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  It was quite a sight, but the driver of the generic grey van that had just negotiated the various gates and dusty roads had seen it before and did not spare it a second glance. He stepped out of the vehicle and approached the glass wall. Two armed men stepped from a guard post on the outside of the wall and asked to see his identification. He produced his ID and handed it over.

  "Good to see you again, Agent Croft," said the first guard. "How are the family?"

  "Well, thanks," Croft said, because that was what they wanted to hear. "How is our guest?"

  The guard handed back the card. "No more effusive this week. Your phone, please."

  Croft placed his mobile on the offered tray.

  The guard pulled an electronic device from his pocket. "OK to be scanned?"

  Croft stood, legs apart, arms extended, while the scanner was waved around his silhouette.

  The guard looked at the display. It glowed green and the device chimed a soft, friendly tone. "No weapons or electronics," he confirmed. "You're good to proceed." The guard nodded to his colleague and together they lifted up the glass beam barring the door. Croft forced a smile.

  Time to pay a visit to a special guest.

  Northwell A was the very latest word in design for maximum security prisons, its very existence and location classified Top Secret. It was the first British facility designed for incarceration of prisoners classified 'above Category A', colloquially an 'ACA' prison, where Category A meant those whose escape would be highly dangerous to the public or those who represented a serious risk to national security.

  It wasn't really ready for use, but a test case had presented: a prisoner the authorities were not sure what else to do with and who, without doubt, met the criteria. The prisoner was currently in his cell, drinking a cup of green tea and reading a book. Both items had been thoroughly scanned for active foreign bodies before being allowed into the cell. The floor of the cell was a highly polished granite, as was the table he sat at, and the chair he sat on. Both were fixed to the floor.

  Agent Croft stepped in as the glass door slid open. "Hello, Peter."

  Peter Marron did not look up from his book. "You again? Don't you get bored of asking me the same questions?"

  Croft watched the door slide closed. "It's my job. I brought you the Times." Croft threw the folded newspaper onto the table.

  Marron glanced at it. "I would like access to the internet. And a television. Or do you really think I'll manage to hack my way out of here?"

  "I'm just following protocol."

  "Like a good company man. Commendable. I also asked for a chess set. A good old-fashioned wooden one would have been fine."

  "The pieces would be choking hazards. For you or the guards."

  "Oh, come on. But I guess I'd struggle to find a worthy opponent in this place." Marron put down his book. "So what are you offering me this time?"

  "That would depend on the value of the information you provide."

  "Do you really think I would offer something up on a prayer?"

  Croft shrugged. "If Bern decides to talk first then we may not need to speak to you at all."

  Marron smiled. "Bern isn't going to talk. Ever."

  "He blamed you for everything. And he had a lot of evidence to back it up."

  "Yes, how convenient for him. Anyway, there's still only one thing I want: news of my daughter."

  "You're going to have to accept that she won't be found."

  Marron reached forward and unfolded the newspaper, flattening it on the stone table in an exaggerated manner. "At least you still have your daughter. Although I was sorry to hear about her... condition." Marron looked up, his eyes unblinking. "I wish there was something that could be done."

  Croft's cheek twitched. "How would you know about that?"

  "We're not so different, you and I. The question is, are we men who are powerless, or men who have hope?"

  Croft started to reply but the phone on the wall rang loudly.

  "I'm guessing that will be for you," Marron said. "I don't get too many calls."

  Croft picked it up. He listened to the quick words and put the receiver down. "I have to go."

  "Until next time, Agent Croft. Oh, and do close the door on your way out."

  Ten

  IT WAS A COLD DAY in Moscow. But then it was always cold in Moscow in winter. Around the great stone house were high walls, heavy gates, and grim men with guns. Inside, huge fires blazed, not because the heating systems needed the help, but because the owner liked the effect.

  That was to say, the new owner. Andrei Leskov's father, Viktor, had died a year ago. Now his son paced the huge wooden-floored chamber, glaring at the fire, glaring at the walls, glaring at the group of men who waited patiently for his next instruction. He was young and he had not expected to be in charge of his father's business empire for many years. Yet here he was.

  It was a unique opportunity, but to take advantage of it the younger Leskov had quickly realised he was going to need a great deal of information. He had spent the last twelve months conducting an audit of his father's holdings and interests. He had studied reports, interviewed witnesses and, finally, he was ready to move.

  The Leskov family business was in good shape. Diversification meant there were interests in many industries. There had been some losses, of course: mineral rights forcibly divested in a dispute with a Gulf state, the failure to win a large factory-maintenance contract that should have been a certainty. And a decommissioned aircraft-carrier stolen while on its way to be delivered into his hands. He would be investigating that in due course.

  But one thing continued to taunt him: the web of lies and deception around his father's death. He had to be seen to deal with it or he would look weak. Then others would challenge him, and the empire that his father had built would crumble. Andrei Leskov would not allow that, and the necessary expression of authority needed to start with his inner sanctum. He turned to his elder cousin, Yuri, not hiding his irritation. "Summarise your findings for me, cousin, one more time."

