Paul Johnson - The Soul collector

"But at least she understood the danger. Dave had got her to memorize the number of the solicitor who has the package with false passports for them all and a credit card for her. By now she should have dumped her car, hired a different model and got out of London."

I stopped at the barrier at the side of my apartment block and tapped in my access code, then parked in my space in the underground car park and turned off the engine. "Look, Slash, it'll be better if you disappear as per the plan. I never expected Dave to be hit first. Sara's even more dangerous than we thought. I don't want to put you in her sights, too."

"Kiss my ass," the American said. "You need protection and you know it. Besides, what else am I going to do? I can't track the bitch down on a computer. All I can do is watch your back. And I prefer to be obvious when I do that, not tagging along behind like some half-assed spy."

I knew he'd react like that, but it was still good to hear the words. Andy was the best man to watch over me. Apart from Dave. I bowed my head as the blood-drenched and disfigured body flashed before me again.

Andy sat up slowly and looked around the well-lit concrete chamber. "This place's like a car dealer's for rich people with no taste."

Despite how I was feeling, I laughed. My fellow residents did have some seriously shitty cars-there was a pink MG, a Bentley with leopard-skin seat covers and a Range Rover sporting the logo of a porn film production company. These were people who had no shame about how they made their money or how environmentally damaging their cars were. Then again, they didn't write books that led to their friends' deaths.

"We'll take the stairs," Andy said, hoisting his bag from the backseat. He took out a Glock and handed it to me with a magazine. "Forget the silencer. If Sara tries anything, I don't care who hears what we do to her." He slapped in a mag, racked the slide and held the weapon beneath his jacket. I did the same. "I'll go first," he said.

I locked the car and followed him. Fortunately there was no one around. I didn't want Andy's presence to be registered. There were security cameras at the top of the car park ramp, in the block's entrance hall and in the elevators, so we were all right. Presumably the company that installed them assumed burglars would be too lazy to use the stairs.

I looked through the round window in the fire door on the ground floor. There was no one in the hall. If Karen had someone watching me, it wasn't from there. Maybe there would be a cop in the hall on my floor. I tapped Andy's back as we reached the fire door there. I saw no one.

I turned the keys and opened my door. The alarm immediately started beeping. I punched in the code number to stop it. By the time I'd done that, Andy was already checking the spare room. He knew there were no sensors in the bedrooms. I watched as he ran across the expanse of the living area and went into the master bedroom at the far side. Theoretically, a skilled intruder could have worked the locks and overridden the alarm electronically, then hidden in a bedroom after turning it on again.

"Clear," he said, appearing at the door and lowering his automatic.

I headed to my desk. I needed to find out if Lucy and Fran were all right. I booted up my second computer. Rog had protected it with a series of firewalls that would puzzle the world's best hacker. Then I logged on to a mail provider where I kept an account that I only used once every quarter, just enough to keep it in operation.

There should have been a message from Caroline saying that they had made it to the safe house.

There wasn't.

The young men were hanging around outside the Kurdish youth club on Green Lanes in northeast London, happy that the rain had finally let off. Dressed in the latest sports gear and trainers, the three looked good and they knew it. They weren't welcome inside because the organizers knew they worked for the King. That didn't stop them talking to the boys who went in to play table tennis and pool, or selling them small quantities of grass and hashish when they came out. Nedim Zinar's murder had put them on their toes, but business went on as usual.

"Hey, Faik, look," said one of them, in Kurdish. He pointed to a white BMW 6 series coupe across the road. "Is that who I think it is?"

His friend peered over. "I think so."

They watched as the front window came down and an arm was waved at them.

"Yes, it's Aro Izady," Faik said. He watched as the driver waved, and then pointed only at him. "Looks like he's got a job for me. See you around."

Faik Jabar ran across the road, provoking a loud blast from a lorry that almost clipped his heels.

"What's up?" he asked the mustachioed man in the driver's seat. The passenger was a bearded man he hadn't seen before.

"Get in," Izady said in English. His voice was hoarse, as if he'd been shouting.

Faik paused momentarily before obeying. You did what the King's family said, without question, but he had the feeling that something wasn't quite right. After he had closed the rear door, the man with the mustache pulled out and drove toward Manor House Station.

"Where are we going?" Faik asked.

"Speak English," Izady ordered.

Faik repeated the question in the language he'd learned at school, from which he'd been expelled for dope-dealing when he was fourteen. It wasn't the first time a King's lieutenant had brought a stranger along. The guy was probably a buyer who wanted to see how reliable the Kurdish operation was.

"It isn't far," the passenger said. "You know where it is, don't you, Aro?"

The driver nodded.

Faik looked at the stranger's thick brown hair that reached his shoulders. There was definitely something going on. Aro Izady wasn't one of the King's street commanders. He was a money counter, who gave the impression that he despised the young men who did the dirty jobs. But the story went that he'd killed one of the Turkish competition, a Shadow, with a snooker cue when doubts were cast on his sister's virginity.

Izady made a left turn and pulled up outside a dark house. It looked derelict, the windows boarded up and a steel bar padlocked across the front door.

"Out," Izady said over his shoulder.

The young man obeyed. When they were on the pavement, Faik felt for the cutthroat razor he always carried in his back pocket. He didn't like this. Maybe it was a dope pickup, but he'd never been to the place before. He kept his eyes on the passenger. His upper body was bulky beneath a black leather jacket. Faik couldn't tell what age he was, what with the beard covering the lower half of his face.

Izady pointed down a flight of rubbish-strewn steps. "Basement," he said.

Faik went first, stepping over old pizza boxes and newspapers, with the stranger close behind. Izady followed, his head tilted slightly backward, as if he was trying to hear what the bearded man was saying. But no words were spoken.

Izady pushed Faik aside and put a key in the door- this one was not barred.

"After you," the stranger said, his arms extended wide.

The two Kurds paused, and then complied. The basement hallway was rank with damp and decay, as well as something more pungent. When the four of them were inside, the stranger pulled the door shut and turned on a light.

Faik gasped. The front room was piled high with boxes containing plasma TVs, computers and stereo systems. There was also a green metal trunk on the floor.

"I take it the drugs are in there," the bearded man said, his hands in his pockets.

Izady looked at him and nodded slowly.

"Let's have a look then," the stranger said with a tight smile.

Faik was watching the man carefully. There was something wrong about him, all the Kurd's instincts told him that, but he couldn't identify what it was. Could he be an undercover cop? If so, he was taking a hell of a risk coming down here with them. Something else bothered Faik. Why hadn't he been told the man's name and crew? He seemed to be native English. Was the local mob playing games with the King's operation?