The light from the keypad of his sat phone glowed in the darkness of the car. It rang five times, then clicked silent. ‘If he’s on a job, he won’t pick up,’ Triggs protested. ‘Try him again.’ ‘I’m telling you, boy, it’s a waste of time.’ But he dialled once more. This time, after seven rings, a voice answered. ‘Yeah?’ ‘It’s me,’ Triggs said. ‘Not a good time,’ said the voice at the other end. He spoke with the slight American accent common to many Israelis. Slightly tense. ‘I’m kind of in the middle of something. We’ll catch up in a day or so, okay?’ ‘Wait!’ Triggs said, glancing sideways at Danny. ‘Mate, I’ve got a job.’ A pause. ‘I’m on a job already.’ ‘Not like this one. There’s some gang-bangers in Massawa, need a few people taking care of. I need an extra pair of hands. Fifteen large in it for you, but we need to get moving tonight.’ Good, Danny thought. Triggs sounded bloody convincing. Another pause. ‘You’ll have to come to me.’ ‘I can do that.’ ‘Grid reference 15, 38, 40 north, 39, 20, 21 east,’ said the Israeli’s voice.
