – or was it dried blood? – with dark circles under the eyes, a gash on the forehead, hair flattened about the skull, the bridge of the nose swollen. 'Isam!' Jalal groaned.

'Today's date is here.' Sapa Inca pointed with a long finger, the nail painted gold.

Ansar Aziz al-Islam operated from an isolated farmhouse north-west of Baghdad – a nondescript one-story building, poor in appearance, ten miles south of the main road that led to the Turkish border, where a farmer regularly tended his goats and a small plantation of date palms. So far, the deception had convinced passing patrols and the Russian-made transmitter had remained undisturbed among the palms, bouncing its signal to a receptor in Iran and then onto the satellite. The underground bunker and the command centre for Ansar Aziz al-Islam was accessed via a dry well in the yard. Instead of a bucket, there was a round, black-painted metal plate, strong enough to carry two men. When lowered eighteen feet to the entrance of the bunker, the plate was levelled with water in case a curious patrol decided to look over the edge.

Abdul, Ansar Aziz al-Islam bodyguard, his voice synthetic from the scrambler, answered the call immediately.

'I need to speak to the Imam,' said Jalal.

'He is away on business.'

'Will he be back on Friday?'

'No, he does not work Friday.'

'Okay. What about Monday after Maghrib?'

'One moment, I will see if he is available,' the bodyguard replied, satisfied that Jalal had used the right sequence of code.

Jalal waited, pushing the pain to the back of his mind, trying to concentrate – he had to negotiate himself out of Sapa Inca's prison, find his brother and escape.

'Peace be to you,' Ansar Aziz al-Islam said in his native tongue, his voice grainy with static.

'And to you be peace together with God's mercy,' Jalal whispered, ignoring the stiffening of Sapa Inca's body above him.

'All praise to Allah, Lord of the Worlds, and peace and blessings on his trusted prophet,' Ansar Aziz al-Islam sang. 'Jalal, Allah has granted you a great victory. The infidels are trembling, they are losing the will to fight, we are at a critical stage in the history of Iraq ...'

'Speak English,' Sapa Inca hissed.

'The Americans run like beaten jackals, all Muslims thank you for your courage and ingenuity in attacking their Marine base at Quantico,' the Iman continued.

'Imam, I am with someone who wishes you to speak English,' Jalal interrupted.

His words were greeted with a hiss. Jalal imagined his surrogate father staring with penetrating black eyes at the handset, trying to see along the invisible road to the satellite and down to where Jalal was calling from, trying to imagine his situation.

'Are you with the enemy?' Ansar Aziz al-Islam said, slowly, still in Arabic.

'I am with the one you asked me to see,' Jalal replied in English.

'But you are in trouble?' Ansar Aziz al-Islam was still speaking in Arabic.

Sapa Inca lashed out with his foot. Jalal grunted with pain.

'Allam has been lost. Isam is ... injured,' Jalal cried.

'Ya Allah. To Allah we belong and to him we return.'

Sapa Inca reached for the phone.

'Please speak English,' Jalal shouted, 'it's important. And do not mention Allah ... Allah forgive.'

There was a long hiss of static. Jalal knew the channel was secure – they changed frequency ever few days – but the Imam did not use it for more than ten minutes. 'Who is with you?' he asked in guttural English.

'The one we thought responsible for the child shihad,' Jalal answered.

'Is he a Muslim friend?'

'He is neither friend nor enemy.' Jalal looked at the dark opening in the hood.

'The shihads in America? They were not you?' the Iman asked.

Jalal looked down at the stone floor, picturing the Imam's disappointment. 'I do not know of what you talk,' he said quietly. 'The England events were not of my host's making. We must know who is responsible. It is important to Isam's ... health.'

'I thought the time was too short for such an operation. But how I hoped it was you, Jalal!' The static now filled the small chamber for so long that Jalal thought the connection had been broken. He clenched the microphone, willing the man he considered his father to help.

'I will see what I can do,' the Iman's voice boomed back through the speaker on the table. 'Call this time tomorrow.'

Sapa Inca did not move for a long time. Eventually, he shifted, his body jumping as if awakening from a daydream. He held out his hand and took the microphone, putting it back in its holder next to the speaker. He switched off the equipment. 'You had better hope for yourself and your brother's life that he calls.'

Jalal nodded.

Sapa Inca sighed. 'You are my guest for a few more hours – come, I will show you something.' His robes swirled about him as he walked away. Then, suddenly, he stopped and stared back at Jalal, still on the ground, through the dark opening. 'Follow me on your hands and knees,' he commanded quietly, 'like the pig you are.'

Chapter 16

It was the sort of day that found Cayden humming Satisfaction before stopping to ask himself why he was – and how long had it been since he had last hummed anything at all?

The sky was a vibrant blue, the sort of blue every kid would paint, the blue you felt like rolling yourself up in, like a quilt on a cold night. The sun was high in its blue surround, bright but not too hot. Great for admiring from a sunlounger with a cold beer, but not for running around in, which was precisely what he was now finding himself doing – the fact that he had been humming earlier, a distant memory as he battled to stay in the match.

A breeze from the sparkling Caribbean rattled the palm leaves, fidgeted with the net and cooled the perspiration running down his face. Cayden adjusted his baseball cap, bounced the ball and pushed his sunglasses, greasy with sweat, up the bridge of his nose. He tossed and served with a heavy slice. The ball skimmed the net, landing inside the service line, then swerved out to the side. 'Got you!' Cayden thought, but his opponent effortlessly walked to intercept and hit a heavy top-spin backhand. The ball blasted by Cayden and bounced just inside the baseline.

Love-thirty.

The bastard had been doing that to him throughout the three sets. Cayden had won a total of just six games.

He squared his shoulders, wiped his hand on his shirt and towelled the handle of his borrowed racquet. He served again, this time hitting the ball flat, with power, aiming for the body. His opponent saw it coming, stepped out of the way and delivered a forehand slice, something Cayden had never seen his coach demonstrate but had been used with devastating effectiveness against him that morning. The ball dropped over the net and stopped.

Love, forty.

Movement distracted Cayden's walk back to the baseline. A woman in baggy shorts and t-shirt was meandering down the paved pathway between the crowded, overflowing beds of hibiscus, ficus, palms, irises and lilies. She bent and studied a yellow and red orchid that drooped over the path. A grey cat emerged from under a bush and rubbed itself between her ankles. She bent and stroked its head while still studying the orchid.

Cayden bounced the ball on the AstroTurf . His range of serves was limited – part of the reason his opponent had been able to beat him. He threw the ball high – a miniature sun in the vault of blue. But he hit it too late. The action was awkward and he was not surprised to hear the thwack of it striking the tape.

Match point, last serve.

The woman had moved off the pathway and was standing near the door to the court, her fingers hooked through the wire. 'Who's winning?' she called, as Cayden got ready for his second serve.

He frowned, trying to block her presence from his mind.

'This is the last point, darling,' said Samuel Babbacombe.

Cayden looked up, catching Samuel's wink and smile. He tossed the ball, keeping his arm straight, launching at one' o'clock position, counting to two as the racquet curled up from behind, then hitting the ball in the sweat spot with a small amount of slice. It flew down the centre and passed Samuel before he could react. Cayden's third ace! He clenched the racquet with satisfaction and glanced at the woman as he walked back. He wished he hadn't. She had the most penetrating stare he had ever seen. He felt like a mouse, looking up and spying a hawk.

Fifteen-forty.

Scooping up a ball, he wiped his forehead, suddenly keen on getting the game over. He served. It was weak, the ball bouncing high from the centre of the service box. Samuel got the full weight of his forehand behind it – cross court to Cayden's forehand, racquet back, follow-through up over his shoulder. The ball sped back, low over the net. Samuel could do no more than block it. The ball jumped skywards, looking for a moment as though it would fall back on his side, but a gust caught it and carried it over. Cayden had been over-confident. Surprised that the ball had been returned, he leapt forward, feeling the strain in his calf muscles, and swung at the plummeting ball, going for a smash to Samuel's weaker backhand. He mistimed it. The ball blasted by Samuel's ear and hit the back fencing.

Match over.

Cayden leant over his racquet while the woman clapped loudly.

'Well played.' He forced a smile as he and Samuel shook hands.

'If it's any consolation, I've been playing my best tennis in years recently. Beat the club team captain in straight sets the other day. First time ever!'

Cayden poured himself a glass of lemon squash from a plastic container set on a table near the net post. He smiled around the glass rim, watching the clear blue eyes disappear as Samuel grinned at the woman, still standing at the fencing. 'No, it's no consolation,' Cayden said, finishing the squash.

Samuel winked. 'Ah well, just goes to show you can't win everything. Let me introduce you to my daughter. Jess, this is Cayden ... Cayden Callejon.'

Cayden smiled, half-waved. She stared at him with unblinking eyes, as pale as her father's, set wide apart on a triangular face – slightly hooked nose, more delicate than her father's, her mouth set in a determined line, no make-up. Her fringe was straight across her forehead, her dark hair piled untidily on the back of her head. 'You the bastard that's forced Daddy to sell his company?' she said, her voice challenging, her pointed chin thrust forward.

Cayden finished towelling his hair. He glanced between the two of them, trying to gauge her seriousness.

'Now, now Jess, be nice,' Samuel teased, collecting the glasses and container on his way to the gate.

She stood back to let them through, hands on hips. Cayden noticed her athletic legs, sculptured with muscle, but the rest of her figure was hidden within the baggy clothing. 'Well? What have you got to say for yourself?'

Jess spoke with a slight accent, possibly Australian, Cayden thought. He draped the towel over his shoulders. 'Your father and I have come to an arrangement, an amicable one I believe.' He glanced at Samuel, who nodded. He could see the family resemblance, and the protective love she clearly had for her father was equally evident. Jess linked her arm through her father's and led him up the path.

'Daddy, tell me what you've done.' She looked over her shoulder at Cayden as he followed. 'I'll not be pleased if I find out you've ripped him off, Cayden. I don't like bullies, people who think they can throw their weight around just because they have a bit of cash.'

Cayden could not work out whether she was teasing him or deadly serious. So, he just settled his sunglasses and said nothing, admiring her tanned legs, the swing of her hips with her confident stride; the way the ends of her baggy shorts lifted and swirled about her smooth thighs. They stepped over an iguana lying in a patch of sunlight on the pathway, 'Be careful of Pop,' she called out, interrupting her father's explanation of what was going to happen with the business.

'Hi there ... Pop,' Cayden said, crouching down to study the luminous green reptile. Sharp spines sprung up along the iguana's back as it raised its head; the transparent scale covering its eyes lowered and the brown eyes stared at him as unblinking as those of the woman who had named him.

Lyford Quay, located on the opposite side of the island to Nassau – a tortuous traffic-soaked drive that even Gloria had not elevated with her cheerful banter – was home to Samuel and, it now appeared, his daughter too. Cayden caught up with them sitting in cane chairs underneath a white umbrella overlooking a pool shaped like a fat crescent moon. On its far side was a white paved patio, with flowering tubs, more cane chairs, a low wall and, beyond, the calm, turquoise waters of the Bahamas. A Purcat was tied to the end of a jetty. Behind the pair stood the impressive two-storey, white-painted house, its bedroom windows shuttered, the balconies in front decorated with ornate wrought iron balustrades.

Cayden heard Gloria's gutsy laugh from the darkened interior just as Samuel's cook appeared, carrying a tray of glasses and a jug of rum punch. 'Lunch is going to be stewed fish, pigeon peas and rice,' said the cook, answering Samuel's enquiring look. 'Is your guest going to be eating with you today?' Her large round face looked accusingly at Cayden.

He shook his head. 'No, my plane's waiting at the airport. I've got to get back to Miami.'

'Your plane?' Jess blinked dramatically. She turned to her father. 'Surely we have enough stewed fish to feed someone who has their own plane.'

Samuel shook his head wearily. Cayden grinned. 'It's not actually mine. I hired it to get my hours up.'

Jess sat back in her chair. 'Oh, oh – what a shame. Daddy was telling me you're this hugely rich and successful boat-builder and now we find you're only a pilot. Are you sure this isn't some huge scam?' She glanced, wide-eyed, at her father.

'Jessica, that's enough,' admonished Samuel, sitting forward to pour a glass. 'Please Cayden, have some lunch. I promise my daughter does have manners and she will start using them.'

Cayden accepted the glass. 'Cheers!' he said. 'Wow, that's bloody amazing,' he added as he savoured the cool fusion of alcohol and fruit flavours.

'Well, that's settled then. If you think that's good, you'll have to sample her fish stew.' Samuel indicated that another place should be laid.

The iguana waddled across the paving slabs from the grass border. Jess crumbled a cracker and held it out. The creature's scaly head eyed the offering, before sucking up the crumbs in a big gulp.

'Why Pop?' Cayden asked.

'As in Iggy,' Jess replied distantly. 'Iggy the iguana was just too passe.' She picked Pop up and held him in the crook of her arm, stroking the scaly back, the spines flattening from the touch of her fingers, the spectacles covering the eyes.

'Is it asleep?' Cayden asked.

'Nope, these are his transparent scales. They keep the moisture in and the dirt out,' she replied, looking up suddenly and staring intently at Cayden. 'So, Daddy tells me, you've bought his share of the company for God knows how many million, but have allowed him use of the yard ... to renovate his torpedo thingamajig?'

Cayden nodded.

'And you're not going to charge him?'

Cayden shook his head. 'No.'

'So, what's the catch?'

Cayden noticed that Samuel had closed his eyes; his head was tilted back into the sun.

'There's no catch. Purcat offers a good investment for me, and I'm happy to help in the restoration of a historic naval boat.'

'Do you always put money into noble causes?' Jess asked, putting Pop back on the ground.

'This is a first,' Cayden admitted, watching the breeze ruffle the surface of the pool. An orange lilo drifted to the side. The cook returned with silverware and a place mat decorated with images of tropical fish.

'Would you like wine, Mr. Babbacombe?' she asked.

Samuel's eyes slowly opened. 'Cayden?'

'No, better not, I've got to fly later.' He grinned at Jess. She tossed her head and looked out to sea.

'How about a beer?' said Samuel. 'We have some local Kalik, which is pretty good.'

'One beer?' Cayden thought for a second, 'Okay, I can always have my pilot take over,' He raised his glass at Jess. She grinned sarcastically.

A pleasant silence descended. Cayden felt his own eyelids growing heavy, the beat of his heart slowing, the tempo of island life asserting itself on his troubled mind. He could see himself retiring here, he thought suddenly, wondering whether he could work with Janet at Purcat, building the business – like he had with Tomahawk. He had already e-mailed her, explaining why he had suddenly become the majority shareholder and how he would sign over his shares to give her controlling interest. A white knight? He smiled.

'What's so funny?' asked Jess.

Cayden opened his eyes, stretched his hands above his head, stifling a yawn. 'So tell me Jess, what do you do?'

Her gaze stayed unblinking on his face. 'Wildlife film-maker,' she replied, suddenly standing up. 'Do you want a shower or swim before lunch? I notice Daddy made you sweat quite a lot out there!'

'Bugger! Sorry Cayden.' Samuel jumped upright in his seat. 'My manners are slipping as well. Shower or swim?'

'Shower,' said Cayden, watching Jess walk to the side of the pool, quickly pull off her t-shirt and step out of her shorts. Her white bikini highlighted the honey tan; a crescent of un-tanned, creamy cheek emphasising the swell of a buttock before she hooked a finger and pulled the material down. The slim, toned thighs, accentuated her narrow waist and, when she walked to the steps at the far end, he noticed her stomach was as flat as beach sand at low tide, the swell of her breasts barely restrained by the triangle of white material. Cayden tried to appear disinterested as she curled her toes over the edge, balancing above the deep water sign, swinging her arms by her side before launching herself forward, her body flat. She slipped into the water as though it were silk.

'My daughter is very ... um, confident, some might say a little headstrong,' Samuel sighed as he stood up.

Cayden jerked his gaze from the pool, looking away before Jess surfaced. 'Takes after her father perhaps?'

Samuel guffawed, leading him to the house. They stepped into the darkened interior. Glass panels had been concertinaed back to open one wall to the patio. It was cool, furnished in dark wood and cane. Above a white marble fireplace, a flat-screen TV was showing a daytime soap. Gloria leapt up from the red sofa. 'We off boss?'

'Not yet, Gloria. Can you call the airport and let them know I'll be another couple of hours? Oh, and fetch my suitcase from the car, please'

From the living area, they passed a black marble kitchen, in which Samuel's cook was busy over a stainless hob, and, off the kitchen, a dining room, dominated by a dark wooden table and chairs. 'My study and games room are off that way.' Samuel waved beyond the dining room. 'Through here is the guest suite.'

Cayden was led into the entrance foyer – marble-floored with a crystal chandelier and a wide oak staircase to one side. A table beneath a mirror caught Cayden's attention. He stroked the rich mahogany surface, admiring the intricately turned legs.

'Well spotted. Original Chippendale,' Samuel said proudly. 'The only thing I bought over from England. Been in the family for generations.'

'It's beautiful,' said Cayden before his attention was suddenly caught by a picture of a woman in a silver frame.

'My wife,' Samuel explained.

Cayden looked at him enquiringly.

'She died a year after Jess was born. Ovarian cancer.'

'I'm sorry, Samuel,' said Cayden, carefully replacing the frame. 'There's been no-one else?'

'Nothing to compare. Not in 29 years.'

Cayden nodded sympathetically. Jess looked younger than that, he thought.

The closed shutters made the bedroom in the guest suite dark. Samuel opened them, the sunlight crashing in with the vibrant green of the garden. The room was decorated in white, with a wood floor and a four-poster bed against one of the walls. The adjacent bathroom was modern – a glass bowl basin and a showerhead that looked like the end of a watering can. By the toilet stood a small statue of a butler with his trousers down, holding the toilet tissue across his 'privates'– a sink plunger stuck to his bald head.

'Towels in there.' Samuel pointed to a louvered cupboard. 'Lunch should be ready in about fifteen minutes. Throw those into the basket,' he added, indicating Cayden's borrowed shorts and tennis shirt, 'the cleaner will take care of them.' Cayden nodded heeling off the trainers he had bought from a store on Bay Street.

When Cayden returned to the patio, his mouth watering from the smell of cooking as he passed the kitchen, he found Samuel asleep again in his chair, Jess sat opposite in a white robe, a towel turbaned on her head as she leafed through a magazine. She smiled as he approached. He felt over-dressed in the black Hugo Boss trousers and blue pin-stripe cotton shirt he had bought in town that morning

'Feel better?' asked Jess.

Cayden nodded. When she smiled and her expression softened with friendliness, her fierce looks mellowed into striking attractiveness. He was sure she could turn men's heads like a cobra rearing from a basket in a crowded market.

'So Cayden, what do you think your carbon footprint is?'

He frowned. 'Are you always this confrontational?'

'Pretty much.' She glanced at her father. He nodded sleepily. 'But you have to admit, you build boats that guzzle a gazzilion gallons of fuel – right?'

Cayden shrugged.

'You fly around in a private jet.' Jess waved her arm vaguely in the direction of the airport. 'I bet you have some flashy car somewhere.' She sat back, crossing her arms. 'You're not exactly candidate of the year to help save the planet, are you?'

'If you believe the planet is being affected by these things, then I guess I'm not.'

Jess pulled the towel off her head and rubbed her hair vigorously. 'Of course it is! What else could be accelerating global warming to the extent that the Northwest Passage is now clear of ice ten years earlier than scientists predicted?'

'There's no definite proof. It could just be the earth's natural cycle.'

Jess stopped towelling; her gaze blazed at him. 'Do you really believe that?' Strands of damp hair fell as far as her breasts.

'I'm not sure, but I do believe that's the best thing I've smelt in a long time,' he said evasively as the cook arrived. 'What fish is that?' he asked, breathing the spicy aroma.

'Red Snapper sir,' the cook replied. 'Fresh celery, onions, tomatoes and spices you not goin' to find nowhere else.'

He waited while she poured him a beer from a can of Kalik. 'Delicious,' he said as they started to eat.

'Would you be interested in reducing your carbon footprint, Cayden?' asked Jess between mouthfuls.

'I've already planted a whole wood of trees back home.'

'You would need to plant the whole of England to compensate for your negative contribution,' Jess retorted, laying her knife and fork on her plate. She rested her elbows on the table and leant towards him. 'I'm serious. I think people like you have a responsibility to put back what you are stripping from this planet.'

Cayden savoured a strip of fish. 'What about the people who buy the boats? Many of them are far richer than me and use far more resources than I do.'

'Yeah, well, they should do the same – but they're not sitting here, are they?'

'No,' replied Cayden, raising his eyebrows and glancing at Samuel for help.

'There's no point looking at Daddy for a way out. I know he produces rich men's playthings as well, but he's also been consciously reducing his carbon footprint for years, haven't you, Daddy?'

'As if I have a choice!' Samuel grinned.

'You planted all this.' Cayden waved his fork at the lush garden.

Jess snatched up her knife and fork. 'Fuck it Cayden, you should take it seriously,' she said, stabbing at her fish.

'Wow ... okay.' Cayden looked again at Samuel – he shrugged apologetically. 'Okay, I'm sorry for being ... flippant.' Cayden picked up his beer. 'What do you suggest?'

Jess looked up, her eyes piercing. 'You could sponsor one of my films – that way you'd help bring global awareness to species extinction and the catastrophes that are happening to habitats and the world's few remaining wildernesses.'

Cayden blew out his cheeks.

'It costs less than you think,' Jess continued. A look of doubt shadowed her eyes for the first time. It made her suddenly vulnerable – like a fledgling eagle, about to take its first flight.

Cayden broke a freshly-baked roll and dipped it in the sauce. 'Give me a ballpark figure,' he said.

'Well, we're not talking the thirteen million pounds it cost the BBC to produce the Planet Earth series.'

'Glad to hear it,' said Cayden.

'I've submitted several proposals to US cable networks, all based on the Caribbean – evidence of rising sea levels and the catastrophic consequences it will have on most of the low-lying islands. The National Geographic Channel is interested.' Jess had spilt sauce on her chest. She frowned as she dabbed at it with a napkin. 'They've offered fifty thousand dollars for a thirty-minute documentary, based on the standard of my other work.'

Cayden mopped up the last of his sauce and sat back with a contented sigh. 'Would I have seen anything of yours on UK TV?'

Her frown deepened. 'Yeah, Channel Five bought a ten minute piece I did on reef sharks,' she said, her shoulders dropping. 'It's a tough business and completely dominated by the BBC.'

'What profit would you make out of this National Geographic deal?' he asked her.

'About twenty thousand.' Jess stabbed again at her food. 'It's going to take about three months to film, so not a lot of money I know, but that's not why I do it.'

'No, I know – you're saving the planet,' Cayden was momentarily distracted – spotting Pop emerging cautiously from a patch of grass. Jess quickly brought him back to the point.

'Fucking right!' she said. 'But I suppose paying millions for a boat building business is more up your street.'

Cayden looked up from watching Pop swagger across the patio, his delicate feet lifting quickly off the hot surface. 'Fucking right,' he said, quietly with a smile, but keeping his eyes neutral.

Jess threw her knife and fork down. She pushed back her chair with a screech. Pop froze, two legs held dramatically in the air. 'You men are all the same. No bloody integrity, your morals as questionable as ... as your hygiene.' Her bare feet slapped their way to the patio doors, skipping a beat as she stepped over Pop.

'Wow, she has quite a way with words,' said Cayden as he watched her leave.

'My apologies, Cayden, she's always been fiery, so opinionated.' Samuel sighed. 'She's got a heart of gold really, and big talent – you should see the stuff she's done. I guess she's just frustrated that her path is blocked by the lack of cash and contacts in the industry.'

'Well, you'll have plenty of cash now,' said Cayden.

Samuel nodded, finishing his glass of beer. 'And I'm sure a lot will go on her, but you have a bigger profile than me – you know, more clout in the media.'

'Only in our industry.' Cayden watched a gull whirl above the Purcat, the vessel's chrome glinting in the sunlight. 'And I don't think they're going to be interested.' He looked at his watch. 'I'm glad I stayed for lunch,' he added, looking back at his empty plate. 'That was delicious.'

'Explain something to me, Cayden. Yesterday, after the drama of saving my boat, I could see you were wound up tighter than nylon rope caught around a prop shaft. Now, less than 24 hours later you're a different man. Why do you think that is?'

Cayden tapped his plate. 'Good food?'

Samuel chuckled. 'Maybe.' He was silent for a while, then added: 'I looked you up on the internet last night ...' He sat back in his chair, '... just intrigued. I bet you'd be surprised how much has been written about you.'

They waited while the plates were cleared, deciding to have another beer. Cayden knew there was no way he'd be sharing the piloting that afternoon.

'Your parents seem to be nothing out of the ordinary,' Samuel continued, 'certainly not massively successful entrepreneurs, just regular parents. Yet you somehow developed a burning ambition to build your own business ...'

'I loved boats, ever since I could walk.'

'You could have worked for any number of manufacturers, or just bummed around the world on your own thirty-footer.' Samuel poured the beer for them. 'But no, you grabbed hold of a bankrupt business sitting derelict on the banks of the Hamble and shook it into the most successful powerboat builder the industry has ever seen. Something happened to you while you were growing up that enabled you to achieve that.' He held up his hand to prevent Cayden interrupting. 'I'm willing to bet you weren't terribly successful at school. Okay, you got a few exams but you were no scholar ... am I right?'

Cayden frowned.

'Yeah, I'm right. And I'm willing to bet you were a bit of a loner, maybe bullied?'

Cayden rolled his shoulders. He felt a bloom of irritation.

'What I'm getting at old boy, without meaning to pry ...' Samuel smiled gently. '... is, what made you special? What gave you the grit and determination to stick two fingers up at everyone and say – bollocks to the lot of you? I'm sure there was a bit of luck along the way, there always is, but what saw you through was belief in yourself and an arrogance born from self-preservation.' Samuel looked earnestly at Cayden before continuing. 'You thought you were better than anyone else and could do anything you wanted. You were bullied because you were different, because you would not follow the gang. Am I right?'

'Every kid gets bullied,' Cayden said defensively.

'Hmm,' said Samuel, looking at his hands clasped on the table. 'Jess was bullied because she had a terrible stammer. She was short and looked like a scrawny sparrow. I cried for her, not because of the bullying, but because of the tremendous pride I felt, as I watched her fight it, overcome it, become so strong – just like you, old boy.'

Cayden studied the old man's eyes, glistening as the memories flowed.

'She will succeed – just like you, Cayden, she just needs her nugget of luck to help her on the way.'

Cayden cracked his knuckles. 'Two years ago something happened that changed my life ...'

'The murder of your wife.'

'She wasn't my wife,' Cayden said quickly, 'she should have been but it's too late and I regret that so much.' He could feel his vision blurring. 'Nothing has been the same since,' he added, looking out across the turquoise water at a sail on the horizon.

'A great tragedy. But even tragedies have purpose,' said Samuel. 'Look at the death of my wife. I thought my world had come to an end. I wanted to end it, wanted to for a long time, but then there's been the joy of Jess, moving out here, Purcat – so many things that I would have missed.'

'Your point?' Cayden looked at his watch.

'Don't forget what got you here,' Samuel replied.

'Maybe I want to change – or should more like. I didn't like the way I behaved back then.'

'Then, push on with that knowledge. You never know, it may lead you to happiness you never dreamt possible.' Samuel smiled. His eyes shone with a compassion that bought a lump to Cayden's throat.

'I better get going.' Cayden got to his feet.

'I'm very glad Purcat is in your hands, old chap. I hope you'll come over as often as you can to see how things are going. Next time I'll take you for a ride on the MTB.'

'I'd like that,' said Cayden, shaking Samuel's hand. 'Just make sure you put diesels in her before all you're left with is chard timber.'

'You ready?' Jess called, appearing suddenly on the patio, dressed in cut-off jeans and a plain blue t-shirt. She had left her hair down. As Cayden approached, he could see she had put on lipstick and her eyes had been accentuated with mascara and eye shadow.

He glanced at the sofa. 'Where's Gloria?

'I told her she could go. I want to show you something, then I'll take you to the airport.'

Cayden saw his suitcase in the hall. 'You're quite ...'

'A pain in the ass,' she said, smiling. 'I know. Come on, we don't want to keep your pilot waiting.'

Cayden climbed into the cab of Jess's battered pick-up. 'Go with the flow, Cayden,' Samuel called. Cayden watched him waving in the side mirror until they turned out of the drive. 'Your Dad's a good guy,' he said, more to himself than for her benefit.

She gave him a sidelong glance, 'Of course he is.' Her hands clenched the wheel. The tracking must be out, Cayden guessed, the way it vibrated. Her forearms flexed with the effort of keeping the speeding wreck on the potholed road.

'Where are we going?' he winced as the suspension crashed through another crater. She drove hunched forward against the seatbelt, glaring over the steering wheel.

'The Bahamas Government protects twenty percent of the coral reefs, mainly around Exuma but also some off Nassau. That means no fishing.' She accelerated around a turning vehicle. 'I managed to get them to grant me an exclusive contract to film the coral recovery process. We've been at it for three years, involving students from various universities in the States – it's added a unique human aspect to the project.' She glanced at Cayden. 'We have them saying things like, ''dude, I'm totally stoked man, this is sooo cool'' ...' she added, mimicking an American accent. 'Anyway, apart from lots of pictures of twenty-somethings in shorts and bikinis – always good for viewing figures – we've got the first filmed evidence on the miraculous rejuvenation of a destroyed habitat.' Jess hooted at a truck pulling out from a side turn, then glanced at Cayden with an enthusiastic grin. 'It's so rewarding to show the positive side.'

He smiled briefly and then encouraged her to look ahead; they were bearing down on a group of cyclists straddling the road.

'The wider implications are enormous for any country that hardly pokes its head above sea level, like these islands. The Bahamas are dependent on coral growth to keep up with rising sea levels,' Jess continued. 'The Government, thank God, understands this and that's why it's so important the rest of the world does too.'

They turned from the main road down a sand track running through a grove of palm trees, the underside of the pick-up brushing tall grasses. Jess parked on an area of crushed stone. In front was a stretch of beach, contained within black, rocky outcrops. Orange buoys mapped out a twenty-five square metre section of the turquoise water. Jess led the way to a rusty container. Wavelets lapped up the sand, slapping languidly against the outcrops. Flies swarmed over a dead crab. A gull floated overhead, its flock bickering on a rock below. The dependable breeze blew through the coarse grasses around the container and the palms behind the beach. 'Nothing much seems to be happening,' Cayden said, stepping up beside her.

Jess unlocked the padlock and swung open the container door. A blast of hot, stale air swept over them. Wetsuits and diving paraphernalia littered the floor; a rough bench ran along one wall; a compressor and several dive tanks were stacked against the other.

'Rising sea levels is not something you can stand and look at, but believe me it is happening,' said Jess as she led him to the bench. She knelt below it and pulled the starter handle on a petrol generator. It chugged over, She tugged it again, this time more fiercely. It sputtered and roared. An electric light came on overhead. Jess waited impatiently for the amp meter to stabilise before hitting the on button for her PC. A screen illuminated and she typed quickly on the key board. She clicked an icon and a movie started playing – showing coral, divers swimming and placing markers; and images of fish; crabs and other marine life. Young enthusiastic faces mouthed something to camera; fit bodies in swimwear climbed in and out of wetsuits. If there was sound, Cayden couldn't hear it over the generator. 'This is all the material we've gathered over the years. It needs a lot of editing and a voice-over – all that crap.'

'You keep three years' worth of work here?' Cayden shouted, looking around dubiously.

'We have back-up copies elsewhere, but look ...' Jess pointed at the screen and clicked on various files. 'This is a picture taken out there when we started and this ...' She clicked another file, '... this is what it looks like now.'

Cayden examined the two images and struggled to see a difference. The echoing blast of the generator was beginning to give him a headache.

'Bleached and dead corals here, healthy growing ones here,' she shouted impatiently, 'Surely you can see?'

Cayden stared harder at the images. Eventually he nodded. 'I guess the contrast would be more apparent on a larger screen.'

Jess pushed a hand through her hair. 'We need a professional edit and voice-over before National Geographic will take it.'

'I see,' said Cayden, straightening up. 'I can't think in here.' He walked out into the sunlight. Blue exhaust from the generator was escaping from the top of the container. Jess joined him. 'I must get more fuel for that thing,' she said.

'Why hasn't your father helped?' Cayden asked, moving further away from the echoing din. Startled seabirds flew away in all directions.

'He would, but I can't keep asking him for money. He's got this old boat and his retirement to think about now,' she replied.

'I'm sure he wouldn't miss a few thousand,' Cayden suggested, gazing at the cordoned-off patch of water.

'I'm 29 years old! I need to break away from Daddy's help. I need five thousand dollars,' Jess retorted.

Cayden picked up a dead piece of coral. He rubbed his thumb along the bone-white surface, the delicate contours as hard as stone.

Jess folded her arms across her chest and turned away. 'Give me five minutes to charge the batteries,' she said, watching the column of exhaust, 'and then we can leave.'

His feet sunk into the soft sand. He could feel the heat through the soles of his shoes. The beer from lunchtime was making him drowsy. He would have liked to lie down on the beach and nap. Jess was irritating him. A penumbra of anger drifted about him.

She sighed. 'I'm sorry if I'm coming on too heavy, Cayden, it's just so damn hard to get ahead in this game and I know I could be so good at it.' She touched his arm. 'I didn't mean to upset you.'

Cayden nodded, pulling a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket. He looked in sequence at the rusting container, sinking at an angle in the sand, at the outwardly insignificant little bay, and at the faded orange buoys. The scene reminded him of a failed dockyard, a place that had seen better days – but anticipated a more prosperous ending. He had a stark image of the time he had first walked the dilapidated yard on the Hamble.

Jess was back inside the container, switching off the generator. She clanged the door shut and turned the key in the padlock. Cayden closed his eyes, letting the silence seep into him, trying to decide what he should say to her.

He felt a disturbance in the air. He opened his eyes. Jess was standing in front of him.

'Let's go,' she said, walking towards the pick-up. He followed, admiring the lithe movement of her body. He touched the metal of the door and stopped – the sound he had heard was more prominent, now a distinct throb. He searched the horizon, taking his hand reactively from the hot metal. Then he saw it – a flash of reflected sunlight along the coast. A helicopter, flying low. It rapidly grew in size. Cayden opened the pick-up door and climbed in.

The Bell Jetranger suddenly banked heavily.

He and Jess stared, shocked, as it headed straight for them, losing height and speed. It hovered over the cordoned-off water and then edged sideways towards the beach, Sand rattled against the bodywork of the pick-up; it rocked on its suspension. The grasses flattened around them.

'What the hell is he doing?' Cayden shouted.

'Let's not hang around to find out,' Jess shouted back, turning the ignition. She engaged reverse but stalled. 'Fuck it!' She pumped the accelerator and twisted the key. She had flooded the engine.

The helicopter's skids touched the sand and the power decreased. The passenger door opened.

Cayden gasped as Agent Sly Williams ran towards the pick-up

He shouldered open the pick-up door. 'Why am I not surprised?' he shouted, above the noise of the idling helicopter.

Sly snatched off her sunglasses as she strode over the beach, her slip-on shoes flicking sprays of soft sand. Impatiently she kicked them off and scooped them up in one fluid movement. 'Why the hell didn't you tell me you were coming out here?' She stood, hands on hips, glaring, her eyes reduced to slits against the low sun.

Cayden crossed his arms. 'Firstly, you told me we had ten days; secondly, I can go where the sodding hell I like without reporting to Homeland Security; and thirdly, I haven't decided whether I'm going to do anything for you anyway.'

'It's too late for all that now, you have no choice,' she said.

Cayden's eyebrows arched. 'Oh really.'

'Hello,' a voice called from the other side of the pick-up. 'Would someone mind telling me what's going on?'

Cayden slapped the rusty bonnet of the pick-up. 'Jess, sorry, this is the annoying Agent Sly Williams, Homeland bloody Security.'

Sly jammed on her sunglasses and nodded in Jess's direction. 'And you are?'

'Confused,' Jess replied.

Sly threw up her hands impatiently. 'Whatever. Cayden, we need to talk ...' She started to walk away from the pick-up, '... privately.'

He dropped his chin, studied the bald tyre turned out from the wheel arch. Flies buzzed over something squashed into the rubber 'Do you have anything to drink?' he asked Jess.

'Are you about to be arrested?' Her voice from the cab was muffled as she rummaged around the foot-well before emerging with a half-litre bottle of water. She tossed it across the bonnet. Cayden caught it and unscrewed the cap. 'Nope, Agent Williams is trying to recruit me.' He tilted the bottle and gulped half the contents. 'I won't be long.' He raised the bottle to thank her.

He walked towards Sly, leaning against the trunk of a palm, and sat in the sand next to her, the shadow of fronds waving over him. 'How did you find me?'

'Your departure from the US was easy – you'd filed a flight plan. The limousine company knew which hotel – their driver confirmed she had taken you to a residence owned by a Samuel Babbacome. The telephone directory gave me his number, and he told me his daughter had taken you here on the way to the airport, I told the helicopter pilot and, hey presto – finding people is not hard.'

'But getting them to do what you want is?' said Cayden, glancing up from studying crab tracks in the sand. 'What did you mean, I have no choice?'

Sly took a deep breath. 'They've attacked Quantico, Cayden, killed hundreds – marines, generals, VIPs of our allies, woman, children ... Jesus, you should see the pictures.'

Cayden looked silently at the drooping blades of the helicopter, the tips bouncing slightly in the breeze.

'We're gearing up for World War Three,' Sly continued. 'Iran is about to explode. Then Afghanistan, Pakistan, anywhere and everywhere, Cayden. The US is tired of the political rhetoric and diplomacy, it's going in guns blazing, wiping out every Muslim power base, every organisation it sees as even a vague threat, and there ain't nobody who can stop us. We're the only super power.'

Cayden stood up, brushing sand off his hands and trousers. He offered the bottle. Sly studied the contents as if it were poison. Shook her head.

'We're on the very lip, peace is holding on by a hair, but its toes are over the edge and the surface is crumbling. We have to scour the world, haul in every suspect, interrogate, try and prove to Washington that it's not the whole Muslim world doing this, but a few crazy terrorists – bring the Administration back from going to war based on public opinion that it's the whole damn culture we have to fight.' Sly paused and looked earnestly at Cayden,

'And you're here because Maalik is a suspect?' he asked.

Sly nodded. 'A tiny fragment in the great scheme of it all, but a suspect none the less.'

'Well, if the US is preparing itself to go to war against the rest of the world, it won't think twice now about entering any country to collect suspects. So, just go down to Peru and get him,' said Cayden.

'There are thousands of suspects in South America alone, Cayden, even we don't have the resources for all of them, and we're still back-pedalling on burning all our diplomatic bridges.'

'There's no chance – none at all – that Maalik's going to come back to the US in this climate,' Cayden replied as he threw a stone at a coconut.

'We have to try. There's evidence coming out of Quantico that there was a South American link. If you don't want to do it for Rachel, Cayden, how about for world peace?'

'Oh please Sly, don't ...' He glared up at her. '... just don't, okay? If you think he's that important, I'm sure the CIA, or whoever, could have him back in the US in a few hours. They're flying prisoners around the bloody world in secret all the time. What do they call it?' Cayden clicked his fingers. 'Yeah – extraordinary rendition.'

Sly shrugged.

'Surely,' Cayden continued, 'if you're transporting suspects around the world to interrogate them in countries that evade your processes and prohibitions back home, it would be better to leave Maalik where he is!' Cayden stood up, brushing sand from his hands. 'Take him to some cave, interrogate him, beat the living crap out of him, and then seal the fucking cave!'

Sly pushed a hand through her hair. 'Christ, Cayden, what are you so scared of?'

'I have a business to run, Sly ...'

'Oh yeah,' she retorted, looking pointedly around the beach.

'The plan is bullshit!' He spat out the word. 'It has more holes than ... than Swiss cheese and I'm a Brit, in case you hadn't noticed, not a US citizen, and certainly not on the payroll of your security services. Yeah, you know I want to see Maalik dead if possible, but I'm not going to go charging round the world on a half-baked plan to achieve it.'

'You're scared,' said Sly, an arm of her sunglasses in the corner of her mouth as she studied him – the sort of look he had last seen when Rachel had asked him why they couldn't get married.

'Fuck you.' Cayden turned on his heel and strode across the sand.

'You've forgotten how to take risks, Cayden,' Sly called after him, 'you've forgotten who you are.'

Cayden waved her away, his feet sinking into the soft white sand bordering the beach and the first tentative strands of vegetation. He passed the container and black rock outcrop. On the other side was a sun-bleached wooden jetty, many of its planks missing. A pelican sat on the end post. It regarded him balefully as he picked his way over the rotten timbers, reluctantly taking flight when he finally made it to the end. The bird dipped to the surface and glided effortlessly along the shoreline, its head held back into its body, its great beak splitting the air in front. Cayden watched it go and then sank down onto the last solid plank. He took off his shoes and socks and put his feet into the warm water. Silver fish darted into the shadows beneath him. A crab, its pincers out as if it was dancing with an invisible partner, sashayed across a patch of sand encircled by weed. A barracuda waited patiently on the weed's fringes. Cayden pulled out his mobile. No signal. He had a desperate need to talk to someone and, as he looked out over the mosaic of blue, he suddenly realised there was probably no-one who cared enough to listen.

Was he scared of coming face-to-face with Maalik? Was he scared of proving finally how much he had really cared for Rachel? If he didn't have the will, the energy even, to fight the person who had destroyed his life, what were the last two years all about?

The sun was burning his neck; sweat ran down his arm. 'You pathetic bastard,' he told himself, watching ripples from his swinging feet cross the sand oasis defended by the crab. He rubbed his neck. What he needed was a balance sheet, one that clearly showed his personal assets and liabilities, his strengths and weaknesses, so that he could get an understanding of the bottom line – why he was struggling so much with Sly's overtures.

He got to his feet, dizziness sweeping over him. 'Rachel's payback,' he said softly. Her image flooded his brain. 'You couldn't change me while you were alive, so now you're doing it from the other side.' He finished the water and, holding his shoes, picked his way back down the jetty.

He found them in the shade of a palm close to the pick-up. He could tell they had been talking about him complicity, judging by the way they were sitting side-by-side, bare feet covered in sugary sand, like two old school friends gossiping about the men in their lives. They were studying their toes, squirming in the sand as he looked down at them. 'Jess, I would appreciate a ride to the airport,' he said.

Sly looked up sharply. 'I have a helicopter.'

'Yeah, I noticed.' Cayden opened the door to the pick-up. 'I guess you'll be needing it to get back to wherever you're going.' The door creaked loudly.

'Cayden ...' Sly scrambled to her feet.

The door shut with a squeal. 'Meet me at Fort Lauderdale airport, I'm sure you'll know what time I get in.' Cayden stared at the helicopter.

