Sam

Christ, I'm tired. So tired I'm afraid of my eyes nearly closing of their own accord as they did in that stuffy little office earlier.

It's still only four in the afternoon, and knowing Malone it'll be a fair few hours before I actually manage to crash out.

The whole day's been one long goose chase. The Customs Office people seem frankly irritated – they've lost Ritchie and been told O'Malley's return isn't exactly imminent. Sure, they're going through the motions of checking through stuff and but just as our rather bombastic little guest at the 'outside facility' keeps telling us, there's absolutely no whiff of anything strange going on.

O'Malley is basically a paper-pusher. He doesn't have access to anything more suspicious than importing foodstuffs and other less than interesting stuff within Europe. He and Atherton know each other from the army, apparently - nothing more, nothing less. Atherton says he was an acne-ridden little corporal looking for a cheap thrill at the nightclub, and we can't prove anything different.

We've tried hard to connect Ritchie and O'Malley too - the coincidence of them both working for customs is difficult to overlook. O'Malley says he doesn't know him - just saw him in the canteen now and then.

As I said, we're getting nowhere. We've been through Ritchie's place with a fine toothcomb, and O'Malley's too, and neither of them has revealed anything more interesting than some rather risqué magazines (Ritchie) and a few rubbers marked H.M. Stationery Office (O'Malley). The forensics people are milling around in there now, though, to see if technology can come up with anything we haven't.

Predictably enough, O'Malley is screaming blue murder at being held in Jeff's tender care. He's demanding lawyers and threatening to go to the tabloids - the usual sort of thing. Even Malone can't hold him indefinitely, much as he'd like to throw away both the key and prolong the Minister's special injunction that waives Britain's usual generous attitude (in Malone's opinion and often mine) towards suspected terrorists.

In an ideal world, he'd have those precious forms signed in bulk for him to simply fill in the blanks, but she's not quite that forthcoming. Malone might not like her, but she doesn't exactly treat him as the flavour of the month very often either. In public, of course, they're best buddies.

I must remind Chris to shoot me if I ever say I'm interested in politics.

We leave H.M. Customs and the gloomy series of offices they inhabit in the end, sincerely hoping they'll come up with something but not particularly optimistic. Or rather I'm not.

Now, I don't have the energy to do more than to keep my eyelids open. Three nights virtually without sleep on the trot and a stomach upset that's rapidly becoming a reality (serves me right for lying), and I just hope I'm not going to be expected to produce any analytical revelations before the day's over. In fact I almost hope O'Malley isn't going to suddenly spill the beans – if he's got any to spill – until I've actually got part of my brains back.

Chris hasn't been asking awkward questions, which I suppose is a positive point in all this. In fact he's been extraordinarily neutral all day. After a few sympathetic murmurs earlier when I used the upset stomach excuse again in answer to his comment that I looked lousy, he's even been doing all the talking and thinking for both of us.

I do have to get my act together again, though. It only needs a bit of action and I'll be a bloody liability. We're used to working under pressure, but then it's usually a case of adrenaline flowing and things happening. On this case, it's more a question of taking one step forward and two back.

The forensic scientists are still buzzing around at the warehouse, and the weapons people are still sifting through the pieces. Now there's a career for you. Like those people who spend their lives putting bits of planes together after crashes.

No, I don't think I was cut out for a life picking up pieces. I have enough of my own to deal with.

We had a pow-wow with all the scientific lot all earlier, too - they're analysing things (as they do). Of course, it's not going fast enough for Malone, but then what does? It must irritate him that he can't insist that every scientist and lab assistant in London works overtime on his command.

One interesting thing was some bits of burned paper they found in the warehouse office - they look like customs forms. Apparently technology might make it possible to reconstitute at least something, which finally brings a glint of interest to Malone's hitherto icy manner with them all. Naturally, he'd like it done yesterday.

Chris finally comes over and I look up from the screen where I've typed about a dozen lines of a progress report. Mr. Gates' spelling checker is not impressed at all. Lots of wriggly green and red lines add a little colour to it all. Not brilliant for a linguist who is supposed to have a better than average command of his own language.

"We gotta go," he says, frowning.

"Go?" I'm worse than I thought if even this seems like too much information to handle. "I thought you were bringing coffee."

Coffee, I can handle. Just. As long as I don't smell it too enthusiastically.

"Bad for upset stomachs," he says rather primly, and I groan. He's been gone for at least twenty minutes, and the sheer effort of prising myself out of the halfway comfortable office chair to get one myself didn't seem a very attractive prospect. Hence the abortive attempt to do something constructive.

"To the warehouse, " Chris says, reaching for the keys.

"Warehouse?"

He rolls his eyes. "Place where people store wares. Where Ritchie stored his. The arms experts say they've found some interesting stuff and Malone says we should go check it out rather than wait for them to put it all into long words on paper."

Oh, that warehouse. Or rather the remains thereof.

I get to my feet, noting absently that my legs feel like rubber, and toss Chris the keys.

"You drive."

"Like a cautious grandmother?" he says, mildly.

"Whatever."

I catch his eyes, and see him frowning.