ake yourself at home,' Carol said, gesturing towards the twin sofas that sat at right angles, making the most of her view. 'I won't be a minute.' She headed for the kitchen.

Rather than settling down, Tony roamed the room. Much of the contents were familiar, but some were new. There were a couple of large Jack Vettriano prints from his film noir series in heavy distressed gilt frames that would have been totally out of place in the cottage where Carol had been living previously but which looked strong and moody on these high white walls. The CD collection had expanded to include a tranche of contemporary guitar bands whose names he recognized but whose music was completely alien to him. He'd never seen the brightly coloured gabbeh that dominated the centre of the room either.

But there was nothing that didn't chime with his understanding of Carol. She was still the person he knew. He stood at the window and gazed down at the old church, incongruous among the modernity of its surroundings. He wasn't sure he'd done the right thing, coming here like this. Sometimes, however, risks had to be taken. Otherwise, how would he know he was alive?

Carol's voice cut through his introspection. 'Coffee,' she said, placing a cafetiere and two mugs on the low glass table.

He turned to face her and smiled. 'Thanks.' He took off his jacket, revealing a black V-necked sweater in fine wool; a more fashionable look than he used to go for, Carol noted. They settled down with their drinks, each on a separate sofa, but close enough at the angle between them to have touched if they'd felt able to. 'So,' he said. 'Do you want to talk about it?'

Carol tucked her feet under her and cradled her mug in both hands. 'I'm dying to talk about it. They're sending me in deep. Total immersion undercover.'

'This is Europol?' he asked.

'Not exactly. It's a UK operation. To tell you the truth, the lines are a bit blurred. I'm not sure where Special Branch ends and Customs and Excise begins on this one. And I wouldn't be surprised if the intelligence services have got a finger in the pie too.' She gave a wry little smile. 'All I know for sure is that my own chain of command goes through Superintendent Morgan, who is attached to NCIS. And that's all I'm supposed to need to know.'

Tony was experienced enough as an interviewer of serial offenders not to let his unease show. But already he didn't like the sound of this. In his limited experience of British policing, grey areas always heralded deniability. If the time came when someone had to be shot down in flames, the only person visible in the sights would be Carol. That she wasn't admitting this even to herself was worrying. 'What's the j assignment?',

Carol relayed everything Morgan had told her about f Tadeusz Radecki. 'Morgan said that when he saw my Europol application, he couldn't believe his eyes,' she continued. 'Katerina was dead, but here was her double, applying to work, at the sharp end of intelligence. And so he came up with the ; idea of mounting an operation using me as the bait to sucker i Radecki in.', f

'You're going undercover to try to seduce Radecki?' Tony felt the ground shift under his feet. He'd thought the honey trap had died with the Cold War.

'No, no, it's much more subtle than that. It's a sting. According to Morgan, Radecki used to have a sweet little deal going with a gangster in Essex, Colin Osborne. Osborne would funnel Radecki's illegal immigrants in via a couple of clothing sweatshops he ran in the East End. Every few months he'd tip off a contact in Immigration and get them hustled away to detention centres. Then he'd replace them with the next shipment from Radecki. He managed to keep his own nose clean, because the sweatshops were always set up using m false names and credit references.' 'Neat,' Tony said.

'Very. Anyway, Osborne got himself killed in a gangland shooting about six weeks ago. And everybody's still squabbling over who gets which piece of turf from his nasty little empire. Meanwhile, nobody is providing a convenient refuge for Radecki's illegals.' ^io<4/

'And that's where you come in?'

'That's exactly where I come in.' She grinned. 'I turn up in Berlin with a proposition for Radecki. I'm Caroline Jackson.' She gestured with her thumb towards the small office that opened off the living room. 'I've got a file half an inch thick with Caroline's back story. Where she went to school, when she lost her virginity, when her parents died and how, where she's lived over the years, how she's made a living. Now, she's a wealthy businesswoman with some very dodgy contacts.'

Tony raised an admonishing finger. 'Not "she", Carol. It has to be "I" from now on.'

Carol pursed her lips in rueful acknowledgement. 'I own the lease on a former US airbase in East Anglia. I have a factory producing hand-made wooden toys on the site, as well as the former barracks. I also have a source of forged Italian passports. I knew Colin Osborne and knew he was getting workers from Radecki. And now Colin's dead, I'm here to take up the slack. I need workers and I can offer them an even better deal than Colin. They work for me for free for a year and they get legal EU papers. And Radecki gets a market for his illegals.'

Tony nodded. 'I can see how that would appeal to him. So why do they need the added incentive of someone who looks like his dead girlfriend?'

'Well, Morgan said it wasn't the first time they'd thought of putting someone in to pull the scam I'm going to be doing. But there were some reservations because the chances were they'd only be able to get evidence on the final stage of thes racket. So, although they would probably net Radecki, they might not be able to roll up his networks behind him. Then I came along. The general idea is that he'll open up further and faster to me than he would to someone else. Assuming I can gain his confidence, I should be able to find out exactly how his operations work. If I play my cards right, we could close down his drug smuggling, his gunrunning and his people trafficking. And that would be a result worth having.' Her eagerness worried Tony. He knew that to succeed in so difficult an assignment Carol would have to maintain a high level of confidence. She'd be thrown on her own resources for most of the time and, without self-belief, she'd sink like a stone. But it wasn't like her to be blind to the perils of a task so fraught with jeopardy. 'It's obvious that they're right, psychologically speaking,' he said. 'Radecki's bound to be attracted to you. And his emotional investment will make it easier for you to maintain your undercover story. He'll find it hard to be as suspicious of you as he would be of any other stranger. Still, you're really going to be out there on a limb. If your cover does get blown, he's going to be far more dangerous to you than if you were just another undercover cop. It won't be enough to eliminate you. He'll need to make you suffer. You do know that?'

