NEW YORK

Three teams would do it. One in the fast, smart SUV. A second with motorbikes by Gramercy Park. The third on the corner of East 20th Street and Irving Place as backup.

And then there's what you can't see.

Two ways to get out. The short route via the Lincoln Tunnel and the New Jersey Turnpike – the longer one, twenty-six miles, but fast and straight along FDR drive and out over the Willis Avenue Bridge.

Two separate arcs north of Gramercy Park, heading for Teterboro airport across the New Jersey line; the Embraer Legacy 600, fuelled and cleared for imminent take-off; customs and immigration, in the way of such matters, bought and paid for in advance.

They had rehearsed most of it in other countries – but never as a team. In the hills above Beirut, near the village of Baa'bda. On a baking, dirt track outside the Uzbek city of Andijan, where government forces had shot down unarmed demonstrators in the main square and then meticulously put a bullet in the head of anyone still breathing. And then, for real, in piercing daylight, with crowds of passers-by screaming their heads off in the Petrozavodskaya suburb of Moscow.

They liked an audience.

In their head, all the training was reduced to a single mantra. Surprise equals shock equals power. You hit hard and loud and nobody moves. A thousand people can watch, but nobody sees you. They're mesmerized by the streaking image, the racket of engines like chainsaws, blaring horns, figures in bright colours.

To them you're simply invisible. Because you're slow, methodical, head down, hiding in the middle of the chaos, doing the business.

Twenty minutes on standby and then real life stumbles into the picture.

The police are towing a truck along East 21st Street. A van decides to unload. There's a crowd of nuns from God knows where doing God knows what.

But you've only got a single shot, so you do it anyway.

The bikes go first, white and yellow, buzzing like giant hornets, rearing up on one wheel, screeching around the square on the sidewalks, dodging passers-by, pushchairs and dogs. They are theatre.

As they ramp up the noise, the SUV pulls slowly out onto E.20th. It's black with blackened windows, shiny and immaculate.

You can't be that bad if you've got a clean car.

And the couple leaning against the railings of the park, turn almost lazily to watch, still smiling, still chatting, showing no sign of alarm.

The bike riders are glorious acrobats, the crowd in awe. No one can take their eyes off them.

They don't see that the SUV has moved around the square, right behind the couple. And the two of them don't see it either.

They're both young. Exploring, chatting. Early days because the shyness is still there. Hands touching from time to time, not holding.

They could have had a chance at something. It looked that way.

From the back of the SUV comes an effortless performance from a balding man in chinos and trainers. A janitor, a plumber perhaps. Baseball cap with illegible logo, epaulettes on a blue shirt. You see a million of them every day and you won't recognize a single one.

The crowd missed the cosh in his hand as he brought it down hard on the back of the woman's head. They missed her fall, missed her companion, mouth open, walking straight into a hypodermic needle. As he loses his footing, there's another blue shirt to catch him and between them, they carry him, as if it's the most normal thing in the world, to the back of the SUV and lay him gently on the floor.

No rush, just the practised, unhurried movements of the two professionals. Seen but not seen, easing the SUV slowly, so very slowly into the afternoon traffic.

It was the smell that hit her first. The disinfectant. Sharp and invasive. Then the rattle of distant trolleys, whispered voices. She opened her eyes, taking in the white hospital gown, white bed, white walls. A room for all purposes. Recovery one day – if your luck held; departure the next – if it didn't.

Clawing at the bedside phone, she dialled her emergency number.

'It's Mar ...'

She stopped mid-croak and tried to swallow.

'I'm Margo Lane.'

'Yes, I know. You should stay where you are until the morning.'

'And you are who?'

'Duty assistant. We'll be in touch.'

'Is that so? How did I get —'

But the man had hung up.

The Service, she recalled, had a habit of hiring charmless graduates, devoid of social graces. Like machines they were programmed to use the minimum number of words and ensure they were meaningless to anyone who might overhear them.

And frequently to everyone else as well.

Margo found a button beside the bed and called the nurse.

'What time was I admitted?' she asked her.

'About four hours ago ... you were really out of it.' She stood at the end of the bed and pointed to Margo's head. 'Does it hurt?'

'Now you mention it. How did I get here?'

'Ambulance. I don't deal with that part.'

'Who's paying for this?'

The nurse rearranged her pillows. 'You had some visitors not long...