So it could only be Chen because only Chen know I was here, except for the airline staff, and they wouldn't have me paged: they'd phone the gate desk. It could only be Chen, but the sweat had started running because I'd spent the last two hours securing the whole of the environment here - the check-in counters and the telephones and the snack bar and the gate area - because Gate 10 could be my way out of continuous and hazardous exposure above ground and my way into the safety of clandestine operation, and I had to go through it clean.

All I could do now was use the soft-eyes technique and let the immediate scene come into the brain unfocused and ask the memory to alert me to any change. There aren't many situations worse than finding yourself ten paces away from the break-off point between overt and clandestine and then have your cover name called out over a public address system. I took my time, half a minute, but couldn't pick up any. significant change in the movement around me: no one turned on their heel within seconds of the PA call; no one had started to move towards me; no one was going to a telephone.

So I moved now because if I didn't they'd repeat the call and I didn't want that. I picked up the phone.

'Yes?'

'Is that Mr Jordan?'

Ice along the nerves. It wasn't Chen. It was a woman's voice. And that was impossible. Correction: not impossible, no.

He'd blown me.

'Please, is that Mr Jordan?'

A young woman's voice; Asiatic, Japanese inflection.

I was still watching, but with hard eyes now, focusing, remembering. They were my friends here in this small comfortable area, my good friends. The three Australians over there were booked to play in Bangkok in the Royal Thai Tennis Championships; one of them had just had a row with his wife and wished he'd had time to make it up before he flew: he didn't like flying. The party of four people near the snack bar were from Milwaukee; they'd done Hong Kong and they'd done Tokyo and now they were going to do Bangkok, including the Phrakaeo Wat and the Royal Palace and the Reclining Buddha, and Elmer had said if they didn't take home a half-ton of souvenirs he'd never let them set foot in the Kawani's Club again. The two nuns by the gate were almost enveloping the teenage French girl in their black habits when I'd passed close to them twenty minutes ago; Maman had died at a hospital in Singapore yesterday and they were escorting her to Bangkok, where Papa was waiting for her; the body had been flown out last night.

I knew a great deal about the rest of the passengers gathered here in the small comfortable area at Gate 10, enough to know that they were my friends, my good friends, if only because none of them was here to trap me into a shut-ended situation and set me up for the kill. The only one here who wasn't my friend was the voice on the paging phone.

'It is very urgent, please. Are you Mr Jordan?'

I didn't answer. I needed time. If I said no, or just hung up, I wouldn't learn anything, and what I might learn could save me. If I said yes they'd get here as fast as they could and they might not be far away.

'We are now boarding passengers on Flight 306 for Bangkok. Will passengers for Bangkok please board at Gate 10.'

Things I didn't understand. The woman was phoning because she believed, they believed, I was here. Then why didn't they come here for me physically? Because they weren't certain, or there hadn't been time. Time since when? Since Chen had blown me. As far as liaison goes, you'll have to pick a few people yourself, if you can find anyone you can trust.

Chen. Katie McCorkadale.

But I'd known yesterday the risk I was taking when I'd asked Chen to keep total security on my taking this flight, and here was the moment of truth. There wasn't a lot of choice. If I dopped the phone and got out of the airport I might not be in time before they came in, and I wouldn't learn anything, anything this soft Asiatic voice on the telephone might tell me. If I stayed here and said yes, this is Mr Jordan, I could be doing precisely what they wanted me to do: let her keep on talking to give them time to close in.

But this was a public place.

'It is very urgent, please. Are you Mr Jordan?''

This was a public place and there wouldn't be anything they could do until I tried to get clear at the periphery and there was a chance, a thin chance.

'Yes.'

There was an echo, but not on the line, in the psyche.

'Mr Martin Jordan?'

'Yes.'

I began watching the walkway area, where they would have to come.

' Will passengers on Flight 306 please board at Gate 10. We are boarding now for Bangkok?I saw Lafarge going through with his two bodyguards. I'd seen them when they'd come into the gate area: Lafarge, dark, elegant, his initials on his pigskin briefcase, the case chained to his left wrist; his guards, unobtrusive, shut-faced, tough, trained. Others followed: the two nuns with the little girl; the Americans.

I watched the walkway, not taking my eyes away for an instant. They would not be my friends, when they came.

'Mr Jordan, you must not board that plane.'

A man came running, a man in a track-suit with a flight bag, running towards me along the walkway, and I felt my nerves set, ready for preservation.

'Mr Jordan, do you understand? You must not take Flight 306.'

Running hard but not towards me now, veering for the group at the gate - 'Hey, Charlie, tell 'em to wait? Or they'll start the tennis match without you, my son.

So I mustn't take this flight. Why not, you little bitch? Sweat running.

'All passengers must now board Flight 306 for Bangkok at Gate 10. We are leaving in five minutes'

It tallied with the figures on the departure screen.

'Mr Jordan.' She didn't sound impatient. She sounded concerned, emphatic. 'Please tell me that you understand what I am saying. It is very urgent.'

Not very. I've got five minutes.

I asked her: 'Who are you?'

'It is not important, Mr Jordan. I have information that concerns your welfare. There will be an accident, do you understand?'

'What kind of accident?'

To the plane. To Flight 306.'

'Then you'd better tell someone. The pilot might be interested.'

The timing was becoming critical, and I began watching the walkway half the time and the departure gate half the time. I didn't know if I could learn anything more from the soft, urgent little voice on the line, or whether this was all: that someone - Shoda? - was trying to stop me boarding the flight for Bangkok. The time gap was narrowing quite fast now and the best way I could use it would be to stay here on the line in the hope of learning something more, and wait until the girl at the gate began closing it - then get there, get on the plane. If anyone came along the walkway who looked dangerous I could go through the gate anyway and they wouldn't be able to follow: if they came here for me at all they'd be in a hurry, getting here while the woman kept me on the line.

'This is the final call for passengers on Flight 306 for Bangkok.'

Two more people went through and the girl looked around the gate area for stragglers, checking her passenger list and finding one missing. There was nothing she could do about it. All she could see was a man using a paging phone.

'Are you still there, Mr Jordan?'

'Yes. What is the source of your information?'

'It is reliable. I am your friend, Mr Jordan. Please listen to me. There will be no survivors on Flight 306. You must not take it.'

'All right, I'll go and warn the crew.'

'They would not believe you.'

'Any more than I believe you.'