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cab’s turned the wrong way. What the fuck’s it gone and done that for?’
    ‘There is always time to get laid,’ Shorty corrected them firmly. ‘If Boris Becker can knock up a bird in a cupboard or whatever, Aladdin can get himself laid on his way to sell Manpads to his mate Punter . It’s only logical.’
    This much at least was true: the people carrier, instead of turning right towards the tunnel, had turned left, back into the centre of town.
    ‘He knows we’re on him,’ Andy muttered in despair. ‘ Shit .’
    ‘ Or changed his stupid mind’ – Don.
    ‘Hasn’t got one, darling. He’s a bungalow. It’s all downstairs’ – Shorty.
    The screen turned grey, then white, then a funereal black.
     
    CONTACT TEMPORARILY LOST
     
    All eyes on Jeb as he murmured gentle Welsh cadences into his chest microphone:
    ‘What have you done with him, Elliot? We thought Aladdin was too fat to lose.’
    Delay and static over Don’s relay. Elliot’s querulous South African voice, low and fast:
    ‘There’re a couple of apartment blocks with covered car parks down there. Our reading is, he drove into one and came out by a different one. We’re searching.’
    ‘So he knows you’re on him then’ – Jeb – ‘That’s not helpful, is it, Elliot?’
    ‘Maybe he’s aware, maybe it’s habit. Kindly get off my bloody back. Right?’
    ‘If we’re compromised, we’re going home, Elliot. We’re not walking into a trap, not if people know we’re coming. We’ve been there, thank you. We’re too old for that one.’
    Static, but no answer. Jeb again:
    ‘You didn’t think to put a tracker on the cab by any chance, did you, Elliot? Maybe he switched vehicles. I’ve heard of that being done before, once or twice.’
    ‘Go fuck yourself.’
    Shorty in his role as Jeb’s outraged comrade and defender, pulling off his mouthpiece:
    ‘I’m definitely going to sort Elliot out when this is over,’ he announced to the world. ‘I’m going to have a nice, reasonable, quiet word with him, and I’m going to shove his stupid South African head up his arse, which is a fact. Aren’t I, Jeb?’
    ‘Maybe you are, Shorty,’ Jeb said quietly. ‘And maybe you’re not, too. So shut up, d’you mind?’
     
    *
     
    The screen has come back to life. The night traffic is down to single cars but no halo is hanging over an errant people carrier. The encrypted cellphone is trembling again.
    ‘Can you see something that we can’t, Paul?’ – accusingly.
    ‘I don’t know what you can see, Nine. Aladdin was talking to his brother, then he changed direction. Everyone here is mystified.’
    ‘We are, too. You better bloody believe it.’
    We? You and who else, exactly? Eight? Ten? Who is it that whispers in your ear? Passes you little notes, for all I know, while you talk to me? Causes you to change tack and start again? Mr Jay Crispin, our corporate warlord and intelligence provider?
    ‘Paul?’
    ‘Yes, Nine.’
    ‘You have eyes-on. Give me a reading, please. Now .’
    ‘The issue seems to be whether Aladdin ’s woken up to the fact that he’s being followed.’ And after a moment’s thought: ‘Also whether he’s visiting a new girlfriend he has apparently installed here instead of keeping his date with Punter ’ – increasingly impressed by his own confidence.
    Shuffle. Sounds off. The whisperer at work again. Disconnect.
    ‘Paul?’
    ‘Yes, Nine.’
    ‘Hang on. Wait. Got some people here need to talk to me.’
    Paul hangs on. People or person?
    ‘Okay! Matter solved’ – Minister Quinn in full voice now – ‘ Aladdin ’s not – repeat not – about to screw anybody, man orwoman. That’s a fact. Is that clear?’ – not waiting for an answer. ‘The phone call to his brother we just heard was a blind to firm up his date with Punter over the open line. The man at the other end was not his brother. He was Punter ’s intermediary.’ Hiatus for more off-stage advice. ‘Okay, his cut-out . He was Aladdin