Executive to ground and inactive.

The two major items of course were that the subject was expected to 'reveal critical information' — to blow Bamboo — and that the executive had gone to ground and was inactive, which meant that he must be wanted by the police and security forces of the host country and could no longer operate at street level, and that he had no further ability to advance or even protect the mission.

'Who's this bastard?' Chong said.

Man waving.

The signal reporting a deceased PLA sergeant in the field was obligatory: any 'terminal incident' must be noted in the records. But it also told London Control that there was now a hue and cry going on as a result, with the military searching earnestly for the assassin.

'Pull up,' I told Chong.

The report that a private cell had entered the field was of critical importance, but with the mission crashed and the executive incapable of further action there wasn't much that London could do about it.

'You say pull up?'

'Yes.'

Not quite incapable: that is a mortuary word, suggestive of worms and the silence of the tomb. Pressed, harassed, beleaguered, what you will.

The man who had been waving came to the side of the cab as the truck ground to a stop with the brake drums moaning. His Beijing jeep was standing at the roadside.

'Keyi da nide bian che ma?'

'Chong, what's he saying?'

Stink of diesel gas seeping through the floorboards. I wound the window down.

'Wants a lift.'

'We'll give him one.'

Chong looked at me. 'He a friend?'

As distinct from foe, trade argot.

'Yes.'

'Shang che.'

As the man came around the front of the truck I said, 'Chong. You don't speak English.'

'Gotcha.'

I pushed the door open and shifted over to make room and the man came aboard, hauling himself up by the big iron handgrip, expensive duffel jacket, heavy black beard, an energetic, barrel-shaped body, dropping onto the seat beside me, pulling the door shut with a noise like a bomb.

'Xiexie.'

'That's all right,' I said.

'Ah.' Peering at me, then — 'Well, well! You're getting a lift too?'

'Yes.'

I had sunglasses on; otherwise he would have recognized me sooner, even with the two-day stubble. A lot of people wore sunglasses here without attracting attention; the ultra-violet was intense at this altitude: this was cataract country.

'Trotter. How is the head?'

'Much better, thanks of course to you.'

'My dear fellow, I'm glad it turned out all right.' In a moment. 'That bloody jeep always gives trouble about here — I do this road every day. Grit in the carburettor, I daresay, an occupational hazard for every vehicle in Lhasa, but the thing is they never replace the air filters at the rental place.'

He sounded, I thought, a degree too talkative.

'That's a shame,' I said.

Chong shifted the huge gear lever again. For a truck as big as a dinosaur there wasn't much room in the cab. I felt Trotter moving closer to me.

Very quietly, under his breath, 'This chap speak English?'

'No.'

'Ah.' Gloved hands a little restless on his knees, fingers tapping. 'I don't know if you're aware of it, my dear fellow, but the police are looking for you. Locke, isn't it?'

'Yes. How do you know?'

'I'm sort of local here, on and off, come here to dig as often as I can. Police know me well, and they sometimes haul me in whenever there's a problem with a round-eye, ask me if I know anything and so on.' In a moment, 'From what I gather there was an agent of the KCCPC found dead in a temple yesterday.' A beat. 'The one where I picked you up. It appears someone described you.' He turned his face toward me. 'I can assure you it was not I.'

Chong hit the brakes again as a tour bus cut things close past a horse and cart, and we put our hands on the dashboard.

'Bie dang dao!'

I hadn't given Trotter any kind of an answer.

'Look,' he said, 'in the first place I told them I didn't know anything about you, obviously. It wouldn't be wise for me to refuse to help those buggers when I can, because they turn a blind eye if I'm still on the road after a curfew, back late from a dig, that sort of thing. But they get damned little out of me, I can assure you.'

Buildings were coming up as we passed the nomad camp ground, the big Telecommunications Office in the distance: we'd been making better time. I hadn't said anything.

'In the second place,' his deep voice muted, 'I'm not the slightest bit interested in your affairs, but if by chance you happen to have dispatched an agent of the KCCPC then I'm delighted, between you and me. You're certain, are you, that this chap doesn't understand English?'

'Certain.'

'Well and good, because this is tricky territory, as I imagine you realize. Never know who you're talking to' — his gloved hand on my knee for an instant — 'I mean the Chinese. So the thing is, since the police are after you, it might be a good idea to make yourself scarce, don't you agree?'

'It sounds logical.'

'Ni yao kouxiangtang ma?' Chong, holding out his packet of Wrigley's.

Trotter shook his head. 'Bu, xiexie ni. It's not easy,' he said, 'in a place like this, to make oneself scarce, with martial law and everything. Of course, the entire populace hates and detests the authorities, but one or two are so scared of reprisals that they'll give anyone away, even their friends, even their relatives.' We reached for the dashboard again as Chong used the brakes for the first traffic lights, the drums moaning. 'What I would like to tell you, my dear fellow, is that if you need a good place — a safe place — to sort of lie low till things blow over, I'd be delighted to assist.' He leaned forward, looking past me at Chong. 'Mafan ning, keyi rang wo zai xiayitiao jie xia che ma?'

'Keyi'

'I gave you my card, I believe?'

'Yes.'

'Phone me at any time, my dear fellow. At any time. I know a safe place, if you're really stuck — not the hotel, of course, it's just a tiny apartment in the native quarter. Dear God, the whole town used to be the native quarter, but now the Chinese are taking over, it's appalling. The sooner they get that gang of cutthroats out of power in Beijing the happier I shall be, not to mention my good friends the intellectuals.' He looked at Chong again. 'Wo qian ni shenme ma?'

'Bu. Heng huanying ni da wo de che.'

'Ni zhenshi ge re xin ren.' He braced himself as the truck slowed. The big black beard close to my ear — 'Please remember, Mr Locke, that you can count on me, for the aforesaid reasons. I have a feeling you are hardly a friend of those bastards in Beijing, which makes you one of mine.'

He used a fist on the door handle and dropped onto the street, looking up at me with his dark eyes serious. 'You know where to find me.' Swung the door shut with a bang.

Across the road was a red-and-white sign in Chinese and English: Truck Rental.

Chong gunned up and got into second gear. 'You know that guy?'

'Slightly.'

'British?'

'Yes. How many people,' I asked him, 'have we got in the field?'

'Maybe a dozen in support, some of them sleepers, got a short courier line to the airport, longer one to Kathmandu, then we can use-'

'All right, I want a two-way radio with a ten-kilometre range and fresh batteries. I want another one delivered to our DIP with the frequencies synchronized.' He slowed for traffic lights, and I gave him a rendezvous. 'I also want a different truck — what are those brown things with the rounded front?'

'Called a Dongfeng, sure, I can rent one of those.'

'How long will it take to get what I need?'

'How soon do you want it?'

'Fast as you can.'

He worked at his gum. 'Gimme an hour, okay?'