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pass to four different guards, walked along a series of increasingly bland corridors, and turned into the small office on the fourth floor. The single man working in the office had been alerted to his impending arrival, and duly had his head down working through a short document on Balkan drug smuggling operations when the man walked into the office. Ramone's killer pulled out the seat across the desk and sat down. Prepared to wait.
    'You haven't made the news,' said the man behind the desk.
    'The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon!' came the reply.
    Carmichael, the guy in the office, looked up, shaking his head.
    'You're such a friggin' asshole,' he said.
    'Macbeth,' said the killer.
    'You're still an asshole. I don't even know who that is,' said Carmichael. 'Tell me what you got?'
    The killer laid down his briefcase on the desk and quickly pulled out the file which had been given to him by his agent deep in the bowels of the British party of opposition.
    'It's coming together,' he said, and he laid four photographs out on the desk for Carmichael to see.
    Carmichael leaned forward, looked at each of them slowly in turn, then finally looked up. A long look into the other's eyes, a slow tap of the finger on the desk.
    'They're good but you could've e-mailed them,' he said. 'You're not a delivery boy.'
    'I know,' he said. 'But I couldn't e-mail this.'
    And he reached inside the bag, took out a wooden box and pushed it across the desk. Carmichael kept his eyes on the man, then reached out, pulled the box towards him and slowly lifted the lid.
    ––––––––
    2009hrs
    S ome days things happen, and some days they don't. Barney had had a long slow day, after being woken slightly later than intended. He'd taken twenty minutes to repair the damage inflicted on the PM's hair by Igor, and had had trouble stopping himself laughing throughout. Decent job done and the PM had dispatched Barney and Igor for the day, their services not required until the following morning. Igor had gone off to do London, and Barney had sat drinking coffee, had foolishly gone to see Constantine at the cinema and had mooched through Hyde Park and St James' and around Whitehall, waiting for something to happen. And it didn't, because it wasn't that sort of a day. And the three different groups who were following them had had to split up to keep an eye on them both, and they too had had a quiet day. And so, at just before ten past eight in the evening, Barney finally retreated to his room and collapsed in a melancholic heap, wondering how bad he and Igor would have to make things on the PM's head for them to be sent permanently back to Millport.

Friday 22nd April 2005
    0917hrs
    T he Prime Ministerial helicopter rose quickly away from London, leaving behind the morning streets, and the national newspapers with polls showing Labour's continuing four to eight point lead. The PM was in a relaxed mood, confident about the day ahead. Halfway through the campaign, and as long as no disaster reared its head in the following thirteen days, a sound victory in the making. And, with any luck, the opposition would be left in such disarray, and the Lib Dems would make enough gains against them, that the other side of the House would be split even more for the next four years and Labour would already be set up for another comfortable victory in 2009. Four years and carte blanche to do whatever the hell they liked, happy in the knowledge that the next victory was already in the bag. Any difficulties in that time, of course, would come from within.
    Joining him in the back of the helicopter were Williams and Thackeray, his principal aides, at least for the length of this campaign, Winsome and Gail his PR girls, and Barney Thomson his hairdresser. Barney was there to deal with any hirsutological emergencies which might inadvertently affect the PM's napper, what with him having to disembark from a helicopter to make a speech at the seaside. There was no space