'It crossed my mind, yes. But you know I don't like to brood.' 'You need to be aware of the potential pitfalls. I wouldn't be any use to you if I just sat here uttering anodyne platitudes about how terrific you're going to be at this. Undercover is the hardest job in policing.' He leaned forward, his face earnest. 'You're never off duty. You can't afford to be homesick for who you really are. You have to live it, and it's the loneliest place there is. And you're going to be in a foreign country, which will only compound that feeling of isolation.'

His words hung in the air between them, the intensity speaking of something beyond their superficial meaning. Carol suddenly understood that he was telling her about himself and the way he had chosen to live. 'You sound like youVe been there,' she said softly.

Passing for human, he thought. This wasn't the time or the place to get into that one. 'Been there so long I gave the T-shirt to Oxfam,' he said, striving for lightness. 'Academic life is not my natural habitat.' Carol looked disappointed. She had every right, he thought. She deserved better than that from him. 'Nor was Frances,' he added. 'But I didn't come here to talk about me. Will it be possible for us to be in touch?'

'I hope so. Morgan said they'll find a way of getting me secure e-mail access.'

Tony finished his coffee and topped it up from the cafetiere. 'I'd like that. Not that I can be of much practical help, but it'd be good to know you were OK. And you might appreciate a place where you can be Carol Jordan for a few minutes every day. On the other hand, you might find that just disrupts staying in role. So play it as it lays. See how you feel when you're in there.'

Carol put her mug down on the table and got to her feet. She walked over to the window and looked out. He could see her in profile, a series of planes and angles his memory held constantly clear. Some of the creases round her eyes were a little deeper, but that was the only change since he'd first known her. Now, though the line of her mouth was stubborn, determined, her eyes were troubled. 'I'm scared, Tony. I'm trying not to be, because I know fear is a bad emotion to run an operation on. But I'm really, really scared.'

'Don't discount the usefulness of fear,' Tony said. 'You're going to be running on adrenaline for as long as this assignment takes to complete. Fear's a good provider of that. And it keeps complacency at bay. Whatever you think now, you're going to have to get to like Radecki. You'll start off consciously behaving as if you're drawn to him, but the very act of maintaining that for any length of time tends to make it a reality. It's a variation on the Stockholm Syndrome, where hostages start to identify with their captors. Like it or not, you're going to find yourself growing close to him, and probably getting very fond of him. Fear is a good antidote to that.'

Carol rubbed her eyes with finger and thumb. 'I want what this could bring me so badly, I'm scared I'll do whatever it takes. What if I fall for this guy?' She turned back towards him, her face troubled.

'You wouldn't be the first. Arid there's no easy recipe for avoiding it.' He crossed to her and took her hands in his. 'If he's nice to you - and there's no reason why he wouldn't be it's going to seem very appealing to go with the flow. What you have to do is hold on to one fact about this guy that you find totally abhorrent. I don't know what that would be for you. But there has to be something in his file that really got to you. Remember what it was, and hold that thought like a mantra.' He squeezed her hands tight, conscious of their coolness against his warm skin, trying not to think what they would feel like on his back.

'That's easy,' she said. 'The callousness. The way he engineers all this without ever getting his hands dirty. I can't get rid of the image of that dead dealer, lying on the steps of the police station with his brains on the pavement. And Radecki sitting in his expensive Charlottenburg apartment, sealed off from all the shit, listening to Verdi or Mozart, as if it wasn't connected to him. That's what gets to me.'

'So every time you feel the tug towards him growing too strong, summon up those two contradictory images. That'll ground you in what you're there for.' He dropped her hands and stepped back. 'You can do this, Carol. You're good enough. You're strong enough. And you've got something to come back to.' He held her gaze. For the first time since they'd met, he was making her a promise he thought he just might be able to keep. aro no If Dr Margarethe Schilling had known she was experiencing her last afternoon alive, she would probably have chosen to spend it differently. Perhaps a reprise of their favourite woodland walk with her lover. Or perhaps round her kitchen table with her closest friends, good food and wine and conversation flowing freely. Or, most likely, playing a computer game with her eight-year-old son Hartmut. Even her hardhearted bastard of an ex-husband wouldn't have refused to vary the conditions of Margarethe's contact time with her son if he'd known she was about to die.

Instead, unaware of what lay ahead of her, she considered her hours in the university library well spent. Her main academic interests lay in the psychological effects of religious belief systems, and a recent visit to the Roman museum in Koln had triggered off some ideas relating to the effects on the indigenous population of the imposition of Roman gods following their occupation of Germany. She was also intrigued to see if the collision between two contradictory religious systems had had any modifying influence on the Roman occupiers.

Her research was still at the embryonic stage where she had to accumulate information before she could begin to formulate theories. This was the tiring, tedious part of the process; hours spent in dusty archives, following trails that dead-ended as often as not. She had heard of researchers who had actually been infected with ancient illnesses as a result of poking around among materials that had barely been disturbed for centuries, but so far nothing that dramatic had ever happened to her.