Jess started the pick-up. She made a three-point turn and bumped back up the track. They could hear the turbine of the helicopter start up through the open windows. Cayden glanced into the side-view mirror and watched Sly run back under the rapidly turning blades.

'So, what were you two talking about?' he asked, brushing sand off his feet with a sock.

'Oh, you know, just all the shit happening in the world. We tend to get a little isolated down here. What happened at Quantico was terrible.' The truck moved slowly over the soft sand. 'She's very committed, very brave I think, to be taking on these bastards face-to-face. Not sure I could.'

Cayden stopped brushing his feet and looked at her.

Jess turned to face him for a moment, her gaze piercing. 'What?' she asked, rolling her eyes, feigning innocence. Her breasts bounced within the tight material of her t-shirt, the nipples clearly reacting. He looked away hurriedly, but only as far as the creamy firmness of her thighs, the denim of her shorts cutting into the unblemished skin.

'When I get back, we'll talk in more detail about backing ... for your project,' he said before returning to the task of cleaning the sand from his feet.

'So, does that mean you're interested?'

Her voice made him look up sharply. He saw her knowing smile, the look of innocence now infused with provocation. 'Yeah ... possibly,' he replied. Attraction bounced between them; sound filtered to her breathing; vision zeroed to her striking face, her slightly parted lips, the quiver of uncertainty at the corners of her mouth, a rising of colour on her cheeks. He could feel himself blushing; confusion flooded his senses. He felt like a teenager meeting a gaze from a pretty girl across the bar.

Then – a bang from the front of the pick-up and they lurched against their seat-belts.

A metal road sign – Warning junction ahead – bent out from under the bumper. 'Oops.' Jess crashed the gears into reverse and manoeuvred back onto the track. 'Sorry,' she said a little breathlessly. 'Are you okay?'

Cayden nodded.

'I'm more a diver than a driver,' she grinned.

He laughed.

'Although I was distracted,' Jess added as she crunched the truck into first. She looked at him, an eyebrow arched.

Cayden turned away, pulling on his socks. 'If you keep your eyes on the road, how long to the airport?'

'There you go, Cayden, always thinking of the destination, never relaxing and enjoying the journey.' Jess turned onto the main road – without looking left or right.

A car horn blared as the vehicle went by. 'With you driving, I'll be lucky ever to reach my destination!' Cayden looked through the rear window at the car swerving back onto the tarmac from the dusty shoulder.

'So, enjoy the ride, it could be your last!'

'How old are you, Jess?' Cayden asked, regretting his condescending tone.

She chuckled as she located a packet of gum on her sun visor. She offered a stick to Cayden. 'I'm twenty-nine, Cayden. Old enough to drive, and certainly old enough to know better.' She winked at him.

Cayden held on as they negotiated a few 90 degree bends, his deepest emotions subsiding with the white knuckle ride. Thankfully, the airport loomed into view. They took the road to the general aviation terminal. Cayden climbed out and retrieved his bag from the back. 'I'll call you,' he said through the open window. 'I have some loose ends that need tying up with the Purcat. I'll fly over ...' He smiled. '... schedule. We can meet up again and discuss options.'

Jess leant over and put her hand over his. 'I can't wait. Take care, Cayden, please be careful, okay?'

He nodded, wondering how much Sly had told her. Squeezing her hand, he looked at her face and then walked away, not trusting himself to say any more. Only when hidden by the blackened glass did he look back and watch her drive slowly away from the terminal. He shook his head ruefully and went to find Captain Gobel.

Chapter 17

Eight boys carried him on a stretcher of plywood lashed to two scaffold poles. Jalal's fingers gripped the edges of the hard surface. The boys' immature muscles struggled with his weight and their awkward route along the narrow tunnel from the cave. Sapa Inca had wanted Jalal to crawl, but with only one good arm, and his feet badly swollen, it was an impossible demand.

Jalal clawed at the stretcher sides as they descended the spiral steps inside the sequoia before arriving at the tiered platforms. The glow of coals inside a halved oil drum, and the smell of cooking meat, flooded his mouth with saliva. He could not remember the last time he had eaten. The grumble of his stomach joined the cries of pain from other parts of his body. Oily torches burned in split cans, throwing jittery shadows across the uneven, swaying platforms, the branches evanescent. Figures appeared. The girl with the gold plastic sunglasses was chewing a chicken leg, surrounded by boys sitting on their haunches, like dogs, waiting for scraps. Jalal was taken past the blackened remains of their hut. He couldn't tell – could he smell charred wood or was it his smoke-coated senses from the fumigated cave. He was vaguely aware of the scream of forest insects – like the hum of a sleepless city. Bats flitted like black leaves through the torchlight. Jalal and his escort had reached the elevator. He was rolled into the cage, crying out in pain. Sapa Inca, following him inside, was looking silently down at him as they descended. He still wore the monk's hood and yellow robes but, as the torchlight receded, all Jalal could see, was the faint glow from the mad Inca's gold-painted nails.

They waited at the bottom while the cage went back to fetch the boys and the stretcher.

'Where is my brother?' Jalal groaned in the darkness. He could feel mosquitoes on his battered skin now that the repellent odour of the torches was gone.

Sapa Inca stood silently.

Jalal suppressed the pain, concentrating on the moment they had arrived in the Cessna. What had happened to the pilot? Maybe replacing him was no longer going to be an expense. The Imam had mentioned Quantico, headquarters for the Americans' cowardly Marines, men who hid behind bulletproof vests and armoured vehicles, killing innocent women and children with helicopters and laser-guided bombs. The operation would have required lengthy and meticulous planning. Whoever was responsible was well-organised. This mad Inca could certainly not have done it. Another al-Qaeda cell? But who? Ansar Aziz al-Islam knew all the international operations; the Council on which he sat was responsible for implementing and coordinating all the attacks based on orders from Pakistan.

Jalal felt something crawl across his leg. He lashed out with his arm and lost his balance, rolling into the damp leaf litter. He struggled to sit up, his arm held stiffly against his chest. Earlier, as they had carried him roughly onto the stretcher, he had seen the wound by the beam from the overhead electric light. The split in the skin was an ugly swollen purple. He believed it was too late to get medical help – if he survived, it would be amputated. Allah have mercy! How was he going to carry out missions with one good arm?

The boys arrived. They scooped him onto the board and the procession continued through the darkness, a branch or leaves occasionally slapping against Jalal like the hands of well-wishers on a parade. They moved slowly along the raised pallet walkway, their weight squelching the ooze as the wood strained, a string of random low wattage lights overhead. He craned his neck, looking forward. Through the swaying shadows of the boys, he could see the structure of the cocaine shed silhouetted behind brighter floodlights.

Sapa Inca greeted Maritza. She bowed to him, then led them through a door in the side of the building. The cavernous interior echoed to the buzz of strimmers as boys shredded the coca leaves into smaller pieces. Others stamped up and down on the black plastic floor in regimental lines, their feet alabaster from the cement powder used to mix with the leaves. The procession passed large black plastic drums – it was like a distillery, but these were full of the petrol the cement-leaf mixture was poured into. Finally, they reached an area of benches, where the drained-off, white viscous fluid was treated by older boys, distilled into crystals, bagged and then loaded into coffee cases. Adult male overseers paced between the lines, their eyes cloudy, their jaws chewing methodically at coca leaves – AK-47s hanging on straps.

Jalal recalled the bitter taste and craved its anesthetic properties. The procession was greeted by cries of 'Sapa Inca' as unwashed bodies collapsed to the floor in prostration, the rank human smell eddying with powerful drafts of petrol and chemicals. Jalal's head lolled on the stretcher as they reached the front of the shed where three battered trucks were backed up, their platforms raised to spread a small hill of freshly-cut leaves across the concrete. To one side, a group of boys stood by a red Toyota minibus. As Sapa Inca approached, they shuffled into line. Three men stood with them, two wearing colourful knitted pacus, ponchos and the wide-strapped sandals of the Inca race, pistols in holsters worn low on their thighs like Western gunslingers. The third man's face was obscured by a balaclava, a cigarette in the mouth slit, as he leant back against the front of the minibus, a dirty boot resting on the bumper. .

The priests bowed and the boys sank to their knees amid a disorderly scrape of shoes on concrete and the thump of discarded backpacks.

Jalal's stretcher bearers wandered away to join groups of boys watching from the mound of coca leaves. Maritza squatted next to him. 'Allahu Akbar' she whispered, smiling viscously.

Jalal ignored her.

Her hand shot forward, fingers clenching a fistful of hair as she yanked his head back. His neck arched. She sank her head to the exposed vein, her incisors cutting into the plumpness of her lower lip.

'Maritza!' Sapa Inca boomed, his voice full of menace.

She sat back on her heels, bowing. When his attention reverted to the boys, she shuffled forward, her mouth close to his ear. 'I go to university,' she said.

Jalal focused on her sallow pockmarked face – a button nose that was flaky around the nostrils, lank black hair to her shoulders, her collar bones visible through the rotting material of her t-shirt. He picked out the faint lettering of a logo across her small breasts. Her old woman's eyes studied him placidly. He could smell her even above the stench of his arm – urine, chicha, cigarettes.

'What is he doing?' Jalal asked, rolling his head to look back at her master.

'Sapa Inca is a great Shaman, a master of the spirits. He gives them caapi.' Jalal glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. 'Ayahuasca,' she growled. 'Only Sapa Inca knows how to make – from special vine and bush, enough for their weak minds to see the guidance of spirits – but not to kill.'

Sapa Inca started to chant along with the men in caps. Maritza's voice whispered in his ear, 'Sapa Inca says, to our potion illuminate our mind, bring us ... I do not know this word ... show us the designs of our enemy, expand our knowledge, expand our understanding ...' Green liquid dribbled down the chins of the boys. '... for our potion bring us favour, of the boa source of good fortune – see how he brings the mighty spirits of Inca warriors, look how they live the battles with the hated Spanish conquistadors,'

Jalal could see the boys who had received the liquid become still, dreamlike, their faces calm, their heads moving slightly to a hidden beat, their bodies poised, backs straight, no tiredness evident in those further down the line. It was as if Sapa Inca's body was some magical scanner. As he moved along the line the boys were transformed from blurred black and white copies to vibrant, full colour. Yet, although their eyes were open, and from Jalal's distance they looked clear and intelligent, there was a lack of consciousness, a zombie quality to the stare.

Maritza let out a startled yelp and Jalal's head whipped round with surprise. The man with the balaclava had taken her place; she lay sprawled on the concrete, her nose bleeding, not knowing whether to cry or bare her teeth.

'I wonder what lies the whore has been telling you,' said the man, his lips moving inside the balaclava. Jalal stared fearfully into pitiless black eyes.

'Who are you?' asked Jalal. The eyes – not South American – were blacker, set closer, narrower, with long eye lashes. Eyes with which Jalal was infinitely familiar - Arab eyes.

'One who Allah favours more strongly than you, it would appear. Masha-Allah,' he whispered. His lips twitched into a sarcastic smile. 'Or maybe we Sunni are indeed more intelligent than Shi'a – who knows?' The stranger prodded Jalal's arm with a stick he had been carrying. Jalal grunted with pain. 'Looks painful,' the man gloated, 'but I guess you won't have to suffer much longer, Insha'llah.'

Jalal had heard this type of voice before – on television when the Prime Minister of Britain had visited Basra. He summoned the strength to reply: 'We are all Arabs under the eyes of Allah, we do his work, holy jihad, to rid this world of the infidel, the one who would try and erase us from this earth. Why do you side with this ... this mad man?' Jalal hissed.

A row of perfect white teeth appeared through the slit of black cotton. 'This mad Inca pays me well for finding him these boys. Bombs.' He mimicked the noise of an explosion. 'In his deluded mind, he sends his little army against the Spanish – and al- Qaeda pay me well to send them elsewhere. A win-win, you might say.' The teeth glistened with a full smile.

Jalal glared into the discs of coal, struggling to understand the stranger's quick-spoken English. He looked into the man's face. 'The Inca madman knows. That is why I am still alive. He wants me to find out for sure. I cannot believe he does not suspect you.'

'There are others he would suspect before me,' the man shrugged, sitting down on the concrete, crossing his legs comfortably, the smile still playing from the corner of his lips.

'What if I told him?' said Jalal.

'He trusts me. I bring him boys and money for his cocaine. You, well ...' The eyes studied Jalal before continuing. 'I believe he has mentioned your brother might still be alive.'

Jalal stiffened.

The smile returned.

'I am waiting for a call from my Imam. What if your name is mentioned?'

The stranger prodded Jalal's arm with the stick. 'You do not know my name – and this mad fool doesn't either.'

Jalal collapsed onto the hard wood of his stretcher. He looked up at the corrugated metal of the roof, arching high above on thick steel girders. 'What do you want?' he asked in Arabic.

The man tapped his stick on the floor. 'I don't know ... yet,' he replied eventually. 'I'm trying to see if you and your brother ...' He prodded Jalal's arm again. '... have a use.'

The chanting had reached a deeper level. Jalal glanced sideways, sweat dripping in his eyes from the pain. Sapa Inca was moving slowly back down the line, the men in caps following. Each time they reached a boy, they placed a set of headphones over his ears.

'He isn't quite as mad as he appears,' the man said conversationally beside Jalal. 'Did you know my friend, there are four principle brainwave states, from high amplitude, low frequency delta through to low amplitude, high frequency beta ... hmm, did you know that, my Shi'a jihadist? And these waves take you from dreamless sleep all the way through the ranges to ... I don't know, let's just say high arousal.'

Jalal closed his eyes as pain wracked him. He couldn't understand what this British Arab was saying.

'This idiot, through his lotions and potions and jungle mumbo-jumbo, is able to switch the boys' brain patterns into theta waves, which takes them into a nice, pliable trance – a dreamlike world.'

Jalal turned his head to look at the stranger as he continued his explanation.

'They are basically hypnotised. What he's doing now is planting a certain song in their minds – that's the trigger. They go off on their mission with a handler; he plugs in their i-pods and when they hear the song that's been programmed into their brains, they go off ...' He giggled. '... explode.' Jalal was bemused as the stranger became hysterical, falling back on the concrete, his shoulders convulsing. 'Perfect little boys,' he cried, 'until the song comes on and then – boom. Al-Qaeda strikes again!'

Jalal levered himself onto his good arm. 'We are fighting the same cause. You must help me,' he hissed.

The man became still and then sat up, resting on his elbows. 'The tricky part is, the actual bombs.' He waved his stick at a cockroach that had scuttled from under the pile of coca leaves, leaning over to crush it, flicking its body under the stretcher. 'That can only be sorted once the boys are in the target country – that was how I originally became involved. The great Sap contacted us to supply the explosives and then, when he became aware of my other specialities, he employed me to find new recruits.' The stranger sat up fully, making circular patterns in the dust with the end of his stick. 'He thinks it's this shamanism thing – the visible world pervaded by invisible forces or spirits that affect the living, like summoning these lightning strikes and storms,' He jabbed the stick into the centre of the ring he had made, 'He only starts the mumbo-jumbo when he knows a storm is coming – and around here, if you have metal conductors up in the trees, you've got a pretty good chance of being struck.'

The man stood up and looked down at Jalal. 'Big ceremony's coming to an end. I'm needed to transport these drugged kids to the airport. They're off to Spain ...' He waved his fingers. '... killing the hated Spaniards like they once massacred the mad Sap's family – ooh, yeah, payback for Cusco and Machu Picchu. He'll claim victory for the Sun fucking God, but no-one outside here will believe his madness, it'll be another strike for al-Qaeda, another step towards Armageddon.'

'Were you responsible for Quantico?' asked Jalal.

'I got them into the country, so, yes, I think I can claim some credit. Yes, I think you can give me credit, my little jihad warrior.' He clapped his hands together. 'Boom!' he cried.

'What about my brother?' Jalal called after him.

The man turned. He was tall, about six feet. He looked down and studied his shoe thoughtfully, kicking a pebble that rattled over the concrete and pinged against the stretcher. 'Another time. I'm sure the mad Sap will look after you.'

Chapter 18

Cayden rested his head in the thick leather, a Captain Morgan spice rum and ice in hand. He felt the thrust of the Citation's engines, the rumble of wheels, the flashes of terminal buildings and parked aircraft – and then the gut-swooping lift, the rumble of the undercarriage coming up, the brown and green changing to blue and white. He should have been up there with Gobel, building his hours, but his mind wasn't on it. He convinced himself it was the drink, but in reality he knew it was Jess. Even before Rachel, he had come to accept that, through maturity or just plain biological degradation, he would never again experience the heart-thumping arousal of instant attraction, the light-headed invasion of endorphins, the tightness at the base of his stomach, the anticipation, excitement and vibrancy, the blossoming of ego and pride – the gushing well-being.

Yet here it was, coursing through him. Suddenly, like switching channels, his personal movie was bright and colorful, full of humour, hope and possibility. He downed the fiery rum and poured another, raising his glass and smiling at Captain Gobel who had turned in his seat to check that everything was okay. Images of Rachel collided in Cayden's head with those reinvigorated emotions. The comfortable, dependable and routinely satisfying battled it out with the risky, passionate, complicated and irresponsible. Cayden closed his eyes. He heard the roar of air passing the thin skin of fuselage, the bob and jiggle of air pockets and then he drifted off to sleep and dream ...

... A vehicle stuck in sand, Water rising. Long, tanned legs struggling to get into a wetsuit, the black rubber shiny like latex. No underwear, the dark triangle of pubic hair. Her pelvis off the seat – trying to pull the clinging material up over her hips. Breasts jiggling with effort – suddenly surrounded by young, laughing people dressed in wetsuits. The water rising, covering his face – but him still breathing. Swimming in cavorting circles around a patch of sand – a great pincer reaching out from the rocks, severing one of the divers. Blood ballooning – still swimming round and round. Another cut in two – him searching for her. Pulling off masks – laughing, swimming. Eyes wide without masks. A hand in his – and him looking into blue eyes. Being pulled into the ring. Swimming around and around. A crab claw shooting from a dark recess – cutting into his stomach ...

Cayden jolted awake as the Citation's wheels bounced onto the tarmac, the seatbelt cutting into his waist.

'Welcome to Fort Lauderdale,' Captain Gobel announced over the intercom. 'Looked like you were having quite a sleep there, Mr. Callejon.'

Cayden rubbed his eyes and looked out the window at the passing runway lights, regaining his orientation – 7.10 pm on his watch.

'You have a reception committee,' said Gobel, twisting round to look back into the cabin. Cayden could see the flashing blue and red lights of a waiting vehicle.

'How do you know that's for me?' he replied.

'ATC advised that they're waiting to take you to Miami.'

Cayden felt a twinge of anxiety. He was being sucked into another confrontation with Maalik whether he liked it or not. Sly was really beginning to piss him off. His emotional attachment to her had waned and could no longer smother the irritation. He really wanted to tell her to go to hell and get on with his life in a more rewarding direction. Maalik no longer seemed the enemy he once had been. What was that saying? Revenge is a dish best served cold. Immediately, he felt guilty. He retrieved his bag from the back of the aircraft, shook Gobel's hand and moved quickly down the steps to the waiting police car. Just get this over with, close the book, then get on with life with a clear conscience.

The Broward County Cruiser took him straight out of the gates and they were on I95 in minutes, lights on, siren wailing at the traffic clogging the HOV lane. He had not cleared Customs or Immigration so he guessed officially; he had not entered the country. Cayden considered the implications as he watched startled drivers scatter from the speeding cruiser like minnows from a barracuda. The officer driving had said no more than a perfunctory 'good evening' and that he had orders to escort Cayden to the Homeland Security building in Miami. His civility had not extended to offering to put his luggage in the trunk. Forty-five minutes later, they stopped in front of a familiar glass and steel five-storey building. Lights blazed on all levels; occasional, shadowy figures passed behind lowered blinds, dropped half-way, abandoned at odd angles, testament to the occupiers' impatience with such trivialities

The officer escorted him to the security desk and left with an indifferent 'have a nice day' which was matched by an equally desultory 'empty your pockets, sir' by the security guard. His case was sent through the scanner twice, opened, emptied and then left for him to re-pack after he himself had been asked to remove his shoes and belt. He zipped his bag shut, glaring at the officer standing placidly in front of him.

Sly stepped out of the elevator and walked towards him, her smile quickly fading.

'You worried I'd put an end to this by blowing up your building?' said Cayden.

Sly shrugged off his sarcasm, 'Sorry, Cayden, but no-one's exempt, security's as tight as hell.'

He watched two women, dressed in pencil skirts and dark jackets, with attaché cases, pass through the beeping body scanner without a pause. The security guard watched them walk towards the elevator, the click of their heels in sync with the push of their buttocks against the tight material. The security guard winked at Cayden. He scowled.

'Leave your bag, Cayden.' Sly tugged his arm. 'Come on, he's only doing his job.' They joined the two women in the elevator.

'You could have sent an unmarked car, you know, you didn't have to collect me like some returning convict,' said Cayden, looking over the heads of the women at the floor indicator.

'The alternative was a cab. I thought I'd save you the fare.'

Cayden looked at her sharply.

'The least I could do,' she grinned.

'This brings back memories,' he said as they stepped out, glancing at the glass-walled cubicles, exposed air-conditioning pipes and cabling in the shadows above suspended lighting. 'Or nightmares,' he added, following her along the carpeted corridors, getting occasional glimpses of harried officials hunched forward at computer screens. The last time he had been in this building, Rachel had been alive. But because of his ego and Sly's ambition, they had not done as Maalik wished. A few days later, Rachel was dead.

Sly shook her head sadly but said nothing, hooking her jacket over the back of her chair. He noticed she was still wearing the same jeans and t-shirt that he had seen on the beach.

'You want some coffee?' she asked without looking up from the folder she had opened.

Cayden looked for a machine, shrugged when Sly still hadn't looked up and walked to a water dispenser.

'Okay, this is the plan,' she said, sliding a sheet across the table, then moving her mouse to restart her computer. She drummed her fingers, waiting for the screen to power up. 'We're flying you down commercial, tomorrow ... let's see ... yeah, here we go ... American out of Miami, direct to Lima, flight number ...' She clicked a button. '... AA 917. You want a window seat?' She glanced at him.

Cayden sat holding his paper cup of water. 'I usually fly business class.'

'Not on our budget, baby.' Sly grinned.

He crumpled the cup and dropped it into a bin.

Sly went back to the screen. 'Okay, let's have a look at ... yeah, we've organised a transfer from the airport to the hotel on... ' She pulled a map from the file, unfolded it, turned it to face him and pointed. ... here. Maalik always stays here.' She looked up.

'Do I have a suite?' Cayden asked.

'No! For Christ's sake, what's the matter with you?'

'Matter with me?' Cayden slammed the palm of his hand on her desk. 'You're the one who looks like you've got a red hot poker shoved up your arse!' They glared at each other. Eventually, he looked down and swivelled the piece of paper to face him. 'You're getting paid to do this. I'm looking for some appreciation.'

'Oh, poor baby.' Sly grinned, then scowled. 'Grow up, Cayden, you're helping bring to justice the man responsible for the death of a woman you loved.' She arched her eyebrows. 'And maybe contributing a little to world peace.' Sly glanced back at the screen. 'You're booked into room 602 – wow, that's one-fifty a night. See – no expense spared! Maalik usually stays on the floor above.' She looked up and paused, then got up from her desk and went to stand behind Cayden, who had closed his eyes and was resting his head in his hands. Sly lowered his arms and started to massage his shoulders. 'I'm sorry for being a bitch,' she murmured. 'Sometimes I don't know whether I'm cut out for this.' She rubbed her fingers up his neck. 'I just want everything to go well. I want this son-of-a-bitch in gaol. I want to put right some of the shit I caused.' She ran her fingers through his hair, 'I feel responsible as well, you know.'

Cayden reached up and held her hands. They were cool.

The walls shook as the door opened.

'Interrupting anything, Agent Williams?' – a male voice, cold, calm.

Sly snatched her hands away and hurried around her desk as the man came into view. The same broad shoulders, the almost square physique; long greying hair, straight fringe, oval glasses accentuating pale eyes, patchy stubble. There was a yellowish hue to his skin and a few spots on his neck just above his collar. 'Cayden, you've met my boss before – Harry Burrows.'

Neither man offered to shake hands.

'Carry on, Williams,' said Burrows, leaning with his back to a filing cabinet.

Sly retrieved another piece of paper from her file. 'Okay. We'll have a CIA guy in the lobby – you won't know who he is, but, um, be confident he'll be there if Maalik decides to do anything stupid and, um, the Peruvian authorities are being kept out of the loop because ... because, as I've said before, they wouldn't be happy with us physically escorting Maalik out of their country.' She looked at Cayden, then quickly at her boss. 'Okay, so once he sees you ...' Sly drummed her fingers on her desk. '... we're pretty confident he's going to want to get even, yeah?' She nodded confidently. 'His profile shouts ego, anyway ... um, we've persuaded the hotel manager to allow Maalik to confirm your name against the register, find out your room number and, um, provide him with a key.'

'To my room?'

Sly held up her hand. 'Ahuh. He'll go to your room, find you're not there – obviously – but you'll have left your briefcase open.' She slid a piece of paper across her desk. Cayden leant forward to read it. 'Um, you can see there, that we've, um, rented a nice little condo on the Intercoastal ... he'll see that you've only just rented it and it's reasonable for him to expect to find the rental agreement still with you, right? Within the rental clauses is the condo safe number – before you've personalised it. Um, the rental agreement will be dated the day you flew from Miami to Peru, so we reckon Maalik will be pretty sure you haven't had time to change the code ... he'll see that it takes 24 hours for the code to reset.' Sly pursed her lips. 'It doesn't, but Maalik'll not know that.'

Cayden glanced up at Harry Burrows. His expression was neutral. He didn't return his gaze.

'Now, here's the part I haven't mentioned to you, Cayden.' Sly slid two more pieces of paper over from the file. 'As you can see, this is ...' She jabbed her finger on the first document. '... a bank statement, showing that on the day before you flew to Lima, you took out $250.000 in cash.' Sly moved her finger to the second piece of paper. 'And, um, this is a letter of intent to purchase an historic racing boat from a private seller in Miami – for cash.'

Cayden looked at her sharply.

'Okay, and finally, there's this.' Sly slid over a third piece of paper. 'A hard copy of your e-mail correspondence with your South American agent ...'

Cayden frowned. 'He's in Rio.'

'Maalik won't know that.' Sly waved her hand dismissively. 'The e-mail tells a story of a major problem with a big customer and says your presence in Peru is urgently required.' She sat back. 'The only thing Maalik has to do is put two and two together ... um, you'd arrived with a suitcase full of money to buy this boat, but before you could do anything about it, you had to make an emergency trip down here ... the money's in the condo safe.'

'Why wouldn't it be in a bank?'

'You didn't have time – you don't have a U.S. bank account ...'

'But I do,' Cayden looked between the two of them. 'Surely he'll check?

'We don't think so – and anyway, even if he found out you do have an account, he wouldn't be able to access it.'

'And your point is?' Cayden asked.

'I told you.' Sly frowned. 'We have intel he's screwed some big-time dealers and he's desperate for cash.'

'So he's going to hop on a plane to Miami, based on what he's read in my briefcase, arrive here – where he must know he's on a wanted list – drive to a condo, crack the safe and walk off with the money. All his problems solved?' Cayden looked incredulous.

'You're the bait,' said Burrows suddenly. 'Without you, yeah, maybe the plan's a long shot – but we know this guy. If he can get even, he will – and you cost him a lot of money back in Trinidad, yeah?' Burrows moved away from the cabinet he had been leaning against. 'If he goes to the trouble of checking any of these details, they've all been made real – all those numbers, e-mail addresses etcetera, will connect to operators who can respond ...'

'No expense spared, then.' Cayden stared at Burrows.

'Maalik's not stupid. We have to do things right.'

'I thought part of Maalik's profile showed he'd really want to get even – kill me,' said Cayden.

'Maybe later,' Burrows replied, 'but first he'll want to clear you out. The two-fifty will settle his debts.'

'What if he decides to send someone else to empty the safe? What's your contingency?' Cayden asked.

'We're pretty sure there's no-one left in the States he can trust. They're all in prison.' Burrows rattled some change in his trouser pocket. 'He'll be confident coming into the States on a fake passport, but we'll be watching. Once he's here, we'll put him away for the rest of his life and you can get on with yours, Mr. Callejon.' Burrows attempted a smile but it was more of a leer.

'That's very kind of you,' Cayden said, smiling sarcastically. 'Your organisation seems to be going to a lot of trouble to get Maalik. Don't you have bigger fish to fry?'

'We do, Mr. Callejon. I thought that's why you'd volunteered,' Burrows said, moving towards the door. 'We're very appreciative. Williams, my office when you've finished up here.' The glass shook again as he left.

'I think he needs to go on one of my sales team seminars. Learn about motivation techniques,' said Cayden.

'He's got a lot on his mind ... here's another passport for you,' Sly tossed a maroon United Kingdom passport across to join the sheets of paper.

Cayden picked it up and flipped through the pages. His photograph was one taken in Miami.

'You'll notice we've changed the arrival stamps so they correspond with the e-mail itinerary – we really are trying to cover all the bases.'

Cayden snapped the passport shut and laid it carefully on top of the papers. 'So I see,' he said.

Sly shrugged. 'Do you have any questions, Cayden?'

He should have had a hundred but could think of none at that moment.

'I'm at the end of the phone 24/7 ... if you need anything.' Sly stretched across her desk and held his hand. '... just call, okay?'

Cayden nodded.

'Hey, when Maalik's gone, why don't you get some rest – take a trip up to Machu Picchu or...I don't know, I've always wanted to hike that trial.'

'Come then,' said Cayden, feeling relaxed again in Sly's company, tapping his passport on the desk.

She smiled wearily. 'You available for dinner?'

Cayden looked at his watch – 9.30. He stretched and yawned. 'That would be great. Let's make it my hotel. I need to e-mail the office, make sure everything runs smoothly while I'm running around Lima as bait.'

'Gimme ten minutes with the boss,' Sly said, retrieving her jacket.

Cayden sat back in his chair, flicking absently through the pages of his second passport. The buzz of Jess and the tingle of anticipation of a possible new life was evaporating like morning frost – one moment, a sparkling white carpet in winter sunshine; the next, a dead lawn under leaden sky. Waves of bleakness swept through him again like Atlantic swells pushed outwards from a strengthening depression – the closer it came, the harder he found it to manage. Was Maalik the centre of that depression? He wasn't entirely sure.

His approaching encounter loomed too large in his consciousness for him to see through to the potential calm on the other side. He felt unsettled. He didn't like it – and neither did he like the fact that Tomahawk no longer filled him with purpose. He wanted to peel off his skin, step out of the old suit and be someone else, have lived another life, have been a different person – one who had friends and children, lived in a community where people cared how others were feeling, said 'hello,' in the morning as you strolled to the local shop for your paper ... a sense of belonging. Tomahawk had been his family, his world, but it had grown bigger than him; it had shrugged off his guiding hand, formed its own personality. He had become an employee. Cayden slapped the passport irritably on the table.

'I'm being greedy,' he told himself as he got to his feet and stretched. He had achieved more than most and still wanted more. Tomahawk was his legacy, his contribution to the world; it was his son, and although it now bore no resemblance to him, it would always have his seed, like an oak tree – no-one ever saw the acorn but knew that was where the tree had started life He was having a mid-life crises, that was all. He snatched up the papers. Rachel's death had detonated the crisis and, once the dust settled, he would be once more in control.

Cayden's gaze rested on the buff folder. He leant over the desk and scooted it towards him, opening the flap. After glancing cautiously towards the door, he fingered out a sheaf of papers.

Scribbled notes related to intelligence on Maalik. A profile supported Sly's opinion, that his ego would not allow an opportunity to pass to get even with Cayden. He scanned through copies of his itinerary – then saw a plastic folder with his picture on the front. Opening it, he read an accurate resumé of his life – beginning with his age and date of birth in 1966.

There it all was – his National Insurance number, home address, company stock-holding, salary, income tax return, the name of his school near Petersfield, his mediocre 'O' and 'A' levels, details of his first job as a yacht broker, a copy of his driving licence, the money he had made from a property deal that enabled him to put a deposit down on the dilapidated boat yard on the Hamble, the size of the loan he had taken out, the debt he had incurred in the first few years, copies of accounts for Tomahawk to the present day – showing the steady rise of profitability, and his personal wealth. Cayden did not know whether to be impressed or shocked with the mass of detail. It was all on British Government databases – how had Sly managed to get hold of it? And, why did she need to have such a comprehensive dossier? Then he found his answer – scribbled on a sheet of A4 at the back.

A character assessment in Sly's hand.

She had noted: affected by the pursuit of money, his ego, pride ('threat to'), honour, temperament ('sensitive but tries to hide it!') – and Rachael. She listed: dynamic (when things are going right!), aggressive (when they're not!), energetic – an achiever, a winner, a high-flyer. An arrow led to the word 'destiny, underlined twice; another linked this with a series of statements beneath – she had written: attached to his nephews (Jac's sons, Michael / Dylan) and had linked this to the school bombing, Dylan's illness, al Qaeda – and Maalik. Cayden felt the sweat on his forehead.

At the bottom of the page Sly had scrawled: Why trained in self-defence and anti-interrogation techniques?

Cayden fumbled the papers back into the plastic and flipped the outer folder closed. 'Sly by name and definitely sly by nature,' he mused, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. The glass partition shook. He jumped upright.

'Heh, catch you napping? You ready?' Sly asked.

Cayden followed her athletic strides down the corridor to the bank of elevators.

'So what were your last minute orders from the boss?' he enquired as they stepped inside.

Sly shrugged, keeping an eye on the floor indicator. 'Usual bullshit.'

Cayden watched her narrowed eyes staring resolutely at the digital numbers until the doors swept open. She turned and smiled brightly. 'Let's get over to the hotel. I'm starving.'

The suite was immaculate, impersonal. His few clothes were out of sight in the closet, and when he glanced in the bathroom, even his toiletries were neatly arranged in a cane basket. He opened his laptop, plugged in the cable USB and logged onto Tomahawk's website, using his password to access e-mail. Sly had followed him. She sat on the end of the bed, legs crossed, watching.

Eighty-two new e-mails. Cayden sighed. He scanned the mundane reports from sales, marketing and production, noting with satisfaction that hull 234S100 had moved up the schedule. 'I might be a while,' he said. 'Why don't you go up to the restaurant – have a drink?'

Sly fell back on the bed, spreading her arms wide, making a snow angel on the duvet.

Cayden glanced over. The faded lines of denim on her tight jeans directed the eye to the straining buttons. She heeled off her shoes and brought one leg over the other to massage her foot. Her evocative contours stretched the stone-washed material.

'I think I'll take a shower,' she said, kneading her toes, 'my feet are killing me.' She looked past her raised leg. Hard to resist. Ribbons of renewed emotion, floated between them; invisible strands coiled and knotted above the grey and blue carpet, mixing desire, need, regret, anger and passion, in a lascivious bundle of intensity that surprised them both.

'Need someone to scrub your back?' he asked.

Sly flung her arms wide again, her feet performing an aerial entrechat. 'What is it with you?' she cried.

Cayden grinned. 'Didn't get where I am today without being persistent.'

Sly sat up suddenly. Her eyes narrowed. Her lips pouted. 'What happened between us last time ... what was it?'

Cayden held her gaze. 'Redemption,'

Sly ballooned her cheeks and blew through her lips. 'But what we did was the sin!' She hunched her shoulders, 'What? You thought by screwing me you were somehow absolving yourself of Rachel's predicament?'

Cayden looked back at the screen. The truth was, he didn't know. He scanned the e-mail from his PA, Carol, hoping for inspiration. 'Maybe it was a release, one we both needed, nothing more, nothing less.' He glanced at her.

'I don't know if that makes me fucking better or not,' she sighed. 'Gee-wizz girl, you're a release!' She stood and walked to the wall mirror, resting her hands on the table, gazing at her reflection. 'You're an enigma, Cayden, I'll give you that. Outwardly you give off this ...' She rested her forehead on the glass. '... successful, I'm in control, nothing phases me bullshit – yet inside I suspect you're as fucked up as the rest of us lesser mortals. In fact, your emotions are even more retarded then most of the guys I know.' She laid her cheek against the glass so that she could look at him. 'I was just a fuck, right? A ... release thing?'

'No, you were always more than that – much more,' he reassured her.

Sly straightened, stuffing her hands in her pockets. She looked at her feet, pigeon-toed, – a girl lost in the playground. 'Were you expecting love, marriage, children, the whole salami? Why have you never had kids, Cayden?'

It was his turn to blow out his cheeks. 'It's just never happened, I suppose.'

She lifted her head enough to look at him through the straight fringe. 'Too selfish? Too busy? Firing blanks? What?'

Cayden frowned. 'All except the third. But then I haven't had a check-up, so maybe that applies too!'

Sly threw up her hands. 'Jesus, Cayden, you're a horny looking guy but you know, when there's nothing inside, the experience is...' Her hands fluttered in front of her. '...like looking at a picture of a Caribbean island – looks great but until you get that sand between your toes, the breeze in your hair, the sun on your back, the rum in your belly, it's just ...' She let her hands fall to her sides. '... a piece of damn paper.'

Cayden folded his arms and watched her questioning expression dissolve into confusion, then regret. He wondered if she was suddenly thinking about the dossier sitting on her desk. He believed he was less of an enigma than she was. She regarded him as emotionally fallible. Fair enough, his feelings for people did tend to be reasoned rather than from the heart, but at least they were not buried within layers of manipulation and ulterior motive.

Sly turned away wearily. 'I'm going to take that shower. Finish your work.' She started to unbutton her jeans as she walked. They slipped a little from the roundness of her buttocks to reveal a sliver of white underwear. Cayden was instantly aroused. She pulled her t-shirt clear, allowing him to admire her brown, smooth skin, the delicate indentation of her spine, the slight bulge of the coccyx a barrier to the crack that just showed above her panties – like a final barren hill to climb before sweeping down into the immeasurable pleasures of the valley beyond. The door did not click shut. He watched her shadow bend and straighten as she took off her clothes. The shower started. He glanced at the e-mail from Carol. Couldn't focus. So he got up and walked slowly to the door, pushing lightly with his fingers. Her outline was blurred by watery glass. He hesitated.

'I forgot the soap,' she said, facing him behind the obscured screen.

Cayden unwrapped a bar from the wicker basket with one hand, tore at his clothes with the other. He opened the door, conscious of his aching erection.

Sly slowly reached out and took the soap from him, her gaze lingering on his penis. Without a word, she turned, parted her legs slightly and placed her hands above her on the grey tiles. 'Scrub my back ... will you?' she asked. Her hair was plastered to her shoulders, the cut tapering into the indentation of her spine. The hot water pummelled his chest, his face – his erection. Cayden reached up and prised the soap from between her fingers, his head touching her. They stiffened. He began to massage the soap over her shoulders, along her arms, goose-fleshed despite the heat, and down her back to the splay of her hips, stopping short of her faint tan line. She pushed out her hips, securing contact. They gasped. He pushed his hands up her stretched arms, their fingers entwined, moulding their bodies, soap lubricating the touch of their skin. He bent and kissed her neck and she moaned as he ran his tongue along her shoulder, the water tasting of her salts and perfume. Her buttocks began to move – a slow motion against his erection as it worked between her buttocks, exquisitely slowly. She pushed herself onto her toes, turned her head and their mouths crushed together, tongues entwined. She allowed his penis to slip down the drenched crack until they cried out together as she sunk down over his length. Like two welded entities, their hips remained unmoving, her internal muscles squeezing his erection while they breathed watery gasps, eyes shut from the pummelling water. Her body shuddered and her control collapsed. He thrust into Sly, her buttocks slapping against him. 'Fuck me, Cayden,' she screamed, 'oh fuck ... fuck me.' She pushed back against his urgent thrusts. He snatched wildly at the shower rail for support. When the heat started to leave the water, he opened his eyes, swept his arm around her waist and hugged her to a stop, her body convulsing as he came, his penis pumping deep inside her.

*****

'No, a Coors Lite would be fine,' said Sly when he asked her if she would like champagne. 'We screwed, you didn't get down on one knee or anything – okay, you did, but you weren't proposing!'

Cayden returned her smile; the shower and a slower, sensuous hour on the bed afterwards continued to send shivers down his spine. 'Beers it is then.' He signalled a waitress.

They stared out at night-time Miami, their faces reflected in the glass like two glowing moons above the skyline. Both were content to sit in the emptying quiet of the hotel restaurant, the piano player on a break, neither wanting to disturb the calm that had cocooned them, isolated them from the world like a warm car on a winter's night.

The waitress arrived. The bottles cracked against the glass tabletop, shattering their reverie. 'You want a glass?' she asked, stifling a yawn.

Sly nodded, sighing deeply.

'When I get back from Peru, do you think we could see each other – seriously?' Cayden asked.

Sly concentrated on pouring her beer into a glass. 'What about your company, Cayden?'

'I can run it from here just as well. I would have to go back once a month for meetings and what-have-you, but the people there can run it day-to-day happily enough, without me.'

She sighed again, picking up the menu. 'Half of me can't believe what I'm hearing. The man, who two years ago was committed to his company more than anything I would have thought possible, now ...' She looked over the top of her menu. '... wants to leave it to his minions to run?'

'I want to move on,' he said.

Sly nodded with a smile – but her face was sad. She reached over and held his hand. 'I know, I do as well. But Quantico, al Qaeda, the mess in Iraq ... Iran set to explode, Pakistan on the verge of civil war, children blowing up schools ... my job is just so manic at the moment. I just don't know if I could commit to anything.' She squeezed his hand. 'I mean, if people don't calm down, we could be in another world war.'

The waitress wandered over and took their order – spare ribs, salad and baked potatoes.

'How about ...' Cayden raised his glass. '... we drink to the world not blowing apart, you not being so stressed – and us then giving it a go?'

'I thought I'd find you here, you son-of-a-bitch,' a voice yelled from two tables away.

Charlotte Weller strode towards them; heels clicking on the tiles, her hips knocking chairs away. She stood above them, eyes blazing, legs slightly apart, stretching the tight business skirt – something had been spilt on her blouse. 'You fucking bastard,' she screamed, 'you stole my deal just because I didn't fuck you.' Her arm swung out but she had been drinking and her movement was clumsy. Cayden effortless caught the hand. He used it to hold her away and calmly stood up.

'That's assault,' she cried, trying to kick at his shins.

'If you don't calm down, you'll be thrown out,' he said.

'You gutless shit. Is that the kind of man you are? A woman finds you too boring to sleep with, so you fuck her by taking away her future?' Charlotte struggled in his grip, strands of hair falling over her eyes.

'Your behaviour that night just made my decision easier,' Cayden replied.

Her resistance slackened. 'Why? Don't you have enough?'

Cayden released her and watched warily while he held up his hand to stall the approaching staff. 'Firstly, what I did was not for me, it was just business. Secondly, I didn't mind that you found me boring, or anything else, but you humiliated me.' He glared at her. 'That I will never accept – you lost any potential of being included in the deal.'

