Narrow Ground

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Gallagher could smell his clothes. This would usually be a bad sign, but he was playing a role. He was dressed as a rough sleeper: his trousers were dirty, his jacket torn and stiff with grime and sweat. He carried a small rucksack that looked like its best days had been spent being dragged through a hedge. A rough woollen hat was pulled down tight and he had several days of beard-growth itching on his face. His gloves were disgusting, but beneath them were a blue latex pair protecting against DNA traces and fingerprints.

Bannerman, the operation’s commander, had tasked an engineer. The power had been turned off in the small courtyard that housed a number of office buildings. It had taken Gallagher less time than he had expected to gain entry to the non-descript building situated beyond an unlit alleyway piled with rubbish ready for the morning collection. The approach had been easy due to the lack of CCTV coverage. He'd disconnected the phone line connecting the alarm to the security company, and the power outage had done the rest.

On the other side of the front door, he switched on a red-filtered torch. An eerie glow was cast by an aquarium to his left. The reception area was furnished with a collection of battered leather sofas and scratched coffee tables strewn with glossy, but old, magazines. To his front were the stairs, which he began to climb slowly, stopping at every level to listen. On the third floor, he found the door he was looking for. He took a tension tool and pick from a pouch in his jacket and opened the cylinder lock.

Inside, he looked around at the desks and noticeboards in the shabby room in the middle of a tired central London building, attempting to imagine working in such a place, day in, day out. Not a chance.

Crouching in front of the electronic safe, he removed a drill from his pack and destroyed the locking mechanism. He gathered all the documents, bundles of currency, three passports and an envelope containing half a dozen data cards. If this had been a film, it would have been the moment when the room was briefly lit with flashes of blue while the siren of a police car screamed past on the road below. Instead, there was only the quiet hum of late-night traffic and the occasional shouts of partygoers heading for the night bus.

Usually, on jobs like this, Gallagher would have checked that everything was as he'd found it using a digital camera to compare the room he'd entered with the room he was leaving. However, as the safe was now broken, he picked up a metal waste bin, tossed in some papers from the nearest desk and set a fire. He kept it low and under control until there was enough ash, and then doused it with water from the cooler in the corner. Now the owners wouldn't know what had been taken and what had been destroyed. The motive for the break-in would be unclear.

Gallagher took a can of red spray paint from the bag and repacked the drill. He sprayed the desks, the chairs and the walls. He remembered a 'tag,' a graffiti signature, daubed on a wall nearby and attempted a replica near the door. If an observant policeman was led to the home of a teenage vandal, then all the better. If the matter was reported to the police. He doubted it would be.

Gallagher emptied all the unlocked drawers on to the floor, sprayed the contents and then the drawers themselves, inside and out. As he left the office he sprayed the door with dripping red paint, followed by the handles on both sides, placed the can in his bag and made his way down the stairs and out of the building.

Four streets away, a van was waiting. He gently banged the side of the vehicle in the agreed manner and the back door opened. Inside was Rob Alberton, one of Bannerman's team.

'Evening, Owen.'

'Morning, Rob.'

'All OK?'

'No worries.'

Alberton climbed into the front of the van and drove around to the drop-off point a mile away. He hadn't been told what the target was – nor had the engineer. He didn't ask: he wouldn't have been answered. His career didn't allow for indiscretion, especially on a job involving Gallagher. All taskings were on a 'need to know' basis, but when Bannerman hired Gallagher it seemed that no one needed to know anything other than how to accomplish his or her own part of the mission.

Gallagher changed into the clean clothes that he'd passed to the team two days before and picked up his phone, watch and wallet. His rough-sleeper gear and other kit would be boxed and returned by a courier.

Having made its circuit of the area, the van stopped. Gallagher secured his watch to his wrist. Alberton nodded. His passenger stepped out of the van without another word spoken.

Back on the pavement, Gallagher looked at his watch again and walked slowly to the junction of the main road. He could head home or he could seek out a drink. Left would take him towards the sensible option and bed. He turned right. It began to rain.

