I knew how good Ignatov was in the street: he'd used his mirror when I'd tagged him before and it had got me into Lubyanka so this was strictly a red sector I was in. I'd be secure all the time we were on the move but if he stopped anywhere in an open street I'd have to make sure he didn't speak to a militia man, and if he went to a telephone box I'd have to leave him there and get the Pobeda into some kind of cover. There was no reason why he should suspect the tag: this was a different car with a different number and he'd never seen me closer than a street's width away and this was the rush hour and there were a dozen Pobedas in sight of him at any given minute. But he'd blown me the last time and he could do it again if I gave him the ghost of a chance.

I didn't think he had a transmitter with a concealed antenna because this was the same Syrena he was driving and two days ago he'd had to get out and telephone to trigger the action.

Mirror. The Mercedes was now three spaces behind me and in front of a truck with a high profile and after that I couldn't see anything but if a police patrol wanted to come up on me for any reason he'd overtake the rest and dose me in. I could only relax when there was a right-hand street within sight for use as an escape road but this was oversensitive because my image was dean and I didn't think Ignatov had a transmitter. After Lubyanka, Bracken had said, you'll feel a bit paranoid for a while.

We crossed the first ring road at 5.14 and the second one five minutes later and followed Kazakov ulica eastwards with no significant change in the pattern except for some shunting when Ignatov went through the lights at yellow and I had to get the spacer vehicles behind me and close the distance and then hang back and wait for some new ones to cover me in his mirror. He'd seen me once or twice but he'd seen a lot of cars behind him as we all headed for the suburbs, and the rake of my windscreen was reflecting the street lamps and he couldn't see my face. I don't think he was going through on the yellow because he'd discovered the tag: Natalya had said he was a chauffeur for the Politburo so he'd be used to storming along the Chaika lane at the wheel of a government Zil and going through on the red with the policeman stopping the cross traffic, and he must feel frustrated on his off-duty runs in the Syrena.

5.22 and a right turn to take us across the river at the Radio ulica bridge two minutes later. Three spacers, two taxis and a small van, with the Mercedes keeping station behind me. The road surface was fair, with sand across the snow and not too many ruts forming as yet.

This astrakhan coat smelt bloody awful: God knew where Bracken's people had got it from. It reeked of black tobacco and borsht and camphor balls, this week's unrepeatable bargain out of the railway workers' union second-hand store, I'd put it at fifteen roubles. I wound down the window and let the freezing air come in.

Slowing.

He was slowing and peeling off to the right at the fork opposite the park and I saw the pumps of a filling-station and slowed with him and took the same turn, because if I went straight on and took two rights I'd come back on him from the opposite direction and he'd get a close look at my face when I passed him; at that point he'd be on my left and the cheek wound would be on the other side but my image was an eighty-eight per cent security risk on an inverted scale: I'd made a count while I was waiting for him to come through Spassky Gate and one out of eight men on the pavement had been wearing his scarf as I was, to cover each side of his face against the cold. Ignatov was observant and he'd recognize me if he saw me twice.

He was stopping at the end of the queue for the pumps and I made a half-turn and pulled up with a parked truck for cover and waited. At this angle the mirror gave me a square centimetre of critical reflection: the forward half of the Syrena's driving-window and Ignatov's head and one shoulder. After thirty seconds he opened the door and got out and I shifted my head to keep his reflection in sight: the back of his dark fur coat and the lower half of his head. Then the image disappeared and I had to risk looking round.

He was going across the tarmac area towards the telephone box.

I watched him.

Bodily changes: sweat, blood leaving the skin, awareness of pulse. Panic trying to set in.

It's a trap. He did this before, when -

Shuddup.

Bloody organism.

We've got to get out of here -

Shuddup.

He went into the telephone box and I saw the dark of his shoulder and the pale blur of his face behind the steamy glass. He knew the number: he wasn't using the book.

The nerves were tingling as the adrenalin came into the bloodstream, and the muscles felt alert. Instinct told me to get out while there was a chance of finding cover and going to ground before the patrol cars arrived, and logic supported this. He'd led me a long way, two days ago, before he'd stopped to telephone, and he'd led me a long way now. I'd performed a model tag from Spassky Gate this evening, but I'd done as well two days ago and he'd seen me and set the trap, just as he was doing now.

So I got out of the car and walked the length of the truck and reached the shadows behind the buildings and watched him from there. The box was in full light under one of the tall gooseneck lamps, the snow reflecting it upwards in a wash of radiance; but I could still see only the indistinct image of his face as he stood half-turned towards the buildings. I think he nodded, once, before he put the phone back and came out. He couldn't see me in the shadows and I moved the woollen scarf away from my ears and listened to the sounds of the traffic, trying to be selective, trying to pick out a distant siren or the snow chains of a vehicle moving fast.

Ignatov stood looking towards the river, the way we'd just come. He might be watching the lights over there, or the stream of south-bound traffic, or the tail end of the Pobeda and its number plate: I couldn't see at this distance. When the queue moved up to the pumps he got back into the Syrena and kept his place, and when the queue moved again and he was alongside the end pump he got out again and stood watching the traffic.

I went on listening. The cold air was numbing to the ears after the warmth of the scarf, and the cheek wound was sensitive. It was seven minutes since he'd come out of the telephone box and his tank had been filled and he was paying the attendant. I could still hear nothing unusual in the traffic's sound. It didn't mean they weren't on their way: with the snow on the streets they'd take longer to get here and there'd be no particular hurry because if he'd given them the location they'd dose in from a dozen directions and block my way out.

When he got back into his car I would have to make the decision but the organism was feverish with apprehension the adrenals were releasing epinephrine and constricting the blood vessels and the liver was releasing glucose for the motor energy; the skeletal muscles were firming and strengthening and the pulse was strong and fast. But it might not be enough to save me if I made the wrong decision.

He was getting back into his car.

I went on listening and heard no change in the traffic sound. The last thing I did before going back to the Pobeda was to feel my waistband under my coat to make sure the small rectangular tin was still there.

Ignatov waited for a slot in the traffic stream and found one and sped up and I followed, watching the mirror and the side streets and the reflections in the windows and bodywork of the cars ahead of me, watching for the first sign of a flashing light. The Mercedes came into the mirror twice before Ignatov led me eastwards again, alongside the park; then I lost it for a while. The sweating had stopped but I was chilled with it, and my mouth tasted bitter. The organism was having to deal with the superfluous adrenalin and the muscles were fretting for action. There wasn't going to be any: he'd phoned somebody else.