'My God, it's a miracle. I mean' - she brushed the air helplessly - 'I was sitting there in my office today for about half an hour - for exactly half an hour, because I remember looking at the clock, sitting there knowing you were dead.' I didn't know if the timing was accurate, because I didn't know when she'd heard the news of the crash. But I wanted to. 'When did you hear about it?' 'About an hour ago. They said you'd phoned -' 'No. When did you hear it had crashed?' She looked confused. 'About - I'm not sure - soon after noon, I think.' 'And when did you hear I was still alive?' 'I told you - an hour ago. Why?' 'And how did you know that?' She was watching me with her eyes narrowing. 'They phoned me. The people here.' One of the staff came down the stairs, a Thai girl, loaded with files, dropping a pencil. I picked it up. 'Thank you. Are you being helped?' 'Yes,' Katie said. Tip from the British High Commission.' When the girl had gone she said, 'There's a little office here where we can talk.' 'No, let's go up there,' I told her. There was a gallery on the floor above, overlooking the entrance and the staircase. Rooms, even small rooms, in embassies - even the embassies on friendly territory - are notorious for being bugged. We went up the stairs together. Her timing was probably accurate, then, because as soon as I'd heard the news of the crash I'd phoned the Thai Embassy, because Lafarge was dead and my access was cut off, but there was a chance I could rescue just a thread. 'Why did the people here phone you?' I asked her. She looked surprised. 'Because you were on the passenger list.' There were windows along the gallery, facing the buildings on the other side of the street. The strong af- ternoon light streamed in, throwing thick shadows across the carpeting, glowing on some crimson leather- bound books. I sat clear of the window. 'How did you know I was on the passenger list?' She pulled her soft briefcase closer to her on her lap, hesitating before she spoke, but not because she didn't know what to say, I sensed, but half-deciding not to answer at all. 'Whenever there's a transport acci- dent,' she said deliberately, 'we always check on the passengers, in case there's a British national involved, so that we can help relatives. I think we do quite a good job, at the High Commission, looking after our peo- ple.' It was very quiet here, and motes of dust floated in the sunshine; there were the distant sounds of a tele- phone in someone's office; Thai voices, muted; quick footsteps across marble. I supposed most people were at lunch at this hour. 'Why did this embassy call the High Commission to say I wasn't on Flight 306?' She said carefully, 'They're friendly to us. Thailand is an ally of the West.' Her eyes were still narrowed, and I didn't think it was anything to do with the contact lenses. 'How did they know I hadn't gone on board?' I knew, but I wanted to know if she did. 'They said you'd phoned them, to —' 'When?' 'A few minutes after the news came on the radio.' 'Did they tell you why I phoned them?' 'They said you were going to be here.' 'Who spoke to you on the phone?' 'I don't know. Or I'd tell you. It's odd,' she said, looking away, 'it's the first time someone hasn't trusted me. It makes me feel rather ... sordid.' I realised I was aware of totally irrelevant things: the soft arch of her neck as she sat with her head down, the sharp outline of her nipples under the tan cotton shirt, her stillness. 'How long,' I asked her, 'have you known Chen?' She looked up. 'Who?' 'Johnny Chen.'