The man they were going to give me in Pekin would be different from this one. For the first few days I'd respect his skin and admire his techniques and then he'd start getting close and I'd have to fight back till he blew me and when he'd blown me he'd begin on the real stuff: the Bureau.

He would be a top professional. A brain surgeon.

'Where is the yacht?'

'Which one?' Just a gag: this was the thirtieth time.

'The one that dropped you over the wreck.'

'Somewhere in the South China Sea. They didn't say where they were going. Now listen, I've given you the whole thing again, as I said I would. Now if you ask me one more question I'm going to smash you up and you'll wish to Christ you'd never set eyes on me. Now do you understand that?'

I put a lot of spleen into it but he went on staring into my face with his pink-rimmed eyes while he thought out the next question. His feet were still in the stance he'd taken up when I'd talked about throwing him through the door: he'd quietly slid them there and I hadn't looked down but I didn't have to because he was a belt and it would be the first defensive position. You can't interrogate anyone alone in a small room unless you can stop him when he comes at you: intensive questioning can drive a man into a psychic trap and an explosion on the subconscious level can be murderous.

'You are lying,' he said and slapped down my photograph.

Phase two.

He'd taken my cover story and gone over it exhaustively and couldn't break it so now he was going to watch my eyes while he threw facts at me. Facts like the photograph.

'Christ,' I said, 'if I thought I looked like that I'd go and shoot myself!'

'This is your photograph. We know it is.'

'Bloody insulting!'

It was the same one.

'One of our agents managed to swim clear,' he said, 'from the car in the harbour.'

Frown. Three-second pause. Then: 'What the hell are you-'

'He says this is your photograph.'

Prolong mystification. 'Car in the harbour? What on earth,' so forth, till he cut in again.

Your photograph.

Your photograph.

Your photograph.

Till I blew up and began shouting, I tell you you're making a stupid mistake, I demand to phone the governor of Hong Kong, you can't do this to a subject of the United Kingdom, storming up and down, could've been an actor if I didn't have a face like a hyena's arse.

Your photograph.

I let him go on.

Very hot in here now.

Damned if I'm going to ask him to open the door.

Photograph.

Told him to screw himself, then he pulled the towel off the thing on the bed and watched my eyes closely.

'Hell's that?'

'Your radio. We found it.'

Feeble laugh. 'Listen, if I had a radio like that I'd get a bomb for it in Kowloon! What is it — Hammerlund?' I looked at it, very keen radio man.

'This is your radio.'

'Well, I must say that's very generous of you.'

I timed it at fifteen minutes: he gave it all he knew how.

Your radio.

Your radio.

Your radio.

Told him he was out of his cotton-pickin' mind, told him to belt up. Bloody light was in my eyes, starting to worry me. I still wasn't completely out of the narcosis thing and I hadn't slept since eight-o'clock last night and it was now six-thirty and he was still pitching it at me.

'Where was your base? The Hong Kong Cathay?'

'I don't know what you're — '

'The Mauritius? You stayed at both those places.'

'Will you bloody well listen to me a minute? I tell you-'

You're mistaken.

Where was your base?

He threw me the other places on my travel pattern, watching my eyes, trying to pick his way in, the Orient Club, the Golden Sands Hotel, telling me he knew I'd been there, telling i me he knew so much about me that there wasn't any point in my denying his accusations.

'You were there when Flower died.'

'What flower?'

'The man Flower. You were there when he died.'

'What the hell's a man flower?'

I looked at him obliquely again, worried about his mental state.

'Flower was an agent. He was your agent.'

'Oh Jesus wept, are you back on that agent thing?'

Flower.

Flower.

Hot and the light blinding.

Flower.

One stage I thought all right we'll have a go, he's in the first defensive position but that doesn't matter I'll start with a full yoharka, give him no time.

Have to watch it. No emotions. Start emoting and you'll end up right in his hands because the gut-think'll get in the way of the brain-think. Steady.

Tired, that's all. Went down too deep, too long.

'You were there when he — '

'Go and shit.'

'You were — '

'Shuddup.'

'You went to Jade Imperial Mansion.'

'Someone else. Bloke in the snap.'

'Shall we tell Mr Tewson about your woman friend?'

'Moira? What's she got to do with — '

'Not Moira. Nora.'

'I haven't got a woman called Nora. She any good?'

'You went to Jade Imperial Mansion.'

Six times in six minutes.

Poor old Tewson, wonder what he's thinking now. Bit of a shaker for him. But it was pick-proof, that was all I cared. Just her name alone had given it credibility and he couldn't phone her to ask her about it because her line was bugged and they'd monitor his call this end and he'd know that. And he couldn't tell his Chinese fellow-workers because they'd shove him in shackles in case he believed me and tried to dive overboard. There wasn't anything he could do except worry, while the fuse went on burning in his head.

'So you have been lying!'

'I have not been lying!'

'With every word you have lied!'

'I've told you the truth!'

Yelling at each other.

Heat of the lamp, his face coming and going.

'Lies! Lies! Lies!'

'I've told you the truth, sod you!'

Look out, perk up.

Tired.

'I am sorry, Mr Cox.'

'What?'

'I am sorry.' Smile on his face. 'Of course I believe your story, but you must understand that we have to pay close attention if persons approach this oil drill. We have very expensive machinery here. I hope you will accept my apologies.'

Movement of air as he passed me.

'Listen,' I said. 'Can I go out and take some air on deck?'

'But of course, Mr Cox. It is a delightful evening.'

I leaned on the rail.

Below me the sea was amethyst, its haze reaching to the ochre line of the horizon where the sun had gone down. All was still, except where a sea bird wheeled in silence overhead.

'What's this stuff?'

'It's a kind of millet gruel.'

I thought it looked rather wet.

There was a dish of man-t'ou.

'What about this?' In public I was keeping the cover.

'Millet,' he said, 'corn, squash, potatoes. Not bad.'

The line shuffled along and we shuffled with it.

Think they've got anything except millet?'

He gave his quick white laugh but it was just habit: his nerves were pretty bad. 'There's some Pekin duck along there.'

Face and the lamp, swinging.

'Thank Christ for that.'

The canteen was very clean and everything shone under the bright lights. Music tinkled soothingly from the speakers Someone dropped his tin plate and there was immediate silence and then the clatter started up again. I didn't notice any smell of actual food: I suppose they kept it down with Airwick or something hygienic like that.

I shovelled some duck on my plate for the sake of protein and Tewson had some too. Then we went along the deck to his cabin, carrying our trays.

'Sorry there's no wine.'

As we put our trays on each side of the table I noticed his hands were shaking. His brick-red colouring had yellowed since I saw him last.