‘That was Omar,’ he grinned to Magdalena Ortiz, then shouted through the living room door to Oscar Salazar and Maria Vasquez, who were lounging on the floor of his Kilburn flat, smoking roll-up cigarettes and drinking coffee.
‘He’s on his way. We’ll all meet up tomorrow evening and take it from there as planned.’
Magdalena ran a finger over the long scar that stretched from centre cheek to lower jaw, before opening the fridge and pulling open a bottle of Spanish pseudo-champagne.
‘Then we must enjoy the time we have left,’ she said, untwisting the wire casing and yanking at the cork.
“To the memory of Commandante Nestor Cerpa Cartolini and the brave Tupac Amaristas of Edgar Sanchez Commando,’ she shouted, raising the bottle towards the two Peruvians.
But Smedley reached out and took the bottle from her. He swigged an enormous mouthful from the neck, gulped, then passed the fizzy stuff back to the Peruvians.