Toyota Corolla.

Driving-licence, Amex, so forth. And this pretty smile, these almond eyes, the slight lift of the breasts beneath the silk blouse, are they the last I shall see?

'Will you please sign here, Mr Jordan?'

And the last signature?

With a flourish, then.

Outside in the car park I walked round the Toyota once to check the bodywork and then got in and started up and clipped the belt on without taking in the environment. In the first three blocks I picked out the taxi, a yellow and black Streamline three vehicles behind. There would be others closing in; I didn't look for them. It was tempting to try driving clear but it would mean risking lives - not theirs, I'd settle for that, but the lives of the innocent on their way home in the evening rush-hour. So I drove carefully, with due circumspection.

Countdown.

18:00.

He would be here in two hours.

There was an alley with a dead-end alongside the Red Orchid, where there would be deep shadow by eight o'clock. Al's Chevrolet was farther down and I'd be blocking him, but he never left the bar at this time in the evening. I parked the Toyota and locked the doors and went into the hotel by the front entrance, not looking back.

The last-chance thing.

But only if Pepperidge telephoned.

'Hi! Set it up?'

'Yes.'

Six drops.

'You invent this one?'

'Flash of genius.' Ask him. 'No calls for me?'

'Guess not.'

I took my drink across to the corner where I could sit with my back to the television screen: the optic nerve would have to adjust to the periodicy and tonight I wanted eyes like a cat's.

Do something for me, will you?

I could see part of the street from here but it didn't interest me now. They were out there, and I knew that.

For God's sake, if and when you can, pick up a phone and call me, so that I'll know things are still all right.

That was tempting too, to go across to the phone and hear her voice as she swung her long hair back from her eyes, Oh Martin, where are you calling from? but no, we couldn't meet, tonight or ever again, unless he telephoned, Pepperidge, and even then it was a thousand-to-one shot.

18:31.

Rain began soon afterwards.

'Here we go!' Al said from the bar.

The stalls and barrows had been cleared from the narrow street an hour ago, and the stones began taking on a sheen as the rain fell harder. People out there were hurrying, some of them with newspapers over their heads.

It wouldn't change anything.

19:00.

An hour to go. He would land in an hour.

The adrenalin began; I could feel it like a subtle vibration in the bloodstream, in the nerves. I centred at intervals of a minute, hearing the leather of the chair creak faintly as the tension came out of the muscles and the body sank lower. I would need the adrenalin later, but not now: it was too soon.

The rain steadied in the street, on the rooftops, closing us in, sequestering us in this small seedy hotel in Singapore as if we'd been washed up in an ark. They would be standing in the doorways now, taking shelter from the rain, not from the inexorable tolling of the minutes, as I was, the inescapable measurement of time moving towards the deadline an hour from now.

Not that it's a foregone conclusion, my friends - don't think that. I've slipped the executioner a dozen times and he's brought the axe down on the bloody block with an oath I didn't stay to listen to. I'm strong; I'm trained; I'm ready for the moment of truth.

Do you hear the sound of whistling in the dark?

I do.

Because it wasn't going to be one against one. Even if I pulled off an overkill with Manif Kishnar they'd finish me off, the peons, if they had to. Those would be the orders from Shoda: this time it is to be certain.

The smell of the rain came through the doors as someone opened them, the smell of the rain, of the fruit lying squashed in the gutters, and on a different level of consciousness the smell of the world outside, of the death-bringer.

Telephone.

I didn't move.

'Red Orchid Hotel.'

The man who'd come in stood dripping by the desk on the other side of the archway, a shapeless bag by his feet.

'Oh, hi! You bet. How are things with you?'

I checked my watch at 19:34 and thought that would be unfortunate, wouldn't it, if Pepperidge finally called me and heard only the engaged tone while Al was asking about his girlfriend's health or his aunt's or whoever the hell it was on the other end, my chest's easier but there's still this cough, and the doctor says I do not care what the doctor says, just get off the line.

'Look, Betsy, I have to go now, there's a guy at the desk, okay?'

Works like magic: you just go into zen and concentrate and create your own reality, get people off the telephone, get people to call you no matter how great the distance - Pepperidge, are you listening, damn your eyes?

Watch it.

Centre, yes. Centre again.

The chair-leather creaked. Felt better, much better. If he came in now with his bloody cheese-wire I.would rip the heart out of his body and throw it to the dogs.

'Sure, I'll see you get some extra towels, guess it caught you when you weren't ready.' Noting the time in the register, 7.35 p.m. 'Happens all the time like that - one minute there's a clear sky and the next minute you're trying to find a canoe.'

Or, in the terminology of international chronometers, 19:35, now 36 because time, like life, has its rendezvous to meet.