Quiller's Run

16 Toyota

What kind of red sector?' Pepperidge. His tone was sharp, brief.

'I think it's too late,' I told him.

'Sorry, I had to go up to London, then your phone's been engaged. What can I do?'

'I'm in a massive surveillance trap and Shoda's sent a hit man here.'

'Who?'

'Kishnar.'

'Manif Kishnar, yes, he works for her exclusively. What are your chances?'

'About nil.' The clock on the wall said three minutes past eight.

'Why not signal the Thai Embassy?'

'There's no point. I -'

'Police, then, get them to send a gun team -'

'No, it's-'

'I can phone the High Commission. They'd —'

'It wouldn't work.'

'Fuck.'

It was a shut-ended situation and he didn't like it. We never do.

The reason why it wouldn't work was because Shoda was running things and this time she wouldn't let me get clear; this time she'd ordered a sure hit and even if I could persuade Rattakul to risk a diplomatic showdown against every known principle of intelligence policy or persuade the Singapore police to send in a gun team it'd be the same thing in the end – these people would bring me down, if necessary with a rush attack, if necessary with a suicide run, if necessary with an exchange of gunfire with the police team despite Shoda's wish for a discreet kill that would cause no fuss and leave no trace.

Three minutes past eight but that wasn't significant. What could conceivably make any difference was that it would take Kishnar twenty minutes to reach here from the airport. There'd be a car to meet him and the driver would know the way, would know this city intimately, but in this rain and with the cabs in demand and cluttering the streets it would take twenty minutes at least. The earliest he could arrive here would be at eight-twenty-three.

Then give it a go.

'I can send you some shields," Pepperidge was saying. 'I could raise three or four, if-'

'No. But I want a contact to make a letter-drop. One man.'

'Look, you can have more than -'

'One. One man.'

Hesitation, then, 'All right. Got a pencil?'

'Yes.' I reached for the phone pad.

'His name's Westerby. He's at 734-49206.'

'Description?'

'Thirty, five-eleven, thirteen stone, dark brown hair, brown eyes.'

'I've got that. Give me a backup.'

'Lee Yeo. Asian. He's at -'

'No. Caucasian.'

'All right.' Short pause, the scuffing of paper. 'Veneker, at 734-289039. Thirty-five, five-ten, eleven stone, black hair, dark blue eyes, a san-dan in Shotokan.'

'That's all I need,' I told him.

'Look, I'll man this phone non-stop. You've got immediate access.'

'Don't lose any sleep.' Because I knew how he felt: he'd handed me a mission and after twelve days I was trapped and set up for the kill and although it wasn't his fault he knew the situation, knew it of old. It's the time when the laughter stops.

I pressed the contact and dialled for Westerby and got the ringing tone and waited.

Clock. Nineteen minutes to go.

Went on ringing, wasn't there.

Jesus Christ, this wouldn't have done for the Bureau.

I dialled for Veneker and got the ringing tone again and waited again, Al talking to the three Asians, they were showing him a swatch of raw silk, the TV flickering above the bar, Mary came straight round here the minute she heard, hut Cindy was aver at the ball-game with Bob and we couldn't give her the news, they'd never get their fucking lives worked out, went on ringing — 'Hello?'

'Veneker?'

'Yes.'

'Jordan.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I want you to come to the Red Orchid Hotel in Chong Street, just of Boat Quay in Chinatown. It's in a —'

'I know where it is.'

'All right, how soon can you be here?'

'Ten minutes.'

Running it bloody close, wished I hadn't said it, wished I'd called it off'Oh, yes-'

'In this rain?'

'Yes, sir. Ten minutes it is.'

'Bring a suitcase or something, look like a tourist and register at the desk – I'll make contact immediately afterwards.'

'Got it.'

'Synchronise watches at 20:05 hours.'

'20:05.'

If you can't make it on time, stay away. You'll be coming through heavy surveillance.'

'Understood, sir. But I'll be there.'

