SEVEN

The same moon that shone into the West London bedroom of Clare Corbett shone into an attic room on the other side of the city. It was a good deal less comfortable – a single bed, a rickety wooden table and a chair. It smelt a bit – not just of the fast-food packaging on the floor, but also of the neglect that is particular to a certain type of rented accommodation – and it only contained one person. Jamie Spillane lay on the bed and gazed through the skylight. He wished sleep would come, but he knew it wouldn’t.

Jamie felt stupid. He must have still been drunk the previous morning when he came clean to Kelly. Either that or just desperate to tell someone. But that had been the one thing they’d told him not to do. He remembered their words. ‘It’s not called the Secret Service for nothing. If you tell anyone, you won’t only blow your cover, you put them in danger as well. So remember that, and keep your fucking mouths shut.’

In the darkness his own stupidity hit him yet again.

At least she hadn’t believed him. That was something. Kelly wouldn’t go blurting it out to anyone. She’d just bitch about him to her friends, tell them what a useless bastard he was. He didn’t mind that.

Or did he? Truth was that the idea made him feel a bit uncomfortable. If he was honest with himself, he’d have to say that he liked Kelly. It wasn’t just the sex, although that was good; he liked the way that she just… looked after him a bit. He felt bad now about taking the money from her, bad that she knew about it and had something else to chalk up against him. The few weeks he’d spent with Kelly had been all right. He’d been kicked out by girlfriends before now, of course he had. But he felt particularly gloomy about this one.

Not least because he had nowhere to go. Home wasn’t an option, obviously. Jamie had decided he was never going back there. His mum and dad were the last people in the world he wanted to be with. He felt embarrassed that he had made that stuff up about them, but Jamie wasn’t so naïve about himself that he couldn’t admit that these were little fantasies about his parents that he’d had since he was a child. That his dad was, well, someone. Not just a pathetic, pissed-up waste of space. And his mum? He sneered in the darkness. Jamie didn’t even want to think about her.

Maybe he had tried to tell Kelly his secret because he knew he could never tell his parents. They always thought he was worthless. As a kid, when he’d gone off the rails, it hadn’t made them pay more attention to him. It had just reinforced their opinion. When he’d spent three months in a young offenders’ institute for joyriding and smashing up someone’s motor, they had seemed totally unsurprised. They didn’t visit him once. When he got out, the petty crime had continued. He got a buzz out of it. And somewhere deep down he wanted his parents to take notice. They never did.

Which was why he was here. A cheap, faceless bedsit. Rooms rented by the week. When he had been targeted by the Security Service and told he’d be put on a retainer of a few hundred pounds a month, paid directly and anonymously into a bank account, it had sounded like a deal too good to be true. But a few hundred pounds, he soon realised, doesn’t get you very far. He wouldn’t mind if they’d just give him something to do – anything to do – but since he’d got back from the training camp, there’d been nothing. Silence.

He’d been warned that this would be the case. ‘You won’t hear from us,’ he’d been told. ‘Not until the time comes for you to be activated. When that happens, we’ll find you. Just carry on as normal. Live your life. And remember: don’t tell anyone.’

This wasn’t living his life, though. Nothing like. He wanted some excitement. He was hungry for it. And he wanted something to do.

Jamie wouldn’t be able to tell his parents about it. He knew that. But he would know. He would know that he wasn’t the useless kid his mum and dad saw.

The moon continued to shine into the attic. Jamie continued to lie awake, waiting for morning, whatever it might bring.

A podgy man with square, thick-rimmed spectacles sat in the leather driving seat of his large, comfortable car. The coldest hour, he thought to himself, was always just before sunrise. He was glad of his coat and glad, too, that sunrise was just around the corner. He had spent too much time for his liking in this bland estate on the outskirts of the monstrosity that was Milton Keynes and he was looking forward to this particular engagement being over. That would happen – if everything went according to plan – very soon.

The Americans called what he was about to do the Boston Brakes Technique. Trust the Americans, he thought to himself, to claim the credit for everything. The technique in question, or course, had been used all over the world, not just in Boston. He himself had performed it five times and though he was not one for conspiracy theories, it did not take a genius to understand that the famous car crash under the Pont de l’Alma in Paris bore all the hallmarks of what he was about to do.

Car crashes, he found, were so satisfactory. They were commonplace, for a start. How many of them happened around the world every day? He did not know the exact statistic, but it was many, certainly. The cynic in him suspected that a small but significant number of these accidents were in fact carried out by the security services of various countries for precisely the reason he favoured them. Nobody would suspect foul play. And nobody would examine in any detail the crushed, crumpled shell of a wrecked motor vehicle; certainly they would not look close enough to find the small electronic device attached to the car’s steering column – if, indeed, the device itself had survived the crash.

He looked a little further down the residential street in which his car was parked. The vehicle he had targeted was on the other side of the road about twenty metres down. He couldn’t see it in the darkness, but as the sky gradually started to move from black to steely grey, the vehicle came into his field of vision. Only two nights previously, in the small hours of the morning, he had broken into it with some ease. It had taken only a few minutes to remove the panel below the steering wheel, attach the device – no bigger than the smallest mobile phone – and walk briskly away, though not before locking the car carefully once again.

It was pathetically easy to kill people sometimes.

He looked at his watch. A quarter-past five. In one hour and thirty minutes, the door of the house outside which the vehicle was parked would open. A louche youngster in his mid-twenties would walk out, approach the car and slouch into the driver’s seat. Until then, he just had to wait. He would have liked to listen to something – there was a cassette of sacred choral music slotted into the dashboard – but if he did that he risked attracting attention. So he just sat there in silence.

A quarter to seven. The house door opened and a figure appeared. He wore sunglasses, quite unnecessarily, and a T-shirt with the logo of a pop group that the man didn’t recognise. No doubt his target’s musical tastes were buried somewhere in the details that had been supplied to him – the man’s employers were extraordinarily thorough – but he had not retained them. It wasn’t necessary for what was to happen today.

The car – an old silver Ford with shiny alloy wheels and certain other modifications intended to make it look like a much more desirable object than it actually was – pulled out into the road. The man didn’t follow. Not yet. Instead, he switched on a small visual display unit that was gummed to the front windscreen. It looked like a satellite navigation unit; indeed that’s what it was. It just wasn’t the kind that anyone could buy in the high street.