‘You think we advertise ourselves? This is supposed to be a safe house – somewhere where agents can conceal themselves.’

She opened the door of the wagon and stepped down. ‘I won’t be more than a couple of minutes,’ she said, ‘I’m just going to check if there’s anybody still there.’

Although it was still quite light, Ed found it difficult to make out her face in the shadows. Maybe it was the way her hair was falling. Maybe it was simply the fact that there were no streetlights, no fluorescent display tubes in the derelict storefronts; not even a blazing vehicle to see by. Yet the names on the wall were clear enough.

Ed said, ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Della told him. ‘And it’s really better if you don’t. They’re going to be pretty jumpy, and they might decide to shoot first and talk about the weather afterwards if they don’t know who you are.’

‘In that case, you go in first, and tell them that I’m bona fide. But I’d like to stay with you, all right?’

‘Who’s going to take care of Shearson?’

‘Shearson can take care of himself. What do you think he’s going to do – drive all the way back to Washington?’ Della hesitated, and then she said, ‘All right. I’ll call you when it’s clear.’

Taking the pump-gun with her, she disappeared into the entrance of the office building. Ed waited on the sidewalk for what seemed like a half-hour, watched by a tired and pale-faced Karen, and by an indifferent Peter Kaiser. Shearson was still sleeping, and his rumbles sounded like minor eruptions of Mount St Helens.

In the distance, towards Beverly Hills, Ed could hear firetrucks howling, and a quick rattling sound that was repeated again and again. It could have been machine-gun fire.

At last, an upstairs window opened, and Della leaned out. ‘There’s nobody here,’ she said. ‘You can come on up if you like.’

Ed walked back to the next car in the patient line of vehicles which were drawn up to the curb behind the Chevy. It was a tan Malibu wagon, driven by Jim Rutgers, Ed’s farm accountant.

Jim asked, ‘Are we going to be stopped here long, Ed? I think everybody’s anxious about where they’re going to spend the night.’

‘Give us fifteen minutes,’ said Ed. ‘Mrs McIntosh has to try to make contact with the FBI, just to tell them that we’ve reached Los Angeles, and that we’re holding Shearson Jones. After that, it’s their problem. But they won’t be able to say that we didn’t do our duty as publicly-spirited citizens.’