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At first the Professor doesn't take it in. When it finally becomes obvious, when Casssandra's finger is tightening on the trigger, he gives a high-pitched, complaining cry and raises his hands as if to ward off the bullet. There is a harsh
Bang!
and he suddenly becomes an inert weight and drops to the ground, his head cracking against the marble floor. A splodge of red, centred on his chest, begins to run down his tie and shirt. Cassandra says, 'Doctor Kaplan has been paid.' She says it calmly. Next to me, Debbie is sobbing quietly. The red blood makes a little puddle, begins to spread over the floor.

Hondros scratches his head. 'He did like to talk.'

'You people are inhuman.' I know it's wrong to say it. I know you don't provoke, don't draw attention to yourself. I just can't help it.

Hondros pays no attention. 'And that, ladies and gentlemen, would seem to be that.'

There is some Greek chatter. Someone is cracking a joke and there are glances in Debbie's direction. The young black man takes up his weapon and looks at us through the smoke with narrowed eyes. If I dive under the table I will have momentary protection. I'll pull Hondros off his feet, go for his gun and point it at his head. While the armed gang are thinking about that, Debbie and Zola will clear out. I know it's stupid. I know it's a zero-hope tactic. But what else is there on offer?

I wonder about old-fashioned pleading for mercy but dismiss the thought: the tactic would have had more chance with the vultures.

'What now?' My words come out almost as a croak.

Hondros glances at his watch. 'Time is short, for all of us. I want to be off this wretched island and safely back in Europe by tomorrow. Now, who should we dispose of first? You, Blake? Or would you rather see your friends go, prolonging your own pathetic life by a few seconds?'

I can't speak. He snaps, 'Answer now.'

'It's probably best if I go last. Save distressing the others.'

'How noble. Cassandra, dispatch Mr Harry Blake first.'

Debbie's mobile phone rings. There is a stunned silence. Everyone in the room is on their feet, except for Debbie, Zola and me. Debbie says, 'I'm expecting a call.' Her recovery of composure, her presence of mind, amaze me.

Cassandra says, 'Ignore it.' She swivels her revolver from me to Debbie.

The mobile keeps ringing.

And suddenly I know what's coming. I know it with certainty, with crystal clear certainty. My heart is hammering in my chest. She says, 'I have to answer the phone. They're expecting it.'

'Who?' Hondros is bristling with suspicion and alarm.

'Special Branch,' I say, desperately trying for an air of conviction. 'They're expecting us to call around now.' Say anything, any rubbish to keep them focused on the mobile, anything to keep their attention away from the French windows. The urge to look at the windows - even a glance - is almost overwhelming, and I have to force myself to keep my eyes on Hondros. I'm screaming inside, waiting for it to happen. Cassandra approaches Debbie, gun in hand, waiting for the word. Not just Cassandra: there are seven guns pointing at us, the click of hammers being cocked everywhere.

And then it happens.

The French windows shatter. At the same instant that three men burst through them, another two rush through the kitchen and bedroom doors. They have flak jackets up to their necks, black helmets and ugly black carbines. Cassandra opens her mouth to scream but the carbines roar and her body collapses lifeless to the floor. The carbines keep roaring. The young black man, joint dropping from his mouth, is emptying his gun into the armed Greeks.

Zola's fingers are digging deep into my forearm.

Hondros alone is left standing, his gun on the table, a fine spray of Cassandra's blood over its surface. People are bawling at him:
'Armed police! Freeze!'

He seems not to hear. He looks at the True Cross, says, '
I
ecclisia trefete me to ema ton martyron.'

'On the floor!'

He turns to me. There's some sort of expression in his eyes, some sort of fire, but I don't understand it. He says,
'Makari o Theos na sou sterisi Galini kai Iremia.'

'Face down! Spreadeagle!'

And without haste, he reaches for the gun on the table.

Five carbines roar simultaneously. Hondros's face and chest disintegrate and hunks of brain and flesh and splinters of white bone splatter against the wall and the Jamaican artwork behind him. A vase shatters into powder, a picture falls from the wall, riddled with holes. The momentum of the bullets drives him backwards and his smashed body hits the floor and slides across it, leaving a bright red smear. I lose my hearing, and it's some seconds before I become aware that Debbie is screaming.

