'We will talk again on the telephone.'

'Yes. But you must leave Singapore now, Mr Jordan. Kishnar not play games.'

'Thank you for your warning. I will phone you again, Sayako-san.'

Tick of the tin clock.

Sweat running on me; midnight and the sweat running as the ceiling fan stirred the warm air.

I could put the clock outside the door or throw it out of the window; I didn't necessarily have to listen to the bloody thing, but what would that prove, it'd only prove my nerves wouldn't stand it any more and they were going to have to stand a lot more than a clock in the next twenty-four hours.

You have exactly twenty-four hours. I want his head, do you understand that?

Shoda.

Bitch!

Do you know what she's come here for, to Singapore? For my bloody head, you know that?

.The impudence of the bitch!

I think that was what had made up my mind. But the nerves were rioting in this small quiet room at midnight because I couldn't be sure whether I was going to do what I was doing to do on the impetus of sheer rage or the dictates of a sound mind. Pepperidge would have said no, if I'd put it to him; he'd have finished with me, walked out of the mission, I knew that. It is not secure behaviour on the part of a shadow executive in a red sector to break out of his briefing and commit himself to an act that his own director in the field would forbid. But that was what I was going to do and the thought of it was firing the nerves and costing me the sleep I needed, costing me the strength.

Did she know what my contacts were, Shoda, what my communications were, did she know that as soon as she landed in Singapore I'd be informed? Probably. And that was probably why she'd come, to visit me in the dark of night, to creep under my skin with the stealth of a succubus and there spread her venom in the veins as I lay with a dry mouth and my hands cold, freezing in the heat of the room, my breath quickened and urgent as if each were to be the last as she came close to me now, her head turned on her slender neck as she looked at me, stopping a few yards away in the cavernous silence of the temple, until I was staring into the eyes of the angel of death, the luminous night-deep eyes of the creature that was to be my executioner, cup of tea, yes, would you like a nice cup of tea?

'What?'

'I've brought you some tea.'

Thanked her, yes, bright morning light, they looked after you well in this place, cleared up the mess when you cut your wrists, so forth, brought you a nice cup of tea.

And a different view of things, of course, much more confident, not a mistake, no, it hadn't been a mistake to make up my mind to do it, because the thing was, it would have to be done before we could move on to the objective. Needed a shower, stank like a polecat, shave, a slow and careful shave with only one bright bead of blood from the right cheek because I'd held the blade a degree or two from a right-angle, drawing blood before the day's had a chance to get into gear, now don't start that.

At 08:17 I left my room and talked to the girl at the nurses' station on B Block, Jasmine, Jasmine Yee, with quick eyes and the knack that most of them had of looking into your head and deciding what condition you were in while they were saying yes, but it'll rain before the afternoon, smiling, having to be observant because they might be asked later to report precisely how this patient appeared to them, had he shown any signs of depression, so forth.

Pepperidge would worry if he phoned here for me during the next hour and they told him I couldn't be located, but Jasmine would at least assure him that I'd been in B Block at 08:17 and had looked perfectly normal.

The doors weren't locked during daylight hours, only at curfew, and I used the one at the end of the corridor near the kitchens and walked into the street and blew the safe-house from under me.

'British High Commission.'

A twenty-minute run, and at the halfway point I went through the whole thing again and tested the logic. The street had been absolutely clear when I'd left the clinic and I could still ask the driver to turn back and put me down where we'd started - it was like paying out a lifeline and it was getting the nerves on edge because I knew that when we reached the High Commission the line would break. But that was all it was, nerves, and I sat watching the street, noting the people.

At 08:45 the cab pulled in to the kerb and I got out and paid the man through the window and turned and crossed the pavement and walked into the building, one of them, yes, at least one of them on the other side of the street, and I could almost hear the whip of the lifeline as it broke.

At the main desk I didn't do more than ask if they had an airline timetable; the girl pulled one out of a cubby-hole and gave it to me; a new girl, one I hadn't seen before, fair head bent over her nail-varnish while I flipped through the pages of the timetable, a couple of minutes were enough, and gave it back to her.

Counted five of them while I waited for the taxi; three women in European clothes, two men, one of them blond but not Gunther: he'd been outside the Red Orchid.

I don't like this.

Like dropping into ice-cold water, isn't it, I know what you mean, but you can shut up all the same. * This is a hell of a faking risk.

Not really, no, not in daylight.

But what about tonight? Jesus Christ, you're Bloody well shut up.

There was, of course, the very reasonable thought that it was her influence that was making me do this, pushing me to the brink. Voodoo can turn a man's head. But it was impossible to get any perspective: yes, it could be her influence, and yes, there was a calculated chance that tonight I could push the mission into its final phase and reach the objective and destroy it. But there was this to be said: I knew how to do what I hoped to do; there wasn't going to be any luck thrown in, except conceivably the slip of a foot on damp ground or an instant's loss of balance.

Ignore the effects of luck and concentrate on the demand for excellence in application.

Another taxi had stopped at the corner as we pulled in, and a blue Toyota cruised past and then accelerated. I went into the clinic by the side door and got to my room without seeing anyone I knew, two Chinese in white coats, a woman walking with one hand sliding along the wall, a man talking to her, carrying her bag.

I phoned the number Pepperidge had given me but it was someone else who answered and I asked him for the parole and got it and responded and said: 'Tell him that I'm not absolutely sure, but there might be some surveillance on this place. Tell him to keep away.'

'You want any action?' A thin voice, rather quiet, unsurprisable.

'No. I'll keep you posted.'

Over and out.

Then the waiting began.

'I killed him,' she said.

'I see.'

They'd been wrong: it hadn't rained this afternoon; the lawn where we sat had lost the glow we'd seen last night under the lamps, Dr Israel and I. If the rain kept off, the grass would be almost dry tonight, and not slippery underfoot.

'I got off,' she said, Thelma Someone, I hadn't caught her last name, 'but I've got to undergo treatment for six months.' Not a big woman, and not aggressive; just withdrawn, until I'd shown I was ready to listen. In her thirties.

'Why?' I asked her.

'I told you, because I killed him.'

The lawn was a hundred and twenty feet square; I'd paced it. There was a bird-bath in the centre, cast out of concrete and leaning slightly. The shallow basin on top of the pedestal didn't move if you tried to lift it; I suppose it was bolted down.

'But you told me he'd been beating you up for seven years.'

'That's right.'

'Drunk every night, and violent.'

'Yes.' No particular tone in her voice; it was as if she were talking about a play she'd seen, not a good one.

'So you shot him.'

'That's right.'