‘A little after.’

‘Right. How many of these moustaches are there?’

‘I don’t know, two down in the lobby.’ The panic started to seep back into Lopez’s voice. ‘Maybe another two or three more across the road.’

‘Can you get me pictures?’

‘I’m not fucking going outside, man.’

‘Alright, alright.’ Chris paced, thinking. Trying to put himself in the hotel room with Lopez. The Nikon sunglasses and the data transmission gear had been an end-of-quarter gift from Shorn - they were very high spec. ‘Look, can you see the ones in the bar from your window? Go and check.’

More movement. Lopez came back calmer.

‘Yeah, I can see their table. I think I can get a decent shot from here.’

‘Alright, that’s good. Do that.’ Chris cranked his voice down, as soothing as possible. ‘Then I want you to go down to the lobby and get full frontals of the other two. They shouldn’t try anything there. Are you armed?’

‘Are you kidding? I came through US security at the airport, just like everybody else.’

‘Fine, doesn’t matter. Just get the pictures and mail them through to me as quickly as you can. I’ll be waiting. And, Joaquin. Remember what I said. You don’t get killed on the Shorn clock. We’ll pull you out of there. Got it?’

‘Got it.’ A brief pause in which he could hear Lopez breathing down the line.

‘Chris. Thanks, man.’

‘De nada. Stay cool.’

Chris waited until he heard the disconnect. Then he slammed a foot against the desk leg, knotted a fist.

‘Fuck.’ Another kick. ‘Fuck.’

Back to the datadown. He estimated Lopez’s performance time, placed forward calls. Then he went to the window and stared out at the London skyline until the phone chimed.

The images came through, two clear face-and-trunk shots that must have been taken from less than five metres. Lopez had got close. The two parapoliticals were grinning unpleasantly into the Nikon’s hidden lens. Their teeth showed, spotted brown with decay. The cafe snap was less to rejoice about, but there was a pavement table centred in the shot, three clear figures around it, faces turned in the camera’s direction.

The first of the forward calls went through. Even with the forewarning, the other end took a while to pick up, and the first sound to come through was a noisy yawn. Chris smiled for the first time that day.

‘Burgess Imaging.’ The screen caught up, filled with a dark unshaven face in its late teens. ‘Oh, hello, Chris. What can I? Uh, those satellite blow-ups okay?’

‘Yeah, fine, it’s not that. Listen, can you do me step-ups of a street shot, right now? Faces good enough for machine ID?’

Jamie Burgess yawned again and scratched at something in the corner of one eye.

‘Cost ya.’

‘I guessed. Look, I’m wiring it through on inset. Just take a look.’

Burgess waited, blinked at the screen a couple of times and nodded.

‘Nikon shot, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Give me two minutes. Leave the line open.’

‘Thanks, Jamie.’

Another yawn. ‘Pleasure.’

Burgess was as good as his word. The datadown spat back perfect head-and-shoulder shots ninety seconds later. Chris punched them up next to the two he already had from the lobby and nodded.

‘Okay, motherfuckers. Let’s hope you’ve been to church recently.’

The second forward call picked up on the first ring. A grizzled virtual head above crisp army khaki fatigues. The accent was American, the real-life version of Mike Bryant’s Simeon Sands burlesque.

‘Langley Contracting.’

‘This is Chris Faulkner, Shorn Associates, London. Do you have operational units in the Medellin area?’

There was a pause, presumably while Chris’s scrambler code and authorisation cleared at the other end. Then the virtual customer service agent nodded.

‘Yes, we can work in that area.’

‘Good, I need five extreme prejudice deletions with immediate effect. Exact locational data and visual ID attached.’

‘Very good. Please indicate the level of precision required.’

‘Uh.’ This was a new refinement. ‘Sorry?’

‘Please indicate level of precision required from the following five options; surgical, accurate, scattershot, blanket, atrocity.’

‘Jesus, uh.’ Chris gestured helplessly. ‘Surgical.’

‘Please note the surgical option may incur a substantial time delay. Char—‘

‘No. That’s no good. This is with immediate effect.’

‘Do you wish to supersede precision levels with an urgency marker?’

‘Yes. I want this done now.’

‘Charge card or account?’

‘Account.’

‘Your contract is enabled. Thank you for choosing Langley Contracting. Have a nice day.’

Chris looked once more at the five faces floating on his screen. He nodded again and pressed a thumb down on each one to make it go away.

‘Adios, muchachos.’

When the last face had wiped, he wired the datadown line to his mobile and went out to get coffee from Louie Louie’s.

Lopez called him about an hour later. Voice rampant down the line, whooping shrill with delight. Sirens in the backdrop.

‘Chris, you’re beautiful man!!!! You did it. Hijos de puta, they’re all over the street, man! They’re all over the fucking street!’

‘What?’ said Chris faintly.

‘Drive-by, man. Fucking exemplary. They must have used one of those shoulder-launchers. Whole fucking cafe’s on fire. I’m telling you, there’s nothing left but pieces.’

Chris sat down heavily behind the desk. He saw it, lit in tones of night and flame. Pastiche newsreel footage, memories of a hundred such scenes. Bodies and bits thereof, streak-scorched black and red. Screams and blundering panic from the sidelines.

‘The hotel.’ It was almost a whisper, like words he couldn’t be bothered to push out of his mouth. ‘The people in the hotel.’

‘Yeah, they got them too. I heard the shots. Spray guns.’ Lopez made a stuttering machine gun noise. He was drunk on his own narrow escape. ‘Just been down to check, right now. See, I was still looking out the window at the fire when—‘

‘No, Joaquin. Stop. The other people in the hotel. You know, staff. Other customers. Did they hit anybody else?’

‘Oh.’ Lopez stopped. ‘I don’t think so, I didn’t see any other bodies. Man, who’d you call?’

‘Never mind.’ It was like tasting ashes. He could smell the blast, smell the scorched flesh on the scented night air. Over the phone, the sirens sobbed out and he heard screaming in the space it left. ‘You best get out of there. Better yet, get back to Panama City. You’re blown down there for now. You’ll have to work through someone else.’

‘Yeah. What I thought.’ Lopez’s voice shifted. ‘Listen, Chris. I lost it for a while back there, but I know my work. I didn’t make one wrong move in the last twenty-four hours. Those hijos de puta, they knew I was coming.’

Chris nodded drearily, for all it was an audio link.

‘Right, Joaquin.’

‘Give me another two days. We can still make this run. I know the right people. You don’t have to worry.’

He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘Right.’

‘Count on it, man. I’ll hook you up, I swear.’

Behind Lopez, someone started using an ampbox to yell down the noise of the crowd. Chris reached out and cut the link.

Bryant and Makin got in about the same time. Chris went down to the car deck to meet them. Mike grinned when he saw him.

‘Hey, Chris! Jesus, what time did you get in?’

He ignored the greeting and went straight for Makin. Right fist in under the rib cage with the full force of the last stride behind it. Makin doubled up and vomited a spray of breakfast. Chris stepped back and hooked into his face from the side. The glasses flew. Makin hit the deck and rolled, retching. Chris got a single kick in, and then Mike had him pinioned from behind and was dragging him out of range.

‘That’s it, Chris. Time out.’

‘Fucking piece of shit. Sell out my agents, you fuck.’