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Death in 1.7 minutes, Graves thought, and he had a mental image of the prisoner twisting and writhing on the floor, liquid running from his nose in a continuous stream, vomit spewing out.

Graves realized then that he had mistaken his opponent for too long. Wright was insane. He was capable of anything. It produced a churning sensation in Graves' stomach.

'Take him inside,' Graves said to the marshal. 'I want to talk to him.'

The three of them sat in the lobby of the apartment building. It was the kind of lobby that aspired to look like the grossest Miami Beach hotels; there were plastic palms in plastic pots and fake Louis XIV furniture which, apparently out of fear that someone would want to steal it, was bolted to the imitation marble floor. Under other circumstances the artificiality of the surroundings would have annoyed Graves, but now it somehow seemed appropriate. By implication the room suggested that falsehoods were acceptable, even preferable, to the truth.

Graves sat in a chair facing Wright. The marshal sat diagonally facing both of them and the only exit. The marshal held his gun loosely in his lap.

Wright looked at the marshal and the position of the gun. 'That's what it's all about,' he said, and smiled again. That insane smile.

'How do you mean?' Graves said. Wright sighed patiently. 'Do I confuse you?'

'Of course. That was your intention.'

'I doubt that I've confused you much,' Wright said. 'You've really done very well, Mr Graves. May I call you John?'

The condescending tone was unmistakable, but Graves merely shrugged. He glanced at his watch: 3:05.

'Very well, indeed,' Wright continued. 'For the last month or so, John, I've had the feeling that you were a worthy adversary. I can't tell you how reassuring that was.'

'Reassuring?'

'I prefer to do things well,' he said. He took a slim cigar from a gunmetal case and lit it. 'I mean elegantly, with a certain finesse. In a situation like this, one needs a proper opponent. I was immensely reassured that my opponent was you, John.' Wright sighed. 'Of course, I have another opponent as well,' he said. 'One totally lacking in finesse, elegance, and grace. The sad thing is, he thinks he's a statesman.'

'You mean the President?'

'I prefer to think of him,' Wright said, 'as that man who rode the bench for so many years. Why did he ride the bench? Did you ever think of that? The answer is simple enough - because he wasn't a good player. He was inept. He was incompetent. He was a bumbling fool.'

'You feel strongly about him.'

'I feel strongly about his policies.'

'China?'

'Ten years ago,' Wright said, 'if I asked you the name of the American President most likely to institute wage and price controls, welfare reform, and diplomatic relations with Communist China, would you have ever thought of this man? It's insane, what he's doing.'

'What about what you're doing?'

'Somebody has to stop him,' Wright said. 'It's as simple as that.'

'I wouldn't call nerve gas a democratic method.' Graves stared at him. 'What are those metal boxes in the centre of the floor upstairs?'

Wright smiled. 'Enough politics, eh?' He puffed on his cigar, billowing light. smoke. 'Very well. Down to business.' A thought seemed to occur to him. 'But if I tell you, how will you know it's the truth?'

'That's my job.'

'True, true. There are actually three boxes, as I'm sure you observed from your surveillance station across the street. I had to get an extension cord in order to place the boxes in clear view of the window.'

'Very thoughtful.'

'I felt you'd appreciate it,' Wright said. 'The first box is a timer. It controls a rather intricate set of staging sequences for the equipment in the room.'

Graves took out a cigarette. His hands shook slightly as he lit it. He hoped Wright wouldn't notice - but that, of course, was wishful thinking. Wright would notice.

But Wright didn't comment on it. 'The second box,' he said, 'is an impedance and vibration sensor. There are contact points located around the