The risks she normally ran from her work were quite different. Margarethe had spent years working with live subjects, probing the intersection between their religious beliefs and their personalities. Part of that had involved attempts to undermine those beliefs, and sometimes the results had been unsettling, to say the least. It had provided little comfort to her subjects to remind them that they had given ' informed consent to the clinical experiments, and she had on several occasions been subjected to strenuous personal abuse. In spite of her training, Margarethe found such confron- | tations stressful, and she had to admit to herself that the idea of researching the long dead had definite consolations.

She left the library just after four, when her head started to ache from too much close concentration on obscure materials. Emerging into the overcast afternoon had felt like a blessing, even with the humid promise of rain in the air. She didn't fancy going home to her empty house any sooner than she had to. She still hadn't grown accustomed to living alone; the rooms seemed too large, the echoes too present in the absence of her son.

For Margarethe the most bitter irony of her divorce was that the very thing that had poisoned her marriage was the single factor that had worked against her when it came to gaming full-time custody of her son. His father was a lazy leech, preferring the excuse of childcare to the demands of a job. Never mind that he didn't do a hand's turn in the house, leaving her to fit cooking, cleaning and shopping into the interstices of work and quality time with Hartmut. Never mind that he'd been the one to have an affair while their son was at school. It had left him in the perfect position to argue that he was Hartmut's primary carer and should therefore continue in that role. It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd thought he'd done this out of love for the boy. But she suspected it was more about exerting a last vestige of control over her. ru fai

So she preferred not to go home of an evening until she had to. She worked late, she dived into the cultural life of the city, she saw friends, she spent time in her lover's apartment. It was more than a desire not to be at home that took her into the centre of Bremen that day. She always enjoyed strolling in the narrow cobbled streets of the Schnoor, an enclave of gentrified medieval fishermen's houses, admiring the contents of the antiques shops' windows, even though she couldn't afford their prices. While the university where she worked and the suburb where she lived offered little in the way of aesthetic pleasure for the eye, the old town was a significant compensation.

She glanced at her watch. She had a couple of hours to spare before she met the journalist from the new e-zine. It sounded like an interesting venture, and it never hurt to find another outlet for one's work in these days when professional prowess was no longer measured by how well one taught one's students. Margarethe walked through the Schnoor and cut down one of the alleys leading to the swollen Weser, whose mud-coloured waters were flowing fast in spring spate. She walked along the river for a few minutes, then turned into the city's most bizarre street, the Bottcherstrasse, which combined disparate elements of Gothic, Art Nouveau and pure fantasy, a product of the imagination of local artists and architects in the 19208, funded by the inventor of decaffeinated coffee. It always amused Margarethe to think that such richness of style had come from so bloodless a product.

She turned left at the end of the street and made for her favourite city-centre bar, the Kleiner Ratskeller. A couple of glasses of Bremer Weisse and a steaming plate of their hearty knipe and she'd have recovered her strength, ready for whatever her interviewer had to throw at her.

Those of her fellow diners who noticed her could have had no idea that by morning they'd be witnesses in a murder investigation.

His hands moved deftly over the controls of the small crane that lifted his Volkswagen from the rear deck of the Wilhelmina Rosen. This was the moment when he shifted from one life into the other, when he stopped being the respected skipper of a fine-looking Rhineship and turned into a walking death warrant. Tonight, he would be lit up once more, celebrating his latest triumph between the thighs of some Bremen bitch.

He stretched his arms across his broad chest and hugged himself. If they only knew what they were taking into themselves when they spread their legs for him. He was the one who made light grow out of darkness. He'd transformed his own blackness into something that glowed like a jewel inside him and now he was turning that brightness on the shadowy secrets of the past, making them obvious to the world.

Later rather than sooner, he suspected, someone in law enforcement would realize that all his victims had turned humans into lab rats for their own selfish ends. Once the connection was established, the next step would be inevitable. Police departments were notoriously leaky. It would be all over the media. As soon as people realized the crimes that were being committed in the name of science, the mind fucks would have to stop. There would be a public outcry, things would have to change. He'd be able to stop then.

He wouldn't mind stopping, because his work would be done. He wasn't some thrill killer, murdering for kicks. It was true that his revenge had finally lifted the clouds from his mind and allowed him to take his place in the world as a real man, but that was a lucky bonus. If he stopped, he would still be able to fuck, because it wasn't murder that turned him on. He wasn't a pervert, he was simply a man with a mission. There was no pleasure for him in the deed itself, merely in what it signified. For him, pleasure was what he felt when he plied the waterways in the Wilhelmina Rosen. His other life was work, nothing more. The boat was what gave him joy.

They'd arrived at their destination right on schedule, reaching the wharf on the Weser with enough time to unload that afternoon. They didn't have to pick up their next cargo until ten the following morning. It was all going immaculately to plan. They'd moved the Wilhelmina Rosen to the railhead where they were due to load up with coal, and now he was leaving Gunther in charge so that he could conduct his personal business ashore.

He gently lowered the car on to the dockside and released the grabs. Tm off now,' he said to Gunther.

'Going anywhere interesting?' Gunther said, not even looking up from his dog-eared paperback.

'I need to see a couple of shipping agents. I wouldn't mind a bit more work up this way.'

Gunther made a noncommittal sound. 'We don't get home enough these days.'

'What's in Hamburg that's so special? You're divorced, you never see your kids even when we are in port.'

Gunther looked up from his book. 'My mates are in Hamburg.'

