They walked steadily past us, ‘He’s here,’ Fitzalan said, ‘Fogel?,’

  'Yes.’

  It took me a couple of seconds.

  He was the lean man with the sunken cheeks and the thinning hair. I thought I could see the pink crescent-shaped scar on his right temple even at this distance but the brain tends to present visual data that the eye doesn’t see: I knew there was a scar there, because I’d watched them pull the bullet out in Budapest.

  ‘How close do you want him?’ Fitzalan murmured.

  That’s not your problem.’

  I would need to see Fogel from a distance of a few yards and I would need to see him in circumstances where he couldn’t see me and that wouldn’t be easy and it could take till morning. I wasn’t going to hurry it because I hadn’t needed a specific directive to tell me that if Fogel saw me, just for a second, the Rome phase would be blown.

  Egerton hadn’t sent me here to blow anything.

  Fitzalan was standing perfectly still.

  The plain-clothes men had seen Fogel and were immediately interested in him but were not approaching him. The captain of the carabinieri had seen him and was leading his unit steadily on.

  ‘Fitzalan.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We use the window now.’

  He turned round and we looked at the skier.

  ‘You know the form,’ I said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s recap.’

  I didn’t know what briefing he’d received.

  ‘You’ll stay with him till you’ve got close enough to identify him. I’ll follow up. If you lose him, I’ll keep him.’

  ‘All right.’

  The rest of the situation was covered by routine procedures:’ from the moment we left this rendezvous we wouldn’t acknowledge each other; there would be no obligation to make any signal at any given phase; if we felt the need for a further rdv it would be made in the house of the Bureau’s agent-in-place, Rome: the Villa Marco Polo in the Piazza Piccola. Finally, Fitzalan was aware that he could expect no support from me if he got into any kind of trouble because each of us was in effect operating solo with a common objective: Fogel.

  The figures moved against the slope of dazzling snow: Fogel coming alone from the exit gates, the carabinieri walking steadily towards him. The plain-clothes men stood perfectly still. A few of the other passengers were looking at the carabinieri, wondering what they were doing here.

  The captain halted his men.

  It was then that I decided to turn round because it looked as if Fogel was the passenger they had come for and he wouldn’t have time to check for surveillance before they met aim. He wouldn’t see me, and he wouldn’t see Fitzalan. He would see only the officers.

  At this instant he was isolated, with the nearest passenger ten or twelve feet away. They were spreading out and he was one of the few people without a companion. He had seen the carabinieri but was not reacting.

  The captain took a sidestep to block his path, and his white-gloved hand came up in a salute.

  Fogel stopped.

  The captain was saying something to him.

  Fogel listened. His expression and attitude were those of a law-abiding passenger arriving in Rome by air. The captain appeared to be asking for his passport.

  Fogel used his right hand to double the officer, pushing the blow upwards into the diaphragm while his left hand went for the captain’s holster and wrenched the gun out. He worked very fast and he was armed and ready to fire before any of the party could reach for their own weapons.

  The first shot smashed the glass of a show-case a few feet from where Fitzalan and I were standing and I couldn’t tell if Fogel had aimed at the carabinieri and the shell had passed between them, or if it had been meant as a warning shot. They were diverted for a second or two and the captain was still doubled up on the ground as Fogel broke away and began running, colliding with a group of passengers and leaving one of them sprawling as the carabinieri began shouting for him to stop. He saw the flash of the emergency light through the glass doors and swerved to his left, running fast and steadily and thinking his way out of the building and past the obstacles that threatened him: mostly the groups of people in the checkin area.

  At this moment the carabinieri began firing as they ran: their officer had given the order. I saw plaster chipping away from the wall beyond where Fogel ran, at a height of some ten feet: there were too many people about for them to try ‘hitting the fugitive and I assumed the purpose was to warn him to stop and at the same time to alert the driver of the emergency vehicle outside.

  As Fogel reached the glass doors at the end of the checkin area I was a dozen yards behind him, running at the same speed and ready to swerve the instant he began turning round to fire into his pursuers. I could hear Fitzalan’s shoes thudding behind me and slightly to the left. The situation worried me because I believed Fogel would fire back into the carabinieri before he went through the doors: it would be logical and of course feasible, costing him something less than two seconds and gaining him anything up to five or six as the soldiers scattered. The thing that worried me was that there was no close cover for me or Fitzalan: the people in this area were now frozen into immobility and there were no central stands or pillars and I would ‘have to rely mostly on speed as I hurled myself obliquely at the row of glass doors and smashed one open before his gun fired.

  The whole set-up was impromptu and I didn’t like that either: a penetration agent gets into comfortable habits and he likes premeditated action, preferring to set a trap rather than run a man down, preferring the dark to the light. It’s rather like assembling a small but intricate bomb, step by step, dovetailing the components until they become potent, then setting it ticking. This was a totally undisciplined situation where anything could happen and I was uneasy because Fogel would see me as his most immediate threat and would possibly fire at me instead of into the soldiers. I believed I could be quick enough to get out of the way but a certain amount was going to depend on chance and that made the situation dangerous and untidy, Fogel reached the doors.

