Although it would have been impossible to tell from looking at him, this man was only twenty-eight years old and, until a few years ago, had been the most feared terrorist in Europe. His name was Conrad. Very little was known about him, although it was said that he was Turkish, that he had been born in Istanbul, the son of a butcher, and that when he was nine he had blown up his school with a bomb made in chemistry class when he was given a detention for being late.

Again, nobody knew who had trained Conrad or, for that matter, who had employed him. He was a chameleon. He had no political beliefs and operated simply for money. It was believed that he had been responsible for outrages in Paris, Madrid, Athens and London. One thing was certain. The security services of nine different countries were after him, he was number four on the CIA’s most wanted list, and there was an official bounty of two million dollars on his head.

His career had come to a sudden and unexpected end in the winter of 1998 when a bomb that he had been carrying-intended for an army base-had detonated early. The bomb had quite literally blown him apart, but it hadn’t quite managed to kill him. He had been stitched back together by a team of Albanian doctors in a research centre near Elbasan. It was their handiwork that was so visible now.

He was working as Sarov’s personal assistant and secretary. He had done so for two years. Such work would once have been beneath him but Conrad had little choice now. And anyway, he understood the scope of Sarov’s vision. In the new world that the Russian intended to create, Conrad would have his rewards.

“Good morning, comrade,” Sarov said. He spoke in fluent English. “I hope we’ve managed to recover the rest of the banknotes from the swamp.”

Conrad nodded. He preferred not to speak.

“Excellent. The money will, of course, have to be laundered. Then it can be paid back into my account.” Sarov reached out and opened a leather-bound diary. There were a number of entries, each one in perfect handwriting. “Everything is proceeding according to schedule,” he went on. “The construction of the bomb…?”

“Complete.” Conrad seemed to have difficulty getting the word out of his mouth. He had to twist his face to make it happen at all.

“I knew I could rely on you. The Russian president will be arriving here in just five days’ time. I had an email from him confirming it today. Boris tells me how much he’s looking forward to his holiday.” Sarov smiled very briefly. “It will, of course, be a holiday that he is unlikely to forget. You have the rooms prepared?” Conrad nodded. “The cameras?”

“Yes, General.”

“Good.” Sarov ran a finger down the diary pages. He stopped at a single word that had been underlined with a question mark. “There still remains the question of the uranium,” he said. “I always knew that the purchase and delivery of nuclear material would be dangerous and delicate. The men in the aircraft threatened me and they have paid the price. But they were, of course, working for a third party.”

“The Salesman,” Conrad said.

“Indeed. By now, the Salesman will have heard what happened to his messenger boys. When no further payment arrives from me, he may decide to go ahead with his threat and alert the authorities. It’s unlikely, but it’s still a risk I am not prepared to take. We have less than two weeks until the bomb is detonated and the world takes on the shape that I have decided to give it. We cannot take any chances. And so, my dear Conrad, you must go to Miami and remove the Salesman from our lives-which will, I fear, involve removing him from his.”

“Where is he?”

“He operates out of a boat, a cruise liner called Mayfair Lady. It’s usually moored at the Bayside Marketplace. The Salesman feels safer on the water. Speaking personally, I will feel safer when he is underneath it.” Sarov closed the diary. The meeting was over. “You can leave straight away. Report to me when it is done.”

Conrad nodded a third time. The metal pins in his neck rippled briefly as his head moved up and down. Then he turned round and walked, limped, dragged himself out of the room.

DEATH OF A SALESMAN

They had a late breakfast at a café in Bayside Marketplace, right on the quayside, with boats moored all around them and bright yellow and green water taxies nipping back and forth. Tom Turner and Belinda Troy had knocked on Alex’s door at ten o’clock that morning. In fact, Alex had been awake for several hours. He had fallen asleep fast, slept heavily and woken too early-the classic pattern of trans-Atlantic jet-lag. But at least he’d had plenty of time to read through the papers that Joe Byrne had given him. He now knew everything about his new identity-the best friends he had never met, the pet dog he had never seen, even the high school grades he had never achieved. And now he was sitting with his new mother and father watching the tourists on the boardwalk, strolling in and out of the pretty white-fronted boutiques that cluttered the area. The sun was already high, the glare coming off the water almost blinding. Alex slipped on a pair of Oakley Eye Jackets and the world on the other side of the black iridium lenses became softer and more manageable. The glasses had been a present from Jack. He hadn’t expected to need them so soon.

There was a book of matches on the table with the words THE SNACKYARD printed on the cover. Alex picked it up and turned it over in his fingers. The matches were warm. He was surprised the sun hadn’t set them alight. A waiter in black and white, complete with bow tie, came over to take the order. Alex glanced at the menu. He had never thought it possible to have so much choice for breakfast. At the next table a man was eating his way through a stack of pancakes with bacon, hash browns and scrambled eggs. Alex was hungry but the sight took away his own appetite.

“I’ll just have some orange juice and toast,” he said.

“Wholemeal or granary?”

“Granary. With butter and jam-”

“You mean jelly!” Troy paused until the waiter had gone. “No American kid asks for jam.” She scowled. “You ask for that at Santiago Airport and we’ll be in jail-or worse-before you can blink.”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Alex began.

“You don’t think, you get killed. Worse, you get us killed.” She shook her head. “I still say this is a bad idea.”

“How’s Lucky?” Turner asked.

Alex’s head spun. What was he talking about? Then he remembered. Lucky was the Labrador dog that the Gardiner family was supposed to have back in Los Angeles. “He’s fine,” Alex said. “He’s being looked after by Mrs Beach.” She was the woman who lived next door.

But Turner wasn’t impressed. “Not fast enough,” he said. “If you have to stop to think about it, the enemy will know you’re telling a lie. You have to talk about your dog and your neighbours as if you’ve known them all your life.”

It wasn’t fair, of course. Turner and Troy hadn’t prepared him. He hadn’t realized the test had already begun. In fact, this was the third time Alex had gone undercover with a new identity. He had been Felix Lester when he had been sent to Cornwall, and Alex Friend, the son of a multimillionaire, in the French Alps. Both times he had managed to play the part successfully and he knew that he could do it again now as Alex Gardiner.

“So how long have you been with the CIA?” Alex asked.

“That’s classified information,” Turner replied. He saw the look on Alex’s face and softened. “All my life,” he said. “I was in the marines. It’s what I always wanted to do, even when I was a kid… younger than you. I want to die for my country. That’s my dream.”

“We shouldn’t be talking about ourselves,” Belinda said angrily. “We’re meant to be a family. So let’s talk about the family!”

“All right, Mom,” Alex muttered.