'You've got mates everywhere,' he said, walking off the bridge. He didn't want to lose Gunther, but finding a new crew member wasn't the hardest thing in the world. If Gunther didn't like the routes his mission had thrust upon them, he didn't have to stay. Of course, there weren't that many good jobs on the barges these days. Somehow, he didn't think he'd be looking for a replacement any time soon. But he wished Gunther hadn't started on about Hamburg now. It was too much like a hook pulling him back into the past, when he was so intent on moving forward into his future.

Now, that future lay here in Bremen, a few miles away. His was a good cover story, he had to admit. He had worked long and hard on it. At first, he had thought of posing as a colleague, but realized that he would be too easily found out. Academics were always meeting at conferences and conventions; there was a high risk his victim might actually know the person he was pretending to be. And in these days of easy email communication, it would be too easy to check. But what else would make them agree to a meeting?

Vanity, that was the key. They all loved to talk about themselves and their work. They were so sure of themselves, convinced they knew best about everything. But how to exploit that?

The answer had to lie in the new technology. It was easy to wear a mask there. They already had a computer on board, of course; so many of their consignments and movement orders arrived that way these days. He was intrigued by its potential for assisting him in his mission. So, he'd sent the boys back to Hamburg, laid the barge up for a week, bought a laptop computer and taken a crash course in the internet and website design. He'd registered the domain name of psychodialogue.com and created a website announcing the imminent arrival of PsychoDialogue, a new on-line magazine dedicated to the dissemination of current thinking in experimental psychology. He'd culled enough jargon from his own victim research to make it look like the real thing, he thought.

Then he had business cards printed up announcing himself as Hans Hochenstein, managing editor of PsychoDialogue. He had e-mailed his victims to arrange appointments to talk about their work, and the rest had fallen beautifully into place. One of the tutors on the computer course, a self-confessed former hacker, had even shown him how to send emails containing a logic bomb that would make them automatically erase themselves from the host computer after a predetermined period of time had elapsed. So even that potential fragment of evidence was gone. "*?

Tonight, Dr Margarethe Schilling would pay for her cruelty and her vanity. He checked the directions she'd given him, savouring the irony of her willing contribution to her own downfall. Then he set off.

The street where she lived was on the outskirts of the city. Here, fingers of countryside clung on to the land with an arthritic grip, a stranded straggle of trees and scrubby grass the only reminders of what used to be there. These last remnants of nature formed divisions between the housing developments, giving their owners an illusion of being country dwellers. They could look out at the darkling woods and imagine themselves lords of all they surveyed, ignoring the fact of their ugly square houses with their two reception rooms, three bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms and a fitted kitchen replicated Like some grotesque multiple birth all along the street. He couldn't see the attraction. He'd rather live in a tiny apartment in the heart of the city than reproduce ugli- ft ness along with space. Better still, to be cabined on a boat, a moving world that travelled with you and allowed you to change your view on a daily basis.

He drove slowly along the street, lights on against the gloomy drizzle of the evening, checking the house numbers. There was nothing to distinguish Margarethe Schilling's home from those of her neighbours. Although the colours of doors and the patterns of curtains varied, somehow they all merged into one amorphous identikit. Her car was parked in front of the garage door, he noticed. He wondered if his own car would be too conspicuous, left on the street when every other vehicle was garaged or on a drive. There was room for the Golf behind her elderly Audi, so he decided to park there.

He walked up to the front door, bag in hand, hoping suburban eyes would be too busy with their own concerns to notice him. Not that they'd remember someone so insignificant. It was only on the inside that he was remarkable. He rang the doorbell and waited. The door opened to reveal a woman of medium height and build. Not too heavy to lift, he thought with satisfaction. Her greying blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail from a face that looked tired and careworn. Mascara was slightly smudged round her eyes, as if she'd rubbed them without thinking. She wdre tailored charcoal slacks and a maroon chenille sweater that effectively disguised her figure. 'Herr Hochenstein?' she said.

He inclined his head. 'Dr Schilling, it's a pleasure to meet you.'

She stepped back and gestured to him to enter. 'Straight ahead,' she said. 'I hope you don't mind us talking in the kitchen, but it's the most comfortable room in the house.'

He'd hoped for her study. But as he walked into the kitchen, he could see it was ideal for his purpose. A scarred pine table stood in the middle of the floor, perfectly positioned for the ceremony that lay ahead. Later, he would find her study and leave his calling card in her files. For now, though, the kitchen would suffice.

He turned as Margarethe followed him, offering a smile. 'This is very comfortable.'

'I spend most of my time in here,' she said, passing him and heading for the stove. 'Now, would you like a drink? Tea, coffee? Something stronger?'

He measured the distances. The fridge would give him the best chance. 'A beer would be good,' he said, knowing this meant she'd have to turn her back on him.

And so it began again. Hands and brain moved in a smooth sequence, following the practised routine without a stutter or stumble. He was bending down to fasten her left ankle to the table leg when the sharp chime of the doorbell made him jerk upright, the cord falling from his startled fingers. His heart thudded in his chest. He felt the choke of panic close his throat. Someone was there, only twenty yards or so away from him. Someone who expected Margarethe Schilling to open the door.

She couldn't have made an arrangement, he reasoned. She knew he was coming, so she wouldn't have invited anyone round. It must be someone selling religion or household goods door to door, he told himself, fighting for calm. Either that or one of the neighbours who'd seen Schilling's car on the drive and expected her to be home. It had to be. Didn't it?