  I was watching him the whole time.

  Fitzalan had dropped back or was taking cover across the checkin counter: I couldn’t hear him any more. The checkin counter was no use to me because it would waste a lot of time: Fogel was getting clear of the building and I had to be out there with him to see where he went No active involvement wasn’t a finite directive: it had been in part countermanded by the last order, .which was to identify Heinrich’ Fogel. Ideally I would stay with him, get close enough to identify, and withdraw. It could be done, even now, but I was going to need luck and that was the thing I didn’t like, because my job is to arrange for certainties.

  Fogel’s weight hit the glass door and I saw his right shoulder begin turning and that was all I waited for because this was the time when he was most likely to fire. There were two shots with almost no interval and I heard fane of the shells ricochet, whining to silence as I smashed into the nearest door and pitched through the gap as it swung open while part of the forebrain registered an item of data: Three shells fired, three left.

  The situation now became dangerous: he would have seen me and taken me to be a passenger trying to help the forces of law and order and he would drop me without a thought if I looked like stopping him. We were both on the pavement now and the driver of the emergency vehicle was liable to open fire on Fogel and hit me instead if I began running again. This kind of thing had happened to Harrison in Milan and to Hunter in Geneva and the action was now in Rome and it didn’t look any more promising, so I went down headlong and rolled over with the soles of my shoes towards Fogel and lay without moving.

  Three shots banged out of a repeater rifle from the opposite direction and I assumed it was the driver. I could hear Fogel running again.

  Someone screamed. I had a key in my hand.

  In very fast action a lot of the work is done on the subconscious level, with a certain amount of reasoning responsible for decision-making: Fogel had knocked into a group of people and a woman among them had screamed as he dragged at the door of their car; they saw his gun and held back. He was still working fast and very efficiently but any physical action is slower than thought and the key in my hand was the one they’d given me at Hertz. I knew where the dark blue Fiat 1100 was: they’d shown me.

  The Alfa-Romeo had drawn in to the kerb half a minute ago and the people had got out and were standing in a group on the pavement when Fogel had knocked into them and pulled the door open. Part of his thinking must have been in the checkin area.

  At this moment the carabinieri began firing as they ran: their officer had given the order. I saw plaster chipping away from the wall beyond where Fogel ran, at a height of some ten feet: there were too many people about for them to try ‘hitting the fugitive and I assumed the purpose was to warn him to stop and at the same time to alert the driver of the emergency vehicle outside.

  As Fogel reached the glass doors at the end of the checkin area I was a dozen yards behind him, running at the same speed and ready to swerve the instant he began turning round to fire into his pursuers. I could hear Fitzalan’s shoes thudding behind me and slightly to the left. The situation worried me because I believed Fogel would fire back into the carabinieri before he went through the doors: it would be logical and of course feasible, costing him something less than two seconds and gaining him anything up to five or six as the soldiers scattered. The thing that worried me was that there was no close cover for me or Fitzalan: the people in this area were now frozen into immobility and there were no central stands or pillars and I would ‘have to rely mostly on speed as I hurled myself obliquely at the row of glass doors and smashed one open before his gun fired.

  The whole set-up was impromptu and I didn’t like that either: a penetration agent gets into comfortable habits and he likes premeditated action, preferring to set a trap rather than run a man down, preferring the dark to the light. It’s rather like assembling a small but intricate bomb, step by step, dovetailing the components until they become potent, men setting it ticking. This was a totally undisciplined situation where anything could happen and I was uneasy because Fogel would see me as his most immediate threat and would possibly fire at me instead of into the soldiers. I believed I could be quick enough to get out of the way but a certain amount was going to depend on chance and that made the situation dangerous and untidy, Fogel reached the doors.

  I was watching him the whole time.

  Fitzalan had dropped back or was taking cover across the checkin counter: I couldn’t hear him any more. The checkin counter was no use to me because it would waste a lot of time: Fogel was getting clear of the building and I had to be out there with him to see where he went No active involvement wasn’t a finite directive: it had been in part countermanded by the last order, _ which was to identify Heinrich Fogel. Ideally I would stay with him, get close enough to identify, and withdraw. It could be done, even now, but I was going to need luck and that was the thing I didn’t like, because my job is to arrange for certainties.

  Fogel’s weight hit the glass door and I saw his right shoulder begin turning and that was all I waited for because this was the time when he was most likely to fire.

  There were two shots with almost no interval and I heard one of the shells ricochet, whining to silence as I smashed into the nearest door and pitched through the gap as it swung open while part of the forebrain registered an item of data: Three shells fired, three left.

  The situation now became dangerous: he would have seen me and taken me to be a passenger trying to help the forces of law and order and he would drop me without a thought if I looked like stopping him. We were both on the pavement now and the driver of the emergency vehicle was liable to open fire on Fogel and hit me instead if I began running again. This kind of thing had happened to Harrison in Milan and to Hunter in Geneva and the action was now in Rome and it didn’t look any more promising, so I went down headlong and rolled over with the soles of my shoes towards Fogel and lay without moving.

