ADAM HALL - Quiller Salamander

Holmes, and I quote: Remember that one must handle Mr Flockhart with the tender care demanded by — shall we say — a tarantula.

'I still don't trust you,' I told him. I wasn't being offensive. If Salamander was running hot and we were going to try bringing it home in some kind of last-ditch operation I needed to know more than I did now. If it was classified, okay, but I didn't think so.

'I appreciate your honesty,' Flockhart said, didn't fake a hurt smile, no theatrics. 'It's going to be to our advantage, because events are moving apace and we need to understand each other. But tell me why I don't invite your confidence, if you will.' Had avoided the word 'trust', didn't like it.

'As I told Pringle at the airport, I'm out here on an operation that hasn't got official support or a signals board or any access to London through the normal channels. You're running this thing entirely on your own and I assume for your own purposes. How would you feel if you were the executive?'

'I would have felt like declining the mission in the first place.'

'I'd been out of the field too long, you know that. I'd have taken anything on, you knew that too.'

'And now you have regrets?'

'None whatsoever. I just want to know if we're on an official footing yet, with the Bureau informed and in charge.'

A beat, but he didn't take his eyes off me. 'And if I said no, the Bureau is neither informed nor in charge, would you withdraw from the mission?'

It threw me and I got up, took a turn round the room, needing time. Pringle coughed, couldn't quite take the tension. When I was ready I stood looking down at Flockhart.

'No.'

'Thank you.' It was said formally, carried weight. 'And I must confess myself unsurprised. According to my research, you don't take kindly to officialdom.'

'Look' — I sat down again, interested — 'I've never done this before, that's all. I've never worked for a rogue control, if you'll forgive the term — '

'I like it.'

A spark had come into his eyes and suddenly I knew why there'd been so much rage in them at the Cellar Steps. 'So the Bureau turned you down?'

He looked away, looked back. 'Yes.'

'Why?

'I was told that my ultimate goal would be impossible to achieve.'

Very interested now, and I leaned forward. 'And what is your ultimate goal?'

'To save Cambodia.'

'For personal reasons?'

Flockhart shifted in his chair, looking away again, and I think I regretted pressing him at this point, but I had to. For the first time I wasn't simply the shadow executive assigned to the next mission on the books under the official aegis of the Bureau, a role I'd played throughout the whole of my career. I was working for one man, and responsible to him alone.

'For personal reasons,' Flockhart said, 'I would like to save Cambodia, yes. But few civilized people, surely, would stand by and watch the massacre of another million souls in a second potential holocaust if they could prevent it.'

'But you couldn't persuade the Bureau.'

'That was hardly the argument I presented.'

'They're not the Salvation Army.'

'Quite so. The argument I offered was geopolitical, though admittedly rather contrived. I said that if the Khmer Rouge seized power again Pol Pot might embroil North Vietnam and North Korea and bring about a resurgence of communism in the region, to the obvious advantage of China.'

'Was that why the Bureau turned you down?'

'I was advised, as I say, that the goal of saving Cambodia for whatever reason would be impossible to achieve, now that the United Nations has pulled out.' He looked at me, tilting his head. 'So I made a direct approach to the prime minister, who was interested enough to contact the UN and the United States. I have since had meetings with the ambassadors to both.'

'Suggesting an air strike.'

'Of course. It's the only possible step, in military terms.' He leaned forward, his hands flat on the table as I'd seen them on his desk in London. Take it as a gesture of frankness or leave it. 'Provided, obviously, that we could locate the main forces of the Khmer Rouge with absolute certainty. And you have done that.'

'You've seen the footage?'

'Yes, the moment I got off the plane from the capital. It's completely convincing, of course. The prime minister had told me earlier that he'd accept my word alone, so I telephoned him immediately. Meanwhile the film itself is on its way to him, with copies to the Ministry of Defence, the United Nations and the Pentagon, time being critical.'

'They can't act that fast,' I said. 'They're bureaucrats.'

Flockhart looked down. He did it often, and I noted it. 'My only hope is that by the grace of God they will.' To Pringle: 'Let me see your debriefing notes, will you?'

Pringle unzipped his briefcase and Flockhart studied the three sheets, sometimes brushing back his wisps of greying hair, sometimes dropping a word or two that neither of us could understand, weren't, perhaps, expected to. For the first time it occurred to me that Flockhart was a man driven by inner fires, no longer enraged by the Bureau's indifference but transferring his rage to a galvanic energy; I also sensed that he was committing himself to something conceivably beyond even his powers to achieve, and that he knew it. I couldn't see it in his square, bland face, or in his pale eyes. I could simply detect, on the subtlest level, a smell of burning.

'I congratulate you,' he said at last, looking up at me, 'on having made a safe return from your ordeal in the jungle. Also on having brought back the film, which of course is now the key element in this enterprise.'

Stroking me. I didn't like that, didn't answer. I didn't like the word 'enterprise' either, we weren't bloody buccaneers; the errand of an intelligence agent is to gather intelligence.

'Should we rely on this rumour about Pol Pot, that he's ill?'

'I got it confirmed last night,' I said, 'when I questioned a KR rebel. I can guarantee he was telling the truth — as far as he knows it.'

'I see. And where might Pol Pot be sequestered, as an invalid?'

'I've no idea.'

'Probably Bangkok,' Pringle said, 'under medical supervision.'

'Then I wish him the least speedy of recoveries.' Flockhart's tone was hushed: perhaps he was over-correcting. I thought that if he ever found himself within touching distance of Pol Pot he would kill him with his bare hands, and not quickly. 'Pringle,' he said to me in a moment, 'has sketched a rough map of the area embracing the Khmer Rouge camp and the village, according to your description.' He spun the sheet of paper around for me. 'Does it look accurate?'

'As accurate as he could make it, from what I told him.'

'The village is approximately fifteen kilometres from the camp, is that correct?'

'It was the monk's estimate.'

Flockhart's finger traced its way across the sketch. 'The road would be more or less straight?'

'It'll be a bullock track, not really a road. But probably straight, yes — the area's just flat jungle, so it wouldn't have to go around any hills.'

'A track — but it's used by motorized vehicles?' He was glancing at Pringle's notes.

'According to the monk.'

'And frequently.'

'Yes.'

'In terms of acoustics, how close would you think one could take a motorized vehicle to the camp, with complete security?'

'In deep jungle like that I'd say a mile, coasting in neutral over the last hundred yards and depending on wind-direction and the type of vehicle used, the type of engine and exhaust system.'

Flockhart turned to Pringle. 'Do we have anybody here who could do that?'

'Bracken's available in Phnom Penh. I could fly him here in an hour, by daylight. Another three hours from here to the village' — glancing at me — 'which is the time it took you to get here, coming the other way. Is there any difference in elevation?'