The doorbell pealed out again, this time for longer. He didn't know what to do. He stepped away from the table where Margarethe lay spread-eagled, still fully clothed. What if the caller was persistent enough to come round to the back of the house? All it would take would be one glance in the brightly lit kitchen windows. He scrabbled for the light switch. Just as his fingers closed on it, he heard a sound that chilled him even more than the doorbell. The unmistakable click of a key in a lock.

He froze, dry-mouthed, wondering about escape. The front door opened and a man's voice shouted, 'Margarethe?' The door closing, then footsteps heading for the kitchen. 'It's me,' he heard.

Grabbing a heavy cast-iron pan from the stove, he flattened himself against the wall by the door. It opened without a moment's hesitation and a tall, male shape appeared, crossing the threshold and stopping in his tracks. Enough light spilled in from outside to show the shape of Margarethe's body lying on the table. 'Margarethe?' he said again, reaching for the light switch.

The pan crashed down on the back of his head and the man dropped to his knees like a felled steer. His upper body teetered for a moment then collapsed face down in an untidy heap.

He dropped the pan with a loud clatter and turned the light back on. The interloper was sprawled on the floor, a trickle of blood coming from his nose. Dead or unconscious, he didn't mind which, just so long as it would give him time to finish what he'd started. He kicked him savagely in the ribs. Bastard. Who did he think he was, barging in like that?

Hurrying now, he returned to his task. He finished the bindings, then hastily ripped the tape from her mouth. He had to keep checking the man was still out cold, which slowed him up even more. He didn't bother explaining to the bitch why he was making an example of her. She'd fucked up his routine, ruined his pleasure in a job well done, and she didn't deserve to know that there was good reason for what was happening to her.

It pissed him off more than he would have believed possible that he was having to rush things. He managed to do a neat enough job with the scalping, but it wasn't as precise as he liked. Cursing with the vigour of the boatman he was, he finished up in the kitchen, wiping every surface his hands could possibly have touched, and giving the stranger a brutal kick in the kidneys as he passed, just for good measure.

All that was left was the placing of the file. He ran upstairs and started checking the rooms, unwilling to turn on the lights in case it drew more attention to him. The first room was clearly hers, dominated by a king-size bed and a wall of fitted wardrobes. The second looked like a kid's room, with its posters of Werder Bremen footballers and the Playstation on the table by the window.

He struck gold with the back bedroom, which was fitted out as a home office. He dragged open the drawer of the old fashioned wooden filing cabinet and thrust the file into place. He was past caring if it was in the right slot. He just wanted to be done and out of there before things got even worse.

One final check that the stranger was still unconscious, then he warily opened the front door a crack. Nothing moved. He saw a VW Passat parked in front of the house, but thankfully it wasn't blocking the drive. Head down, he hurried out of Margarethe Schilling's house and into the car.

His hands on the wheel were slippery with perspiration, his fingers antsy and trembling. Sweat trickled down his temples and into his hair. He had to force himself to keep his speed down in the quiet suburban streets. His brain kept replaying the terrible sound of the front door opening, and every time his heart constricted in panic again. Fear was staking out its familiar territory inside him, and he struggled against it, moaning as he drove. He was on the dock road before he felt his breathing return to normal. For the first time since he had started his campaign, he had been directly confronted with the dangers of his chosen path. And he didn't like it one bit.

Not that that was any reason to stop, he told himself. What he needed now was to take his mind off his panic. What he needed was a woman. He slowed down as he approached a row of bars, their dim lights yellow against the night. He'd find what he wanted here. He'd take some bitch and fuck her till the light came back.

Tadeusz crossed the pavement and climbed into the back seat of the black Mercedes. If any of his neighbours had seen him, they might have wondered at his appearance. Instead of his usual immaculate and expensive surface, he was dressed in old moleskin trousers, battered work boots, an ex-army parka covering a thick fisherman's sweater. But nobody wore Armani for an afternoon's rough shooting, which was exactly how he planned to spend the rest of the day.

Darko Krasic lounged in the opposite corner of the rear seat. He wore a scarred leather jerkin over a padded plaid shirt whose tails hung over corduroy trousers so old the raised wales were rubbed flat on the surface of the thighs. 'Good day for it,' he said.

'I hope so. I feel like killing someone whose disappearance would make the world a better place,' Tadeusz said. He spoke with the distaste of a man who has bitten into a fruit and found decay at its heart. Apathy and cynicism had been his alternating companions since Katerina's death. Everything he did now was an attempt to break free from their suffocating grip, and everything so far had failed. He had no conviction that this afternoon would bring anything different. 'And since we've no traffic cops to hand,' he continued with a wan attempt at humour, Til have to settle for something small and defenceless. Furry or feathered. You bring the guns?'

'They're in the boot. Where are we headed?'

'A nice bit of forest on the edge of the Schorfheide. That's the great thing about nature reserves. The wildlife doesn't recognize the boundaries. An old friend of mine owns a piece of land that butts right up against the protected area. And the ducks from the wetland don't know any better than to fly over his woodland. We should bag some good stuff. He's lending us a couple of his gun dogs so we can do the thing properly.' Tadeusz reached inside his jacket and pulled out a burnished pewter hip flask. He unscrewed the top and took a swig of Cognac. He held the flask out to Krasic. 'Want some?'

Krasic shook his head. 'You know I always like to keep a clear head round guns.'

'Speaking of guns and clear heads, what's the news on Marlene?'

'Some bitch from Criminal Intelligence has been sniffing around her. She spoke to her in the GeSa, and she's been back to see her in jail. Marlene's playing dumb and keeping her mouth shut, but it's winding her up.'

