'My freedom means a lot to me,' I told him. 'So what about tern million riel to share between you and your comrade?' His head turned to look at me as we slowed alongside my jeep and pulled up. They were going, then, to drive it back to the camp when they'd finished with me.

'Ask your comrade,' I told the guard, 'what he thinks of ten million riel in cash.'

He went on watching me. In Cambodia that amount of money would set them up in business as travel agents, buy them a brand new Trabant.

He didn't say anything. The engine of the jeep idled.

'With ten million,' I told him, 'you could buy a brand new Trabant, or set yourselves up in business, or buy enough raw cocaine coming through from Thailand to turn ten million into a thousand. You want to think about that? A thousand million riel?'

The man behind the wheel switched off the engine and looked round at us, jerking his chin up, wanting to know what was going on.

'Tell your comrade,' I said, 'that you're looking at a thousand million riel.'

He went on watching me for a bit and then turned his head and spoke to the driver in Khmer, and the driver laughed and swung his fist to the side of my head and knocked me half out of the jeep and left me dizzy, couldn't see much for a while except a blinding light that went on throbbing as I got my breath back, both of them laughing now but I swear to you that the one who spoke French had been interested, I'd seen it in his eyes, we could have made a deal and I could have got into my jeep and driven away, just a mental exercise, that's all, it's of no importance.

Then they dragged me out and we began walking across to the ravine not far from the track, maybe fifty yards.

It was quiet here except for the sound of our boots. The sky was turning from saffron to rust red in the west, and I saw the first star pricking the twilight. Three water fowl threaded the air above the ridge, homing to the Tonle Sap, and as I looked down I wondered if I would see the leopard again.

The two men weren't talking any more, and I thought it possible that as Buddhists they were aware that a life was soon to pass, here in this quiet place, and that even though they themselves were going to take it, there should be peace until the thing was done.

'What, then,' I asked the man who spoke French, 'can I offer you?'

One has to try, however late the hour.

There was no answer. He was walking beside me, his assault rifle at the slope. The other man was behind, the muzzle of his gun pressing against my spine.

'Talk it over,' I said, 'with your comrade. This is a unique chance for you — there's nobody more generous than a dying man, and I have plenty to give.'

He didn't answer. Our boots crunched over the stones in the silence, and I changed the subject.

'I saw a leopard,' I said, 'earlier,' simply to engage his attention as I swung round hard and forced the gun downward with my elbow and smashed my head into his face and drove the nose bone into the brain as the first shot banged before his finger was jerked clear of the trigger. I'd practised twisting in and out of the jacket five times in the cell but it seemed to take a long time now before I got my hands free and went for the one who spoke French as he started backing off to give himself room, suddenly learning that a gun at close quarters is useless, a dead weight, just something that gets in your way — I wouldn't have stood a chance if they'd kept their distance on the walk here from the jeep, couldn't have tried anything at all.

He got out a short burst but it was wide because he hadn't had time to swing the thing round into the aim and I was there now, forcing the barrel down and bringing his shoulders down with it, his shoulders and his face, then I smashed upward again but missed because he was ready for that, had seen what I'd done to the other man, didn't want it to happen to him, he was worried now, crouched over his gun and trying to find his balance again because when I'd tried the upward smash he'd half twisted round to avoid it, so I had a half-second to work with but it wasn't enough because I was off balance too and he recovered first and began swinging the gun into me — he'd forgotten already, forgotten the bloody thing was no good at close quarters, they hadn't taught them that at the school for revolutionaries, all they'd been taught was bang and you're dead, forcing, I was forcing the gun down again and the muzzle hit the stones and then he was on me, learning fast, remembering he'd got hands with strength in them, had them closing on my throat and I relaxed, went limp and dropped as far as he'd let me before I went for his eyes and felt his hands come away from my throat but they'd been squeezing hard and my breath was sawing in and out as we both went down now and he put a lock on me and trapped one arm, Christ he was strong, strong and lean and athletic and with the spirit in him, the spirit of the die-hard revolutionary, red flags in his eyes, the Khmer Rouge forever and all that jazz and it wasn't helping me, it was giving him the strength of two men, three, and I wasn't getting in there with the centre-knuckle strikes, kept missing him because he wouldn't keep still and I was on my back now with the last of the daylight in the sky and his head and shoulders etched in black against it, the silhouette of the death-bringer bearing down on me as he trapped my other arm with his leg across it and I couldn't find the force I needed because of the breathing thing, couldn't get the oxygen to the muscles and it felt like drowning, not being strong enough to use purchase, leverage, the twilight fluttering now as the man above me raised his hand and in his hand I saw the rock and it looked heavy, black against the sky, and as it came down I jerked my knee and connected with his tail-bone and he screamed and his arm went limp and as I twisted round the rock crashed down beside my head and I took it from there, kneeing him again and this time hard enough to paralyze and he screamed again in agony and I rolled clear and lay there listening to him, listening carefully in case he came out of the trauma with any strength left, but he wasn't moving, couldn't move.

I was getting my breath back but it wasn't easy, it was taking time. A lot had been happening and I think I must have hit my head on the ground somewhere along the line because the fading light of the day was still fluttering, vibrating in slow waves, while I tried to get a grip on things mentally — had they heard him scream, down there in the camp? If they had, they would have thought it was me, screaming for mercy, would have or might have, the difference was very great, potentially lethal, because if they'd heard the scream and hadn't thought it was me, they'd have jumped into a jeep and would be on their way here now.

He rolled over suddenly, my bold revolutionary, and started vomiting, which I'd been expecting him to do: the knee strike had been to the coccyx and I'd done it twice and the nerve centre there would be a conflagration now, giving him so much pain that he couldn't be more than half conscious, forget the rush of user-friendly endorphins when that area's been hit, you're strictly on your own. I was surprised he hadn't passed out by now and he could do it at any time but I couldn't trust that, daren't rely on it, a man like this would have formidable reserves.

Think: were they on their way, because of the scream? That would be conclusive, the odds unacceptable, so don't waste thought on it, there were other questions: what had they thought of the shots, the bursts of fire, the two bursts, more than an execution required? If they'd thought there was trouble of some kind they would be — once again — in their jeep by now and on their way here. The answer was the same: it would be conclusive, finis. So don't waste thought on that one either.