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Office, do they? But how many London airports are there, Derek? I mean real airports that handle gold and money and freight?'
    Derek replied in a tremulous voice. 'One.'
    'ONE! Fuckin' right. One. That narrows it down for any grasses earwiggin', doesn't it? One. Take the money or open the box, Derek?'
    Derek's pupils darted left and right nervously. He didn't know what to say.
    'What's that? Box thirteen, you say? Let's see what's in Box thirteen. Oh dear. The booby prize.' Charlie changed his tone, letting some more menace creep into it as he lifted the barbell off Derek. 'You are going to fuck off out of my sight. And I mean out of it. No more suits from my tailors. No more suck-offs from the Gobble Twins. If I walk into a boozer and you're there, you walk out. You don't even finish your drink. Understand?'
    'Yes, Charlie—'
    'Mr Wilson!' he barked.
    'Yes, Mr Wilson.'
    'And if, after a year, I haven't seen your face or heard your name, then maybe we'll think again. Won't we?'
    'Yes, Mr Wilson.'
    'Get him out of here, Ray. I'm going to do some punchbag work.'
    Ray yanked Derek to his feet. The youth made to say something, but Ray clipped him smartly around the back of his head. Charlie was busy tying on the gloves, no longer even aware that Derek was in the room. It was over. And as Ray would tell Derek later, he'd got off very lightly indeed. The Guv'nor must be going soft.

Three
    RAF Hemswell, Lincolnshire, October 1962
    The three-minute warning siren sounded, its hideous cry carried, appropriately enough, by the wind from the east that came across the North Sea and then blew unimpeded over the flatlands of Lincolnshire. Every man and woman on the base momentarily froze as the wail gathered its breath, rising to a full scream. All but the very youngest had the sound of sirens cauterised into their brains, either from the early days of the Blitz, the later, more insidious threats of V1s and V2s, or, in recent years, the pointess Civil Defence exercises.
    Roy James scanned the sky, hoping, if these were indeed the final minutes of his life, to see the sleek silver English Electric Lightning of the RAF powering north to meet the bombers, intent on revenge for the millions who would die. The sky remained unsullied, however, apart from a lone Vickers Viscount rowing between the thin cumulus. Instead, the siren faltered and died. A test.
    What a place to stage a race, he thought. But there was a keen karting club on the base, run by a kid called Mike
    Lawrence, and driving between missile silos did, Roy had to admit, add a certain sense of extra danger to the proceedings.
    He folded his slender frame into his kart, checking straps and connections as he did so. There was a tap on his helmet and he looked up into the grinning face of little Mickey Ball.
    'Your fan club is here,' Mickey said, pointing at the sparse crowd of spectators.
    Roy picked out the towering shape of Gordon Goody, in his long leather Gestapo-style coat; next to him the willowy Bruce Reynolds, aka the Colonel, fussing with his shirt collar, as dandyish as ever. Completing the trio was a third man Roy didn't recognise. He wasn't short, being five ten or eleven, but he looked it next to the other two. The stranger was about Roy's age - younger than Bruce and Gordy - with fairish hair and a frown, as if he wasn't quite sure what he was doing there.
    A distorted voice came over the Tannoy system. 'Engines, gentlemen, please.'
    Roy knew what the visit from Bruce and Goody meant. About half a million quid, with a bit of luck.
    Goodbye Italkart, hello Brabham.
    Strapping himself in, Roy lowered his visor and gave the signal for Mickey to kick the Bultaco into life.

Four
    Comet House, Heathrow Airport, West London, October 1962
    As he washed his hands for the fifth time, Ronald 'Buster' Edwards wondered why he had ever agreed to get involved with this malarkey. Sometimes you did it for the laugh, for the buzz, for the sheer hell of it. And sometimes it was just for