He could have been — must have been — there all night, unless he had anyone in support, which I didn't believe: a rogue is a rogue, and works solo. They 're a breed apart, often neurotic, occasionally psychopathological, you can't ever trust them. Even if you can persuade them into working with you, with your cell or your network, you can't turn your back on them, they'll slip a knife in if it suits them, sometimes for kicks, ask that bastard Loman, he'd been running Fairfax through Tigerfish in the South China Sea when that executive had been found floating among the off-shore trash in Saigon, and it hadn't taken the Bureau five minutes to find out that Fairfax had been using a rogue agent who knew the area, and that the said rogue agent had decided to take a hundred per cent of the credit for the successful completion of the mission and the only way to do that was by putting a bullet into the executive's brain and dropping him off a pier.

A glint came from the trees on the hill, this time in motion, brightening and dimming out. I hadn't seen that before.

It was difficult at this distance to understand what that glint had meant. It wasn't the degree-by-degree passage of the morning light reflecting from the windows of the car up there: it was smaller, the glint, more focused — and then I got it, because when it moved again I saw it had a twin.

I couldn't see his eyes, but I knew they were on me now, pressed to the 10 x 10s.

Crackle of gunfire and this time the nerves reacted a little, goose flesh under the sleeves. The sudden contact that only the eyes can make at a distance between two creatures is intimate and dramatic. When that incredible girl looked up — remember? — from halfway across the crowded room and saw you watching her, there was a rush of hormones, wasn't there, as the glands kicked in; it was like swallowing all the perfumes of Araby in one gulp, I know the feeling, but that wasn't the feeling I had now as I sat in the car among these alien snows and kept still, perfectly still, submitting to a hostile scrutiny I couldn't escape.

It wasn't unexpected. I'd known that if the man with the field-glasses were watching the camp again today he would also make frequent checks on his environment, and my cover wasn't as good as his: there were no trees here and all I'd been able to do was squeeze the Skoda in between the ruined hulk of a barn and the dry-stone wall that ran past it — not even cover, call it camouflage.

It wasn't unexpected but there was engagement now; contact had been made at a distance between these two creatures out here under the early morning sky, and the scene had changed. He wouldn't just leave things like this, the agent up there among the trees. He wouldn't want to be watched. He would need to make a move, but it wouldn't be like yesterday's, because yesterday he would have had a whole battalion to contend with if he'd stayed his ground, and today there was only one man.

He would be a violent antagonist, if he chose to confront me. That would be his nature: he was a rogue. And he would be armed. Their lives in the field are short, but they'd be shorter still without the advantage of weapons. I'd known this when I'd left the Natasha an hour ago and put the mission into hazard, but I'd had no choice. I still didn't know whether I had any chance at all of monitoring the movements of the generals and infiltrating whatever operation it was they were running, but I knew at least that I'd never be able to do it if a rogue agent were in the field and moving ahead of me with the intention of finishing what he'd started on that train — of killing them off.

Listen, Zymyanin had said as the corridor of the train had rocked under our feet, this is all I can tell you for now. The Bureau should do everything — everything — to keep those people under surveillance.

That was why I was here this morning, with the ice caking the windows and the rasping of the digital clock on its worn bearings stressing the silence inside the car — to reach the objective for Meridian if I could, and get the information to London. I'd lost my director in the field but I'd set up a close support base with communications and liaison for Rusakov, but it would all be useless if I let that man on the hill take over the action.

I'd found him. Now I had to stop him, get him out of the picture.

He was here to follow the generals when they left camp, and in this we had the same purpose, but I believed it would end there. He had their death in mind, and when he'd followed them far enough from the camp to do the thing without bringing all hell on his head, then he would do it. Or it could be a suicide run he was here for, and the moment the generals left camp through those gates across there he'd move down from the hill and intercept and pump a volley of dum-dums into them as the alarm was sounded and the first of the armoured cars was started up and sent in pursuit. He wouldn't get far and he would know that, but a suicide run would fit quite well into the thinking process of a typical rogue agent, and he could be one of the psychopaths, capable, for instance, of bombing a crowded train with no thought for the women and children.

And if that was his plan, the hail of dum-dums would not only obliterate the generals. It would blow Meridian into Christendom.

He was still watching me. The field-glasses hadn't moved since I'd seen them lock onto the image of the Skoda.

Gunfire, echoing from the huts. I kept still, watching the twin glint from among the trees, staring him out.

He would have plans for me, too, now that he'd seen me. It had been the major calculated risk I'd had to take. If he were here to wipe out the generals with a burst of fire he would do the same with me, immediately afterwards, because I'd present a threat: at the least I would be a witness to his act of assassination and at most I might intercept him when he left the hill and block his run, leave him set up for the armoured cars. But perhaps he wouldn't wait for that. Perhaps he would deal with me first, soon, get me out of the way, as a spider moves onto the web and removes a foreign object that has fallen there and then goes back into cover to wait for the fly.

That was the risk, but it was calculated: it's the only kind I'll take.

And I had options. Perhaps, for instance, I could talk to him.

He was still watching me, so I started the engine. He hadn't swung the field-glasses away, was still wondering who I was and what I was doing here. I wanted him to see me move off, so that he could follow me with the glasses, know that I was coming. I didn't want to surprise him: he might react, and lethally. I had to approach him overtly — he knew that I knew he was watching me; I wouldn't be some honest burgher out here to admire the view, because all the honest burghers in Novosibirsk were in the queues for a loaf of bread, poor buggers, be there all bloody day. He would know, that man on the hill, that I would be one of his kind, up to nothing innocent, and perhaps might sense a kindred spirit in the field.

A touch optimistic this morning, aren't we?

Shuddup.

The snow broke under the tyres as I moved down to the fork in the road, and the bodywork creaked as we shimmied over the ruts. I had options, yes, but there weren't any others 1 could choose at this particular time. They were for later, if he proved a danger to Meridian, as I believed he was; then I would try to get past his weapons and contain him, bring him away from here, take him to the support base and tell them to look after him, get him medical attention if that were necessary, if he put up too much of a struggle and had to be subdued with some of the more extreme techniques.

I wished him no harm, be this noted. In looking for the death of those two generals he would, I'm reasonably sure, be seeking to dispatch them to the same Elysian climes to which they would have dispatched others, perhaps hundreds, in the execution yards. The late Gennadi Velichko, with at least a Rusakov's blood on his hands, had been their close confederate.