Quiller's Run

Mr Jordan, my name is Manif Kishnar, and I believe you have heard of me, knowing as I do the extensive sources of information at your disposal as a preeminent intelligence agent.

Letting my mind run wild but that was understandable because of the woman I was up against, the mystic and I psychotic Mariko Shoda, and because of Sayako, with her uncanny knowledge of the environment I was moving through, shadowed, tortuous and cryptic – these weren't the KGB with their orderly and predictable methodology; these weren't the paramilitary executives of the state machine; they were shadows, voices in the night.

The skilful practitioners of voodoo.

You will therefore surmise my reason for coming to Singapore tonight, and since there is no question of my failing to accomplish my mission for my employer, may I suggest with all respect that we meet somewhere removed from public gaze, and deal with the matter circumspectly. I feel that might be your wish.

Don't make the mistake of thinking that Manif Kishnar wasn't a man like that, with a mind like that. I've met them before, intellectual, supremely competent, even though their work is deadly. They are the elite, and they can operate on a level of sophistication you won't find in the lesser breeds.

Removed from public gaze.

The dark.

And this would be his reason: to draw me into the dark.

The circumstances, Mr Jordan, are well defined. If you choose to remain in your hotel, then I must come for you there. But will that not be a little. .. unseemly? The owner is trying to run an honest business, after all, and we would embarrass him, and jeopardise the reputation of his establishment, do you not agree?

Sirens in the night.

The flash of blue and red and white across the walls in the street outside, diffused by the downpour; the faint squawk of the zip-fastener as they closed the black plastic bag before they lifted me; Al's white face on the stairs, Lily, for Christ's sake get a mop and hot water.

He had a point, Kishnar, had a point.

If you agreed to meet me on what we might call neutral ground, Mr Jordan, I would offer you all due ceremony. Men of your calling seldom the with dignity, but for you I would vouchsafe it.

With the rain falling steadily on our heads, its drops silvering the dark; The exchange of courtesies and then the quick movement and then nothing, finis.

Not while there's life, my friend.

But Mr Jordan, it is a foregone conclusion. You know that. I shall not fail – indeed I dare not. I am simply attempting to bring this matter to an end in a rational and civilised manner.

Do you see his point? A desperate stalking operation through the building here, waking the guests however quietly we moved, however secretly, each seeking the other's death until the end-game and the last hot deed enacted in the close confinement of the flesh or a missed foothold and the hideous drop to the stones below or a lost chance and the wire's bite and the blood spilling and the cry cut off, and then the mess, the messiness of a violent death – or alternatively his offer of due ceremony, out there somewhere in the privacy of the rain and the dark with no one near and no sound but the intoning of my executioner's prayer.

If this was in his mind you couldn't say he wasn't civilised. Better, surely, than baring one's neck to a brute.

I went down to the bar and picked up the phone.

16 Toyota

What kind of red sector?' Pepperidge. His tone was sharp, brief.

'I think it's too late,' I told him.

'Sorry, I had to go up to London, then your phone's been engaged. What can I do?'

'I'm in a massive surveillance trap and Shoda's sent a hit man here.'

'Who?'

'Kishnar.'

'Manif Kishnar, yes, he works for her exclusively. What are your chances?'

'About nil.' The clock on the wall said three minutes past eight.

'Why not signal the Thai Embassy?'

'There's no point. I -'

'Police, then, get them to send a gun team -'

'No, it's-'

'I can phone the High Commission. They'd —'

'It wouldn't work.'

'Fuck.'

It was a shut-ended situation and he didn't like it. We never do.

The reason why it wouldn't work was because Shoda was running things and this time she wouldn't let me get clear; this time she'd ordered a sure hit and even if I could persuade Rattakul to risk a diplomatic showdown against every known principle of intelligence policy or persuade the Singapore police to send in a gun team it'd be the same thing in the end – these people would bring me down, if necessary with a rush attack, if necessary with a suicide run, if necessary with an exchange of gunfire with the police team despite Shoda's wish for a discreet kill that would cause no fuss and leave no trace.

Three minutes past eight but that wasn't significant. What could conceivably make any difference was that it would take Kishnar twenty minutes to reach here from the airport. There'd be a car to meet him and the driver would know the way, would know this city intimately, but in this rain and with the cabs in demand and cluttering the streets it would take twenty minutes at least. The earliest he could arrive here would be at eight-twenty-three.

Then give it a go.

'I can send you some shields," Pepperidge was saying. 'I could raise three or four, if-'

'No. But I want a contact to make a letter-drop. One man.'

'Look, you can have more than -'

'One. One man.'

Hesitation, then, 'All right. Got a pencil?'

'Yes.' I reached for the phone pad.

'His name's Westerby. He's at 734-49206.'

'Description?'

'Thirty, five-eleven, thirteen stone, dark brown hair, brown eyes.'

'I've got that. Give me a backup.'

'Lee Yeo. Asian. He's at -'

'No. Caucasian.'

'All right.' Short pause, the scuffing of paper. 'Veneker, at 734-289039. Thirty-five, five-ten, eleven stone, black hair, dark blue eyes, a san-dan in Shotokan.'

'That's all I need,' I told him.

'Look, I'll man this phone non-stop. You've got immediate access.'

'Don't lose any sleep.' Because I knew how he felt: he'd handed me a mission and after twelve days I was trapped and set up for the kill and although it wasn't his fault he knew the situation, knew it of old. It's the time when the laughter stops.

I pressed the contact and dialled for Westerby and got the ringing tone and waited.

Clock. Nineteen minutes to go.

Went on ringing, wasn't there.

Jesus Christ, this wouldn't have done for the Bureau.

I dialled for Veneker and got the ringing tone again and waited again, Al talking to the three Asians, they were showing him a swatch of raw silk, the TV flickering above the bar, Mary came straight round here the minute she heard, hut Cindy was aver at the ball-game with Bob and we couldn't give her the news, they'd never get their fucking lives worked out, went on ringing — 'Hello?'

'Veneker?'

'Yes.'

'Jordan.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I want you to come to the Red Orchid Hotel in Chong Street, just of Boat Quay in Chinatown. It's in a —'

'I know where it is.'

'All right, how soon can you be here?'

'Ten minutes.'

Running it bloody close, wished I hadn't said it, wished I'd called it off'Oh, yes-'

'In this rain?'

'Yes, sir. Ten minutes it is.'

'Bring a suitcase or something, look like a tourist and register at the desk – I'll make contact immediately afterwards.'