'Sergeant in charge, open this fucking gate, come on!'

The NCO heard the order this time and gave a shout and two of us went for the wooden bar and swung it back and got the gate open and I stood clear as a body of men came plunging through and split up and started climbing the fire-escapes against the wall of the building while I went through the gate and turned and held my revolver at the ready. Two men were bringing the civilian down, going against the stream; I suppose it was the quickest way out of die building with all that fuss going on inside, and when they'd got him as far as the gate I turned again and took up the rearguard in case he managed to break loose.

We took him to one of the vehicles half a block away; I think it was the prisoner transport van that had come with us from Militia Headquarters earlier. There was less light here and I left the escort party and took up station at the end of an alley, facing the street to watch for anyone attempting to escape; but the focus of action was still down there at the apartment block and nobody was looking in my direction so I turned and walked into the alley, the boots a bit on the loose side even though I'd pulled the laces tight; it's important in this trade that our feet are comfortable because sometimes we need to run and run flat out and if we' re not fast enough we can lose the whole thing.

That had been at 7:41 and it was now 8:20 and they wouldn't give it much more than an hour down there, Gromov and Belyak, and there was something I'd have to remember: there'd only been one way I could have got out of that place and as soon as they gave their minds to it they'd put Shokin, Viktor back on the A.P. bulletin board described as possibly wearing militia uniform.

They were there again, the lights.

The support man was driving cautiously and I liked that You could wipe out the front end of whatever you were driving on streets like this if you didn't watch it, clouds of steam and rusty water pouring onto the ice and the timing-gear pushed through the cylinder block, and in these boots I didn't feel like walking.

And that was the second time.

I edged the throttle down a fraction to pull up on the Trabant in front of me and watched the mirror. It was the second time the car behind had gone through a red light, oh quite possibly, yes, with so little traffic on the streets after the storm there wasn't much attention being paid to the lights, just slow down a bit and take a good look and off you go again if there are no police around; on the other hand it's the first intimation you get when a tracker comes up on your tail: he can't afford to stay too close and go through the intersections I with you but he can't afford to lose ground to a red light and watch you sail away.

All I could see from the profile of the vehicle behind me was that it was a private car, not a van or a truck or anything with emergency lights on the roof, unlit or otherwise.

But you said you weren't worried about lights in the mirror.

I wasn't.

You gave us all that bullshit about watching mirrors with the ritualistic devotion of a priest, just because you thought it sounded good, and now -

Bloody well shuddup.

There was no way that anyone could have tracked us last night from the Velichko killing-site to the hospital without my knowing, but I used the throttle again and fought the ruts and pulled alongside the Trabant and signalled the driver to stop. His offside wing caught the side of my door as he slewed on the snow but it wasn't more than a bump, and then we were stationary side by side and our windows were down and we started talking.

'I've got some lights in the mirror,' I told him.

They were still there in the distance, but the car had stopped.

The support man was watching me, a stubbly face with unsurprisable eyes under a black leather ski-cap. 'Was he there before I intercepted?'

'He could have been.' there'd been more traffic, earlier.

'He's not mine,' the support man said. 'I got there clean.' there was a note of censure in the tone, as if he'd just noticed I hadn't washed.

'Where's the safe-house?' I asked him.

'You peeling off?'

'I might have to.'

Our engines idled, echoing from the wall alongside.

'Two kilometres east of here, and you're on the river. It's the wreck of a coaster, single mast with four deck hatches and the starboard bow stove in, the M. V. Natasha, but you can't make out the name very well. She's on the west bank, three berths down — that's south — from No. 7 Granary, Novosibirsk, black clapperboard with the Russian flag painted over the main doors, recently done.'

He waited, watching me, his eyes in the shadow of his cap.

'Vessels on either side of the wreck?'

'Another coaster, north, and a dredger with a list on it. Place is a graveyard.'

The lights were still in the mirror.

'All right. Stay where you are, and if I'm wrong I'll be back and we can keep going. Give me half an hour.'

'You need help?'

'No.'

It had better be done solo.

I knew what had happened, now, and the chill of the night air was creeping through the skin and reaching the nerves, because it might not just be a case of throwing off the tracker and resuming operations without him. Meridian had been compromised, and even Ferris could be in hazard. It was perfectly true that no one could have tracked us through this city last night, that we'd been absolutely clean when Roach had picked us up at the hospital. But the lights back there were still in the mirror, and now I knew why.

There must have been surveillance on the Skoda when I'd picked it up twenty minutes ago, and they'd started tracking me, were behind me now. But they couldn't have found it there by chance on that patch of waste ground in a city this size: they'd been surveilling this car since I'd brought it away from the safe-house, and before then; they'd been surveilling it when it had been standing outside the apartment block after Roach had left it there for me to use, and before then: they'd tracked Roach to the rendezvous at the hospital, must have got onto him when he'd started out to meet us there. The thread went back, and back, as far as the unthinkable.

I looked across at the support man.

'Change that,' I called to him above the drumming of the engines. 'Don't wait for me. Get away from here and watch your tail. 'He'd caught my tone, lifted his head an inch like an animal scenting. 'Signal the DIF as soon as you can,' I told him. 'Make sure the line's not tapped. Tell him I think your whole support base could have been blown, and tell him to look after Roach, if it's not too late.'

Chapter 18: BLOOD

Lights flashing.

It looked like a militia patrol crossing the intersection behind us and coming this way, so I got into reverse and tucked in behind the support man's Trabant. The coloured lights began filling the mirror.

It should be noted that the wanted man is possibly wearing a militia uniform at this time.

I'd taken the fur hat off as soon as I'd got into the Skoda, but if a patrol took an interest in me and looked down through the window he'd see the uniform.

But they couldn't be on to me yet.

Oh yes they could. They've had quite enough time to -

Shuddup and sweat it out, you snivelling little bastard.

Flashing lights, filling the mirror and reflecting in the windows of die factory and the bus garage opposite, colouring the night.

Then it was passing us and I heard banging and a voice raised, a muffled shouting, a drunk, perhaps, trying to break out of the car, giving the boys a hard time.

The support man waited until it was out of sight and then started up and wagged his tail a bit over the snow and found traction and took it away, slewing into a side street and vanishing. The car behind me hadn't moved, was still standing a hundred yards away, its lights in the mirror.