'Is Mr Shepley there?'

He would make a good psychiatrist, this man Ferris, looks the part, thin, ascetic, totally calm, though perhaps he is a shade too cold-blooded, and of course might even find it not abnormal for a patient lying there on that bloody couch to explain that his problem was that he couldn't stop strangling mice.

'Yes, sir. There's been an unexpected development, and I've asked Monck to fly in from Nassau. He'll be here in twenty minutes. I haven't worked with him before, and I need to know whether he qualifies for major Classified One decision-making.'

Purdom was standing by the bookshelves looking at the titles, if that's what you want to believe. I suppose I hated him in an infantile way, because there was nothing in his square balanced-looking head, I mean nothing coiled there, no worm.

'Yes, I can give him the whole picture. We've just interim-debriefed the executive.'

Upjohn hadn't budged from his chair. I didn't like him much either, not because of his acne or his broom-head haircut of course; I disliked his detachment, or rather his ability to detach himself from what was going on. I could believe his blood was colder than Ferris's, if there were any in his veins at all.

'All right, sir. Understood. Do I fax the debriefing?'

He said a few other things that weren't important. The important bit was over now, I knew that, but I hadn't heard Shepley's answer to the question. I wasn't looking at Ferris when he put the phone down, had my back to him. I heard him flip the scrambler switch and get out of the chair.

'Monck was in Croder's place,' he said, 'before he left London. He's still on that level, overseas section.' I'd turned round and was facing him. 'Whatever decisions have to be made, he has the power to make them.' Getting his briefcase, looking at his watch. 'I'm meeting him at the airport, cutting it a bit fine. Why don't you catch up on some more sleep at the hotel? It's still secure. Upjohn will take you there.'

Didn't really want an answer: these were orders.

Then everyone was moving about and Ferris called Alvarez back and thanked him for his hospitality and then came with me to the alleyway at the back of the house where there were two cars standing in shadow.

Try not to give it any more thought,' he told me. 'Just try to sleep. When I've talked to Monck and asked him what we're going to do, I'll contact you, probably in an hour or so.' Got into his car.

'But I like the town, because it's crazy.'

Upjohn drove through the lit streets, knew his way. I sat beside him, like an aristo in a tumbril. Ferris knew what was going to happen already, but couldn't give London the whole picture without faxing it and there wasn't really time even for that. Barracuda couldn't go on running without an executive and the only executive it had was a man who might at any time break loose and start following instructions he wasn't even aware of at this moment – and instructions that could tell him to blow the whole thing up.

Shivering a little, not unexpected.

'It's got everything, after all. Drug trade, casinos, refugees, the mafia, you name it. Sight more interesting than Streatham.'

I suppose I answered him now and then on the way, but I don't remember clearly. When we got to the hotel he opened the gates at the back and drove the car through and got out to shut them again before I left the car.

'Feel like company? Play some poker?'

I thanked him and said I needed some sleep, and he nodded and stood there in the half-lit yard until I was inside the hotel.

Lying in the dark with my clothes on, watching the reflection of the traffic lights at the corner of the street below, listening to the creak of the plumbing and the thin whistling of the first jet landing as the night drew towards dawn, I looked at this thing in the face and got rid of illusions.

There would be only one thing worse, yes, than being sent back to London and seeing my name gone from the board and the final entry on the form I'd have to sign, executive recalled from mission, only one thing worse than losing Barracuda and handing over to Purdom, and that would be for them to order me to stay with it and do what I could.

Because the only reason for their doing that would be to find out what I would do if they gave me room, where I would go if they set me running again, how they could profit if the worm in the apple went on eating and drove me across hazardous ground, into a red sector, into a trap.

And that would be terrible, to run through these streets not as the shadow for the mission but as a rat in a maze, an experiment, a subject for sacrifice.

That would be their only reason for keeping me in.

Red to green, amber to red, a toilet flushing on the floor above, a jet turning onto the taxying lane with its sound and the echoes fading, red to green and the silence settling in and then the explosive shock of the phone bell jarring the nerves.

I reached for the receiver.

'They're leaving you in,' Ferris said.

My hand clammy on the smooth plastic, the dark room crowding me, a sense of disbelief. I suppose I wanted it spelled out for me, so that there shouldn't be any misunderstanding.

'My name is still on the board for Barracuda?'

Someone was whistling, down in the yard, as daybreak came.

'Your name is still on the board for Barracuda.'

So help me God.

She's petite, strawberry blonde, violet eyes, great cheekbones, very trim. Age thirty-one.

11:03.

Make-up. Highlight the cheekbones, deep eyeshadow, hairspray. She applied her own lipstick. Impatient with her cosmetician, small curt gestures, eyes on the mirror, on her face.

Most people hate her, especially men who have to work for her, under her – the show's director, technicians, those people. She enjoys emasculating them.

The hand of the big clock moved to 11:04 but there was no significance attached to this: she wasn't going out live tonight – this show was to be pre-taped.

I don't know why. She normally goes out live. There was some mess-up, I guess. You may find out when you're there.

I could only see part of her, waist up, through the glass partition. Two of the monitors were blank; the third was showing a Buick ad.

She can use that kind of clout, you see – Chuck Baker, called in by Ferris to brief me on her – because some people say she's arguably the single most accurate and important source of information on current events for one-fifth of the American people, through syndication programmes. Okay, other people say that's just hype, but I'd say it's a close guess. The Nielson Media Research figures give 'These Are My Views' twenty-one million households per broadcast.

She threw off the make-up gown and crossed into the studio, moving with care to preserve the fluffed-up, Luster-Gel coiffure. Looked at her hands, set the tourmaline ring facet-uppermost, checked her nails. Other people came in now, two men and three women, some of them technicians with audio-gear, clipboards, papers. One of the men switched on the TelePrompTer and checked the display.

I could see her better now. This was one of the monitor rooms and someone had come in a minute ago and asked where Harry was and I told him I didn't know. I'd got the studio lapel pass from Chuck Baker. But I guess it's up to you to tell people what you're doing there, if they ask, okay?

At this hour most of the studio was dark, and the man who'd asked about Harry was the only one I'd seen.

She and Brokaw were called the sexiest anchors in the industry, by a poll conducted last June. TV Guide printed a joint opinion of influential critics that puts her as the first most trustworthy anchor on the screen, in terms of news accuracy and her own deeply considered views. She's strictly non-partisan, and that comes through for her, though at this time of course she's down here from the National Newsbreak network in Washington to pitch for Florida's Senator Judd.