The private members' club, Cowper's, was situated in a side street on the periphery of Soho near St Giles. Gallagher inserted a plastic key card into an electronic panel over the lock and pushed open the door. The night porter, CJ, briefly looked up from his book to give a lazy salute. Gallagher was a well-known member of long standing, introduced to the club years before by his uncle, Edwin, now deceased. CJ was fond of Gallagher. Uncle Edwin had secured the man his job a couple of decades previously. CJ was old fashioned and utterly loyal. Gallagher had also done the quiet watchman some good turns, including collecting evidence against a g**g of young wannabe-gangsters that were making the lives of everyone on the man's housing estate a misery. The nonchalant greeting and lack of scrutiny were reserved for only the most respected of those passing by the gatekeeper.

Having taken his drink from the shambolic bar, festooned as it was with memorabilia, photographs and assorted theatrical tat, Gallagher eased himself behind a small corner table. With a view of the door and his back to the wall, he began to relax.

He took the first sip and knew that it wouldn't be his last drink. It never was. He savoured the taste and felt his mind begin to slow even before any chemical reaction could take place. His thoughts stopped dancing to their own beat and began to settle as he grew inwardly still.

Ideally, he should enjoy this relaxed state with a couple of glasses and then head home. However, the calm feeling would soon give way to a frenetic need and he'd end up drinking like a pirate. He saw the next few hours clearly laid out before him. He saw them because they would be no different to so many he'd lived before. He'd deal with his demons in the morning, as he always had. They would poke and accuse, tell him truths and project memories behind his eyes that he didn't want to see. But until then he would hold them in check. Until then he would seek a kind of peace in the short-lived joys of a chemical addiction, holding back the truth of himself in the fragmented haze of what he considered to be a good time.

The club consisted of four floors in a tall narrow building that had settled itself into its street long before the real estate in the area became sought after and fashionable. There were two bars – one of which served snacks occasionally, but never consistently; several tired sitting rooms, and a ramshackle library containing mismatched desks and some randomly upholstered furniture. The top floor was no longer used, but had previously been the owner's accommodation. It wasn't a club for the posing rich or those fixated by networking at every opportunity. It was the home of the bon vivant on a budget, the serious drinker with no time for frippery or the company of those exhibiting status anxiety.

Gallagher scanned the assembled members for any unknown faces, saw none, and reached into his pocket for his phone. There were two missed calls and three text messages: all from Eve, a barmaid at his regular haunt, Le Lion Rouge. He wouldn't be replying until lunchtime the next day at the earliest.

A fourth text message was from Sandy Bannerman, an old friend from Gallagher's army days and the man who'd paid him to break into an untidy import/export office in the early hours of the morning. Gallagher was Bannerman's 'off-the-books' operative in times of need, a freelancer who could, and would, carry out work the MI5 watcher teams were unable to cover or couldn't consider. Only six months before, such a tasking had drawn Gallagher into a nightmarish web of conspiracy and betrayal.

The image of a young man's face and smashed body rose up in Gallagher's mind. The corpse didn't smile. He felt a chill run through him as memories clouded his consciousness. He wouldn't be staying for just the one. Gallagher knew that sometimes the drink gripped him, holding him tight in the steady embrace of a long, if occasionally destructive, relationship. It wasn't a problem. Self-medication on his own terms was perfectly rational: blocking out the images, the intrusive thoughts, quieting the ghosts – all necessary to his survival and sanity.

He took a sip of his drink and looked around the room again. A man in a crumpled linen suit stared blindly into the middle distance from his place at the bar. At the other end, nearer the door, a woman in a vintage dress and feather boa giggled and touched the arm of one of three older men who were courting her attention. He'd seen her before. She was a member but only appeared sporadically – usually when it was raining. Perhaps she wandered further afield on dry nights. Gallagher noted the predatory looks masked by gentlemanly attention and a readiness to pass the barman bank notes at regular intervals. Almost as soon as a round of drinks was served the next note was produced, maintaining the momentum, holding the woman in place.

All three men had clearly played the game for years and were united in their love of themselves, competition, and the thrill of the chase. Gallagher hoped she'd catch the sidelong looks darting between the sharks, that she'd sense the coldness behind the wide grins and shining eyes. However, as he watched, he discerned her lonely vulnerability and something else. She wasn't a victim: she was playing them and wouldn't be leaving with anyone that she didn't want to be with.

