Someone calls out.

CHAPTER 7 — LUX EUROPAE

Twelve hours later I'm in the fucking Channel Islands still nursing a hangover and thinking, What in the fuck am I doing here?

"Eh? What?"

"Wake up, Cameron; there's a phone call."

"Oh. Right." I try to focus on Andy. I can't seem to get my left eye open, "Is it important?"

"Don't know."

So I get up and pull my dressing-gown on and head down to the cold, dusty lobby where the phone is.

"Cameron. Frank here."

"Oh, hi."

"So, are you enjoying your wee hol in the Highlands?"

"Oh, yeah," I say, still trying to persuade my left eyelid to lift. "What's the problem, Frank?"

"Well, your Mr Archer phoned."

"Oh yeah?" I say warily.

"Yes. He said you might like to know" — I hear Frank rustling some paper — "Mr Jemmel's real name is J. Azul. That's the initial J, then A-Z-U-L. And that Azul knew the full story but he was leaving on a foreign trip… well, this afternoon. That was all he'd say. I tried to ask him what he was talking about, but —»

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," I say, pulling my left eyelid up and hurting my eye and starting that eye watering. I take a deep breath, trying to wake myself up. "Say all that again."

"Mis-ter," Frank says slowly. "Ar-ch-er… phon-ed…"

Frank repeats the message. Meanwhile I'm thinking. Leaving this afternoon… leaving from where?

"Okay," I say, when Frank's finished talking to me as though I'm a Sun reader. "Frank, could you do me a big favour and see if you can find who this guy Azul is?"

"Well, I'm quite busy you know, Cameron. We don't all treat deadlines with —»

"Frank, please. The name rings a bell; I think I've seen it… Christ, I can't remember, my brain's not working. But please, check it out, Frank, will you? Please? I'll owe you one. Please."

"All right, all right."

"Thanks; if you find anything call me right back, okay? Will you?"

"Yes, yes, all right."

"Great. Brilliant. Thanks."

"But if I'm ringing you I just hope you answer faster than you did yesterday."

"What?"

"Your Mr Archer rang yesterday."

"Yesterday?" I say, feeling my stomach churn.

"Yes; lunch-time. Ruby took the message. I was out but when I got back I tried calling but there was no answer. I tried your mobile as well but I didn't think it would work up there in the mountains and sure enough all I got was the recording saying try again later."

"Oh, Christ."

"Anyway, another thing —»

He's going to come out with another of his ridiculous spell-check semi-jokes; I can't fucking believe it. Meanwhile my mind's racing, or at least trying to race; right now it feels like it's stuck at the side of the track trying to get its legs out of its tracksuit bottoms and hopping around and falling down while the race takes place elsewhere.

"… What if it's a common name?" Frank asks. "What if half the people in Beirut or somewhere are called Azul? I mean it sounds like a sort of —»

"Frank, listen," I say, suddenly inspired, and sounding a lot more sober and calm than I feel. "I think I remember where I know the name from. I saw it in the back of Private Eye. Something to do with… I don't know; the sort of thing that gets into the back of the Eye. Please, Frank. He might be connected with defence, aerospace, intelligence or the arms trade. Try Profile; just type in "Get Azul" and —»

"I know, I know."

"Thanks, Frank. I'm going to get dressed now. If I don't hear from you in about half an hour I'll ring anyway. Bye."

Christ; those five murdered guys, not to mention all the others McDunn's investigating, and this guy leaving this afternoon. Rang yesterday. Christ, I hate deadlines! I'm panicking; I can feel it. My heart is racing. I'm trying to think but I don't know what to do. Decide!

I decide: When in doubt it's vitally important to keep moving. Velocity is important. Kinetic energy frees the brain and confuses the enemy.

I'm gulping hot coffee and pulling on my coat; my bag's sitting on the reception desk in the hotel lobby and Andy's standing, hunched and blinking and bleary-eyed, watching me stuff toast into my mouth and slurp coffee from a handle-free mug. Andy is looking at my bag. One of my socks is poking out from where the two zips meet, like a floppy white hernia. Andy pulls one of the zips open, pokes the sock back in and then recloses the bag.

"The phone often goes off," he says apologetically. "Probably the storm last night."

"Never mind." I glance at my watch. Past time to phone Frank.

"Listen," Andy says, scratching under his chin and yawning. "The police might want to talk to you —»

"I know; I'll let them know where I am, don't —»

"No, I mean the local cops."

"What? Why?"

"Oh," he sighs. "There was a bit of a rumble last night when the boys left, outside. Looks like Howie and his pals jumped the two traveller guys on the road; landed one in hospital, apparently. Cops are looking for Howie. Anyway, you were asleep when it happened but they might want to have a word, so —»

"Jesus, I — " I begin. The phone rings. I grab it and yell, "What?"

"Cameron; Frank."

"Oh, hi. Have you found anything?"

"I think so. Could be a Mr Jemayl Azul," he says. He spells out the first name and I'm thinking Jemayl/Jemmel, uh-huh. "British citizen," Frank goes on. "English mother, Turkish father. Born 17.3.49, educated Harrow, Oxford and Yale."

"But is he in defence or —?"

"Has his own arms company. Connected with the Saudis but he's sold arms just about everywhere, including Libya, Iran and Iraq. He's bought up a lot of small UK firms in the past, mostly to close them down; been the subject of a question in the House. The Israelis accused him of selling nuclear information to the Iraqis in 1985. You were right about him being mentioned in the Eye; appeared a few times and I got the cuts up…" More paper rustling. "According to the report here, one of the aliases he used in share deals and bank accounts was Mr Jemmel. How's that?" Frank sounds pleased with himself.

"Brilliant, Frank, brilliant," I tell him. "So where is he?"

"Addresses in London and Geneva, an office in New York… but based on Jersey, in the Channel Islands."

"Telephone number?"

"I checked: unlisted. And just an answering machine at his company address. But I called a pal of mine in St Helier who works on the local rag and he reckons your man's at home."

"Right. Right…" I say. I'm thinking. "What about an address?"

"Aspen, Hill Street, Gorey, Jersey."

"Okay. Okay." I'm still thinking. "Frank, that's brilliant, an incredible help. Could you put me through to Eddie?"

"What?" Eddie says, when I tell him.

"Inverness to Jersey. Come on, Eddie; I'm onto something here. I'd pay for it myself but my card's up to the limit."

"This had better be good, Cameron."

"Eddie, this could be fucking enormous, I'm not kidding."

"Well, so you say, Cameron, but your record overseas isn't terribly encouraging…"

"Come on, Eddie, that's cheap. And anyway, Jersey's barely overseas and I'm giving up a day's holiday here."

"Oh, all right, but you're going economy."

"Some life," Andy says, putting my bag into the rear of the 205. "Yeah," I say, getting into the car. I can feel my headache attempting to reassert itself. "Looks exotic on occasion; doesn't feel it."

I close the door and wind the window down. I'm not at all sure I'm fit to drive but I have to if I'm going to get to Inverness in time for the connecting flight.

Andy says, looking dubious, "You sure you know what you're doing?"