'I can't believe you'd be so stupid.'

'Just point me to Cripps, and I'll be away.'

Suckling ignored him in favour of his tirade. 'It'staken two years to establish my credentials here.'

Ballard laughed.

'I'm going to report this, damn you!'

'I think you should,' said Ballard, turning up thevolume. 'In the meanwhile: where's Cripps?'

Suckling, apparently convinced that he was faced witha lunatic, controlled his apoplexy. 'All right,' he said.Til have somebody call on you; take you to him.'

'Not good enough,' Ballard replied. He crossedto Suckling in two short strides and took hold ofhim by his lapel. He'd spent at most three hourswith Suckling in ten years, but he'd scarcely passeda moment in his presence without itching to dowhat he was doing now. Knocking the man's handsaway, he pushed Suckling against the book-linedwall. A stack of volumes, caught by Suckling's heel,toppled.

'Once more,' Ballard said. The old man.'

'Take your fucking hands off me,' Suckling said, hisfury redoubled at being touched.

'Again,' said Ballard. 'Cripps.'

'I'll have you carpeted for this. I'll have you our!'

Ballard leaned towards the reddening face, andsmiled.

'I'm out anyway. People have died, remember?London needs a sacrificial lamb, and I think I'm it.'Suckling's face dropped. 'So I've got nothing to lose,have I?' There was no reply. Ballard pressed closer toSuckling, tightening his grip on the man. ''Have /?'

Suckling's courage failed him. 'Cripps is dead,' hesaid.

Ballard didn't release his hold. 'You said the sameabout Odell -' he remarked. At the name, Suckling'seyes widened. '- And I saw him only last night,' Ballardsaid, 'out on the town.'

'You saw Odell?'

'Oh yes.'

Mention of the dead man brought the scene in thealleyway back to mind. The smell of the body; the boy'ssobs. There were other faiths, thought Ballard, beyondthe one he'd once shared with the creature beneath him.Faiths whose devotions were made in heat and blood,whose dogmas were dreams. Where better to baptisehimself into that new faith than here, in the blood ofthe enemy?

Somewhere, at the very back of his head, he couldhear the helicopters, but he wouldn't let them take tothe air. He was strong today; his head, his hands, allstrong. When he drew his nails towards Suckling's eyesthe blood came easily. He had a sudden vision of the facebeneath the flesh; of Suckling's features stripped to theessence.

'Sir?'

Ballard glanced over his shoulder. The receptionistwas standing at the open door.

'Oh. I'm sorry,' she said, preparing to withdraw. Tojudge by her blushes she assumed this was a lover's trystshe'd walked in upon.

'Stay,' said Suckling. 'Mr Ballard ... was justleaving.'

Ballard released his prey. There would be otheropportunities to have Suckling's life.

Til see you again,' he said.

Suckling drew a handkerchief from his top pocket andpressed it to his face.

'Depend upon it,' he replied.

Now they would come for him, he could have no doubtof that. He was a rogue element, and they would striveto silence him as quickly as possible. The thought didnot distress him. Whatever they had tried to make himforget with their brain-washing was more ambitious thanthey had anticipated; however deeply they had taughthim to bury it, it was digging its way back to the surface.He couldn't see it yet, but he knew it was near. Morethan once on his way back to his rooms he imaginedeyes at his back. Maybe he was still being tailed; buthis instincts informed him otherwise. The presence hefelt close-by - so near that it was sometimes at hisshoulder - was perhaps simply another part of him. Hefelt protected by it, as by a local god.

He had half expected there to be a receptioncommittee awaiting him at his rooms, but there wasnobody. Either Suckling had been obliged to delay hisalarm-call, or else the upper echelons were still debatingtheir tactics. He pocketed those few keepsakes that hewanted to preserve from their calculating eyes, and leftthe building again without anyone making a move tostop him.

It felt good to be alive, despite the chill that renderedthe grim streets grimmer still. He decided, for noparticular reason, to go to the zoo, which, though hehad been visiting the city for two decades, he had neverdone. As he walked it occurred to him that he'd neverbeen as free as he was now; that he had shed masterylike an old coat. No wonder they feared him. They hadgood reason.

Kantstrasse was busy, but he cut his way throughthe pedestrians easily, almost as if they sensed arare certainty in him and gave him a wide berth.As he approached the entrance to the zoo, however,somebody jostled him. He looked round to upbraidthe fellow, but caught only the back of the man'shead as he was submerged in the crowd heading ontoHardenbergstrasse. Suspecting an attempted theft, hechecked his pockets, to find that a scrap of paper hadbeen slipped into one. He knew better than to examineit on the spot, but casually glanced round again to see ifhe recognised the courier. The man had already slippedaway.

He delayed his visit to the zoo and went instead tothe Tiergarten, and there - in the wilds of the greatpark - found a place to read the message. It was fromMironenko, and it requested a meeting to talk of amatter of considerable urgency, naming a house inMarienfelde as a venue. Ballard memorised the details,then shredded the note.

It was perfectly possible that the invitation was atrap of course, set either by his own faction or bythe opposition. Perhaps a way to test his allegiance; orto manipulate him into a situation in which he couldbe easily despatched. Despite such doubts he had nochoice but to go however, in the hope that this blinddate was indeed with Mironenko. Whatever dangersthis rendezvous brought, they were not so new. Indeed,given his long-held doubts of the efficacy of sight, hadn'tevery date he'd ever made been in some sense blind'?

By early evening the damp air was thickening towards afog, and by the time he stepped off the bus on Hildburg-hauserstrasse it had a good hold on the city, lending thechill new powers to discomfort.

Ballard went quickly through the quiet streets. Hescarcely knew the district at all, but its proximity tothe Wall bled it of what little charm it might oncehave possessed. Many of the houses were unoccupied;of those that were not most were sealed off against thenight and the cold and the lights that glared from thewatch-towers. It was only with the aid of a map that helocated the tiny street Mironenko's note had named.

No lights burned in the house. Ballard knocked hard,but there was no answering footstep in the hall. He hadanticipated several possible scenarios, but an absence ofresponse at the house had not been amongst them. Heknocked again; and again. It was only then that he heardsounds from within, and finally the door was opened tohim. The hallway was painted grey and brown, and litonly by a bare bulb. The man silhouetted against thisdrab interior was not Mironenko.

'Yes?' he said. 'What do you want?' His German wasspoken with a distinct Muscovite inflection.

'I'm looking for a friend of mine,' Ballard said.

The man, who was almost as broad as the doorway hestood in, shook his head.

'There's nobody here,' he said. 'Only me.'

'I was told -'

'You must have the wrong house.'

No sooner had the doorkeeper made the remark thannoise erupted from down the dreary hallway. Furniturewas being overturned; somebody had begun to shout.

The Russian looked over his shoulder and went toslam the door in Ballard's face, but Ballard's foot wasthere to stop him. Taking advantage of the man'sdivided attention, Ballard put his shoulder to the door,and pushed. He was in the hallway - indeed he washalf-way down it - before the Russian took a step inpursuit. The sound of demolition had escalated, andwas now drowned out by the sound of a man squealing.Ballard followed the sound past the sovereignty of thelone bulb and into gloom at the back of the house. Hemight well have lost his way at that point but that a doorwas flung open ahead of him.