Two minutes.

And even if I could reach the front row it would be a dead end because beyond it was open ground and I would be a silhouette if I tried a final run.

One minute.

So there wasn't a great deal of point in going forward again. They'd set up an execution and there was only one man in the firing squad and he didn't have the dummy round in the gun. But the only alternative was to stay here and let them come for me sooner or later, taking their time, and I'd rather go the way of the dog, running flat out for dear life, than have them come and find me lying on my back underneath a bloody street-maintenance vehicle with nothing left to do but bare my neck.

Then go for it.

The light came sweeping and I waited till the dark came down and then got into motion with all the force I had in me and I was halfway there when a shell ripped the left sleeve at the shoulder and smashed into the rear window of the vehicle and shattered the glass as I kept running with the light nearing from the left and he fired again and the shell hit the rear of the same vehicle but lower down and pierced the fuel-tank and brought the reek of petrol into the air as I dived for cover. The third shot made impact at a flat angle and tore metal away from the side of the vehicle and I heard the shell ricochet and hit the ground and bounce and rattle against the vehicle ahead.

Lie flat and rest, let the shock expend itself in the organism. Relax, let go, hands and face against the gritty tarmac, the heart thundering in the chest and the sunburst of colours fading from the nerves in the retinae, relax, we did well, we survived and here we are.

Here we are at last, at the dead end of the run.

Rest, relax, don't think about it. There must be something we can do; it can't be over.

Wrong. Because when I opened my eyes and studied the environment I saw the situation was exactly as I'd thought it would be when I reached here. From the sniper's viewpoint the last row of vehicles would be silhouetted against the lights of the street beyond and if I made a final run he'd take his time and check the aim and put the first shot into my spine.

A rose for Moira.

The light sweeping, flooding the ground and passing on, leaving the dark. Nothing has changed. You knew there was no real chance when you realised they'd trapped you here on this killing-ground. Nothing has changed, but when you feel ready then make your final run, just as a gesture, and die like a man.

Correction, yes.

Like a dog.

15: TRUMPETER

God knows what it was: something soft.

The only light in here was from the flames.

Soft and pliable, possibly a dead cat, though a dead cat would be stiffer than this. I raked lower, and found an empty box and some banana peel and a paper bag with something in it, though I didn't want to know what.

The light of the flames was coming across the top of the open bin and I tried to see things by it, but it wasn't easy, here among the rotting detritus of man. I was looking for rope, ideally, a piece of rope, or failing that, some wire, or even string if it were strong enough; it wouldn't have to last very long.

Be it known that the bearer is in the private service of Her Majesty the Queen, and shall be permitted free passage and certain privileges on demand, wherever her dominion shall extend.

Stink of fish as I dug deeper and found bones and a beer can, the bearer, being in the private service of Her Majesty, assiduously pursuing his duties, though it be in this bloody hole where no one, may they catch the pox, has left any rope. No point, you might well think, in flashing my laissez-passer and demanding certain privileges, since Her Majesty's dominion doesn't extend as far as the trash bins in the German Democratic Republic.

I reached for his throat and felt the pulse. I'd put my watch on again but I couldn't see it in this light and in any case you don't need a watch to tell you if a man's pulse is approximately normal. This one's was steady, perhaps a fraction slow. I'd put him out five minutes ago and he was probably still well under. He was one of the beaters.

Something long and thin and — bicycle tube, yes — and some rotten fruit by the feel of it, black market and an exchange of hard currency under the counter, and a wire coat-hanger: that would do. I hooked it over the edge of the bin and went on digging. It was ten or fifteen minutes before I found all I wanted, and the flames had died away. It had been a night for bonfires, you may have noticed.

There'd been quite a lot of petrol on the ground when I'd got my lighter out and it had made a sheet of flame before the whole tank went up and by that time I was diving for the vehicle in front and there'd been no shot: I think he was surprised by the explosion and couldn't bring the gun into the aim in time to drop me.

There were several bits of rope and I joined two or three and found another coat-hanger and untwisted the hook and got his wrists behind him and his feet together; then I forced his mouth open and stuffed some rag in and bound it with the rest of the rope.

I'd waited till the fire crews were milling around and then I'd gone for the buildings on the left and found him still there with his walkie-talkie and he wasn't carrying a gun. This stinking bin was further along the wall and I'd had to drag him there because he'd tried to resist and that was when I'd put him under.

Got the worst of the oil off my face and then I took a look from the top of the bin. The fire crews were starting to roll their hoses but there were a lot of people in the area and I dropped onto the ground on the side facing the wall and kept in its shadow. His shoes were tight but better than bare feet; I didn't want anyone asking questions. From the sniper's viewpoint it must have looked as if I'd gone up in flames because there'd been a fifty-foot jet when the tank had burst and the two nearest vehicles had taken fire and their tanks had gone up too; but there could still be some of Volper's people in the environment and I wouldn't be taking any chances I could avoid.

The nearest phone box was half a block away and I wanted to run there but it would have called attention.

'Gunter?'

'Yes.'

'I want you to pick me up on the corner of Beckerstrasse and the municipal vehicle park in Treptow. Do you know where that is?'

'I can find it.' He asked me for the nearest cross-street and I told him and rang off and dialled again and Cone answered before the fifth ring.

'Look,' I told him, 'I'm bringing a prisoner in.'

'Where are you?'

'Treptow. But I can't bring him into the hotel: we look too messy.' He told me there was a lock-up garage in Hausvogteplatz and I noted the number.

'We should be there within the hour; it's the nearest I can say.'

'I'll wait,' he said.

It looked like a thieves' kitchen — concrete floor, bare brick walls, no window, a ceiling festooned with cobwebs, naked light bulb hanging down from the middle, two drunken-looking chairs and a pile of cardboard boxes in the corner, stained from the rain that came in. But there was a phone rigged up, perched on a directory on the floor.

'You can have these back.'

I threw them over to him but he didn't pick them up or even look at them. Cone had stuck him on one of the chairs and he was just sitting there with his head up and his eyes gazing at the wall like a bloody zombie.

Cone stood squinting at him for a minute, hands in his mac pockets, his scarecrow body hunched forward.

'We're going to leave him locked in here,' he told me, 'and then remote-control the bomb.'

We were looking at the man in the chair. No reaction, so we went on speaking English; not that there was anything sensitive to say.