I put the receiver down and asked Al for some paper and an envelope; then I centred for a moment to slow the adrenalin but the nerves were humming with it and I walked out of the bar and through the lobby and up the stairs, climbing them slowly, steadily, counting them as a mental exercise to keep the left brain occupied while I went through the next sixteen minutes, checking to see if there was anything else that should be done and coming up blank — everything was done, the fuse had been lit and it was burning.

Fifteen stairs and a Chinese woman on the second floor, carrying a child, Lily coming along from my room on the third'You eat here tonight, Mr Jordan?'

'I don't know,' I told her, didn't know what was going to happen tonight, could be anything, life, death, the wire biting deep or the courtyard coming up, spinning slowly, they say you never cry out, maybe the air rush, or of course the dawn and no conclusion – he'd take his time, make certain of me, no hurry.

Negative dunking, yes, all right, try it this way, with a bit of luck I might turn it into an overkill, catch him off balance and use a sweep or get to his throat, whatever, blow his world away instead of mine.

Whistling.

Fifth floor and the rain drumming on the roof, a crack of yellow sky through a window again like a rat on a treadmill until it was nineteen minutes past the hour and then I went down to the lobby and walked past the man registering at the desk without looking at him, going into the short passage that led to the courtyard at the rear, turning, waiting.

Al was writing in the big book with its worn soiled cover and its oxidised gold tassel, a gesture to elegance, a suggestion that was in fact the Mandarin Oriental and not a sleazy doss-house on the waterfront, writing in the book, dear Christ, we haven't got time for dial, but then it has to be done because the shutters don't fit exactly across the windows and they're watching him now, the man at the desk, just as they've been watching me for the last hour from the doorways opposite.

Two minute to go. Two. Not long but within the critical time-frame; centre and relax.

The doors banged open and someone came into the lobby from the street and I froze and waited for them to move into sight, a woman with a dog in her arms, middle-aged, Caucasian, discount.

'Okay,' Al said to the man at the desk, 'you need a hand with the bag?'

'No.'

Early thirties, five-ten, eleven or twelve, black hair, dark blue eyes, his raincoat soaked, he'd walked here, quicker, no cabs available but got here in time, good as his word, a san-dan in Shotokan, to be expected.

He picked up his bag and turned and saw me and I made a signal and he came into the passage, an easy stride, confident.

'Veneker.'

'Jordan.'

'Nice weather for ducks.'

I gave him the envelope. 'Take this to the airport and leave it at the Hertz counter, to be picked up by this man, who's flying in tonight.'

'That's all?'

'Yes.' I gave him the keys of the car. 'Toyota, parked in shadow. Don't be seen getting into it, and in this rain you'll keep the windows shut anyway. If you're followed, try and lose them, but don't try too hard: they won't let you.'

He stood with his feet apart, balanced, tapping the envelope on the knuckle of his thumb, some of the tension in him coming off because he'd expected something a lot more dangerous than this.

'Roger. Once out of the car, sir, do I try and lose them? Going through the terminal?' A beat. 'I'm quick off the mark.'

'Again, try to lose them but don't.'

'And once I've done the drop?'

'Fade. They won't be interested in you after that.'

I sensed his hesitation as he stared at the name on the envelope, Harrison, J. MacKenzie. He was wondering why I was doing a drop in a public place and involving other people, and what would happen when the surveillance team asked for the envelope.

But they wouldn't.

'Okay, sir. Do I report back to Cheltenham?'

'I'll do that.' I checked my watch. 'You've got less than two minutes. Leave the bag here.'

He put it down. 'Do I go out by -'

'No, this way.'

I took him past the kitchen and into the courtyard at the rear. Rain in the lamplight, falling straight down, smelling of steel.

'Use that door in the wall across there. The car's on the other side.'

Toyota.'

'Right.'

He slipped the envelope into his mac and gave me a sudden straight look. 'You be all right, will you?'

'Never say the.'

He nodded and ducked through the rain towards the door.

I turned back into the hotel and went along the passage, picking up his bag and putting it behind the desk, and that was when the heavy booming sound came and the slats in the shutters were lit with a white flash and I stood with my eyes squeezed shut – no, oh no, Mother of God forgive me.