Tequila Sunrise. Tote, Penang: $43, $19, $13. Fruit smells from the street. 'How do you know?'

'I know.'

In the third race, Saracen, Chacha Mambo, Honest Injun.

'Is he alone?'

Tote, Penang: $12, $5, $26. The winner 'He always alone.'

I took a slow breath, centring.

The trainer was Lint Hock Chan.

Radio.

'Sayako-san, you may be mistaken.'

It was an attempt to draw her out, that was all.

Tote, Singapore: $23, $14, $22.

Red plastic radio at the end of the bar.

'Not mistaken.'

Stink of sweat but the nerves steadying now.

In the fifth race, Mudlark II, Chankara, Bumble Bee.

I mentally tuned the thing out. The nerves were steadying because now it was certain, and all assumptions were blown away. Certain that he was coming.

'Mr Jordan?'

'Yes.'

'Also, your hotel is being watched.'

'I know.'

'Ah, so. It is then very difficult for you. In some way you must leave hotel.'

Trying to flush you from cover.

No. She saved my life, remember?

I said, 'All right.' No point telling her there wasn't a chance.

Be very cartful.

Oh, shut up. She warned me he'd been ordered to make the kill. Wasn't that in my interests?

'Listen, please, Mr Jordan. I will do what I can for you. But there are many watching.'

'Yes.'

I could see one of them through the window, the Chinese karateka.

'I wish for you' - there was a break on the line, or she'd hesitated - 'good fortune.'

Click, went dead.

Make a decision, then.

'How's about a drink?'

Al.

'Not just now.'

Not really in the mood.

Make a decision, yes. If we were going to do it here, here at the Red Orchid, I was ready. The kaleidoscope of images - staircase, skylights, roof-drops, escape routes - had coalesced, presenting me with a complete architectural blueprint for survival. There was nothing more for me to do here.

So I came round from behind the bar and walked through the archway and through the doors and out into the street.

'How much?'

'One dollar.'

Greedy bugger.

'Give me one of those plastic spoons.'

Messy to eat, but a guava, like life, is sweet.

They'd reacted fast - you should have seen them. Hadn't expected the little ferret to walk out of its trap and start stuffing guavas. The karateka had turned his head immediately and signalled the woman in the track-suit and she'd swung away from the corner and started down the street on the other side, leaving another one to move in and cover while she walked past the doorway of the herb shop, glancing in and moving on. Pawn to K4, so forth, they'd got it worked out.

But they knew I wasn't a bloody amateur either so I spent almost an hour going through the motions of spotting and evading and closing circuits and breaking out and doubling tracks, using three taxis and the alleyway giving onto New Bridge Road I'd used the night I'd arrived here.

I've got out of mobile surveillance traps in Moscow and Berlin and Warsaw but it was the first time I'd had to simulate getting clear. There was no chance, absolutely no chance of getting out of this one because it was massive - I'd counted fourteen of them at the end of the first half-hour. They weren't just trying to establish my travel pattern or see if I made a contact or dropped a signal for someone; they had to make sure I was set up for Kishnar when he came, because if they failed they were finished, a sabre blade across the first vertebra - they were responsible to Mariko Shoda.

What I had to do was establish the fact that I had a purpose in leaving the hotel - that I wasn't just making an attempt at getting clear and going to ground. They knew I was professional enough to have seen them in the street, and knew I hadn't a chance of getting clear with so many of them manning the trap, so I had to make them believe I was flawed, and thought I could work miracles. So when I walked into the Hertz office in South Bridge Road I didn't even glance behind me.

'What model do you prefer, sir?'

'Compact.'

Smaller windows.