A conversation on the other side of the room began to intrude on the wider festivities, puncturing the hum of drunken chatter, discordant and harsh against the music wrapping itself between the drinkers. Unappreciative glances from others in the room led to backs being slapped. Shoulders were soon being punched good-humouredly in a display of friendly machismo. More drinks were called for and the room's decorum was restored to the satisfaction of its denizens.

This was why Edwin had brought him here all those years before. This was why Gallagher still came when he was in need of a particular form of sanctuary. There was rarely any hassle, everyone knew everyone else – and no one really knew anyone at all.

* * *

Flic Anderson had made the call. It would mark the beginning or the end but the only way was forward now. She'd been running for six months. She was tired of hiding, tired of moving back and forth across Europe, tired of waiting for a bullet in the back. She was still on the defensive, waiting to switch to attack. She stared at herself in the mirror and brushed a strand of her dyed-black hair behind her ear. The face that looked back at her was more pinched than it ever had been. The eyes were faintly haunted and the smile was thin across bloodless lips.

She liked the hotel but she had to keep moving. The next steps would be the key to her endeavour. This time she was working entirely outside the wire; it had to be fully controlled and planned to the last detail – if it went wrong this time she wouldn't be able to hide from herself. She gripped the sink edge and challenged her reflection to show another sign of weakness. Get a grip of yourself Anderson: remember the tiger swimming at the zoo.

It was time to begin calling in favours, time to come back from the dead and appear in the lives of those who had tried to bury and forget her. It was time to stop swimming in the still pools of exile and time to flex her claws against the agents of her humiliation. The tiger's name was Hope. She recalled the news of Yoshi's death; she remembered the hot afternoon at the Baghdad zoo, knowing that the die was cast and knowing that she'd accepted the consequences long before she'd strolled out of Al-Zawara Park. The tiger's name was Hope but it was hatred that burned in the eyes that looked back at her. God help anyone who stood in her way.

* * *

'Morning, Billy.'

'Morning, Mr Gallagher. Late night?'

Gallagher smiled. It was something when a tramp – and Billy was an old-school tramp and proud of it – thought you looked rough.

'Just a bit. Have you eaten today?'

'I'm on a diet,' said Billy with a straight face.

Gallagher found a five-pound note in his wallet. 'Get the dog some breakfast.'

'You're a good man, Mr Gallagher.'

'Keep that to yourself, won't you?'

'Your friend picking you up? The one with the false leg?'

'You don't miss much, do you Billy?'

'True, Mr Gallagher. Keep that to yourself, won't you? Here he is. New car. He's killing those gears.'

Gallagher patted Billy's dog, Eric, who wagged his tail and blinked his remaining eye.

Harry lowered his window. 'Morning, boss.'

'Morning, H. Have you met Billy and Eric the dog?'

'I have now. Morning, Billy. I'm Harry.'

'Pleased to meet you. You want to watch that clutch, you know, I could smell it a mile off.'

* * *

They had been in the car for an hour and Gallagher's head was still thumping. He'd had two hours of fitful sleep before Harry Burgess had collected him for the day's surveillance work.

'You still thinking of a holiday? It looks like you need one.'

'Still thinking,' replied Gallagher.

'Go on, have a week in the sun, have two, it's not like you can't afford it.'

'I'm thinking about it. Let's concentrate on the job at hand, eh?'

'Please yourself. Remind me again why we've been watching this rich Russian t**t moving around town screwing birds and flashing his cash for the last week,' said Harry as he turned right.

Gallagher checked his map. 'Because it pays your bills?'

'Lucky for me that Lynne doesn't eat much, eh?' Harry grimaced as the traffic slowed.

'Is your mortgage hurting?'

'Piss off. It's the b****y prosthetic – must be the weather. So, what's the point of this? What are we trying to find out apart from the fact that the bloke is a s*x addict?'

'It's need-to-know.'

'Well I need to know.'

'No, you don't.'

'Yes, I do.'

Gallagher took a sidelong glance. 'Are you taking the piss?'

'I know I'm just the hired help, but...'

