Then he ran to the parapet and vaulted over the side. He dropped fifteen feet and landed on a narrow path that ran beside the opera house and the sea. He turned left, making his way back towards the rear of the building and the motorway beyond that. He stuck as close as possible to the wall of the opera house, so that anyone looking over the parapet, up above, would have to lean right out to see him. He could hear shouts and running footsteps above him, but they hadn’t spotted him yet. In the distance there was another sound, something new: a helicopter, and getting closer, too. A side door opened and a man walked out, a kid, really, early twenties at most. He was dressed in a red and beige seventies-style Fila tracksuit top, carrying a motorbike helmet. He stopped by a moped propped up against the wall. It wasn’t what Carver would have chosen. For urban getaway work, he’d always specified fast, nimble trailbikes, with 400-cc engines as an absolute minimum. This kid’s machine had about as much power as an old washing machine.
