But he would have done it if he'd been blown in Tangier or on board the aircraft, because if you go down and the opposition starts running you and you can't help yourself until there's been time to get out from under, you can at least let your contact know in the final half-minute that the rendezvous had become a death-trap, and if he's quick he can save himself.

There'd been no signal. At this precise moment the situation was contained and even encouraging: Heinrich Fogel and two of the Bureau's executives were now together in Fiumicino Airport, Rome, their formation as orderly as if Control in London had moved three pieces across an operations board.

I watched the exit gates.

'Is he alone?'

'Yes.' There was still a note of slight elation in Fitzalan's voice: the Bureau had only been running him for eighteen months and he'd blown a minor radio-snatch assignment in Brussels and was immediately pushed through Norfolk again for a refresher course, and this time he was out to prove his colours and so far he was getting it right. A surveillance operation is low key but in this case the objective was Fogel and the overall situation was massive in terms of deployment in the field, 'You know what you're here for,' he said quietly. It was a statement.

'No.'

He swung his head and looked at me and I noticed the Mack dye was running slightly at his temples. Fitzalan has bright red hair and is obliged to keep it permanently dyed.

'My God,' he said, 'things are going so fast.' He turned back to watch the gates with his faded blue eyes. 'You're here to identify Fogel.'

I waited five seconds but he wasn't going to add anything.

'Is that all?'

'Apparently it's very important.'

I suppose Macklin had started this: our people in Tangier had only thought it was Fogel they'd got hold of, and London wanted him identified with certainty as soon as he left cover.

'You were on opposite sides, weren't you,' Fitzalan asked without turning his head, 'on some job or other?'

I watched the two plain-clothes men.

'Yes.'

They hadn't actually moved but their heads were now angled back half an inch as they stared towards the exit gates. A man and two women were now coming through, and there were people behind them.

'You think you'll be able to identify him?' Fitzalan asked me.

He was rather full of questions. Eighteen months isn't long.

'Yes.'

An Air France stewardess came past us, hurrying a little with her high heels on the point of buckling. She was making for the check-in counter.

A hint of Madame Rochas on the air.

'Any minute,' Fitzalan said.

He was getting worried.

Three Moroccans came by in flowing robes, their hands gesturing gracefully as if in some kind of prayer as they talked. A party of Europeans broke from the main stream of passengers and headed for the trattoria, and one of the aircrew, a two-ringer, was making for a door on the far side, marked Private.

'Any minute now,' Fitzalan said.

Poor little bastard: if he dropped this one he'd be out on his neck. We're only allowed two mistakes running, during the probation phase.

'Where was he sitting?'

He turned his dyed head slightly towards me but didn't take his eyes off the gates.

'Fifth row back, port side, first class.'

He was trying to sound confident, 'He'll be through,' I said.

'Oh sure. Any minute.'

It wasn't of course certain. Fogel could have turned off at a dozen points after leaving Immigration and Customs, or they could be holding him up in there. I gave it another two minutes and said:

'What do you want to do?'

It was up to him, not me.

No active involvement.

Fitzalan looked at me now.

'You think we ought to go in there?'

After a bit I said: 'He's your pigeon.'

Theoretically I should be local-controlling the man because I was his senior within the executive echelon and it was my responsibility to see that he didn't lose his objective but I wasn't interested in theory: the Bureau is a secret operations service and not the bloody Army and I only ever use my rank if it's to save my neck. I wasn't out here in the field to baby-sit for Fitzalan or anyone else; he'd sewn up his objective and if he'd done it the wrong way he'd be slung out and the rest of us would go on working in more safety.

More people came through: Customs were getting them cleared a damned sight faster than when the London flight had come in.

'I'm going to give him another couple of minutes,' Fitzalan said.

His tone was shaky now, 'Fair enough.'

'Of course,' he said, 'I'm absolutely certain he was on the aircraft when I — '

'Hold on,' I said.

A square of faint light had swung across the black surrealist sculpting: a glass door had opened somewhere behind us and I looked first at the two plain-clothes men but they didn't react. They were watching the exit gates, their heads perfectly still. It wasn't just the swinging light that had alerted me: there'd been the thump of the doors too, and a slight increase in the noise of the traffic outside. There was also a change in the actual character of the noise and when I looked round the first thing I saw was the flashing of an emergency light on top of the police van that was now standing opposite the main doors with its engine running and the driver still at the wheel.

The party of six carabinieri were coming at a steady pace and looking straight in front of them: two officers, a sergeant and two rankers led by a captain. They weren't actually in step but they seemed to be, because they walked so steadily.

'Watch the gates,' I told Fitzalan. 'Don't look at anything else.'

He didn't answer.

The two plain-clothes men had heard the carabinieri coming but didn't give them more than a glance because there were a lot of passengers spreading out from the exit gates now and they didn't want to miss anyone. I was watching the carabinieri most of the time and relying on Fitzalan to alert me if he saw Fogel coming through. I had quite a few questions in my mind because the data was beginning to form logical patterns for analysis, but there were too many gaps: the plain-clothes police could be here for their own reasons and those reasons could have nothing to do with the carabinieri; the carabinieri looked as though they were in a hurry and trying not to show it, but they were obviously hoping to meet someone off the Air France flight from Morocco and they looked quite serious about it but I didn't know why they hadn't come a bit earlier and driven their transport up to the aircraft and made sure of a contact.

It would be dangerous to assume that either they or the plain-clothes men were here to intercept Heinrich Fogel. It is dangerous to assume anything at all during this kind of active situation because if the action speeds up you can find yourself making a wrong move precipitately and a wrong move can be fatal.

Of course the one answer to every question in my head could be that the situation was precisely as it appeared to be: the plain-clothes men had been sent here to watch for a certain passenger or certain passengers coming off the Air France plane, and the carabinieri had been sent here in response to information received so late that they hadn't had time to intercept the passengers at an earlier stage.

They walked steadily past us.

'He's here,' Fitzalan said.

'Fogel?'

'Yes.'

It took me a couple of seconds.

He was the lean man with the sunken cheeks and the thinning hair. I thought I could see the pink crescent-shaped scar on his right temple even at this distance but the brain tends to present visual data that the eye doesn't see: I knew there was a scar there, because I'd watched them pull the bullet out in Budapest.