Or termination of mission, yes, with Holmes over there in the signals room getting some more coffee with his eyes on no one because the news wasn't good on the board for Quickstep, not terribly good. Where's Mr Shepley? Pick up a phone. You think we should get him? The last signal on the board: executive attempting to trap opposition agent and interrogate. Or words to that effect; I couldn't be at all sure, not knowing Cone enough to get into his mind. He might have been talking to Yasolev the whole evening for all I knew. I'm sorry, but my agent has virtually gone to ground and thrown off my support people and at the moment I don't know where he is, though I do know he's in danger, so forth. They could be in signals with London in the hope that somewhere they could find a shadow willing to work with Yasolev, someone Yasolev could approve of.

Or Cone might be tougher than I knew, with enough nervous stamina to go on working with an executive who had so far run wild at every turn and deliberately gone solo. Anything was possible; even that Shepley knew I'd have to work like this and had told Cone to put up token protests but let me run and put smoke out if I needed it or get me to a hospital if I needed it, just keep Quickstep running and by the millionth chance bring it home and bring me home with it.

Academic, yes: this is entirely academic, my good friend, you're absolutely right. Thing is to move on, isn't it, put up a show, go out with the blood hot and one small ray of hope shining in the night before the winds of chance blow it away.

Move, then. It is necessary.

Countdown: six, five, four as the light came sweeping from the left. I let its rhythm move into my mind again on the subconscious level while I reached up and wiped more oil from the crankcase and smeared it over my face and hands again, this stuff stinks, but only because the stomach is queasy, only because you'd rather smell roses, wouldn't you, in your last few minutes on earth.

Three, two, one.

Crawl forward, crouch in front of the vehicle, wait. Its shadow had begun darkening on the right as the searchlight flooded the buildings on the left of the car park and then reached the ground, sweeping towards me. Wait. Sweeping nearer, creating shadows to the right of the vehicles in front of me, brightening their bodywork, reflecting from the windows. Sweeping nearer — starting position — nearer, flooding over the vehicles and moving on — go for it.

Chasing the light, lost in the darkness it was leaving behind it — flat out, you've got three more seconds — the scalp crawling on the right side, the side where the shell would come if I faltered, stumbled, fell — run run run — the light from the next beam coming behind me and catching up, catching up fast as I ran ran ran and pitched headlong into the shadow of the next vehicle in the row ahead, lie flat, lie flat, do nothing, A sheet of light spreading across the ground and then flooding the vehicle as I shut my eyes and rested, the heartbeat thudding inside the rib cage and the breath sawing, the nerves sending a cascade of coloured light across the retinae until the tension slowly came off and the organism started returning to normal.

Light dying away.

Ten minutes. I would give it ten more minutes before I moved again. There was no hurry, though the dog might make a difference.

There'd been no shot this time; either he hadn't seen me or he was letting me run, toying with me, certain I could never make the next two rows of vehicles and reach the street. He could be giving me respite, giving me hope, playing on the nerves — a sniper would be liable to do that; they're a special breed, cold-blooded, subtle and meticulous, their egos geared to the intricate and finely-balanced mechanism of the guns they use.

'Aus mit dich!'

I hadn't seen it because my eyes were shut; I'd heard it snuffling, and when I'd looked up it had been coming through the gap between the next two vehicles ahead. I'd kept absolutely still but it had scented me: that was what it was doing here. It was a Doberman, big but not yet mature, and it was standing within three feet of me, watching.

'Weggehen!'

It didn't take much notice, just drew back a bit, the metal tag on its collar jingling. And went on watching me. I could feel the hairs on my arms and hands flattening again after the shock: when I'd seen that bloody thing I'd thought they were sending in dogs to flush me out of here, but this wasn't trained; it had broken its lead and was wandering.

The light came sweeping again and the dog turned its head and watched it, puzzled, because lights don't normally move; but it didn't look substantial enough for it to chase or try to catch. Its eyes became jewels as the light passed over them; then it was dark again.

'Aus mit dich!' I slapped the underside of the crankcase and this time it took some notice and when the next beam came past the dog was halfway between this vehicle and the next, looking back at me and wondering why I'd told it to go away instead of being friends, and then it spun sideways and leapt once and hit the ground with blood spilling under the bright sweeping light and I thought you bastard, oh you bastard.

I knew him now. He was a sadist. There'd been a choice for him to make: the dog could have been useful to him; it had already shown him which vehicle I was using for cover and it could have gone on following me whenever I made a move, and that would have been tempting to a professional marksman, a technician — an ideal situation, with a dog to keep track of his quarry. But he'd made the other choice, of terrorising the quarry itself by showing me what it would be like when the last shot came and I spun and leapt and hit the ground with my blood spilling under the light, just like that.

Bastard.

Not because of what he'd done to me but because he'd taken a dog's life to do it: that was obscene.

Ten minutes, then, another ten minutes and I'd give him his chance, because there was no option. If I had to go then I'd go the way of the dog and at least have company.

Rest, relax, await the moment. It would be of my own choosing: I would move when I decided to move. If he took -

Voice.

It came from the left. I thought I'd heard it before but decided it had been someone in the street on the far side; this time it'd come more clearly from the left, and now there was the faint crackle of squelch. It was a man with a walkie-talkie and he was stationed over there and reporting his position — there couldn't be any other answer. The sniper had sent beaters in, at least one but more probably two, the other positioned on the right. They could be armed but I doubted it; East Berlin is efficiently policed and the penalty for bearing weapons is imprisonment.

It could be that the sniper hadn't expected me to make two moves and get away with it, and now he was worried because there were only two more rows of vehicles between here and the street, where there were lights and traffic and people, giving me ample cover and a first-class chance of escape. I suppose it should have encouraged me a bit but of course it didn't: he'd seen the danger and had dealt with it.

Five minutes.

But there was a new factor coming into play that I didn't want to think about. In front of me there were still two more rows of vehicles and I could reach the first row in darkness between the beams of light, unless the beaters caught a glimpse of me and signalled my run to the sniper; but if I reached cover alive there wouldn't be another move to make, because I knew approximately where the sniper was and from his position the front row of vehicles would be silhouetted against the lights of the street.