Vokes nosed the Traveller into the space next to the E-Class. A scruffy-looking guy in a polo shirt and chinos climbed out of the Merc. One of the other UKNs, Bowman presumed. Another member of the ex-pat community in the south of France. He looked a decade older than Vokes. Early sixties. His face had more lines in it than a Shakespeare play. His hair had been styled into a comb-over in a poor attempt to conceal his balding pate.

The Cell team disgorged themselves from the Traveller, grabbed their luggage and met the guy with the comb-over at the back of the E-Class. He chucked a set of keys at Loader and jerked a thumb at the E-Class’s boot compartment.

‘Hardware’s inside,’ he said.

‘It’s all there?’

‘Everything you asked for. She’s got a full tank.’

‘Paperwork?’

‘In the glovebox.’

Comb-over swung round to the passenger side of the Traveller and hopped into the cabin alongside Vokes. A few moments later, the Traveller skulked off in the direction of the exit. Mallet popped the boot on the E-Class. Grabbed the black sports bag from the otherwise empty compartment, beat a path round to the front passenger side.

‘Get in,’ he ordered. ‘Let’s move.’

The rest of the team dumped their holdalls in the boot and bundled inside the E-Class: Loader behind the wheel, Mallet in the shotgun seat, Casey, Bowman and Webb in the back. Thirty seconds later, daylight flooded the vehicle as they glided out of the car park. As they motored away from the stadium, Mallet passed the sports bag to the guys in the back. Bowman ripped it open with sweat-slicked hands. A pair of Ruger American Compacts lay in the bottom of the bag. Lightweight pistols, easy to carry and conceal, chambered for the 9 mm Luger round. Each one had a two-inch snub silencer attached to the barrel. Bowman handed one of the weapons to Webb and checked the other himself. His hands were shaking as he released the magazine from the underside of the grip. The clip was full. Seventeen rounds of nine-milli brass.

He eased the clip back into the mag well, tucked the Ruger into the pancake holster threaded through his waist belt. The holster sat flush against his skin, close to his side. Beneath his thick outer layer, the pistol wouldn’t be visible to anyone. He fished out four pairs of plasticuffs from the bag, handed two pairs to Webb, shoved the others into his trouser pocket.

‘Here,’ Mallet said. ‘You’ll need this.’

He gave Bowman a document wallet with Lang’s address printed on the front.

‘Four minutes out,’ said Loader, as they emerged from a tunnel. ‘Get ready.’