John Carr. James Deegan

nose, and his fat, orange, German dad was trying to calm him down.

      Shame about the kids, and a shame about the sand in Carr’s shorts, too.

      And in the crack of his arse, and between his toes, and gritty in his mouth.

      He sighed, and looked to his right.

      His son George – seven years older than Alice – was eyeing up a couple of pretty Spanish girls, his own girlfriend face-down on her towel and oblivious.

      Beyond George, a couple of older blokes casually ogled Alice as they trudged by.

      Carr stared at them, hard, and once they caught his eye, and clocked his menacing physique, they looked quickly away and moved on.

      He glanced down between his legs and flicked at a piece of dried seaweed with a grey driftwood twig.

      Funny how life turns out.

      You grow up in a council tenement block, surrounded by concrete, broken glass and graffiti, you don’t expect to find yourself rubbing shoulders with Europe’s filthy rich on a beach at Puerto Banús.

      Back home in the UK, Carr’s day job was as head of London security for the Russian oligarch Konstantin Avilov. Earlier in the year Carr had taken out a Ukrainian hitman who had tried to kill his boss on the streets of London, as part of the ongoing, low-level power struggle which increasingly stretched out from Moscow in every direction around the globe.

      As a thank you, his boss had given him a big payrise, and a Porsche Cayenne – bit tacky, for Carr’s taste, so he’d quickly swapped it for a classy 5.0L V8 Supercharged Range Rover, in Spectral British Racing Green.

      Avilov had insisted, too, that he take a couple of weeks at his Marbella villa, a ten-bedroomed, chrome-and-white monument to vulgarity, in a gated community five minutes away at Vega del Colorado.

       Take the family, Johnny. It’s a thank you for everything what you done for me.

      Including saving my life, he hadn’t said.

      But both men knew.

      A woman in her early thirties came into his eyeline, canvas bag in hand and diaphanous sarong hugging her hips, and gave him a long look through her Dior shades as she passed by.

      Carr grinned at her, and then she was gone.

      He looked at his watch.

      One o’clock.

      God, he was bored.

      Sitting here, slowly chargrilling himself to death, in the heat of a Spanish midday in early August.

      Christ, the heat.

      Unlike many Scots, he was dark-haired and he tanned easily. Added to which, he’d spent enough time in hot, sandy places – carrying a rifle, 100lbs of kit and ammo in his webbing and bergen, and wearing a lot more than a pair of shorts – to have got used to it.

      But somehow Afghan heat, Iraqi heat, African heat, didn’t feel so bad.

      He grinned to himself: maybe it was the rounds cracking off past your swede. That had a funny way of putting things like the ambient temperature into context.

      The two pretty Spanish girls got up and wiggled and jiggled off down to the water, giggling as they went.

      Carr risked a quick glance.

      Caught George’s eye.

      ‘You sad bastard,’ said his son, with a grin and a shake of his head. ‘You sad, sad bastard.’

8.

      SIXTY KILOMETRES NORTH-EAST, the MS Windsor Castle sat at anchor on Pier 1 of Málaga’s Eastern dock.

      On the bridge, the captain – an Italian, Carlo Abandonato – sipped his coffee and studied the latest weather reports.

      In a few hours, they would be underway again, heading up and through the Strait of Gibraltar, three days out from Southampton on the final leg of the cruise.

      The Strait could be a tricky little stretch, even for a ship such as the Windsor Castle, which – while not in the front rank of such vessels – was relatively modern and well-equipped.

      The convergence of the roiling Atlantic with the almost tideless Mediterranean, in that narrow channel where Africa stared down Europe, created strange and unpredictable currents, and local weather conditions could make that much worse.

      The cold Mistral, blowing down from the Rhone Alps, could quickly turn a warm summer’s day such as this a bitter, wintry grey, and when the Levanter blew across from the Balearics it often brought with it a sudden summer fog.

      Worst of all was the Sirocco, which whipped up heavy seas and hurled sand from the distant Sahara at you in a blinding fury.

      But today the water was duckpond flat, the wind no more than a warm breath, and the radar was set fair for the next few days.

      Good news for Captain Abandonato, good news for the crew, and good news for the five hundred passengers who were currently drinking, eating, and sunbathing on the six decks behind and beneath him, or enjoying lunch ashore in one of Málaga’s many excellent restaurants.

      He was looking forward to getting to Southampton; from there he would head up to Heathrow to fly home on leave to Civitavecchia.

      His wife was expecting their second child – a son, the doctors had said – and was due to give birth the day after he arrived home.

      Abandonato had booked a whole month off to spend time with Maria and their children.

      He was looking forward to it so much it hurt.

      It was always a wrench to leave, but at least it paid the bills: Maria was under an excellent but cripplingly expensive obstetrician, they were looking to move to a bigger house inland, near the lake at Bracciano, and their daughter was down for one of Roma’s best private nursery schools.

      Such things did not come cheap.

      He finished his coffee and looked at his watch.

      Shortly after 13:00hrs.

      He turned to his Norwegian staff captain, the second-in-command and the man who really drove the boat.

      ‘I’m going to freshen up and then have a walk round and see how the passengers are, Nils,’ he said. ‘Let’s have dinner together later?’

      ‘Sure,’ said Nils.

      Abandonato pulled on his cap, straightened the epaulettes on his crisp, white shirt, and left the bridge.

9.

      A GUY WITH dark eyes came out of nowhere and walked in front of John Carr.

      There he stopped, temporarily blocking Carr’s view of the sea.

      Flip-flops in hand, white three-quarter length linen trousers, billowing ivory shirt.

      Flashy gold watch, which stood out on his tanned wrist.

      Another Eurotrash millionaire, thought Carr.

      The place was crawling with them.

      Carr thought at first that the guy was staring at him, and Carr didn’t like being stared at, but then he realised that the man’s eyes had swept on, and that he was looking past him at another bunch of people.

      Five seconds he stared, and then he carried on walking.

      At which point Carr looked closer, his eye drawn by the guy’s odd, limping gait, and the deep scar on his right calf, where something had taken a big bite out of the muscle.

      It looked to Carr like shrapnel damage, something he’d seen plenty of.

      As