Milton didn’t understand exactly what it was that Ziggy had done. He had described it as a ‘zip bomb’—an email containing what looked like a small file that, when checked by standard virus scanning software, opened and decompressed several petabytes of data, causing a system freeze that disabled other software running on the same server. Most modern antivirus software was able to detect malicious files, and Ziggy had ruled out deploying the technique at an airport on the basis that those systems were generally kept up to date. The defences at small ports like this one were archaic by comparison, and Ziggy had stated—with a reasonable degree of confidence—that the exploit would work. Milton had allowed Ziggy’s uncharacteristic lack of bombast to sow doubt in his mind, but, as he looked around the dock now, he chided himself: he should have known better.

The car behind Milton sounded its horn, and the driver waiting in the queue to the left got out and remonstrated with the customs official who was still trying to wake up her device. Another horn sounded, and then another. The two officials conferred, with one taking out a phone and placing a call, and then, after another minute of being serenaded by the frustrated drivers who were waiting to drive into the UK, they stepped out of the way and waved the cars through.

“All good?” Ziggy said.

“Good as gold,” he said. “Never doubted you for a minute.”

With the cocaine undetected in the void beneath the centre console, Milton gently accelerated away.

17

Anthony Jackson had a stinking hangover when he finally awoke. He looked over to the clock on the bedside table, saw that it was coming up to one, and wondered whether he could sneak in another hour of kip. He was warming up to the idea when he remembered: he was expecting a delivery at the warehouse, and the load was supposed to have been taken off the boat at Liverpool at midday.

He blinked bleary eyes and reached down onto the floor for the jeans that he had discarded as he stumbled into bed earlier that morning. He checked his messages. He had received a text from Frankie McMahon confirming that he had received the green light from the customs official they had on the payroll. The container had come off the MV Discovery at eleven fifty, had been loaded onto the back of the lorry, and was now being cleared through customs. No issues were anticipated and, everything being well, the driver—Christopher Jacobs—was expected to arrive at the warehouse with the load just after four that afternoon.