He stepped back into the main room where the lady was stretched out, catlike, on her cot. The curtain was still drawn; her meter was still running.

“Do you want to screw me now?” the woman asked in a slightly bored tone as she started to slide the thong down her legs. “It’s been paid for,” she added if he needed any inducement. “A full hour. And I will go off the list for another thirty euros.”

“Nee, dank u,” he replied, smiling politely. If you were going to turn a lady down in the matter of sex, better you say it in her own language.

“Why not? Is there a problem?” she said, obviously offended.

“I’m married,” he said simply.

“So are most of the men who see me.”

“I’m sure.”

“Where is your wedding ring?” she asked suspiciously.

“Never wear it at work.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me?” Her tone of disbelief was as clearly etched as the look of incredulity on her face.

He hid his bemusement. She must be really new because her vanity was largely intact. The older whores would surely jump at the chance for full pay that included no humping.

“Absolutely sure.”

She slid her thong back up. “Pity.”

“Yes, pity,” he said. Actually, if things went according to plan, in two days hence he’d be in Dublin with the only woman he’d ever really loved. And also the reason why he had to get out. Now.

Still, even Shaw had to acknowledge, it was a big if. In his line of work, tomorrow was just another day to die.

CHAPTER 6

THERE IS ALWAYS A DAMN Tunisian, Moroccan, or Egyptian involved. Always. Shaw said this to himself. One slip with these gents and they’d rip your gonads off and force-feed them to you and say that Allah had told them to do it if they bothered to give you a reason at all. See you in paradise, infidel. Serve me well for eternity, filthy pig. He knew the speeches by heart.