Baker snorted. “Their government is a shitshow from top to bottom. El Centro’s bought it—lock, stock and barrel. There’s no way of knowing who’s on the payroll and who isn’t. Situation like that, better to assume they all are.”

“Understood.”

“The bottom line is straightforward, ladies and gentlemen,” Baker said. “You don’t get to blow up the US ambassador without serious consequences. We go in and we go in hard—and we wipe those bastards off the face of the earth.”

16

Milton had been able to catch a little sleep during the crossing, finding an empty bench and stretching out across it. He had always been able to sleep on demand; it was a skill that he shared with plenty of the soldiers with whom he had served. The ability to drop off quickly was invaluable, especially when working in hostile territory meant that the chances for sleep were not always predictable.

He had woken after three hours, a little stiff but mildly refreshed, and had bought a cup of strong black coffee from the café. He took it out onto the deck, pulled out his phone and opened the file that Ziggy had emailed to him. It was a dossier on Anthony Jackson: the man’s operation, the addresses and vehicles that he used, the associates he worked with. Ziggy had produced detailed research that included photographs of the smuggler, together with the habits that they could use against him.

He put the phone away and looked out as the lights of Hull appeared through the gloom of a dank and dreary afternoon.

“We’ll be coming into dock in fifteen minutes,” a voice announced over the PA. “Would all drivers please return to their cars.”

Milton finished the coffee, dumped the cup in the trash, and made his way down to the car deck.

* * *

Milton drove the car out of the back of the ferry, bumping over the ramp and then merging into the queue that led to the large building that was used as the customs area. Immigration formalities had been taken care of before boarding in Holland, and now Milton’s onward progress would be determined by whether he was selected for a check. The queue edged forward enough for Milton to see into the building to his right. Three cars were being searched, with another three waiting behind them. Sniffer dogs were leading their handlers around the vehicles and, when they failed to sit, the handlers gave the all-clear and the cars were allowed to drive away. Four officials in yellow hi-vis tabards were walking along the queue of parked cars that had just left the ferry; the two men and two women were speaking to the drivers of the cars and, based on what they heard, deciding whether or not each car needed the more detailed check that the canines could provide.

Milton picked up his phone and placed a call.

“Ziggy?”

“I’m here. Where are you?”