Charlotte took a step forward. 'Fucker!' she shouted. 'What deal? I've got friends ...' She moved an unsteady step closer. 'I'll ... I'll get you for this, you ... you useless cocksucker.'

'I think you need to cool off,' said Cayden, remaining calm. 'Are you going to leave quietly or do these guys have to show you the way?'

Charlotte's eyes narrowed, her mouth twisted with hatred, her fists balled on her hips. 'Who's this whore?' She jabbed a fist at Sly. 'You have to pay her?'

Cayden stiffened. 'Shut up or I'll have you thrown out.'

'Fucker!' she screamed, swinging her jacket at him before striding away, pushing over chairs, thrusting off the restraining hands of two bar staff.

Cayden dabbed his cheek where a button had caught him. There was no blood. He rubbed his face. 'I'm sorry, that was embarrassing,' he told Sly.

She regarded him enigmatically. 'I'm guessing the date from the Blue Door...didn't go well?'

He side-stepped the question. 'The food's taking a long time,' he smiled.

Sly finished her beer and settled the glass with exaggerated care on the coaster.

'Listen, Sly, I did what I did for Jac – or rather his fiancé, Janet – you remember her?

Sly nodded.

'They were going to get married; they've been that close since her parents were killed by Maalik's sidekick ...' He clicked his fingers.

'Gittens.'

'Yeah, the gangly freak.' Cayden finished his beer. 'But they've been putting it off for various reasons. Anyway, Janet's now decided to move to the Bahamas and take over a business her father had started out there. By shear fluke, I heard that woman ...' He gestured to where Charlotte had left a wake of overturned chairs. '... was about to take the deal from her,' Cayden shrugged. 'I wanted to help.'

'By screwing her?' Sly asked, following his gaze.

'I didn't screw her, I would have thought that was obvious.'

'I was talking figuratively.'

Cayden sighed. 'Look, if Janet makes a success of this, then she'll be happier in herself and then maybe they'll get married. Jac deserves it.'

'Okay, so it was a business deal with altruistic reasons, which you were happy to screw her to get,' Sly said, evenly.

'Bollocks, Sly! That's how it ended, but it was not my original intention.'

'Correct me if I'm wrong, but you knew she had that deal on the table before you went to the Blue Door – yeah? '

Cayden adjusted his cutlery.

'I'm right?' Sly raised her voice slightly, her eyebrows arched. 'Balls are not something I'm sure you have any more, Cayden. I've lost my appetite.' She threw down her napkin and stood with a screech of chair on tile. 'Your intention was to fuck her, then screw her. That's the truth – right?'

'I'm going to Peru ... for you,' Cayden said, wrapping his napkin around his hand.

Sly held her handbag across her chest. 'Really? So Rachel's now ...'

Cayden balled his fist around the napkin.

'Have a safe trip, Cayden,' she said. 'Follow the instructions and when you come back, Maalik will be locked away.' She bent and kissed him lightly on the cheek. 'Maybe you'll find yourself down there. You'll come back knowing what you want and who you are.'

Sly walked away. Cayden watched her long, flowing strides.

The warmth of her lips was quickly fading, like a storm cloud ruining a summer's day.

Chapter 19

They had kept him awake all night, feeding him coca leaves. The pain in his feet had numbed. He could not feel the fatigue in his muscles.

The structure swayed as they climbed the central stairwell. The rusty scaffold poles, creaked and groaned.

Jalal dabbed at the sweat on his face. His arm still throbbed but did nothing to take away his surprise at the miraculous transformation to his energy levels.

On all sides, the trees climbed with them, the heads of saplings and ground plants, blending with the bromeliads and ferns that clung to crevices and forks in the giant limbs of trees, whose canopies still towered above.

Suddenly, the wire guy-ropes quivered from additional pressure. Jalal and his escort clung to the nearest metal poles for support. He heard chanting above. Looking down through the grid of ironwork, he could see a platform rising up from the shadowed jungle floor. The rope and pulley squeaked with effort, Sapa Inca's sun-yellow cloak emerged from the gloom like a false sunrise. As it drew level, the hooded figure turned and silently faced them, the face, as usual, hidden from view.

Jalal grunted as a stick jabbed at him from behind. Wearily, he resumed his climb, becoming nauseous with the movement.

A trap-door opened and he was pulled roughly up onto the main deck, supporting a lean-to with a thatched roof, a mobile satellite dish and an aerial reaching out through the canopy. A gang of sweating boys stood around an A-frame, used to lift Sapa Inca to the platform. Jalal's gaze fell on a figure, arms tied over a yoke lashed to a wooden cage that teetered over the edge of the deck.

'Isam?'

Jalal was knocked to the floor but he squirmed under their kicks and punches until his hands clenched the rough wooden bars of the cage. 'Isam,' he cried, 'Subhanullah, you are alive.'

Isam's head lifted slowly, revealing a beard, matted with blood and mud. One eye was closed, there was a gash across his forehead. 'My brother, glory to Allah,' Isam croaked through swollen and bleeding lips.

'Give him water,' Jalal shouted at the leering, jibing, boys.

'You are not giving orders,' said Sapa Inca, walking from the shadows of the lean-to. He thrust a satellite phone at Jalal. 'You call – then your brother will be given water.'

'Ya Allah.' Jalal turned back to Isam, whose head hung limply. 'Isam, be strong, my brother.'

Isam did not lift his head again. His fingers twitched in response.

Jalal dialled the twelve-digit number. 'I need to speak to the Imam.'

'He is away on business.'

Jalal went through the sequence of code.

'One moment, I will see if he is available,' said the voice on the other end of the line.

Jalal tried to remain calm. He stepped to the edge of the deck; a scaffold pole was all that prevented him from tumbling to the hidden jungle floor below. Sweat bees crawled into his mouth and tried to burrow into the corners of his eyes. He ignored them. A hummingbird busied itself between the red flowers of bromeliads in the branches of a sequoia. They were on the hill above Sapa Inca's cave. Through the surrounding tree canopy – as if he were looking from one skyscraper to the next – he could see the endless vista of jungle. Thunderheads were on the horizon, collecting the thick, moist air, before deluging the greenness below, so completing the endless cycle.

'Peace be to you,' Ansar Aziz al-Islam said cautiously, his voice metallic.

Jalal watched a pair of buzzards slowly turning on hidden thermals. 'And to you be peace together with God's mercy,' he replied.

'All praise to Allah, Lord of the Worlds, and peace and blessings on his trusted prophet,' the Iman responded. 'Jalal, my son, the Westerners are making things very difficult since Quantico; many on the council have had to go into hiding, including me ...'

'Speak English,' Sapa Inca hissed.

'... the Americans are scared, and like the cowards they are, they beat and murder all Muslims ...'

'Imam, please speak English,' Jalal interrupted.

Ansar Aziz al-Islam hissed.

The buzzards had become distant specks, soon to be swallowed in the blackness of the approaching storm.

'This man ... this Sapa Inca. – may I speak to him?' the Iman asked, the weariness in his voice evident despite the static.

Jalal glanced at the hooded figure who shook his finger angrily. 'I have already spoken, Sand Lander – what is the answer from this. ... Iman, this dog who lives in a land the mighty Inti has already destroyed?'

'Tell him I need more time to find who is diverting his children for their aims,' said Ansar Aziz al-Islam. 'I believe it is Sunni-led, but that will take time ...'

Sapa Inca lashed out with his foot. Jalal grunted with pain. 'You do not have time,' snarled the Inca.

'Isam is ... very ill,' said Jalal, '...there is someone here...a Sunni...I met him...please Isam is...'

'To Allah we belong and to Him we return,' Ansar Aziz al-Islam replied sadly.

A long hiss of static. Jalal knew there was nothing more to be said. Isam was a holy warrior, a soldier of jihad, and soldiers were expendable.

'Allahu Akbar,' Jalal added quietly, staring out across the jungle top, now rapidly disappearing as the storm approached.

The line went dead. His good arm hung limply at his side as the phone was snatched from his fingers.

'I have wasted too much time on you, worthless Sand Lander,' Sapa Inca roared. 'Mighty Inti shits on your Allah,' He strode to the cage, a blade flashed in the gathering gloom and the bars split with the force of his swing. Isam's head flew back, his one good eye wide with surprise, 'Ya Allah,' he cried as blood spurted from his mouth and nose. Sapa Inca thrust the knife upwards, Isam's blood spewing over his sleeve and shoulder.

He focused on Jalal. Then his head fell slackly forward.

Jalal, frozen with horror, suddenly felt the breeze of the approaching storm. He could hear the far-off roar of the wind across the jungle canopy, Allah's voice, the will of Allah!

He used his good arm to crack the heads of two boys together; they stumbled away, barely conscious. Jalal rotated on his right foot, kicked another boy in the chest, pitching him over the rail, his scream quickly drowned by the howls of the pack as they rushed in to attack. Jalal howled with them. Selecting a taller boy, he clenched his outstretched arm, and swung him away like a scythe; the boy's feet scattered the rest across the deck.

Sapa Inca had turned, his gold dagger still buried deep in Isam's chest.

Jalal charged, his injured arm forgotten. The Inca side-stepped at the last moment and Jalal crashed into the cage, his momentum breaking its tether – it swung out over the void, the rope creaking on the branch above.

Jalal reached through the split bars and gently pushed his brother's head back, closing the dead eyes with his thumb, wailing a prayer for Isam's soul that had so obviously already left him.

The cage completed its arc. Jalal looked skywards to the span of giant branches supporting a transparent green roof – like a giant dome on a great mosque. 'I will be with you in paradise soon, little brother, Insha'llah.' He slipped the blade from his brother's chest; it came free reluctantly. Warm blood spilled over Jalal's hand.

He turned, holding on with his good arm. The cage gathered pace on its return swing. Jalal raised his feet and flew into the gathered knot of boys, hitting two squarely in the face, their noses erupting with blood. The others tried to get hold of his legs and arms, one sinking his teeth into Jalal's wound – it burst with a shower of yellow pus. The boy staggered away, gagging from the stink. Jalal lashed out with his knife, slicing the boy on his leg – and then another across his shoulders. The two boys screamed and tumbled away. Another charged. Jalal back-handed him. He hit the scaffold pole protecting the deck and Jalal kicked him over. His pathetic, terrified scream disappeared into the dark depths.

Sapa Inca stood quietly in the shadows of the lean-to. There were too many boys for Jalal to get through. The Inca knew he was weakening rapidly and soon he would be overpowered.

Jalal spun on his heel, the change in direction surprising them. He lashed out at the closest, the point of the dagger narrowly missing the boy's eye. Jalal ran to the lift, tied to the A-frame. He jumped aboard, slashing at the retaining rope as the snarling, hissing crowd of boys rushed at him.

Another slash and the platform fell away, the rope screaming through the pulley. A boy tried to jump but caught the edge of the platform. A pole snapped his neck, silencing him instantly. Smoke rose from the pulley. A group of boys tried to grab the end but the rough fibres tore their skin. Sapa Inca roared for them to leave it. Walking quickly to the edge, he looked down, waiting for the platform's impact.

A loop of rope tightened around a boy's ankle; he was swept up and jammed into the pulley with a force that pulled his leg through until his body filled the gap, showering blood, muscle and sinew over the heads below. They cowered away together in disgust, oblivious to the screams as the weight slowly pulled the boy through, like meat in a grinder. Sapa Inca had not taken his eyes off the platform. It had stopped a few meters above the ground vegetation; he could see the Sand Lander looking up at him.

The Inca ordered a boy to fetch another knife but, as he watched, Jalal jumped from the platform onto a nearby tree. Then he lost his grip – and disappeared from view.

Sapa Inca pushed back his hood; his eyes, like nuggets of coal, glared up to the towering cumulus above, the network of tattoos across his bald head depicting the rays of sun – contorted with bulging veins as he screamed in fury at Inti for letting Jalal escape

A crack of thunder. It was as if the earth's crust had split apart. Lightning forked from the blackness and the rain thundered down, drowning the Inca's roar, the screams and howls of the frightened boys,

The ran poured into the greenery below, running down the leaves, stems and branches, collecting the struggling Jalal, who slipped and tumbled to land in the mulch on the ground. He staggered away; he had to find somewhere to rest – gather his strength, mend his sick arm, so that he could return and avenge his brother before joining him in paradise.

Chapter 20

Cayden sat in the back of the minibus, blankly watching the ribbons of traffic on the potholed highway. He shivered involuntarily from the air-conditioning. The hike across the airport car park had soaked his shirt with sweat. Absent-mindedly, he plucked at the cotton around his armpits.

He had found a novel on the plane – an old Lee Child paperback. He had been grateful for the escapism, if offered.

Now, his apprehension had returned.

The minibus inched forward to traffic lights. A gravel truck had T-boned a pick-up – split bags lay across the junction, coating cement dust over nearby vehicles. It began to rain. Cayden wondered if the stuff was quick-drying. He turned to look through the back window, half-expecting Maalik to be staring at him from behind a windscreen. His view was blocked by a bus grille.

He wiped his hands on his trousers. The evil that was hope provoked an alien emotion. His destiny had always been very clear; he had never had to rely on any expectation of success – it had always been a certainty. His ambition had been the only strength he had needed to maintain. But that seemed to have deserted him. Tomahawk had abandoned him like an impatient parent. Had his hope for change – real change – now ensured his misery to the end?

He smelt cement through the air-conditioning. The driver was speaking to him, but Cayden couldn't be bothered to listen. He grunted a reply when the driver's dark eyes looked expectantly at him in the rear view mirror.

Tyres left cement tracks; pattering it into wheel arches. The wipers smeared it across the windscreen.

The rain stopped.

Hope had driven him to Scotland, had forced him to endure the terror and humiliation of the SAS training. He had hoped the experience would have pressure-hosed away the dirt that had clogged him since Rachel's murder, made him see clearly, forged a new, stronger self. But hope had just dragged him through one physical hardship to the next. If little Dylan had not been hurt, he would have come home unchanged, back in the office, going through the motions. He hoped, sitting in the dirty minibus in Lima, that things were now, at last, changing – and this made him laugh sardonically. The driver looked at him. Cayden shook his head irritably.

He stared ahead through the arches of dried cement. He had once hoped he could negotiate with Maalik – that had ended fatally. He was now hoping to bring him to justice. He twisted the strap of his carry-on bag in his hand. Ugly breezeblock buildings framed showrooms of furniture, cars, motorcycles, electrical appliance – and more furniture. Billboards advertised mobile phones, bread called Bimbo, the latest Piaggio scooter. They reached a major junction, ringed by McDonald's, Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, and billboards for Pepsi and Coca Cola. A freeway ran above; storm water spouted from guttering onto the vehicles below, the force removing some of the cement from the windscreen. The driver turned and smiled, touching a crucifix hanging from the mirror, saying something that obviously related to God's intervention in getting his windscreen cleared.

Cayden nodded, unsmiling, trying to remember the city's layout from the map Sly had given him, but the driver was taking unfamiliar turns and short-cuts. Cayden soon lost his bearings. They turned down narrow tree-lined streets, fronted with elegant Churriguer-esque styled villas – terracotta tiled roofs and lemon painted walls – behind ornate black iron fences, jacaranda and palm. Expensive cars had replaced the three-wheeled rickshaws he had seen puttering about the poorer streets near the airport, elegantly dressed business people flitted from coffee shops and designer boutiques while city employees raked the grass verges. Cayden looked behind. Nothing.

They turned onto a busy commercial street – tall office blocks, tiled pavements, hurrying office workers, shops and sandwich bars. The minibus stopped with a jerk as a VW Beetle suddenly pulled out. Cayden felt a burst of adrenalin, his overwrought imagination expecting the doors to be slammed back for hooded kidnappers to pull him outside – Maalik standing over him with a pistol. The Beetle sped away. Cayden fell back in his seat, glancing up at a road sign on the side of a Budget car rental office: Santa Rosa. If he remembered correctly, they were heading towards the Pacific

The Pacific Park View Hotel was a white-painted twenty-story building with nine columns of black glass – they reminded him of piano keys – dominating its frontage. It was set into a curve, bordering the Miraflores district of Lima's Costa Verde. And, indeed, the hotel overlooked a lush park with the Pacific beyond – its gunmetal surface fused with the haze.

Cayden glanced anxiously about the foyer, half-expecting Maalik to be sitting in one of the easy chairs, drinking coffee – waiting for him. Instead, he saw several groups of businessmen, hunched over laptops on the low coffee tables. All were of South American decent. Cayden realised he was going to have difficulty recognising Maalik. He thought the face had been indelibly stamped on his memory, but now that he had a host of comparables, he understood that it was the emotions that had been left with, not the physical characteristics. If he didn't have a picture of Rachel in his wallet, he would probably have difficulty remembering exactly what she had looked like after just two short years.

'Cayden Callejon, I have a reservation,' he said to the girl behind the counter, glancing quickly behind him.

The young woman regarded him over the top of her fashionable black-rimmed glasses, continuing her conversation with an equally young man next to her while simultaneously holding out her hand for his passport. He handed it over while looking around for the manager, the man who was going to allow Maalik into his room. The reservation girl tapped away on her keyboard, still in deep conversation. Cayden noticed a man on his own by the window, reading a paper – it was too far away to see whether it was in English. Could he be the CIA protection?

'Room 602, Mr. Callejon,' the woman said.

Cayden shivered.

She frowned, handing back his passport. 'Would you like someone to take your luggage?'

He shook his head, holding up the carry-on and briefcase as his only luggage.

'Buenos, have a nice stay,' said the girl – turning immediately away, back to her colleague.

Cayden wasn't sure what he had been expecting but he thought at the very least he should have had an envelope or something handed to him, acknowledging that the manager was aware of the 'plan,' and a note from Sly telling him not to worry – everything was in order.

He tapped his passport on the counter. 'Any messages?'

The woman stopped in mid-sentence, raising an eyebrow, making a show of turning to look in the message cubby-holes behind her, 'No messages.'

Cayden tapped the passport on the counter irritably. 'Tell the manager I've checked in, will you?' he said, moving away. Then, as an afterthought, he added: 'In fact, tell him to call my room.'

He surveyed the foyer, waiting for the elevator. The businessmen were standing in a noisy huddle, shaking hands; the man at the window had disappeared. A waitress was collecting coffee cups from the businessmen's table. The elevator arrived. Cayden turned. A man with black eyes stood in front of him. An arm sprang forward, snatched the strap of Cayden's carry-on and tugged him into the lift, spinning him around, holding a hand over his mouth, stifling his cries of alarm. The doors closed slowly; none in the group of businessmen had turned to look.

'Welcome, Callejon.' It was said in a whisper – but no less threatening for that. 'I've been expecting you.'

Cayden reacted instinctively. He threw himself backwards and felt his assailant thud into the elevator wall. The man grunted and slackened his grip. Cayden stamped down on his toes. The man grunted again. Cayden jabbed his elbow into his stomach and pulled free of the grip. He turned, and faced again those black eyes – the face of the man who had taken Rachel from him.

Maalik.

He was holding his stomach, the other reaching inside his jacket. Cayden kicked out, Maalik caught his ankle and threw him backwards, Cayden lost his balance just as the door pinged open. He rolled into the hallway – deserted. Maalik was quickly on him, straddling his chest, thrusting a black pistol against his nose. 'You've grown bigger balls since we last met,' Maalik growled, 'but you still make it too easy for me.'

Cayden struggled until he heard the safety catch clicking off the pistol. His eyes widened; his body froze.

'Good boy. Now, get up.' Maalik backed off him, motioning with the gun.

Cayden stood shakily, glancing behind Maalik, hoping to see the CIA man running to his rescue.

Maalik smirked. 'Where's the cavalry?' he asked, his eyes pantomime-wide. 'Is it behind me?' he laughed, beckoning Cayden with the pistol.

Cayden turned; the barrel jabbed into his back.

'Walkies!' said Maalik.

Cayden recalled the accent – south London, but like a drunk trying to speak intelligently.

They stopped outside a door – room number 703. Maalik swiped his card and pushed Cayden through. He stumbled across the floor, falling against the bed, clutching his case against his chest.

Maalik stood, watching him from the doorway – a malevolent smile.

'You ... I was meant ...' Cayden stammered, his heart thumping, mesmerised by the barrel, moving closer.

Maalik's mouth turned down with disgust. He mimicked Cayden's trembling voice. 'You ... I was meant ... oh, oh oh, what a cock-up! Hmm. you look older.' Maalik sniggered. 'I'm glad now that I failed to kill you – yeah, the death of your whore seems to be killing you softly,' he sang, 'probably more painfully than any bullet, eh?' Maalik circled him.

Cayden flinched as the hard metal was suddenly pressed against his forehead.

'The last time I had you like this, your bitch was dead and I had run out of bullets.' He increased the pressure, forcing Cayden back onto the bed. Maalik ripped the case from his hands, straddled Cayden's chest and pushed his head into the mattress with the barrel. 'Now I have bullets, your bitch is still dead and, unless you have bought the rest of the money you owe me for her rotten, stinking corpse, you are going to die mister bloody Callejon.'

Cayden squeezed his eyes tight, his mind and body in turmoil through the weight of Maalik on his chest, the splitting pressure of the pistol on his forehead, and the image of Rachel - collapsed against the wall, a red stain spreading across her chest from Maalik's bullet. He waited for the final moment – the moment when he would pay for it all, the moment of release. The pressure of his guilt, which had swelled in his head for the passed two years, would soon finally escape through the hole Maalik was about to make in him.

His heart boomed out the seconds. He was only vaguely aware of Maalik's slurred voice, haranguing him furiously as spittle rained down on his cheeks. Cayden's body was rigid, effectively paralysed, yet his mind remained dispassionate, reasoning that it would soon all be over – he just had to bear the pain until then. It was reminiscent of that sweat-inducing sound of the dentist's drill just before it entered your mouth. He knew he would feel better on the other side – he just had to endure these few, final minutes of pain. There was only release to anticipate now – no regrets, no life-force, no thoughts of self- preservation. He wanted this. Tomahawk, Jac, his family – they would mourn but prevail. The company would go on – his photograph on the wall would remind those who followed who the 'father' had been, the creator, his legacy – it was bigger than him now; an adult no longer needing his care and attention. 'Get on with it, Maalik,' he screamed inside.

Spit still rained on his face. The pressure on his forehead threatening to split his skull – why didn't Maalik just pull the trigger? What was he saying, jabbering in Arabic? But what about avenging Rachel's murder? Shouldn't he, Cayden, be the one holding the pistol? No, this was better; he was paying the ultimate price – anyway, he no longer had the energy to fight. This was outside his remit – this wasn't a boardroom where he had the necessary skills. This was someone else's turf, someone else's skills – and he was big enough to admit that he did not have the capacity to deal with it. But why didn't Maalik shoot?

Cayden's mind flitted back to Scotland – the ex-SAS instructor, the interrogation video. He wanted to laugh; if only the instructor could see him now – helpless. What had he hoped to get from Scotland, anyway?

Shoot, goddamit!

Cayden slightly opened one of his eyes. Maalik's distorted image loomed above him, the black of his neatly-trimmed beard outlining the blurred features of his face – the hooked nose, the thin, merciless mouth, still moving and spitting words down on him, his eyes, discs of black. Cayden's body went limp; he was almost bored of waiting. Maalik sensed the change in Cayden's mindset. His weight was lifted from Cayden's chest; the pistol had already been removed from his forehead but the weight of its imprint remained.

Maalik yanked him to a chair, bending his arms back, pulling the belt from the loops in Cayden's trousers, strapping his arms to the legs of the chair – and using the telephone cable from the bedside table to bind his ankles to the chair's front legs, Cayden's shoes were removed roughly. A sock was slipped off – and stuffed into Cayden's mouth

Cayden sat placidly; annoyed – nothing more – that he had to continue enduring Maalik's malice.

Maalik hung his suit jacket fastidiously in the closet, a routine at odds to his mumbling prayer. Carefully he pulled a clear plastic bag from the inside pocket and walked to a desk beneath a mirror opposite the bed. He retrieved his wallet and laid that precisely next to the bag. Still mumbling, not looking at Cayden, he walked to the bathroom, reappearing with his toilet bag moments later. He emptied the contents onto the bed, searching through the tubes and bottles until he found two plastic zip-ties. These he used to bind Cayden's wrists more securely to the chair. From the untidy pile on the bed, he found a razor. Returning to the plastic bag on the desk, he emptied the white powder inside and carefully began to chop the cocaine, separating the grains into four fat lines.

Maalik regarded Cayden while he slipped a ten nuevos soles note from his wallet and rolled it into a tight tube.

Cayden didn't know where to look. He spat out the sock, his mouth dry. 'Maalik,' he croaked, 'my case ...' He tried to work saliva into his mouth. '... money, two hundred and fifty thousand ...'

Maalik crossed his legs, tapping his rolled note on his knee. A sarcastic smile spread across his face. 'Did I ...' He tilted his head. '... did I tell you, you could remove the sock?'

'My briefcase ...' spluttered Cayden.

'Well, did I tell you?' Maalik leapt from his seat, reached Cayden in two swift strides and backhanded him across the face.

Cayden hung his head, the sting pulsing on his cheek – but still he couldn't summon up the anger, the will to resist, to fight back. 'No,' he answered limply.

As Maalik disappeared from view, Cayden drifted into reflection. Humiliation was a debilitating emotion, he thought, a humbling of your importance, weakening the belief – a belief that should be fundamental – that defending yourself was a worthwhile endeavour.

Maalik's polished shoes reappeared. Cayden's head jerked up for a fleeting glimpse of the snarling expression – and then the plastic smothered his head, Maalik moved behind the chair, tightening the grip, tying the ends firmly around Cayden's neck. He thrashed his chair from side to side, trying desperately to topple away from the grip, but Maalik wedged the chair into the gap between the bed and wardrobe. He clambered out and, through the film of plastic, Cayden saw him – smiling pleasantly, smoothing his hair back into the oiled mass on his head. Maalik walked backwards, still watching Cayden, to the lines of coke, sat, then took up the rolled note and quickly snorted the first line.

Cayden felt the plastic gradually collapse around his head, the air rapidly becoming hotter, staler. He held his breath but it made no difference – the material sucked into his eye sockets and around his nose, clamping his nostrils. In a panic, he blew out – but the hot air sucked back at him, the plastic settling more tightly around his face. He opened his mouth, sucked in the material, chewed with utter desperation – but his teeth could not pierce the plastic. Again, he thrashed about in his chair, blowing and sucking – enough to stop the material closing completely, but insufficient for him to get air into his lungs. He focused desperately on Maalik, shouted his name – but his voice was smeared by the plastic. It was like shouting underwater.

Maalik concentrated on his last line of coke.

A quick bullet through the head, maybe, but this was no way to go – smothered by plastic while watching his enemy casually snort cocaine. Like a final, desperate calvary charge, anger at last forced back the fear melting his stomach, crushing the barriers that prevented the blood flow to his muscles, his arteries. Strength coursed through him and, with his last breath, he lunged forward. The chair gave out on one leg and toppled with him. His face hit the carpet, blood spurting into the plastic bag – but Cayden continued to roll and thrash. One of his ankles worked free from the broken chair leg, He kicked out, his foot catching painfully on some item of bedside furniture. He sucked in blood – it squeezed between the plastic and his skin, forcing its way under his eyelids and into his nostrils, sealing the plastic as effectively as a vacuum pump. Inevitably, he weakened; the cavalry had done all it could. Unconsciousness engulfed him like a sudden fog – a loud buzzing in his ears, and laughter – maybe his own, mocking in surprise at his pathetic ending.

*****

Disorientated, yet comfortable – until he moved his arms. They were stretched either side, his wrists bound. Cayden opened his eyes. It felt as though he had been wrenched from a deep sleep by sudden noise. Confused, he focused on the ceiling, the white swirls of plaster and the unbalanced, slowly turning, fan. He couldn't breathe through his nose. His mouth felt dry and he swallowed painfully, screwing his eyes from the sunlight streaming in through the window. He glanced around the room. It was empty. He groaned as he looked at his wrists, held with plastic ties to the headboard.

'Help,' he shouted hoarsely.

'You called?' Maalik stepped from the bathroom, towelling his hair.

Cayden went rigid. 'Maalik ...'

'Who else?' He grinned, pirouetting like a ballet star, flicking the towel playfully at Cayden's bare feet.

Cayden's saw the desk top. His briefcase was open, its contents spread neatly across the surface.

Maalik held the towel at both ends and see-sawed it between his legs, his genitalia flopping backwards and forwards with the motion. Suddenly, he dropped the towel and studied his flaccid penis. Thoughtfully, he held it in one hand, as if studying a precious object. Turning slightly towards the window, he looked sideways at Cayden. 'See these marks?' he said, twisting his penis so that Cayden could quite clearly see. 'That's from your bitch, when I forced her to suck me.'

Cayden looked away.

'I think I was too big for her. She suffocated and on reflex ... she bit me.'

'Fuck you,' Cayden called out, looking at the ceiling.

'I've had better blow-jobs, I'll confess, but then, what could I expect ... she was a nice Christian girl, wasn't she? Not some ho!' Maalik sighed, picking up the towel and draping it over his shoulders.

He walked beside the desk, studying the contents from Cayden's suitcase. 'It's all here, just as my man said it would be.' He picked up sheets of paper. 'Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars ... hmm, you cost me a lot more than that, Mr. Callejon'

'You have all you need to take it ... it's all yours,' said Cayden.

'Oh ...' Maalik put his hands on his hips. '... well, thank you, kind sir.' He sashayed over to the minibar, bent over, wiggling his backside in the process, and removed a bottle of Amaretto. Poured the liquor into a tumbler, he raised his glass and drank half the contents before sitting on the edge of the bed. 'Would you like to chat?'

Cayden studied the fan, trying to stabilise his emotions, but they oscillated from lucid to imaginary, in time with the drunken swing of the blades.

'You see, this ...' Maalik reached out, pinched Cayden's swollen nose and twisted his head to look at him. '... this here, and here?' He pointed to puckered areas of scar tissue, one on his left bicep, the other just below his right collar bone. 'Bullets,' he continued, 'from that day your lovely lady died.'

But Cayden could only remember holding Rachel's lifeless body; he had heard shooting; been told afterwards that Maalik had escaped. 'Why did you kill her?' he asked.

Maalik shrugged. 'You were both going to die. I ran out of bullets.'

'She was innocent.'

'Nonsense! Praise to Allah, we can't have you thinking that – not after all she did.' Maalik pointed to his penis. 'She was also your girl,' Maalik sniggered, 'so by definition, an enemy – expendable.'

'She was completely innocent.'

Maalik leapt up, drink slopping from his glass. 'It's war,' he shouted. 'You fucking arrogant twat.' He downed the remains of the Amaretto and poured a fresh glass. 'Our glorious martyr ...martyrdom...' He frowned, '... whatever. They kill civilians as a necess ... as a necessity.' He downed the drink and refilled. 'Where ... where was I? Yeah, our enemy, you ...' He slurped liquor over Cayden's shirt. '... and the pig Americans kill thousands upon thousands – upon thousands – in Bagdad ... in every war going back to the great Prophet Allah.' Maalik hiccupped. 'Blessed to ...' Maalik refilled his glass again and slumped down on the bed, lying next to Cayden. 'You know what ... what the great difference between your corrupt armies and ours is, huh?' He levered himself up on an elbow and peered at Cayden. 'I'll tell you.' He poured Amaretto between Cayden's lips; it ran down his cheek. 'I'll tell you, shall I? Oh, waste not, want not ...' He lent over and licked the Amaretto from Cayden's face. 'A shaheed – that's a martyr – is promised Paradise, right? The Qur'an says ...' He frowned, '...what the hell does it say? Oh yeah, ''think not of those who are slain in Allah's way as dead. Nay, they live, finding their sustenance in the presence of their Lord'' ...yes!' Maalik fell back on the bed and raised his glass to the ceiling. 'How could you ... you infidels ever defeat such an army?'

'You were never a warrior of any kind, just a common murderer, a low life.' Cayden wheezed, comforted with the anger now circulating in his system.

Maalik turned his head on the pillow and gave the, by now, falsely pleasant smile. 'A murderer? No, no, no.' He hiccupped '...a slayer of western corruption – yes that's more like it. And I think quite rare.'

Cayden closed his eyes. 'You're nothing. Certainly no Muslim. The Qur'an doesn't teach murder, drinking, drugs ... what are you going to do to me?'

'Oh,' Maalik sat up and finished the glass, 'is our little chat over? Is it that time already?'

Cayden blinked, struggling in his bonds, glaring. 'Get on with it, you fucking lunatic,' he shouted. 'Somebody – help.' Maalik clamped a hand over his mouth.

'Sshh,' he slurred, 'the hotel manager ... he's next door. You see, he's a friend of mine,' Maalik got on his knees beside the bed, hand still covering Cayden's mouth. 'He prefers Charlie – oh yes, and certain ladies of Lima – to anything your friends in Homeland Security could offer.'

Cayden stopped struggling.

'You gonna be a good boy.' Maalik raised his eyebrows.

Cayden nodded. What was the point in doing anything else?

Maalik slowly removed his hand. 'All great plans ...' He hiccuped. '... can unravel from one tiny little mistake. That bitch ... what's her name?' He clicked his fingers. 'The blonde agent?' Maalik looked at Cayden expectantly. 'Oh well, doesn't matter. She trusted the hotel manager and that was her tiny mistake ... he called me, told me the gist of the plan and, well ...' Maalik put his hands over his heart, 'I just couldn't believe my luck – the great Cayden bastard arriving to try and trap me to go back to the States. Oh wow, I couldn't wait, so I arrived early, before the scary CIA man ...' He shivered theatrically. '... got here and, well, the rest is history as they say – or soon will be ...'

'They'll come looking for me. They'll see my room hasn't been used,' Cayden interrupted.

Maalik put his finger to his pursed lips, pondering Cayden's words. He shook his head. 'Let me show you something.' Rolling off the bed, he bumped the desk as he half-walked, half-staggered to the wardrobe; a rolled pair of socks fell to the floor. Maalik pushed back his suit jacket and reached into the wardrobe's darkened recess. With a flourish, he pulled out material, made bulky by an attachment of some kind. Holding it like a matador's cape, he mock-charged the bed, but stumbled and fell heavily onto it, breathing Amaretto fumes over Cayden's face, pushing the coarse black material against his cheek. 'This,' he giggled, 'is how it's all gonna end.' Maalik opened the Velcro straps attached to the material – which Cayden could now see was a vest – and pushed them underneath him. He re-fastened them at the shoulder, securing the vest firmly to Cayden's struggling body.

Terrified, Cayden stared at the four cylinders attached.

'Tools of ...' He hiccuped again. '... my trade.' Maalik put his mouth close to Cayden's ear. 'A friend made this especially – well, he actually made it for someone in Spain ... I think, but whatever. Yeah, C4 explosives.' Maalik pointed to the cylinders. 'Detonation cap's remotely controlled,' he grinned, 'and the vest's full of nails and nasty things that will mince your already shredded body.' He sat up with a satisfied nod. 'What do you think?' Should do the job, eh?' He climbed onto all-fours, straddling his victim, his nose touching Cayden's. 'Yeah, should put you out of my fucking life – forever.' His eyes suddenly blazed.

'No ... no, this is crazy, you can't be serious,' cried Cayden as he struggled, the sweat dripping into his eyes. 'Please, Maalik, please, this is madness, what have I done that could possibly justify this?'

'Pathetic,' spat Maalik. 'You thought you could outmanoeuvre me once – and now, of all the bloody cheek, a second time.' Bizarrely, he began to dance around the bed, picking up his glass and refilling it from the bottle on the minibar. 'They caught me, you know. Yeah, in ... in fucking Trinidad, after they shot me – bastards,' he yelled. 'But then they bribed me ... yeah, they said I could stay out of prison if I infiltrated al Qaeda here ...' He flung his arm out, slopping drink on the carpet. '... here in South America – their stooge, that's what they wanted me to be, their fucking stooge.' Maalik spat in Cayden's face. 'They ruined my fucking business, then thought they could bribe me!' He threw the glass; it shattered the mirror. 'I played their game while it suited me ... while I needed the money, but they soon realised I wasn't sending them the right information.' Suddenly, he stopped talking. He looked around, as if realising where he was for the first time, then went back to the wardrobe, and put on a shirt, underwear and trousers, hopping from one leg to the other. Retrieving his suit jacket, he eased it over his shoulders, then reached inside the jacket pocket and pulled out a black, square piece of plastic. 'Remote detonation,' he smiled. 'When I press this button – boom, bye-bye!' He replaced it carefully in his jacket.

'Maalik, listen,' Cayden pleaded, 'whatever deal you want, I can fix it.'

Maalik leant against the wall. 'Like you thought you could fix me coming back to their little trap in Florida?'

'That's not ...' but Cayden's protest was cut short.

'Shut up!' Maalik screamed. 'You're an idiot. There was no coming back to Florida ... what do you think, that I'm...stupid?' His face was dark with rage, spittle in the corners of his mouth. 'They sent you to get me here, to this ... this fucking hotel, so they could kill me here ...'

'I... I don't know anything about that ... look, we can make a deal ...'

'I gave you a deal. Two years ago. You didn't honour it, remember?'

'I couldn't. My business ...'

Maalik spat. 'Ah yes, your business.' He stroked his nose thoughtfully. 'Rich man's toys for corrupt, blasphemous western pigs ...'

'Which you used to smuggle people.'

'Shut up,' Maalik shouted. 'Don't interrupt.'

'Okay. But remove these.' Cayden shook the wrist straps. 'And we'll talk. Work out a deal.'

Maalik clamped a hand over Cayden's mouth. He leant closer, his lips brushing Cayden's ear. 'My business, Mr. Callejon, is holy war.' Another hiccup. 'Well, it is when I have the time. Yeah, and we're winning – yesss,' he hissed, releasing his hand, his eyes wide with menace. 'You gotta like soma'that – you white-ies are crumbling, scared of your own fucking kids. Oh yeah, how's your brother, Jac?'

Maalik clamped his hand over Cayden's mouth again.

'Don't answer, I'll find out myself soon enough,' Maalik grinned. 'Now, where was I? American Marines – children, children.' He took away his hand and stood up. 'Can't remember, who gives a shit anyway?' he rambled. 'This al Queda bullshit – that's all it is, y'know, a holy war for drugs and guns and money – loads of lovely money.' He paused. 'Think of this – okay? – while I walk away from this hotel – just ten minutes away. I want these to be your last thoughts. You believe money can conquer all, but I'm a warrior, you see – I am.' Yet another hiccup. 'I'm true to Islam. I may be a common murderer in your eyes, but to Allah, blessed to him, I am a true warrior, and when you die, as you surely will, I will be one step closer – closer to infinite paradise.'

'You're no martyr.'

Maalik giggled. 'Of course I'm not a stinking martyr, you moron!' Suddenly, he shouted. 'I don't have to kill myself to be with Allah – just you!'

'Maalik ...' Cayden roared in desperation.

Maalik walked to the door. 'Scary, isn't it? Those vests – itchy too.' He turned and blew Cayden a kiss, 'Thank you for coming. Sorry you'll get no salvation for the murder of your bitch. Friends, eh?.' Maalik tut-tutted. 'Who needs them when they betray you to enemies like me?

He was out of sight when he uttered his final words. 'Allahu Akbar,'

The door clicked closed.

******

Ten minutes to live.

Once in his life, about a year earlier, he remembered taking a Firestorm Blade far into the Channel, out of sight of land – setting the autopilot, walking to the stern, gazing along the line of wake, and wondering what it would be like to step off. How long would he survive? How agonising would a death from drowning be? He remembered it clearly because it had been such an alien emotion, a panic-stricken feeling – his focused, action-orientated brain, pulled away like a frightened dog on a lead, terrified by the unknown. Then had come the self-disgust, the loathing that he had become so self-absorbed, so sorry for himself.

Dreamlike, he gazed at the cylinders strapped to his body. How many minutes had passed? His body was still reacting to the need for physical survival, pulling and twisting at the plastic ties, his wrists raw and bleeding, the plastic biting through the flesh to the bone. But the pain was not reaching him. This must be like drowning – the suffocation of the senses, the body protecting him from the agony, easing him into the next world. At least he would soon discover the answer to that primordial question.

Cayden squeezed his eyes closed, his heart in his throat, the weight of the vest suffocating, His arms flailed, his feet kicked and drummed against the mattress. He had been screaming for help.

Then, suddenly, his left arm was free.

His eyes flew open, expecting to see his hand hanging in the loop of plastic, his radial artery spraying blood across the duvet and wall. Instead, a man in a suit was running to the other side of the bed, a pair of nail-clippers in his hand. He quickly snipped through the other tie and pulled Cayden roughly to a sitting position, ripping off the Velcro straps and placed the vest gingerly on the floor.

'Shit ... sorry bud, he was a day early ... run,' he shouted, tugging Cayden off the bed.

Cayden staggered after him, stopping breathlessly by the door. 'We can't,' he panted, 'people will die.'

'Come on,' the man yelled, already running down the corridor, 'you want to be a martyr, be my guest.'

Cayden's rescuer raced towards the emergency exit. Cayden staggered to the wall and elbowed the glass set into a red square. It wouldn't break. He kicked off his shoe and brought the heel down. The glass shattered; an alarm immediately began to wail.

'Happy now?' the man yelled, dragging Cayden to the doors, shouldering them open. Cayden half-fell, half-jumped the first flight, his shoeless ankle twisting awkwardly on the bare concrete.

'How much time?' he gasped.

'Not enough,' the man yelled, already at the next level.

Another fire door – the number 4 in red above. The building shivered, as if from a sudden chill, then the door, three floors above, blew from its hinges. A geyser of smoke and debris ballooned up and down into the void. Falling towards them like flour, it coated their nostrils – blanched them. They staggered down in the twilight – and then the lights went out. Cayden lost his footing, his chin cracked down on the handrail, blood gushing from his mouth. His ankle gave out from under him and he rolled the next flight, his shoulder crashing into the wall. Above the clamour of the alarm, he could hear distant screams. He called out for the mystery man and choked on the dust. Blindly, he reached about him, groaning, but this time there was no helping hand. He reached the next flight, heard the panicky cries and stumbling descent of people behind him. The first two leapt over him, the third bent down and shook Cayden's shoulder, 'Senor, abrevair,' he said, helping Cayden to sit. Another explosion – a sheet of flame burst through the door above. 'Por favour, apresurese!' Eventually, the man's courage left him; he chased after his colleagues.

Cayden slithered down the next flight. Burning debris fell about him. Acrid smoke closed in – his eyes streamed.

'You're one useless son-of-a-bitch,' the mystery rescuer shouted, reappearing through the smoke, heaving Cayden upright and draping an arm around his shoulders. He dragged him down the remaining flights, finally bursting out into daylight.

