They found me in Rome and the embassy phoned my hotel and I went along there and talked to London, and Signals said something had come unstuck in Bucharest and 'Mr Croder would be grateful' if l could get on a plane and see if I could pull anyone out alive. They hadn't actually put it like that — they'd said 'if I could be of assistance in any way — but when Mr Croder can find it in his rat — infested soul to tell you he'd be grateful for something it can only mean that some kind of hell has got loose and he wants you to get it back in the cage.

That was soon after six and I caught the last night flight out of Rome and got into Bucharest at 9:34 and put my watch forward an hour and found someone waiting for me with a battered — looking Volvo. We exchanged paroles and he asked me if I wanted to drive and I said no because I didn't know this city and there was obviously a rush on and he could take short cuts.

His name was Baker and he was small and wrapped up in a bomber jacket against the cold and smelt of garlic and looked rather pale, but that was possibly his normal winter complexion.

'What happened?' I asked him.

'I don't know. The DIF just sent me to pick you up.'

'What's his name?'

'Turner.' He got past a meat truck and caught a wing, just slightly, because the streets were iced over in places. He was driving just this side of smashing us up but I didn't say anything because he knew what he was doing.

I hadn't heard of a director in the field called Turner. He must be new. New and inexperienced and at this moment sitting at his base with a dry mouth and a telephone jammed against his head listening to his control in London and trying to tell him it hadn't been his fault, and the best of luck, because when a mission hits the wall it must be the fault of the DIF because he's running the executive in the field and it's his job to keep him out of trouble.