'Number one, with a shooter in his hand he's the best there is,' Meehan said. 'Number two, everybody wants him. The Special Branch, Military Intelligence - even his old mates in the IRA which means - number three - that he's eminently disposable afterwards.'

'What's that mean?' Billy said as they turned the corner of the alley and moved towards the car.

'Why don't you try reading a few books, for Christ's sake?' Meehan demanded. 'All you ever seem to think of is birds.'

They were at the front of the car by now, a Bentley Continental, and Meehan grabbed Billy by the arm and pulled him up quickly.

'Here, what the hell's going on? Where's Fred?'

'A slight concussion, Mr Meehan. Nothing much. He's sleeping it off in the rear seat.'

A match flared in a nearby doorway pulling Fallon's face out of the darkness. There was a cigarette between his lips. He lit it, then flicked the match into the gutter.

Meehan opened the door of the Bentley and switched on the lights. 'What are you after?' he said calmly.

'I just wanted to see you in the flesh, so to speak, that's all,' Fallon said. 'Good night to you.'

He started to move away and Meehan grabbed his arm. 'You know, I like you, Fallon. I think we've got a lot in common.'

'I doubt that.'

Meehan ignored him. 'I've been reading this German philosopher lately. You wouldn't know him. He says that for authentic living what is necessary is the resolute confrontation of death. Would you agree with that?'

'Heidegger,' Fallon said. 'Interesting you should go for him. He was Himmler's bible.'

He turned away again and Meehan moved quickly in front of him. 'Heidegger?' he said. 'You've read Heidegger?' There was genuine astonishment in his voice. 'I'll double up on the original offer and find you regular work. Now I can't say fairer than that, can I?'

'Good night, Mr Meehan,' Fallon said and melted into the darkness.

'What a man,' Meehan said. 'What a hard-nosed bastard. Why, he's beautiful, Billy, even if he is a fucking Mick.' He turned. 'Come on, let's get back to the Savoy. You drive and if you put as much as a scratch on this motor I'll have your balls.'

Fallon had a room in a lodging-house in Hanger Street in Stepney just off the Commercial Road. A couple of miles, no more, so he walked, in spite of the rain. He hadn't the slightest idea what would happen now. Kristou had been his one, his only hope. He was finished, it was as simple as that. He could run, but how far?

As he neared his destination, he took out his wallet and checked the contents. Four pounds and a little silver and he was already two weeks behind with his rent. He went into a cheap wine shop for some cigarettes then crossed the road to Hanger Street.

The newspaper man on the corner had deserted his usual pitch to shelter in a doorway from the driving rain. He was little more than a bundle of rags, an old London-Irishman, totally blind in one eye and only partially sighted in the other.

Fallon dropped a coin in his hand and took a paper. 'Good night to you, Michael,' he said.

The old man rolled one milky white eye towards him, his hand fumbling for change in the bag which hung about his neck.

'Is it yourself, Mr Fallon?'

'And who else? You can forget the change.'

The old man grabbed his hand and counted out his change laboriously. 'You had visitors at number thirteen about twenty minutes ago.'

'The law?' Fallon asked softly.

'Nothing in uniform. They went in and didn't come out again. Two cars waiting at the other end of the street - another across the road.'

He counted a final penny into Fallon's hand. Fallon turned and crossed to the telephone-box on the other corner. He dialled the number of the lodging-house and was answered instantly by the old woman who ran the place. He pushed in the coin and spoke.

'Mrs Keegan? It's Daly here. I wonder if you'd mind doing me a favour?'

He knew at once by the second's hesitation, by the strain in her voice, that old Michael's supposition had been correct.

'Oh, yes, Mr Daly.'

'The thing is, I'm expecting a phone call at nine o'clock. Take the number and tell them I'll ring back when I get in. I haven't a hope in hell of getting there now. I ran into a couple of old friends and we're having a few drinks. You know how it is?'

There was another slight pause before she said as if in response to some invisible prompt, 'Sounds nice. Where are you?'

'A pub called The Grenadier Guard in Kensington High Street. I'll have to go now. See you later.'

He replaced the receiver, left the phone-box and moved into a doorway from which he had a good view of No. 13 halfway down the short street.

A moment later, the front door was flung open. There were eight of them. Special Branch from the look of it. The first one on to the pavement waved frantically and two cars moved out of the shadows at the end of the street. The whole crew climbed inside, the cars moved away at speed. A car which was parked at the kerb on the other side of the main road went after them.

Fallon crossed to the corner and paused beside the old newspaper seller. He took out his wallet, extracting the four remaining pound notes and pressed them into his hand.

'God bless you, Mr Fallon,' Michael said, but Fallon was already on the other side of the road, walking rapidly back towards the river.

This time Kristou didn't hear a thing although he had been waiting for something like an hour, nerves taut. He sat there at the table, ledger open, the pen gripped tightly in his mittened hand. There was the softest of footfalls, wind over grass only, then the harsh, deliberate click as the hammer of the Browning was cocked.

Kristou breathed deeply to steady himself. 'What's the point, Martin?' he said. 'What would it get you?'

Fallon moved round to the other side of the table, the Browning in his hand. Kristou stood up, leaning on the table to stop from shaking.

'I'm the only friend you've got left now, Martin.'

'You bastard,' Fallon said. 'You sicked the Special Branch on to me.'

'I had to,' Kriston said frantically. 'It was the only way I could get you back here. It was for your own good, Martin. You've been like a dead man walking. I can bring you back to life again. Action and passion, that's what you want. That's what you need.'

Fallon's eyes were like black holes in the white face. He raised the Browning at arm's length, touching the muzzle between Kristou's eyes.

The old man closed them. 'All right, if you want to, go ahead. Get it over with. This is a life, the life I lead? Only remember one thing. Kill me, you kill yourself because there is no one else. Not one single person in this world that would do anything other than turn you in or put a bullet in your head.'

There was a long pause. He opened his eyes to see Fallon gently lowering the hammer of the Browning. He stood there holding it against his right thigh, staring into space.

Kristou said carefully, 'After all, what is he to you, this Krasko? A gangster, a murderer. The kind who lives off young girls.' He spat. 'A pig.'

Fallon said. 'Don't try to dress it up. What's the next move?'

'One phone call is all it takes. A car will be here in half an hour. You'll be taken to a farm near Doncaster. An out-of-the-way place. You'll be safe there. You make the hit on Thursday morning at the cemetery like I showed you in the photo. Krasko always leaves his goons at the gate. He doesn't like having them around when he's feeling sentimental.'

'All right,' Fallon said. 'But I do my own organising. That's understood.'

'Of course. Anything you want.' Kristou opened the drawer, took out an envelope and shoved it across. 'There's five hundred quid there in fives, to be going on with.'