We went into a clothing store, and I bought myself some jeans and another shirt. I'd change as soon as I'd had a shower and got Aida's blood off my back and legs.

At an ATM I drew out three hundred dollars, the maximum allowed on my credit card.

We came back out to the parking lot but didn't return to the car. I kept a firm grip on her as we walked toward the hotel across the road. As we got nearer I could see that the Best Western was in fact farther away than I first thought, separated from the main drag by a row of single-story office buildings. Our view was of the rear of the hotel.

Looking each way, it was obvious that the junctions that would lead us around to the front of the hotel were miles away. I decided to take a shortcut. The traffic was heavy, and the road system hadn't been designed for people on foot. I gripped Kelly's hand as we dodged to the median strip and waited for another gap. I looked up at the sky: it was very overcast; rain couldn't be far away.

Drivers, who had probably never seen pedestrians before, beeped furiously, but we made it to the other side and scrambled over small railings onto the sidewalk. More or less directly in front of us was a gap between two office buildings. We went through and crossed a short stretch of vacant ground that brought us into the hotel parking lot. As we walked past the lines of vehicles I memorized the sequence of letters and numbers for a Virginia plate.

The Best Western was a large four-story rectangle, the architecture very 1980s. Every elevation was concrete, painted the world's weirdest off-yellow. As we walked up to the reception area, I tried to look inside. I didn't want them to see us coming from the direction of the parking lot, because it would be odd to walk all that way without first checking that they had a room, and then unloading our bags. I hoped Kelly would stay silent when we were inside; I just wanted to do the business and walk out again as if we were going to see Mommy back in the car.

Inside the lobby I got hold of Kelly and whispered, "You just sit there. I'm going to get us a room." I gave her a tourist brochure that was lying on one of the chairs, but she ignored it.

In one corner, by the coffee machine and cream, was a large TV. A baseball game was on. I went over to the receptionist, a woman in her mid-forties who thought she was still twenty-four, who was watching the screen, probably fantasizing about her chances with one of the pitchers.

All smiles, I said, "I need a family room just for one night, please."

"Certainly, sir," she said, an honors graduate from Best Western's charm school.

"If you'd like to fill out this card."

As I started to scribble I said, "How much is a room, anyway?" "That's sixty-four dollars, plus tax."

I raised an eyebrow to make it look as if that was a lot of money to a family man like myself.

"I know," she smiled.

"I'm sorry about that."

She took my credit card and I filled in the form with crap.

I'd been doing this for donkey's years, lying on hotel forms, looking relaxed as I wrote but in fact scanning about four questions ahead. I filled in a car registration, too, and for number of occupants put two adults and a child.

She handed back my card.

"There you are, Mr. Stamford, it's room two-twenty-four. Where's your car?"

"Just around the corner." I pointed vaguely to the rear of the hotel.

"OK, if you park by the stairs where you see the Coke and ice machines, turn left at the top of the stairs, and you'll see room two-twenty-four on the left-hand side. You have a nice day now!"

I could have described the room even before I ran the key card through the lock and opened the door. A TV, two double beds, a couple of chairs, and the typical hotel designer's obsession with dark wood veneers.

I wanted to get Kelly settled quickly so I could use the phone. I pressed the remote and flicked through the channels, hoping to find Nickelodeon. Eventually I found some cartoons.

"I remember this one; it's good--shall we watch it?"

She sat on the bed, staring at me. The expression on her face said she didn't like this outing too much, and I could understand that.

"Kelly," I said, "I'm going to leave you for just a couple of minutes, because I've got to make a phone call. I'll get a drink while I'm out. What would you like. Coke? Mountain Dew?

Or do you want some candy?"

There was no reaction, so I just went on.

"I'm going to lock the door, and you're not to answer it for anybody. Nobody at all, OK? I'll use the key to get back in again. You sit there and enjoy yourself and I'll just be about five minutes, OK?"

Still there was no reaction. I hung the do not disturb sign on the door handle, made sure I had the key card, and left.

I was heading for a phone booth I'd seen in the street because I didn't want her to hear the telephone conversation I was about to have. I didn't know much about kids, but I knew that when I was seven nothing had gone unnoticed in my house. On the off chance that it wasn't PIN-protected, I took Kev's mobile from his jacket pocket. I pressed the Power button and it demanded a PIN number. I tried two basic ones the usual factory default, four zeros, and then 1234.