Two paramedics took over, laying him on a stretcher. Cayden looked up, bleary-eyed, to the seventh floor – a shattered gap in the glass façade, a broken tooth in the piano-inspired architecture. The stories above smothered in thick black smoke as Cayden was manoeuvred into the back of an ambulance. A paramedic wiped the dust and dirt from his face, placing a mask over his nose and mouth – a sweet breath of oxygen. They took his pulse, anxiously examined his eyes, bandaged his wrists and temporarily lifted the mask from around his mouth to wipe away the blood still dribbling from his split lip. All the while, the ambulance wailed through the chaotic traffic, heading to the nearest hospital; the del Nino.

Chapter 21

Newspaper headlines of a Shining Path resurgence lay across his sheet, crackling as Cayden stretched his ankle.

Three people had been killed by Maalik's bomb – the hotel manager, a highly-paid prostitute and one foreign businessperson; name withheld. The police had taken Cayden's statement, assuming he had been in the room he had checked into on the floor below. They had only asked routine questions. Cayden was happy for them to do so. He did not want to become involved in a Peruvian terrorist investigation and the possibility of being held in the country for months. A British Embassy man had visited, promising a temporary passport to allow travel home. The medics had sedated him for the first two nights. Just as well – the recurring nightmare of his body being ripped apart by C4 and nails had kept the rest of the ward awake. His wrists were tightly bandaged, the throb of the stitches a constant reminder of how close he had come to dying.

He spent his hours gazing through the dusty window, lethargically watching the palm fronds stir in the saturated air. A hazy sun, like an old sponge thrown against a grey-blue wall, warmed the already stifling ward. From his second floor vantage point, if he could be bothered to focus, the view took in a park of the San Isidro district, planted with ancient olive trees bisected by dusty pathways. Close by, he could see red tiled houses with white-painted walls; in the distance, a group of tower blocks like burnt tree trunks, and a church spire – or was it the city centre cathedral; he didn't know or care. The buildings appeared weighed down by the oppressive humidity, almost as if reflecting Cayden's own torpor.

He was suffering sweat-inducing flashbacks, then blank emotional detachment – jumpiness, his body becoming rigid if a nurse dropped a pan or someone turned up the TV volume – all symptoms of the post-traumatic stress disorder carefully diagnosed by the doctor – a young man, with a creamy complexion and wet, caring eyes. Personally, Cayden would have given it a couple more weeks before diagnosing PTSD. He was simply drained. He wanted to be left alone, to drift backwards and forwards with the palms. His terror had cauterised the pain, cleaned the wound somehow. After two years of struggling he finally felt he had paid for his sins; he was cleared of guilt; he had the scars to show for it. Sure, when he closed his eyes, Maalik would be there with his sneering grin – the weight of the suicide jacket pressing down on him. He would throw off the sheet, drenched in sweat, but it was no worse than the dreams after Rachel's murder.

Cayden didn't want to think about what he was going to do after being discharged. He didn't want to think about Sly, especially Sly. The only person he had contacted had been Carol, asking her to send new credit cards and a change of clothing. He thought long about the man who had rescued him – a good Samaritan or had he been specifically looking for him? How had he got into the room? He tried to remember what he had looked like or had said. He thought about the hotel manager who had been killed by the explosion. Maalik had been right; the manager had been next door enjoying the fruits of his betrayal.

After eight days, the young doctor studied Cayden's chart and nodded thoughtfully. 'Mr. Callejon, no more we can do ... your injuries are healed, Si? You need rest. When you go home, please talk to your doctor. PTSD can be very dangerous, si? Very dangerous ...' He tapped Cayden's head with his pen. '... here.'

Cayden's gaze drifted to the unopened parcel sitting on the chair. Carol had been her usual, efficient self. 'Could I spend the rest of my holiday here, doctor? It's very comfortable.'

The young medic smiled, shaking his head sadly, sticking a pen in the corner of his mouth. 'The embassy man came when you slept. Left passport at reception.' He rattled a bottle of pills. 'Prozac, Mr. Callejon, will help you when you become ... how to say ... anxious.'

Cayden swung his legs off the bed and regarded the bottle biliously.

The parcel contained a pair of K-Swiss trainers, Calvin Klein jeans, two t-shirts, one blue, one grey, both with Tomahawk logos, a Northface waterproof jacket; three pairs of blue socks, and three of white cotton boxers. His company credit card and a new phone were folded in with two letters.

Dear Cayden,

I hope this parcel reaches you safely and sorry to hear that the airline lost your luggage. Everyone at Tomahawk is extremely worried about you, especially George who wants to know what you are doing in Peru and whether you are on company business – insurance I think. As your PA I should know, but recently our levels of communication have been poor to say the least!

When are you planning to return? Can you read your e-mails? There are a few urgent ones that I cannot put off any more.

I hope you are in Peru for some rest and that it does you good – despite everything. I miss the old boss! The company is surviving, but it still needs your helmsmanship!

Please take care and keep in touch. We all miss you and hope you return very soon.

Kind Regards

Carol

PS – your new phone number is on e-mail. I downloaded your phone list onto the sim card from the old phone here in office

Cayden folded the paper carefully, then turned to the second letter,

Cayden, what in God's name are you doing?

Don't you think I've enough on my plate without this?

Dylan is recovering at home (thanks for caring) – I have to be with him. I just don't have time for the company; the least you could do is relieve me of that pressure instead of gallivanting around the world – doing what? No-one knows. Your selfishness knows no bounds!

I'm sick of you and the whole business at the moment and am thinking very seriously of jacking it all in. Janet tells me you got involved with Babbacombe at Purcat, who's not prepared to talk detail with her unless you're present – she's hopping mad and I don't blame her. What is it with you? Couldn't you stand someone else getting an opportunity to make a success of themselves? You know how miserable she's been – or did you do it out of some altruistic motive? Maybe to prevent her leaving the UK? I hope not, because I am seriously considering joining her. I'm sick of this country!!!!

Look, I know you've been through hell, but you have to get on with your life. Why don't you make a positive difference to people's lives instead of always screwing them up? Stop moping around feeling sorry for yourself, pull yourself together.

Please talk to Babbacombe and allow the deal to go through. Get back to managing Tomahawk and send Dylan a 'get well' card!

Jac

Cayden folded the letter, the paper shaking in his fingers. He picked up the bottle of Prozac, his thumb working the child-safety lid; it held on obstinately and Cayden threw it away. Drugs were not going to help.

He stripped off the hospital gown, grimacing with the pain in his back. Dressing quickly, he gathered up the letters and changed his mind – scooped up the Prozac bottle. The clothes smelt of Leanor. Cayden quietly thanked Carol for washing and ironing them.

In reception, a nervous-looking man approached, a package in his hand. 'Senor Callejon?'

Cayden nodded, feeling light-headed.

'I am Assistant Manager at the Pacific Park View Hotel, Senor Callejon.'

Cayden scowled. 'Sorry to hear what happened to your boss.'

The young man lifted his shoulders.

'Do they know who planted the bomb?' asked Cayden.

'No-one knows, Senor.'

'I see.' Cayden turned to the reception desk. 'I need to collect my passport, my name's Cayden Callejon.' He opened the envelope from the Embassy, finding a typed note inside:

This should get you home safely, Mr. Callejon. If you have any further problems don't hesitate to pop in.

Cayden shook his head resignedly. He knew they were unaware of his direct involvement in the bombing, but surely even being in the same building would upgrade his situation to one higher than a problem.

'Do I have to pay anything?' he asked the smiling receptionist. His last hospital visit had been in Miami, again thanks to Maalik, and there the care had definitely not been free.

'Please, Senor Callejon.' The Assistant Manager held Cayden's elbow. 'Please.' He led Cayden away to a square of worn red seating. 'Any expenses you have incurred, will be taken care of by the hotel, and we will pay for transfer to airport, and here ...' He pressed a package into Cayden's hands, 'our apologies for this very unhappy occurrence.'

Cayden turned the package over in his hands. 'I wasn't thinking of suing. You don't have to bribe me.'

The man forced a laugh, looking nervously to the ceiling, crossing his legs, then uncrossing them; his laugh became higher-pitched. 'We hope that you will visit Lima again ... very soon.'

Cayden opened the parcel – a leather shoulder carry-on case, the hotel name stitched inside, a zipped bag of toiletries, a pair of sunglasses in a plastic case, a baseball cap with the hotel logo on the peak, suntan lotion, lip gloss, a pen set, and an envelope containing free transfer vouchers, restaurant vouchers and others for sightseeing trips, together with a map of the city.

'Thank you,' Cayden said, shaking the young man's sweaty hand. He packed his spare t-shirt and underwear into the case. 'This is my company's e-mail address. I would like you to send my assistant, Carol, the contact details for the relatives of the people who died.' Cayden used the pen from the case to write on the back of the packaging.

Lawsuit was written across the young man's face when Cayden looked up, holding out the piece of card. 'I want to send my condolences,' he smiled.

The Assistant Manager's shoulders slumped with relief, he smiled weakly. 'Of course, Senor Callejon.'

'Oh, one more thing. Is there anywhere close by where I can get access to the internet?'

The man gazed up at the ceiling, his eyes following the strip lighting. He looked down excitedly, 'Si, Senor Callejon, you leave the hospital to the right – there is a café two streets on you left.'

Stepping from the hospital onto the street was like walking through a water curtain at a nightclub in Ibiza. Every crease and fork in Cayden's body pooled sweat; the cheap sunglasses slid down his nose. There was no breeze; the trees hung limply, the sky was white with hazy sunlight. He could feel the heat from the pavements through the soles of his trainers. Traffic lights regulated the flow of vehicles, like trapped air bubbles in a hosepipe; they progressed slowly down the length of the street in a cloud of exhaust and a scream of brakes.

Cayden turned right, pulling the cap lower, feeling the sweat build around the band. His bandaged wrists ached. Taxis beeped him for fares but, despite the heat, he wanted to walk – stretch his bed-softened muscles.

He crossed to a street vendor's rickshaw, parked by the kerb. Beneath a white scalloped awning were bottles of water and sodas, and tiers of fruit, their rich primary colours in stark contrast to the gelatinous light. Cayden selected a note from the bundle the hospital cash machine had provided him with, and paid for a litre bottle of water, a banana, pear and apple. He consulted his map in the shade of the awning and found he was heading for Bolognesi. He found the internet café sandwiched between a Budget Car Rental office and a pharmacy.

Waiting for him were 236 e-mails. He skipped them all until he came to the one sent three days earlier from Carol. With his pen from the hotel, he wrote down his new mobile number. He pushed in the adaptor to a plug socket by his foot and charged the phone battery while he guiltily skimmed through the remainder of the e-mails, answering those that only required a few lines, deleting the social messages, the spam, the charity appeals and the 'funnies; that made up half of his inbox. Cayden sat back in his chair, plucking his t-shirt from under his arms, pushing a hand through his damp hair. He looked at his reflection in the window next to his cubicle. A ghost of an image scowled back at him, the finer details lost in the blur of passing vehicles. He tried to see whether Maalik had left fear in his eyes, whether there was a change in his expression to reflect his terror. His hair needed a cut; he wondered if it would turn white. But, as far as he could tell, the same old face stared back at him. His eyes focused across the street – a red Beetle had just pulled out in front of a bus, its horn rattling the glass. The bus moved on in a choking cloud of diesel.

Cayden bolted upright.

A series of benches lined the pavement beneath drooping ficus trees, creating a shady respite for residents battling the fumes. Next to two old men sat a taller, leaner, younger man, dressed in jeans; trainers and an open-necked shirt, his ankles crossed. Cayden was sure it was the man who had helped him escape from the hotel room.

He half-raised himself from the chair. The movement appeared to catch the man's attention; his gaze shifted and they locked stares. Though nothing registered on the man's features, Cayden sensed that he had recognised him. Then, when the man didn't look away immediately, Cayden became convinced. It was the same man. He hurriedly closed his e-mails, bent and unplugged his mobile. When he looked back across the street, the man had gone.

Cayden threw a dollar note at the girl sitting behind the till and ran outside, his eyes scanning the length of Brasil Street. A bus, sagging on its suspension, pulled away on the opposite side. There he was – sauntering up the street, occasionally looking into shop windows and his reflection in glass-fronted office blocks.

Cayden's muscles were rubbery, and the man, despite his casual gait, was setting a quick pace. Sweat streamed down Cayden's face before he reached the next block. He wanted to cross the road, but the traffic prevented him.

The man had disappeared again. Cayden jogged through a gap in the traffic, narrowly missing a scooter. Stranded on the narrow strip between the opposing flow of traffic, his eyes searched up the street and alighted on a junction just ahead. He must, he concluded, have turned right. Impatiently, Cayden looked for a break in the traffic. A cab slowed, beeping its horn, the driver gesticulating for him to get in. Cayden shook his head, but used the opportunity to cross the road. He hurried up to the next street – Carabaya. Through a mass of people Cayden saw that the man was some distance ahead, leaving a shop – a head taller than his fellow pedestrians. Cayden visualised the city map – they were walking towards the historic district.

He picked up his pace, but the man seemed to sense this and maintained the distance between them. They crossed Cusco Street. Cayden spotted a sign for los Desamparados, the central rail station on the banks of the Rimac river. Cayden remembered seeing a picture of the river in a magazine at the hospital – brown and sludgy with litter-strewn strips of greenery and broken pieces of concrete bank; it did little for the capital's image,

Cayden stopped. This was ridiculous. The man had saved his life but if he kept going in this heat, it would all have been futile. He took off his hat and wiped his face as he watched the man cross Carabaya and disappear behind a truck. Cayden searched his case and pulled out the bruised pear, greedily savouring the sweet moisture. He arrived at Huallaga Street, crossed it and then entered Plaza de Armas, the spot where Francisco Pizarro had founded the city in 1535. Cayden wandered through the throngs of meandering tourists and dodged the more purposeful strides of locals – scores of business people in fashionable suits, on their way to or from the Government Palace that dominated the northern side of the plaza. A chain-linked fence protected a black fountain in the centre of the plaza; water trickled from an angel blowing a trumpet. Cayden sat on a bench in the shade of palms and threw his pear core into a bin. It was time to go home. He had had enough. He got up to look for a taxi to take him to the airport.

A crowd had formed in front of the President's Palace; tourist cameras flashed at the men marching pompously – their garish uniforms in stark contrast to their non-ceremonial colleagues who stood on every street corner. Cayden glanced up at a clock tower – 11.45. He crossed in front of another tourist-besieged building with butter-coloured block towers supporting an ornate Gothic doorway, four storeys high, crowned with carved religious statues and intricate blocks of darker stone – a rich layer of chocolate between thick sponge. Cayden read the plaque... Church and convent of San Francisco.

He finished his water and held up his hand. A battered Toyota screeched to a halt. Cayden stared at it dubiously – windows down, obviously without air-conditioning, He waved it on. The driver swore and accelerated away. Cayden looked across the street – and gasped with surprise as he spotted his anonymous rescuer climbing out of a cab and walking quickly off to the east of the square. Cayden forgot the airport, slalomed the traffic and raced down the road, the bag bouncing against his back. He ran into another plaza, fronted with colonial mansions. A police tank blocked his view. He hurried out behind it; a car horn blared and he jumped back, letting the gesticulating driver pass. A policeman, hand behind his back, the peak of his cap low over his eyes, watched Cayden cross and hurry past him with an apologetic grin on his sweat-soaked face. The officer met it with a stony stare. Cayden glanced over his shoulder. The policeman was still watching him. Other officers stood on the opposite street corner. Next to the police tank, the national flag flew over an impressive building, the grandest Cayden had seen in Lima, with chocolate-coloured balconies complementing extravagantly engineered fawn-coloured facades – another government building, Cayden assumed – the Treasury or Foreign Office.

The man had passed through impressive doors set into the facade of a mansion. Cayden hurried after him, passing a sign indicating L'Eau Vive. A nun stepped forward and asked whether he would like a table.

'A table?'

'Oui Monsieu,' the nun replied, leading the way through glorious architecture of vaulted ceilings and pastel walls, supporting musty tapestries and ancient paintings, to a simple room facing the square, where groups of people on plastic chairs ate food served by nuns.

'A man ...' said Cayden, allowing himself to be led to a vacant table by the window, '... came in before me. Tall.' He held his hand above his head. 'Did you see him?'

The nun smiled, shaking her head.

Cayden sat down wearily, accepting the menu. Exhausted and suddenly hungry.

'You eat for charity, Monsieur,' the nun said smiling.

'Merci.' Cayden looked down the menu. 'I'll have the trout in cognac and salad, and a bottle of mineral water, please.' He took off his baseball cap and pushed his fingers through his saturated hair.

Groups of diners talked in hushed tones, whether from reverence or perhaps because the dusty great rooms subdued the modulation of the various languages being spoken. The clink of cutlery, the chink of china, punctuated the tranquility. Cayden closed his eyes, resting his head on his hands, allowing the atmosphere to soak into him, ignoring the sweat still running down his sides, sticking his trousers to the slippery plastic.

The food arrived on plain white china, the nun mumbling a prayer as she placed it between the heavy knife and fork.

Cayden was wondering whether he should join in with her devotions when, suddenly, she opened her eyes and smiled beatifically, nodding for him to begin. Cayden smelt the cognac and the fish; saliva flooded his mouth. He eagerly picked up the silverware, lifted the succulent white flesh from the bone and savoured the delicious flavours.

As he was finishing, two women and a man got up from their table across the room, their plastic chairs scraped on the stone floor. One of the women turned, looking over Cayden's head to the sunlit square. Cayden's fork dropped from his fingers, hitting the edge of the plate, which shattered. The noise abruptly halted the various conversations. Cayden gaped, while the last of his lunch seeped into the tablecloth unnoticed.

The woman looked down at him. Recognition flooded her face. A hand shot up to her mouth as she gazed with astonishment. 'Jesus Christ!' she shouted, and immediately looked guiltily at a nearby nun. She ran through the tables, knocking a man's hand as he held his fork, the food denied to him as it plopped to the floor.

'Cayden!' She wrapped her arms around his neck.

'Jess!'

*****

'This is Tom Salisbury,' said Jess, introducing a young guy who filled his t-shirt with muscle. Cayden shook hands distractedly.

'Hi,' Tom said, crossing his arms.

'And Katie Horn,' Jess continued, indicating a five-foot, rotund girl of about the same age.

'This is such an amazing coincidence!' said Katie, almost bowing as she shook Cayden's hand. 'Um, I'm sorry, I didn't quite get the connection/'

'We met in the Bahamas,' he explained.

'Cayden was trying to screw my father in a business deal,' Jess laughed, her gaze challenging. 'I stepped in to save my father's honour.'

'Oh wow, I mean – wow! How awesome,' Katie cried, taking off her glasses and rubbing the lenses quickly on her t-shirt.

A nun stepped between them and started clearing away the mess. 'I'm very sorry,' Cayden said, reaching into his pocket and peeling off $40. 'For the damage and charity.

The nun smiled forgivingly, tucking the money into her apron

Tom and Katie collected their belongings; the rest of the dining room returned to their conversations.

'What the hell are you doing here, Jess?' Cayden dabbed at his jeans with a napkin.

'Getting a visa from the Foreign Ministry – to film,' Jess replied, rolling her hands into tight fists which she knocked together excitedly. 'Also, to ask for one of their planes to fly us into ...'

'I meant Peru?' Cayden scowled.

'The most amazing thing.' She took her bag from Katie, who stood with Tom either side of her, apparently ready to escort her physically from the dining room. 'I got a call from Planetlife.com ... I think I told you about them – yeah?'

Cayden shook his head impatiently.

Jess's smile faded. 'Are you alright?'

Cayden rubbed his forehead. 'Yes ... no. Christ, I don't know. Just tell me.'

'We really ought to be going, Jess,' said Katie, anxiously looked at her watch, 'the flight leaves in just two hours.'

'Please,' Cayden pleaded – more loudly than he had intended; he held up his hand in apology to nearby diners. 'Could you just give us a few minutes,' he asked Jess's colleagues, 'alone.'

Jess jammed her fists onto her hips. 'Cayden, what the hell's got into you?'

'I really think we should be going.' Katie tugged at Jess's elbow, looking nervously about the room, smiling and bobbing her head apologetically.

'Sorry, but this ... it's just too weird.' Cayden pushed out a chair, gesturing for Jess to sit.

'I ... we don't have time.' Jess looked uncertainly at the others.

'Please. This coincidence, it's just too ... weird.'

'I can't ... we're going to miss the flight. I'm sorry.' Jess allowed herself to be led away by her escorts. 'Amazing to see you again,' she called, waving across the heads of annoyed diners

'Wait!' Cayden pulled his bag from the chair. It toppled, narrowly avoiding pulling the tablecloth with it. He slalomed through the diners. 'Wait!' He caught up with them

'Jess, please, give me a few minutes.'

'You two find a taxi. I'll catch up,' she told her colleagues.

Cayden led her to a bench, waving off two fighting pigeons. 'Okay, tell me?' he asked, trying to smile.

Her eyes blazed excitedly. 'Planetlife called, just out of the blue ... just amazing.' She laid a hand on his knee. 'They said their presenter for a climate change documentary had fallen ill as he was about to get on the flight.' Jess shook her head with disbelief, 'I've sent them loads of stuff about my work – thought they had just binned it. But ...' She threw her hands up in the air. '... they like my voice, my look on camera, so they asked whether I would step in – so obviously, here I am.' She shrugged. 'Simple as that, no great mystery. Why the dramatics? I thought after our last meeting ... anyway what are you doing here?'

'When did they call you?'

'About eight days ago.'

'Bit short notice for this sort of thing, isn't it? Don't you have to prepare?'

'The script's done, the notes – everything. Tom's the expert, I'm just the chick on the screen. They had it all scheduled ... you know, the visas, permission to film in the rainforest. It would have been too expensive to cancel and start all over again.'

'Did you recognise the guy that called you?'

'Of course I bloody did Cayden, I've been pitching him ideas for five years. He's finally given me a break.' She looked at her watch, 'Planetlife are hugely influential, they get prime spots on major networks all over the world.'

Cayden tried to think straight. 'Listen, I'm sorry – okay? – for not sounding enthusiastic.' He held her hand. 'I know how big a deal this is for you, I just ... this is such a coincidence. I was following this guy who ...'

A whistle from the other side of the plaza interrupted him. Tom stood in front of a taxi, waving furiously. Jess jumped up. 'Life's full of them, Cayden, I run into people all over the world who just lived down the street, or we went to university at the same time, or they know my father. Lighten up ... look I've got to go.'

Cayden followed. 'Please Jess, could you just hold on while I make a call?' he searched his bag for the mobile.

'Why are you in Peru anyway?' she asked over her shoulder as she walked towards the taxi. 'The last time I saw you, you were flying your plane back to Miami.' She shimmied her shoulders – the sarcasm evident.

Cayden found his phone. 'I've been on an errand ...' He stopped her march. '... which hasn't gone to plan, and I'm worried about ... coincidences.' He shrugged lamely.

'What errand? Why so mysterious? Has this anything to do with my father? Have you sold him out to another buyer?'

'Calm down.' He looked away, not sure he could hold the predatory stare. 'This has absolutely nothing to do with your father.'

'What the fuck is it, then?'

'Will you just let me make a phone call?'

'No!' Jess shouted. 'You're freaking me out.' She strode off.

'It has to do with the bombing,' he called.

She spun round and paced slowly back.

'What bombing?'

'The hotel bombing ... here, earlier this week.'

'There's been so many recently,' Jess muttered as she searched his face. 'Have you been hurt?'

'No ... yes, a little.' Cayden held out his wrists. 'Look, just hold tight while I make a call – please.'

'When were you leaving Lima?' she asked, her brow creased with concern.

'Today.'

'Good – then share our cab ride to the airport; you can make the call as we go.' She gave him no chance to reply.

They squeezed into the Toyota, Tom dwarfing the front seat, his shoulders touching the driver, Katie squashed into a corner, and Jess next to him, her thigh hard against his, watching him scroll through his directory and select Sly Williams.

'Your girlfriend?' she said.

Cayden ignored her, hoping the one bar on the mobile's battery would last the phone call, kicking himself for not calling her earlier.

'Hi, this is Sly.'

Cayden thought it was the beginning of a recorded message. He hesitated.

'Hello?'

'Yeah, Sly, it's Cayden.'

Silence.

'Sly?'

'Christ, Cayden, are you okay?'

'You're not expecting me to be?'

'What?'

'You sound surprised to hear from me.'

'Shit no, no way, I've been trying to get hold of you, but your mobile's been dead.'

'It's been nine days, Sly.'

'I know, I know, I've been going outta my mind. I only heard about the bombing two days ago. I've been out of town on assignment – the Everglades. Fuck, Cayden, another fuck-up. I get back, they say the hotel's been bombed, people killed – I'm going outta my fucking mind ... I can't believe it's gone wrong again! What happened? Are you okay? Where's Maalik?'

Cayden moved the phone to his left ear, nearest the window. 'You tell me, Sly.'

Silence.

'I don't know what to say. I heard the CIA guy that was meant to be there for your protection was called off on another assignment.'

'What does he look like?'

'No idea...I can find out, why?'

'Someone helped me escape.'

'From Maalik?'

'Who the hell else?' Cayden struggled to keep his voice level.

'The bomb was him, right?'

Cayden clenched the phone. 'Yeah, it was him. He strapped it around me. If it wasn't for this guy who came in at the last minute, they would still be finding bits of me all over this fucking city.'

Jess looked at him with alarm.

'Oh God,' Sly whispered.

'Is that it!' Cayden said, through gritted teeth.

'I don't know what to say.' He could hear the tears in her voice, 'I don't know what's going on.'

'We've been here before, haven't we?' said Cayden.

Silence.

'If you want my advice, don't put your faith in hotel managers – or, if you do, pay them in cocaine and prostitutes.'

'Are you coming back to Miami?' Sly asked quietly.

'No, I've had enough, this is way beyond anything I'm capable of dealing with. He's mad and psychotic. You better tell your boss that. But there's one very important thing, Sly, and I don't care what lies you've said to me, you must tell me the truth on this – right?'

'Please come back to Miami...'

'Sly, listen, my battery is running out. Did you or your organisation have anything to do, for whatever reason, in sending Jess Babbacombe out here?'

'Who?'

Cayden slapped his thigh. 'The girl on the beach in the Bahamas.'

'I don't know what you're talking about...'

'Sly, enough games,' Cayden shouted, 'this guy who helped me escape from the room, led me straight to Jess – it stinks.'

'I swear I have no idea ...'

'Fuck it!' Cayden looked at his phone; it had not even beeped a warning that it was out of power. 'Do any of you have mobiles?' he asked.

Jess reached between her legs, searched her backpack and pulled out her Nokia.

Cayden took it and leant his head against the seat. 'Dammit, her number's in my phone! I have no idea what it is.'

'Who does she work for?' asked Jess, slipping open the back to her phone.

Cayden hesitated. 'The US Government.'

'All of it?' Jess frowned, holding out her hand for his phone. She took the back off and slipped out his sim card. She powered up her phone then frowned. 'You've got an access code on your directory, can you remember what it is?'

Cayden shook his head wearily. 'It'll be quicker to recharge my phone at the airport and give her another call.'

Jess handed back his sim card, looking at the sweat-stained bandage. 'You going to tell me what happened?'

Cayden could see Tom glaring at him in the rear view mirror. 'No, not now...'

'You worried about my safety?'

'Yeah, I am,' he replied.

'Well, why don't you come along and protect us?' Tom sneered.

Jess interlaced her fingers with Cayden's. 'Good idea. You could see what your boats are doing to the environment. Give yourself a break as well – looks like you need one.'

'I can't.' Cayden rubbed at his headache. 'And neither can you. You don't know how dangerous this guy can be.'

Jess looked at the others. 'Come on, it's fate.' She squeezed his hand. 'Wheels within wheels – the great cosmos of destiny and all that. Accept it, live it – you never know, you could have fun ... maybe you'll sponsor my next film!' She laughed.

'No Jess, no, no, no,' He released her hand, 'I need to think,' he added, looking out the window at the passing traffic. He recognised the main highway leading towards the airport. It blurred by. 'Have you been contacted by anyone since you arrived?' he asked eventually.

'Nope. We collected our visas and permits ...' Jess looked at Katie. '... and now we're getting our connecting flight to Cusco.'

'You didn't see a tall guy walk into the restaurant before me?'

'I had my back to the room,' Jess replied. The others shrugged.

Cayden looked back out the window. Maalik was alive – that was the only thing he could be certain of. Possibly the maniac was still in Peru and probably he knew that the bomb hadn't killed Cayden. The mystery man had led him straight to Jess – Cayden was convinced it was no coincidence. It could only be for one reason – they didn't want him to leave Peru; they were setting him up again. But, then again, how could Sly have formed an opinion in such a short period of time, regarding Jess's influence over him? He was not even fully aware of it himself. Yet, he was certainly not going to leave without her.

Cayden came out of his reverie just as the taxi pulled up in front of the departure lounge.

'Back with the living?' Jess raised an eyebrow.

'I think so.' Cayden eased out of the cramped Toyota. 'What flight are you on?' he asked.

'Why? You decided to come,' Tom challenged.

'I'll let you know.'

Cayden had not taken his eyes from Jess. 'The next flight to Cusco... LAN 39, I think,' she said.

He hooked his bag over his shoulder. 'I'm going to charge my phone,' he said as he strode away.

The woman at the LAN reservation desk confirmed there was availability on their next flight to Cusco.

'I need to recharge my phone – do you have a socket?'

'Only in VIP lounge, sir, and LAN customers only.'

Cayden massaged his brow. He looked up at the departure board. There was an American Airlines flight to Miami and a KLM service to Amsterdam. He had never felt so indecisive. He glanced across at the check-in desks. Jess and her colleagues were the next in line.

The concourse was studded with armed police. Constant warnings were being given over the PA system about unattended bags. TV monitors showed CNN images of buildings blown apart, military on the move and bloodied bodies. Involving Jess was such a tenuous strategy for the Americans – he found it hard to believe any professional organisation would consider it workable. But then, he was dealing with Sly Williams and her judgement at the best of times, had been perfunctory.

'We're being called through,' said Jess.

He hadn't seen her walk across the concourse. He still had his phone in his hand. He looked up at the digital time beneath the departure board. LAN 39 was leaving in 45 minutes. 'I haven't managed to call,' he said.

'Are you coming?'

'Jess, how can I persuade you not to go – to come back with me to Miami?'

'That's a simple one – you can't.' She walked away a couple of paces, then looked back. 'I don't think you fully understand what a big deal this is for me?'

'You ... we ... we're being manipulated,'

'What? By the bitch in the helicopter?' Jess strode back to him, her eyes blazing. 'She searched his eyes. How could she possibly have guessed that ... that there might have been anything ... you know?' Her hands fluttered. 'You know, anything between us?'

'I don't know, Jess, but something's going on here which is more than a coincidence, and I'm not leaving without you.'

'This is bullshit!' She strode away again. Cayden ran to catch her. 'Let go, you're behaving like my fucking father,' she protested, shaking him free. 'Tom and Katie – they're not coincidences are they?' She turned to face him, hands on hips. 'This documentary is real, Cayden, and I'm bloody well doing it. Got it?' Yet again, she walked off.

'Alright, alright. Look, just slow down a minute.' He caught hold of her. 'Where are you going exactly?'

'Katie has the details – somewhere in the Amazon ... yeah, I know it's a big place but apparently there's a pristine bit of rainforest where they've been conducting research for the passed five years, and now there are clear signs that even without man's direct intervention, the forest is suffering.' Jess arched her eyebrows. 'Another nail in the coffin for all those global warming sceptics.' She looked hard at him. 'Along with the melting ice caps, rising sea levels, increases in hurricanes and cyclones, song birds no longer migrating, we can now add rainforest ecosystem collapse.'

He stopped her in mid-flow. 'And if anyone can make them sit up and listen, you can.'

'Don't scoff, Cayden.' Jess glared at him. 'The Amazon is the world's lungs. Did you know they're cutting down irreplaceable tree, in areas the size of Nassau, every single day, just so ...' She threw up her hands in despair. '... just to plant crops to make bio-fuel – yeah, to run bloody engines that create more carbon-dioxide than there are trees to absorb?'

Cayden glanced at the departure board.

'Come on. Come and see for yourself,' Jess urged him.

'Jess ... this is wrong. We should be leaving Peru.'

'Bye-bye, Cayden.'

Thirty minutes to departure.

Cayden ran back to the LAN counter, tapping his temporary passport for attention. The woman behind the desk finished serving another couple. 'We are closing, Senor.'

'Cusco, please.' He handed over his credit card.

'One way or return, Senor?'

'Your flexible return, please' Cayden replied, pointing to an advertising card on the counter.

'This is so exciting!' said Jess, suddenly appearing next to him, linking her arm through his. 'I'm going to get the chance to convert an old petrol-head to a ...'

'One twenty-three dollars, Senor,' said the woman, quickly taking the card from his fingertips.

'Less of the old!' he told Jess – with more irritation then he'd intended.

'I only meant in outlook,' she replied, squeezing his arm.

Cayden looked down at her. He liked the press of her lithe body, the contact of her arm through his, the way her piercing blue eyes narrowed slightly when she was concentrating – the size of her pupils reacting vividly with the varying light levels. He also appreciated her sharp mind – and her insouciant regard for their difference in age.

Katie wrung her hands as they hurried up to the bus transfer point. 'We're the last ones.'

'You've decided to chaperone us, I see,' said Tom, shouldering his rucksack, his bicep bulging as he held it against his chest.

'Jess is very persuasive,' Cayden responded.

'Yeah right.' Tom had to turn sideways to get his bulk through the door of the bus.

'Ignore him,' said Jess as Cayden stood back for her to board. 'Harvard graduate, thinks he's a big shot and this is all a little beneath him.'

The Airbus 319 climbed into the sultry afternoon sky. Cayden looked down on the sprawling city, the Andes already visible – he had not been aware of them at all on the ground. He watched the civilised lines of colonial Lima crumble into the surrounding jumble of shantytown, where the millions of poor had set up home in the hope of scraping a living from the other seven million inhabitants. The elegant plazas, with their grand mansions, and the vibrant Miraflore district bordering the Pacific were pathetically small compared with the acres of corrugated-roofed and cardboard-walled lean-to hovels

He closed his eyes, his forehead pressed against the side of the fuselage, sucking the hard-boiled sweet he had been given by the attendant. He felt like the city looked below – a core of businesslike order, being squeezed by confusion and fear.

'Jess this is really difficult, I don't think the budget will stretch to include Cayden, and Planetlife are not going to be happy.' Katie's round face was pressed between the seat-backs. 'Sorry Cayden, I don't mean to sound rude,' she added, looking squarely at him

'Don't worry, I'll pay my way,' Cayden smiled. 'That's if my company's still solvent,' he added, grinning at Jess alongside him.

'Oh, wow, like you have your own company!' said Katie, moving away from the seat-backs and eagerly getting onto her knees so that she could look over the top of the seat. 'What does it do?'

'He makes these bling powerboats that guzzle a gazillion gallons every few feet,' said Jess.

'Oh!' Katie sat back on her ankles, pushing the glasses up the bridge of her pointed, short nose, 'Oh, I see.'

'You don't approve?' Cayden asked.

Katie looked at Jess for help.

'Katie's degree's in environmental business studies,' Jess said helpfully. 'This is her gap year from Oxford.'

Katie nodded enthusiastically.

'How is this helping?' Cayden asked.

'Oh, Daddy knows the owner of Planetlife,' Katie replied.

'And your job is to put this film together?'

'Oh no, that's Tom's responsibility, isn't it, Tom?' she said as she looked across the aisle at the six-foot-five frame stretched across the three seats.

'Ahuh.' Tom didn't move.

'He's kind of pissed-off ... he's missing a major football game today, aren't you?' said Katie.

'Ahuh.'

Cayden shook his head sadly. He was on a school outing! He looked out at the approaching peaks of the Andes, the snow glinting in the pristine blue. The round cowling of the engine protruding from the front of the wing sucked in the intervening miles until, as he looked along the span of the wing to the winglet, he saw the vivid contrast between the hard metal edges and the jagged summits, snow-covered ridges and eroded flanks falling vertically until they spread out into giant scree slopes that disappeared into the blanket of cloud or became lost in the black-shadowed valleys below the snow line.

He found a copy of the New World News in the seat-back, its front-page headline proclaiming: Shining Path Resurgence Set To Destroy Record Tourism Year. He read that no-one had yet claimed responsibility for the Pacific Park View Hotel explosion. Cayden doubted Maalik would step forward. He involuntarily shivered, his shirt clinging heavily to him, He plucked it away from his chest, undid his seatbelt and glanced over the seat-backs at the heads of other passengers. Where had that bastard Maalik disappeared too? He skipped the next few pages – South American news – and found the international section.

Jess's head lolled against his shoulder. He glanced sideways – her lips were slightly parted; a wisp of dark hair falling across her cheek, a strand catching in lip-gloss. She had long eyelashes; they fluttered occasionally as her eyes moved in a dream – it was a different face when those extraordinary eyes were closed, Cayden thought – like an exotic car under a dust-sheet. You could still see the sensuous curves, but the heart-thumping thrill of being cocooned in the driver's seat, listening to the engine, feeling the power, was subdued, evasive. He wanted to brush the hair from the corner of her mouth. The muscles in his arm tensed, before the abstruse feelings relaxed it back into the fold of the newspaper. Was it her age? Was the stigma of an older man holding onto his youth by finding a younger woman preventing him? Or was it that the physical act was a declaration of his desire, setting him on a complicated course of commitment – or bitter disappointment.

Cayden spread out the paper. What was he doing here if he had not already made that declaration?

Stop and Search on Children: Parents Fearful – a piece from the UK reporting that police now had emergency measures to stop and search any child near any school wearing the banned backpacks. One adult had been arrested in a High Street for wrestling a pack off a thirteen-year-old, breaking his arm. The US President was pictured in another article addressing servicemen at a memorial service in Quantico. 'Each of these attacks on the innocent is a shock, a tragedy, and a test of our will,' he was quoted as saying. A picture on the bottom of the page showed tanks and infantry moving towards the Iranian border, still refusing to release the hostages taken from the British warship in disputed territorial waters.

Cayden folded the paper, thinking of Dylan, guilty that he was not flying home.

'You okay?'

Cayden looked down at the hooded eyes. 'Just wondering what the hell I'm doing.'

Jess sat up, retrieving a bottle from between her legs. She offered it to him. 'You haven't told me what happened ...' she said as she wiped her mouth and pushed strands of hair behind her ears, '... exactly, I mean.'

Cayden searched her face for any sign of falseness, but all he could see was concern. A few more barriers crumbled as, haltingly, he began to tell her about Rachel, his commitment to Tomahawk at the time – particularly as they were launching a new model that could make or break the company – how he had discovered Maalik was using his boats to ship illegal immigrants to the US; how he thought he could handle the situation on his own; how he had become involved with Sly Williams, an agent who had been assigned to watch Maalik – who had proved too resourceful and evasive; how Sly had incorporated Cayden in her plans to capture Maalik; how badly conceived those plans had been; how Rachel had been killed; and how upside-down his world had been ever since.

Jess had taken hold of his hand at some point during his story. Cayden hadn't noticed until then that her fingers were tightly interwoven with his own, the tips stroking his knuckles.

'And Lima?'

Cayden nodded, telling her about Sly's latest plans and his encounter with Maalik. Her eyes were wide; she gingerly took her hand away and turned his arms, looking with renewed horror at the bandages. 'My God, Cayden, why didn't you tell me all this earlier?'

'Would it have made any difference?'

Jess closed her eyes – 'probably not,' she said' – then opened them again as she looked past him at the mountains. 'Maybe this is the best thing to do,' she said eventually, 'disappear into the jungle where nobody can find you for a week or so, let the dust settle, let this Agent Sly sort her own shit out and get this bastard Maalik once and for all.'

'Only if you have nothing to do with it,' said Cayden.

'What possible link do I have to any of this?'

'Me,' he replied.

'That's crazy,' Jess whispered, 'we've only just met and, other than that bitch seeing us on the beach, who else has seen us together?'

'That's why I wanted to talk to Sly,' Cayden said, 'I wanted to make sure.'

'But she doesn't sound capable,' Jess murmured, 'it just doesn't make any sense.'

'I know, but until I find out what's going on, we're going to have to be very careful.'

Jess nodded solemnly, Cayden wanted to kiss her.

Her vulnerable lips creased into an uncertain smile. 'I'm ... I guess now I know everything ... I'm overwhelmed. I mean you decided ... well, you know, to come on this stupid expedition.'

Cayden tapped the empty bottle against his head. 'Must be mad.'

'Or madly in love.' She cocked her head, her eyes teasing.

Cayden frowned.

Jess cupped his neck, pulling his head to hers, the glossiness of her lips brushing against his, eyes like headlights on a black night – mesmerising, sucking peripheral light from his vision. Her lips worked over his, the tip of her tongue trembling between them. His eyes fluttered closed as her tongue searched, breaking down his tentative responses. Then the Airbus lurched, their eyes flew open and Jess cried with alarm. They separated hurriedly. The seatbelt sign was on, the captain was talking and, when they looked out of the window, the peaks were no longer below the wing. They towered above and around them.

'Are we crashing?' Jess shouted.

Tom looked over the seat-backs from across the aisle. 'No, we're coming into land. Where've you been?'

A brown rocky slope seemed to brush by the wingtip. The plane banked heavily, following the contours, the valley below deep in shadow, the sky a blue strip far above. The captain straightened the aircraft before flicking it onto its other wingtip. Jess gasped with alarm, her hand clenching Cayden's as the Airbus rocked the other way and then straightened, flying between a col in a ridgeline. They cleared the frost-shattered ground, the landing gear adding its own rumble to the scream of the engines. The flaps descended and their stomachs heaved as the plane fell from what remaining sky there was. Suddenly, buildings appeared – dirty square shapes of concrete cut into barren hillsides adjacent to a busy road. The valley broadened rapidly, filling with houses, yards and a glinting river. The Airbus followed the broadening slope as it gradated to a wide valley. The ancient city of Cusco spread out before them as they crossed the threshold and the wheels jarred onto the concrete.

They left via the front steps, relieved to be back on solid ground. The sky threatened rain as they walked the short distance to the terminal, the 3,400 metre altitude already affecting them. Cayden felt tightness in his chest as they squeezed between ranks of armed police, glaring at the disembarking throng.

A diminutive man, five foot tall, with a shaggy cut of black hair, flared nose and twinkling eyes, stepped forward. Recognising Tom, he shook hands vigorously, the little Peruvian looking as though he could comfortably fit inside one of Tom's trouser pockets

'Hey, this is Rimac, he's our guide and natural history expert – what he don't know about the jungle ain't worth knowing.' Tom patted the man on the back. The Peruvian grinned. 'This is Katie,' continued Tom, 'she's admin. Jess there is presenter and he, well, he's just along for the ride.'

Cayden shook the man's hand. It was warm and dry. 'Rimac, my name's Cayden, I'm here as a potential investor.'

'Hello, Mr. Cayden ... investor?'

'Someone with money,' Cayden replied, following Rimac out into the congested parking area.