CHAPTER 39

Another convoy took us through the same dark night. This time it turned left at Ochi, taking us into the interior of the island. The headlights occasionally lit up houses and shops, protected behind wrought iron. In between, there were long stretches of nothing. I had no idea what to expect at the end of the journey. I was squeezed between two policemen, still with flak jackets and helmets and carbines between their knees. They were effectively mute. The driver chain-smoked all the way. I shook for the whole journey and told myself it was just a reaction.

The journey ended at a modestly-sized blue and white building. There was a lot of door slamming as Dalton, Debbie, Zola and I stepped out of our separate cars and stretched our legs, and I took in lungfuls of fresh night air with relief. A white-on-blue notice said:
Jamaica Constabulary Bog Walk.
It was two o'clock in the morning but the place was as busy as a Saturday market.

Debbie, full of tears, threw her arms round Dalton and buried her head in his shoulder.

'Nice one, Dalton.'

'They told us you were dead,' Zola said.

Dalton grinned and gently disengaged Debbie. 'They exaggerated, Zola. But you already knew that, didn't you, Harry?'

'I guessed it. But how did you find us?' I asked. 'And how did you infiltrate them?'

Dalton put a finger to his lips. He ushered us round to the car park at the side of the building. People were tossing flak jackets and helmets into cars, and carbines were being loaded into a Ford Transit van. There was a lot of animated chatter and some laughing.

'They needed guns. They couldn't import them so they acquired them locally. It was a couple of days before we located the supplier and at that point all we had to do was quietly arrest him. They were looking for someone to clean up the house after they'd gone, get rid of the guns and so on. Enter Dalton, the supplier's friend, looking for a few hundred US.'

'That sounds highly dangerous,' I said lamely. 'They could have recognised you.'

'They'd never seen me close up.'

'I nearly didn't recognise you,' Debbie said. 'Those dreadlocks.'

Dalton grinned. 'I told you. I keep them in a box.' We drifted towards the porch; sweaty policemen were milling around us.

I asked, 'How did they find us at Moonlight Chalets?'

'They must have followed you, Harry. What else?' Dalton lowered his voice. 'We'd tapped the lawyer's phone and we knew about your meeting. He'd been duped into arranging it.' He added, 'But we lost you after the raid. That was worrying. It took GCHQ to locate you.'

'I'm tired, Dalton. I don't get it.'

'We had a team scouring the island, but it was pretty desperate.' He hesitated and then said, 'Well, Harry, the technique's in the public domain, and I guess you'd work it out sooner or later. Hondros used a mobile phone. We picked up his calls by satellite. London have some pretty smart voice recognition software. It took a few calls to pin him down. Then it was down to a regular police operation.'

'Seven dead is a regular police operation?' Zola asked.

'It seems so. The people who rescued you are the Crime Management Unit. They're used to coping with heavily armed gangs.' He lowered his voice. 'Their human rights record makes Ghengis Khan look like Snow White. But at least they got to us.'

'In the nick of time,' Zola said. 'What would you have done if they hadn't, Dalton?'

'There was no Plan B. I was just praying along with you.'

'So, when did you first start tracking us?' I asked.

'Just after
Sevilla la Nueva.
Hondros used his mobile in the car to tell his pals they had you. By the way, that gave us another lovely bonus. They had several teams out here, scouring the island for you. Thirty people in all, in four villas from Negril to San Antonio. The Jamaica Constabulary are bringing them in now.'

Debbie was still shaky, but there was determination in her voice. 'The police have taken the True Cross. They're calling it material evidence or something.'

Zola said, 'They can't have it. Not after all we've been through.'

Dalton frowned. 'Unfortunately, it
is
material evidence.'

'But they could hold onto it for months.'

'Years, Debbie. The judicial system moves slowly in Jamaica. We might never see it at all.' He thought for some moments. Then: 'I'd like to try something.'

