"A blue light?" He was looking amused, as if I needed humouring.

"Listen," I told him, "I want Koyama here, can you get him?"

"Who is he?"

I was getting bloody annoyed because tonight — last night — they'd killed Sinclair and tried to kill me and this idiot in the white coat was treating me as if I was a bit of flotsam washed up from the street. "Chandler, tell them to —»

"All right." He spoke to the doctor with a sudden and surprising note of authority. "This man is used to shiatsu massage and I think he'd respond well to it."

"Well, I don't know about that. What sort of massage —»

"For Christ's sake," I cut in on them, "get me Koyama, and I don't care what time it is: he'll come. And I don't want any more drugs, is that understood?"

Chandler took a few minutes sorting things out while I lay there with my rib cage throbbing and waves of dizziness coming and going as their voices faded and loudened again. Then there was only Chandler in here, pacing the room with short accurate steps while his hook-nosed shadow kept pace with him along the wall.

"I can remember Sinclair," I told him, and managed to sit up without tugging at the saline drip tube. "All I don't remember is the crash."

"I don't think it's important. Amnesia's pretty common after an accident. At least you know the facts. You're in a state of siege, of course, for the moment. There are two plain-clothes men outside the door and we've got someone monitoring calls at the main switchboard in case anyone rings up to ask about your progress; the only people who know you're here are the people who tried to kill you, assuming they followed the ambulance. We sent —»

"They followed me from Riverside Walk, did they? I mean that's how they got onto me?"

He stopped pacing and swung his narrow head to look at me, and I saw how relieved he was. Now that he was closer I could see the strain in him, and realised how much he had to handle. Maybe it was his neck on the block for having let Sinclair fly in with no escort to meet him.