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up the A82 Fort William road to Corran, where a ferry still ploughed back and forth to the mountainous west highlands. Even the pot-holed track, all 10 kilometres of it, along to the old house had it's own fascinations, such as the necessity to avoid kamikaze pheasants and rabbits in unlikely places. Nice spot for a few days peace and quiet, but there was no way he could live here.
    'Well, yur pal in London was on the phone last night, right enough. Seems he's being pressed by some people who are very anxious to speak to you.' He paused to scratch an ear underneath the straggly hair and then leaned forward, elbows on knees. 'There's a lot of money on offer here, Mike.'
    Hollis pushed himself upright and went off to fetch two mugs of strong coffee. On the way back he dug inside a cupboard and pulled out a round tin of mixed biscuits. 'I'm not really interested right now.' He squinted over the coffee mug. 'Still plenty of Deutchmarks left!'
    Gojo frowned, remembering a previous conversation. ‘How long did those heidbangers keep after you?’
    There had been a power struggle in the Neo-Nazi Party after the slaying of their mentor. In due course the new leadership found it expedient to use the deep feeling of anger within the movement for their own purposes. They gave the baying mob precisely the focus they needed: a manhunt for the assassin. If nothing else, it gave them breathing space to stabilise their own position.
    ‘Probably still are.’ Hollis shrugged. ‘But then they couldn’t find their arse with both hands, any of them.’
    Gojo wasn’t so sure, and he was glad it wasn’t his problem. Nazis f’r fuck’s sake! He munched the rest of his biscuit before returning to his original subject. 'Aye, I told the man you were no' lookin round, like. But Mike, these people are talkin' a straight million pounds, man!'
    'Jesus!' Hollis was rocked. 'Who is it, the Pope?'
    'He wisna goin' to tell me that on a phone noo, was he?'
    'I bloody hope not.' Hollis swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee and sat brooding, eyes unfocused, seeing only inwards. The contact in London was, like Mike Hollis himself, an ex US Marine. They had been buddies in the same squad for eight years. Both had regarded themselves as career soldiers and had willingly given the Army everything that had been asked of them. Then an unsympathetic Congress decided that, what with the collapse of Communism and the Cold war, Uncle Sam could save a heap of dollars by cutting back on all aspects of the military. Hollis and a great many like him were promptly dumped on an uncaring labour market, which had neither jobs for, nor interest in, ex-service personnel. The year of hell that followed was not something he was prepared to go through ever again. In the end there had been little choice but to fall back on the skills taught to him by a once-grateful government. He was surprised to find that the years of military training proved a useful background to a life of petty crime.
    Faced with the same bleak future, Dave Jordan had moved to south-east England, where he had family. After a year of cajoling by mail and telephone across the Atlantic, Hollis had decided that he had little to lose. Relocating to London was a move he would never regret. However, once there he had quickly found that his friend kept some very shady company.
    Nowadays he lived in seclusion in one of the most untamed areas of western Scotland, enjoying his walking and fishing in the invigorating Atlantic air. From time time Gojo's phone would ring and the bike would head up the A82 once again. There were no telephone lines to this remote homestead, nor would there ever be. And cellphones, like any radio transmitter, can be easily traced.
    'Gotta be something pretty unreal for that kind of money, that's for sure.' Suddenly restless, Hollis got up and walked over to the big triple-glazed window, eyes moving aimlessly out across the water, seeing nothing, while he roamed through his memories of