He was reaching for his thermos flask and Henry Carter's elbow, the leather patch on his sports jacket, caught the envelope that held the photographs. The envelope fell from the table. The photographs spilled. He looked down at them. He looked down onto the grotesque image of the young face. Worse than those of the old man shot to death on the ploughed strip beside that revolting German fence. Worse than those of the hanged Iranian woman suspended from a hideous construction crane in Tabriz. He shuddered. He barely heard the shrill voice. "A map like that, you'll have to wait until tomorrow for it. Can't get it before tomorrow. You know, Mr. Carter, it's not our job to…"

He bent to pick up the photographs. He gazed into the face. He wondered if she had been pretty before the decay of burial had swollen the features. His fingers were scrabbling for the photographs and were unresponsive, and he felt the cold sweat streaming to the small of his back. His body weight swayed in the chair. He gulped deep air. He lifted the photographs onto the table and then he gripped the edge of the table that he might restore his balance. Too damned old for it.. .

The voice beat at him. "Are you all right, Mr. Carter?"

The woman at the computer desk nearest him giggled out loud. It was the giggle that probably saved him from fainting. It made his anger surge. It was rare for him to let his temper show. The woman was feeding her face with squares of milk chocolate. He took the photograph that was second from the top of the pile and walked the five strides, briskly, to the woman's desk and he laid the photograph on her keyboard. A photograph of a young face with a head wound and a throat wound and a close-quarters bullet wound. The woman belched chocolate over her blouse.

Henry Carter went back to his table.

He called across the silence, "I'm fine, thank you. Tomorrow would be grand for the map."