'Jesus,' he said. He'd already been upset by the Hornby thing.

'Amen.' It was routine, especially in minor fields where people hadn't been through full training. We're expected to help them along, and I'd shocked him first to drive the lesson home, because one day it could save his life. 'Where is everybody?' I asked him.

'Over there.' His breath clouded in the faint light.

'Was it a rendezvous?'

'Yes.'

'Hornby and who?'

'A Russian.'

Not a Romanian. That could be the answer to the question I had for London.

'What was the Russian's name?'

'I don't know.'

'Find some shadow,' I said and left him, moving along a rail under the cover of the next line of trucks until I came to three people standing there close together. One of them spun round very fast and had a gun out and I stopped and lifted my hands. 'Longshot,' I said.

The man lowered the gun but didn't put it away. 'Where are you from?'

'Rome.'

'Who sent you?'

'Mr Croder.'

He put his gun away and told me his name was Fry. He looked appallingly young.

'What happened?' I asked him. The other two backed off a bit to let me into the group. One of them had been sick somewhere; I could smell it.

'Hornby was to make contact with a Russian here.'

'What was his name?'

'Zymyanin.'

'Did he turn up?'

'We don't know.'

He was a thin man, Fry, with eyes buried deep under his brows, so that in this light I couldn't see them, just caught a glint now and then.

'Where's the head?' I asked him.

'On the other side of the rail.' I could hear one of the other people shivering, his mouth open, shivering through his teeth, hands stuck into the pockets of his leather coat, his head down, probably the one who'd been sick.

'Well, put him into something,' I said. 'Not you,' I told Fry, 'we've got to talk.'