'Have you heard yourself, H? Are you channelling your missus?'

Harry laughed.

Gallagher looked back at the map. 'You're having your mid-life crisis early, is that it? Getting it out of the way? Buy yourself a leather jacket and a motorbike, you'll feel better.'

Harry rubbed the area where the stump met the false part of his leg. 'You don't buy me flowers anymore.'

'Why didn't you buy another automatic?' asked Gallagher, smiling but noting his friend's continued discomfort. 'Anyway, to answer your question, it's the same drill as usual: find, fix, observe. It's our bread and butter for Bannerman.'

Harry turned left, three cars behind the target vehicle. 'I wanted an automatic but Lynne's brother got us a deal. I didn't want her accusing me of throwing it back in his face. I'm just saying that Bannerman owes us a decent job soon.'

'The money's the same either way. Why work harder?'

'You know what I mean: something a bit more exciting than watching flash fuckers spending money or crusties plotting revolutions that'll never happen.'

'I like these jobs,' said Gallagher as he checked the map. 'Bet you a pound to a penny we're off to Location Four.'

'You just like to think you like the quiet life. You're kidding yourself.'

'I'm never bored. He's pulling over, Location Four, that's another point to me. Swing in over there on the other side of the road.'

Harry manoeuvred in the traffic and brought the car to a stop. 'Yeah, you're blessed with that. Me: I bore easily.'

'Don't be so harsh on yourself: you’re not that boring,' said Gallagher, looking at his watch rather than at his friend.

'I meant,' Harry began. 'Right, yeah. You're a piss-taking bastard. I don't know why I bother.'

Gallagher suppressed his grin. 'He'll be an hour or so. The heavy and the driver are staying put as usual.'

'Lucky bastard. She's gorgeous that one.'

'And expensive: this isn't some Soho knocking shop. How's Lynne?'

'She's never boring, that's for sure. To be honest, though, I don't know.'

'Are you through the worst?'

'Some days I think we are and some days I don't know why we put ourselves through it.'

'Harry Junior?'

‘Yep, I suppose that's why we do it.'

'I meant, how is he?'

'He's a great little lad, takes after his mother.'

'Right,' said Gallagher. 'I'll go foxtrot and watch the car from that bar on the corner, just in case Heavy goes walkabout. I suppose we should earn our money.'

'He never goes walkabout; he's a lazy bastard. Why can't I go and sit in the bar?'

'You're driving. It'd be a waste of opening hours, and you'd look out of place nursing half a Coke for an hour.'

'I could have a brew. They do sell coffee in bars these days, you know.'

Gallagher opened the passenger door. 'Yes, I've heard.' He picked up Harry's newspaper that was lying in the foot-well and stepped out of the car. From the pavement, he leaned in and tossed the paper on to Harry's lap. 'One across is "patience" and four down is "virtue." Have fun.'

'Hilarious,' said Harry as Gallagher closed the car door. 'I hope you choke on your Pinot Ponce.'

* * *

Gallagher had just sat down near the window of the bar with his wine when his phone rang. 'Don't tell me you need a piss already, H,' he said as the call connected.

'Heavy is foxtrot, moving your way, carrying a bag.'

Gallagher saw the large man in the ill-fitting suit walk into view on the other side of the road. 'I have,' he said, and downed his glass of hair of the dog.

As he walked to the exit, Gallagher inserted his covert earpiece and activated the push-to-talk mode on his phone – turning it into a one-to-one radio link with Harry – and moved the remote click unit to his jacket pocket, in order to transmit unseen via the microphone under his shirt collar. Through the glass door he watched a broad-shouldered tanned man in his early thirties stop, turn to look in a shop window and poke his left ear. The man's dress, bearing and ear-fiddling suggested that he was engaged in surveillance.

'H, do you have the IC1 male, brown leather jacket, outside the deli?'

'Got him. The IC1 female, short brown hair, fleece and jeans, a hundred metres to your rear, is with him. They exited the same van and now want nothing to do with each other.'

'OK, looks like we've got competition. Go careful and stay off their radar. We'll do what we need to and then lift off. I don't want us tangled up in whatever this is.'

'You're still going after Heavy?'