They dodged vehicles until Rimac led them up to a dusty Toyota Hiace – curtained windows, a roof rack with a bulging tarpaulin, and black bull bars covering front and back lights. A man leant with a foot on one of the bull bars as he talked to a taxi driver. The same height as Rimac, he had thinning hair and a potbelly, contained in a threadbare yellow shirt, tucked into worn brown trousers.

'This is Maras. Driver,' Rimac said with a smile.

Maras bobbed his head. His broad grin clearly showed the gaps where his incisors should have been.

'He does not speak much English ...' Rimac explained, turning to Maras and indicating the bags should be loaded. '... only Quechua and some Spanish.'

'Yaw Maras,' said Tom, slapping the grinning man on the back. 'Quechuan for hi,' he added, winking at Jess as he climbed into the minibus, making it tilt on its suspension.

'Is that really true?' Katie asked excitedly, climbing in behind.

Jess raised her eyebrows at Cayden as Maras began loading their bags beneath the tarpaulin.

'I hope your camera gear isn't under there!' said Cayden as Maras punched Katie's Samsonite into a space.

'No, we're hiring it from Naturamazon Tours,' Jess replied as she climbed in, taking the seat behind Rimac, who sat up front with Maras. She patted the seat next to her. 'Come on, Cayden, we have to get there before they close.'

Maras drove quickly, aggressively squealing around corners, missing potholes, overtaking where he clearly shouldn't. They travelled dusty, drab streets of poor housing – square blocks of concrete, broken render, flat roofs, bare yards with cars on cinder blocks and broken appliances – and dejected trees. The streets became narrower; cobbled, congested. Buildings closed in – Spanish colonial architecture on foundations of Inca masonry; blocks the size of cars married together with a precision that 21st century laser-guided machines would be hard-pressed to surpass. The Toyota surged, twisted and flowed down sinuous one-way streets. Like water added to a pool of mud, the dirty outskirts gradually diluted the further they rushed through the maze until they flowed into the Plaza de Armas, the ancient core of the Inca civilisation before Spanish greed destroyed the palaces and temples and imposed on their foundations the equally grand Cusco Cathedral. Its twin stone towers supported an ornate Baroque arched entranceway, the sand colours bright and pure against the backdrop of approaching storm clouds.

They raced around the plaza of manicured grass islands, surrounded by seas of flowers, then exited between colonnaded rows of tourist shops. Hotels occupied most of the buildings leading away from the square until Maras made a sharp, squealing right turn down an alley that quickly opened into a cobbled courtyard. He squeezed the minivan between two Land Cruisers, narrowly missing demolishing the porch awning with the roof rack. For a moment his passengers sat in relieved silence before Rimac slammed back the side door and beckoned to Tom and Katie. 'Quick, they close,' he said.

'You know, I've been thinking,' Jess said, after the others had clambered out and she was certain they were out of earshot, talking to the hire company owner behind one of the Land Cruisers.

'You had time to think!' Cayden stretched, easing his lower back, 'I was just wondering if, after all this, I was simply going to die in a minibus in some outback Peruvian town.'

'This was the centre of the Inca Empire, one of the greatest the world has ever seen.'

'Yeah, I know. I guess the outskirts of Rome, London and Washington look as bad,' Cayden rolled his shoulders. 'What have you been thinking, anyway?'

'What you've been through.' She reached out and squeezed his hand. 'I'm struggling to believe it,' she continued, shaking her head. 'But, sometimes you have to believe, even in the worst of things, that there is some purpose, some good.'

Cayden looked at her sharply. 'No Jess. Nothing good will, or ever could, come out of my association with Maalik.'

'Maybe in time you'll see.'

'No Jess. He murdered Rachel and strapped a fucking bomb to my chest. I know the popular thing is to find the good in everything, but this?'

'Don't get angry with me, I'm ...'

'Sorry folks we have a problem,' Tom interrupted, leaning in through the door. 'We've hired stuff from this bastard three times before, but now he needs a deposit – says last time one of the jibs was fucked and no-one paid him.'

'Doesn't he have insurance?' Cayden asked.

Tom shrugged.

'What does he need?'

'Three thou.'

'Dollars?'

'Yeah, dollars – three thou of their shit money wouldn't buy you an Inca Cola.'

Cayden studied the arrogant crease on Tom's brow, the contempt that hooded his pale green eyes, slightly reddened his lean, tanned cheeks, flecked with blond stubble that matched his expensively-cut hair.

Tom's fingers drummed the roof of the Toyota. 'My Visa's maxed out.'

'Three thousand sounds like a lot of money,' Cayden said evenly.

'Yeah well, what we're doing you can't get on a five pixel digi-camera.'

'Tom, stop being such an arse,' Jess cut in, clambering by Cayden and pushing the American out of the way.

'Yeah well, this is meant to be a professional shoot, not some vacation ...'

'And you're the professional one, are you, with your maxed-out Visa?' Jess squared up to him. His arrogance fading.

'Hey, I've got an international Emmy for this shit,' Tom protested, his face reddening further.

'Wow!' Jess gave a theatrical bow. 'What was it for – best haircut in the Jungle? Best-dressed man behind the camera, what? It couldn't have been for organisation, could it?'

'Aw, come on Jess, that's what Katie's for.'

'I've seen some of your stuff, Tom, it ain't that special,' said Jess, moving aside to let Katie search her backpack.

'I can't remember how much is on my card,' Katie said – as much to herself than to the others. She left without looking at anyone.

'Great,' said Tom. Turning to Cayden, he added with obvious sarcasm: 'Can't say I've seen any of yours.'

'Enough!' Cayden sighed as he stepped from the minibus.

Tom, a few inches taller and twice as broad, straightened. Cayden, crossed his arms. 'What's the three thousand for – exactly?'

'If I told ya, would it mean anything?' Tom replied.

Cayden sat on the step of the minibus. 'Well, it might not, but the way I see it, I'm the only one here, who can afford the three thousand. And I don't pay for anything until I know exactly what I'm paying for.' He looked up at Tom, 'I don't know if that means anything to you, Tom, but it's one of the reasons I have a successful multi-million dollar company. Now, you can stand there and be the big ''I am'' or tell me exactly what the three thousand is for.'

The American smoothed the hair around his ears.

Katie returned with a fat man, dressed in black with a pencil-thin moustache. 'Five hundred's all I could manage,' she said apologetically to Tom.

He shook his head irritably.

'You the boss?' Cayden looked at the fat man.

'Si, who're you?'

'It's getting a little crowded here,' Cayden replied, easing himself out of the gap between the vehicles. 'Do you have some tea?'

'Go to plaza for tea, this is camera hire place,' the man said irritably, his voice wheezing.

Cayden spun round, eyes blazing. He took two steps towards the man, who backed up against the Land Cruiser, the tow hook appearing comically between his legs. Cayden prodded his chest. 'Listen, I'm betting you don't have many customers walking in here ...' He looked disdainfully at the tired building. '... hiring thousands of dollars' worth of equipment, so don't mess me about, I've had a fucking long day and I want a cup of tea – from you, okay? Then, while I'm enjoying my nice cup of tea, you're going to show me what you want three thousand dollars for. Okay?'

The fat man rubbed his chest. Cayden immediately felt sorry for him. It should have been Tom he was prodding in the chest.

'Senor, please, my office this way.'

Cayden looked from the list to the stack of equipment piled on the floor in foam-lined boxes; a Sony high-definition camera, an Arriflex SR11 super 6 camera, Bosher straightscope and periscope, monitors, filters, rain deflector ... Tom was right, he had no idea what any of it meant. 'What's the most expensive thing here, Tom?'

'The Sony.'

'How much?'

'Upward of thirty thousand bucks.'

Cayden whistled as he handed over his card when the owner hurried back with another cup of black tea. 'Three thousand doesn't sound too bad,' said Cayden as he sipped the minty-sweet drink. 'So Tom, where exactly are we going – and what happens when we get there?'

Tom strolled over to a large map of South America pinned to the wall. Across the brown dividing line of the Andes, the massive expanse of jungle spread through the rest of Peru and up into Brazil. 'We leave Cusco, go up over the mountains to about ... here.' He pointed to a spot in the immense area of green. 'That's where the road ends. Then we take a boat.' His finger traced a tiny blue artery. 'Down to about ... here?' He looked at Rimac, who had entered the office with the others. Rimac pointed on the map a little further down the river.

'Jess hasn't told you what this is about?' Tom said, sitting on a stool.

'A little.'

Tom sighed, the arrogance dissolving to a worried frown. 'A lot of researchers, such as those at the Wood Hole Centre, believe the rainforest is on the brink of being turned into a desert.' He looked at the expanse of green on the map. 'I don't need to explain the catastrophic consequences for the world's climate that would cause. Suffice to say, it's estimated that there is ninety billion tons of carbon stored in the Amazon – okay? If released, it would increase global warming by fifty percent.' Tom sat back on the stool, arms folded

Cayden looked at the other earnest faces. He opted not to comment.

'We started filming this experiment in 2002,' added Tom as he went back to the map and circled the area Rimac had pointed to. 'This is a chunk of pristine rainforest, about the size of a football pitch, which we covered with plastic panels to see how it would cope without rain. We surrounded it with sophisticated sensors and expected only to record minor changes. In the first year, the trees managed drought without difficulty. In the second, they sunk their roots deeper to find moisture – but survived. By year three, they began to die – started crashing down, the tallest first, exposing the forest floor to the drying sun. By the end of the year, the trees had released two-thirds of the carbon-dioxide they had stored during their lives so, instead of acting as a break on global warming, they were now helping to accelerate climate change. This is the final year of filming and we expect it to be the most shocking.'

'A desert?' Cayden said.

'Yeah,' Tom replied, returning to the stool. 'but, aside from our experiment, the Amazon as a whole is entering its second year of drought, raising the possibility that it could start dying next year.'

Cayden raised his eyebrows. 'Isn't this the same scare tactics they're using about the ice caps melting?'

'Don't go there!' said Jess. 'Mega fires would sweep across the dying jungle and the soil would bake, becoming a desert. We have to get this film out – we have to show the world that the lock has broken on the Amazon ecosystem and is heading in a terrible direction.'

Cayden looked into his empty cup. The others were in a silent ring around him. Eventually, he looked up. 'Have you processed my card?' he said quietly to the owner.

'Si,' the man replied. 'Gracias, Senor.'

'We better get going then,' Cayden smiled, picking up one of the cases and carrying it outside.

Chapter 22

Maras had found a trailer for their bags; the camera gear had taken more room than anticipated.

The Toyota struggled up the winding roads leading east from Cusco. Narrow cobbled streets, lined with pitched, clay-tiled houses, jumbled together at differing heights as their foundations followed the contours of the hillside. Whitewashed render or modern brick, some atop the superior Inca stonework, hemmed the choked road, spilling pedestrians off the metre-wide pavement; a mass of people flowed down the hill, dodging parked cars, an unloading Coca Cola truck and cyclists pushing their laden bikes up the incline – like jilting balls on a pinball machine. A woman in traditional dress, with a European-style high hat, pleated skirt and a pink and blue knitted backpack, was holding a public phone in one ear while her other hand struggled to grip a piece of rope attached to a nervous-looking llama. Maras braked sharply as the llama backed out in front of them, startled by a popping scooter. The handbrake barely held but Maras energetically double-declutched. Burning oil filled the cabin as he eased his way past the recalcitrant animal.

Tom, Katie and Rimac discussed schedules. Jess, bored, sat back with Cayden. Immediately, her head began to sag against his shoulder. Travelling, he was discovering, had that affect on her.

Cayden was grateful for the respite. He allowed the passing sights to lull his overworked mind, as if he were watching a film. He stopped contemplating the possible consequences of his burgeoning relationship with Jess; why he had forgotten to recharge his phone; what was happening back home – Jac, Dylan, Tomahawk; the chaos in the world and the frightening scenario they were currently en route to explore. All of these preoccupations appeared fraught with complication and danger – it was best not to think at all. But the spectre of Maalik could never be completely subdued. Like the constant itch from his healing wrists, the madman lurked in his subconscious, scratching away at his guilt and fear.

The road widened as they entered the squalor of the outskirts, and then they were out of the city on new tarmac, crossing a wide valley with a distant lake, much of it reed beds. Every available plateau or bench of land was cultivated with fields of potatoes or maze.

After an hour, Maras turned off the paved highway, the last they would see, and began the first of many switch-back climbs. The heavily-laden vehicle wallowed and growled over the ruts and dips, the climate so changeable that, on one length of switchback, the surface would be churned and muddy, and the next, dry, sun-baked earth. Trucks thundered down the slope forcing Maras to manoeuvre the Toyota to the ever-increasing drop at the edge of the unprotected road. The cabin filled with a fine dust, the humidity of Cusco replaced with a dryer, cleaner heat, and then a cloud would sweep over the shoulder of a mountain and rain would thunder down on the tin above, the road instantly becoming a muddy river, cascading into concrete culverts that spewed out into the valley – creating great chasms in the hillside. Slipping and sliding, the Toyota moved heart-stopping metres towards the drop-off before Maras expertly corrected the slide. The dust would disappear, a chill would envelope them – and Jess would snuggle against Cayden for warmth.

He enjoyed the sensation – the youth and vulnerability of this tough woman so instantly apparent – along with the goose pimples on her shoulders which her sleeveless t-shirt did nothing to hide. He put his arm self-consciously around her. When she was ten years old, he was twenty – the thought filled him with mixed emotions. He could feel Tom's contempt, see it in his eyes – dirty old man, she's just after him for his money. But her body felt so good pressed against him. Cayden felt youthful again - dare he think it, even adventurous – to the extent that he contemplated abandoning his responsibilities and simply ignoring the threat of Maalik. All he wished for was to explore what was possible, enjoy that exciting phase of discovery – and not have any hindering thoughts of his old life.

Cayden slid open the window, breathing deeply the cool rush of rain-washed air. He adjusted his sunglasses, looking down into the valley below; sometimes, Maras had the Toyota so close to the edge it was as if they were flying. Carved by a broad meandering turquoise river, the valley's flood plains was squared into neat fields, with Dinky-sized trucks moving along a stretch of road; above it, logging tracks bisected lower slopes of pine beneath the barren brown higher slopes that climbed hundreds of metres up to his lofty seat in the Toyota. Summits were nothing more than slices taken from the final shoulder of mountain, or a cut through the lowest point in the ridgeline, unsigned, unnoticed and no different to the dozens they were still to pass over. Cayden wasn't sure which was the more nerve-wracking – the climb or the hot-brake dash down the other side, the trailer snaking behind them as the Toyota weaved in and out of the wheel ruts.

As the hours passed, the landscape became harsher, primal, with fewer signs of habitation across the fearsome vistas of rock that had battled for millennia the shattering forces of wind and water. The only colours to be seen were shades of brown-black shadows cast by distant peaks, and the pearly sky on the horizon that became azure blue above.

Jess awoke as they slowed for a village – not through the presence of traffic or pedestrians, but because Maras was courteous enough not to blaze through in a cloud of dust. The houses were either whitewashed squares, with thatched roofs, or simple mud-brick homes, laid out haphazardly beside the road. Other than the barks of mangy dogs, there was not a soul.

'Where is everyone?' Jess called to Rimac, as he chatted quietly with Maras.

He turned and cupped his ear.

'People?' Jess pointed at the passing village.

'Working, in the fields,' said Rimac with a smile.

They looked, but found it hard to believe anything could grow in the harsh terrain.

A man emerged from a bright blue box – typical of the little structures that seemed to stand behind every house.

'They like to paint their toilets!' Cayden observed to Jess.

She nodded. 'Christ, look at this place, how can anyone live here?'

'Well, they've got electricity,' Cayden replied, pointing to the poles. 'And food – probably a great community spirit, too ... I think they make everything, including their own bricks. Self-sufficiency – what more could you want?'

'A tree would be nice,' she said.

'Yeah, okay, but according to the film your about to launch on the world, there's going to be precious few of them left, so maybe they've got a head-start on that as well!'

Jess laughed and Cayden grinned as she offered him some gum.

They left the village, deserted except for an old man watching them from the threshold of his latrine.

The surface became corrugated, the suspension vibrated – and Jess's breasts jiggled provocatively. Cayden noticed how full and rounded they were, pushing out the top of her t-shirt. He immediately became conscious of the bulge of his stomach.

Jess was smiling when he glanced at her, the large sunglasses providing only a thin veil to the mischief in her eyes. She pretended to relieve her stiff back, arching her spine, stretching the material tightly across the hard points of her nipples. Then she pushed her hands flat against the vehicle's roof, twisting her waist so that she faced him more fully.

'Ooh ... that feels better, I'm so stiff ... how about you?' she asked, her teeth biting her lower lip.

Cayden laughed, 'Getting that way.'

'I'm looking forward to a long hot ... shower tonight.'

'You're impossible,' he grinned. 'You reckon they'll have hot water out here?'

'Oh yeah, Katie was telling me we stop overnight at this nature lodge, with chalets, running water ...' She rolled her eyes. '... mosquito nets – thank God, four-poster beds and ... nothing but jungle all around.' She grinned, 'Just imagine lying there with monkeys, humming birds and, oh yeah, these rare Cock of the Rock birds that people come from all over the world to see.'

'What do they look like?'

'I don't know, never seen one, but I hear they're red, stand proud on their rock, and make this great cackling noise when they're excited at seeing their mate coming.'

'There's nothing so splendid as a proud cock,' Cayden chuckled. 'Will we have time to see one?'

'Oh, I certainly hope so,' said Jess with a grin.

Maras pulled into a parking area at the top of a windswept pass. Another minibus was parked in front of a closed lodge, the occupants sitting in rain gear on a log, eating packed lunches.

'What's happening?' Cayden asked Katie, as Maras turned off the engine.

'Lunch,' Katie replied, sliding open the door and sending in a blast of cold air. 'This is the highest point of the journey – 3,500 metres. Up there is the plaque.' She pointed out the path that disappeared behind wind-shaped trees, covered in lichen. Cloud raced in over the scrub grass, blotting the peaks around it.

'It's bloody freezing!' complained Jess, hugging herself as she stepped out.

Rimac grinned. 'The beginning of the Cloud Forest, no more rocks.' He handed out plastic bags containing fruit juice, a cellophane wrap of sandwiches, an orange and a packet of biscuits.

'Does that have a toilet?' Jess asked, looking dubiously at a round thatched building.

Rimac nodded enthusiastically. The women rushed off.

Cayden sat next to Tom. They untied their plastic bags and unwrapped the sandwiches. 'As long as it's not cold guinea pig,' said Tom, opening the slice of bread to reveal white meat and salad. 'Hey Rimac, is this guinea pig?'

Rimac laughed delightedly. 'Chicken, good Cusco chicken.'

'Tastes like fucking guinea pig,' Tom said, chewing slowly.

Rimac laughed more loudly. 'That's Cusco chicken.'

'Little fucker,' Tom muttered, swallowing with difficulty.

Cayden stuck the straw into the juice box. He decided to leave the sandwiches.

'So, how long you been seeing Jess?' Tom asked.

'Not long. In fact, this is only the second time we've seen each other.'

Tom grunted, pushing the rest of the sandwich into his mouth.

'What's troubling you, Tom?' asked Cayden as he peeled his orange.

'I just think this ...' He waved his second sandwich in the air. '... this whole shit is so weird. I mean, you two meeting up in Lima, this being only the second time you've met. It doesn't make sense, that's all, and we're on a tight schedule – we gotta get this

finished this trip and I don't want any fuck-ups.'

Cayden split his orange in two, peeling off the first segment. 'I know it's weird, I can hardly believe it myself, but nothing's going to get in the way of your filming, I promise.'

Tom chewed his lunch.

Jess appeared with Katie from the side of the closed visitor centre. 'That was pretty unpleasant,' she said, hugging herself again.

'Oh, it wasn't too bad,' Katie remarked as she sat next to Tom. 'What's in the sandwiches?'

'Cusco chicken,' Tom replied as he ate.

'Tasty?' Katie ripped open her bag.

'Oh yeah.' Tom stared moodily ahead.

'I'm going to sit in the van,' Jess announced.

'Ain't you gonna keep her warm?' Tom growled.

Cayden balled the finished peel in his hand it was obvious Tom was jealous. He smiled. 'No, I'm enjoying the fresh air – and our chat.'

Tom turned slowly to look at him. 'You really a CEO of some million dollar company?'

'Fraid so.'

'Shouldn't you be, like ... I dunno ... wearing a suit and yelling at people to do shit?'

'Not that kind of business.'

'You Brits are weird.'

'Why?'

Tom jammed the straw into his drink, squirting blackcurrant juice over his Rohan shirt. 'Aww shit!' he exclaimed, dabbing at the stain.

'Don't worry,' said Katie, jumping to her feet, 'these shirts are great – they don't stain.' She dabbed away with a tissue. 'See?'

Tom brushed her hands away and got up himself 'You Brits,' he said, walking off. 'Fucking weird.'

'Oh dear.' Katie sat slowly back onto the log, 'I think I've upset him.'

'He'll get over it,' said Cayden as he tied a knot in the plastic bag and lobbed it into a nearby bin. 'Why do you like him?'

Katie's pink cheeks turned redder. 'Well, he's rather do-able isn't he?'

Cayden blinked. 'Do-able?'

'Yeah, you know, great bod.' She leant closer. 'Very shagable.'

Cayden laughed, got up and helped Katie to her feet. 'Go for it. I'm sure he thinks the same, he's just a bit ... shy.' He laughed again.

'Why are you laughing?'

Cayden looked down at her. 'I don't know.' He held up his hand to delay her response. 'Just felt good, I suppose – something I haven't done for a while.'

Her frown dissolved into a shy grin. She pushed her black-framed glasses further up the bridge of her petite nose. 'You really think I have a chance?'

'It might take some hard work, but sure, I reckon you do,' Cayden replied, getting on board.

'What's so funny?' Jess asked as he slid in beside her.

Cayden told her quietly. Jess giggled and covered her mouth when Katie looked back at her. Tom appeared from behind a tree just as Maras started the Toyota.

'You know, my face actually aches from laughing,' said Cayden, rubbing his jaw.

Jess looked at him seriously. 'The last man who said that to me was my father, three years after mother died.'

'I like your father.'

'So you should, he's a good man.'

Cayden watched Maras ease the laden Toyota across a bridge of wooden planks that spanned a concrete drainage ditch.

'I always feel guilty... responsible for her death...'

Cayden looked at her sharply.

'My...my mother,' Jess shrugged her shoulders. 'I never knew her...but from how daddy describes her she probably would never have approved of my dirty fingernails from exploring the woodland, the experiments I had in the shed, cardboard boxes stuffed with all sorts of creepy-crawlies...the fact I only ever wore jeans – drove a motorbike,' she smiled sadly, 'probably just as well we never knew each other...'

Cayden searched her glistening eyes.

'I had this boyfriend, a semi-famous Australian nature film presenter. I don't think she would have liked him much – too uncouth...'

Cayden held her hand. She tugged it free and wiped away a second tear.

'But, as I said to you, Cayden, good things do come from bad.' Jess found a tissue. 'Daddy and I have a really close relationship; we live in one of the most beautiful parts of this planet, and I'm doing something I love, something I wouldn't probably have done if we'd stayed in England.'

There was so much Cayden wanted to talk about but the start of a perilous decent prevented him. The road was no more than wheel ruts, grass thick in the centre, great slabs of rock forming steps over which the Toyota scraped. Twice, the trailer hook became wedged on the rock and they had to unload half the roof rack before it worked free. At each stop, and during their decent, Rimac excitedly called out the names of the various birds – tanagers, cotingas, the list seemed endless –his binoculars hung permanently around his neck. Cayden quickly lost interest. A bird was a bird to him – most seemed to crap over his boats and he would gladly have had a world without them.

They descended into a lush 'v'-shaped valley, eroded by a river, hidden somewhere below by a profusion of trees and plants – all the more startling because of the barren moonscape the Toyota had just travelled. On the far side, the pale scar of the road stretched far into the distance; by craning his neck, Cayden could follow it all the way out of the valley – he judged at least thirty miles. At ten miles an hour, it was going to be another three hours before they reached the lodge, even longer if Rimac kept spotting his bloody birds! The sun had disappeared behind a peak, its light golden on the peaks across the valley. A truck coming up the hill, laden with oil drums, appeared around the next corner.

Impasse.

A group of men, sandwiched between the oil drums and the steel lip of the tipper, stared silently from the top of the truck.

'Tell him to back up,' barked Tom as the truck driver gesticulated to Maras.

'I don't think so, brakes no good,' Rimac interjected, interpreting Maras's shouted conversation.

'Shit! Well we ain't staying here all night. Rimac, get Maras to back up.' Tom ordered.

'The only way he'll manage that is by un-hooking the trailer,' said Cayden.

'Okay, let's un-hook the trailer.'

'And push it up hill?' added Cayden.

Tom slammed back the door and strode around the Toyota. Heaving on the tow hook, he released the trailer, threw off the electrical connection and shouldered the trailer's front end. To general astonishment, he then began to push it up the gradient. Maras and Rimac joined him; the speed built, until the back edge caught a shelf of rock and the trailer stopped moving. The tow-bar jabbed into Tom's shin; he bent over, grimacing with pain.

Maras and Rimac strained to prevent the trailer rolling back into the Toyota while Tom hobbled around, cursing.

Cayden joined them, walking to the back of the trailer. Given the angle they needed, it was obvious that there was no way it could be manoeuvred over the rock. They would have to turn it round and pull it over. He asked Maras to see if the men in the truck would help.

Maras returned, shaking his head.

Tom sat on the bank, a trouser leg rolled up as he examined his shin. A thin line of blood ran to his sock. Katie rushed to him with a first aid box.

'Tom, you reckon we could turn this around?' Cayden asked, helping Rimac to prevent the trailer from slipping.

'Fuck it, no!' Tom shouted. 'Those bastards haven't moved to help – they can back up or we'll just sit her ... Mexican stand-off, yeah?'

'Great!' Cayden muttered, shoeing a loose rock under the tyre. 'Let's go talk to this truck driver,' he motioned to Rimac.

The driver had been watching their efforts, an arm hooked casually over the window. He looked down at them, chewing, an unlit cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth.

'Ask him what's wrong with his brakes. He's holding it pretty good right now,' said Cayden.

Rimac fired a series of questions in Quechua. Each received a monosyllabic response.

'Brake pressure no good – using gear and ah ...' Rimac scratched his head. '... parking brake only temporary.' Rimac stuffed his hands into his pockets, his shoulders hunched.

Cayden looked at the rusty front of the Volvo, guessing it was at least twenty years old. It wasn't hard to imagine that the compressed air system had not been maintained; from his experience with Tomahawk's own trucks, he was aware that anything below sixty pounds per square inch meant the effectiveness was gone. Older trucks like the Volvo had no separate tank for the parking brake; even if there was limited pressure in the system, it would soon be used up as the driver constantly applied the brake to manoeuvre slowly back downhill. The pressure wouldn't build quickly enough and complete failure was inevitable. 'Tell him to use the parking brake to get down the hill.'

'He says too far,' Rimac replied.

'What about helping with the trailer?'

'He has bad back ...'

Cayden glared up at the driver's blank expression. 'So he's just going to sit there!'

Rimac fiddled with his binoculars.

'Come on, let's see how far it really is.'

They filed past the truck, Cayden having to bend to get between the tilting chassis and the rock face. The road remained a two-wheeled track down the steep incline until it dog-legged a buttress of rock and disappeared altogether They rounded the outcrop, Rimac needing to jog to keep up with Cayden's strides. 'That's roughly one hundred metres,' Cayden said, pointing to the lay-by in the gloomy tunnel of trees.

Rimac stopped suddenly. 'Look.' He pointed up, binoculars to his eyes. 'Buzzard – or vulture.' The bird flew out of the narrow strip of sky.

'Rimac, unless you can spot one big enough to lift the Toyota over that bloody truck, let's forget birding for the moment.'

Rimac looked disappointed as he balanced on a log at the side of the road, looking cautiously down the side of the valley. 'Rufous spinetail!' he pointed, his grin returning. 'Look, very difficult to spot. You hear his call? Pipee, pipee ...'

Cayden started back. 'Another time, Rimac. Do you have ropes?' He was already panting with the effort.

Rimac kept pace, just, his eyes darting over the tree branches. 'Si, Senor Cayden, we have ropes for towing.'

'What about a chainsaw?'

'Si, many trees fall over the road – we have chainsaw.'

'Great.' Cayden wheezed. 'This is what I want you to do ...'

Maras and Tom were detailed to made chocks for the truck's back tyres. The driver moved only when Cayden tied a rope to the Toyota's chassis, then walked back to the truck, attaching the other end to a welded eye under the bumper.

'What's he saying?' Cayden asked, standing back and testing his knot.

'He says, leave his truck alone.'

'Have you explained to him what we plan to do?' Cayden looked at Jess, shaking his head with disbelief. 'Can you believe this arsehole?'

She frowned. 'No, I really can't. Katie was telling me, on their last visits the locals have always been so friendly.'

'Well, this guy either got out of bed the wrong side, or he hates tourists,' Cayden responded, watching the driver about to untie the rope from his truck.

'Rimac, tell him I'll pay him fifty bucks if he backs his truck down to the passing place.'

The driver stood up slowly.

'Cash – now, he says,' Rimac winced.

'Tell him cash yes – now, no.'

The driver studied Cayden through smoky eyes, his jaw moving spasmodically. He reached into his filthy jeans pocket, pulled out a box of matches and lit the drooping cigarette. His colleagues shouted something to him. Rimac made no attempt to translate.

A guttural conversation ensued until, finally, the driver shrugged, got back into the cab and drooped his arm out of the window.

'What does that mean?' Cayden asked.

'He'll do it,' Rimac replied.

'How very good of him,' murmured Jess.

'Yeah, thanks arsehole.' Cayden waved with false cheer.

Maras would not let anyone else drive the Toyota, so Cayden explained that he had to act as a brake for the truck.

They hooked the trailer back up to add weight and the truck rumbled into life with a cloud of black exhaust. Immediately, the rope sprung taught and the Toyota jerked forward. Maras stamped on the brakes. The tyres slid for a few metres – and held. Gradually, Maras eased off the brake and the truck started back, the driver glancing at his mirrors to keep it straight. Cayden and Tom walked either side, carrying the chocks. Cayden was quickly short of breath.

Jess and Katie had moved down the trail to stop any other traffic that might suddenly appear.

The Toyota's horn blared, a sign that Maras was having trouble staying in control. Simultaneously, the truck gathered speed with a weak hiss from the brakes. Cayden and Tom ran, throwing their chocks under the worn tyres. The logs skidded over the gravel – then Cayden's jammed against rock. The truck jolted to a halt, the drums clanging against one another, the men, still in the tipper, muttering irritably.

'If those fuckers got out, there would be less weight,' Tom shouted, retrieving the chock that had slid to the side of the road.

Cayden nodded. He was doubled over, breathless as the truck's air compressor wheezed and then went silent.

'How the hell can he drive that thing without brakes in these mountains?' Cayden panted.

'Life is cheap – brake parts aren't,' Tom replied before shouting for Rimac to tell the driver to inch forward, taking the weight off the chock.

The diesel bellowed. Tom kicked away Cayden's chock. The truck sprang backwards, the tipper hitting Tom's head. He stumbled, collapsing in the path of the wheels. Cayden sprang forward, hooking an arm through Tom's; they tumbled down the incline, feet tripping over loose stones, until Cayden could no longer support Tom's weight and they both sprawled across the track. The truck gathered momentum, the Toyota's horn blaring frantically. The air-brakes hissed as Cayden rolled onto his hands and knees, got his arms under Tom's body and rolled him to the side of the road, scooping his legs beneath him as the tyres crunched by.

The Toyota followed, all four wheels locked, like a dog straining back on a lead. Stones and debris flew from the obstinately jammed wheels. The trailer bounced and weaved from side to side. Cayden caught a brief glimpse of Maras sawing at the wheel, his eyes wide with shock as Rimac raced by, waving his machete as if it were an enticing bone.

Cayden rolled off Tom and sat in the churned wheel tracks. The truck driver engaged the clutch, the engine roared and the frame reared like a startled horse. The Toyota careened into the truck with a screech of twisted metal and shattering glass. It wedged under the bumper – and the Volvo slid into the storm ditch, the back of the tipper grinding and buckling into the bluff of rock.

'Any more awesome ideas?' Tom said, rubbing his head.

Cayden glanced sideways. 'The truck's out of the way,' he grinned.

Tom's eyes narrowed as he studied the two vehicles amid the dust. 'Yeah, but ours is now welded to it.' His shoulders started to shake and he spat between his legs. It was only when he jerked his head back and his eyes streamed that Cayden realised he was trying to laugh – a laugh that took a long time to emerge. Eventually, he sucked enough air into his lungs and bellowed.

Running footsteps.

'Cayden, are you okay?' Jess fell on her knees beside him, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with concern.

He nodded.

'Tom, you're hysterical!'

The American wiped his eyes and pointed at the vehicles. 'We got the truck outta the way!'

Jess stood, legs apart, hands on hips, an arch of stretched denim. 'Someone could have been killed – and you're laughing?'

Tom helped Cayden up. 'Lighten up, Jess, if you'd seen Rimac running, waving his machete, you'd be laughing too!'

'Well, I'm bloody not.' Jess turned on her heel and jogged to meet up with Katie, still panting up the incline. 'Come on, we got to see if anyone's hurt.'

'What about Tom?' Katie said, peering around Jess's body. 'Is that blood on his face?'

Jess threw her arms up in the air and strode down towards the vehicles.

Cayden ran after her. He could see Rimac squaring up to the truck driver and his apathetic passengers, some of them rubbing elbows and knees, one dabbing at a cut over his eye – and Maras, pointing at the crumpled front of his Toyota, its windscreen cracked and the bull bars pushed in against shattered lights.

'Everyone okay?' asked Jess.

Cayden crossed his arms. The six from the truck had formed a half-circle. He looked down at them; they stared back with vacant eyes in their tattered clothes and dirty limbs, some displaying fresh cuts. They smelt of damp vegetation, and chewed like a herd of stoned cows.

He was glad when Tom ambled up beside him and they all took a step back. 'What's up?' he asked Rimac.

The Peruvian, an incredulous look on his face, waved at the truck.

'Should'a got his brakes fixed,' said Tom, walking casually to the front of the Toyota. 'Hey Cayden, you want to carry on or let me take over?' he grinned.

'I've done enough for one day,' Cayden replied.

'Get Maras to quit jabbering and reverse out,' Tom told Rimac. 'The engine ain't damaged.'

They unhooked the trailer and, with a lot of shunting, Maras managed to get the Toyota away from the truck and facing downhill. They reattached the trailer. The truck driver began to shout.

'He wants to know – what will you do for his truck?' explained Rimac.

The Volvo's front wheels were hovering an inch above the edge of the ditch.

Tom frowned. 'Any suggestions?' he asked, looking at Cayden.

'The Toyota isn't man enough. He'll have to wait for another truck to come by.'

'You gonna tell him or am I?' said Tom.

Cayden took out his wallet and held out fifty dollars. 'Rimac, tell him ... um, thanks for ... trying. Here's his money and he'll have to wait for a truck – unless he wants to come with us to the next place with a phone?'

Rimac looked horrified, handing the money over quickly and talking faster.

'They wait,' said Rimac, hurrying to the Toyota which Maras had now restarted. Cayden and Tom followed, their attention quickly diverted to Jess's cry of 'look out' as she leant from the door. Cayden glanced back – just in time to dodge a stone.

'Rimac, what the fuck did you say?' Tom shouted, piling into the Toyota. As it started to move, stones pinged off the paintwork, one catching Cayden between the shoulders as he jogged by the open door, Tom reached out and lifted him off his feet. They fell back on the seat.

'You two want some time alone?' said Jess as they disentangled themselves in the swaying cabin. It was no easy task. Maras was again demonstrating his ability to drive fast.

'Maras, they were throwing stones ...' Tom yelled as they swerved around a U-shaped corner at the top of a slope and rattled down the far side, '... not fucking grenades – slow down.'

Cayden twisted to look out the window, wincing from pain where the stone had impacted. He found the pale rip in the tree line, following the road up the side of the darkening valley to the high pass – but of the track, there was no sight.

Four hours later, with one flickering headlight, Maras parked in front of the obscured lodge, the pathways to it lit by lanterns whose benign light reflected off reed-walled cabins hidden within the teeming vegetation. They clambered out, following Rimac down the narrow path, as frogs burbled and croaked, bats flickered through the gaps in trees – and moths and bugs careened off the lanterns, walking dazed across the pathway, their sheer multitude ensuring that many were crushed underfoot. A kitchen appeared on the right. Figures moved around gaslights, their faces reflecting blue from the flames of the primus stoves. The smell of cooking penetrated through the background stench of vegetation.

The lodge's manager appeared with his wife, offering fruit punch and torches, explaining how the showers were fed by a gravity-fed tank and there was a limited supply of water. Cayden was tempted to suggest to Jess that they could conserve water by sharing – but he was too tired to summon the energy it required to organise. Instead, he accepted his key for the cabin he was paying for, while Katie shared with Jess, Tom with Rimac.

Maras would sleep in the Toyota.

Cayden trudged up the few stone steps to his cabin. He played his torch over the rough wooden floor and the simple furniture – a double bed with mosquito net hanging from four corner posts, a reed-matted screen dividing the main room from the bathroom. He found the oil-fuelled lantern and examined his torn and filthy clothes in disgust. The t-shirt he could throw away but the jeans he would have to use again; he decided to take them into the shower with him. He might as well have been standing beneath a moderately-sized watering can, such was the restricted flow of water. Twice, he thought he heard the screen door but, each time he stepped from the shower and looked around, the room was empty. Cayden went back to the shower, rubbing soap into his jeans.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped from his cabin and walked to Tom's

'Cayden, where are you going?' asked a towel-clad Jess as he passed her cabin.

'Looking for Tom.'

'What's up, Cayden?' Tom said, walking into the light from the direction of the bed, wearing just his shorts.

Cayden straightened, tightening his stomach, a hand drifting to the top of his towel. 'I, uh ... I wanted to borrow a pair of shorts.'

'No problem. I'll go get them. Blue alright?' Tom stepped down to Cayden's level; his muscled chest brushed Cayden's arm.

'Blue's fine,' Cayden replied as he turned to follow him.

'Cayden ...' Jess caught up with him, her eyes glinting. 'I ... we were just having a meeting.'

Cayden nodded. He felt he was hallucinating, light-headed. He scowled. 'I've been to a lot of meetings – but none that look like this! Where's Katie?'

'Taking a shower in the boys' room. I ... I used too much water. Are you okay?' She gently touched his arm.

'I need something to eat,' Cayden replied, watching a black beetle run up to his feet, then scuttle away.

'How was your shower?' asked Jess, bending her head, trying to make him look at her.

He looked up, suddenly focused. 'The shower was great,' he smiled. 'I'm going to see what's cooking. See you later.' He turned and walked away, the spots of perspiration where she had touched him cooling as he walked.

Tom met him halfway, a pair of shorts dangling from his hand. 'Here you go, hope they fit okay.'

'Thanks Tom, I'm sure they'll be fine.'

Cayden sat in the dining room as a battery-powered radio played Inca music that failed to compete with the chorus of forest sounds. He had been served a beer, which tasted watery but was at least cold. He sat back in the cane chair and stared moodily at the rafters in the candle light. What had he been thinking? Behaving like a lovesick adolescent – a naive one at that. Cayden felt foolish – angry. The ballooning excitement of his relationship with Jess had deflated

Slamming the bottle on the table, causing froth to rise to the neck, he quickly finished the beer as the manager reappeared, smiling, with a plate of stew and mashed potatoes, placing it carefully in front of him, adjusting the knife and fork, pouring water from a carafe.

'Another beer, Senor?'

Cayden nodded, his mouth watering.

The others joined him during the course of his meal, Jess and Tom the last to arrive, sitting together, opposite him. Cayden pretended not to notice, concentrating on the last of the stew. As he swallowed and looked up, he could not remember what it had tasted like.

Jess was looking at him over the rim of her water glass. Even in the gloom her eyes were shocking in their intensity. 'How do you feel ... now?' She pointed to his empty plate.

Cayden nodded, suddenly feeling detached from the expedition. He wanted to be alone. 'If you'll excuse me, I'm going to get some sleep – us oldies, you know!' He got up.

'Hey Cayden, you won't let me buy you a beer? You saved my life today,' said Tom.

'It was my stupid idea, Tom, it was the least I could do,' Cayden replied. 'What time you planning on leaving in the morning, Rimac?'

'Early, Senor Cayden...dawn.'

'Before those truckers find us,' laughed Tom.

'Maybe,' Rimac replied seriously.

Cayden left them discussing the possibility that the Volvo driver and his amigos might walk down the road during the night and attack them with stones at first light. Personally, he didn't care; the threat they presented was nothing compared with what he had endured from Maalik.

But sleep eluded him. He had diverged from his self-imposed discipline, shunning help from everyone. He had become vulnerable. He had not allowed Rachel to get so close, so quickly, as he had Jess, he thought, rolling onto his other side for the hundredth time.

*****

The threat of the avenging truck driver ensured everyone was ready to go as dawn seeped through the limbs of trees crowning the valley sides. They looked anxiously down the pale ribbon of dirt as Maras slung the last of their bags into the trailer. There was little soundtrack to their departure – nothing but the flick of a bird and the forest's discordant dawn chorus.

Overnight, a restless Cayden had made up his mind – he was going to stay at the lodge, abandon this mad adventure and get the first ride back to Cusco. He studied Jess's face – clearly, she too had not slept well. Her cheeks were sallow and her eyes had lost their sparkle. Without the benefit of make-up, her lips were reduced to a compressed, bloodless line which neither smiled nor bid him good morning as she climbed on board and sat down next to Katie.

Tom slapped Cayden on the back. 'What'ya waiting for – mount up.'

'I was considering whether to head back. I've got so much to do.'

'What?' Tom looked tentatively down the road. 'Hell of a time.'

'Yeah, I know, I didn't sleep. Lot on my mind.'

'Crap, Cayden. You could be here for days waiting for a ride.'

'I'll catch a ride with the next truck.'

'Yeah right, I can see you standing up in the back of one of those things for a day. Look, there's a landing strip near the village where this road ends. They have regular tourist flights in and out of Cusco. We were going to get one but they were all full – but for one person...you never know, buddy.'

Cayden scratched his stubble.

'Hey, we'll be there by the end of today,' added Tom. 'You could catch the first flight out tomorrow.'

Cayden realised it made sense. He handed his bag with a show of reluctance to Maras, and climbed in. With his jeans still wet, he was wearing Tom's shorts – tight around the waist, baggy around the thighs. On reflection, he would sooner have sat in wet jeans.

The Toyota started with reluctance, but soon Maras was moving swiftly off into the strengthening light, frequently looking in his mirrors. The forest closed in once more, the linear definition of trees lost in the riot of ferns and vines that snaked around their trunks. Rimac excitedly pointed out still more birds. Cayden couldn't spot one. He contemplated the back of Jess's head, lolling against the window as she caught up on her sleep.

