“Stay on the floor between the seats,” she said. “Don’t move. Don’t talk. If you do what I tell you to do, you’ll be fine.”

Milton opened the driver’s door, put the people carrier into drive, and released the brake.

They set off.

It had taken less than twenty seconds, and no one had seen a thing.

8

Milton drove them to the arms cache in Casalta. The location was an outdoor facility on the fringes of the city that offered long-term storage. There were small- and medium-sized sheds going all the way to larger garages and, as they rolled in off the road, Beatrix saw to her satisfaction that the place was deserted. Koralev was on the floor of the Vivaro. Beatrix had cuffed his wrists behind his back and hooded him with her jacket. She had the muzzle of the gun against the back of his head to persuade him that it was in his best interests to stay where he was. Milton pulled up next to one of the larger units, went outside and unlocked the door. He rolled it up, the metal slats clacking as they folded away, and then reversed the Opel inside. He killed the engine, pulled down the door and switched on a strip light.

Beatrix got out, leaving Koralev on the floor.

The garage was, effectively, an arms dump. The quartermaster had equipped it well. Racking had been screwed to the walls on both sides, and an array of weapons was laid out there. Beatrix saw long guns and pistols, automatic rifles, shotguns, packages of plastique, grenades, and numerous boxes of ammunition. Group Fifteen had caches like this all around the world. Some were smaller: metal crates that were buried in out-of-the-way locations. Others, like this, were established on an ad hoc basis as the need arose. The equipment had most likely been air-dropped or smuggled onto a secluded beach and then transported here. The quartermaster was available to assist should the need arise, but, in most cases, they maintained a scrupulous cover and did little to jeopardise that.

“Not bad,” Beatrix said as Milton joined her.

“How do you want to play this?” he asked quietly.

“We’ll double-team him,” Beatrix said.

“Good cop, bad cop?”

“Yes.”

“Who am I?” Milton asked.

“You frighten him,” she said. “And then I’ll tell him everything will be okay.”

“I can do that,” he said, and Beatrix saw those icy blue eyes again and believed that he could.

“We need information on what he’s been doing here,” she said. “He was tempted to leave the States by an offer from someone—we need to know who that is. We need to know where he’s been working, what he’s been working on, what he’s offered to sell.”

“And then?”