71

‘Even though it’s a big jet, the Falcon has a short take-off and landing capability.’ He scrolled down a list of files. ‘It was one of the few large corporate aircraft to have been cleared for service at London City – as you know, Jim, an airport that’s renowned for stringent regulations governing the aircraft that use it.’

I nodded. If you needed STOL capability to get you in and out of London City, the airstrip RV would have been a piece of piss. That was why it had been used. It could carry the weight, get in and out, and didn’t look military.

He opened a file and up came hundreds of aircraft thumbnails. ‘Found them.’

The first few were of the Falcon coming in, nose high, flaps dangling, over the perimeter fence at IKIA just hours after Red Ken and Dex got dropped. I wondered if their bodies were on board, or whether they’d been burnt or cut up and fed to animals – anything to ensure they’d never be seen again. There was a good picture of the Falcon as it hit the tarmac – you could see little puffs of white smoke coming up from the wheels. There were several of it taxiing and many more of it parked up in front of M3C’s very own terminal, the building tucked away on the far side of the airport.

We were getting closer to what I hoped was going to be gravy time. With his long lens, Ali had snapped several clear pictures of the aircraft’s passengers as they disembarked. First off was Tattoo, still wearing the clothes he’d had on when he’d dropped Dex: short-sleeved blue shirt, tail hanging out over jeans. One snap had him putting his sun-gigs on, exposing his ink-covered arms.

And then, in the next shot, there was my target: standing at the top of the air-stairs, sniffing the breeze. The picture was an improvement on the black-and-white, but not by much.

‘You know who any of these people are?’

‘Just M3C people, I suppose.’

There was another shot of Altun as he made his way down the steps and then, finally, the money shot: staring out over the airport, his face turned to the camera, almost as if he was posing, one hand smoothing back hair that had been ruffled by the wind . . .

‘Ali, they’re excellent. The magazine will love them.’

‘Really? You are sure these are good enough for you?’ He was a happy man.

‘More than sure, Ali. I’ll take all of them. I’m sure my editor would agree for me to pay, say, a thousand dollars.’ I didn’t want to fuck about. That would have been more than he made in a couple of months behind the wheel of the Paykan. And the three of them could do with it. I would have liked to give them more, but I still had a job to do and no idea what it would end up costing.

‘I have more!’ His fingers darted across the keyboard.

I found myself staring at several good clear shots of a forklift truck offloading the wooden crates. The second loadie from the airstrip was in charge. There was nothing that looked like a couple of freshly wrapped bodies.