'You're sure we can trust her?'

Krasic gave a lazy smile. 'As long as we've got the kid, Marlene won't put a foot wrong. Funny how women get about their kids. You'd think they could only have the one, the way they go on about them. They seem to forget that all they're going to get from them is heartache. Especially someone like Marlene. She should have the sense to realize that any daughter of hers is going to grow up using, or selling herself. But it doesn't seem to matter to her. She still thinks the sun shines out of the kid's arse.'

'Just as well for us,' Tadeusz said. 'Where are we keeping her?' 'I've got a cousin who has a smallholding on the outskirts of Oranienburg. The nearest neighbour is half a mile away.

He's got a couple of kids of his own, so he knows how to deal with the little buggers.'

'And Marlene is convinced this isn't just a bluff?'

Krasic curled his lip in a sneer. 'Marlene believes I'm capable of anything. She's not going to play games with her child's life. Don't worry, Tadzio, it's all boxed off.'

'I wish I could say the same about the English end of things. The people who are trying to fill Colin's shoes, they're nothing but a bunch of clowns. They're too small-time to run a competent operation. I don't trust them to deliver. Meanwhile, we've got a bottleneck in Rotterdam. We can't go on warehousing illegals indefinitely.'

'Can't we just take them over to England and dump them?' Krasic sounded like a petulant child who can't understand why the world doesn't turn to suit him.

'Not in the sort of numbers we've got stockpiled. It'd be far too obvious that something on a large scale was going down. The last thing we want is to attract the attention of the immigration authorities. I've been successful for so long precisely because I haven't done things like that,' Tadeusz pointed out. 'We had such a convenient arrangement with Colin. I can't believe he was stupid enough to get caught in some minor league gangland shootout.'

'It should be a warning to you,' Krasic said. 'That's the kind of thing that can happen when you get too close to the action. You shouldn't have made that trip the other week. I don't like it when you're exposed like that.'

Tadeusz glowered out of the window. He knew Krasic was right, but he didn't like being told what to do by anyone, not even his trusted assistant. Now he felt mean. 'It doesn't hurt sometimes to remind people who's in charge,' he said.

'Tadzio, it could have blown up in your face. If they'd got Kamal to talk... Well, we might not be so lucky next time.'

'There was no element of luck there. We've got all our bases covered.' He turned and gave Krasic a hard stare. 'We do have all our bases covered, don't we?'

'Of course we do. That's why we keep cops on the payroll.'

'And speaking of the cops on our payroll, why haven't we heard anything more about the investigation into Katerina's accident? This has been goingnftn far too long. I want to know about that fucking motorbike. Lean on them, Darko. Don't let them think they can ignore me on this.'

Krasic nodded. Til chase them up, boss.'

'Do that. And remind them that whoever pays the piper calls the tune. I want the man who killed Katerina. I don't give a fuck about the legal process. I want to make him pay in a way he'll remember for the rest of his life. So tell those bastards to stop fucking around and produce some results.'

Krasic sighed inwardly. He had a feeling this was one investigation that was going to hit a brick wall sooner or later. He didn't relish the moment when he would have to report that fact to Tadzio. For the time being, he'd just have to keep going through the motions. Til talk to someone tonight,' he promised.

'Good. I'm tired of problems. I could use some solutions. Whatever it takes.' He leaned back against the soft leather and closed his eyes, signalling that the conversation was over. Playing the bully didn't come naturally to him, but he'd found himself slipping into the role depressingly often since Katerina had died. He couldn't bear the thought that the rest of his life was going to be like this, a constant succession of crises and problems. It felt as if her death had taken all the ease from his life, and he wondered if he would ever again feel relaxed and comfortable in his own shoes. Perhaps vengeance would help.

It was the only thing he could think of that might.

It was Petra Becker's first visit to Den Haag, and she was surprised by its lack of flamboyance compared to Amsterdam. The canal houses were models of understated classical demureness, with few of the ornate flourishes that gave a walk in central Amsterdam so much visual richness. This was an expense account city, with none of the bohemian colour that provided Amsterdam with its variety. Here, there was an air of sedate prosperity, speaking of a prim propriety that made Petra's Berliner soul feel stifled. She'd been here less than a day and already she was craving the disreputable.

She wasn't sure how she felt about the day that lay ahead of her. She was due to meet the British cop at eleven. Carol Jordan, a Detective Chief Inspector, whatever that meant. Petra was supposed to tell her everything she knew about Tadeusz Radecki, and it stuck in her throat. It didn't seem fair that she should hand over such hard-won gains to someone who hadn't earned her stripes in the battle. When Hanna Plesch had told her that her new role was to act as liaison for someone else's undercover, she'd felt cheated. Of course, she was too familiar a face in Berlin to go undercover herself, but it pissed her off that her bosses had rolled over and handed the whole affair to the Brits. What did they know about German organized crime? Who did they think they were, muscling in on her territory? And how dare they think they could succeed where her department had failed?

Plesch had read her reaction in her face, in spite of her best efforts to keep it under wraps. She'd told Petra that she only had two choices. She could work with Jordan, or she could walk away from the whole Radecki investigation. Reluctantly, Petra had accepted the assignment. It didn't mean she had to feel happy about it.

She consoled herself with the knowledge that the takedown would have to be carried out by German cops. The Brits wouldn't be prosecuting this one. At the end of the operation, when they put Radecki away, Carol Jordan would be long gone. Petra Becker, on the other hand, would still be here, and she'd be the one who would be remembered as being instrumental in the final dismemberment of Radecki's rackets.

