Macklin was stifling a yawn, getting another cigarette. I said:

'Been pushing you, have they?'

'I've done my bit today, old boy.'

'Off home now?'

'You bet.'

I said give my love to Marcia; that was his wife.

The security guard used his key and took me in.

'All right Sam,' she told him.

The guard went out, snap-locking the door, 'Long time,' she said.

'Too long.'

She spun the combination, her back to me, touching a hand to her greying hair, waiting for the timer to stop. The auto-destruct warning buzzed and she threw the tumblers, starting on the second combination.

'What was your last one?'

'Third series, seventh.'

The door of the safe swung open and she brought a single sheet across to the table, a Xerox copy in a plastic cover. There were only three cyphers currently available, which explained why Macklin had been working the clock round: there must be some special units overseas, probably Cyprus.

'What's this one?'

'Just come up.'

'Gor blimey.'

It was replacing a whole series. The Bureau hang on to their pet numbers till they're too dog-eared to use, so it could only mean this series had been busted somewhere out there where the signals were hot, and I just hoped it hadn't blown anyone through the roof.

'Fancy,' I said.

The thing was built up with extended-phase digits, sometimes three or four to a numeral, with reverse transfers and the alert provided by omissions in the blanks: you just left out the space between any two phrases and 'forgot' to reverse.

'Have they got someone new?'

'It's Mr Hanbury,' she said rather sharply. We're never terribly impressed with the stuff they give us and it makes them touchy.

I said I'd take it and she picked out a box, small, flat, waterproof, fireproof, neutral grey.

'Any acid,' she said, 'but it takes thirty seconds.'

'All right.' If I worked at it I could probably wipe it out in Rome.

There wasn't anyone in Accounts till someone shot in from next door: its common knowledge that anyone holding up a shadow executive on his way through clearance gets taken to bits and sold as Meccano.

'Sorry, sir.'

'Hell d'you think this place is — MI5?'

I filled in the form: Nothing of value, no next of kin, no messages. TC's for five hundred pounds, a Barclaycard, two hundred in cash, it seemed a lot for the Hong Kong end but maybe it'd have to finance Mandarin as well.

'You can obtain local currency anywhere, sir, day or night.'

'Fair enough. Can I have the rates?'

He gave me the booklet and I put it into the briefcase with the rest of the stuff.

In Firearms they were well on the ball: there'd been a rush on from the mob Macklin had sent out, pack enough submachine-guns on board and you have to leave the navigator behind.

Weapons drawn: none. I'm rather a disappointment to them: they're always wanting people to try out the latest models for them.

Capsules drawn: none.

He'd got them ready in his hand but put them away again in the locked drawer when he saw what I'd entered. They never know what we're going to do and sometimes we don't know ourselves: it depends on so many things: what field you're going into, who your director is, what degree of risk, what info memorized, so forth. Also it's a peculiarly personal thing and involves much more than just life and death: it raises issues like motivation, the will, the threshold of pain, the question of identity itself, what is this thing that's screaming like this and can it remain whole, can it retain command of whatever it is? I used to take capsules with me in the early days but after they'd roughed me up in Leningrad and again in Cairo I realized cyanide wasn't the answer because pain carries its own anaesthetic if you can hold on for the first few stages and they can't get anything out of you if you're unconscious or a gibbering idiot and they know that — or at least the professionals do, and they're the people we're usually up against.

Another thing is that if they find a capsule on you they assume you must have some pretty interesting stories to tell, so they go to work intensively.

All I needed from Travel was the air ticket 'Are you the one for Hong Kong?'

'Yes.' I put it into my wallet. 'What about China?'

'Taiwan?'

'The mainland.'

He went over to the files and checked and came back, 'Are you detailed for Mandarin?'

'Yes.'

'They'll fix you up in HK. There's no regular visa — you'll be processed by the Secretary for Chinese Affairs,'

Even if Field Briefing could have taken me earlier I would have had to hang around for Credentials because they'd produced the complete works, covering me for Mandarin as well as the Hong Kong thing.

'Never thought we'd get through in time.'

Marge was the only one at the Bureau who could make you look round, not that it was saying a lot, china blue eyes and a big blonde wig and so much eye shadow it looked like sunglasses, but the thing about Marge was that if you came back after a year's absence she'd say hello you've changed your parting. She's gone now, seduced by the totally counterfeit charisma of MI5.

She had everything laid in a row along the counter, and I began on the left while she perched on her high stool like a life-size doll and watched me. Passport: Clive Wing, border frankings mostly European but two for Bangkok and one for Japan. General cover: coin dealer, member of the British Numismatic Association agents in Holland and Switzerland, specializing in Mexican and Austrian gold pieces, centennial medallions and high-value government proof sets, sole representative for Mendoza S.A. of Buenos Aires, investment brokers. A name like 'Wing' was to be expected: perfectly acceptable English surname but could also be Chinese on a written document in the absence of other identification.

Driving-licence, membership card of the BNA, letter of introduction to three leading coin and bullion brokers in Victoria and Kowloon from Mendoza S.A., latest issue of Coin Quarterly.

'When did you lose the other one?' asked Marge.

'Other what?' I signed for receipt of documents and started shuffling the stuff into my brief-case.

'You had a beautiful blue Parker.'

'Behave yourself, Marge, you don't have to advertise.'

She swung her legs and giggled and I went out and that was the last I ever saw of her; there's a typical number in there now, lisle stockings and a slight moustache.

It was still pouring with rain and the wipers had a hard job coping with it on the way back to the flat. I changed my wet sock and put some clothes in a bag and looked at my watch and thought no and then yes, picking up the phone and taking the risk that she'd mind being woken up at this hour, burr-burr, there wouldn't be time to go round there even if she were alone, burr-burr, she wouldn't be at the Connaught or anywhere because she had to be on the set at seven tomorrow, burr-burr, unless she'd been hello! Sleep still in her voice, a soft laugh, of course she didn't mind, long eyes and copper hair and the way she turned her head, my God are you off again? The whole of London suddenly full of Moira and not far away, no, I said, there's only just time to get the plane, New York, she hated quickies, she wanted everything and champagne afterwards, when will you be back, not long, I told her, not long. Goodbye.

Or maybe never, which of course was why I'd had to ring her, taking out insurance on the risk that one day soon I might get in so deep that I couldn't get out, or cross their sights and not have time to hear the hum, and go down wishing, in the confusion of rage and fright and refusal to believe, wishing I'd at least picked up a phone and said goodbye. They say you always think of your mother but I don't remember mine, but my God, I know when it comes I'm going to remember Moira.