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are taking it in turns to laugh.
Aladdin
’s left
     hand performing a puppet show in the rear window of the people carrier. Male Polish
     merrymaking replaced by disapproving voice of a woman translator:
    ‘
Aladdin
is speaking to
     brother Josef in Warsaw,’ says the woman’s voice disdainfully. ‘It is
     vulgar conversation. They are discussing girlfriend of
Aladdin
, this woman he
     has on boat. Her name is Imelda.
Aladdin
is tired of Imelda. Imelda has too
     much mouth. He will abandon her. Josef must visit Beirut.
Aladdin
will pay for
     him to come from Warsaw. If Josef will come to Beirut,
Aladdin
will introduce
     him to many women who will wish to sleep with him. Now
Aladdin
is on his way to
     visit special friend. Special
secret
friend. He love this friend very much. She
     will replace Imelda. She is not gloomy, not bitch, has very beautiful breasts. Maybe he
     will buy apartment for her in Gibraltar. This is good news for taxes.
Aladdin
will go now. His secret special friend is waiting. She desires him very much. When she
     opens the door she will be completely naked.
Aladdin
has ordered this.
     Goodnight, Josef.’
    A moment of collective bewilderment, broken
     by Don:
    ‘He hasn’t got fucking
time
to get laid,’ he whispered indignantly. ‘Not even
     him.’
    Echoed by Andy, equally indignant:
    ‘His 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