'Are they Bureau?'

'Shall we say, associated. Totally secure, but not a safe-house.'

He pushed his chair back and got up, taking an envelope from a drawer and handing it to me. 'Air tickets and visa. You're on Air France Flight 212, routed through Kuwait and Bombay. Departure is 1:05, which will give you time for the medical and packing. Any questions?'

'When will Pringle be there?' I asked him. In Phnom Penh.

'Not for a day or two. You won't need him. He'll contact you when he arrives.' He let his eyes rest on mine for a moment. 'Pringle is young, as you say, and hasn't carried out as many missions as you. But I have the utmost confidence in him and I want you to treat him accordingly. He's shown himself capable of resourcefulness, imagination and cool-headedness in difficult times. We're clear on that?'

I heard the warning. Pringle was Flockhart's man, and I wasn't expected to bitch him about if things got rough. 'Quite clear,' I said.

Flockhart came with me to the door. 'I'm not opening a signals board for you at this stage, as you know, but for the purposes of identification, the code name for the mission is Salamander.'

The sky was still clearing when I went through the door behind the lift and into the street, with Big Ben chiming three quarters of the hour at the far end of Whitehall. I'd committed myself and the die was cast and all that, but I wasn't feeling any regrets. I suppose it was just Flockhart on my mind, and the question of whether I could really trust him, trust him with my life, because when I walked across to the car and pressed the door button there was a sudden flash of memory and Fane went through the roof again and left his blood all over the video screen. Then it was gone, and I opened the door and got in.