One of the sailors wanted to play cards. "How can we play cards in the dark?"

"Peel the edges. All Harry's cards are marked."

The train stopped unaccountably at about 4 A.M. A cultured voice -the dried-egg-sandwich supplier, Faber thought-said, "My guess is we're outside Crewe."

"Knowing the railways, we could be anywhere from Bolton to Bournemouth," said the cockney.

The train jerked and moved off, and everyone cheered. Where, Faber wondered, was the caricature Englishman with his icy reserve and his stiff upper lip? Not here.

A few minutes later a voice in the corridor said: "Tickets, please." Faber noted the Yorkshire accent; they were in the north now. He fumbled in his pockets for his ticket.

He had the corner seat, near the door, so he could see into the corridor. The inspector was shining a flashlight onto the tickets. Faber saw the man's silhouette in the reflected light. It looked vaguely familiar.

He settled back in his seat to wait. He remembered the nightmare: "This is an Abwehr ticket" and smiled in the dark.

Then he frowned. The train stopped unaccountably; shortly afterward a ticket inspection began; the inspector's face was vaguely familiar… It might be nothing, but Faber stayed alive by worrying about things that might be nothing. He looked into the corridor again, but the man had entered a compartment.

The train stopped briefly-the station was Crewe, according to informed opinion in Faber's compartment-and moved off again.

Faber got another look at the inspector's face, and now he remembered. The boarding house in Highgate! The boy from Yorkshire who wanted to get into the Army!

Faber watched him carefully. His flashlight moved across the face of every passenger. He was not just looking at the tickets.

No, Faber told himself, don't jump to conclusions. How could they possibly have got on to him? They could not have found out which train he was on, got hold of one of the few people in the world who knew what he looked like, and got the man on the train dressed as a ticket inspector in so short a time…

Parkin, that was his name. Billy Parkin. Somehow he looked much older now. He was coming closer.

It must be a look-alike, perhaps an elder brother. This had to be a coincidence. Parkin entered the compartment next to Faber's. There was no time left.

Faber assumed the worst, and prepared to deal with it. He got up, left the compartment, and went along the corridor, picking his way over suitcases and kitbags and bodies, to the lavatory. It was vacant. He went in and locked the door.

He was only buying time: even ticket inspectors did not fail to check the toilets. He sat on the seat and wondered how to get out of this. The train had speeded up and was travelling too fast for him to jump off.

Besides, someone would see him go, and if they were really searching for him they would stop the train. "All tickets, please." Parkin was getting close again.

Faber had an idea. The coupling between the carriages was a tiny space like an air-lock, enclosed by a bellowslike cover between the cars of the train, shut off at both ends by doors because of the noise and draughts. He left the lavatory, fought his way to the end of the carriage, opened the door, and stepped into the connecting passage. He closed the door Behind him.

It was freezing cold, and the noise was terrific. Faber sat on the floor and curled up, pretending to sleep. Only a dead man could sleep here, but people did strange things on trains these days. He tried not to shiver. The door opened behind him. "Tickets, please." He ignored it. He heard the door close. "Wake up, Sleeping Beauty." The voice was unmistakable. Faber pretended to stir, then got to his feet, keeping his back to Parkin.

When he turned the stiletto was in his hand. He pushed Parkin up against the door, held the point of the knife at his throat, and said, "Be still or I'll kill you."

With his left hand he took Parkin's flashlight, and shone it into the young man's face. Parkin did not look as frightened as he ought to be. Faber said, "Well, well, Billy Parkin, who wanted to join the Army, and ended up on the railways. Still, it's a uniform."

Parkin said, "You."

"You know damn well it's me, little Billy Parkin. You were looking for me. Why?" He was doing his best to sound vicious.

"I don't know why I should be looking for you. I'm not a policeman."

Faber jerked the knife melodramatically. "Stop lying to me."

"Honest, Mr Faber. Let me go-I promise I won't tell anyone I've seen you."

Faber began to have doubts. Either Parkin was telling the truth, or he was overacting as much as Faber himself.

Parkin's body shifted, his right arm moving in the darkness. Faber grabbed the wrist in an iron grip. Parkin struggled for an instant, but Faber let the needle point of the stiletto sink a fraction of an inch into Parkin's throat, and the man was still. Faber found the pocket Parkin had bees reaching for, and pulled out a gun.

"Ticket inspectors do not go armed," he said. "Who are you with, Parkin?"

"We all carry guns now… there's a lot of crime on trains because of the dark."

Parkin was at least lying courageously and creatively. Faber decided that threats were not going to be enough to loosen his tongue.

His movement was sudden, swift, and accurate. The blade of the stiletto leaped in his fist. Its point entered a measured half inch into Parkin's left eye and came out again.

Faber's hand covered Parkin's mouth. The muffled scream of agony was drowned by the noise of the train. Parkin's hands went to his ruined eye. "Save yourself the other eye, Parkin. Who are you with?"

"Military Intelligence, oh God, please don't do it again."

"Who? Menzies? Masterman?"

"Oh, God… Godliman, Godliman."

"Godliman?" Faber knew the name, but this was no time to search his memory for details. "What have they got?"

"A picture. I picked you out from the files."

"What picture? What picture?"

"A racing team, running, with a cup, the Army."

Faber remembered. Christ, where had they got hold of that? It was his nightmare: they had a picture. People would know his face. His face.

He moved the knife closer to Parkin's right eye. "How did you know where I was?"

"I don't do it, please… the embassy… took your letter… the cab… Euston… please, not the other eye…" He covered both his eyes with his hands.

Goddamn. That idiot Francisco… Now he said, "What's the plan? Where is the trap?"

"Glasgow. They're waiting for you at Glasgow. The train will be emptied there."

Faber lowered the knife to the level of Parkin's belly. To distract him, he said, "How many men?" Then he pushed hard, inward and upward to the heart.

Parkin's one eye stared in horror, and he did not die. It was the drawback to Faber's favoured method of killing. Normally the shock of the knife was enough to stop the heart. But if the heart was strong it did not always work-after all, surgeons sometimes stuck a hypodermic needle directly into the heart to inject adrenalin. If the heart continued to pump, the motion would work a hole around the blade, from which the blood would leak. It was just as fatal, but longer.

At last Parkin's body went limp. Faber held him against the wall for a moment, thinking. There had been something… a flicker of courage, the ghost of a smile, before the man died. It meant something. Such things always did.

He let the body fall to the floor, then arranged it in a sleeping position, with the wounds hidden from view. He kicked the railway cap into a corner. He cleaned his stiletto on Parkin's trousers, and wiped the ocular liquid from his hands. It had been a messy business.

He put the knife away in his sleeve and opened the door to the car. He made his way back to his compartment in the dark.