I carried on going. He recoiled when he felt the cold glass against his upper lip.

‘No …’

‘Where is the boy? Come on, Zac, you’re smarter than this.’

‘Smarter … yes …’

‘So tell me.’

‘Smarter …’

I bent forwards again and yelled in his ear. ‘FUCKING TELL ME!’

I’d meant to shock him into a response, but it didn’t work.

‘Smarter … smarter … than you.’

‘You think? So how come you’re the one who’s drowning?’

I didn’t wait for an answer.

‘Where’s Dijani, Zac? He’s in this up to his neck, isn’t he?’

All I got was a long, rasping breath.

‘Was he up on that mountain road, or were you in charge of sending me over the edge?’

‘Me … I was … in charge …’ Another happy memory. ‘We had to … split … you up …’

‘So I got a javelin through the windscreen, and Frank Timis got a double tap.’

‘We should … have put … a bullet … in you … as well … We will … soon …’

His confidence was returning. He was back on safe ground. He could talk about this all night. Good. That was the way I wanted him to feel.

‘Tell me about Italy.’

He went absolutely rigid for five seconds, then flapped around a bit, but there was no disguising it. Italy had rattled him.

‘I know about the people-trafficking, the drugs … Is that what you fuckers are up to?’

I gripped his throat again, to help him concentrate.

‘Asylum … seekers …’ He tried to launch another gobbet of phlegm at me, and failed. ‘Scum … Who cares … if they drown? You cannot escape … the judgement of … Allah …’

‘So how do you think Allah will judge you? What does it say in the Quran about shagging Ukrainian maids, or mincing around in a Maserati, or profiteering, or child abduction?’

He didn’t seem too concerned about any of that. ‘Allah … will … welcome us … to Paradise.’

‘Where’s the boy?’

He struggled to turn his head again and clear some of the shit out of his chest. I wouldn’t let him.

‘WHERE – DO – YOU – HAVE – THE – BOY?’

He tried to suck oxygen into his lungs. He sounded more like a cement mixer than a human being.

I selected another bottle and made sure he was well aware of the clinking and shaking process. He opened his mouth again before I clamped my hand on it.

‘I will …

‘… take you …

‘… to the boy …’

If he’d had a white flag, he’d have waved it. But so would I, in his position. I’d have done almost anything. Every second off the waterboard, every millimetre of distance, was an opportunity to regroup.

I told him that was all well and good, but I still needed him to convince me he meant it. I told him I wanted a sign of commitment.

‘What’s the password, Zac? The password for the laptop.’

‘What … the fuck—’

I sat more heavily on his chest as I emptied the foaming Fanta into the mug and put it beside the door. Then I picked up the HP, tucked it under my chin, removed it from its sleeve and placed it on the floor far enough from Hesco’s head to keep it away from the red liquid flood. That was easier said than done: the stuff was even dripping from the ceiling now. It stank so badly of cherry-flavoured E-numbers in here I could taste it.

I flipped open the brushed aluminium lid. ‘I need something from you. I need to know that you’ve got skin in the game.’

‘Skin?’

‘Something that shows me you’re serious.’

I eased the pressure long enough for him to nod, and pressed the power button. The start-up tone seemed to fill the space around us. A log-in box appeared at the centre of a screen-saver shot of a distant galaxy.

‘So give me the fucking password.’

‘Paradise …’ He barely breathed it.

Still gripping his throat, I tapped in all eight letters, beginning with a capital P, then the return key.

The box quivered and went blank.

It didn’t react well to a lower-case p either.

‘Don’t fuck with me …’

I tried Jannah instead. I wasn’t an expert on the Quran, but a few of the most important words had stuck. And Jannah was the place all good Muslims were aiming for.

Same result.

‘You … must go … through … the correct gate …’ The fucker listened to my increasingly staccato tapping. He was still wanting to play.

I allowed my mind to wander for a moment.

Back to the Iraqi desert.

The land of flaming oil wells and missile emplacements and storm drains.

And endless exchanges in interrogation centres during the dark hours as we took Frank’s advice and tried to get to know our enemy. There were eight gates to Jannah. The second was for those who had fought the Holy War. I was fucked if I could remember what it was called.

Then I did.

I hit the keys. Baab.al.Jihad …

More quivering.

Baab al-jihad …

The security software didn’t like that version either. But I wasn’t going to give Hesco the satisfaction of asking him for another clue.

baabal_jihad …

Was I going to be timed out?

baabaljihad

Bullseye.

A selfie with a palm tree and his Maserati filled the desktop, and was instantly peppered with icons.

I was in. I’d take a closer look at the contents later.

I shut down the HP and replaced the sleeve. ‘So, where’s the boy?’

‘First, you will cut me free …’ He strained against the cable ties.

I shook my head, not that he could see it. ‘No.’

Switching off the light, I pulled back the door and emptied the mug.

When I’d retrieved the map book and the torch from the cab, I let him know that I was ready for directions. He told me to find the E41 between Schaffhausen and Winterthur, and take the Zürich exit.

I traced the route with the LED beam.

If I turned right after fifteen Ks, before we got to Berg, then left, I’d find three construction sites. Stefan was being held at the one in the middle.

‘So that’s where your foot soldiers will be waiting to welcome me with pickaxes and shovels and power drills and fuck knows what else.’

He shook his head. ‘It will be … deserted … until seven … tomorrow morning. Three … Portakabins. One … security guard. Gated … I have … a key.’

Every word was still half drowned in Fanta, and he was not about to forget what he’d just been through. But I’d believe it when I saw it.

I poured him another mugful of ether, dipped the cloth in it and, as he was starting to relax, took him back to square one. I smacked it over his nose and mouth, held it in place until he went limp again, and forced three-quarters of it into his oral cavity.

I wrapped a metre of gaffer tape around his mouth and neck and, after making sure that his nostrils could still function, I picked up the map book, climbed out and slid the door shut behind me.

The night air was cool and fresh and I breathed in a couple of massive lungfuls. I realized only now that the cocktail of ether, vomit and sugary cherry had been making my head pound. No wonder Hesco was out of it.

Back in the cab, I took out Hesco’s SIG, flicked on the torch again and dismantled its working parts. I didn’t think it would have been anything less than fully functional, but I didn’t want to risk a dead man’s click at any point during the next couple of hours.

Once I was satisfied, I clipped in one of the mags, fed a round into the breech, positioned it under my thigh, and put the spare mag and the suppressor in my pocket. The Sphinx stayed where it was. The law of increasing firepower says that two pistols will defeat one, and a rifle will defeat two pistols. And no matter what he claimed, I needed all the help I could get.

Easing the van back on to the logging trail, I stopped long enough at the edge of the forest to take one more look at the map, set my sights on the E41, and put my foot down.