I extended my left hand and found cold, stone-solid wall.  I reached up and touched wood.  I saw a small glowing circle nearby on my right and leaned across to it.  It felt like I was wearing all my clothes.  My fingers closed around the watch.  It felt very cold.  According to the Breitling it was four fifteen.  I tried to remember whether I'd reset it for the right time zone.  Clattering across an uneven wooden surface, my fingers encountered the familiar lumpy shape of the netsuke monkey figure, and then the ribbed casing of my little flashlight.  I clicked it on.

My breath smoked in front of me.  I was in some sort of bed alcove.  The ceiling of the room was painted bilious yellow and livid green.  A row of demonic faces glared down at me, painted red, purple, black and orange.  Their brows were arched, their ears were pointed, their eyes were huge and glaring, their moustaches were curled like waxed black hooks and their fang-like teeth were bared behind snarling carmine lips under cheeks as round and green as avocados.

I stared at them.  The little Aspherilux threw a tight, even spot of light.  The spot was shaking.  I must still be dreaming.  I really needed to get back to sleep properly and wake up again.

Then I remembered.  Thulahn.  I was in Thulahn, in the capital city of Thuhn, in the Palace of a Thousand Rooms, which had exactly sixty-one rooms.  The bizarre painted wooden heads were there to ward off demons while the honoured guest slept.  There was no light because (a) it was night, (b) there was no moon, (c) the room's window was covered by both curtains and shutters, and (d) the palace electricity generator shut down at midnight when the Prince was in residence; at other times, like now, it was turned off at sunset.  I was cold because I was in a place where central heating meant having a full stomach.  I was breathless because I'd come from hot and humid sea level yesterday morning to nine thousand feet by teatime.  By the side of the bed there was a small oxygen cylinder and mask, just in case.  No TV, of course.

I remembered the airstrip, being welcomed by a polite little quilted Thulahnese guy of indeterminate age called Langton something or other, walking with him at the head of a procession of adults and chattering children and being shown around the ramshackle town, entering the palace complex through brightly painted wooden gates and having a tour of its impressive state rooms before sitting down to dinner at a long table with what looked like a bunch of monks dressed in primary colours, none of whom spoke English.  I'd sampled various consistencies and hues of beige food, drunk water and fermented milk beer, then suddenly it was dark and apparently it was time for bed.  I'd felt wide awake — bewildered, dizzy, not connected to the world, but wide awake — until I'd seen the little cot-bed, and then I'd suddenly conked out.

I clicked the torch off.  My feet felt down to the bottom of the bed and touched the cork-stoppered china hot-water bottle..  It was still warm.  I hooked it with one foot and brought it up towards my bum as I curled up again and closed my eyes.

Why had I been dreaming of Berlin and Hazleton?

Because I'd been talking to Hazleton the day before, I supposed.  Because that dinner was the first time we'd exchanged more than a few words.  Obvious, really.  Except that it wasn't.  Some bit of my brain didn't like this explanation and kept insisting there was more to it.  I put it down to lack of oxygen.  Hazleton had felt my knee beneath the table later, and insisted he would see me back to my room that evening. I'd run away.

Why couldn't I dream of Stephen?

Stephen, married to Emma.  Emma who went Oh, oh, oh, in total silence.  Emma who was having an affair with Frank Erickson, a corporate lawyer for Hergiere Corp, who lived in Alexandria, Va, with his wife Rochelle and three children, Blake, Tia and Robyn.  He and Emma had met in various hotels within the DC Beltway, usually around lunchtime, and had managed two weekends together, one in New Orleans when he was attending a convention and she had claimed to be visiting an old schoolfriend, and one at the Fearington House, an elegant country inn tucked away in the woods near Pittsboro, North Carolina.

I had the zip code and the telephone number for the inn; I even knew what they'd had to eat for dinner on the Friday and Saturday night and which wines they'd chosen to accompany their meals; I could have called the place up and asked them to reserve the same suite and put a bottle of the same champagne on ice.  There were no videos of their tryst there, but I had a scanned copy of the bill.  The DVD Poudenhaut had given me contained photographs of that bill, various restaurant cheques — all matched to still photos or other short pieces of video of the adulterous couple in those restaurants — receipts for flowers to be delivered to Mrs Buzetski's office in the graphic-design company she worked for, a receipt for a five-hundred dollar négligée in Mr Erickson's name, which I suspected his wife had never worn, and a whole variety of other bits and pieces of film and documentation that chronicled their affair in excruciating detail.

The film of them fornicating in the DC hotel room (the Hamptons Hotel, Bethesda, room 204, to be precise) was just the cherry on the cake.  Somebody had gone to a huge amount of trouble over a considerable period of time to gather that evidence, and the more I thought about it, the less I believed Hazleton that the disc had just fallen into his hands.

How much of this sort of stuff went on?  Was it just Hazleton, or were the rest at it as well?  Did they have anything similar on me?  Unlike Stephen, I'd never taken any vows, never made any promises, legal or otherwise, but what about the people I'd slept with?  I tried to review the list of sexual partners I'd had over the years, looking for any that could be blackmailed or otherwise compromised.

As far as I could remember there shouldn't be a problem:  I'd always tried to avoid married men just as a matter of course, and on the few occasions when I'd ended up in bed with one it had been because the bastard had lied (well, once or twice I might have suspected, but never mind).  Come to think of it, Stephen ought to be grateful and flattered I was prepared to make an exception for him.

Maybe this had all been done for me, I thought.  Maybe Hazleton really didn't make a habit of this sort of thing, but had set up this particular surveillance operation because he knew how I felt about Stephen, knew how Stephen felt about adultery and had seen a way, perhaps, to give my beloved to me and so leave me for ever in his debt.

I was too hot.  The air outside the bed was still sharply chilly, but underneath the Himalayan pile of bedclothes it had suddenly become sweaty.  I pulled off my jumper and thick socks.  I kept them in the bed with me, in case I needed to put them on again later.

What the hell was I going to do?

Should I tell Stephen about his wife?  Shit, it wasn't just the dishonesty or any advantage I might gain, it was safety:  Emma and Frank hadn't used any protection that I could see.

I could phone Stephen right now.  I could tell him the truth, that I had the evidence and Hazleton had given it to me.  That was the most honest course, the sort of thing you could imagine justifying in court.  But if I did?  Maybe he would blame me, maybe he'd stick by her, maybe he'd think I was just trying to wreck his marriage.  No win.

Or I could — even more easily, because it would take a single sentence with no angst, no trauma involved — ring Hazleton and say okay, do it.  Let it happen.  Let Stephen find out the truth and see what he did next, hoping that he'd turn to me, sooner or later.  Maybe even arrange to be nearby when he heard the news, and so be the most obvious shoulder for him to cry on; up my chances at some little risk.