'British High Commission.'
A twenty-minute run, and at the halfway point I went through the whole thing again and tested the logic. The street had been absolutely clear when I'd left the clinic and I could still ask the driver to turn back and put me down where we'd started – it was like paying out a lifeline and it was getting the nerves on edge because I knew that when we reached the High Commission the line would break. But that was all it was, nerves, and I sat watching the street, noting the people.
At 08:45 the cab pulled in to the kerb and I got out and paid the man through the window and turned and crossed the pavement and walked into the building, one of them, yes, at least one of them on the other side of the street, and I could almost hear the whip of the lifeline as it broke.
At the main desk I didn't do more than ask if they had an airline timetable; the girl pulled one out of a cubby-hole and gave it to me; a new girl, one I hadn't seen before, fair head bent over her nail-varnish while I flipped through the pages of the timetable, a couple of minutes were enough, and gave it back to her.
Counted five of them while I waited for the taxi; three women in European clothes, two men, one of them blond but not Gunther: he'd been outside the Red Orchid.
I don't like this.
Like dropping into ice-cold water, isn't it, I know what you mean, but you can shut up all the same. • This is a hell of a faking risk.
Not really, no, not in daylight.
But what about tonight? Jesus Christ, you're Bloody well shut up.
There was, of course, the very reasonable thought that it was her influence that was making me do this, pushing me to the brink. Voodoo can turn a man's head. But it was impossible to get any perspective: yes, it could be her influence, and yes, there was a calculated chance that tonight I could push the mission into its final phase and reach the objective and destroy it. But there was this to be said: I knew how to do what I hoped to do; there wasn't going to be any luck thrown in, except conceivably the slip of a foot on damp ground or an instant's loss of balance.
Ignore the effects of luck and concentrate on the demand for excellence in application.
Another taxi had stopped at the corner as we pulled in, and a blue Toyota cruised past and then accelerated. I went into the clinic by the side door and got to my room without seeing anyone I knew, two Chinese in white coats, a woman walking with one hand sliding along the wall, a man talking to her, carrying her bag.
I phoned the number Pepperidge had given me but it was someone else who answered and I asked him for the parole and got it and responded and said: 'Tell him that I'm not absolutely sure, but there might be some surveillance on this place. Tell him to keep away.'
'You want any action?' A thin voice, rather quiet, unsurprisable.
'No. I'll keep you posted.'
Over and out.
Then the waiting began.
'I killed him,' she said.
'I see.'
They'd been wrong: it hadn't rained this afternoon; the lawn where we sat had lost the glow we'd seen last night under the lamps, Dr Israel and I. If the rain kept off, the grass would be almost dry tonight, and not slippery underfoot.
'I got off,' she said, Thelma Someone, I hadn't caught her last name, 'but I've got to undergo treatment for six months.' Not a big woman, and not aggressive; just withdrawn, until I'd shown I was ready to listen. In her thirties.
'Why?' I asked her.
'I told you, because I killed him.'
The lawn was a hundred and twenty feet square; I'd paced it. There was a bird-bath in the centre, cast out of concrete and leaning slightly. The shallow basin on top of the pedestal didn't move if you tried to lift it; I suppose it was bolted down.
'But you told me he'd been beating you up for seven years.'
'That's right.'
'Drunk every night, and violent.'
'Yes.' No particular tone in her voice; it was as if she were talking about a play she'd seen, not a good one.
'So you shot him.'
'That's right.'
She needs to talk about it, one of the Indian nurses had said, if you don't mind listening.
'Well, for God's sake, Thelma, what's wrong with that?'
'They call it pathological loss of control.'
It was just gone five o'clock; it would be dark in two hours, and the night would come down suddenly. I missed the English twilights out here.
'Pathological bullshit,' I said, 'if you'll excuse my French. You kept control for seven years, didn't you? That wasn't enough?'
She was watching me, her eyes puffy, her hair a mess, not unattractive, though, just unkempt, undone by life, unwanted, and do you take this woman, not bloody likely, she shot the last one dead, didn't she?
'You're doing me good,' she said, and as her pasty face cleared there came a certain beauty. 'Not many men would agree with you.'
'That's their problem.'
The last of the daylight was leaving the gardens and the lawn, well, not gardens quite, a few bushes and flowering plants, a glorious magnolia tree with blooms like water-lilies, and as the light lost its brightness the shadows softened, the shadows of the trees and the shrubs and the bird-bath in the centre.
'Where were you?' Pepperidge had asked. He'd phoned while I was at the British High Commission this morning.
'Working out in the physical therapy room.'
'Tell me about the surveillance.'
'I'm still not sure. I thought I saw one of the hit team that was round the hotel. Touch of paranoia, possibly, but all the same I'd be rather careful.'
His silence meant worry. God knew what he'd have said if I'd told him where I'd been.
'Let me know," he'd said, 'if you see them again."
Said I would. He'd taken a lot of care finding me the safe-house and couldn't really believe it had attracted ticks so soon. I felt for him.
'Keep away,' I told him, 'just in case. I mean that.' It wasn't a safe-house any more because I'd blown it across the street but that was going to work itself out. I didn't want Pepperidge walking into a surveillance net the first day he'd taken over the mission in the field. If I ever left here with vital signs I'd need him again. 'By the way,' I told him, 'Shoda's in Singapore.'
'Sayako told you?'
'Yes.' He hadn't sounded surprised, so I said, 'Did the bug stop producing?'
'Yes. But it told us that much – I think it might be on her private jet.' As lightly as he could, 'Don't worry about it.' I knew now that he hadn't been going to tell me she was here. I liked that: it was good handling of the ferret, protecting him from unnecessary worry.
'What are you doing here?' Thelma asked me.
'I'm paranoid.'
The light grew less, and sharp edges softened. People had started filling the verandahs on their way to the cafeteria for the evening meal.
'What form does it take?' she asked me.
'I think someone's stalking me. But only when it's dark.'
Had some Pork Pad Kee Mao, but didn't eat the meat, just the vegetables. The protein I'd eaten mid-day was into the sinews by now, and all I needed was something light, with the chilli paste as a stimulant for the blood.
David Thomas sat next to me in the cafeteria, call me Dave, all right, but don't you dare call me Marty, I can't stand that, made him laugh a bit, he was the man who'd lost his wife and children, shut himself in the garage with the engine running.
'Boy,' he said, 'this stuff's red hot.'
'Good for the circulation.'
According to the pathologist's report, the contents of the stomach were corn, bamboo shoots, green beens, onion and chilli. Pork Pad Kee Mao.
Oh, balls.
'Who?'
'He said his name was Singh.'
A couple of the doctors had been talking in the hall, earlier today, when I'd gone through there.