The Chinaman by Stephen Leather Page A

next to no noise. He removed it and handed it to the assistant. ‘This one is good,’ said Nguyen.
    The assistant placed all Nguyen’s purchases in a large plastic carrier bag, totalling them up on the cash register as he did. Nguyen paid in cash. As he waited for his change he looked wistfully at the AK-47 replica. So many memories, he thought.
    On the way to the Tube station he walked past a photographer’s shop with shelves full of cameras and lenses. He went in and asked if they sold flash-bulbs.
    â€˜Flash-bulbs?’ said the man behind the counter. ‘Don’t get much call for those these days. They all have built in flashes now.’ He frowned and rubbed his chin. ‘I’ve got some somewhere, I saw them a couple of weeks ago. What sort of camera are they for?’
    Nguyen shrugged. ‘Any sort. But not the square ones, the ones they use in the little cameras. I want the single bulbs.’
    â€˜Yeah, I know the sort you mean. Hang on, let me check out back.’ He disappeared through a door and Nguyen heard boxes being moved and drawers opening and closing.
    â€˜You’re in luck,’ he called. ‘How many do you want?’
    â€˜A dozen,’ Nguyen shouted back.
    The man returned with two packets and handed them to Nguyen. ‘I can’t guarantee they’ll still work, mind,’ he said. ‘They’re old stock and I don’t know how long they’ve been there.’
    Nguyen examined them carefully and then nodded. ‘They will be perfect,’ he said. He paid in cash, put the packets into his carrier bag and left the shop.
    â€˜We need more explosive,’ The Bombmaker said. Fisher ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. He stretched his legs out and lay back in the leather sofa.
    â€˜How much do we have left?’ he asked.
    â€˜A couple of kilos, no more. We’ve plenty of detonators, though.’
    Fisher smiled. ‘Fat lot of good they’ll be to us without the stuff that goes bang,’ he said. ‘I’ll get us more, don’t you worry.’
    McCormick came into the lounge from the kitchen and put down four mugs of coffee on the table by the side of the sofa. O’Reilly got up from his easy chair and took one of them. He walked over to the french windows and looked over the Thames as he drank.
    â€˜Isn’t it about time we moved?’ asked McCormick.
    â€˜Why move?’ said Fisher.
    â€˜In case they track us down. We’ve been here for months, sure enough. Normal procedure is to keep moving, never stay in one place for too long.’
    Fisher shook his head. ‘No, that’s exactly what they’d expect us to do. They’ll be checking all the small hotels and bed and breakfast places. A group like us moving around will stick out like a sore thumb. And after the Knightsbridge bombing every landlady in Britain is on the lookout for Irishmen. How long do you think it would take until we were rumbled?’
    â€˜I suppose you’re right,’ said McCormick reluctantly. ‘It’s just . . .’
    â€˜Look,’ interrupted Fisher, ‘we’ve had this flat rented for almost a year. It’s on a long-term lease, paid direct from a dummy company bank account. As far as the landlord is concerned, it’s rented to a stockbroking firm who use it for visiting executives from the States. This place is perfect.’
    O’Reilly tapped on the window. ‘And if the SAS knock on the front door, we can leg it over the balcony and down the Thames,’ he said.
    â€˜If the SAS find out we’re here, we won’t be going anywhere,’ said McCormick. ‘Bastards.’
    â€˜Nobody is going to find out where we are,’ said Fisher. ‘Nobody. So long as we stay right where we are. Our more immediate problem is to get hold of some more Semtex.’
    O’Reilly turned away from the window, sipping his coffee. He took the mug