She found a cafe, bought coffee and a couple of warm rolls and took them over to a table by the window. She pulled a slim file out of her battered leather briefcase and began to read.

Detective Chief Inspector Carol Jordan had graduated from Manchester University and gone straight into the Metropolitan Police. She'd been fast-tracked for promotion and had reached the rank of Detective Sergeant in the shortest possible time. She'd worked in general CID and also done a stint in the specialized major-incident team that dealt with murders and other serious crimes. When she'd passed her inspector's examination, she'd left the Met and moved north to the industrial city of Bradfield. That seemed to be when her career had really taken off.

DI Jordan acted as liaison officer with Dr Tony Hill, a Home Office approved offender profiler, on a series of murders in Bradfield. Her work was instrumental both in uncovering the identity of the perpetrator and also in saving the life ofDr Hill Petra read the dry words and made a mental note to check out the case on the internet when she had the opportunity. Serial killers always made it big on the world wide web.

She continued reading. Jordan then moved to East Yorkshire Police, where she was promoted to Detective Chief Inspector and took charge of the CID in the North Sea port ofSeaford. While she was stationed at Seaford, she renewed her professional relationship with Dr Hill, taking the lead role in an investigation which led to the eventual capture of the serial killer Jacko Vance.

DCI Jordan's work was central in obtaining the conviction of Vance, who is believed to have killed at least eight young girls. Another serial killer investigation, Petra noted. She'd take a look at the background to this one too. Maybe Carol Jordan could do her career another favour, aside from Radecki. There weren't that many officers around who had experience of tracking serial killers. Perhaps Petra could pick Jordan's brains and come up with a strategy for nailing the killer she believed had already struck in Leiden and Heidelberg. If Jordan was as good a cop as she appeared to be on paper, it was worth considering.

Petra returned to the file. Two years ago, DCI Jordan returned to the Metropolitan Police, where in addition to operational duties with the serious crimes unit, she has undertaken extensive training in intelligence gathering and analysis. For the purposes of this undercover, she has been temporarily assigned to the National Crime Squad.

That was the end of the brief. There was nothing in the file to suggest that Jordan had any undercover experience. Maybe they just hadn't gone into details. Petra couldn't believe they would put anyone into an operation this dangerous unless she really knew what she was doing. Radecki was way too smart to take anybody at face value. He'd be deeply suspicious of anyone who turned up with so convenient a proposal for solving his current problems. Jordan would have to be a superb operator to stay alive, let alone get under his guard and uncover anything worth knowing.

There was one more sheet of paper in the file. Petra flipped it over, seeing it was a photocopy of a photograph. She couldn't stifle a gasp of astonishment. If the caption hadn't told her this was Carol Jordan, she would have been convinced that she was looking at a photograph of Tadeusz Radecki's late girlfriend.

What was going on here? The resemblance was so spooky it made the hairs on the back of Petra's neck stand up. Where the hell had they found this cop? With looks like this, no matter what Carol Jordan's background, she'd have been drafted in for this assignment. She could imagine the guys thinking that if anyone was going to make Radecki drop his guard it was this particular British cop. And she supposed they had a point, though it was the kind of coincidence that * would freak her out if they'd pulled a stunt like this on her. It would certainly make Radecki's sidekicks suspicious, but the man himself probably wouldn't be able to resist Katerina's doppelganger. She gazed down at the picture and a slow smile spread across her face. For the first time since Plesch had briefed her, she was looking forward to this.

Back at her hotel, with time to spare, Petra decided to check her e-mail. There was nothing particularly interesting or urgent, so she turned to her favourite news site on the web to see what had happened in Germany since she'd left. She browsed the index of the day's stories till something buried far down the list caught her eye. LECTURER BRUTALLY MURDERED IN BREMEN, she read with a sinking feeling.

Hastily she clicked on the link that would bring her the full story.

A psychology lecturer was found brutally murdered in her I home on the outskirts of Bremen last night. The victim's boyfriend, who disturbed the killer, was also attacked and a left for dead.

Johann Weiss, 46, an architect, was battered unconscious by his assailant when he arrived at the home ofDr | Margarethe Schilling, 43. He alerted police when he I regained consciousness and discovered the murdered body of his partner.

Dr Schilling was a lecturer in experimental psychology at the University of Bremen and the mother of an eight year-old son from a previous marriage. The boy lives with his father near Worpswede.

Police are refusing to release details of the crime, but a source close to the investigation revealed that Dr Schilling's body was bound and naked. Her body had been mutilated in a ritualistic manner.

A police spokesman said, 'Investigations are continuing into the death of Dr Schilling. We are pursuing various lines of inquiry. This was a particularly brutal and callous murder and we are determined to bring Dr Schilling's killer to justice. We would like to appeal for any witnesses who saw anyone in the vicinity of Dr Schilling's home yesterday evening to contact the police i immediately. We are particularly keen to speak to the

driver of a dark-coloured Volkswagen Golf.'

Petra gazed at the screen, appalled and excited in equal measure. It looked as if the killer had struck again, and on German soil. And this time, there might just be a lead to pursue.