We followed Dalton into a crowded backroom. Half a dozen telephones had been installed. The room was filled with the smell of sweat, cigarette smoke and coffee; the phones were ringing constantly. Through the open door we saw a car draw up. A door was opened and a high-ranking, bleary-eyed policeman stepped out. I knew he was high-ranking from the air of deference around him, and from the swagger of the man. He fixed a sideways stare on me as he strode into the room. He had bulging eyes and heavy lids and there was only one possible name for him: Mr Lizard. It was a natural. He began a quiet conversation with the local police sergeant.

Dalton pulled out a little diary and dialled a number. He jabbed a finger at two telephones. Debbie lifted one, Zola and I shared the other. An elderly female voice answered: 'Yes.'

'I'd like to speak to Sir Joseph, please.'

'I'm sorry, but he's asleep.'

'Would you waken him up, please?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Tell him that Dalton is calling.'

There was a long hesitation, and a touch of ice in the voice when she replied. 'One moment, please.'

There was the sound of footsteps coming and going, and then Sir Joseph came on the line: 'Dalton? Do you have it?'

'Yes and no, Sir Joseph. I'm calling from a police station in the Jamaican hinterlands. It's being held by the local police as material evidence. We won't see it for years, if at all.'

'And our Balkan friends?'

'Up to their necks in it. Seven dead, and they're bringing people in from all over the island.'

'I'll try to contact the Foreign Secretary. Where exactly are you?'

'It's called Bog Walk.'

'Sit tight. Be as unhelpful as you can to the local police. Tell them nothing about the icon. If I can't contact the Secretary I'm afraid you're in for a long night.'

Mr Lizard was watching me from the corner of his eyes. He muttered something to the sergeant, who was licking his lips nervously. The sergeant came over. 'Why are you using an official telephone, sir?'

I put the receiver down and shrugged. The sergeant said, 'Would you follow me, sir?'

'What you doing in Jamaica?' The policeman had dispensed with statements about rights.

'I was on business.' The interview room wasn't much bigger than a broom cupboard and most of its space was taken up by a small, square table and four chairs. I sipped at the coffee; it was half-cold and flavourless.

'And the nature of your business?'

'I was looking for something on behalf of a client.'

'God Dem you, Mr Blake,' said the sergeant impatiently. 'Just answer the questions properly. What exactly yuh looking for?'

'An old family heirloom, which my client thought might be in Jamaica.'

'What sort of heirloom?' The sergeant was shouting now. Maybe he thought this would impress the superintendent.

'Just a family antique.'

For a moment I thought the man was going to hit me. But Mr Lizard interrupted the flow. He lit a small cigar. 'Mr Blake, the position is this. We get a phone call from your Special Branch in England to say y'all are being held by an armed gang. They even tell us exactly where. We get you out of there, risking the lives of my officers in the process, and I have seven carcasses on my hands. Now, you don't expect us to just walk away from that situation, surely? Do you?'

'Of course not.'

'I'm glad you see it that way. We already have Amnesty International breathing down our necks on account of some people think we have a bad record when it comes to defending ourselves under fire. What am I to tell the Police Commissioner? That all this was over that piece of wood we found on the table? Now we are going to need to know who these people were and what they wanted and where you come into it. Give me some help here, Mr Blake.'

The man's question was reasonable and his tone was urbane, even civilised. He was scaring the hell out of me.

'And I don't want you taken to East Central Kingston for a more formal interrogation. Want to avoid that if we can. Much better if we can clear everything up here. So.' His tone became businesslike. 'What is it about this piece of wood?'

CHAPTER 40

The British Ambassador turned up in person. He was a young man, surprisingly unstuffy, and he was accompanied by two men even younger than him. His arrival was announced by an extremely nervous policeman who tapped at the door of the interview room and put little more than a nose round it.

'Of course I have no authority here,' the Ambassador agreed with Mr Lizard. 'But I'm expecting your Police Commissioner to call at any time.'

As if on cue, there was another knock at the door and the same nervous policeman announced to Mr Lizard that, 'There a call for yuh, suh.' We left the stuffy little interview room. There was no sign of Debbie or Zola and I had to assume they were being interviewed in stuffy little cupboards elsewhere. Mr Lizard took the receiver, and I watched with satisfaction as his vinegary expression melted, thawed and dissolved into a sullen acquiescence.