Carver couldn’t stop himself from laughing out loud. The girl even had a stripper name to go with her professional seduction routine. But then she surprised him. She blushed.

“No, really. It’s short for Candace.”

He realized he’d missed a third possibility, that Candy was a nice kid trying to brighten up her workday with a bit of mild flirtation. The way normal people did. Christ, he’d become a cynical bastard. When had that happened? Stupid question: He knew exactly when. He could time it down to the last minute. It suddenly struck him that his jaw was clenched and his teeth were grinding together with a tension he could not begin to explain. It was far too soon for the nerves that usually preceded any deadly action. This was something else – a message from his subconscious he wasn’t able to decode. Perhaps he just didn’t want to.

Carver had spent the past few years trying not to look too deep inside his head. He told himself it was basic military pragmatism. Concentrate on what’s in front of you, worry about the stuff you can control, forget about everything else. Well, there was a girl in front of him, and he could control his bad attitude. He and Candy were going to be stuck together in a pressurized metal tube for the next twenty-four hours. The least they could do was be polite to each other.

He gave a quick shake of his head, ridding it of unwanted thoughts.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was out of line.”

“No worries. Can I get you anything, a bit of breakfast, coffee?”

“Sure, that would be great. Thanks a lot.”

Ten minutes later, the target details were faxed to the plane.

Subject: Ramzi Hakim Narwaz

Nationality: Pakistani (French mother)

Age: 41

Height: 5 foot 11 inches (182 cm)

Weight: 190 lbs. (86.4 kg)

Subject belongs to one of Pakistan’s wealthiest families, was educated at Le Rosey school, Switzerland, is based in Paris and is completely at home in upper echelons of European society. He is married (wife Yasmina comes from a rich Lebanese family) with one son, Yusuf. Drinks alcohol, but seldom to excess. Some social drug use. Discreet but regular extramarital sexual activity, typical of a rich, Westernized male.

This lifestyle is just a cover. Subject, who is highly intelligent and has poor relations with his father, was radicalized by mullahs at various mosques in north and east London, while a student at the London School of Economics. Subject has become an active and increasingly influential player in a growing network of extreme Islamic terrorist cells.

Monitoring of telephone communications by U.S. intelligence, coordinated through the joint CIA/FBI antiterrorist unit, codename “Alex,” shows regular contact between Subject and suspected associates of terrorist movements. These include Konsojaya founders Wali Khan Amin Shah and Riduan Isamuddin (alias “Hambali”); Nairobi, Kenya-based suspect Wadih el-Hage; and several suspects in the Manila, Philippines-based “Bojinka” (Big Bang) plot, which intended to bomb twelve U.S.-bound planes.

Recent bank transfers to and from Subject’s accounts show much greater than usual activity. Subject is strongly believed to be planning a major terrorist assault in Europe, almost certainly in the UK. This assault is believed to be imminent – days, rather than weeks. Telephone intercepts indicate that he will be leaving his family on holiday in the South of France and returning to Paris within the next twenty-four hours.

There is a clear danger to both military personnel and civilian lives if Subject is allowed to proceed with activities. He has therefore been selected for immediate action.

A second fax arrived soon afterward. It notified Carver that $1.5 million had been wired to his numbered account at Banque Wertmuller-Maier de Geneve. Whoever his employers were – and Carver had no great desire to find out, any more than he wanted them to know too much about him – they always paid on time, and in full.

Max called again when the plane was over the western United States.

“So where are you now?”

“Half an hour out of LA,” Carver replied. “The pilot’s putting his foot down. Should be on the ground in a little over ten hours.”

“Right, so that’ll make it seven thirty p.m. Central European Time. We don’t expect much action before midnight, so that’s fine. But there’s something else we need you to sort out first.”

Carver was several thousand miles away, speaking via a satellite phone. But his anger got through just fine. “You’re joking. Two jobs? Both improvised? You must think I’ve lost the will to live.”

“Don’t worry, the second one’s just routine,” Max said. “Backup in case the first strike doesn’t work out. Our friend has another property he uses for private meetings – personal and professional, if you follow my drift. If he feels under threat, he’ll use it as his safe house. Except you’ll have made it unsafe, won’t you? Don’t worry, we’ve got the code to the alarm system. It’s a piece of piss.”

Carver sighed. It didn’t matter what you did for a living. In the end, you took the same crap from the people who paid your wages. He listened as Max described the little love nest where Ramzi Hakim Narwaz liked to conduct his private business. This was one Islamic terrorist who took his cover as a decadent apostate really seriously. It was an Oscar-winning performance.

A few minutes later, the floor plans and wiring schematics of the Narwaz apartment came through on the Gulfstream’s fax. It took Carver half an hour to work out what he was going to do. The next time Max made contact, he had his equipment list ready. He listed the transportation, weaponry, explosives, timers, fuses, and tactical equipment he’d need, then got down to the finer details.

“I’ll need a small tin of lubricating oil – 3-in-1, something like that. Then get me half a dozen small-size plastic freezer bags, self-sealing; a plain black garbage bag; a mechanic’s torch with a head strap; a pair of scissors, industrial ones with three-inch ceramic blades; a screwdriver, wire cutters, a roll of duct tape, a can of air freshener, a bottle of Jif cleanser, a few pairs of thin latex gloves, and a Mars bar.”

“Why the hell do you need a Mars bar?”

“To eat. I’ve got a sweet tooth. And come to mention it, why not get me a takeout pizza?”

Max did not bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Whatever you say, mate. Any favorite toppings?”

“I couldn’t care less,” said Carver. “It’s the box I’m interested in. On second thought, don’t worry. I’ll get it myself. I’ll be needing a decent meal.”

Carver’s plane landed at Le Bourget Airport, a few miles northeast of Paris, and taxied into a private aviation hangar. When Carver reached the bottom of the steps, a maintenance engineer handed him an envelope and a large carrier bag. Inside the envelope were a parking ticket with the space number written on it, a Honda motorcycle key, and the key to a locker in the terminal building. The carrier bag was filled with clothes. Carver carried it back up into the plane and got changed.

Max had given him black cargo pants, black T-shirt, black nylon bomber jacket, black trainers, black helmet. The rest of the gear was in a backpack, stowed in the terminal locker. It was just as black as everything else.

The bike that awaited him in the car park was a unmarked Honda XR400. It was a dirt bike, designed for rutted country paths rather than city streets, as skinny and high-stepping as a whippet. But it was ideal for Carver’s purposes. If the operation went wrong and he needed to get away fast, he wanted a machine that could go where police cars and their heavy, powerful bikes could not.