A plane was sloping down to the airport, its strobes winking against the ochre smudge of the horizon, the high thin scream of the jets fading across the sky. There was some kind of bell ringing, up there towards the main station; perhaps there was a train due in. I went on moving.

There was something I didn't know. London had called me in either because I was the nearest shadow executive to this area or because this was something that needed a lot of experience to handle. Neither idea seemed to work: there must be shadows closer to Bucharest than Rome, and the Bureau couldn't have had a mission running in a minor East European state that would need a high-echelon executive to handle the mess when it crashed. I would have to ask London what the score was, when I got into signals with them.

The air was colder still here, away from the line of trucks; something of a night breeze was getting up.

'It's all right,' I said softly.

I was behind him and my left hand was across his mouth: I didn't want any noise.

He struggled quite hard until I put a little more pressure on the throat; then he slackened, and I took it off again. 'Don't worry,' I said. 'I know Mr Turner.' I released most of the hold so that he could half-turn and look into my face. I didn't offer him the parole I'd exchanged with Baker at the airport: this man could be anyone, not one of ours. I took the last degree of pressure off his throat and he asked me who I was, good English, recognizable red-brick U accent. I didn't tell him, but I asked him for the parole and got it, the code-name for the mission, Longshot.

'When you're protecting an area,' I said, 'try and find some really deep shadow, and try to stand where there are no hard surfaces around you — look for gravel, or whatever loose surface there is. If you'd done that, I wouldn't have seen you so easily, and you'd have heard me coming.'