Silence.

Thirty minutes: he'd signal London now for a directive, ask them what to do, but there was nothing to do. He'd tell Diane to use the phone and contact Chirac and request him to stand by with the helicopter but it'd only be a gesture because Chirac wouldn't be able to pick me up without exposing the target area and if he came in after they'd found me there wouldn't be anything to pick up anyway, nothing alive.

I opened my eyes and squinted towards the horizon. The three choppers were moving back along their initial course, farther south by one prescribed strip of their sweep. They could see these rocks but they couldn't see me because I was in shadow and sighting through a gap in the shale. I'd buried my 'chute under the sand before I'd come here, and last evening Chirac had taken down the fabric shelter I'd set up near the plane, so there was nothing for them to see.

The birds had come down five hundred yards away and I watched them. They'd obviously been there when I'd landed and the 'chute had startled them and now they were back, feeding on the pilot and navigator. The helicopter crews couldn't have noticed them or they'd come to investigate because they'd know that the presence of vultures marked the presence of recent life.

Urge to sleep now overwhelming. I took a final look at the timer to make sure it hadn't been the subject of hallucination but it hadn't changed: two of the brass lugs were snapped off near the flange and half the main body of the mechanism had been so badly impacted that I could see one of the intermediary gear-trains lying askew and thrown out of mesh. Strictly no go.

I crawled deeper between the rocks because of the dark nightmare shapes over there: they reminded me of terror and I didn't want them to see me, to come for me in my sleep.

My eyes closed and the great weight of my head came to rest against the rock-face, a last thought, we got close, tell London we got close.

Said I could hear him.

Caught me in a low sleep-curve, groggy.

Zenith 06.31.

I have been in signals with London.

They were still there, I could just catch their distant purring, throp-throp-throp.

Can you hear me?

Hear you.

What is the position of the helicopters now?

Damn his eyes, won't ever leave you alone.

I reached for the water bottle and got the cap off and drank, tasting the blood on my mouth. The sun's heat was beginning to strike into the niche and I couldn't get my legs in the shade. Took my time, thirsty, and he said could I hear him and I didn't answer till I'd finished my drink because that was more important. Then I told him

They're shifting to a second square.

How clearly can you see them?

About distance shot.

Could they see you, if you went into the open?

No.

Of course I should have known.

Will you please verify that the timing mechanism is out of action, irreparably?

Verified.

Is there any damage to the main components?

No.

Please verify.

I should have known by his insistence on these things.

There's no external damage. The timer took the shock.

What is your physical condition?

I need sleep.

He considered this.

Are you capable of carrying the device as far as the freighter?

Should have known, shouldn't I, what he was going to do to me.

Perfectly capable.

Silence for half a minute. I thought he was calculating something. Maybe he was.

Quiller.

Hear you.

London would like you to proceed with the end-phase.

How the hell can I do that if the timer won't -

I didn't finish.

Got it now.

The sun was burning on my legs and I drew them up, forcing myself higher against the rock-face, the effort increasing the circulation and bringing me fully awake. I would have to think about this. He was saying:

Control has asked me to point out that your action would be seen as generous, and therefore much appreciated.

Death sentence.

Civil of them.

He didn't say anything; I suppose he was giving me time to think. They were all being very considerate.

Give me ten minutes, Loman, will you?

Of course. There's no immediate hurry.

I clipped the mike back and stared through the cleft in the rocks. They were still at it, their ragged plumage fluttering as they jerked about, hooking at the meat. That, at least, I would be spared.

Of course the potential expendability of an executive is part of the contract and we know what we're signing. The Bureau is the sacred bull and its first credo is that the mission is more important than the man, otherwise you wouldn't be issued with a capsule if you wanted one, on your way through clearance. And after all, providing you accept the fact at any given time during an operation that you've become expendable the actual means of despatch don't matter: all we ask is that it shall be quick and the only thing quicker than a cyanide pill is putting your thumb on a nuclear detonator.

I couldn't assess my chances when they shifted their search over this area and found me: the thing was that I'd want to initiate some kind of hostile action and they'd finish me anyway. That situation was entirely academic in any case because if London wanted me to complete the mission I'd have time to do it before I was seen.

And I didn't have any choice. I had contracted to hazard my life if the needs of a mission demanded and that was that. I was only taking time out to think about it because if there was an alternative I wanted to use it, but I knew there wasn't one: Loman would throw me to the dogs if it suited his purposes and his present purposes were to go back to London with his instructions carried out and Tango Victor obliterated. Technically there wasn't an alternative because we didn't have time to send for a new delay-mechanism and without one the onlyway to detonate was to press the button myself.

Sense of unreality creeping on me because the whole thing was so calculated: I'd come close to dying in Tunis among the flying glass and in Kaifra when the marksman had me in his sights but there'd been no time to think about it, and now there was.

Bloody little organism up on its back legs and whining, don't want to die,shuddup.

My ten minutes wasn't up but I'd had all the time I needed and it was no good sitting here with this strange hollow feeling, the almost physical sensation of the life blood beginning to drain away. Possibly normal: a question of mind over matter and when the mind knows that death is imminent the body starts dying automatically, it happens in Africa, put a curse on a man and he'll die without a mark on him.

Irrelevant.

Mission running, end-phase initiated, instructions perfectly, clear, so go on, pick up that mike.

Loman.

Receiving you.

Just tell me again, will you, what exactly I'm going to achieve?

No change of tone when he spoke. He'd known I'd have to do it. He'd known, earlier this morning when he'd walked across the sand and stood with his back to me, that I wouldn't refuse. And so had I.

They're bastards in London, mean with the money and slow on promotion and that sort of thing, but certain gestures are made in the name of decency: despite the contracts we sign they like us to feel that we're not irrevocably committed, that when the crunch comes we'll still have a part in the decision-making. But it's only a gesture, the same as being asked if you'd like a blindfold before the bolts click back.

It is less a question of what you'll achieve than of what you will vouchsafe your country to avoid. If the objective is not destroyed, the influence of the United Kingdom at the international conference tables will be greatly enfeebled, and her work for peace tragically undermined.