‘They’ve been on the Cell for a while. They know the score. You don’t fight criminals with kid gloves.’

‘Still, you could have warned us before you threw Lang over the balcony.’

Mallet made a face. ‘Christ, don’t tell me you feel sorry for the bastard.’

‘I couldn’t give a crap about Lang,’ Bowman said. ‘I’m talking about the watch he was wearing. That was worth half a million quid, John.’

Mallet chuckled. ‘I’ll buy you a fake Rolex when we get back home. Call it even.’

They drove on. After a couple of miles, Mallet pointed to a rest stop at the roadside. Which was really just a patch of worn blacktop with an overflowing bin and a chicken-wire fence, bookended by tufts of dense vegetation. Beyond the fence, the ground sloped sharply away towards the glittering sea. A grey Volvo XC90 SUV was parked up on the far side of the lay-by. Bowman looked round but saw no other motors or people in the area.

‘Pull over,’ Mallet said.

Bowman pointed the Range Rover into the lay-by and skid-halted to the rear of the XC90. Loader pulled up a couple of metres behind, loose gravel crunching beneath the tyres. Bowman cut the engine.

Mallet said, ‘Everyone out.’

Boots thudded on the worn blacktop as the three men got out. They waited while a familiar face debussed from the XC90. Bowman recognised him immediately. The guy with the terrible comb-over. The UKN they had met in the underground car park.

He lumbered over to the wagon, handed Mallet a set of keys.

‘I was told to expect a live package,’ he said.

‘He’s in the boot,’ Mallet said back.

‘Hardware?’

‘Holdall in the front passenger footwell. Everything’s inside.’

‘Anything I need to worry about?’

‘The guns haven’t been fired. Nothing to link to any crime.’

‘The wagon?’

‘It’s hot. You’ll need to dispose of it.’

‘Keys?’

‘Inside.’

They swapped cars. Comb-over plodded over to the Range Rover and squeezed himself behind the wheel. Bowman, Mallet and Seguma took the Volvo. The president spread himself on the back seat, the soldiers sat upfront. Mallet tapped icons on the built-in satnav, entering the address for the airport. The Range Rover pulled away from the lay-by and motored west. Bowman waited until it was out of sight around the bend. Then he steered onto the mountain road, Loader and Webb and Casey shadowing them in the E-Class.

The satnav told him they were eleven miles from the airport. Twenty-three minutes away. Arrival time, 11.58. Bowman gripped the wheel tightly and clenched his jaw.

Eleven hours from now, we’ll be landing in Karatandu, he thought.

And God knows what’s waiting for us when we get there.

Eighteen

Eighteen