They're holding a board open,' Tilson said on the phone, 'and they've brought Dawson in from Paris — he knows the kind of signals we're liable to get from Hong Kong.'

No way. Not Hong Kong. Norfolk. There was a drunk down there in the street, tottering with tremendous care along the pavement, holding on to the railings for a bit and then shoving off again.

Tilson cupped the phone and said, 'Are you still under any kind of treatment?'

'Yes.'

'What for?'

'Shark bite.'

'What's your condition?'

'Look,' I said, 'we've got to talk.'

Tilson took his hand away from the mouthpiece. 'Yes, but I'll tell him the situation, or leave it to Mr Hyde.'

The drunk was on a course forty-five degrees in error, and when his foot slipped off the curb he went down like a felled tree and lay with his head in the gutter.

'No,' Tilson said, 'it began as a simple request for asylum.'

I went across to the desk and picked up one of the other phones and pressed 9 and got the dial tone and pressed 999 and told them. Someone looked in at the door and Tilson shook his head and they went out again.

'I don't frankly know. We got it from MI6. They said they don't want to touch it.'

'It's too far away,' I said into the phone, 'to see if he's bleeding, but he's going to get his head run over if he stays where he is.'

Another phone started ringing and Tilson picked it up. 'He's not here.'

'Fifty yards north of the Cenotaph,' I said.

'Well, let me deal with what's going on at this end and then I'll get back to you, or someone will.' Tilson put the phone down.

'A minute ago,' I said. 'My pleasure.'

'Who's that?' Tilson asked me.

'Drunk down there, just reporting it.'

His eyes took on a stare. 'Down where?"

'The thing is,' I told him, 'I got back precisely ten days ago and my nerves feel like barbed wire and the dressings are still being changed every day. Shall I spell that?'