"Rumour has it," he said as he sipped his tea, "that Tung is peddling snow, though I rather doubt that. But I know he runs a Triad, and that it's very powerful. I'm sure you know that Triad societies were first organised in the 17th century, to combat by secret means the tyranny of the Manchus, who overthrew the Ming dynasty. Their original aims were therefore legitimate, but like the Mafia they deteriorated over the passage of time to become illegal gangs." With sudden emphasis he went on. "But don't misunderstand me. The people of the Triads are rather more sophisticated than our Sicilian friends; they are secretive, subtle and infinitely more dangerous. Such a man, then, is Tung Kuo-feng. Whether or not he's engaged in exporting heroin out of the Golden Triangle I don't know, as I say, but that bombing in Pekin carries his signature: it was decorative, ironic and effective. Tung to a T, if you'll forgive the expression."

I waited until I was sure he'd finished.

"Where is he now?"

"Don't move," he said softly. "Just keep absolutely still. It's all right."

I tensed, and felt slight pressure along my left leg as the bloody thing came gliding past me, its scales making a whispering across my shoe as it turned and came back, its head lifting and sensing me.

"He just wants to know who you are," I heard Spur murmuring, "and if you move too suddenly you'd frighten him, and he'd bite. Just keep still."

I could smell the thing now: a faint, bitter scent like something rotten. That was why Spur burned the incense in the corner there. The narrow head was lowering now, and the sinuous ten-foot body went gliding towards the bamboo basket by the wall, where it formed coils again.

"Everyone loves old Alexander," Spur said with his silent laugh. "He was the gift of a grateful Armenian whom I got off a murder charge in Calcutta. Of course I told him it was just what I wanted. And where, you were asking, is Tung Kuo-feng now? He's in South Korea, that much I know, I'll put out a few feelers and give you a buzz if I get any warmer." He put down his teacup gently. "Or perhaps you'd rather do the buzzing, would you?"

"Yes."

"And you don't want me to have you followed about any more, I quite understand. I hope you'll forgive my saying so, but the less we see of each other the more I'd like it; if you're going to be so foolhardy as to tackle a chap like Tung Kuofeng on his home ground, I'd rather stay in the clear. Sudden death has never appealed to me, even as a way of avoiding taxes."

The Chonju Hotel was halfway down a narrow street of small shops that sold jewellery, silk, lacquerwork and porcelain, one or two of them still open despite the moist wind that was rattling at the shutters and singing through the spokes of the bicycles that leaned everywhere against the walls.

I went into the lobby of the hotel and checked in, fetching the desk clerk away from his game of Jang-gi with an ancient Chinese under the leaves of a big potted palm.

No messages, either from Ferris in Pekin or the British Embassy here in Seoul; and suddenly I felt cut off and helpless to make a move. It was hard to believe that in London they'd opened up a plot board for this mission in signals, with a man sitting there at the console waiting for Ferris or our contact at the Embassy to feed in information and request instructions, while Croder stood by with his mouth tight and his black eyes hooded and that brilliant and complex brain of his keyed to the work of sending me through the dangerous intricacies of a mission that was blocked at the start by the will-o'-the-wisp elusiveness of the opposition.

Four men dead, within four days — Sinclair, Jason, the Secretary of State and the US Ambassador to Pekin — and I was holed up in a backstreet of Seoul with the monsoon fretting at the shutters and the lamplight flickering and no messages in the key-box, almost nothing to go on, while somewhere Tung Kuo-feng was planning his next move, playing his own game of Jang-gi with a fifth man on the board and ready for sacrifice.

Nerves. Discount. Nerves and the faint putrid smell of that bloody thing still in my senses, and the haunting memory of the death I'd brought to the boy in the alley, his tigerish fierceness stilled by my own hands as he lay under me with the blood filling his throat.

I went up the stairs, past grilled windows and a huge brass gong hanging from the wall; the corridor of the second floor was deserted as I walked to my room at the far end and opened the door.

Instant impressions: the sheen of dark silk and the scent of sandalwood, the glow of an emerald bracelet on a slender wrist, and in the ivory fingers with their lacquered nails the blue metal of a gun.

A gun at close quarters is always dangerous because of the unpredictable factors involved: the state of the opponent's nerves and the degree of his fear and the position of the safety catch and the distances and angles that will govern the trajectory of the shot if the gun is fired. Timing, above all, will decide the difference between success or failure.

She was only just inside the door and well within my reach so I hit for the wrist and the gun span across the floor as she cried out in pain and came at me with her lacquered claws, hooking for my eyes with the soft ferocity of a cat as her scent wafted over me and her face was held close to mine, the faint light from the street glowing in her eyes as she fought me, her breath hissing in fury.

She was hardly bigger than a child, but it took a few moments to subdue her, and even with both slender arms locked behind her back she still went on trying to struggle. I left things like that for a couple of minutes, giving her time to think; the Astra Cub.22 was lying on the Numda rug between the window and the bed and her dark head was turned in its direction; her breath came painfully in the quiet of the room as she began whispering to me in Chinese — to me or to herself or her gods, I couldn't tell.

I said in English: "I'm going to hand you over to the police." I was Clive Ingram, an innocent travel agent, and it was outrageous to find myself attacked like this in my own hotel room.

She didn't answer, but stood quivering with her head still angled to watch the gun. I was aware of warm silk against me, and of the fury that was still in her as I kept the lock on her arms; I could feel blood creeping on my face where her nails had torn the skin close to my eyes, and I knew that if I let her go she'd fly to the gun or spin round and try to blind me.

I told her again that I was going to call the police, this time speaking in French, and her small head jerked upwards as she tried to look at me.

In the same language she said: "I shall kill you." Her breath shuddered out of her with the force of what she was saying.

"Why?"

"One day I shall kill you, however long it takes. Do you understand?"

"Not really." She knew I could snap her fragile arms and finish with it, but she also knew that a civilised male of the species wouldn't want to do that. If I let her trade on it she wouldn't give me a second's chance. "My name is Ingram," I told her wearily, "and I'm an English travel agent on a visit to Seoul. You're mistaking me for someone else." I waited, feeling the small vibration of her heartbeat as her fury went on forcing its rhythm; but her breath was slowing now, and I was encouraged. I wanted to get her out of here, and sleep; I hadn't slept since the flight out from London two nights ago, and the death struggle in Pekin had left me bruised and drained.

It occurred to me that this woman hadn't seen me very clearly in the gloom of the unlit room, so I pulled her backwards and felt for the light switch with my shoulder, moving it down; then I walked her across to the mirror on the dressing-table and for a moment we stared at each other; she was a pure Chinese, her delicate bone structure lit and shadowed by the lamps on the wall and her cinnamon eyes glistening; I looked less elegant, with streaks of blood on my face.