Nothing. I couldn't try anymore; with some phones you can try me wrong PIN only three times and then it automatically cuts out and you need to go back to the dealer to get it rectified. I turned off the power and put it back in my pocket. I'd ask Kelly about it later.

I turned left through the parking lot and headed for the phone booths out on the street. I spent a few moments sorting out in my mind what I wanted to say, and then I dialed London.

In veiled speech I said, "I've just finished work and I'm in Washington to visit an old friend. I used to work with him ten years ago. He's now working here for the US government." I outlined the problem and said that Kelly and I both needed help.

Veiled speech is not some magical code; all you're trying to do is intimate what is going on, yet at the same time throw off a casual listener. You're not going to fool any professional eavesdroppers that's what codes and onetime pads and all the rest of it are for. But all London needed to know was that I was in deep shit; I had Kev's child, and needed sorting out. ASAP.

"Fine, I'll pass that message on. Have you a contact number?"

"No. I'll call back in an hour."

"OK, goodbye."

These women never ceased to amaze me. They never ever got worked up about anything. It must be hard work being their husbands on a Saturday night.

I put down the phone and felt a bit better as I strolled over to a gas station. I knew the Firm would work everything out.

They might have to call in some big-time favors in the US to detach me from this shit, but what are friends for? They'd pull out all the stops, not so much to get me off the hook, as to make sure their operation was covered up.

I was trying to look on the bright side, which was more than the weather was doing. It had started to drizzle when I left the hotel, and that had now turned to light rain. With luck the Firm would pick up both of us tonight. Kelly would be taken care of, and I would be whisked back to the UK for another interview without coffee and cookies.

I bought some food and drink at the gas station to keep us out of the public eye in restaurants, and a few goodies to pass the time, then crossed the road and went back to the hotel. At the Coke machine I went up the stairs, turned left, and knocked on our door.

As I opened it I said, "I've got loads of things--I've got candy, sandwiches, chips--and I've even got you a Goose-bumps book to read."

I figured it was better to buy stuff to occupy her mind rather than try to cuddle or console her. I'd have felt really uncomfortable with that anyway.

She was lying on the bed exactly where I'd left her, staring in the direction of the television set, but not really watching, her eyes glazed over.

As I put everything down on the other bed I said, "Right, I reckon what you need now is a nice hot bath. I've even bought some Buzz Lightyear bubble bath."

It would give her something to do, and maybe relax her out of the catatonic state she was in. Apart from that, when I handed her over to the Firm I wanted them to see that I'd made an effort and that she was all nice and clean. After all, she was my friend's kid.

I turned the taps on and called back into the room, "Come on then, get undressed."

She didn't reply. I went back into the bedroom, sat at the end of the bed, and started undressing her. I thought she might resist, but instead she sat placidly as I pulled off her shirt.

"You do your jeans," I said. She was only seven, but I felt awkward about taking those off.

"Come on, undo your buttons." In the end, I had to. She was miles away.

I carried her into the bathroom. Good old Buzz Lightyear had done his job; the bubbles were halfway to the ceiling. I tested the water, lifted her into the bath, and she sat down without a word.

"There's loads of soap and shampoo," I said.

"Do you want me to help you wash your hair?"

She sat stock-still in the water. I gave her the soap, which she just stared at.

It was nearly time to call London again. At least I wouldn't have to go to a phone booth for this one; she'd be out of earshot in the bath. Just in case, I kept the TV on.

There was some weird and wonderful cartoon on: three characters in jeans, half man, half shark, who said things like "Fin-tastic!" and "Shark time!" Apparently they didn't kick ass, they kicked dorsal. The Street Sharks. The opening credits finished and I dialed London.

Immediately I heard "PIN number, please?"

I gave it. She went, "One moment."

A few seconds later the phone went dead.

That was strange. I dialed again, gave my PIN number, and again got cut off.

What the fuck was going on? I tried to reason with my self, tried to tell myself that this was just a fuck-up. But really, inside, I knew the truth. It had to be deliberate. Either that, or maybe, just maybe, the phone line was down. No good thinking about it. Take action.

