I lay flat, relaxing, trying to shift into alpha waves if only for a few seconds because the sound of the bullet was still reverberating through the system. It hadn't been loud but it had been sudden, and had expressed appalling power, enough power to fell an ox on the hoof. Relax, and let the body sink against the cold tarmac, the cheek resting on the back of the hand, the nose filling with the crude, heavy reek of engine oil. In a moment I would have to move; all through the night I would have to move and go on moving if I could, if one of those shells — the fifth or the tenth or the fifteenth — didn't blow apart the delicate array of intelligence inside the skull.

Alpha, and the sense of letting go, of the slackening of the nerves to the point of ephemeral euphoria, until confidence came back like a lost friend and touched my hand; and then I moved, crawling over the ground and underneath the vehicle, finding the crankcase and wiping my hands across the underside and smearing the blackened oil on my face and the back of my hands, doing it carefully, attending to the eyelids and the lobes of the ears. I couldn't tell if it were going to be enough and I wouldn't be taking it for granted: I'd use more oil from the next vehicle if I ever reached it.

My suit and sweater were dark and my shoes black, but I took off my watch and pushed it into a pocket. Then I began crawling again, pulling my body forward across the ground, flat as a lizard, until I was lying in front of the vehicle on the blind side to the sniper's eye.

And waited.

I couldn't try to go back to the street behind me because it'd mean moving straight into his line of fire. There were buildings on each side of the car-park and they offered no shelter because they were fully exposed. The only place I could try to reach was the street in front of me, more than a hundred yards away, and the only hope I had of doing It was by moving from the shelter of one vehicle to the next and using their moving shadows for visual cover as the rotating light swept the area. It amounted to a suicide run but there was no choice.

I began counting.

The first move was going to be the most difficult to make; not difficult In terms of timing and distance because the vehicles were in orderly rows and equally spaced, but difficult in terms of willpower. Later there'd be the factor of familiarity as an aid, on the principle that the more you do something the easier it gets, but as I lay waiting I couldn't be certain that I wouldn't get halfway to the next vehicle and lose faith and stumble and go down and offer a motionless target that he'd see the moment the light swung across my prone body.

Three, four.

Counting.

The light swung, spreading the black-and-white crossword in front of me.

The only sound was of traffic to the northeast along Treptower Park. To the west there was the deep silence of the Wall, where nothing moved but the guards, who made no sound.

Five, six.

It had taken the light six seconds to sweep from this vehicle to the next and that was the amount of time I had available to make the crossing and it would have to be done at a fast run so I pulled my shoes off, reverting to the primitive animal in order to deal with this primitive situation: the need to survive. Without shoes I could run faster and although they were black they were polished leather and could pick up light, barely a glimmer but possibly all he'd need, the sniper, to pick me out of the dark.

Waiting.

The next vehicle wasn't immediately in front; there was one each side of the gap between them and I chose the one to the left because the right leg is stronger in the right-handed and it would give me extra thrust as I pushed off, by however small a degree.

Waiting.

The light swung, brightening the zone in front of me and then leaving it dark and I hadn't been ready, hadn't wanted to be ready: I needed the rhythm of the light's movement to establish itself in my mind.

Waiting as it swept and then I took a breath and blocked it and went for it, going through the sprint starting position and driving with my feet and plunging through the dark with the bright beam swinging towards me from the left and the area becoming deadly with each passing second as I ran, feeling the touch of the terror I'd known I'd feel because of the inexorability of that moving light, because of the knowledge that whatever happened it wouldn't stop, if I stumbled or lost my speed or veered too far to the left or lost my nerve it wouldn't stop, it would find me, flooding across the ground and drowning me in its glare and reaching the retina of the eye of the man who would fire the gun, shadow down, the terror alone driving me now, run run run with the adrenalin alone keeping me mobile, keeping me alive but the shot came and I heard the shell striking the tarmac on my right side, run run run as if nothing had happened but there were chips of tar and stone flying up as the light swept nearer, nearer, faster than I'd believed it would as I ran headlong and he fired again and the impact was closer and I'd heard the windrush of the shell as it had flashed past my head on the left side, the side where the light was coming, strengthening as it came, filling the receptors at the edge of the vision field as the darkness in front of me grew to a lightening grey as I ran ran ran with the terror still with me, with the scalp crawling as the nerves waited for the hit, for the bursting open of the skull as the last thought sprang there — over now — flashing across the synapses before it was blown into oblivion.

Dive.

Dived as the light came flooding and my hands went forward to break the fall and I dropped flat in the shadow of the vehicle and the next shot smashed into the bodywork with a scream of metal against metal and I lay with my face on my spread hands and my breath coming in shock waves from the lungs, letting my eyes close and feeling the inevitability of the next shot.

It didn't come.

Rest, rest now. It's over for a time.

Cone:

Immediate plans?

I'm going to see if I can get them interested.

The ground cold under my hot body, grit under my hands, the smell of oil, the smell of rubber, nothing natural here in this civic hunting-ground, no tree, no leaf, nothing but hard surfaces and the inhospitable furnishings of stone and metal and concrete, the habitat of man.

Holding his fire.

I don't suppose for a moment he'd run short of ammunition: there'd been planning done. They may not have known I'd head in this direction, though I'd been moving south from the cafe, east and then south, but they'd assumed I'd reach some area where I'd be trapped and couldn't get out again. This site wasn't ideal because of the light's movement but at least I was cut off from the street behind me and on both sides by the buildings, and the man with the gun could bring me down before I could find effective cover and make an escape.

Light washing across the ground where I lay but not reaching me, the vehicle above my head and its shadow shifting from right to left as the light swung left to right.

Get them interested, yes. Signal to London: the executive has managed to get the interest of the opposition, which was his intention. Brief report on success; interim objective achieved, so forth.

Not really.

More realistically: doubts as to the executive's survival for more than another ten minutes are such that I advise replacement if possible or termination of mission.

Alas, poor Yasolev.

Move. Move now. We've got to do it again.

Silent night, unholy night, with only the faint sound of the late traffic along Treptow and the harsh sawing of my breath as the organism drew in oxygen for the muscles. I wasn't ready yet. I would wait.