'You convince her that you both could do with a couple of days off. Make it sound right, Werner. You know what this one means to me. I need Stinnes in London.'

'And I need Zena here with me,' said Werner grimly.

'Stinnes thinks Zena is eloping with him.'

'Eloping?'

'You know what I mean,' I said.

'Zena is just stringing him along,' said Werner. 'She's trying to help you, Bernie.'

'She's bloody devious, Werner. She's your wife, I know. But she's too bloody devious.'

Werner didn't deny it. 'She's seen that man Tiptree,' said Werner.

'Seen him?'

'That's where she went this afternoon when we were talking. She went to meet Henry Tiptree. She told me when she got back.'

'What are London playing at?' I said wearily.

'Why put up with it?' said Werner. 'Why don't you go and see Tiptree? Tell him to either take over the whole operation or stay out of it.'

'I thought of that, Werner,' I said. 'But Tiptree is sure to say he'll take over. And we both know that Tiptree might well make a botch of it. I'm convinced that Erich Stinnes is serious. If he turns up on Friday I'll deliver him to the bloody plane; at gunpoint if necessary. I'll get him to London or die in the attempt. If I hand it over to Tiptree, and it all goes wrong, London will say I deliberately abandoned the operation because I didn't want Stinnes debriefed in London.'

Werner turned away from me and wound down the window as if suddenly interested in something else. He was avoiding my eyes. I suppose he was upset at the prospect of losing Zena.

'Zena's not going anywhere with Stinnes,' I promised him. 'You'll be at the airport, Werner. You can stop her if she tries.' He didn't reply. I started up the car and turned round in the yard. Then I drove through the workshop. The flashes of the acetylene torch lit up the wrecked cars like the flashguns of a thousand paparazzi. Outside a blue-and-white police car was parked. The driver was inside talking to Angel.

26

Garibaldi Square is to Mexican musicians what the Galapagos Archipelago is to wildlife. Even in the small hours of the night the square was crowded with people and the air was filled with the sound of two or three dozen groups singing and playing different songs. There is no pop, rock, soul or punk to be heard; no Elvis, no Beatles, no Elton John. This is Mexican music and, if you don't like it, you can go somewhere else.

'I've only been here before in the morning. I had no idea what it was really like. It's fantastic,' said Henry Tiptree, as we walked past five musicians in scrapes and sombreros singing '… life is worth nothing in Guanajuato'. Tiptree halted for a moment to listen. 'It's not even spoiled by tourists; almost everyone here is Mexican.'

'It's right for what we want,' I said. 'It's ill-lit, noisy and crowded.' And smelly too. Trapped by the surrounding mountains, the still air was pressed down upon the city, trapping the petrol fumes and woodsmoke so that the air offended the nose and stung the eyes.

'I'm not working against you, Samson,' said Henry Tiptree suddenly.

'If you say so,' I said. Tiptree stopped to look around the square. There was music coming from every direction, and yet the effect was polyphony rather than discord. Or was I becoming inured to chaos?

Tiptree continued to look round the square. He fingered the moustache that never seemed to grow, and spoke with that sort of confidential manner that people use to assert their self-importance. 'You must understand,' he said, 'that the success of this operation will be measured according to whether we get our man to London; nothing else counts for much. That's why London Central is determined that we do everything right.'

'We all are,' I said. 'But who knows best what's right?'

'Very philosophical,' said Tiptree flatly.

'I am very philosophical,' I said. 'You get philosophical after London Central screws up for you a few times.'

'London Central have confirmed that I'm in charge,' said Tiptree.

'I want that understood before we go a step further. You will take Stinnes to London, but here in the city we're doing things my way.'

'You're in charge,' I agreed. London Central? Who'd put this idiot in charge? Dicky? Bret? Morgan, perhaps. Tiptree seemed to be on very good terms with Morgan, the D-G's factotum, who could have caught the D-G in a weak moment and got a signature from him.

Tiptree shot me a suspicious glance. He knew my glib pledge counted for little or nothing. I didn't risk my neck taking orders from learners. He stopped to watch another group of musicians. They were singing a song about a man who'd lost his heart to a girl from Veracruz. The men were illuminated by a hissing acetylene lamp placed at their feet. The lead singer – a very old man with a face like a walnut and a bandido moustache – had a fine bass voice that was racked with emotion. There is a passionate soul in every Mexican, so that love or revolution dominates his whole being; but only for a few minutes at a time.

'What have you arranged about his money?' I asked.

From the corner of my eye I could see that Tiptree was looking at me, trying to decide how to answer. 'Mrs Volkmann is meeting us at the bank,' he said finally. 'Stinnes wants the money paid to her.'

Only with a great effort did I prevent myself from jumping up and down and shrieking with rage. This idiot was keeping Zena better informed than me. But very calmly I said, 'What bank is open in Garibaldi Square at this hour?'

'So there are things that even you don't know, eh, Samson?'

He went along the pavement to find a pulqueria where even the barman looked drunk. The fermenting sap of the maguey plant smells like rancid nut-oil, but it's the cheapest way to oblivion, and like so many such bars this one was packed. After pushing his way between the customers right to the very back, Tiptree opened a door and held it open for me. I followed him into a narrow hallway, then he started to go up a steep flight of creaking stairs.

'Wait a minute,' I said. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs to look around. There was only a dim electric bulb to illuminate a passage that led out to the backyard and the urinals. 'Where are we going?' My voice echoed as I closed the door behind me. The customers in the bar were kicking up so much noise that I could only faintly hear the music from Garibaldi Square. There was a lot about this place that I didn't like.

'I'm meeting Stinnes in the square,' I protested.

'Don't be so nervous,' said Tiptree. 'The plan has been changed. Stinnes knows.' He smiled to reassure me, but it only made me see what a conceited fool he was. He knew how much I resented this change of plan and the way that Zena had already been made a party to it. 'It's all arranged.'

I touched the butt of the old pistol to be sure it was still there and then followed him up the narrow stairs. Rat-trap, fire-trap, mantrap; it was the sort of place I didn't like at any time. But I especially didn't like it for this sort of business. Narrow stairway with a wide well, so that a man with a Saturday-night special at the top of the house could plink an army one by one.

Tiptree stopped on the first-floor landing. There was just enough light to see that the door looked new. It was the only new-looking object anywhere in sight. He pressed the buzzer and waited for a small panel to open. It provided someone inside with a view of Tiptree's Eton tie. But he bent lower to see inside and whispered something that resulted in the sound of well-oiled bolts being slid back.

'I don't like surprises,' I told Tiptree. 'I arranged to meet Stinnes in the square.'

'I've sent a message to him,' said Tiptree. 'He'll meet us here. It's too damned public, that square.'