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way.
    ‘Where’s this feed coming from?’ Dawson asked.
    ‘WNN News, sir,’ technician answered. ‘The World News Network had a live broadcast in the area. They were covering Brad and Angelina’s—’
    ‘Who’s the reporter on the ground there?’
    ‘Her name is Davina Wilson.’
    A small inset appeared on the wallscreen and showed a publicity headshot of a pretty African-American woman in her early twenties.
    ‘Find out everything you can about Davina Wilson,’ Dawson ordered.
    In the street, police officers ran to the wrecked SUV with weapons drawn. Dawson thought they looked well trained and professional. Several onlookers started shouting and pointing into the alley as if the police officers couldn’t see the helicopter hanging overhead for themselves. A group of officers split off and sprinted for the alley.
    Dawson cursed. If the gun-happy shooters aboard the helicopter didn’t kill Lourds, the local police might. At the very least, they would arrest him.
    That wouldn’t make the vice-president happy.
    ‘Get me that pilot,’ Dawson said.
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    Out of habit, Dawson shot his cuffs and adjusted his jacket. Sartorial elegance was his preference, the armour he wore among politicians. It also impressed the little people. The fact that the pilot would never see him didn’t matter. If Dawson was going to talk to the man, he was going to know that he looked his best.
    Another inset image, this one of the pilot, a man in his late thirties, showed up on the wallscreen. Close-cropped blonde hair stood out against his dark skin. His eyes were too close together and a long knife scar marred his left cheek.
    ‘What’s this man’s name?’ Dawson asked.
    ‘Metternich, sir. Johan Metternich. He’s a South African mercenary currently in Istanbul while assigned to a pharmaceutical corporation smuggling blood diamonds out of his native country.’
    ‘We’ve used him before?’
    ‘Yes, sir. Three times on other operations. The Brits and Chinese have used him as well. He’s been a solid asset. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t cause problems and hasn’t failed yet.’
    He’s also still alive . Dawson knew that was more telling than anything else in the mercenary’s resumé.
    ‘Okay, patch me through to him.’
    Almost immediately, the up close and personal hammering of the helicopter’s main rotor filled Dawson’s hearing. The bull-roar of the fully automatic weapon punctuated Dawson’s presence aboard the helicopter.
    ‘You’re risking our package.’ Dawson kept his voice calm.
    ‘Who is this?’ the South African asked.
    ‘I’m the man who cuts your cheques. If our package gets damaged in any way,’ Dawson threatened, ‘not only will you not get paid, but I’ll also put a bounty on your head. Do we understand each other?’
    Metternich growled curses. ‘We’re not going to hurt your package. He’s still alive and breathing.’
    The helicopter swung round so the nose cam pointed down into the alley. Lourds and the woman ran to the other end where a sedan glided to a quick stop.
    Dawson covered the microphone with a hand and looked at the technicians. ‘Who’s in that car?’
    ‘Checking, sir.’
    Another window opened up on the wallscreen, then zoomed in on the vehicle registration plate at the back of the sedan.
    ‘It’s registered in Istanbul.’
    ‘Then find out who it’s registered to.’ Dawson cursed vehemently and turned his attention back to the action.
    ‘Who’s in the car?’ Metternich demanded.
    ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Dawson said. ‘They’re in our way. I want our package.’
    ‘If they’re not part of the package, that makes it easier.’ Metternich raised his voice. ‘Take out the car.’
    On screen, Lourds halted as men boiled from the back of the sedan.
    Machine-gun fire opened up again as the helicopter canted to the right. The heavy-calibre rounds strafed the wall beside the sedan. Two of the men from the ground vehicle raised machine pistols and