Carol followed Larry Candle, the British Europol Liaison Officer who had picked her up at the airport, through the corridors of Europol headquarters on the Raamweg. With his sharp suit and his cropped, thinning hair, he looked more like a financial services salesman than a police officer. But there was something indefinable that marked him out as English, something beyond his nasal Black Country accent. He led her to a small conference room on the third floor of the main building. The only window looked out on to a central courtyard, allowing no possibility of being seen from the outside world. As Carol settled herself at one corner of the long bleached wood table, the door opened and a tall, rangy dark-haired woman walked in. She had the loose-limbed stride of an athlete at home in her body. Dressed casually in black jeans, a charcoal sweater and a creased leather jacket, a black satchel promoting the Berlin Film Festival slung over her shoulder, she looked more like a TV producer than a cop. Her hair was cut short and fashionably tousled with wax. She had a triangular face, broad across the forehead and narrowing to a pointed chin beneath a thin-lipped mouth. She looked unnervingly severe until she smiled a greeting, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners and promising compromises her expression in repose flatly denied. 'Hi,' she said. Tm Petra Becker.' She crossed the room, ignoring Gandle and making straight for Carol. 'You must be Carol Jordan.' She spoke English with a transatlantic hint overlaying her slight German accent.

Petra held out a hand to Carol, who stood up and shook it. 'Pleased to meet you. This is Larry Gandle, one of the British ELOs.'

Petra nodded acknowledgement and pulled out the chair nearest Carol, so they were sitting at ninety degrees to each other. Gandle was immediately shut out of their communion, though he didn't realize it. He sat down opposite Carol, a large expanse of table separating them. 'Nice to meet you, Petra,' Gandle said with an air of condescension. 'I'm here purely to facilitate this meeting, to answer any questions that might come up that fall into our remit. But essentially, this is a joint operation between the British and the Germans, and it's up to you two to run it in a way that works best for you.'

"Thanks, Larry/ Carol said, not quite dismissing him, but clearly focused now on Petra, the woman who would be her link back into her real life from the chilly wastes of deep cover. Petra would be her first line of defence, but, paradoxically, she would also be the person who could most put her at risk. For Carol, it was vital to establish a bridgehead of respect at the very least. Liking would be a bonus. 'I appreciate you coming up here so we can thrash things out off the territory,' she said. Tin sure you're just as busy in Berlin as I used to be in London. It's never easy to get away from the day-to-day caseload.'

Petra raised one corner of her mouth in a crooked smile. 'Tadeusz Radecki has been the most significant element of my case-load for a long time now. This doesn't feel like an escape, believe me.'

'No, I can see that. It's a big weight off my mind that they've assigned me a liaison officer who knows so much about the background to the case. I've come into it cold, and I'm going to need all the help I can get. What I wanted to do, if this is OK with you, is to hammer out the practicalities of how we work this, while Larry's still here to keep us straight on what's possible and what isn't. Then I thought the two of us could go back to the hotel and brainstorm all I need to know about Radecki and his operation. How does that sound to you?'

Candle looked as if he was about to protest, but Petra caught his movement out of the corner of her eye and cut across him. 'Perfect. These official meeting places are so stifling to the soul, no?'

'Exactly. And I need to understand Radecki with my heart as well as my head. So I'm relying on you to open him up for me.'

Petra raised her eyebrows. Til do my best.' She paused and cocked her head to one side, studying Carol's face. 'You know, they told me you looked like Basler, and it's true, your photograph does resemble her. But in the flesh, it's uncanny. You could be her twin sister. You are going to blow Radecki away. I swear to God, he is going to be freaked out when he sees you.'

'Let's hope it's in a good way,' Carol said, feeling self conscious under the other woman's appraising gaze.

'Oh, I think so. I don't see how he could resist.' Petra smiled. 'I think this is going to work.'

'It'll work,' Candle said confidently. 'DCI Jordan is one hell of an operator.'

Petra ignored him and continued to focus on Carol. 'So, we need to establish where you are going to be staying in Berlin, how we feed you into Tadzio's world, and then how you and I maintain contact.'

'For starters, yes.'

Petra opened her satchel and took out a stylish ring-bound notebook, its pages edged in a rainbow of colours, its black plastic covers embossed with a chain-link design. She flipped it open at the green section and tore out a page. 'I think a hotel is not a good idea for you. Too many people have access to the room, and it's too easy for Radecki's people to bribe a chambermaid to let them in. Radecki himself may be % bowled over by your resemblance to Katerina, but I think the people around him -- especially his lieutenant, Krasic -- will be suspicious of you. Krasic will want to check you out as far as he possibly can. What I think is better is this: there is a building on a quiet street between the Ku'damm and Olivaerplatz that used to be a hotel and has been turned into service apartments. They are mostly used by business people, like you are supposed to be. Each has a living room, a bedroom, a bathroom and a small kitchen. You rent them by the week and a maid comes in twice a week to change the linen and to clean the place. It will be more secure, but also you will feel more at home there. It will be more relaxing, no?'

Carol nodded. 'Sounds good to me.'

Petra passed her the sheet of paper, which contained an address and phone number. 'I checked this morning that they have vacancies. I pretended to be a business associate of yours and asked them to hold one for you. They're expecting you to call. You do have credit cards in your alias?'

'I've got everything. Passport, driving licence, credit cards, a couple of old utility bills and bank statements. I don't have any Carol Jordan ID on me at all - I handed it all over to Larry for safekeeping.' She smiled across at him. 'Just don't sell my warrant card on the black market, Larry.'

He raised his eyebrows. 'Don't tempt me.'

'Next is how we stay in contact,' Petra continued,'Now, I've got something that will help here,' Candle butted in. 'Carol, you're going to have a laptop with you, right?'