After three hours of bone-jarring, sinuous track, the Toyota emerged from the cupped embrace of the forest. Blinking from the full strength of the sun, they were shocked by the savage transition from a shaded, leafy, hydrous world to random plots of banana. cocoa and manioc, bordering abandoned acres of worn-out soil which plants tried to re-colonise – only to be burnt back by the smouldering fires that no-one seemed to manage. The irritation that had been growing in the stuffy cabin seemed more palpable as they gazed silently at the ravaged land.

An old Ford materialised from a side turn in front of them. It crabbed ahead of the Toyota, filling its interior with dust.

'Who forgot to close their bloody window?' said Jess.

Tom slammed his shut.

Katie looked over her shoulder, smiling apologetically at him on Jess's behalf.

Jess caught the look and shook her head. 'It's not funny. Look at this bloody dust!'

'Well, it's the first vehicle we've seen in hours, it's easy to forget,' said Katie.

'Only if you're a Neanderthal!'

'Yeah, and if you don't quit bitching, I'll use my club!' said Tom, smiling broadly.

Jess turned in her seat, eyebrows raised. 'You're going to need to threaten me with something more substantial than that!' Her gaze swept over Cayden as she turned back.

Cayden drummed his fingers, willing Maras to overtake the slow-moving Ford, but even his bravado wasn't enough; the road was single track, built on a ridge between the dilapidated plots, a steep camber either side – one wheel placed incorrectly, and they would roll.

Suddenly, Maras became agitated, pointing at his mirrors. Rimac leant forward, then turned with a worried expression. Cayden knew instinctively what was happening. Leaning over Tom, he slid open the window, putting his head out and looking back beyond the trailer. There it was – the rusty grille of the Volvo truck was bearing rapidly down on them.

'What'ya doing?' Tom asked irritably, attempting to push Cayden back in his seat.

'Take a look.' Cayden moved forward. 'Tell Maras he has to overtake,' he said, calmly to Rimac.

The Toyota's horn had been damaged in the accident; the decrepit Ford had no mirrors. Its driver continued at 25 mph, oblivious to Maras's frantic weaving.

'Maybe it's not them behind us.' said Tom hopefully.

Cayden clambered over into the front passenger seat, wound down the window, and re-adjusted the nearside mirror. The Volvo was almost on top of them. He could see the driver above the plume of their vehicle's dust, his expression allowing no doubt in Cayden's mind that he was not happy with the $50 compensation.

'Tell him to ram the truck in front,' Cayden urged Rimac. 'We've got to let him know we're here and we need to get past him.'

Maras shook his head vigorously.

The dust swirled in the cabin. Then, suddenly, their heads snapped back – a rear shunt. The trailer snaked viciously. Maras let out a cry as the Toyota slammed into the Ford – its broken tailgate crashing through the damaged windscreen. Cayden put up his arm, avoiding the stinging shards of glass. Still clinging to the wheel, Maras yelled with pain. The Toyota was firmly hooked onto the Ford's tailgate, the truck's rusty latches clamped over the dashboard. Then – a second impact, the Toyota embedded itself more deeply on the tailgate, the crumpled edge virtually touching the Toyota's steering wheel, sawing with the swerving action of both vehicles. Chunks of plastic and trimming were ripped off its frame. Maras's face streamed with blood. Quickly, Cayden moved over in a bid to wrestle the wheel from him, shouting for Maras to let go.

The women screamed and Tom yelled instructions over the roar of the engine. The old Ford was now braking, the single hanging light on its rear glowing red in their faces. Behind, the trailer, disintegrated with the next impact, the hook wrenching free and tumbling under the front axle of the Volvo, acting like a toboggan on the jacked wheels. The rusty grille swerved violently, the driver tugging at the wheel in vain. The Volvo plunged over the bank, toppling on its side and, before the cloud of dust hid the scene, they watched black oil drums and the group of men spew from the tipper in a flying mess of steel and limbs.

In front, the Ford finally came to a stop with a grinding of brakes. The driver appeared, pushing a battered hat to the back of his head. He looked at the impaled Toyota in astonishment.

'Is everyone okay?' Cayden asked. Katie was crying. Jess, her face white with shock, hugged her.

Tom leant forward. 'Those mad bastards, I'm going to kill them.'

'Help Maras,' Cayden said, brushing glass away.

The Ford driver was talking to Rimac, both of them looking uncertainly at the cloud of settling dust behind.

Cayden carefully climbed out, gingerly picking shards of glass from his legs.

They were on the outskirts of a village. A woman was washing clothes in a split oil drum set against a shack of assorted shaped timber, the boards defaced with graffiti, the weak-looking corrugated roof held down with broken beams. Metal detritus filled the surrounding are. Goats were tethered in a patch of scrub. Crooked poles ran out of a patch of forest and threw power lines down in a half-hearted gesture to modernism. The rest of the village lay scattered down the highway, the ever-watchful jungle claiming any piece of land not vigorously defended – vines penetrating through the windscreen of a rusty car and capturing the wheels of an abandoned tractor.

The woman looked at Cayden as if the accident was a daily occurrence.

'Rimac, get Maras over to that old woman,' said Cayden. 'Take this.' He handed Rimac the first aid box from under the front seat. 'He needs to lie down while that glass is taken out of his face.' Cayden mimed to the Ford driver to get his truck off the front of the Toyota. The man shrugged and disappeared into his cab. Moments later, with a crash of gears and an eruption of smoke, the Ford lurched forward, its tailgate pulling the plastic cover off the Toyota's dashboard, exposing wires and broken dials.

The Ford carried on, eventually stopping in front of a hut with the Peruvian flag hanging limply above.

'Tom, come with me, we need to help those guys ... Jess, get the Toyota started, we may need to leave in a hurry.'

'Hang on a minute,' said Tom, climbing up to the roof rack. He pulled out a tripod and walked up the road, swinging it like a club.

The Volvo's driver had half-fallen out of the window, his torso crushed by the frame of the cab, his mouth open in an expression of shock.

'Serves the fucker right,' Tom growled, kneeling down and feeling for a pulse. 'Yep, he's a gonna.'

'You done this before?' said Cayden, picking his way cautiously through the field of toppled drums.

'I've seen a lot of dead animals,' Tom replied.

Cayden looked at him sharply.

Tom shrugged.

They heard a moan. Approaching slowly around a drum, Cayden found one of the Volvo's crew leaning against its side, nursing a bloody elbow, the body of one of his colleagues lay a few feet away, his neck at an odd angle. The injured man stared at Cayden balefully as he knelt down beside him.

'Careful Cayden, he ain't dead, he could still bite.'

Cayden had not studied the group of men earlier on the mountain pass; now appreciated how young they were. Suddenly, the boy stopped moaning and bared his teeth like a threatened dog. Cayden jumped back in shock as he saw the wickedly sharpened incisors. 'Jesus Christ, look at that!' he exclaimed.

'Like I said, be careful.' Tom advanced around the next pile of drums. Returning minutes later, he announce: 'He's the only one alive. All our bags are trapped under the truck, but look...found my backpack with all the passports and wallets...except yours of course...'

'Shit!' Cayden said, shaking his head. 'What the hell did they come back for?'

'Maybe high on this stuff.' Tom kicked a pile of white powder that had spilt from a drum hole.

'Is that what I think it is?'

Tom knelt down, wet his finger and put some of the powder on his tongue. 'Not that I'm an expert, but if my Harvard memory serves me right, yep, that's coke.'

'And all these drums are full of it?' Cayden stood up slowly, keeping a watchful eye on the whimpering teenager.

'I would guess so,' replied Tom, 'which means it's very valuable – which means someone will be missing it very soon. We should get the hell outta here.'

'What about him?' Cayden asked.

'Leave him to the village.'

They jogged back to the Toyota. Jess had cleared the debris from the front seats but not been able to start the engine. Her eyes were tearful as she moved quickly to meet Cayden, hugging him fiercely. He hesitated but then wrapped his arms around her, stroking her back, feeling her body shudder as she breathed deeply.

'I don't think I've ever been so scared,' she cried.

Cayden kissed the top of her head; her hair smelt of a combination of dust and lemon.

Having jumped into the Toyota, Tom tried the ignition. He threw up his hands, looking desperately over the mangled plastic. 'Come on, we can hug each other later, we gotta go,' he shouted.

Cayden gently prised Jess away. She hooked an arm around his neck and kissed him passionately. Her lips were warm and slippery from her tears.

'What was that for?' he asked when she finally stepped back.

'You were angry with me, and I couldn't be bothered to explain, and then this ... makes you realise, that's all.'

Cayden shaded his eyes, studying the empty road. 'Shouldn't you be hugging Tom?' he asked.

'You think I slept with him, don't you?'

He glanced down at her briefly before looking back down the road. It ran straight to a vanishing point in the haze, the distant mountains and their verdant flanks now a monotonous black in the harsh glare of sunlight, the peaks piercing the cobalt blue sky.

Jess had been talking to him. He barely heard a word.

'Let's talk later...now's definitely not the time,' he said, putting an arm around her shoulder and guiding her to the Toyota. 'Those oil drums were stuffed with cocaine. I don't think we should be here when they turn up to investigate.'

'It won't start!' Tom said helplessly.

'I'll do it. Get Maras,'

'Aw shit, what's that ol' bastard done now?'

Cayden looked up sharply. Tom's eyes were trained on the village. The Ford truck driver was walking towards them from the hut, near to where he had parked. Beside him strode another man. He looked official, dressed either in uniform or at least in clothes that matched and were not as threadbare. There was no cap, or insignia – but he was wearing a holster.

'This is getting better and better,' muttered Cayden as he tore off the plastic panel covering the rear of the ignition tumbler. 'Go on Tom, get Maras.' The American nodded and left.

Persuading the Toyota's engine to turn over, when wires had been torn from the ignition switch, required a degree of technical know-how, experience, good fortune – and the use of his teeth as wire strippers. It was a combination that quickly allowed Cayden to meet the challenge. He grunted with satisfaction when the engine responded to his 'hot wiring' and caught.

He looked out through the gap left by the missing windscreen. Rimac and Tom were clearly involved in a heated conversation with the official – whoever he was – whose hand now rested on the butt of his holstered pistol. Cayden glanced back through the rear window. A dust trail was clearly visible.

'What's he saying?' he called impatiently.

'He says we have to stay; he needs to report the accident,' Tom shouted.

'Tell him where we're heading. They can catch up with us there.'

The official motioned across his neck for Cayden to stop the engine.

'He needs to call his superiors,' Tom yelled.

'You sure they're going to be the police?' Cayden jabbed his thumb towards the approaching dust plume.

'What choice do we have?'

The official was becoming agitated, pointing aggressively at Cayden.

'He really wants you to turn off the engine,' Tom said, having listened to Rimac's translation.

'What's he going to do – shoot us!' Cayden selected first gear.

The official pulled out his gun and waved it at the front of the Toyota.

Cayden yanked apart the wires and the engine died. He sat with his hands on the steering wheel, glaring at the official, watching from the corner of his eye the rear view mirror.

Rimac held his hands together, as if praying for the official to holster his weapon. The official pushed him aside and strode to the minibus. Smelling strongly of stale beer and sweat, he looked in through the windscreen. On close inspection, his uniform was threadbare – a hole in an elbow of his shirt, the faded badge on his shoulder, unreadable. There was no clue as to his rank or the organisation he represented. He was unshaven – either that or his beard refused to grow fully – with a nose that looked as though it had been broken. The only thing that really held Cayden's attention was the pistol – it looked clean and well-maintained.

'What does he want?' Katie asked fearfully,

'Identification,' replied Rimac.

'Tell him he'll have to go and dig mine out from under the truck – the truck that just tried to run us off the road,' said Cayden, forcing a smile, then flinching when the official banged his pistol on the window frame as Rimac translated.

'Tell him I want to talk to his superior.' Cayden glanced in the mirror at the fast approaching vehicle – which the official had still not seen.

The man pointed his gun and Cayden felt his heart hammering.

'Please, Senor Cayden, please,' Rimac cried, 'he is superior policeman ... customs man ... anything he wants. Please!

Cayden held up his hands as the vehicle he had been tracking roared by, clattering stones against the side of the Toyota, filling the air instantly with choking dust. The official reeled away in shock from the side of the minibus.

'Well, there goes the cavalry,' Cayden coughed, finding a bottle of water and gargling the dust from his mouth.

They followed the official to his hut, furnished with a scarred wooden desk and chair, its legs repaired with odd bits of timber. The only modern piece of equipment was a CB radio. Crammed into the stuffy office, they dutifully wrote down their names into a black leather-bound notebook, Maras leaving a smear of blood on the page – much to the annoyance of the official. He waved them back against the wall with his gun, while he went to the radio and laboriously read out their names. Then he sat back in his chair with a look of satisfaction and held the pistol in his lap, looking as though he was ready to take a nap.

'Tough day!' said Cayden, indicating to Rimac that translation was not required. 'Well, what now?' He looked at the others.

'Who has he called, do you think?' asked Jess as she stuffed her hands into her jeans with a look of uncertainty.

'I doubt it's anyone interested in hearing an unbiased account on what happened,' replied Cayden. 'Probably the owner of the cargo that's now spilt all over the road.' He bent down, the sweat oozing from his body, to look out of the one window which faced their abandoned Toyota and the wreck beyond. 'We should have given false names,' he said quietly, offering the bottle he had retrieved, to Jess. She passed it around; they emptied it between them.

Suddenly, the door flew open with a gust of sultry air. A man strode in and walked quickly to the table, pushing it back into the astonished official; it caught him in his stomach, pinning his arms. The newcomer pulled a gun from inside his suit jacket and pointed it at the face of the official. 'No move,' he barked. The official nodded – in extreme slow motion – then slowly pulled his hands from under the table. His gun clattered to the floor.

Satisfied, the suited man pulled back the table and kicked away the weapon. He yanked the official to his feet, pushing his face against the wall, while his wrists were handcuffed. The newcomer then holstered his own gun, picked up the pistol on the floor and turned to face the stunned group of onlookers, 'Which one of you is Senor Callejon?' he asked pleasantly in lightly-accented English.

Cayden's jaw dropped. 'I ... I am. Who the hell are you?'

Another man appeared, similarly suited but older, with greying hair at the temples and a double chin, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

'Senor Callejon, please come with me,' he said, briefly scanning the others in the hut, his expression neutral, before beckoning Cayden outside.

'No ... no, not until you tell me who you are,' Cayden stammered.

'Please Senor Callejon, it has already been a long day.'

Cayden stepped warily outside, the others following cautiously – and then being told to wait in the shade of the building. The door to the hut was locked, with the handcuffed official still inside.

'Look, I don't know what this is about, but we're a film crew, we have a ...' Cayden stopped abruptly. A black Land Cruiser; the same vehicle that had passed them a few minutes earlier, was parked at the side of the road, partly hidden behind the Ford truck.

But, what had stunned Cayden to silence, what had made his jaw drop again, this time with utter disbelief, and what had brought a rush of blood to his head, was the sight of the figure walking cautiously from the passenger door.

Agent Sly Williams.

Chapter 23

The sound – panpipes, drums, maracas and quena flute echoing within the confines of the cave – was toneless dissonance, the temperament of each instrument at odds with its neighbour. Yet it appeared to the timorous musicians to be gratefully received by the yellow-cloaked figure standing next to the smouldering fire, his head moving to a tempo at odds with the cacophony.

A man wearing a balaclava entered via the steel door. He shook his head as he waltzed across the uneven surface, his arms open as if he were holding an invisible partner. He whirled around the fire, pirouetting, cavorting.

Sapa Inca held up his arms. 'Enough,' he bellowed. The musicians stopped blowing, shaking and banging, allowing the sound to dissipate like a wave sucking seaward over rough stone.

The man in the balaclava bowed theatrically from the other side of the fire.

'You dare mock me!' said Sapa Inca, folding his hands within his robe.

His visitor began to cough. 'How can you live in this hole?' he asked.

'You are becoming too bold – be careful.' Sapa Inca clapped his hands for the musicians to leave.

'Your voodoo might scare these jungle monkeys, but not me,' the man replied, scratching his head through the balaclava as he walked to a table near the bank of grainy monitors. 'I've come to tell you that I am withdrawing my services,' he added, fingering through a sheath of papers.

'You dare to tell me!' Sapa Inca roared, his robe causing eddies of dust to form across the cave floor. 'I will tell you when your services are no longer required.'

'Hmm,' The black eyes looked up from the table. 'The children are moving into position, they are waiting for my final instructions – and then Madrid, Barcelona, Cadiz will all feel the revenge of your forefathers, mighty ...ahh, Sapa.' The man again bowed. 'Or perhaps you would like to make the call yourself – yes? Arrange the couriers, manoeuvre the boys into place, give them the last of your voodoo potion, clamp their earphones on - propel them towards the school playgrounds.' He clamped his hands on his head. 'Oh ... I forgot,' he suddenly shouted, 'you don't have a fucking clue how to – do you? Because I've organised everything for you, haven't I, your ... your magnificent-ness!' The eyes in the balaclava blazed. 'Even finding the little shits in this fucking cesspit, taking them out of here, setting them up with handlers – I've done it all'

'Enough!' Sapa Inca screamed, the hood falling back, fury contorting the network of black lines splayed across his shaven, oiled head. 'I will have your heart – like all my enemies.'

'Listen, you mad Sap,' the man sneered. 'Your forefathers will not be avenged – not without me! Now, I want my money, okay? Then, when I'm clear of your rabble, I will activate the boys.'

Sapa Inca lowered his head, his body tense. 'You guarantee these boys will be used against the Spanish?' He spat on the floor.

'You have my word.'

The Inca was silent. 'Those men that came to see me – the Sand Landers. They did not know who sent my boys to England – but I do.'

Silence – except for the distant hum of the generator. The man in the balaclava eventually looked at his watch. 'Get on with it.'

'I think it was you.'

'Is that a question, or an accusation?'

'I will enjoy cutting out your heart,' Sapa Inca growled.

'Of course. Well, if there is nothing else, you owe me 325,000 dollars.'

Sapa Inca nodded, walking slowly around the table, the other man keeping his distance. 'There is one other ... problem,' the Inca added.

The black eyes widened. 'What could that be?' He tapped his chin with a finger. 'Run out of gold daggers? No llamas to sacrifice?'

Sapa Inca chuckled – without humour. 'The last shipment, it has been ... delayed.'

'Not my problem,' the man shrugged, 'you employ these dope-heads.'

'You will make sure it gets delivered.'

The man in the balaclava slapped the table. 'Your five boys,' he shouted, 'the ones on their way to Spain to avenge your mad forefathers – one call and their mission would be aborted,' He looked the Inca in the eyes. 'Or maybe diverted,' he added slyly. 'How much is that worth to you?'

Sapa Inca brushed a hand over his head. 'Not two million dollars,' he replied quietly. 'Here ...' He produced a piece of paper from the folds of his robe, 'These people ... they were there.'

The black-eyed man leant across the table and snatched the paper away. He scanned the names – and became rigid, silently re-reading the list. 'This is lies!' He scrunched the paper in his fists. 'What is this?'

Sapa Inca looked at him shrewdly. 'You recognise one of the names?'

The man in the balaclava threw the piece of paper to the ground.

'The name Cayden Callejon, perhaps?' Sapa Inca pulled the cowl back over his head. 'The man you tried to kill in Lima ... Maalik Maharaj?'

Maalik folded his arms calmly as the Inca continued:

'You are a fool – an arrogant fool. Do you think I would trust you with my business without knowing who you are? There are many who support me – many powerful people who will find you and kill you.'

'Where is this man?' Maalik yelled, ripping off his balaclava and throwing it at Sapa Inca.

The shadowed face studied Maalik. 'Sand Lander,' the Inca sneered, 'from the land destroyed by mighty Inti, you sent the boys to England ...'

'I had to. Orders from ... never mind.' Maalik punched a fist into his other hand, 'These people – al Queda. I don't care who your friends are, these people are fanatical ... yes, I sent the boys to England ... yes, yes, yes.' Maalik walked in circles. 'It was a gift from Allah to kill the son of the brother who had cost me so much.'

Sapa Inca began to laugh – a dry crackling laugh. 'But Callejon still lives!'

'Where is he?' Maalik's finger shook as he pointed at Sapa Inca.

'Close.' The Inca pointed to the scrunched-up paper. 'Your foolishness has led him, and those that control him, to me ... leave now, worthless Sand Lander, while you still have your heart. Make sure you kill this Callejon ... oh, did you know this name is Spanish for dead end?' Sapa Inca chuckled. 'Make sure my shipment reaches its destination ...'

'If I do this, you will pay me?' Maalik asked.

'I will consider it,' Sapa Inca replied as he walked towards a dark recess of the cave and sat on the edge of the bed.

Maalik was suddenly standing in front of him, a pistol pointed at his head. 'That's not good enough, Sap my friend.'

Sapa Inca did not look up. 'When you deliver the shipment, there is one more target for the boys that are left – Lima. You will lead them, like the piper, to ...' Sapa Inca looked up, ignoring the pistol. He smiled – a slash of white teeth in the network of tattoos. '... to the palace in Plaza de Aramas. They will explode the heart of the Spanish conquistadors.' He spat between Maalik's feet.

'If I refuse. I still control the boys sent to Spain.'

Sapa Inca shook his head slightly. 'No. You have been replaced. They are hunting you for selling out to the infidels ...'

'I did not!' Maalik stammered. 'It was a bluff, I pretended ...'

'They do not think so.'

Maalik cocked the pistol. 'I'll kill you now, you mad bastard, and take the money.'

'If you do the things I ask, I will double the money – you will need that much to disappear.'

'You are forgetting who's holding the gun,' Maalik leant menacingly forward.

'No, you are forgetting.' Sapa Inca threw back his cowl. Distracted, Maalik glimpsed a flash of gold – and the needle-sharp dagger pierced his hand. The pistol clattered to the floor. Maalik howled in pain – and outrage. He backed away, watching the blood spurt from the wound.

Sapa Inca held the stiletto dagger up to the firelight, his impassive gaze watching the dribble of blood slide down its blade. He bent and picked up the pistol. 'Leave. I must prepare for Inti.'

Maalik clutched his hand to his chest, sobbing as he staggered from the cave, then along the rope walkways through the tree village and down to the processing plant. Weak from blood-loss, he found Maritza. Dragging her to a partitioned area on the mezzanine, he ripped a battered first air box from the wall, spilling the contents across the packing table. Empty pill bottles rolled in spilt cocaine. He tore open a bandage with his teeth, keeping Maritza next to him, then tightly wound the gauze around his hand. Wetting his fingers, he collected powder from the table and vigorously rubbed his gums. Maritza began to whimper. 'Shut up, you filthy bitch,' he snarled as he backhanded her. 'You're going to help me kill this bastard once and for all.'

He pushed Maritza forward and, using his limited Spanish, ordered her to find trucks and her best boys – with guns.

Chapter 24

Cayden walked slowly towards her. 'You have a habit of turning up and rescuing me!'

'You gotta habit of needing rescue,' Sly Williams replied, her face breaking into a smile.

Cayden looked away. 'And you have a habit of putting me in situations I need rescuing from!'

'I agree ...' She crossed her arms. '... and that's a bad habit.'

Cayden traced a finger through the dust on the bonnet of the Land Cruiser, his mind whirring. Eventually he looked at her. 'What the hell's going on?'

'You first,' she said.

Cayden raised an eyebrow, rising anger held in check by a thin mantle of relief. He glanced back at the group huddled under the tattered eave of the hut, silently looking in his direction. His gaze momentarily shifted to the abandoned Toyota and overturned truck before he looked back at the group, his gaze locking with Jess's penetrating stare – her eyes seemed to shine in the shadow. He sighed heavily. 'Have you got anything to drink in this thing?' he asked Sly.

'Sure.' She opened the door. 'And air-con.' Grabbing a bottle, she handed it to Cayden, who glanced at the two men, flicking through the notebook they had found in the hut.

'They're Peruvian police,' Sly explained.

'And you're with them because ...?'

Sly took off her sunglasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. 'It's a long story.'

Cayden could see the fatigue in her eyes. He nodded. 'Unless you need to wait for whoever owns that truck to turn up, I suggest we talk and drive. We've got a lodge to stay at tonight and the Toyota can't drive well at night ... no lights,' he said.

'We've?' Sly said with a small grin. She shaded her eyes. 'That's the girl I saw you with on the beach, right?'

'As if you didn't know,' Cayden replied. They walked over to the group, collecting the two Peruvian policemen on the way. 'Senor Cayden, you are a very lucky man to have escaped the bomb in Lima,' the senior man said, resting a hand on Cayden's elbow, 'but you should have spoken to the police – maybe we could have caught the man responsible.'

Cayden shook his head.

Sly spoke to them in Spanish and then turned to Cayden. 'They have to stay ...' She pointed at the truck. '... see who turns up for all that coke. They've also called in back-up, which should arrive by helicopter tomorrow.'

'What about them?' Cayden said, indicating Jess and the others.

'It's probably safer for them to go on,' Sly replied after conferring with the Peruvian detectives.

Cayden made the introductions. Jess shook her head in disbelief. 'Now, this is too weird! How did you track him down?' she asked.

Sly studied the young woman ... long, slim legs, toned body in tight jeans, and those eyes – the way they searched Cayden's face for an explanation, the concern they expressed. The girl was in love with him, Sly realised – immediately troubled by the thought.

'So,' Cayden told them, 'you go on and we'll catch up, but if we don't, then ...' Cayden avoided looking at Jess. '... I look forward to seeing the film on National Geographic. You should make it before dark,' he said, shaking Tom's hand. 'You okay to drive?' he added, turning to Maras, whose bigger glass cuts had been covered with two circular plasters – the others, a series of little red dashes and dots spread over his brown face. Maras nodded, looking forlornly back from his Toyota.

Jess hooked her arm through Cayden's and dragged him away. 'What the hell's going on,' she demanded.

'Look Jess,' replied Cayden, 'you know as much as I do. That's why Sly and I need to talk. We'll wait 'til tomorrow and then I'll catch you up.'

'All four of you spending the night in the Land Cruiser?' Jess asked, arching an eyebrow.

'Yeah, an unpleasant prospect, but hey ... nothing to get jealous about.'

She turned away, 'I'm not sodding jealous – okay? Not of her anyway.' Jess's lips trembled. 'It's just, well ... we need to talk too. I know what you think happened, but it didn't ... okay?'

'Jess, you're a beautiful women, Tom's a good-looking guy ...'

'You don't believe me?' She wiped a tear from her cheek.

Cayden raised his shoulders sceptically. 'I'm struggling.'

Jess stamped her foot. 'Shit!'

He smiled, stepped forward, hugged her and then kissed her sweat-baked, dusty hair. 'We'll talk later, I promise,' he said.

'Okay,' she whispered.

He turned away from her, nodding silently to the others as they met half-way.

'Made up?' asked Sly.

Cayden glanced at her sharply. 'Get in, Sly, you've got a lot of explaining to do.'

'You first,' she replied, holding open the door.

The two detectives listened to Cayden's story in between coordinating by satellite phone the helicopter's arrival from Cusco, explaining how many drums of cocaine there were – and trying to hide their nervousness. They had interrogated the crash survivor but the boy had been delirious with pain. Given painkillers, he had been locked up with the sullen, uncooperative local official.

The road was empty, the departing Toyota the last engine they had heard

With the windows down to save diesel running the aircon, the cooler evening air wafted in with eddies of sewerage and dank vegetation. There was the occasional sound – a goat bleating; the cry of an infant, hurriedly stifled; the crackling of a radio; the chirruping of insect; or the braying of nesting Horned Screamers in the trees behind the village. Cayden finished the bottle of water he had been using to lubricate his parched throat. The light faded, the flies replaced with whining mosquitoes, the only light coming from the glowing cigarettes of the chain-smoking detectives.

'So that's my story – now I can't wait to hear yours,' Cayden said, his hand shaking from reliving the terror of the bomb strapped to his chest.

Sly remained silent, coming out of her reverie only when there was a distant rumble of thunder and, far to the west, the sky pulsed with lightning. 'I need to get out of here,' she said, opening the door. 'Okay?' She glanced at the detectives, who shrugged indifferently

Cayden followed. They passed the old Ford truck and the temporary cell, the crunch of gravel under their shoes precipitating a moan of pain from the crash survivor locked inside. There was no moon, but starlight allowed them to see the pale outline of the Volvo, the black oil drums scattered around it. Cayden wondered where the villagers had taken the bodies.

'This was unforeseen,' Sly murmured, studying the wreckage.

Cayden watched the bats flit across the starlit sky as the thunder rumbled in the distance. 'And everything else wasn't?' he asked her, pushing the nightmare of the hotel room from his consciousness.

'I don't know what to say,' Sly replied as they walked out of the village. 'I was on assignment, Cayden. They sent me the day you left. I didn't want to go ... shit, I said I had to be around to monitor your progress. But they insisted.' She turned towards him but her expression was lost in the darkness. 'You were a low priority ...'

'What! You mean tracking Arabs in shopping malls was more important?'

'I wasn't doing that ...'

'Oh good!' Cayden said, his sarcasm obvious.

'Hell Cayden, I'm way down on the food chain,' she said wearily. 'I go where they tell me.' A disturbed stone crackled away into the gloom.

'They don't send minions out to the jungle, Sly. Stop pissing around and tell me what's going on!'

'I'll tell you – calm down, I'll tell you my side, but I can't guarantee it'll be everything.' She reached out and tightly held his hand.

'Just get on with it,' said Cayden – without releasing her hand.

'My plan was exactly as I told you – get Maalik into your room, let him see the money in your account, entice him back to the States. His profile fitted that kind of behaviour.'

Cayden grunted. 'Yeah, but you didn't check out the hotel manager, did you?'

'When I got back from the Everglades, I fully expected to hear that you were back in the Gulfstream Plaza, drinking coffee with Randy, and my people had snatched Maalik as he entered the country.' Sly stopped walking and turned to face him, her pale face framed within a corona of blonde hair. She held both his hands. 'I had a phone with me the whole time – I checked in every hour. They told me everything was going fine.'

'Who? Your boss?'

'Well, not directly ... my team. Anyway, I get back, Burrows, my boss, is waiting for me, tells me there's been a problem ... the plan failed. I um ... I didn't know about the bomb until a day or so ago, I swear. Then he says things have changed. The Quantico disaster threw up some intel that these suicide kids might be coming out of South America, so the wires get hot. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, starts digging ... digging real deep and, um, up pops Maalik's name. We knew he was into coke, that's how we knew he was in trouble with the cartel and he needed the money, but some sources were saying the kids were shipped out using the same route.' Sly resumed walking.

Cayden felt a shiver of apprehension.

She squeezed his hand harder. 'We're scared – everyone's sacred. Shit, we can't have people looking at kids in fear. If this is al Queda, then they could have found something as devastating as 9/11 ...'

'Okay, Sly, I get it, but why are you here?'

'Hold'ya horses, I'm getting to it. The US can't charge around the jungle, napalming anything suspect ...'

'Really?'

'Come on, Cayden, don't believe everything you read.'

He put his hands in his pockets as Sly continued.

'The US is getting cooperation from South American governments to send in special force – but it all takes time. Assets in this region are poor. I guess people were surprised to find South America suddenly in the al Qaeda loop. To keep every lead rolling, Burrows, when he heard you'd survived Maalik's ... attempt, and knowing Maalik was still in the country, decided to, um, extend your involvement ....' Cayden sprung round to face her. 'No, let me finish, please. We knew Maalik would be as mad as hell at failing again, so Burrows needed a way to keep you here long enough to worm him outta the woodwork again ...'

'You ...' Cayden shouted, '... and that bastard Burrows used Jess?

'Not me, Cayden, please.' Sly's distress was apparent. 'I told him about our meeting in the Bahamas, I must have given the impression that you were getting on better than ... well, just friends with this girl. I know, I know, I'm sorry – okay? – but how the hell was I to know ...?'

Cayden slapped at his legs angrily, his hands wet with blood from crushed mosquitoes. 'You have really fucked up this time, Sly. How dare you involve Jess ... how dare you!'

'I didn't know, you gotta believe me. I know I shouldn't have mentioned Jess but you pissed me off, just disappearing like that ...'

'Shut up Sly – just shut up.' Cayden turned his back on her and looked up the strip of star-washed road. 'Hell of a coincidence,' he said after a while, 'that the Planetlife documentary should be happening at the same ...' His shoulders slumped. 'It wasn't a coincidence, was it?'

'They persuaded Planetlife to push forward the schedule ...'

'You bastards!' Cayden spat. 'So that guy who led me to Jess was CIA – the same guy who should have been at the hotel protecting me?'

'Yep,' Sly replied quietly. 'Maalik arrived a day early; he was a step ahead. The CIA guy should've been there...ready...but he'd been called away on another assignment.'

'Maalik's always been a step ahead,' Cayden laughed sarcastically, 'he's been at it ever since you tried to convert him to spy for you in South America!'

'What?'

'Oh yeah ...' Cayden threw up his hands with disgust. '... I forgot, you're probably too far down the food chain to know that after Trinidad, they caught him, but instead of throwing his arse in gaol, they thought it would be a good idea for him to spy for them in South America ...'

'I will never forgive myself,' said Sly miserably.

'No, I'll make sure you don't, especially if anything happens to Jess,' Cayden shouted. 'In fact, if anything does happen to her I'll ...'

'Nothing will, I swear ... fuck, don't you think I feel responsible?'

'No! No I don't! You never have, why should you start now?'

'Please Cayden, please,' pleaded Sly, holding his arm, halting his march along the road. 'I swear to you, as soon as Burrows told me ... it was about the time you called ... I told the son-of-a-bitch I was on a plane out here, with or without his permission.'

'Oh save it Sly.' Cayden shook off her hand. 'This is unbelievable – just like last time. You're going to bring Maalik down single-handily – yeah?

'No,' said Sly, tears wetting her cheeks. 'I know I've fucked up.'

'Again!' Cayden shouted.

'Yeah, again goddamit, I know – okay? I should never have allowed Burrows to persuade me to call you. It's crap – I'm crap.' She sobbed. 'If it's any consolation, which I know it's not, I've resigned. I'm sick of this shit.'

Cayden wiped the sweat from his forehead, his shoulders suddenly sagging. He was silent for a long time. 'So how did you know where I was,' he asked, gesturing back towards the village.

'The case you were given from the hotel has a GPS tracking device.'

Cayden glared at her.

Sly shrugged. 'They're monitoring your progress, checking by satellite, and the Peruvians have a team standing by. It was their intel that suggested Maalik was operating somewhere in this region...'

'And Jess is somewhere down that road without any protection.'

'It's you he wants.'

'Hey, I fucking know, okay?'

'I thought, if she was away from you she would be safer.'

'Well, you're no longer in charge, remember, you've resigned. So I'm going to make the decisions. The first is, we get in that Land Cruiser and find Jess – right now.'

'They're in charge. I'm just here as liaison.' Sly wiped her nose on her t-shirt, 'Burrows made sure I was met when I got off the plane. He remembered last ...'

'So, are you working for that little shit or not?'

Sly sniffed loudly. 'He has my resignation.'

'Christ!' said Cayden, looking back towards the village. Someone's coming.'

Sly spun around.

On the far side of the village, further out along the same piece of road, headlights undulated over the uneven surface. It looked like two vehicles, but that was hard to confirm because the beams were not uniform in direction or intensity.

Sly started running. 'We gotta get back.'

Cayden sprinted after her, stopping her after a few meters. 'Wait,' he said, sweat dripping down his face from the brief exertion, 'that's definitely not the Toyota – it only had one main beam. I'm not taking any more chances and you're no longer in charge – remember?'

'But my gun's back there.'

'Let the cops find out who they are first,' said Cayden.

He led them to a roadside ditch opposite the crashed Volvo. The lights drew nearer, jolting in and out of sudden dips, blinking behind trees.

The nearby Land Cruiser's dome light shone as they watched the younger detective open the passenger door. Thunder crackled – much closer now – and lighting flashed along the base of thick clouds, providing a florescent backdrop to the nearby trees. Cayden crouched lower in the ditch. The older detective was in the middle of the road, his shadow from the interior light of the Land Cruiser stretching towards them. He held a torch, its red light swinging from side to side, telling the approaching drivers to stop.

'Why isn't he taking more precautions?' said Cayden.

'Look at the other guy,' replied Sly, pointing to the younger man, who had taken up a defensive position behind the bulk of the Land Cruiser.

The approaching vehicles – now revealed as trucks – slowed. The lead truck growled up to the red light. From the ditch they could see the silhouette of people moving on its cargo bed. The second vehicle stopped with a screech of brakes. Its cross-eyed headlights illuminated the poor condition of the lead truck: lopsided suspension; buckled body panels.

The detective walked to the driver's door. Suddenly, they saw the twinkle of orange light – and then the rip of automatic gunfire. The detective whirled away, becoming as one with his shadow. Then came shorter pops of pistol fire, the interior of the Land Cruiser flashing orange as the young detective opened fire. Both trucks erupted with muzzle flashes. The Land Cruiser's glass shattered and the dome light exploded as the detective staggered backwards. He had clearly been hit, but managed to stumble to the back of the old Ford – the gunfire following him.

'We've got to do something,' Sly shouted, half-climbing to her feet.

Cayden pulled her down. 'Don't be an idiot.'

The gunfire ceased. Thunder rumbled as an encore.

Cayden sank lower into the ditch, dragging Sly with him. 'What are you going to do? Fight them with your bare hands?'

'Depends who they are. If they're just after the coke, then maybe we could negotiate.'

'They've just murdered two cops. They're not going to negotiate anything,' Cayden hissed.

'Maybe they don't know about us.'

'Jesus, Sly! What are you on? We both know Maalik has to be involved in those drugs somehow. Let's get away from here – try and work our way back to the Land Cruiser.'

The men from the trucks were breaking down doors, turning out villagers into the street. A generator clattered into life on the bed of one of the vehicles and two powerful searchlights swept out along the potholed road, focusing on the overturned Volvo. The trucks' gears crunched, as they started moving slowly forward, herding the villagers before them.

Cayden and Sly ran from the ditch, hunkering down behind a low wall; a family fled into the brush a few metres away. They heard chickens from the other side of the wall and watched the beams from the searchlights move steadily closer. 'We have to get past them – before they search this house,' Cayden breathed. So they slipped over the wall and ran, crouched, scattering chickens. Another house. The back door, nothing more substantial than plastic sheeting.

Sly edged forward. Suddenly, they heard a crash of splintering wood and a challenging yell. Sly flattened herself against the wall, signalling Cayden to stay still. An intruder had begun to ransack the house, shouting above the sound of crashing furniture and splintering glass. He ripped down the plastic door, the barrel of his gun outlined by the shafts of searchlight piercing the cracks in the structure of the shack. Immediately, Sly clamped her hands over the man's wrists, pulling him all the way through, using the momentum to swing him in an arc and slam his body against the wooden wall. She twisted the gun in his grip and fired. The bullet ripped into the intruder's ribcage, exiting through his back and spraying the rough wall with blood. He slid down the wall, eyes wide with shock.

'Oh God, he's only a boy!' Sly backed away, dropping the AK-47.

Cayden pulled her after him, leaping the next boundary wall, Sly grunting with pain. She had fallen awkwardly. Cayden pulled her to her feet. 'Come on, we've got to keep going.'

A yell. Gunshots, the tree to Cayden's left quivered as bullets tore into it. A goat ran from them and stumbled, bleating pitifully, from bullet strikes.

'This way,' Cayden yelled, barging Sly to her right. They plunged into a head-high field of maize, the heavy husks slapping against their faces, the coarse leaves tearing at their legs. Bullets thwacked the greenery around them. They zig-zagged, Cayden seeking out the far corner. The field ran out before he expected. Ahead was darkness. His shirt was sticking to him. Sly bent over next to him, panting. They could hear shouts behind.

'Come on.' Cayden grabbed her hand, as lightning revealed trees across a patch of open ground. A few steps on, Cayden yelled in surprise as the ground suddenly fell away from him. He tumbled forward, his arms around his head for protection and hit the bottom, burying himself in the ooze. Sly fell onto his back, pushing him deeper into the stinking mess. He could feel himself sinking. Panicking, he scrambled to his knees, picking Sly up on his shoulders, pitching her forward.

'I can't see a thing,' he cried, wiping his face frantically. He looked up. The paler sky allowed a dim outline of the ditch. Cayden looked down. He couldn't see Sly – but he could hear her struggles.

'Help me,' she spluttered from nearby.

He put out his arms and searched blindly. Their fingers touched. He clasped her wrist and pulled her up to stand next to him. They clung to each other.

'I'm gonna heave,' Sly groaned.

'Shh,' Cayden pulled her to him, holding her as the sound of voices neared the top of the ditch. A head was silhouetted against the pulsing base of a cloud – one more step and he would make the same mistake. Frogs croaked. Someone shouted – and the head quickly disappeared.

'D'ya think they saw us? Or maybe thought we were just villagers escaping?' Sly whispered, spitting.

Cayden led her along the ditch. Their feet slipped, repeatedly forcing them back into the foul mixture of rotten vegetation and human excrement. Thunder crashed overhead and the rain poured down into their stinking ditch, each fat drop exploding a puff of fetid air.

'Come on, before we drown,' Cayden urged Sly as his searching hand made contact with an exposed tree root. He pulled on it – it held. Guiding Sly to the root, he pushed her up.

At the top they let the rain wash the filth from their faces before cautiously making their way back to the village. They assumed the searchlights were now trained on the crash site – certainly, the beams were no longer in the village. Rain clattered on the corrugated roof of a shack and fell in a veil from the crimpled edges. The mud squelched under their shoes. Sly pushed back the plastic door and crept into the blackened interior.

Flashes of lightning afforded them snapshots of their surroundings. They were opposite the Land Cruiser; Peering through the rain towards the crash site, they saw men apparently working on righting the vehicle. But it was difficult to tell – like looking at something from behind a waterfall.

'Now's our chance – while they're busy,' said Cayden, running quickly from the doorway. He stumbled halfway, falling awkwardly – and then gasped in horror as he saw the open eyes of the detective, sockets full of rainwater, dead tears running down his cheeks. Cayden scrambled to his feet and ran, diving across the front seat of the Land Cruiser, shards of glass tearing his legs. He wriggled in behind the wheel, thankful that the key was still in the ignition. A figure stepped from behind the old Ford. The local official was pointing a gun. Then, a shadow flew at the man out of the darkness – Sly's high kick smacking his head against the side of the Ford. He fell to the ground and lay in a crumpled heap.

Cayden twisted the key and the V6 diesel rumbled to life.

Sly tumbled in beside him. 'You just let me ...' she panted, '... deal with all the bad guys.'

All the windows were gone; the rainwater poured through. Cayden reversed, keeping the old Ford and the official's hut between them and the crash site. 'Ready?' he shouted, selecting first and switching on the headlights, which miraculously, had not been damaged.