  Yuri adjusted his suit, which Leskov noted was certainly not from Saville Row. "The official position is that the two helicopters collided mid-air," Yuri said. "It was logged as an unexplained accident."

  "And unofficially?"

  "A British military helicopter shot down your father, after his craft shot down one of theirs."

  Leskov shook his head. "He would never have opened fire. He would have landed and negotiated."

  "Perhaps there was a system fault. Or someone tampered with the helicopter."

  Leskov walked over to the fire, picked up a large dry log and threw it on top of the flames. "Why not finish the deal? Why not simply let him fly away? It makes no sense. And our money?"

  Yuri shook his head. "Whoever moved it was good. Very good."

  Leskov stared at one of the logs hissing and spitting in the great fireplace. "What about Bern?"

  "He maintains his innocence. The evidence all points to Marron."

  "Faking your own death is not the act of an innocent man."

  "This is true. And the received wisdom is that Bern will end up in jail for many years. Unless he can buy his way out of the situation."

  Leskov nodded. "A great deal of money can solve a great deal of problems." He interlaced his fingers. "If we could just get both of them in a room, we could find out the truth."

  "Neither of them are likely to be accessible to us. Marron, in particular."

  "Where is he being held?"

  "Some new supermax detention facility, away from any other prisoners."

  "For his safety?"

  Yuri flashed gleaming white teeth. "For theirs."

  Leskov gave a snort. "And what about the asset? The subject of the CERUS research?"

  "Tom Faraday? Officially he was on-board the helicopter with your father. There are rumours that he survived, but he has not been seen since. By anyone."

  "So where does that leave us?"

  Yuri looked at his hands.
"I want to give you good news, Andrei."

  "There must be more we can do. There must be records at CERUS."

  "They suffered a computer failure shortly after the incident: a large amount of files were lost. In any event, we cannot get inside that building."

  Leskov walked over and leaned very close to his cousin. "Then we're not trying hard enough."

  "I wish effort was the solution, but the building already had state of the art security systems and the British government has augmented them with measures of their own. It may be the most secure facility in the UK."

  "I think we can do better. I think we can find the answers. Directly or indirectly. With enough money we can get to anyone. And we will. You will return to England. There's someone I need you to meet with. An old contact of the family." Leskov paused. "I will not let this insult go unanswered. I am going to send a message to everyone. And you are going to help me."

  Eleven

  OUTSIDE THE SHACK IT WAS dark. The night air was cooling fast, to the irritation of the mosquitos. A single fizzing electric light illuminated a printed notice. Inside, behind the corrugated iron and barbed wire, the atmosphere was heavy with sweat, smoke and tequila. A heaving throng, clutching local bottled beers, surrounded a roped-off area as they cheered the two fighters.

  It was not a fair fight. The larger figure, whose name was Rodriguez, swung an ugly, ungloved fist. He struck his opponent glancingly on the shoulder, but it was still enough to knock the smaller figure back. Nobody could remember the other man's name. Nobody cared. He was just the 'challenger'. Soon he would not even be that.

  Rodriguez knew what it was like to be forgotten. Nobody had beaten him in his five years in this dark corner of Ecuador. He stood two metres tall, had the balance of an elite athlete, muscles hardened by years in the gym and in the professional ring. And he would have been there still, but for that failed drugs test. One mistake and it had all been over. He had lost his licence, then lost his way. He had fallen far and fast, and had scraped bottom for more than a year. Finally someone had told him about this place: somewhere that didn't care about a fighter's past, only what he did in the ring. Here, he could still do what he did best. And earn a living while he did it.

  Not that it was much of a challenge these days. Nobody any good wanted to come and fight and, of those who did, many saw him and turned away. Most days he faced a succession of cannon fodder, like the unfortunate figure in front of him now.

  The opening minutes of any fight were a warm-up. The owner didn't like it if things finished too quickly: less time for the crowd to drink. But even keeping things slow, the smaller man was clearly tiring; he could not be humoured much longer. Best to finish things with a crowd-pleaser or two. So Rodriguez ducked under his opponent's flailing arms and planted a right deep into his stomach. As the little man doubled over, Rodriguez rose up and head-butted him like a bull.

  There was the sound of teeth splintering, and the victim fell back.

  "Get up!" screamed the crowd.

  The little man blinked, trying to wipe sweat and blood from his eyes, perhaps hoping the bell would sound and save him. The fight was scheduled for ten minutes, but often the bell ringer would get caught up in the action and forget his duties. And, until the bell sounded, the fight was not over.

  Rodriguez glanced to his left and right. There was no referee: nobody to bring any sanity to the proceedings. Other than the time limit, there were no rules. Only the law of the crowd. And they were shouting his name, and holding out their hands, thumbs down. Wherever you were in the world, that meant only one thing.

  The little man was still blinking as he staggered to his feet, and didn't even see it coming. The blow broke his nose, then he fell back with a sickening crunch, his head banging against the sawdust-covered floor. He went still.

  Rodriguez paused a moment, making the sign of the cross. A brief moment of guilt.

