"How do you feel?" I asked him quietly, and stood over the bed so that he could see my face. He looked at me for a long time, but there wasn't anything in his eyes; then they closed again as he murmured something.
"What?" I asked him. In a minute he said it again, but I couldn't make out any specific words: I had to put the sounds together and guess at a verbal pattern. Two men.
"Two men?" I asked him.
His lips moved. These were different sounds. Killer
"Killer?"
I had to wait again. After a bit his lips moved again and I watched them; there seemed to be a W after the first K. KW something. KW ill?
"What did you say, Jason?"
Same sound. I watched his lips, and then got it.
"Yes. I'm Quiller. Don't rush it. Relax."
If I called the nurses they might give him a shot of something, do something to break this fragile thread of consciousness. One of them would be in here at any minute.
"You were attacked by two men?" I asked in a moment. His eyes opened, and I think he tried to turn his head, because there was a spasm of pain and he grimaced and a sheen of sweat began covering his ash-white skin.
"Don't rush it, Jason. Take your time." A minute went by.
Sounds came again. The only patterns I could guess at were Elsie. I. Spur. Sool.
"Say again," I told him softly, "when you're ready." I felt the sweat on my own face now, because of the need to hurry, and to find the delicate balance between drawing some kind of information out of him and keeping him alive: the more we hurried, the more he might say but the sooner he might lose consciousness again, perhaps for the last time.
His eyes opened and looked up into mine.
"Tell," he whispered, and this time it sounded perfectly distinct.
"Tell who?"
Then just sounds again, the same as before, or nearly.
Elsie. I. Insool. Ay eh? Not sense. Tell Elsie?
The pale lips moved, and I watched and listened. See spur. C? Elsie? Elsie spur? He was using all his strength on the syllables, slurring the consonants; I couldn't tell whether he was leaving out the beginnings and endings of words, or even whether he was rambling.
"Jason. Tell who? Elsie? Who is she?"
He was watching me back. Tell see I eh. Tell see -
"Tell the CIA?" I leaned closer.
"Ess. CIA."
"Tell them what?"
There were voices now in the distance, a man's and a woman's, someone talking to one of the nurses along the corridor. I tuned them out, concentrating on Jason.
"What do I tell the CIA?"
His eyes closed and I waited, flicking a glance at the screen on the wall where the green dot was bouncing lower again. In a moment he rallied, and sounds came again. R spur. Hasper? Ask her? After?
"Jason. Say again." I leaned closer still.
He opened his eyes. Ask per. Per? Spur?
"Ask Spur?"
"Ess."
"Who is Spur?"
Then there were footsteps and a young Chinese in a white coat came in, a stethoscope hanging from his neck. One of the nurses followed him, the small girl with plaits under her cap. He looked at me hard, saying nothing.
"Do you speak English?" I asked him.
"Mee ye?"
"Parlez-vous francais?"
He looked away without answering, and prepared a syringe while the nurse swabbed Jason's median vein. I tried him with German and Russian, desperate to stop him doing anything to Jason now he'd begun talking. He didn't answer, and I had to move away to give him room as he lanced the tip of the needle into the vein and put slow pressure on the plunger.
The nurse made an entry on the chart and they both went out, leaving the air acrid with the smell of the ether she'd used on the swab.
"Jason," I said softly, and leaned over him. His eyes opened slightly.
"I will ask Spur to tell the CIA. Is that right?"
His lips didn't move, and there was no understanding in his eyes.
"Jason."
But the pallor of his skin was now tinged with blue and when I looked up at the screen on the wall I saw the dot of light levelling out and leaving a thin featureless line.
"They've killed Jason," I said.
The line was silent for a bit; then Ferris asked: "How?"
"One of the doctors here injected cyanide, or someone posing as a doctor."
"I'll be right over," Ferris said.
"No. Keep away. This place is a death-trap now."
6: Grace
They wouldn't shoot. It would make too much noise. There were extra police patrols in the streets tonight and the curfew was in force until dawn. To shoot, in any case, was not their fashion; the creators of the martial arts preferred silence, and hidden strength.
I climbed higher, and reached the top floor of the hospital. It was no good going down and into the street, before I was informed. It was a four-storey building with a flat roof, one of the new concrete additions to this ancient city, bare of tiles or balconies or arched outer walls that might have offered me exit. I would have to go out by a door.
Ferris had told me that he'd remain at the Embassy, and had wished me luck; there was nothing else he could do. Once the executive is in hazard, his director can only withdraw from the area and save himself, and remain available to receive the next man out if the executive is lost. Nor could Ferris send a squad of police into the hospital to bring me out under protection; the Chief of Police would have agreed to do that, to do anything, in fact, that would alleviate the guilt and embarrassment that he and the People's Republic security forces were still suffering; but the laws and edicts chiselled in the timeless rock of ages by that gaggle of demigods who lord it over us in London, world without end, didn't allow for that. In no circumstances will a director or an executive in the field call upon the police or any other service of whatever country is their host. It would lead to questions, and enquiries, and complications; it would place us under the obligation of officials who might later decide to exert their power over us, bringing the risk of exposure. Ferris and I were in Pekin as two security agents responsible for the safety of the visiting British delegation, and could call on extensive help from the Chinese police; but that was only our cover, and beneath our cover were two human cyphers with code names and nothing more, working in the dark of our own making for an organisation that didn't officially exist; and we must make no sign, and leave no shadow.
Thus sayeth those tyrannical bloody red-tape artists in London who have never known what it's like to be trapped in a building with the fear of death creeping in the gut like a time-fuse and not much chance of getting out.
I walked to the end of the concrete passage and found the trap door to the roof, and the iron ladder. The night was calm, with pale stars and a wash of light from the street lamps four storeys below. I began crawling when I neared the edge of the roof on the south side, to avoid presenting a silhouette against the skyline in case they chanced to look upwards; but most of the time they'd be watching the doors.
They hadn't come into the building for me because the night staff was there, and they would have had to show themselves, and use violence and make a noise. With Jason it had been easy, and they'd needed to silence him as soon as they could, cutting off the source of information. With me it would be more difficult and they could afford to take their time; I had no information; my death was required simply to protect their own security; they had an operation running and I mustn't get in their way.
One.
He was in the doorway almost directly opposite, his back flat against the wall and his head turned to watch the street; from there he could see the main entrance of the hospital and the windows along the whole of its length. He was in the loose blue cotton uniform of a factory worker, but in the low light I couldn't see his shoes. In terminal confrontation, shoes can be important; the hard edge of a heel can be lethal.