Through the telescopic sight attached to his Armalite, he viewed the red ribbon. It fluttered slightly to the south-east. A steady wind. Gentle. But enough to swerve a round off-course. He redirected his aim towards Dolohov, then moved it fractionally to the left. Experience told him that this would be a direct hit.

The Russian appeared frozen. Fear? Jacob didn’t care. It made it easier for him to keep his target in his sights.

Earlier in the evening he’d visited the hooker again. Another two hundred quid in cash and the promise of a third payment once the job was done. In the back of his mind there was a niggling worry that she wouldn’t show. He suppressed it. Jacob had seen the way the girl’s eyes had lit up at the prospect of more cash.

Money. Sometimes it was the only thing you could trust. She’d be there.

21.58.

It had been straightforward getting up here. An external staircase – a fire exit – leading down into a small alley off one of the mews streets between Piccadilly and Regent Street. If you didn’t know these places were there, you’d never notice them; but Jacob had been party to enough rooftop stakeouts to know how to gain access.

He kept his gun trained on Dolohov.

21.59.

He had told her to be on time. Not a minute early, not a minute late. They had synchronised their watches. Jacob pulled away from the telescopic sight and looked down with the naked eye. An ordinary London scene. No sign of spooks or police of any kind. Maybe there weren’t any. Maybe Dolohov was clean. Safe. Uncompromised. If that was the case the girl would lead him away to the RV point. If not…

Jacob put his eye back to the telescopic sight.

Only seconds to go.

His hand was steady, his breathing regular.

22.00.

He saw her, bang on time.

Dolohov looked up. His eyes narrowed, a look of bemusement. He had realised something was wrong. Another figure came into his field of view. For a split second Jacob thought he recognised him, but his attention was too focussed on other things to give his brain any time to work it out.

Too focussed on Dolohov.

And too focussed on the sudden flurry of activity that was occurring around him.

Cars storming up on to kerbsides all around. Men running towards Dolohov from every side. A net closing.

Surov’s question had been answered. The Russian was compromised. It didn’t take a genius to work that out. Jacob knew what he had to do.

His first shot was accurate. It slammed into Dolohov’s skull, even as the muffled crack from the suppressed firearm dissolved into the hubbub of the city. A flash of red as the fat man toppled, but by that time Jacob had already moved his sights towards the girl. She had opened her mouth. A scream, though he couldn’t hear it up on the rooftop.

There was no hesitation. No quickening of the pulse. The girl could identify him. She would talk. She had to go the same way as the Russian.

He fired. Once more his aim was true. One side of her head exploded, spattering the man who had grabbed her at that very moment before she too fell dead to the floor.

Chaos down below. Jacob surveyed it briefly through his telescopic sights. Terrified pedestrians, running from the scene and screaming. A flood of men pulling their weapons, surrounding the dead bodies like a ring of steel. They aimed their firearms outwards; but none of them aimed upwards.

None of them except one.

He knew exactly where the shots had come from; he was looking directly up, though he didn’t bother aiming his handgun, because he no doubt realised he didn’t have the range. It was the man Jacob had thought he recognised. And now that he had him in his sights, he realised why.

‘Mac.’

Mac continued to look up.

Jacob almost felt as if he was staring his old friend in the eye.

The ground was covered in bits of pulverised brain and bone. The air filled with screams, partygoers and pissheads who’d just been given a nasty dose of reality. Mac tried to ignore them all. He looked up to the rooftop above Sam. That was where the shots had come from, no doubt about it, and now he thought he saw a flash of movement. All around him was chaos. Men barked contradictory orders at the horrified pedestrians and each other alike. A black cab with tinted windows pulled up and two ashen-faced guys jumped out. They started shouting too, but their voices were lost in the melee.

On the other side of the street, Sam had frozen. Mac slipped away from the pandemonium around him and ran across the road to where his friend was standing. ‘Shooter on the roof!’ he shouted. ‘He has to come down on Piccadilly or Regent Street. You take one, I’ll take the other.’

‘Did you see him?’ Sam’s face, despite the cuts, was grey.

Mac shook his head. ‘I saw a figure, that’s all. Too far to ID.’ In the distance, the sound of sirens. ‘Move, Sam. I’ll take Piccadilly, you take Regent.’

Sam nodded and in an instant they parted.

Mac sprinted. Word that something was up had clearly spread quickly – pedestrians were flocking towards Piccadilly Circus and he was running against the tide. As he ran, he took in everyone around him. None of them were Jacob.

Thirty metres. Forty metres. Fifty. To his right, a mews. He turned into it, then stopped a moment. To his right again, an alleyway between two shops. Narrow. Dark. Big metal bins and a rear loading-bay entrance to one of the shops on Piccadilly. At one end, a tall, spiral metal staircase. Mac gripped his weapon. Without any more hesitation, he ran towards the steps and started to climb. He looked upwards and pointed his gun in that direction too, half expecting to see the shooter descending at any moment. He tried to go quietly, but that was impossible, not at speed. His footsteps made the metal of the staircase echo and ring.

The roof onto which he emerged was perhaps thirty metres by thirty. At one end, heading towards Piccadilly Circus, was a low wall and a gap; then an almost identical roof beyond, and another one beyond that. Around the edges were disused chimney pots, brick turrets with vast television aerials and more low walls. Good cover for anyone who needed it.

It was quiet up here. The noise of the traffic and sirens from down below was audible, but faint. Looking around he saw nobody. The sound of traffic and sirens drifted upwards; but they were somehow disjointed. He felt as if he was in another world.

Mac gripped his Browning. He held his gun hand out and stepped forward, his eyes narrow.

‘Jacob!’ he called. His voice echoed.

Jacob.

Jacob.

He stepped forward again, checking left, checking right, moving ahead. His senses were alive. As sharp as glass. But he never even heard the footsteps behind him.

‘Drop the gun, Mac.’ And as he heard the words, he felt hard metal against the back of his head. He closed his eyes. He didn’t need to turn round to see who it was. The voice was instantly recognisable.

‘I said drop it.’

Mac let the weapon fall from his hands.

‘Walk.’ Jacob’s voice was clipped. ‘Now.’

Mac stepped forwards. Ten paces. Fifteen.

‘Hands on your head.’

He did as he was told. And then, slowly, he turned round.

Jacob looked older. Older than he should have done. His dark eyes were darker, his face more intense. His handgun didn’t falter in its direction: it was aimed directly at Mac’s head. A silence as the two men looked at each other.

‘A long way from Baghdad, J.,’ Mac said.

No reply.

‘I was there,’ Mac continued. ‘In Kazakhstan. Sam risked a lot to warn you. Me too. Reckon we deserve to be told what’s going on.’