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damned good agent who’d worked Asia for twenty years as a contract freelance without even the scant protection of a Foreign Office or embassy: probably forgotten more about intelligence than Harkness had ever learned. Bloody daft, not to use him: too late to call Hong Kong, but he’d do it first thing tomorrow, to open up a line of communication. Be good to see Harry again: good drinker, Harry Lu. Reminded, Charlie helped himself to another miniature bottle of local whisky, coming to more immediate considerations. Getting literally to know the ins and outs of the hotel was the initial priority. See what the bars looked like, maybe. Then an early night, for tomorrow’s meeting with an American named Art Fredericks: certainly didn’t want to eat again, after all that First Class grub on the plane. Charlie smiled happily at the thought of Harkness’s reaction. Serve the parsimonious bugger right.
    Charlie took the elevator to explore the garden lounge area on the main floor. It was packed with intense never-say-no Japanese exchanging business cards in place of handshakes, anxious to sell a computer and a car to everyone in the world. Charlie checked out the foyer and then returned to the secondary elevators serving the shopping floors. He went down to the ground level and wandered around, feigning interest in the stores, and then did the same on the four remaining floors before he got back to the main hotel area, recording the service stairs and then the fire escape feeding each. A right little rabbit warren, Charlie judged; it had been a good choice.
    On the first walk-through reconnaissance Charlie had noted the piano bar. A nightcap, he decided: perhaps two. It would, after all, be the last time he could relax for he didn’t know how long. He was offered a seat at the bar but refused, preferring a table with a better view of the room and more importantly the door. He stayed with Suntory, which didn’t compare in any way with single malt but wasn’t bad, looking casually around. There were two Japanese girls seemingly by themselves at the bar and a European sitting alone at a table. He caught the eye of the girl at the table and smiled and she half smiled back. A pleasant end to a pleasant day? It was an attractive thought, but Charlie decided against it. He couldn’t afford any encumbrances. The reflection led naturally to his reason for being there. What would Irena Kozlov be like? he wondered. Not that he was considering the Russian as he was considering the still hopefully smiling girl a few tables away, of course. Never mixed business with pleasure; well, not often, anyway. And definitely not this time. Too much he still didn’t understand or know, and he didn’t intend to try to find it out between the sheets: keep the best friend firmly zipped. He’d never brought a woman defector across before. He wondered if he would this time; be satisfied, Wilson had said. And Charlie was determined to be just that, as satisfied as he could possibly be before putting even a usually aching toe into the water. Hell of a catch, if it were genuine.
    Predominantly because of his size, Charlie was particularly conscious of the man’s entry into the bar, before he directly approached the table. He stood with hair-matted hands against the back of the empty chair and said: ‘Charlie Muffin?’
    â€˜Sorry,’ denied Charlie, instinctively protective. ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’
    â€˜You may be right,’ said the man, heavily. ‘We checked you off the plane at Haneda, followed you here, saw you book into room 1015 and covered you every step of the way while you cased the hotel. Which was the first remotely professional thing you did since arriving …’ Uninvited he sat with difficulty in the small chair and said: ‘I’m Art Fredericks.’
    Shit, thought Charlie. It had been unprofessional, not troubling to clear his path from the moment