'Your records show — '

'My records show everything but the man himself. And that's what you're up against now.'

'As an intelligence officer you are of course first class. The information you brought in tonight is without price.' His head went low and his voice was so quiet that I only just caught what he said. 'Could be without price.'

His rapid switch of mood made me think for an instant of manic-depression as stillness settled into the room. Pringle hadn't moved for a long time, was standing with his arms folded and his eyes nowhere.

In a moment I said, 'Flockhart, what got you into this Cambodia thing?'

His head came up and he looked at me with a flash of hate. I think he just didn't like the way I'd put it, and perhaps he had a point, mea culpa.

'I became involved in the fate of the Cambodian people,' he said in a low voice, 'when I was here in the late seventies, during the holocaust. I was here as a clandestine observer for the Bureau. Even at that time there was the feeling in London that someone should do something to stop the bloodshed.' He moved suddenly, as if wanting to free himself of memories. 'To have been here during that time was to be changed by it, if one had any feeling at all for one's fellow humans, whatever the colour of their skin or the language they spoke.'

That was understandable, but I thought there must be more: a more personal motive for turning himself into a rogue control, for mounting a rogue mission.

Then intuition flashed, and I paid immediate attention. 'When I went into your office,' I said, 'in London, you made a point of hiding a photograph on your desk.'

He looked away. 'I did.'

The room was quiet again. Perhaps I shouldn't have asked him about it, but I needed to know. 'Whose is it?'

It took him time but I waited, not pushing, and at last he gave me the answer.

'It is a photograph,' he said, 'of my daughter Gabrielle.'

There was the faint sound of music coming from the top of the steps, a thin Chinese voice, a woman's, singing to a stringed instrument. I listened to it, letting the mind explore what had just been said.

Then I said, 'She told me her father was the French consul here.'

'Yes.' Flockhart spoke in a monotone, his back to the wall again, perhaps symbolically. 'He was a good friend of mine. Two days after his wife was reported missing he was hit by a stray shot, and died in my arms. I was in his house at the time, and so was his five-year-old child, Gabrielle.'

'You adopted her?'

'Of course. I took a young Cambodian woman out of the country to care for her, and later saw that she was educated in Paris, as her father would have wished.'

'I'm glad.'

He turned his head. 'You've been seeing her, she tells me. She's rather fond of you.'

'We've been thrown together, you could say.'

'I didn't expect you to feel anything for the people of this country, so my hope was to arouse your compassion through Gabrielle. Your record in the archives does in point of fact reveal a little of the man. You are stated not to be uncompassionate, and to have a high regard for women.' I didn't say anything. 'Don't blame her' — he took a step towards me — 'for what she told you when you arrived in Phnom Penh. I briefed her to say what she did.'

'Of course I don't blame her. She wants to save this country too. She'd also make a first class intelligence officer.'

'I think so, yes, though it's hardly a pursuit I'd wish for her.'

'At the moment she's playing with fire, did you know?'

He closed his eyes for a moment. 'Yes. And of course I've tried to dissuade her, but she knows her own mind. Let us hope — ' he shrugged.

'Amen.' I took a turn, needing to think, needing more answers.

'What was Fane doing in Paris?'

He was the man getting blown up on the steps of the hotel when Gabrielle had been shooting footage.

'I was lining things up at that time,' Flockhart said, 'as I mentioned. Fane was to have directed you in the field here, but there was a leak in security.' A beat. ' I imagine you enjoyed the film.' Knew about Murmansk.

'Not really.' All men are brothers. I took another turn. 'You didn't give me the final objective for Salamander in London for the simple reason that you knew I wouldn't touch it. Isn't that right?'

'Perfectly.'

Moving his shoulders against the wall again, restive as a caged bear, nothing but his veiled rage to thrive on, his rage against General Kheng and the shadow executive who refused to put him in the cross-hairs. 'So what makes you think I'll touch it now?'

'I rather think we've discussed that. It concerned compassion.'

'All right, I feel compassion for these people — anyone would. But that doesn't override my principles — and they're not only mine. Who else in the Bureau would have taken this on? Wellman? Locke? Thorne? They'd have turned it down flat and you know that. We're not hired guns, any of us, we don't kill in cold blood. And who, anyway, would take the risk?'

Flockhart turned his head. 'Of firing a single shot?'

'Of firing the shot and getting it wrong, of being shot himself before he could get clear. I told Pringle that for a single executive in the field to take on the Khmer Rouge is a suicide run, one man against an army of twelve thousand. How could anyone go in there — '

'No,' Flockhart said and came away from the wall and stood in front of me, hands in motion, chopping the air — 'No, it's not like that. You don't have to engage twelve thousand men. You have to destroy only one, and from a distance, and with a gun.'

'Where?'

'Wherever you can reach him.'

'He'd have to be isolated.'

'Isolated, then.' Staring at me, fire in his eyes.

"Then find someone to do it for you. Ask Bracken. Ask Symes. Ask one of the agents-in-place in Phnom Penh, or one of the sleepers.'

'Oh come, they're not marksmen. You brought home the Queen's Prize two years ago at Bisley.'

'That was another reason, was it, why you picked me out for this one?'

'But of course.'

'You knew it'd come down to one final shot if all else failed?'

'I believed so. Destroy the leader of a rebel army and the ranks will be left in total disarray. History is clear on this point.' Head on one side: 'I thought perhaps it might tempt you, in the last hours of your mission, to be offered a task that even the United Nations is powerless to take on, for whatever reason.'

He waited, sweat beading his face, his eyes locked on mine.

'An appeal to my vanity,' I said. 'That's in my records too?'

'You're known for undertaking operations that others might well refuse because of the difficulties. Rather, I would call it pride.'

'Bullshit.'

But he was right: he'd given this thing a lot of thought. I'd been the perfect candidate — a single man with no one and nothing to lose and a feeling for women and a streak of vanity that'd come close to getting me killed a dozen times, be this admitted. But Flockhart was finally trying to goad me into an operation I couldn't take on because of the one personal factor he hadn't believed would make any difference.

He turned away and I saw Pringle look up, look down again. Then he swung back to me: 'Having refused to complete the mission, would you at least set up the end phase, in case we can find someone else to bring it home?'

'Not if you put it like that.'

Anger flashed again in the cold blue eyes. He was a major control, very high in the echelon, and I, a lowly ferret in the field, wasn't expected to speak my mind in so forthright a fashion. Our good Pringle, yonder, was clearing his throat again.

'How, then,' Flockhart asked, his voice hushed with control, 'should I put it?'

'I'm not refusing the mission. I'm refusing to kill in cold blood.'

'Even for the most urgent and compelling reasons.'