Mr J had to shout to make himself heard over the thump-thump-thump of the helicopter blades. They were skimming low along the valley, following the course of the river and the railway track. If he'd truly been the travel photographer that his fake identification documents claimed he was, then he would have relished the play of the early morning light on the tops of the lush deciduous trees. But despite the long lens camera in his hand, he wasn't a travel photographer, he was Mr J, and he was trying to catch the reply to his question.

"Yesterday at thirteen hundred hours sir" shouted the colonel.

"And we haven't been able to trace them since they left the camp?" asked Mr J.

"Negative. Both our drones were down for maintenance. Eyewitness accounts state that they were heading north, but it could have been a ploy" said the colonel.

"The drones, do we expect foul play?" asked Mr J.

The colonel stiffened and shot him a direct look.

"It's the dust, it plays havoc with the engines. They're breaking down all the time. Besides, I personally vetted every man down here. I have complete trust in them" replied the colonel.

"There is no such thing as complete trust in this business colonel" chided Mr. J.

The helicopter landed on a wide stretch of dirt inside the perimeter of the camp. Mr J hopped down and signalled to the colonel to take off. He could handle things on the ground, but he needed air cover just in case. After the Beijing incident he'd taken to being overly cautious. A dazed group of workers covered their eyes as the helicopter took off, throwing up a cloud of dust and grit. As they blinked away the dirt from their eyes they found Mr J standing in front of them, camera in hand, like an apparition from a dream, or a nightmare.

"Who's in charge here?" asked Mr J.

The workers looked up at him without responding. One of them cracked a fart and the others broke out into low intoxicated laughter. Mr J felt the reassuring press of cold steel against his chest, but he resisted the urge to draw his gun from its holster and plant a round hole in someone's head. That wasn't what travel photographers were referring to when they spoke of the perfect shot. Instead he took a deep breath and repeated his question.

"Not you, ugly" piped up the man who'd farted.

This elicited another round of laughter. The explosion in Beijing had turned his right cheek into a lattice of raw flesh that had only recently begun to heal. A rough scab had crusted over the wound. If Mr J tapped it with his fingernail, which he was prone to do when angry, it gave off a hollow knocking sound, like the skin of a drum. Tap, tap, tap. When there was no hierarchy all that remained was chaos, thought Mr J.

The door to a portable toilet opened and out stepped a worker in the process of zipping up his flies. His upright stance indicated that he was soberer than the rest. The look of panicked recognition when he saw Mr J assured him that he'd found his man. Mr J indicated to the man that he should follow him. As they made their way out of earshot, the loudmouth gestured rudely at his back. Mr J made a mental note to review the personnel files of every worker at the camp. Ants should learn to hide if they didn't want to be squashed.

"Why didn't you intercept the professor?" asked Mr J quietly, wrinkling his nose at the smell of bleach that clung to agent's overalls

The agent had broken out into a fearful sweat. He mopped his forehead with a dirty rag and tried to avoid staring at Mr J's face.

"I was checking on the cocoon" stuttered the agent.

Mr J's face remained impassive. The agent stared at his feet, then worked up the courage to speak again, his chin slowly rising as he became more animated.

"I mean, I did ask for more resource. I've always been asking for more resource. P1259 is so active I barely have time to sleep. I can't be expected to keep tabs on every lunatic in this hellhole" said the agent, before staring at his feet once more.

"Not every lunatic, just one. A lunatic that now happens to be in the clutches of the very same people who did this to me" said the Mr J, tapping his scab.

"I messed up" mumbled the agent.

"Ah contrition, that magic sentiment I'd been waiting for. Take me P1259 and on the way you can tell me all about your family" said Mr J.

"I don't have one" said the agent uncertainly.

"Hmm, your file says unmarried with no children, but I heard that you have soft spot for your niece. What was it that you bought her for her last birthday? That's it, a Lego castle. You know, when my daughter was younger only the rich could afford Lego, but China has changed so much that even a man in your position can afford to buy Lego. You're luckier than you realise" said Mr J, smiling brightly.

The agent fell silent.

"Take me to the cocoon" said Mr J.

The agent led the way and Mr J followed a few steps behind him. The helicopter tracked their progress, flecking the river with its downdraft. Up ahead a train was approaching. Its iron snout emerged from the heat haze, bearing down on them with a steady chug. The agent didn't even bother looking up, too used to the passage of trains to pay this one any attention. As the train drew closer the gravel on the track bed began to jump and shake. Mr J's face remained impassive. When the train was almost upon them, he pulled a playground trick.As the agent lifted up his back foot to bring it forwards, Mr J kicked his heel and gave him a shove. The agent let out a cry and sprawled into the path of the oncoming train. Above the din of the passing carriages, laden with iron ore, the sound of bones being pulverised into jelly was inaudible. Mr J looked down at his trousers and observed a splatter of blood, so faint that it could pass for hot sauce. He broke out into a whistle, repeating the opening bars of an old propaganda song, 'Without The Communist Party, There Would Be No NewChina'.