'You're not worried about the night staffs. You don't want one and a half million dossiers to go up in smoke because you can't run a slave state without Big Brother.'

There was another lurch and he steadied himself on the tip-up seat. Through the clear patch he'd made on the window I could see the arc of lamps in the distance, the Slasko-Dabrowski Bridge.

Then we began a nasty wobble and I could see the wheel jerking in the driver's hands. Foster held on to his strap. The wobble got worse and we slowed, pulling alongside the kerb.

'What's happening?'

'It looks like a flat.'

The car stopped and the driver got out and tapped at the window, calling something we couldn't hear. Voskarev opened the door, asking in Polish what the matter was.

'I regret that we have a puncture.'

'You must get us a taxi,' Foster told him quickly.

The driver pulled the door wide open and chopped for Voskarev's wrist to paralyse it in case there was a gun. Apparently there was, because the left hand went for the pocket of the coat, but the driver got there first so it was all right.

I told Foster: 'Don't do anything silly.' I didn't bother to look for a gun on him, he wasn't the type to carry one, the only thing you could say for the bloody man.

20: DOCUMENT

I told Voskarev I wanted his keys and his papers.

He stared around him as if looking for a street number through the clouded glass, as if lost in a place he'd thought familiar. I said

'I'll get them, otherwise. Don't embarrass yourself.' He opened his astrakhan coat, fumbling like an old man.

'Fast,' I said, 'very fast indeed.'

The driver said he'd get them for me and I told him to shut up. The driver wanted to kill him, I knew that.

Six, all cylinder-type, two on a separate ring, series numbers in sequence.

'Papers.'

The engine was still running. Exhaust gas came through the open door. Yellow light flooded the snow and went out.

'Oh come on,' I said.

Sweat was on his white face, glazing it like a toffee-apple.

Foster spoke to him quietly in Russian telling him not to worry, he would retrieve the situation. Such a windy phrase, that.

N. K. N. Voskarev, Deputy Chief Controller, Co-ordinated Information Services Foreign Division, seals and frankings U.B. liaison, all facilities requested up to ministerial privilege level.

Big fish.

I kept the passport and gave the identity card to the driver. 'There's a man under escort arriving at the Cracow within the next half an hour. Show this to his guards and tell them you're taking him over, Voskarev's orders. Get him to base.'

'Understood.'

A red card had dropped out of the folder and I picked it up and looked at it.

'Where's your insulin?'

'Here.' Voskarev tapped his case.

'Get it.'

The air came in, freezing against our legs. The driver stood impatiently, his breath clouding. The escort had shifted behind the wheel in case we had to take off suddenly.

'Look, you want that insulin? Give you five seconds.'

Stuff was flashing us, no parking here, only wanted a patrol. Red, very red sector. I looked at the driver.

'Right'

The briefcase was still open and Voskarev was trying to zip it. He clutched the hypodermic kit in one hand.

'The case stays here.'

He tried to take it with him and the driver did the wrist thing and papers hit the floor. Then he was pulled out.

'Bloody well calm down will you? He can keep the insulin and use it when he wants to, he's no good to us in a coma. You beat him up and I'll have you kicked into the camps, I can do that, now get moving.'

I dragged the door shut.

The man at the wheel got into gear and I slapped the division and told him to wait.

'It doesn't,' Foster said, 'look too well organised.’

'Best you can do with hired labour.'

I wound the division down. The handle was loose and took a bit more off the veneered panel.

Foster sat with his hand still in the looped strap. His eyes were almost closed, two slits glinting in the baggy flesh.

'You're making it worse for yourself,' he said.

Police klaxons were piping a see-saw note somewhere on the far side of the river.

Doors slammed much closer, behind us.

'Don't do that.'

I had to kick upwards before he could reach the handle. He'd seen it done on the telly or somewhere: this wasn't his type of field at all; he was political-intellectual, the big moves over a glass of bubbly.

Then a man came past from the other car and got into the front and shut the door and I said hurry but don't crash.

Foster showed his expertise, the top off one-handed, still strap hanging.

'Calm the nerves?'

Trick after trick down the drain: he should have smashed it into my face. Not his field. I said

'Information: they're Poles and proud of it and Voskarev's been responsible for filling the trains with their own brothers and they know that. I'm going to phone them in fifteen minutes, failing which they're going to kill him. They're hoping I won't be able to phone. Don't make it easy for them, will you?'

I got the loose papers and stuffed them into the briefcase and zipped it and sat back and watched Foster. He screwed the top on and put it away.

'If you think about it,' he said earnestly, 'you really haven't the ghost of a chance, right in the middle of Warsaw. I do wish you'd try to be reasonable.'

I didn't feel like answering: I was fed up because he was probably right.

The two in front were talking but we couldn't hear much, something about Sroda. They sounded pleased with themselves, thought we'd captured the city between us.

'What happened to the other chaps?' Foster asked me.

'What other chaps?' I was trying to think ahead, about the photographs and things.

'My driver and his mate.'

'Were they Russian or Polish?’

'Russian, I think. I didn't really know them.'

'Then you're too late now.'

They were no use as hostages and I hadn't given any specific instructions about what should be done with them afterwards, happened in the courtyard, you've got a flat tyre, and they'd got out to look. A night for flats but we were still running all right, making good time.

'I can get you a reduced sentence, you know. I've quite a lot of influence.'

'Oh balls.'

The bridge was clear, stuff crawling in both directions, a hole in the balustrade where the Mercedes had spun, the gravel making dirty brown streaks on the late snow. Foster said something, ought to be sure what I was doing, something like that, but I wasn't listening because there was so much to think about and I didn't want to make a mistake although with a set-up this sensitive a mistake was almost guaranteed and it wouldn't have to be a big one, just a slip and she'd blow.

There were some police cars when we reached the Commissariat and the steps were cordoned off. Just before we pulled up I said:

'Don't forget the situation, will you?' He didn't answer but sat there squinting at me and I got a bit worried that he'd do something awkward simply because this wasn't his kind of terrain; for instance you can't stop a charging bull by pointing a gun at it because it doesn't know what the thing is. 'You've got to look after Voskarev and the only way you can do it is to look after me.'

He leaned forward, the alcohol on his breath. 'There are so many aspects you haven't considered. They make it all so dangerous for you. So impossible.’

'Just be careful. For his sake.' I opened the door and he followed me out. 'Get those bods out of here. Tell them it was a false alarm.'

He stood perfectly still.

'Was it?'

'Of course.'

He looked so relieved that I think he would have done whatever I asked just from gratitude. One of them came up to us, captain's insignia, and Foster showed him his card absolute assurance incorrectly informed, no explosives, personal responsibility, so forth. Then we passed through the cordon and went into the building and the contusions started throbbing again because the very acute fear that he might chance it and hand me over had dominated physical pain.