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them.’
    ‘With a view to what exactly?’
    ‘Being recruited. Joining us. That is, if you can prove you are truly . . . ready.’
    Jaeger’s face hardened. ‘You almost said worthy , didn’t you?’
    ‘It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what I think. It is not my decision either way.’
    ‘And what makes you think I’d want to join you? Join them ?’
    ‘Simple.’ Narov glanced at him. ‘Your wife and child: right now my people offer the best chance you’ll ever have of finding them.’
    Jaeger felt a surge of emotion well up inside him. Three terrible years – it was one hell of a long time to be searching for your loved ones, especially when all evidence suggested they were being held captive by a merciless enemy.
    Before he could think of a suitable response, he felt his phone vibrate. Message incoming. Leticia Santos’s surgeon was keeping him updated by text, and he figured it was maybe news of how she was doing.
    He glanced at the cheap mobile’s screen. These pay-as-you-go phones were often the most secure. If you kept the battery removed, only powering up briefly to check for messages, they were pretty much untraceable. Otherwise your phone would betray your location every time.
    The message was from Raff – normally a man of few words. Jaeger clicked and opened it.
     
Urgent. Meet me at the usual place. And read this.
     
    Jaeger scrolled down and clicked on a link embedded in the message. A news headline appeared: ‘London edit suite firebombed – suspected terrorism spectacular’. Below was a photo of a building engulfed in a cloud of billowing smoke.
    The image hit Jaeger like a punch to the guts. He knew that place well. It was The Joint, the edit suite where the final touches were being put to a TV film telling the story of their expedition into the Amazon.
    ‘Oh my God . . .’ He reached across and presented the screen to Narov. ‘It’s started. They’ve hit Dale.’
    Narov stared for an instant, betraying little visible reaction. Mike Dale had been their Amazon expedition film-maker. A young Aussie cameraman-cum-expeditioner, he’d filmed their epic journey for a number of TV channels.
    ‘I warned you,’ she said. ‘I told you this would happen. Unless we finish this, they will hunt every one of us down. And after Cuba, even more so.’
    Jaeger slipped the phone into his pocket, grabbing his Belstaff and bike helmet. ‘I’m meeting Raff. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back with an update . . . and an answer.’
    As much as he felt like burning some rubber to work off his pent-up anger, Jaeger forced himself to take the ride easy. The last thing he needed right now was to smash himself up, and especially as they might well have lost another of their team.
    At first, Jaeger and Dale had had a fractious, troubled relationship. But over the weeks spent in the jungle, Jaeger had come to respect and value the cameraman’s craft, and to cherish the man’s company. By the end, Dale had become someone he counted as a close friend.
    By the ‘usual place’ Raff meant the Crusting Pipe, an ancient bar set in the former cellars of a central London town house. With its low, vaulted brick ceiling stained yellow with tobacco smoke and a layer of sawdust scattered underfoot, it had an air about it of a meeting place of pirates, desperadoes and gentleman thieves.
    It was just the kind of venue that suited Raff, Jaeger and their ilk.
    Jaeger parked the bike on the cobbled square and made his way through the crowds, taking the stone steps to the lower level two at a time. He found Raff in their usual cubbyhole, a place about as private and conspiratorial as you could ever wish for.
    There was a bottle of wine on the ancient, battered table. By the glow of the candle beside it, Jaeger could tell that it was already half empty.
    Wordlessly, Raff placed a glass in front of Jaeger and poured. Then he raised his own, darkly, and they drank. Each man had seen enough bloodshed – and lost