  Three shots banged out of a repeater rifle from the opposite direction and I assumed it was the driver. I could hear Fogel running again.

  Someone screamed.

  I had a key in my hand.

  In very fast action a lot of the work is done on the subconscious level, with a certain amount of reasoning responsible for decision-making: Fogel had knocked into a group of people and a woman among them had screamed as he dragged at the door of their car; they saw his gun and held back. He was still working fast and very efficiently but any physical action is slower than thought and the key in my hand was the one they’d given me at Hertz. I knew where the dark blue Fiat 1100 was: they’d shown me.

  The Alfa-Romeo had drawn in to the kerb half a minute ago and the people had got out and were standing in a group on the pavement when Fogel had knocked into them and pulled the door open. Part of his thinking must have been brakes and pulled out a bit towards the airport building to give him room if he was going to turn over.

  I couldn’t see what was happening but it looked as if the guard’s second shot had hit Fogel but hadn’t quite knocked him out. He’d got control again but was veering towards the Air France plane that was now being checked and refuelled in the parking bay. This could either be typical thinking on his part or pure chance and I couldn’t make out which: if he kept on his present course he could drive under the tail of the aircraft with a few inches to spare and give himself some excellent visual and tactical cover and force anyone behind him to hold their fire.

  I swung the Wheel and brought the Fiat into a wide curve that would take me past the tail of of the aircraft and keep the Alfa in sight. The sirens were now a permanent background and I could see some lights flashing somewhere beyond the Air France plane and to the right. Fogel was still on course but there was something wrong with him because the Alfa swerved again and tried to correct and couldn’t make it: on this course he wouldn’t clear the tail of the plane with anything like the room he needed. Some of the maintenance crew had stopped work and I thought I saw one of them running for cover behind the fuel tanker.

  Headlights blinded me for a moment and I hit the mirror. Either the police car or the emergency vehicle had been gaining on us and I pulled over slightly to the left again to give them a clear run if they wanted to go past: the Fiat was flat out and smelling hot and I wasn’t certain I could keep up with the Alfa-Romeo if Fogel decided to head for the open runways; but this thought was academic because he swerved again and couldn’t correct this time and hit the fuel tanker head-on and I was already putting the Fiat into a controlled slide when the whole thing went up and I was driving into a wall of flame.

  Chapter Six: TARGET

  She was practising arpeggios.

  The heavy lace curtains were half drawn and the light in die room was muted, softening the reflections in the lid of the piano.

  I watched her hands. She was only a child, and having trouble with her right thumb, passing it under with a little jerk and using her arm to support the movement. Several times she gave up and sat perfectly still, gazing in front of her with her pale ivory face composed and her eyes quiet. A painter would have run for his brushes, though I could believe chat if I hadn’t been in the room she would have sworn aloud each tune she stopped playing.

  I was putting her off, I said.

  No, not at all.

  We spoke Italian.

  I was only here for a moment, I told her.

  She didn’t blame me, she said with a wistful smile.

  Then she began again, trying to get her thumb ready so that it didn’t jerk. I sat listening until Rumori came in.

  He was dark and thin with eyes that moved restlessly in the shadows of ‘his brows, as if he were all the time half-listening to some distant drummer, ‘Mr Wexford,’ he said.

  We spoke English.

  ‘Europress.’

  He nodded absently, taking me into the hall, where an immense lantern hung from the ceiling, its coloured-glass pendants smouldering under a film of dust. The silk walls were torn here and there, and the plaster showed through: the Piazza Piccola was an area of crumbling villas where people tended to move in and out a lot as the rents went up; and the moving men were indifferent ‘She’s making progress,’ I said.

  ‘You think so?’

  He stooped towards the door of the music room, listening.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he said, and turned away. There was an appointment book on the gilt console and he ran a long delicate finger down the page.

  ‘You were to come for a lesson,’ he said, ‘on the Ninth.’

  The Seventh, surely.’ I went to look at the book.

  ‘In a series of twelve lessons,’ he said reluctantly, ‘I shall need you here at least twice a week.’ He turned again and led me to the stairs and I followed him up.

  Code introduction for the period Eighth to Fourteenth was any number at random, with an answering sequence of two below and three above, in this case 9-7-12. I’d only seen him once before, nearly four years ago, and remembered him as a larger man. I suppose you can’t feel as mournful as that without losing weight.

  The bandage was too bloody tight round my arm, and my hand felt numb. I decided to ask him to help me re-tie the thing before I left here. They’d done a reasonable job at the clinic but the nurse had been a real bitch and I’d finally got out of the place at dawn this morning, down the fire escape: they’d kept me for more than five hours and wanted to make a lot of tests because there’d been a head injury and they weren’t satisfied with the reflex response. Good at their job, I’m not saying they weren’t: it was just that I was so bloody annoyed about the Fogel thing that I wanted some action to drain off some of the adrenalin.

  At the first landing Rumori looked at me attentively for a moment.