The scents of damp earth and greenstuff came on the air, sweet after the man-made reek of exhaust gas, the smell of the country drifting in to the stone and steel and concrete mileu of the man-made city. The smell of black tobacco as the truckers lit up again as they worked.

Within the next ten minutes I counted four men moving about in the area, the one from the BMW and three coming in from the street that ran at right-angles, their figures silhouetted against the last of the blaze as the fire crews worked with their hoses and extinguishers. Black smoke drifted as thick as black water from the mouth of the street, coloured by the lights of the police cars and the fire-trucks, and one of the men coming across here was coughing the whole time, probably because he'd stayed close to the burning car, trying to see if the driver were still inside.

A rat ran close to my face as I lay perfectly still, a huge rat, a city rat here for the feasting, and another followed, scampering across my leg and stopping, its feet splayed as it sniffed; and I moved slightly and felt it leap in alarm and heard it scuttle away; it had felt flesh underfoot and suspected I was carrion. Feast, my good friend, but not on me.

Ten minutes more and two of the men had passed along the row of trucks behind me: I could watch both rows by turning my head at intervals. It may have been a subconscious concession to social convention that stopped them going through the debris under the platforms; the truckers would hardly notice them as they walked past, but they would have attracted attention if they'd started scavenging. And they were looking for a man on foot, the silhouette or the shadow of a man loping in the distance from cover to cover, someone they could give chase to and run down and kill. If this yard had been deserted, I think they might have made a thorough search, taking their time, taking an hour, two hours, before they were satisfied.

Get it, Heiner!

Don't move!

Clang of a metal bar, maybe a tyre-iron, as one of the rats leapt and vanished in the half-dark.

Another ten minutes and a truck started up at the front of the row and moved off, the sound of its diesel drumming within the walls of the yard, the gas from its exhaust creeping across the ground.

There was only one man now, the one from the BMW that stood fifty feet away near a fire hydrant. He was moving towards the area where I was lying, checking the trucks for the second time. He would be my last chance for making the switch, and it worried me.

There was no other vehicle in sight and even if there had been it would have been locked and although I could smash a window and get in, the key would almost certainly not be there and I wouldn't have time to hot-wire the ignition and take up station behind the BMW.

The BMW was the only car I could use, and if this man were the last of the hit-team left in the area I wouldn't have to follow him anyway. I would have to take him with me.

He was coming along the nearest row between the trucks and the platform and was within thirty feet of me. I got a glimpse of him now and then between the slats but his face was strange; he wasn't one of the tags who'd been with me through the streets the day before. A blunt face with short black hair, worn leather jacket, not a big man but strong, wide-shouldered, thick at the wrist. He was ducking to look under the trucks now, then turning and looking under the platform.

There was deep shadow here, the flat white light of the street lamps blanked off by the trucks, but he would see me if he looked under the platform and was close enough.

If I couldn't do the switch there was only one option left to me. It was something I have never done before in any mission, on principle and because the Bureau disallows it, but I believed as I lay there among the mess of broken crates and beer cans that I would have to do it now.

Not now, later. But prepare it now.

Paul, canyou shift up a couple of metres?

What for?

I've got to let the tailboard down.

Half a jiff.

Another truck was moving off at the end of the row behind me and a crate dropped off the platform and split open, spilling green apples. Paul's truck started up, and the huge twin wheels rolled as the man, the man with the blunt face, stood back. Small flat-beds and vans had started coming in from the street as the shopkeepers arrived to load up. Engines were running everywhere in the crowded yard, and the air was thick with carbon monoxide.

All right, that'll do it!

A tailboard slammed down against the rubber stops. The man was close now, two or three metres away.

Heinrich! Where's Veidt?

Haven't seen him.

I've got his quota!

The door of a cab clanged shut and boots hit the ground. The section of platform above my head took the weight of potato sacks as they were swung from the truck. The man ducked and looked under the platform, closer still now, but didn't see me among the debris.

Veidt's not coming!

Why not?

He's off sick.

Shit!

The engines rumbled. The big wheels rolled. The truckers shouted. Then the man looked under the platform again and saw me.

25: END-PHASE

It was a long way.

A minute ago a police car had gone past the entrance to the freight yard with its lights flashing. I suppose it was one of the patrols which had gone to the scene of the bombed-out Mercedes. I didn't want any police near me.

A long way, maybe fifty metres, dragging him behind me through the litter, through the mess.

It had been an easy enough strike because he hadn't been ready for it and couldn't reach his gun. He'd given a shout as I'd pulled him down but there were shouts going on all over the place and no one took any notice. It was a 9mm Mauser and I'd emptied the magazine and scattered the bullets and wrapped the gun in some newspaper and dropped it into a crate. They're dangerous, and can hurt people.

I'd put the keys in my pocket.

He must have caught his leg on something, one of the platform supports or a splintered crate, when I'd brought him under here with me, because sometimes when I looked back I caught the glint of blood across the ground. So I turned him over and went on dragging him to the end of the row.

He was valuable. I prized him. He was the custodian of my enterprise, Quickstep. I didn't at this time dwell on the future, and what I would have to do.

Against your precious principles.

Yes.

It's nothing to do with principles. It frightens you.

If you say so.

You know it's true.

Shuddup.

I was dragging him by the wrists and it wasn't easy because I was having to move in a crouch below the platform and it was a strain on the lumbar muscles. But to get him from here to the end of the row wouldn't be the worst of it.

I felt his wrists jerk suddenly as he came to and tried to get free. I dropped him and did some minor work on the left side of the neck and then started pulling him along again.

A wrecking truck went past the gates, its lights dappling the dark with colour. They would haul the burnt-out Mercedes away, like a dead elephant. It had been a nice motorcar: I like that particular model.

And then we reached the end of the platform and I stopped work and rested a little, lying flat on my back, keeping one of his wrists in my hand so that I'd know if he tried to do anything.

Just gone five, 05:03 to be exact. Less than three hours, then, to the deadline. It wasn't long. It depended on how things went, how effective I could prove, and what kind of man he was, how strong, how weak. Three hours wouldn't be long, because I also had to locate Horst Volper and deal with him, and in time.