She was practising arpeggios.

The heavy lace curtains were half drawn and the light in die room was muted, softening the reflections in the lid of the piano.

I watched her hands. She was only a child, and having trouble with her right thumb, passing it under with a little jerk and using her arm to support the movement. Several times she gave up and sat perfectly still, gazing in front of her with her pale ivory face composed and her eyes quiet. A painter would have run for his brushes, though I could believe chat if I hadn't been in the room she would have sworn aloud each tune she stopped playing.

I was putting her off, I said.

No, not at all.

We spoke Italian.

I was only here for a moment, I told her.

She didn't blame me, she said with a wistful smile.

Then she began again, trying to get her thumb ready so that it didn't jerk. I sat listening until Rumori came in.

He was dark and thin with eyes that moved restlessly in the shadows of 'his brows, as if he were all the time half-listening to some distant drummer, 'Mr Wexford,' he said.

We spoke English.

'Europress.'

He nodded absently, taking me into the hall, where an immense lantern hung from the ceiling, its coloured-glass pendants smouldering under a film of dust. The silk walls were torn here and there, and the plaster showed through: the Piazza Piccola was an area of crumbling villas where people tended to move in and out a lot as the rents went up; and the moving men were indifferent 'She's making progress,' I said.

'You think so?'

He stooped towards the door of the music room, listening.

'Perhaps not,' he said, and turned away. There was an appointment book on the gilt console and he ran a long delicate finger down the page.

'You were to come for a lesson,' he said, 'on the Ninth.'

The Seventh, surely.' I went to look at the book.

'In a series of twelve lessons,' he said reluctantly, 'I shall need you here at least twice a week.' He turned again and led me to the stairs and I followed him up.

Code introduction for the period Eighth to Fourteenth was any number at random, with an answering sequence of two below and three above, in this case 9-7-12. I'd only seen him once before, nearly four years ago, and remembered him as a larger man. I suppose you can't feel as mournful as that without losing weight.

The bandage was too bloody tight round my arm, and my hand felt numb. I decided to ask him to help me re-tie the thing before I left here. They'd done a reasonable job at the clinic but the nurse had been a real bitch and I'd finally got out of the place at dawn this morning, down the fire escape: they'd kept me for more than five hours and wanted to make a lot of tests because there'd been a head injury and they weren't satisfied with the reflex response. Good at their job, I'm not saying they weren't: it was just that I was so bloody annoyed about the Fogel thing that I wanted some action to drain off some of the adrenalin.

At the first landing Rumori looked at me attentively for a moment.

'You are feeling well?'

'Fantastic,' I said.

He'd been ahead of me on the stairs but he'd noticed me stop, halfway up: his thoughts weren't so far away as he liked people to think. It was the result of long habit: he'd been our agent-in-place for seven years and Macklin said this was the safest house in southern Europe.

'If you need anything…' he murmured, and we began on the next staircase.

He'd almost certainly seen the report in the press: they'd held over some space for this one because it wasn't often they lost a 747 on the ground because some maniac blew it up with a fuel tanker. The Italian police were playing it close to the chest: a person whose identity had not yet been revealed had caused an accident on the tarmac, killing four members of the maintenance crew and a freight loader. The 747 was totally gutted. A British journalist, as yet unnamed, had driven his automobile through the flames and hit a maintenance trolley a hundred yards away on the far side without having caught fire. He had been dragged to safety by the emergency crews. Unfortunately it was impossible to reach the occupant of the other car, since it was hi the heart of the conflagration.

No mention of the carabinieri, or the chase, or the exchange of shots.

Rome, like Marseille and other focal points, is a centre for every major intelligence network including Africa, South America and Japan. The Italian police knew who the occupant of the burned-out Alfa-Romeo had been, and so did the monitoring sections of every major intelligence network. The Italian police were very interested in the British journalist but I'd given them the Interpol routine and they'd called Paris and then asked me a lot of questions and got a lot of answers that didn't tell them very much and finally called off the two men they'd stationed outside the door of my ward. The third one had tagged me from the hospital as far as the nearest intersection, where I'd got rid of him for the sake of practice.

The thing was that the intelligence networks would also be very interested in the British journalist. They hadn't asked any questions yet but if they could get hold of me they certainly would. London would have got the story through Fitzalan right away, and the Bureau's sleeper agents in Rome would have been alerted. Emilio Rumori had got it direct on the air from London or from Fitzalan, long before he saw the newspapers. Fitzalan had rung me at the hospital twice in the name of Jones, asking for news of my progress. He'd been hanging around the out-patients department when I'd gone down there to see if I could get away, so he knew I was back on my feet and presumably he'd cleared the area because I was hot and if anything happened to me he wouldn't be involved.

That nurse had been such 'a bitch that I finally had to bribe one of the cleaners to get my clothes back for me so that I could do the fire-escape thing. They were in a pretty bad condition because I'd been dragged out of the Fiat and there'd been a lot of fire-foam about, and I had to re-kit in a man's shop and pick up another suitcase, real pigskin because I liked the look of it and because I was so bloody upset about blowing the Fogel assignment that I thought I'd pass on some of the angst to those withered old crones in Accounts.'

All I hadn't replaced was the razor with the fancy modifications and I didn't imagine Rumori kept things like that around. If I came across any locks that needed blowing I'd have to do it the hard way and go in shoulder-first.

I stopped again, near the top of the second flight of stairs. The whole thing was reeling and I held on to the banister and waited, you should take it easy for a couple of weeks, the specialist had told me, the banister rail tilting up and down under my hand, Rumori's pale ivory face looking at me from above, his deep eyes lost in shadow, take it easy, the roar of the flames again and the wail of the sirens.

'- right?' His voice coming and going.

'Perfectly,' I said, and began climbing again, one ankle weak and the shoe supping a bit on the edge of the stair, come on for Christ's sake, put some bloody effort into it, watching me carefully with his pale ivory face.

'You can rest here, of course. Nobody would disturb you.'

'Some other time.'

He watched me for a bit longer and then took me across the high-ceilinged landing to the small room at the end, where there were two ceramic cherubs above the door, one of them with an arm broken off. A fly buzzed against the coloured-glass skylight. He stood perfectly still for a moment with his head inclined and his eyes half-closed, listening to the uncertain run of notes from the music-room below. Then he straightened up with a slight sigh and unlocked the door of the room with a large iron key and led me inside.