We moved again, the engine's note soft, muted, the lights on the facia glowing.

Are they going to interrogate us?

She was shivering, curled against me, her woollen coat soaked from melted snow. One of the guards outside the hut was coughing again, the cold air freezing his lungs.

Not you, no. You don't know enough.

Margaret. Margaret Someone. Jennings? Fenning? Something with 'ing' at the end. In three years you can forget your own name, in this trade.

'Which road are we taking?'

The driver turned his head slightly, his eyes in the mirror. 'Through Barnau. Be an hour, maybe. A bit more.'

Car doors slammed ahead of us. Peaked caps, the angular roofs of low buildings, the silhouette of an alarm siren against the haze beyond.

She can go, the guard said, coming in, his face muffled in wool against the cold. Come on — move! He kicked her foot.

She turned her head to look at me, but I said in English, Don't question it. Get going.

The Mercedes was new, smelling of leather, not the kind of transport you normally get from the Bureau. And a uniformed driver. Perhaps not the Bureau, then, perhaps by courtesy of the General-Secretary. I didn't think this was going to be my kind of thing, too political, too distinguished, not the job for a ferret. But I'd nothing to lose.

We inched forward again, and the peaked caps gathered immediately outside, turned towards a civilian with papers in his gloved hand, orders.

But what about you?

I knew she'd say that.

I can look after myself. Get going, for Christ's sake, before they change their minds.

She struggled to her feet, giving me a last look, her eyes frightened but for me now, not for herself. It makes me feel awful.