Quiller's Run

I didn't like it. I didn't like it to the extent that as I sat facing Prince Kityakara in the silence of the little room I could feel the hairs rising on the back of my hands and that sour, familiar chill along the nerves.

'Why did you contact London, sir, instead of Washington, considering the background you've given me?'

'Major-general Vasuratna is well-versed in the international intelligence field.' He left his chair and limped to join me at the window. 'He told me that the CIA tends to work as a team, often with paramilitary support. He believes, despite our lack of success so far, that it's still a case for a single agent going in alone, without attracting attention. You people have a certain reputation for that approach.' He used his inhaler. 'Of course, that might not be accurate, and in any case I'm not pressing you for a decision immediately. Give it your consideration, Mr Jordan, for a day or two, and then let me know.'

'All right.'

'At this stage I'll simply tell you that since you would be working for the Thai government on private service, we would expect you to name your own fee. And of course you would have unquestioned access to personnel and facilities in our security and intelligence services.'

I'd stayed another ten minutes to let him end the meeting with some diplomatic small-talk, then shook hands with him and left him standing there in the ornate little room with a courteous smile and his eyes still hidden by his tinted glasses.

'Thompson, isn't it?'

'What?'

'Bill Thompson?'

'No.'

'Oh. Sorry.'

He weaved away, a pink hand wiggling in apology. By this time people were starting to bump into each other, spilling their drinks.

On my way through the marbled entrance hall I checked for company and saw none: I'd told Kityakara I didn't want any and he'd understood. He was obviously 'Could you help me?'

The girl in the green silk dress, her eyes dark, angry.

I stopped. 'How?'

'Just see me into a taxi, would you?' She was looking behind her, without turning her head.

'Of course.'

She took my arm and we walked out between the two uniformed staff and down the steps. The street was running with irridescent water under the lamps, and a boy was sloshing through puddles. Our feet were soaked and as I opened the door of the taxi for her she slipped quickly inside and began tugging a bright green shoe off.

'You'll be all right now?' But she just pulled the door shut and I stood back from the storm drain as the taxi pulled away. A last glimpse of her pale face through the window.

'Please excuse – Mr Jordan?'

A chauffeur in navy-blue uniform with the Thai insignia.

'Yes?'

'I have a car here, sir. Please this way.'

I followed him along the streaming pavement and got into the limousine. The driver closed the door and went round to the front.

Shoes off, yes, a good idea. They felt. Good evening, Mr Jordan.'

She was in the shadows, half-lost in the opposite corner, small, Asian, her voice childlike. Now she sat forward at attention, legs together, hands clasped on her lap, giving me a little bow. 'My name is Yasma.'

Asian hospitality.

I couldn't see her in detail even now; there was just the impression of liquid eyes set in heavy kohl makeup, the glow of ivory skin and the scent of jasmine.

'I'm happy to meet you, Yasma.' I leaned forward to tell the driver to pull up, because I didn't like women being used as toys; then I let it go. 'Where would you like to have dinner?' She'd be interesting to talk to for a while: she'd be informative on the local scene; then I'd get her a cab.

'Wherever it would please you, Mr Jordan.'

'Is the Siam Garden still going?'

'Yes.'

I told the driver and sat back. 'How pretty you are, Yasma. Were you born in Thailand?"

'Thank you. Yes, in Bangkok.'

'I was there once.' Hunched over a loaded Husqvarna with a man's head in the sights, showing faintly in the aureole of the temple across the square.

'My family is there,' she said softly. 'One of my sisters is a dancer, with the Royal Thai Junior Ballet.'

'You must be very proud.' An exchange of the niceties, while the car ploughed through the flooded streets. How can I get close to Mariko Shoda, can you tell me that? Not really.

'Yes,' she was saying later, 'but tomorrow we shall have sunshine again, though it will be humid, of course.'

'Sticky.'

She gave a little laugh, covering her mouth. 'Sticky, yes!'

I leaned forward again. 'Driver, the Siam Garden's in Mosque Street.'

'Yes, sir, but the direct way is flooded tonight. Always problem with storm drains there.'

We swung left, going south.

'You live in England, Mr Jordan?'

'In London, yes.'

'I have seen picture-cards. I would very much like to visit London.'

'You'd feel at home – it rains like this most of the time.'

The streets were narrower here, and the car stopped for a cyclo blocking our way.

'You are here in Singapore for long time, Mr Jordan?'

'Just a few days. It's an interesting -'

I broke her wrist like a dry stick but the knife had come close, ripping into my jacket and shirt and cutting the flesh before I'd caught the glint of steel in the gloom. Both rear doors came open and I shifted to my left because I was right-handed and could bring the force of my hip and shoulder against the attack from that direction but a hand locked round my throat from behind and I used a four-finger eye-shot across my shoulder and connected and heard a squeal of pain. I couldn't see much detail but there was the figure of a boy or a woman silhouetted in the open doorway on the left side and I got purchase for my hands on the pile carpet and thrust upwards with my right leg, feeling resistance and then the release as the target fell away. Kaleidoscopic glimpses of the interior of the car flashed across my retinae – the face of the driver above the seat-squab and the play of light through the open door from a street lamp and the eyes of the woman Yasma, as bright as the blade that was rising again, this time in her left hand. The only sounds were the voices of women, two of them in pain and another spitting out a vicious tirade in what sounded like Khmer as I blocked the knife and curled my wrist and got a grip on Yasma's hand and turned it, forcing the point of the blade into her small shadowed face and feeling it meet bone and then go through to the hilt as something flashed above me and I twisted on the floor and rammed my body against the rear seat and felt a slash of pain burning into my ribcage from the side.

The driver was angled across the front seat-squab and lunging down at me and I used a heel-palm with a lot of force and drove his nose-bone upwards into the brain and then twisted again and thrust my body through the doorway on the left side, hitting shallow water and stone and lurching clear of the car and starting to run, but they blocked me, two of them, their fine-boned faces etched against the lamplight as they came for me in their black track-suits, their hands bright with steel and their breath hissing, the bitter-sweet scent of blood on the air and a man standing a little way off, shouting something in English, the shuffling of feet as people hurried away, the slam of a door in the distance.

My hands were wet with blood, theirs and my own, theirs because I knew I'd killed, my own because the pain in my ribs was flaring as the air got to the wound. I had time to see a knife driving upwards at my face and time to block the woman's arm and force a strong flattened half-fist into the throat, seeing her pretty mouth come open and the lamplight glistening for an instant on her bright curved tongue as her eyes opened very wide to stare into the face of death as she came down like a puppet with the strings cut.