for by direct debit from my ACA bank account at the Royal Bank of Scotland. I'd be sending to a Hotmail account belonging to the Yes Man. Echelon wouldn't be able to intercept: it would be a load of old mush bouncing around in cyberspace until the Yes Man opened up his own computer and retrieved it.
The mailbox was full of emails about jobs I was planning and had already done for the publisher. Their emails would keep arriving all the time I was away. There was also a healthy amount of spam. In fact, it looked so normal I was amazed the Firm hadn't downloaded some porn on to it.
The hidden bit of the hard drive prompted me for my password. I keyed in my eight-digit army number and it took me straight online.
There was one email with an attachment waiting. It was from the Yes Man.
Dom's reply this morning to the email Siobhan had sent from the kitchen wasn't good news. The language was controlled, but you could tell he was sweating.
The sofas are blue – remember it took us a
month of shopping to find just the right shade?
Darling, they have told me that if the money
isn't ready by Saturday, they will kill me. Please
make sure all the funds from Patrick or whoever
come in by electronic transfer – no checks
– so the money is ready to move. I will give you
details of how and where as soon as you tell
me you're ready. I love you. Dx
Siobhan's email, in contrast, was all over the place. I imagined her sitting at the island sobbing into her alcohol.
I WILL HAVE THE MONEY . . . patricks nearly
got everything sorted . . . i will have the money
darling . . . please tell them to hold on I have it,
it will be ready for them anywhere anytime . . .
please tell them not to harm you, i will have
their money. When you reply, wherever you are,
we'll have good news – I promise. I love you.
Please tell me what happened to John's black
BMW last winter. Please show me you are still
alive. I love you . . .
I reread them both. There was something wrong with Dom's. The proof-of-life statements showed he was alive around the time they were sent, but it didn't feel like Dom was sending them.
He was a clever lad with a degree in English literature. Under duress he might spell the odd word wrong, but he wouldn't have spelt 'cheque' like an American. In fact, I knew he didn't. I'd seen the proof in Pete's files. So had I got an American at the end of these emails? Could be; there were enough of them in-country.
The Yes Man told me they were being sent from AM Net Café. It was on the corner of Flower Street and Jadayi Sulh, two shops in from the junction opposite the Emergency Surgical Centre for War Victims.
There was no welcome pack in the room and no courtesy map, no bus trips on offer to see the sights or visits to the ballet. One day I guessed there'd be guided tours of bin Laden's caves and the glorious poppy fields in bloom, but not yet.
There was a PDF map of the city on the desktop. I'd try to correlate the main routes with satellite imagery. It was important to know exactly where I was, and exactly where I was going – there was absolutely no room for fuck-ups.
I could have used the Firm's satellite imagery to study the location, but Google Earth was just as good for the detail I needed.
The street map itself wasn't detailed enough to give street names, but the sat imagery was good.
I found the café. It was only about a K and a half away, but I was going to need to burn the routes there and back firmly into my memory. I switched between the PDF and Google Earth and soon had my bearings.
I found a bottle of water among all the mock-tails in the minibar and went back to the laptop. This was a dry country. If you wanted alcohol, you had to smuggle in your own – or go to a place like the Gandamack Lodge.
It was next on my list. I'd have to check all Dom's known locations to find out where the fuck he was by Saturday morning. Even if the cash was handed over, he was still going to get a round in the back of the head. And if I discovered he'd killed