Data gathered by Echelon was also sent to British Government Communications Headquarters, on the outskirts of Cheltenham, Gloucestershire. More computers plucked more information from the human torrent. That information was passed on to the ministry of defence, the foreign office, and the law enforcement and intelligence agencies.

Fiona Towthorp, an attractive, freckle-faced woman of forty, worked as a senior intelligence analyst at GCHQ. She had just spotted an item she knew her masters would covet. But when she picked up the phone, the number she dialed had nothing to do with Her Majesty’s government.

The line was encrypted at a level even Echelon could not decode. This call would never be overheard. “Consortium,” a man’s voice answered.

“I have a message from the corporate communications department,” said Towthorp. “There’s something the chairman needs to know.”

Towthorp was put straight through.

They came for Carver in the morning. He’d got the call the night before, just as he was turning out the gas lantern that provided the only illumination in his mountain hut.

“Carver,” he’d said, not bothering to disguise his irritation as the GSM phone shrieked for his attention.

There were no formalities or introductions from the voice on the other end of the line with its flat Thames Estuary accent. “Where are ya?”

“On holiday, Max. Not working. I think you know that.”

“I know what you’re doing, Carver. I just dunno where you’re doing it.”

“Guess what, there was a reason I didn’t tell you.”

“Well, I may have a job for you.”

“No.”

Max ignored him. “Listen, I’ll know for sure within the next twelve hours. If it happens, trust me, we’ll make it worth your while interrupting your holidays. Three million dollars, U.S., paid into the usual account. You can have a nice long break after that.”

“I see,” said Carver, flatly. “And if I refuse?”

“Then my advice would be, stay on your holiday. And don’t come back. It’s your choice.”

Carver wasn’t bothered by the implied physical threat. But he didn’t want to lose his major client. This was his job. It was what he did best. And no matter how often he thought about packing it in, he still didn’t want a competitor taking his work. One day, maybe soon, he would be ready to quit, but it would be on his terms, at a time of his own choosing.

“ New Zealand,” he said.

He cursed to himself as he turned off the phone and put it back on the bare wooden table that stood next to the steel-and-canvas bed frame where he’d laid his sleeping bag.

Samuel Carver had the lean, spare look of a professional fighter. His dark brown hair was cut short. A dozen years in the Royal Marines and the Special Boat Service had left his face etched and weather-beaten. A fierce determination was evident in his strong, dark brow, bisected by a single, deep concentration line. Yet his clear green eyes suggested that his physical intensity was always guided by a calm, almost chilly intelligence.

He tried to rationalize what he did as a form of pest control, unpleasant but necessary. After the Visar job he’d looked, as he always did, for a place where he could wind down and try to clear his mind of what he knew but did not want to admit: that every additional killing, no matter how many lives it saved, no matter how logically it could be justified, added a little more to the corrosion of his soul.

He’d ended up on the far side of the world, in the Two Thumb Mountains of New Zealand ’s South Island. Aeons ago, when all the continents of the earth were one, the Two Thumbs had been part of the same chain as the Peruvian Andes and the California Sierras. The mountains had moved several thousand miles since then, but not much else had changed. There were no nightclubs, restaurants, or chalet girls; no newspapers or TV, no lifts, instructors, or nursery slopes. For Carver that was the whole point.

He had come in search of absolute solitude, an existence pared away to its simplest elements. He wanted to purge the shadow of death from his mind with raw speed, physical sweat, empty sky, blinding sun, air and snow as cold and pure as vodka straight from the freezer. He hadn’t shaved in a week. He hadn’t washed much, either. He probably stank like a rhino. Why worry? It had been a long time since there’d been anyone to smell good for.

The chopper came from the east, in the first faint rays of the rising sun before the last star had disappeared. Carver saw it away in the distance, caught between the blue black sky and the icing-sugar snow. He didn’t need to pack. Inside his ski jacket he wore a black nylon money belt. Its pouches contained four different passports, each with two matching credit cards. There was also a spare phone and twenty thousand dollars in cash. Gold cards were all very well, but Carter had yet to go anywhere that didn’t accept U.S. green.

A little blizzard of snow flurried in the air as the helicopter landed fifty meters away. Carver watched it touch down. Christ, it was another Bell. An image flashed into his mind of a JetRanger crashing, the sound of screaming, an almost physical impression of terror. He closed his eyes for a second and muttered to himself, “Get a grip.” Then he eased the zipper on his jacket and walked over, loose-limbed but watchful for any sign that he’d been set up.

“G’day,” the New Zealander copilot shouted over the clattering pulse of the rotor blades. He held out a hand and pulled Carver onboard. “They said we either had to pick you up or kill you. Glad you ticked Box A.”

The smile on the copilot’s face was broad. But his eyes were flat and expressionless.

Carver grinned back, playing the game. “I’m glad too!” he shouted. “You might have got hurt.” He slumped into his seat, fastened the seat belt, put on his headset, and sighed. So much for his holiday. He hadn’t even had time for a decent cup off coffee and already he was knee-deep in bullshit.

He rubbed his thumb and forefinger back and forth along his forehead. He’d had nothing to do for a week but ski and sleep. He should have been rested and refreshed. Instead he felt tired to the bone.

Less than two hours later, Carver was on a brand-new Gulfstream V, climbing to forty thousand feet, flying northeast out of Christchurch, en route to Los Angeles, some 5,800 nautical miles away. The GV was the longest-range private jet in the world, but by the time it got to California, the plane would be gliding. It would sit on the tarmac just long enough to refuel and pick up a new air crew, then take off again for Europe.

There was a shower onboard. Carver cleaned up, shaved, and changed into a soft, shapeless gray tracksuit handed to him by the flight attendant. “I hope it’s the right size. They gave me your measurements…” She paused. “But you never really know whether something fits until you try it on.”

She was a pretty brunette with big brown eyes, soft full lips, and a glossy ponytail. She spoke in that way girls do Down Under, rising slightly at the end of every sentence, turning each statement into an ingratiating question. Now she stood in front of Carver with her weight shifted to one side, her hips cocked, and the dark blue fabric of her snug, knee-length skirt stretched tight across her thighs. She was looking at him appraisingly, with a smile that suggested she was happy with what she saw. Either she really liked him, or her job description included a fuller range of executive services than your average “trolley dolly.” Carver considered the latter option. He and the girl both worked for people who believed that anything could be paid for. He’d been bought. Presumably she could be too.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Candy,” she said.