'We've been tasked, so we do the job.' Gallagher watched Heavy turn the corner and followed. 'That's Alpha 2 into Cornovi Road. I'll cut through and let him pass. I can get between him and Leather Jacket.'

Harry's voice replied in his earpiece. 'Roger that.'

Gallagher took the short cut and reached the end of the alley. He watched Heavy into the next street still carrying the sports bag. The big man was sweating and had obviously jogged forward to get to where he was going. Heavy began descending the steps of an underpass to cross beneath the road.

Gallagher followed and glanced left into the subterranean corridor. A man was walking towards Heavy. This man, wearing a dark suit, seemed in no hurry. Gallagher continued past the opening and walked up the steps, to where he had a view of the street.

‘H, follow me up the road. There's an underpass ahead. You might need to drive forward to cover the other entrance but wait this side in case he doubles.'

Two clicks of the transmit button – two for 'yes' – came back from Harry.

Gallagher watched Heavy exit on the other side of the busy road. Heavy was no longer carrying a bag.

'H, there's an unknown Alpha about to exit this side of the road: early thirties, IC4, dark suit. Have your camera ready. He’s our Alpha 3 now.'

Two clicks.

Gallagher prepared the camera on his personal smartphone in case the new target turned his way. 'Yours, H.'

Harry adjusted his camera lens. 'Got him, he's walking this way. Want me to follow?'

'Yeah, turn around and watch him to the junction. There's a cut-through here. I'll try to get ahead of him.'

'Roger that. Moving now.'

Gallagher ran through the alleyway and slowed as he approached the entrance to the parallel street.

'He's gone right, away from the train station,' Harry reported.

Gallagher acknowledged. 'I have.'

From Gallagher's left, a car pulled out on the other side of the road. The new target glanced up, crossed the street, and waited for the car to stop. Gallagher watched as the man climbed into the back. 'That's Alpha 3 into a black Mazda CX-5, about to arrive at the junction. I have the reg. Try to get the occupants.'

Harry pulled in so that he was diagonal from the junction. He took a succession of rapid photographs as the target car turned left and drove away from him. 'Should have the driver and a profile of the passenger. They've headed down towards the high street. Want me to follow?'

'No, drive this way and pick me up. I’ll walk towards you. I think we've got what Bannerman wants.'

As he turned the corner to head towards the main road, Gallagher walked straight into Leather Jacket. The man pushed him backwards. The jacket flapped open revealing a g*n.

'You're coming with me.' It was an American accent.

'I'm afraid not.'

'Just a few questions: nothing to worry about.'

'You're way out of your jurisdiction.'

Leather Jacket drew his pistol pointing it at head height. He was throwing his weight around, being the tough guy, and he was standing too close.

Gallagher's left palm moved the barrel as he tilted his head in the other direction, simultaneously using his right hand in a sloth grip to strike the man's wrist hard. As the g*n rotated under the opposing forces of Gallagher’s hands, the trigger guard broke Leather Jacket's finger and the g*n moved into Gallagher's possession at speed.

Gallagher stepped to the side, pointing the pistol at its owner as the American bent double in agony. Then he kicked him behind the knees, sweeping him on to his back.

'Let's agree to disagree, shall we? You lie there for a minute. I have to be off. I'd rather not have to deal with the rest of your team.'

'You'll pay for this.'

'I usually do,' Gallagher replied. He stamped on the man's knee.

'You bastard.'

'No major harm done but no running for a couple of days, OK?'

* * *

Harry drove them to the lock-up garage. It was where Gallagher kept his van, motorbike and most of his specialist kit.

'Want me to wait? It's a bit of a trek back to your new gaff. Why not get another lock-up, move your stuff?' Harry asked.

'Because it's still in Uncle Edwin's name. I like to know it's here and not connected to me officially. Get off home.'

'You going to drive back?'

'No, I'll walk.'

'Why?'

'I like walking.'

'How many pubs from here to there?'

'How should I know?'

'OK, how many pubs in direct view from here to your new place?'

'Twenty-three, but only six are worth a visit.'

Harry laughed. 'Enjoy your walk.'

