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Keeping the real cause of his death under wraps, dealing with the media. With Angela. Look, don't think of this as taking out the man, think of it as hitting his operation, his headquarters. And if he happens to get caught in the crossfire, well, that'll just be a bonus.'
    Gregory's eyes remained closed. He could feel the Vice President's will enveloping him like a cloud, seeping through his pores, into his very soul. It was persistent. Insidious. Gregory could feel sweat beading on his forehead. The hand tightened on his knee.
    'I have the President's approval on this, Jake,' Mallen continued. 'Nothing in writing, no medals for those involved, but he's given me a green light. Whatever resources you need, whatever you feel is necessary. He wants this as much as I do. He wants to show the world that we're doing something. A retaliatory strike. A lesson for the others.'
    Gregory nodded. He opened his eyes. All resistance had gone. There was no point in protesting any more. 'Financing?' he asked.
    'Lose it in your budget. It's big enough.'
    'And I have carte blancheV 'You and Frank Sinatra, Jake. Do it your way. Just get it done.' The Vice President took his hand off Gregory's knee. 'I won't forget this, Jake.' He smiled at the DEA executive, a gleaming white smile that had no warmth in it. His eyes sparkled like ice freezing on the surface of a lake.
    THE ONE THOUGHT THAT Billy Winter clung to as he rattled around in the boot of the big car was that they'd been wearing ski masks. If they'd felt it necessary to conceal their identities then they probably didn't mean to kill him. Probably. Winter wasn't sure just how much store he could put by his theory, but he clung to it nevertheless. Just then it was all he had.
    He'd been sitting in his white bathrobe, drawing on a big cigar and watching two highly paid hookers do their stuff, when they'd 28 STEPHEN LEATHER come for him. Three men - not particularly big, but then size wasn't important when sawn-off shotguns and semi-automatic pistols were involved - wearing leather bomber jackets, blue jeans and training shoes. And black ski masks. They hadn't said anything, the men. They hadn't needed to.
    The two hookers, one blonde, one brunette, hadn't been to Ireland before -- Winter had flown them in from London on the recommendation of an old pal -- but they knew what men in ski masks meant and they hadn't said a word as Winter had been hustled out of the house. The girls were probably already at the airport. Money for old rope. They'd barely started on their lesbian show - guaranteed to get an erection from the dead, Winter's pal had promised - before the men had burst in.
    Winter had asked the men if they'd give him time to get dressed, and one of them had pistol-whipped him, hard enough to stun but not hard enough to knock him out. Winter could feel blood trickling down his cheek as he lay in the car boot, his knees up tight against his chin, his hands tied behind his back. If they were going to kill him, he thought, they'd have done it back at the house. His nearest neighbour lived half a mile away and it was farming country; no one would think twice about a shotgun blast, even late at night.
    The car bucked and lurched and Winter's head banged against the floor. They'd been driving for thirty minutes or so but Winter was finding it difficult to keep track of time. Besides, it made no difference where they were taking him, the only thing that mattered was what they planned to do with him.
    The car braked and they came to a sudden halt. Winter heard the car doors open and close and then the boot was thrown open and hands dragged him roughly out. A bag was pulled down over his head and he was frogmarched away from the car. He stumbled and his bare feet scraped across rough concrete. They still hadn't said a word, but the bag reassured him; it was another sign that they didn't want to be recognised, which suggested that they were probably going to let him live. Probably.
    The bathrobe