'Bracken's all right,' the contact said. 'He knows his Moscow, don't worry.' 'It won't help him. Not at night.' Bracken would have left the Embassy in a car with diplomatic plates and the tags would have fallen in behind: it was routine KGB procedure when someone new joined the staff. And he couldn't drive dear of them by putting his foot down because he wasn't going to ground: he was going back to the Embassy sooner or later and they'd ask an awful lot of questions. There's not much traffic at night in this city and you'd wake the dead if you hit the tit and left rubber all over the road. All he could do was to try getting a truck or a bus or something between them and himself and ease off into a side street while their view was blocked. And the best of luck. 'Have you worked here before?' the contact asked me. 'No. I was trained here for Curtain operations.' 'Are you fluent?' 'Yes. Local accent.' 'When were you here last?' he asked me, watching the intersection. 'Three years ago.' Another militia patrol went past, in one of their snubnosed Volgas. A face was turned towards us. The car didn't slow. 'That's a long time,' the contact said. 'Things are changing fast over here. You'll have to be careful.' 'Oh for Christ's sake d'you think I need telling?' His head moved a fraction to watch my reflection in the windscreen. 'Sorry, old boy.' I slowed my breathing, counting the breaths. I'd have to do better than this, a hell of a lot better. Otherwise I was going to blow up when the heat came on. Eight, nine, ten, 'They pulled me in from leave,' I said more quietly, 'two weeks after the last lot.' 'Bastards, aren't they?' We watched the car. 'I could have refused.' 'Why didn't you?' 'Vanity.' He laughed again soundlessly, but didn't take his eyes off the car. It was moving into better light now, turning off Ckalova ulica towards us and speeding up a little. It was a black Humber with CD plates. 'You're driving this one,' the contact said, 'all right?' I said yes, and watched the Humber. There was nothing behind it but there was still plenty of time: we were parked less than a hundred yards from the intersection. It came on, slowing as it neared. Another bus passed along the ring road, then a private car, going quite fast. 'Cutting it fine,' the contact said. The Humber was nearly abreast of us now and slowing under full brakes, the driver's door coming open a moment before it stopped. A man got out and came across to us as the contact hit the door open and left the wheel to me. I slid behind it as the other man got in and said, 'You'd better hurry.' A squeal came as the contact took the Humber away with the engine racing in low gear before the change. I hit the stick-shift and did a tight U-turn and found a side street and swung into it with my eyes on the mirror. There was nothing. 'You'd better go south,' the man said. 'Get on to the ring road as soon as you can.' He sat back, stretching his legs out. 'But I think we're all right. I'm Bracken.' 'Quiller.' I made two right turns, watching the mirror. 'This is the car you'll use,' Bracken told me. 'The papers are in the glove pocket. I was getting worried about you.' 'We had problems.' At each turn the street lights threw his reflection on to the windscreen and filled in what I remembered of him. He was a shut-faced man with a tight mouth and eyes that never came to rest on anything for more than a second: he was looking around him now with brief jerks of his head. He couldn't keep his feet still either; he kept on shuffling them against the floorboards. Maybe he wasn't always like that; he could be worried at the moment because he'd been cutting things fine. If they'd turned off the ring road after him he would have driven straight past us but there's always a risk and he could have come dose to blowing me. I didn't know much about him, only a few things I'd heard over cups of tea in the Caff between missions; someone had said he'd been thrown out of an instructor's job at Norfolk because he'd used a live charge to demonstrate his de-arming techniques, and someone else had told me he'd murdered his mistress and been acquitted because the Bureau had suppressed some of the evidence; I didn't necessarily believe either story but the truth was probably somewhere there in the