She leaned back, toying with her coffee, not meeting my eyes any more, regretting, I thought, having given herself away like that, exposing her fears, her anger — this was my impression. As a photo journalist in what amounted to a wartime theatre she was expected to keep her nerve, control her emotions, let nothing show but what she intended to show through the lens of her camera. But what she'd told me explained her colouring: she would be called by the people here — her own people, to a degree — a 'round-eye', but she had the raven black hair and the ivory skin of a native.

'You say Pol Pot has moved his base in Phnom Penh,' I said in a moment, 'and gone underground. What about his guerrilla forces?'

'He has moved those too. They used to be in the south-west jungle, near the Thai border, but they've gone from there, according to reports.'

'Reports or rumours?'

She gave a shrug. 'One cannot always tell the difference. The reports often come from long-term foreign aid workers in the outlying provinces, but no one in the capital can really trust their word — Pol is quite capable of spreading disinformation, old Soviet style, without their realizing.'

The Minister of Defence over there was paying his bill.

'Poi's forces are well armed?' I asked Gabrielle, and turned my head slightly the other way. The Khmer Rouge agent was beckoning to his boy, also wanting to pay.

'Very well armed. He rebuilt his forces after the government attacked his jungle hide-out in August.'

I finished my coffee and looked at my watch.

'It's late,' Gabrielle said.

It was just gone eleven. 'I've got to make a phone call,' I told her, 'that's all. It's four o'clock in London.'

'I'm going up anyway. I need sleep. How is the jet lag?' She got out a black snakeskin wallet.