Then I could go home, get out of this bloody place and try to forget. Mission accomplished, good for you, old horse, you did it again, and two months' leave on the Sussex coast with Helena, a dozen gardenias, you shouldn't be so extravagant, two months to forget the twisted thing on the floor with the black bruise on the throat and the sound of a girl screaming, the comfortable smell of boiled cabbage.

God damn their eyes. This man had done good work for them time and again, put his life in hazard for them time and again, stood up to that hellish assault on his psyche in Lubyanka without breaking, without exposing Leningrad or London, and now they were asking me to leave him on the floor like a bit of rubbish we'd thrown out, God damn their eyes.

Mine not to reason why, of course. The ferret in the field obeys orders and goes down the hole and comes up again if he's lucky, leaving behind him those unnameable things in the dark that he had to deal with. Dear God, how long ago was it when they'd said to me: if you decide to go into the field you'll have to bear in mind the fact that you'll be asked to do things you'll find it hard to do, we don't mean dangerous things, you seem all right on that score, we mean dirty things, rotten things that may well give you nightmares afterwards… We're just giving you fair warning, you understand, so that you'll know what you're going into, if that's what you finally decide…

Mine but to do or die, yes, quite. If I didn't kill Schrenk he would have to kill me, I knew that. Things can get very basic in the end phase of a mission. Croder would probably laugh if he knew my thoughts, his rat's teeth nibbling with secret amusement, my dear fellow, the issue is cut and dried, surely you see that. It's impossible for you to get this man out of Russia if he refuses to go, and if he stays here he'll get picked up again and this time they'll get everything out of him, you've said so yourself. Are you really saying that one man's life is worth the entire Leningrad cell and possibly the security of the Bureau as well? You must be indulging in some sort of sentimentality, and that can be highly dangerous. The rat's teeth nibbling and the hooded eyes looking away. Besides, the man's a complete wreck now: we could never put him into the field again.

Good reason. Good logic. But Lord, hear my prayer, and damn their eyes.

He was watching me, squinting through the smoke of his cigarette with an expression I couldn't quite read. He was looking at me almost as if he'd never seen me before, though it wasn't exactly that. Got it, yes: as if he were never going to see me again.

How would he try to kill? He couldn't do it himself, and Ignatov was no use to him. He probably had a dozen people not far away, a clique of fanatical dissidents lying low in readiness for a coup. He'd set the whole pack on me once I was outside there in the dark. He seemed very confident.

So I'd have to get in first.

Give him a last chance.

'I was sent out here to find you,' I told him, and the tightness in my throat distorted the words slightly. 'I was told to pull you out.'

'I understand that:

'And you understand why.'

'Of course.' He began pacing again, one thin leg swinging an inch farther than the other, like the pendulum of the clock. That must worry him too, but he couldn't do anything about it. 'They don't want me to be put under interrogation again, because next time I might have to blow the whole works. I understand that.'

A bit too loudly I said, 'Then for Christ's sake give it a minute's thought, will you? Think out the implications.'

He looked at me sharply and away again, and went on with his pacing. I wanted him to think this out for himself. I didn't want to have to tell him, the instant before I had to do it.

Final considerations: reluctance to do it in front of the girl, because she adored him. Possibility of getting her to leave the room, ask her to fetch something, tell Schrenk to send her away for a moment. Other thought intruding: For sale, Jensen Interceptor, only 27,000 miles, fitted anti-radar unit, all refinements. Also 200 classic jazz records (15 Harry James, 12 Duke Ellington) and player. The plastic chess set would remain in the Caff and the other things like tennis racquets and skis and karate swords would be offered up and down the corridors in off-duty hours: there's usually a jumble sale when someone fails to come back, because we're loners, most of us, and not the kind of people who have relations to leave things to; we're born alone and we die alone and no one really notices. At the Bureau a prerequisite of our service is that we agree not to exist.

'I've told you,' Schrenk said, 'I've done all the thinking.' He brought his pacing to a clumsy halt between the window and the small Victorian writing-desk in the corner. 'But what you mean is, if you can't pull me out of Moscow you've got instructions to do the other thing. That right?'

'Yes.'

He nodded. 'Perfectly logical.'

I moved at once but the inertia cost me time and he was much closer to the writing-desk than I was and his lunge for the top drawer was accurate and he had the gun in his hand and the safety catch off before I was anywhere near.

'Careful,' he said.

I looked at his face and stopped dead. The desk was still rocking on its thin varnished legs and the drawer was sticking out at a slight angle with its brass handle swinging to stillness. There was something else in the drawer but I couldn't see it clearly from this distance; it was just one of a hundred items of data that were bombarding the consciousness and there wasn't enough time to examine it. In addition to this the emotional block was inhibiting reason: I'd lost.

'Back off a bit,' Schrenk said, 'you're too close.'

I did what he told me.

'Never carry a gun, do you?' His hand was absolutely steady. 'That's a mistake.'

Peripheral vision: Ignatov had moved away from the wall where he'd been standing with a handkerchief pressed to his temple; he was looking at Schrenk and waiting for instructions. Misha hadn't moved but I could hear her tremulous breathing: she was a country girl and not used to the big city with its tall concrete towers and the grinding underground trains and men who were ready to kill each other in the warmth of a ground-floor apartment with the comfortable smell of boiled cabbage in the air.

'Sweetheart,' Schrenk said, 'would you get me another cigarette?' He didn't take his eyes off me.

The girl moved out of my sight and then came back, lighting a cigarette from the crumpled paper packet and handing it to him, taking away the butt of the old one and dropping it into the ashtray. `Will everything be all right?' she asked him, close to tears.

'Everything will be all right, sweetheart, yes. Don't worry.'

My left eyelid had begun flickering and without thinking about it I was breathing more deeply. There wasn't going to be any action because things had passed beyond that stage: you can't rush a gun and I wasn't going to try. The only conceivable chance was in getting behind Ignatov and using him as a shield but there was Schrenk behind that thing, Shapiro, not some half-trained amateur. And he wanted me out of his way.

'Had some good times, didn't we?' He drew deeply on the cigarette. `Remember Rosita?'

I didn't say anything. He wasn't making sense.

`Tenerife? Tell you something. I took her out the night before old Templer flew in. What a gal!' He began wheezing with quiet laughter, his thin body shaking with it. But his gun hand remained perfectly steady. `Poor old Templer. He was going to take her out that night, but of course those bastards…' He began coughing but managed to control it: the range was fifteen feet and he knew I could move very fast. 'Remember that bloody bomb in the consulate in Cairo? Got the motto out, didn't we?' He giggled again. `Good times. We had some good times.' Then he straightened up as far as he could and his tone was serious. 'We could do a deal if you like.'