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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
’s cut-out’ – settling to the
     word.
    Line dead again. For
more
advice?
     Or is the Personal Role Radio not quite as augmented as it was cracked up to be?
    ‘Paul?’
    ‘Nine?’
    ‘
Aladdin
was merely telling
Punter
that he’s on his way. Giving him a heads-up. We have that
     direct from source. Kindly pass to Jeb forthwith.’
    There was just time to pass to Jeb forthwith
     before Don’s arm shot up again.
    ‘Screen two, skipper. House seven.
     Seaward-side camera. Light in ground-floor window left.’
    ‘Over here, Paul’ – Jeb.
    Jeb has dropped into a squat at Don’s
     side. Crouching behind them, he peers between their two heads, unable to make out at
     first which light he’s supposed to be seeing. Lights were dancing in the
     ground-floor windows, but they were reflections from the anchored fleet. Removing his
     goggles and stretching his eyes as wide as they’ll go, he watches the replay of
     the ground-floor window of house number seven in close-up.
    A spectral pin-light, pointed upward like a
     candle, moves across the room. It is held by a ghostly white forearm. The inland cameras
     take up the story. Yes, there’s the light again. And the ghostly forearm is tinged
     orange by the sodium lamps along the slip road.
    ‘He’s inside there then,
     isn’t he?’ – Don, the first to speak. ‘House seven. Ground floor.
     Flashing a fucking torch because there’s no electric.’ But he sounds oddly
     unconvinced.
    ‘It’s Ophelia’ – Shorty, the
     scholar. ‘In her fucking nightshirt. Going to throw herself into the
     Med.’
    Jeb is standing as upright as the roof of
     the hide allows. He pulls back his balaclava, making a scarf of it. In the spectral
     green light, his paint-smeared face is suddenly a generation older.
    ‘Yes, Elliot, we saw it, too. All
     right, agreed, a human presence. Whose presence, that’s another question, I
     suppose.’
    Is the augmented sound system really on the
     blink? Over a single earpiece he hears Elliot’s voice in belligerent mode:
    ‘Jeb? Jeb, I need you. Are you
     there?’
    ‘Listening, Elliot.’
    The South African accent very strong now,
     very didactic:
    ‘My orders are, as of one minute ago,
     precisely, to place my team on red alert for immediate embarkation. I am further
     instructed to pull my surveillance resources out of the town centre and concentrate them
     on
Alpha
. Approaches to
Alpha
will be covered by static vans. Your
     detachment will descend and deploy accordingly.’
    ‘Who says we will, Elliot?’
    ‘That is the