I went into the bathroom.

"The phone's not working," I said.

"I'll just go down to the one on the corner. Is there anything else we need from the store? I tell you what, we'll go down there later on, the two of us, together."

Her gaze didn't leave the tiles at the end of the bath.

I lifted her out and put a towel around her.

"You're a big girl now. You can dry yourself." I took the hairbrush from the bag and dragged Kelly into the bedroom.

"Once you've done that, brush your hair, and make sure you're all dry and dressed when I come back. We might have to go somewhere.

Don't open the door for anyone, OK?"

There was no answer. I pulled out the phone jack and left. I was feeling apprehensive as I walked across the parking lot. I'd done nothing wrong, so why were they cutting me off? Was the Firm going to stitch me up? I started to go through all the scenarios in my head. Did they think I was the killer? Were they cutting away now as a prelude to denying everything?

I got to the phone, dialed, and the same thing happened. I slowly put down the receiver. A low wall made up part of the entrance to the hotel; I went and sat down. I needed to think hard. It didn't take long to decide that there was only one option, and that was to phone the embassy. I'd be breaking every rule in the book. I wouldn't even bother going through all the protocol; I dialed 411 and got the number. I got straight through.

"Hello, British Embassy. How may I help you?"

"I want to talk to LOSO."

"Excuse me?"

"LOSO. Liaison officer, special operations."

"I'm sorry, we don't have an extension number for that name."

"Get hold of the defense attache and tell him there's some body on the phone who wants to speak to LOSO. It's really important. I need to speak to him now."

"Hold on a moment." She put me on hold and I waited.

Another woman came on the line.

"Hello, how may I help you?"

"I want to talk to LOSO."

"I'm sorry, we have no one of that appointment."

"Then put me through to the DA."

"Sorry, the defense attache is not here. Can I help you?

Would you like to give me a name and contact number?"

I said, "Listen, this is the news. I want LOSO or the DA to pass this on. I've tried to phone in on my PIN number. My PIN number's two-four-two-two, and I'm getting blanked off.

I'm in a really bad situation at the moment and I need some help. Tell LOSO or the DA that if I don't make contact with London, I'm going to expose what I've got in my security blanket. I will call back in three hours' time."

The woman said, "Excuse me, could you repeat that?"

"No, you're recording the message will be understood.

All you've got to do is pass that on to the DA or LOSO, I don't give a fuck which one. Tell them I'll call London on the PIN line in three hours' time."

I put the phone down. The message would get to them.

Chances were the DA or LOSO was listening anyway.

Some of the operations I'd been on had been so dirty that no one would want them exposed, but that could cut two ways: it also meant that someone like me would be expendable if things weren't working too well. I'd always operated on the basis that if you were involved in deniable operations for the intelligence services and hadn't prepared an out for the day they decided to shaft you, then you deserved every thing you got. The head honcho knew that Ks had security blankets, but everybody denied it the operators denied it, the Firm denied it. I'd always been sure that the Firm put as much effort into trying to find where the blackmail kit was hidden as they did into the operations themselves.

I'd committed myself now. It was a card I could play only once. No way would I be living an easy existence after this. I was finished with the Secret Intelligence Service and would probably have to spend the rest of my life in a remote mountain village in Sri Lanka, looking over my shoulder.

What if the Firm decided to admit to the Americans that there'd been an op they'd forgotten to mention? Would they take the rap on the knuckles, then say, "This man killed one of your officers"? No, it didn't work that way. The Firm wouldn't know if my blanket was a bluff or not, or, if used, how much damage it could do in the hands of the press.

They'd have to take it as real; they'd have to help. They had no choice. We'd get lifted by the Firm, I'd be flown back to the UK, and then I'd take up basket weaving until they forgot about me.

Kelly was lying on the bed with a towel wrapped around her when I got back to the room. The cartoon had finished, and there was some sort of hard-hitting news-type voice on, but I didn't pay much attention to it. I was more interested in getting a response from this little girl. It seemed that I was fast running out of friends; she might be just seven years old but I wanted to feel she was on my side.

I said, "We've got to hang around for another hour or two, and then somebody's coming to..."