So I was feeling normal for the situation, a hollow-ness in the stomach, a chill on the skin, the palms slightly moist. The feeling that I was on my way to an execution wasn't new: I'd had it a hundred times and as recently as last night when little fat Nicko was taking me across the darkling main to a rendezvous with the grim reaper, God rest his stinking little soul, I did not like that man, execution, yes, nothing new, but this was different because everything looked so civilised and I was sitting here in Monck's dinner jacket and there was going to be an invitation left for me at the Marina Yacht Club for this very plush party and I was meeting a rather attractive woman there, so forth, different but no better, no better, my good friend, because a trap is a trap and in this trade you don't often get out alive.

'You'll have immediate contact, of course, whenever you need it,' Ferris said, and pulled his valise from under the seat in front. He meant I could signal any one of his people in the environment and talk to them, tell them what I wanted, pine veneer and simple handles, nothing fancy, joke.

Draughty out here on the tarmac. Ferris had phoned from the plane for a chopper to stand by for our arrival in Miami and take us to the shuttle pad by the Yacht Club because the timing had been tight and it was now 11:43 and we didn't know how long Cambridge would be able to keep von Brinkerhoff there.

A Customs and Immigration man was waiting for us and we stood there showing papers with our hair all over the place and then he said everything was okay and we got into the Hughes 300.

Lift-off, 11:48.

'Croder will be following on,' Ferris said, 'and he'll be available for a meeting with Cambridge if she seems amenable,' A tuft of his thin straw-coloured hair still sticking up. 'At this stage anything can happen, and with a bit of luck she might be ready to give us the whole thing and we can wrap up the mission.'

Keeping things cheerful, you understand, knows his job, Ferris.

Down at 11:57, lowering across the masts in the marina, heeling a little as the pilot brought most of the power off and turned through the last few degrees and then settled her carefully on the skids. A nice enough building, the Yacht Club, as you'd imagine, pale red brick and white window frames, pillared portico and wide green lawns, people standing outside on the balconies with drinks in their hands, the women in long colourful dresses, I'm not, if you want to know, particularly keen on parties because you can't hear what people are saying with all the noise and that wouldn't matter so much but you've got to put in some kind of answer here and there for the sake of politesse, Ferris opening the door and dropping onto the pad and waiting for me, a last-minute rush of apprehension as I followed him, ducking under the rotors and already seeing some of them not far away, some of his people, one of them the man who'd got me into that cab on the quay when the shed had caught fire two days ago, good people, well trained, a comfort, yes.

I swung the door of the chopper shut and turned round and faced the building and blew the cover they'd been giving me since they'd taken me off the tug last night, blew it to the winds. The Mafia had got a contract out on me and Toufexis's people had been given my photograph and there'd be some of them here tonight and I felt the sudden air-rush and the bloody thing droning into the skull and then it was over and I was back in control.

'Eighteen men,' Ferris said, 'your own little army,' and touched my elbow and turned away and I walked along the tiled path between the massed geraniums, not hurrying because I was here now and the party was far from over by the look of things, a crowd of black polished limousines in the car park on my left with chauffeurs standing around and two of our people near the wrought iron gates. I didn't know exactly what orders Croder had given for tonight but he wouldn't have put this amount of support in the field just to keep things jolly, so I suppose he'd told them to watch for a gun hand moving and make a killing drop in time to protect me. They'd carry official bodyguard licences to keep the fuss down when the police wanted to know what was happening: this was routine Bureau procedure.

Skin beginning to itch because the warmth of the night was heating up the Teflon I was wearing under the dinner-jacket, people crossing the portico on their way to the car park, only half a dozen police officers standing around so I suppose Senator Judd had already left: it was midnight. If he'd still been here there would have been fifty of them.

But there were a great many other people also standing around, most of them in blue serge suits. There would be a lot of high-echelon guests here tonight, targets for political activists and weirdos.

'Hi! Can I help you?'

Brilliant smile, a small corsage of carnations, one bare shoulder, Florida chic.

'There should be an invitation here for me. Richard Keyes.'

The name for the face in the photograph. They would know my name too. Shortening the odds, yes, on the other hand 'Sure, Mr Keyes, I have it right here. I'm sorry you missed the Senator.'

'Was he good?'

'O-h-h-h…' with her eyes shining, rolling to heaven, every hormone in her slim preened body lining up to vote for Golden Boy.

On the other hand, it wouldn't be easy in a crowd this big to squeeze off a shot and get clear with all those chauffeurs and police officers and bodyguards standing around, and less easy still to pump out some rapid fire from an Uzi: that would attract even more attention and they wouldn't reach the car before the police dropped them with a fusillade. Seek comfort, my good friend, seek comfort where ye may.

'Enjoy what there is left, Mr Keyes.'

The smile shimmering, the corsage quivering slightly to the body language, what there is left of what, my little darling, you mean my life?

'Champagne, sir?'

'Thank you.'

Cutting quite a dash in my borrowed plumage, glass in hand, the truth of the matter concealed beneath silk lapels, the Teflon itching on the skin, proof against anything up to armour-piercing grade, but if they were professionals they'd go for the head.

YOU'LL MAKE IT, MATHIESON! strung out in huge gold letters on a banner across the podium where the band was playing, a dozen couples still on the dance floor, their shoes brushing through coloured streamers, two waiters on their knees picking at the carpet where a glass had fallen and smashed, three Japanese talking together by one of the tall white-framed windows, and Erica Cambridge.

'Well hello, Mr Keyes.'

Slight, cool-looking in a sheer white silk gown with a lame belt, lame shoes, her violet eyes watching me as the smile was flashed on for the occasion.

'You look stunning,' in fact, did.

Thank you. Did you just get here?'

'Yes.'

'Did you come alone?'

'Yes.'

'Then you didn't see Mathieson.'

'I heard he was very good.'

'He's -' looking away, looking back – 'I have a lot to tell you. Why don't we go outside where it's quieter?'

'It's like a Turkish bath out there.' I led her towards the white moulded archways opposite the windows, giving my glass to a waiter. 'I got here as soon as I could.'

The slapping sound of a rotor cut across the music as another chopper landed. Croder will follow on, Ferris had said; or it could be picking up some of the guests.

'Stylus couldn't stay,' Erica said. 'He had to get back.' We found a couch, blue linen with white rope trim, where it was quiet enough to talk. Someone had left a brocade bag.

'Back to the Contessa?' Stylus von Brinkerhoff.

She looked at me sharply. 'You're well informed, Mr Keyes.'

'My first name is Richard. I'm sorry I missed him.'

'What do you know about him?'