* * *

Flic hadn't thought she'd be able to make her first move so quickly, but a message from an old contact had provided her with the wherewithal to begin piecing together a way of returning, to take the first step on the road to a new sense of purpose – and to revenge. It had made her useful again, and much sooner than she had hoped.

The message – left via one of many digital dead drops that she still monitored – was a tip off. Her informant wanted money in exchange for further details. Flic hadn't made contact. She didn't need the information because she'd been the one who had derailed the deal that her informant was so excited to tell her about. The message was merely confirmation that the time was right and her plan was working. No doubt the balding Belgian, having received no reply, was attempting to sell his information elsewhere. She hoped so: it would assist in obscuring any trail leading to her.

The disinformation she had traded in had opened the door to the men with whom she would now be dealing. Her warning to them held the currency of trust – as far as trust went in the shadow world of the global arms trade. It was an opening she hadn't been able to make herself without creating suspicion, but careful use of the whispering network and a tip off to police in Italy had created the desired outcome. This was the mission she had craved, a mission that would utilize her skills and thrust her firmly back into the fold.

She returned the waiter’s smile as she looked up from the book that she wasn't reading. Flic was at least a dozen years older but the glint in his eyes indicated that this wasn't an issue. She looked back at her book and sipped her coffee. Even if it had been her style, which it certainly wasn't, that kind of encounter – however brief and anonymous – was a possible connection that could be followed up by those seeking her. There were plenty of individuals and agencies seeking her.

Six months might have passed but they'd be looking. Six months, six years, it wouldn't stop the hunt. False passports, her blonde hair dyed black, the coloured contact lenses, were all very well but one slip, one moment of weakness, could bring the end. If her own – her former – service found her, she'd be in a detention centre within hours. If the Americans found her, she'd never be seen again. If the Iranian intelligence service, VEVAK, discovered her whereabouts she'd die in the street or a hotel room, recorded as the victim of a brutally botched robbery – if she was lucky. If not, and they managed to sedate and move her, the t*****e would last for days, weeks or months. The subsequent show trial and public execution would be an international television sensation.

She couldn't go on running. She needed a way back to the protection that was rightfully hers, a way back to doing what she did, to being who she truly was. A thrill of excitement passed through her. The waiter, sensitive to his prey, seemed to notice the almost imperceptible shudder. Their eyes met as she closed her book. She didn't smile and he turned, his body and attention, to the young barista to his right who was adjusting an apron across her ample German curves.

* * *

Flic walked through several side streets running parallel to Tiergartenstraβe. The bar was near Potsdamer Platz. She'd allowed the Irishman to pick the meeting place, having watched him at intervals for two days before agreeing. She'd seen him enter it on three different occasions, along with a number of other venues, as he weighed up each one's suitability. She'd known it would be the one he'd select. The bar could be accessed via a back alley in a car park or through its front doors on the main street. She'd visited it the day before to get the lay of the land, to identify exits, to feel the mood of the place. If she sensed a change during the meeting, a shift in atmosphere, it would signal her departure, giving her valuable minutes to escape a closing net.

A corner table gave her a view of both entrances to the upper bar, the fire exit, the toilets and the kitchen. A pretty girl placed the ordered drink on the table and the usual polite exchange ensued. As the waitress made her way back to the bar, Flic pulled a novel from her bag and checked that the Russian-made PSM pistol was sitting correctly within the pouch that she had sewn into an existing partition. It was a simple weapon made as slim and smooth as possible for the purposes of concealment. The eight rounds in its magazine were capable of negating the protection of light body armour and would get her out of a tight spot. Her back-up weapon, a Walther PPK, was holstered above her ankle, covered by the expensive fabric of her loose-cut trousers. She looked like any Berlin business woman of her age and she spoke German like a native.

Flic leaned back in her chair and held the open book with its cover resting against the table's lip. A man in his early forties, a salesman of some sort, tapping away at a spreadsheet on an iPad at an adjacent table, was trying to catch her eye between sums. Flic shifted the angle of her seat, just enough to send him the message that she wasn't interested, while maintaining the necessary visual arcs.

