Cunningham shot Meyer another disgusted glance.

That fucking idiot kid.

His voice was curt when he spoke again. Efficient. There was now only one way this could end.

‘Change of plan, Jack.’

‘Sir.’ Meyer sat up straighter.

‘Keep the surveillance on the Scottish lawyer for now. But Devlin? He has to go.’

‘How long, sir?’

‘Twenty-four hours at the outside. But make it look like an accident so we don’t have to start playing nice with the Brits.’

‘And Dempsey, sir?’

‘Dempsey?’ Cunningham paused for a beat. His mind was made up. ‘Dempsey dies today.’

TWENTY-SIX

The industrial buzz of Tom Quilty’s apartment intercom tore the former analyst from his sleep. His eyes open wide, for a moment he forgot not just where he was, but when. In that instant between sleep and consciousness he was a young man again. Fit. Healthy. Formidable.

The illusion did not last; his wrecked body had dispelled it even before his mind had cleared. The feeling of age in his limbs was evidence enough, but it was nothing next to the pain of his lungs and throat. Within moments he was already struggling for breath.

The buzzer sounded again as he slowly lifted himself from his bed. He was weak for his age. But it was not physical weakness that drained him as he climbed to his feet. It was the desperate need for oxygen.

He glanced towards the tank that sat beside his bed. His nasal cannula was in place, an outlet into both nostrils. Quilty flicked it, to dislodge whatever was now blocking its flow. It made no difference; its air supply seems non-existent. He turned his attention to the tank’s valve. Moving close, he listened for the sound that would tell him that the oxygen was flowing. He could hear it, but still he felt no benefit.

A quick inspection of the gauge told him why. The container was practically empty, reducing the airflow to a trickle.

The buzzer again.

‘For Christ’s sake, I’m . . . coming.’ It was intended as a shout. It was a croak at best.

Sonsofbitches would wake the dead, he thought to himself as he pulled the cannula from his nose and headed towards his apartment’s main room.

The second of Quilty’s oxygen tanks was in the living room. It was the same tank he had used the previous evening, when Dempsey had been with him. Quilty reached it, placed the mask over his mouth and turned the output valve.

This time he felt the hit. The cold, concentrated oxygen filled what little capacity his lungs had left. He allowed himself to sit for a moment, as he took breath after breath. He sucked in mouthfuls of air, as if each might be his last.

The buzzer sounded again, longer than before. He placed the mask on the side of his armchair, climbed to his feet and walked to the intercom. It had no handset or camera. Just an open mic and speaker.

‘Hello?’

‘Mr Quilty?’