  But only a moment.

  The crowd had no such reticence and roared its approval. The corrugated iron roof shook as they began chanting 'Rodriguez' and 'Champion', and money began changing hands. The betting had not been about who would win, but on how quickly Rodriguez would bring matters to an end. As the roars faded, the owner of the establishment stepped into the ring a little warily, as if making sure that the big man knew he was not the next opponent.

  He pointed at Rodriguez and bellowed, "Another win for our champion!"

  Cheers erupted again. Rodriguez raised his fists high, flexed his muscles. He needed to put on a show or the owner might take a percentage off his fee.

  "Now who's next?" The owner looked around the room. "No one?" He held up his hand to his ear. "Because that's all for tonight, unless..." he looked around theatrically, "one of you morons would like to add a final bout to the card."

  There were laughs from around the room. Only a fool would take it on.

  "Come now. Ten thousand pesos if you can last ten minutes with the beast. You don't even have to knock him down."

  More laughs. It was time to buy another drink.

  "How much if I do knock him down?" said a voice that seemed to rise above the crowd.

  It was as if all noise was sucked from the room. Startled men looked at each other. The voice did not belong in this place. Had they imagined it?

  A woman's voice.

  "Who said that?" The owner peered through the crowd.

  "I did," said a slender figure, strolling forwards. She wore plain black overalls.

  The owner looked around the bar uncertainly. "It costs a thousand pesos to fight."

  She reached into her pocket, pulling out a roll of banknotes. Casually she flipped it to him. He caught it and riffled the notes, but did not smile. There were mutterings in the crowd.

  "I will not fight her," said Rodriguez quietly. "Give her back her money."

  The owner looked at the roll of notes and reluctantly held it out to her. "He's right."

  She laughed and took a step forwards, placing her hands on the rope. "Anyone can fight. It says so on the notice outside." She raised an eyebrow then ducked under the rope and pushed the owner away, refusing the return of her money. "Perhaps I should fight your mother, then?" she said, tying her long dark hair up.

  Rodriguez glowered at her. "My mother, may the Lord have mercy on her soul, would have taught you some respect."

  "Your father then?" She tipped her head. "If you know who he is."

  The crowd started shouting now. The owner looked around him and stepped out of the ring.

  Rodriguez's brow furrowed. "You should go back to your husband and let him teach you a lesson. If he hasn't run off and left you." He paused. "And who could blame him."

  She raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you've never hit a woman." There were jeers from the crowd. She turned and bared her teeth at them. "Stay out of this, you motherless sons of whores."

  There was the sound of glass breaking.

  The big man looked at the crowd then lowered his voice. "If I don't fight you, they will probably kill you."

  She smiled. "Then we have an accord?"

  "It's your funeral."

  She pulled off her jacket to reveal a sleeveless shirt. "We'll see."

  The crowd began chanting for Rodriguez. Bets began changing hands. The huge man loomed over the woman. He looked down at her, his eyes hard. "Ten minutes. We fight from bell to bell. We stop for nothing."

  "Yes, I saw the notice." She shifted from foot to foot. "But then I can read. Can you?"

  "You think insults will help you?"

  She raised her fists. "Just trying to get you motivated."

  He raised his own fists. "Stop talking and fight."

  She threw the first punch. Rodriguez caught it on his arms, and countered with a left. But she moved easily aside. She hit his guard again. And, surprisingly, the blow hurt. She fought with technique, with balance. Like a professional.

  He blinked and went on the attack. She floated backwards, dancing on the balls of her feet. He a
dvanced on her, throwing a couple of tester jabs. She dodged with ease and circled away. The crowd did not like that, and shouted loudly. Betting slips exchanged hands. The majority of the money was on her lasting two minutes, if only because the champ might not want to hit her very hard.

  "Think you can run away for ten minutes?" he said. "It's a very small ring."

  "I just want you to show me what you've got. I came here to learn."

  He blinked. "Learn?"

  "I heard you were good. Before you screwed your life up."

  He flexed his huge shoulders. "I am good."

  "Then show me."

  He glared then lunged forwards with a sharp one-two.

  She dodged with ease, shaking her head. "I'm not seeing it."

  Rodriguez growled and threw a disguised jab, his whole body weight behind it. It struck her in the stomach and she staggered back, falling to the floor. The crowd roared. But as she sat on the floor, Rodriguez was puzzled. It was almost like she had been watching the attack, smiling. As if she was more fascinated by the move than she was concerned at avoiding it.

  "Nice," she said. "Do I get a count?"

  The crowd roared with laughter.

  "No counts here," he said. "Get up."

  "As you wish." She bounced up and raised her fists. "Shall we dispense with the warm-up now?"

  The big man flew at her. A four-punch combination. She moved within his attack, like she knew where every fist would fly. He hit only air.

  "Come on," she said. "I'm questioning your motivation."

  He grunted and threw a long right that went round her guard and glanced the side of her head. She stepped back, blinking, looking like she was trying to focus. The crowd roared, sensing it might be all but over. He moved forwards again but she glided sideways and they circled.