It was another 20 minutes before the departing salesman held open the door to a slightly younger, thick-set man with red hair. He walked confidently to the bar, ordered his drink and indicated to the waitress that he'd be joining Flic. He'd spotted the book's title, angled for the purpose, as the agreed mode of recognition. Flic had no need of such an authentication signal as she'd observed him unseen for hours during previous days, but the Berlitz guide in his left hand allowed her to nod discreetly in his direction.

'I'm Smith.'

'Of course you are,' replied Flic in a well-spoken German accent. 'Kirsten Bausch.'

His handshake was clammy but firm. They paused for the waitress to set down the glass of lager.

'My organization is grateful for your input.' The soft lilt of his County Wicklow accent was hardened by the husky delivery marking him as a heavy smoker, as did the nicotine stains on his fingers. He was being indiscreet. The man was a fool who thought he could impress her.

'I aim to please.'

'I'll bet you do,' he said, drawing an icy stare from Flic. He shifted a little in his seat. 'If you have what we need, the business is yours.'

Flic nodded but said nothing.

'The price is right – if you cover delivery, that is.'

Flic took a sip of her drink. 'Delivery is an extra 15 percent. We cannot wheel it through the airport.'

'Ten.'

'You are not the only buyers in the market.'

'Twelve.'

'Zur Holle mit dir. I am not known for my patience, Herr Schmidt.' Flic picked up her handbag as if to leave.

'I'll make the arrangements. What happens next?'

Flic retook her seat. 'Where are you staying?'

'The Mondial.'

'Under what name?' She smiled at his discomfort.

'Kelly.'

'A courier will bring you the address of a warehouse in Potsdam. Be there this afternoon at four.' She passed him a slip of paper that had been secreted in her novel. 'Instructions for the escrow account and details of the broker.'

She watched as he glanced at the writing and then pocketed the note.

'Transfer half of the money once you've viewed the merchandise. Tell your people to have it ready. The other half will be required before your representative oversees the loading of the boat.'

'Which port?'

'You will be told when you need to know.'

'And I just trust you with the money?'

'It is an escrow account. You can check out the broker when you leave, the website is listed there. Have you made a deal like this before?'

Kelly shook his head and took a drink.

'The escrow broker is a neutral third party. He holds the money until you are satisfied. All the money must be in the account before the boat departs with the equipment and your man. The boat will load to your dinghies waiting off the coast. I am making an assumption, forgive me. Is that the way it will be done?'

Kelly shrugged.

'That is the deal: take it or leave it,' said Flic irritably. She glanced at her watch. 'The broker will not...' She paused, pretending to search for the phrase. 'He will not screw us because he knows we would come back.'

'And you have what we need?'

'I think you will be pleasantly surprised. At the price you are paying, you should be. We have taken a recent delivery of some "surplus" stock and we are passing on the savings to you the customer.'

'Because the gear is hot? You've checked it?'

'It has all been swept and checked. No tracking devices, no rigged pieces. The owners, and you will appreciate the irony when you see it, are currently unaware that it is missing. We would like to move it on, that is all.'

'I'm looking forward to using it before they miss it.'

'I am pleased for you. Now, Herr Schmidt,' she said as she stood, 'I must be leaving.' She placed the book back in her bag as he extended his hand.

'Ever been to the Opernpalais?'

Flic hoisted the bag's strap over her shoulder. 'Next to the Staatsoper, I know it, why?’

'I hear they do a good breakfast.'

'You will be able to see for yourself on your way back from Oranienburger Straβe. Be at the address in Potsdam at four. Do not be late. Take only one man or the dealer will be gone before you park your car.'

Kelly didn't make another attempt and watched as she walked towards the rear exit. It had been worth a gamble. The possibility of a night with a woman like that was definitely worth a punt. He retook his seat and finished his beer. The waitress was at his side as he placed the glass down.

'Another?'

'No thanks, better get off.'

She picked up the empty glass and nodded.

'Hang on,' he said as he took out a larger than necessary bank note to pay his bill. 'Do you know Oranienburger Straβe?'

The girl looked at Kelly, then the money, and blushed. Her hair whipped around as she turned and strode to the bar.

A man who had just arrived at the next table laughed. Kelly opened his palms to show his confusion.

The man laughed again. 'Oranienburger Straβe: prostitutes.'