Sly nodded grimly, hunkering down in her seat.

Cayden kicked the accelerator and they roared onto the road. A second later, the beam from one of the searchlights brightened the interior. Bullets! The sonic sound mixed menacingly with the roar of the rain and the bellow of diesel. They thudded into the Ford's spare tyre; ricocheted off its bodywork. The Land Cruiser's fat tyres slipped on the surface, but Cayden expertly counteracted each slide, gaining speed so that they were quickly lost in the downpour. He looked in the shards of rear view mirror. Everything was blotted-out by rain. Cayden flicked on full beam. It reminded him of driving in the fog back home. Grimly determined, he sawed at the wheel – then chanced a quick glance to his right.

Sly was slumped over.

Chapter 25

Maalik watched the taillights from the Land Cruiser disappear into the watery night. He thought about chasing after it but decided recovering the cocaine was more important. He hadn't seen who had driven away – probably villagers, he thought. They wouldn't get far. Unscrewing the top to a bottle of Amaretto, he watched as another drum thudded onto the bed of the truck, rocking the cab in which he sat.

He brought the bottle to his lips, gulping deeply, his eyes settling on his bandaged hand, stained from weeping blood. He thought of ways he would like to kill the mad Inca – tying him to one of his lighting conductors, watching his body fry, or ripping his heart out with one of his own daggers. Maalik grinned as he took another gulp of the sweet liquor.

'Then I'll come for you, Cayden Callejon,' he said quietly, pointing the bottle towards the windscreen. 'No escape this time – oh no, this time you will die ... and die soo slowly.' One of the villagers had told him about the Toyota minibus leaving earlier that day with Westerners on board. The road dead-ended at the river. They would be taking a boat but he would find them – all of them. They were in his world.

'Hurry up, Maritza, you little slut,' he shouted, banging on the roof of the cab. 'Ouch! Fuck!' He looked at his bandaged hand, took another mouthful of Amaretto and rested his head, thinking about the money. What was he going to do with it? Where would he go?' Another country had been closed to him – time to move on. The thought didn't concern him unduly. He had spent most of his adult life moving on – ever since the three-bed semi in Wandsworth. Maalik's eyes suddenly watered; he took a long draft of Amaretto. 'Ten fucking years ago,' he whispered as an image of his mother's furious eyes, through the slit in her burka, flashed into his mind – her hand clenched on the door knob to his bedroom; the naked black boy from two doors down squirming under the bed sheet; and him doing nothing to cover himself, partly relieved that she knew, but terrified what his father would do. He had decided there and then that he would never be around to find out.

Another drum thudded onto the truck. Why did she have to come back early from work? 'Stupid whore,' he shouted, recalling his mother screaming at him as he pulled his suitcase over the uneven path, all the way to the end of the road. Only when he turned the corner was her disgust drowned out by the roar of traffic. Maalik giggled. 'Stupid whore.' She would have drowned in shame when she discovered that her good Muslim son had been smuggling people for five years. Another drum rocked the chassis. 'Serves you right, silly bitch, forcing all that Muslim shit on me ... should have left me alone.' The driver's door opened and Maritza climbed in, her clothes sodden, her hair plastered to her skull. She chewed slowly, glaring at him.

'Drive, you filthy slut,' Maalik barked, reaching over and slapping her face, – and wincing when he realised he had used his damaged hand.

The truck rumbled to life. Maritza crunched it into gear and bent forward over the wheel, peering through the rain, the single wiper barely making an impression on the streams of water running down the glass.

He might go back to Trinidad, he thought. He had friends there who would hide him from the Americans, and now al Queda. He hadn't wanted to fuck them off – he liked what they were doing, creating fear in general, but they weren't going to be happy that he had led the Americans to the source of their child bombers. 'Fuck 'em all,' he spat through a grin.

'Faster, you stinking whore,' he yelled at Maritza.

Chapter 26

Rain fell in on him through the gap left by the missing windscreen. Cayden could not see the road. The Land Cruiser rolled forward under engine torque, the four-wheel drive struggling to keep the heavy vehicle from sliding into the drainage ditches – torrents flanking the road. While determined to put as much distance between them and the village, Cayden was equally desperate to stop and see to Sly.

'Sly,' he shouted again, taking the risk of removing a hand from the wheel and gripping her arm, shaking it lightly.

Her head lolled forward, the sliding motion rocking it like a sleeping passenger on a train. He held her upright, unable to see through the stinging rain what had happened to her. Sly's hair hid her face.

The rain pooled around his feet, filling his shoes; streamed from the dashboard, the steering wheel and the sun visor as the fat tyres slipped in and out of the wheel ruts.

Then Cayden decided he could not go on. He was almost drowning. The Land Cruiser lurched to a halt. He leant over and gently pushed Sly back on the seat. Her eyes were closed. He opened the glove box; there was a reading light on a retractable wire. He flicked the switch, and grimaced at the sight of the watery stain on her shoulder.

'Sly!' he groaned, pushing back her hair, wiping her face. With shaking fingers, he felt her neck, gingerly probing the skin as he looked for a pulse. The engine vibrated, his fingers were cold – he wasn't sure he could feel one. He pulled her t-shirt away from her neck. Blood oozed from the wound – a good sign; it meant her heart was still pumping. He stroked hair from her head, noticing a gash on the side of her face that was either the result of another bullet or from her head repeatedly hitting the door frame.

'Sly, can you hear me?'

Her head lifted and her eyes opened blearily – and then fully as the pain and the memories flooded back.

'Stay still, I think you've been shot.'

She looked at him blankly, her face ashen in the light, the bulb steaming from the rain.

'Sly ...'

She grimaced, sucking watery air through her teeth, then whimpered as she looked at the wound in her shoulder. 'Jeez, that hurts,' she said, laying her head back, biting her lower lip.

'I've got to get you out of this rain,' said Cayden, looking behind them, wondering briefly how far they had travelled from the village. 'I'm going to help you into the back seat.'

Sly shook her head. 'Keep driving.'

'No, I'll get the first aid.' He clambered out – and immediately sank in mud. Using the body of the Land Cruiser, he blindly felt his way to the back of the vehicle, looking up the road for any sign of light. He opened the shattered rear door, searching the cubby-hole to the right. His fingers closed over the plastic box, the white cross a beacon in the translucent glimmer. He slipped back around the vehicle to her door.

'I'm going to help you into the back,' he said, pushing one arm under her legs, the other, as gently as he could, around her back. 'This might hurt a little,' he warned.

Sly moaned, her good arm weakly holding Cayden's neck. 'This is wasting t ...time ... they'll b ... be coming,' she groaned, as he laid her on the back seat. 'How ... how far did we get?'

Cayden opened the box. 'Mile, maybe two.' He leant over her, rain pummelling his legs, thundering on the roof. 'I'm going to rip the sleeve, I've got to stop the bleeding.'

She screwed her eyes shut.

Cayden found a pair of scissors and cut the seam to the sleeve, ripping it up to the shoulder, then cutting further as far as the wound, fearfully pulling back the soaked material. The hole was to the left of her bra strap. Cayden found antiseptic and a gauze pad. He wiped the wound, trying to ignore her cries, before sticking gauze over the hole. Then he pulled off his t-shirt, ripped it into three strips and tied them around her chest to keep the padding in place. Sitting her carefully in the middle seat, he clipped the seatbelt around her. He found a bottle of water and held it to her lips while gently swabbing the cut along the side of her head. 'That's the best I can do,' he said. 'Drink, otherwise you'll get dehydrated.'

'You're a regular nurse,' she grinned, her lips quivering into a grimace. He leant forward and kissed her. Her eyes focused on his.

'Drink some more.'

Sly nodded, 'You better get going.'

Cayden scrambled back to his seat and put the Land Cruiser in gear. As he accelerated, the heavy vehicle immediately started fish-tailing, Sly screamed. He kicked the brake pedal – the tyres locked, then swung sideways, the nose of the Land Cruiser heading towards the right-hand ditch. Cayden released the brake, followed the slide with the wheel. The Land Cruiser corrected itself, the tyres swerving back into the wheel ruts. Wiping Sly's eyes, he searched ahead. Too late – a downhill right-hand corner loomed.

Cayden's reactions were too slow. The bonnet dropped sharply as they fell off the road and into the gully. Immediately, red muddy water rushed through the broken side windows and over the non-extinguished reading light; he could feel the force pushing at the side of the vehicle, could hear debris thudding into the metal beside him. Fortunately, the Land Cruiser was fitted with a snorkel – the exhaust was vented above the roof, preventing water from going down the pipe and into the engine when it forded rivers. Cayden revved the engine, relieved to hear the diesel bellow and the tyres spin.

The ditch water swirled around their waists.

'I knew I should've driven,' Sly groaned, hanging forward on her seat belt.

Cayden slammed the stick into reverse. The engine growled, the frame shuddered. The headlights were under water. They highlighted bits of vegetation as it swirled past. Warning lights on the dash started to blink.

He selected first, deciding that reversing was out of the question. He kicked on the accelerator, the diesel growled – and then he felt elation as the tyres found grip and they levelled off in the ditch before growling and slipping out of the lessening gradient and into the rough ground beyond.

'Keep going,' Sly grunted, bracing herself with her good arm.

Cayden peered ahead, the main beams swinging wildly over the rough ground. He could not tell whether he was on a ploughed field or an open area of natural vegetation. But at least the rain had stopped. The tyres spun and slipped off tree roots and mounds of earth, the vehicle's underside grinding against stumps and fallen branches. Vegetation whipped against the windscreen frame. Occasionally, leafy fans would slap against his face, making him gasp with shock. The wheel was wrenched from his grip and he braked. 'This is ridiculous....'

'How far ... are you from the road?'

Cayden looked over his shoulder. 'No idea.'

'Find a torch,' said Sly.

Cayden found the bottle of water in the filth that covered the carpet. 'Here, drink some more water.'

'Stop worrying about me – please. Just ...' Sly took the bottle of water, her eyes in dark shadow in the dim glow from the reading light. '... just worry about those fuckers coming down that road.'

Cayden flung open the door, his ankle twisting on a root. He searched the back of the Land Cruiser with his fingertips, looking in the well under the rear cargo floor. His fingers touched the metal casing of a Maglite. Flicking on the powerful beam, he followed the vehicle tracks back. Forty metres on, he came to the ditch. He shone the torch back along the wheel ruts. The Land Cruiser was hidden behind numerous branches and broken sticks of vegetation. Cayden looked down the road. He heard the growl of their engines at the same time as he spotted the feeble lights of the two trucks.

A searchlight suddenly sprung from the lead vehicle. Cayden threw himself to the ground, stabbing at the torch button. The searchlight beam swept the jungle on either side, penetrating far into the vegetation – easily taking in the distance of the Land Cruiser. Cayden jumped to his feet and floundered back along the wheel tracks. Without the benefit of torchlight, he slipped and fell, his shins cracking against broken wood, his face and bare chest lacerated from the sharp leaf edges.

The searchlight swept over him – and lingered. Cayden pushed his face into the mulch, only daring to lift his head when he heard a faint shout. He looked up. The beam now reflected the Land Cruiser's paintwork.

'Shit!' he exclaimed, jumping to his feet and starting to run towards the vehicle. He heard a shot.

Cayden wrenched open the door, Sly screamed.

'It's me,' he shouted.

'Where the fuck have you been?' she demanded – as a bullet thwacked into a nearby tree.

'Lie down,' he said. crouching as more bullets ricocheted around them

'Come on, start you bastard ... start.'

The diesel clattered into life.

Wheels spinning, the Land Cruiser bounced and jolted over obstacles, fending off the bullets, that thudded mostly into the spare wheel on the rear door. Cayden kept going, his gaze flicking to the broken rear view mirror until the beam finally disappeared, like a lighthouse dropping below the horizon. He zig-zagged through a maze of trees, their thick canopy preventing any ground-level growth – the dryer leaf litter easier going for the Land Cruiser. But the trees closed in and his vision began to tunnel, the pale trunks hypnotic - like a ball rushing towards the tenpins – except he was trying desperately to avoid them. Wrenching the wheel left, then quickly right, he misjudged things. The vehicle's right wing crumpled against a trunk – but not hard enough to deploy the airbags. Sly groaned; her head snapping up – wild-eyed in her semi-conscious state.

'Sorry,' said Cayden, looking anxiously at her in the red glow from the dashboard warning lights. He wasn't sure how much more the Land Cruiser – or Sly – could take. She needed a doctor, but he needed to put as much distance between them and the men on the road, in case they decided to pursue on foot. He glanced at the fuel gauge – quarter-full.

'Keep goin' ...' Sly urged him.

Cayden reversed, metal screeching. Gingerly, he put the Land Cruiser into first gear, then tried turning the wheel – and heard the rubbing of the tyre. Cursing, he clambered out and inspected the damage. A shattered fog light hung by its wires. But the bull bars had protected the bodywork; the rubbing had been caused by a stick jammed in the wheel arch. With depleted energy, Cayden wrestled it free and dropped back in behind the wheel.

He leant between the front seats and eased the seatbelt from Sly's shoulder. The blood had dried. It was black and cracked like chocolate on a dry cake. 'Go. Go, goddamit!' she said, waving his hand away.

Cayden was amazed that they could make any headway at all; he had believed that the jungle was an impenetrable mass of vegetation. But this seemed almost ordered – as if, long ago, there had been the logical hand of man in its planting.

Dawn glimmered – or was it just his imagination? He had been staring down the beams of headlights for so long, he wasn't sure at first, but then, after he'd had a moment to look upwards, he could definitely see the shapes of trees against the pearly sky.

The Land Cruiser jarred across two deep trenches. Sly whimpered. Cayden carried on for a few metres and then braked. He jumped out and hurried behind the vehicle. The rear lights were illuminating wheel tracks.

'I found a track,' he said.

'Which direction?' asked Sly without looking up.

'How the hell would I know?' Cayden reversed. 'You got a compass on you?'

Sly peered at him, her eyes bloodshot, hair matted. She looked shrunken, frail. 'I thought ... thought you were a sailor. Look at the stars or something.'

Cayden rested his forehead on the wheel. 'My instinct says left,' he said, looking back and smiling reassuringly.

'That's good for me.' Sly unscrewed the bottle and drank the rest of the water. 'I need to pee.'

'I'll help,' said Cayden, climbing out.

He opened the door for her, unclipping the seatbelt and taking hold of her good arm as she stepped down, her knees buckling. 'Whoa! Oh God, I'm gonna throw ...' Cayden unbuckled her belt and popped open her button fly.

'You takin' advantage of a sick woman?' she slurred.

Cayden turned away, gazing at the demonic forest from the red taillights. Moths flitted between the trunks like small birds. He helped pull up her jeans. 'I should look at your shoulder,' he said after he had lifted her back into the passenger seat.

'There's nothing you can do. Find out where this track goes.'

The wheel ruts were deep, the central, weed-covered ridge, brushing the vehicle's underside. But, like a tram, the Land Cruiser would not go anywhere except along the route made by the ruts. At times, they encountered root barriers or water channels, where Cayden braked to allow the traction control more time to do its job. Oil, airbag and electrical warning lights continued to flash, along with the occasional beep from under the dash, but the Land Cruiser kept going as the light strengthened. The track weaved through the ranks of trees. Humidity increased. The fuel gauge was resting near the final white line – when it reached it, he estimated that he would probably have a few more gallons until the engine stopped. He dared not use the air conditioning. The stinking interior became suffocating. The last ounces of sweat squeezed from his dehydrated body as he stopped to repair Sly's dressing, using the last of the gauze pads and antiseptic. No longer protesting, she mumbled incoherently as her head lolled.

Doggedly, Cayden drove on. They crested a ridge, the wheels working of their own volition to get the tons of Land Cruiser over the slippery gradient. And then, an amazing sight.

Cut lawns, brilliant green in sunlight; a rope swing hanging from a tree; flower borders; a house with a red corrugated tin roof, whitewashed walls and a shady veranda. Cayden shook his head, his eyes wide with disbelief as more buildings opened up to his left – a workshop with a Land Rover on concrete blocks; a cat sitting in the sun. He bought the Land Cruiser to a halt, switched off the engine and stared.

'Where are we?'

Cayden, too stunned to answer, slowly got out and walked around the front of the ticking vehicle, still taking in the scene around him. He opened the back door and helped Sly from her seat.

When he straightened, he saw a man staring at them from the veranda. Cayden's heart pounded, his fingers clenching Sly's arm. Black eyes studied him calmly. That same nose, the same dark hair – surely Maalik!

Sly stared blearily at Cayden, shrugging off his hand. 'Hey, that hurts!'

The man stepped from the veranda; barefoot, he warily approached them, his body poised, like a cautious vet with an injured animal. Suspicion narrowed his eyes.

Cayden bent to look through the shattered windows of the Land Cruiser at the workshop. An elderly man dressed in a grey baseball cap and oil-stained dungarees, was also walking towards them,

'Senor!' Cayden called.

'Buenos dias Senor.' The man walked round the vehicle, rubbing his hands on his dungarees, 'Senora ...' he added on seeing Sly, his brown face immediately creasing with concern as he knelt down in front of her, prising her hand away from her shoulder.

Cayden swung around – and came face-to-face with the man he was convinced was Mallik. 'Stay where you are,' he said – and then relief washed through him. This man had a leaner face, a hooked nose with eyes close together and a triangle of beard on his chin. It was not Maalik.

The stranger held out his hand, Cayden noticed the other was held stiffly at his side. 'Your friend needs help,' the man said in heavily-accented English.

'Y ... yes,' Cayden replied as he leant against the side of the Land Cruiser, not sure if his legs could support him. 'Yes, she's been ... been badly injured.'

'Maria!' the old man shouted.

'They'll help you – they helped me,' the Middle Eastern stranger said, pointing to his own arm.

'Habla usted Ingles?' Cayden asked the old man, without switching his glance from the dark inquisitive eyes, peering closely at the revealed wound on Sly's shoulder.

A short woman in a black dress and white apron bustled towards them from the end of the main house. Her white hair was wound tightly into a bun behind her head and, when she shouted at the old man, slapping his hands away from Sly's injured shoulder, Cayden could see her two front teeth were missing.

'Si Senor, I speak little English.'

'She needs a doctor,' said Cayden.

'My wife,' the old man nodded, 'good doctor.'

Cayden looked dubiously at the old woman as she began to lead Sly away. Then, Sly's knees buckled. Cayden raced forward to help her – arriving at the same time as the Arab.

The old woman yelled at her husband who hurried off to his workshop, returning moments later with a sheet of corrugated metal. Together, they lifted Sly onto the makeshift stretcher.

'We need a doctor, a ... a hospital,' said Cayden.

The old man shook his head, pointing to his wife. 'Maria, bueno doctor.'

'Nearest hospital five hundred kilometres away,' the Arab interjected. 'Leave her to his wife.'

Cayden saw there was no alternative.

They carried Sly to a bedroom, crossing the wood-floored veranda and passing old pieces of colonial furniture beside the various doors. On the polished floor of the allocated room stood a large four-poster bed with a moth-eaten canopy, a mildew-stained chest of drawers and a once-elegant oak cupboard that listed ominously towards a basin fitted with one pitted chrome tap that dripped rhythmically onto the old porcelain.

Maria shooed them out, shouting at the old man. Again, he disappeared, returning this time with two young girls wearing jeans and t-shirts, their long dark hair tied in pigtails, their olive-skinned, dark eyes round and inquisitive. The girls were ushered into the room, the door closing behind them. Cayden needed to sit down. He headed for a wicker chair at the end of the veranda. One of the girls emerged carrying Sly's soiled clothing; the other ran out soon afterwards, returning with a box bearing a faded red cross. And so began a steady stream of errands to fetch hot water, bandages, linen, clothes – and a foul-smelling liquid that Cayden could only guess contained Maria's secret healing recipe.

With the Arab having returned to a room he was apparently occupying in the house, Cayden leant his head back, cupping the mug of hot, sweet tea the old man had brought him. He watched the hummingbirds come to the honey feeders located along the flowerbed below the veranda. A dog walked across the spongy grass and flopped into the shade of the abandoned Land Cruiser. More birds flickered around feeders beneath a copse of palm trees, and above, still more – black with long tails the size of crows in England – squabbled in their nests, their calls sounding like emptying water bottles. The old man was now back in his workshop, occasionally disturbing the bird calls with the pounding of metal.

Cayden closed his eyes, lacking the energy to find the shower block which the old man had told him was around the back of the adjacent building.

He jolted awake. The Arab was standing in front of him, bending forward. Tea spilt on the floor.

'The cup was falling,' he explained, backing away as Cayden jumped up, looking past him at the opened door to Sly's room.

Maria appeared, nodding confidently with a toothless grin.

'I think that means your friend is going to be alright.'

Cayden ignored him and went into Sly's room. He found her lying back on the bed, her head pressed into a soft pillow. Her hair had been braided; it stretched to a water-stained bedside table, supporting a jug of water and a glass. The wound on her head had been cleaned; it was now pink, clearly healing. Cayden peeled back the sheet. The aroma of herbs and spices reached his clogged nostrils – crisp white bandages covered the shoulder wound.

Sly's eyes flickered open; they took a while to focus. 'You stink,' she said drowsily.

'How're you feeling?' he asked, putting back the sheet and glancing up at the slow-moving ceiling fan, eddying wafts of humid air across the room.

'Like I've been hit by a semi,' she smiled weakly.

'I'll let you rest,' Cayden poured her some water. 'You should drink some if you can.'

She reached weakly for his hand. He laced his fingers with hers. 'Thanks,' she said.

Cayden nodded, smiling.

'Go shower,' she said, closing her eyes.

He smiled again, then returned to the veranda. He wasn't alone.

'My name is Jalal.' The stranger held out his left hand. He wore white cotton trousers and a faded denim shirt, through which sweat rings showed clearly under his arms.

'Cayden.' He warily shook the man's hand – a dry, strong grip.

'The old man ...' Jalal nodded towards the sound of hammering. '... has not had this many visitors since this place was growing tea!'

'I bet.' Cayden looked again at the beautifully laid wooden floor of the wide colonial veranda, imagining the plantation boss and his family sitting there in the evening, watching the sun set over the ever-threatening jungle. 'Must have been tough.'

Jalal nodded. 'Left forty years ago. Tourists now.'

Cayden studied the serious black eyes. 'So, you're a tourist?'

Jalal shrugged noncommittally. 'And you?'

'Filming wildlife ... we got lost.'

Jalal nodded slowly as he leant against the peeling rail running between the wooden posts supporting the veranda roof. 'The parrots – they shoot back now?'

'Something like that,' Cayden replied. 'Look, I need a shower. Do you think the old man could lend me some clothes?'

'He's too small. He has some workers – they are away. The girls will find you clothes.'

Cayden looked around. He couldn't see either of the girls.

'That vehicle ...' Jalal nodded to the Land Cruiser. '... it's a police one, no?'

'Listen ...' Cayden stepped forward. The Arab didn't flinch from the sudden movement. Cayden shook his head. 'Sorry, I've forgotten your name,' he said.

'Jalal.'

'Thank you. Jalal, I believe you're a tourist, okay, now you believe we're a film crew – and we'll leave it at that. Okay?'

Jalal stroked his elbow, studying Cayden intently.

'Okay?'

Jalal pointed with his chin. 'There is one of the girls.'

Cayden hurried off the veranda, calling to her.

'Oh, Cayden,' Jalal called after him.

Cayden turned to face the Arab. 'Yes?'

'Where is your camera equipment?'

Cayden glanced guiltily at the Land Cruiser. 'We were attacked – robbed. We were lucky to escape.' He waved Jalal away, irritated by his inquisitiveness, and asked the girl in his pigeon Spanish whether he could borrow any clothes. She nodded enthusiastically and ran off. Without looking back, Cayden strode to where he understood the showers were located.

Chapter 27

The men returned from following the Land Cruiser tracks. They spat into the dirt, their jaws moving wads of coca leaves. Their legs were filthy, their clothes splattered with mud – but their AK-47s still gleamed in the morning sunlight.

Maritza crouched n with them at the side of the road.

Maalik leant out of the cab, swinging an empty bottle. 'Well, what 'ave the fuckers got to say?'

Maritza looked up and shook her head.

'Useless bastards.' Maalik flung the bottle at them. He gazed with hooded eyes along the muddy track, the sunlight glinting off the orange water. He hadn't seen who had been driving the Land Cruiser – the figure in the searchlight beam had been too distant to identify – but he had a niggling feeling that it might not have been a local. Too tall. He didn't want to think about the possibility of it being one of the Westerners – and certainly not Callejon. He should have gone himself in search of the Land Cruiser; it couldn't have got far, but he was sick of the mud, the dirt and the mosquitoes – everything about this hateful place.

What to do? Maalik drummed his fingers. Ahead was Picopata, the shithole he would have to go back to if he wanted the Inca's money. It was also his preferred escape – the river would take him all the way to Brazil – and the local official had told him he had overheard the detectives discussing the reinforcements they were expecting. Maalik needed time – he couldn't have the authorities snooping around just yet. 'Don't forget Callejon,' he growled to himself.

'Maritza,' he shouted, leaning out of the cab, 'turn the trucks around. Get back to the village.'

'We need to organise a welcoming committee,' he added quietly.

Chapter 28

Maalik clenched his fist around the bloody bandage, the wound from Sapa Inca's dagger a source not only of pain, but also of hatred. It coursed through his veins.

He lashed out at a boy crouched in the shade of the hut. The wreck of a helicopter lay on the road just beyond the bullet-riddled Volvo truck. Bodies, in police uniform, lay along the road, the pilot's blackened remains hanging grotesquely over the controls.

Maalik had lost all but the two drivers and Maritza in the ambush; he had been forced to kill the last policeman himself. Repeatedly, he looked at the sky, half-expecting to see a squadron of helicopters, or along the road to the distant mountains, waiting for an armoured convoy to materialise. He was not unduly concerned – the jungle was a big place and he had a myriad of escape routes. But he wanted his money. A dog was snuffling at one of the bodies. Vultures circled above the village. They had already hacked at one of the exposed faces, pulling out eyes and tongues, ripping flesh from cheeks and hands. Two, perched on a bloated uniformed chest, squabbled over the body, tugging at a piece of bloodied flesh. Maalik nodded with satisfaction. When they came and saw this, nothing would stop them hunting down the cave dweller – he just had to get his money beforehand. He went back into the hut.

Maalik had made calls by radio to his contact in Lima, a Columbian responsible for shipping the cocaine out of the country and along the supply route to the United States and Europe. The man was angry with the delay, reminding Maalik that the cartel was impatient for their money and were sending men down to find out what was going on. The more the merrier, Maalik thought, laughing quietly into the headset. He had also called a Moroccan contact in Lima. Soheib, his link for the boys' missions, had told him they were having trouble in Spain. The boys' handlers were being followed by the authorities and security had been tightened at schools and public buildings throughout the country. They were having to be careful. The boys were still at a safe house in Madrid and had not been moved closer to their targets. But Soheib had been removed from direct control. Al Qaeda no longer trusted him – or Maalik.

Maalik could feel the net closing. He punched the table. It was the same story as last time – as soon as Cayden Callejon had appeared, Maalik's business started to collapse.

He stormed out of the hut, having smashed the radio. There was nothing more he could do here. The Columbian would have to stay angry; there was no way they could ship the drugs out using the road. They would have to use the river. He opened the cab door.

'Pacopata, vite ... vamos fucking rapidemante.' Maalik glared at the boy driver. 'Just turn this wreck around.' He pulled a gun from his belt and pointed it at the expressionless face. 'Quickly, or you're going to be feeding the dogs.'

Glutinous clogs of mud thudded into the wheel arches and flew in chunks from the spinning rear wheels as they weaved along the drying road, the other truck following. Maalik could clearly see where the Land Cruiser had gone; deep wheel tracks ran across the surface, snaking out to the firmer ground at the edge of the field. Again, he hoped it hadn't been Callejon. 'So fucking close,' he mouthed bitterly.

They entered the long final straight, rain-soaked ruts glinting in the steamy sun; trees leaning over the cutting, drunk from the drenching. As they passed the rough track to the landing strip, Maalik thought moodily about the Arab who had escaped. He felt no allegiance. He was a British Muslim, not part of the hard-line fanatics of the Middle East. More sophisticated, he liked to think. He was in it for the money, not for any altruistic reasons. If ... what was his name, Lamal, Jamal? Maalik shook his head irritably ... if he wanted to carry on with the boys' suicide missions - that was up to him.

They entered Picopata. Without its identifying sign, it could have been mistaken for a jumble of driftwood from a receding river flood. Maalik's lip curled with disgust as he looked at the shacks – some of the roofs collapsed from the rain, a few older men hammering desultorily at planks of wood, woman stooping to pick up rubbish and retrieving shreds of tarpaulin from nearby trees. Two infants were playing in the mud as they splashed by. Maalik directed the driver away from the turn-off that led to the cocaine factory, and down the only road to a box-framed steel bridge across a tributary of the main river. The truck growled up the ramp, the driver anxiously looking out of the window to make sure his tyres ran along the rotting planks that spanned the putrid gulley, used as the sewer outlet for Picopata. Maalik looked down into the turgid water; a dead animal floated in a whirlpool caused by a collapsed section of bank. The bridge swayed, the steel groaning beneath the weight of the truck. They bumped down the other side, growled up a rock-strewn hill, then down again, slipping and twisting over the rough surface. A narrow alley between more ramshackled buildings took them to an area of gravel beside the swollen river where great trees, like fallen rockets, drifted through the back eddies and stopper waves to a log-jam of gargantuan size cause by the failure of an obstinate tree to give way.

They parked the trucks.

Four cargo boats were pulled high on the bank. Beyond them stood an abandoned Hiace minibus, doors open, interior gutted. Maalik walked over, kicking out at debris and flinging bits of plastic into the river. Either they had left by boat or the Mad Inca had had them stored somewhere for one of his rituals. Maalik looked at himself in the cracked rear view mirror. He would find them again. He grinned at his reflection – a wild beard, long hair. Unrecognizable even to his dear mother.

The boat drivers sat on the Hiace bench seats beneath a tarpaulin lean-to, drinking chicha and chewing coca. Maalik recognised them from his kidnapping sorties in the jungle. They were tough men. All had hunting knifes strapped to their belts and were familiar with AK-47s. He pointed to the barrels in the back of the truck and indicated that they should be unloaded into the boats. These men had done the trip before so he didn't need Maritza to issue instructions. The barrels would be taken to the Brazilian border, where local Amazonians would ship them down to Manaus, and from there out to the Caribbean and the United States. He had personally set the route up with his contacts in Trinidad. The amount in the back of the trucks would set him up for the rest of his life – $2 million!

But the boat drivers didn't bother getting up; instead they looked solemnly at the river, one of them gesturing to a tree, four times the length of his boat, as it floated by. He shook his head.

Maalik considered taking out his pistol and forcing them. Then he remembered what they had done to parents who resisted the abduction of their children. The pistol would hold no fear. He scratched his beard vigorously – and then smiled brightly, indicating what good friends they all were by hugging himself and pointing, using his fingers to mimic them running through the jungle together, throwing nets over the children. He was their friend – their compradre. The drivers regarded him solemnly. Maalik, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his beard, drew in the ground with a stick – $10,000. He pointed to each driver. It was more than they could earn in a lifetime trading contraband up and down the Amazon tributaries. The leader, younger than the others, a scar on his arm from a tribal spear, held out his hand – they expected paying before delivery.

Maalik shook his head irritably. He scratched through the figure, indicating half now, half when they delivered.

The drivers sat back on their haunches, chewing as they watched the flowing river.

'What? You bastards don't trust me?' shouted Maalik. 'After everything we've done together?'

They ignored him.

Maalik flew into a rage, whirling about the gravel bank, kicking out at bits of wood, smashing the side windows of the Hiace with a wheel wrench. He didn't touch their boats. Panting, he glared at the blank faces. 'Alright, spear-chuckers, have it your way.' He stomped off to the truck he had arrived in, pulled himself with difficulty onto the flatbed and kicked and heaved the barrels off the back. Still in a fury, he repeated the exercise with the second truck. Pointing from the truck at his watch, he flashed his fingers three times to indicate that he would return with the money in 30 minutes – and the barrels had better be loaded. He banged on the cab roof of the first truck. His driver dutifully started the engine and drove back up the track, Maalik hanging on with his one good hand, like a desert tribesman on a lumbering camel.

The cocaine factory was busier than he had ever seen it. Maalik motioned for the driver to pull up behind the camper-van he had been using as his accommodation. The concrete apron in front of the factory was full of trucks – all the trucks in the area must surely have been there. Boys and men were frantically loading. Maalik could see the yellow cloak of the mad Inca standing on the gantry, booming out instructions. Where he was taking it to, Maalik could not think. The roads would be clogged with military vehicles, but then maybe the Inca hadn't heard that he'd destroyed one of their helicopters. The camper-van was on the edge of the site, facing the forest. He slid off the back of the truck and, crouched over, ran to the van. Inside, he found it was exactly as he had left it. He pulled up a storage door under the floor and pulled out his backpack full of spare clothes, passports, water, food rations, sleeping bag, mosquito net – and four grenades. Beneath the backpack he retrieved an M4 carbine, a shorter variant of the M16-A2 assault rifle, with reduced barrel and sliding stock. Maalik stuffed the four spare 30-round magazines into the backpack's side pockets.

Outside, his driver had already driven off to the apron, and Maalik wondered whether the man was brave enough to tell the Inca that the barrels were at the river. He doubted it. No, the filthy runt, no doubt with some of his compadres, would be at the riverbank, hands out, for a cut of the pie. Maalik would deal with that later. First, he needed the cash.

He dashed into the fringe vegetation, picking up a path that looped around a stagnant pool and joined the duck-walk to the tree village. There was no sign of anyone – it seemed they were all engaged at the factory. He stepped onto the platform and pressed the 'up' button, looking impatiently through the branches as it ascended for anyone who might be on guard duty. Again, he saw no-one. He reached the first tier, stepped off, adjusted his pack and made sure the firing selector was for three-round bursts, rather than fully automatic. Running lightly, ignoring the myriad of insects that tried to suck sweat or blood from him, Maalik navigated the labyrinth of the tiers and interconnecting rope walkways. Still no human contact – though a troop of squirrel monkeys, did cause him to flatten his body on the wooden surface – and his finger to tense around the trigger of the M4.

He reached the final walkway, the forest a canyon around him. Running on, he entered the cave, where the generator still hammered away. He forgot there would be an engineer permanently on duty to make sure the old diesel ran reliably for his master. The man's look of surprise disintegrated as three rounds took away his face. Maalik jumped over the body and carried on down the passageway. The steel door was open. He slipped through into the darkness. Nothing moved except the twirling shapes of swiftlets high up in the opening. He could smell smoke and dampness. Hurrying forward, keeping to the shadows, he glanced at the bank of monitors, relieved to see all images were still showing signs of factory activity. The computer monitor was on. Momentarily, he was tempted to scroll through the mad Inca's files and find out precisely the extent of his operation, but he moved on.

Maalik located the safe underneath the bed. It had been blasted out of the rock, set in steel – the combination known only to the Inca and his trusted lieutenant, Maritza. Maalik had been reduced to raping the girl in order to force it from her – a filthy, disease-riddled necessity – but it had been worth it. He tumbled the combination and pulled back the door. It was all there – $800,000, the profit from his last run. He stuffed it into the backpack.

Something glinted as he was about to close the safe. He reached in and pulled out a bundle of gold stiletto daggers. Maalik looked at his hand and sniggered. He pulled one of the daggers from the bundle, retrieved a thousand dollar bill – and stabbed it into the mattress.

He hadn't reckoned on the discomfort that carrying so much money on his back would cause. Howling – his voice echoing in the cavern – he staggered back out through the steel doors, his shoulders on fire. He moved with difficulty along the passageway – past the bloodied face of the engineer, already crawling with flies – and onto the rope bridge. It swayed alarmingly under the considerable added weight, but he kept his balance.

Groaning all the way, he went down the spiral staircase in the giant trunk of the sequoia and out onto the ceremonial deck, where the mad Inca summoned lightning from approaching storms. Maalik froze. A row of solemn boys faced him, each wearing their suicide vest. Behind them stood a line of equally solemn men, AK-47s levelled like a firing squad. And behind them, was Sapa Inca, a sneer on his patterned face, arms folded within his robe.

Chapter 29

Cayden awoke, instantly alert, searching the gloom, the panic receding as he recognised the room. The sweat cooled on his face as the ceiling fan turned above. He heard the creak of floorboards.

'Who's there?' he asked.

His call was answered by a wet snuffling at the door; the scratching of claws. The dog. Cayden relaxed. He must have slept all afternoon – and he still stank of the ditch. He needed another shower. He gazed at the fan, connected to a car battery perched on a sagging shelf. Its turning blades reminded him of the propeller on the aircraft that had brought him and Sly to Trinidad. Seeing Rachel alive, believing he was going to rescue her, holding her as she died, Maalik grinning – always Maalik grinning. Somehow, he had to finish it.

Cayden swung his legs off the bed. A lizard raced up the wall and disappeared into the rafters. Outside, insects and roosting birds competed for audible supremacy. A wood-framed, full-length mirror, supported by a swivel stand, faced him as he got out of bed. There was no electricity. In the gloom, he looked at his body – his pale skin blotched in places by bruises. He had lost weight, his face thinner; the angular lines of his jaw more pronounced and accentuated by dark stubble. His hair, grown long and had just towel-dried before he slept, now stood up at odd angles. His eyes were sunk in tired, swollen sockets, his mouth set in a firm, bitter line. He scowled, then stretched. Every muscle seemed to ache.

They had given him a pair of blue cotton trousers, patched on one knee, and a darker blue working shirt. He had washed his trainers in the shower. They were still wet – and smelt.

Cayden dressed and went onto the veranda. Candles had been lit and placed along the handrail. Lanterns were haphazardly spread through the garden. A generator clattered into life and a single electric light came on in one of the courtyard buildings. Simultaneously, he could hear the crash of saucepans.

'Very calming,' a voice said nearby, startling him.

Cayden searched the gloom and saw the figure on a wicker settee, placed against the wall in the centre of the veranda. 'Our host has prepared a cocktail,' Jalal continued. 'Fruit punch, very refreshing.'

Cayden stepped closer. He accepted a glass and downed the sweet liquid. Then he picked up a handful of pistachios. 'Excuse me, I need to see how Sly is doing.'

'Still sleeping,' said Jalal.

'How do you know?' Cayden asked.

'Maria told me.'

Cayden opened the door, stepped quietly across the threshold and walked to Sly's bed. Candles burnt with an aroma of rosemary and lemongrass. Her forehead gleamed with sweat. He dipped a cloth in water and brushed it over her forehead. She moaned as her eyes fluttered open. 'Cayden,' she breathed.

'Shh,' he said, 'you need to rest.'

'What time is it?'

'Around six-thirty.' .

'Helicopter coming in morning.' She struggled to get up.

'Sly,' said Cayden, forcing her to lie down, 'relax, that was this morning – you can't do anything more. Just rest.'

Her eyes fluttered shut.

'What helicopter?' Jalal asked from the doorway.

'You're very inquisitive ... for a tourist,' said Cayden, backing him out of the room and shutting the door.

'My apologies, I have been here two weeks – without conversation.'

'You're a tourist, you chose to come here. What did you expect?' Cayden walked back to the tray of fruit punch.

'I damaged my arm, missed my flight. I did not plan to stay so long,' Jalal explained.

'You must be missing home.' Cayden looked out over the garden. 'Where is home?' he asked.

'Iraq,' Jalal replied.

Cayden looked up sharply. 'You don't meet many tourists from Iraq nowadays.'

'Where is your home, Cayden?'

'England.'

'Your government is part of the reason why.'

Cayden clenched his glass. He was trapped with an unlikely tourist, and Sly was too sick to move even if there was enough fuel in the Land Cruiser to go anywhere. He had no money, no clothes. He battled to remain calm. 'Do you normally travel alone – as a tourist?' he asked.

'The others left. As I said, I damaged my arm.'

'How did you get here?'

'Rodriguez – the old man – found me. He has two Land Rovers. His workmen have the one that works. They are working near the river.'

'How far?'

'Ten minutes, maybe twenty.'

Cayden was silent. Jalal's aura was definitely foreboding; an ominous atmosphere surrounded the intense-looking man with his dark, glittery eyes, his body constantly alert, his brow creased with anger – or was it worry?

'You have nothing to fear from me, Cayden,' said Jalal, as if reading his thoughts.

'Glad to hear it.' Cayden set his glass firmly on the tray. 'I had no reason to feel otherwise – tourists are usually perfectly harmless in my experience.'

Jalal smiled – a flash of white teeth.

Rodriguez appeared from the shadows. 'Cena del Senor.' He gestured towards the building with the only electric light.

'No tengo dinero, Rodriguez.' Cayden patted his pockets apologetically.

The old man shrugged and wandered off towards the building, clicking his fingers for the dog to follow.

'Don't worry, Cayden, dinner's on me.'

They stepped down from the veranda. 'So how did you damage your arm?' Cayden asked, flinching slightly as a bat passed close enough for him to feel the air move.

'I fell out of a tree,' Jalal replied.

'Kind of careless, wasn't it?' Cayden said, gesturing for Jalal to enter before him.

'Very,' Jalal murmured, his eyes expressionless.

Maria hurried by carrying a tray for Sly, pre-empting his request.

'Looks like we're the only ones,' added Cayden as he glanced at the four long tables. Candle light wavered over faded pictures of birds. Tongues of yellow light chased lizards up the peeling walls to the wooden rafters supporting a reed-pitched roof. They sat at the end, where two places had been set with a knife and fork.

One of the girls, smiling constantly, set down a china plate with a blue crest, heaped with mashed potatoes, stew and what looked like green beans. Cayden's mouth salivated, his stomach contracted – he hadn't eaten a meal since the packed lunch provided by the lodge. He attacked the food. The meat tasted of beef, but he had seen very few cattle since leaving Cusco.

They ate in silence. Rodriguez and the girls talked occasionally in the kitchen, a radio filling the gaps with static-entwined music.

Cayden did not look up until he had finished. He sat back, emptying his glass of water, looking over the rim and saw that Jalal had not touched the stew. Cayden set the glass down and picked out an orange from the bowl of fruit. 'Are you fasting?'

Jalal smiled pleasantly. 'Allah, the Almighty is pure and accepts only that which is pure. Donkeys ... monkeys are haram – forbidden.'

Cayden looked at his plate. 'Why?'

Jalal shrugged. 'I only know that they are haram. Pig I know is forbidden because the Qur'an says that God cast the devil into a pig,'

Cayden shook his head, peeling a segment of orange with his teeth.

'You do not approve of our laws?' Jalal asked, leaning forward.

Cayden put down the segment of peel. 'I do not approve of the atrocities done in the name of Allah. These suicide bombings.' Cayden tried to control his anger. 'These horrific child suicide bombings that threaten to tip the world into chaos. Why?' he asked, his teeth clenched, his hand subconsciously pulling at his shirt as he recalled the constricting fit of the suicide vest Maalik had used.

