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people strolled past but, seeing a man and a girl in the shadows of the doorway, spared them no more than a glance. ‘The janitor is one of us,’ she explained to Paz. Then, like a sinner at the screen of a confessional, she pressed her face close to the door, and called softly, ‘Chori! Chori!’
    In response came the sound of bolts being shifted and the lock being turned. One of the doors opened just far enough to allow them inside.
    Paz looked back. Along the street, through a gap between the buildings he could see the lights of the cafés in thePlaza. He could even hear the trio playing ‘Thanks for the Memory’.
    â€˜You said it would be open, Chori,’ Inez said disapprovingly.
    â€˜The lock sticks,’ said the man who had let them in, but Paz suspected that he had waited until hearing the woman’s voice. In his hand Chori held a plastic shopping bag.
    â€˜Is there anyone else here?’ Inez asked. They were in a grand hall with a marble floor. A little of the mauvish evening light filtered through an ornate glass dome four storeys above. It was enough to reveal an imposing staircase which led to a first-floor balcony that surrounded them on all sides.
    â€˜There is no need to worry,’ said the man without answering her question. He led them up the stairs.
    â€˜Did you get the sodium chlorate?’ Paz asked.
    â€˜The booster is all ready,’ Chori said. He was a big man, a kindly gorilla, thought Paz, but he’d be a dangerous one to quarrel with. ‘And here are the coveralls.’ He held up the bulging plastic shopping bag. ‘First we must put them on.’ He said it in the manner of a child repeating the lessons it had been taught.
    He took them to a small office. Chori made sure the wooden shutters were closed tightly, then switched on the light. The fluorescent tube went ping as it ignited and then the room was illuminated with intense pink light. Two venerable typewriters had been put on the floor in a corner. A china washbowl and jug had been set out on an office desk, together with bars of soap and a pile of clean towels. On the next desk sat an enamel jug of hot water, and alongside it a can of kerosene. ‘Is it as you wanted?’ Chori asked Inez. She looked at Paz: he nodded.
    Paz was able to see Chori in more detail. He had a wrestler’s build, a tough specimen with dark skin, a scarred face, and clumsy hands the fingers of which had all been broken and badly reset. He was wearing a blue blazer, striped shirt and white trousers: the sort of outfit suited toa fancy yacht. He saw Paz looking at him and, interpreting his thoughts, said, ‘You don’t think I’m staying on, after this thing explodes, do you?’
    â€˜I could tie you up and gag you,’ said Paz.
    Chori laughed grimly and held up his fingers. ‘With this badge of articulate dissent, the cops won’t come in here and sit me down with a questionnaire,’ he said. ‘And anyway they know the MAMista don’t go to such trouble to spare the life of a security guard. No, I’ll run when you run and I won’t be back.’ His stylish clothes were well suited to the Plaza at this time of evening.
    Paz was already getting into his coveralls and gloves. Chori did the same. Inez put on a black long-sleeved cotton garment that was the normal attire of government workers who handled dusty old documents. She would be the one to go to the door if some emergency arose.
    â€˜You made the booster?’ Paz asked.
    â€˜Yes,’ said Chori.
    â€˜Did you …’
    â€˜I was making bombs before you were born.’
    Paz looked at him. The big fellow was no fool and there was an edge to his voice. ‘Show me the target,’ said Paz.
    Chori took him along the corridor to the Minister’s personal office. It was a large room with a cut-glass chandelier, antique furniture and a good carpet. On the wall hung a coloured lithograph