LITMIR.BIZ

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unfazed by the manoeuvre. The vehicle disappeared, leaving Harry with a vague impression of two men inside and a smiley face sticker on the rear window.

      Forty minutes after leaving town they came to a large, low building ahead, plastered with signs and posters and surrounded by trucks. Jardine signalled for Harry to pull in. He did so, parking close to the building. There were no other cars that he could see, and he guessed this was the area’s one and only truck stop.

      They climbed out and stretched, studying the building. The windows were heavily steamed up, and although it was morning, the neon lights advertising vodka and beer were ablaze.

      ‘Follow my lead,’ said Jardine. ‘Try and pretend you belong.’

      Harry glanced at her. In spite of the tough act, he guessed she was nervous. He nodded, and she walked ahead of him and pushed through a pair of heavy swing doors. They were hit by a hot, smoke-filled rush of air from inside and the blast of loud conversation. There was no music, Harry noted.

      There must have been over a hundred men in the room, seated at rough tables or standing against a bar running from front to back. They looked like truckers everywhere, most of them big and flushed. The clink of glasses and the clatter of crockery vied with the background sounds of steam machines and shouts from the kitchen.

      Conversation dropped appreciably as Harry and Clare moved into the room. Harry wondered whether it was because they were strangers or because Clare was one of the few women in the place. He now saw why she had come without make-up; a trace of lipstick and there would have been a riot.

      They took a table near the front window and were approached by a waitress dressed in jeans and a shapeless jacket streaked with food stains. Clare ordered two beers and looked out of the window, ignoring the stares. Eventually, the conversation returned to its original level as the truckers resumed the business they were here for, which was food, refreshment and gossip.

      Harry was halfway down his beer when the doors opened and three men in military uniform stepped inside. The first was an officer, the other two without rank. They stood and surveyed the room, unaffected by the unfriendly faces turned their way.

      This time, all conversation ceased.

      The officer walked slowly along the bar, hands behind his back. He was followed by one of his men. The other remained by the door.

      They began checking papers. A rumble of protest went through the room but nobody argued. Gradually, the officer and his colleague worked their way through the crowd. Many of the drivers began to leave, their drinks unfinished. They went unchallenged by the man at the door.

      ‘Is this normal?’ asked Harry. He watched as the officer approached a large man at the bar dressed in jeans and a heavy jacket, a woollen cap pulled down over his ears. There was a burst of muttered conversation but the man eventually slid something along the bar and shook his head.

      Clare shook her head. ‘It’s a random check; vehicles and papers – mostly vehicles. The ones leaving are drivers without papers or those with dodgy loads.’

      ‘Why aren’t they being stopped?’

      ‘They are. Take a look outside.’

      He checked through the window, brushing aside the heavy condensation. The parking area was dotted with soldiers, pouncing on the truckers as they left and accompanying them to their vehicles. Nobody was exempt.

      Harry watched as the officer worked his way towards their table, gradually clearing the room. Then he realised: the truckers weren’t the ones he was after.

      ‘Don’t.’ Clare gave him a warning look. ‘If he speaks to you, shake your head and play dumb. Hand over your passport only if he asks.’

      Then the officer was at their table and looking down at them. Up close, Harry could see he was freshly-shaven, and smelled of soap and leather. He was in his forties, with clear, dark eyes and a blunt nose, and held an unmistakable air of authority. He held out his hand and Clare handed him her passport. Without returning it, he held out his hand for Harry’s.

      He took a long time studying the documents, flicking pages back and forth while the soldier waited nearby. The few remaining patrons in the place took no notice, turning their backs and pretending the soldiers weren’t there. What happened to two foreigners was of no concern; they had problems enough of their own. Behind the bar, the owner, a short, squat figure with a balding head, glared sourly at the loss of business.

      ‘Thank you,’ the officer said in English, then dropped the two passports on the table. With a brief nod, he turned and marched outside, followed by his men.

      Harry picked up his passport and began to stand up, but Clare reached out and touched his hand.

      ‘Wait. Give it a while.’

      Five minutes later, they heard a shout and the soldiers began clambering aboard their trucks. Moments later, they were gone, leaving the air over the lorry park thick with exhaust fumes.

      ‘Time to go.’ Clare stood up and paid the waitress, then led the way back outside. Over half the trucks had disappeared, but several drivers were making their way back to the building, laughing or muttering, depending on their luck with the vehicle check.

      ‘What now?’ said Harry, as they got back in the Land Cruiser. ‘Looks like your contact was scared off.’

      ‘No, he wasn’t.’ She took out her passport and opened it below the level of the window. A slip of paper fluttered out and fell on her knee. Harry caught a glimpse of some numbers and scribbled words before she folded it and put it away. ‘See?’

      ‘Neat,’ said Harry. It was, too. To have a contact here at all took some doing. To have a contact who was an army officer was nearly miraculous. He wondered if London knew . . . or cared. ‘What is it?’

      ‘Not sure yet. Map co-ordinates, I think.’ If she knew more, she clearly wasn’t going to share anything with him.

      He shrugged. Silly games. Let her get on with it. Then his attention was drawn to another vehicle starting up nearby. It was thirty yards away, and had been hidden by other vehicles when he and Clare had arrived. It was a large four-by-four, with two men inside and a smiley face on the rear window.

      The road hog who’d nearly taken them off the road on their way here.

      It charged away with a roar of the exhausts, and Harry watched it go, eyes on the man behind the wheel. It was the big man in the woollen cap.

      It was only when they were back on the road that he suddenly realized that he knew who the man was.

      Carl Higgins.

      FOURTEEN

      That evening, Harry unscrewed the ancient shower-head and idled time away digging limescale out of the holes with a needle. He found it oddly therapeutic and rewarded himself with a hot shower and a glass of whisky, courtesy of another two miniatures from the flight in.

      It did little to deaden his underlying feelings of dismay, but helped him relax to a point where he could begin to worry about it less.

      He was sinking slowly into a welcoming sleep when he heard a noise outside his door. He wasn’t yet accustomed to the building and all its various clicks and creaks, and whatever had alerted him might be one of those. He lay for a while, analysing the sounds: the wind, a shutter flapping, a passing vehicle, someone shouting in the distance, the creak of a shutter. Normal stuff. He relaxed, eyes growing heavy.

      Then it came again. The scuff of a footstep on the stairs.

      Somebody had moved along the landing.

      He slid out of bed and padded through to the door. At first he couldn’t hear anything. Then he detected a slight murmur, lifting out from somewhere below and carrying up the stairway.

      Voices.

      Mario the Roman photographer back from his assignment? Or visitors?

      He went to

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