I waited long enough for him to leave the cafeteria and then took what would probably be the biggest calculated risk of the whole mission and put the cup down and got up and turned and went out. Sorgenicht was in the main hall, going towards the telephones, his back to me. The two girls were near the elevators, shaking hands. Debbie, if that was her name, began crossing the hall as the blonde took the down elevator and I followed, keeping distance between us.

He could be telephoning, Sorgenicht, calling for support. He could be tracking me as I crossed the lower floor and followed the blonde girl out to the car parks, and I used reflective surfaces where I could find them, but didn't see him. It didn't mean he wasn't there, standing off at a distance: there was good cover to be had as cars and shuttles pulled in to the departure hall.

There was a different vibration now along the nerves as I walked through the cold morning light.

She moved athletically, the blonde, the metal-studded bag slung at the shoulder, the crimson calflength boots tapping the tarmac as she passed between the cars.

'Inge!' I called, and she turned.

'Ja?

I caught up with her and asked in German, 'How are you?'

She studied me. 'I'm very well. Do I know you?'

'I'm sorry – Hans Mittag. I'm a friend of Willi's.'

'Willi Hartman's?'

'Yes.' I held out my hand and she took it, but briefly. 'He sends you his good wishes,' I said. 'He misses you.'

Her eyes were cool. 'Really. But I still don't remember you.'

'We met at one of his little parties. But look, I don't want to hold you up.' I stood back. 'Should I return his good wishes?'

'I think he's out of town.'

'Oh really? Well, it was good to see you. My car's over there.' I moved past her and then turned to face her again, bringing the airport terminal into the background. 'I'll remember you to Willi, when I see him. He was telling me so many interesting things.'

She watched me with the stillness of a cat. 'About what?'

'About you.' I brought my voice down. 'And your exciting plans.'

People moved in the background, against the facade of the terminal. Others were standing still, but I could only see them in the outer vision field; my eyes were on hers.

She said, 'What kind of plans?'

'Perhaps I can help you with them.' The people standing at the shuttle station would be unrecognisable at this distance, even if I could look at them directly. Any one of them could be Sorgenicht. He would be the spotter, if he were there at all. He would show them where I was, tell them to get Inge away from me before I could do her any harm. 'But perhaps you don't need any help.'

She didn't move. 'Did you follow me here?'

'Yes, when I saw you leaving the terminal. I called out to you, but a taxi got in the way,'

In a moment she said, 'I think I'd like to hear what Willi's been saying about me.'

'He was very discreet. I want you to understand that. We'd better talk in your car.' I needed cover; my skin itched for it: I was too exposed here in the open. 'Where is it?'

She stood watching me, her eyes luminous in the cold morning light. Then she said, 'It's over there,' and I followed her.

It was a crimson Porsche 911, recognisable ten blocks away in thick traffic. She didn't make any concession to security, didn't want to, wanted to be seen, to make an impression, didn't know how appallingly dangerous it was in the game she was playing.

She sat behind the wheel, her arm across it, her body half-turned to me, a heavy gold chain across the neck of her white polo sweater, a gold bracelet on her wrist, blonde hairs on her fingers catching the light, one knee in a black stocking crooked against the gear lever. 'So what did Willi say?

That you were in Dieter Klaus' organisation.'

'What organisation?'

'Nemesis.'

The pulse beat in her throat. In a moment she said, 'Willi tends to fantasise, as you probably know.'

Someone was getting into a car not far away and when the door slammed I used the excuse and looked through the windscreen and checked the background and saw two men standing there a hundred yards away, talking.

I said, 'Willi wasn't fantasising this time, and you know that.'

She took a deep breath to deal with the tension, looking away, looking back. 'Do you live in Berlin?' It sounded as if she were changing the subject. She wasn't.

'Yes,' I said, 'but I don't see much of it. I travel a lot. I've just got back from a meeting with the Secretary of the General People's Committee of Libya, Muhammad az-Zarruqu Rajab, second in command to Colonel Moammar Gadhafi. The deal was for two million US dollars.'

Her pupils grew larger for a moment. 'Are you talking about arms?'

1 don't always deal in arms. I deal in information, military and paramilitary services, mercenary personnel, presidential security, things like that. My last actual arms deal, which I made two weeks ago, was with the IRA. It wasn't big money but I support people who make a genuine attempt to bring down the capitalistic and democratic establishments, in particular those in London and Washington.'

She expressed very little with her eyes, Inge Stoph; they were liquid blue crystal set above the finely wrought cheekbones and under the thick blonde eyebrows, a perfectly-matched pair of gemstones, beautiful to contemplate but devoid of any real interest; one would get bored with them, I would think, after a time. I looked for other signs of reaction to what I was saying: she looked wonderfully fit and I would have thought her heart-rate would be something less than seventy-two but the gold bracelet was swinging against the squat black knob of the gear lever with a rhythm significantly faster than that.

In a moment she said, 'You lead an exciting life.'

I gave a shrug. 'Business of any sort is still only business, but sometimes I make up little jokes to keep the boredom away.'

The two men were still talking over there but I didn't think they were anything to worry about: they wore coats with astrakhan collars and homburg hats, and this wasn't a situation where the opposition would need to falsify the image; if Sorgenicht and his people wanted me, they would simply close in.

'You make up little jokes?'

She was delightfully attentive, Inge Stoph.

'Oh,' I said, 'not often. But this summer I was in Africa, in a state that shall be nameless, and my assignment was to see that the Minister of Defence should be rendered incapable of launching an armed insurrection, which was thought to be in his mind. I was present at a state banquet three days after my arrival, and the cuisine was French: Faisan roti a la Bergere, Boeuf Bourguignon and for dessert a compote of fresh strawberries in a sauce of creme de papaya. But the piece de resistance was carried in on a silver platter, and when the cover was lifted, there was the head of the Minister of Defence on a bed of vine leaves with a glazed passion-fruit in his mouth.' I touched her arm quickly – 'I knew the president well, of course, and his particular sense of humour. I've never been accused of questionable taste.'

I caught a spark of interest in her eyes at last, or possibly it was a trick of the light. 'Did you kill the man yourself?'

'Some questions are more delicate than others, aren't they?' I looked at my watch. 'Let me leave you with this, Inge. I realise that Dieter Klaus has substantial backing from Colonel Gadhafi – the Secretary of the General People's Committee happened to mention it when I was with him yesterday – and this is why I was particularly glad to see you this morning. Klaus is a difficult man to reach, and I respect that, so you might like to suggest that I meet him, as soon as convenient.'. There was a micro-recorder lying in the well between the seats. 'May I use this?'