‘What would you like to know, man?’

‘Tell me about Angel?’

‘Angel’s top secret, man, I can’t talk about that.’ He laughed. ‘No way; that’s my little secret – well, not just mine, everyone’s, but – hey – I have to get back now. What’s up? I can’t move my hands—’

I pushed the plunger again.

‘Aren’t you meant to be telling me things?’ he said.

‘No, Lukas, you’re telling me, you’re giving me messages for Ben, for Ben Tsenong, and for Patrick, Patrick Cleary.’

‘This feels good.’

‘They’re screwing you, Lukas.’

‘Whatd’yer mean?’

‘You’ll find out.’

‘How can they? Why would they?’

‘You know better than I do. Ben isn’t happy. He thinks you’re ignoring him.’ I pushed the plunger in a short way.

‘Tsenong’s just a boy. He’s small fry. He’s just a kid, just a kid. Cleary’s the smart one in England. I like Cleary, he’s nice.’

‘Kind to you, is he?’ I pushed on the plunger.

‘Oh yes, I mean, we’re not great buddies, you know, or anything like that, no, but – er – he’s nice.’

‘Who is your great buddy?’

‘Felix is. He’s always been good to me. Felix is my good friend.’

I pushed the plunger in further.

‘I could stay like this for ever; feels so good, so good.’

‘Felix who?’

‘Wajara. And Hadino – Dusab: he’s good to me too.’

‘Is he in Angel?’

‘Sure he is. Felix and Hadino and a lovely bunch of men.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Not all lovely; guy I can’t stand – German – hate all Germans – they killed my grandparents, German bastards. I’ll kill them all, fucking Germans. I can’t move my feet.’

He was getting panicky. I injected more Pentothal and he relaxed.

‘Who’s the German?’

‘Can’t move my feet.’

I gave a long push of the plunger. ‘Who’s the German?’

‘Killer, Keller, Keller-Bluff, no, Keller-Blaus, Gunther Keller-Blaus; he’s in charge of France.’

‘France? Why not Germany?’

‘Not allowed to touch Germany.’

‘Who isn’t?’

‘Angel.’

‘Why not?’

‘Konyenko said so. Said Spain instead. Much help from ETA.’

‘Who’s Konyenko?’

‘Russian. Don’t want the winds blowing over Russia. Don’t want to radiate Russia. Radiate, radio, radio, rashio, russiate,’ he rambled on.

‘Radiate with what?’

‘Fall-out from the nuclear power stations we’re going to fucking blow apart, man.’

‘Who is?’

‘That would be telling.’

‘Go on, tell.’

‘All right – long as you promise not to tell anyone else.’

‘I promise.’

‘I believe you. You’re a nice man. For a white man, you’re pretty nice.’

I pushed in a drop more. ‘Who is going to blow up the power stations?’

‘Mossif Kaleb.’

‘He’s from the PLO?’