'We are at war!'

'This is not war, this is cowardice.' Cayden slapped the table and Jalal flinched for the first time. 'My innocent nephew was nearly murdered and I ...' Cayden pushed back his chair and stood. 'I must get some sleep.'

'You invaded my country,' Jalal said calmly, still sitting.

'Yes, I know. There are millions of people in the world who don't like the West, but they don't fly planes into buildings or use children to kill indiscriminately. It's barbaric. I know enough about Islam to know it teaches peace above all else. Suicide is a state of disbelief and loss of faith, and it's condemned by any god, whether you read the Qu'ran or the Bible – whatever. Doesn't God command believers never to despair or lose hope? These suicide bombers ... they're desperate, taught fabrications of the truth by evil men whose sole purpose is to cause misery and destruction for their own profit.' Cayden clenched the back of his chair, his knuckles white in the candle light.

Jalal remained calm as he looked up. 'You preach from a privileged position, Cayden.'

'Don't fucking patronise me, you son-of-a-bitch, you have no idea ...'

'Please Cayden, please.' Jalal waved his good hand and asked Cayden to sit. 'How do our Muslim young avenge the oppression, occupation and loss of freedom they have been suffering all their lives? They have lost all hope for peaceful settlement ... they see their families, loved ones, neighbours – yes, and innocent bystanders – die or tortured by merciless occupying forces ...'

'That's rubbish.'

'You forget the pictures of the Abu Ghraib prison, Quantanamo Bay, your country's history of imperialism – carving my country into lines that suit a Western map, not caring about the centuries of traditions of Sunni and Shi'ites, Kurds, Sufis ... herding us together like cattle.'

'It's still no excuse to send children to kill,' Cayden retorted.

Jalal nodded. 'Perhaps. I understand your bitterness. We have had to endure ours for centuries. If we had the resources, we would retaliate with smart bombs, laser-guided missiles, night sights ... but we don't. You leave us little choice.'

Cayden stood up, leaning on his fists. 'I can't talk to anyone who condones suicide, particularly child suicide, as a just means of fighting for their grievances. Good night. We'll be leaving in the morning.'

'So will I,' Jalal said, turning in his seat. 'Perhaps we could travel together. I enjoy our conversation.'

'I don't think so,' Cayden replied, without looking back.

*****

Cayden rolled over on the hard mattress, covering his head with the pillow, trying to deafen the dawn chorus. He had not slept well, his nerves jumping him awake at the slightest noise – his unease about Jalal disturbing his rest. He had thought seriously about moving into Sly's room and had made several cautious sorties to make sure she was okay.

Still uneasy, and now feeling irritable, he rolled out of bed and put on the old clothes he had been given

The light was pearly-grey, the trees still, expectant of the coming sun. Hummingbirds vibrated at the feeders. A cat rubbed itself against his leg. He bent and stroked the grey fur, tickling it behind its ears, before stepping down onto the spongy turf, damp on his bare feet. It really was a strange, eerie place, he thought. He wandered over to the Land Cruiser, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell. Still, it only had to get him as far as the river. He found the old man, or at least his legs – sticking out from under the Land Rover.

'Buenos dias,' he said.

'Buenos dias' came the muffled reply.

'Viajar, Rio, barco?' Cayden said hopefully. 'Hoy,' he added.

Rodriguez pulled himself from under the chassis. 'Now?' he asked.

Cayden looked at his wrist – forgetting the absence of his watch. 'Una hora.'

The old man mimed driving a car and shrugged.

Cayden pointed at the Land Cruiser. 'For you ... um ... para ti,' he smiled, hoping the offer of the battered vehicle would persuade the old man to drive them to the river.

Rodriguez' eyes widened; his white stubble rasped as he stroked his chin thoughtfully, his ears rising, then dropping as he alternated between smile and frown, 'Este es propiedad de la policia.'

Cayden recognised the word policia – police. Obviously, the Land Cruiser was marked in some way that he had not understood – but Rodriguez had. Maybe the registration? He didn't know how to explain that he doubted it would be worth the police coming to collect it, even if he could tell them where it was. Cayden shook his head. He wanted to be on the river in one hour. 'Una hora, Rio, si?'

'Okay.' The old man grinned, displaying a row of white teeth, and went back under his Land Rover.

Cayden walked back to the veranda. Jalal was getting up from a mat, against which his forehead had been pressed firmly. 'Assalaamu Álaikum. Could I speak with you, Cayden?' he asked.

Cayden's eyes were drawn to a prominent scar on Jalal's arm, a wound coarsely stitched, the flesh an angry bluish-black.

'I don't have time, we're leaving,' Cayden replied.

'Listen to him,' came a rasping voice from behind Jalal.

'Sly?' Cayden leapt up the steps. She was sitting in the wicker sofa, a glass of water and a hand-rolled cigarette in her good hand. Dark rings had spread beneath her eyes. She wore the same old blue cotton trousers as his, but her shirt was pink – more likely, a faded red. Maria had made a sling for her arm.

'How're you feeling?' He wrinkled his noise at the herbal aroma of her cigarette.

Sly inhaled deeply. 'Medicinal – courtesy of Maria.' Sly held up the cigarette. 'I feel like shit, but we've got stuff to do.'

'Cayden,' Jalal interjected, 'I have not been honest with you, I am not a tourist but a businessman – sent here by my Mahdi to negotiate...'

Cayden walked off towards his room. 'I'm not interested, Jalal. You people aren't high on my list of those I want to be around at the moment.' He picked up his shoes and, from the bedside table, his broken watch – an anniversary gift from Rachel. He would have it fixed.

'I know. Agent Williams has told me about Maalik Maharaj.'

Cayden froze. 'What the hell's going on?'

'I couldn't sleep. We talked last night,' Sly explained, coughing after exhaling smoke. 'Jalal knows where these child bombers are coming from, Cayden – he's met with their leader. He also thinks he has met Maalik.'

Cayden's mind whirled. 'Negotiate?' He advanced slowly down the veranda towards Jalal. 'What have you been negotiating?'

'It's complicated.' Jalal spread his hands. 'We were trying to persuade this mad Inca ... he is the one responsible for the bombings, to ... to stop the child killers, to use his powers in other ways.'

'You're a fucking terrorist,' Cayden snarled. 'Sly, what the hell are you doing?'

'He can help us.'

'He can kill us!' Cayden said.

'Please, my brother, ya Allah, was murdered by this Inca. I cannot do it alone.' He gestured towards his arm.

'Your brother – he was a terrorist too?'

Jalal stiffened.

'He was, wasn't he? Well, good fucking riddance!' He jumped off the veranda and strode towards the Land Cruiser. 'Sly, come on. We're leaving.'

'Maalik ... he is involved,' Jalal called. 'A tooth for a tooth – that is what your Bible says, yes? What about Rachel?'

'Don't you dare bring her into this, you son-of-a-bitch. For all I know, you could be that bastard's brother. If I had a gun, I'd put a bullet between your eyes.'

Cayden yanked open the Land Cruiser's door.

'Try this, Cayden.' Jalal walked towards him, a pistol lying in the palm of his hand.

'Don't tempt me,' said Cayden, twisting the key in the ignition. 'Rodriguez, vamos! Sly, get in.'

Jalal tapped the butt of the revolver on the broken window edge. 'Retribution Cayden, for the sins of my brother Muslims.'

'Fuck off Jalal!' Cayden growled, laying a hand on the horn, which responded with a wet wheeze.

'Shoot me, make many CIA, MI6 agents very happy, or help me kill the man responsible for murdering your girlfriend.'

Cayden snatched the revolver, his arm cutting on shards of glass. His hand shook, the barrel wavering over Jalal's chest. The Iraqi calmly stood there – waiting.

Rodriguez appeared in the corner of Cayden's vision, wiping his hands on his overalls. 'Senor,' he cried, 'save children, is good man.' He pointed urgently at Jalal.

Cayden blinked the sweat from his eyes.

'This pig Inca is taking their children. I have promised to stop him.' Jalal shrugged.

Cayden revved the engine. 'Sly, get in, we're going to the river, getting a boat out of this hell hole.'

'I can't,' Sly replied. 'Cayden we have to ...'

'You've been smoking too much of that weed – get in.'

Cayden, this is our chance, don't you want ...'

'Shut up Sly, you don't know what you're talking about. He's admitted he's a fucking terrorist. Whose side are you on?'

'If there's a chance ...' She started to weave her way back to the veranda.

'What have you given her?' Cayden shouted, kicking open the door. He advanced on Jalal, the pistol far from firm in his grip.

'I gave her nothing. It is medicine from the old woman,' said Jalal calmly, refusing to back away, looking at the end of the barrel a few inches from his eyes. 'It is only right, a man such as you, to have fear.'

Cayden glanced past him. Sly was using the handrail to pull herself back onto the veranda. He looked back at the pitiless coal nugget eyes that stared down the barrel of the pistol like a raised cobra. 'I have every right to be fearful of the shit you animals can do,' he retorted, strengthening his grip as Jalal tensed. 'I'm going to get the police, the army, the air force ... whoever I can fucking find, and blow the whole lot of you to kingdom come.' He backed into the driver's seat. 'Your god, Jalal, he didn't cast the devil into a pig, he ...'

He didn't finish his sentence. Jalal had leapt forward, slapping the gun away with his good hand and pinning Cayden's wrist back against the bodywork, forcing his head up into the roof lining.

'I will not suffer any more insults from you,' Jalal hissed.

Cayden groaned with pain. His other arm was scrabbling for the gearshift; he desperately wanted to knock the Land Cruiser into drive and accelerate away from Jalal's agonising hold.

'Your corruption, your decadence, your arrogance ...' Jalal spat in his face. 'I make this deal with you Western filth not because I feel compassion, but because it is war, and we will not stop until we have succeeded in destroying your contamination of this earth. I was giving you a chance to avenge, for honour, but you are not capable of such things.'

Suddenly, the agony left Cayden. Jalal had stepped away from the vehicle, his undamaged arm in the air.

'Now,' Sly held the discarded pistol, her lips a bloodless line, the butt of the cigarette in one corner. 'Get one thing straight, Jalal, you're the enemy. I'll help you avenge your brother because it helps me, but you're the fucking enemy.' Sly fired.

*****

'Why didn't you kill him?' Cayden asked, as they negotiated the track towards the river. Rodriguez sat stiffly in the passenger seat beside him, Sly in the back, the pistol levelled at Jalal.

'Why didn't you?' said Sly, wincing as the 4x4 manoeuvred over the tree roots like a mechanised bull.

Cayden glanced at her in the rear view mirror. Her hair was pushed untidily into a filthy baseball cap she had found under the seat, a Peruvian police insignia on the front. Her eyes were bloodshot with dark rings like those of circus clowns. Her lips moved mechanically as she chewed a wad of coca. Looking at her, he thought, was like waking up for the first time next to someone not wearing makeup – realising the only thing that bonded you was the physical attraction; remove that, and what did you have? Nothing, except the search for the most plausible escape line – and Cayden didn't have one. His shoulders sagged. He would have liked to have been driving out of her life forever, keep heading north in the Land Cruiser until he reached Cusco airport – and the first flight back home. But, there was Jess, and he hadn't made up his mind about her. Even if there was no future, he had to make sure she was safe. Samuel would never forgive him and he really liked her father.

Sly's destiny had been kneaded with his; as completely as a baker's flour and dough. He was going to have to see it through to the end. At that moment, he hated her for it, despised her nearly as much as the man who had killed Rachel, but he was going to have to do this.

'I'm not a murderer,' he said, looking forward.

'Neither am I, Cayden,' Sly replied, the pistol never leaving Jalal.

In silence they passed a family of monkeys, their startled black faces turning to stare at the Land Cruiser, before they tore up the flanking trees.

'You understand ...' Cayden glanced from Sly to Jalal. '... he's not going to let you take him in. Are you?' Cayden adjusted the mirror to meet the stare from the dispassionate black eyes.

'He's going to lead us to Maalik and this mad Inca,' said Sly.

'You shoot a man between his feet and you expect him to help you?' Cayden watched Jalal's fixed expression.

'We have an understanding. Don't we?' Sly grimaced, adjusting her position to stare at Jalal.

He looked out of the broken window.

Rodriguez indicated that he should pull into a sandy area beside the track. He had become guarded since Jalal's apparent arrest. Until then, he had been relying on Jalal's word of putting an end to the child kidnapping.

Jalal opened the door and stepped out without waiting for any instructions from Sly. He casually walked around the back of the Land Cruiser while she hurriedly got out, adjusting the strap of the sling. Jalal met her and calmly led the way down a path. After a few meters, they arrived at a riverbank. The sun glared down on its reflected surface, the wide open space of the river in stark contrast to the claustrophobic shadows of the forest. Cayden could see why the locals used the rivers for transport. Here was a motorway, cut through the impenetrable green. But it looked very shallow, Cayden thought as he stared at the wavelets pushing up around the heads of boulders. A boat was pulled high on the sandy bank, protected from the flow of water by an outcrop of rock held in place by buttress roots – like an old man's fingers clenching a fistful of boulders.

The wooden boat was long and narrow, its heredity dating back to the time when locals carved them from single tree trunks. Now, the plywood sides, attached to stout frames, supported recycled car seats, two abreast, and a canvass canopy on wooden poles. The 250 HP outboard on the stern was raised clear, the chipped propeller testament to the shallow water.

Cayden had thought one of Rodriguez's workers would be available to skipper the boat. He looked around expectantly.

'Why you looking so worried?' Sly asked. 'It's a boat. You do boats.'

Cayden massaged his eyes. 'There's boats and there's boats, Sly. 'Donde esta el ...' he said, turning to Rodriguez and indicating the driving process.

The old man pointed into the forest downriver and shrugged.

'You're giving him the Land Cruiser, he's happy you take the boat,' said Sly, motioning to Jalal to get aboard. He obediently climbed into one of the front seats. 'Hold this,' she added, indicating for Cayden to take the pistol. He dutifully pointed the barrel at Jalal while Sly awkwardly climbed over the high side of the boat. Jalal, apparently unperturbed, settled comfortably and turned to look out across the rippling surface.

'Which way, Jalal?' asked Sly, having retrieved the gun from Cayden.

Jalal hooked a thumb over his shoulder and continued to look out over the river.

'That's it?' asked Cayden.

Sly glared up at him impatiently. 'What were you expecting?'

'Sly...not that I want to undermine your ... your leadership, but what exactly is your plan.'

'You know what the plan is, Cayden, now get in and let's go.'

'We're just going to take this thing up to wherever he decides, get out, expect everyone to surrender to your one pistol and then ... what? Then you take 'em all home for a spell in gaol?'

'No, you're going to help me Cayden.'

He crouched down and touched her arm. 'I think you need to rest, Sly, you look feverish. Let's go back to Cusco, get the police involved and they can come down here and finish it.'

Sly tilted her head. 'By the time they get their shit together, Maalik'll have disappeared, just like he did in Trinidad ... disappeared to live off the money from his fucking crimes, cause more misery. Where's your guts, Cayden? We can finish this – put that asshole away for ever.'

'Sly, look at you,' Cayden replied. 'They were sending a helicopter full of armed police, remember? It's probably all over by now.'

She pulled her arm away from his hand. 'Then you have nothing to worry about.'

'You've been shot, you've lost blood, and you're planning to arrest the maniac sending child bombers into this world with me – a bloody businessman. I'm not trained for this sort of thing.'

'None of us are ever trained for everything. Our courage sees us through,' Jalal interjected.

Cayden stood up as Jalal continued to stare out across the river. A flock of parrots flew across the water, occasionally squawking at one another. 'This isn't courage. This is reckless.'

'My friend,' added Jalal, 'courage is seldom reckless, but a realistic estimate of the odds that must be faced.'

Cayden watched Rodriguez load a cool box of water and fruit into the boat. The old man nodded stiffly and disappeared into the trees. Moments later, the Land Cruiser started up and the noise of its engine quickly faded into the buzz of insects. Cayden wiped the sweat from his eyes and took a deep breath. Wavelets slapped rhythmically against the hull. 'I'm going to make a deal with you, Jalal,' he said. 'You fight for our side until Maalik and this Inca madman is caught, then we negotiate.'

'Negotiate?'

'Whether Sly takes you back to the States or not.'

Jalal smiled thinly.

'In the West a handshake amongst honourable men seals a deal,' added Cayden, stretching out his hand.

'In Iraq as well.' Jalal clasped his hand tightly.

'Sly, put the gun down.'

'You're shitting me,' she gasped. 'You're going to trust this guy on a handshake!'

'Hey, you're about to pass out. You were willing to listen to him in your room last night – that takes some trust – so what's the difference?'

Sly closed her eyes. The gun dropped into her lap.

'Move into the shade. Get some rest,' Cayden told her brusquely, without offering to help. 'How far is this village?' he asked Jalal.

'An hour, maybe more. You will see. There is nothing else.'

'Stand in the bow with that pole.' Cayden pointed to one angling out of the raked prow. 'You need to tell me where the deeper channels are.' Cayden got into the stern and Jalal poled him out into the stream with his good arm. Then Cayden lowered the engine and, with a shaking hand, he pulled on the ignition rope.

Chapter 30

Jalal had poled the boat well clear of the shore as Cayden pumped fuel from the half-empty tank. The outboard spluttered, the half-submerged blade flashing in sunlight. Sweat poured from his unprotected face; he squinted against the dazzling reflection, watching Jalal's dark outline pointing to where he thought the deeper water lay. The prop guard bounced off rocks and he was barely able to make way against the current. The bow started to swing away from him. Pushing the boat broadside to the current. He twisted the throttle – the engine roared. Cayden submerged the shaft, making sure some water circulated to cool the engine. The propeller bit deeper and he managed to correct the drift.

Jalal waved frantically to his right. Too late. The bow bounced off an outcrop, the hull tilting. Jalal stood up and heaved off with the pole, balancing awkwardly. Again, the bow started to turn. But Cayden was already learning that quick spurts of the throttle in deeper water were enough to push the flat-bottomed craft across the shallows to the next section of more substantial water. Gradually, they made their way up the rapid, his hand slippery on the throttle, his throat parched. He wanted to reach for the bottle lying at his feet but controlling the boat required all his concentration.

The river separated like unravelling rope, banks of piled boulders forcing them to decide which would be the better channel. Jalal selected the one nearest the bank; sand cliffs between the river and the jungle floor a few meters above – a yellow filling that was crumbling as they watched from the fast-flowing river. Exposed roots clung desperately to their disappearing foundations; birds flew in agitated circles from their collapsing nests drilled into the soft sand. Back eddies rocked and jostled the boat but the current had carved a deep channel close to the bank and Cayden was able to put the outboard fully down for the first time. The boat ploughed through the cauldron of water.

An hour later they realised they had been on a tributary of the main river. Suddenly, they were confronted with a swollen mass of fast-moving, muddy water, full of semi-submerged trees of massive dimensions, their buttress roots rolling in the swell like the spines of surfacing whales, their canopies acting as hidden snares beneath the current. If they became caught up in one of those behemoths, they were well aware they would be matchwood in seconds. The force of one striking them would be like a truck hitting a bicycle – broadside.

Cayden veered to the bank and pulled in behind an obstinate boulder, sheltering them from the current.

'Why are we stopping?' Sly asked blearily, looking at Cayden, who was drinking greedily.

'The river's in flood – we can't go on,' he gasped.

Jalal was slumped in the shade of the canopy, flexing his good, but by now badly abused, arm.

'How much further?' Sly asked Jalal.

'I cannot remember,' he replied.

Sly scowled at him.

'I was unconscious,' he said irritably. 'The local tribes' people took me to Rodriguez.'

'Well, we can't stay here.' Sly stood and peered over the top of the boulder

'Doesn't look too bad,' she mumbled, quickly sitting down.

'We'll have to go back,' Cayden said, biting into an apple.

Neither responded.

'These are storm waters. They'll subside in a day or two.'

'And by then Maalik will be gone,' Sly remarked, tapping the barrel of the pistol on her armrest.

Cayden went forward, offering her a bottle of water.

She drank, watching the current. Water dribbled down her chin, darkening the sweat stains on her shirt.

Suddenly, a boat swept by, moving down river, its red hull like a cut of blood on the muddy water as the helmsman expertly glided in and out of the spiralling trees.

They stood as one, watching it – forcing their own craft to heel dangerously.

'What are those?' Jalal asked, shading his eyes as he peered at the other boat's cargo.

'Black barrels ...' Sly whispered. She sat down, looking up at Cayden as he continued to watch the fast-moving boat navigate a rapid, the bow disappearing through the two-metre stopper waves. '... the same barrels we saw spilling outta that truck. He's on the move, Cayden, we don't have much time.'

'Courage,' said Jalal.

'Shut up!' Cayden growled. 'I have enough courage to say this is stupid – bloody stupid.' He glared at them before continuing. 'It's sodding suicide. I admit my life hasn't been great recently but I have no wish to end it in some Amazon backwater.'

'Was Rachel stupid when she came out to Miami because she thought you needed her?' asked Sly.

'Yes,' Cayden replied.

Sly twisted in her seat. 'You don't mean that.'

'I fucking do. She was gullible, easily led by her emotions ... like all women.'

Sly laughed – a mocking laugh. 'If you thought as logically as you imagine you are, you wouldn't be sitting in the back of this boat. Or was Jess a purely logical decision?'

The mention of Jess pierced his indecision. What had happened to her? Had Maalik already found her? Was he holding a gun against her head, waiting for Cayden to arrive on another mission of mercy? His hand shook as he squeezed the bridge of his nose. Maalik terrified him. He plucked the shirt from his chest – he was walking back into that room, putting the suicide vest back on. He was lying back down on that bed and expecting someone else to rescue him. Once was a miracle. But twice ...?

Despairingly, he yanked on the starter cord. The outboard fired. Jalal pushed the bow away from the protection of the boulder, then Cayden lowered the outboard and twisted the throttle. The boat surged ahead, twisting awkwardly in the turbulence where the tributary ran off a shallow bank. The prop guard bounced off the shingle and then they were in the swirling deep channel of the main river, Cayden ferry-gliding towards the calmer far bank, protected further upstream by a mass of tangled wood. Jalal pointed frantically. A large tree was bearing down on them, its branches draped in weed and sodden leaves; a bow wave the size of a tanker's pushing up around the head of its trunk.

Cayden pushed the outboard away from him, turning the bow upstream. The spray obscured Jalal and drenched Cayden in the stern of the boat. He wiped his eyes, trying to pinpoint the approaching tree. Its hidden mass had caught on the riverbed, virtually halting its progress. It juddered and convulsed as the anchoring branches were torn from it. A huge wave built up around its bulk; a roaring muddy crest arced over them. Cayden twisted the throttle fully open. The current was savage around the trunk, which was beginning to twist sideways to the flow, blocking their passage. 'We're not going to make it,' he yelled, glancing at the bank – they were barely making way.

Cayden made a snap decision. He pulled the outboard towards him, cutting the bow across the crown of branches. Sly screamed. The tree broke free and accelerated towards them. Arching forward like a bowsprit on a galleon, a branch pierced the boat's canopy, ripping it from the wooden mounts like a flung bedspread. The boat heeled, the port gunnel submerged. Jalal, scrambled to stay on board – Sly had fallen to the floor. The tree snagged again ... and they roared out from under the branch and into clear water.

Cayden was still clearing water from his eyes when he spotted another boat, similar to the first, piled with more black barrels, slicing down through the current. The man controlling it, hidden behind the cargo, navigated by looking down the side of the craft. His mouth opened in sudden amazement, his reactions frozen, as he caught sight of them.

Desperately, Cayden pushed the engine away from him, once more, angling the bows upstream. He wasn't in time. Jalal yelled a warning as their bow cracked into the stern of the cargo boat, flinging its driver from the back and tearing the outboard from its mounting. Jalal fell over, his hands scrabbling for a hold, the boat again heeling dangerously – pinned on top of the sinking cargo vessel. The current twisted them sideways, waves slammed into the sides. Cayden gunned the outboard and they skidded off the cargo boat, rocking precariously in the swell. He angled the bows back upstream, glancing quickly behind in time to see the cargo boat driver disappearing under the debris and the remains of his boat capsizing, the drums bobbing and cavorting through the whirlpools and back eddies.

Cayden held grimly onto the throttle and slalomed the bigger obstacles, wincing as the rest cracked against the thin sides.

Sly and Jalal had wedged themselves into the front seats. Cayden could see only their good hands clenching the padded armrests.

Once in the calmer waters, he raced up the river, the bank crumbling as the waters hungrily undermined unprotected sand, the thin crust of vegetation above becoming dangerously exposed. The boat bravely pushed away the lesser debris, its strengthened bows coping with the vicious assault. The prop continually snagged hidden rocks and branches, the outboard jumping painfully in his hand. They sped up to the tangled dam ahead.

There was no way they could pass by going out into the stream; it was gushing from the temporary barrier like a sluice gate opened from a flooded dam. Towards the bank was a narrow gulley where the bank had been eroded back from the pile of uprooted tree, their buttress roots and gleaming white trunks resembling a collection of used missiles. Without checking his speed, Cayden aimed for the gulley. He caught a glimpse of Sly's ashen face, turned towards him around the side of the seat, and then they launched off a submerged tree. The outboard flipped up from the impact and the boat skidded into the gulley, its open sides swept by fingers of wood that ripped the seats and gouged the ply. Cayden ducked just in time to save his head being taken off, then reached behind him and dipped the outboard back into the fast flowing water to maintain forward momentum. The boat careened off the steep bank, sending showers of loose pebbles into the fast-filling interior. And then, at last, they were through, and the river widened dramatically, the far bank, a distant shore. There were no waves or turbulence; the trees floated serenely, like great ships waiting their turn to enter a lock. Cayden flexed his sprained arm and wiped his face – noticing blood on his hand. He throttled back, weaving around obstacles, the growl of the outboard loud now that the roaring water had receded.

But it was vibrating badly – prop damage without a doubt. He was surprised it was still spinning at all. Water was pouring in from various points, Jalal bailing as best he could with a plastic bottle; it was making little impact. Cayden estimated they had five minutes before the boat sank. He opened the throttle, the engine revved – but the speed did not materialise, the weight of water and the damaged prop slowing them considerably. He kept as close to the bank as he dared, looking ahead for a suitable beaching point. The banks remained high, four or five meters above the level of the swollen water. The boat started around a long, gradual bend, Cayden becoming increasingly desperate, with the water now up to his knees. There was no way they could scramble out of the river and up the crumbling banks – he didn't want to be swept back down to the rapids. He twisted the throttle, but the additional speed they needed eluded him.

'See if there are any life jackets under the seats,' he shouted. But they had lost two of the seats on the starboard side. There were no life jackets. 'Rip the cushions off,' he shouted. They immediately started to pull at the seats.

'Wait!' he yelled, pointing ahead.

Another boat was leaving the side of the bank, piled high with black drums; yet another was moored beside the bank, being loaded with the last of the barrels. A splash of colour was evident in the camouflaged scene – vivid yellow. Jalal began to shout in Arabic, pointing aggressively at the yellow-cloaked figure. No-one on the bank had yet seen them, too busy with the loading process and directing a truck backing a trailer – with an incongruous jet boat in fluorescent yellow, its sides painted with red flames – down to the river.

Cayden struggled to control the boat, the water by now nearly up to the gunnels, threatening to flood the bow at any moment, swamping them. The outboard spluttered, the craft virtually at a standstill.

But still they were ignored.

The activity they witnessed was frantic. Then, suddenly, Cayden saw the reason. Beyond the tree line, a helicopter had made a banking turn and disappeared below the trees flanking the bank. In the distance, above the rush of water and the splutter of outboard, he could hear explosions and gunfire. A dark column of smoke rose steadily into the air.

Cayden felt his shoulders sag with relief – the police!

He turned the boat towards the bank.

'What are you doing?' Jalal screamed.

'The police are here.' Cayden pointed as the helicopter did another rolling dive over the tree tops.

'So? They are back at the village. By the time they get here it will be too late.'

Shouts rang out from the bank – they had been spotted! Two figures crouched down and started to fire at them. Spurts of water were thrown up beside them. One thudded into wood.

'Get down,' Cayden yelled. Gunning the outboard to wring every last ounce out of it, he turned the high bow back towards the gunmen, protecting them from the bullets that thumped into the wood. Smoke now poured from the engine and, to the accompaniment of its dying roar, Cayden rammed the bank. The shallow sand allowed the bow to ride clear of the water but the water-logged hull snapped in the middle.

Sly was first up. As one of the men appeared with an AK-47, she fired, point-blank, at him. His head snapped back, his forehead gone. Jalal scooped to find his fallen weapon, immediately using the butt to smash into the face of a second man just as he was preparing to fire. Expertly, Jalal then whipped the assault rifle around and started to shoot from his hip in short bursts at the men and boys now running towards them. Sly tumbled over the side of the wrecked hull and crawled behind a rock, while Jalal charged the men around the trailer, the ferocity of his attack taking the men by surprise – the boys in particular. They scattered to gather around the yellow-cloaked figure of Sapa Inca who stood imperiously beside his jet boat, directing those who would listen to continue backing the trailer into the water.

Cayden had dived behind the hull's remaining seats. He watched, stunned, as Jalal made it to a wrecked vehicle. He recognised it at once – a stark image of Jess filled his mind.

Crouched beside the boulder, Sly continued to fire. Jalal, meanwhile, had taken cover behind the Toyota, firing through the shattered windows at the men backing the trailer. The driver was hit and his foot left the brake. The trailer rushed into the river, followed by the truck. Sapa Inca bellowed instructions, his men moving out into defensive positions behind beached trees. Boys milled around the yellow-cloaked figure, now clambering onto the speed boat. A sword appeared and he slashed at the retaining ropes.

A figure sprinted from the group around Sapa Inca. Cayden's eye's narrowed. It was the height of the man that caught his attention – athletic strides, black hair, a manic grin. Maalik!

Cayden's stomach turned over. He watched Maalik leap into the last boat with the barrels, kick the startled driver out of the way and fire the outboard. Sapa Inca roared at two of his men cowering behind a nearby tree. They turned and fired their assault rifles towards Maalik to little effect. Laughing hysterically above the din of gunfire, Maalik twisted the outboard's throttle and the boat sprang away from the bank.

Then their eyes met. A look of such ferocity spread over Maalik's face that Cayden cowered further behind the seats. Maalik gunned the engine; the bow leapt high, cracking against the side of Cayden's boat. He sprawled backwards, the boats scraping together as Maalik turned for the open river. An image of Rachel flashed into Cayden's head – her chest pooling blood; then one of Maalik escaping through the mangroves. Anger boiled in him. Not again – never again. This was the end of it – Maalik was not going escape this time.

With a manic yell, Cayden leapt across the widening gap, his fingertips scrabbling for a hold on a barrel rim. The cargo boat heeled wildly and the barrel toppled, Cayden scrambled for another hold. Slipping, he fell, but managed to grab the side of the boat at the last moment. He held on desperately as his body was dragged through the water. Cayden felt his fingers losing grip as Maalik accelerated, his nails tearing as he desperately clung on.

'Callejon!' Maalik screamed, weaving the boat so that it listed and dipped Cayden under the water. 'Your nine lives are up,' he yelled, turning the craft aggressively, full circle. Cayden could feel his arms growing weak, his fingers numb. If he let go, Maalik would run him down. Then, Maalik tightened the circle; the water was now flooding into the boat, with the last of his strength, Cayden hooked a leg over the side and rolled aboard.

'Caught you!' Maalik laughed, straightening the boat and heading down river. Leaving the outboard, he moved towards Cayden and aimed a kick as he came up to him on all fours. Maalik's boot connected with Cayden's chin and; he fell back, blood flooding his mouth. Maalik leapt on him, straddling his chest, pinning his arms with his legs. Then he lowered his face so that his nose was touching Cayden's and long greasy strands of his hair were brushing his cheek. Maalik began to suck the life out of him, his black eyes staring mercilessly. Cayden continued to struggle, but he was too weak to offer real resistance.

Now Maalik reached beside him and pulled over a black canvass bag. He slapped Cayden's face, tweaking his nose, pinching his cheek playfully. 'Time to say goodbye,' he sniggered. Unzipping the bag, he pulled out several vests. 'Only got children's sizes, but it'll have to do,' he taunted.

Cayden twisted his shoulders but Maalik held on.

'Oh come on, you should be used to these by now,' said Maalik, his eyes widening theatrically.

Then, suddenly, the boat leapt upwards, ricocheting off the side of a submerged tree. Maalik yelped with surprise – but Cayden was quicker to respond. As Maalik struggled, pinned under a toppled barrel. Cayden scrambled back to the outboard, twisting the throttle. The engine died to neutral alongside a giant tree. As Maalik attempted to get to his feet, Cayden reached for a paddle. Holding the rough wood, he advanced, the boat rocking wildly. Extraordinarily, Maalik performed a jig, then bowed – and charged, his arms wide, like a deranged relative greeting a family member at an airport. Cayden snarled and swung the oar like a cricket bat. The paddle connected with Maalik's chin and continued up over his shoulder. Maalik's head snapped back, blood spurting from his nose, a tooth hanging down over his split lip. He lay on his back, eyes wide, arms outstretched holding the sides of the boat for support.

Cayden bought the paddle down on his left elbow; the joint cracked and Maalik screamed, spitting out the broken tooth. Raising the paddle, caught up in revengeful fury, Cayden chopped it down again – this time on Maalik's left forearm. The bone snapped, piercing the skin – a white splinter among the gushing blood and oozing muscle. Maalik's feet drummed the wood. 'Allah, Allah Allah,' he screamed. His eyes sprang open, his lips spread in a manic grin. He tried to get up but could get no purchase with his feet. Cayden swung the paddle and smashed its broad, flat side against Maalik's head. He fell, unconscious.

Looking back towards the bank, Cayden watched as more smoke poured from behind the trees as sunlight glinted off the helicopter blades. He could not see Jalal or Sly through the smoke that now drifted through from the burning village, but the yellow-cloaked Inca was now in the water, helping to disconnect his jet boat from the trailer.

Cayden let the paddle slip from his hands. He looked back down at Maalik as he moaned, gradually regaining consciousness. Cayden knew what he had to do – there would be no end to the nightmare otherwise. He opened the bag. There were twenty vests in all. He draped them around Maalik's body and shuddered as he looked at the lethal garments, packed with C4 and tubes of shrapnel, designed to cover the stomach of a child. No-one capable of such an atrocity could be human; it was like putting down a dangerous animal.

His resolve strengthened. He remembered the talk the SAS corporal had given him in Scotland; he could hear the Scottish accent ... 'C4 laddie, the explosive of choice, looks like moulding clay and won't explode if hit by a bullet, punched or set fire to. Only thing that'll set it off is heat and pressure together.' McMillan had held up the blasting cap. 'These wee things will do the trick.'

Cayden uncoiled the wire from one of the blasting caps, holding the trigger carefully in one hand. He walked back to the outboard, clicked it in drive, reached in for the cut plastic bottle used as a baler, scooped up a litre of muddy river water and threw it into the groaning face. Maalik came to his senses, slowly, kicking aside the vests, struggling to sit up, groaning in pain from his broken arms. Eventually, his gaze focused on Cayden.

'For Rachel,' Cayden said as he held up the trigger, then opened the throttle. The boat started to move away from the adjacent tree trunk. Cayden slipped into the water on the other side of the trunk. He had a momentary glimpse of Maalik's snarling face, twisted with hate, his legs still kicking out at the vest that surrounded him, Cayden pressed the trigger.

A momentary pause.

Cayden feared Maalik had dislodged the blasting cap or the wire had pulled out, but then the giant tree he was swimming against was pushed back at him from the blasts. He could feel the shrapnel imbed on the other side; could see bits of debris flying overhead and burning pieces of wood cart-wheeling in the air, landing in the water in plumes of steam. A wave slopped over the trunk, carrying with it several pieces of charred wood.

And the smell of meat cooked on fire.

Cayden pressed his forehead against the rough wood; a vision of Rachel flared and then gradually faded. 'I love you, sweetheart,' he whispered.

He pulled himself onto the tree. Petrol from the outboard burnt on the surface, an oily cloud following the widening wave from the explosion. Stunned and dying fish bobbed in the debris.

Cayden was a few hundred metres from the barrier. He could hear the roar of the water. His hands were shaking. He wiped water from his eyes and looked upstream.

The jet boat was moving fast, its two-inch draft skimming over the hazards, the man controlling it skidding the craft around the larger obstacles, like a skimmed stone. The boat quickly approached him.

Cayden shaded his eyes. The man with the flowing yellow cloak stood in the stern; hazy sunlight blinked as he wielded a long sword. The boat began to draw level – with Sly and Jalal cowering close to the Inca. Either out of ammunition or without guns, they held sticks to fend off the attack. How had Sly managed to get on board? It hardly mattered.

The jet boat roared past, its V8 engine howling. Jalal raised his stick and Sapa Inca lunged, Jalal froze, the blade appearing the other side of his shoulder. The Inca pulled it out in a spray of crimson. It shone in the air, arching like a satanic rainbow. Jalal fell forward. He was caught by the madman and thrown overboard in a powerful heave.

Cayden sat up, waving his arms. 'Sly – jump!' he yelled.

Did she hear him? Or was it some sixth sense that made her turn? He would never know. Their eyes locked over the widening distance as Cayden waved frantically, urging her to jump, watching the yellow-clad figure advance on her. He gasped as Sly lifted her good arm. The sword blade shone red above her and then ... the air shimmered as an army helicopter thundered by, its machine gun spewing flame and smoke. A line of erupting water before the bullets ripped through the stern of the jet boat.

Sapa Inca's sword arm cart-wheeled away. Cayden looked for Sly. The boat weaved out of control, thick smoke obscuring any further view. The helicopter chased after it. He cowered – another explosion. An orange fireball materialised above the smoke.

Tears welled in his eyes as he watched the jet boat burn fiercely, the helicopter hovering above, flattening the water, scattering the smoke, sending flames into the wooden dam. It, too, started to burn, until the whole jumble of sun-dried wood was ablaze, like a Viking funeral.

Chapter 31

Cayden put aside the Sunday Times supplement, yawned and stretched his toes towards the log fire, finishing his glass of Chianti.

He peered through the tall glass windows at Meadowlight; the gloom of late-afternoon. Mist clung to the tops of skeletal trees as a herd of black and white cows moved steadily across the hillside and a man in a red coat helped a dog over a stile. The grass needed cutting. Drops of moisture clung to long blades. Bird tracks ran in haphazard circles. Down by the gate, a police car was parked across the entrance, preventing anyone from coming up the drive.

Cayden closed his eyes. The article he had just finished reading reverberated through his mind. The journalist had given him far too much credit for helping to bring to an end the horror of more child suicide bombers. He hadn't wanted to give an interview but the Peruvian authorities had insisted, once they realised who he was. They'd wanted to cover up the fact that very few of the villagers had survived their aerial attack and realised the best way of diverting attention was to make the attack appear to have been a foreign rescue attempt.

They had never found Sly's body; he crossed his arms tightly at the thought. The article had not even mentioned her, although he had repeatedly told the journalist that, really, it had all been down to her efforts. Apparently, the Peruvians had not been so keen on an American involvement being made public – particular anyone representing the US Government. Cayden had spent days searching for her. He recalled the dog-tired hours, barely being able to stay conscious as he sat in the bow of the army RIB, going ashore whenever they found anything that looked suspicious. It had always turned out to be a piece of driftwood or a dead animal.

Cayden sighed heavily.

He got up, fetched the CD from his case and slipped it into the player. The opening sequences he had already seen a dozen times – her startling, piercing gaze. He froze the frame and stared at Jess's face, her mouth half-opened with her introductory line.

The documentary had been a huge success, taken by all the networks and made into a feature-length piece – more solid ammunition for the global warming factions. Partly as a result of the fresh publicity, the tax exempt status of marine diesel had been removed by government decree. His boats had cost thousands of dollars to fuel at the old rate. How many potential customers were going to be put off with the price of fuel doubling?

But Cayden didn't care, He was just pleased she had been found safe, blissfully unaware of all that had been going on, just twenty miles upriver – engrossed in her filming, not willing to leave even when he had turned up, bandaged and bruised. He had gone home via the Bahamas, staying a few days with Samuel, ostensibly to assure him that his daughter was safe; mainly hoping that Jess might return home, before he had to leave.

She hadn't. Then he had received a letter. Her excitement was obvious, her career at last on the move. She wanted to see him and when he thought about it, there was no longer that ghostly clawing at the back of his neck. Rachel had at last let him go. He smiled fondly at Jess's photograph included in the letter. She was pictured standing with her father, holding an award.

Cayden put aside the letter and picked up the report for the next morning's meeting.

####

About the author

Simon M. Gray's multidimensional journey to the world of thrillers

What to do if your boss is telling you that he does not want you to work for him any longer? Is it a failure or just on the contrary, a reason for joy (overall, you hated him)? Simon M. Gray's answer to a bad boss was to write a thriller.

After losing his job, Simon had very strong feelings about his former employer: "I was crushed, my plans devastated. I considered what type of person could be so indifferent to another's fate and how many people's lives had been ruined by others' blinkered self interest. Was it really him or had business made him that way? So I started writing." In this way, he turned from a trainee of a powerboat company into a writer. His adventure with literature started in 2008 with _Blinkered,_ a thriller where one of the main characters is an owner of (what a surprise!) a powerboat business. Later Simon created _Unquiet Mind_ , a sequel to _Blinkered_. His latest work _Time Stops Ticking_ published.2010

At the time of writing _Blinkered_ apart from his negative experience of working in the motor boat industry Simon had already behind him some practice as a yacht master. A journey - on the sea and across different continents - was an inseparable part of his work and his life. No wonder that travelling is also one of the themes of his books. This experienced traveller takes his readers on a journey to the exciting places that he has visited, from the United States to the Caribbean, from Peru (with the Amazon jungle and the Inca villages in the Andes Mountains) to Trinidad, China and Hong Kong.

Through his books, Simon also takes his readers along for the ride across current affairs. The background of the events which Simon's characters are involved in consists of the most burning phenomena on the political and social global scene: an Al Qaeda-like terrorist organisation and its global network, China's emergence as a superpower, an under-age suicide in Gaza, the glamorous but bloodthirsty world of business.

Although Simon's novels are classified as thrillers they inspire readers to deeper reflection. They are also a journey into the world of human feelings in search for answers to everyday questions. Ways of dealing with life's challenges, a reflection on loneliness experienced even in the group of seemingly close people and the importance of friendship are amongst the more serious themes he tackles.

Simon's novels are more complex than one could expect from thrillers and reflect the author's multifaceted nature. Born in South Africa, Simon currently lives in Arundel, UK, but has spent some time working in the US. He openly admits that his professional life has been "wobbly and bumpy" and that writing is much more to him than just another rung in his career's ladder – it is the "paracetamol to the headache" of his past professional experiences.

http://www.simonmgray.com

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/simonmgray

