Dead Tomorrow

that almost everyone had now gone into the briefing room.
    ‘It would probably be in contact with, say, two or three coastal base stations and would be talking to a known sector, about a third of the circle on each.’
    He glanced around again.
    ‘Very quickly, there is a thing called timing advance . Without getting too technical, the signal travels to and from the base station at the speed of light–three hundred thousand kilometres per second. That timing advance– depending on which network we are talking about–allows you to calculate a distance to the phone from each base station. Are you still with me?’
    Glenn nodded.
    ‘Thus you have some approximate bearings–but, more importantly, distances from each, which together should allow you to triangulate a location within a few hundred yards. But you have to remember, this is only the place where the last registration took place. The boat could have moved twenty minutes on.’
    ‘So at least I would get its last known position and roughly the course it was steering?’
    ‘Spot on!’
    ‘You’re a star, Ray!’ Glenn said, writing down notes on his pad. ‘You’re a fucking star!’

63
    At half past eight in themorning, two people, looking to the outside world like a mother and son, stood in line at one of the dozen EU Passport Holders immigration queues at Gatwick Airport.
    The woman was a confident, statuesque blonde in her forties, with hair just off her shoulders in a chic, modern style. She wore a fur-trimmed, black suede coat and matching boots, and towed behind her a Gucci overnight bag on wheels. The boy was a bewildered-looking teenager. He was thin, with ruffled black hair cut short, and with a hint of Romany in his features, dressed in a denim jacket that looked too big for him, crisp blue jeans and brand-new trainers with the laces trailing loose. He carried nothing, except a small electronic game he had been given to occupy him, and the hope in his heart that soon, hopefully this morning, he would be reunited with the only person he had ever loved.
    The woman made a series of phone calls in a language the boy did not speak, German, he presumed, while he played with his game, but he was bored with it. Bored with the travelling. Hoping against hope the journey would soon be over.
    Finally, it was their turn next. A businessman in front handed his passport to the female, Indian-looking immigration officer, who scanned it, looking faintly bored, as if she was coming to the end of a long shift, and handed it back to him.
    Marlene Hartmann steppedforwards, squeezed the boy’s hand, her leather gloves masking the clamminess of her own hands, then handed over the two passports.
    The officer scanned Marlene’s first, looked at the screen, which flagged up nothing, and then scanned the boy’s. Rares Hartmann. Nothing. She handed the passports back.
    Outside, in the Arrivals hall, among the plethora of drivers holding up printed or handwritten name-boards, and anxious relatives scanning everyone coming through the door, Marlene spotted Vlad Cosmescu.
    They greeted each other with a formal handshake. Then she turned to the boy, who had never been outside of Bucharest in his life and was looking even more bewildered now.
    ‘Rares. This is Uncle Vlad. He will look after you.’
    Cosmescu greeted the boy with a handshake and, in his native Romanian tongue, told him he was happy to welcome him to England. The boy mumbled a reply that he was happy to be here and hoped to see his girlfriend, Ilinca, soon–this morning?
    Cosmescu assured him Ilinca was waiting for him and longing to see him. They were going to drop Frau Hartmann off, then go on to see Ilinca.
    The boy’s eyes lit up and, for the first time in a long time, he smiled.
    Five minutes later, the brown Mercedes, with grubby little buck-toothed Grigore at the wheel, pulled out of Gatwick Airport and on to the link road to the M23 motorway. Minutes later they were heading south towards the city of Brighton and Hove. Marlene Hartmann sat in the front passenger seat. Rares sat quietly in the back. This was the start ofhis new life and he was excited. But more than anything, he could scarcely wait to see Ilinca again.
    It had only been a few weeks since they parted company, in a flurry of kisses and promises and tears. And less than a couple of months since this angel, Marlene, had come into their lives to rescue them.
    It felt like a dream.
    His real name was Rares Petre Florescu and he was