We listened again to the briefing while the girl slung her canvas shoulder bag round the chair and put her elbows on the table and studied the photographs. The light on the telephone was still winking and Lewes went across to it and pressed one of the buttons and came back.

"There's a certain amount of night flying by the military and civil freight lines between Seoul and Daegu," Newcomb told us, "which is a plus in terms of sound cover; the direct air lane between the two fields runs approximately twenty-five miles from the monastery at its closest point on a horizontal plane, so they're used to hearing air traffic not too far away."

He asked for questions again, and the de Haven girl got up and walked about, her arms folded and her gaze mostly on the briefing table; she was short, with chunky blond hair and steady eyes and a square chin; I thought I'd seen her before but couldn't remember when; I didn't believe the "Geological Survey" tag: it was almost certainly a cover, because this was a high-risk drop and she must be in some kind of spook unit.

"What jump altitude are you thinking of?" She looked at me for the first time since the introductions.

"As low as we can make it. Say one thousand."

"That's too low." She was looking at the briefing table again. "Even with ground wind zero it's not going to be much fun in that terrain. Let's make it three."

I got up too, and felt Ferris watching me, and ignored it. "I don't know what a calculator would give us, but during that extra two thousand feet we'll be in the air for something like two minutes longer."

"So?" She glanced up from the table.

"There'll be a three-quarter moon."

"Oh. You mean we'll be visible for that much longer?"

"Yes."

"Are they going to be watching for us?"

"We don't know," Ferris cut in.

"Can we find out?"

In the silence I thought: either she's been under-briefed or isn't thinking.

"No," Ferris said.

She switched her hard blue eyes onto me. "You've made drops like this before, Mr — ?"

"Clive."

"Mr Clive?"

"Clive West."

"What? Oh. Fair enough. I'm Helen."

"I haven't made a drop over mountains. But I'd rather risk a broken ankle than hang there in the sky for two minutes longer. I'm going in from one thousand."

"We'll talk about it later. For the moment we —»

"I'd like it to go down now in the operational notes," I told her, "since this is the only briefing session we're going to get. We jump from one thousand feet."

Al Lewes got up and went over to the window and blew his nose rather noisily. Newcomb went on staring at the aerial photographs. De Haven turned her head to face Ferris; she had a very direct gaze, always moving her head instead of glancing with her eyes.

"This is only a two-crew operation, Mr Ferris, but there's got to be one of us in command, the same as if we were flying a plane in. I was called in as an expert to plan the drop, and the only way I can do it is my way. Is that agreed?"

Ferris slid his long fingers together on the edge of the table. "You won't accept Mr West's authority?" He said it pleasantly.

"It's not a question of accepting him." Her tone was perfectly cool. "If he knows as much as I do about dropping into that area and finding his way afterwards, that's fine, and you don't need me. But if he doesn't — which I assume is why you shied me in — then I've got to be in charge, not only because I want to protect my life too, but because it'll lessen the risk or us both." She took her sling bag from the back of the hair and swung it across her shoulder.

Captain Newcomb picked up his pointer and aligned it carefully along the edge of the nearest photograph. Lewes as still standing at the window with his back to us. In a moment Ferris looked up at me. "My instructions," he said, "are that if any question arises as to who's in charge of the drop, it's Miss de Haven.

She took the bag off her shoulder and slung it round the back of the chair again.

"Well, that's got that out of the way."

"Decaffeinated."

"Anything with it?"

"No."

Three pilots came into the canteen, still in their flying gear. I'd watched these people throwing F5Es all over the sky most of the day; then I'd seen a film in the auditorium and now I was in here trying to absorb the shock.

"Can I join you?"

Helen de Haven.

"Of course."

I turned the newspaper over as she sat down; there was a photograph.

"How are you feeling?"

She was in a blue tee shirt and jeans; I hadn't recognised her for a moment; she looked younger, more feminine. "Feeling?"

"About the drop."

"Not very good. What can I get you?"

"Coffee. Not very good?"

I gave the order. "You came at the wrong time."

"That's easily dealt with" She got up and slung her bag across her shoulder.

"We've got to talk," I said, "in any case."

"I'm not sure I want to."

"Anything to eat, with the coffee?"

"What? I don't know. A bun, I suppose. What the hell's gone wrong?" She sat down again and looked at me with her steady hard-blue eyes.

The paper had been lying on the counter when I'd come in. I suppose that was luck, of a kind: I might not have seen it otherwise.

She met her death, it said on the front page, in the same grim fashion.

"I don't know yet," I told Helen de Haven, "what's gone wrong. But we'll keep you briefed."

Her eyes were narrowed slightly and her mouth was firm. "Is it this thing about the jump altitude?"

"No. Although I'd like to reach some sort of a compromise about that." The girl put two coffees on the counter and pushed the cream and sugar closer. "When you were briefed," I asked de Haven, "what were you told, exactly?"

"It was a secret briefing."

"Were you told, for instance, that we'll be going into what might be called hostile territory?"

"Something like that."

The same bizarre method, the paper said, was a feature of both killings. Otherwise, I suppose, it wouldn't have made the front page in a city of seven million people. I watched her again for a moment as the little Suburu made the turn outside the terminal building, her pale face at the window. It was the last I would ever see of her.

Only hours before her death on the steps of the temple in Seoul, the newspaper had said, Soong Li fei had been the chief mourner at her brother's funeral.

Outside the canteen an F5E went down the runway and lifted off with a reverberating rush of sound.

You must be very careful, Li-fei had told me. She knew Tung Kuo-feng, and the things he was capable of doing; but she had forgotten to be careful herself.

"Are you getting cold feet?" the de Haven girl asked me.

"What?"

"This hostile territory thing. It's losing its appeal?"

"I don't know," I told her, "if it's still on."

"The drop?"

"Yes."

"Oh, for God's sake, they called me down from the north, and I'm bloody busy."

I was trying to focus on the fresh English face with its unwavering gaze, but there was a kind of double exposure and I was also watching the soft cinnamon eyes of Soong Lifei.

"What do you do," I asked de Haven, "in the north?" Not that I was interested, but there was a social obligation to keep the conversation going while I thought out what to do.

"I train parachutists for NATO. Why?"

"Then you're too valuable to lose. How did you get yourself into this mess?"

She put down her coffee with a little bang. "Clive, are you always like this?"

"Like what?"

"A bear with a sore arse. Look, if you've decided to back out of doing the drop then just tell me. Frankly I couldn't care less, but by God I shall want expenses and compensation for wasted time."