"Where are we heading, Tilson?"

It was about time I began taking an interest: it might be dangerous not to.

"Battersea. The heliport."

"Are you going to fly me somewhere?"

"We're going to meet Mr Croder." His tone became more gentle still, more amiable, and I was warned. "Just so that we all know what's going on, old horse, tell me one little thing: do you really want this mission?"

"It depends on what's involved."

"I didn't mean that," he said carefully. "I mean do you want it regardless?"

I began waking up, because the driver was swinging left into the park. "You know bloody well I do."

"But of course you do," he nodded comfortably. His plump hands began moving again on the briefcase. "Those nasty people tried to smear you all over the Embankment and you can't wait to find out who they are and rub their horrid little noses in the mustard, and quite right too. Now you'd —»

"I've been out of action for three months and I'm fed up with refresher training and Sinclair's dead and if you bastards can't find me something to do I'm going to lose my grip. Put it that; way."

"Now that sounds much more like my old friend. So you'd better finish clearance while there's time." He produced more papers and a wad of currency. "You heard about the death of Jiang Wenyuan, the Premier of the People's Republic of China, two days ago. The UK is sending the Secretary of State to represent Her Majesty at the funeral, and you'll be joining his two official bodyguards."

"That's my cover?"

"Cover and access." He gave me the papers and I looked at them in the half-light.